#bumblewave

37. Hassling the other for attention when they’re needy. (sw/bb)

When arms, warm and bright yellow, wrap around his thin waist, a weight leaning against his back, Soundwave pauses in his typing. Leaning back into the shorter, but stockier mech, he hums something soft and warm.

Bumblebee says nothing, simply rubbing a thumb over a smudge in the purple's mech's armor. He says nothing. But Soundwave knows what he's asking, and he couldn't keep a smile off his face even if he wasn't already turning to gather the yellow scout up with a soft, loving croon.

Thin fingers cradle that adorable, sleepy face, fingers stroking over those puffy, squishy cheeks. With a snickt, Soundwave's visor pops up so he could press a quick, but affectionate kiss to the scout's forehelm, before he lifts Bumblebee and sets off for their quarters, content to let his work pile up for the next day.

No words needed, no verbal begging, just a knowing. An understanding. Bumblebee wanted attention, and was taking advantage of being one of very few mechs capable of touching his back without fear of spooking the spymaster.

And, well, Soundwave was defenseless to this little yellow Autobot's tactics.

41. Whispering that they love them as they kiss them goodnight, unaware that the other is still awake. (sw/bb)

Late at night, with the distant sound of a thunderstorm shaking the world just outside the shaded windows, a yellow mech, half buried in blankets, tries unsuccessfully to doze off. Each crack of thunder has him flinching, silently assuring himself its just weather. It's not the sound of cannons. It's not a blaster going off in the hallway. It's not war.

It's not war. That's over and done with and he's safe with - the door of the hab slid open, letting in one tall, spindly and dark mech. He pauses, silent and looming, for just a second. And then he's at the windows, drawing the noise muffling shades down. Something soft and classical starts playing, and he shuts off the last of the lights.

Bumblebee doesn't bother to online his optics, or move, as Soundwave lifts himself onto the berth with a soft creak of bad knees. The former spymaster does lean over him, visor cast off to the nightstand, he kisses the base of the scout's audial, breathing a soft "love you," before settling in behind him.

Bumblebee doesn't move until he's sure Soundwave is asleep, and its only to press a gentle hand over the thin digits that are now hooked lazily around his frame.

I love you, too.

5. Saying their goodbyes before one leaves for a long period of time. (megs/prowl)

"I'll see you soon." Breathless promises, whispered between desperate kisses and hesitant touches. Prowl's mind was reeling. This was too much, too soon, it was an act of betrayal, he was a traitor - and yet, when Megatron kisses him again, he can only hang from the warlord's arms and kiss back.

"It's not soon enough." Prowl gasps, knocking his forehelm against Megatron's, desperately trying to make his processor speed up, to make this make sense. It doesn't make sense. He shouldn't have worry to miss this mech. He shouldn't be here to begin with!

And yet he is.

"I can't keep doing this." He finally breaks, unable to look up at those genuinely warm, concerned optics. It doesn't make sense for him to be concerned. It feels like hot shame to Prowl. A shame that curled at his mind and taunted him. He shouldn't care about the way a Decepticon looks at him and yet here he is unable to meet one's gaze because they cared about him, because he felt as if he could lay here forever and never move; Prowl would be content to let the world move on without him, if it meant no more long weeks, months, of cold distance, of pretending to hate Megatron.

"One last time," His chin was captured in grey digits, and his head was pulled up to look at the calm, determined warlord. "One last time of this, and then we'll never have to do it again."

"Just get Optimus to sign the peace treaty, and I'll see you again, soon."

29. Moving in together. (megs/prowl)

Prowl is surrounded by boxes. Each one had a room written on it, specifics written in a black marker in his own handwriting. It should be easy. Open the boxes, put away the contents and move on to the next box.

But here he is, sitting in what should be his new kitchen, panic swirling around his spark. Why? The war is over. He doesn't need to hide anymore. No more icy, lonely bursts of time away. He should be fine and yet he's not - his mind is a whirlwind of worry, of anxiety and the towering stacks of boxes are not helping because what if this is a mistake and -

"Prowl?" A heavy hand falls on his shoulder, breaking his pattern of thought. He looks behind him, and through the fog recognizes the large frame of Megatron; of his long hidden lover.

"I told you not to overwhelm yourself." The former warlord murmurs, hooking his hands around the praxian and pulling him up to his pedes. From up here, the stacks of boxes look significantly less threatening. Prowl lets out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in, and he hooks his digits into the seams on Megatron's chest.

"I'm not - I'm fine. I just....I think I should start in the berth room, instead. Less...less new things and more of our things and -"