The sharp pain of teeth piercing his armor has Tarn thrashing against Sixshot. Pleasure sears through his circuits as he feels the Phase Sixer lose his tenuous grip on his self control, spike roughly hitting every node in his valve at its punishing pace.

The deep thrum of the sixformer’s powerplant rumbles though him, reaching to his very core. His valve flutters against the spike’s girth, teetering on the very precipice of overload. Tarn’s optics are dim and hazy as he clings tighter, a thin stream of oral fluid dripping down the chin of his mask.

The crack of static has his entire frame quivering in a wild overload, lubricant dripping in heavy drops to mix with the transfluid spilling from around Sixshot’s spike. A low half-whimper wrenches itself from Tarn’s vocalizer has his arm buckles and he falls back to the berth in a limp pile.

He's quiet for a moment, fans still spinning on high in an attempt to cool his burning frame.

“I-incredible.” The statement is soft, but ernest.