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CANTBUFFTHIS ♦ independent headcanon-based Knock Out from Transformers Prime as written by Shea (30+, she/her).

[ rules ♦ headcanon ♦ interest tracker ♦ verses ♦ tags ♦ nsfw ]

**Note** I'm not interested in shipping Knock Out x Breakdown and do not consider their relationship to be canon in TFP. Please do not tag me in KOxBD ship art, DM me ideas or art about the ship, or send asks implying that Knock Out is in a relationship / entertains romantic feelings for Breakdown. I will ignore / delete them.

#pinned;

citrustei

Winnie is the definition of demanding. Cora had known this since they became friends in college and there was part of her that remained confused as to why Winnie decided that a burnout with a weird obsession for The Beach Boys was the perfect fit for her social circle, slotted into place like a puzzle that was missing its final, misshaped piece. It was bizarre and made her stomach twist with a clenching anxiety whenever she stepped into a room that brimmed in upper-class wealth and her beat-up Sketchers squeaked across freshly, polished floors like a desperate cry for help.

Cora didn't come from money, she was the breathing stereotype of a broke student that was one step away from dropping out and spiraling into generational poverty.

And then Winnie appeared, just spawning into existence. Slipped next to her in a sociology class like a whisper and startled Cora out of a daze, saying something about notes in a hushed tone that made her mouth dry. Cora didn't take notes, not in past two months since classes had started. She was prepared to flunk out, ready to send a badly typed email to the registrar's office to officialize her future in being a disappointment. But suddenly, staring down into those brown eyes, she was left wishing she had taken notes.

Following Winnie became a habit after that. No, maybe a dependency all throughout college. And that stayed true past graduation when Winnie asked if she wanted to work for her family.

It fixed everything. Every financial burden suddenly disappeared. A clean slate. A free apartment. Her college debt being chipped away. All due to some spoiled nepo baby deciding Cora was neat enough to keep around and snapped her fingers.

And bam, Cora was loyal as a dog with a 15-year contract to boot.

She tugged at her collar, irritated and too warm as she unbuttons the top of the white dress shirt. Even though the sun had set, the humidity clung to the air like a wet, suffocating blanket making it hard to breathe. She was sweating, her clothes felt like they were trying to soak into her pores, and Winnie was walking at an annoyingly brisk pace, the silk of her dress fluttering in ripples around her. Utterly unbothered and without a care.

That piece of fabric probably cost more than her car payments. Maybe even more. She wasn't good with brand names. As long as everything fit, she could care less where it came from.

"Slow down," she calls out dryly, Winnie's coat draped over her arm and her purse in her other hand. "It's too hot to be trotting around like that." "Walk faster," came the sharper retort but Winnie slows just slightly. "You're dragging your feet and Naomi is waiting. And when she gets impatient, she makes that idiotic, high-pitched sound and her voice becomes grating."

"Whining?"

"Yes, that. It gives me a headache."

"A headache," Cora repeated the word, her tone lifelessly dull as if it were the most ridiculous thing she had ever heard. And it was ridiculous. Winnie had a way of making normal shit seem beneath her. It must run in her family, a weird genetic mutation that makes everything seem mundane. But she says nothing. She wasn't paid to argue.

Stepping into the club was a relief given there was AC. She wasn't going to melt into some puddle on the cement, leaving Winnie to fend for herself. Cora shifts beside her, handing off the coat to a club attendant without a word. They were regulars, nothing had to be said. She turns towards Winnie, ready to guide her to the VIP section, the typical spot of her and her friends to drink and gossip.

But someone speaks to her and it makes her stop. Says her name with a familiarity that has the hair on the back of her neck rising. She looks down, staring at the man below her. At least, she thinks he's a man. He's pretty in a disarming way that makes her pause for a moment.

And it hits her, the dramatic sort of understanding that feels more like a bullet in the chest. The guy in the red car. The one they hit and ran from. The rational thing should have been to ignore him, pretend he never spoke. But as she stares him down, her gaze grows cold and she steps closer, towering over him and her hands flex. As if she were itching for him to do something, all the while blocking Winnie from sight.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step back," she murmurs.

cantbuffthis

As much as he studied humankind, right down to the intricacies of their anatomy and the improbable compatibility it shares with Cybertronian biology, Knock Out doesn't know what it means to be human. His holoform, a carefully crafted imitation that allows him to walk among the humans without betraying his true nature, is convincing enough. Perfection, however, has always remained just out of reach.

The human's continued insolence strips the pleasant veneer from his expression. His practiced smile sharpens into a vicious scowl, and beneath the pulsing lights of the club, his eyes burn an unnatural crimson that risks being seen as more than just a trick of the light. His stare pins itself to Cora before drifting, slow and deliberate, to the friend she so boldly tries to shield.

The difference in their height is insignificant. Intentionally ignoring her warning, Knock Out closes the distance with a measured step.

"You crashed into me. You ran like a coward." His voice is smooth silk wrapped around a blade. "And now you have the audacity to tell me to back up?"

He takes another step.

"You and your friend owe me."

There is nothing either human could do to truly threaten him. He advances again until there is scarcely enough room for anyone to squeeze between them. This time there will be no escape, no convenient interruption.

"You misunderstand entirely who I am," he says, his tone dropping into something more dangerous. "And you have no idea what I do to those who so much as scratch my paint."

His eyes lock with Cora's, the fury in them cooling into something far more controlled and infinitely more unsettling. "I know everything about you, Cora." The words leave him almost gently. "So I suggest you come with me..." his gaze flicks to the friend she is trying to hide, "...unless you're both intent on making this considerably worse for yourselves."

#+ ( rp ) a scratch too far #citrustei #your guard dog is gatekeeping and that's rude #//my dog howled while i was typing this and scared the shit out of me #//if there's a typo i missed that's why

marwhal-deactivated20170812

“so, which part shall I cut first?”

#+ vanity check ( visage )

americanelegy

Holding back sarcastic replies takes a lot out of a girl

#+ self diagnosis ( psyche )

bites you.

Locks her in his trunk.

#+ doctor consult;#citrustei

suckmybearings

"Oh, darlin' baby.."

"Come here. And keep runnin' that mouth, all right?"

cantbuffthis

One elegant brow arches.

"Darlin' baby?" he repeats, unable to suppress the grin tugging at his lips. If it's meant to be a lure it works. "How unexpectedly affectionate."

He lifts his chin ever so slightly, taking a deliberate step forward.

"For a legendary Wrecker, you spend a remarkable amount of time playing at being intimidating."

The doctor advances with infuriating leisure until only inches remain between them, crossing every bit of that dangerous territory as his smile sharpens into something almost predatory.

"Are you finally going to stop making threats..." he asks softly, "...and actually do something?"

#suckmybearings #i don't think you're as bold as you let on

autobotmedic

Ratchet has risen to stretch his worn joints and the ghost of old wounds, just a small walk to work out tension before he intended to return to recharge. Flickers of light catch his eye as he enters the hallway out of his room, however, and his helm tilts in puzzlement.

A few moments later, he stood analyzing the sleeping sportscar, then the screen. Ratchet moves to turn off the current film, casting the room into shadow and the soft glow of biolights. His optics adjust to the change, and he turns back toward Knock Out.

Ratchet ensures his field coats him first, letting Knock Out know he was present, and more importantly, not a threat. Whether he awakens or not, Ratchet has found that spark communication seeps into the subconscious beyond general awareness, sometimes capable of soothing restlessness in young or old.

After that, he crouches down to try to work one arm under his wheel wings and the other under his poleyns. If there is any objection, Ratchet will freeze. If there isn't, or if he remains asleep, Ratchet will lift him.

cantbuffthis

The former Decepticon stirs briefly when Ratchet's field gently soothes over him, though not enough to wake. It isn't until Knock Out registers movement beneath him — at first woven into his dreams as the unsettling sensation of something crawling along his back — that he startles awake, processors still hazy with exhaustion.

Through the soft glow of biolights, the silhouette resolves into Ratchet's features.

"Ratch?" he murmurs, voice thick with sleep.

He makes no effort to resist being lifted, instead settling into the familiar comfort the ambulance offers. His optics drift shut again.

"The movie didn't attack me," he mumbles drowsily. "Don't need repairs."

There's a pause before he adds, voice barely above a whisper, "If you're taking me to the med bay, I'll consider it kidnapping."

#autobotmedic #//he would be lost without ratchet

"My finish might get ruined if you say it like that."

#+ doctor checking in;#alpha113nredshirteradicon #bulk is a gentlemech and service top in denial #and jackie would say i'm the brat because he's also in denial

Do you recognize the irony, doctor? Of all the Autobots, it looks like you have a thing for wreckers. I fear that your lustrous finish will never look the same.

His preference for the Wreckers isn't something that's lost on him. They live authentically, respect competence where they find it, and are fiercely loyal. None of those were luxuries he'd been afforded during his time among the Decepticons.

A small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

"What makes you think I'm the one in danger of being ruined?" he asks, a taunting gleam brightening his optics. "I think you'd be surprised to discover who has the greater influence."

Knock Out offers an indifferent shrug, his smile widening. "Besides, I'm sure I can teach them to polish me properly."

#+ doctor consult;#anonymous

Taylor Swift can claim to be an Aston Martin that was steered straight into a ditch all she wants, but she has no idea what it's actually like.

#+ doctor checking in;

toastbutteregg

#+ self diagnosis ( psyche )

citrustei

"Ease up on the gas." Her foot hesitates for a moment on the pedal, the car slowing slightly as she straightens in the seat with the sort of stiff, awkward awareness that comes with being openly judged by a drunk. Which is ridiculous on hindsight, a drunk doesn't get an opinion much less the right to even speak to her. The corner of her lip twitches as though she were about to frown and she puts her foot back on the gas, hard. "I can drive," Winnie says evenly, her fingers flexing on the wheel. "Go back to being unconscious or something."

Cora, her bodyguard and friend of seven years, glances at her with an expression that borders between professional irritation and unprofessional contempt, but her face is pale and gleaming with sweat which makes it fall rather flat. Probably fighting down the urge to vomit as Winnie hits a pothole dead on, the bump making her clutch at her stomach.

She opens her mouth, some smart retort writhing on her tongue but she closes it with a snap of her teeth. She has the common sense to restrain herself, Winnie is her boss at the end of the day, even if it was her off-night. "I'm not drunk enough to let you crash the goddamn car," she mutters. It sounded pathetic, even to Cora's ears and she grimaces as Winnie hits another pothole.

"Go left. It's a side street and there's less traffic lights."

The turn is disgustingly sharp, a screech of tires as the momentum swings both of them to lean to the side, and Cora can feel her stomach lurch with a dreadful promise as her shoulder presses against the door. "Fucking hell," she whispers to herself and Winnie whips her head to glare at her. "Can we try to keep the commentary to a minimum? I am helping. I am being careful. I am -"

"Eyes on the road."

Winnie, well, has always had a short-temper. Her mother had called her spirited while her father would look on with intense parental displeasure. She never grew out of it and it shows itself in horrendous ways when it mattered most. Like slamming her foot on the pedal as the car's engine roars and Cora finds herself gripping her seatbelt for dear life.

"Winnie, slow down!" "I'm getting us home faster! Do you want to throw up all over the seats?"

"I would like to be alive, thanks! Maybe see the sunrise! Not be a red stain on the road!"

"I'm great at driving!"

"You're a maniac - Holy fuck, Winnie! Brake! Brake!"

It happens in quick, disastrous succession. There's the faint sound of screaming as people leap out of the way (dramatic). Cora is swearing and spitting like a feral cat next to her (also, dramatic). But what rings in her head is the sound of metal splitting open, the distinct crunch of impact that makes her heart leap into her throat. She slams the brakes and when the car heaves to a stop, she sits in the seat, breathing hard and shaking. Cora is already slamming the passenger door open and stumbling out, retching on the side of the road and Winnie counts.

One. Two. Three. Breathe. One. Two. Three. Don't panic.

"Winnie! Fuck! My car! You utter dumbass!"

She flinches, fumbling with the door as she steps out. "Okay, okay, listen. We can fix this. This is fixable, it's totally fixable. I'll pay for it. Better yet, I'll buy you a new car, yeah? Something cute. Pink? You like pink."

And both their heads turn as they hear: You hit me!

Cora, despite the bleary eyes and sour taste in her mouth, squints at the small, screaming man. And his car. His expensive ass, insanely red Aston Martin. And with a weak, sputtering gasp, she shoves Winnie to round the car and get into the passenger seat.

"Hey- !"

"Shut up, shut up! Get in the car, we're going!"

"Shouldn't we give him our insurance information though?"

"Our? Our!? Are you insane?! You aren't even on my insurance! His car is worth more than my life! My whole family line! I'd be better off jumping off a cliff than giving him my shit! Now get in the fucking car, Winnie!"

Winnie gets in with a grumble, buckling up as Cora hurries inside with wide, frantic eyes. "Is this a hit and run? I've always wanted to do one of those. It's kinda hot."

"Winnie, I swear to God -"

And Cora peels off, flying down the road and heading towards the highway with the determination of someone who was suddenly very sober.

cantbuffthis

The lighting is too abysmal and situation far too chaotic for Knock Out to get more than a fleeting glimpse of the pair of humans scrambling about their mangled excuse of an automobile. By the time they dive back inside and speed off, the race has already ceased to matter.

'Cowards.'

Holoform dissolving in a shimmer of light, the Aston Martin surges forward in pursuit. They had struck him and dared to flee, such an insult demands repayment. Running them off the road into a ditch is one possibility; sending them tumbling down an embankment is another.

His engine snarls as he carves through traffic at reckless speeds, tires shrieking against the pavement with every sharp correction. Vehicles scatter before him as the distance between hunter and prey steadily closes. Near enough now, he locks onto their license plate, committing every character to memory.

Ahead at the railroad tracks, warning lights flare to life as the crossing bells sound their relentless clamor. A train horn blares through the night.

The offending vehicle slips across the tracks a heartbeat before the crossing gate slams downward. Knock Out applies the brakes, tires screaming as they fight for purchase, bringing him to a violent halt mere feet from the barrier. A freight train roars between them moments later, steel thunder drowning out everything else.

A deep, furious rev rumbles from his engine, the sound vibrating with barely restrained irritation as he watches the humans escape behind a blur of speeding railcars... for now.

Shifting into reverse, the Aston Martin runs the license plate as he backs away from the crossing and turns onto another road. A name pops up on his HUD as he decides there's no point in continuing the chase tonight.

Days later, damage to his frame repaired, Knock Out finds the vehicle. He follows it from a familiar distance as the pair drives across town before pulling up outside an upscale club. Rolling past, the surgeon parks several vehicles away and adjusts his mirrors, watching as they climb out and disappear inside.

Holoform flickering into place, an impeccably dressed human steps out from the Aston Martin. Long red hair falls over his shoulders as he strolls toward the offending vehicle, the damage still there.

As he passes, his knuckles drift along its side, the rings on his fingers biting into the paint and carving fresh scratches before he continues toward the club — a petty beginning, but a satisfying one.

The music pounds through the building, lights sweeping across the crowded dance floor in pulses of color. It takes him only moments to locate his quarry.

Approaching with effortless confidence, he slips beside the taller of the two. "Cora, is it?" he asks, his voice smooth enough to be heard above the music.

A knowing smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

"I don't believe there will be any trains to separate us this time."

#citrustei #+ ( rp ) a scratch too far #cw emetophobia

linuana

#+ vanity check ( visage )

soldier-of-death

im only attracted to worthy opponents

#+ self diagnosis ( psyche )

Are you falling in love with him?

At the inquiry, Knock Out stills for an instant before recovering his usual poise. Hesitantly, he glances around the room to ensure no one else is listening. Old habits die hard; he's spent far too long living beneath Soundwave's unrelenting surveillance to speak carelessly.

Yet, beneath that polished composure, he's in complete disarray.

#+ doctor consult;#anonymous #anyway no one look at this #do not perceive him #if he doesn't tag him then no one will know who this is about

A strong, encompassing E.M. field slowly glided along Knock Out's. Valiant and brazen; a little possessive. Entirely uncaring of boundaries.

The lingering scents of cygarette smoke and cologne—warm, rich amber and late-night campfires—enveloped the scarlet medic as one arm slowly slid beneath his shoulder-mounted tire and the other gathered his legs behind the knees.

With mindfulness, Knock Out was lifted from the sofa and then quietly carried out of the room.

When the medic next wakes, he will find himself in his berth, tucked in with the blankets drawn up to his chinplate, pillows surrounding him like a protective, comforting barrier.

Even as the heady weight of the other's field traces along his own, Knock Out doesn't stir. His field answers with little more than a faint, rhythmic blush of contentment, undisturbed by the contact.

Instead, his dreams begin to shift as the warmth of smoke and amber surrounds him. As he's lifted from the sofa, Knock Out finds himself soaring. The wings he so carefully hides are no longer twisted or malformed; they unfurl in brilliant symmetry, strong enough to catch the wind as though they had always been meant to.

Smoke and glowing embers slow dance around him until a familiar presence draws near. Arms wrap securely around him the moment his pedes touch the ground, steady and unyielding. The embrace stills the world around him and the thrill of flight pales beside the quiet certainty of being held. His spark swells with a warmth no amount of open sky could ever hope to rival.

The dream settles into peaceful silence.

Hours later, tired crimson optics flicker open to the lingering darkness of early morning. A quiet groan escapes his vents as he rolls onto his side, only to find himself staring at a fortress of pillows. Still hazy with sleep, he frowns before letting his optics drift shut again.

Then, realization dawns. This isn't the sofa.

His optics snap open. He's in his berth. Someone had tucked him in.

Slowly, almost reverently, Knock Out reaches for one of the pillows and gathers it against his chest. The fabric still carries the faintest traces of cygarette smoke and warm amber.

A small smile softens his features.

'...Is this why I dream of you?'

#+ doctor consult;#anonymous #//quietly reveals a headcanon

Watching a movie had been meant to pass the time before bed. Curled comfortably on the sofa, Knock Out watches the shifting light dance across the room, his optics growing heavier with each passing scene. He tells himself he'll retire to his berth after this one... then the next.

He never does.

Too tired to fight the weight of exhaustion, sleep overtakes him, leaving the movie to continue flickering softly through the quiet space long after he's drifted off.

#+ doctor checking in;#//i am too tired to think

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