Its hard to say what pushes him over the brink. Whether it is the harsh squeeze to his chord, the sharp bite to his throat, the frame crushing final thrust, or the burn of Sixshot's knot trapping the flood of transfluid inside of him.

Whichever it is, Tarn finds himself spiraling into one of the most intense overloads of his life. He howls in pleasure, red optics bleaching to white as his port clenches and ripples on the sixer's girth. His own chord jerks as it shoots a jet of transfluid to coat own stomach.

Tarn collapses forward onto his partner with a strangled wheeze, optics flickering off as he pants trying to cool his overheated frame.