Fanfic -- Frustration
Aug. 12th, 2007 07:59 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dunmurderinTitle: Frustration
Author's note: A vorn is 83 Earth years long; 72,000 vorn is approximately 6 million years. 125 vorn is approximately 10,000 years.
From the 28 Combaticons Meme: #6 Horny Combaticons.
Frustration
The Combaticons were seventy-two thousand vorn old.
Seventy-two thousand vorn.
They’d barely been 125 vorn old when they’d been imprisoned by Megatron. Now, in the blink of a metaphorical optic they’d been flashed forward to some strange future and stranded on an alien mudball of a world overrun by chattering meat sacks. Unnerving didn’t even come close to describing it.
They didn’t feel old. For the most part, they still felt like the same hotshot young mechs they’d been back on Cybertron. Even with the new alt-modes Starscream had given them. If anything, the new bodies helped make them feel even younger.
As a group, they were lonely, alienated from the older mechs by dint of their inexperience -- not only in terms of vorn lived, but also because the others had that smaller edge when it came to understanding Earth. They weren’t old enough mentally to be considered much more than shock troops. Or a Bruticus delivery system.
To make things worse, they were sensation-starved. Seventy-two thousand vorn of feeling nothing made feeling anything almost blissful. Merging was, by far, the best -- not only were sensations multiplied by five, but they were together again.
But, as wonderful as merging felt, it wasn’t quite enough. Outside of the gestalt, that sort of bliss was almost impossible to find. Turning to each other was out of the question. They’d tried it -- Swindle and Vortex particularly -- but any attempts at any kind of intimacy had rapidly turned into sparring matches or bickering and left the interested parties even more frustrated than before.
So, they branched out, quietly and without discussing it amongst themselves to find other partners.
It wasn’t easy. Seekers, even the Coneheads, wouldn’t be seen with groundpounders -- and to a Seeker, a shuttle and a helicopter were simply glorified groundpounders. The Constructicons had no interest in anyone outside their team -- particularly a pack of unruly ‘children’ like the Combaticons. Megatron and Soundwave were so far out of the realm of possibility that nobody had even considered considering them. Reflector and the cassetticons were too small.
That left only one possibility: the Stunticons. The other gestalt was, in many ways, perfect. They had ground-based alt-modes, they were even younger than the Combaticons themselves and socially, neither team had high enough status for anyone to pay the slightest bit of attention to what they were doing in their off-hours.
And so, the hook-ups began.
# # #
Vortex was drawn to Motormaster like an Insecticon to an old-growth forest. The Stunticon leader radiated power and violence at an almost palpable level. His casual cruelty with his own teammates made Vortex down right envious of the other Stunticons. This was a mech who had no time for the silly posturing games that so many others thought of as a measure of true dominance. This was a mech who would take what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted.
The question was, how to make him want Vortex.
The answer, as it turned out, was a carefully aimed glue-gun attack in one of the access corridors.
# # #
For Onslaught, seduction was in many ways more satisfying than the actual conquest of a partner’s body. After all, what was seduction but strategy applied off the battlefield? The most difficult partner to have was the one Onslaught was most likely to seek.
It was a simple thing to use his limited authority to gain access to Breakdown’s personnel file. The admittedly brief file was a wealth of information: duty rosters, fueling times and preferences and most importantly, his psychological profile.
How did one go about seducing a paranoiac who hated being noticed in any fashion? Onslaught shuddered at the challenge, throwing himself into the compiling of observational data and running modeling programs to test the best and worst of the most likely scenarios for the eventual satisfactory completion of the assigned task.
It might take time, but Breakdown would be his and then, let the games begin anew.
# # #
Swindle would go to his theoretical grave before he would admit to anyone that the reason he wanted Wildrider was because he reminded him of Vortex. The giggles, the utter disregard for personal safety, the sleek grey paintjob. Wildrider was, in essence, a Vortex who he could drive with.
He couldn’t even admit it to himself -- instead, he conned himself into thinking preferred Wildrider simply because he didn’t have to work to persuade the other mech. A simple “Y’want to?” had been all it took.
# # #
Brawl liked Dead End because the other mech was shiny. And because he looked delicate without actually being delicate. The contrast between his dull armor and the Stunticon’s glistening frame as they wrapped around each other was all a part of the thrill.
# # #
Blast Off, of all of them, recognized something deeper in Drag Strip than just a convenient target for pent-up frustrations. The Stunticon was, in many ways, a kindred spirit. The arrogance, the sure knowledge that one would have been destined to greatness if only cruel fate and the stupidity of others hadn’t intervened. They could alternate between verbal sniping and commiserating at their unfortunate position as the only sane/intelligent members of their respective teams.
# # #
If High Command noticed any of this, they gave little or no thought to it. Except perhaps a certain gratitude that the two gestalt teams had found something to occupy themselves with that didn’t involve treason, petty theft or demolition derbies inside the Nemesis.
But, while High Command paid no attention to the Combaticons’ amorous pursuits, others watched with rapt attention. Not the least because betting pools had been discretely established over who got who where, when and how. Reflector, being designated the official judge thanks to their control of the security cameras aboard the Nemesis, was designated the official judge and holder of the money. “Love Groundpounder-style” quickly became favorite viewing during the long, boring stretches between raids.
# # #
As far as Drag Strip was concerned, Blast Off was good, but he was fantastic. No, better than that, fan-slagging-tastic. It was as plain as the spoiler on his back -- after all, the older mech had sought him out instead of the other way around. That was significant.
Still, the attention was nice and it was nicer still having somebody new to gripe to. His fellow Stunticons either ignored him, or in Motormaster’s case, attempted to make him one with the wall. Or the floor. Or the video monitor. Whatever was handiest. Big, stupid, jealous afthead. Just because he hated being outclassed every day in every way.
Yeah, Blast Off was definitely lucky he’d picked Drag Strip.
# # #
Brawl was, without a doubt, the angriest mech Dead End had ever seen in all his months of existence. And that was including Motormaster. Unlike his “illustrious” leader, Brawl’s anger wasn’t directed at any particular individual, it was directed everywhere at everything and everyone. Except, it seemed, for Dead End. It was like being able to keep Chaos itself on a leash. Or being able to dance with Death.
Best of all, it was someone to help wax the hard to reach places. Someone with a vested interest in making him as shiny as possible.
# # #
The first thing Wildrider noticed about Swindle was that he was boxy.. It was weird, since the only other boxy person he knew well was Motormaster and Swindle wasn’t like Motormaster at all. He was tan and he was short and he didn’t hit anywhere near as hard as Moto did. Though he was a master of the cheap shot so that helped him hold his own when they sparred.
Swindle also wouldn’t shut up -- he could talk for hours, almost non-stop. He’d babble on and on about anything from his plans for new weapons designs to human jokes and trivia he’d managed to pick up. And, rarely, he’d tell stories about his life back on Cybertron, before The Box. These were usually contradictory -- Wildrider was pretty sure he’d heard at least three different stories about the death of Swindle’s creator (the one that wasn‘t Starscream). Swindle was, to put it simply, so full of scrap he should have clanked when he walked.
Not that Wildrider cared. It wasn’t like he really listened to Swindle. The other mech’s words were just a comforting drone that kept the dreaded silences at bay.
And best of all, the littlest Combaticon made the most wonderful screams when the sensory overload hit him.
# # #
Breakdown was the last to realize he was being pursued. And even then he only found out because Skywarp was attempting to influence the betting pool in his favor.
Onslaught was not in the least contrite when Breakdown confronted him about it. “Of course,” he’d said, not bothering to turn away from the monitor where he was reviewing daily reports. “You are, without a doubt, the most boringly average example of your type I’ve ever seen. Your very typicality is what made you the most interesting to me.”
What mech wouldn’t fall for a line like that?
# # #
Motormaster, conversely, was the first Stunticon to find out. Unfortunately for those in the betting pool, “Vortex, Motormaster, glue gun shot to the face on level three access corridor” hadn’t been chosen.
For Motormaster himself, the incident in question had started off as just another enjoyable session of “Pound the stupid insert-derogatory-nickname-here.” Though, for a change, “crazy Flyboy” was inserted in place of “that afthead Drag Strip.”
Where it had stopped being fun and started being weird was when he realized Vortex wasn’t screaming in pain and that he wasn’t so much yelling “Don’t! Stop!” as “Don’t stop!” He wasn’t used to encouragement in these situations and it threw his blows off, at least temporarily.
But only temporarily.
# # #
The affairs didn’t last. They couldn’t; the very things that had drawn the pairs together would eventually cause them to split apart. A year or two at the most, they were the Cybertronian equivalents of summer romances: intense, passionate and then suddenly fizzling out because other responsibilities got in the way. Neither side spoke much about what had happened between them, though from time to time looks would be exchanged or insults bitten back out of respect for the memories that were shared. Pleasant memories that were to be relegated to the past and forgotten about.
At least until the loneliness kicked in again and the dancers changed partners.
Author's note: A vorn is 83 Earth years long; 72,000 vorn is approximately 6 million years. 125 vorn is approximately 10,000 years.
From the 28 Combaticons Meme: #6 Horny Combaticons.
The Combaticons were seventy-two thousand vorn old.
Seventy-two thousand vorn.
They’d barely been 125 vorn old when they’d been imprisoned by Megatron. Now, in the blink of a metaphorical optic they’d been flashed forward to some strange future and stranded on an alien mudball of a world overrun by chattering meat sacks. Unnerving didn’t even come close to describing it.
They didn’t feel old. For the most part, they still felt like the same hotshot young mechs they’d been back on Cybertron. Even with the new alt-modes Starscream had given them. If anything, the new bodies helped make them feel even younger.
As a group, they were lonely, alienated from the older mechs by dint of their inexperience -- not only in terms of vorn lived, but also because the others had that smaller edge when it came to understanding Earth. They weren’t old enough mentally to be considered much more than shock troops. Or a Bruticus delivery system.
To make things worse, they were sensation-starved. Seventy-two thousand vorn of feeling nothing made feeling anything almost blissful. Merging was, by far, the best -- not only were sensations multiplied by five, but they were together again.
But, as wonderful as merging felt, it wasn’t quite enough. Outside of the gestalt, that sort of bliss was almost impossible to find. Turning to each other was out of the question. They’d tried it -- Swindle and Vortex particularly -- but any attempts at any kind of intimacy had rapidly turned into sparring matches or bickering and left the interested parties even more frustrated than before.
So, they branched out, quietly and without discussing it amongst themselves to find other partners.
It wasn’t easy. Seekers, even the Coneheads, wouldn’t be seen with groundpounders -- and to a Seeker, a shuttle and a helicopter were simply glorified groundpounders. The Constructicons had no interest in anyone outside their team -- particularly a pack of unruly ‘children’ like the Combaticons. Megatron and Soundwave were so far out of the realm of possibility that nobody had even considered considering them. Reflector and the cassetticons were too small.
That left only one possibility: the Stunticons. The other gestalt was, in many ways, perfect. They had ground-based alt-modes, they were even younger than the Combaticons themselves and socially, neither team had high enough status for anyone to pay the slightest bit of attention to what they were doing in their off-hours.
And so, the hook-ups began.
Vortex was drawn to Motormaster like an Insecticon to an old-growth forest. The Stunticon leader radiated power and violence at an almost palpable level. His casual cruelty with his own teammates made Vortex down right envious of the other Stunticons. This was a mech who had no time for the silly posturing games that so many others thought of as a measure of true dominance. This was a mech who would take what he wanted, when he wanted and how he wanted.
The question was, how to make him want Vortex.
The answer, as it turned out, was a carefully aimed glue-gun attack in one of the access corridors.
For Onslaught, seduction was in many ways more satisfying than the actual conquest of a partner’s body. After all, what was seduction but strategy applied off the battlefield? The most difficult partner to have was the one Onslaught was most likely to seek.
It was a simple thing to use his limited authority to gain access to Breakdown’s personnel file. The admittedly brief file was a wealth of information: duty rosters, fueling times and preferences and most importantly, his psychological profile.
How did one go about seducing a paranoiac who hated being noticed in any fashion? Onslaught shuddered at the challenge, throwing himself into the compiling of observational data and running modeling programs to test the best and worst of the most likely scenarios for the eventual satisfactory completion of the assigned task.
It might take time, but Breakdown would be his and then, let the games begin anew.
Swindle would go to his theoretical grave before he would admit to anyone that the reason he wanted Wildrider was because he reminded him of Vortex. The giggles, the utter disregard for personal safety, the sleek grey paintjob. Wildrider was, in essence, a Vortex who he could drive with.
He couldn’t even admit it to himself -- instead, he conned himself into thinking preferred Wildrider simply because he didn’t have to work to persuade the other mech. A simple “Y’want to?” had been all it took.
Brawl liked Dead End because the other mech was shiny. And because he looked delicate without actually being delicate. The contrast between his dull armor and the Stunticon’s glistening frame as they wrapped around each other was all a part of the thrill.
Blast Off, of all of them, recognized something deeper in Drag Strip than just a convenient target for pent-up frustrations. The Stunticon was, in many ways, a kindred spirit. The arrogance, the sure knowledge that one would have been destined to greatness if only cruel fate and the stupidity of others hadn’t intervened. They could alternate between verbal sniping and commiserating at their unfortunate position as the only sane/intelligent members of their respective teams.
If High Command noticed any of this, they gave little or no thought to it. Except perhaps a certain gratitude that the two gestalt teams had found something to occupy themselves with that didn’t involve treason, petty theft or demolition derbies inside the Nemesis.
But, while High Command paid no attention to the Combaticons’ amorous pursuits, others watched with rapt attention. Not the least because betting pools had been discretely established over who got who where, when and how. Reflector, being designated the official judge thanks to their control of the security cameras aboard the Nemesis, was designated the official judge and holder of the money. “Love Groundpounder-style” quickly became favorite viewing during the long, boring stretches between raids.
As far as Drag Strip was concerned, Blast Off was good, but he was fantastic. No, better than that, fan-slagging-tastic. It was as plain as the spoiler on his back -- after all, the older mech had sought him out instead of the other way around. That was significant.
Still, the attention was nice and it was nicer still having somebody new to gripe to. His fellow Stunticons either ignored him, or in Motormaster’s case, attempted to make him one with the wall. Or the floor. Or the video monitor. Whatever was handiest. Big, stupid, jealous afthead. Just because he hated being outclassed every day in every way.
Yeah, Blast Off was definitely lucky he’d picked Drag Strip.
Brawl was, without a doubt, the angriest mech Dead End had ever seen in all his months of existence. And that was including Motormaster. Unlike his “illustrious” leader, Brawl’s anger wasn’t directed at any particular individual, it was directed everywhere at everything and everyone. Except, it seemed, for Dead End. It was like being able to keep Chaos itself on a leash. Or being able to dance with Death.
Best of all, it was someone to help wax the hard to reach places. Someone with a vested interest in making him as shiny as possible.
The first thing Wildrider noticed about Swindle was that he was boxy.. It was weird, since the only other boxy person he knew well was Motormaster and Swindle wasn’t like Motormaster at all. He was tan and he was short and he didn’t hit anywhere near as hard as Moto did. Though he was a master of the cheap shot so that helped him hold his own when they sparred.
Swindle also wouldn’t shut up -- he could talk for hours, almost non-stop. He’d babble on and on about anything from his plans for new weapons designs to human jokes and trivia he’d managed to pick up. And, rarely, he’d tell stories about his life back on Cybertron, before The Box. These were usually contradictory -- Wildrider was pretty sure he’d heard at least three different stories about the death of Swindle’s creator (the one that wasn‘t Starscream). Swindle was, to put it simply, so full of scrap he should have clanked when he walked.
Not that Wildrider cared. It wasn’t like he really listened to Swindle. The other mech’s words were just a comforting drone that kept the dreaded silences at bay.
And best of all, the littlest Combaticon made the most wonderful screams when the sensory overload hit him.
Breakdown was the last to realize he was being pursued. And even then he only found out because Skywarp was attempting to influence the betting pool in his favor.
Onslaught was not in the least contrite when Breakdown confronted him about it. “Of course,” he’d said, not bothering to turn away from the monitor where he was reviewing daily reports. “You are, without a doubt, the most boringly average example of your type I’ve ever seen. Your very typicality is what made you the most interesting to me.”
What mech wouldn’t fall for a line like that?
Motormaster, conversely, was the first Stunticon to find out. Unfortunately for those in the betting pool, “Vortex, Motormaster, glue gun shot to the face on level three access corridor” hadn’t been chosen.
For Motormaster himself, the incident in question had started off as just another enjoyable session of “Pound the stupid insert-derogatory-nickname-here.” Though, for a change, “crazy Flyboy” was inserted in place of “that afthead Drag Strip.”
Where it had stopped being fun and started being weird was when he realized Vortex wasn’t screaming in pain and that he wasn’t so much yelling “Don’t! Stop!” as “Don’t stop!” He wasn’t used to encouragement in these situations and it threw his blows off, at least temporarily.
But only temporarily.
The affairs didn’t last. They couldn’t; the very things that had drawn the pairs together would eventually cause them to split apart. A year or two at the most, they were the Cybertronian equivalents of summer romances: intense, passionate and then suddenly fizzling out because other responsibilities got in the way. Neither side spoke much about what had happened between them, though from time to time looks would be exchanged or insults bitten back out of respect for the memories that were shared. Pleasant memories that were to be relegated to the past and forgotten about.
At least until the loneliness kicked in again and the dancers changed partners.
