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kinkfestTitle: Theriac
Author/Artist:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
kinrazza
Rating: T
Warnings: Some mecha smut, Stunticon style.
Word count: 1174
Summary: For prompt: "Transformers, Breakdown/Dead End: masks and veils - He'll make you feel more than you've ever known/He'll make you show more than you've ever shown."
When they're alone, Breakdown sings, but only if Dead End pretends not to listen. Sometimes he dances; small, jigging steps that his brother hears rather than sees because if he turns his head to look he'll meet nothing but shivering indignation and glaring, too-bright optics.
"Do what you want," he says. "I don't care."
Except he doesn't always say that, just sits and stares and waits for it to be over. If he sits for long enough, until the light fades and the air turns cold again, then Breakdown will come to him, sliding into his lap belly-down and creeping up his chassis until their helms touch and the weight of him sends them both over. Dead End lies on his back with his brother curled over him and the warmth from both their engines is hot and uncomfortable.
"I can hear your spark," Breakdown whispers and Dead End does not reply. He stares up at the night sky and searches for Cybertron burning in the darkness.
---
Even together, they are apart. Winding one over another he can hear his brothers screaming and fighting and twisting against the threads of the web that binds them together. The echo of it is painful, too sharp and too loud, making his systems vibrate with it. He can feel his firewalls being shredded, torn away like so many wisps of insubstantial cloud and he surrenders to it dispassionately, accepting the cradle of the gestalt program that anchors them all together in a cage stronger than sparksteel.
He lets them colour his blankness with the tumult of their emotions, imprinting him with their rage and their hate and their horror. Through them, he experiences everything and it makes him strong and powerful and full of disgust all at once. Their fury drives him insane and their fear makes his circuits burn as data floods them.
Menasor raises his head to the sky and roars like a wounded animal.
Somewhere, someone is singing.
---
Afterwards, they pull themselves apart again and go their separate ways. Not too far, because it doesn't work like that, but far enough that they can move again without feeling the echoes of each other across their sensors.
Dead End climbs into the hills, the grass cool and damp against his wheels until he finds a vantage spot where he can transform and look out across the plains. He sits in the dark and dims off his lights until there is nothing but the quiet movement of the wind through the foliage and the darkness of the night all around him.
It's cool and pleasant and empty, a quiet solitude that eases away the hectic burn of residual data imprinting that still bends his processor to its ways. He can feel the lingering touch of his brothers' minds across his own and slowly, methodically, he begins to purge all trace data left.
Breakdown comes to him later, rattling across the plains in jumps and starts, diving from one stretch of cover to the next. He's twitchy tonight, Dead End notes, watching the spears of his brother's headlights spin in the darkness as he leaps and turns to face imaginary enemies. Eventually he finds his way to where Dead End sits, homing in on him with the unerring accuracy of a gestalt mate.
"Heard you not saying anything," Breakdown says later, when he's found his way up the slope. Dead End ignores him until the other Stunticon has worked himself close enough to reach out with his fingertips and brush them across his brother's shoulder.
"Could hear you listening though. And all the others have gone back to Megatron again. Motormaster's looking for you, but not very hard and-"
Dead End raises a hand as his brother talks and entwines his fingers loosely with his own. Breakdown pauses, shivering, and there is silence for a long stretch. The wind idles across the plains below, making the grasses whisper with its passing and Breakdown's engines whine nervously. Abruptly Dead End pulls him forward, across his shoulder and down into his lap. For a moment his brother fights, clawing at him in instinctive reaction to the rough handling and then Dead End's fingertips are in his wiring, clutching at the fibres and hooking beneath the curves of his armour and suddenly his brother's intent registers. He fights him for a different reason then, because Dead End is cruel and Breakdown is contrary and neither of them are happy to do anything together without a token fight.
At the end of it though, Dead End may be stronger but Breakdown is more cunning. He writhes in his brother's grasp until he has worked his way back on top of him and then he draws the tips of his claws down his brother's chassis until Dead End snarls and digs in his claws in return. They wrestle together until Dead End can no longer bear the ringing in his circuits and the memory of synapses firing across circuitry that doesn't belong to him and then he scrabbles the cabling from his wrists and forcing aside his brother's plating, jacks himself in to Breakdown's systems.
There is pain, as there always is when two foreign networks are forced so abruptly onto the same range, but in the end the gestalt link has ensured their compatibility. Breakdown stiffens, a wash of static breaking from his vocaliser, and then he bends forward to press his helm against his brother's until the glow of his optics is blinding.
"Show me," he hisses, and Dead End complies.
The rush of data is fierce and unrestrained and they both shudder beneath the flow of it. Dead End sends him every scrap of residual data, every stray thought left behind in his system, and what he doesn't send, Breakdown pulls from him like drawing out a poison. He feels the shadows of his brothers flowing through him, out of him and as each passes through his processor he wears their cruelty, their anger, and their insanity, trying on the emotions and then letting them slip from his fingers and away.
Above him, Breakdown writhes and shudders, claws digging in hard and vocaliser choking up with a strange, hitched laughter. Dead End can feel him shaking, but he does not stop the flood of data; couldn't even if he wanted to.
Afterwards he lies with his brother sprawled across him and revels in the silence and the restored solitude in his processor. For a long time Breakdown does not move and when finally he onlines his optics it is only to curl closer to his brother.
"You're heavy," Dead End remarks.
Breakdown does not reply, just digs his claws in tighter in case his brother decides to try and dislodge him.
"I heard you singing," Dead End says, thinking back to the dark and the madness of the gestalt bond where no-one is truly themselves anymore.
"Wasn't me," Breakdown replies.
After a while, he slips into recharge and Dead End is left to watch the stars alone.
Author/Artist:
kinrazzaRating: T
Warnings: Some mecha smut, Stunticon style.
Word count: 1174
Summary: For prompt: "Transformers, Breakdown/Dead End: masks and veils - He'll make you feel more than you've ever known/He'll make you show more than you've ever shown."
When they're alone, Breakdown sings, but only if Dead End pretends not to listen. Sometimes he dances; small, jigging steps that his brother hears rather than sees because if he turns his head to look he'll meet nothing but shivering indignation and glaring, too-bright optics.
"Do what you want," he says. "I don't care."
Except he doesn't always say that, just sits and stares and waits for it to be over. If he sits for long enough, until the light fades and the air turns cold again, then Breakdown will come to him, sliding into his lap belly-down and creeping up his chassis until their helms touch and the weight of him sends them both over. Dead End lies on his back with his brother curled over him and the warmth from both their engines is hot and uncomfortable.
"I can hear your spark," Breakdown whispers and Dead End does not reply. He stares up at the night sky and searches for Cybertron burning in the darkness.
---
Even together, they are apart. Winding one over another he can hear his brothers screaming and fighting and twisting against the threads of the web that binds them together. The echo of it is painful, too sharp and too loud, making his systems vibrate with it. He can feel his firewalls being shredded, torn away like so many wisps of insubstantial cloud and he surrenders to it dispassionately, accepting the cradle of the gestalt program that anchors them all together in a cage stronger than sparksteel.
He lets them colour his blankness with the tumult of their emotions, imprinting him with their rage and their hate and their horror. Through them, he experiences everything and it makes him strong and powerful and full of disgust all at once. Their fury drives him insane and their fear makes his circuits burn as data floods them.
Menasor raises his head to the sky and roars like a wounded animal.
Somewhere, someone is singing.
---
Afterwards, they pull themselves apart again and go their separate ways. Not too far, because it doesn't work like that, but far enough that they can move again without feeling the echoes of each other across their sensors.
Dead End climbs into the hills, the grass cool and damp against his wheels until he finds a vantage spot where he can transform and look out across the plains. He sits in the dark and dims off his lights until there is nothing but the quiet movement of the wind through the foliage and the darkness of the night all around him.
It's cool and pleasant and empty, a quiet solitude that eases away the hectic burn of residual data imprinting that still bends his processor to its ways. He can feel the lingering touch of his brothers' minds across his own and slowly, methodically, he begins to purge all trace data left.
Breakdown comes to him later, rattling across the plains in jumps and starts, diving from one stretch of cover to the next. He's twitchy tonight, Dead End notes, watching the spears of his brother's headlights spin in the darkness as he leaps and turns to face imaginary enemies. Eventually he finds his way to where Dead End sits, homing in on him with the unerring accuracy of a gestalt mate.
"Heard you not saying anything," Breakdown says later, when he's found his way up the slope. Dead End ignores him until the other Stunticon has worked himself close enough to reach out with his fingertips and brush them across his brother's shoulder.
"Could hear you listening though. And all the others have gone back to Megatron again. Motormaster's looking for you, but not very hard and-"
Dead End raises a hand as his brother talks and entwines his fingers loosely with his own. Breakdown pauses, shivering, and there is silence for a long stretch. The wind idles across the plains below, making the grasses whisper with its passing and Breakdown's engines whine nervously. Abruptly Dead End pulls him forward, across his shoulder and down into his lap. For a moment his brother fights, clawing at him in instinctive reaction to the rough handling and then Dead End's fingertips are in his wiring, clutching at the fibres and hooking beneath the curves of his armour and suddenly his brother's intent registers. He fights him for a different reason then, because Dead End is cruel and Breakdown is contrary and neither of them are happy to do anything together without a token fight.
At the end of it though, Dead End may be stronger but Breakdown is more cunning. He writhes in his brother's grasp until he has worked his way back on top of him and then he draws the tips of his claws down his brother's chassis until Dead End snarls and digs in his claws in return. They wrestle together until Dead End can no longer bear the ringing in his circuits and the memory of synapses firing across circuitry that doesn't belong to him and then he scrabbles the cabling from his wrists and forcing aside his brother's plating, jacks himself in to Breakdown's systems.
There is pain, as there always is when two foreign networks are forced so abruptly onto the same range, but in the end the gestalt link has ensured their compatibility. Breakdown stiffens, a wash of static breaking from his vocaliser, and then he bends forward to press his helm against his brother's until the glow of his optics is blinding.
"Show me," he hisses, and Dead End complies.
The rush of data is fierce and unrestrained and they both shudder beneath the flow of it. Dead End sends him every scrap of residual data, every stray thought left behind in his system, and what he doesn't send, Breakdown pulls from him like drawing out a poison. He feels the shadows of his brothers flowing through him, out of him and as each passes through his processor he wears their cruelty, their anger, and their insanity, trying on the emotions and then letting them slip from his fingers and away.
Above him, Breakdown writhes and shudders, claws digging in hard and vocaliser choking up with a strange, hitched laughter. Dead End can feel him shaking, but he does not stop the flood of data; couldn't even if he wanted to.
Afterwards he lies with his brother sprawled across him and revels in the silence and the restored solitude in his processor. For a long time Breakdown does not move and when finally he onlines his optics it is only to curl closer to his brother.
"You're heavy," Dead End remarks.
Breakdown does not reply, just digs his claws in tighter in case his brother decides to try and dislodge him.
"I heard you singing," Dead End says, thinking back to the dark and the madness of the gestalt bond where no-one is truly themselves anymore.
"Wasn't me," Breakdown replies.
After a while, he slips into recharge and Dead End is left to watch the stars alone.
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no subject
Date: 2008-06-26 11:08 pm (UTC)Also, the Stunticon gestalt is named Menasor, not Bruticus.
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Date: 2008-06-26 11:13 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-28 12:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-06-28 05:09 pm (UTC)(I actually found it really hard to begin this and make it work for just two members since I have a hard job of writing characters as individuals or as pairings when they're from a big gestalt. I always find myself wanting to write comparisons with, nods to or perspectives from all members. :/)