fateandfortune

It's telling enough the way he avoids looking her in the eye, but when he does... No. No no no. She can't read the finer details of whatever mess is running through his head, but she can see enough to understand that he still has needs and feels guilty for that. Because she'd asked him to help her and he'd gotten caught up in it himself? There was no shame in that, especially not when they were consenting adults who were both clearly enjoying the festivities.

Pulling her legs under her, she tries to stand but wobbles a bit too much, her muscles still relearning how to not be jelly, so she leans up against that cool wall again.

"My legs still aren't working too well just yet, but just give me a minute and I'll be right over there," she informs him in a somewhat stern tone, which would probably be much more effective if she weren't naked with what she guesses is probably wild 'I just had sex' hair. "'Cause I want to help you, Knock Out, the way you helped me." Her tone softens as she adds, "I want to do this for you, if I can and if you'll let me."

Knock Out shutters his optics for a moment, trying to get his own thoughts ordered and his head back where it belongs. It's a monumental effort, and it takes every bit of mental strength he has to separate this current moment from wherever his thoughts have taken him, but when he opens them again, his expression is less conflicted.

Seeing her try to get to her feet motivates him to reclose the distance between them, arranging himself sitting next to her and using the wall for a brace. He vents deeply, still working on bring his core temperature down, but the air in the hallway has no movement and it's rapidly rising with all the heat he's throwing off.

"Be careful, my chassis is well above normal temp," Knock Out warns. It's not hot enough to burn her, but it won't be comfortable to touch.

Then he hesitates before speaking again. "I apologize. I... forgot myself for a moment earlier, but everything's— fine. And yes, this is being overclocked."

It's a relief when he comes close again, though she can feel the heat radiating off of him even more than before. Even the hallway at large is starting to feel warmer; it's nice for her while she's still sans clothing but it doesn't do one bit to chase away her worry for him.

"You don't have to apologize, sugar," she tells him softly, moving as close as she can without actually touching him yet. "With the way I was acting, anyone would probably get a bit worked up in response. I just want to help you through this before you spontaneously combust."

She reaches out then to carefully set a hand on his chassis. It isn't comfortable, the metal just a few degrees too hot, but it doesn't hurt, either. "What can I do?"

Knock Out ex-vents in a startled burst when he realizes where her assumptions lay, and it's so askew to the actual problem that he laughs because he doesn't know how to properly respond to it otherwise.

"No," he says helplessly, and leans into her, tucking his head into her shoulder. (His own, still damaged, is a long-forgotten ache by this point.)

"No, I expected that much. That's not..."

His plating seams expand further, inviting. Ignoring the stray fizzles of current, Knock Out reaches for one such parted gap in his forearm where bundles of wires and connecting cables are visible. The slender tips of his claws have no trouble slipping into the narrow juncture, pinching and rolling the wires in his grip. It doesn't look like he's doing much, but the rev of his engine picks up again.

"Like this," he says, his voice crackling at the edges with static once more. "And what you did with my crests... everything carries a charge... if I build enough, I'll overload."

Rogue frowns slightly, not understanding. If he wasn't upset about the way he'd reacted physically... There are a thousand possibilities but not one of them stands out among the rest. If he won't explain it to her now, maybe he will later, when they've both recovered from their exertions.

With him leaning into her, she slips one arm around behind his neck; he's too big for her to be able to reach all the way around him like this, but that's okay. With one hand, she slips her fingers into that gap in his forearm, using the same pressure she had on the cables at his neck to massage the wires and cables here. Even pressure, then a pinch, a roll, listening to the sound of his engine. And with her other hand, she finds one of those crests, caressing the sensitive metal with the pads of her fingertips.

"I've got you, sugar," she assures him quietly, something a bit sultry in her tone as she enjoys the feeling of his engine rumbling through her where they touch. When she finds he responds to something in particular, she does it again, a bit firmer, faster. And then, because she has a hunch, she adds in a more pleading tone, "Please, Knock Out. Just let go."

He is already close with how much charge he's built, voltage sizzling under his plating and humming along his lines, and it doesn't take long to bring his capacitors back to full amplitude. He rocks a little in her hold, the movement mindless and instinctual, the variety of sensations she's helping create letting him drown out whatever had so distressed him just moments earlier.

But oh, her voice is right there in his audial and maybe it's the words and maybe it's the tone, and maybe he doesn't care either way but it's enough to tip him over that critical point.

His overload hits him harder than expected, his processor whiting out with its intensity. Knock Out just barely retains the presence of mind to jerk back from her touch at the last second so Rogue doesn't inadvertently become a grounding rod as electricity snaps from his frame, crackles of it striking the floor and the walls. Beneath his armor, his terminals chatter frantically as they unload, turning the air heavy with ozone, like ground zero of a lightning strike.

There are definitely some human parallels, as his frame goes rigid as his neural net erupts with pleasurable feedback. Knock Out arches, convulsive, his claws leaving thin striations in the floor, tiny curls of metal peeled back from the surface. The sound he makes is somewhere between a wail and what might have been an epithet in his own language, both too thick with static to be properly understood.

And then it passes, and his frame loosens again, letting him slump forward and only just managing to catch himself. He doesn't pant, but the blast of his cooling fans is unsteady. At some point his optics had shorted — they come back on now, noticeably dimmer, but clear as he looks to Rogue.

"Thank you," he murmurs, sounding exhausted.

It's a shock when Knock Out jerks away from her, though in the next moment she's grateful he did so she didn't get a different kind of shock. She pulls her knees to her chest and presses back against the wall, never more grateful than now that the mansion had been designed so that students with electricity powers wouldn't fry their classmates on a weekly basis. The charges that arc off him are absorbed by the wall and floor and she's spared the joy of being electrocuted.

But... wow. The sight of him really and truly losing control is unlike anything she's ever seen before. It's one thing to know the power he possesses and another to witness it... and it's something else entirely to know she played a part in bringing him to this state. It makes her feel settled, confident, even at peace with herself.

When he finally seems to calm, she stands and walks to him, pressing a hand to the side of his face to gently guide his head back to where he'd rested it before. Her arms wrap around him as much as she's able and she presses a kiss to one of those crests. "Any time you need, sugar."

Knock Out accepts the gentle guidance, quivering at the softness of the kiss. They stay like that for a while, bodies pressed together, riding down the shared high of their intimacy. The hallway is still too warm, but quiet save for the sounds of Rogue's breathing, the slowly descending whirr of Knock Out's fans, and the plink of cooling metal.

Eventually he stirs; they're both kind of a mess (physically and emotionally), Rogue's still undressed, and they now both need a wash. And he doesn't know about her, but his damaged shoulder it starting to twinge painfully at being kept in this position for so long.

"Let's go back," he says, withdrawing from the comfortable embrace with regret. Frankly if he never saw the doorway to Cerebro again, it would be too soon.

Something in her aches when he withdraws, already missing the comfort of being able to embrace someone without fear. It's time though, he's right about that. So Rogue gathers her clothes up, pulling on most save her bra and socks — she needs a shower.

psl.

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