"He's very... particular, certainly."

Sixshot's words skip a little beat at the sensation of warm transfluid sliding down his inner thigh. Turning back to Tarn with scrub in hand, he tilts his helm and presses slow kisses along the other mech's jaw line.

"Where did you pick him up? He doesn't seem the sort you'd keep on your crew," he murmurs as he starts scrubbing the paint transfers and fluids off of purple chest and abdominal armor.