#flatline x reader

• He was already so adorably uncertain and hesitant, but this size? You just want to hug him. Play with his tiny servos and peds. Carry him around in one of those baby carrier vest things. It’s hard to remember he’s a grown mech. Watching him reach for an energon goodie, his mask retracts to show his sharp denta as he tears a piece off to eat and his optics flick up to you and away. Is this how a baby Cybertronian would look? Maybe limbs shorter, chubbier like a human baby or just like a mini him like he is now? Though maybe they just build new Cybertronians? “How do you guys make new Cybertronians? You know, babies.”

• Choking on a bite and clearing his vents aggressively, he stares up at you. Because why are you asking about sparklings all of a sudden? And you nudge one of his peds with a fingertip, expression embarrassed. Are you wanting sparklings? He’s almost certain that’s impossible. There haven’t been any new sparklings in millennia. It’s something they’re all aware of, but try not to think about it. Preferring to distantly hope that after the war, a solution will be found. If there are any of them even left by then.

• Optics darting from you to the energon goodie in his hands, he’s far too embarrassed. Making you suspect they probably don’t just build new Cybertronians. Or at least, maybe that’s not the only way. “Are you, do you want sparklings?” He asks and now you freeze as you process his question. Is he asking if you want alien babies? His alien babies? Well, at least you’re both embarrassed now. Hadn’t even really thought about having kids. Human or otherwise. You’d just been curious. Is that even possible as different as they are?

• Watching several humans quickly walking away when he’d opened the door, he hesitates. Hard to not feel like he’s trespassing when the little organics run away from him in their own living space. But then he spots you lifting an arm in greeting and he’s moving toward you without consciously making a decision. Doesn’t even mind when two more humans head for the elevators to avoid him. “Am I interrupting?” He asks as he moves around the couch you’re curled up on with a blanket and a book, looking comfortable.

• “Never,” you reassure him as he looks around, obviously curious. Know a few of the aliens have let themselves into the lobby and poked around. Also know everyone tends to head for the stairs and elevators every single time to avoid them, too. “What are you up to?” You ask wondering if he was bored or if he needed something. Looks clean, so he shouldn’t need a bath.

• How pitiful would it sound if he admitted that he missed you? Wanted to see you? “Medbay was quiet,” he mutters, though that’s not exactly true. With everyone sharing one Medbay, it’s uncomfortably noisy. Tense with Autobots and Decepticons all under one roof. And Hook and Pharma have had to be separated twice already, both far too proud. “With no one fighting, there’s not many patients to tend to.” You look so warm, legs tucked under yourself and bundled up in that plush blanket. Maybe it’s a survival thing? Your kind looking adorable like that to protect yourselves since it’s not like you have claws, fangs, or armor.

• Bemused as he wanders into the stall and mass shifts, he nearly knocks you down resting his head against your shoulder and clearing his vents loudly. Making you guess it had probably been worse than you’d thought. Rubbing his arm, you rest your cheek against his helm, feeling the hum of his internal systems buzzing through you. “Climb in and relax. I’ll wash you, okay?” You coax and he makes a low, rumbling noise like he doesn’t want to move. Must be so exhausted.

• Doesn’t deserve a conjunx as thoughtful as you. Missing your scent and softness when you pull away, even though he’d intended to go to his habsuite and collapse face down on his berth, he’s easing into the soapy water to sit. And you’re leaning over the side, a wash cloth in hand to scrub at him as the tension slowly eases and his optics shutter. Up until you tap a finger against his mask and he stares up at you. At the energon goodie in your fingers as you smile sweetly. “One of the other caretakers showed me how to make them, so I’m hoping it’s right.”

• Maybe he doesn’t like the treats? He’s just staring at you before his mask finally retracts and you hold it up to his lips. Know he’s funny about his sharp, jutting denta, so you’re pleased when he leans forward to take the bite. “I don’t have anything for you,” he murmurs as he chews and you wrinkle your nose at him. ‘I’m taking care of you, remember?’ You soothe and he catches your wrist with one of his smaller secondary hands he normally hides away.

• You’re still not pulling away. Not distancing yourself and he has no idea what to make of it. Wants more. Wants everything. Had convinced himself that he was okay with never taking a conjunx. That he was happy with his work, too busy to think about settling down. But staring down at you, your lips slightly parted, he knows he’s been lying to himself. That being resigned to something isn’t the same as being okay with it. You’re so soft, so alien. How can you look at him and not shy away? “I accept you,” he growls, voice too rough.

• Accepts you? Before you can try to figure that one out, he hooks an arm around you and his head dips. Those sharp denta press against your lips as his mouth moves against yours. Kissing you far too briefly before his head lifts, his helm brushing your forehead. And you realize your arms are around his neck, body flush against his. Need to ask questions, figure out what’s going on, but his head gently nudges yours, those big, warm hands on you and you don’t pull away. “I’ll try to be a good conjunx,” he adds.

• “Conjunx?” You whisper, voice low, husky and when he vents, he can scent you, alien and strange, but not unpleasant. Almost addictive. Rumbling softly, he tries to think of what your kind might call a conjunx. Head lowering to brush his mouth against your neck and jaw, your breath hitches and his arm tightens around you. And you make a little sound that goes straight through him.

• “I’d take care of you,” he murmurs against your neck and you can feel the warm air fan you when he vents. Have you ever been this aware of someone else? Ever felt like this, flushed and breathless? “If you’d have me.” And you know what he’s asking for. What he wants. Those sharp denta scrape your skin and you tremble, grabbing his arm, hanging onto him. Pulling him close instead of pushing him away.

Previous

• Realizing he’s not speaking, you look up and wince. Because he’s just staring at you, making you realize you’re playing with his hands. That you’re making him uncomfortable. “Sorry,” you say, flustered and letting go. Personal space a concept you sometimes forget when you’re excited about something. And his servos catch your fingers to keep you from pulling away completely. ‘I don’t mind if you touch me,’ he says, his voice strained as his primary hand reaches for you, palm sliding against your shoulder. The servos of another hand cautiously reaching to touch your hair. Is the big alien just curious about you? You’d pawed him, so it’s only fair to let him do the same.

• Spark thrumming as the side of a servo brushes your cheek, for the first time in a long time, he lets himself imagine being accepted. An end to his loneliness. Throws himself into his work, trying to help, to be useful because it distracts him, but a hurt part of him he buries deep knew he was always going to be alone. That he was just different enough that he’d never be wanted for more than a one night stand. You’re so much smaller than he is even mass displaced as your hand lifts and his head lowers for you. Wanting to be touched. How long has it been? A warm palm brushes his jaw, fingers tracing the sharp edge of a jutting fang.

• He’s rumbling louder, the sound almost a growl as you touch his face. Aware that this is too intimate, but this is the closest you’ve ever been to one of them. And he’s letting you touch, giving you permission. Hear his fans click on as he takes a step forward, crowding you back. Venting as his head lowers until your face turns away, those sharp denta far too close to your throat as he keeps venting. “Flatline? Sir?” You ask, starting to get nervous. Even smaller, he’s much bigger than you are and you have the sense of something happening you don’t quite understand. Something important.

• Your field prickles against him, sinking into him in jagged uncertainty to make him realize he’s probably overstepped a boundary. That he needs to back off even as he pulls your scent deep. Wanting to rub his jaw against you, to scent himself on you. It’s only fair, because you leave your scent all over him when he’s let you wash him. Wants to tell you he accepts, but isn’t sure he can do much more than growl right now. You’d approached him, chosen him, courted him. You’re his and he does growl as his hand palms your hip.

• Blinking at the big mech Flatline’s working on, you shiver. Well, that sounded ominous. But then his patients like to joke about squishing you, probably because of how small you are compared to them. Some of them even call you Bug, but you don’t think they mean anything by it. “I haven’t studied biological creatures as thoroughly as I’d like, that’s all,” Flatline growls, finishing a weld while you clean up. And you’re not really paying attention as his patient stands until his shadow falls across you. Hear Flatline snarl right as the big mech he was working on stumbles, hand smacking the counter and skidding into you to toss you into a rack of vials. ‘Oops,’ Onslaught laughs as you struggle to get back up and the bigger mech is leaving.

• Reaching to cup you, he growls at the broken glass you’re laying in. The sharp scent of copper filling the air as your arm bleeds sluggishly. And you whimper trying to help him get you up, cutting your little hands in the glass. “Close your eyes,” he growls and you don’t question him. But you never do, always trusting him. Glancing at the Medbay door to make sure no one’s around he shifts the plating at his chassis, freeing his secondary arms. Useful for surgery since they’re so much more dexterous, they’re still unusual enough that he hides them from everyone unless he needs them. Knows he’s different, a monster even to other Cybertronians. Learned to hide those things about himself other Cybertronians won’t accept early on, a battlemask to hide his sharp denta, augmented plating to let him keep his extra limbs bound and hidden. Carefully picking you up in his secondary hands, he examines the cuts and carries you to the sink. Reaching to turn on the water on low, he shifts you to his primary hands and uses his secondary to pick glass off of you. “You can’t trust everyone,” he mutters.

• “Eyes closed,” he growls, the words harsh when you try to look at him and your shoulders hunch. ‘I’m sorry,’ you whisper, feeling him removing shards of glass. “What am I supposed to do with you?” And you’re about to cry he sounds so disappointed and exasperated with you. Know you get in the way, that you aggravate him. But also that he’s kind when most of the aliens that come in his Medbay aren’t. They’re cruel, taunting you. Sometimes trying to hurt you like that one just did. “Why are you leaking? Is there glass in your eyes?” He asks sounding horrified and you shake your head as he moves you away from the water and you’re settled on a berth. “Keep them closed,” he growls.

• Venting in aggravation at himself for not protecting you, he finds the kit he’d put together when he’d first rescued you. Mass shifting and using his secondary hands to clean and bandage your cuts. None too deep or serious enough to need stitches and that’s a relief. And he cups your cheek, tensing when you grab his secondary hand. And your eyes open. Seeing what he tries so hard to hide. You don’t look at him, attention on his extra limbs as you press your cheek into his palm. “You don’t have to hide these, you know,” you whisper. “Sometimes you hold me with them when you’re recharging.”

• They make you feel safe. Protected. And he’s just staring at you like you weren’t supposed to know or say that. “I like when you hold me,” you say and he leans until his helm brushes your forehead. Feel him vent against you and you shift, hesitantly sliding yourself into his lap and those arms come around you as his optics shutter. Resting your head against him, hearing the familiar thrum of his spark, you wonder what he’d say if you told him you love him? That you need safe and kind. Need him.

• Resting his chin on top of your head, his main arms wrap around you, feeling the warmth of you, scenting you. What would you say if you saw his denta? Would you accept that, too? Or is there a limit to the amount of horror you can handle? He’s afraid to find out. Recharges every night with you against him, your warm softness sprawled on his chassis. His spike aching behind his panel when he comes online as you haunt his dreams, sometimes pressurizing in his recharge and he has to hide it away from you before you wake. Knows it’s from sharing a berth with you, carrying your scent on him. But it’s more than that, you’re his. So why fight himself over this? Cupping your chin to tip your head back, he brushes his cheek against yours. Angry at himself for not claiming you sooner, for not protecting you better. Because you’re fair game to mess with if you’re not claimed. “Strip for me, little one.” Because he’s done pretending that he doesn’t want you.

• Breath catching as his growling voice dips lower, you stare up at him. Trying to figure out if he’s serious. Because surely you’re just misunderstanding him? Maybe he wants to check for glass he missed? Those secondary hands brush your own, helping you out of your clothes and his stare is heated. As both sets of hands slide against you and you heat in response, you remember seeing his spike, hearing him murmur your name in his recharge and pretending to be asleep so you don’t embarrass him. And he’s laying you back, masked face sliding against your inner thighs as he shifts to cover you and those secondary hands grip your hips, lifting you up and he grinds against you. “I’m claiming what’s mine,” he growls and you’re on board with that, because you want him, want to claim him as yours. Arching feeling his spike pressurize between your bodies, he’s on his hands and knees over you as he adjusts you and you feel the length of him slide against you. Rocking himself against you as you hang under him, grabbing at his chassis for some semblance of control when he grinds on you.

• How long has he been working? How long has it been since you’ve eaten anything? Reaching guiltily for you, he cups his hands around you to carefully lift you. Glancing at the limb he’s rebuilding for another bot, he knows it can wait. You, though? You need him right now. “You promised to tell me when you’re hungry,” he mutters, annoyed more with himself for not paying attention to you.

• “I didn’t want to bother you,” you say, sitting in his cupped hands. And you know he’s frowning at you behind his battle mask. Can feel it. ‘You passing out bothers me,’ he counters with no real heat. Know it’s just worry, that he worries about everything, but especially you. “I didn’t pass out.” Letting him carry you over to your set up on a counter, you hear him clear his vents tiredly at you as you slide out of his hands and onto the counter.

• Moving to your little food storage, you look over your shoulder at him. “Eat with me,” you say, the words almost a question. “You need energon,” you add, pulling out your strange food. ‘I’m supposed to take care of you,’ he counters, but he goes to retrieve energon for himself. Mask retracting as he tips it up, he’s aware of you watching him. And even though you’ve seen his jutting, sharp denta so many times, he wants to turn away. To hide. A lifetime of self consciousness, of feeling like he’s wrong is hard to get over, but you’ve never acted like he’s a monster.

• “We take care of each other,” you tell him as you make a sandwich, satisfied that he’s drinking his energon. Know he doesn’t like being watched when his mask is off, so you try not to stare since it makes him uncomfortable. “You know I like your denta,” you say, keeping your back to him as you fix your meal. “Especially when you slip and bite me,” you add cheerfully, shoulders shaking as he sputters behind you, choking on his energon.

• “It’s not like that,” he mutters, fidgeting with his datapad, but you’ve got his number at this point. If you act mortally wounded that he no showed on you, he’ll feel so guilty that he’ll cave and march his alien butt to his wash stall so you don’t get wrote up. “I had patients to attend to.” Uh huh. Making a show of looking around at the lack of anyone but the two of you in the room, you go for the killing blow and give an exaggerated sniffle. Because even the threat of tears and he’s apologizing. See his plating lift slightly in alarm as he holds up his hands. “No, don’t do that. You can wash me.”

• And you won’t meet his optics as you rub the side of your palm against an eye to make him feel even worse. Why him? Why couldn’t you latch onto literally anyone else as a potential conjunx? Because as soon as you see the real him, the parts he goes to such care to hide, you’re going to abandon him anyway. But maybe that’s what it will take to get you to understand that you deserve better? Maybe he needs to show you the horror of himself. “You just keep hiding from me,” you protest, tone wounded and he clears his vents, kneeling and mass shifting. Catching your upper arm to keep you from falling when you stumble back, eyes wide.

• Holy crow, they can shrink. “I have been hiding,” he says, servos flexing against your upper warm and you’re aware that even though he’s now smaller, his servos are overlapping. That he’s still bigger than you are. “And I’m sorry about that.” See him glance at his hand on you before he pulls it away and he reaches for his battlemask, hesitating before it retracts with a click and the plating on his chassis shifts. Staring at his jutting, sharp denta and an extra set of smaller arms, there’s something expectant in his expression, a sort of resignation. But you have no idea what he expects or why he’s showing you this. He’s definitely not the weirdest alien you’ve seen. There’s a giant wasp and a spider, for crying out loud.

• You’re not recoiling from him. Just staring at his mouth. “So can I wash you?” You ask and now he’s staring. Because you still choose him? Still want him as your conjunx even after seeing? ‘I don’t scare you?’ He asks and you just shake your head. And grasp one of his extra limbs in your soft hands, warm fingers touching his servos as he goes completely still in shock. “I bet these are really useful when you’re in surgery, huh?” You ask and he just nods numbly, unsure what to make of you. Afraid to hope.