Grazing his teeth along the side of Tarn's helm, Sixshot groans at the wet, tight heat around him, the weight of the other's cord pressed against his abdominal plating, the clench of fingers around his shoulders. He braces his legs against the floor and hilts himself in a single smooth thrust, warm air hissing out of his vents the moment his hips meets Tarn's.

"Primus," he mutters, voice strained, shuddering at the clench of slick walls around his cord. It takes him a moment to gather himself before he could move, rocking into his partner with slow, shallow movements.