shadow_vector | Dead End's Not-So-Awesome Tryst

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Dead End's Not-So-Awesome Tryst

R for pnp sex
G1
Dead End/ Blast Off
warning: pnp sex, dub con, possibly viewable as non-con but for me, this is like fluff.
OH, and apparently lots of canon-fail in characterization. Eh, thought it was funny when I wrote it. Guess not.
written for

tf_rare_pairing weekly request prompt

Dead End never did have the most…upbeat outlook on life, but this time, he felt, his pessimism was pretty fraggin’ well deserved. And it was probably all his fault. He knew better than to listen to anything Wildrider ever said. Like…anything. Must be his Thanatos drive again, slaggit. Had to find that thing and get it adjusted or something.

Yeah, but he hadn’t listened to that voice of woe in the back of his cortex. Despite the fact he knew Wildrider had it in for him. They all did. It was just a matter of time. Even Breakdown. That was just a feint, his paranoia, so that Dead End would let his guard down.

So, stupidly, he’d drunk the slaggin’ high grade. Passed out. That was to be expected, and to be honest, a bit of blessed oblivion was kind of the reason he’d slammed the entire cube in one gulp to begin with. And he’d fully expected to wake, hungover as pitted slag, in a few cycles, probably in a pool of his own purge. Made perfect sense. Would start him off right for the day. He always figured that if a day started badly enough, maybe, just maybe, it would improve from there, and not manage to get worse.

Thus far, that theory hadn’t ever worked. Still, he tried.

And this is what he got for his effort: his body, marching him, more or less unwilling, down the gestalt corridor to the suite where the Combaticons recharged. Oh, frag, he thought, as he helplessly watched his hands key the door—in a code he could not know—and slip inside.

Yup. Deathwish. That must be it.

This was beyond creepy. Dead End’s usual levels of paranoia and horror were entirely inadequate to handle this process tree of suck. He watched as he marched himself past the room marked ‘Swindle’. ‘Vortex’ the next name plate said, and Dead End tried, desperately to seize control of his legs. No no nonononono. Oh, thank Primus, he thought, sagging in relief as he walked by that door.

Until he came to the one marked ‘Blast Off’. Oh, no. Not that pompous, aloof, betterer than thou mech. With his fancy education and snotty attitude. Dear subconscious, Dead End pleaded. Do not hate me this much. Maybe Vortex wouldn’t be that bad. He’d just frag me stupid and say creepy things and laugh at inappropriate times. Blast Off…Dead End shuddered at the thought.

He watched in icy horror as his hand opened the door. This must be…a really bad memory purge, he told himself. That’s it. Just a memory purge. This wasn’t really happening.

Wildrider chortled. “See? I told you it’d work out.”

Swindle grunted, his optics focused on the control panel. “Deal was for Breakdown,” he said. Yeah, Dead End was good enough: Blast Off probably couldn’t tell one creepy Stunticon loser from the other, but he didn’t want Wildrider to think he could get away with anything. Vain one, paranoid one, whatever. All just different flavors of ick for the shuttle.

Wildrider shrugged. “You saw him. Refused to drink it. Thought I’d tampered with it or something.” He began giggling.

Yeah, imagine that. Swindle rolled his optics.

“What’d Blast Off do to honk you off, anyways?”

Swindle grunted. None of Wildrider’s business. Stupid Blast Off screwed up a perfectly good deal. Why? Because oh, no, we can’t go AWOL, that’s not right. Oh no, Onslaught will find out. Oh, no, your cargo will dent my deckplates. Frag. What kind of teammy let his buddy down like that? (Well, other than Stunties). Swindle had even offered him a clean 10%. “Filthy luchre,” Blast Off had sneered. Oh yeah? See who’s so fraggin’ filthy now, won’t we? Swindle thought.

***

Dead End whimpered—in his own head—as his body, with him as a helpless witness, crossed over to the berth. Blast Off lay on his berth, a datapad dimmed to standby in his sleep-slack fingers. Oh frag, Dead End thought. What am I going to do?!?! For once, it wasn’t a question of existential angst. He had…no idea what his body was going to do.

This…was hell. Seriously. He thought he knew suffering. This was…a whole new level of suction. He felt like the cloud that hung over his life had just gotten an upgrade. It was not particularly awesome.

He crossed over to Blast Off’s feet, his hands reaching out for the footplates. It all became horribly clear exactly how evil his subconscious was as he felt his hands slowly stroke down the footplates, curling around the seams, tracing light lines over the armor. Blast Off sighed, plates twitching in Dead End’s fingers. But…but…Blast Off hated being touched.

But…not as much as Dead End hated what he did next. His body bent him over, bringing his mouth closer to the feet and he—oh dear PRIMUS NO—extended his glossa and licked between the join of the toe-assembly to the foot itself. He felt his glossa tremble as he tried to resist it, to wake up, to get some control over his body, suddenly turned into this demonic THING trying to get him, apparently, killed. This was not a bad dream, Dead End thought. Dreams didn’t normally feature…taste.

Blast Off moaned softly, the foot wriggling, rolling onto his side, datapad falling out of his limp fingers.

Okay, Dead End, he told himself. You’ve tempted quite enough fate for one day. How ‘bout we just go back to sitting still and writing blog posts about the ineffable darkness in our soul? Come on. Let’s go…noooooo, not that way!

His body crawled, carefully, quietly, up onto the berth, his mouth ex-venting a hot line of air up Blast Off’s leg, pausing to circle around the hip joint. Supposed to be a sort of nuzzle, Dead End supposed, but it turned into more of a ‘Dead End’s olfactory sensor tracing an unwilling circle on some armor’. Blast Off moaned again, arm twitching like it wanted to touch Dead End. Dead End tried to pull back again, out of reach of those arms, but his body pushed inexorably forward, his hands reaching for—oh HORROR—Blast Off’s interface panel. He flipped it open, and saw the module’s indicator lights tracking green almost up to the tip. Oh, gross. Thanks a frag of a lot, subconscious. I did not want to think about Blast Off’s libido. Even thinking ‘Blast Off’ and ‘libido’ in the same sentence was kinda freaky.

But his body had another level of abject despair for him to plumb—he felt his own interface system kick on. Gross. He did NOT have a thing for the shuttle. He looked down at his own closed hatch, under which he could feel his module beginning to thrum online, with an expression of utter despair. An entirely new level of betrayal. And after all I've done for you, he admonished it.

His hand closed over the shuttle’s module, thumb stroking along It, watching the indicator lights straggle further up to the tip.

“Oh,” Blast Off whispered, “Oh Primus. Finally, Vort—AAAUUUUGGHHH!!”

Dead End felt a backhand strike him across the face. The module clattered out of his hand onto the berth, Blast Off flying off the metal surface as though Dead End were Cosmic Rust. Blast Off was frantically coiling his connector cables around his hand, trying to fish his module back to him. “What the frag…?!”

“I couldn’t resist you,” Dead End’s voice came out of Dead End’s vocalizer. Except, of course, it wasn’t Dead End’s thought or sentiment at all. Dead End couldn’t figure out if his id had gone suicidal or delusional.

“What?” Blast Off’s optics blinked in surprise.

“You,” Dead End said, as he clambered off the berth (while inside his cortex he was screaming that he should bolt while he still had wheels. In alt he could beat the shuttle for speed. He hoped. Then again, the way his luck had been holding tonight…?) after the shuttle. The datapad clattered to the floor. “I want you. You’re…so fraggin’ hot.”

Hot? Oh dear Primus, the worst had happened: he’d spent too much time with Wildrider and the insanity had finally been contagious. Insanity replete with cheezy dialogue.

“Hot?” Blast Off clutched his module in his hands, like a shield. He tried to draw himself up, using his larger height to stare down intimidatingly upon Dead End. Kind of wasted effort. The real Dead End was plenty fraggin’ intimidated. It was this…demonic possession that wasn’t. That swaggered over to where Blast Off stood and ran an insolent finger up the seam in the shuttle’s inner thigh panel.

“Hot,” the demon voice affirmed, the hand reaching up for the module. “Let’s face, baby.” Dead End cringed.

“Frag you!” Blast Off said, jerking his module away, his optics panicked. Well, it was some consolation that the shuttle was as freaked out as Dead End was. Because the klik he got unfreaked-out? That’d be a nanoklik before Dead End’s head was removed and shoved in his own trunk. Blast Off might be a distance guy, but Onslaught had insisted all of the Combaticons be proficient in CQB. If only Motormaster were that considerate.

“That,” Dead End’s possessed vocalizer taunted, as he reached for his own interface hatch, popping the module out with a smoothness that Dead End knew he did not possess, “is exactly what I intend to do.” His other hand reached up and grabbed at Blast Off’s underarm, jerking the larger mech down, stepping in to heel trip that brought the shuttle stumbling to the ground. Ummm, can your subconscious know moves you don’t know? Blast Off grunted as he hit the ground hard on his aft. Dead End’s body lunged forward and before either of them could really react—not that Dead End could react beyond a howl in his cortex—Dead End’s uncontrollable hands had plugged their modules into the counterpart ports.

They both shuddered, Dead End backing away, as the interface pulses seemed to give him some, marginal, useless, level of control away.

“Don’t…touch…me!” Blast Off hissed, throwing himself along the floor, writhing as the datapulses streamed through their modules, drumming against his sensornet, the harmonics vibrating around, reverberating like sound too small to hear through the wires. Dead End waited, trembling half from the wild force of Blast Off’s datastream, and half from the sure knowledge that any klik now, Blast Off was going to kill him. And he hadn't waxed recently. So much for dying pretty.

But Blast Off didn’t: he just lay on the floor, squirming and moaning, hands kneading empty air, his limbs banging against the deck plating as the overload swirled and built and spiraled into a final crescendo that dropped Dead End hard on his aft, stinging the palms he’d thrown out to break his fall, and tearing a high, thin cry from Blast Off’s vocalizer.

Dead End stirred from the blank of the overload lock, shivering. His first conscious thought was…oh frag, I’m dead. It was not a good thought to come back to the land of the living with.

Blast Off pushed himself up on unsteady arms, one shaky hand clawing at his interface equipment. Dead End snatched the shuttle’s module from his own access port, nearly throwing it at Blast Off in his haste to give it back.

“That was…entirely repugnant.” Blast Off concentrated on coiling his connector cables into a tight loop. Dead End stuffed his into his interface hatch, wincing as one cable got pinched. Knowing that no one would believe his excuse, least of all Blast Off. Aware of how crazy it sounded: oh yeah, for the last few breems I haven’t really been able to control myself. I think it was something I drank. Oh there was no way that would not get his aft kicked.

“No thrill for me either,” Dead End said, miserably. I’m not the crazy one. I’m NOT the crazy one! But…he sure sounded crazy. Looked crazy. Definitely felt crazy.

This was probably divine punishment—to turn him into Wildrider. Primus hates me, Dead End thought.

Blast Off gaped at him, as if he were somehow contaminated and the crazy was spreading. Yeah, like Dead End would be so lucky? The Stunticon could hear Blast Off’s thoughts. Well, probably lower-level vocabulary translations of his thoughts. Starting with ‘what the frag just happened’ to ‘eeewwww!’ to ‘oh dear Primus may no one find out.’ Yeah, well, second to all of them.

Dead End inched away. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll, uhhh, just go then.” Make sure no one sees me leave. Frag. What if Wildrider’s still up when I get back? What if he knows? He has to know. And then…the pieces collapsed into place. The high-grade. The sudden unexpected invitation to drink. The passing out. The…whatever the slag you called this. Wildrider set him up. The. Fraggin’. Fragger.

He shoved to his feet, angry. Wildrider set me up! Some fraggin’ teammate he was! He snatched at the fallen datapad and twisted his hands around it. Blast Off sat up. “Give that back,” the shuttle said. Even kneeling, he was taller than Dead End. He reached for the pad. Dead End only saw the large dark hands reaching for him—he stumbled away, still clutching the pad. “Give it back!” Blast Off repeated, urgently.

Give what? Oh. Dead End looked down stupidly at the datapad in his hand. He’d accidentally pulled it out of standby. And across its screen he read….poetry.

He felt Blast Off quail back as he read the screen. Dead End looked up.

“Give it back, you pitiful little simpleton.” He tried to push rage into his voice, as if he were hoping if he only sounded angry enough Dead End would forget what he’d seen. Right, because Dead End really had leverage over Blast Off right now, having marched in like a slaggin’ zombie and interfaced with him. Any leverage Dead End might be able to get was obliterated by the fact that Blast Off could rip his arm off his frame.

Dead End laughed, nervously, inching toward the door, holding the datapad like a barrier between them. Blast Off growled, clambering awkwardly after him. “You say a word of this to anyone…!”

“Yeah, like I’m going to brag about ‘facing you?”

Blast Off bristled. “The datapad,” he snapped his fingers. “Tell no one about that!”

“The…what? That you read poems?” Dead End shrugged. “So? Who fraggin’ cares?”

“I do! If you tell Swindle—“ The same light dawned in Blast Off’s visor that had glimmered across Dead End’s optics. Swindle had to be behind this, somehow. It clicked for Dead End, except Dead End wasn’t hampered by some hoity toity education. He swore. Openly, loudly and thoroughly enough to make Blast Off blanch.

“Been set up, haven’t we both?” Dead End said, after the string of obscenities finally wound down.

“I’ve been set up more,” Blast Off said, bitterly. “I was made to interface with you.”

“Oh, a real slaggin’ treat for me, you know!” Dead End’s fear had dissipated. Replaced with anger. At Swindle, and Wildrider. And himself. Stupid Dead End. Should know better than to drink with Wildrider. Especially after winning so much money off him.

Blast Off snarled, then paused, considering. “If we don’t kill this right now, Swindle will hold it over both our heads for vorns to come.”

Fantastic. Exactly what Dead End needed: a ladder down a little lower on the food and self-respect chain. “Any brilliant ideas?”

Blast Off shifted as though the idea were distasteful. Whoa, nowhere near enough. “If we don’t try to hide it.”

“Oh, you do not mean….?”

“I do not see what you’re upset about, Stunticon,” Blast Off said, haughtily. “But if we make it known, he can’t use it against us.”

It made a…very depressing kind of sense. Which meant it was right, because only bad things worked. “So…how do we do this?”

Blast Off frowned. “The easiest way is to let them discover us. Which means you get caught here in the morning trying to leave.” He looked…almost nauseous. “Obviously, you will recharge on the floor, and do NOT touch me.” He placed a protective hand over his interface hatch, as though afraid Dead End would lunge after it again. Right.

Dead End shrugged. It sucked. But it sucked less than a lot of other things. And maybe having it out there that he had scored with Mr. Too Cool for You would give him a little something…not to be depressed about.

Yeah, he wasn’t getting his hopes up.

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This was disturbingly fun to read. Poor dead end! Although it didn't seem like Blastoff protested too much towards the end there he he.

Great prompt filler, had ma chuckling and cringing throughout

Uh, so. First off, I'd call this non-con rather than dub-con, and I think there should be a warning for that (one or the other, at least) on the

tf_rair_pairing post, too--the summary does rather implies it a bit, but not enough, I would say.

And I know a lot of people are more squicked out by this stuff than I am, so.

I did enjoy definitely enjoy the part at the end when Blast Off and Dead End were counter plotting, and the bits of Blast Off characterization during the interfacing itself.

I guess I have a high squick for noncon. This didn't read to me as it, but you're right and I amended the warning to reflect that. I'm sorry that I made you read something that troubled you.

You know I always thought of Dead End as the snobby one. He seems like the sort of write poetry - very dark, depressing poetry. ;)

I think it's also cannon that G1 Dead End is rather vain and appearance obsessed, so it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to have him insulting Blast Off about it.

"I think it's also cannon that G1 Dead End is rather vain and appearance obsessed, so it doesn't really make a whole lot of sense to have him insulting Blast Off about it."

As a graduate of fine American High School, I can tell you that in my humble experience, the vain ragged on the vain more than us ugly folk ever dared to. Cheerleaders were notorious for calling each other stuck up and snotty and vain.

It just seemed more consistent with the notion of Dead End's depressive outlook NOT to have the one bright spot being...yeah, but I'm hot.

I canon-failed again. *shrug*. Writing hasn't really been...going for me this week so it doesn't surprise me.

ETA: re: poetry/snobbery. Yes, and that's why DE isn't weirded out by the datapad's contents. Poetry? So what?

Anyway, sorry this story was such a letdown for you. Don't even bother reading the one I'm posting tomorrow. It's even worse.

Edited 2010-04-10 02:11 (UTC)

I'm bringing it up because I was reading his character article in the Teletraan-1 Wiki database and it says: "Despite this deep knowledge of the dark, inevitable pointlessness of existence, he spends an inordinate amount of time polishing and primping himself. Presumably he has decided that if his expiration is inevitable, he's going to inevitably expire looking good."

You make a very good point about imposing the whole vanity thing on others, though. ;)

Teletraan-1 is a really good reasource for accurate info on characters, episodes, and those obscure little bits of canon. I find it a lot of help with my fics. Plus the picture captions are amusing. ;)

http://transformers.wikia.com/wiki/Main_Page

I did not argue with you about his vanity or non-vanity, in fact, I admitted right away that I canon failed and explained why. So...I'm not quite sure why you felt the need to post further evidence of how very right you are and how very wrong I am.

Clearly this issue prevented you from enjoying the story, and I am sorry for that. It was meant to be a funny story. It apparently failed in that.

Hon, I was just debating a point with you and backing up my point of view with evidence, like any good science student. Since you mentioned that you weren't so good with canon characterization I tried to point you at a resource I found useful should you ever feel the need to use it. I can be a bit blunt in my reviews and I guess I gave you the wrong idea, but I wasn't trying to beat you down or insult you.

It's not a question of whether I enjoyed the fic or not - I found the premise pretty funny as a matter of fact - but I saw something that seemed out of place and I pointed it out. I figure most authors don't want nothing but mindless praise and would rather improve their writing if they can - myself included (and you're welcome to go pick my fics apart if you want so long as the critisism is relevant). Please don't take it as a personal attack because it isn't. *shrugs*

I don't mind concrit, but you said nothing constructive and presumed, even despite my statement, that I was *ignorant* rather than than having made a characterization choice with which you did not agree. So proceeding to 'educate' me does come across as a bit condescending, because it not only presumes I'm stupid, it also shows you're not even listening to my point.

I would recommend, on the topic of concrit since you say 'bluntness' is an issue for you: it's helpful to say SOMETHING nice in a critique of a story before you get to the bad stuff. The standard (what they teach us) is 'this was good___, this you might want to fix____, overall I really liked___' as a sort of 'sandwich' for critique. That way the recipient feels that you liked the story and is more open to improvement to make it better. When all you offer is 'ur rong' the writer feels that nothing was right at all and you hated it.

When in doubt about an issue, always err on the side of respect and presume the writer has a reason for why they did that, and if you disagree, ask. So you might ask, "I was wondering: why you didn't bring up Dead End's notorious vanity as another point of conflict for this story?" That grants that the writer might just possibly have thought out his/her ideas and that you're asking for clarification rather than simply telling them they were wrong. One puts you in a position of equality, the other, that you have power over. Asking a question does not provoke a defensive response from a writer, but opens for discussion. Telling someone right off the bat that they're wrong does provoke a defensive response in most people.

...You're really determined to make a huge deal out of this, aren't you?

Right, let's just say I'm a horrible, smug, conceited person who eats babies (yum) and kicks puppies so that we can get on with our lives. O.K.?

If you really want to yell at me that badly, my email and my AIM screenname are listed on my profile page.

See, the problem here is YOU are making the big deal. You said I was wrong. I agreed. You brought more evidence I was wrong. I admitted to puzzlement as to why that was necessary. I'm not 'yelling' at you. I'm not upset. I'm not making a big deal. You said you had a problem with being too blunt in concrit. Just like you were offering to help me with my fic, I was offering to help you with your concrit.

You're the one who keeps calling this a 'debate'--which means two sides in opposition. Since I've been agreeing with you from minute one, I don't see it as a debate, but..whatever. Wherever you get this idea I think you're mean and awful and evil is...clearly in your own mind.

You offered your concrit to help me; I offered my pointers in how to give concrit to help you. Any animosity is totally on your side.

Again, I'm sorry that you did not enjoy the fic because I made a characterization choice with which you did not agree. I know you are criticizing the fic and not attacking me; can you extend the same courtesy to me, please?

“Oh,” Blast Off whispered, “Oh Primus. Finally, Vort—AAAUUUUGGHHH!!”

This amused me.

In my entirely OOC AU head-canon, Blast Off really envies Vortex's...libertinism. He'd just never dare act on it.

-bubbles- Stuntis! BD BD BD

Ahem.

This was intriguing and amusing all wrapped into one. And, plus, you have Swindle and Wildrider in here. My two favorite 'Cons together in one place. x3 Couldn't ask for anything more.

I do feel bad for Dead End though...>: Poor mech never catches a break it seems.

OMG there are no words for how much I love this!

Swindle is such a bastard, and Wildrider is such a dick. I see no canon fail, but then you know what I think about certain characters ;)

(Vortex/Blast Off has been my secret new OTP for quite a while now, and OMG SO MUCH SQUEEEEE!)

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Dead End's Not-So-Awesome Tryst

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