Undercard

[niyazi-a.livejournal.com]

NC-17
IDW pre-war
Sunstreaker/Drift
sticky, prostitution
for ladydragon76.  Sort of headcanony fusion: Sunstreaker does at one point WANT to be a gladiator, and Drift as a prostitute? Could happen. Grumpiest strumpet ever.
Allegedly also a stab (lol Drift joke, get it?) at a kink meme prompt about Drift being a prostitute. Only, a) I can't find the prompt (loooooooooser!) and b) it probably fails at it. :(

Sunstreaker strode from the Arena, a tempest of emotion.  His first match, the one Sideswipe had been on his case about. And he’d won. Just like he’d said he would.  He still felt the surge of triumph, tingling and golden, as he stood on the churned ground, hand raised in victory.

The downside was, it was an undercard match, way down in the rankings, and it had ended with a  submission. The victory was sweet but it could have been sweeter: he wanted to have that final experience—to kill another mech for victory.

Next time, he told himself, stepping out of the dark doorway into the street. Next time.  He’d prove himself. It wasn’t a setback, it was a challenge.

That felt better.

And the credits on his card felt even better. He’d swear it felt heavier. Money to burn, and he was in the mood to celebrate.

Sunstreaker let his optics range around the mechs in front of him.  The big names, the known stars, had groupies pressing around them. Sunstreaker was a nobody—for now, he corrected himself—so while he got a few looks, no takers.

Fine. He could handle that. Work his way up, there, too.

He caught sight of a few of the local buy mechs, the telltale three waved lines on the chassis indicating what they were and that they were up for offers.  One or two had telltale signs of corrosion, that one looked…way too fragile.

That one, over there, arms folded, glowering. He had potential.  Not unattractive and that attitude could be fun.  Sunstreaker ambled over, waiting until the lowlight red optics that gave away that this mech was from the Lower Zones lifted to meet his. “Rates?”

“Depends what you want.”

“You. Should think that would be obvious.”

The mouth twitched.  “No lasting damage.  Fifteen.”

“And if I want lasting damage?”

A snarl. “You pay repairs, and fifty.”

Steep. Sunstreaker could afford it, but maybe not this time. “Get a lot of takers for that?” 

“Be surprised.” 

Sunstreaker tilted his head back at the Arena. Mechs paid a lot for pain there, too. “Or maybe not.”

A shrug, a concession. “Fair enough.”

“Have a place?”

A shake of the head. “Hostel.”

Ergh. Seedy. Filthy rooms rented by the cycle.  “My place.”

A wary look.  Doubtless the mech had heard stories of wetware that went to a stranger’s place and never came back. He saw the teetering indecision, then the fast nod. “Fine.”  The buy mech must really need the credits.

He led the mech through the zone gates, up to his apartment.  It wasn’t much: a small economy quarters, lined with trophies he’d won, cleaning equipment, mod gear.  He could feel the mech behind him, studying the room, dispassionately.  Sunstreaker moved to the console. “Quick call to make.”

The mech shrugged, propping himself against the wall. He could have sat on the couch, or one of the chairs, but, nope. The wall. Sunstreaker liked him already, the sullenness something he wanted to break. 

He tapped the comm code, tilting back on the seat, letting his cocky grin spread on his face. “Told you,” he said, “I’d be fine.”

Sideswipe frowned. “One day your luck’s going to run out.”

“Not any time soon,” Sunstreaker said. “Besides, luck was not a factor. You should have seen the idiot they set me up against.”  Really, it was almost unfair. Maybe that’s why he wasn’t getting acclaim: he barely had a chance to shine. “Next time, you should come.”

Sideswipe frowned. “You’re not going to suck me into that.”

A cocky shrug. “We’ll see.”

Sideswipe’s optics flicked up, catching sight of the buy mech’s limbs. “You have a guest.”

“Guest,” Sunstreaker grinned. “Just a little celebration.” He turned to beckon the buy mech over, tugging him onto his lap. “See?”

Sideswipe saw the buy mech’s three waves, optics narrowing. “I do see.” His mouthplates pressed together. “You’re going to get yourself checked out in the morning, right?”

Sunstreaker could feel the buy mech bridle, stiffening, hands curling into fists at the slight. “You need to stop worrying.”

“You don’t even know his name! Why wouldn’t I worry?”

Sunstreaker let his hands circle the small waist, one palm dipping between the thighs. “Not really his name I’m after.”

“Drift.” The buy mech’s voice was hoarse, blunt.  “And I’m clean.”

“Sure,” Sideswipe said, the barest manners, obviously not believing.

“Happy now?” Sunstreaker asked. He lifted the buy mech’s arm, draping it over his shoulder. “You could come join me.”

“Cost extra.” Drift winced as Sunstreaker’s hand between his thighs gave a sharp pinch.

“Yeah, no thanks,” Sideswipe said. “You…have fun. Or whatever.”

“I certainly will,” Sunstreaker smirked, as Sideswipe cut the connection. He shrugged at the exchange, turning his attention to the other mech.  “So. Drift.” The head revolved to him, expression flat and bland. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Drift stood up, between Sunstreaker’s legs, letting the blue optics range over his front.  Another mech might have tried to be alluring, stand in a coy, cocked pose, let his hands roam over his own body, invitingly. Drift…stood, and after a moment, moved his hand with swift efficiency to his interface hatch, snapping it open.  

Sunstreaker smirked. “Nice. Could use a bit more showmanship, but…adequate.”  Then again, he could use a bit more showmanship himself, in the Arena. “Down.”

Drift dropped to his knees, as if on some remote control. Sunstreaker tipped his hips forward, until his own equipment was exposed, on the front lip of the chair. A quick flick of the red optics, and Drift bent forward, without being ordered, nuzzling against the equipment covers. Drift may have been sullen, but he knew what he was doing: the little gusts of air from his ventilation system, the brushes of his mouthplates along the sensitive, thin metal, set fire to Sunstreaker’s already primed systems. Sunstreaker let his valve cover click open, looking down his saffron yellow frame, to the half-closed red optics, the little finials of the buy mech’s helm between his thighs.  He couldn’t see, but he could feel, the delicate little licks around his valve, teasing at the rim, flirting with the lining.  Oh frag. This was exactly what he needed: pleasure without having to worry about anyone else, entirely focused on him.

He purred, arching his hips, pressing himself against the mouth. The buy mech complied, pushing his glossa further in, probing at the sensitized lining. Sunstreaker wrapped a hand over the helm, stroking the projecting finial, holding the helm in place. “Frag,” he breathed. “You’re good at this.”

A sound, vibrating against his valve rim, a growl or grunt of acknowledgement. Sunstreaker wriggled down, feeling the rising waves of sensation over his net, like a tide, lifting him up. The aches from the arena faded, washed away by the surging sensation.  “Come on,” he heard himself whisper.  “Come on.” Impatient, seething with lust. Not that Drift wasn’t really good at this, but he wanted it now.  “More.” He squeezed his thighs together, clamping the head against his groin, spinal struts arching and contracting, in time with the rising pleasure. The buy mech twitched a protest, one shoulder wedging against his knee.  “Now,” Sunstreaker moaned. “I want it.”

Drift shoved against him, harder, lifting his chin to drive two fingers into Sunstreaker’s valve, jamming them, ungently, up to the ceiling node. The scrape and the sudden shock to the interior nodes rocketed Sunstreaker into overload, his calipers clutching down, hands clawing along his own thighs. 

Drift smirked up at him, slowly pulling his lubricant-soaked fingers from the  valve, worming them along the nodes, enjoying the twitching response.

Sunstreaker growled, pushing upright, clamping a hand over the wrist. “Not done yet.” He hauled Drift closer, pitching his voice low and dangerous. “Fight me.”

The optics narrowed, the smirk flattening.  “Told you about the charge.”

“Shut up.”  He flung the trapped arm hard to one side, Drift landing heavily on his rib strut.  He rose, slowly, letting Drift get his legs under him. He knew about the charge. Right now, he also knew what he wanted. 

He lunged at Drift, tackling him midbody.  The other mech buckled, but used the momentum to bring an elbow down, hard, on Sunstreaker’s shoulder.  Heh.  Good hit. Sunstreaker threw his weight to one side, onto Drift’s own shoulder joint, his knees shoving between the other’s legs. He autoreleased his spike, lowering his hips down. 

Drift bucked, heels planting into the floor, throwing Sunstreaker’s weight off him. Not bad, Sunstreaker admitted. And the struggle was exactly what he wanted, all of his suppressed frustration from the Arena, all of the fierce pleasure of violence from the combat itself, blazing to life inside him, a red hot flame. 

A mad scramble between the two of them, and then Sunstreaker caught Drift by the throat, pinning him to the ground.  He braced one of the dark thighs with a knee, grinning down at the buy mech triumphantly.  Sunstreaker pushed his spike, slowly, into the valve, feeling the lining spread, feeling the calipers forced open around his girth. Beneath him, Drift snarled,  the vibration tickling his palm around the buy mech’s throat.  Sunstreaker laughed, thrusting in, rough and fast. His spike was more than eager, primed by the other overload, roused from the fight.  It was the matter of moments, growling and huffing, before his engine redlined in a high whine, transfluid jetting from his spike into the other mech.  Drift’s optics glowered into his, stubborn, almost hateful.  All the better, Sunstreaker thought, jerking his spike from the valve, gaze dropping to watch the seep of silver from the other’s valve. The last ebb of pleasure washed over him, physical, mental, as Drift curled to his side, then clambered to his feet.

“Done?”

Sunstreaker let his optics fix on the silver lines down the dark thighs, then up to the mouth, still glossed with his valve lubricant.  “Yeah.”  He pulled out his chit card. 

Drift snapped his hatch shut, smearing the silver down his thighs. His hand was silver streaked and chloride smelling as he held out his wrist reader.

Sunstreaker coded over the money, the fifteen, and an extra ten. He was feeling generous.  Besides, not every day he got to let himself go. Drift looked down, grunted. “Price was fifteen.”

Sunstreaker gave a shrug. “Consider it a downpayment. On next time.” 

Comments

[jalaperilo.livejournal.com]

I think this is great. I love your fics of Drift before the Decepticons, and I'll take any kind of Sunstreaker. Very hot!

[acidgreenflames.livejournal.com]

I LOVED THIS!! Poor Drift, he obviously doesn't want to be there and doesn't want to do what he has to, to survive. And Sunstreaker is such a jerk that he doesn't make it any easier. (But why would he I suppose.) I just loved the interaction between these two! Just excellent!

[ladyofdragons.livejournal.com]

Sunny is pure perfection in this role, his conversation with 'Sides is great. And I love how, even as a sex worker, Drift is still super surly. Like he still has his pride and it manifests in this take-it-or-leave it type attitude. And even if he doesn't want to be there he still gonna put on his best performance. That's just classic Drift right? Why do something if you're gonna do it halfway?