[Stuntismut] Laying on of Hands
Title: Laying on of Hands
Characters: Megatron/Motormaster
Word Count: 1028
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Megatron takes delight in his creation.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for mecha_erotica's Sintember challenge, but it happily fulfills certain requirements for being one of my fanfic100 entries.
My Little Table
---
Touching his Stunticons was surprisingly unenjoyable. They all felt the same, the prickle-charge of forcefields containing the subtle interplay of internal components, the intermixing of emotions and functionality that produced a mechanism's unique energy field. It didn't make them feel quite dead, but nor did it make them feel uniquely alive.
It was all too easy to ignore them as desireable beings in other ways as well. Their insanities made interfering with the team dynamic chancy at best, downright suicidal at worst. He suspected, too, that none of them would tell him no if he tried to claim them, and what enjoyment could be taken in someone so easily conquered?
But then one of them would do something, make a particularly fine shot, for example, and smile just so - with his smile, that Starscream called 'wicked'.
That smile was the most easily recognized in Motormaster, his darkling Prime, and he found himself wondering how to make the grey truck beg and writhe and pant his name. Fantasies slipped in around the edge of his thoughts when he should have been plotting the downfall of the Autobots. It drove him to distraction, the imagined look on Motormaster's face as he hit overload for the first time, the fantasized feel of his energy fields, all the little flicker-flashes of the grey truck.
The forcefields, though, the forcefields were a seemingly unsurpassable problem. As amusing as it was to devise complicated plans to work around them, nothing actually seemed feasible.
Until it occurred to him, in the midst of another one of Starscream's takeover attempts, that there was a very simple answer to the problem. He could tell Motormaster to turn the forcefields off.
***
"Motormaster, report to the war room." Megatron lounged in one of the chairs, his fusion cannon humming in anticipation. His smile could almost be called pleasant, except for the bright edge to it. Next to him, the holo-table was turned on and projecting into the air above an image of Menasor knocking out Bruticus.
Always good to know how strong his sons were. His smile turned fractionally sharper.
He could hear Motormaster's distinctively heavy tread coming down the hallway. Absently, Megatron found himself considering the possibilities of those large, complicated feet.
Motormaster strode into the room, door hissing shut behind him, and drew himself up proudly. "Reporting as ordered."
"Excellent," Megatron purred. He fed a tiny bit more power into his cannon, its hum increasing a few microdecibels. "Turn off your forcefields."
"Megatron?" Motormaster jerked almost unnoticeably to look at the humming cannon, confusion twisting his face. He had not, as Megatron well knew, done anything wrong lately, and the only time Megatron ever shot his own troops was when they needed an especial chastisement.
"Do it."
The grey truck shrugged; his optics flickered once.
From where Megatron was sitting, it was almost irritating in its anti-climax. He frowned, and his fusion cannon whined, the barrel brightening with gathered energies. The warmth it channeled through his systems as he held on the brink of firing soothed almost as much as the open edge of fearfulness in Motormaster's expression.
He stood up and crossed over to Motormaster, raising his right arm towards the grey truck. Watching his Stunticon commander flinch back was amusing, but mere fear wasn't the ultimate goal. He closed the gap between the two of them and brought his hand down hard on Motormaster's chest.
It was everything he'd been hoping for.
His optics dimmed blissfully as foreign energies coursed over his hand, curled around his fingers. He could feel every last system that he had installed, all of them the height of health, all of them contributing to an overall sense of well-being and strength. Just like any of his other elites, except that the engine, that perfectly chosen semi-truck engine that had such a dark growl, vibrated entirely differently than any of his other troops'.
And then there were the emotions-!
- Motormaster made a startled sound like an engine backfiring and took a step back, breaking contact.
Megatron lashed out and seized his creation by the throat with one hand. "Where do you think you're going?"
Motormaster twisted his neck back and forth under his grip, trying to break contact, his face twisted in distress. "What's going on? It feels- I can't keep anything out!"
Megatron chuckled and pressed a hand against the truck's hip. "Is that so?"
Under his hand, he could feel nervousness and distress and curiosity tangling like wires. Deeper, in the spaces where other emotions were not, was a brash and terrible pride, hot as anger and strong as hate.
Motormaster jerked and twisted under his hands, engine revving up and up-
He stepped close to the grey truck, pressing chest-to-chest with his creation, and felt a dark satisfaction as Motormaster's knees buckled and the truck nearly collapsed against him. But that apparently decided something for the truck, and suddenly large hands grabbed at him, pressed abradingly hard against his sides and back. He laughed and covered Motormaster's mouth with his own, this time sending the truck to the floor with sensations.
On the floor was better than standing; the hum of the ship's systems that he barely noticed made Motormaster writhe and cry out. Or perhaps that was his own hands stroking and carressing the truck, his own systems forging brief virtual circuits between their energy fields, his own mouth pouring waste heat down Motormaster's throat.
It didn't precisely matter, not when his Stunticon Prime slipped a hand against his trigger guard and made him bellow. Nor was the truck slow on the uptake as Megatron ground against his hand. Motormaster's grip on him had slipped when he cried out, but it didn't take long for him to grab on confidently and pump close and hard.
Some things, apparently, were instinctive.
The kiss broke when Motormaster nearly bucked him off, optics blazing to whiteness before shutting off abrubtly. Sensory overload, his first one, Megatron noted through the hand tightening convulsively on his trigger-guard and the blaze of emotion-power-shift he felt in his Stunticon commander's energy fields.
Then his own overload hit like a freight train.
End
Characters: Megatron/Motormaster
Word Count: 1028
Rating: NC-17
Summary: Megatron takes delight in his creation.
Author's Notes: This was originally written for mecha_erotica's Sintember challenge, but it happily fulfills certain requirements for being one of my fanfic100 entries.
My Little Table
---
Touching his Stunticons was surprisingly unenjoyable. They all felt the same, the prickle-charge of forcefields containing the subtle interplay of internal components, the intermixing of emotions and functionality that produced a mechanism's unique energy field. It didn't make them feel quite dead, but nor did it make them feel uniquely alive.
It was all too easy to ignore them as desireable beings in other ways as well. Their insanities made interfering with the team dynamic chancy at best, downright suicidal at worst. He suspected, too, that none of them would tell him no if he tried to claim them, and what enjoyment could be taken in someone so easily conquered?
But then one of them would do something, make a particularly fine shot, for example, and smile just so - with his smile, that Starscream called 'wicked'.
That smile was the most easily recognized in Motormaster, his darkling Prime, and he found himself wondering how to make the grey truck beg and writhe and pant his name. Fantasies slipped in around the edge of his thoughts when he should have been plotting the downfall of the Autobots. It drove him to distraction, the imagined look on Motormaster's face as he hit overload for the first time, the fantasized feel of his energy fields, all the little flicker-flashes of the grey truck.
The forcefields, though, the forcefields were a seemingly unsurpassable problem. As amusing as it was to devise complicated plans to work around them, nothing actually seemed feasible.
Until it occurred to him, in the midst of another one of Starscream's takeover attempts, that there was a very simple answer to the problem. He could tell Motormaster to turn the forcefields off.
***
"Motormaster, report to the war room." Megatron lounged in one of the chairs, his fusion cannon humming in anticipation. His smile could almost be called pleasant, except for the bright edge to it. Next to him, the holo-table was turned on and projecting into the air above an image of Menasor knocking out Bruticus.
Always good to know how strong his sons were. His smile turned fractionally sharper.
He could hear Motormaster's distinctively heavy tread coming down the hallway. Absently, Megatron found himself considering the possibilities of those large, complicated feet.
Motormaster strode into the room, door hissing shut behind him, and drew himself up proudly. "Reporting as ordered."
"Excellent," Megatron purred. He fed a tiny bit more power into his cannon, its hum increasing a few microdecibels. "Turn off your forcefields."
"Megatron?" Motormaster jerked almost unnoticeably to look at the humming cannon, confusion twisting his face. He had not, as Megatron well knew, done anything wrong lately, and the only time Megatron ever shot his own troops was when they needed an especial chastisement.
"Do it."
The grey truck shrugged; his optics flickered once.
From where Megatron was sitting, it was almost irritating in its anti-climax. He frowned, and his fusion cannon whined, the barrel brightening with gathered energies. The warmth it channeled through his systems as he held on the brink of firing soothed almost as much as the open edge of fearfulness in Motormaster's expression.
He stood up and crossed over to Motormaster, raising his right arm towards the grey truck. Watching his Stunticon commander flinch back was amusing, but mere fear wasn't the ultimate goal. He closed the gap between the two of them and brought his hand down hard on Motormaster's chest.
It was everything he'd been hoping for.
His optics dimmed blissfully as foreign energies coursed over his hand, curled around his fingers. He could feel every last system that he had installed, all of them the height of health, all of them contributing to an overall sense of well-being and strength. Just like any of his other elites, except that the engine, that perfectly chosen semi-truck engine that had such a dark growl, vibrated entirely differently than any of his other troops'.
And then there were the emotions-!
- Motormaster made a startled sound like an engine backfiring and took a step back, breaking contact.
Megatron lashed out and seized his creation by the throat with one hand. "Where do you think you're going?"
Motormaster twisted his neck back and forth under his grip, trying to break contact, his face twisted in distress. "What's going on? It feels- I can't keep anything out!"
Megatron chuckled and pressed a hand against the truck's hip. "Is that so?"
Under his hand, he could feel nervousness and distress and curiosity tangling like wires. Deeper, in the spaces where other emotions were not, was a brash and terrible pride, hot as anger and strong as hate.
Motormaster jerked and twisted under his hands, engine revving up and up-
He stepped close to the grey truck, pressing chest-to-chest with his creation, and felt a dark satisfaction as Motormaster's knees buckled and the truck nearly collapsed against him. But that apparently decided something for the truck, and suddenly large hands grabbed at him, pressed abradingly hard against his sides and back. He laughed and covered Motormaster's mouth with his own, this time sending the truck to the floor with sensations.
On the floor was better than standing; the hum of the ship's systems that he barely noticed made Motormaster writhe and cry out. Or perhaps that was his own hands stroking and carressing the truck, his own systems forging brief virtual circuits between their energy fields, his own mouth pouring waste heat down Motormaster's throat.
It didn't precisely matter, not when his Stunticon Prime slipped a hand against his trigger guard and made him bellow. Nor was the truck slow on the uptake as Megatron ground against his hand. Motormaster's grip on him had slipped when he cried out, but it didn't take long for him to grab on confidently and pump close and hard.
Some things, apparently, were instinctive.
The kiss broke when Motormaster nearly bucked him off, optics blazing to whiteness before shutting off abrubtly. Sensory overload, his first one, Megatron noted through the hand tightening convulsively on his trigger-guard and the blaze of emotion-power-shift he felt in his Stunticon commander's energy fields.
Then his own overload hit like a freight train.
End