#and sarah's just making sure sam doesn't go martyr on himself | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jolalibrary · 3 years ago

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can we kiss forever?

bucky barnes x fem! reader

summary: he wants you, he just doesn't want to admit it. [fluff, HEA] word count: 4k prompted by anon, using 'I love kissing you' + 'I just want to take care of you.' an: yes, the the title is a song

“You don’t even like him.”

He shouldn’t have let you go on the date.

The moment you’d mentioned it, he should have put his hands in your underwear and kissed away all talks of you dating someone else. Should have thrown you over his shoulder, listened to your minimal protests before he turned them all into moans.

But he didn’t.

Because he was a martyr.

He swallowed his words, his growing annoyance, and nodded when you asked if he thought it was a good idea.

Even if he likes you, Bucky Barnes honestly believes he deserves this. Even if all he thinks about is kissing you between the act of actually doing it.

Because he's been crazy about you since you first slid into the stool beside him, forcing him to engage in conversation because 'what's the problem with people wanting to be friendly these days?'.

Anyone else, he'd have ignored. But there had been something different about you, as cliche as that sounded. Something he didn't understand. That and the fact you didn't seem to care that he was staring or that he said very little for the first ten minutes.

Now, it's torturous being so close, but not quite having you.

Because if he had you, he’d cherish you. He’d love you like you’d never been loved; he'd climb literal towers to get to you, not that you'd ever need him too.

The reason he ignores all of this is very simply because he's seen what happens when people like him give in. The people they love are put in danger, like Sarah when Sam and him dealt with the Flagsmashers. He couldn't do that to you.

He'd hate himself knowing you’d never be able to walk down the street with your head held high. You’d never be able to plan ahead and enjoy normal things like dates. How your entire life would implode because of him. Even after all the good he’s done.

Things he never thought of when he slid yes or no on dating sites.

Because even with all the forgiveness he’s gained, the pardon he received, there were still many who would cross the street than walk down it with him. There's some who say shit on the internet, just because they can.

"That's your argument, I don't even like him?"

He shrugs, fighting rolling his eyes. "You said he was boring."

“Well, I like him more than I like you right now.”

“Well... fucking ouch.”

You tilt your head, grabbing his drink as you drain the bottle down your throat. “Play silly games, win silly prizes, Bucky.”

He frowns, running his hand through his hair. “What?”

“You didn’t want me, you were very clear—“

“—I don’t think that’s exactly what I sai—“

“—so I went out and… actually, that’s exactly what you said, Barnes. You said, ‘I can’t let anything bad happen to you’, and then you ghosted me for a week. Which, by the way, is still a horrendous thing to do, if we've not covered that.”

He frowns deeper.

Because he did say that. But it was in context.

He was also sure he explicitly told you he wanted you. Fuck, you are all he thinks about. Each time his phone buzzes, he wishes it was you. Hating it a bit when Sam sends him a short video of some kind.

The problem being he wants you so bad, but wanting and having are different things. And, he can’t have you. He can’t.

Even if each time he hears a certain song, he imagines you singing your own version of the lyrics. The ones you make up, that annoyingly get stuck in his head. Even if he always remembers your coffee order when he goes downstairs, to the vendor you love, that he now also loves.

“Look I didn’t come to split hair, Barnes. I came here to drink and maybe fuck—I’m sure on the former, less on the latter,” you say, swirling the bottle of beer. “But, I’m up for negotiations.”

Running his tongue over his teeth, he sighs. “Honey, you don’t get to go on a date with another man and then come here for a quick fix.”

Smirking, you sip from your own bottle.

And fuck you’re beautiful.

The glint of your smirk travelling to your eyes.

And it does something feral to him. Makes him want to dash his bottle into some distant corner and throw you over his shoulder. You know you do this to him.

He’s adamant he does something to you too.

It’s why you’re never too far from him; he’s never too far from you. The two of your orbiting, but never colliding. Not really, not fully. Just enough to keep moving, to keep spinning.

“Honey, is it? I do love that you're changing your pet name for me. But, honey, let's get one thing straight, because you could date me. But you’d rather reap the rewards of someone else fluffing me, than you biting the bullet and seeing if a date with me is as good as the sex is.”

Shrugging, you drain your bottle, slamming it down on his kitchen counter. Peeling the sheer fabric over your head, as you throw it at his feet.

“So, since you’re reaping…”

Hands moving behind your back as you undo your bra, before letting it slide down your arms.

“… reap away.”

Your smile.

That’s what first caught his eye.

Even if your mouth was moving a mile an hour as you did so, he could see it behind your words. It's not the reason he didn't ignore you, that's still unexplainable. Something he can't put his finger on, but secretly thinks deep down it's the thing he's been running from since he met you.

It made the corners of his own lips tug upwards, his heart do a double take as his throat went dry.

Then, it was your laugh.

All sweetness and light without trying. As if you weren’t weighed down by your day or the things you saw.

And then, before he could notice your curves or your legs, he saw your eyes, and he’s sure with that fleeting glance, you placed a hook in him. One which pulled him closer and closer until he learnt your name, your favourite colour and your favourite drink.

He knows you’re it.

He’s known it for a long time.

But as annoying as it is knowing it, it’s worse being in your orbit but not able to crash into you. Because he wants too.

The nights where you’re just his friend, eating takeout with him, feet on the coffee table you forced him to buy. Then there’s the nights when you’re more than friends, when you don’t care whether he wraps fingers around your neck with his flesh hand or his metal.

Now, you keep meeting his eyes through the coffee shop window. Fingers fussing with hair, jacket or your phone. He wonders if your cheeks are warm.

Wonders whether if he runs a finger over your cheek, and his lips over yours, whether you’d feel like you’re blushing from his gaze.

Because he knows he stares, he watches.

You’re beautiful, it would be silly of him not to.

You render him useless, even more so as you walk towards him, two cups in hand. His throat goes dry, his heart beating a little quicker, lips curling up into a smile as you open the door.

“You’re staring.”

“I don’t think I am,” he smirks, taking the coffee cup from your hand. “Thank you, for this.”

Rolling your eyes, you smirk. “It’s a coffee. Not an organ.”

It took you a while to buy him something. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you wanted to and he wouldn’t let you. He fought you at every turn, in the end only relinquishing to silence you.

Except it didn't.

It never did.

Your kindness showing no bounds, turning up to his with food or a lamp; a bottle or a piece of art. Something to brighten his place, not realising you were the only light it ever needed.

“You’re staring again.”

He smirks, bringing the cup to his lips. “Just thinking about the other night.”

“How I beat you at Mario Kart?”

Snorting, he nudges you. “No. How I had your back to my chest and I did that—“

His words stolen from his throat when you violently shove into him, grinning, but shaking your head.

“Oh ouch. You wounded me, the Winter Solider.”

You smirk wickedly, bringing the cup to your lips. “Former. You were him. But, I can knee you between your thighs if you prefer? So you always remember.”

“You’re an awful woman.”

Laughing, you nudge him with your elbow. And he fights putting his arm around you, pulling you close. Not wanting to care, not wanting to mind if everyone stares as he does.

“I am. But, you continue to hang out with me all the same, Barnes. So what does that say about you?”

He smiles.

Then he swallows, before he takes a large gulp.

Because he knows it says that he’s in love with you.

You text him you aren’t going to come over anymore. You’re busy. You have plans. Even if originally you had plans with him.

He'd been thinking.

He was going to order your favourite food, maybe even get you a bottle of wine over his usual fridge full of beer. He'd have kissed you, because he could kiss you forever, and then maybe, when he was hovering between your thighs, he'd tell you. Before he silenced your questions and your 'I told you so's' with his tongue.

But you're not coming.

And you’re sorry.

Not that it matters, his stomach almost falls out of his ass the same as if you weren’t apologising. Because you’re going on another date.

Not with the same person. Not the boring one.

A different one. An interesting one as he recalls. How they're normal and nice. You'd mentioned it briefly—because he asked. Because he enjoys being tortured; he enjoys lying awake imagining what the man who is normal looks like and whether he has appendages made of metal like him.

It didn’t stop him from ringing to make sure you didn’t need him to be on duty in case. To hover in the corner—ensure he looks like his picture.

But you don’t need him. And, he’s annoyed that you are desperate to get off the phone.

So he stews.

Silently at first. Then it becomes groans and gruffs; then he becomes irritated, agitated.

And in time, when he knows you’ll likely be laughing at someone else’s jokes, Bucky feels very close to full blown jealousy, throwing on his jacket, heading to the bar to gain a buzz and be distracted.

Only to see you in the corner.

You grinning and laughing.

In the same place he often comes with you.

The place which is always the go to for the both of you. And it ignites something inside of him.

And then you laugh again.

Someone can't be that funny. Not really. Not ever.

Unless he's a comedian, but he doesn't look like your favourite comic or someone who could impersonate them. And as your laugh rings through his ears, his feet are moving.

His body charging, dashing across to you, only stopping short of you and the man you’re sat with. The one you’re smiling at, the one making you laugh.

“Outside.”

“Hey man, we’re in the middle—“

“Please. Can we... just... Outside. Now,” he directs at you, and you narrow your eyes, lifting your drink as you take a slow sip. “Fine. You, leave.”

The man, to his surprise, moves.

Rather quickly too. He knows people know his face. He also knows he’s without his gloves, and likely has a look of thunder.

But he’s surprised it works.

And then it’s just the two of you.

And you’re standing up from the bar stool, stepping down as you glare daggers into.

“Look.”

“You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to come over here with an epiphany I didn’t ask for.”

Running a hand over his face, he sighs.

Because he knows you wouldn’t make this easy.

If anything, you make his life harder. It's impossible sometimes, because you see him. Always seeing through his bullshit and his issues, and not caring what's really there. Even if sometimes its trauma and nothingness.

You just make him laugh, or force him to watch a TV show or play a game. Sometimes, you curl into him, not caring how he tenses when you do, waiting until he softens, his hand or arm coming around you.

Because he can’t stop thinking about you. And when he’s with you, he can’t stop thinking about never letting you go. And yet he does, and then the cycle begins.

“Unless someone is dead, James—“

“James… wow. Not even a Barnes?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m not in the mood.”

He rolls his eyes. “Look, i know, alright? I’m bang out of order. I’m rude. I’m an asshole. A fuckface. Whatever name you want to call me, I know I am. So. How about we skip to the part where you kiss me and I do that thing you like where I get on my knees—“

You land a slap on his chest, forcing the rest of his words to die in his throat. And the music silences in his mind, his eyes focusing on yours—watching how they shimmer. Not from joy. Not from wanting to laugh like they usually do.

But with hurt.

Pain.

And he does his best to keep his face blank.

To pretend he doesn’t want to burn the world ground because of that look in your eyes.

“No.”

“No?”

“One. You don’t get to kiss me again. And if I ever let you, which I won’t, please—please—understand I’m desperate.”

He tries not to look wounded.

But he is.

He’s just been knifed. Not once. Not twice.

Countless times. All stabbing him simultaneously as he struggles to breathe normally from how much it hurts.

Not that it’s real.

Never believing words could hurt, but now he knows they do. They hurt worse than bullet wounds and knife fights.

“And, most importantly, two: if you ever, ever come over here and interrupt my date, I’ll ask Ayo to show me how to do that thing with your arm, and I’ll shove it so far up your asshole, your fingers will tickle your oesophagus. Are we fucking clear?”

“Ba—“

“No,” you snap, the coldest stare spreading over your features. So unlike you. “No baby. No honey. No sweetheart. Zilch. Nada. You’re done.”

“I’m done?”

Grabbing your drink, you throw it back, glaring at him as you do. “Yes. Because I cannot do this anymore. I can’t keep hoping one day you’re going to want me like I want you. I can't keeping pretending it’s sex, and then wanting to never let go when you fall beside me and pull me close.”

Your expression shifts, softening. Your words crossing your features as they show the depth of your pain. Of your hiding.

“And I can't keep telling myself that you don’t want me because you’re a martyr and an asshole. Because it's not worth it anymore. But the truth is, Buck, I don’t want to be your age, sowing my seed with a man who thinks loving me is too much. I want an oven I hate cleaning in a house that always needs fixing and a partner to do it all with. And, since I don’t have super serum, I don’t have a century to figure it all out.”

Sighing, you grab your bag. “We can be friends, I’ll miss you otherwise. But for now, just… leave me alone. Okay?”

His hand reaches out, slowly brushing yours, a soft attempt at stopping you. “What—Baby, I’m—“

“Please?” You look at him, and all of your walls are gone. A drained, shadow of a person staring at him—pleading with eyes and your tongue. “Please… for me.”

He can’t speak, not even if he tries.

And his fingers release your forearm, heart thundering in his ears. His chest aching as the rest of him threatens to undo, falling away from himself as you turn on your heels.

Not even looking back.

Not even waving, like you always do.

And fuck.

He’s fucked up.

He’s fucked everything.

Bucky lasts three whole days.

And even that’s difficult.

He tries. He does. He busies himself, goes for a run, even heads to the gym. He considers swimming, but even if he knows he can swim with his arm, something in his mind tells him it’s weird. So he doesn’t. But he does wander.

Aimlessly walking down the sidewalk, passing your favourite coffee shop, finding himself on the street of your favourite takeout.

Then he tries to sleep.

And then he wakes, trying to do it all over again.

He considers flying to Sam’s. To busy himself there, but he can’t leave. Not when you’re mad.

So he doesn’t.

And he fights going round to make it better, wanting to respect your wishes. Wanting to make it easier and not any harder.

But everything reminds him of you, and each minute feels harder to get through as they build up.

Because like an idiot.

He told you to move closer when your lease was coming to a close. He told you that living so far across the city was foolish, when you were always round his place. He let you help him buy furniture and decorate his place, so now everything is touched by you.

And even then, you were just friends, and nothing more. Now, he’s not sure how to describe the two of you.

Because even if he hates it, he knows he more than likes you. He knows he’s in love with you, because it’s suffocating how big it all feels. And he’s also sure to fix this he’ll need to say the four letter word, which he’ll need therapy just to cough it out.

So he basks in what could be. Remembering memories of you; replaying conversations the two of you have had, both good and bad.

The problem, he finds, with this particular thought process is that it highlights how fucked it all is. How he fucked up everything.

And his feet wander down the street, his mind so full and heavy, that unbeknown to him, he finds himself outside your door.

Even when you asked for time.

He understands why you did. He can see it from your point of view, that the pretending it was all fine and the way he pushes you away to protect you. It hurt you, when all he was doing was trying to protect you.

It’s the only reason he doesn’t put his key—the one you gave him. He doesn’t want to hurt you even more.

Instead, he listens to the theme tune of your favourite sitcom. He presses his forehead against the door, half-wanting to knock and the other half just be close, until he hears your elevator chime and he sees your neighbour frowning at him.

The one who he recognises, but doesn’t know.

“I’m just…” Bucky begins, but the man shakes his head.

“I don’t care, man.”

“I mean—“

“Still really not caring.”

Usually, he’d be glad. Happy that he didn’t need to go into some lengthy explanation of why he was here. Not sure how he'd explain it.

But, his voice—and your neighbours–had alerted you. The door yanking open, eyes puffy and red staring at him, jaw tightening and tightening as you try to narrow your eyes.

Any other day, he’d make a joke that if you try to glare any harder you’ll combust.

But he knows not too. He’s learnt.

“James.”

“Honey.”

All of the fight in you, fades. He watches it, diminishing like the air from a balloon if it’s let go. And it hurts.

It hurts to see you so sad.

“I just needed to see you were okay, is all.”

You swallow, folding your arms. “Well… No. No, I’m not.”

It wounds him. Your honesty, how you say it without all your usual fight. How brutal it is when it lands.

“So, since I’m not,” you continue, your voice cracking, “What do you want?”

“I…”

The word catches on his teeth.

His tongue feeling heavy in his mouth.

“I don’t want…”

“You don’t want, what?”

Bucky places his hand on your doorway, watching you watch him. Wishing he could wipe the disappointment from your eyes—wishing he could undo time and tell you from the start.

He taps his fingers on the frame, and then he sighs. “I should just go.”

His hand dropping, your brows furrowing but he swallows and nods.

His feet turning him.

And he wants to walk away, but as soon as he’s about to. He can’t. Even if he’s hearing your door approach closing, that horrid squeak he’s been promising to fix.

“I like being around you," he says, head dipped, fingers flexing uncomfortably as he bites the inside of his cheek.

And he listens to see if the door meets the frame. It doesn’t.

Bucky licks his lips. “I like sitting with you. Even if we don’t speak. I like it when I wake up next to you.” He looks up, not wanting to see your face—not yet. “And, I did want you. Do, want you. I always have.”

He hears you sigh, softly.

“But if anything,” he says, turning, heart thumping in his throat as he flexes his fingers, “Anything ever happens to you. I couldn’t… I wouldn’t be… I just want to take care of you. And I can’t do that if I’m the reason.”

He looks up.

And your eyes are on him.

Shimmering, shining, tears hanging from your lashes as your arms remain wrapped around yourself. As if hugging yourself; as if holding yourself together.

“I’m selfish. I’ve done horrible things. But, you’re good. You’re so damn good.”

You smile. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shakes his head moving closer, frowning. “It’s not. It’s really not.” His fingers instinctively cupping your cheek as you stare into your eyes. “It’s just…”

“You’d rather watch me be with other people than tell me you’re scared?”

And he smirks.

Because you’re right, even if he hates it.

And he doesn’t know what to do now you’ve pointed it out.

Your hand moves from your arm, placing itself on his hip. Staring into him, wanting to kiss you, as he finds the corners of his lips tugging.

“I love kissing you.”

Smirking, a tear falls down your cheek. “I don’t think you just love kissing me.”

“No… No there’s a lot I… a lot I love about you.”

Your eyes widen, just a little.

Your cheeks rising as you smile greater, bigger.

And he moves his palm further up your cheek, your hand tightening on his hip as the other hand slides from your other arm as he moves into the space.

And it’s right. So right.

He’s not even sure why he’s been running from this, from you.

“Not today,” you say, clearing your throat as his thumb wipes your cheek. “But tomorrow, I’m going to tell you all the ways you’ve been an idiot.”

Snorting, he nods. “Wouldn’t be you if you didn’t.”

“Do you want to come in?”

Bucky strokes your cheek, watching you curl into him.

And he just kisses you.

His mouth sliding over yours, his cool, metal fingers brushing your other cheek as he feels you hold him close. Feels your heart thudding against his chest, as he smiles against your lips, finding you do the same.

"I could kiss you forever..." he whispers, before kissing you again.

You don't say a thing, just kiss him back.

And it's enough.

He knows it's enough.

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