#HELLO this is pathetic sadness so don’t read if that’s not your jazz | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

egoludes · 4 years

Text

heat wave.

summary: as brooklyn’s temperatures rise, so does one woman’s interest in her local mechanic.

note: honestly, this is nothing but gratuitous 1950s!bucky smut inspired by @siennarossi blessing me with picnic content and the image of that seb under a car that’s plagued me ever since. the summer theme came out of nowhere, but i’m sick of snow so it felt right. hope you all enjoy!

wc: 8.8k

warnings: nsfw (18+), oral (female receiving), unprotected sex, cheating, introspection about unhappy relationships / societal expectations for relationships, a bit of angst

july twenty-first — ninety-one degrees.

There's something about summertime in Brooklyn. Days of eighty-eight degrees with humidity to boot, it’s a menace, an absolute force. But for all its faults, nothing can compare to the sunny shores of Coney Island; to the chorus of children’s laughter, untouched by schoolwork; or to late nights in Prospect Park with cicadas overhead. They make the heat tolerable most days, even pleasant others ---- until the twenty-first of July.

It starts at dawn, sun barely risen when the air starts to thicken. And by the time the city comes to, it’s to air too dense to breathe and heat so heavy it’s disarming. Even you, pretty girl from down south, can’t remember a time that you’d experienced ninety-one degrees; but it only takes a brief taste of it (the walk to your mailbox and back) to want to hide away for the rest of the day.

But, that’s just wishful thinking. Even when it’s so muggy, routine is what you have. You’re newly married, after all --- a late June wedding on the back of a six-month workplace courtship — and you want to make the honeymoon last. You want to prove that you’re as suited for this, for him as you’d thought you were when you said ‘yes’ to his proposal. So, there are things to do, errands to run, and there’s no avoiding the outside to get it all done.

That doesn’t mean you won’t do your damndest to delay it, though. Your husband already gone for the day, you start your chores to light jazz, trumpet notes grainy on your centerpiece record player. An air conditioner — the first on the block — sits inviting, but unused on the far windowsill; you don’t want to risk the electricity in heat like this. Instead, you’ve settled for an old fan that drones beneath the music you’re swaying your hips to. In due time, you’ve found a steady rhythm: laundry, cleaning, a dusting here and there — you pause a few times for something cool, but you find it isn’t as unbearable as you’d feared.

Then, comes groceries — the one task that requires you to leave your refuge. Shopping list in one hand and car keys in the other, you eye the front door warily because you know what’s on the other side. At least here, the heat is just that; sticky weight as the temperature rises faster than a fan can handle. Out there, you have heat and sunlight, working together to make ninety-something degrees feel a lot more like a hundred. But, the sad state of your fridge leaves you little choice, and with one big steeling breath, you step out into the summer.

Your car is the only one in the drive - a cream 1950 Buick that your husband had gotten you a month into your relationship. For a long time, seeing it made you uncomfortable - the gift was too grand too soon, stoking a sense of debt that felt odd for a lover. But now, it is just another part of your lavish life with him; a part you appreciate as you think about the cooling unit waiting inside. Waving to your neighbors, you hop in in a hurry, purse finding a haphazard spot on the passenger seat. Eagerly, you brace for a rush of that cold air as you turn your key —- only for that hope to wither when you get a pathetic sputter from the engine instead. You try it once, twice, three more times before you let out a groan and slap your hand to the steering wheel.

Of course this would happen today.

Deflated, you sit back against your seat (ignoring all the places it sticks to you) to weigh your options. At this point, there’s no way to get anything started for dinner before your husband is home — you only have two cars and he’s taken one with him. He’ll need to grab you something on the way back. But the bigger issue is not having a car for the days to come. You don’t work anymore, but groceries are impossible to get without a vehicle, especially when it’s so hot.

You need repairs, and fast.

First, you consider your husband. He’s no genius when it comes to cars, but you wonder if the time he spends poring over catalogues and talking makes with the neighbors have taught him anything useful. Just as soon as the thought comes, though, you recall how stressed he’s been, how the pressure at his firm has had him wound up lately. The thought of his disdain at your request — or worse, rejection — is enough for you to resolve to plan b: brave the few blocks to a garage you’ve seen on the way home.

Altogether, you spend maybe ten minutes weaving between cars and open hydrants to make it to the shop. But the weather makes it feel like hours, sweat beading at your hairline from the first few steps. When you get there, you’re fully winded, fanning at your cheeks, and there’s nothing in sight but a few cars and scattered parts. You’re reassured, though, by the clang of metal tools that lets you know there’s someone that can help.

“Hello?” Your voice feels tiny between the sounds of work and radio. You’re not even sure that whoever’s around heard you until you catch movement behind a truck nearby. Slowly, a man rises into your eye line and your breath thins at the sight of him: six feet something of muscle and sinew, covered in oil from his work and sweat from the heat. Your mind wanders without your permission —- guesses at what he might feel like, taste like if you had the chance. But, as quickly as the thoughts arise, you’re turning your eyes away in shame.

What the hell are you doing, married and thinking like that?

“What can I do for you, miss?”

The question forces a glance at him and you feel energy run through you at the way he watches you back. A few strands of dark hair fall into his eyes, but it doesn’t stop him from drinking you in. Slow, deliberate, his gaze picks you apart as if he can see right through the careful style in your hair; the stain on your lips; the light cotton of your dress. You feel laid bare just standing there, and somehow, it feels good. You shift nervously on your kitten heels.“My, uh, car – it… well, it doesn’t seem to be working. Won’t start, really, so I was hoping someone could take a look?"

He nods in quiet understanding, hands wiping grime on the top of his jeans. “You walked here?” He pauses long enough for you to answer. “Where’s your car? I can give you a tow.”

“Just a few blocks out, I live over on seventh.”

Another nod, this time pensive as his eyes search the shop until they land on a set of keys. He crosses the room for them, giving you a sinful view of his back along the way, before gesturing towards a red truck with the words Barnes and Son printed on either side. You gather he‘s likely the ‘son’ in this equation. “You can go on and wait by the truck then – I’ll just need to grab a few things from the back.“

When he returns, you’ve found a spot beside his truck that’s shielded from the sun and he’s changed into a shirt with a name stitched into the pocket. He gets close enough to help you in, one hand in yours and the other at your hip, which gets you close enough to read it. “Thank you, James.” His name leaves you with a careful lilt, like a delicate lace you’ve slipped on just for size, and he gulps at how good it sounds. Lips curl back in a grin, and he takes a moment to watch you settle before responding —

“Bucky.”

You blink. “Bucky?”

He hums in confirmation, moving to the back of the truck to ready a hook for your bumper. Even then, his voice is clear - steady as he calls back up to you. “Only my ma calls me James these days. Everyone else calls me Bucky.”

“Ah,” a knowing nod, “then, thank you Bucky.”

You catch his gaze in the side mirror and he watches you through his lashes, a look that makes your thighs press together. “You’re very welcome, miss.”

july twenty third, ninety four degrees.

Three days pass at a snail’s pace; seventy-two long hours of grueling heat, sputtering electricity, and rising restlessness. On the twenty-third, the weatherman on morning radio is the first to call it by its name and after that, it’s all you hear: heat wave, heat wave, heat wave.

In that time, you haven’t heard much from one Mr. Barnes. That doesn’t keep him from hijacking your thoughts, though —- edging into your head when you least expect it. The ride to your home had been short, the time to hook your car to his even shorter; but he’d snared you easy with that rumbling voice and careful, but natural humor. He’s unlike most men you’ve met during your time in Brooklyn; the trim, proper types at school and their older counterparts in the office. Pretty boy looks with an air of danger, he’s at the crossroads of rugged and polite. Man raised right with the eyes of a wolf. You want to know more about him, but don’t dare linger more than you need to. A man like him will only bring rumors, and it’s the last thing you need in your fledgling marriage. So, you do your best to forget about him — out of sight, out of mind.

Today, the house is too stuffy to be a haven from the sun and you’ve found yourself a spot on the porch, nursing the tallest glass of water you could find. In front of you, children play beneath their mothers’ watchful eye, as bare as they can be without being indecent. The sight makes you think about your future here — the newest, and youngest, couple on the block, you’re an outlier compared to the rest. Nothing to fill your days but a few chores and idle conversations. And though you’ve only been here a month, you imagine it won’t be many more before children are a consideration, and then, an expectation.

The thought guides hand to tummy and you imagine it all swelled up - full. You’ve always wanted that at some point, yes, but here? With him? You ask yourself the question often and always, the answer is unclear. Never no, but certainly not yes. And when you close your eyes to consider it further, the details are out of reach — more fuzzy than it should be when you’ve promised him forever.

That you hesitate makes you dizzy with guilt; bile in your throat whenever you just consider it. And this time, the heat compounds it, shame rolling off you like the beads of water dripping from your glass. You take a swig to wash it down, but the cool only brings clarity — sharpens your uncertainty into doubt. Suddenly, the trill of children’s laughter becomes more accusation than background noise, and you swear the other wives are watching across their lawns. Knowing, judging eyes that straighten your spine.

It makes the porch chair feel too hot to stay in -- its surface seeming to singe anywhere you aren’t covered -- and you bolt so fast your dress shifts around you. Fingers smooth out the wrinkles as steadily as they can before scooping up everything you’ve brought to carry back inside.

Perhaps a nap might be a better escape.

////

You wake up a few hours later to a setting sun and a much quieter street. A glance at the bedside clock lets you know it’s just past five and your mind turns instinctively to dinnertime. On most days, you’d balk at having only a couple hours to cook, tidy, and shower before your husband got home. But, with your car still in the shop and him back too late for grocery shopping, you know you’ll be working with leftovers. Two hours is all you need.

There’s still sleep in your eyes when you pad to the kitchen; but with time, the room starts to smell rich, the aroma of herbs rising steady, and your tired falters, then retreats altogether. It’s so good, you forget you’re working with an old meal and you almost don’t mind how hot you’re getting so close to the oven. As expected, the food — a simple casserole — doesn’t take long and by the time it’s left to warm, the dining table set, you have the perfect window for a cold rinse in the shower.

Your husband arrives as you step into a fresh house dress, and you know something’s wrong the moment he pulls in. Rubber squeals angrily against the pavement outside and the steps on the porch that follow are heavy, disgruntled. When he opens the front door, it’s with force that makes the frame groan and the sound rises a second time when he slams it closed. It’s been a pattern as of late, the way he moves through your home like a tempest; but you still aren’t quite used to it. How can you be, with your union so new as it is? But even as a different man stands before you, watching you emerge from your bedroom, than the man who’d courted you, you try to give him the benefit of the doubt. Work has been hard for him, and you know it. And it’s all to help you live the life you do — you know that too. So, that ever-present urge to please, to be the good wife stays steady. Even now, it compels you to help him out of his shoes as he tosses aside a blazer that ought to be illegal in this sort of weather. “Is dinner ready?” He grunts without any other greeting, and you nod, taking it in stride. He’s just stressed, you remind yourself, it’s not personal.

“Yes, dear, go and get settled — I’ll get you a beer, hm?” Your mouth meets his cheek in a chaste kiss before you lead him to the dining room by the hand. The table in it is set for two, unassuming but homey, and you maneuver around it with learned ease. Beer to the right of his plate, food dished out neatly, you hum to yourself as you go, hoping the domesticity will be a salve to his long day.

It turns out to be anything but. When you turn back to the table, you can see the displeasure radiating off him, his features turning into a sneer as his eyes assess the meal in front of him. “What is this,” he grunts. “Leftovers?"

You balk immediately, twisting hands in front of your apron until your knuckles feel like they’ll pop. “Well, it’s still all we have — as long as I don’t have the car, I won’t be able to make much...”

He concedes in a huff, the itch to start an row calmed by your sound, albeit nervous, logic. But it doesn’t make him any less prickly, any less distant. He eats dinner like he’s wounded by it, a grimace on every bite. Eventually, it’s unbearable to watch, and you sigh with a pensive glance at the fridge. You have no idea what else you can whip together at this point, but anything would be better than this. “if you want, I can try to make something else—”

“it’s fine,” he sneers, "don’t bother.”

The rest of dinner is choked and tense, the only sounds between you forks against your plates. He finishes first, lingering only long enough to drop his plate into the sink. Then he’s off; more weighted footsteps that you listen to until they disappear behind the door of his study. You are free to take your time then, savoring the rest of the meal as best you can. But, all his harsh judgment makes the casserole taste like mush and tears burn at the back of your eyes, so you give up not long after he’s gone.

You aren’t all that hungry anyway.

A new still settles over the room as you pack the rest of dinner away. You’d hoped this silence would be relief compared to the previous, but somehow it’s worse. Without someone else there to distract you, you spiral — hyperfixate. Before long, the walls seem to bow in, your home buckling with the weight of this disconnect. And soon, nothing can buoy you — your eyes swim, head pounds, and it takes only another minute of it to decide: you can’t stay in this house.

When the front door shuts behind you without a sound, you draw in a deep breath — the first in what feels like years. Out here, the air is syrupy, like you’re sucking it down through a straw; but it’s ten times better than the staleness you’re leaving. It makes your throat dry out just thinking about it, and you push off the porch with a click of your heels.

Head ducked and shoulders bowed, you walk with no real destination, mind wandering as much as you are. It isn’t until you hear the increasingly familiar sound of metal gears whirring that you realize you‘ve walked towards Bucky’s garage. Filmy light spills out of the cracked garage door, leaving shapes on the otherwise dark sidewalk. It beckons you, a different sort of warm, and you duck inside with arms around your middle.

“Excuse me? Bucky?"

The sound of company — a tentative call of his name --- makes Bucky jolt, and he narrowly misses hitting his head as he straightens beneath the hood of a car. The garage isn’t well lit at this time of night, but it isn’t hard to work you out in the doorway: head tipped, arms pressed tight to you. To say he’s confused would be an understatement but, he certainly doesn’t plan to send you away. There’s something rolling off you that he can’t place — exhaustion, maybe? Perhaps even dejection. Whatever it is, it implores him to indulge you. Begs, even. “Miss? You here to check in on the car—“

“Why do you keep callin’ me that,” you spit, anger dissolving timidness into something rough and raw. Bucky quirks an eyebrow in question and you barrel forward to explain. “Miss — there’s no way you haven’t noticed my ring by now, you ought to be calling me Ma’am.” The outburst is misdirected and you know that — but this is a sore spot right now. Feeling so inadequate as a wife, unhappy in your marriage — this man you know you shouldn’t want and his refusal to acknowledge your status only makes it worse.

“I don’t mean any harm by it,” he shrugs, hands raising slightly in surrender, “‘s just odd calling you ma’am, young as you are. You don’t even have one wrinkle.” His tone turns playful there and you feel your whole body warm. There’s no way he can know what’s bothering you, or that’s something bothering you at all. But if you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s trying to comfort you, even as your rage targets him. He drives it home with all his focus on you, a concern in those blue eyes that makes you want to weep.“You prefer I call you ma’am? I can, if you do.”

His earnest gives you pause; tempers your upset into a thrumming discomfort. Do you want him to call you ma’am? As visceral as your reaction had been, there’s a part of you that’s aware enough to know that you only care because you’re supposed to. It’s the right thing to call a married woman and you want to be like the best of them. At least, normally — right now, in front of Bucky and his lack of pretense, you find you care a lot less. His offer makes you realize how much of this is reflexive and you shake your head after another beat of silence. “No, I...suppose it’s fine if that’s why.” You still, feeling your face grow hot with shame. ”I’m sorry.”

His shoulders lift in a shrug and just like that, the moment’s forgotten, its tension gone. He turns the conversation elsewhere as graciously as he can. “So, what is it you’re doing here? I usually don’t do calls this late.”

“I just…wandered here to be honest. It’s awful in my house, heat and all. Needed air.”

He watches you the way he had that first day in the shop; unflinchingly. Fear curls up your spine at the thought that he might push you for more. Instead, Bucky nods, accepting the answer with a click of his tongue, and you press out a shaky breath. “Well, it won’t be much better here, but we got a fan you’re welcome to sit by ‘till you cool off.” He nudges a hand in the direction of the fan, but you hardly need it — you’ve eyed it now five times in as many minutes and could feel yourself swooning at the sight. It’s an industrial model, just shy of your height with blades twice as strong as your model at home. A stool sits next to it and you choose to settle there.

Bucky keeps watching until he knows you’re comfortable before returning to his work. On the radio, a singer you’ve never heard before croons about love, slow and sweet. It’s not what you’d expect for a mechanic's working music, but the way Bucky hums along makes it a perfect fit. He sways as he tends to the engine, as if the car dances with him, and you watch him with a smile — small enough that he misses it when he peeks up to check on you.

An hour passes just like that; a comfortable, easy quiet that’s only fractured when one of you hums louder than the fan next to you or laughs at something on the radio. Bucky works steadily, but makes a point of turning your way every so often to make sure you’re alright. Make sure you’re still there. You manage to catch his eye every time, which leads to a smile, a tip of the head, a sharp, careful breath.

You feel right in in that room of sparks and oil, and it overwhelms you.

“I think,” you start, standing to smooth your dress. The night deepens, and you imagine your husband’s noticed your absence by now. “I'll get going now, Bucky. Leave you to your work.” You offer him a smile that he returns easily, watching you as you take steps towards the door. “Have a good night, hm? Don’t work yourself too hard."

A chuckle rises from him in a rumble and you can feel your tummy turn. “Same to you. Sweet dreams, miss.”

The walk home is much lighter than the walk there had been. There’s contentment settling in, even through the heat, and it doesn’t break, not even when you get home to find your husband waiting for you. The door clicking shut behind you is the only greeting you get out before he’s standing, eyes narrowed. “Where did you go?”

You slip out of your heels carefully, as if sudden movement might shake hints of the garage out of your dress. “Just for a walk. I needed some air after I finished cleaning up, I wasn’t feeling very well.”

The answer seems to satisfy him; releases the tension in his back and shoulders until he's unwound enough to move. “Alright, well…are you any feeling better?” You give one quick nod in response, to which he hums, drinks you in for a moment, then offers a hand. You inch closer, each step more careful than the last, until he can press palms over your hips. Once he has you, your husband bares down to find your mouth; one soft kiss in apology. Eventually, though, those kisses deepen —- press you into bed with your clothing stripped in favor of sweat-streaked skin, and he murmurs more sorries into your throat, your thighs, and the sweet heat of your mound until you’re crying out forgiveness.

All the while, you see blue eyes in the ceiling; think of hands calloused from engines and gears; and swallow down guilt as you take your husband into your mouth.

There’s no room for Bucky Barnes when you do that.

july twenty fourth, ninety six degrees.

It’s half noon when the sound of heels echo in Bucky’s garage. They cut through his music well enough that he’s immediately searching out the sound from his spot beneath a cream 1950 Buick. A pair of baby doll pumps appear in his peripheral to answer his curiosity. “Just a minute,” he offers before his guest can speak, smiling so big already his jaw smarts. One last turn of his wrench brings him at a natural stopping point and then, he's rolling out to see you, as he suspected, beaming down at him.

There’s a tumbler of lemonade in your right hand — fresh, by the looks of it — and tupperware in your left. His heart stutters at the sight of it; you, all dolled up, bringing him lunch. He wonders if this is what your husband gets every day — a precursor to what he imagines are just as pretty nights — and can’t help but envy the fucking bastard.

What he’d give to see this every lunchtime till the end of his days.

“Ma’am,” he greets with a smirk, reaching for a rag to wipe his hands.

You huff loudly, lips turning sideways in a grin of your own. “You are never going to let me live that down, huh?”

Laughter shakes his shoulders. “Not any time soon, if you smile like that when I say it.” Your body heats immediately, eyes darting down in a show of shyness, and he almost coos at how easy it is to make you so bashful. “Brought that for me?”

You welcome the distraction, nodding as you hold out both offerings. “They said today’s the worst day yet for the heat and I know you’re here working in it, so…just wanted to make sure you had somethin’ to enjoy during your breaks.”

“Why, thank you,” Bucky pauses then, thoughtfully at first before his features go boyish, playful. “And you’re not just tryin’ to get out of paying me later, right?”

You laugh this time, a hearty sound he hadn’t heard before the previous night, but can’t seem to get enough of now. “Nope — scout’s honor. This is all on the house.”

You’re unlike any client he’s ever known; few wives make it as far as his door, their husbands preferring to come in for them, and the others that have certainly don’t make him feel like this. It would worry him if he dwelled on it, so he makes a point not to. Presses the oddness you cause in him to the back of his thoughts — out of sight, out of mind.

You set both the pitcher and plasticware down on the table closest to you, and quickly, Bucky is upon them. Scooping a clean cup from one of his nooks, he reaches for the lemonade and takes a hearty pour, humming at the sound of ice against glass. “This looks real good — you really didn’t have to.”

“Nonsense,” you wave him off, “it’s the least I could do."

“Well — cheers.” With eyes trained on you, Bucky brings cup to mouth, drinks in long, tapered swallows that work his whole throat. It’s mundane enough in theory; but there’s something in the way he does it. Something that unravels you, keeps you from turning away though you know you should. When he’s done, his mouth is fuller than ever and wet, wet, wet with drops of lemonade at the corners. He reaches a thumb up to wipe them off and in one fluid motion, brings them to his tongue.

Your eyes are pinned to it, darting after the curl of his tongue; and, by the time he finishes, blown wide open. You’re lightheaded, desire and guilt sending your senses into a tailspin, and you have to clear your throat to get words out. “I, uh, — I should be heading home. Couple other errands to do before the day is out — enjoy those, Bucky!"

Before he can get respond, you rush through the garage door, jasmine perfume in your wake, and Bucky stays put until the smell of you wanes.

Maybe you’re not all that out of mind after all.

july twenty sixth.

“ —— the massive heat wave hitting New York City continues today as temperatures reach a record one hundred and five degrees.”

The first thing you feel when you wake up is wet. Seeping into your sheets, your pillow case, your chemise nightgown, it's an uncomfortable feeling, being so sweaty. Feels gummy and unnatural — you make a note to be in the shower as soon as you can manage.

The second is pain, palpable as the fight you’d had with your husband the night before returns to the forefront of your mind. The cause had been insignificant in the grand scheme of things, but heat has a way of undoing sensibilities. You’ve never seen yourself like that, so belligerent, so vicious, and wonder how much of this summer is changing you the way it’s changing him. It feels like coming out of a hangover, and you lift yourself from your bed with a ragged sigh. The house seems still, and after a moment’s listen, it’s clear your husband's already left for the day —— without breakfast and, notably, without goodbye.

As much as it stings, there’s relief knowing you won’t have to face him yet, nerves dulled now that you can move through your routine at your leisure. You’re fresh out the shower, drying with the softest towel you could find, when the shrill ring of the telephone cuts in. In no mood to be personable, you have half a mind to ignore it, but decide against it — you wouldn’t want to miss anything important.

“Hello?"

“Hello — I’m lookin’ to speak to Mrs. Miller?” The voice on the other end is like honey; sweet and sharp as he asks for you. You know it’s Bucky almost immediately and straighten up as though he can see you, a finger tracing over the lapel of your robe.

“This is she…”

“Mornin’, miss,” he offers, voice dropping an octave or two — it’s subtle enough to seem innocent, but suggestive enough, at least to you, to make you gulp. “I’m just phonin’ to let you know that your car is all ready.”

Your heart stutters at the promise of seeing him, your earlier grogginess all gone, and you find yourself biting back a smile as though he might catch it. “Thank you, Bucky — I can be right there.”

////

The walk to Barnes and Son is muggy, even worse than it’d been the day your car shut down. And when you arrive, there’s sweat lining your forehead and under your arms. You take a moment to dab at it before ducking inside, where Bucky is waiting by his work table. Today, there is no radio — the only sound between you is the traffic outside and a buzzing that you only notice when it’s too hot to think.

“Mornin’ again,” he offers as he stands straight, beckoning you to your car with a hand. When you’re close enough, he starts to walk you through his fixes, gesturing here and pointing there to guide your attention. But, despite his best intentions, your head stays fuzzy - you can’t tell how much of it is the heat and how much is the distracting cut of muscles in Bucky’s bare arms. He’s worn that white tank top a few times now, but it’s more soaked than it has been and the sight of it makes you feel rabid.

He notices when you go long without even a word. “You payin’ attention to me?”

Too much, you think to yourself, mustering a sheepish nod and a cough to clear your throat. “So, how much do I owe you?”

He rattles off the price and you try not to grimace — a habit from before you had the means -- as you rifle through your purse to count out the bills. When you hand them over, Bucky’s fingers brush your own in a touch too light to be intentional. But that doesn’t stop it from knocking the wind out of you. You must just be sensitive, you reason, after the fight and, now, this oppressive heat putting your body on edge. But, deep down, you know it’s more than that and Bucky seems to know it too — his fingers linger, keep yours there, before curling around them altogether.

“I ought to go.” The words hang between you, but you make no actual move to step away. Bucky’s touch, as mundane as it is, has you completely rooted.

“I could tell, you know,” he’s speaking soft, one hand scooping the money out of your hand while the other runs a pointer finger along the lines of your palm. He stirs sparks in every spot he touches, electricity that spreads and spreads and spreads until it’s all you can see. He’s all you can see. "— that night you came to the garage. It wasn’t the heat that ran you out, it was your man. It was that godforsaken house that looks like every other one on the street — you hate it there, don’t you?”

For the first time in days, you feel chill sweep over you; shock at being unmasked so bluntly. And it’s enough to wake you up to snatch your hand out of his grasp. “Stop,” you hiss, “you don’t know anything about this, about me.”

If he’s wounded by your retreat, it doesn’t show. All you read in Bucky’s expression is understanding, sympathy, concern. There’s tenderness on every inch of him and it makes your body shake to see it so plainly. “Nah, I don’t think that’s true. Think you know it too.” He steps closer, and closer still, until you can feel the grooves of his workstation against your spine. Large hands come down against the wood on either sides of your hips and you can smell him, musky and sweet, as he leans over you. “Think I know more about you from this week than any of ‘em have cared to learn in months. Even him. Am I wrong?"

“B-Bucky—“ you shake your head as if it’ll stop the inevitable; this breach of your defenses that’s laid your worst bare. Of course he isn’t wrong — your unhappiness swells faster than you can control it, and he’s been the first to notice. You imagine it won’t be long before your husband, your family, your friends are onto you too. Right now, though, your attention stays on the man before you; the way your hands have found his chest without you meaning them to, and the way the muscle flexes to the touch.

His mouth is close, trembling with anticipation. But, you can see where he’s holding back — the tension in his jaw, flexed fingers at your hip. No amount of desperation will make him move before you say. “Tell me if I’m wrong.” Hooded eyes bore down into yours as Bucky waits for an answer — you give it to him in a searing kiss, reservations undone in the face of pure need. He returns it just as desperately, slipping fingers over your throat and shoulders before resettling at your waist.

He uses the grip to hoist you up onto the table behind you, giving you the leverage to pull him in by the legs. He’s already half-hard, cock against your tummy, and the feel of him is enough to make you moan into his mouth. This is wrong — this is so goddamn wrong, but you’re dizzy with how badly you want him, this man who’s seen you, and you dismiss your guilt for a later time. “Off,” you pant, fingers already working at the buttons on your blouse.

To your surprise, Bucky’s hand cages wrists to keep you still. “Not here,” he grunts into the side of your mouth, pulling your arms to wrap around his shoulders instead. You’re about to question it when he lifts you once more, this time into him, and braces your weight with hands under your rear. The shift makes you squeak and his laugh as he carries you shakes your body. In a few short strides, he takes you through the door he’d come into on the day you came to him, and you realize quickly it’s an office - surprisingly tidy for a place so busy. On the far side of the room, a couch waits, a pillow and blanket folded on the arm rest. He must notice the way your eyes linger on them because he squeezes your hips as he purrs: “‘S cooler here now than my house — makes working easy too.” He slots you onto the cushions, and you note how easily they mold to you — how lived in they seem. From where you lay, you glean pictures on the walls and table, Bucky in some of them, smiling faces in most. It’s a window into his life you hadn’t expected at all, much less in the middle of something like this —and it terrifies you how much more you want to know.

How much more you want of him.

As if reading your mind, Bucky climbs in over you and reels your attention in with his mouth back over yours. He kisses you deep, slow, fingers replacing yours on your blouse as he picks the buttons open one by one until you’re left in a plain pointed bra. You shrink a bit, knowing how simple it must look — but the hunger in his eyes seems to ease that concern. He’s had dreams about this, about you, in the damp of this very room, and had just managed to convince himself that that was where you’d stay. At arm’s length, in his fantasies. But now, here you are, propriety set aside as you seek out your gain. Something he fully intends to give to you as he slips you out of your skirt as well.

Your legs slip shut instinctively when the material falls away but Bucky’s hands settle on either thigh to still you. “No, no — let me in, sweetheart." the plea carries like a song, melody and harmony that soaks into your panties as you part your legs at his behest. The sight of you, so open, so soft, makes him dizzy and he steadies himself with nose to your inner thigh, breathing you in slow and deep. “God, you smell good — bet you taste good too, huh?” His thumb comes down over you as if the touch might answer his question. You tremble at it, let out a sound into the room that’s choked and desperate. “Could eat you right up.”

And god, does he. Panties pressed unceremoniously to the side and his tongue to your wet, Bucky Barnes eats you alive in that New York City heat. Somewhere in the madness, his nose finds your clit, nudges it each time he laps, and you arch off the couch keening, hands framing his head. Tugging, pulling, you’re done apart by his touch, jerking hips up needily to find his mouth. “Fuck,” he grunts against you, “keep goin’—”

You don’t need him to spur you on, but it does wonders nonetheless. You can’t remember the last time you’d felt so good. Even your husband the nights before, in all his earnest, hadn’t done you in like this. But, Bucky, with all that hunger and ache, has your body coiled up, eyes squeezed shut as you chase your pleasure. And as if he can sense the way you teeter on the edge, he presses a finger into you, the pad of it searching for the spot that’ll bowl you over.

“B-Bucky—“ you gasp, hips twisting because it’s so much, too much, and instinct makes you want to run. He shakes his head with a hand keeping you still, and a second finger joining the first inside you.

“Make a mess for me, sugar,” he commands in a purr, full lips brushing your clit, “don’t be shy now.” With that, his intent is crystal clear and he can focus on the task at hand; no more sweet nothings or encouragement — just his mouth back over your mound, flicking, sucking, in time with his fingers until you arch up off the couch with a cry of his name.

Your climax is hot-white; tears at the corners of your eyes as they dart, unseeing, to the ceiling. Bucky coos into your cunt in a tone akin to praise, and you shiver at how good it feels. He guides your hips for a moment or two more, just to help you ride it out, before rising from between your legs with a sheen of sweat, satisfaction, and you. His mouth curls up in a wolfish grin, canines sharp against his bottom lip, and you feel your tummy clench at the sight. This man will be the death of me.

The room is boiling, lust and tension at critical mass now that Bucky’s coaxed one mind-blowing orgasm out of you. And as uncomfortable as the sweat pooling in your corners is, you want more; need it, even. Your fingers find purchase at the base of his neck, forcing him up and over you until you can meet his mouth. Your body thrums at the taste of him — you, all over his tongue — and he kisses you deep when he realizes how much you like it too. In your earnest, you reach down to palm him through the jeans hanging low on his waist. You don’t know when his shirt had come off, but you’re appreciative of it. Eyes dancing over the expanse of bare skin, scarred in some places, but no less beautiful. You want to see the rest of him and you tug at his bottoms until he gets the message. While he works on that, you shed your underwear and bra and once you’re both naked, he settles back against you, sighing at the press of your skin. The contact is delicious, and it has you seeking out mouths for a kiss that’s as hungry as it is fond.

“Ready,” he murmurs against your lips, the head of his cock nudging at you as he draws closer. You nod, and he reaches down to guide himself, cock probing a bit until it slips past and slowly finds him settled. The way he sits inside you, stretching you to your limit, makes you gasp. Like you’re breaking water for the first time in a long time to the bite of fresh air. You crane up to kiss him with that newfound clarity, moaning when he twitches inside you.

“You alright?” The question comes out in a pant, Bucky’s mouth starting to trail over your jaw as he flexes to hover over you.

“Yes, Bucky, god yes, please move—“

Your plea’s barely out before he delivers, a slow drag of his hips that finds him out to the tip, then back to the hilt. The way he moves is like poison, like fire, and you wrap all your limbs around him to keep him close. The first thrusts keep you tangled like that, his head against your throat while he moves inside you. But, then you pull fingers through his hair, nail over scalp, and it’s like a switch flips inside him. In a flourish, Bucky sits up, shifting you until your knees nearly meet your chest and his hands hold you open by the underside of your thighs. The new angle guides him deep and makes you cry out, loud and with abandon.

The sound of it eggs him on; draws sharper, deeper thrusts from him as he watches you come apart from what he’s doing to you. “Doesn’t fuck you like this, does he? The way you deserve.” The accusation leaves him in a growl as his teeth close over your collarbone. Your throat is dry, and head too jumbled for you to do anything but shake your head — as if Bucky even needed an answer. “‘Course not — bastard.”

Thinking about your husband while you’re beneath another man shouldn’t feel good — but the possessiveness, the raw claim Bucky lays to you is addicting. It makes you want to be his beyond this, and you grip him close, nails leaving marks in his arms and shoulders, as if to keep him there. His thrusts quicken in response, hips finding yours in a delectably rapid rhythm, and you can feel your climax build for a second time already.

Bucky feels the way you pulse around him, grunting at the heat, and brings a finger down to your clit to keep you rising. The stimulation makes you arch, eyes squeezing shut as your legs tighten at his hip, and he uses his other hand to guide you down to meet him still. “Shit, look at you — gonna cum for me again, huh? Want it — god, I want it.” His body falls forward, keeping you chest to chest while he grinds down into you. “Come on, sweetheart, give it to me.”He reaches between you to bring his thumb down on your clit; flicks it once or twice before your peak barrels over you. It draws a cry that goes hoarse at the end and you fumble to pull him down and silence it in a kiss. He keeps his mouth on yours as his thrusts grow more erratic, his own climax not far off, and when he finally finishes it’s with a low groan of your name — eyes wrenched shut as he melts into you.

It takes a few moments for things to settle; Bucky stays over you, inside and pressed near as you both catch your breath. When he does slip out of you, it’s with a shudder and open-mouthed kisses to your wet skin. The loss of fullness makes you want to whine, but it isn’t until you start to feel his cum drip out of you that the sound actually makes it out. There’s something filthy about it — freeing too. And Bucky shares the sentiment as he presses your thighs up once more to look between your legs. “Push, pretty girl,” he murmurs, entranced by the sight of you. If it were anyone else you’d be embarrassed from the exposure; but his gaze just makes you preen. You do as he asks -- deep breath in, deeper one out — and you both moan at what follows.

Bucky’s eyes go darker somehow and you feel your body tighten as his fingers ghost between your folds. “Think I can get one more out of you?"

////

You end up spending hours lost in that room. Kissing, fucking, laughing — you’re only apart when Bucky rises to check in on the shop or answer the telephone. Then he fits right back between your thighs like it’s the only place he’s ever wanted to be. And sometimes, with the way he looks at you, you could believe it might be. You tell yourself you’re dreaming, though — finding emotion where it isn’t to make sense of this whirlwind of a week with him.

By the time four rolls around, there’s still no explanation for it, but there is an end— your car is working now, which means it’s back to routine. Groceries, cooking, bed with your husband. You dread it already, fingers trembling as you fix your mussed clothes; but seeing Bucky, and the recognition on his face when he comes back to see you dressing, only makes it worse. A silence settles between you while you dress and he watches from the doorway, arms over his chest. It’s not as bad as the silences have been with your husband, but it’s just as potent. Heavy and suffocating. He breaks it first, and you almost wish he hadn’t.

“I know it ain’t this simple,” he starts, quiet as though nervous about disrupting this still, "but I could be good to you.” Your shoulders stiffen with shock and when you look up at him, Bucky’s turned away, watching the cars he has left to fix. “Be better to you.”

You shake your head, swallowing the ache that rises with a sardonic smile. “How can you be,” you sigh, "you hardly know me from a hole in a wall, Bucky, this - this was just…” sex? You want to say so, but the sentence sounds all wrong, even to you.

Bucky, meanwhile, takes no offense to the rebuttal. If anything, it works him up more, a determination setting in that he hadn’t had just moments prior. “Maybe. But that don’t mean I’m wrong. Don’t mean I don’t know what I need to.”

The confession hangs between you for a moment, suspended by his conviction and your brain imagining life as his wife instead without your permission. It’s a split second of it, no more than a flash or two of imagination, but it’s enough to leave you queasy.

Because the fantasy is crystal clear, every scene in high definition. Bucky, his sky blue eyes creased at the corners by a smile; and a babbling baby with ones just like his, reaching for you from his arms. You see yourself in the photos in his office, beaming like the others. The thought is bad enough, but the need you feel just thinking about it makes you step back, hand to your chest as you suck in a breath. “If only it were so easy,” you breathe, dejected as you thumb the keys in your hand. You’re frozen there for another moment before you step forward, slowly, to move around him. When your shoulder touch as you pass, you can feel Bucky stiffen, shift as if he’s about to stop or hold you.

But the moment passes without him doing either, and you dip your head as you walk the rest of the way to your car. One last glance over your shoulder finds him watching you, longing coming off him in waves and you respond in turn, a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Goodbye, Bucky."

july twenty-seventh, eighty-five degrees.

Your drive to the grocery store won’t take long. But, you’ve opted to roll down your windows for it, basking in the breeze over your face. As suddenly as it began, the heat has finally broken, the city’s fever lifted, and for the first time in nearly a week, things feel normal.

On the radio, a woman sings a song about love lost, gained, and everything in between. You’ve only heard it a few times before, so you sing along in spurts. Lyrics here, hums there. It’s a welcome distraction from the emptiness that’s been sitting in your gut since the night before. You can almost ignore how sick you feel when you tap along to the music — almost.

When you turn down the next street, you recognize it quickly as the one of Bucky’s garage and that despair gets a new hold on you. There’s an immediate burn behind your eyes - reminiscent of what you felt, crying the night before — but this time there’s no tears. Just resolve as you force yourself to face front, attention steady, lest you get a glimpse of him.

Through your open windows, you catch the sound of tools from his shop. Just a few nights before, that had been solace; but now, it unsettles you. Sows discomfort so cleanly your entire body goes rigid. You fumble to get the windows back up, cutting off fresh air in favor of the ac you flick on with a finger. It takes a moment to kick in; but when it does, you breath a sigh of relief. Hold a hand over the grate to ground yourself with the cool.

It’s not as refreshing as that summer breeze, but you know it’ll have to do.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fanfic #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes

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you-and-i-for-forever · 7 years

Text

10 Things I Hate About You AU Chapter 2

Fandom: Be More Chill, Dear Evan Hansen Ships: Boyf riends, treebros, richjake, Zolana, Pink Berry Word count: 2.9k

Feel free to read this on my ao3 instead!

Read the chapter 1 here (tumblr) or here (ao3)!

Jeremy and Michael had planned to meet up during lunch. Michael only arrived at school just as the bell was about to ring for class so there was no way for him to meet Jeremy that morning.

They weren’t able to get any classes together, the ones Michael had signed up for were all full since everyone had signed up last spring and Jeremy had had to pick through the classes that nobody wanted.

Jeremy had ended up in German 1 and Jazz Band.

“Can you even play any instruments?” Michael had laughed over his gaming headset when Jeremy told him over the summer.

“No, but it was either that or Parenting Prep and I did not want to carry around a sack of flour and pretend it’s a child.” Jeremy had responded, tapping away at his controller.

The only upside to this all was that they had lunch together so Jeremy was relieved to at least get to see his friend for 45 minutes every day.

Jeremy had finally been able to navigate his way to the cafeteria. As helpful, needed and wanted as Jared’s explanation of the school’s social stratosphere had been, he hadn’t mentioned anything about where anything was in the building.

After Jeremy had finished gawking at the handsome Jake Dillinger, he realized Jared had disappeared on him. Jeremy was left to try and decipher the messy hand drawn map of the school Evan had given him a few days ago. Evan had even highlighted Jeremy’s classrooms, locker location, bathrooms, and nurse’s office for him.

So when Jeremy was finally about to make it to the lunchroom (after getting turned around several times), he was nervous when he didn’t immediately catch sight of Michael. The lunchroom was large, loud, and crowded and Jeremy didn’t know what to do.

Standing here looking for a friend would make him look weird and awkward but wandering up and down the lunch tables would make him seem pathetic and sad.

Jeremy started to sweat and feel jittery, he needed to make up his mind now before anyone realized what a complete weirdo he was. Jeremy quickly stepped into the line for a school lunch.

Jeremy was fully aware that he had a packed lunch in his bag but he didn’t know what else to do. He stood awkwardly in the lunch line – not really sure what to do with his hands – and hoped he could find Michael in the sea of people.

He made it to the cashier with a foil wrapped burger and some fries; still no sign of Michael anywhere.

Maybe they had gotten it wrong and he and Michael had two separate lunches.

“Jeremy!” A voice yelled from behind him as he stepped out of the lunch line.

Jeremy looked up from his tray, and spun around and, thankfully, finally spotted Michael.

He was in his signature red sweater shirt and white headphones.

“Michael!” Jeremy called, relieved to see his friend.

Michael jogged over to him, maneuvering around slow walking people.

“Dude, what’s up?” Michael laughed when he was finally at Jeremy’s side.

“Nothing, just waiting for you man,” Jeremy said, feeling a large, dorky smile plaster on his face.

Michael bumped his shoulder with his own, “Well let’s go then.”

Jeremy followed him, weaving in between jam-packed tables and packed tables. Michael led him into a separate section of the lunchroom, connected to the first through a pair of opened double doors.

Michael found them a more secluded table and sat down, Jeremy following his lead.

“Dude, this is so weird being at school with you,” Jeremy said.

“Dude I know, It’s awesome! Now we can just hang for the next 2 years!” Michael said, bumping Jeremy’s shoulder again, “How’s classes so far?”

Jeremy shrugged and started to unwrap his burger. He watched Michael pull a container full of sushi out of his backpack, slightly jealous.

“They’re alright, just boring without you in them,” Jeremy said and took a bite of the burger. He scrunched up his nose, it wasn’t bad…but it wasn’t great either.

Michael gave him a warm smile as he chomped on his sushi rolls.

“How about you?”

Michael hummed, “They’re fine, much rather be getting high in my basement and playing games though.”

Jeremy blew air out of his nose in a laugh and shoved fries into his mouth. Michael opened his mouth to say something else but someone cut him off.

“Hey loser, what’s up?” A voice said from the other side of Michael.

Jeremy leaned in and saw it was Jared. He swung his backpack off and sat down in a seat.

“Nothing,” Michael said and fist bumped Jared.

“How have you already made friends with the new kid?” Jared asked with a laugh, eyeing Jeremy.

Jeremy waved at Jared, a little confused. He didn’t really know that Michael had any friends at school, at least not any he ever mentioned to him.

“Oh, me and Jeremy go way back. We’ve known each other since we were in diapers.” Michael explained twirling his chopsticks around his fingers.

“Dude, we were in preschool, you were the only one still in diapers.” Jeremy corrected him with a snort.

“Yeah, whatever.” Michael scowled at the memory.

Jared pulled out his phone and started typing away at it.

“I didn’t know you guys knew each other. Kind funny.” Jeremy commented.

“We always seem to get paired up to be lab partners in science so we just started hanging out.”

Jared, continuing to mess with his phone, reached over and grabbed Michael’s blue Gatorade. Michael huffed but didn’t both trying to get it back.

“I beat his high score on Super Monkey Ball a few years ago and he won’t leave my house until he breaks it and that’s the only reason we’re friends,” Jared explained, obnoxiously slurping on Michael’s drink.

Jeremy felt sort of weird about the whole situation. Why hadn’t Michael told him about Jared before? It’s not like they didn’t talk basically every single day.

Jeremy watched Jared lean over and show something on his phone to Michael. Michael pointed and laughed at it and Jeremy felt weirder. He hadn’t realized he was going to have to share Michael when he got here.

The first day back was bad. Not for any particular reason, most days were just bad for Evan.

He sat down in the middle of the classroom of 5th period English, (sitting in front meant everyone could see every little movement he made and sitting in the back might make him look like a troublemaker) relieved the day was almost over.

“Hello, class!” The teacher, Mr. McCormack called after the bell had rung, trying to bring the students attention to the front of the room. “I hope everyone had a good summer and that you all did the summer reading because we’re jumping right into The Sun Also Rises by Ernest Hemingway today.”

There was a low murmur of annoyance in the room at the teacher not exclusively going over the syllabus. Didn’t really mind though. No lesson plan on the first day always meant “Get to Know You” games and he’d have to try and interact with his peers. Not that he didn’t want to try and talk to some of them, he just knew it would just end with everyone thinking he was a complete freak, all sweaty and stuttery. It was just better for him to keep his head down and only talk to someone when he absolutely had to…and sometimes not even then.

Evan pulled out his copy of the book. He had really enjoyed it, he loved the way Hemingway described the traveling and bull fights.

“What did everyone think?” Mr. McCormack asked, looking around for volunteers. Evan watched Alana raise her hand immediately.

The teacher gestured to her then looked down at the attendance clipboard, “Yes, uuuh…”

“Alana Beck, sir.” she offered before clearing her throat to continue, “I thought the book was very romantic, but Hemingway himself was an abusive alcoholic misogynist who squandered half his life hanging around Picasso trying to pick up his leftovers.”

The teacher must have never had Alana in a class before, his eyes widening at the thorough answer.

“Very nice Alana, that was a very interesting and deep take away from this particular story. Would anyone else like to add onto that?”

No one raised their hand. Evan watched Alana look around a little, almost excited that she was the only one to answer on the first day.

“All right well I’ll just call from the attendance sheet…Let’s see…Evan Hansen?”

Evan’s heart jumped into his throat. Why had the teacher picked him? Why out of all the 30 people in the class did he have to call on Evan?

Evan looked up at Mr. McCormack, who was staring at him, waiting for an answer.

“Uuummmmmmmm” Evan let out and quickly flipped through his book, hoping he’d see a passage or clue on what to say. He had completely forgotten what the book was about the second the teacher had called his name.

“Uuhh,” Evan malfunctioned “It’s – The, uh – When – Ummmm.”

The teacher raised an eyebrow at him and Evan thought he might throw up.

Oh god, everyone was staring at him, everyone was thinking that he was crazy. All of his peers were probably laughing at him right now all thinking he was a complete idiot and that he hadn’t read the book.

Evan made a few more noises before he heard giggles behind him. They were laughing at him.

His brain was screaming at him to GET OUT THEY’RE ALL LAUGHING AT YOU YOURE SUCH A FREAK GET OUT OF THERE NOW!

“We’ll come back to you Evan, don’t worry,” The teacher promised and called on someone else from the attendance sheet. Evan could barely hear him.

He felt like he was going to explode. He was all twitchy and his heart was pounding in his chest and it was hard to breathe and he knew everyone was thinking about how stupid that Evan kid was.

The second, literally the second, that the teacher let them have a 5-minute break, Evan fled to the hallway with his backpack. He unzipped it as he walked, looking for his anxiety meds.

His heart felt like it was going to pound out of his chest and he was losing it and everyone could see GET OUT OF THERE NOW!!!

Evan rounded a corner and saw a bathroom. He rushed into it and thought he had found his pill bottle and pulled it out. Only it wasn’t his meds, it was his pencil case that was half stuck under a couple of his notebooks so when he pulled it out, half of the contents of his backpack came with it.

Evan scrambled to pick up everything. He didn’t even know if there was anyone in the bathroom but he tried to shove everything back into his backpack as quickly as possible so no one would happen upon him and think he was a loser.

He glanced in his backpack and still didn’t see his pill bottle.

He heard the lock of a bathroom stall click.

Evan froze. From behind him, he heard someone walk up behind him and speak.

“So – um, what happened to your arm?” The voice asked.

Evan shot up and whipped around. Connor Murphy was standing in front of him, gesturing towards his cast with one hand, the other stuffed in his black jacket pocket. This was not the time to be dealing with a guy like Connor, someone who might blow up on him and make his panic attack worse. Evan hunched over slightly and looked everywhere but at Connor, feeling so incredibly uncomfortable.

If it was bad being Evan Hansen, school nobody, it was even worse to be Connor Murphy, school freak and nut job. Evan knew to stay away from him; he had a violent streak and a bad temper.

Plus he had suddenly vanished at the beginning of last year. He was there one day and then gone another and hadn’t shown back up until…just now. Rumors had spread like wild fire of course. None good. Some said he had gone to jail for killing someone in a hit and run while under the influence and some thought he might have dropped out of school to start a porn career. Most of the rumors figured he had killed himself and the Murphy’s were just trying to cover it up.

But Connor was back now, standing in front of Evan and he had asked him a question.

Evan looked down at his cast and felt flustered, heart beat still thumping in his throat.

“Oh I um,” Evan paused for a second “I fell out of a tree actually.”

“Fell out of a tree?” Connor asked.

Evan made a sound of confirmation. He started tugging at the bottom of his shirt, a bad habit of his. One his therapist was trying to get him to break.

“Well, that is just the saddest fucking thing I have ever heard,” Connor said in a deadpan tone.

Evan let out a breath of awkward laughter, “I know.”

He just stared down at his cast, thinking how it really was the saddest fucking things, and yet, if Connor knew the whole truth, it would have been even sadder.

“No one’s um,” Connor started and Evan looked up at him, “signed your cast.”

Evan was surprised that Connor even noticed or bothered to point it out. He wasn’t known around the school for being very empathetic.

“My step – My stepbrother did.” Evan flipped his cast over to reveal Jeremy’s small signature that was towards the top of his cast, right by the crook of his elbow.

“Well, it’s kinda sad to only have one signature,” Connor pointed out, looking a little uneasy and unsure about what he was going to say. “…I’ll sign it.”

Evan looked up at him. Connor wanted to sign his cast?

“Oh, you don’t have to.” Evan’s voice came out in almost a rushed whisper.

“Do you, uh, have a Sharpie?” Connor asked in a soft tone.

Evan pulled the marker out of his pocket and awkwardly closed the majority of the distance between himself and Connor. Connor took it and grabbed his broken arm a little too rough.

“Ow,” Evan accidentally let out. He usually just tried to keep quiet when someone bumped into it in the hallway. He didn’t want to cause a scene.

“Oh,” Connor said, and hesitantly bent over a little to start signing.

For half a second, Evan was worried he was going to draw or write something profane on his arm and he’d have to walk around with it for a few more months and then teachers would get mad at him but there’d be no way to get rid of it.

But Connor simply signed his name, albite in a large font that covered all of the top side of his cast.

“Oh great, thanks,” Evan said, looking at the large text. Could he really be that annoyed though? It wasn’t like anyone else was going to need the space. Connor handed him back the marker.

“Yeah well, now we can both pretend that we have friends,” Connor said, kind of shaking his head and shrugging.

How did Connor know Evan didn’t have any friends? Was it that obvious? Did he look that sad and desperate? Did his face just scream “lonely weirdo”?

“That’s a good point,” Evan said under his breath and reached for his backpack that was still sitting on the ground, ready to leave from this conversation.

Evan could feel Connor’s eyes on him and Evan started to head towards the bathroom door when he spoke again.

“Is this yours?” Connor asked and Evan heard rattling.

He turned to look at what he was talking about and Connor was holding his bottle of anxiety medication.

“It rolled over there,” Connor gestured over to the stalls “And it had your name on it, Evan Hansen, that’s your name, right?”

“Oh yeah, yeah, no that’s just my stupid, it’s just a stupid–” Evan reached for his meds but Connor pulled them back to look at the label.

“Alprazolam? That’s some pretty powerful stuff.” Connor said with a thin lipped smile, finally handing it back to Evan.

“Oh yeah I know…it’s actually not mine – it’s my stepbrothers he, um needs it um right now and that’s why I was going there now.” Evan finished the lie lamely. He didn’t want anyone knowing that he took meds. It was already embarrassing having these issues, he didn’t want people thinking he was clinically insane and needed pills to sedate him.

“Cool…well bye,” Connor said with a slight wave and walked past Evan, out of the bathroom. Evan watched him go.

Evan stood there for a few more minutes before he realized that his panic attack had calmed down a little. His heart was still racing and he was sweaty all over, but the dread and panic that was almost spilling out of him had subsided for the most part.

Evan packed him meds back into his backpack and slowly made his way back to his English classroom, thinking how lucky it was that Connor had decided not to try and kick his ass or kill him or something.

Though Connor Murphy did seemed a lot different now. Much calmer and somewhat subdued, not at all the same person who had slammed others into lockers or shoved them to the ground. Evan decided it was still a safe bet that this wasn’t a permanent fix and the smart thing to do was to avoid Connor at all costs so not to be one of those kids who got pushed to the ground.

…Again.

#be more chill #dear evan hansen #boyf riends #tree bros #richjake #pink berry #zolana #galaxy gals #deh #bmc #AU #fanfiction #fanfic

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life-liberty-and-peggy · 7 years

Text

Long Day

Pairing: Jasmine Cephas Jones x Female!Reader

Warnings: Some offensive terms regarding LGBT+ orientations. (I fully support the LGBT+ community, I promise.) and a couple curses. I tried to censor all that. and maybe I might have some bad grammar every now and then, sorry.

A/N: A while back, I deleted all of my writing because I was having a bad day, and I really felt like I needed to start over. No one really seemed to notice so I guess that’s good that I didn’t make anyone upset? If you want me to bring one of them back, please let me know. Hope this thing isn’t crap, and know that I love to all so much. Thank you for supporting me and staying with me. You guys are incredible. I hope you enjoy what I try to provides my beautifuls. 💚 •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

A hug.

That’s all I wanted. That’s all I needed.

Today was absolutely miserable.

This morning, I slept through my alarm clock, so I barely had time to do my morning routine, while trying to whip up something for breakfast. The eggs I had on the stove burst into flames while I was in the middle of drying my face, so I completely panicked. I removed the frying pan on the stove but my shaking hands dropped a good portion of the food onto the burner. I dumped the pan into the sink and turned on the water. The only thing I heard was a loud sizzle and I closed my eyes and hung my head back in annoyance.

My senses jolted like crazy when a sudden crack scared the crap out of me. The cord to the coffee machine melted under the heat of the pan and shocked under the water. I bolted and slammed into the counter as I jumped to shut off the water, as one last (and fairly loud) crack resonated from the damn machine. It was definitely broken and I could already tell today was going to be a terrible day.

Traffic was a mess. There was a crash ahead of a long line of cars, and I was not in the mood to wait. But at least it wasn’t me in the crash.

I arrived to work a good half hour late and my boss flipped out. Whatever. She rambled on and on about how I have to be at work as soon as possible and all that.

“-and this is the last time. I’m not giving you any more second chances!”

You never gave me any chances to begin with, but okay. “Yes ma'am,” I replied boredly, and ambled over to my cubicle.

My co-worker, who sat right next to me gave his traditional exaggerated gag at me. He’s never been too “supportive” of my relationship, to put things nicely. I let out a deep exhale, followed by an eyeroll.

“Hello to you too,” making sure to drag out my sarcasm. ‘Asshole’, I wanted to add on the end.

“Your presence is so displeasing to be around,”

“Thanks. I try.”

“Why are you always like this?!” he stood up, and yelled angrily.

“Always like what? A human being?” I replied as calmly as I could.

“You homosexuals think you can just do or say whatever the hell you want? Because it makes you ‘sassy’ and ‘appreciable’ instead of so damn irritating?!” he spat at me. His disgusting saliva hit my pant leg. As ready as I was to knock him out with a single blow, I couldn’t loose my job, despite how much I hated every bit of it. I slowly grabbed a tissue and began wiping it off.

“You’re really pathetic, you know? You’re too much of a coward to fight back! Is that why you call yourself 'queer’?” he mocked quotation marks with his hands. “Because you couldn’t find a single man who was interested in you?? That you were such a desperate wh*re for a good time, you paid a sl*t to be with you?”

My chest rose and lowered heavily with irritation, and I felt the bridge of my nose begin to heat up. My eyebrows furrowed down in complete anger as I clenched my knuckles in some way to lower my temper. I dug my thumbnail into my palm to distract me from his lashing out.

“You and your imaginary 'identity’ and 'girlfriend’ are all going to rot in hell! And a good riddance too. The world could use one less dyk-”

CRACK!

I’m pretty sure I dislocated his jaw, and knocked out a few teeth. He fell to the floor, hand flying to his mouth. His eyes were tightened shut and he let out a small sob. All my frustration left through my fist and into his face. I instantly regretted my decision, but at the same time I didn’t. I was not going to have any more of his bullsh*t.

“Who’s pathetic now, asshole??” I felt so relieved after such a quick turn of events. But that relief turned into regret. I knew what came next as I heard the approaching of clicking heels.

“What did I just say??” my boss yelled in utter distress. She screamed my last name. I flinched, because of the sudden volume change. “This was your last chance! You’re fired! I want all of your stuff out of here by tomorrow morning!” she screeched. I let that built up flame in me turn into a blazing inferno.

“I’m glad to leave this dump anyways!” I scoffed, “Good luck without me! Have fun with that 20% drop in profits!” I pulled a box out from under my desk and started slamming my things into it, laughing maniacally, “And you,” I turned my attention to the moaning pile of pity on the floor. Bloody drool was oozing out of his mouth and staining the scratchy carpeting, “hope that divorce is going well! I heard she re-married the guy she cheated on you with!”

I grabbed my box of things and sped towards the exit. I didn’t dare look back.

I made my way to my car and shoved my box of items in the trunk. I drove home angrily, not wanting to think of past events. Once I pulled into my driveway, I didn’t get out of my car. I looked to my side and saw Jazz’s car. Right, today’s her day off. I froze, and completely broke down. I dropped my forehead onto the wheel and the horn let out a long honk.

“What the hell did I just do??” I cried to myself. I held my head in my hands in disappointment and let it all out. The one thing I regretted the most was that I’d still need to return to that sad place one last time to finish up all of my unanswered paperwork and end things finally. I hit my palm into my forehead while muttering “stupid, stupid, stupid” over and over.

It took me a good amount of time, and a lot of heavy sighs to heave myself out of the car and to the door. I placed my box down on the ground and fumbled through my purse for my keys. As soon as I’d pulled them out of my bag, they slipped out of my trembling hands and into the box of clamored items. I took a moment to smack my hand against my face, then after a sharp inhale, I dug my arm into the box and scrambled around for those goddamn keys. After managing to cut my arm against a sharp object, I retrieved my keys and opened the door.

I was greeted with the angelic voice of my girlfriend humming a tune I believe she improvised. She noticed me immediately and walked over. Her face read happiness but suddenly cut to worry once she saw my box.

“Oh, baby,” she took the box and placed it on the nearest table and engulfed me in a warm, loving embrace. I couldn’t help jerk out a small cry. She rubbed her arm up and down my back soothingly.

“It’s okay baby, it’s okay,” she reassured. Her voice was gentle and soft. I couldn’t help but feel my sadness lift. Everything about her just seemed to make my mood fade away. I held her tighter. Of all the things I lost today, my time, my breakfast, my temper, my job, I sure as hell was not going to lose my girlfriend.

She was the only thing right about today.

“Do you want to talk about it, baby? Do you need to let it out?” she brought her arm up over my shoulder.

I nodded. “Maybe,” I choked, “maybe in a minute. I just need this right now,” I mumbled.

“Take all the time you need baby,” she loosened her grip the slightest and led me to sit down on the couch. She closed the door and sat next to me, encasing her arms over my shoulders once more. I leaned onto her shoulders, letting a few tears slide down my cheeks.

“I’ve been having the worst luck, Jazz,” I sniffled.

“It’s okay, babe-”

“No it’s not,” I shut my eyes as the muscles in my mouth contorted into a painful frown, “Jazz, I lost my job,” I whispered.

“You didn’t lose your job, they lost their best, and most hard working employee,” her hand rubbed circles into my side. My frustration and anxiety seemed to melt at her touch.

“I promised myself I wouldn’t let him,” I growled out, “freaking him bother me. I promised myself he wouldn’t affect me, and I totally just-”

“Babe, what did you do?”

I sniffed and closed my mouth. I cut the conversation in silence. The house was quiet other than the low vibrating sound of the air conditioner. Jasmine rested her cheek on the top on my head, while she adjusted her arms so one was over my shoulder and the other was around my waist. Then I decided to speak.

“..I might’ve punched him,” I squeaked.

Jazz let out a breathy chuckle.

“That’s my girl!” she laughed aloud.

That damn contagious laugh. I tried to stifle a giggle.

“No, Jazz, I lost my job because of that!”

“Who cares? That d*ck got what he deserved!”

“I’ll admit that, yeah.”

We had a good, small laugh session. Then the fun started to die down. Once again, I couldn’t help but worry.

“Jazz,” I hesitated, “I-I lost my job..”

“Aw, baby, don’t worry about it. You were the best employee they’d ever dream of having. You’ll get such a better job in a matter of minutes!” she pressed a kiss against my cheek.

“You really think so?” I doubted.

“I know so. Babe, you’re the smartest, strongest, most talented person I’ll ever know.”

“Besides yourself,” I added jokingly.

She smirked, “I mean, if you insist.”

I gave her a little playful push. “How is it you know exactly how to make things better?”

“If it’s alright now, then there really was nothing that needed to get better,” she pressed her forehead against mine.

“Wise words of a wise woman,” I lifted my head up to connect our lips. When we disconnected, I just stared and smiled at the goddess I could claim as my own.

This makes everything right. The only acceptance I need is from my Jazzy. The only love I need is from my Jazzy. The only thing that’s right is my Jazzy.

“How about I call Pippa and Née over and we all go see a movie or something?”

“In a minute,” I wrapped my arms around her as she pulled me close once more, “can we just stay like this for a while?”

“Of course, baby”

“God, how did I get so lucky?”

“I ask myself that all the time.”

A hug from her was all I needed.

A long hug after a long day. ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Constructive criticism is always appreciated :)

#hamilton #hamilton imagine #hamilton imagines #hamilton cast #jasmine cephas jones #jasmine cephas #jasmine jones #jasmine imagine #jasmine jones imagine #jasmine cephas imagine #jasmine cephas jones imagine #jasmine x reader #jasmine cephas x reader #jasmine cephas jones x reader #alexander hamilton #technically an update?#writing #summer's scribbles

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