[IDW] Off the Market
Aug. 26th, 2021 07:18 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dracoqueen22Title: Off the Market
Universe: IDW 2005, pre-canon
Characters: Drift, Original Character(s)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sexual Harassment, First Times
Description: All of Gasket’s warnings and Drift still makes the biggest mistake of his functioning. He shouldn’t have taken the shortcut.
Commission for Anonymous.
Drift has lived on the streets long enough to know better.
But his tanks are full, there’s a few credchips in his subspace for use at the public washracks, and Gasket should be back tomorrow.
A tiny spark of optimism has to be the reason he makes such a stupid mistake in taking the narrow alley shortcut to shave ten minutes from his walk home.
Two mechs almost immediately show up behind him. Drift puts on a burst of speed, catching glimpses of white paint and accents of orange and black. His spark is a lump in his intake as he speeds for the exit, and skids to a halt when a third mech cuts him off.
Drift recognizes the visored, purple and black mech.
Playback is well-known for lurking around the buymechs, trying to score a free ride. Which means the other two are probably Cork and Equalizer, usually found in Playback’s company.
Gasket’s warned Drift about them before.
“Hello, sweetplate,” Playback purrs as Drift tries to backstep only to immediately bump into the frame behind him, hands coming down hard and fast on his shoulders.
“Where are you goin’ in such a hurry?” the mech behind him asks, venting hot and oily over Drift’s audial.
“Don’t tell us you’re closed for business already.” Equalizer steps into Drift’s peripheral vision. He’s all white, with only the barest hints of gray accents, and there’s privilege in the gleam of his armor.
Drift’s spark sinks into his tank. “I’m not shareware,” he says. Yeah, maybe he’s sucked a spike or two when he was really hungry, but that’s it.
“Sure about that?” It must be Cork who’s behind him, now shamelessly groping Drift’s interfacing panel. “You feel hot and ready to me.”
“I’m not for sale,” Drift insists as he squirms, but taloned fingers dig into his shoulder seams with a sharp nip of pain.
Don’t fight, Gasked had warned him. If they catch you, don’t fight. That only makes it worse.
Playback grabs his jaw, thumb pressing against his bottom lip. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it good.” His smirk drips dishonesty as he says, “I want his mouth, Cork.”
“Fine by me. I want this valve.” Cork vents over Drift’s audial again, palm smacking on Drift’s array. “Open up, sweetplate, or I’ll open it for you.”
Drift swallows a whimper. Cold sluices through his lines, but he manually triggers his array to open. They’ll tear off his modesty panel if he doesn’t.
“What about you, Equalizer? What do you want?” Cork scrubs his fingers over Drift’s anterior node, circling hard and fast, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through Drift’s sensory net.
Equalizer’s watching with crossed arms and dark optics. “His aft.”
Drift’s spark climbs into his intake. “I’m not for sale,” he repeats, louder this time, but his words fall on deaf audials because Playback yanks him forward, and Cork lays a hand on his back and pushes him down, bending him at an angle.
“Sure you’re not,” Playback says.
Feet kick between his knees, forcing his legs apart, and Cork gropes at his array, sliding over his anterior node again before curving two fingers into Drift’s valve. A frictional burn ignites a yelp at the back of Drift’s intake. He swallows it down, clinging to Gasket’s advice.
Don’t fight, don’t fight, don’t fight.
Cork brays with laughter. “We’re in for a treat tonight, mechs. This piece of shareware is brand new. Practically factory sealed.”
“He’s untouched?” Playback grabs Drift’s head, grinding his face against an overheated modesty panel. Drift tries to turn his head away, but Playback’s fingers are like iron bars, pressing in on his derma.
“Hey.” Playback pats Drift’s cheek. “You ever been fragged?”
Drift bites his glossa and glares down at the ground. Shame burns in his cheeks, and the three mechs laugh, their fields an avalanche of lust and amusement.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Cork says, and curves his fingers, rubbing them hard on an internal sensory node cluster.
Drift hisses as his valve greedily clamps down, lubricant seeping around Cork’s intruding fingers, a tiny spark of arousal building around the sensors.
“He’s wet for me and everything,” Cork says, glee thick in his voice.
Drift gnaws on the inside of his cheek, the humiliation sitting like a lead weight in his full tanks. A light tap to his face makes him startle, and he looks up at a grinning Playback. His thumb presses hard on Drift’s bottom lip.
“Open up, shareware,” he says as his modesty panel spirals open, his spike pressurizing and leaving a smear over Drift’s cheek. “Let’s see what you got.”
Drift’s tank churns, but he obediently opens his mouth. All the better to get this over with sooner. Playback crams his spike inside with a long, low groan, shuddering with pleasure.
“Mmm, that’s better. You know about sucking spike at least,” he says.
“I’ll bet he does.” Cork’s fingers vanish from Drift’s valve, and the blunt pressure of a spike takes their place, the thick head grinding against the swollen pleats.
“How’s his mouth?” Equalizer sounds bored at best, and Drift’s cheeks burn with humiliation.
Playback sets up a quick pace, thrusting into Drift’s mouth and jabbing at his glossa. “Adequate.”
“Bet his valve’s gonna be sweet,” Cork says, and he prods at Drift’s valve with his spike before abruptly pushing into him, sliding to the root in one quick thrust.
Drift gasps around Playback’s spike. It burns, but Cork’s perfunctory fingering produced enough lubricant that the shame of it is worse. That the first time he’s used his valve has been for this.
“He’s so tight,” Cork groans and sets up a brutal pace, fragging into Drift with abandon, jolting him forward onto Playback’s spike, which jabs at the back of his intake, until they find a rhythm between them.
Drift gags, oral fluid seeping from the corner of his lips, until he has no choice but to hold on to Playback’s hips to steady himself. He tries to go inward, like Gasket taught him, but the sensation is too present. Every punch of Cork’s hips, and jagged thrust of Playback’s, until he’s choking on both of their spikes, valve spasming and lips bruised.
Playback’s abrupt overload, the hot spill of his transfluid into Drift’s mouth as he grinds against Drift’s face, is almost a relief. Drift struggles to swallow it all, and tries to push Playback away from him, his vents stuttering.
“Not bad.” Playback withdraws, painting the head of his depressurizing spike over Drift’s lips. “Good thing we’re breaking you in, sweetplate. Think of all the creds you’re going to earn now.”
Drift coughs, a few splatters of transfluid dribbling from his mouth. He jolts forward as Cork’s thrusts increase, his hips smacking against Drift’s aft as he yanks Drift on and off his spike.
Equalizer appears then, grabbing Drift’s finial and bumping Playback out of the way. “Move. I want to get my spike wet before Cork is done, so I can have his aft.”
He gives Drift no chance to recover, pushing into his mouth with a spike that’s even thickerthan Playback’s. Drift’s jaw aches, his intake spasming.
“You ain’t gonna have to wait long,” Cork grunts.
Drift jolts as Cork slams into him, and the hot wash of his overload pulses over Drift’s valve nodes. Nausea wraps around his tanks, and when Cork withdraws, and his valve twitches at the abrupt emptiness, Drift has to swallow around Equalizer’s spike to forestall the purge.
“Your turn,” Cork says with a light swat to Drift’s aft.
“Finally.” Equalizer abruptly pulls out of Drift’s mouth, and he stumbles forward at the unexpected loss of both sets of hands.
His vision swims, his knees wobbling. He would have sunk to the ground if someone hadn’t grabbed him by the hips as another pair of hands clutch his shoulders. A smear of orange and white paint invades his peripheral vision -- this must be Cork -- and a spike reeking of his own valve lubricant rubs against his lips.
Drift tries to turn his head away, gasping as two fingers plunge into his valve, scooping out the mix of fluids, before smearing them over his aft port. He jerks away, but that only pushes him closer to Cork.
“This port is shiny-new,” Equalizer says,and two fingers plunge into Drift’s port without ceremony in a relentless agonizing burn.
Drift gasps, and Cork’s spike sinks into his mouth, wet with lubricant and transfluid, the taste of both bitter on Drift’s glossa.
“Well hurry up, I want to use it, too,” Playback says, bouncing impatiently on his heels in Drift’s peripheral vision. “He’ll need practice if he wants to earn any creds.”
“Seals come pretty cheap these days,” Equalizer laughs, and his fingers vanish, only to be immediately replaced by his spike. Drift’s pained whine is muffled by Cork’s spike in his mouth.
His sensory feeds go to static for what feels like an eternity, but must have only been a few seconds. Equalizer and Cork have no rhythm, and they use him like he’s an interfacing drone built to take their transfluid and nothing else. And maybe they’re right, because Drift’s port yields to them as quickly as his valve did, the way smoothed by lubricant and the eager clutch of his frame.
Maybe this is what he’s good for.
“Don’t worry, Playback,” Cork says with a grind against Drift’s face, smashing his nasal ridge. “We got all night with this one.”
“Sure do,” Playback says. He’s stroking his spike, fist working quick over the rapidly repressurizing length. “He’ll be taking spike like a professional in no time.”
Heat prickles at the back of Drift’s optics. His fans click and whirr, cycling up faster and faster as something too close to pleasure for his comfort builds in his frame.
His valve aches, his port burns, the taste of fluids is sour on his glossa, but worse is the shame. If he hadn’t taken the shortcut, if he’d paid a fraction more attention to his surroundings, if he hadn’t already sucked a few spikes for energon…
Drift sucks in a shuddery ventilation and goes limp.
There’s nothing he can do but let them have their fun, he decides, as the last bit of his self-respect is seared away by the burn of their transfluid.
***
Universe: IDW 2005, pre-canon
Characters: Drift, Original Character(s)
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sexual Harassment, First Times
Description: All of Gasket’s warnings and Drift still makes the biggest mistake of his functioning. He shouldn’t have taken the shortcut.
Commission for Anonymous.
Drift has lived on the streets long enough to know better.
But his tanks are full, there’s a few credchips in his subspace for use at the public washracks, and Gasket should be back tomorrow.
A tiny spark of optimism has to be the reason he makes such a stupid mistake in taking the narrow alley shortcut to shave ten minutes from his walk home.
Two mechs almost immediately show up behind him. Drift puts on a burst of speed, catching glimpses of white paint and accents of orange and black. His spark is a lump in his intake as he speeds for the exit, and skids to a halt when a third mech cuts him off.
Drift recognizes the visored, purple and black mech.
Playback is well-known for lurking around the buymechs, trying to score a free ride. Which means the other two are probably Cork and Equalizer, usually found in Playback’s company.
Gasket’s warned Drift about them before.
“Hello, sweetplate,” Playback purrs as Drift tries to backstep only to immediately bump into the frame behind him, hands coming down hard and fast on his shoulders.
“Where are you goin’ in such a hurry?” the mech behind him asks, venting hot and oily over Drift’s audial.
“Don’t tell us you’re closed for business already.” Equalizer steps into Drift’s peripheral vision. He’s all white, with only the barest hints of gray accents, and there’s privilege in the gleam of his armor.
Drift’s spark sinks into his tank. “I’m not shareware,” he says. Yeah, maybe he’s sucked a spike or two when he was really hungry, but that’s it.
“Sure about that?” It must be Cork who’s behind him, now shamelessly groping Drift’s interfacing panel. “You feel hot and ready to me.”
“I’m not for sale,” Drift insists as he squirms, but taloned fingers dig into his shoulder seams with a sharp nip of pain.
Don’t fight, Gasked had warned him. If they catch you, don’t fight. That only makes it worse.
Playback grabs his jaw, thumb pressing against his bottom lip. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it good.” His smirk drips dishonesty as he says, “I want his mouth, Cork.”
“Fine by me. I want this valve.” Cork vents over Drift’s audial again, palm smacking on Drift’s array. “Open up, sweetplate, or I’ll open it for you.”
Drift swallows a whimper. Cold sluices through his lines, but he manually triggers his array to open. They’ll tear off his modesty panel if he doesn’t.
“What about you, Equalizer? What do you want?” Cork scrubs his fingers over Drift’s anterior node, circling hard and fast, sending a sharp jolt of pleasure through Drift’s sensory net.
Equalizer’s watching with crossed arms and dark optics. “His aft.”
Drift’s spark climbs into his intake. “I’m not for sale,” he repeats, louder this time, but his words fall on deaf audials because Playback yanks him forward, and Cork lays a hand on his back and pushes him down, bending him at an angle.
“Sure you’re not,” Playback says.
Feet kick between his knees, forcing his legs apart, and Cork gropes at his array, sliding over his anterior node again before curving two fingers into Drift’s valve. A frictional burn ignites a yelp at the back of Drift’s intake. He swallows it down, clinging to Gasket’s advice.
Don’t fight, don’t fight, don’t fight.
Cork brays with laughter. “We’re in for a treat tonight, mechs. This piece of shareware is brand new. Practically factory sealed.”
“He’s untouched?” Playback grabs Drift’s head, grinding his face against an overheated modesty panel. Drift tries to turn his head away, but Playback’s fingers are like iron bars, pressing in on his derma.
“Hey.” Playback pats Drift’s cheek. “You ever been fragged?”
Drift bites his glossa and glares down at the ground. Shame burns in his cheeks, and the three mechs laugh, their fields an avalanche of lust and amusement.
“That’s what we’re here for,” Cork says, and curves his fingers, rubbing them hard on an internal sensory node cluster.
Drift hisses as his valve greedily clamps down, lubricant seeping around Cork’s intruding fingers, a tiny spark of arousal building around the sensors.
“He’s wet for me and everything,” Cork says, glee thick in his voice.
Drift gnaws on the inside of his cheek, the humiliation sitting like a lead weight in his full tanks. A light tap to his face makes him startle, and he looks up at a grinning Playback. His thumb presses hard on Drift’s bottom lip.
“Open up, shareware,” he says as his modesty panel spirals open, his spike pressurizing and leaving a smear over Drift’s cheek. “Let’s see what you got.”
Drift’s tank churns, but he obediently opens his mouth. All the better to get this over with sooner. Playback crams his spike inside with a long, low groan, shuddering with pleasure.
“Mmm, that’s better. You know about sucking spike at least,” he says.
“I’ll bet he does.” Cork’s fingers vanish from Drift’s valve, and the blunt pressure of a spike takes their place, the thick head grinding against the swollen pleats.
“How’s his mouth?” Equalizer sounds bored at best, and Drift’s cheeks burn with humiliation.
Playback sets up a quick pace, thrusting into Drift’s mouth and jabbing at his glossa. “Adequate.”
“Bet his valve’s gonna be sweet,” Cork says, and he prods at Drift’s valve with his spike before abruptly pushing into him, sliding to the root in one quick thrust.
Drift gasps around Playback’s spike. It burns, but Cork’s perfunctory fingering produced enough lubricant that the shame of it is worse. That the first time he’s used his valve has been for this.
“He’s so tight,” Cork groans and sets up a brutal pace, fragging into Drift with abandon, jolting him forward onto Playback’s spike, which jabs at the back of his intake, until they find a rhythm between them.
Drift gags, oral fluid seeping from the corner of his lips, until he has no choice but to hold on to Playback’s hips to steady himself. He tries to go inward, like Gasket taught him, but the sensation is too present. Every punch of Cork’s hips, and jagged thrust of Playback’s, until he’s choking on both of their spikes, valve spasming and lips bruised.
Playback’s abrupt overload, the hot spill of his transfluid into Drift’s mouth as he grinds against Drift’s face, is almost a relief. Drift struggles to swallow it all, and tries to push Playback away from him, his vents stuttering.
“Not bad.” Playback withdraws, painting the head of his depressurizing spike over Drift’s lips. “Good thing we’re breaking you in, sweetplate. Think of all the creds you’re going to earn now.”
Drift coughs, a few splatters of transfluid dribbling from his mouth. He jolts forward as Cork’s thrusts increase, his hips smacking against Drift’s aft as he yanks Drift on and off his spike.
Equalizer appears then, grabbing Drift’s finial and bumping Playback out of the way. “Move. I want to get my spike wet before Cork is done, so I can have his aft.”
He gives Drift no chance to recover, pushing into his mouth with a spike that’s even thickerthan Playback’s. Drift’s jaw aches, his intake spasming.
“You ain’t gonna have to wait long,” Cork grunts.
Drift jolts as Cork slams into him, and the hot wash of his overload pulses over Drift’s valve nodes. Nausea wraps around his tanks, and when Cork withdraws, and his valve twitches at the abrupt emptiness, Drift has to swallow around Equalizer’s spike to forestall the purge.
“Your turn,” Cork says with a light swat to Drift’s aft.
“Finally.” Equalizer abruptly pulls out of Drift’s mouth, and he stumbles forward at the unexpected loss of both sets of hands.
His vision swims, his knees wobbling. He would have sunk to the ground if someone hadn’t grabbed him by the hips as another pair of hands clutch his shoulders. A smear of orange and white paint invades his peripheral vision -- this must be Cork -- and a spike reeking of his own valve lubricant rubs against his lips.
Drift tries to turn his head away, gasping as two fingers plunge into his valve, scooping out the mix of fluids, before smearing them over his aft port. He jerks away, but that only pushes him closer to Cork.
“This port is shiny-new,” Equalizer says,and two fingers plunge into Drift’s port without ceremony in a relentless agonizing burn.
Drift gasps, and Cork’s spike sinks into his mouth, wet with lubricant and transfluid, the taste of both bitter on Drift’s glossa.
“Well hurry up, I want to use it, too,” Playback says, bouncing impatiently on his heels in Drift’s peripheral vision. “He’ll need practice if he wants to earn any creds.”
“Seals come pretty cheap these days,” Equalizer laughs, and his fingers vanish, only to be immediately replaced by his spike. Drift’s pained whine is muffled by Cork’s spike in his mouth.
His sensory feeds go to static for what feels like an eternity, but must have only been a few seconds. Equalizer and Cork have no rhythm, and they use him like he’s an interfacing drone built to take their transfluid and nothing else. And maybe they’re right, because Drift’s port yields to them as quickly as his valve did, the way smoothed by lubricant and the eager clutch of his frame.
Maybe this is what he’s good for.
“Don’t worry, Playback,” Cork says with a grind against Drift’s face, smashing his nasal ridge. “We got all night with this one.”
“Sure do,” Playback says. He’s stroking his spike, fist working quick over the rapidly repressurizing length. “He’ll be taking spike like a professional in no time.”
Heat prickles at the back of Drift’s optics. His fans click and whirr, cycling up faster and faster as something too close to pleasure for his comfort builds in his frame.
His valve aches, his port burns, the taste of fluids is sour on his glossa, but worse is the shame. If he hadn’t taken the shortcut, if he’d paid a fraction more attention to his surroundings, if he hadn’t already sucked a few spikes for energon…
Drift sucks in a shuddery ventilation and goes limp.
There’s nothing he can do but let them have their fun, he decides, as the last bit of his self-respect is seared away by the burn of their transfluid.
