Tarn smirks against Sixshot's wing before sliding the tip between his lips and sucking gently. He groans in pleasure as a third finger slides into his valve, the stretch aching and perfect and exactly what he needs. His mind is blank and empty of his previous hellishly morose thoughts.

Tarn sobs a pant of hot air, grinding his hips down on that hand. The hot tongue on his spike only fuels his pleasure as he gasps, oral fluid coating his scared lips as they brush gently against Sixshot's plating.

There are no words, just the wet noise of his valve greedily sucking the Phase Sixer's finger's further in. It quivers in anticipation for what is to come.