Perhaps seeing upon the small bump from his mate caused him to do the most silliness of acts as he indeed began to rub every itch of Whirlâs chest and neck with his own faceplate. âMine. Beautiful mate. Mine mine.â
Eh. Close enough to scentmarking, really. Whirl certainly looks entertained by the effort-- and heâd of returned it, if heâd still had his own proper helm and faceplate, with the markers under his jaw.
Instead heâs got this stupid lightbulb.
But the pedapips are good enough for nuzzling and gently nudging against the Knight as he guns his engine, blades trembling with every pass.
âAll yours, toots. Just as youâre mine.â