The hand sliding over his aft between his thighs makes Sixshot jolt and arch, pleasure zipping up his spine, mask scraping against sharp teeth and optics wide. He starts to protest, turning one palm up to press against Rampage's abdominal plates, trying to stop the crab and balance First Aid's knees on his elbow at the same time.

But then First Aid groans and Sixshot feels his tiny hand and the bloom of the medic's EM field against his chest. It was getting so awfully hard to think.

His pelvic armor slides apart before he could stop it, cold air against his cord and Rampage's warm, thick fingers against his port. He rocks into it power plant rumbling, arousal peaking sharp and sudden and soft noise of pleasure escaping his vocalizer despite his attempts to suppress it.