He'd been half-teasing when he'd asked her to say it, half caught in old habits, but the pitch of his fans gains a distinctly urgent whine when she begs him like that. There's no mistaking it now: his optics are definitely more luminous than normal and his biolights pulse, subtle patterns that he knows she can't understand.

Knock Out uses the hand holding her up to find a better angle, and this time presses deep. It's the wrong shape surely, too alien by half, but she's so close that he thinks it probably won't matter when there's heat and friction and pressure, moving in rhythm for her to grind against.

He brings Rogue closer to his chassis, triggers a few internal sequences, components realigning, and drops his throttle open wide. His engine thunders, loud enough to startle awake birds in the trees, and the resultant vibration goes through his hands and right to her core.