kiss the finish

DNI if —

you are a minor / anti / purist / yumeship / kin

you do not want to see explicit kink-based content and images without a read more

you are uncomfortable with cnc, sexual sadism, gore porn, kink exploration, voyeurism, exhibitionism, stalking, and bdsm dynamics

Which is your preference, deep-throating your partner's spike or feasting on their valve? Who has been the biggest you've ever taken? (Was it pleasurable enough to do again?) Have you slept with a human or anyone from an organic species? Have you experienced a two-spike array before Wheeljack?

What's your wildest sexual experience? Your most boring/disappointing?

"I don't make a habit of sharing the finer details of my private life with strangers — even the shy ones."

However, there are certain details he doesn't mind letting slip, especially when he knows who might be listening. "I don't have a preference between eating valve and deep-throating spike; I enjoy both and I enjoy taking my time. There's a certain elegance in making pleasure every bit as tortuous as pain."

The rest ventures into territory far too personal to share with someone whose identity Knock Out can only speculate about. Those details are privileges, reserved for those who have actually earned them.

"I'd like to think I could handle someone as large as Megatron," he says at last, "provided they possess considerably more patience and servos that aren't quite so sharp."

He pauses again, weighing just how much he's willing to divulge before ultimately relenting. "I'm more than willing to have my limits tested so long as my partner takes their time... and isn't stingy with praise."

The medic pulls a face, electing to ignore the question about humans and organics altogether. His relationship with humanity became irrevocably complicated after Silas — darkened by violence and twisted into something he has long since stopped trying to untangle. It isn't a part of himself he has any intention of sharing, least of all with someone who hasn't earned that level of trust.

"As for a two-spiked array... " Knock Out trails off for a moment. "I can't say I've had any personal experience with one, not even with Wheeljack."

The statement should speak for itself. The war had done little to foster opportunities for meaningful partners, let alone those with particularly unique modifications. Truthfully, it has been a very long time since interface was a regular part of his life at all.

"Don't misunderstand," he continues. "There are certainly experiences that have stayed with me over the years. Most, however, were thoroughly mediocre — little more than fleeting distractions to pass the time or relieve a measure of stress."

He leaves it there.

A scent kink? Maybe a bit.

However, it would be a waste of his talents if that's the only thing he's taking deep.

The medic pauses, the word your catching somewhere in his processor. He isn't certain he has earned it, not yet. All things considered, the two of them have done little more than orbit one another with the occasional collision, each far too stubborn to be the first to yield.

If Wheeljack insisted upon treating his private quarters like a museum exhibit, masquerading blatant snooping as reconnaissance instead of making a proper attempt to understand someone he might be interested in, then the former Decepticon saw no reason not to arrange the displays himself.

Leaning against the edge of his desk, he turns a marker between his servos. It was almost insulting how obvious the Wrecker had become, leaving tiny disturbances that would escape anyone else's notice, but not his. Not when they carried the unmistakable signature of a mech who couldn't seem to stop taking him apart.

"You ridiculous, infuriating mech," he murmurs.

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.

The words curl around his spark with unbearable ease, infinitely more devastating than the last.

Pressing the back of his servo against his mouth, Knock Out feels his armor platelets flutter as he fights down a surging charge threatening to spread everywhere at once. He can practically hear the rugged affection in that voice, casual and earnest in the way it slips beneath his plating before he has a chance to defend himself against it.

Slowly, Knock Out reclines further into the berth, thighs parting instinctively as his helm tilts back against the pillows. His optics shutter briefly, expression caught somewhere between exasperation and hopeless adoration.

The warmth that flashes through Knock Out's circuitry at the endearment is immediate and profoundly irritating.

Sweetspark. The name settles deep beneath his plating, warm and penetrative in a way that sends static prickling unevenly through his field. Dangerous.

Either someone ( Knock Out has his suspicions, can imagine a certain voice roughening around the edges ) is very confident, very determined to ruin him, or some catastrophic combination of both. A soft exvent slips from his intake as he reclines more fully across his bed, the polished silver of his talons tapping idly against a thigh as he considers the question with perhaps far more seriousness than he ought to.

The embarrassing truth is that he has thought about this before, far too often lately. About praise whispered low and intimate against his audials. About what it might feel like to be wanted with enough certainty that the possessiveness stopped sounding like teasing and started sounding genuine.

Knock Out blames the increasingly vivid dreams. The useless fantasizing.

Beneath the mask of his vanity, a slow smile curves across his face as he chooses to indulge the inquiry. "I tend to appreciate anything that sounds possessive when said with enough conviction," he admits.

Tilting his helm slightly, something mischievous flares through his optics. "'Mine' has a certain appeal to it."

The admission sends a pleasant little shiver down his spinal strut. Knock Out can already imagine the sort of tone he would want attached to the word: confident, certain, spoken like a claim rather than a question. "So do 'good girl,' 'brat,' 'kitten'..." The smile along his mouth softens into something warmer, more sincere. "...and 'beautiful.'"

That one affects him differently, not because it is particularly scandalous, but because being called beautiful requires a kind of attention he finds difficult to dismiss. It implies observation. Admiration. A lingering fondness capable of reducing him to a flustered, overheating mess far more efficiently than outright vulgarity ever could.

Another quiet pause follows before he adds, voice lower this time, "Especially when paired with praise."

His talons drag lightly against his thigh, slow enough to suggest he isn't entirely aware he is doing it. "Tell me how good I'm being for you. How good I make you feel."

The words leave him softer than intended and Knock Out immediately hates how honest they sound.