Rampage growls against Sixshot's faceplate, teeth scraping gently, and his grip on Sixshot's aft tightens for a moment. Then he slides it lower, dipping between Sixshot's thighs to stroke fingers over the heated metal between them.

Venting hot air, he manages to croak out, "A little less conversation, please."

Because between his own pollen-inspired desire and that radiating from both First Aid and Sixshot around their other more awkward emotions, he is seriously losing his mind here.

It doesn't take much thought, however, to press his palm firmly over First Aid's cord while curling his fingers to tease their way between his thighs. It is apparently time to try and touch every port.