Part Four – The Second Round
Sunstreaker froze, mortification creeping in, as Sideswipe tilted his head, gaze sliding past Sunstreaker.
The door slid open to the sound of footsteps before it closed again. “I knew it,” came a very familiar voice as the panel beeped an override code of confirmation.
It was only Ratchet.
Sunstreaker sagged out of relief, except that the anxiety came back again. It was only Ratchet, but also, here he was, coated in Sideswipe’s waste fluid and standing in a puddle of it.
“Did I not tell you to wait?” Ratchet continued, accusation thick in his tone.
“I must have missed it,” Sideswipe retorted as Sunstreaker looked over his shoulder, well aware of his current state.
Ratchet’s hands were on his hips as he gave Sideswipe a chastising look. Sunstreaker’s fingers tightened on Sideswipe’s hips.
“You’re just mad cause you missed all the fun,” Sideswipe said and his hand shifted to Sunstreaker’s head, fingers stroking the crest of it. “Right?”
Ratchet’s gaze dropped to Sunstreaker and something in it softened. “Right,” he grunted and dropped his hands. “We did have a plan, you know,” he said. “To make sure there weren’t any misunderstandings.”
“Who needs a plan? I say spontaneity is key!” Sideswipe replied cheerfully.
Ratchet glared at him.
“You, um, you actually wanted to be here?” Sunstreaker asked, and hated how small his voice was.
A part of him always knew Sideswipe would never look at him with disgust. Sideswipe was his twin, spark of his spark, the other half of his existence. Sunstreaker had always known his fear of Sideswipe turning on him had been irrational.
But Ratchet wasn’t his twin. Ratchet still got annoyed with their shenanigans. Sunstreaker didn’t want to lose Ratchet’s respect, and he knew, he couldn’t keep this a secret from Ratchet if he told Sideswipe. So he told neither of them.
Now, he didn’t know if he dared meet Ratchet’s optics.
“Yes, I did,” Ratchet said as he approached them. “Mostly to make sure your idiot brother didn’t put his foot in his mouth, but also because I actually have experience in this sort of thing.”
Sunstreaker’s optics widened. “Wait. What?”
“They didn’t call him the Party Ambulance for no reason.” Sideswipe snickered.
“Hush, you.” Ratchet reached for his face as Sunstreaker turned, and red fingers traced the curve of Sunstreaker’s head, through the sticky mess Sideswipe had left on his plating. “Though yes, I have done this before. With a prior partner.”
Sunstreaker frowned, his engine revving. “Who?” he demanded.
Ratchet bopped him on the nasal ridge. “Enough of that now,” he said, much to Sideswipe’s amused delight. “That was a long time ago, arguably before you two were even sparked.”
“We’re not that young,” Sunstreaker muttered.
“Maybe he’s just that old,” Sideswipe said.
Ratchet didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he curled an arm around Sunstreaker’s waist, his hand flattening against Sunstreaker’s ventrum where he was still damp. Sunstreaker leaned back into his embrace, and shivered as Ratchet’s hand slid further down, fingers encircling Sunstreaker’s half-pressurized spike and giving it a squeeze.
“I know that one overload wasn’t enough to clear your system,” Ratchet said as he started to slowly stroke Sunstreaker’s spike. “Do you want another?”
Sunstreaker licked his lips, and moaned as the taste of Sideswipe’s waste still painted them. “I, uh, I should probably rinse off first.” His hand clamped on Ratchet’s arm, even as he rolled his hips into Ratchet’s grip.
Hands found his hips – Sideswipe’s hands – and they slid upward, drawing a line of charge as they did so.
“What’s the point?” Sideswipe asked cheekily. “You’re just going to get dirty again. I mean, I’m empty, but I’m betting Ratchet’s not.” He leaned in close, pressing their foreheads together. “Wanna play some more?”
Sunstreaker shuddered between them. “Am I dreaming?”
“Nope. We just love ya.” Sideswipe pressed another kiss to the tip of Sunstreaker’s nasal ridge and drew back.
“Indeed,” Ratchet murmured, his fingers wreaking steady havoc on Sunstreaker’s spike, drawing lines of charge with every stroke, ending with a pinch to the tip and a tease to his channel opening. “And my tank capacity is larger than yours.”
Sunstreaker shuddered again. His field flushed with arousal. His spike throbbed, his valve cycled restlessly until several beads of lubricant slipped free. He leaned back into Ratchet’s embrace.
“O-okay,” he said, and felt he should be embarrassed for stammering, but it was all so overwhelming. He’d started the day thinking it was going to be business as usual. He’d never imagined halfway through it that Sideswipe would confront him with his deepest kink and offer to indulge in it. “What, um, what are we going to do?”
“Well, my tank is full and I’m quite sure yours could use some emptying, but just in case, drink this.” Ratchet’s free hand appeared in Sunstreaker’s peripheral vision, holding a cube of something.
It was a teal-ish color, which meant it was neither energon nor coolant. Sunstreaker suspected it was the accelerant that Sideswipe had spoken of earlier.
Sunstreaker accepted the cube and gave it a sniff. It was sweet, almost obscenely so, and the first sip was thick and cloying. It was syrupy.
He made a face.
Sideswipe chuckled. “You’ll grimace at that stuff but not, you know, the other stuff?” He made a vague gesture.
“I never said I liked the taste!” Sunstreaker snapped, or repeated rather. Primus, but Sideswipe was annoying sometimes. “It’s not about that.”
“I know.” Ratchet’s hand dropped to Sunstreaker’s ventrum, stroking the armor there, while his other continued to squeeze and stroke Sunstreaker’s spike. “Ignore him. He’s having a little trouble understanding. Drink the cube.”
Sunstreaker snorted, but obeyed, sucking it down as quickly as possible so as not to linger. “Yeah, well, I didn’t understand why he wanted us to rape him either, but I didn’t tease him about it.”
“Hey!” Sideswipe reared back, indignant.
“Children,” Ratchet said warningly, but it was a hint of amusement. “If you can’t play nicely, then we won’t play at all.”
Sunstreaker swallowed down the last of the cube and shuddered. He dispersed the energy field with a flick of his fingers as another shudder wracked his frame. The low-key arousal in his groin simmered quite nicely with Ratchet’s slow, but determined pace. He could sit like this for hours, with Ratchet humming behind him, and just working his spike. It was kind of nice to slow-build toward overload.
“We’re going to find out your secret kink eventually, Ratchet,” Sideswipe said, a blatant change of subject if Sunstreaker ever heard of. “Just you wait.”
Ratchet snorted. “I have no secrets, but feel free to keep looking.” He patted Sunstreaker’s ventrum again. “Give that about ten minutes to do its work and then we can get down to business.”
Sunstreaker’s backstrut curved, his ventilations stuttering. “You… you have something in mind?” he asked, his fingers tightening where they gripped Ratchet’s arm. Lubricant dripped steadily from his valve now.
“Mmm. I do.” Ratchet’s hand stroked down to the base of Sunstreaker’s spike, and then his middle finger flicked Sunstreaker’s primary anterior node, making him squirm. “You’ll be feeling full soon. You’ll need somewhere to release all that pressure, won’t you?” His finger flicked again.
Sunstreaker moaned, his optics shuttering. “Are you… volunteering?”
“I am.” Ratchet nibbled on the corner of Sunstreaker’s right head vent, the one he belatedly noticed had been spared a soaking. “Or at least my valve is. My indulgence only goes so far.”
Sunstreaker’s cheeks heated. “Fair enough,” he said, and licked his lips again.
“What about me?” Sideswipe demanded with his lower lip jutted out. He crossed his arms over his chestplate. “I’m feeling left out over here.”
Ratchet huffed a ventilation. “We indulge you all the time, greedy.”
“You and your ten thousand ideas,” Sunstreaker added and shivered again as Ratchet’s fingers abandoned his spike entirely, stroking instead around the rim of his valve. They traced every one of his secondary sensors.
Ratchet’s other arm curved around Sunstreaker’s torso, flattening against his chestplate. He didn’t seem to mind the smears of Sideswipe’s wastefluid. “He’ll get his. Maybe. It depends. You want me on my back or my knees, Sunny?”
Somehow, he didn’t mind so much when Ratchet called him ‘Sunny’.
“I want to see your face,” Sunstreaker said without any hesitation.
Sideswipe grinned like a mech who had a secret. “You should make him ride you then. Cause what Ratchet’s not saying yet, is that he doesn’t use his spike.”
Sunstreaker blinked, rising from the haze of pleasure he’d been slowly sinking into. A pressure built in his abdomen as well, there on the left hand side, where his waste storage tank was located. He was weeks away from needing to drain, but all of the sudden, that distance felt more like hours.
Ratchet made an aggravated noise. “You are a pain in my aft,” he grumbled. “Yes, I don’t use my spike. I drain through my valve.”
Sunstreaker blinked again. His processor supplied him images without any further prompting. His engine revved.
Ratchet. Riding him. Releasing the waste so that it painted Sunstreaker’s array and mingled with lubricant and transfluid. It would be so dirty, so messy.
The moan rose up in his intake before he could stop it. His spike throbbed, valve cycling hungrily.
“Ride me,” Sunstreaker said as he rolled his hips into Ratchet’s touch, frotting his valve against Ratchet’s fingers. “I want you to ride me.”
“Then I will,” Ratchet purred into his audial. His hand shifted to Sunstreaker’s side, pressing in on his plating over his increasingly uncomfortable tank. “You feel it yet?”
His knees started to shake. “Yeah.”
Ratchet pressed a little harder, until the alert popped up in Sunstreaker’s HUD. The need to drain turned into a requirement, yet his arousal remained strong. His spike steadily leaked pre-fluid, his spark spinning faster and faster.
“Better hold it in, Sunny,” Ratchet murmured, his fingers slipping between Sunstreaker’s armor plates and kneading, applying a direct pressure to Sunstreaker’s full tank. “Wouldn’t want to make a mess, would you?”
A strangled sound escaped Sunstreaker’s intake. His knees wobbled, and he gripped at Ratchet all the harder.
“Wow, this really amps your charge, doesn’t it?” Sideswipe murmured, sounding awed rather than teasing this time.
“We all have our kinks.” Ratchet stroked around the rim of Sunstreaker’s valve again, painting the sensors with Sunstreaker’s own lubricant. “Now why don’t you lay down so I can ride this, hmm?” His fingers returned to Sunstreaker’s spike, giving it a squeeze in demonstration.
A moan eked from Sunstreaker’s vocalizer. “Okay,” he said, and he knew he sounded dazed. He felt it. Arousal and affection swarmed together, crowding his spark. Part of him remained stunned that his brother and their mate would both be willing to indulge him in this dirty, dirty secret.
Another press of Ratchet’s fingers and Sunstreaker’s tank throbbed. The urge to relieve the pressure came over him in a wave. Holding back was a struggle that left him gasping, just shy of pain, and that sent another wave of arousal through his systems. Lubricant leaked steadily from his valve now.
“You might wanna help him down, Ratch. He’s pretty gone,” Sunstreaker heard Sideswipe say, though as if from a distance.
Sunstreaker worked his intake, moaning again. Ratchet said something in response, but it was a roar and rush of words. And then he felt the cool tiling of the washrack beneath his back. It was slick behind his head, the odor of Sideswipe’s earlier release of waste floating up from beneath him.
It was not a pleasant odor, bitter and cloying, but it was a reminder of what Sideswipe had done for him. Sunstreaker groaned and roughly fisted his spike.
“Enough of that now. That’s for me,” Ratchet said, and his fingers flicked at Sunstreaker’s.
He forced his optics to unshutter, unable to remember when he’d shuttered them, and was greeted to the sight of Ratchet straddling his thighs. The medic’s spike had yet to emerge, but his valve panel had slid aside, revealing the dewy wetness of his array. Lubricant glistened in the shadows.
Sunstreaker’s mouth filled with lubricant. He couldn’t decide if he wanted Ratchet to ride his spike or his face. He licked his lips and squeezed his spike harder.
Sideswipe snickered from somewhere above Sunstreaker. “He can’t decide what he wants, Ratch.”
“Then I’ll have to decide for him,” Ratchet said, and flicked Sunstreaker’s spike again. “Come on, Sunny. Let go.” One hand landed on Sunstreaker’s abdomen, palpating his armor and sliding into the seams to press against his over-full tank. He scooted forward, until Sunstreaker’s spike was shadowed by the vee of his thighs.
Sunstreaker groaned, his free hand grabbing Ratchet’s about the wrist and making him press harder. “I want… I want…”
“I know what you want,” Ratchet said, fingers rubbing and rubbing until Sunstreaker felt as though he would burst. “This isn’t a one-time deal, Sunny. I’ll indulge you again if you want.”
“What about me?” Sideswipe demanded, and Sunstreaker didn’t have to look to know he was pouting.
“We’ll get to you, brat,” Ratchet said, rolling his optics. “You can pick later.”
Susntreaker’s hips bucked, his spike sliding along the inside of Ratchet’s thigh, ghosting all too near the wet heat wafting from Ratchet’s valve. “You… spoil him,” he gasped out, fingers tightening around Ratchet’s wrist.
“I spoil you both,” Ratchet corrected, and two fingers pressed deep, the tips of them like a spear prodding at Sunstreaker’s tank.
His hips bucked. His belly throbbed. A shudder wracked Sunstreaker’s frame as he struggled to keep himself back, his vision briefly whiting out. It hurt, but the pain was so distant to the anticipation.
Sunstreaker moaned, his free hand clawing at the tile, landing in a sticky wet spot that he just knew had to be leftover from Sideswipe. He shuddered, spark throbbing, spike pulsing where it rubbed again and again at Ratchet’s thigh.
“Ratchet,” he whimpered, not even sure what he wanted. If he wanted Ratchet to press harder, or sink down on his spike, or both.
“I know.” Ratchet’s hips dipped just enough that the head of Sunstreaker’s spike nudged at his damp rim, tasting the lubricant that dripped onto his transfluid slit.
Ratchet’s fingers added pressure again, rubbing firmly against Sunstreaker’s protoform, nudging the tank beneath. Sunstreaker’s back arched, his legs trembling from the overwhelming need to just let go, release it all.
“It’s okay, Sunny,” Ratchet murmured, his free hand grabbing Sunstreaker’s jaw and forcing their gazes to meet. There was nothing in his optics but encouragement. “Let go.”
Sunstreaker’s engine whined. His hand clawed the floor, the other tightening around Ratchet’s wrist. He distantly heard the sound of metal creaking, but it was lost to the rattle that attacked his frame. He gasped as the last vestiges of control vanished, and his wastefluid erupted from his spike.
He heard the sound it made as it splashed up against Ratchet. He felt the scorching heat as it rained back down, pattering on his hips and groin and upper thighs. Sunstreaker’s vents roared as Ratchet abruptly dropped, his valve swallowing Sunstreaker’s spike and the steady stream of wastefluid that emerged from it.
Sunstreaker grabbed for Ratchet, curving forward as he snatched at Ratchet’s hips, holding the medic down on top of him. His feet shoved at the floor, desperate for leverage as he bucked up into Ratchet, his spike firming entirely as the last spurt of wastefluid cleared from his tank. Arousal rushed in the wake of relief, his spike pushing deep, grinding against Ratchet’s ceiling node.
Ratchet hissed, cursed quietly, but his hands grasped onto Sunstreaker’s shoulders.
Everything around Sunstreaker was noise. Static in his audials. Metal impacting metal. The wet, hot squelch of lubricant and wastefluid. The slap of his frame between Ratchet’s thighs and the puddle beneath his aft. The stench of his own waste, so bitter and cloying, and Ratchet was still here, Ratchet’s knees dug into the tile as he worked his hips, riding Sunstreaker’s spike, his valve eagerly clutching at it.
Ratchet was still here, because Ratchet loved him, and Sunstreaker almost sobbed for that reason alone, were it not for the desire that snatched hold of him and refused to let go. Overload clawed at him, rakes of fire deep in his frame, a boiling surge of need that demanded.
Ratchet grabbed his head and yanked him into a kiss. Sunstreaker moaned as Ratchet bit at his lips, hard enough to draw energon, their glossa tangling. There was warmth at his back, the burr of another engine, a hand on his belly, heated ex-vents against his spinal strut.
Ratchet slammed down, valve taking him deep, cycling tight, so tight that their nodes latched together, charge exchanging between them. Sunstreaker whimpered into Ratchet’s mouth, a full-frame tremor taking him over. His spike throbbed, his vents roared, and the pleasure ignited into a supernova.
Sunstreaker bucked, his hands tightening to the tune of dented metal, and his senses whited out as overload stripped him raw, stripped him of all sense of the here and now. Pleasure rattled his frame from head to foot, stole his ventilations, stole his thoughts. He bucked helplessly, spilling into Ratchet’s valve, transfluid joining the mess between them.
He panted orally, slowly coming to himself, realizing that it was Sideswipe at his back, of course it was. Ratchet had pressed their foreheads together, his hands still cupping Sunstreaker’s head. Their arrays were still joined, Ratchet’s valve cycling restlessly, his body trembling on the cusp of overload. Or maybe something else. Ratchet still had a full tank.
“Nnn,” Sunstreaker managed and rebooted his optics, his frame thrumming from the force of the overload.
“You with us?” Ratchet asked, his tone amused, though his voice was husky.
“Primus, that was hot,” Sideswipe said, tucked against Sunstreaker’s back, his spike rutting against his backstrut, leaving streaks of transfluid behind. “We gotta get you to lose control more often.”
Sunstreaker made a noncommittal noise and tried to meet Ratchet’s gaze. “You… didn’t overload?” he slurred.
“No, he didn’t,” Sideswipe said with a laugh. “You owe him one, bro.”
Ratchet huffed. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not,” Sunstreaker said, forcing himself to stir. He felt weird, sated, but almost like he were drugged. The world seemed to float around him, and everything about it felt good.
He unpeeled his fingers from Ratchet’s hips, sliding them to Ratchet’s waist. He leaned forward, brushing his lips over the curve of Ratchet’s jaw. “Wanna lick you. Can I?”
Ratchet shivered. His hold on Sunstreaker’s jaw gentled, his valve fluttering around Sunstreaker’s half-pressurized spike. “Course you can, Sunny,” he said, his mouth darting down to briefly catch Sunstreaker’s lips. “I’m all yours.”
A shudder raced over Sunstreaker’s plating. He squeezed Ratchet’s hips as he bit at Ratchet’s lips. “Lay down for me?”
“My pleasure.” Ratchet eased out of hold, sliding back so that he could stretch out across the floor, his knees drawn up and tilted out, his array on display.
Sunstreaker’s wastefluid and transfluid painted his valve rim and seeped in slow dribbles from the interior. Ratchet’s biolights blinked fitfully, his spike standing proud from the apex of his thighs. Sunstreaker’s mouth watered. He worked his intake and rolled to his knees before crawling toward Ratchet, his gaze focused on Ratchet’s swollen folds.
Sunstreaker made a noise deep in his intake as he shimmied to his belly and hooked his arms under Ratchet’s thighs, his hands pinning Ratchet’s hips so that he had nowhere to go. He in-vented, drawing in the mingled scents of Ratchet’s arousal and Sunstreaker’s own fluids.
He moaned, rubbing his cheek against the hot, swollen mesh of Ratchet’s valve rim. Slick fluids coated his dermal plating.
Ratchet’s thighs trembled around him. One hand petted the top of Sunstreaker’s head. “Ah, Primus, that’s good, Sunstreaker.”
The praise went straight to his spark, which fluttered with delight. Sunstreaker’s mouth watered again, his array cycling back to heat.
Hands landed on his aft and hips, stroking them, before they curled around Sunstreaker’s thighs and gave them a squeeze.
“Gonna let me in, bro?” Sideswipe asked, his voice thick with arousal, his hands warm where they stroked Sunstreaker’s seams.
His spark pulsed an affirmative at Sideswipe, who pulled him up, pushing Sunstreaker’s lower half to his knees so that Sideswipe could notch between them. His fingers stroked over Sunstreaker’s dripping valve, teasing the ring of exterior nodes and setting a new blaze to life in Sunstreaker’s array.
Sunstreaker moaned as he turned his face toward the depths of Ratchet’s valve and gave it a long, deep lick, gathering a taste of the sticky mess. Ratchet hissed a ventilation, bucking up against his mouth, his main node pulsing. It called to Sunstreaker, and so he moved to greet it, giving it a flick of his glossa before sealing his lips around it.
Ratchet moaned, his legs trembling where Sunstreaker gripped them, his feet pushing against the floor. His engine rumbled. His valve pulsed against Sunstreaker’s lips, pushing out more lubricant, and more of Sunstreaker’s own mess in the process.
Sunstreaker panted against Ratchet’s valve, giving it long, and savoring licks. He tasted every fold, every sensor, coming back to the main nub again and again. He shifted his right hand to pat over Ratchet’s lower half, wondering where Ratchet’s tank could be found and whether he felt the pressure of it, too.
“Don’t forget, bro,” Sideswipe said, his hips rocking against Sunstreaker’s aft, his spikehead teasingly scraping over Sunstreaker’s rim and folds. Each sweep of his spike through the lubricant made Sunstreaker shudder.
The two of them were going to drive him mad.
“Ratchet’s still nice and full for you,” Sideswipe said.
Sunstreaker’s ventilations caught. His hands tightened on Ratchet as he shoved his face into the medic’s valve, his mouth and nasal ridge eclipsed by the scent and taste of him.
Sideswipe groaned, his hands squeezing around Sunstreaker’s aft, before the tip of his spike found Sunstreaker’s valve and filled him in one, deep push. Sunstreaker shuddered, his valve cinching down, finally full.
Sideswipe set up a rhythm, slow and deep, his spike cleaving a path of pleasure, grinding Sunstreaker’s internal nodes one by one.
Full. Still full. Could drench him in it. Could bury him in it. Surrounded by his mates, his lovers, completely safe and desired.
Sunstreaker moaned against Ratchet’s plump, swollen valve. He nuzzled it with lips and glossa and nasal ridge, seeking out Ratchet’s main node again and latching on to it. He flicked it with his glossa, again and again, and held Ratchet as his hips jerked with each flick.
Ratchet’s engine roared. His thighs tensed and shook. More lubricant trickled free, his node throbbing against Sunstreaker’s lips. He was close, so close, and Sunstreaker wanted to taste him going over.
Hands scrabbled at Sunstreaker’s head, pressing him down, keeping him close. Ratchet’s backstrut arched, his feet thumping a pattern across Sunstreaker’s upper back. He loosed a choked cry.
Close. So close.
Sunstreaker hummed, suckling on Ratchet’s main node, and was rewarded with a sharp gasp. Ratchet bucked beneath him, hands tightening, and then he overloaded, rutting hard against Sunstreaker’s mouth as his valve pulsed. His thighs squeezed around Sunstreaker’s head, catching on his head vents with a screech of metal on metal.
Sunstreaker nuzzled his valve, drawing out the tremors of overload, lapping up every trickle of lubricant as it squeezed out of Ratchet’s valve. The grip on his head eased and Sunstreaker lifted his head enough so his lips could brush over Ratchet’s depressurizing spike. Dual-overload, hm? Well, that explained the damp feeling on the back of Sunstreaker’s neck and head.
“That looked like a good one,” Sideswipe said, his spike throbbing in Sunstreaker’s valve. He’d stopped thrusting sometime before Ratchet’s overload, but now he began again in earnest, rolling his hips with each thrust so that he ground against Sunstreaker’s ceiling node.
Ratchet’s vocalizer spat static before he rebooted it. His engine rumbled. “It was. Thank you, Sunny.”
“Mm, my pleasure.” Sunstreaker returned his attention to Ratchet’s valve, pressing light kisses to his rim. “Can I have it now?”
Sideswipe chuckled, though it didn’t sound taunting. His hips rocked against Sunstreaker’s aft as he pressed deep and circled them, grinding over every one of Sunstreaker’s internal nodes.
“You know what he wants, Ratchet,” Sideswipe said, his fingers flexing where they gripped Sunstreaker’s hips.
Ratchet propped himself up on his elbows, looking over the rise of his windshield at Sunstreaker between his thighs. “Yeah, I do,” he said.
Sunstreaker looked up at him, saw nothing but affection glowing in Ratchet’s optics. A red hand pet the top of his head and curved around it, stroking him.
“You ready?” Ratchet asked.
Sunstreaker quivered. His valve spun tight, locking around Sideswipe’s spike, forcing a groan out of his brother.
“He’s definitely ready,” Sideswipe gasped, his ex-vents teasing over Sunstreaker’s aft and back. He must have leaned forward.
“Please,” Sunstreaker murmured, his lips brushing over Ratchet’s exterior node, making Ratchet twitch. He jerked forward, Sideswipe thrusting into him a bit harder, but it was hard to focus on that pleasure while he danced on the cusp of anticipation.
Ratchet’s gaze softened. His hand caressed Sunstreaker’s head again. “All right,” he said. “Here it comes.”
Sunstreaker’s gaze dropped; his spark pounded. Ratchet’s thighs eased around his head as some of the tension in Ratchet’s frame went away. He pulled back a fraction, his gaze locked on Ratchet’s valve as the first trickles of wastefluid started to emerge, oily and pungent.
Sunstreaker worked his intake, trapping a moan in his vocalizer. The stream increased in volume, gushing from Ratchet’s valve, joining the mess of lubricant beneath Ratchet’s aft. It was differently colored than Sideswipe’s, and thinner, too. It smelled less metallic, weaker for that.
The puddle beneath Ratchet’s aft grew larger. Ratchet sighed a soft sound of satisfaction, and Sunstreaker looked up at him, but still, there was nothing in Ratchet’s expression but affection.
It didn’t matter at all, did it? It didn’t matter at all.
The flow eased back to a trickle. Sunstreaker licked his lips. He couldn’t let the rest go to waste.
He pressed his mouth back to Ratchet’s valve, licking a long line up the center of it, flicking the tip of his glossa over Ratchet’s anterior node. Ratchet shivered, and then groaned when Sunstreaker sealed his lips over Ratchet’s valve, sliding his glossa inside. Ratchet’s wastefluid trickled over his glossa, into his mouth, across his glossa, down his intake.
The taste wasn’t as strong as Sideswipe’s, but still bitter. It was even more oily, clinging to every surface of his mouth. It trickled down his intake, into his tanks. Sunstreaker moaned as he swept his glossa around the inside of Ratchet’s valve, seeking out the aperture from which Ratchet eliminated his waste.
He found it just as Ratchet’s flow ceased, only a few more drops emerging. Sunstreaker shivered as he licked into Ratchet’s valve, glossa seeking out that slit and adding a nice pressure to it.
Ratchet moaned and bucked against him, his hand curving around the back of Sunstreaker’s head. His valve throbbed against Sunstreaker’s lips, stuttered ventilations indicating he’d never truly cycled down from overload. Not as Sunstreaker heard the slick sounds of him fisting his spike with his free hand.
Sunstreaker’s ventilations crackled. He gripped harder onto Ratchet, burying his face in Ratchet’s valve, surrounding himself with the familiar taste and scent, Ratchet’s wastefluid strong on his glossa. But more than that was the absolute love in Ratchet’s field. The acceptance. The way both he and Sideswipe still embraced Sunstreaker, touching him as though he mattered.
Sunstreaker whimpered, rubbing his face over Ratchet’s valve, his own rippling around Sideswipe’s spike as his brother pushing into him faster and faster. As one of Sideswipe’s hands slid around Sunstreaker’s body, his fingers finding Sunstreaker’s spike and working it nicely.
Sunstreaker panted, his world narrowing down to this. To the smell and taste of Ratchet in front of him, and Ratchet gasping and moving beneath him. To the feel of Sideswipe thrusting into him, faster and deeper, raking along his internal nodes. Their fields surrounding him, embracing him, thick with desire and acceptance.
Sunstreaker’s entire frame shook. His spark throbbed. Pleasure lanced through his systems like a lightning bolt, one that started in his belly and seemed to radiate outward. He clutched at Ratchet, holding tight, as the overload snatched hold and tossed him about, his frame spasming in the grips of ecstasy.
He felt, distantly, the hot splash of Sideswipe’s transfluid along his valve lining, spattering over sensitized nodes, and that only prolonged the pleasure. Sunstreaker’s hips bucked, his frame shaking, as beneath him, Ratchet shattered. More fluid spattered Sunstreaker’s head as Ratchet’s spike spurted.
Sunstreaker moaned, his voice striped in static. He gentled his hold on Ratchet, tilting his head to rest his forehead against Ratchet’s inner thigh, panting for ventilations. Little tremors raced through his frame as his cooling fans spun mightily, struggling to draw cooler air into his systems.
Ratchet’s hand returned to his head, petting him in short, smooth strokes. His fingers shook, his field heavy with satisfaction.
Heat across Sunstreaker’s back clued him in to Sideswipe, whose spark Sunstreaker could feel whirling madly. Sunstreaker’s own spark throbbed in response, a quiet hello through the armor that separated them. Sideswipe’s spike lingered in Sunstreaker’s valve, half-pressurized but present.
Sunstreaker’s optics shuttered. His frame thrummed. Had that really happened? He still wasn’t sure if he dared believe it.
“Sunstreaker? You with us?” Ratchet asked.
“Mmmm.” He forced his optics to online, blinking as he looked up at Ratchet. “’M with you,” he replied.
“He’s pleasure-drunk is what he is,” Sideswipe said with a chuckle. One hand slid up from where it pressed against Sunstreaker’s belly, to stroke over Sunstreaker’s chestplate above his spark. “We blissed him out. He must really like this.”
“Nnn. That’s not it,” Sunstreaker said, struggling to coherency. He unwound his arms from Ratchet and struggled to push himself up, though his limbs felt like jelly. “It’s not about the… the waste, Sides.”
Ratchet’s hand curled under Sunstreaker’s chin, tilting his head up to look into Ratchet’s optics. “It’s about trust, isn’t it?” he asked quietly.
Sunstreaker leaned into Ratchet’s hand. “You said yes,” he replied barely above a whisper as Sideswipe’s arms wrapped around him, embracing him from behind. “You still love me.”
Ratchet curled toward him, pressing their foreheads together. “Yes, Sunstreaker. I still love you.”
“And you know that I do,” Sideswipe added, giving Sunstreaker a squeeze and nuzzling the back of his head. “I’ll always love you. No matter what.”
There it was. The thing he knew all along, but sometimes, didn’t dare to trust. Sunstreaker trembled between them, his spark throbbing with warmth, with acceptance. He wondered if he could stay in this moment forever, trapped in time, and never again face what was out there.
He knew he couldn’t. He just wished he could.
“Sunny,” Sideswipe said, his hand stroking Sunstreaker’s chestplate. “I really do love you, but is it okay if we get clean now?”
Ratchet laughed. Even Sunstreaker managed a chuckle. He wriggled out of the tight embrace, despite wanting to linger there forever.
“Yeah,” he said. “Let’s get clean.”
Sideswipe grinned and pumped a fist into the air. “I’ve never wanted a shower so badly,” he said as he danced over to the sprayer, twisting it onto his preferred setting. “Except maybe that one time Prowl punished us by giving us a scouting assignment in the desert. Sand. So much sand.” He shuddered, his plating twitching.
Ratchet and Sunstreaker exchanged glances from where they sat on the floor, still in a puddle of sticky fluids.
“You know, we did neglect him a little,” Ratchet said, a devious smile pulling at his lips.
Sunstreaker’s gaze wandered from Sideswipe, to the spray of solvent, and back again. “We did,” he agreed, giving Ratchet a conspiratorial look. “And I think he needs a hand or two getting clean, don’t you?” He stood up, his gaze focused on his oblivious twin.
Ratchet chuckled. “He does tend to miss a few spots.” He climbed to his feet, making a show of dusting off his frame. “Together?”
Sunstreaker nodded. “Together.”