Siadea (siadea) wrote in kinkfest, @ 2007-09-06 21:47:00 |
|
|||
Entry tags: | a: siadea, f: transformers, p: megatron/mikaela, september 06 |
[fic] Transformers 2007 Movie (Megatron/Mikaela)
Title: Living in the Devil's Playground
Author/Artist: siadea
Rating: R
Warnings: Mech/human, dubcon, AU
Word count: 3,174
Prompt: Mikaela/Megatron: behind enemy lines - “size does matter”
Summary: Mikaela has always been practical. Megatron intends to get the most from his conquest of Earth and its lifeforms.
(Title from 'Devil's Playground,' Gram Rabbit.)
*
"Yes, sir," Mikaela repeated, trying not to shake and wondering why she bothered even as she did. The warlord - she'd never actually seen anybody she'd describe as a 'warlord,' like some South American dictator, before she saw Megatron - could definitely already tell how scared she was. But she wouldn't let herself shake anyway. "I want - I want to serve you."
"Why?" came the ominous rumble that vibrated through her bones.
"Because I want to live," Mikaela said honestly, looking up into red-and-yellow eyes. "Because that little silver guy's dead and I don't think anybody else of yours can get to some of the -" she cut herself off; reminding him about the... attachments that he'd ripped out of himself probably wasn't a good idea. "Of the littler damage." She held her hands apart a little ways - a gap smaller than any of the robots' fingers.
Megatron chuckled, deliberately. She'd heard what the Decepticons sounded like when they laughed in their own language, and it wasn't that, it was a human laugh. For her benefit, probably. Mikaela clasped her hands together around the handle of her toolbox, white-knuckled, and hoped.
But Megatron didn't kill her, at least not yet. "She begs more truthfully than you, Starscream," he observed instead to the copper-and-camo F-22 behind him. The jet made a noise Mikaela was pretty sure was not a laugh.
"Very well," Megatron decided, and reached out to grab her. Mikaela tried not to scream, hanging on to her toolbox for dear life. The Decepticon's hands weren't like the Autobots' - they were long and sharp, sharp enough to cut her if she moved.
"It pleases me for a being of your miserable species to perform this service," Megatron purred at her. "As for your further survival... Well. We shall see. You may begin," he added mildly, bringing her just close enough to his shoulder that she could get off.
Mikaela grabbed on to one of the outcroppings of Megatron's shoulder, climbing from the Decepticon's hand towards one of the ragged edges of some kind of port that the scientists had screwed into him. The torn metal was sharp, but the screws were mostly intact, big sturdy things. Mikaela set to work getting them off, trying not to think about the bursts of Decepticon-language going on around her, some sort of discussion between Megatron, the F-22, and the cop car. That one had 'to punish and enslave' on him - how the hell had she not noticed that before?
Once the jagged circle of metal was removed - there was some kind of clear film around the hole in Megatron's armor, and the color there was paler, like a scar - Mikaela had another problem. Just dropping the end of the port would get the Decepticons' attention - for now they were ignoring her, and she wanted it to stay that way. And she was pretty sure Megatron wouldn't like stuff being dropped onto his knees, either.
Only one thing to do about it. Mikaela put the circle of metal over her arm, thankful that she'd grabbed something sturdier to wear than just a T-shirt for this. It meant she probably wouldn't cut herself too bad on it. Then she looked around for something else to get off, because there was no way that was it.
It wasn't. She had to climb around on Megatron, who roundly ignored her, and tried to just concentrate on what she was doing. It got easier the more she did, and the more everyone else ignored her. Like she was some kind of insect, but Mikaela was okay with that. The alternative just wasn't something she wanted to think about too much.
Eventually, she was festooned with cables and bits of metal, but all of the stuff they'd plugged into Megatron and tied him up with was gone, and Mikaela started in on what she could do about the actual injuries, mostly because the cop car and the F-22 had left, so it was just her and Megatron, and she really didn't want his undivided attention.
A lot of it she couldn't do a whole lot about - sure, she could have hammered some bent armor-plates back into place, but she really wasn't sure she should - but some of it she found herself able to take care of, with the help of some sturdy electrical gloves and a pair of pliers. Cut wires were cut wires, after all.
Then Megatron moved, and Mikaela hung on like a leech - but all he did was lean back a little; if he'd been human, she'd've said he relaxed. "You are surprisingly near competency, girl," he informed her. "Continue."
That was a good thing, wasn't it? Mikaela decided it was. And she kept going, re-establishing connections and getting little miscellaneous screws and things while she was at it. If it were anybody but Megatron, she'd've felt sorry for him - at least 'Bee hadn't had all this done to him. She hoped the Camero was still alive, but somehow she doubted it.
She'd gotten to the point of scraping patches of rust off - from all the ice he'd been in, she was sure - when Megatron spoke again. "The wing circuitry on my back," he instructed. "Attend to it." His voice had turned lower, richer, and Mikaela didn't trust it a bit.
"Yessir." Mikaela had never been so polite to any cop or judge in her life - but then, they hadn't been about five seconds away from breaking her like a toy, either. She scrambled over Megatron's shoulders, wincing as her toolkit banged against some sort of outcropping on his shoulder.
"Don't do that again," Megatron informed her, voice sharpening just a little. Mikaela didn't need to be told twice.
She eyed the exposed cords and heavily-protected circuits. Nothing looked wrong with them to her, but maybe there was something deeper in. Carefully, she started to work her arms inside, under a piece of armor that would become part of a wing in Megatron's other form.
"Approaching satisfactory," Megatron rumbled, and - no. No, no way, absolutely no way. But the tone of voice was unmistakable, and Megatron'd already done human expressions on purpose, and... No way. No way.
Even if it was - and there was just no way it was - stopping would probably be a really, really, really bad thing. Mikaela gritted her teeth, bright red despite herself, and pressed her whole upper body against Megatron's back, her arms buried in the warlord's circuitry to the armpit. There wasn't much of anything wrong as far as she could tell, but she wasn't an electrician - one pair of separated wires that she twined back together by feel, a couple of surprisingly-delicate pieces of sheet metal that she could bend back into shape with just her fingers.
Megatron made a low, electronic sound. Mikaela debated to herself whether or not that was a bad sign, but he didn't tell her to stop and he didn't kill her, so it probably wasn't. So she didn't pull her arms out until she'd felt over everything she could reach, and - and stroked, she could admit it to herself, at least, right? - what felt like some kind of main power cable to Megatron's wings.
That got a noise Mikaela would have sworn to be a purr, vibrating her whole body as she climbed to the other side of Megatron's back and started all over again. This time she knew what she was doing a little better, even if she didn't dare ignore the - the encouraging noises and brief words of direction that the warlord gave her from time to time.
"The joints of my shoulders," Megatron said finally, and oh, fuck, that was. That was definitely what she thought it was. Mikaela tried to distract herself with wondering where he'd found that kind of intonation to copy, because it wasn't from porn; it was the real thing.
Mikaela hauled herself back up towards Megatron's right shoulder, wrapping her legs around an outcropping on his shoulder and lying flat on her stomach because that was the only way she could reach the joint. She was acutely aware of the fact that if Megatron so much as flexed his arm, she'd lose both her hands at the very least. Crushed, just like that.
But he didn't. He flexed his fingers - each one longer than Mikaela was tall - but that was it. He seemed to like giving her directions - "Half a micron to the right," "Six of your inches upwards" - and Mikaela tried her best to ignore his rich, purring tone. It was hard to, since every word sent a subtle vibration through Megatron's body, and then through Mikaela's.
...and he knew, didn't he - Ratchet had been able to tell just by pheromones about Sam - and oh, God Mikaela wanted to die. He was probably getting off on that, too, for all she knew.
There was more actual damage here than under Megatron's wing-plates - some torn cables she couldn't do anything about without more than she had with her, some dislocated pivots she could snap back into place. The main rotator cuff was fine, though a little overheated. Megatron emitted an actual subsonic pulsing sound when Mikaela wrapped her hands around it as far as she could, soaking up some of the heat into her gloves. She could probably fry an egg on it, if that wouldn't get her killed.
Mikaela wrapped her legs more securely around her chosen strut on Megatron's shoulder, anchoring herself against the low, throbbing vibration of Megatron's approval. She kind of wished she had a cold-pack, because the heat was really uncomfortable. It got better once she found an intake vent that had been closed forcibly somehow, and pried it back open, but not by too much.
After another feel around through Megatron's circuitry and cables, just to make sure she hadn't missed anything, Mikaela pulled her hands out and pushed herself back up, heavily. Her hands felt sunburned from the heat, but that wasn't anything new. She risked a glance over her shoulder; for a giant robot, Megatron did look relaxed. But alert, just watching her out of the corner of his eye.
Mikaela pulled herself back to her feet, and started to make her way around Megatron's back, towards his other shoulder.
"No." The words stopped her in her tracks, one hand steadying herself on an outcropping on his shoulder, her foot trying to find a hold on his shoulderblade-armor. "Take the other way around."
Mikaela had tried to avoid Megatron's front as much as she dared, even when his attention wasn't on her. She swallowed hard and went, though, carefully. It was hard, climbing around on Megatron with half a pawnshop's worth of broken metal on her and her toolkit. That, and she was really, truly afraid to look up. She knew Megatron was watching her progress, she knew it, and she really didn't want to meet those eyes.
"You don't want to touch that," Megatron said out of the blue, prefaced by a sharp burst of static. Mikaela froze, and took stock of where she was. Oh, God, she'd seriously almost put her foot inside Megatron's chest, where his spark chamber was. That was probably a really good way to get herself killed.
Very, very carefully, Mikaela lifted her foot, finding a less hazardous foothold and pulling herself up. She looked up automatically, and really wished she hadn't. Megatron was watching her, his shark-mouth unreadable. Mikaela had gotten reasonably good at figuring out Autobot expressions, but no Autobot had a face like that.
Mikaela swallowed hard and looked away, towards her destination. A couple times she had to make handholds and footholds in Megatron's circuitry to get closer to there, wedge her feet and hands between cables, but the warlord didn't seem to mind. Once, she even got another electronic noise from him and had to fiddle around until she'd found what he liked and did it again.
Those noises - the ones he made when he forgot to 'translate' - Mikaela could tune out better. It was just like some kind of tuning or something. Like listening to a car engine. A car engine from Hell, but a car engine.
****
Megatron was quite pleased, all in all. Barricade and Starscream's reports were astonishingly consistent, the Autobots were scattered across the globe, and Optimus Prime was finally, finally dead. (That, in Megatron's opinion, was practically a mercy killing. They had been kin and co-rulers once, and Prime had declined alarmingly since.) He'd had a month to reconcile himself and his troops to the loss of the Allspark - sublight communications with Shockwave indicated that even without it, Cybertron wasn't a complete loss.
It was also a salve to his dignity, the small human with the courage to offer itself in service to Megatron rather than be eventually destroyed with the rest of its kind. Simply killing them outright was satisfying, certainly, but not as completely as subjugating the more intelligent members of the race. Forcing it to repair the minor, offensive damage taken in his eighty years of captivity was a balm. Many of them would have healed by themselves, but it was pleasurable to have another perform the service for him.
This particular human had a remarkably deft touch, for a species with such a soft, disgusting form. Megatron would have objected had it gotten any of its fluids on him, such as the 'blood' substance that served in their circulatory system. Fortunately, it had covered most of itself with a sturdier substance than its outer layer.
It amused him, that the small human found no other place to put the signs of Megatron's captivity than on itself. It gave it something of the look of a small walking scrap-pile, but that was a distinct improvement in his eyes.
It was a... sufficient improvement.
Idly, Megatron instructed the human to 'attend' to the circuitry of his wings. Any Decepticon with the slightest knowledge of airborne alt-modes would have instantaneously known what he meant and set to the task with alacrity; Megatron enjoyed the human's ignorance while it lasted.
There was indeed something to be said for smaller manipulator limbs. The human was finding damaged wiring that was not so much painful as irritating; correcting the misfires and linking the wires back together. It even discovered bent adducer plates that had plagued him with their aching for the past week.
Megatron sighed; properly-aligned adducer plates were a remarkable improvement in the feel of his entire back, and let him appreciate the finer touches that the human was currently engaging in. For a revolting bit of liquid-filled flesh, the human had a very reasonable intuition of pleasure zones.
Speaking of, yes... what was it - Megatron sent a subsidiary engine into ignition, just enough to send a persistent vibration throughout his frame. It pleased him to make the small organic uncomfortable, and it pleased him more to subtly inform it of precisely what it was doing. Judging by the change in its scent and movements, Megatron surmised that it realized.
"The joints of my shoulders," he instructed, changing the pitch of his voice just slightly. He intended to enjoy this to its utmost, and stimulation of the wing-circuitry while in footed form was merely the beginning. In alt mode, naturally, some jets (interstellar and atmospheric both) could achieve the heights of pleasure simply from their wings being touched, but those sensors were dampened when not in use.
The human climbed appropriately - not anywhere near as nimbly as a Decepticon of its weight and size would have done, but also with rather fewer scratches to Megatron's surface. Most light scouts tended towards delicate spikes, as though trying to make themselves look bigger and more dangerous than they were: a ridiculous proposition to Megatron's optics.
The awkward arrangement the human had to take in order to properly reach his shoulder-joints amused Megatron, both by its awkwardness and its facilitation of his own magnanimous plans. His amusement, however, left him and was replaced by far more satisfying pleasure as the human set to work, locating his slightly-overheated main rotator cuff and the damaged vent that normally cooled it. Its small manipulators, touching the cuff, were refreshingly cool, and Megatron rumbled brief praise despite himself.
The temperatures in his shoulder were above optimal for its species as well as Megatron's own systems; he began cycling air through his opened exhaust vents with vigor. The proper response for that was to thank him for the indulgence, of course, but the human's reticence seemed born of fear and a desire to remain unobtrusive rather than insubordination, and so its silence was also acceptable.
He likely didn't have to direct it, strictly speaking, changing measurements at whim mostly to enjoy the pauses as the human figured each iteration out. It most likely would find all of the minor damage on its own - and even the appropriate pleasure sensors; it had a knack - but it greatly pleased him to be entirely in charge of what it touched and when.
Megatron truly did not feel the desire to move into the contact: he could simply instruct the human to apply more pressure. Moving his arm would likely crush its fragile limbs, anyway - doubtless it was perfectly aware of that, but Megatron flexed his fingers to remind it, and because he was free to do so. It was an important distinction to make, that he was motionless by choice.
"You may attend the other joint now," Megatron told the human, feeling it extract itself from his shoulder circuitry with brief bursts of sensation.
"No," he interrupted, when it attempted to traverse his back, rather than face his optics. "Take the other way around." He was enjoying its shame and realization - furthermore, the wing-circuitry on his back was already sensitized enough to be stimulated by mere airflow, much less any more physical touch, and Megatron wanted to prolong this.
He relaxed into the light, fluttering touches over his armor as the human moved across his chest. Each spike of adrenaline emissions, each delicate search for leverage, was a balm to his spark. He could, paradoxically, feel the rage from his previous humiliation at human hands ebbing --
No. It took Megatron, even Megatron himself, a nanosecond to realize he'd spoken aloud. The human female was dangerously close to his spark chamber, the mechanisms protecting it sensitive to the slightest touch. That was an intimacy Megatron allowed no one. "You don't want to touch that," he added in English, deliberately mild.
Fear wafted from the tiny organic as it climbed to a safer perch. It looked up, lacking any proximity sensors aside from its optics to let it know where it was, and met his gaze.
It dropped its head with commendable swiftness. Megatron decided, magnanimously, that it would live.