It's a Baruumien Activity

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.

Wheeljack.

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.

Immediately, the logical sectors of his processor fired off loud, blazing warnings—a typically ineffective method to combat the reckoning force that was his wild, reckless impulsivity, especially when it was emboldened by his yearning, war-weary spark.

The attempts to reason with himself pressed on valiantly, even as he was slowly lowering to the floor the two IBCs that he'd been carrying, the illuminated energon/fuel mixture sloshing inside the containers as he pushed them up against the wall and out of the corridor's walking path.

'Don't. Don't do it. This has all the hallmarks of bein' the wrong time. You want to put your spark through yet another stress test? 'Cause that type of pain feels real good, right? Don't. S'bad enough y'a gave in for a kiss.'

Wheeljack's posture, as he stood anchored in place, was as rigid as high-tension wire, his glyphic optics glaring down at the bulk containers as if they were the ones trying to argue all of this sense into him.

But he couldn't disagree; it was wrong timing. The worst, actually. He'd already started bending the rules that he'd established for himself. No rushing; allocate time in his schedule for them; perfect a list of locations and worlds that may intrigue him; figure out activities of mutual interest that they could strengthen a connection on. He wanted to do this the right way. For once.

.. But goddamnit, who out there was pious enough to fault him for being weak when a sweet lil' thing was pleading with him to come take away the ache?

The Wrecker's restlessly drummed his digits on the explosive holstered to his hip, his misregistered jaw tightening. He turned his helm, staring down the remaining length of the corridor that would lead him to the Jackhammer.

But he already know that he'd made his decision; knew that he wouldn't be going to it now.

Ex-venting sharply, Wheeljack abruptly turned himself around and started making his way back; back to the sector of the outpost that housed their private quarters.

« Headin' your way, darlin'. » he assured gently, his vocals having gained a rougher quality to them. « But we're goin' to discuss this. Keepin' yourself up past lights-out? That's naughty-girl behavior. Can't be havin' that. We got strict rules around here, don't y'a know? »

The chastising was teasing, warm. And loaded with all of the audacious hypocrisy only he could bring to the table, what with being awake himself and had been actively hauling fuel to his starship before the call.

As the snowy-plated Wrecker crossed into the residential corridor and began to quietly pass the secured doors on either side of the walkway, including strolling past his, his spark began to quicker with each step that brought him closer to the Aston Martin's room.