eldritchships:

The First Night

Summary: Much of the last twenty-four hours have been spent fighting, locked in the most desperate and arduous battle since the end of the Transformers War. After an emotional reunion, Shockwave and Flatline retreat to a haven for some much-needed rest. If only it were that easy.

Word Count: 5404

Author’s Note: A real labour of love, I hope others enjoy reading as much as I did writing it! Spoilers throughout for Season 1 of Earthspark.

Taglist: @payaso-pastel, @szayelinx @chimerakisses, @mystrunmah, @bugsband (If you’d like to be put on/taken off the taglist, just ask!)

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eldritchships:

Allspark Almanac: Flatline

Far be it from me to talk about mood swings, but Flatline is as volatile as they come. He graduated with high marks from Polyhex Medical Mechanical, only to throw all that away and join those slagging Decepticons! He’s an expert in toxins, and infamous for his inventory of spark-forsaken tonics that can give anyone the strength or speed of ten bots. But he might just as easily invent some new chemical to melt the plating from your frame. The harpoon on Flatline’s right arm functions as an injection device, with a high-grade winchable cable attached that guarantees he can hit you with it even at long range. His hatred for Autobots means he’s been a dedicated thorn in our sides, singling us out to use as his next test subjects.

– Ratchet

eldritchships:

Reunited in Witwicky

The stand-off brings two long lost lovers back together. (Spoilers for Episode 24 of Transformers Earth.spark)

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eldritchships:

WIP - Flatline and Optimus

Disclaimer: Less of a WIP, more of a short self-contained segment so I could write some more OP and Earthspark!Flatline. Context is that OP’s arm got crushed/bitten into/stabbed etc. while on a mission.

Some tightness appeared in Optimus’s expression, and his optics cast down to the floor. They lingered there while Flatline worked, flicking to reflect his busy processor. His forearm was rotated, wires pinching as they were carefully threaded back into where the headlights were supposed to be connected. Flatline remained silent, but the pressure in the air around them felt as tense as a coiled spring.

“You know, my offer still stands…” Optimus slowly breached. He lifted his helm, looking at Flatline’s crest in lieu of being able to meet his optics. “…You could join GHOST, officially. Spend more time out in the field, out in public, perhaps even repair your image with the local- Argh!” Optimus cried out as Flatline suddenly yanked up his red arm plating, separated too far and too quickly from the silver metal underneath. His servo clenched tight and he looked at Flatline, brow furrowed. The medic carried on with barely any acknowledgement of his own action, taking out a surgical blowtorch and beginning to seal the leak in Optimus’ arm.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Flatline told him, with a smile that was too deliberate and snide to be genuine. He repaired the tear in the metal responsible for the leak, then clamped the red outer plating back around it and started to seal that as well. “I couldn’t care less about my public image. The less humans and Autobots in my life, the better.” Optimus exhaled. The brief pain still stung in his sensors, creating some strain in his vocaliser despite his words being genuine.

“I wouldn’t want you becoming…’stir crazy’.” He paused, finding the right Earth expression. Flatline holstered his torch, and crooked a servo to silently prompt. Optimus gave a short shake of his arm and rotated it, examining the repairs and pleased to find everything in working order again, along with the disappearance of the fuel leakage warning in his HUD. He smiled, but it disappeared soon after his gaze fell back to Flatline. There was more he could have said, more that had been said in the past, that went unspoken in his next quieter sentence. “After everything.” Flatline averted optic contact, appearing too occupied with a readout of Optimus’s systems, but Optimus didn’t miss the way his jaw clenched.

“GHOST gave me a home and a lab, far away from anyone - human or Cybertronian - and all they ask in return is that I come back when they need repairs for their…for you and the others. I’m very happy with that arrangement, Prime.” Flatline lowered the readout and walked away from the makeshift examination table, giving Optimus a few steps worth of room to stand up. His final statement was sharp and assertive, trying to convince Optimus with certainty that he was satisfied with how things had turned out. Quietly, Optimus hoped it was true more-so for Flatline’s own sake, and that the medic wasn’t trying to convince himself as much as he was Optimus.

“If you say so, Flatline.” Optimus nodded, giving him the response he wanted. Flatline glanced up to meet Optimus’s gaze, only for a brief moment, before turning.

“Take an extra ration to refill your tanks, if you can, but everything else looks back to normal function.” Flatline walked towards the entryway, rattling off the final medical advice, then poked his helm out to peer down the hall. “If you see Croft, tell her I’d like to go home now.”

hexusproductions:

Augustine and Gepetto

Summary: The door to this spare room was open, allowing a clear view inside. This was a precaution in place for the guest that Gepetto was going to visit.
Author’s Note: Originally written 7/3/22. Takes place in the the AU where Augustine is a character in Hell Week.

The blinds of the Justice Crew’s living quarters had all been shut, now that the sun had set. It had been a long day of defeating villains and protecting the city. Luna was settling into the living room with some tv to unwind, and Dalmatian had long since left for his own apartment.

Gepetto let out a quiet sigh from where he stood leaning against the kitchen countertop, removing a hairband from his signature braid. Shaking out his now-ponytail, Gepetto cast another look towards Luna before turning and walking towards an opposite corner of the room. The HQ happened to have a few spare rooms amongst those already taken by the team members. They were often used as either extra storage or for guests - civilian or otherwise.

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hexusproductions:

Bronco Clement - Touch

Word count: 435
Author’s Note: Prompt 53 from this list - “Holding the other’s jaw”. TW: Smoking

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hexusproductions:

Dilly-Dally and Flamingo - Touch

Word count: 500
Author’s Note: Prompt 22 from this list - “Falling asleep on someone’s shoulder”

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eldritchships:

Cleaned up this bit of ShockLine fluff to post in celebration of Valentine’s Day. Enjoy :3

Shockwave’s quarters were small. He preferred function over comfort, and he spent more time in his laboratory anyway. Along with his berth, the room did contain a chair and functional terminal, allowing him the ability to continue working even while resting his physical body.

“Shocky…”

He tilted his optic towards the bot currently in his hold, an arm around the smaller waist. Flatline smiled up at Shockwave. “I think you might be crushing me.” Shockwave pressed his forehead (such as it was) to Flatline’s temple affectionately, tightening the grip of his arm. With the height distance between them, the arm covered most of Flatline’s torso and hips. Flatline chuckled, quiet and equally returning the affection as his servo reached up to cup the other side of Shockwave’s helm.

“Don’t move. I want you close for now.” Shockwave replied, his voice rumbling in Flatline’s audials. Flatline’s other servo placed on his arm, nudging just enough to keep the pressure from becoming truly crushing, but he leaned into Shockwave’s helm, nuzzling against the cylindrical edge of his faceplate.

“What brought this on?” Flatline hummed. Shockwave was quiet for a moment. His antennae whirred and perked up, and while he didn’t tighten his grip any further, he didn’t loosen it either.

“Sentimental folly.” He finally replied, voice becoming almost light and warm.

hexusproductions:

A little more Hush Weaver and Doctor Dalmatian that I wrote last night.

“Keep…working…keep…working…”

The voice continues, hushed and insistent at his ear. He can’t breathe, chest heaving, drenched with sweat. He’s sitting hunched over a desk, a pen shaking in one hand and papers pinned down in the other with enough force to tear.

There’s someone behind him, pacing back and forth, watching him. Waiting for him to finish, waiting for him to hurry up, he has a hundred things to do today and he’s working too slowly.

“Keep…working…keep…working…”

He scrawls out another sentence, squints his bleary eyes and rubs them. The words look blurry, it’s hard to make out what he wrote. He crumples the paper into a ball and tosses it away, starts again. It needs to be good. It needs to be great. Someone needs this, needs him to do this for them. They trust him, they rely on him, he can’t disappoint them.

“…”

He manages another paragraph. The pen slips in his throbbing fingers, sore from use and slippery with sweat. He drops it down onto the desk and holds a hand over his face. His teeth clench around a wave of nausea, acidic in the back of his throat. He slumps further over the desk, small tremors wracking through his body. He doesn’t make a sound, besides the sucking in of oxygen. The pacing behind him slows, and whoever’s behind him moves closer, closer. Looming over his shoulder. His free hand curls into a tight fist, papers sticking to the skin.

“It looks like you’re losing steam, Dalmatian…” The voice is somehow closer now, prying into his skull. Two hands curl around him from behind, every finger ending in a long, elegant gold claw like a spindle. One hand places itself against his chest, over his racing heart. The other curls around his throat, the very tips of the claws pricking into his jaw, and slowly pulls his head back. He gasps for air and squeezes his eyes shut. The palm pressing against his neck makes it even more difficult to find air, to find a moment to regain his bearings, regain himself. The voice speaks again, hissing comfort and reassurance, “That’s alright…you can always push forward again…” He swallows, wanting to shake his head, to give in and say No, no more, please. But he can’t. The voice is right, he can keep going. He has to.

He opens his eyes, and he lowers his head, swallowing once more involuntarily against his dry mouth. The contents of his stomach roils, and another tremor passes through him. He fights through the haze and the pulsing pain at his temples to concentrate.

A light appears in the vacuous space, at first tiny underneath the hand on his chest. Then it grows, becoming larger and brighter, filling the space with golden and glorious light. His vision becomes a little less blurry, his stomach settles, and the agony sparking through his brain lessens.

He unclenches his jaw, mouth falling open into a pant. His shoulders slump at his sides as the glow fades, darkness lashing out and reclaiming the space once more. He feels even more exhausted than before, but it’s enough to keep going. His hand moves, hesitates in the air. He pushes forward and takes the pen, pressing it to the page and starting again. The hands recede, claws dragging along the threads of his clothing and disappearing behind him once more. He thinks he hears a noise, a chuckle of satisfaction, of pleasure. It’s reassuring. He’s dependable, he’s making other people happy…it’s worth breaking himself down. He can always repair his injuries again, keep pushing forward, keep doing more. It’s worth it, it’s worth it, it’s worth it.

The pacing begins again, and his pen travels back and forth across the page, completing sentence after sentence. His eyes narrow, focusing on each word, on keeping his hand steady.

“Keep working…keep working…keep working…”

Keep working.