Grrr I Keep Posting Things To The Wrong Account Oops

Grrr i keep posting things to the wrong account oops 😭

Anyhow here's my most recent doodle I'm okay with sharing

Knockout Doodles

because who doesn't want to be picked up and held by a twenty foot robot

the early sketch:

Just some silly doodles tho learn how to draw one of my favorite dorks. Leaking Spark is the name of a story I'm writing that the cuddle comfort scene is from

Oneshot Excerpt - "Racing Heart"

Knockout x Reader (8,434 words)

A chapter out of my story "Leaking Spark", but this chapter kind of stands on its own as its own little short story. Reader is described as a female with an almost flat chest, with long hair.

Summary: Knockout owes you, and he's convinced you to attend a race with him to collect the prize money he wins. Things... get a little more exciting than you expected.

Story below the cut.

Content tags: [Mildly NSFW but nothing overtly graphic, accidental stimulation, non-consensual vouyerism, very f l i r t y, illegal car racing, unwanted flirting (not from Knockout, from a side character), established relationship (platonic friendship but heading towards very NOT platonic ;3)]

You’re standing in the kitchen looking down at three happy cats with their butts planted in front of their food dishes, happily lapping up the wet food treat. It wasn’t usual for you to leave in the evenings, so you’d made sure to spend extra time with them playing games and ensuring they were maybe more than a little spoiled.

It wasn’t something you did often, so you let them indulge.

Nervous, you smooth your hands down the front of your shirt again. You’d agonized over what to wear; you had no idea where this race was supposed to take place, and googling photos of what people wore to racecar events didn’t really help you much. He’d said to dress for being indoors, so you figured you’d be in some kind of building to watch the race or maybe the bleachers were just enclosed, or. Something. You really weren’t sure; you loved looking at pretty cars, sure, but you really didn’t know much about them.

You glance at the clock. You have half an hour before he’s supposed to show up.

You smooth your hand over your shirt again, then all at once groan, grab it, and yank it up over your head as you march across the living room and dig through the assortment of clothes you’d dumped over the couch.

Everything had started as a nice little tidy, folded pile, as you matched outfits and wondered why this was even bothering you so much. You were going to a race to make sure Knockout could collect prize money -- you felt a bit arrogant just assuming he’d win, but it was really, really hard not to assume he had a natural advantage over any human driver -- and make sure you could get a new vehicle to get yourself to and from work in. You were not going on a date.

It didn’t stop you from trying on three more outfits and several different shirts before you looked at the clock, and just about panicked.

“Aaauuugh, fine! Default! Art school summer-day campus party!” you declared, then peeled the black shirt off, and marched over for your favorite crop-top.

~*~

Knockout considered honking to announce his arrival, but he was early, and he knew how his human acquaintance felt about sudden, unexpected loud noises. She wasn’t overly fond of being startled, mostly because she reacted like her life depended on her next choice of action, every time.

Considering her recent experience, he didn’t think that state was any better, so he just waited quietly in the driveway. Movement caught his attention, and he glanced at the large window of her livingroom just in time to see the human walk past with her lips pursed in a pretty pout, then she stopped, turned, and yanked her shirt off.

It was so abrupt and fluid, he didn’t even realize what was happening until it was done.

Every gear and servo in his body jammed up and seized. She peeled the black fabric off with one smooth motion and yeeted it into the air in the same gesture, as smooth and graceful as any transformation sequence he’d ever seen, only it left behind a swath of smooth, unexpectedly toned skin as her shapely back shifted with her movements. A thin red strap wound snug around her torso’s midsection, the rich scarlet bright against her skin and nearly the same color as his own finish.

Knockout…

…had seen naked humans. He’d used Boogle and come across many unfortunate if educational places of the internet, some of which he’d rather prefer to take a cortical splice to and forget about. He’d found humans to be largely unattractive, repulsive creatures, their fleshy bodies uncouth and disturbingly fragile. They certainly looked best when dressed.

But she…

Knockout had a small moment of crisis as he watched his human ally walk back and forth, trying on different shirts as she smoothed the fabric out, turned this way and that, then subsequently ripped it off again. Her body was sleek, smooth, curved in all the right spots… The shaped garment she wore over her chest beneath her shirts cupped her small breasts in a way that had him imagining sleek armor plating and delicate servos. She didn’t have large, squishy growths like most femme humans seemed to, but they were small and perky, almost flat to her chest but with just enough shape to curve her figure into an overtly feminine form.

If she were a Transformer, she’d be a perfectly proportioned femme.

Knockout shuddered when his vents kicked on, and forcibly shut them off. No. He was fine. He was. Just…

He was just all hot and bothered because Breakdown had been away from base for so long, and his favorite choice for blowing off steam hadn’t had any time to cross paths in a habsuite with him. That’s all.

Sweet chromium… he thought faintly as he watched her peel the next shirt she’d thrown on off, muscles rippling subtly with the motion of her arms crossing. Now that he was paying rapt attention, this time, he saw the silver shimmer on her back as she turned, before his engine seized again.

Only this time, it was with guilt.

His own finish had long since been repaired and buffed to shine, but hers… Her smooth skin was marked by the same angry scars he’d seen on her arm, all the way down the left side of her back that he could see, and probably farther. She marched out of sight after throwing her hands up in the air, and this time, he didn’t see her walk back into view.

~*~

At five fifty eight, you say goodbye to the kitties and lock the door behind yourself as you step out of your house’s front entry, military green coat over one arm and purse draped over a shoulder and across your chest. You’d opted for black leggings with rugged looking short shorts over them, your feet stuffed into laced up knee-high boots with solid tread and slight heels. Your chest was covered by a comfortable black tank-top with a screen-printed image of a graffiti-styled dragon in surreal, dreamy colors emblazoned on the front.

A red ball cap covered in an eclectic assortment of pins you’d collected over the years keeps your hair stuffed up underneath and out of the way as you smooth your shirt down nervously, trying to calm yourself down. The black, leather fingerless gloves on your hands stand out in smart contrast against your skin.

You’re so buzzed with energy and you didn’t even know why. Maybe it was because Knockout was taking you somewhere, or maybe it was because you were going to see a car race, something you’d never seen in person before. Whatever it is, it has your heart aflutter and your nerves on edge, so you don’t immediately notice your audience until you finally look up from nervously fussing over yourself.

You’re as ready as you’re going to be, which is good, because Knockout’s already parked like an improbably magazine-perfect car model in your driveway.

The driver’s side door pops open invitingly, and you steel yourself as you take a deep breath, then stride over with affected confidence. Right. If you were going to do this, you were going to do it with your chin held high.

~*~

Knockout had never thought humans to be very beautiful, though he thought many of the things they created were. They had an absurd penchant for creating some of the most stunning works of art, and he had to admit, while their skills in technology itself were largely lacking, their eye for the silhouette of a good vehicle form wasn’t.

He’d never seen a human dressed like his petite ally.

 It’s not that what she wore was so exotic, he’d actually seen many outfits like it-- but her clothes were… unique. Personalized. There were paint splatters on her boots, and her leggings, and her shorts. Even her old, beaten-up ball cap had some bright smudges of paint smeared and splattered on it. She’d added patches of scraps of fabric with painstakingly perfect stitches in bright colors and patterns he couldn’t help but suspect held some personal meaning. Rounded metal studs had been added as artfully placed accents affixed to the fabric, highlighting the art or becoming it itself.

She’d doodled on her tiny scrap of jeans with marker, abstracted designs that wrapped around her hip and vanished at the hem like there’d been a larger design there, once. 

She should look rumpled, dirty even, but somehow she pulled the eclectic look off with an artistic flare he immediately found bizarrely appealing. She stepped confidently out of the house wearing garments that neatly sectioned the parts of her body off into pleasing shapes; particularly the sleek black leggings that covered her squishy protoform between the tall boots she wore and the pair of shorts that covered her overtly feminine aft. Proportionally speaking, she had what Knockout would consider wide hips, and his gaze lingered far longer on her backside than he thought was maybe appropriate.

Scrap it all, he was getting all revved up over a human.

Having her soft body plop all its gentle, sleek curves into his driver’s seat as her form molded against the shape of him wasn’t helping his nerves.

“You certainly dolled yourself up for the evening, hoping to catch yourself a pretty mate from the audience?” he wonders idly. He tells himself he was just making conversation, but his investment in her answer has him wondering if he should comm Breakdown and ask for a little emergency quickie when he got back to base. It wasn’t often that he got so wound up, but when he did…

His thoughts derailed at his guest’s uncomfortable expression.

“Oh. Um… No?” she says hesitantly. With even more hesitance, she uncertainly asks, “Should I go change?”

Yes. Yes, she should, before he did or said something moronic. He silently reminds himself of all the grotesque, nasty, frame-shuddering things he’d seen on the internet of her species interfacing. It was not attractive. Not remotely.

“It’s just a compliment,” he soothes instead as he began to back up and turn to leave the way he’d come, because it was already six-oh-one PM, and they had a schedule to keep. “You look fine.”

Very fine. For a human.

“R-right. Uh… How um- How long am I going to be by myself while you’re racing?” she wonders, and tucks hair behind an ear as she looks out the side window.

Knockout’s engine purrs with a low rumble.

“Oh, not very long at all.”

“The race is that fast?” she asks, startled and impressed.

“Oh, I’m very fast,” Knockout boasts with an audible smirk.

~*~

He’s toying with you; giving you answers that don’t actually tell you much of anything at all. You won’t be alone for long, and you’ll be perfectly comfortable even if it rains earlier than the news forecast. No one will be able to harrass you, even while he’s busy driving, and no, you won’t have to worry about getting lost trying to find him after the race.

You’ll be indoors, but the race is outdoors; you couldn’t find any race tracks in the area that matched his eclectic, odd descriptions, and you finally gave up and accepted the fate of being surprised.

Your surprise couldn’t have been greater; no wonder you couldn’t find any clues about where you two were going, because Knockout drives you both out into the middle of seemingly fucking nowhere, desert stretching for miles in every direction, until all at once there’s just… Cars.

So many fucking cars. Old cars, vintage cars, modern cars, cars you’ve never even heard of or seen before. There’s some rusty ones, some pretty normal looking rides, but most of the vehicles present or at least easily visible, are souped up. There’s a handful of two wheelers from mopeds to motorcycles, a few of which have been painted up as pretty as the showroom cars.

Your heart flutters as you take in the amazing sight, studying sleek lines on aggressive muscle cars and sexy looking hot rods. And the art-- holy paintbrushes, you could spend all week drooling over the sparkly hoods and artful flames and fancy geometric patterns. Some models rock more classic styles, with minimal color blocking and striking, well placed body lines of razor-straight pinstriping.

“My, my… I didn’t take you for such an automobile enthusiast,” Knockout comments. He’d been unusually quiet for the drive, though you didn’t think he was in a bad mood, just… quiet. Maybe because of the somewhat awkward tension of you declaring you’d decide whether or not you two would stay friends or if he’d put his engine towards the sunset once this was all over.

You don’t like thinking about it. You like thinking about why you don’t like thinking about it, even less.

So you do the entirely reasonable, mature, adult thing to do.

You ignore it.

“I don’t know models or engine parts and stuff, I’m real shit at remembering numbers and words,” you admit. “But I fucking love a gorgeous ride,” you enthuse, forgetting for a moment how awkward it might be talking to someone who’s physical body happens to transform into an automobile. “Like, look at that Camaro-- everyone’s flocking around the new and shiny model over there, but that sexy beast looks like it could chew some asphalt. Way cooler paint job that shows off the body well, and I like the rims, it’s a bit clashy but has personality,” you ramble. “Oh! Oh! And the painted pinstriped one, not the vinyl striped on the end, the other one-- that’s some smartly pulled lines, and the body form is so pretty.”

Knockout’s engine makes an odd rumble for a moment, and you abruptly sit down in your seat, face warming as you cut yourself off from gushing.

“Hmmm… I’m partial to the reds, myself. That Firebird is a sleek look, too bad what’s under the hood isn’t much,” he comments idly. You look around until you see it, one of the few car models you actually do recognize.

“The T-top?” you question.

“Mmhm.”

“What made you decide to be an Aston Martin?” you wonder as Knockout makes his way through the crowd, seeming to thrive on the admiring stares he gets as people stop to oogle his pretty paint.

You don’t blame them. He is some fine looking eye candy in the car world.

“Hmmm, I liked its shape and specs, and there’s not many of them around. There’s no point in looking good if everyone else is rocking the same style,” he remarks.

You can’t help but giggle at his vanity.

“Well, you do look good,” you admit, then pat the steering wheel in what you hope is taken as the companionable gesture you mean it as.

“How good?” Knockout purrs, fishing for more compliments. You laugh harder.

“Is a literal crowd of drooling onlookers not enough to flatter you?”

“Quality, not quantity. I’d rather hear your praise,” the mech replies with a suave, low-pitched voice that quite abruptly, makes something below your belly twist.

Oooooh ‘kay. Time to change topics. Anything to get him to stop speaking like that.

“Right! So, where am I waiting while you race?” you wonder.

“Just sit pretty right where you are,” Knockout answers.

You go still.

Abruptly, everything suddenly makes so much sense. The fact he offered you the driver’s seat instead of the passenger side, that you’re dressed up for ‘indoors and sitting down,’ all the little clues and hints and taunts he teased you with so the answer was right in front of your face.

“K-Knockout, I’ve never been in a race!” You splutter.

“Relax, I’m going to do all the driving. All you have to do is smile and wave.”

“Did-- Did you already register? How does this even work? Don’t you have to pay to enter these things? I don’t have enough money for that!” you protest.

“I registered,” he soothes. “And payment’s already handled. Like I said… Just sit there and look pretty,” he repeats smugly.

“Oooh I’m going to kick your rims when I get out of here,” you grouse.

“Then maybe I’ll never let you go,” he taunts.

That flutter in your stupid, annoying, idiot body returns with a needy twinge. You shift your weight, trying to take pressure off the uncomfortably sensitized nerves between your legs.

“Just don’t yeet me through the windshield,” you beg, then reach up to grab the seatbelt. You’d forgone wearing it because honestly, you felt like you could not possibly be safer on the road than by being a passenger for the sentient mechanical being, but now you have images of being tossed about his cabin space with sharp turns or hair-raising, tire-squealing acrobatics. You have no clue what to expect. Is this a straight run? The road is straight, and seems to stretch for ages, so you assume it’s straight. Are there turns? Do the other drivers play nice, or does a bit of bumper-cars go on? You have no idea, but you get the feeling this isn’t, perhaps, a legal race.

“Please, you’re with the best driver on the entire planet,” he boasts.

“Wow, your ego is being very humble today,” you say dryly as he finally passes out of the crowd of gathered onlookers, and rolls up to a stop several car paces back from a blue painted line across the road where three other cars are already lined up.

“You think planetary greatness is humble?” he wonders.

“Only in comparison to expecting you to boast about universe-wide accomplishment,” you elaborate with a smirk.

Knockout snorts.

“Yes, well, I only claim credit where it’s due. I am, however, quite the name on my home planet.”

That catches your attention; he rarely talks about himself in any kind of personal way, prefering to boast of his assets and his skills.

You don’t get a chance to ask though, because quite suddenly Knockout is rolling down the tinted window as a man with dreadlocks and a flamboyantly bright yellow outfit swaggers towards you with a lazy gait.

“Your time to shine,” Knockout purrs quietly, and then you’re in the spotlight as you plaster a waitress smile on your face and wave at the man who’s walking over. “You’ve been to dozens of races and never lost one yet, so make me look good,” he instructs.

Outwardly, you actually manage to look collected. You even manage to keep down the initial, knee-jerk reaction to splutter and protest and ask a million-and-twelve questions. Who is this guy? What’s he want? What are you supposed to say?

Inwardly, you are screaming with inadequacy. You hope like fuck this guy doesn’t somehow oust you as an imposter; you haven’t driven a real car in years, let alone one like this. You know no racing jargon or anything about this race, you sure hope he doesn’t ask you any car nerd questions because oh man do you know nothing about Knockout’s disguise except it’s model inspiration. You don’t even know how Knockout registered or--

“So you finally decided to show your face, Mystery Marauder,” the man greets as he ducks down to see you, then looks openly surprised. “Well flip me sideways, you’re a lady driver? I get it, I get it sweets, but you’ve got some balls, girl,” he greets with praise, then sticks his hand out to you while you try like fuck to keep a straight face.

“Hey,” you greet. No one knows you here, so you decide you’ll just pretend that for today, your MO is the silent and short on words type. That sounds like it’d be appropriate, anyways, given Knockout’s need to hide the fact he doesn’t typically have a driver. You accept the hand thrust at you, and give it a firm, solid shake.

The man in yellow seems to like that, but he hangs onto your hand for longer than you’d like as he beams down at you with a somewhat leering grin. He’s a little too friendly, you decide.

“That’s it?” he wonders, teases, really. “Just, ‘hey?’ After all the hell you’ve caused me, winning races then fucking off? I mean don’t get me wrong the prize purse has been hella nice but the politics about what to do with it…”

You don’t know what to do except smile, which becomes rather forced when the man tilts your wrist then bends his head down, and presses a kiss to your knuckles.

“Do me a favor and stick around for this one, or I might actually get my throat slit,” he tells you with a lilting tone, but his eyes look dead serious. His grip tightens on your hand for just a moment.

“I plan to,” you assure him, adding a wink because honestly you have no fucking clue what else to do except play along. You don’t know anything, so acting like you do will get you in trouble. You just want your hand back and the window rolled up. “See you at the finish line.”

“Yeah? How about after the finish line, I give you a private tour of my garage? Show you the sweet rides in my collection, ever seen a Porsche 911 Carrera RS 3.8?” he asks with a voice you know he means to sound seductive, but suddenly your gut is churning as your smile grows forced, and you tug on your hand.

He doesn’t immediately let your hand go.

“Sorry, my time’s already spoken for.”

“Damn,” he says. “Who’s the lucky chad, or chick, I ain’t judgin’ if you swing another way,” he adds easily, not seeming overly affected by your rejection as he lets go of your hand.

The response blurts out of your mouth before you properly think it through, already so into character you just roll with it. If this guy thinks you’re the real deal, then you think you have a chance to get through today. You only need the ruse to work for a little longer.

“Nothing I love more than a good engine with a loud purr, this sweet ride takes up all my free time,” you say with another wink -- fuck, are you winking too much? You’re probably overdoing it -- then practically jump out of your own skin when Knockout suddenly revs his engine louder than you’ve ever heard it before.

It’s well more than a purr, it’s a downright growl, maybe even a roar, one that rattles the entire car with its thunderous rumble. It sends a bone-shaking vibration right through your entire body as the man who greeted you jerks upright with surprise, then laughs.

The sudden tingle between your legs at the sensation nearly makes you slap the dashboard on reflex, before you remind yourself that there’s no way Knockout realized what he inadvertently did.

The man next to you ducks back down, fortunately having missed your own reaction of surprise while he was distracted with his. You pretend that you were totally the one that did that, on purpose. You also pretend that your underwear isn’t more than a little uncomfortably, distractingly wet. Good lords, what was wrong with you today?

“Bit more than a purr on this one,” the man jokes, then gives the hood of Knockout’s vehicle form an affectionate, and careful, pat. “I’d wish you luck racing, but… Shit, we both know you don’t need it. Hey, thanks for coming. You won me three hundred bucks in a bet,” he says with a grin as he begins to wave you to drive forward.

“I did?” you wonder.

He grins toothily.

“Sure as shit. Guys didn’t think you’d break your silence or show your face, but here you are. I knew you wouldn’t miss this race, ain’t many who can go bumper to bumper with Venom, Koi, and Hacksack. Hey, what’s your actual call sign, while I have your pretty face to chat with for once?”

You should probably have thought things through before you replied, but you didn’t. You were so in the zone, you just rolled with it.

You wink at him again.

“Tell them all to eat my dust, because Knockout’s here to make good on my namesake.”

~*~

“How did I do?” is the first thing she asks when the window rolls up, and Knockout drives forward to the starting line with more eagerness than he’s used to feeling before a race. He feels charged up and ready to go, practically vibrating with energy.

How did she do?

How about winding him up into a half-wild frenzy with her artsy little outfit and her sassy back-talk? How about making him want to snark and banter and blow his cover while she flaunted him off to the meatbag who ran the races?

How about making him want to kiss those pretty, perky lips, because he was finally going to get to burn some rubber against the opponents he’d been trying to run a match against for months?

He definitely was going to pretend he’d never thought that last thought. Humans were absurd-- their alien features so uncomfortably close to his own species, with their familiar silhouette and faces. Her mouth was, arguably, the most relatable part of her entire anatomy short of, perhaps, her hands.

Her sweet, shapely lips looked so soft. He wanted to know just how soft.

“You did fine,” he soothes her as he parks at the stopping line. Predictably, the vehicle next to him immediately rolls down their purple-tinted window. The tattooed man inside calls out a short greeting.

“Don’t you dare roll down the window,” Knockout’s pretty little femme blurts immediately, seizing up as she sits ramrod straight in the seat, and grimaces. “The less people who see my face, the better.”

~*~

“Hmm, they’re not worth wasting your time talking to, anyways,” Knockout purrs with blatant arrogance that should probably annoy you, except against it all, it kind of makes you want to giggle this time.

You smile as you look out the window, feeling just a little bad for ignoring the guy, but his mean expression doesn’t make you feel guilty for long. He flips a middle finger up at you, then rolls his window up.

“Something tells me you don’t make many friends on the race track,” you comment.

“Oh, I’m not here to make friends,” Knockout rumbles with obvious enjoyment. “I’m here to make them eat my tailpipe,” he growls in that voice, that gravelly, scraping, low rumble that shoots fire between your legs as your face warms.

Shit he shouldn’t have such an attractive voice. Shit shit shit you are so lucky he has no idea that--

“Are you alright?” Knockout asks abruptly. “Your face is changing colors.”

Oh gods. Oh gods. Oh no. No, no no nononononoooooo there’s no way you’re explaining your reaction. At least, not the truth.

“Sometimes humans blush when they’re very emotional. I’m very excited for this race,” you fudge a bit; you are, you just don’t need him to know that’s not the particular ‘excitement’ making your skin turn red.

“Interesting. For what purpose? Interspecies communication?”

“I guess? A lot of people wear makeup that makes it look like they’re blushing though, so sometimes it’s just for looks.”

“You don’t appear to be wearing any of the face paint I see other organics wear,” he observes.

“No, I--”

“Race time,” Knockout interrupts with an eager rumble. You jolt in the seat when suddenly, four powerful engines rev at full volume, drowning out the cheers of the crowd that lines either side of the wide stretch of road.

Holy shit it’s loud. Once you’re over the initial shock, you… kind of love it. You can feel the sound rocking through you like pulsing waves, though your sensitive ears are also starting to complain at the volume.

The man in yellow stands in the very center in front of the cars at the racing line, between the two middle-most vehicles so they won’t run him over. He holds a bright red rag in his hand that he lifts up, shouts something-- then drops it.

There’s absolutely no other warning. The instant that little scrap of fabric hits the ground, Knockout shoots out from the starting line with a powerful growl of the engine and a surge of speed that slams you back into his seat.

“Holy shit!” you exclaim as you rocket forward, already having left the crowd well behind. You contort in the seat the moment gravity is no longer forcing you pinned against it, and look behind. “Woah,” you breathe. The other three cars are already several lengths behind, and Knockout smoothly moves to take the very middle of the road as his engine purrs and vibrates through his frame.

“Impressed?” he preens.

“Yeah,” you admit breathlessly, stunned to see the other drivers fall rapidly behind, though they seem to go nose-to-nose with each other to try and take second lead. You’ll let Knockout have this one; he is fast, and it is impressive.

“You haven’t seen anything yet,” he rumbles. “Now sit normal before you get your spine twisted,” he orders, and you do so just in time to see an orange barrel sitting in the middle of the road up ahead. The tiny shape rapidly becomes larger. “Hold tight, fleshy,” he quips, and then quite suddenly tires are squealing as rubber burns a black smoke around you as the world spins and screeches like a banshee.

 It’s a good thing you threw the seatbelt on, because your slight body strains against the straps as you grab hold of the armrests and brace your feet on the floor. You have no idea what’s happening except your contextual guess of him doing a drifting turn to flip around the orange barrel and reverse his direction. When you come to a slamming stop then yeet forward again, that apparently seems to be exactly what the case was as he builds up momentum rapidly, and shoots past the cars who race past him to take their own, tire-squealing turns.

“Mmmm yes, I do love the smell of burning rubber and exhaust in my lessers’ faces,” Knockout enthuses, still talking in that lower rumble that has your stomach doing flips.

“Y-yeah, that’s, that’s really great,” you stammer lamely instead of the laugh he’d normally have provoked, your voice faint.

He scoffs.

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

“N-no! No, I mean-- Fuck,” you say contritely, struggling to think. You’re so not going to tell him you’re just flustered as heck right now. “I can’t -- word right. This is cool,” you stammer as the world speeds by and the distant crowd of people rapidly becomes much, much closer.

“And this is cooler,” Knockout boasts, before the steering wheel turns at the same time the clutch moves, and the living vehicle you’re in suddenly swings out and turns, skidding sideways over the finish line with a riot of cheers from the crowd. Rubber squeals until he comes to a stop, facing the direction of the other racers. It’s several long seconds before the first one zooms over the line after the others, shooting past Knockout in a blur of bright green and into his own skidding halt. The others follow suit, and you gasp for breath to come down from the adrenaline high of the century.

Knockout rolls forward once the others have passed him, making his way towards the yellow-suited man as he swaggers out with hands raised.

“My ladies and gentleman and others too many to name!” the man shouts. “WE - HAVE- OUR- WINNEEEERRRRR! Give it up for the fastest, the baddest, the hottest lady on the track-- Knockout!” he bellows.

Your face turns red as you sink into the seat.

“Pleeeeeease tell me no one’s going to recognize me after this,” you beg.

“Of course not, you look like all the other humans,” he remarks carelessly. “Mmm, I do love a crowd screaming my name,” he continues, clueless.

Ouch that stings. Way more than you would have expected it to.

You give his radio a flat look.

“And you look like a Camero to the JPD.”

“What?” he splutters. “I look nothing like a cheap muscle car!” he snarks.

“Not to someone who knows cars! And anyone who is familiar with telling humans apart, might be able to pick me out of a crowd. If I’d known I was going to be your face for the day, I’d have worn makeup to disguise myself!” you snap.

“Hmm, well. I wasn’t sure you’d agree if I asked,” he says, hardly an acceptable excuse, but at least he was honest. Ish.

The yellow man knocks on the tinted glass, forestalling your retort. His wide, toothy grin reminds you to put on one of your own as you quickly sit up straight in the seat. You’ve got to pretend your a badass hotheaded racer who just smoked three other drivers.

You give him your best ‘yeah, I just did that’ smirk of confidence.

“Well well well, and no one is surprised but the three disillusioned losers behind us,” he says with a wink, then hands you a fat white envelope, which you reach out to take. His hand doesn’t immediately let go of it, but this time you were kind of expecting that. It feels somehow like some kind of MO for him. “Listen, there’s another race next weekend, out on the flat stretch on the East end of town. We’re shutting down some streets to make an interesting course, you in?” he asks.

The engine of the very much alive vehicle you’re sitting in rumbles a little louder for a moment.

“What time and where?” you dutifully ask, and he lets go of the money.

“Got a cell? I’ll text you the details once I get them from Jackie,” he says, and immediately goosebumps raise up on the back of your neck.

“Nah.”

“Email?” he tries, a little more uncertainly this time. Your smile becomes forced.

“Nah.”

“...A’ight, a'ight. How about you meet me at the Corner Cafe on Wednesday, six O’ clock, and I’ll give you the info in person?”

“I’ll think about it,” you lie, already knowing your answer is no.

“You do that, Knockout… Damn fitting name. I’ll see you at the next race,” he winks, then steps away, and the window scrolls up.

“Get me out of here,” you say immediately, voice hushed, skin crawling.

“Bugger him,” Knockout says with annoyance as he slowly rolls forward and turns, the crowd that’s now broken free from the roadsides swarming the street around the racers. “He always knows when the next race is, why didn’t he tell us?”

You have to fight off the urge to laugh at the image of Knockout trying to follow the event organizer around hoping to overhear him tell someone about the race, wondering how he even finds out about them.

“He was a little too distracted trying to force me to go on a date with him,” you say with a scrunched nose, watching the other three drivers get out of their vehicles to talk to people. One of them, the man in the purple sports car who’d flipped you off, stops to stare as Knockout rolls past.

“Wait, what?” the ‘bot in question splutters.

“A date. It’s--”

“I know what a date is,” he snarks. “I didn’t realize that obtuse neon mile marker was trying to woo you. He’s not very good at it,” he scoffs.

This time, you laugh a little as you leave the people behind, and you shrug off the nasty glares the other drivers treated you and Knockout to.

“No, no he wasn’t.”

“I know how to get your heart racing,” Knockout purrs, in that voice.

Oh no. Oh fuck. He knows you--

You’re slammed back into the seat when his engine revs suddenly, and he rockets forward with an impressive amount of speed, much like he did back at the starting line. After the initial momentary shock, you find yourself feeling giddy as you laugh, relieved. He doesn’t know after all, but he is right.

You’ve always been a bit of a speed demon. You just never had an outlet for it before.

“How fast can you drive?” you wonder as the world races by at an impossible blur, and you glance at his dashboard gauges. You’re already well past one hundred and rapidly creeping up.

“Would you like to find out?” Knockout invites.

You bite the inside of your lip as your heart pounds.

“Yeah.”

~*~

It’s a fairly lackluster response, but that’s fine-- Knockout’s come to realize his human tends to lose her articulation when she’s excited or distressed, and he’s more than happy to burn some fuel as he races forward. Oh, today felt good.

His engine rumbled with a pleasing purr of harmonics as he let the giddy vibrations travel through his frame, reveling in the speed and power of hard, hot machinery under his hood. He didn’t accelerate as fast as he’d like to, out of consideration for his passenger. And also his upholstery; cleaning gravity-crushed human bits out of his leather did not sound appealing in the slightest.

Once they blew past the hundred and eighty marker, his human started to shift on her seat like she was uncomfortable; she no longer looked out the windows at the blurring landscape with rapt, undivided attention. Her awed gaze turns distracted as she keeps glancing around, like she was afraid of someone seeing them.

“Are you alright?” he wonders. He’d slow his speed if he thought that was the issue, but after watching her for a few moments, he resumed acceleration; her distress seemed more like she was thinking about something. She didn’t show any signs of pain, just a fidgety discomfort as her gaze flicked out the windows.

“Huh? Oh, uh, yes, fine, I’m fine,” she answers quickly.

A little too quickly.

“Hmm,” he hums, considering her.

“Woah, you’re-- you’re past two hundred. Wait, what if there’s wildlife?” she asks with sudden alarm.

Knockout scoffs.

“There’s no lifeforms on my radar in danger of being splattered.” She looks relieved at that, a tiny smile appearing back on her lips.

His engine roars louder as the speed increases, and quite suddenly, the human sits up straight in her seat then does a funny, hop-slide motion with her hips as she readjusts herself like something had pinched her. She settles immediately after, looking more comfortable, until Knockout spots the shockingly bright shade of red that’s slowly spreading over her face.

Until he’d become acquainted with her, he’d never seen the phenomenon up close  before, and it never failed to bizarrely fascinate him how their skin could change color.

“Excited?” he purrs, pleased to find a fellow enthusiast who could appreciate the same things he did; not terribly many decepticons had much respect for ground-alt vehicles, no matter how important they were to operations.

At least he didn’t eat four soldier’s worth of Energon every month just to keep his fuel tanks from going dry and locking his joints up.

“U-uh, yeah,” his human tag-along stammers, not quite the enthused reaction he was expecting. He studies her face as they rocket over the two-hundred-and-fifty mark, the world zipping past them in a satisfying blur.

“What, have I rendered you speechless?” he wonders with an audible smirk.

Curiously, her face turns even redder.

“Uuhh…”

“That sounds like a yes.”

“Y-yeah, yeah that’s a ye- holy SHIT you’re over three hundred? Are we going to run out of road?” she gasps.

“Eventually. This stretch cuts through the desert for miles.”

“W-wow,” she breathes, then abruptly undoes the seatbelt and lifts her soft body off his seat. She pulls her knees onto the upholstery, mindful of her shoe bottoms, and looks out the window.

A faint scent tickles Knockout’s sensors as she moves, one that nearly makes his engine shift gears with surprise as his cooling vents kick up into overdrive.

So that’s what she meant when she said she was… excited.

~*~

“You enjoy going fast,” Knockout comments in his usual suave tone.

Clueless that the mech has caught on, you easily agree with a bob of your head.

“I like controlled speed,” you clarify. “Going fast when you think you’re about to die isn’t any fun. But speed when I can just enjoy it? Oh yeah, big fan, I could get used to this,” you hum thoughtlessly.

Boy, could you.

The wet mess in your underwear certainly says you could, though that part you’d rather pretend didn’t exist. It’s way easier now that you’ve changed to kneeling, the tormenting vibrations no longer stimulating you relentlessly.

“Why don’t you sit down and relax then, and let me give you a show?” Knockout invites, and the instant he does, every hair on your body stands up on end with goosebumps as you glance surreptitiously at the radio. You’re pretty sure the suggestive wording from the literal robot wasn’t intentional, but…

That certainly doesn’t stop your thoughts from diving right into the gutter.

“U-uuh…” you hesitate to agree-- the idea of sitting down again on the shaped seat is certainly appealing. A little too appealing, and you’d failed to find a way to sit normally that didn’t still tease and torment you.

For that same reason, it’s actively something you desperately want to avoid doing, embarrassed beyond belief enough as it is. The steady vibration of his engine manages to shake through your legs in just the right manner, and while you’ve never minded that in a vehicle before…

This isn’t a vehicle.

“It’s not safe to be sitting like that,” Knockout chides, sealing your fate as you try your damndest to keep a straight face. You don’t have a good response to that, because quite technically, he’s correct.

“Uh, right,” you agree, and awkwardly shuffle yourself back into a normal seating position, thighs squeezed tight to try and keep the vibration off your core as you adjust.

It doesn’t work. Teasing vibrations torment you as you forcibly try to ignore them.

~*~

“I think I’m ready to go home,” the femme quietly falling apart on his seat finally blurts, admitting some level of defeat as they rocket down the road at near top speed. With only a handful of precious seconds left of this stretch to safely make this breakneck run, he’s not giving up the chance to leave the throttle wide open.

How amusing something so natural and thrilling to him inspired such mutual… excitement in another.

“Oh?” Knockout asks, drawing it out as his frame heats with the force of friction,

If he were an ordinary Earth vehicle, his tires would have melted so many miles ago. He just starts to feel the heat in overtaxed rubber as his engine rumbles with a steady, harmonic hum.

Top speed, without any stretch to push just that bit beyond. He missed Velocitron’s endless, looping tracks, where he could throw the throttle wide all day if he had the Energon for it, and never stop except to cool his rims.

“Yeah, it’s-- Um, it’s been a long day, and also I’m pretty sure this is illegal and if someone--”

“They can’t see through the glass, remember?” he taunts.

“Yeah, but I just put a face to this pretty car at that racing show. I flaunted your reputation tonight-- please be careful with mine,” she says, downright primly, in an assertive manner that would usually annoy him, except he’s caught up on her words. “You just slapped a human ‘owner’ on your car identity, and it’s me.”

Quite technically, she’s correct.

He tries to decide if he cares or not. Does he? It’s important to her, ergo, it would displease her if he treated it any less. And he wasn’t going to get her to slip him into any more car rallies if she despised him, so being on her good side was a must to that end.

He sighs.

“Very well,” he grouses, slowing down in speed.

“Thank you,” she says. “Also… thank you-- for, uuuh… I guess for breaking the law with me,” she laughs nervously. “This… This was pretty fun. You’re a bad influence,” she says with a shy grin.

Oh-hoh, there’s a rebel in you yet, he thinks.

~*~

The air in Knockout’s cabin space, you swear, is getting stuffier the longer the drive takes, even though the ride out had been clean, freshly cycled air.

You really hope his species doesn’t have a sense of smell. You don’t need to have a dog’s nose to catch your own arousal’s sweet perfume, and arousal that was more or less driving you absolutely mad by the time you say goodbye to your alien… friend? You think that’s what he is, because some stupid part of you really somehow likes his company, even though you really hate the life and death peril it’s frightened you with.

“Well… Drive safe home, I guess, wherever home is,” you say with somewhat awkward fondness as you stand up out of Knockout’s low vehicle disguise, free at last. The air is balmy tonight, and the stars are mostly obscured overhead by thick, gray clouds. The race had squeaked in just before the coming rains.

“Hmm, it’s a short drive with superior teleportation technology,” Knockout boasts, but this time, all you do is smile. You’re getting used to his theatrics.

“Yeah, that is pretty nifty. It’d cut my time down driving to work so much. Also… Hey, thanks for this,” you add, holding up the envelope with a little wiggle.

“Not even going to count it? What if he stiffed you, hmm?” Knockout taunts. He doesn’t make any move to roll out of your driveway yet, so you find yourself likewise hesitating, rooted to the spot as you chat by his window.

“I mean… If I was worried about that I would have counted it first thing, once I was inside you,” you say, and boy, could you have worded that better for your stupid little gutter brain.

How you manage to keep a reaction from your face or from choking on your own breath in a terrible wheeze, you don’t know. Maybe adrenaline.

The envelope in your hand feels heavy. If it’s the twenties and fifties you’re hoping for, it’ll be enough to take care of a lot of things right away.

“What if I’m about to stiff you, if I drive off never to be seen again, and there isn’t enough there to put new wheels under you?” Knockout prompts.

Is he drawing out the goodbye? You think he is, and quite abruptly, you remember something you’d forgotten. Or, more accurately, you’d chosen to shove out of your mind until you couldn’t outrun it any longer.

You hesitate, then reach out and pat the top of his candy red canopy.

“You can come by to visit again… if you promise to make sure no more near death experiences come my way, preferably? I’m down for a few races now and then and hanging out.”

His engine revs.

“Oh, I thought you’d never ask,” he purrs. “It’s a date, then.” Before you could quite react, he rapidly rolled out from under your hand, backing up in a quick pivot. “See you next weekend, doll.”

You’re left standing on your driveway with your hand still not quite lowered, and not quite raised, staring at the direction he’d driven off with a dumbfounded expression.

You were right; he was just drawing out the goodbye. The instant he knew he’d have more time with you again, off he went.

You look down at the fat envelope in your hand, then self consciously look around, before slipping into your house.

You consider the merits of moving, or maybe getting a second residence to swap between. Maybe if there’s enough left over after fixing yourself up with new transportation, you’ll look for a place to take out a loan for. Though your initial thought had been focused on moving for your own safety and to get away from aliens and all the trouble that came with them by proxy…

…you find yourself daydreaming how Knockout might react to being surprised with a garage he could actually stand up in. He’s never outright complained about your short ceilinged, two-car garage on any of his visits, but you can tell it’s not very comfortable.

You sigh, catching your own thoughts. You are so hopeless.

Safely indoors, you sit down on your sofa after closing the curtains, then open up the envelope.

The first bill on the stack has Benjamin’s face peeking at you from the envelope seam.

Your heart thuds.

You pull the stack out.

You intend to count, but honestly, after the first brush of your thumb smooths a clean, crisp fan of nothing but hundred dollar bills, you feel a little lightheaded and dizzy. You’d expected several hundred to maybe a few thousand dollars when Knockout told you about the race, then excitedly upped that estimate a bit when you actually felt the weight of the prize money in your hands.

But you’d still only expected a sum enough to cover your totaled bike and maybe some funds left over, not…

not…

You just kinda, pour the cash out over your lap and stare at it, dumbfounded.

“Holy… shit,” you breathe.

And Knockout was just… driving off? You supposed he didn’t have much need for Earth money, though you wondered if he ever needed to buy gas. Could his alt mode even safely take gasoline? You weren’t sure if he’d be weirded out by you asking, but you were curious now.

But then there was the shimmery blues and golds and greens laying on your lap, dumbfounding you.

“Holy shit,” you say again, because aren’t you just so articulate tonight?

That’s about when one of your cats wakes you up from your stupor, because Gizmo hops up from the ground onto the sofa. A white-tipped paw sloooowly reaches for the bills on your lap.

You jerk a bit, blink, and gently bop his paw away with the tip of your finger.

“No, not for kitties,” you admonish gently. Yellow eyes stare up at you unblinkingly, before he finally blinks and looks away, then turns and saunters off.

You take a deep breath, then shakily begin gathering all the cash up. You…

…really hope this money was all legally acquired.

Oh, lords.

What had you gotten yourself into?

work in progress

i decided to keep going with this sketch and take it to a painting

Gesture Sketches

Historically i very rarely share my sketches because i honestly just don’t think to, so i very rarely end up sharing the occasional finished work instead, but i draw all the time

so consider this the start of me trying to share my casual work more often, this is how a lot of my more elaborate finished works start, as gesture scribbles.

Fanfic Scene Sketch

Nova, always thinking ahead. There’s a soft side somewhere under her cold armor.

she’s supposed to be very aloof, but i keep ending up with writing her during scenes she is, for contextual reasons, less aloof. Partying with the other Seekers might have contributed to this one.

please pardon me yeeting through a bagillion typeface styles in my doodling

Soundwave Cathat Doodle

Soundwave + Cat = Cathat cutes