Rampage's overload sends electricity skipping down Sixshot's neural relays and the Sixer's optics roll up as he arches, vents stuttering. He can feel the warm cum gathering on his abdominal armor and slowly trickle down the sides of his hips in slow, thick streams, the smell of it so heavy he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

The low groan against his cheek draws another shudder from him- and then First Aid's words make him shake, fingers sliding feather light over that tiny chin and jawline. As Rampage pulls his fingers away, Sixshot raises his hips off the ground until his and First Aid's meager weight was balanced on the tips of his feet, trembling thighs spread wide. The ridges on the medic's length slides against his and then the blunt head of Rampage's presses against the folds of his valve--

Sixshot has to let First Aid go before he accidentally crushes the little mech. His hands smack against the ground several times before coming to a rest around the Rampage's knees in an unforgiving grip, optics narrowed into red, thin, unseeing slits as the world suddenly collapses down to the agonizing pleasure of being spread open by a too-thick cord.

All he sees for a moment is First Aid's blurred silhouette against a blooming halo of green.