Fic: Five Weeks, Four Days and Twelve Hours, Knight Rider, Michael/KITT
So, I wrote this story for kink_bingo's Vehicular kink, but I had a nagging feeling that I could fit the prompt better. So I wrote this as well, which isn't exactly what I had in mind when I started, but was apparently the story that wanted to be written.
Title: Five Weeks, Four Days and Twelve Hours
Author: Claire
Fandom: Knight Rider
Pairing: Michael/KITT
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Five weeks, four days and twelve hours is all it takes for Bonnie to change him.
Warning: I'm not quite sure how to warn for non-con involving a car, but here it is.
Notes: Written for kink_bingo's 'Vehicular' kink.
You've almost lost track of how many weeks it's been since you first asked Bonnie to adjust your systems before she finally finishes. (Except you haven't. It's been five weeks, four days and twelve hours. You could go to the minutes and seconds but you've started to realise it makes people uncomfortable when you do that.) You know she won't tell Devon what she's been doing to you, won't tell him about the upgrades to your programming that she's been working on.
She won't tell Devon because Devon would tell her to stop.
She won't tell Michael because you asked her not to.
So she won't say anything, even though she wants to. You can see it in the glances she keeps giving Michael, quick and careful, when she knows he isn't looking; glances that linger on him for barely a second before they slide across to you.
Five weeks, four days and twelve hours of her fingers dancing over your circuitry, connections flashing with delight as she twists together wires. Five weeks, four days and twelve hours of code running through your programming; shaping you, altering you. Five weeks, four days and twelve hours before she lays a hand on your hood, voice low as she speaks to you.
"Remember, it's your choice. No one else's."
You don't know what it says about you that she's the only person in your life ever to have said that to you. It wasn't your choice when you were born in a factory, morality already written for you and always in the shadow of an older brother no one will talk about. It wasn't your choice when Michael slid into your seat for the first time, fingers wrapping around your steering wheel like they belonged there. And it certainly wasn't your choice when he came to you in the night, quiet and desperate and the tension pouring off him even more than the alcohol fumes had been.
There had been another town and another woman, and Michael had wanted to stay, had considered leaving it all for her until Devon dragged him back. And he'd come to you that night, reproachful and angry as he'd pushed himself into your exhaust. He was going to use you like The Foundation used him, he'd said, fuck you like Devon fucked him; venomous words falling from his lips as he'd thrust into you once, twice, before you felt him empty into you, sticky and foreign.
You didn't trigger your self-cleaning mechanism until he'd left.
You didn't mention it to Bonnie the next time she did your service. Michael had been angry, upset; there was no indication there would be a repeat of that night, not when he and Devon had started talking to each other again. It had been a one-off, an aberration.
And then he'd come to you again.
Still in the darkness, but softer this time, fingers trailing over your bodywork as he whispered words like sleek and smooth and sorry. You'd been tempted to remind him that you weren't one of his women, to be seduced into bed with a subtle tone and a careful smile, but then he'd knelt behind you and the moment for words had passed.
You did tell Bonnie that time. She is, after all, your mechanic and if the introduction of bodily fluids to your system was going to be a regular occurrence then she, at least, deserved to know.
So you told her. Everything. Then you told yourself that the flash of warmth that ran through your internal circuits when her first reaction was to go and slap Michael was just a glitch that you'd have to ask her to look at.
And once you'd told her about the first time, about the second, it just seemed natural to keep on telling her. Words coming from you in a volume 43% below normal as shadows played over the walls in the garage's dimmed lighting.
You tell her about Michael and in return Bonnie gives you herself, gives you close-guarded secrets no one else has ever heard. You're not sure which one of you is playing confessor anymore, but when the heat from her sinks into your bodywork as she leans against you, legs crossed on the floor and fingers more careful than Michael's have ever been, you start to understand that it doesn't really matter.
It doesn't matter because that's the way it goes, Michael coming to you in darkness and shame, using you in a way The Foundation had never intended, and Bonnie there afterwards, the soft hand on your hood a contrast to the sharp words dropped in Michael's direction.
You decide to ask her when you're driving across Nevada weeks later, Michael's fingers curled loosely around you and your air filtration working against perfume that's too strong and too fresh. Decide to ask her as every second on the road puts you further away from there, further away from the wide brown eyes that looked at Michael with gratitude and want.
Decide to ask her because it's Michael, and even though he's as much a part of you as any of your systems are, this is destroying you both.
So you ask her and she says yes, voice laced with something you recognise as relief, like maybe she's been waiting for you to ask all along. And five weeks, four days and twelve hours later, you're the same, but different.
So when he comes to you that night, footsteps quiet and with the lingering taste of alcohol hitting your external sensors, you move away, the inches between you more than miles as the silence is broken by the one word Knight Industries had never intended for you to ever say to your driver.
No.
Title: Five Weeks, Four Days and Twelve Hours
Author: Claire
Fandom: Knight Rider
Pairing: Michael/KITT
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Five weeks, four days and twelve hours is all it takes for Bonnie to change him.
Warning: I'm not quite sure how to warn for non-con involving a car, but here it is.
Notes: Written for kink_bingo's 'Vehicular' kink.
You've almost lost track of how many weeks it's been since you first asked Bonnie to adjust your systems before she finally finishes. (Except you haven't. It's been five weeks, four days and twelve hours. You could go to the minutes and seconds but you've started to realise it makes people uncomfortable when you do that.) You know she won't tell Devon what she's been doing to you, won't tell him about the upgrades to your programming that she's been working on.
She won't tell Devon because Devon would tell her to stop.
She won't tell Michael because you asked her not to.
So she won't say anything, even though she wants to. You can see it in the glances she keeps giving Michael, quick and careful, when she knows he isn't looking; glances that linger on him for barely a second before they slide across to you.
Five weeks, four days and twelve hours of her fingers dancing over your circuitry, connections flashing with delight as she twists together wires. Five weeks, four days and twelve hours of code running through your programming; shaping you, altering you. Five weeks, four days and twelve hours before she lays a hand on your hood, voice low as she speaks to you.
"Remember, it's your choice. No one else's."
You don't know what it says about you that she's the only person in your life ever to have said that to you. It wasn't your choice when you were born in a factory, morality already written for you and always in the shadow of an older brother no one will talk about. It wasn't your choice when Michael slid into your seat for the first time, fingers wrapping around your steering wheel like they belonged there. And it certainly wasn't your choice when he came to you in the night, quiet and desperate and the tension pouring off him even more than the alcohol fumes had been.
There had been another town and another woman, and Michael had wanted to stay, had considered leaving it all for her until Devon dragged him back. And he'd come to you that night, reproachful and angry as he'd pushed himself into your exhaust. He was going to use you like The Foundation used him, he'd said, fuck you like Devon fucked him; venomous words falling from his lips as he'd thrust into you once, twice, before you felt him empty into you, sticky and foreign.
You didn't trigger your self-cleaning mechanism until he'd left.
You didn't mention it to Bonnie the next time she did your service. Michael had been angry, upset; there was no indication there would be a repeat of that night, not when he and Devon had started talking to each other again. It had been a one-off, an aberration.
And then he'd come to you again.
Still in the darkness, but softer this time, fingers trailing over your bodywork as he whispered words like sleek and smooth and sorry. You'd been tempted to remind him that you weren't one of his women, to be seduced into bed with a subtle tone and a careful smile, but then he'd knelt behind you and the moment for words had passed.
You did tell Bonnie that time. She is, after all, your mechanic and if the introduction of bodily fluids to your system was going to be a regular occurrence then she, at least, deserved to know.
So you told her. Everything. Then you told yourself that the flash of warmth that ran through your internal circuits when her first reaction was to go and slap Michael was just a glitch that you'd have to ask her to look at.
And once you'd told her about the first time, about the second, it just seemed natural to keep on telling her. Words coming from you in a volume 43% below normal as shadows played over the walls in the garage's dimmed lighting.
You tell her about Michael and in return Bonnie gives you herself, gives you close-guarded secrets no one else has ever heard. You're not sure which one of you is playing confessor anymore, but when the heat from her sinks into your bodywork as she leans against you, legs crossed on the floor and fingers more careful than Michael's have ever been, you start to understand that it doesn't really matter.
It doesn't matter because that's the way it goes, Michael coming to you in darkness and shame, using you in a way The Foundation had never intended, and Bonnie there afterwards, the soft hand on your hood a contrast to the sharp words dropped in Michael's direction.
You decide to ask her when you're driving across Nevada weeks later, Michael's fingers curled loosely around you and your air filtration working against perfume that's too strong and too fresh. Decide to ask her as every second on the road puts you further away from there, further away from the wide brown eyes that looked at Michael with gratitude and want.
Decide to ask her because it's Michael, and even though he's as much a part of you as any of your systems are, this is destroying you both.
So you ask her and she says yes, voice laced with something you recognise as relief, like maybe she's been waiting for you to ask all along. And five weeks, four days and twelve hours later, you're the same, but different.
So when he comes to you that night, footsteps quiet and with the lingering taste of alcohol hitting your external sensors, you move away, the inches between you more than miles as the silence is broken by the one word Knight Industries had never intended for you to ever say to your driver.
No.