Somehow, and Ratchet still isn’t sure why, it’s never just one.
Vampiric mechs – and thank you Swerve for that term – apparently enjoy feeding in groups. Luckily, Ratchet doesn’t mind. His frame can support the increased drain, the quote-unquote vampires are more at ease and satisfied, and Ratchet…
Triple the vampires; triple the pleasure. If more mechs knew about the good side effects, they’d be opening up their lines in eager offering. But maybe Ratchet will keep this little secret to himself. There’s plenty of him to go around.
And plenty of pleasure for them to offer in return.
In the beginning, Ratchet had volunteered out of necessity. When it was discovered that the three mechs had been infected by an unknown pathogen, one picked up on their exploration of a supposedly uninhabited planet, plans had been discussed. This pathogen, somehow metallic in nature, had infected their personal coding and altered it in subtle ways.
Outward appearance remained the same, for the most part, with the rest of the physical changes minor. Primary denta were replaced by fangs. When startled, angry, or hungry, sharp talons emerged from their fingertips. They experienced upgrades in their capabilities, including the capacity to move quicker and enhanced sensory reception. But they also ran colder and quieter.
All of that was manageable.
The new inability to consume energon, however, was not. Their frames became incapable of processing energon, engex, or high grade. Only if it was pre-digested, so to speak, could they process it. If it was warm and fresh from a mech’s lines, their systems could function properly. And yes, it had to be from a mech’s lines.
Attempts to donate energon and serve it in a cube were disastrous.
The sound of Drift purging had been horrific.
Ratchet, as chief medic and built to donate anything from energon to coolant to spare parts to his patients, had volunteered himself. He trusted Perceptor and Brainstorm to come up with a solution to the problem, but in the meantime, he would allow himself to become a source of sustenance for the three newly-turned.
It is the least he can do. He can’t contribute to repairing them, wouldn’t even know where to begin as it is science beyond his education. But he can, at least, be a willing participant, someone to ease their worries and reassure them that he would never let them go hungry.
Duties are rearranged. New schedules are drawn. Now, Ratchet takes half-shifts during the day, and then retires to his hab-suite. He putters around, makes sure his fuel is topped off, and he waits.
Perceptor always shows up first, with Drift not far behind. Ratchet suspects it is a seniority thing. Perceptor is the eldest of them, and also the first-turned, and the rest of the vampires look to him for guidance. Sunstreaker always arrives last, and he’s the hungriest, the first to bare his now pointed denta.
Ratchet’s internals quiver with excitement. His frame heats up. After a week of this, he already knows what to expect, and he’s so ready for it. Anticipation makes his spark shiver, and he hopes his eagerness doesn’t show in his field. He’s not some new-adult with an untouched interface array for Primus’ sake!
“You lock the door behind you?” Ratchet asks, careful to keep his tone gruff.
Sunstreaker nods. “Of course, Ratchet.” There’s a deference in his tone now. It’s in the way he looks to Perceptor first, and the way he lets himself be guided.
Only later will that aggression emerge.
Ratchet’s valve clenches weakly. He can’t wait.
“Good. Then let’s get started.” Ratchet pulls out his chair, what’s become known as the feeding chair, and lowers himself into it. Joints creaking, armor rattling, the weight of centuries resting on his shoulders. “I’m sure you are all hungry.”
“Not as much as you might think.” Drift chuckles. His optics are bright, focused on Ratchet, much like his fellow vampires. They all stare at him as though he’s something delicious, an energon buffet, a tray of assorted goodies.
It’s almost enough to make Ratchet preen, save that they aren’t admiring his frame, but remembering how good his fresh energon tastes.
They look at him as though trying to decide the juiciest place to bite. They all have their favorites, but sometimes, they do switch things up for a change of pace. The bites tend to heal over a period of recharge due to something in their saliva. Perceptor’s fascinated by it. Says that he hopes to replicate whatever it is afterward.
Imagine the advancements! The applications for medcenters across the universe!
Pah. Silly scientists.
“Speak for yourself,” Sunstreaker growls, attracting Ratchet’s attention. His armor jitters. His optics are paler than the others. For some reason, he’s struggling the most with the changes. Because he’s a twin perhaps.
“Hush,” Perceptor murmurs, barely loud enough to qualify as a command, but it works as one. Both Sunstreaker and Drift snap their mouths shut, though Sunstreaker licks his lips again, allowing Ratchet a glimpse of pointed denta.
A tremble dances up his spinal strut.
Perceptor’s gaze focuses on Ratchet, his optics glowing brighter, even behind the targeting reticule. “Ratchet, if you don’t mind, I will begin here,” he says as he drags his fingers from Ratchet’s right hip to his right knee.
Ratchet gestures toward himself. “I’m at your service, Perceptor.”
He watches, avid, as Perceptor lowers himself to his knees on Ratchet’s right side. He strokes another hand down Ratchet’s thigh and leans in close. Ratchet hears his fans spin to life, his vents sucking in a burst of air as though tasting Ratchet with his chemoreceptors alone.
Perceptor’s field shivers with desire and hunger both. His engine rumbles as he leans close, scrubbing his cheek along Ratchet’s thigh armor. He’s cold to the touch, as though the virus leeches heat from his systems. His lips follow the path of his cheek, and then his glossa as well, leaving a streak of oral lubricant behind.
Ratchet shivers. He works his intake. He rests his right hand against Perceptor’s back, behind his scope. The other forms a fist and rests on his left thigh.
Perceptor is a tease. A master of anticipation. His engine hums, glossa laving a wet path before he circles back to mid-thigh. He licks a long, narrow transformation seam and it takes all Ratchet has not to groan aloud.
Primus, just get on with it!
Perceptor’s hands curl against Ratchet’s thighs. He ex-vents a burst of heat, and his lips part, pointed denta glinting in the overhead light. He looks up then, asking permission without words.
Ratchet jerks his head into a nod.
The corner of Perceptor’s lips curve into a smirk. His attention returns to Ratchet’s thigh, denta rasping against his plating, before Perceptor bites. His denta sink past armor, down to the protoform.
Ratchet jerks with a little grunt. There’s pain, a quick flash of it, like a pinch to his cables. But then heat comes in the wake, a flush of fiery pleasure that makes him tremble. His valve cycles faster, lubricant pushing at his panels. His spike gives a twitch of interest, surging to thickness.
He swallows again, intake bobbing. Perceptor’s glossa flicks over the bite marks before he clenches his jaw harder and pierces an energon line. Ratchet’s energon begins to trickle free. Perceptor hums, his field rippling with pleasure and satisfaction.
One down, two to go.
Ratchet looks up, but Drift is already approaching him. His optics are so very bright and focused. He circles around Ratchet’s back and presses against him from behind, engine revving hard enough to vibrate their frames. He presses a kiss to the back of Ratchet’s head.
“You okay?” he whispers into Ratchet’s audial.
“You know I am,” Ratchet mutters and reaches up with his free hand, petting Drift’s head. “Get to drinking, kid.”
“Not a kid.” Drift nuzzles into his intake, lips teasing along cables and sensitive dermal metal. He licks at Ratchet’s neck, each tiny lap of his glossa sending jolts through Ratchet’s frame.
Drift is nowhere near as much of a tease as Perceptor, but he still kisses and licks all over Ratchet’s intake before he settles on the juncture of neck and shoulder. His denta graze over the heated cables and then they sink in, easily piercing Ratchet’s secondary energon line.
Ratchet groans, aloud this time, as pleasure and heat float in the wake of the initial sting. He sucks in a vent, leaning back into the embrace of Drift’s arms, the flick of his glossa, the firm grip of his denta. Perceptor suckles from him slowly, and Drift even more so, Ratchet’s systems registering the trickling drain, but no alerts on his HUD yet.
One more remains.
“Finally,” Sunstreaker mutters. Has no patience at all, that one. Then again, given that he always has to wait, it’s not unexpecteed.
Sunstreaker drops to his knees and makes a beeline for Ratchet, pushing between Ratchet’s legs, his palms skimming a path along Ratchet’s inner thighs. Sunstreaker’s engine revs, his field prickly with hunger and need, and he nuzzles Ratchet’s interfacing array with his cheek.
“I’m going to have this later,” he murmurs as he licks a wet path up Ratchet’s panel.
He drops his hand from petting Drift and strokes the crown of Sunstreaker’s head. “First things first,” he says. “Feed.”
Sunstreaker smirks at him, echoes of his twin in the look, and burrows lips and denta into Ratchet’s hip joint. Ratchet braces himself. Not one for subtlety, Sunstreaker isn’t, and he barely searches before his denta sink into Ratchet’s hip joint. He purrs a hungry sound as he starts to suck, long and deep pulls of Ratchet’s energon.
Ratchet moans and slumps into the chair, letting Drift’s embrace take the weight of his upper half. He rests his hands on Perceptor and Sunstreaker respectively. He finally frees his field, projecting comfort and pleasure both into it. He’s found that if he doesn’t, the three vampires fret about his safety. They won’t take what they need either, and Ratchet much rather they drink to their tank’s satisfaction. Ratchet, after all, can replenish himself with anything.
Ratchet’s engine purrs. He licks his lips, optics shuttering, as he sinks into the sensation. Three different glossas flicking over his armor. Three different pinpricks through his plating, his lines. The steady decrease in his energon levels – though never so low as to be worrisome.
More than all of that is the pleasure. The heavy, syrupy waves of it which radiate outward from each bite. There’s something in the oral lubricant of the vampires. Some kind of aphrodisiac that makes Ratchet tremble, makes his cooling fans click on and audibly whirr. His frame hums and his spark whirls excitedly.
His valve clenches hungrily. More lubricant pushes at his panel, trying to nudge around the seams. His spike is no better, thickening in the sheath, the head rubbing against his closed panel. Ratchet trembles, vents coming faster, his fingers kneading at Perceptor and Sunstreaker.
He could overload just like this, with their denta in his lines. Had, in fact, done so before. The first time they bit him, and he hadn’t known what to expect. He’d anticipated pain, grinding his denta to endure it, willing to make the sacrifice to assist his friends and fellow Autobots.
He had not been prepared for the pleasure. For the thick waves of it. For the way his array sprang to life, and the quickening of his spark, and a hunger of his own. Not for energon, but for pleasure, for overloads, for ecstasy.
The first feeding had been a frenzy. A mess of fluids, energon and transfluid and lubricant alike. It had been unorganized and frantic, a twisting of four different frames on the floor as they never made it to the berth, and Ratchet doesn’t remember much of it, save that he’d been overwhelmed by the overloads.
They’d learned since then. How to organize, how to work together, how to indulge without hurting one another.
Ratchet’s thoughts dissolve. He moans aloud as Drift cups his jaw, turns his head, makes it easier for him to access Ratchet’s neck. He bites a little harder, more energon flowing into his mouth, his glossa palpating the line caught between his denta.
Sunstreaker’s fingers scrape patterns into his armor. Kneading his thighs like a turbofox. He’s purring like one, too. Engine soft and rumbling, his expression one of bliss as he sucks and sucks and sucks. He looks so content and peaceful, lines of war-stress easing from his face.
Perceptor, the first to feed and always the first to stop, eases himself away from Ratchet’s thigh. His lips and denta are stained with energon, but his optics are bright. Energon trickles from his bite marks, and Perceptor is quick to lean down and lap it up. Each flick of his glossa makes Ratchet twitch, another low moan rising in his intake.
Perceptor straightens and licks his lips clean. He grins, slow and sultry, his free hand cupping Ratchet’s face, opposite of Drift’s grin. He rises up and leans in, and Ratchet will never admit how he trembles, how anticipation curls hotly throughout his internals.
Ratchet sighs when Perceptor’s mouth slants over his, and Perceptor’s glossa pushes inside. He tastes of energon, stripped of all flavor, hot and bitter. It’s the taste of Ratchet’s own energon, and something about that realization never fails to make him purr with need.
Perceptor’s field pushes and pulls against Ratchet’s, sizzling with need. His free hand drifts over Ratchet’s abdomen, teasing into transformation seams. His pointed denta nip Ratchet’s lips, scraping the delicate dermal metal.
Ratchet moans. His interface array springs open, panels spiraling aside to free his array to the warm air. It wisps over his exposed equipment, taunting him with sensation.
Energon levels at forty percent and holding steady. Ratchet’s in no danger of shutting down or offlining. Instead, his engine growls and charge dances out from beneath his armor. He presses against the back of Perceptor’s head, encouraging the scientist to deepen the kiss.
It is, after all, time for his reward.
Drift’s fangs retract next. He laps over the bitemarks and leaves soothing kisses in their wake. Drift’s fingers shift to pat over Ratchet’s windshield, and his other hand slides down to stroke Ratchet’s neck, opposite of where Drift had bit. Drift presses against him, hot and needy, his field screaming less of hunger and more of arousal, his ex-vents teasing Ratchet from behind.
Ratchet shivers. He shifts restlessly on the chair, hips rolling forward, his spike bobbing free and his valve seeping lubricant. It pools beneath his aft, his rim twitching. He squirms, desperate for someone to touch him.
Sunstreaker is the one to oblige. His fangs retract, he gives a cursory swipe of his glossa to the bite marks, and then he tackles Ratchet’s array. He makes a hungry, pleased noise before he swallows Ratchet’s spike to the base, the head of it bumping the back of Sunstreaker’s intake in one smooth motion.
Ratchet moans into Perceptor’s kiss. His hips buck toward the warmth of Sunstreaker’s mouth, but firm frontliner hands keep him in place. Sunstreaker’s mouth and lips are hungry, eager, as they work Ratchet’s spike, intake flexing around the head and glossa stroking along the length. He sucks Ratchet like transfluid is just as sustaining to him as Ratchet’s energon. Which maybe it is. Sunstreaker swallows him down more often than not, and drinks Ratchet’s load everytime, and he never purges it.
Ratchet shudders at the thought, sustaining the vampires with transfluid as well as his own energon. His internal temperature skyrockets, pleasure spooling tighter and tighter within him. Perceptor’s kiss is relentless, a steady press of his mouth and glossa, sometimes deep and exploratory. Other times light and brushing.
Ratchet quivers in the middle of them. Drift’s fingers stroke his seams. His mouth laves a hot, electric pleasure on Ratchet’s intake. Perceptor’s field hooks into his, spiraling the need higher and higher. Sunstreaker’s mouth abandons his spike, and Ratchet doesn’t even have a moment to mourn that because Perceptor’s hand curls around it. And then there’s a warm, wet mouth on Ratchet’s valve, licking him long and deep.
He whimpers. He writhes among them. His hips make little aborted rolls forward, against Sunstreaker’s eager mouth. Into the suckling motion on his anterior node cluster. And the long, wet strokes of Sunstreaker’s glossa against his swollen rim. And the careful scrape of denta against his node.
Perceptor squeezes his spike. Strokes him base to tip and back again. He fingers the head, teases around the transfluid slit, and squeezes him back down to the base.
Ecstasy roars inside of Ratchet.
His thighs tremble. Charge dances out from his substructure. He squeezes his optics shut as he focuses on the pleasure. His spark spins faster and faster, his frame blasting heat, though it is all too quickly leached by the chilly frames surrounding him.
Ratchet trembles, cables going taut.
Sunstreaker nips his anterior node, and Ratchet jerks. Need sparks through him like a flashfire. It tightens faster and faster in his tanks. He pants against Perceptor’s lips, fingers shaking where they grip Sunstreaker’s head and Perceptor’s shoulder.
He’s close, so close.
And then Sunstreaker growls against his array. He abandons Ratchet’s valve as Perceptor’s hand abandons his spike, only for Sunstreaker’s mouth to replace it all over again. He swallows Ratchet down to the base, and sucks hard.
Ratchet jerks and overloads hard, backstrut curving as his spike pumps down Sunstreaker’s intake, transfluid spilling into the frontliner’s mouth. His vents dump heat into the room, his entire frame rattling with ecstasy. Sunstreaker swallows every drop, mouth working Ratchet gently. He makes little happy noises in his intake, the vibrations caressing Ratchet’s spike.
Ratchet slowly descends from his pleasure high, not that he falls very far. He’s still firm in Sunstreaker’s mouth, still hard and aching, his valve cycling hungrily, and his entire frame taut with tension.
Three bites. Three feedings. He’ll need at least three overloads to clear the need from his system.
Oh, what a trial that will be.
Panting, Ratchet sags back into Drift’s embrace. Perceptor nuzzles his cheek, lips leaving little kisses over his nasal ridge.
Sunstreaker lets Ratchet slip free of his mouth. His cheek scrubs over the length with a happy purr. He gives it a parting kiss and pushes Ratchet’s thighs further open, burying his face against Ratchet’s valve again, giving it long and savoring licks. Ratchet quivers, lubricant seeping freely only to be caught by Sunstreaker’s glossa. He’s making hungry, desperate noises as he licks into Ratchet, teasing at the nodes just inside his rim.
“One,” Perceptor counts aloud, and his hand drifts down again. Down to Ratchet’s spike, bobbing free in the chilled air.
“Time for number two,” Drift adds on a murmur, his lips caressing the sensitive metal surrounding Ratchet’s audial.
Ratchet shivers. “Well get to it then,” he grunts, leaning back against Drift.
Perceptor chuckles. “Your clear interest makes this all easier to bear, Ratchet,” he murmurs and kisses Ratchet again, though it’s short and sweet. He squeezes Ratchet’s spike. “Mind if I borrow this?”
“I insist,” Ratchet replies. He licks his lips, still tasting Perceptor on them. “I don’t have all night.”
Sunstreaker chuckles against his valve. “Same old Ratchet,” he murmurs, and nips at Ratchet’s anterior node cluster. The tiny sting makes his hips jerk and his valve contract hungrily.
“Don’t you start,” Ratchet growls.
Sunstreaker laughs again. He gives a parting kiss to Ratchet’s node before he backs away, his face liberally streaked with lubricant. He licks his lips, cleaning them, and Ratchet’s mouth waters. He’s so pretty dressed in interfacing fluid.
How did he get so lucky, he wonders, as Perceptor takes advantage of Sunstreaker moving aside. He swings a leg over Ratchet’s hips and straddles his lap, his groin hovering over Ratchet’s spike. Lubricant drips from an already open panel, sizzling hot where it paints the head of Ratchet’s spike.
“Shall I?” Perceptor asks as he rolls his hips, teasing the head of Ratchet’s spike with the plump heat of his valve. It’s the only part of them that remains naturally warm.
“I won’t beg,” Ratchet growls as his hands find Perceptor’s hips, trying to urge the scientist downward. He bucks upward, the tip of his spike teasing along the wet fold of Perceptor’s valve.
Perceptor chuckles. His smirk does sinful things to Ratchet’s spark. “You will not have to,” he says before he cants his hips, catches Ratchet’s spike and sinks down onto it.
Ratchet groans, his spike throbbing as Perceptor’s calipers grip onto it and start flexing mercilessly. Charge leaps from his sensor nodes, making contact with Perceptor’s receptors.
Perceptor shivers. His fingers curl, slipping into seams, stroking the cables beneath. Behind Ratchet, Drift moans, ex-venting hotly against Ratchet’s audial. He hears a panel open seconds before something rigid and wet slides against his back. Drift rolls his hips, his spikehead leaving streaks of lubricant over Ratchet’s dorsal armor.
Drift grabs Ratchet’s jaw. He turns Ratchet’s head, and Ratchet goes with it willingly, eager for his lips to meet Drift’s. He groans into the kiss, Drift’s kisses a taste and a tease all at once.
Perceptor lingers in his lap, taking him deep, still for several vents. He quivers around Ratchet’s spike as though savoring before he starts to move, thighs working as he lifts and drops himself.
Ratchet moans, his hands tightening on Perceptor’s hips, less to guide as to ground himself from the pleasure wreaking havoc on his frame. His lines spark with fire. Even more so when there’s a careful touch on his valve, that of curious fingers. He doesn’t have to look to know that they belong to Sunstreaker.
He can’t thrust up into Perceptor, or down against those fingers. He can only sit on the chair, pinned between two frames, as those skilled fingers curl and rub, teasing the first and second ring of nodes within his valve. As Perceptor rides his spike, faster and faster, his valve clutching and squeezing it hungrily. And Drift ruts against his back, making urgent noises in his intake, while he covers Ratchet’s face and mouth in kisses.
The pleasure comes faster, hotter, searing.
Ratchet once again finds himself twitching and writhing between them. His cooling fans spin faster. His engine roars and rattles the frames around him. His spark dances and twirls as charge races through his lines. His spike throbs faster, soaking in the charge Perceptor’s valve offers. His own squeezes down on Sunstreaker’s fingers, and he whimpers as a thumb rubs over his anterior node in small, tight circles.
They are so careful with him. Grateful and appreciative. From the moment they realized their bites caused him pleasure, and how startling it was. Then and there, they’d almost quit. Forced themselves into stasis until a cure could be found.
Ratchet had to convince them, one by one, that the pleasure was hardly a trial. That he was willing to continue, so long as they were. And if one thing led to another, well, Ratchet was hardly opposed.
The second feeding went better. Less a frenzy, and more a controlled shift from hunger to desire, one Ratchet actually remembered come the morning, his frame sore and sated and curled up in Perceptor’s arms.
Hardly a trial at all.
Now Perceptor is riding his spike with increasingly urgent motions, and Sunstreaker is fingering him perfectly, his fingers having memorized all of the best ways to make Ratchet squirm, and Drift’s mouth is hot and teasing on his neck.
Ratchet can’t stop trembling, making aborted motions in the middle of them, and there’s no stopping the overload that crashes over him. He moans as he spills deep inside Perceptor and his valve clasps down on Sunstreaker’s fingers. Drift swallows his moan with another one of those deep kisses.
There’s a wet splatter against his backstrut as Drift overloads with a deeply satisfied sound. He nuzzles Ratchet’s face as Perceptor grinds down over his spike, his valve spiraling deliciously tight as he overloads as well. Their fields spike with pleasure, swallowing up Ratchet’s, and burying him in waves of ecstasy.
Drift nips his lips and draws back, enough that Perceptor can turn Ratchet’s head back toward him for a kiss. One soft and sweet and appreciative. Ratchet hums into the kiss, even as Perceptor’s weight shifts, and he draws back, Ratchet slipping free of his valve. Fluids trickle free in his wake.
“That’s two,” Drift says against his audial as he helps Perceptor tug Ratchet off the chair, though he finds it hard to stand given the rattle in his knees. “More?”
“More,” Ratchet agrees, his vocals striped with static.
Perceptor chuckles. Over his shoulder, Ratchet sees Sunstreaker lick his fingers clean, his optics bright and burning. Ratchet shivers.
His legs wobble as they tug him toward the berth. Ratchet stumbles, lubricant slicking his thighs, dripping to the floor. His spike remains pressurized, throbbing in denied hunger. Need claws through his lines, and his ventilations stutter.
He clambers onto the berth, Sunstreaker wriggling beneath him as Drift plasters himself against Ratchet’s back. He doesn’t have to do anything as Sunstreaker makes urgent noises, his thighs goading Ratchet toward his valve in open invitation. Sunstreaker smells of heat and arousal, and he tugs at Ratchet, something desperate in the motion.
His optics are bright. He’s dragging in air through his mouth. His lips are swollen as though he’s been gnawing on them.
Ratchet hasn’t had the chance to kiss him yet.
He topples forward, braces his weight on his elbows to either side of Sunstreaker’s shoulders, and he slants his mouth over the frontliner’s. He moans as their glossa tangle, and Ratchet thrusts blindly. Sunstreaker’s thighs cradle him, the wet of his valve teasing along Ratchet’s spike, until someone’s hand is there, guiding Ratchet home.
He shivers as he slips into Sunstreaker’s valve, into the gripping, squeezing heat. Sunstreaker whines beneath him, bucking up urgently, but there’s no room for him to move. Not with Drift draped over Ratchet, his spike nudging at Ratchet’s valve, the head rubbing a delicate pressure against Ratchet’s rim.
He doesn’t thrust. Ratchet doesn’t quite have the energy or the leverage for it. He doesn’t need to. Drift’s grip on his hips is firm, and he takes Ratchet in quick, deep plunges that rock Ratchet forward. Drift sets the pace, driving into Ratchet who in turn, rocks into Sunstreaker. He grinds their arrays together as Sunstreaker whines beneath him, his kisses hungry and sharp.
Sunstreaker doesn’t mind his denta. He always leaves bites, even when not feeding, unlike the others. He sucks on Ratchet’s glossa as though it were a spike, and Ratchet swears he can feel the frenetic whirl of Sunstreaker’s spark where their chestplates are pressed together.
Sunstreaker’s need is vibrant and clear. He’s the only one who hasn’t overloaded so far, and it shows in the way he writhes, the way his armor flexes, revealing prettily polished cables beneath. In the frantic clasp of his valve and the rub of his spike against Ratchet’s abdomen.
He’s making all of these needy noises, desperate things that he’d never allow otherwise. It’s both adorable and arousing. Ratchet has to kiss him, has to keep deepening the kiss as his hips sink forward, his spike plunges into Sunstreaker, and Drift drives into him from behind.
Sunstreaker whimpers as he overloads, backstrut arching, his frame pressing against Ratchet’s. He trembles, helm tossing back, hands tight where they grip Ratchet. His valve spirals tight, spike spurting against Ratchet’s belly. His calipers ripple, milking Ratchet’s spike of charge, and it’s enough to tug Ratchet over the edge.
He buries his face against Sunstreaker’s shoulder as the ecstasy crashes over him, his spike spurting over Sunstreaker’s quivering sensors. Sunstreaker groans as a second, smaller overload ripples through his array. He pants, the heated ex-vents caressing Ratchet’s audials.
Behind him, Drift mutters a curse. His fingers dig into Ratchet’s hips as he slams deep, circling his hips and skirting deliciously close to Ratchet’s ceiling node. Not close enough, however, and it’s little more than a tease.
Drift makes little aborted thrusts into him, his pelvis impacting Ratchet’s aft, before his field swells and bursts. Pleasure lights it up.
Ratchet moans as Drift’s overload washes over his sparking sensors. His legs tremble and it’s all he can do to keep from collapsing his full weight on top of Sunstreaker. He presses his forehead to Sunstreaker’s shoulder, panting for cooler air, his limbs feeling as unstable as gelatin.
Drift strokes over his aft, grinds another moment more, and then slowly withdraws from Ratchet’s valve. His calipers twitch in Drift’s wake, and once his spike is free, fluids trickle out, teasing over Ratchet’s valve.
His entire frame hums with pleasure. His processor spins as fast as his cooling fans.
Sunstreaker starts pawing at him. “Come on. Come up here.” His thighs squeeze in on Ratchet’s hips as he squirms.
“Wha…?” Ratchet knows he’s not coherent, but he’s quite sure he’s fried a circuit or two, and his entire frame is floating on a pleasure high.
A finger strokes along his valve rim. “He wants to clean you,” Perceptor says, his tone both amused and aroused. “Would you oblige him?”
Ratchet groans. “I can barely move.”
“Then allow me to help.”
Sunstreaker squirms beneath him. He scoots down the berth, Ratchet’s spike slipping free of his valve, twitching in the cool air. Hands on Ratchet’s frame shift him around, guide him where Sunstreaker wants him, which is apparently perched upon the frontliner’s face. Sunstreaker moans, thick and hungry, his arms encircling Ratchet’s waist as he tugs Ratchet down on top of him.
He buries his face against Ratchet’s valve, lips and glossa diving into the mess of fluids soaking Ratchet’s rim. He groans, almost toppling forward if Perceptor were not there to catch him. Ratchet clings to Perceptor, his hips rocking down toward Sunstreaker’s mouth as Sunstreaker licks and sucks and nibbles him. He laps up every dribble of fluid from Ratchet’s valve, making all of these delicious noises as he does so.
Ratchet, who’d been trying to cycle down from overload, never makes it. The pleasure returns, simmering in his lines, in his array. He circles his hips, anterior node throbbing against Sunstreaker’s nasal ridge, as the frontliner slurps up every dribble soaking Ratchet’s thighs and array.
Perceptor nuzzles Ratchet’s face. “Are you well?” he asks.
“I can’t believe you’re asking me that,” Ratchet groans, his fingers hooked into Perceptor’s seams. His vents are fully open, dumping heat into the room at a rapid pace.
Perceptor chuckles. “I ask because Drift and I have a request if you are willing.”
Ratchet twitches as Sunstreaker licks into him, building the heat around his array into an inferno. “You mean drinking my energon isn’t enough?”
A shadow passes over Perceptor’s face. His field fritzes around the edges, guilt peeking around the corner, and Ratchet instantly feels like an aft. It had been meant as a joke, but he is also more than aware that all of them – even Sunstreaker – hate what they’ve become.
“I’m teasing, Perceptor,” Ratchet says as a shiver races down his spinal strut. Sunstreaker is suckling on his node now, his glossa flicking over it, making concentration difficult. “What do you – ahhhh – what’s the request?”
Perceptor strokes around the curve of Ratchet’s head. He seems almost hesitant, as though now he fears asking more of Ratchet than he should.
Drift, however, seems to have no such qualms.
“Can you take us both?” he blurts out from where he’s kneeling on the berth at Ratchet’s side. “In your valve, I mean. Both of us at once?”
Sunstreaker nips Ratchet’s anterior node in that moment and he gasps, sucking in a sharp vent. His limbs wobble. He sinks down on Sunstreaker’s face, array clenching and squeezing out more lubricant. His rim twitches weakly.
“Ratchet?” Drift prompts, and his own field echoes of the hesitation in Perceptor’s, as if he fears he’s crossed a line, too.
“I can,” Ratchet answers, barely more audible than a moan, his valve cycling harder and faster. Release peeks at him from around the corner, coy and tempting.
But he’s open and relaxed and ready.
Ratchet forces himself back to his knees, lifting himself off Sunstreaker’s face. The frontliner whimpers and makes a grab for him, but Ratchet leans forward against Perceptor.
“Sorry, Sunny,” he says. “I need to borrow all that good work you’ve done down there.”
“Thank you,” Perceptor says and pulls him into a kiss, one Ratchet is all too willing to embrace.
His processor spins dizzily. He’s surrounded by heat and pleasure. Perceptor is kissing him, so soft and sweet, but something urgent in it regardless.
The berth thumps, rustles, and wobbles. Ratchet leans harder on Perceptor and feels hands on his frame. He’s urged forward, into straddling Perceptor’s lap, his spike poking Perceptor’s belly as Perceptor’s spike teases over his valve. The head of it bumps against his throbbing anterior node, and Ratchet shivers. Anticipation curls inside of him, stoking the flames of his arousal.
Then there are hands on his hips and warmth pressing against him from behind. A second spike nudges at his valve, so that both bob against his rim, teasing the delicate metals and exciting his exterior nodes.
Ratchet’s forehead rests against Perceptor’s shoulder. He clings to Perceptor’s waist as he rolls his hips down, trying to encourage at least one of those spikes to slip inside of him. There’s a need yawing deep within him. His ceiling node begs for attention.
Someone, Perceptor he suspects, finally obliges. Ratchet groans as the spike rubs past his swollen rim and fills him in one long, slow push. His spinal strut tingles. His engine roars.
The spike pushes deep and then stills. Ratchet pauses, drawing in shuddery ventilation after shuddering ventilation.
A second spike nudges at his rim, pressure at the caudal lip of his valve. Ratchet trembles, a low moan escaping him as the nudging increases until the second spike slides into him with a slick pop.
His rim quivers, calipers spreading wide to accommodate the second spike. Ratchet’s cooling fans spin so fast that they whine as inch by glorious inch, the second spike pushes into him, clicking past each caliper and leaving raised charge in its wake.
Arms encircle his waist, hands pressing against his belly. Drift’s chin hooks over his shoulder and he ex-vents into the sensitive cables of Ratchet’s neck. Ratchet twitches when Drift laps wetly over the bitemarks he’d left behind. It’s a jolt to the system, a reminder of the ecstasy each feeding session brings him, until finally, Drift is buried within him, his spike throbbing in counterpoint to Perceptor’s.
“You okay?” Drift murmurs against Ratchet’s audial, the whisper of it making Ratchet shiver.
Okay? He’s more than okay. He’s teetering on the edge of overload, stretched to his limits, every node pulsing, his lining molten with heat, his array poised on the precipice. He fears if they move, he’ll overload. But he craves that ecstasy.
“Fine,” Ratchet moans. “Just move already!”
Perceptor chuckles. “So stubborn,” he says as he strokes along Ratchet’s sides, teasing into his seams and fingering the charged cables beneath. “As you wish.”
They move, and Ratchet’s grip tightens to the point his hands creak and warnings crop up in his HUD. He’s putting too much stress on his fingers, his tools, but he desperately needs those pinpricks of pain to ground him.
Perceptor retreats as Drift plunges forward. Perceptor advances as Drift reverses course. Their spikes grind together, perfect counterpoint, so that Ratchet never once feels empty. It’s a dizzying sensation, a push and pull, a tug on his calipers, and a grind against his nodes.
Ratchet rocks forward and back, rubbing his spike against Perceptor’s abdomen, and sinking further onto Drift’s spike. His thighs ache from the strain, but it is secondary if not tertiary to the unfurling ecstasy building within him.
Ratchet’s thoughts splinter in a thousand directions, leaving only the focus on pleasure behind. He rocks between them, his valve spitting charge, his frame desperate, their spikes gliding in and out of him so effortlessly.
The overload peers at him, beckons with sly optics, and Ratchet gives chase, his engine whining into red-line and his fans spinning so fast they vibrate his frame. He pants, finding nothing cool to calm his overheated frame, as he pounces and grabs hold of overload.
It snatches him and tears him asunder. His valve clamps down, spiraling around the spikes dueling for space within him. They push deep, sinking in all at once, throbbing in a perfect counter-rhythm that drives the pleasure higher.
Ratchet gasps, fans whining as he trembles, his frame twitching between them. Pleasure strips him raw, so bright that his limbs tingle and lights dance behind his optics. The wash of their overloads, nearly in tandem, is lost to his own pleasure, despite the charged fluid sending another jolt through his sensor nodes.
Ratchet tilts forward, sagging against Perceptor, his valve clutching weakly at their spikes. His entire frame thrums, his field a purr as it fills the room and flirts with the three vampires. He feels sated, his valve swollen and throbbing, but at least there’s no pain. None at all. Only a lingering bliss that makes him feel like he’s floating.
He barely feels them slip free, only registering his world tilting beneath him as they work together to stretch him across the berth. Ratchet doesn’t even have the wherewithal to draw his knees together. His valve is swollen, hot, begging for relief. The good kind of sore that will linger in the morning in wonderful reminder.
The gentle touch on his valve rim makes Ratchet stir. He can barely move, exhausted and sated. But his rim twitches weakly, calipers flexing enough to push free a trickle of mingled fluids.
“Can I?” Sunstreaker murmurs as he cups Ratchet’s face and strokes around his swollen folds.
Ratchet makes a blind grab, hooks his hands around Sunstreaker’s chassis and tugs. “Do it,” he says.
What’s one more overload in a sea of them? Especially when Sunstreaker’s field blooms with affection and gratitude, and yet despite his haste, he’s ever so gentle as he guides himself to Ratchet’s valve. As his spike sinks into the mess Drift and Perceptor left behind, and all Ratchet’s valve can do is quiver weakly around it.
But it’s good, it’s so good, the way Sunstreaker pumps into him, slow and deep, so deep he finally stirs that ceiling node, sorely neglected all night. Ratchet’s engine purrs. He nuzzles into Sunstreaker’s hand, his thighs pressing in on Sunstreaker’s hips. He can barely move, but he manages to roll up into Sunstreaker’s thrusts, the pleasure unspooling within him like a slow and steady wave of warmth.
The last overload creeps over Ratchet before he knows it. He breathes a moan, one lost to Sunstreaker’s kiss, as Sunstreaker pushes deep, circles his hips, and finally overloads. The wash of transfluid over Ratchet’s deepest node extends the ecstasy, leaving him floating.
Exhaustion seeps in at all directions. Ratchet purrs into Sunstreaker’s kiss before the frontliner withdraws, though not without several parting strokes to Ratchet’s frame. They are gratitude and affection both.
Sunstreaker pulls back, and Ratchet lets him go. Next comes his second favorite part.
They all three converge on him, pulsing gratitude in their fields. Three sets of hands are grateful and respectful and gentle as they wipe down his frame and feed him sips of coolant and energon.
Ratchet hums deep in his chassis, bracing against Perceptor as Drift and Sunstreaker quickly strip the berth and replace the cover. Perceptor nuzzles his head as he strokes fingers down Ratchet’s backstrut as though counting each and every bolt.
Once they are done, Ratchet is eased back onto the berth, and he sighs as he sinks into the plush surface, his entire frame humming with satisfaction. Drift feeds him more sips of coolant and energon, and Sunstreaker attends to him with a polishing cloth, and promises to fix all of his scrapes and scratches and give him a repaint when this is all over.
Ratchet can’t remember a time he’s felt so good, so cared for, so rested. It’s something he could easily get used to, and a part of him almost wishes they aren’t going to get cured, just so he can indulge in this a while longer.
Perceptor kisses him on the chevron and murmurs a ‘thank you’. The back of his fingers stroke around the curve of Ratchet’s cheek.
“Same time tomorrow?” Ratchet replies, though his words are striped in static. Recharge tugs at him. His energon levels are a sultry fifty percent after the energon sips, though they’ll be back to normal in enough time for his vampires to feed tomorrow.
“So long as First Aid clears you,” Perceptor says.
It had been one of the caveats established from the day Ratchet volunteered. He is allowed to continue being their support, but only if he is cleared daily by First Aid or Ambulon.
“Bad enough that we are monsters,” Perceptor had said. “We will not cause undue harm if it can at all be prevented.”
Ratchet had agreed, if only to avoid the sickly, clinging guilt in all three of their fields.
“He will,” Ratchet grunts, and nestles deeper into the berth.
Perceptor smiles, and with one last caress of his fingers, departs. Drift is next to say goodbye, pressing a kiss over Ratchet’s chevron.
“Thank you,” he says. “For letting us indulge ourselves in more ways than one.”
“Stop bein’ sappy,” Ratchet grumbles as his chevron tingles. “And thank me by bringing me some of those energon goodies you make tomorrow. You know the ones I like.”
“I do.” Drift chuckles and brushes their nasal ridges together. “Sleep well, Ratchet.”
Drift takes Ratchet’s nearest hand in his, laying a kiss over Ratchet’s fingertips, before he, too, is gone.
“Your turn to cuddle the old grump, huh?” Ratchet says as he’s left with Sunstreaker, who’s puttering around his habsuite, tidying up the mess.
Sunstreaker jerks his head into a nod. Always surly in the aftermath, that one, as though the guilt’s eating him alive, no matter how often Ratchet reassures him that it’s okay. That Ratchet agreed to this for a reason.
Kid still doesn’t think he deserves it, mercy or kindness. Still thinks he needs to punish himself a thousand times over for a single, desperate mistake.
“Hey, come here,” Ratchet says, twitching his wrist and his fingers. He honestly doesn’t have the energy for anything else. “I’m still owed a little something.”
As in a berthmate. That’s how it’s been. They rotate out depending on who’s on what shift and who can be spared. But they never leave him alone in the aftermath. Someone always sticks around to monitor his vitals, share his berth, and yes, cuddle. It is Sunstreaker more often than not, given that he has the least of duties, other than looking after his pet.
“Who has Bob?” Ratchet asks.
“Tailgate,” Sunstreaker replies, his backplate visibly shuffling. “Daffy bug’s fond of the little weirdo. Slag if I know why. Listens to him even.”
How interesting. “Cyclonus doesn’t mind?”
“Don’t see where it’s his problem.” Sunstreaker shrugs and putters around for a few seconds more before he drags himself to the berth. He’s careful, more careful than people give him credit, as he eases in beside Ratchet.
He’s the only one who never says thank you. At least, not aloud. Ratchet knows he’s grateful. Can read it in Sunstreaker’s field as easily as he reads the guilt and the self-castigation. There’s gratitude in the way Sunstreaker carefully polishes him.
“That’s better,” Ratchet murmurs and forcibly rolls himself into Sunstreaker’s embrace. He’s still hot, a little achy from the exertion, and the chill of Sunstreaker’s frame is satisfaction. “You all right?”
“Should be asking you,” Sunstreaker grumbles. But he tucks himself into Ratchet’s intake, while one of his hands gently strokes into Ratchet’s hip, caressing the marks his fangs left behind.
“I’m perfectly fine.” Ratchet sends the command for his lights to dim and shutters his optics, focusing on counting the hums and clicks of Sunstreaker’s systems. “As I always am.”
“Good.” Sunstreaker’s fingers stroke his hip, again and again, a motion so delicate as to be soothing. His field wraps around Ratchet in a secondary embrace, pulsing gratitude.
Ratchet sinks toward recharge, satisfied and relaxed and sated and comfortable.
It’s for this, too, he thinks. Not only for the pleasure their feeding brings him, but for the care and the company afterward. For feeling useful and adored, for offering Sunstreaker solace and Drift acceptance and Perceptor a chance to be himself.
Maybe he’s selfish in not wanting to share this experience, in wanting to keep it to himself. Maybe he ought to ask for other volunteers.
Or maybe they are all four satisfied with the status quo and see no need to change it.
Either way, Ratchet’s going to keep his mouth shut. This ecstasy is his to keep for now. Or at least until a cure is found.