Wing makes a warm, sweet little sound in his throat and leans into Mayday's brief touch, his cooling fans roaring now.

"Good," he gasps, thighs trembling, his grip still slow and steady against Mayday's spike. "Oh, Mayday, I'm--I'm sorry, I can't--" He buries his face in against Mayday's palm and moans, low and ragged, as his panels snap open, his spike pressurizing in a rush and a wash of lubricant running down his thighs to puddle on the berth. He drags in cool air, shivering and making a warm, needy little sound, his body slumping slightly in relief.

"Oh," he says, staticky and dazed, his optics flickering. His palm slides gently along Mayday's spike, squeezing with a sure, slow grip.