#it always means somethin to see other femmes with. you know. some shit going on that affects their bodies or some disability | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leftenantsparkles · 5 years

Text

and we kissed (as though nothing could fall)

Summary : James Barnes went to war. He lived it—survived with all his limbs intact and his heart still beating… But Bucky never came home. [ao3]

Pairing : Bucky x Femme!Reader ; background Bucky x Reader x Steve

Rating & Warnings : Rated M for canon typical violence, fanon typical language, and intrusive thoughts. Buckle up for a little smut, a lot of angst, and some smutty angst. 18+

Notes : This a meditation on grief and memory that I wrote for the incomparable @youngmoneymilla’s 5K challenge. I also wanted to write some Jewish!Bucky, so I’m pretty hyped with how this turned out. I hope you enjoy and a big congratulations to Eliza for this well deserved milestone!!

Prompt : Oh, we can beat them, forever and ever // Then we can be heroes just for one day Heroes // Gangs of Youth

Word Count : 7060

It plays in his head like a night at the pictures back in the day—twenty five cents a head, if you can believe that. The shadow looming inside the ticket booth greedily takes the coin as the door parts moments later.

He’s not even sure how he finds his seat. All he knows is that he’s out of the cold.

When the film reel whirs to life, he can’t imagine how he could’ve gotten it more wrong.

Bucky can feel the biting chill as he watches the Howling Commandos wait for their train, his eyes narrowing on the cable meant to carry them all across.

“Remember when I made you ride the Cyclone at Coney Island?”

Steve follows his gaze. “Yeah, and I threw up?”

“This isn’t payback, is it?”

“Now why would I do that?”

Phantom voyeurs jeer in anticipation beside him. All he can do is sit there with them in silent agony, same as he has every other night. He’s locked in the memory… there’s no changing it now.

You come onto the scene with worry on your brow and a curse under your breath.

Even exhausted in a war zone, you’re the prettiest thing he’s seen. Your hair is a mess, already spilling out of the pins you’d only just put in that morning.

“Need some help with that, Agent Sunshine?”

You look to him, momentarily distracted from your panic. “What’s that?”

He nods at your hair and you sigh. The ghost of a smile catches as you fish the errant pins out.

“All this damn hair’s a menace,” you tell him pointedly, handing them over. “You boys are lucky like that.”

“C’mon on, doll. You an’ I both know if you cut it all off today, you’d be hard pressed to find somethin’ else better to whine about tomorrow.”

A shrug. “Well you’re not wrong…”

Turning away from that smug face, you catch a glimpse of Steve and Gabe on the radio sifting through static. Every uttered sound out of that thing put you on edge… It made your skin burn and your throat close up.

He pulls you from wreckage of your mind, those deft fingers working you over. Teasing you. Healing you.

“There’s no shame in sittin’ tight, you know.” His voice is low in your ear—his words just for you. “We’ll be quick. In an’ out. You won’t even have time to miss us.”

He concentrates his efforts on pinning down your locks. The silence is forgiving as he gives you the space you need to collect yourself.

“Who said anything about missin’ you?”

His eyes wrinkle a touch as he beams down on you. All the affection and hope someone ought to feel for another person… There was a time you thought you could drown in it.

This is the last time he would see you alive. He’s watching you like he doesn’t know.

“I’m serious. Stevie an’ me…”

He trails off when the warmth of your palm blooms over his cheek. You surprise him, turning before your time with a playful roll of your eyes.

“You boys ain’t never been quick a day in your life.”

He leans into your touch, a sharp inhale filling his lungs.

“Ain’t no shame in it,” you agree with a solemn nod. “But walkin’ away from a fight? Not my style, Sergeant.”

He holds you there with him for a beat, lacing his fingers with yours.

He turns your hand in his own and kisses it so tenderly…

And before he can blink, the moment’s gone.

Steve’s passing off T-bars to everyone, laying down parameters of the mission.

“Alright, this is a very short—very fast train. We’ve got a ten second window, tops. Mistime it, you’re a bug on the windshield.”

Dugan raises his watch and taps the face. “Better move it, bugs.”

Bucky scratches at the wooden arm on the seat, his shaking fingers begging for purchase as he watches you disappear down the cable after him…

He watches you board, watches those bastards get the jump on you.

He’s helpless as a hole is blown out the side of the train. You pull him to safety, shoving him from the danger.

He watches you fall.

He watches his lips wrap around your name as he screams for you to come back to him…

He wakes on his own, throat still aching over forty years later.

On the nights Bucky can’t sleep, he’s in the lab. It beats just laying there. Staring at the ceiling and praying things are gonna be different by the morning doesn’t do it for him anymore.

He comes here to use his hands—to think. There’s a sterile tranquility when he gets his groove going. So when he’s got some company in there with him, he knows it.

“What are you doin’ home, kid?”

“I could ask you the same, you know.”

The younger Stark pushes off of the door he’s leaning against, coming closer to inspect his Godfather’s handiwork. His voice moves around the lab in what feels like an endless stream of questions.

Was it another one… How bad was it tonight… Is there anything I can do…

It’s not right and he knows it’s not fair… but every lingering syllable is an itch under his skin. He just wants to be left to his own devices so he can scratch himself raw.

Bucky’s eyes narrow on the wire transfer he’s got going on as he tenses over his workspace.

“Really not a good time, son,” he warns. “I’m sorry… Just not the best for company.”

Tony sighs, more than a little disappointed. “Whatever you say, Howard.”

He takes a breath. Bait or no, that shit smarts.

And the poor kid almost looks guilty. Hopping off the bench, he shuffles out of the lab. Bucky stops him before he can get too far, though. He doesn’t even have to get up to do it.

“Your old man ever tell you about Azzano?”

“Azzano…” he echoes. “Italy, right?”

Bucky nods, attentions back on his project.

“During the war?” Tony asks tentatively.

“They ran experiments on me—pumped me full of… fuck if I know, somethin’ else.” He shrugs, “I mean, it sure as shit wasn’t what Erskine had gone and gave Sonny an’ Steve.”

Tony’s quiet for a beat, brows furrowed trying to make sense of the unfathomable. “Then what happened?”

“Steve happened. He brought us home.”

Moments pass in silence. Just a man and his tools clashing with metal, tiny sparks flying contained.

It’s a good while before either moves to break it.

“Dad only ever really talks about him when he’s been drinking… Sometimes he’ll namedrop if I’ve been an extra disappointment.” Tony looks down at his shoes, kicking at some lint on the floor. “Then Aunt Peggy’s out because I refuse to make her cry again.”

“Why not just come to me?” Bucky tries to hide the hurt in his words. “Not enough of a leading expert for you, Mr. Stark?”

“I don’t know… Deductive reasoning?” he asks rhetorically, almost contrite. “Figured you didn’t want to talk if you can’t even tell me what’s eating you up at night.”

Shit.

He puts down his tools and peels his gloves off in an inelegant snap. Bucky gestures for him to sit so he does, scrubbing across his face.

“You’re not gonna find any of this in the history books, alright? So don’t go runnin’ your mouth to impress some so and so.”

“Lay it on me,” Tony challenges.

“What do you want to know?”

“What happened?” He doesn’t even miss a beat. “Why did he crash the plane?”

Bucky’s eyes shoot to the ceiling, a little laugh on his breath. Tony frowns.

“You don’t have to talk if it’s too painful.”

“No, no. You stop that,” he waves him off. “This is what they call a teachable moment, right?”

“So what happened?” he says again.

“When Steve went down… Man alive, Tones. I can tell you, I’ve never been more angry at another living soul.” He scratches at his jaw, shaking his head. “So he’s on the comms, hollerin’ out the words he knows are gonna be his last—some shit, like he didn’t have a choice?”

He was hurt and tired and so, so furious. He just wanted to take him home and leave the war behind… Maybe take him over his knee for scaring him so bad, but he never got the chance.

Steve had to play the hero and save everyone.

—C’mon, Stevie… I just lost my best gal. You really gonna make me go at this all alone over you, too?

Bucky looks at his hands, hoping for answers—begging for release. These hands of his that could’ve done more for the people he loved.

“We were partners,” he says, devastated. “If he had a deathwish, he should ah’ told me. But he just—he left before I could have a say… He died alone when I could ah’ been right there with him. How is that right?”

“No.” His voice is thick and Tony has to shake his head. “It’s not.”

His gaze returns to the boy, remembering who this was all for.

“There’s always a choice, Tony. Don’t you forget that.”

After the war, he doesn’t leave service… Not right away.

He was tired. He just wanted to go home and see his Ma, have a good cry… But there was still work to be done.

He toured with the Commandos some, but it was never the same. They knew it. He knew it. But they got the job done—that was all that mattered.

No one acknowledged that a quarter of their team was missing in action.

No one breathed a word about their hopes or their fears—all of them united by trauma, but forever alone to it…

No one talked about the fact that Bucky had barely aged a minute since V-E Day.

Then came the day they couldn’t hide it anymore. The day the Commandos retired.

It was at a pub in London that they had their long goodbyes. He remembers the night so vividly, their glasses raised high as they toasted eulogy after eulogy… Didn’t make a lick of difference to anyone how much time had passed. Memories flowed in tandem with the booze in their glasses.

Time had made superstitious men of them all. They didn’t want to chance bringing anything more than their wrinkles and pains home with them.

“For Cap… Cap and Sunshine,” Dugan starts off. “For getting all of us sorry bastards into this mess all those fuckin’ years ago.”

Echoed sentiments erupt across the table.

“To Cap and Sunshine.”

And for the first time since you died, he felt like he could breathe… Like he didn’t just dream you up and lose you in the night.

Steve was real. You were real. He had loved you… You and Steve, Steve and you… Bucky loved you both.

Sometime’s you gotta take the loss with all that love. And it hurts.

But he couldn’t bare part with you.

If his choices were suffering while remembering and moving on without you or Steve, he’d choose you every time. There were times the pain was so bad it was almost blinding. But he needs those reminders. He needs to know that it really happened, that it was real.

And it was. What you had together was real.

They all went home to their wives and mothers—shame buried on the other side of the war, heavy embraces slung around the necks of their brothers in arms.

He went home and kissed his Ma. He had that cry. And for a while, he was done… There’s a part of him that knows it was never going to last.

Peggy sought him out, offered him a position at the organization she built from the ground up.

She brought out her sales pitch. She called him James and told him it’s what you would have wanted—but he doesn’t even know if that’s true. You’d been gone so long, the years apart far outweighed your time together. He doesn’t know what you would have wanted.

He still jumped at the opportunity with such an urgency to leave.

Before SHIELD came to collect him, he was living in a purgatory of his own making. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder for the ghosts in his head. Not when his life expectancy was so up in the air.

With nowhere else to go and no better reason to say no, Bucky paired off with Howard for a minute. He lived in his guest room, worked in his lab… He put as much distance between himself and Brooklyn as he could stomach.

And it was good for a time. That is, until Howard found himself in the family way.

It’s an amicable separation. He was even able to maintain lab access with 60% of profits off any future patents. So, you know, not too shabby for a shayna punim from The Borough.

Between grad school and work, he kept himself fairly busy through the sixties and seventies. By the time the eighties rolled around, the money was so good he got himself a studio in DC so he might live out his sleepless nights in some semblance of comfort…

They send him where there’s a need for his skill set. He doesn’t go digging. He doesn’t ask questions. Bucky can only keep his head down and pray for world peace when praying for rest might just be too tall of an order.

The dream starts the same as any other. He pays the toll. He finds his seat. But when the film comes alive, it’s a far cry from the bitter cold of the Alps.

The scene laid before him is soft and so damn warm… The room is flush with the pastels of a Parisian hotel ravaged by time and circumstance. Building’s probably just as gone as everything else, he expects.

His breath catches as you slowly fade into view—tangled in silk sheets, limbs akimbo with lips smeared red and bruised by kisses. It’s a sight he thought he’d have to die to see again.

There’s an old record on in the background. The needle crackles as one song bleeds into the next, but he knows it’s not quite right. You look on with a lazy sort of hunger, almost breaking the fourth wall with him…

You hum softly as you watch him, watching you.

Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…

Bucky watches a gentle touch trace the slope of Steve’s nose as he sketches you both on the bed. His fingers. His touch.

…Ni le bien qu’on m’a fait, ni le mal… Tout ça m’est bien égal…

Without even thinking, his legs are moving of their own accord. The seat snaps shut behind him as he makes his way towards the screen… He’s all too desperate to bridge the gap that separates you.

…Non, rien de rien, non, je ne regrette rien…

He watches himself kiss a trail down the column of your neck, staining your skin something filthy with whatever shade of lipstick he stole from you. When he finally disappears under the blanket, you arch into his touch. Your brows are knit as you palm the sheets in search of purchase.

…C’est payé, balayé, oublié, je me fous du passé…

Bucky’s hand spreads against the wall of screen, the fragmented projection washing his skin with yours.

…Avec mes souvenirs j’ai allumé le feu… Mes chagrins, mes plaisirs…

He wants more than a wash—what he needs is a damn soak… With all the red on his ledger, he could easily drown himself in the sight of you just to feel clean.

…Je n’ai plus besoin d’eux… Balayé les amours avec leurs trémolos…

He rests his head on the wall. His eyes fall shut against the sounds of the three of you together after so long… A merciful lullaby. A soft epilogue.

…Balayé pour toujours… Je reparts à zéro…

He wakes mid-flight, somewhere over the Adriatic Sea. The year, 1989.

You feel closer today than you did yesterday. But there’s a mission on and he can’t afford to think about it just yet.

If he wavers, he dies.

He’s been tracking a top ranking assassin for years now with next to no leads. Bucky has yet to see him in the wild. Some dispute their very existence.

Up until recently, the intelligence community’s been keeping mum on the subject. Months of radio silence.

It started small, just a murmur at first. Then it picked up traction on the underground servers. Hardly a hit on the guy, but it’s enough to tip SHIELD off.

His flight’s en route to Berlin. What they’ve got is a source going into witness protection in exchange for information. Simple extraction, in and out. No time to get in his head about this.

Bucky won’t stop until he’s silenced the fist of HYDRA.

He digs a carton of Whitehorse and a lighter from his pocket—

And maybe the thought should scare him… the desire to end a human being. It should bother him.

—he lights up, really breathes it in. His shoulders drop the slightest amount as he shuts his eyes on the exhale.

Should.

The illusive fucker he’s been after might not have been the one to end your life, but they were sure as shit about to return the favor.

If he dies in the process, that’s just as well. He wants to be with you. With Steve. A good rest never hurt anyone.

He looks out the window with another drag in his lungs. However the lampshade swings, events are already set in motion. There’s nothing he can do now but wait and see.

Bucky clocks his witness from outside the restaurant. She sits on a stool at the bar, hunched over her drink as she keeps to herself.

It’s a slow night, almost dead. There’s no one around to bother her. Still, the girl’s clever enough to speak out… She’s gotta know there’s a target on her back.

So he pops his collar and lowers his shades, heading inside. He nods at the bartender, already fixing him up with a shot. Bucky hands him a fist of cash for the drink and his discretion. He’s been with SHIELD for some time now, he’s good people.

Taking a seat two stools over, he keeps his eyes forward.

He doesn’t say a word until they’re alone.

“Wunderbares wetter heute.”

[Wonderful weather today.]

This is the point where she would give him the go ahead… She’s no spy, but she’s hardly a civilian either. It’s one of the simpler codes on the memory…

But still, she says nothing.

“Ich kenne… Es ist nicht so toll,” he offers apologetically. “Das Letzte, was ich tun möchte, ist, deine Muttersprache zu schlachten.”

[I know, it’s not great—the last thing I want to do is butcher your mother tongue.]

Silence.

“Wenn es sich nicht um eine Zumutung handelt, ich könnte Englisch sprechen, wenn Sie lieber.”

[If it’s not an imposition, I could speak English if you prefer.]

Eyes fixed beyond the bar, he makes out a lull of her head from his periphery. It’s the most she’s given him since he sat down.

Definitely a start towards building trust.

“I know you’re probably scared,” he says under his breath, lifting the glass to his lips. “Hell. I’ve been there, myself.”

He downs his drink. Winces a touch.

“But you work with me here? I swear to you—together? We will work this out.”

He sets his glass facedown with a firm tap.

It hits him like a ton of bricks when he spots her virgin shot seated shoulder to shoulder with his own.

Her glass has been full all along.

He turns slowly, reluctant to look on the dead woman beside him.

“Shit,” Bucky sighs. He beats his palm against the top of the bar… “Shit!”

That’s where her fingers rest, idle as the rest of her. Defensive wounds sheath her knuckles like a pair of lace gloves.

Bucky runs a hand through his hair, just wanting some goddamn peace for a change.

“Fuckin’ fuck,” he hisses.

Her eyes are heavy lidded and locked on nothing. He closes them with a shaking touch, wishing he could have done more for the woman.

He hangs his head. “I’m so sorry…”

There’s a moment.

And then… bam.

She’s spread across the bar with a bullet in her before he can even think what to do with the body.

Fuckin’ sniper.

He stands at attention. He follows the direction of the shot—past the shattered glass, over the neighboring businesses. Another lands by his feet and this time, he’s prepared.

He spots the fucker on the roof, reloading their gun. They wisp from one spot to the next, donning a sexless uniform in head to toe black. There’s a silver glint where their other sleeve should be.

Bucky tucks inside an alley and jumps to the fire escape. Up and up and up, and he’s finally able to make sense of it. He crouches low, watching the figure slip through a door on a rooftop two buildings over.

He takes off running after them. Screams from below hit his ears as attention draws to the scene he’d just abandoned.

Once the buildings are cleared, he has to catch his breath before passing through the door—he draws his side piece, swings it open.

It’s a long hallway with doors lining either side and he has to strain to hear it. Faint sounds in the distance, something metallic… footsteps rushing down stairs, three at a time, maybe four… He finds the door leading to the stairwell and gives into the chase.

Down, down, down, ‘til he reaches the bottom.

When he opens the door, he’s met with a gun trained on him and it’s only reflex that has him tossing his gun to disarm them… He’s wanting in time and patience at the moment—ain’t enough going around to spare on a goddamn standoff.

Bucky pushes his assailant until their back meets the wall with a grunt. They kick his chest, he catches their calf and shoves them a beat harsher than before.

He moves to rid them of the balaclava masking their identity. But they double down, blocking his arm away in a sweeping motion… knocks their heads heads together, too. But Bucky catches on quick, pulling on a generous amount of exposed hair.

A whine—sharp and feminine. The sound pierces his ears like a freezing tub of water on a cold winter’s night.

He uses this window to take the mask. He rips it clean off.

She turns… His face falls… Time slows—

“Sunshine?”

“Who the hell is Sunshine?”

—and he chokes.

You raise your metal fist and flex it around the target’s throat, neutralizing the threat.

“Who the hell is Sunshine?”

His response is a garbled mess of broken syllables and dangerous looks.

You back him into the rod at the center of the boiler room you’ve found yourselves in. You could have moved him with your flesh hand with what little resistance he was showing you.

Fuck it. This intel might just prove to be useful.

You release your hold on him.

“Answer me, American,” you order him.

“American?” He coughs out, touching at his neck. “You were born in Chicago, you big asshole!”

“I have no business in Chicago.”

He’s rendered slack against the pole.

“Fuckin’ A,” he nods in realization. “So I’m gone, too. Is that it?”

“Don’t make me hurt you, American.”

His face twists in anguish.

“My name is James Buchanan Barnes. You know me.”

You slap him. “No. I don’t.”

“The fuck did they do to you?” his voice is so small, you wonder if he knows he spoke the words out loud. “Sunshine—”

—Need some help with that, Agent Sunshine?

You grimace. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s what I’ll call you ‘til the sun goes dim and the sky turns black.” He looks up at you, his eyes defeated. He swallows. “It’s your name.”

“Stop it,” you warn him.

When he looks as though he’s about to advance on you, you push him back against the pole. You step away, desperate to put some distance between the two of you.

“Sonny, please. This isn’t you.”

Your fist slows his approach, but he just keeps coming for you. You need to shut him up.

Shutting your ears to the noise, you shake your head. “You don’t know me.”

“We can beat this.” He grinds his words with mortar and pestle—it’s a desperate plea on his tongue with emotion you don’t give yourself permission to name. “We can beat them.”

An animalistic scream wretches its way out of you, your eyes hot and itching as you rage at him. You throw yourself onto the target, locking him in place with your thighs.

You strike him. Again and again and again, until you’re both leveled. And he lets you do it, he lets you hurt him.

Something twists inside you. He won’t last much more of this. You’re sure he’s thinking the same.

“Fight back…”

And still, he refuses you.

He aches to touch you. That much is obvious. Even as his body bleeds by your hand, it’s all he wants just to have you here with him.

You don’t understand him, this man at your mercy.

You don’t even know him… You’re sure it’s only his face you’ve seen before and it’s barely that. His hair is longer than the man from your dreams. He looks battle worn… Lost.

Nothing like the charming soldier who stole your heart when you had your wits about you… Your head’s pumped full of code and strategy as the serum corrodes your veins, but you know this man. You know his eyes.

Try as they might, they could never burn them out of you.

Blood mars his mouth and cheeks as he lies on the ground. He watches you on his back, looking at you like you meant something to him… like you mean everything.

You find yourself drawn to those pouting lips, wanting nothing more than to abandon the mission and get some answers out of them.

That’s when you hear it.

…Quand il me prend dans ses bras… Il me parle tout bas… Je vois la vie en rose…

Visions of this man invade your senses as music plays from a distant memory, not made for you.

…Il me dit des mots d’amour… Des mots de tous les jours… Et ça me fait quelque chose…

His tongue is inside you as another man holds you in check. This man, blond hair with faraway eyes, wipes the sweat from your brow, whispering filthy nothings in your ear. He holds his head against your own as you chase your release.

…Il est entré dans mon cœur… Une part de bonheur… Dont je connais la cause…

Your charming soldier emerges from between your legs, so smug. He drags the back of his hand across his face, smearing his stained lips even further.

…C’est lui pour moi, moi pour lui dans la vie… Il me l’a dit, l’a juré pour la vie…

You flush as you come back to yourself.

Is that what these are—

—what they’ve been?

Overcome, you pull back from the blow… Your metal arm leaves behind a crater in the naked slab of concrete where his head would be if you weren’t so weak.

Your flesh fingers curl around his bruised face, forcing him to meet your eyes. You narrow your gaze on him, fury and shame building up inside of you. “Stay the fuck out of my head…”

“Oh, Sonny.” He frowns. “Not me… ‘M not the one in your head.”

You sink down onto his chest, head resting uncomfortably on his tac vest. Your training takes over when you feel fingers at the small of your back and you’ve got his wrists pinned, seconds later.

There’s a charged beat between these bodies, the pair of you a panting mess.

“So what’s it gonna be?”

Your head tilts to the side in silent curiosity.

He breathes into his aches and pains and he’s almost smiling at you. “Still wanna kill me, doll?”

You shut your eyes, worrying at your mouth. You can’t concentrate when you know he is who he says he is.

“Still weighing my options,” you fire back.

A pained nod. “How’s it lookin’ on my end?”

You can’t concentrate when you still don’t know… When you know enough to know his eyes, but can’t place the rest of him.

You roll your hips over him like it’s an answer… You’ll tell yourself all sorts of lies later about centering yourselfand gaining control of the situation.

Чушь собачья.

[Bullshit.]

He betrays the mission, same as you… Betrays his countrymen, same as you.

But at the end of the day, you’re the one on top of him.

You work him over because you want to.

You fuck him because you want to watch him come apart—

—sleep with him because you want to dream…

And when the night is through, you leave him bloody and broken outside the remote home of a civilian doctor because you’re not ready for this to be over.

The sounds of a German broadcast tickle his ears as he comes to. Bucky doesn’t open his eyes just yet. It’s all he can do to lie there, focused solely on his breath, repeating his mantra over and over.

…To die, to sleep—to sleep, perchance to dream, for in this sleep of death what dreams may come…

He slept like the dead. Nights like these are even worse than the times he’s powerless to save you. A night without you is a day without the sun.

“I know you’re awake.”

It’s a voice that puts ice in his veins and a heat in his chest.

You’re on the chair, sat beside the bed in a flannel top that doesn’t fit you right. Your hair is short—shorter than he’s ever seen it, resting just below your chin. You’ve got a split in your lip and a bruised look in those eyes focused intently on him.

All this on, and you’re absolutely gorgeous.

“Last time I saw you, you threatened to cut it all off.”

Self consciously, your fingers go to your hair. He’s so sore, every move is working against him. His hand meets yours and he’s so, so gentle.

“It suits you,” he says.

“I don’t remember,” you admit softly.

He pulls back with a sigh. “That’s ‘cause it hasn’t happened yet.”

You watch him, so confused.

“What are you talking about?” you ask him carefully.

“This.” He gestures around the room, so tired he lets his eyes fall shut. He scrubs a hand across his face as he struggles to find the words. “The dream.”

You’re stunned to silence.

“This is a good one, y’know… Can’t say I’ve had this much free range before. Not this side of the century, at least.”

“This isn’t a dream.”

He has to laugh at that. Otherwise he’s gonna make himself sick later with liquor and tears. “Says the spider to the fly…”

“You think I’m lying,” you say, almost hurt. You know you’ve no rights to his trust. Doesn’t stop those stabbing pains from gutting you from the inside out.

“Can you tell me I’m asleep right now?”

You shake your head fiercely. “No.”

“Then yes.”

There’s a huff on your breath as you push up from the chair to pace around the room.

“Unless what you’re saying is true and I’m not sleeping…” he starts.

“You’re not.”

His face falls. His head sinks back onto the pillow, resigned as he stares at the ceiling. If this is his Hell, he’s gonna at least make himself nice and comfortable.

“So I’m dead, then.”

He wants so badly, so desperately, for this to be real. But if it’s real… that means he’s gotta take it all with him.

Last night.

The mission.

The fucking train.

If this is real, that means he left you. He left you in the cold, bleeding and dying, waiting for some fucker to pick you up and make you a human weapon.

He left you when he could have saved you.

So, yeah… He’s good with being dead for now and it’s a blessing when you don’t argue.

You’ve got your arm crossed over your chest as you stare out the window. It’s the first time he gives himself permission to look. You’re not wearing it now, but he knows it won’t be long before you put the arm back on. It looked so heavy when he saw it up close—felt heavy when it was beating his face in.

Bucky has spent so long praying you back to life. He went back to Temple every Friday for you and Steve, both. He said your names. So many times, in so many words…

But he never wanted this for you.

“Who was she?”

The question pulls Bucky from his reverie. Those three little words dry his throat and force him out of the delusion.

“You called me Sunshine. Who was she?”

He’s not ready… but Steve would have his hide to make you wait so selfish like this. You’ve suffered enough.

A number of shaking breaths later and he’s finally talking.

“I’m a lot older than I look, same as you. I went to war. And Stevie…” God, where to start with Steve. “Well, he wanted it, too. He needed to be with the fight. That I’d ah’ been there with him was a happy accident. Kismet, y’know? The army needed bodies but they just weren’t taking him. And it’s not just that he was small, which he was.”

Bucky smiles remembering his little love… then he looks at you, remembers that you can’t. And then he wants to cry all over again. He doesn’t. Just a little sniffle and the clear of his throat because this is what you need from him right now.

“But he had health problems, y’know? Probably would ah’ taken a shorter list to write up what wasn’t wrong with him. So they said no. Figured he’d ah’ been more trouble than he was worth.”

“Then what happened?”

“He’s a persistent little shit’s what happened. Got himself in too deep with some government types, and they made him big,” he says like that’s a thing that happens to people. “You were the agent assigned to his case. The SSR gave you the last of the serum before they sent you in to keep tabs on him, paradin’ you around as a USO girl.”

It’s quiet for a beat. And then you laugh.

“I can’t even dance,” you simper, more than amused by the idea of yourself in those little outfits singing about freedom.

“Can’t claim to have seen you in action, doll. ‘M afraid that was before my time.”

“And when was that?”

“When Steve saved me. You both had a nasty habit of doing that.”

You don’t understand his words. Just last night, you were trying to end him… But there’s that name again and curiosity wins out, clawing at your throat like a mad dog for scraps.

“Is he the other man?” you ask, incredulous. “The man from my dreams?”

“Depends.” He shrugs on the bed, scratching at the shadow on his jaw. “What sort ah’ dreams you been cookin’ up in that head of yours?”

You stall, feeling a surge of insecurity. You hate how vulnerable this man makes you feel.

“Did you ever take me to Paris?”

Hand in his hair, he looks you over as your face starts to heat. It’s a long while before he speaks. When he does, you almost regret saying anything at all.

Almost.

“See, I wasn’t sure last night. But now I know you’re trying to kill me.” He lays his head back on the pillow, spent.

“What were we?”

“We were together.” His voice breaks on the word. “We were in love…”

You shake your head. “That’s not me. I’m not that girl anymore.”

He frowns, mood effectively sobered for the day.

“No.” In that moment, he looks so sad for you. “Not anymore.”

The radio clamors for his attentions again and he nods at the next room over. “They talking about us in there?”

Your lips twitch as you cross the room. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Seriously,” he presses. “It’s not like we have a mutually exclusive extraction plan here. They gotta have Commie APB after us. Why are we sitting ducks right now?”

You go to turn up the radio—of course he wouldn’t know, he’s been asleep…

“The Wall fell last night. No one’s coming.”

He blinks at you, shocked as you leave. “What?”

[…and therefore we have made the decision today to institute a regulation, which permits every resident of East Germany to depart the country through any border crossing of the GDR…]

You cross the room to sit next to Bucky on the bed.

“What will you do?”

“Do?” You cock a questioning brow in his direction. You’re so wiped you kick your feet up before realizing that puts you fully in bed with him. “I wasn’t aware that anything needed doing.”

“Can’t imagine your higher ups are gonna be too happy with what happened here,” he points out.

“Nothing happened. I completed my mission.”

You say it so cavalier that you can feel him staring at you. Disbelief radiates from his spot on the bed.

“They’ll never be happy,” you deadpan, slinging an arm across your face. “What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

“You sayin’ you’d lie for me?” he asks, unsure.

“I’d lie for me… There’s a difference.”

“You do that a lot in your line of work?”

A knowing smile betrays you. “As much as any other woman today, I’d like to think.”

“You thinkin’ ah’ going back so soon?”

Who said anything about missin’ you—

You lower the arm and crane your neck towards the window. “We’re holed up here until the press dies down. You want to take advantage, be my guest. That’s not my style.”

—Ain’t no shame in it… but walkin’ away from a fight? Not my style, Sergeant.

He must hear it, too. You make out the hitch in his breath as he sits, worked up and shaking so bad… You reach out for him, your thumb brushing over the back of his hand.

“You really don’t remember. Do you.”

That it’s not a question when he says it breaks your heart.

“Fragments… Bits and pieces,” you say weakly. “I remember feeling the warmth of two bodies next to me. It helps… It gives me something to hold onto when they try and clear out those defective parts that tell ‘em no.”

“Ever enough to walk away?” he asks, all too hopeful.

You look down at the hand wrapped in yours as you burn stars and stripes over his skin with your touch. He already knows your answer.

He shakes his head into your neck. “I’m so damn sorry.”

You place a deft kiss onto his shoulder without even thinking. All you want to do is soothe this broken boy… give him anything he wants. Not because he’s asking for it, but that he’s showing it’s possible at all.

“You could render me unconscious,” you offer. “Just knock me out. Then I’d have no choice in it.”

“No.”

“If they see that I’ve openly defected, there’s nothing stopping them from coming after us. We’ll never know peace.”

“No,” he argues. “There’s always a choice. You’ve had enough ah’ that taken away from you in your time.”

He puts both hands at either side of your head. You’re eye to eye now, there’s no other option than giving him his say. “If we do this, we accept the consequences…”

You shut your eyes and think of Paris. You savor it.

It’s a good dream, you think to yourself. The best so far…

“Besides… You asshole’s are always savin’ me. Let me wear the tights for a bit and play hero for a change, yeah?”

Your stomach burns. Your heart aches. Tears prick at your eyes as you try and picture this life they had, this life of love. It’s a life your very existence spoils like a plate of fresh fruit turned to decay.

Wasted potential and bygone promises. That’s what his life with you on the run will be. And he’ll do it all.

He never said it was for you.

“You must have really loved her… Your Sunshine.”

He stares at you like he doesn’t know all that you’ve done… As if the only answer to a question never even posed should be so natural, so glaringly obvious.

“I love you, dummy.”

Damn him.

You collapse beside him as much as you can collapse in a bed. You press his forehead into your own, all of the tension leaving your body in one foul swoop.

You’re left behind a quaking heap of emotion, tears clouding your vision.

“I’m so tired,” you cry out.

Those fingers thrum soft against your scalp, his calloused thumbs flexing to dry your cheeks. He drops a kiss on your hairline and holds you close. What remains of the broadcast lingers in the background—the last vestiges of an old world adapting for the new, just like the wavering of a chrysalis ripe for rebirth.

“Listen to me,” he whispers against your temple. He rakes your hair back as he goes. “Listen. You don’t have to fight anymore. I’m gonna make this right and I’ll spend the rest ah’ forever makin’ it up to you.”

There’s a beat of silence. His promises should scare you—

You look up at him. “Together?”

“Together… Forever.”

—but all you can feel is the warmth of his body and the beat of his heart.

He’s alive.

You both are.

Silence falls around you as your breathing steadies in his arms.

…I, I will be King… And you, you will be Queen… Though nothing will drive them away… We can be heroes just for one day… We can be us just for one day…

#eliza's 5k challenge #youngmoneymilla #bucky x reader #bucky x reader x steve #marvel fanfic #mine #also on ao3 @happhys #can you tell i miss the hoe-t3??#my fics

105 notes · View notes

lajulie24 · 6 years

Text

The notebook

“Listen, Your Highnessess, I ain’t one of your little lackeys sayin’ ‘how high?’ when you tell ‘em to jump, understand?” Han’s finger was pointed squarely at Leia as they faced off again in the hallway. “I work for me,” he continued, moving his finger back to point at his own chest.

Leia took a step toward him, ignoring the technicians slipping past them to get to the hangar. “I’d nearly forgotten,” she said, her voice laced with sarcasm. “You only tell me three times a day.”

Neither party seemed to notice just how close their faces were to one another’s, and as usual, the tension and the heat between them was palpable. Vibrant. It was hard to tell whether it would ever resolve—and if it did, whether it would end in a passionate kiss or a literal explosion.

This was, of course, how Wes Janson was making so many extra credits these days. The Han/Leia bets were far from the only ones on his docket—he handled wagers on everything from the number of times General Dodonna would say “classified” in a briefing to the next couple to get caught hooking up in the storage area—but they were by far the most lucrative. And entertaining.

He soon had a huddle of other pilots and technicians around him, waiting to up their bets or place new ones based on the latest Organa-Solo faceoff. “Just a second, just a second,” he said, going to his interior pocket to find the flimsi notebook in which he recorded the wagers.

Huh, he thought, patting his pocket again. Not there. He must have left it in his quarters—he’d been tallying up what the group attending last night’s round of sabacc owed him before heading over to the Falcon for the game.

Ah, well. “Have to catch you later, boys,” he said to the group. “Don’t worry, I won’t forget.”

Their argument in the hallway had blown over, like it always did, and in the end Han had accepted the latest mission Leia had brought to him. With a few caveats, of course. But that just came with the territory, and Leia was nothing if not an excellent negotiator.

So she was in a considerably better mood as she arrived for her usual weekly dinner on the Falcon with Han, Chewie, and Luke. Han was even being a rather gracious host, offering her a drink while they waited for Chewie and Luke to return from their respective patrols.

“Tell you what,” he said conspiratorially, opening a panel above them that Leia hadn’t noticed before, “We’ll get out the good stuff.” He reached inside and pulled out a bottle of Whyren’s Reserve.

Leia was amused. “Do you always keep your whiskey in the air ducts?” she asked.

He chuckled as he poured two glasses. “When the Rogues come over to play sabacc, I do,” he said. “Antilles can sniff out the good whiskey at 50k away.” Leia laughed.

Han brought the glasses over and sat down next to her. They clinked their glasses in a toast, and suddenly Leia could feel it again—that energy between them that she didn’t quite know what to do with. It felt dangerous, made her uneasy, but at the same time she was drawn to it.

She tried to ignore it, taking a sip of whiskey and listening to Han’s account of the game the previous night, but found herself focusing on his lips. No, no, no, stop that! She was suddenly acutely aware of exactly how closely they were sitting, and scooted over slightly to give Han a bit more room.

He noticed. Of course he noticed. “What’s the matter, Sweetheart, I smell bad or somethin’?” It was friendly teasing, but at the same time he seemed strangely offended for some reason.

“Just giving you a little more room,” she returned, distracted by something stuck between the cushions of the booth.

“A-ha!” she said, grateful to have discovered a way to change the subject. She pulled out a small flimsi notebook. “What’s this? Han Solo’s Little Black Book? Got so many dates you can’t keep track of everyone?” she teased.

He gave her a look. “That ain’t mine.”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, right. I’m sure Chewie keeps notes in Basic about—“ she flipped open the notebook to a random page—“the top ten hottest male beings in the Rebellion?” She scrutinized the page a bit further. “This isn’t your handwriting.”

“Told you, it ain’t mine. I haven’t seen that thing before.”

Leia was looking more closely. “There are—votes recorded. And initials.” She looked at Han. “You’re currently running at #2, hotshot.”

He grinned smugly at her. “I have fans,” he said. “Lemme see that.”

She handed it to him, and he flipped through a few pages, looking at the bets. “Ah, here we go. Top ten hottest femme beings in the Rebellion.”

Leia was rolling her eyes already. Somehow, these kinds of lists seemed worse when they were about women. And they were ridiculous anyway. She shook her head, hoping Han would move on to some other page.

Han was counting up the votes beside each of the names on the list. “I’ll be damned—I mean, you’re no slouch, just didn’t think they were so into—“

Leia raised her eyebrow at him, a silent inquiry.

He smirked at her, raising his glass. “The Empire’s not the only one who’s got you at the top of the Most Wanted list, Princess.”

She laughed and toasted him again. “I have fans. More fans than you, to be exact.”

“Careful, you get a big head, you’re liable to fall to #2.”

She tilted her head at him. “Mmm, just like you. How is that?”

They were hitting the ball back and forth again, over the net, back and forth. It was comfortable and risky, dangerous and familiar. A highly satisfying bit of volleying, as long as no one went out of bounds. Leia had to admit, she rather enjoyed it.

After a bit more back and forth, they started flipping to other pages in the book, trying to place the handwriting. Whichever Rogue was keeping this notebook—they’d figured it must have been left at the sabacc game last night—was meticulous in his notes and comprehensive in his variety of bets.

They were still laughing over the book when Chewie and Luke arrived. Luke obviously knew whose book it was; his sabacc face was still terrible, and his eyes had immediately gone wide when he’d realized what Han and Leia were poring over. Chewie was acting weird as well, and kept encouraging Han to give him the book so that he could give its owner a piece of his mind.

“C’mon, Kid, you can tell us whose book it is. I mean, we’re gonna read the whole damned thing anyway,” Han said.

Luke looked panicked. “No, don’t do that—okay, I confess,” he said hastily. “It’s mine.” He held out his hand. “May I have it back?”

Han smirked at him. “Alright, first of all, bantha shit. We don’t believe it’s his, do we, Leia?”

“Luke, the handwriting doesn’t even match yours,” she said. “And now I really want to know why you don’t want us to see it. Is there something in there about you?”

Luke looked unsure. “Ye—yeah. It’s embarrassing, I wouldn’t want you to see it.”

“Huh, that’s funny,” Leia teased. “I didn’t see him in the list of people who got caught boning in the supply closet, did you, Han?”

Han laughed out loud for a good minute. “Boning, Princess?” he asked, and she blushed, laughing in spite of herself.

[Dinner is ready!] Chewie called from the galley. [Please put that ridiculous book away.]

Wes Janson was freaking out.

The notebook wasn’t in his quarters. It wasn’t in the mess, it wasn’t in his locker or his X-Wing cockpit or any of the other places he’d looked. Which meant that there was only one place it could be.

Solo probably wouldn’t give a shit about most of the book, but seeing as how the whole back section was devoted to a series of bets about him and the Princess…Wes was nervous, to say the least.

Then he arrived at his squadron meeting, and Luke, of all people, was glaring at him. Oh, kriff.

He tried to escape after their training run, but Luke called him into the office before he could claim sudden illness or something.

Once the door was shut, Luke fished something out of his pocket and put it on the desk. “Missing something?” he asked. It was the notebook.

Wes sighed with relief and began to reach for the notebook, but Luke stopped him. “Hold on. You owe Chewie and me big time,” he said. “Do you know who found this?”

“Solo?” Wes guessed.

“Leia,” Luke informed him. Wes’s face went white.

“They were about a second away from reading about themselves,” he continued. “Chewie distracted them and helped me smuggle out the notebook.”

Wes was immediately, desperately penitent. “I’ll do whatever; what do I need to—“

“Next time you play sabacc?” Luke said. “You’re going to let the Wookiee win.”

#scoundressaturdays #han x leia #hanleia #star wars #han solo #leia organa #luke skywalker #chewbacca #wes janson #oh wes you are in trouble #so much trouble #myfic

65 notes · View notes

imababblekat · 7 years

Text

Fitting In: MTMTE Swerve X Reader

(S/N):

-Summary: Being a mechanical being with a love for organic life, namely botany, it’s no wonder you feel like you don’t fit in amongst your kind. Swerve isn’t about to let you feel like an outsider though for having such a unique occupation.

Author: Imababblekat

A/N: This is my first time writing Swerve or for the MTMTE verse, so ye. . .fair warning if its not up to par

Swerve made his way down one of the many long corridors of the Lost Light; a giddy smile plastered to his face and small box in metal hands. He hummed excitedly taking a turn down another hall, feeling his spark pick up when he recognized the familiar door ahead. The mini bot had been waiting all day for this moment; practically jumping up and down eagerly from behind the bar counter. The patrons didn't figure anything different about it, used to the mechs chipperness that sometimes became over bearing. . .okay a lot of times over bearing. He didn't care though, Swerve was too pre-occupied with seeing one of the few people who actually didn't mind him. Not even bothering to knock on the habsuit, he just waltzed right in, right in time to see his dear crush singing to 60's music blaring through the stereos.

His steps faltering as her body moved about. It was so rare to see her relaxed like this, and just being herself. Gosh, he just loved the way she moved; so free and lose. And her voice too. It carried with the loud vocals and was like sweet candy to his audio receptors. Swerve wished he could see this side of her everyday. As the song got to a high point and the lovely mech before him swung her helm back and forth, performing a very fluid dance move, Swerve let out a cheering whistle and clapped; gift tucked safely under his arm.

"Hey! Not bad!", Swerve yelled over the music.

(Y,n) screeched, jumping and nearly knocking over the pot on the nearby shelf. Fumbling to turn down the loud music she sharply turned to face her friend with a deep blush.

"Swerve!"

"Yeah?!"

"What did I tell you about knocking?!"

"To do it before walking in, but you see I was just so excited to see you! Plus if I knocked I would have never been able to witness such a grand performance! You sure you grew up on an energon farming planet, and not on Caminus?! Cause-"

At this point you had just tuned him out, turning back to your small bonsai to finish trimming. It wasn't that you were doing it on purpose, usually you loved hearing him go on, but with how you'd been feeling lately, something that he had said triggered your ever mounting insecurities.

Caminus, shit you wish you were born there. Then maybe you'd actually fit in with your mechanical race. You could be like Nautica! Oh how you wish you could be like her. The femme was so incredibly smart and talented, and even if she claimed not to be great in the arts, she was in fact an amazing dancer. Yeah, the girl could be a little shy every now and then, but she always managed to get past that and go on as her normal preppy, upbeat self. You though? Primus, you'd use to take a different route from your destination if it meant you could avoid walking by another mech completely; no matter if that direction would take longer or went the opposite direction of point B. Deep in your self depreciating thoughts, you hadn't noticed Swerve calling your name.

He was just joking about how you, Nautica, Chromia, and Windblade probably had a secret band, and should play at his bar. When you hadn't even giggled slightly in embarrassment from the idea, Swerve got a feeling that you weren't even listening. Directing his optics to you he noticed how you had ceased trimming as well, the sharp scissors paused over one of the side branches. His optic ridges furrowed as he scanned your still form. You'd been acting really strange lately. Normally very open and comfortable around him, you had suddenly just seemed to close off. It worried Swerve greatly. Being one of the few bots on this ship he was sure of that considered him a friend, it was terrifying to think that you were finally tired of him. But that also wasn't like you. You were nice to everyone, albeit in a shy and respecting manner, but none the less still very kind!

"Hey, your joints rusted into place or somethin'?", Swerve chuckled, trying to seem as cool as possible.

When his cervo had just lightly graced over your shoulder plate, you jumped with a light gasp and cut off some of the bonsai leaves. It was a strange awkward cut, and Swerve quickly felt bad.

"O-oh, I'm so sorry-"

"Don't worry, it wasn't your fault. I should have been paying attention is all. . .," you quickly dismissed him with a reassuring smile.

What did he do to deserve someone like you? Swerve shook his helm to keep from daydreaming any further, and smiled wide when presenting the box in his cervos. Perhaps this will help lighten the mood.

"I got you a gift!", he announced proudly; gently handing the box over to you.

You gasped, optics going wide as you pulled out a tiny container," Swerve you didn't?! H-how did you even get this?!"

The small mech scratched the side of his blushing cheeks, watching you cutely examine the organic thing," What can I say?! Owning a bar you know how to get the hook ups!"

You chuckled, walking over to your desk with a smirk," What? Did you sell your chassis or something?"

"Pssh, they wish I offered it~!", Swerve gave a sharp grin and attempted a sexy pose, but ended up looking just ridiculous, causing you to giggle.

Joining your side at the desk, he rested on his bent elbows to watch you lightly and very gently squeeze the ball in a different cup. He watched the once clear water slowly start to turn a bit mucky; probably from the thing you carefully handled in your cervo.

"Sooooo. . .what is it?", he asked curiously.

"You mean to tell me you brought something on board and don't even know what it is? Does Rodimus or Ultra Magnus even know about it?", you questioned with a gaped mouth and slightly panicked expression.

The male bot just lazily waved his cervo," Eh, people bring stuff on the ship all the time and never tell them. . .its uh. . .its not dangerous is it?"

You giggled watching your small friend inch slightly away from the gift he got you," No, I was just messing with you. It's a Marimo ball, a form of algae; completely harmless!"

"A Marimo ball, huh?", Swerve mumbled, his gaze following the plant to its new little home.

"You're so amazing (y,n)."

You froze just before putting the creature into its new habitat. Sensing your hesitation, Swerve peered up to see your optics wide and focused in on nothing. His ridges quickly furrowed, and he stood straight with a concerned voice.

"(Y,n), what's wrong?"

Softly letting the ball slip from your metal fingers, your shoulders stiffened as those harmful insecurities returned.

"Am I really that amazing Swerve?", you enquired, your vocals slightly wavering.

Swerve leaned back some, confused and slightly put off by your question. "Well yeah, why do you ask?"

You clenched the edges of your desk, slightly shaking trying not to break down.

"Oh I don't know. Maybe it's the fact that I'm a cybernetic being who's profession is in a field around organics. Where has that ever played a role in our species history? How does that contribute or help out our species. We can't eat plants. We don't breath, and our means of medicine and curing illness are re wiring a few circuits. I-I don't fit in here. Not on this ship, and certainly not in the Cybertronian race! I'm hardly even smart or talented by Cybertronian standards. It took me forever just to understand your occupation Swerve! Could you imagine how long it would take me to understand or do something of Nautica's level?! I only know the science of botany; I'm a 'botanist'. What place does a botanist have in a machine oriented species?"

By this point, you were practically quivering on the very edge of having a break down. All of your insecurities just pushed through your built up wall and came floading out to your friend; more than likely your only friend you felt. And soon you began to feel embarrassed, but mostly guilty for just having dumped everything onto him. You felt even more anxiousness build up at the growing silence from his end, and you tried desperately to keep the panic from shouting through your running fans. He was most definitely annoyed now right? Since when have your problems ever meant or mattered to anyone else?

It was the complete opposite though. Swerve didn't feel that way at all; in fact he was on the verge of losing it himself. How long have you felt this way? How could he let it get this bad?! You were his friend, his crush! He should have noticed the signs as soon as you started to feel like this. As a very insecure bot himself, he didn't want anyone to feel the same way. You especially; the one person who actually cared for him and actually helped to make him feel more confident in himself, even if just by a little bit! Grabbing you firmly by the shoulders, Swerve moved you to face him, catching you off guard by the saddened, hurt look in his visor.

"(Y,n) don't you ever think that you don't belong. You are incredibly amazing, and what you do is just as incredible. Perhaps you have a hard time grasping something like quantum mechanics or metallurgist, but we all have trouble understanding some things. You may not know this, but the other day Nautica was telling me how amazing it was that you were able to grow something organic. She told me she tried it once and it just wasn't working out for her. And don't feel bad if you don't get or can do anything that would be considered normal in our race. Take a look at Rodimus; that guy thinks more than half of the sciences out there are some form of magical witchcraft!"

Swerve made a sigh, calming his tone and speed of talk before placing one of his red cervos on your cheek plate.

"My point is. . .you do belong (y,n). You do fit in. As a Cybertronian and a member of this ship. This space craft is made up of some of the strangest, and craziest bots you'll ever meet. We're all unique and our own, no one is one in the same. You helped me to not be so insecure, by teaching me that it's not always bad to be different. Different is good, and if we were all the same then life would just be so bland. I don't want you to ever feel like your alone (y,n). What you do is so special and unique to you. And if anyone wants to be a piece of scrap, just because you work with organic life, than frag them! I'll always be here with you, (y,n)! I'll always see you as someone special, and nothing less!"

"Swerve. . .", your optics darted across his face, taking note of every give away to his truthful emotions about you.

Seeing your optics filled with much surprise and perhaps a bit of shock, the bartender started to feel his spark clench. Oh no, did he say too much again? Did he talk more than he should have once more? He started to question of what he did helped at all or just upset you further, when two metal arms had wrapped around him and pulled him forward. Resting in the crook of your neck, Swerve felt his fans kick in and was left in a bit of a trance before quickly returning the embrace.

The botanical habsuit was left in silence save for the speakers that played over head. ‘Ain't No Mountain High Enough’ started to fade through, and you couldn't help but notice Swerves grip tighten ever so slightly. Of course, this was the song that kick started your close relationship. Swerve was getting ready to close up the bar one night when he noticed you humming it in the corner. Upon inquiring how you knew it with much excitement, you told him you'd picked up on a little bit of Earths culture when studying its plant life. From then on, he was constantly teaching you about all sorts of human pop culture, and in turn would listen to your fascination over the planets greenery. Now, you both sat in your habsuit, the same song that ultimately joined you together, while holding each other close with much care and support.

~xXx~

#mtmte swerve x reader #mtmte swerve #mtmte #transformers mtmte #x reader #reader insert #transformers x reader #cybertronian reader #fanfic #transformers fanfiction #story #botanist #botany #support #crush #i tried #imababblekat's writing

126 notes · View notes