Disclaimer: As per usual, the good things in life are not mine to have, but belong to someone else... in this case Hasbro, Takara and IDW and anyone else I've forgotten…
Feedback makes friends. Flames dealt with by the masters of paranoia and fire, Red Alert and Inferno.
Authors Notes: Evidently I am attracted to paranoid Lamborghinis, that is all I will say…
It was the forcefields, he told himself. That was the reason he spent far too much time goading Motormaster. The need to feel something, anything. Their forcefields, while it made them a formidable foe on the battlefield, meant that it put a dampener on off-duty activities.
Every touch was muted; only the harshest pressure filtering through the forcefields. Of course, there was always the option of turning them off, but that went against every instinct ingrained in them. To have no forcefields was to be defenceless. To be defenceless amongst the Decepticons was never a good thing.
They all dealt with the lack of stimulation in different ways. Dead End buried himself in his e-books. Drag Strip would disappear off-base before returning and regaling the rest of his team with his spectacular victories over the primitive earthen cars. Wildrider would disappear along with him, coming back with tales of the carnage he caused. Motormaster would amuse himself by tormenting the other Decepticons, his own team included. Their screams were like music to his audios.
Which just left Breakdown.
He didn't bother looking up as the door was brutally forced opened. He knew the footsteps. He had heard them echoing up the corridor. They were coming for him. They always came for him. He huddled closer in upon himself, ignoring the growl of displeasure it earned him. He dug his fingers into his own arms, relishing the feel of the pain, the pressure that he could actually feel through the forcefield.
"Not doing anything." Even to his own audios, he sounded petulant. The growl got louder, accompanied by the rumbling of a large engine. Finally, Breakdown dragged his optics away from the floor to gaze up at Motormaster.
They both knew how this would play out. It always ended the same.
Briefly, Breakdown made optic contact with the truck, before submissively staring at the floor again.
"Yer doing it again." The growl was back and Breakdown couldn't help but shiver. He knew what would happen, but he couldn't bring himself to change a thing.
There. A hand connected with his cheek plating, sending him flying across the floor. Motormaster stood upright again and stared down at the prone Lamborghini.
Breakdown refrained from the urge to yelp as Motormaster stalked towards him, backing away until his spoiler hit the wall.
"Tryin' to run?" Breakdown shook his head, vocaliser deciding to produce only static. It wasn't exactly fear, but Motormaster wasn't to know that. And the less Motormaster knew, the better it was. A feral grin spread across the Stunticon leader's faceplates and Breakdown shivered again.
More static as Motormaster grabbed him; large fingers curling around his throat, buckling the delicate metal there despite the forcefield. A low moan escaped Breakdown and Motormaster squeezed harder, prompting the smaller of the two to try and defend himself; hands scrabbling uselessly against gunmetal grey forearms.
Lips crushed together, pressure breaking through both their forcefields, hands scraping across armor, gouging thin strips out and flaking paint. The grunts weren't impassioned cries, but they were close enough. Motormaster's hands snaked under Breakdown's chest plating, twisting and pulling against sensitive wires, wringing more cries from the Lamborghini. Breakdown writhing, seemingly trying to wriggle out of the truck's grip, but it was too strong. Painfully strong. And for that Breakdown was glad. The paranoid part of his processor told him he deserved this. That he wanted the pain. He needed the pain. It satisfied him in ways nothing else could, calming him down for a few days before yet again he would retreat into himself, convinced the entire Decepticon army was out to get him. And then he would start provoking Motormaster again. Subtle digs and blatant derision and soon Motormaster would be wanting to rip out his vocaliser, just to stop him from talking. The pessimistic side of him (which he was sure filtered through the gestalt bond from Dead End) told him he would go too far one day. The paranoid side agreed with it, the gestalt didn't need him. Nobody needed him. So Breakdown would retreat; hide himself away in his private room, curled up against the wall, trying to convince himself that no one was watching him. Waiting until he would hear the footsteps echoing up the corridor and the cycle would begin again.
Tormented became tormentor, the tables were turned and Breakdown would find himself slammed into the nearest wall, strong fingers ripping plating and tearing through wires and energon lines. The pain was almost overwhelming. Yet in amongst it would be a resigned acceptance. That each knew why the other was doing it. Breakdown provided the means for Motormaster to take out his anger without decimating the Decepticon army, and Motormaster proved Breakdown right in the most pleasurably painful way.
They would slump against one another after it was done, engines cycling down, static energy still crackling across their frames. There were no tender kisses, no whispered sweet nothings. Merely a clout to the back of the helm and he was left lying there, watching Motormaster leave the room, footsteps echoing back down the corridor.
Sometimes he would pause, glance back at the Lamborghini over his shoulder.
"One of these days yer gonna push me too far. One of these days I'm just gonna dump you in Vortex's 'playroom'." Then he would leave, missing Breakdown's shiver of anticipation.