Work Text:
A thick stack of papers was dropped in front of his face, landing with a loud thump on the metallic table. Shockwave had almost finished the first pile they’d assigned him, this close to being let off work and left to his … own devices. Of course, some Autobot paperwork gave him a glimpse further into their inner workings, but he’d become a prime by now, he’d seen plenty of petty reports sent in by squabbling coworkers.
It was easy but numbed the processor to an almost catatonic state. It distracted him, if he didn’t consider the Autobots so dull witted he would’ve assumed they’d caught on to something.
In his newest scheme, he tried to subtly implement his processor-bending technology, as small as his tool was, he’d made sure it was potent. Enough to completely rework whatever poor saps processor it chose to fry. His optic glinted at the idea. All of them were idiotic creatures mulling about their work, with no idea who was lurking among them.
As far as he was aware, it was sitting in the drawer of this desk… Wasn’t it? He might have left it in the cabinet, or back with Megatron… ugh, he’d hate to have it delivered all the way back because of a simple slip up…
His processor had been slowing down as of late. Surely because of the workload he’d been given. However, Shockwave was nothing if not persistent. He’d get through this next batch and then straight to his progress report.
He slipped papers off the top one by one, filling them out with either his approval or censure and filing them away. As his optics unfocused, reading line over line of text, he felt a hot, thin rod press against his cheek. His optics cycled for a moment before instinctively relaxing. As if it were a cygar, he took it between his digits and slid it into his mouth, a servo coming to rest on the opposite side of his helm.
The servo slowly pressed him closer, gripping onto the metal ridge and circling his helm. There was a small clunking noise as his forehelm was knocked gently into the other's torso, his cheek pressed to the bot's pelvic armor. He could hardly read what was on the papers.
But this had to be important, didn’t it? Otherwise, his frame wouldn’t comply so easily, thus was simply a part of his job. So as the devoted public servant the Autobots thought he was, his glossa swirled around the searing tip, engulfing it in his intake.
Shockwaves derma pressed against the metal of their pelvis, taking a deep vent as his glossa slithered over every inch of spike it could reach. As his helm started to methodically bob back and forth, giving each bit ample attention, one of the other's hands reached down and groped at his chest plate.
It wasn't as broad as most Decepticons, at least not in this form, but he did pride himself on making his 'alternative profile' quite attractive to Autobots. Scratch that, Decepticons as well. Blackarachnia had helped him craft it after all, always musing about how they liked a softer build. Of course, she would know.
That may be why all of them were so small. Inferior. Due to some bot's unique fetish for the luxurious before the war started. Whether that theory was true or not seldom mattered, it was most certainly a fetish nowadays. The servo pets his helm as he continued to worship their spike dutifully, and he keened.
Maybe it wasn't so bad to be pampered... to gain their trust. If he wanted to fill the role of course he’d have to service them.
With a bit of resistance, he was pushed off the spike, intake left agape as his glossa dripped with pre-cum and looked for something to entertain it. Small servos pressed against his chest, leaning him back in his chair and threatening to tip it over. His thighs parted instinctively, ankles resting behind the legs of the chair as his modesty panel slid open. His puffy valve twitched at the cold air, finally released from the stuffy, hot metal casing.
However, his spike stayed tucked in its housing, calipers straining down on it so as not to release it by accident.
...Why was that again?
Before his processor could finish the thought, his calipers pinched down hard on the tip of his spike, dispelling the notion. A bot like him couldn’t pass up his valve being entertained. A messy glob of transfluid oozed from his valve, and finally, he felt the tip of their spike nudge his entrance, gathering all the drops it could before starting to breach.
Logically, it shouldn't have felt like anything at all. Not to demean the owner of said spike, but it was minuscule in comparison to the war frames he was used to (and that he fantasized about in his free time). Though when it sheathed itself fully into his valve, his back arched, valve quivering as lubricant spurted out around it.
His chassis felt heavy, fuel sacks dripping from under his chest panels. His vents hitched, squeezing and puffing outbursts of air. Had they really nudged his gestation tank this early? No… it couldn’t be…
Sluggishly, he tried to keep his legs apart, arms going slack by his sides, instinctively stretching longer and pooling below the desk in lax coils.
They twitched further in, lighting his interior nodes ablaze. He desperately humped against them, begging for any movement he could get. Pitiable, but most Autobots were. And Longarm was such a sweet Autobot. A smaller servo cradled his cheek, cleaning up what drool its thumb could carry. It only managed to mess up his cheek more.
He keened as they slowly pulled out, valve throbbing before they plunged back in, inflamed node hitting every ridge, slicked with lubricant and Translfuid. His lips were parted by the same thumb, soft mesh rolling over his teeth, dull and clean as an Autobot should be, only covered by soft lips. He was an intelligence officer, he didn’t need to fight and dirty his servos.
Longarm was much too plush for that.
His glossa probed against the digit prying his derma apart, licking at the rusted surface, still his intake watered at the taste. His jaw was slack as the other explored it, pushing the pad against his glossa, and with his compliance came faster thrusts. The back of the chair bumped his tail plate with each thrust, the seat squeaking with each push.
Soon there was a twist in his gut, and the spike kissed his seal, breaking through it and plunging straight into his gestation tank. Thick spurts of transfluid pooled into the size-adjusted unit, filling it to the brim and overflowing at the entrance. Slowly enough it cycled down and closed as the spike slipped out, keeping every bit plugged up. His vents stuttered and reset, trying to stabilize his condition.
“Phew—For a con, he’s tight as pit!” That voice sounded familiar… a set of hands landed on his shoulders and he craned his head up to look at them. “Don’t think I’ve seen optics that empty in millennia!”
A small cube tapped his forehelm with an air of condescension unusual of the faction. And there it was, in the paws of one of his coworkers, that little device he’d poured his hours into day and night.
He’d wondered where that went.