Reverence

[stainless]

Title: Reverence
Characters: Megatron/Nightbird (yes, it's het... o_O)
Verse: G1
Wordcount: 2,800
Rating: M for sexual touching, BDSM.
Warnings: M for sexual touching, BDSM (D/s and some painplay.)
Summary: Nightbird has just received her Decepticon brand and discovers that she feels some... interesting things when touching it. She sets aside some "alone time" to explore this, and is promptly walked in on by Megatron. 

This is a kinkmeme fill for the following prompt:

Nightbird, created by humans, does not have anything that Cybertronians could interface with—a spark, a port, a valve, whatever—but that doesn't deter our entirely smitten Megatron! He finds more... shall we say, creative means of getting his favorite female ninja off via lots of sensation play and other more BDSM-esque type activities (some form of edge play perhaps? Something that shows Nightbird trusts Megatron completely and implicitly, despite the fear of danger).

Nightbird's using sign language to communicate is something I established in my fic Awakenings, but hopefully this fic makes sense even if you haven't read that. And yes, for those who have read that, I do have a story in mind for how she went from what happens at the end of that to earning her badge, but it's not written yet.

Thanks to meaisin_caoin @LJ for beta.

Nightbird ran her fingers over the fresh brand on her chest. She welcomed the shock of pain that came with it, and pressed her fingers harder against the seared metal, digging her fingertips into the edges of the symbol her chestplate now bore.

Wearing it meant that no one could deny that she had earned her awakener's mark and her place in his army. It was the mark of a warrior, a true Decepticon, and only fitting that it should hurt to receive it.

She shivered, the burn sending little pulses of gossamer heat through her circuitry as she scratched at it, remembering. Megatron had performed the ritual, and that was a blessing, her awakener himself bestowing the gift of his badge. She remembered the light of his crimson optics, gleaming in the dark as if they hungered to possess her. She remembered the bright purple light of the energon brand, the Decepticon symbol crackling with the electricity that would sear the brand into her plating forever.

She knew she should not read too much into Megatron's greed. He was lord of a brutal race, and it only made sense that he should take pleasure in marking what was his.

Still, the heat in those optics, flaring the color of molten metal as he held the brand aloft, had sent her systems spinning with anticipation and dread. She pressed her fingers against the brand, shivering.

It was strange to her that she should savor pain. Gossip, if it was to be believed, told her that some of the other Decepticons did. She hadn't thought she would be like them. But this pain had come from her awakener, and this pain he'd given to her as a sign of his pride. Her hand pressed hard against the damaged metal and she threw back her head.

Not for the first time, she found herself glad that the humans who had built her had never given her a vocalizer.

It was an insult, she knew. The slimy little organics had intended her to be nothing more than a drone, and a drone didn't need a voice. The Decepticons who stolen her away from the humans had probably intended only to make her a more efficient weapon, but somehow, their tinkering had made her far more. She had been a lifeless machine programmed in several human fighting styles, moving with deadly grace but no will of her own.

But when the Decepticons were finished upgrading her code, she had awoken, aware not only of her surroundings but also of herself. And eager for a fight, Decepticon combat programming singing through her circuitry.

She did not know how it had happened. None of the Decepticons did. Shockwave, Soundwave, Bombshell, and the entire Constructicon team had all studied her in great detail. All of them had theories, but none were certain what had made her sentient. None of them, in their studies of her systems and her frame, had found anything analogous to the spark that gave life to Cybertronians.

Knowing they still had data to analyze, Nightbird still clung to a faint hope that one of them would find it. If only so that she could someday pledge it to Megatron's service properly.

And then there was the secret hope, deep within the corners of her processor, that if she did bear a spark like the others did, maybe someday she could offer it to him as the other Decepticons offered theirs to one another. That someday she might open to him, and he might deign to accept that offer, filling her spark with his heat -

She shook her head firmly, willing herself not to think of such things. She was not even Cybertronian. As much as Megatron clearly approved of her prowess in battle, he would never sully his spark by merging it with hers. He had given her a place among his ranks, and that was honor enough.

She tossed her head, more energy prickling through her circuits as her fingers curled hard, sending a new spike of pain lancing through her chestplate. She could almost feel the look that her awakener had given her: proud and intense and impatient to see his mark set permanently on her. She shuttered her optics to more fully remember.

When she opened them again, she could still see lights in the darkness of the doorway, pinpricks of flame flaring in front of her. Her optics widened in shock as she realized that yes, there really was someone there, staring at her.

She froze. Yes, she'd earned entry into the Decepticon ranks, but she was still an alien. That meant anyone and everyone outranked her, and most of those who did could override the lock on her door if they really wanted.

Whoever it was could simply have commed her and asked - demanded, given his higher rank - to see her. But whoever it was had a ready excuse to come down here and barge in, too. While Nightbird could hear, her inability to speak meant that anyone who wanted to see her response would have to activate a video feed and watch her sign her answer.

The fact that she communicated with her hands was no mark of shame. Many Decepticons had unusual speech patterns, including some of very high rank. An alternate form of communication, then, was nothing anyone would judge her for.

But the particular sign language she used was a human language, and as such it was yet another reminder that Nightbird had been created by humans. Anyone with someone to say could simply march over to her quarters, say it, and walk out without having to wait for an answer in an inferior language.

If he cared enough.

Or felt like pretending he did.

She hastily pulled hand away from her chest. Who would do such a thing? Maybe one of the pranksters, like Skywarp or Rumble, eager to discover something interesting about the alien in their ranks.

Her tanks roiled at the next thought. Or maybe Starscream.

The red Seeker had loathed her on sight, and the feeling was very much mutual. His very first words to her had been insults.

"She looks like some Earthling play puppet," he'd said. Aggression surging through her circuitry, Nightbird had immediately attacked him. Neither of them had ever forgotten it, or ever would.

If he were the one standing there now, she'd never hear the end of this. Not until either she pummeled Starscream into scrap or he got her drummed out of the army for being a pervert rather than simply an alien.

She hastily switched the settings on her optics. Being built a ninja meant being built to see in the dark.

Staring, she cycled air heavily through her vents, not trusting her hands to form words. Then she forced them to move. "Lord Megatron."

Her awakener strode into the room, seemingly unfazed by what he'd seen, the door sliding shut behind him.

"I see you are proud of your new mark," he said. Her engine stalled with embarrassment.

Then she looked again at his faceplates. There was neither disgust nor anger in the smirk they bore, only amusement and mild surprise.

"Of course, my lord," she answered, her cooling fans kicking on as he moved to stand over her.

The silence had been kind to her before. Now, it made what she'd been doing infinitely obvious. There was no way he couldn't have heard the noise her fans were making, and if he'd been watching long there was no way he didn't know why. Her hands twitched.

Then she felt his hands over them, pressing them down. A thrill of panic raced through her systems, but she quickly tamped it down. Even if he released them, what would she say?

He moved a hand to her chest, and she fought to keep her optics from flickering. She twitched, wanting to pull away. He rumbled a warning, and she fell still.

Dark fingers slid across her chest and over her brand. He had not been gentle before, but he was now, curiosity tempering his movements. She shivered again, pinpricks of bright light lancing through her sensor net.

It didn't feel like pain. She didn't know what to call it, or how to think of it. She knew only that it came from him, and therefore was precious to her. And that she wanted more of it, if he deigned to give it to her.

Greatly daring, she reached up with her free hand. She did not press her hand to his or hold his fingers there. Moving at all was presumptuous already.

He tilted his head, curious. Nightbird pressed her fingertips to his wrist, lightly, in a gesture of gratitude. He chuckled, tightening his grip on her other hand, and smirked, his optics all fire.

The hand on her chest tightened too, the edges of the dark fingers digging into the Decepticon brand, and Nightbird clenched her hand hard around Megatron's wrist. She pushed out her chest, pressing the metal against her lord's other hand.

She saw his optics flicker in pain as she squeezed his wrist, and willed herself to let go. But her motor relays wouldn't respond, and she only clutched tighter, molten heat racing through every part of her. She felt as if every sensor in her frame had activated, as if her awakener's fingers were everywhere, every part of her suddenly aware and alive.

"Like that, do you?" he rasped, his vocalizer hitching. She nodded, frantic, the heat suffusing her chest so intense now that she feared it might melt under his hand.

She'd heard that such things happened to Cybertronians when their sparks ached for release. But as far as she knew, her own chest was empty. Even if it weren't, she didn't have the same kind of chamber in her chest as the others, and could not simply retract her chestplate and open for her lord. Not sure what else to do, she opened her hand to let go of his wrist, feeling a twinge of shame at not having done so earlier.

His other hand released hers, tracing its way over her wrist, tracing the hilt of the dagger she stored there. Then it slid along the blade, her sensor net flared with heat again. Unlike the other Decepticons, none of her weapons were built into her frame. But she knew what it meant when one of them touched another's weapon.

He pressed the tip of one of his fingers against the point of her blade, nicking the dark paint there, a tiny glowing bead of energon appearing when he pulled his fingers away.

He slid his hand over her arm and she stared, entranced. Then he moved down her side, a tickling stimulation that would have made her jump if she hadn't - somehow - reminded herself to keep control.

Then the dark hand brushed her hip plate, and her whole pelvic structure rocked in response.

Embarrassment flared through her systems, heating her faceplates and sending a new jolt of warmth through her chest. She had never explored the sensor arrays there herself, but she could guess why she was responding that way.

Her human creators hadn't given her exact analogs to most features of human anatomy. It seemed even they, primitive sacks of flesh that they were, realized it would be silly for her to have mammalian breasts she'd never nurse with, or metallic imitations of genitals she'd never use as humans did. But for all that, they had patterned her on their own kind.

Which meant that they must have given her a particularly sensitive sensor array on the underside of her pelvic plates. Aarts of a human female's reproductive system were located there, parts that would surely be particularly sensitive to touch for easily deducible reasons. A quick self-diagnostic confirmed her suspicion that her pelvic plating bore a far higher concentration of sensors than the rest of her armor did.

Not that she really needed to bother checking, as Megatron himself had already noticed. He slid his hand over her pelvic plating, his optics flaring greedily, giving her the same stare she remembered from the moment he'd marked her as his.

Yours, she thought, her hands shaking to say it, but he had forbidden her. Besides, to sign it she would have to pull away.

He chuckled, his cooling fans roaring louder as he slid his fingers over the sensory array again. This time, he understood exactly where they were, and she wrapped a hand around his back, pressing him closer, wanting only to feel more.

The fuel in her tanks roiled, some dim part of her reminding her that he was her lord. She should not dare touch him like that, as if she were as bold as Starscream and thought she could decide what he should offer her. The same part of her recoiled in shame as her hips pressed against his hand, knowing that she was acting like a human. Like a wretched, disgusting creature that could never deserve Megatron. He growled, as if he knew, and shame lanced through her systems, white-hot and terrible.

But then Megatron's movements grew insistent, no longer exploring the odd configuration of her sensors or wanting to know how she'd respond. Now his hand moved roughly, digging almost painfully into her sensor array, caring not about her pleasure but only about using what it had found. She ground the sensors hard against his fingertips, heedless of the discomfort.

He had awakened her once, somehow, and now the same thing was happening again, all parts of her roaring to life in response to his touch, uncomfortable and beautiful and terrifying and so much needed. She saw his lip plates curl in a possessive snarl and widened her optics, not wanting to miss a moment.

She had heard the others talking about overload. Was that what would happen to her now? She hoped it would, though the others said happened when their sparks were overfull, holding too much charge and needing to release it. Did she have one of those, somewhere within her? Or would - this, whatever it was - simply keep building, overwhelming her, searing her systems until every part of her burned with what she'd given him?

She wanted to do what the others did, but she wasn't sure it mattered in the end.

Then his other hand tightened against her chest, scraping the singed metal of her brand and digging hard into the abraded metal there, and her systems flared with a last burst of energy, her optics flickering with static before white light flared before them and she could see nothing more.

###

When her systems reset, she could feel his hands wrapped around hers. From another machine, it might have been a tender gesture. From him, it was merely another mark of his possession.

She nodded in understanding. She needed nothing more.

He smiled, half grin and half smirk, and released her hands.

She thought of signing "Thank you." Her databanks told her that the humans who used the language she'd pilfered used that sign frequently.

But in the end, she decided against it. It was not the sort of thing a Decepticon said. To thank him would be to speak as if he'd done all of that to please her, rather than explored and used what was his, for whatever purpose he liked.

"My lord," she finally answered, listening to the roar of his cooling fans. "You have not yet had your pleasure."

"That can be handled," he rasped, his voice ragged, his optics bright.

A hot spike of jealousy sped through her systems. If the rumors she'd heard from the other Decepticons were true, he'd leave here to see Starscream. Her hands clenched. That lying, insolent twit was beautiful, yes, in a way Nightbird herself would never be. But that didn't mean that he deserved her awakener's attentions.

She faltered, wanting to offer something herself, but unsure what. Megatron's spark lay in a chamber in his chest, which she could touch, but what then? She had no way of receiving his energy, and the only way she could stimulate his spark was with her hands. He was the leader of a warrior race, and his own second-in-command was a notorious traitor. Even knowing how loyal she was, he would never allow her to touch his life source itself with her bare hand.

Playing back the events of the evening in her mind, she remembered him touching her blade. While she did not herself have the kind of built-in weaponry that had sensors attached, she did know what touching someone else's weapon meant, a mixture of intimacy and respect. Shyly, she reached down to touch his cannon and run her fingers lightly along a seam there.

The response was immediate, the metal heating under her hand as energy roared into his weapons systems. He gasped, the metal trembling under her hand as he fought to keep it still.

But the moment was short-lived. Her awakener reached to push her hand away.

"No," he growled.

She nodded, trying to will away her jealousy. "Of course, my lord. I understand."

He smirked, pleased, and reached out again to trace her brand with his fingers. "Good," he said as she shuddered.

Then he turned and left, the door opening automatically for him. She stared at the doors as they hissed shut, little pinpricks of pain and delight flickering through the sensors in her chest and pelvic plating.