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Shockwave’s spark aches for what he cannot have.
Not in his true form.
Nor in the disguise he wears.
He thinks of the way your optics shine in his presence. The glimmer of your self-assured smile. The inviting raise of your optical ridge when you catch his gaze.
For something so inferior and meaningless in the grand scheme of his plans, you’ve caught his attention – a presence he cannot ignore in spite of his best efforts.
Agent Blurr treats you with more respect than any organic deserves. He allows you to sit cross-legged on his desk, taking gibberish notes punctuated by ridiculous doodles. Contrary to what the Agent promised, you are utterly useless – a cybercat lounging at his side with little to no interest in office happenings.
Shockwave knew your presence would carry the weight of a rusted screw at the top of a scrapheap. It was all a game of pretend to convince Longarm you were worth keeping.
Agent Blurr, often so stone-faced and focused on his work alone, gazes upon you with warmth. The act is subtle, a fleeting quirk of his lips. Nevermind the patience he has shown putting up with your antics – a rarity within his code. You do not deserve his attention or care. Yet, here you are at his side, drinking in the view from his office space.
No one has touched you other than Blurr. His coworkers have made their disgust palpable, sharp and unyielding – rarely disguised as curiosity. Shockwave has taken notice of their whispers, the manner with which they avoid you, commenting among themselves loud enough to hear.
Blurr seldom pays them any mind, only occasionally lecturing them on workplace conduct.
It does little to persuade them into silence.
Shockwave can feel the Agent’s EM field, usually so thoroughly guarded to the point of being almost impenetrable, twitch ever so slightly as frustration prickles his senses. You always seem to lean into Agent Blurr’s touch. An unspoken apology.
Clearly, you’re intelligent enough to guess from their tone alone.They have made no effort to download your language. After all, what use is there in understanding an inferior creature?
Although, it would be incorrect to claim every bot within the department shows hostility. The vast majority don’t, but they seldom offer comfort as the others make their distaste loud and clear. The Agent has brought it upon himself, it’s his weight to bear. No sane bot should frequent an organic.
Shockwave cannot ignore the way his favorite agent strokes your back, however brief.
It makes his antennae twitch.
How soft are you? Do you shiver when Agent Blurr runs a digit across your uncovered mesh?
Your vox is so terribly warm when you address Longarm, speaking to a superior with the familiarity of an old friend – you’ve been pulled into a false sense of security, deceived along with the many others. Rationally, he shouldn’t bother with a glorified organic pet. And yet, beyond all reason, he returns your greetings and humors your ramblings – offering respect you are not worthy of.
It seems to reassure Agent Blurr, however subtle – Shockwave can tell from the way his cooling fans grow quiet. His trust in Longarm grows – and with it, his professionalism seems to dissipate. His salutations have taken a lighter tone and his visits to Longarm’s office are growing awfully common. The admiration held for a superior has grown into something else, but not enough for Shockwave to proceed.
He has felt it plenty of times, the sudden burst of charge through the Agent’s EM field, brief enough to go unnoticed by the others – their finials unable to pick up a shift so terribly elusive.
But Shockwave is no ordinary bot.
The bolt of pleasure running through Blurr’s frame has ingrained itself within Shockwave’s code. A jolt of relief he desperately seeks to relive.
How must it feel to experience your Cybertronian ally rutting against you? Does his expression twist in ecstasy? Or soften with relief?
How must you feel against his spike? Are you brave enough to fit him? Clever enough to muffle your cries as he spills himself inside of your impossibly-tight valve?
Or does he have to muffle them for you?
Shockwave has spent many-a-night fantasizing about the Agent and his pet – prodding at cables and stroking his codpiece, wishing so very desperately to install an interface array. Either valve or spike, it doesn’t matter. If he can’t have both, he’ll contend himself with whichever.
Still, the surgery would present a significant risk. All it takes is a simple miscalculation while redirecting his cables for the failsafe to activate and his disguise to come undone. His anatomy may allow for significant transmutation, but he cannot rid himself of faulty coding. How wretched to think a simple operation can easily lead to his downfall.
Alas, he cannot concern himself with such things.
A flawed system cannot be replaced so easily – and performing surgery on himself, no matter how tempting, may cause irreversible damage to his inner workings.
He must contend himself with the energon-coated wires within his frame and the tantalizing memory of Blurr’s sharp jolt of pleasure.
With every overload, Shockwave grows terribly disgusted in himself. And yet, the simple sight of you resting against the Agent’s servo sends new bursts of charge through his system.
The craving has worsened inside of him cycle by cycle, desperation wrenching his cables, begging for relief.
Wouldn’t it be so very simple to take the two of you as he pleases? To use the trust at his disposal to get exactly what he wants?
Is it wrong to indulge in his urges if the Council is none the wiser? Blurr has been an admirable asset to the Field Agent program, but any cog can be replaced – as was done with Longarm’s predecessors. There will certainly be concern, maybe a few search parties if most shed their aversion towards his entanglement with a filthy organic.
But you? The poor little pet Blurr indulges in the secret of his quarters and occasionally the maintenance closet?
You will be undoubtedly forgotten.
If only there was a way for the two of you to cooperate. If only Blurr held greater affection towards Longarm, and you sought his superior’s touch below your frame coverings.
Of course, doing so is no ordinary risk – but Shockwave would do anything to watch his favorite Agent take you.
Highbrow is gone. So is his successor, a simple bot of unimpressive intellect whom Shockwave drugged until he was discharged after a nervous malfunction – leaving Longarm as the undisputed authority of his district.
The Intelligence Department, as with all divisions important enough to be named, is stationed within an ancient facility they call The Metroplex.
Shockwave had seen it before the war, a pale monolith demanding respect while tensions rose.
It hasn’t changed one bit.
A decrepit dwelling feigning modernity with art he does not care for. It hasn’t seen any Decepticons for ten million stellar cycles - yet here he is, wearing the Autobot insignia as though he hasn’t poisoned their honorable war hero Highbrow.
The twisting hallways remain, so does the smell of old oil and fresh sanitizer. Shockwave has learned each and every twist and turn of this ridiculous building. There are nowhere near enough workers to fill out the numerous offices. And as such, many have been relegated to storage – forgotten over the vorns, cursed to rust away until the end of time without seeing true to their function.
The Metroplex wasn’t built for convenience – it was built to send a message to those below.
But Shockwave couldn't care less.
For now, he has plans of the more self-indulgent variety.
The converted storage-units haven’t been updated in a very long time. But their entry codes still work. Shockwave has made certain of it.
He could lead you there. Present it as an offer to provide Blurr with his own private office, away from the scornful glances of his fellow Autobots. It would be like trapping a glitchmouse to torment freely. And he’ll make it last, provide you both with the adequate care you need, even if stasis cuffs must be used for Blurr’s own safety…
And you?
Oh, how he’d do anything to keep you functioning until he grows bored of your fragility. For now, he aches to slip his glossa into your tight, little frame, and brush his claws over your soft flesh.
It’s the least he’s owed.
You are no bot. You hold no strength. You are but a delightful little spikesleeve Blurr can't bear to go without.
Perhaps you’ll squirm against Shockwave. Perhaps you’ll spit insults his way.
It won’t matter.
Not when his claws threaten to crush your beloved Agent’s spark.