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With the war finally over came reparations, and with reparations came bureaucracy, public discontent, and - currently most pressingly - grime. A staggering, unspeakable amount of grime.
Thanks to Rumble and Frenzy’s overzealous dismantling of what probably used to be an old refinery (“acute urban renewal,” they called it), half of the street looked like someone had stirred it with a stick. The other half had been flattened. Crushed pipes, pulverised insulation, melted slag - and all of it had found its way on Soundwave’s once-pristine white and cobalt plating.
He stared down at his chassis, mottled and streaked with filth. Some of it glittered. That was probably a bad sign.
”Care to join me for a wash?” came a deep, now-familiar voice from his side.
Optimus Prime stood there, looking like he’d gone a few rounds with a petro-rat. His red plating was dulled by soot and dried coolant, legs and forearms nearly grey with the impromptu coating. And yet, somehow, he managed to look majestic. Heroic, even. Stately, but approachable. The kind of mech who could lead an army and then help you fix your leaky roof afterwards.
Soundwave nodded soberly, expression unreadable behind his mask and visor.
The washrack was a quiet one, tucked away in the outer sectors - far from the endles disputes, requests, and questions that came with being either a Prime or a former Decepticon commander. Rows of open showerheads lined the walls, steam already curling into the air. Besides them lay a large, communal soak basin, enticingly filled with softly bubbling solvent. Soundwave took a stall on one side, Optimus the other.
Warm water jetted from the showerhead, hitting Soundwave’s plating in firm, rythmic pulses. It kneaded into his frame, chasing out tension he didn’t realise he’d been clinging to. His shoulders dropped. His vents cycled more slowly. He grabbed from soap from the dispenser besides him, letting the hiss of relaxing hydraulics and steam surrounded him like a lullaby as he therapeutically cleaned his frame.
Might as well do this properly, Soundwave thought, retracting his faceplate and visor. Optimus had seen his face before during fueling breaks, so it was fine. He ducked his helm under the spray, letting the solvent sluice over his helm, down his face, over the tight lines of his frame. He ex-vented, letting the solvent beat the hard labour of the day out of him. A dull warmth began to coil in his core as his thoughts drifted - not just the heat from the solvent, but something else.
He turned to reach for the soap again, but paused.
And froze.
There, just across the room, stood Optimus Prime in all his unbothered glory - with his spike hanging loose, casual as a datapad on a desk. Just… there.
Soundwave stared. He belatedly remembered he had no mask on, heat surging to his face.
The spike was large. Thick, ridged, faintly glowing with biolights along each curve. Not fully erect, but not exactly relaxed either - hanging with the quiet menace of a stormcloud. Soap ran in rivulets down Optimus’ broad thighs, and Soundwave’s systems went from idle to warm-start in a blink.
He flicked his wide optics up - too slowly.
Optimus had noticed.
“Is… something wrong?” the Prime asked, voice full of that calm, paternal concern he showed his subordinates, and now woefully wayward Decepticons as well.
Soundwave’s vocaliser stuttered. He could practically feel the energon burning his face, his pale plating making it all the more obvious. He scrambled for his renowned composure, dignity, decency - but all he could do was gesture, vaguely, at the Prime’s exposed equipment.
“…Unexpected,” he said flatly.
Optimus followed the gesture, looked down, then back at Soundwave with the faintest tilt of his head. “Ah,” he said, with no visible shame. “Is it bothering you?”
His tone was so earnest that it was almost endearing. Almost.
Soundwave shook his head, optics still (regrettably) drifting downward again. “Decepticons: wash… array in private,” he managed.
“Ah. Yes, well - Autobots tend to… take care of things as needed,” He spoke like someone explaining a cultural practice, which, in a way, he was. “It saves time,” he added, as if that clarified anything.
Soundwave’s systems were not saving time. They were spiraling. He could feel the lubricant gathering low in his valve, his internals heating from more than just the solvent now. This was getting dangerous.
He should turn around. He should say something neutral, nod, maybe escape and scrub down elsewhere. Instead, he found himself standign there like a stunned rone, soaked in more ways than one. That spike was too salacious.
Screw it.
His social skills were negligible at the best of times. Optimus was strong. Big. Capable. He was build like a cathedral and carried himself like a walking peace treaty. Just Soundwave’s type.
“Spike: very nice,” Soundwave said at last, voice flat as ever, though with a (he hoped) strong hint of interest.
There was a pause. A beat of hot mist and tension. Soundwave adjusted his pose, tilting his head and pushing his chest forwards in hopes of clarifying his intentions.
Optimus gave him a look - half surprised, half amused - and then a broad grin tucked at the corners of his mouth. Warm. Solid. Grounding, even - if it weren’t for the fact that it was being directed at him while the most perfectly-constructed spike in the known universe hung freely between Optimus Prime’s thighs, biolights glowing like a sparkbeat.
“Thanks,” he said, warm and unflappable. Soundwave wanted to sink to the floor. Preferably with Optimus along with him. His valve throbbed, clenching down on nothing. His stabilisers shifted instinctively, trying to find ground as if he weren’t about to come undone.
Soundwave’s vocalizer glitched, once. He recalibrated. Then:
“Request: interface.”
Optimus paused. “...Pardon?”
Soundwave stepped forward, unblinking. “Request: immediate interface.” His tone was flat. Devoid of affect. But his field - usually tightly shuttered - was buzzing with raw heat.
He glanced once more at the spike, optics visibly dilating. “Your unit is ideal. Statistically rare. Desired.”
A beat of silence.
“Well then,” came the voice again - soft, questioning, edged with the kind of patience that could shame saints, curling through the humid air like steam. “Come here,” Optimus said, with a calm certainty that made Soundwave’s spark nearly stall. And Soundwave - trembling slightly, face beyond flushed blue - did.
He crossed the wet tiles quickly, until Prime’s heat enveloped him, until those broad, grounding hands settled at his hips, guiding but never forcing. Prime’s spike pressed hot against his abdomen - thick, solid, thrumming with charge.
“You alright?” came the low murmur, dipping his helm slightly, optics bright.
“Need it,” Soundwave uttered. He wasn’t just aroused - he was starved. Every sensor, every field node, screamed for touch. There was no hiding it now. No point pretending. His body was singing with want, his field an open burst of raw signal need. And the Prime - damn him - was calm. Collected. A pillar in a storm.
Soundwave surged forward, crashing into a kiss like a transmission dropped into gear too fast—messy, unpracticed, desperate. It was sloppy. Prime met him with equal pressure, hands sliding down to grope his aft as Soundwave nearly collapsed against his frame.
Optimus’s spike was hard now, the ridges thick and pulsing, pressing up against Soundwave’s thigh and too enticing to ignore. Soundwave’s own spike remained sheathed, forgotten - his valve was already fluttering, slick with need and ready to be filled as the panel retracted with a click. When Optimus circled the rim and eased his fingers inside, Soundwave shuddered. His entire frame went taut, static bursting across his field. The touch was perfect — thick digits curling just right, stroking him open in slow, thorough circles, stretching out eager calipers.
Soundwave whimpered into the kiss - an actual whimper, high and shamed - and rolled his hips forward, grinding his soaked valve against the base of Optimus’s spike. His hands roamed, clutching at plating, dragging fingers across seams.
He clung to Prime’s shoulders, panting. “Please.”
Optimus grinned and lifted him like he weighed nothing, backing him into the warm tile wall. Soundwave wrapped his thighs around his waist, breath hitching.
Then, Prime’s spike aligned, pressed, entered.
Soundwave gasped, far too loud and entirely unfiltered as it stretched him open. His valved pulsed around the intrusion, fluttering and squeezing around every ridge as it sank in deeper, bit by bit. His head thunked back against the tile.
"Primus," he ex-vented, voice cracking.
Every slow thrust lit fireworks behind his optics. His body opened like it had been waiting for this his whole life. Prime filled him completely, perfectly - deep, encompassing, consummate.
“Exquisite,” Optimus panted, lips brushing his cheek. “You feel incredible.”
His dignity slipped away faster than a cooling vent on overdrive. His hips bucked helplessly, optics dimming with every bit that pushed into him. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, but perfect. It was the exact kind of pain and pleasure he wanted.
When Prime bottomed out, Soundwave made a sound halfway between a sob and a moan. He couldn’t stop shaking. His frame clung, clenched, his spark pulsing wildly against his chamber walls. His legs twitched around Prime’s waist. He rutted down, greedy for friction, and was rewarded with a slow, steady pullback.
As Optimus started to move in earnest - steady, forceful strokes that rocked him against the wall - Soundwave became undone.
The pace was firm, unhurried — designed to feel. Every thrust stroked over the sensor lining inside Soundwave’s valve, dragging across his anterior node, making his vents sputter wildly, though they were drowned by Optimus’ strong vents blasting at full capacity on him, steam forming around them.
Soundwave moaned, head tilted back, valve squelching wetly with each slow, slick plunge. His frame was already trembling.
His voice cracked. “Faster- need-”
Optimus complied. The rhythm intensified, hips slamming forward now with controlled force. Steam curled around them, obscuring the walls, turning the washrack into a sacred haze of steam and sound and fluid-slick plating.
The spike was every bit as perfect inside of him as he imagined it to be, ridges catching his calipers while the head caught on the opening of his gestational chamber. Oh, how he needed to be filled with transfluid.
With a few more thrusts, his overload hit fast, like lightning, full-body and blinding - his valve clenched down hard, spasming around the Prime’s spike as bursts of lubricant spilled out in waves. His head fell back against the tile, mouth open in a silent cry as Optimus mouthed his neckcables.
And still, Optimus kept going. Carried him through it.
He held him there, driving through his spasms. Soundwave’s optics were hazy, his hands scrabbling at Prime’s back. His vocalizer buzzed with static. All of him was open, exposed, taken. At last, Optimus groaned, a low - shuddering noise - and spilled into him, his own spike pulsing hard as he overloaded, spilling warm transfluid deep into Soundwave’s twitching valve.
They sagged together, sliding slowly down the wall. Soundwave slumped against him, strutless and panting in the Prime’s lap.
The spike slipped out with a wet drag, but Optimus’s hands didn’t stop moving - still exploring, closing in on the sensitive gold rim of his dock. The hot, blasting vents before him dried his plating as the shower had automatically turned off, and Soundwave shivered. The remnants of charge still crackled through his frame.
He turned around on his hands and knees, still trembling, and looked back expectantly.
Optimus understood immediately - because of course he did - and grasped Soundwave’s hips, guiding him back onto that divine spike with the patience of a saint and the stamina of a battle tank.
Soundwave moaned as the ridges caught on his anterior node, glowing brightly as Optimus’ fingers massaged the lips around the spike. The thrusts resumed - firm and deep and perfect. His calipers spread and pulsed again, greedy and slick, fluttering around the thick intrusion.
Nothing - nothing - beat a good spike after a long, dreadful day.
Optimus adjusted his angle slightly, hitting right on a cluster of nodes that had Soundwave spitting static as sharp, hot pleasure burst straight to his processor. His arms gave out, and his chest hit the wet tile with a smack.
And still, the thrusts came - faster, firmer. Pleasure coursed through his lines, building too fast to hold as he arched his back. His second overload came with a vengeance, leaving him gasping an twitching as Optimus finished with one final groan, driving deep and filling him to the brim.
Soundwave lay there, limp, awash in bliss and transfluid. The spike eventually slipped free - though still very much pressurised. It was to be expected, mechs his size ran like freight trains once they got going.
No matter. Soundwave had other ideas.
He motioned for Optimus to move back. They’d drifted towards the edge of the communal pool, and Soundwave slipped into the softly bubbling solvent with a hiss of satisfaction as the warm bubbles were heaven on his wrecked valve. Optimus eagerly settled by the edge, spike proud as Soundwave gave it a slow, appreciative look.
Without ceremony, Soundwave grabbed the spike, fingers feeling the slick ridges before drawing the head towards his mouth.
His glossa traced lazy circles along the sides, mapping the sensitive biolights. Optimus groaned - a rich, molten sound - and rested a hand gently on Soundwave’s helm, encouraging.
Soundwave mouthed the girthy length, licking clean the remnants of transfluid and lubricants. He then sucked the head between his lips. A sharp intake came from above him, and the grip tightened.
Every groan spurred him on, letting more of the spike slip into his mouth. It had been a while since he’d done this, but he loosened his throat as the girth slipped down, letting his dentae graze the ridges.
Most of the length went down. Not all - that was impossible - but enough to draw a groan from Prime’s chest. Soundwave bobbed his head slowly while working his hands in tandem, letting the thick spike stretch his throat just enough to make his optics flutter, savoring the taste, the warmth, the solid weight of it.
He relaxed into a rythmic bobbing, with Optimus’ hips gently rocking into his mouth while groaning. Soundwave moaned around him - a deep vibration that made the Prime shiver.
The pace picked up. The hand on his helm guided him now carefully. Let Optimus take his pleasure. Let himself be used. If he wasn’t already spent, he would be on the verge of overload himself with just a few touches.
A few more thrusts, and Prime stilled.
Thick spurts of transfluid gushed down his throat, hot and heavy, which he eagerly swallowed. As the spike left his mouth, another gush landed on his face. He licked and savoured the taste with an audible hum, hazed and blissed.
Finally, the spike depressurised.
"Good spike," Soundwave rasped, vocaliser wrecked.
Optimus chuckled, deep and warm and staticky. "You weren't too bad yourself."