Oh, darlin' baby.. You got me thinkin' about y'a too much. Just want to wreck 'n' rule you all night long.
A sharp, fractured sound slips from Knock Out's intake before he can stop it, lust and desire swelling with alarming force beneath his polished armor and settling into a heavy heat between his legs. Gripping the pillow beneath his helm, Knock Out tugs it free to press firmly over his mouth a second too late, as if softness could smother the fact he is already falling apart.
Heat coils through Knock Out's frame in slow, destabilizing waves, each one seemingly tightening further at the words lingering like shadows. His cooling fans kick in sharply, too sharply, whining in a way that immediately betrays him.
It isn't just the words, it's that he said them.
He imagines that rough cadence, that unfiltered honesty, the way he closes distance and leaves no space for Knock Out to recover himself properly afterward. His optics flicker once, unsteady, the words stripping him bare, as though every carefully maintained part of him was built entirely to come apart in Wheeljack's presence. His body reacting as if the Wrecker is standing right there, too close, looking at him and leaving him exposed in a way he has never been able to prepare for.
Knock Out lies there rigidly for a moment, as though stillness might restore order. It does not. Every thought he tries to piece together collapses back to the same impossible center: Wheeljack's voice, Wheeljack's effect on him, the vivid, imagined weight and feeling his strength as he forces him relentlessly into the berth.
'You don't know what you do to me,' he realizes distantly, the thought feeling less like analysis and more like surrender.
His grip tightens briefly against the pillow before loosening again. Slowly, agonizingly, the other servo trails down his chassis. Knock Out shudders visibly as his talons tease against the beading wetness already slickening the seams of his codpiece. Submitting to the surrender, too far gone to keep pretending he hasn't been entirely undone, he allows the panels to shift and transform away.
Stifling a groan, he circles his talons over his anterior node, clinging to those menacing words ( wreck 'n' rule ), trying to build a rhythm, trying to chase the charge from his circuits in a desperate attempt to regain some semblance of clarity. But it's useless, his own touch a poor substitute.
It isn't his own servos he wants driving him to the brink of a crash; he wants him.
Nothing about him is functioning the way it should.
After a moment, Knock Out exvents shakily, allowing his servo to fall back to his side. He pulls the pillow away just enough to let cooler air cycle against his faceplate. Slowly, he lifts a servo unsteadily to his helm, talons pressing there like he can physically stop the fracture spreading through his composure.
Then, he activates his commlink. Waits for the call to connect.
"I can't stand this," he says, voice roughened, too honest to be anything but a breaking point.
He listens to the silence.
"...I need you, Jackie," he admits, quieter now, static breaking his voice. "P̵l̶e̵a̵s̴e̸.̴"
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