fateandfortune

After taking a moment to collect herself, Rogue popped the door open and stood on wobbly legs, taking deep breaths of the cool night air while leaning carefully against the open door. It helped... but only a little.

"I'm sorry, sugar," she apologized quietly, staring at the way his lights reflected off the fog. "I didn't know that... that would happen." She felt embarrassed by it all and also frustrated beyond measure.

"Why are you sorry?" Knock Out sounded genuinely perplexed by the apology that seemed, to him, to come from nowhere. "For being overclocked? Everyone has to deal with that sometimes. I didn't—"

He'd almost said I didn't mean to make it worse, but in a way, that had sort of been exactly what he'd done even if he'd meant it as a tease.

A longer pause and then conscientiously he offered, "If you'd want some privacy, you only have to say so." He could... well, not go too far, but at least make the effort, if it would make Rogue feel better.

His confusion at her apology is confusing in turn, pinpointing what she can only assume is another difference between their cultures. Sure, this whole thing might be a completely normal problem to have to deal with, but dealing with it while with someone was a different matter altogether.

Another deep breath, two, and she rubbed her hands over her face. "Thanks, but I'll be okay," she said with a shake of her head. "I just need to... calm down."

Which was, of course, infinitely easier said than done.

He feels her stimulation where she's in contact with his open door, radiating off her like heat. A quick reflexive check of his scanners told him that she was not, in fact, anywhere near calming down. But her reaction just moments ago to him causing the effects to intensify momentarily stall the offer that he isn't even sure he should make.

Knock Out, ever meticulous about monitoring his own frame, does not miss the incremental rise in his own temperature in simpatico response. Still, the silence yawns another moment or two.

"What if then, not privacy, but an assist..."

Those words, as unexpected as they are, cause her to go very still. Was he actually offering... The how escaped her reckoning as much as the why, but it's an offer she was strongly considering, nonetheless. It had been an awfully long time since she'd felt anything this good, and even longer since someone else had had any interest in participating in such activity in any way with her.

It wasn't proper southern manners to talk about such things, but... Well, screw southern manners.

Her hands grip his door a little tighter and her voice wavers slightly as she quietly asks, "Are you being serious right now, sugar? Because I trust you a whole lot but I don't think I could take it if you were teasing me about this."

This is a big step for her, a leap that she is so willing to take — so long as she knows she can trust him in this too.

"I'm being serious," he replies, sounding faintly wounded by the accusation. "Why would I tease about helping you?"

He bumps her, ever gently, with the edge of his open door to move her enough to get clearance. The glow of his headlights wink out an instant before he transforms; a subtly different sequence than normal, longer but that leaves him knelt rather than standing. The crisp white light from his high beams is replaced by the muted red glow cast by the biolights which contour his frame, narrowing the lit area to just the two of them.

Knock Out's expression is intent on her. "Come here," he says, beckoning with one hand.

Before all of this, if someone had told her she'd end up in this situation with one of her dearest friends, she never would have believed them. But with her world upended and normalcy thrown out the window, she's embracing the need to be flexible, to establish a new normal, whatever it may look like. If that includes a casual sexual activity with her giant robot friend...

Okay, it sounds a bit crazy when put like that, but crazy doesn't have to be a bad thing. Knock Out has his own mind and if they're both okay with this, then she'll put her trust in him again.

She moves a few feet away when he nudges her, watching in fascination as his outline changes and the lights go from white to red. Once upon a time, it would have terrified her to see him like this in the dark, but now all she feels is genuine affection. He beckons her and she doesn't hesitate to go to him for even a second.

"I'm sorry if I offended you," she apologizes softly. "It's been a long time since... anything, really."

It's hard to tell whether Knock Out's optics are actually brighter than usual, or if it's just the dimness of their surroundings that make them appear that way.

"You didn't," he hummed. "And you've officially used up your quota of apologies for the night. You're not allowed any more."

Once she's in front of him, he reaches out and brushes the sharp tips of his fingers over the material of her shirt, across her arm. He traces his way down until they draw intricate patterns on her thigh, with nothing but the thin cloth of her pants to separate the metal from her skin. It's not fear of her mutation — they've well established that he's immune to her ability, and made grateful use of that fact in the past week — but with how he's studying her, it's almost exploratory. He's testing something.

His hand brushes across the front of her pelvis, still careful; his claws could easily cut or gouge with little effort. Then, as if in response to a silent decision, makes a half-fist and dips the ridge of his knuckles between her legs.

That she has a 'quota' of apologies makes her smile. She has apologized quite a lot in the last few minutes, hasn't she? It helps chase away most of her nerves, leaving only a last few traces that mingle with the excitement rising up inside her again.

His eyes are entrancing, their brightness unlike what she's seen before. And the way he touches her, watches her... From any other being, she might be afraid of such an examination, the motions reminding her distantly of other times she didn't care to remember. But this is Knock Out, and so she trusts him and allows herself to enjoy the exploration. It's been so long since anyone touched her like this without ill intent.

She can feel his touch through her pants, the thin material designed for comfort providing little barrier between them &mdash a fact made exceptionally clear as he presses his knuckles between her legs. It's pure instinct that has her gasping and leaning closer, wanting more pressure and friction, needing him to touch her. Please. One of her hands reaches out for his arm, her legs still unsteady and unlikely to support her if he gives her what she needs.

Later, she might be a bit embarrassed at how quickly that simple touch sets her pulse racing, but in this moment she doesn't care. She's fairly certain that Knock Out won't judge her and that's all that matters to her.

Knock Out hums a second time, clearly pleased by her reaction. His other hand comes up behind her back, cupped and steady. Her feet don't leave the ground, but now he's supporting her weight for her, giving her the freedom to lean back for a better angle.

His plating is as always warm beneath her hand, near-invisible lines of his transformation seams just barely raised under her touch, the low resonance of his engine counterpoint to the crickets and the rustling trees, and the rising pitch of Rogue's breathing.

His knuckles drag against the center seam of her pants a second time, achingly slow and deliberate and then a third pass, flexing each ridge there. "Off?" he suggests, pausing in his ministrations.

She leans back into his hand gratefully, letting him support her and enjoying the new angle immensely. Some part of her is still shocked by this unexpected turn of events, but with every second that passes, it's drowned out by the much louder part that is nothing but pleased with the way things are working out. Very pleased.

His warmth helps her muscles relax further and her fingertips press against those traces of seams, absently following their lines as he presses against her again, her breath hitching and stuttering each time. His suggestion isn't even properly answered, she just immediately toes off her shoes and hooks her thumbs into both pants and underwear, tugging them down off her hips and kicking them aside with little regard for where they ended up or in what state.

The cool air makes her squirm as it meets the wetness already pooled between her thighs, but she keeps her legs parted to offer him easy access. She looks up at those beautiful red eyes with an expression of need and pleads in a breathless whine, "Please."

Oh... Knock Out's engine jumps gears at the way she says that single word, startled only for a split second before deepening in response. Hidden by his plating but audible in the night air, his cooling fans begin to spin up, soft but persistent. He tries not to think about the last time a voice begged him like that, with nothing but sincerity and trust and—

Freed of the cloth barrier, Knock Out's hands return to stroking, harder now. His touch starts to trail tiny zings of energy in its wake, raising the filament-thin hairs on her body. Is external stimulation enough? He knows without a doubt that his claws would do damage inside, but...

His fingers are unique jointed: doubled over, each digit forms a blunter length, and this he presses deeper, giving her something to move against. "Please what?"

She hears those fans softly whirring but can't possibly process what that might mean. It's background noise, a white sound helping wash away the world around them. All that exists is the two of them and where he's touching her, his warmth at her back and the delicious fleeting touches that she swears leave bits of electricity sinking into her skin.

And then—

Her voice pitches high in an almost keening sound as that pressure between her legs returns, his touch deeper this time and close to driving her crazy. She squirms against him, desperate for that sweet friction that's slowly building the wave of sensation inside her.

"Please," she repeats between gasping breaths, her expression still open and filled with need. "Please, Knock Out, don't stop. Please, I need—" A moan pulls itself from her throat and it takes effort to finish what she was saying. "I need more."

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.

Those alien lights of his are a comfort as she edges closer to losing control, a calm settling into the small part of her that's afraid of being so vulnerable. His eyes are so bright in the darkness, but instead of being strange and alien, she's reminded that she isn't alone. She's safe.

She moves against his hand with pure need and instinct, matching that rhythm he sets and trying her best to keep her breathing steady. It isn't easy when every other breath is punctuated by a moan or wordless keening plea. Distantly, she'd grateful they're in the middle of nowhere so that no one can hear her cries that are anything but quiet.

And then whatever he does with his engine shatters her, the sudden intense vibration igniting the pressure building in her and setting her nerves on fire. A choked cry pulls itself from her as her back arches and every muscle tenses, her hands grasping at him while her world narrows to nothing but the immense pleasure overwhelming her. When her body relaxes again, she's left trembling with little aftershocks and smiling like the cat that got the cream.

It's fascinating, how similar their kinds are in the most unexpected ways. It's a thought Knock Out's had a number of times before. Even an overload — called something different, he's fairly certain, though the word escapes him just now — and the reset period that follows. How does a species with no intranodal network, with no control over their autonomous systems, whose bodies barely generate a fraction of the passive charge as a Cybertronian (so small a scale that they have to measure it in watts)...

And yet with Rogue snugly cradled in hand, warm and pliable and impossibly breakable, Knock Out can't help but feel that this is intimately familiar.

While she recovers, he runs a capacitance subroutine on himself, calculates, and runs it again. Beneath his armor, his terminals warm and discharge harmlessly into the open air with a sound like faint radio static, dumping excess charge. His cooling fans cycle back then spin down completely, leaving his incalescence to be handled by normal ventilation. His engine downshifts to idle once again; his optics return to their typical levels. He steadies his biolight pattern (Primus, had he been telegraphing? that was embarrassing) and by the time Rogue seems aware again of herself and her surroundings, his systems are quiet and equalized.

"Better?" he asked, confident what the answer was and not resisting the knowing smile that went with it.

Edited 2020-06-30 22:08 (UTC)

It's takes a few moments before she returns to reality, her body calming as it settles into that state of languid afterglow. She doesn't want to move, but she's also becoming aware of being half-naked in a slightly chilly night where anyone could happen by. (It was extremely doubtful that anyone would, but still.)

"Much," she replies with another smile before covering her eyes for a moment. Just a moment, though, and then she's leaning forward and putting weight on her still wobbly but mostly steady legs. She feels a bit like one of those Jell-O molds people used to make all the time as she steps away from his support and moves to locate her clothing.

"Thank you, Knock Out," she continues, genuine gratitude in her voice. And then, hesitantly, "Is this gonna make things weird between us?"

He let her down, giving her a new cursory scan to confirm that yes, that does seem to have taken the edge off for her. Knock Out doesn't rise back to standing just yet, simply content to watch.

"You're welcome," he answered benignly, but in response to her question, he adopted that look of honest perplexity which has come up before even in their short time together, the one that said she was doing something unfathomably human and he had no frame of reference for understanding it.

"No?" He seemed unsure in the answer, but only in the sense that he wasn't sure why he needed to clarify. "It's not good for mecha to stay overclocked, it's hard on the system. It seemed reasonable to assume the same of humans. Why would helping fix that make things—?"

Edited 2020-07-01 01:06 (UTC)

Taken the edge off. That's not an inaccurate way of thinking. Ever since they arrived on this version of Earth, there's been a tension in her, a deepset fear and worry that even Knock Out's constant reassuring presence hasn't been able to chase away. The fear for their future is still there, of course, lurking under the surface, but she finally feels relaxed enough that she might be able to really rest and recover from the stress of the last few weeks.

Grabbing her pants, she's in the process of pulling them back on when he speaks, and when she sees his expression... Huh.

"It's a human thing," she explains with a relieved shake of her head. "Having an encounter like this — it's hard for a lot of people to separate that from their emotions." Finally properly clothed again, she lifts a hand to comb through her hair, just to be sure it was behaving itself after what happened between them. "Honestly, sugar, it's times like this I'm real glad you're different from us in the way you think about things."

Comprehension flared clear in his expression. "Ah, I understand. Yes, humans are weird about interface. Sex. Especially considering how much of the time you all spend obsessing about it, to be honest. This was— hm. More like a social favour."

Which was... broadly true, and part of why he'd been able to clear his own sympathetic charge so easily.

(But the way she'd pleaded, said his name like that... Knock Out committed the clip to memory. Just because.)

"I'm glad it helped," he finished. "Though we should get going."

psl.

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