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missfangirll · 3 years

Note

If im not too late, I'd request anything for Beiyuan/Wu Xi. There are so few works out there for them :c

So, I wanted to write some XiYuan fluff and somehow ended up writing Dad!Beiyuan bonding with Chengling, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband and a sort-of-fix-it for WoH episode 36?? 😅

The plot follows the show, after episode 36, but their shared past in the novel (Qi Ye) did happen, if that makes sense? 😅 Sorry for the confusion.. The title is a Chinese poem called 蝶恋花 by Liu Yong.

Anyway, here's some XiYuan fluff/dad!Beiyuan/WoH fix-it? 😂😂

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Fandom: Qi Ye, Word of Honor Rating: General Relationship: Wu Xi/Jing Beiyuan, Jing Beiyuan & Zhang Chengling Tags: Fluff, Bonding, Beiyuan thirsting after his husband, Fix-it of sorts Words: 2565 Summary: In an inn, Jing Beiyuan and Wu Xi, together with Zhang Chengling, await the return of Zhou Zishu and Wen Kexing, who have run off to die on a mountain. Beiyuan has to care for Zishu's disciple, while being distracted by his husband.

Read on AO3

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Butterflies in Love with Flowers

Jing Beiyuan has plenty of practice waiting.

He has waited for sixty years at the Three-Life Stone, has waited for Helian Yi for six lifetimes. Has waited in the Imperial City for his schemes and machinations to bear fruit, has waited for Wu Xi. He has plenty of practice.

Which doesn’t mean, however, that he is a patient man.

Jing Beiyuan paces the inn room he shares with his husband, deliberately walking closely past Wu Xi who is sitting cross-legged at the low table reading, looking entirely unperturbed. Much to Jing Beiyuan’s dismay, that is to say, so he brushes Wu Xi’s back with the seam of his sleeve every time he walks by.

Wu Xi doesn’t react for a while, but after the sixth turn, without saying a word, he casually grabs Jing Beiyuan’s sleeve and, turning slightly, pulls him down in his lap, effectively trapping him there with both arms tightly around him.

Jing Beiyuan is a lot of things, but he's not an idiot, and he would never let an opportunity pass to cuddle his husband. With a deep sigh, he settles into the other’s embrace, leaning his head on Wu Xi’s broad chest.

“I am worried,” he admits eventually.

Stroking his hair soothingly, Wu Xi just hums in quiet understanding.

"I'm worried about the two idiots on the mountain," he adds, as if that wasn't obvious, and Wu Xi, as expected, doesn't reply. Jing Beiyuan continues, unbothered by his husband's lack of reaction. "I keep telling the little idiot," here he pauses to marvel at the fact that he distinguishes his companions merely by the grade of their idiocy, then sighs inwardly, "that his shifu and shishu are fine, that he should focus on his training in order to have something to show his shifu upon his return, but sometimes I…." He trails off, snuggling closer into the other's neck.

Zhang Chengling isn't coping well with the fact that both his mentors left with the intention to die on that mountain, albeit with different purposes in mind, and Jing Beiyuan has had to forcefully stop him from climbing that mountain himself, twice by now. For now he seems to have begrudgingly accepted his fate, although Jing Beiyuan can see his outbursts of anger for the fear they are.

He inhales deeply, willing his thoughts to calm down. All they have to do now is wait, wait for Zishu and his little maniac to return safely, and return they will, he has no doubts about it. He can’t, for Chengling’s sake.

A knock on the door interrupts the silent moment and with a groan, Jing Beiyuan clambers out of his husband’s lap to open the door, while said husband reaches for his abandoned book. The elderly innkeeper in front of him doesn’t spare a glance at Jing Beiyuan’s slightly ruffled hair, fiddling with the cap in his hands. At the other’s raised eyebrow, he bows so deep his forehead seems to touch his knees, and Jing Beiyuan has to bite back a grin.

“Yes?”, he asks magnanimously. The man shifts uncomfortably. “Your highness,” he begins, but Jing Beiyuan interrupts him with a hand on his shoulder. “I am certainly not worthy of such a noble title, my good man, just call me Lord Seventh, and speak freely. What bothers you?”

The other man bows again, not as low as before, but it still looks uncomfortable. “Your lordship,” he begins, and Jing Beiyuan sighs, hearing a slight huff of laughter from behind. Wu Xi knows of his resentment against his past life and the decorum it entailed. “Your lordship,” the man repeats, sounding increasingly desperate. “Your, umm.. The young master… He… The courtyard…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, but Jing Beiyuan has a vague idea of what he is trying to say, so he just nods and breezes past the innkeeper, who hastily shuts the door and scrambles to follow him.

From the inn’s inner courtyard he can already hear a dull thudding noise that grows louder as he approaches. In the yard, next to a small wooden shack, he finds the source of the noise: Zhang Chengling, gracelessly hitting the timber wall with a training sword, his face and back sweaty, his hair in disarray, his mouth a thin line. Jing Beiyuan nods to the innkeeper, who retreats to another building, then slowly approaches the boy, keeping his distance from the sword. Leaning on the wooden wall, he stays silent, observing Zishu’s disciple. The boy has grown a finger’s breadth over the last weeks, his body starting to stretch, his face about to lose the softness of childhood. He has seen a lot these past months, Jing Beiyuan muses, and feels infinite fondness for the little idiot.

Zhang Chengling has seen him, of course, but doesn’t make any move to stop his grim assault on the shack, so Jing Beiyuan says after a while, “You might want to use a real sword when you intend to put a hole in that thing.” His teasing doesn’t gain a reaction, however, the boy still hacking away at the wood. “Chengling,” he says after a while, softly, gently, “they will return.”

“I know,” comes the strained reply, but the beating doesn’t stop. The hits seem to grow less forceful, though, and Jing Beiyuan inches closer. “If Tian Chuang had succeeded,” he adds quietly, “we would know.” He looks directly at Chengling who stubbornly avoids his gaze, but his movements slow further, until he swings the sword like a flag bearer his banner in a parade. Jing Beiyuan carefully closes the distance, intercepting the last swing with his hand, gripping the wooden sword. He notices its shaking, and it’s only a heartbeat before Chengling collapses into his arms, letting go of the sword and wrapping both arms around him in a desperate embrace. Jing Beiyuan lowers the sword, then enfolds the boy in his arms, a hand on the back of his head, and lets him sob quietly into his shoulder.

“I miss them,” the boy snuffles into his robes, his face hidden. “Sometimes I dream about them, dead and cold, buried under all that snow and I…” He hiccups, then starts sobbing again. Jing Beiyuan breathes slowly. A few days after Zishu, and then the Ghost Valley Master, ascended the mountain, there had been news of an immense avalanche that had buried a large group of people, presumably the joined forces of the Window of Heaven and the Scorpion King. But nothing had reached them since, and all of them had grown restless, even Wu Xi, even though he would never admit to it.

A hand on the boy’s back, Jing Beiyuan rubs soothing circles. “Come with me,” he says at last, “Let’s go inside and have some tea, hm?” A nod, then Chengling takes a step back, sheepishly rubbing his red eyes. “‘m sorry,” he mumbles, but Jing Beiyuan just huffs. “Never be sorry for how you feel,” he admonishes gently, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder, subtly scooping the wooden sword up with the other hand. “Let’s have some tea and sweets, what do you say?” Chengling sniffs again, then says with the hint of a smile, “Didn’t the Great Shaman explicitly forbid us to eat sweets before dinner?” Jing Beiyuan makes a carefree gesture, then, lowering his voice, adds in a conspiratorial tone, “We have to hide it, then,” which finally makes Chengling laugh. A lighter air around them, they stroll back to the room. (Wu Xi gives them a stern look as Jing Beiyuan retrieves a bag of sweets from his sleeve, but says nothing when they share some over tea, which Jing Beiyuan secretly finds endlessly endearing.)

⚘⚘

The next morning finds Jing Beiyuan on a bench in that same courtyard, at the other side this time, half hidden under a canopy hung with ivy. In the middle of the courtyard, illuminated by the rising sun, Wu Xi is practicing his martial arts.

Jing Beiyuan admires everything about his little venom. His honesty, his loyalty, his unrestrained emotions, but watching the other train always leaves him breathless and with a dry mouth. Wu Xi, in his usual black robes, is a sight to behold: Even under layers of cloth his broad shoulders are visible, his long black braids with the silver hairpiece, the moon mirrored in a clear lake at night. Wu Xi in his robes is a force to be reckoned with. Wu Xi without his robes, in just some black pants, is… Well. Enticing enough to make Jing Beiyuan leave the bed before sunrise and watch him train, even after being together for years and having seen his husband naked plenty of times. Still, watching him move through the forms is different. His skin glistens with sweat, making the light catch on his collarbones, his abs. His movements show a raw power, a graceful intensity that always reminds Jing Beiyuan of a large tiger. He moves silently, with deadly precision, as if he wanted to sneak up on a hidden assassin. He doesn’t use a weapon, but Jing Beiyuan knows how strong he is, how fast, and is pretty sure that a sword would only slow him down.

Distractedly petting the sable that is curled contentedly in his lap, Jing Beiyuan marvels at his husband, until Wu Xi ends his performance with a graceful vault, landing on his hands and feet like a large cat. His hair, tied back only with a simple black leather cord, falls over his face with the movement, his eyes like glimmering coals behind the black curtain. It reminds Jing Beiyuan of their early days, of the time Wu Xi wore a veil, and he himself a mask of another kind. Trying to hide the slight shiver, he smiles at his sweaty husband who now approaches him. Before he can say anything, Wu Xi steps between his knees, carefully scooping up the sable, then reaching down to cup the nape of Jing Beiyuan’s neck. With a hint of restrained power, he pulls him up and into a searing kiss. Smiling against his lips, Wu Xi whispers, “Room,” and Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled.

It’s still early enough in the morning that they don’t have to be overly cautious, so when they shed their respective robes - and pets, Wu Xi’s tiny green snake gets set in its cage, while the sable leaps nimbly away from the commotion - Jing Beiyuan can’t suppress a giggle at his husband’s eagerness.

“What brought this on?”, he asks, a little breathless, as the other’s teeth close over his pulse point. Wu Xi stills for a heartbeat, then bites down harder, licking over the spot, which elicits a shiver.

“You,” is the answer, and Jing Beiyuan pulls away a fraction to look at his husband with a raised eyebrow. “I can’t remember doing anything out of the ordinary,” he smirks, “whereas you were--”

“You watched,” Wu Xi breathes into his neck, leaning back in. With another giggle, Jing Beiyuan lets himself be pulled to the bed.

Later, when they lay under scrunched up covers, sated and sweaty and content, Jing Beiyuan nuzzles into Wu Xi’s chest, inhaling his sharp scent.

“Would you do that,” he asks eventually, his voice quiet. “Sacrifice your life, I mean. For me.”

“Yes,” is all Wu Xi answers, firm and without hesitation. “I would. I will. Everything.” His arms tighten around Jing Beiyuan. After a long silence, the latter says softly, “But what if I didn’t want that?” He turns slightly to look up. “What if I didn’t want a life that’s bought with yours?”

Wu Xi doesn’t meet his gaze as he replies, “I still would. I couldn’t bear the thought of being without you, Beiyuan. I’m a coward, but I couldn’t. I thought I’d lost you once, and I..” His voice breaks, and Jing Beiyuan reaches up to cup his face. “You’re not. I would like to say that I would react differently, but…” He shrugs with a wry smile. “I wouldn’t. If I could save your life by giving up mine, I would. I would, and then wait for you again at the Three-Life Stone, until you came to meet me. And maybe this time, you would be the one with white hair.” Snuggling closer, he trails a finger over the other’s chest, then places his hand on his sternum, feeling the unrestrained energy underneath. Wu Xi turns his head, then cups Jing Beiyuan’s cheek, meeting him in a slow, languid kiss.

“I love you,” he breathes against the other’s lips, “I have loved you for all your lifetimes and I will continue to love you in all that follow. Where you go, I’m going, Beiyuan.”

⚘⚘

It takes almost another month until Zishu and his little-, no, his giant idiot return. On a sunny afternoon, as if they had just been out for a stroll, they saunter casually into the inn’s dining room, and Jing Beiyuan almost drops his teacup, staring in disbelief. Before he can say anything, Zishu grins - he grins! - at him and plops down into the bench opposite him, Wen Kexing at his side. Jing Beiyuan notices in utter shock that the latter’s hair has gone completely white.

“Wha--,” he starts, but now the waiter has spotted them, hurrying over. Giving their, admittedly quite ragged, appearance a cautious once-over, he clears his throat, but Jing Beiyuan hurries to assuage him. “Whatever these gentlemen desire to eat,” he declares, probably with more grandeur than necessary, “they will receive.” The waiter hurries to nod his head like a turtle, but Zishu just shakes his head. “Just cold water,” he says, much to Jing Beiyuan’s and the waiter’s astonishment, but the latter immediately scrambles off to bring them their order.

Jing Beiyuan looks scrutinizingly at both of them, then says slowly, “Welcome back.” Zishu nods solemnly, taking Wen Kexing’s hand under the table. “Sorry it took so long,” he says quietly. Jing Beiyuan snorts. “You don’t have to apologise to me,” he gestures into the general direction of the inner courtyard, “but to your silly little disciple.” Zishu at least has the decency to flinch, looking uncomfortable. But it is Wen Kexing who speaks first. “How is he?”, he asks, and Jing Beiyuan notices the cautious fondness in his voice. Shrugging, he admits, “There are good days and bad.” After a pause, he adds, more quietly, “And good nights and bad.” Zishu nods, as if in agreement, and Jing Beiyuan’s curiosity wins over. “What happened?”, he asks animatedly, gesturing to the state of their robes, then Wen Kexing’s hair. “You were gone almost two months, and--”

Zishu interrupts him, sounding incredulous. “Two months?” He casts an uncertain glance at his companion who looks equally stunned. “Oh.” Inhaling slowly, he adds, “Well, I’d prefer to tell the story only once, so where is that useless disciple of mine?” Grinning, Jing Beiyuan gestures again to the inner courtyard. “Training.” Zishu gives him a skeptical look, then gets to his feet. Ignoring the waiter who just arrived with their order, he heads for the inner courtyard. Jing Beiyuan tilts his head a fraction, looking at Wen Kexing, both smiling slightly. Then, from outside, “SHIFU!”, and a dull thud, followed by another muffled “Shishu!”.

Smiling into his teacup, Jing Beiyuan closes his eyes. Some stories seem to have a happy ending after all.

#qi ye #lord seventh #七爷 #wu xi #jing beiyuan #xiyuan #otp: soulmates are stupid i love you on purpose #word of honor #a tale of the wanderers #faraway wanderers #wen kexing #zhou zishu #wenzhou #my writing #fanfic #fluff

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pinkteapotwriting · 3 years

Text

Wasted Time

Sirius Black x reader

Warning : None I think??? Swearing

Word count : 952

---

Third year

You were 13 years old when you stood between platform 9 and 10 at Kings cross station. Transferring to Hogwarts was a terrifying thing to do on your own without your parents to drop you off. Especially now that you were lost and confused with no understanding how to reach platform 9 ¾.

“Watch out!”

Some tall lanky bespectacled boy barreled past you and disappeared into the pillar. The rush had you falling immediately to your bum.

“Shit, sorry about him.” a hand was quickly offered and you muttered a thanks, before looking at a stormy eyed, ebony haired boy. Who looked like a force to be reckoned with, someone who could use a friend.

“Uh my name’s Y/N, Y/N Y/L/N.”

“I’m Sirius Black, I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before Y/N, and judging by that accent I take it you’re American.”

“Gee, how could you tell? I’m transferring from Ilvermorny so I’m in grade 7.”

“Holy shit you don’t look 17?”

“Oops, I mean I’m in “third year” I’m only 13.

“Oh okay, that makes sense. Me too. Hey, why don’t you come sit with me and my friends. You’ll have to forgive James, you know, the guy who knocked you on the ground. He can be pretty insufferable. Other guy is Remus, he’s pretty quiet, but don’t be fooled he’s a smart ass.”

“They sound lovely.”

---

Fourth year

“Sirius Orion Black give me my wand back before I make you regret taking it in the first place.”

“Oh yeah, you and what wand.”

“Sirius…”

“Come on Y/N you’ve been studying charms for hours, let’s go hide James’s spectacles (gasps) Let’s go hide Minnie’s spectacles.”

“You really do have a death wish don’t you.”

“Just a little, it might go away if you go down to the black lake and get some fresh air with me.”

“Fine.” Your tone said you were pissed off, but your grin gave you away. He always knew how to change your mind.

---

Fifth Year

“Bubs, you alright I didn’t see you in potions today?”

You wiped away your tears hoping he wouldn’t notice them.

“It’s just my parents. They want me to come home cause they’re worried about all this Voldemort bullshit.”

“They just want you safe love.”

“How am I supposed to protect my friends if I’m in the US?”

“Hey. You don’t have to protect anyone, we’ll be protecting you. Tell your parents that.”

“Oh joy, a fifteen year old boy will be my protector, they’ll be relieved.”

“I’m not joking.”

Your eyes met his and your heart broke. Sirius was the kind of person who would die for his friends and you didn’t mean to hurt him. You cared about him so much, more than he cared about you at least.

“Look, I’m sorry. I’m just scared. I don’t wanna leave, I don’t wanna leave, hogwarts is my home. I don’t want to leave you. You’re my best friend.”

He pulled you to his chest, holding you close.

“Well I’m not going anywhere, and neither are you. That’s that.”

You knew he couldn’t guarantee anything, but you were comforted all the same.

---

Sixth Year

“I’m going to kill her. I hate that woman. I hate her so much. Is that why you didn’t answer my letters? Were you safe? Where did you go? How are you going to-”

He clasped a hand on either shoulder.

“I’m okay, I stayed with the Potters.”

He paused to gloss over your concerned features before pulling you in for the usual chest to head hug.

“I’m doing much better now actually, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.”

---

Seventh year

“When are you going to tell her.”

“Prongs it doesn’t work that way. We’re best friends and I could never risk losing her.”

“You think you could scare her off that easily? She puts up with you way more than I can.”

“Not everyone can turn out like you and Lily!”

The sound of a book snapping shut gathered both James and Sirius’s attention, forcing them to look at a very exasperated Remus.

“Sirius, Y/N likes you.”

“What?”

“She’s been in love with you since fourth year.”

“How come you never said anything.”

“Not my place and I finally reached my breaking point, so.”

“Wow.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

James answered for Remus by pushing Sirius out the door.

“Go get her you dumbass. You’ve wasted enough time already.”

He ran, he checked the dining room, great hall, library, common room, even Lily didn’t know where you were. He was exhausted, so he decided to go to his refuge and find you at dinner, maybe sitting by the lake would calm him down.

But there you were, knees drawn to your chin. Staring off into space. Wordlessly he sat down beside you, legs sprawled out, leaning on his palms behind him. And wordlessly you leaned into him.

“Watch ya doing Y/N”

“Thinking.”

“Yeah, what about.”

“Things.”

“Oh very specific.”

“Thanks, I try.”

His head tilted to the side to rest against yours.

“I’m not very specific.”

“What do you mean Siri?”

“I mean, I should have been more specific about the way I feel a lot sooner. Y/N I love you. Like a lot. Even though you’re American.”

You hit his thigh.

“Is that the only response I get? I really put myself out there love.”

“No, there’s this too.”

As Sirius pulled you onto his lap in an immediate response to you kissing him, you both wondered why you had waited so long when you could have had this way sooner.

Well, you guys were certainly going to be making up for lost time.

---

@sunny-bunnny @quindolyn @weasleyposts @accioweaslcy @thotbutpurple

#sirius black #sirius black x reader #sirius black fluff #marauders #marauders era #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter fluff #marauders fluff #fluff #fanfiction

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izzielizzie · 3 years

Text

Rough on the Surface but You Cut Through Like a Knife

summary: When Bronwyn Rojas ends up next to the ever obnoxious Nate Macauley in Spanish class, she doesn’t really mean to hit him with a book. Well, she does, but she doesn’t expect to end up in the principal’s office with him. And she definitely doesn’t expect to find him amusing.

alternatively: Bronwyn hits Nate with a book and a long overdue conversation ensues (AU)

title from Willow by Taylor Swift

I’m about to drop into my regular seat in AP Spanish, my last class of the day, when Señora Trias calls “Don’t sit yet niños, we have some seat switching to do!”

I groan along with the rest of the class and catch Kate’s eye. We’ve sat together the entire year. I don’t even think I know anyone else in my class. She shrugs in a resigned sort of way. Señora Trias is a force to reckoned with, and we both know she’ll never let us stay in the same seats. We follow the teacher’s instructions, and I’m too busy trying to figure out the complicated dance we’re doing - row one to the left, row two to the right, front to back and back to front - that I don’t even notice that I’ve ended up next to a boy in a ratty leather jacket.

Ugh. Nathaniel Macauley. The school’s notorious drug dealer/womanizer/delinquent/major headache.

And this headache is smirking at me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Nope, I’m all good… partner.”

I hate the way he says that word, it’s suggestive and disgusting and I suppress a shudder, turning instead to the front of the room, where we’re reviewing pluscuamperfecto. As a native Spanish speaker, I can confidently say I have no idea what the heck that is.

“This is pointless,” Nate grumbles.

“Shhh,” I whisper back, taking a glance at his sharp jaw and deep blue eyes. I’ve known Nate from a distance my whole life, we’ve gone to the same schools since kindergarten, but this is the first time we’ve been so close - or exchanged words - in years.

I look back to the teacher, who’s now going over conjugations. I scribble them down in my notebook as Nate tips his chair back on two legs, rocking back and forth.

“You’re going to kill yourself,” I inform him.

“Wow Rojas, I didn’t know you cared.”

I scoff and Señora Trias sends us a sharp look. “Señorita Rojas. Señor Macauley, no talking.”

I give Nate a sharp look. “Now look what you’ve done,” I hiss, feeling the reprimand as if it had been thrown at me. Nate just smirks.

“You’ve never been in trouble have you?” he asks. I ignore him and he barks out a laugh, my silence serving as an answer. “Wow Rojas, I knew you were straight laced but I didn’t know you were that straight laced.”

And we all know you’re not I think, remembering the drug bust rumor Kate was whispering about last week.

Nate clearly can tell I’m not interested in listening to him, so in the time it takes me to pull out the short novel we’re reading in class from my bag and read about a chapter, Nate doesn’t say a word. When I’m copying down the questions our teacher wrote on the board onto my notebook, he starts talking.

“What’s the answer to one?”

“Solo español por favor!” Señora Trias calls from the front of the class. I give Nate a triumphant look, expecting him to be unable to follow the teacher’s instruction of only talking in Spanish. Unfortunately this is Spanish class. And Nate’s not an idiot. He repeats the question in the correct language, and I decide that I’d be better off ignoring him.

After a few moments, I can feel Nate leaning over my shoulder. I look over to see his eyes on my paper.

“Stop that,” I whisper.

“Spanish only,” he whispers back.

“That wasn’t even in Spanish!”

“Neither was that,” Nate points out.

I huff and go back to my paper, flipping through my book to find the answer to my next question.

“Help meeeee,” Nate whispers.

“Shut up,” I say.

“Bronwynnnnnn.”

“Shhh.”

“Rrrrrrojas.”

My sister once told me about out of body experiences when we were children, and at the time I had scoffed because the supernatural does not exist. But when I close my book - marking my page with my finger because I’m not a philistine - and swing it straight into Nate’s face, I swear I’m not controlling myself at all.

“Would you shut up?” I snap as an unnatural silence overtakes the room. I look around for the first time, meeting stricken faces. Kate’s looking at me like she’s never met me before.

“Bronwyn Rojas,” Señora Trias says dangerously. I risk a glance at Nate and feel a flash of sympathy when I see a red mark on his cheek. But he’s smirking at me so maybe he deserved it.

I’m frozen, not quite sure what to say. Señora Trias points to the door. “Principal. Both of you.”

“Both!” Nate and I say at the same time.

“Yes, look at that you’re in sync, no use that rhythm to get to the office.”

Not the best witty comment around, all things considered, but since Señora Trias looks like she’s ready to commit murder so I let it slide.

“So let me get this straight,” Principal Gupta says, staring at Nate and I, sitting side by side in the uncomfortable chairs in Gupta’s office. “You two were partnered in Spanish class, Bronwyn you were annoyed with Nathaniel, so you hit him with a book?”

Nate tips his chair back and I kick at his ankle. He kicks back.

“Bronwyn.”

“Yes, sorry. This is correct,” I say. Principal Gupta stares at me. I’ve been getting a lot of stares lately. She opens her mouth to say something, but before she can, the secretary appears at the door.

“There’s a problem in the cafeteria,” she informs Gupta, who sighs. She looks sharply at us.

“I am going to be gone for ten minutes tops. Please refrain from murdering each other.”

I nod vehemently while Nate tips his chair back farther, his smirk growing. I count backwards from fifty in my head just to make sure Gupta is really gone before wheeling back towards him. I push down on the arm of his chair with all my might. Nate crashes to the ground, a look of shock on his face.

“Jesus Bronwyn.”

“Stop tilting your gosh darn chair” I hiss, my face only a few inches away from his. I can see myself reflected back in his dark blue eyes. I look mildly deranged. He smirks again and I raise my hand. He flinches away. Ha. Take that.

He holds up his hands in surrender, leaning away from me. “Would it make you feel better if I sat on the floor Rojas?”

“Yes, yes it would.”

Nate slides to the ground, and before I can realize what’s happening, he’s pulling me down by the waist. “What the heck?” I ask.

Nate shrugs. “If I have to sit on the floor, then you do too.” He pauses for a beat. “And your legs look good in that skirt.

I slap his shoulder. “Jackass!”

Nate laughs. “She swears!” he announces to an audience of… no one.

“Why is that notable?” I ask, self-consciously tucking my legs underneath myself, ignoring my tingling waist where Nate’s fingers ended up under my shirt.

“Because a minute ago you said ‘gosh darn’ and not even grandmothers would say that Rojas.”

I can feel my face flush, but I cross my arms anyway. My little sister always teases me about how I don’t swear. Not that she swears either. “Is it really a bad thing?”

“Yes.”

I flush more, irritated at myself that Nate’s opinion matters this much to me. He senses that I’m done talking because he looks straight ahead at Gupta’s desk, where we can just make out a picture of her and her daughter.

“How’s your sister doing? Maeve, right?” Nate asks, and I turn to stare at him in shock. My sister Maeve left elementary school with cancer a long time ago. Nate was just starting to know her - they were on the same soccer team - and I don’t expect him to remember her, let alone her name.

“Yeah, it’s Maeve,” I say, my tone considerably softer. Nothing makes me happier than my sister. “She’s okay.”

“She’s in remission right?”

I turn my body so I’m looking straight ahead at him, a concession maybe. My anger is ebbing, and I’m sort of guilty about that bruise on his face. “She is. Thank you for asking.” Not many people do.

“You’re welcome.” What he says next surprises me so much I almost miss what he says: “Want to talk about it?”

I look at him for a moment, at his dark eyes and smattering of freckles and his closed off expression, and I can’t help the feeling that he’s being serious. And I don’t know why that’s so off putting.

I shrug, trying to figure out what to say. “It just sucks, you know?” I finally land on.

Nate nods. “I know.” I think back to his mother’s funeral, the dark, rainy morning where he stood in an old suit, his father too drunk to even show up. I kept thinking about Maeve, about how some day I might have to stand in the same place, shouldering the burden of a million worlds.

I imagine that’s how it feels to lose someone.

I feel the need suddenly, to make those eyes light up so I shift slightly closer to him and pluck at the sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Hey, remember when we were locked in that music room at St. Pi?” I ask.

Nate glances over at me through hooded eyes, his eyelashes unnaturally long. He nods, a half smile on his lips. “I remember. Sixth grade right?”

“Yeah.” I remember that day like it was yesterday. We had been arguing - much like today - in the middle of a music class, and our teacher sent us to the storeroom to sort flutes until we calmed down or something. But we - and the teacher - had forgotten that the door to the store room door locked from the outside. Nate and I were locked in for nearly an hour, which to twelve year olds, felt like forever.

“It was a pretty good day you know?”

“Really? I thought I threw a clarinet case at you.”

“Well you did,” Nate says. “But you know… it was nice. You’re nice.”

“Aww.”

“But you are violent.”

“Touché,” I admit.

He smiles at me, his eyes soft, and I smile back. I’m about to reach up to touch the bruise on his face when Gupta comes back, breezing through the door like she’s floating. She groans when she sees us.

“Why are you on the floor?”

“Heat rises,” Nate says with a shrug.

“It’s November."

Nate and I just look at each other and smile. We climb back into our seats, and when he tips his chair back, I don’t say anything. And when I say “gosh” instead of “god” when I’m assuring Gupta that “I swear to gosh I didn’t mean to hit him I’m so sorry” Nate doesn’t even bat an eye.

Truce, I guess.

Gupta spends ten minutes talking about pressure and how sometimes we cave but if Nate forgives me it’s okay before she lets us leave. Nate and I mockingly shake hands before we get up and it’s… nice.

The bell has already rung, so we turn in opposite directions, me to physics and him to gosh knows where when he turns to me.

“Hey, want to go to the mall on Saturday? You can buy me a pretzel for my troubles.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll throw something at you?”

Nate grins his Macauley grin. “I think I’ll risk it, Rojas.”

My smile is his answer.

#bronwyn rojas #nate macauley #natewyn #one of us is lying #izzielizzie's fics #queued

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royallyprincesslilly · 4 years

Text

Title: The Light Of Morning

Chris Evans x Reader

Warning: Cursing, Drug Use, NSFW, SMUTT, LOTS OF WORDS

Words: 8.6k

Summary: What is done in the dark, comes to light.

Note: I come bearing gifts! Thank you so much for reading. I hope you enjoy this! ❤️❤️❤️

***Loosely Edited/Proofread***

***Interactive***

“Ms. Y-L-N, this is the final print. It’s just waiting for your approval,” Tandy said, placing it in front of you on your desk.

“Thank you. I’ll have a look. Tell Capri that I need to see the proofs from that shoot this morning.”

“Got it.” You began flipping through the magazine you were the editor in chief of and tried to figure out if all the edits made your cut. You were picky always had been, but your pickiness always paid off. It paid off so much that you were one of the biggest names in fashion and a serious force to be reckoned with. As you flipped you listened in on the phone conference, you were part of all the while taking notes of any idea that came to mind.

Today was a hectic day. The final edits had to go out for printing tonight, on top of the new theme for next month’s magazine. Once the theme was picked, you had to come up with backup articles for all of your staff so that when the staff meeting happened, things would go smoothly. Then you had to iron out all the details for your meetings the following Monday. Fridays for everyone else symbolized the beginning of the weekend and whatever party, but for you, it was always the busiest and most hectic day of the week.

An hour later, your conference was finished, and you’d signed off on the edits. You now had to get down to put together to oversee the inhouse fashion. As you walked out of your office, Tandy shot to her feet.

“Get these off to printing; we’re all set. I’m going down to put together now.”

“Got it. oh, Chris just called.”

“Chris who?”

“Chris Evans, your bestie,” Tandy informed.

“Really, when?”

“Maybe ten minutes ago.”

“What did he want?”

“He said he’s been calling your cell, and you’ve been ignoring him, and he doesn’t appreciate having to find you through your assistant, especially if he’s your best friend,” Tandy explained. You rolled your eyes. You didn’t have time for his melodramatics.

“Thank you, Tandy.”

“Do you want me to call him back?”

“No, he can wait. He needs to learn that I’m not at his beck and call,” you teased with a wink before you got on the elevator.

You and Chris had been friends for a long time. You grew up together in Boston but never really became friends until you were both in middle school, which was right in time to see him turn into the object of every teenage girl’s affection. You’d seen Chris through plenty of awkward phases. The phase where he idolized vanilla Ice and thought he should dress like him. The phase where he thought maybe baseball was going to be his calling—it wasn’t. The phase where he got into soccer only to realize that he was skinny as hell and didn’t really like the uniforms that made him look even skinner.

You were there through other phases too, like the phase where he liked only cheerleaders and had a thing with Beverly Espino while also having a thing with her friend Stacy Carrington. That ended badly when they both realized it. You were there during the phase of him crushing on every burnett in your sixth grade only to change his mind and like all the blondes. Needless to say, you’d seen everything Chris related, girlfriends, side pieces, flings, everything. You knew everything about him, his strengths, weaknesses, fears, and shortcomings. You also knew that all his weaknesses and shortcomings would clash with yours.

After high school, you went to college in New York to pursue a degree in journalism and communications. Chris went off to make his mark in Hollywood. Your friendship took a backseat to both of your goals, but that wasn’t the case for long. You made sure to put in the needed effort to remain in each other’s lives. You accompanied him to countless Hollywood events, and he accompanied you to plenty of work events. Now with both of you in your thirties and at the peak of your careers, your friendship was stronger than ever.

When you made it down to put together, you looked over all the pieces of clothing that had been sent to you for you to style as you wished for this month’s issue. The ones that hadn’t been chosen were set to be sent back or reused for next month. You spent the next hour or so making a plan for what you wanted to send back and what you planned on styling for the next issue. You got so enthralled you lost track of time. When Tandy came in to whisper to you that you were late for your interview, you panicked. You hated being late.

It took you five minutes to get back to your office, where some interviewers were waiting for you.

“I’m so sorry. I lost track of time making plans for next month’s issue.”

“We understand, when you make it to the top, you’re supposed to make people wait,” a well-dressed woman with auburn hair said with a smile.

“Ha, the top. Nonsense.”

“Plenty would beg to differ. I’m Madeline, and this is Jeff.”

You shook their hands and asked Tandy to bring in a bottle of your preferred flavored sparkling water; then, you sat in the seat before them. You noticed Jeff give you the once over before he licked his lips as his eyes rested on your thighs.

“Welcome, I’m Y/N, I’ve never liked the whole Mr. Y-L-N.”

They smiled and visibly relaxed. You didn’t know where this idea that you were a mean ass came from. You were so far from that. You did like respect and liked a good job done. Those traits made you meticulous and determined. You didn’t like your time wasted. The interview began with them asking how you got your start and whether or not you knew this was where you wanted to me. You answered the questions honestly, never giving too much information. It was a trick Chris taught you. He always said answer the question asked do not give an ounce more. If you do, you’re making it easy for them to pry for more and or twist your words. It was great advice, advice you followed.

When the conversation went into details on how you put an issue together and how you kept it all organized, you rambled on and on. Your passion was what you did, and you luckily loved what you did. You loved sharing insight, lessons learned, and tips and tricks. You were a black woman, and for you to have made it this far was unheard of. You wanted to show other black little girls that there is no glass ceiling; they too could be right where you were or higher.

When the interview had reached the forty-five-minute mark, you looked to the door expecting Tandy to be there to encourage them to wrap it up. She was nowhere in sight.

“So, Y/N, there is a lot of curiosity about your personal life. You are so successful, so much of a force to be reckoned with inquiring minds need to know. Is there a Mr. Y-L-N waiting at home for you at nights with your bathwater drawn and dinner waiting?”

You nearly laughed way too loudly. The question was ridiculous. You hadn’t had a date in months because of how busy you were, and for the fact again, you hated your time wasted. Men were either intimidated by you and didn’t approach or approached with the intent on wasting your time.

“My success comes with late nights, early mornings, and lots of sacrifices. No Mr. anything is waiting for me at home.”

Jess smiled and quirked his brow before he licked his lips again.

“So the old wives' tales are true. The ones that say successful women have to sacrifice the happy home life of husbands and babies to reach where they want to be.”

You were speechless. How did you answer that? Of course, you didn’t believe that, but that was precisely what you’d been doing. Clearing your throat, you adjusted in your seat.

“On the contrary, I believe women are in control of their lives and futures. It is absolutely possible to have every single thing you want. I fully intend to,” you finished as Tandy stepped in. Finally, you thought.

“All finished in here?”

You stood and adjusted your skirt while nodding with a fake smile.

“Yes. Thank you for coming by, Madeline, Jeff. It’s wonderful to meet you. Tandy will show you out and also give you a parting gift of my appreciation.”

You shook their outstretched hands, Madeline’s first and then Jeff’s. When your hands touched, you felt a smooth card in your palm. Jeff smiled slyly while looking right in your eyes.

“Hopefully, we see more of each other,” he said. You caught his meaning, and politely smiled.

“Time will tell. Have a good weekend.”

You watched them walk out then looked in your hand to see Jeff’s business card. On the back was a simple message. “Call me. I’d love to have dinner sometime.” You chuckled to yourself as you dropped the card in your desk, not giving him or it another thought.

“Y/N, Chris is on the phone.”

“Put him through, thank you.”

You dropped in your seat and stretched your legs on top of your desk then picked up the phone. Before you spoke, he did.

“I am not your assistant or some journalist who wants a piece of you, so they chase you down. I don’t appreciate having to--,” he spoke before you interrupted him.

“Man, stop all that noise. My god, you actors sure are sensitive and love to talk.”

Chris laughed on the line, which had you giggling along with him.

“How can I help thee, Chris Evans?”

“Shut up. You’re not funny.”

“I’m not trying to be. You’ve been calling all day. What’s up?”

“I’m in town.”

You froze and smiled. “In town, like New York?”

“Duh New York, where else would in town be?”

“Shut up, don’t come for me.”

“I was planning on doing just that. I had a few interviews today, and I don’t have to fly out until tomorrow afternoon,” he informed before you gasped and sat up.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“If it involved beers and music, then yeah,” Chris answered.

You screeched. It had been months since you’d been able to hang out together. You always had a great time together.

“So? You down to take me out?”

“Take you out? You’re such a dork.”

“You like this dork. Can I take that as a yes?”

“Yes. Come by my place at eight.”

“You know that is two hours from now, right? Will you actually be ready? I don’t want to wait for you for an hour, Y/N.”

“You won’t be waiting. I’ll be ready,” you promised.

“Okay, eight. See you then,” Chris finalized before you hung up.

When eight o’clock rolled around, you were not ready, and you knew he was gonna flip out. You ran around your townhouse, trying to finish getting ready. After putting the finishing touches on your makeup look and spritzing yourself with your perfume of the month, you grabbed your clutch in time to hear the doorbell ring. He was ten minutes late, and you knew it was purposely done. Skipping down the steps, you made it to the front door to let him in before he rang again. He gave you a quick once over and stopped at your bare feet.

“I gave you ten extra minutes, and you’re still not ready,” Chris whined. Rolling your eyes, you walked away, leaving the door open.

“Chris, I’m ready. Just give me two minutes. Plus, why are you ringing the doorbell? You have a key.”

You heard the door shut and then heard his footsteps before he turned the corner. “I don’t have any keys on me tonight.”

You tipped your foot onto one of the steps and rubbed the handful of perfumed lotion you carried down with you and paid attention to what you were doing. You didn’t register that everything was quiet. When you looked and turned to him, you rubbed the excess between your thighs.

“What?”

“Uh---nothing, you look incredible. It’s been months.”

You smiled warmly and approached him with your arms stretched out for the hug. He wrapped his arms around you, and the two of you rocked from side to side. His arms engulfed you as they always had, but he felt like he’d bulked up some more.

“Bulked up?”

“Gotta keep the physique looking good.” You rolled your eyes and stepped into your shoes in the corner and adjusted the hemline of your dress.

“See, ready,” you said with a twirl and a pose.

The ride in the cab was not a quiet one. Chris filled you in on everything he’d been doing over the last few months and told you about any new experiences he’d had. There was never one moment of quiet. You’d always found it comforting that no matter how much time passed where the two of you didn’t see each other, it never mattered when you got back together. You talked like no time had passed at all. When he began to tease you about the recent accomplishments you’d made with work, you sat there and ate up the praise. He knew you hated it, but he still did it. Truth be told, you didn’t mind the praise from him; it was from others you hated.

When you walked into the hottest new restaurant in the diamond district, Chris had your clutch and his hand at the small of your back like the perfect gentleman he was. The Friday night crowd was out, and the restaurant was bumbling with overlapping conversations and the clatter of dishes and glasses. As you passed the tables on the way to your own, you felt the eyes of passing men but ignored them. You ordered the first round of drinks and asked for time to decide. That was when you noticed Chris’s eyes on you.

“What?”

“Don’t what me? I must have clocked seven guys just checking you out,” he informed. You rolled your eyes again.

“You’re exaggerating.”

“Am not. I saw it with my own eyes,” Chris insisted.

“Ignore them. Why are you looking at other men watching me?”

“Because I need to know and be ready to drop one of them if they step out of line,” Chris boasted. You smirked and shook your head. He’d been dropping guys in your name since you were kids. You knew it was a protective gesture, so you didn’t care.

“What about you? I see plenty of eyes slanting over her to check out your baby blues and cabin in the woods beard.”

Chris laughed heartily again. You liked to tease him about his beard.

“You know you like the beard. Don’t lie, puddin’.”

You couldn’t stifle your laugh at the mention of his nickname for you that stemmed from an incident in your childhood. “Are you going to drop one of them for me?”

“Hell no, I don’t fight for no man, honey,” you quickly responded.

“I’m not just anybody,” Chris defended. You took him in for a few moments, but the moment was interrupted by the waiter bringing by your drinks.

The two of you ordered your meals and got right back into talking and teasing one another. You’d missed him, and it was evident he’d missed you too. Dinner was delicious, and the service was spectacular. Chris left a generous tip after he paid the bill much to your annoyance. He knew you hated being kept. You worked hard to make your own money and liked to spend it. When you protested, he overrode your voice and went ahead and did it anyway. He didn’t do it to be sexist; he did it because that was how Ms. Lisa raised him.

After another fifteen-minute ride in a cab, you arrived at a club that Tandy had told you about weeks ago but hadn’t gotten around to going. From the modern exterior, it looked really exclusive. The neon lights were dark but blinding. The colors were all aesthetically pleasing and complimented the fresh slate of the outside. When you walked to the guards in front of the establishment, they looked at you from head to toe and smiled their approval. They then glanced at Chris, who had his head dipped low so no one recognized him. When the guards opened the doors for you, those who were in line groaned and whined their displeasure.

“Oh shut up, or you won’t be getting in at all!” Those in line instantly shut their mouths. You walked in front of Chris down the dark corridor.

“Guess you wore the right dress,” he whispered.

“Guess I did.”

The corridor ended and opened up to loud music and even darker neon lights that gave everyone enough privacy to have a good time however they saw fit.

“Wow,” Chris uttered.

“Right. How long has it been since you danced your ass off white boy?”

You walked down the steps toward the dance floor and turned to him as you began to dance as well. His smile was bright as he shook his head. You beckoned him to you as you continued to dance. When he got in front of you, he began showing you that rhythm he had. He had more rhythm than any white boy you’d ever met, and he took pride in his dance moves. When he busted out some old two-step, you threw your head back and laughed loudly. Chris then wrapped his arm around your waist and pulled you to him. The two of you danced and got lost in the music.

It felt good to finally cut loose after such a long time being work-focused. You’d tried to ignore how badly you needed a night out, but right now, you couldn’t ignore it any longer. Chris kept his hands respectful as you danced close together. Every so often, he turned you and danced behind you, keeping up with the latest dance moves. You leaned to his ear.

“Someone’s been watching Tik Tok,” you teased. He laughed again and brought his lips to your ears.

“And paying attention to my niece and nephew,” he joked.

After an hour of dancing, the two of you found an empty area and ordered two rounds of drinks. As you drank and swayed in your seats to the music, you shouted at each other, still catching up. The music was so loud that you missed a few words here or there, but because you knew him so well, you knew what he was saying. There were so many instances where you each finished each other’s sentences before laughing together about it.

“More dancing?”

You nodded and took his hand and allowed him to lead you back to the dancefloor. It was even more crowded than before, and you were shocked; he still hadn’t been recognized. He was also surprised, but you could tell he was enjoying his new anonymity. Your moves got sillier and sillier the more you drank, and his got more frat boy as he knocked drink after drink back.

At one point, you ended up in the air being moved through the crowd with you shouting. When you returned to your feet, there Chris was in the center of the circle doing some old school moves that had you laughing. He found you in the crowd and posed. You knew what it meant and panicked as you rapidly shook your head. Chris stamped his foot adamantly and gave you a stern look. You shook your head again, but he was not letting up. Rolling your eyes, you just gave in. He smiled once he saw he’d worn you down. With two nods of your head you ran toward him, he bent and did his best Patrick Swayze impersonation from Dirty Dancing by hoisting you into the air and holding you there. The crowd erupted with loud cheers and hooting. You looked down at Chris and found his eyes already on you. Shaking your head, you giggled before he allowed you to drop into his arms so he could slide you down his body.

“You’re such a dork!”

The night passed in a blur. You drank an excessive amount of alcohol, and after a while, the vibe in the club turned utterly hedonistic. When someone approached you with an assortment of party enhancements, you were shocked when Chris’s hand was the first to fly out for the trey. His only response was “live a little.” He made you look like such a prude sometimes. Since peer pressure always worked, you chose two items off the trey and took one of the rolled joints.

You danced, drank, puffed and passed to each other and allowed whatever you’d taken to take you higher than either of you had been in a long time. When you left the club and climbed into the back of a cab, you could see the sky beginning streak with the impending sunrise. Neither of you could stop laughing about any and every stupid thing. When you got back to your place, you stumbled inside and laughed a lot more before you made it to the living room floor where you sprawled out on.

“Oh my god, do you remember the last time we were high together?”

You snorted and laughed for a little while. “Nope, it’s been months though.”

“What did we take?”

“I don’t know, but all these colors are so vivid,” you responded.

“They are,” Chris answered. Both of you let out a united, “wow.”

Several minutes passed with the two of you lying on the floor in front of the big French window looking up at the sky. You had such a delicious high that nothing felt real or like it mattered. All of your senses were heightened. You could smell Chris’ cologne like you wore it and taste the last drink you had before leaving the club almost forty minutes ago. The material of your dress gently rubbed against your skin, and though it hadn’t felt bothersome before, it sure did now. Even the coolness of the floor felt incredible against your skin.

“Why’d we never get together, Y/N?”

Your snort was loud, louder than it should have been.

“Shut up. You’re so stupid.”

He laughed right along with you before he stopped. “I wanna know. We’ve been friends since we were eleven. I knew you before you got boobs,” Chris reminisced.

Again, you couldn’t help but snicker.

“And I knew you before your balls dropped,” you countered. Neither of you could keep a straight face with that one.

“See. So why?”

You sighed and lifted your leg into the air, not expecting that your heel would fly right off and across the room to knock something onto the floor with a loud clatter. That set you both off laughing uncontrollably.

“Because I know everything about you, and you know everything about me,” you informed.

“Some would say that’s a good thing.”

Looking to your left at him, you scoffed and shook your head. “Not for us. I know too much. We’d never work. Our uglies won’t play well together,” you finished before looking back to the sky.

“Well, I think everything would play well together,” Chris countered this time.

You shook your head and sat up to reach the bar that you knew was close by. Raising onto your knees, you grabbed the first bottle you could reach then dropped down onto your elbows to look at it.

“What’d ya get?”

You looked at him with a wide smile. “Hennessey. How adventurous are you feeling?”

“Crack it open,” Chris answered with a strong Bostonian accent. You opened the bottle and brought it to the head for a few gulps before handing it off to Chris. Then you leaned back on the ottoman that was there. You watched him take his gulp. He wrinkled his nose and blew out.

“How would you handle my tendency to push people away?”

Chris looked at you, took another gulp from the bottle, and blew out a breath again.

“Hmm—not let you push me away.”

You rolled your eyes at his genius plan. “Great plan, dork. How would I handle your tendency to be a flirtatious dick?”

He smiled his signature Chris Evans smile and lifted both his eyebrows. “By knowing I only have eyes for you.”

You snorted and shook your head before you grabbed the bottle. “Bullshit,” you said before bringing it to your head.

“I’m being serious right now,” Chris protested louder than necessary.

“You’re drunk. That is the only reason why you’re bringing this up.”

“Okay, yes. I’m drunk and high as fuck, but that does not make the question any less valid.”

He was being his annoyingly persistent self. Usually, this trait would be a good thing, endearing even, but when he was drunk, it was anything but endearing.

“What do you want from me, Chris?”

“You’ve never thought about us?”

“There is no us,” you pointed out.

“I know that, but you’ve never thought about it?”

You didn’t hesitate with your answer. “No. I mean, not really.”

“I’ve thought about it,” Chris admitted.

You had to laugh then. He was really venturing into unchartered territory. You’d never talked about anything like this before.

“Shut up. You have not!”

“I have. It was brief, but I thought about it,” Chris confessed.

The two of you were silent for a while. Your mind was running as fast as it could, which wasn’t that fast because of whatever party enhancements you’d taken. You couldn’t wrap your head around this conversation.

“And?” Your curiosity was not impaired, though.

“And what?”

“Did we work in your brief thought?”

Chris took a deep breath and grabbed the bottle and took another healthy gulp.

“I don’t know. It was like a flash of a few instances. We seemed—happy.”

“Liar. We probably argued like cats and dogs.”

Your laugher intermingled before you both fell silent again, just watching the sky change its hue.

“Nah—we were good together like always,” Chris finished.

You took the bottle and took three big gulps and almost gagged from the burn in your throat that rushed to burst into flames in your belly. You were quiet for a few minutes, but it was you who looked at him first. Sensing your eyes on him, he looked to you, and the two of you just gazed at each other. It was the two of you who moved in simultaneously before hesitating just when your lips were going to touch. Some part of you said stop, but it was a small, quiet part, every other part of you was telling you to do it.

When your lips touched neither of you moved, you stayed there, letting it sink in. When you did move, it was a slow and cautious kiss. Your lips pressed and brushed together in an intimate way that was foreign for the context of your relationship. Though it was foreign, it felt good. After what must have been minutes, Chris deepened the kiss, plunging his tongue into your mouth to curl around yours. A moan escaped you, and as if that moan was the hammer that destroyed whatever wall and gate that kept the two of you from going down this path. Chris moaned after you, and it was a new sound for you. You rose onto your knees at the same time Chris did the same thing. He cupped your skull and kissed you more earnestly. Your hand gripped his waist and loved the heat radiating off him.

You kissed him back with as much passion and yearning he kissed you. For several long minutes, that is all you did. It was a feeling to relish, a feeling you wanted more of. You were the first to begin to undo his shirt. When Chris felt your finger graze his chest, he pulled his lips from yours to peer into your eyes. You were focused on his shirt and the goal you had—to get his clothes off. Once the buttons were undone, you pushed his shirt off and looked over his exposed skin. He had buffed up, you thought. When your eyes met, neither of you moved for quite a while. It was as if both of you were taking in the moment and fully acknowledging the line you were about to cross.

Your lips crashed together, and from there, no one could tell where he began, and you ended. Your moans echoed in the quiet room. Chris’s hands touched you everywhere, the back of your head, your neck, the small of your back and your ass. His large hands cupped your bottom and pulled you flush against him. When he pulled your head back by your hair, he latched his lips onto your neck, which had you biting onto his shoulder as you enjoyed the sensations of his lips on your skin. When he nibbled your ear lobe, you threw your head back but grabbed at his pants and began unbuckling his belt. Your movements were quick.

You felt Chris lower the zipper down your spine then trail his finger along your skin until he reached the back of your neck. Once there, he gripped you and angled your head, so you looked at him. You could see nothing but desire in his eyes, and that was all you cared about. You kissed him again and took control. You teased his tongue then nibbled his bottom lip as you finally got his pants open. Chris then peeled your dress off your body, revealing your naked body to him for the first time since you were twelve.

He looked enflamed as if the sight of you set him on fire. You grabbed the bottle from the floor and gulped a mouthful before holding it out to him. You laid back onto the floor just as Chris accepted the bottle and took two gulps from it before he put it to the side and lowered his head to your breast. He sucked it into his mouth and teased it along with the mouthful of Hennessey. As he explored your skin for the first time, you hugged his head to you and arched your back, feeding him even more of your flesh.

Chris brought his lips to your other breast and did the same before he ended on a forceful nibble. He trailed kisses down the center of your body. When he got to your belly button, you watched as he dribbled the remainder of the liquor in it. The wayward glance he offered you only set you on fire even more. He languidly slurped the liquid from the indentation and used his tongue to swirl around it to ensure he got it all then peeled the rest of the dress off of your body with help from your lifted legs.

Slowly Chris spread your thighs and looked between them at your black lace thong. After looping his thumbs at the waist of the garment, he pulled them off of you. When he got the first glimpse of your sex, he sucked in a breath then groaned.

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous!” That was the only thing he said before he buried his face between your thighs and began demonstrating all the ways he was good with his mouth. He expertly flicked his tongue across your clit before he sucked it into his mouth only to repeat the action from before. He did it in a dizzying pattern, one that had you on edge and needing more.

You buried your fingers in his hair and held his head in place and began bucking your hips across his lips. His moan was one of approval. He liked that you were using his face to get yourself off that turned you on even more. Chris pressed your thighs back to the cool floor and held them there then took control of the way he ate your pussy. In seconds you saw stars and found yourself panting and muttering incoherently. You didn’t care that you were getting loud; all you cared about was him keeping his pace. Chris dipped his tongue into your heat, and you lost your shit. Screeching out, you came on his mouth as you bucked even more wildly truing to milk and prolonging the pleasure you felt.

“Mmmm, you taste so fucking good. I could eat this pussy all night,” Chris huskily purred. The dim light that poured in behind him bathed him, making him look like some sort of heavenly creature. He was gorgeous, and you began to wonder if he’d always been gorgeous or were you seeing him in a new light. Chris lowered his head to kiss your inner thigh. Then he dropped a suctioned kiss to your clit that renewed the fire you felt. Lifting your legs, you pushed at his pants, hinting for him to take them off.

Answering your silent plea Chris arched over you, allowing you to use your feet to free him of the confining material. The loud clatters of him kicked off his shoes echoed in the room, but then he remained hovered over your body, showcasing his incredible upper body strength and giving you the first look of grown-up Chris. His cock was long, thick, and mesmerizing. Long gone were the days of him having a skinny pale-looking worm, he’d grown nicely.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Chris breeched. You raised an eyebrow and waited for him to continue.

“You’re thinking about the first time you saw it when we were eleven. It looks a lot different now.”

You smiled and wrapped your legs around his waist. “I promise I know what to do with it now,” Chris finished with a smirk.

“Prove it,” you whispered. He shook his head and, but you could see the fire in his eyes. He liked a challenge; he liked feeling like he had something to prove. He crashed his lips to yours again and stole your breath in seconds. You moaned on him and wrapped your arms around his back. The way the muscles there danced and spasmed had you moaning even more.

When you felt him press forward to sink the tip of his intrusion in, you gasped on his mouth and angled your head back, giving him unrestricted access to your neck. Chris groaned as he buried his face in the crook of your neck and continued sinking into you. With each agonizingly slow glide, you came that much closer to falling apart. He stretched you so deliciously, so perfectly that your body began to shake. In no way were you prepared for the size of him, and he was blowing your mind with just what the good Lord blessed him with. It sure didn’t look like much when you were kids. After him feeding you half of his length, you gripped him tightly, which had him grunting before fully thrusting into you.

“Fuck!” Both of you shouted out together, him feeling the full heat of your body and you claiming your second release of the night.

Chris took several deep breathes then slowly pulled back, leaving only the tip of him before he looked down to watch as he filled you to the hilt once again. A whimper escaped him before he did it again, and again and again. Each time he snapped his hip forward more forcefully, and each time your eyes rolled to the back of your head. Chris began to move within you like a wave ebbed at the shore. His eyes met yours, and the moment became even more intense.

After a few minutes, Chris was rocking in and out of you to his own rhythm. It was clear he had one goal, and it was to bring you as much pleasure as possible. his lips tasted every part of your upper body, neck, shoulder, earlobe, collar, nipple and each time he tasted of you he acted as if your skin was the sustenance he needed. After your third orgasm, you flipped him onto his back and rocked your hips against him. Chris arched his back and spread his arms out beside him as he released a deep groan.

He watched your body move and allowed you to take your pleasure from him. Every time you rocked forward, you felt him lurch within you, and after the fourth time, you were addicted to the feeling. Using his abdomen as leverage, you bounced on him as you rocked, changing the angle of which he pumped into you and the intensity of the sensations. Chris gripped your hips and held you where you were before he pumped up into your core.

“Ah, shit, yes! Mmm, fuck me!”

With the demand, you were on your back once again with your ankles on his shoulders, and him hovered over you as he fucked you better then you could remember ever having it done before. He was reaching places you’d forgotten were there. Your skin was peppered with goosebumps, and every time he stoked that sweet spot in you, your whimpers picked up. When you heard Chris’ moans, you used his shoulders as a brace to begin rolling your body like a wave giving as good as you got.

“Fuck!” The way Chris looked at you said he hadn’t expected you to do that, and he was quickly losing his shit. You dropped your legs and pushed him away. You had the strongest urge to have him in your mouth. Quickly you rose to a sitting position before you bent down to lick at his cock.

Chris sucked in a long breath and groaned out with every inch you sank into your mouth. When your lips wrapped around his entire shaft, Chris gripped your head and groaned loudly.

“Oh my god.” You pulled back and repeated the action before you sped your movements. You knew he was close; you could feel it with everything in you. Bringing your hand to join your lips, you worked him with a pattern you knew would be his finisher. As you swirled your tongue around him, he let out a shriek that was music to your ears. Chris sank back onto his heels, then panted and groaned.

“Fuck, you’re gonna make me cum.” Locking eyes with him, you moaned on him but sped your lips. He knew what you intended, and he was powerless to stop you. After the fourth lodge in your throat, you moaned, and just like that, he came. You moaned and took everything he had. Several long moments later, you pulled your mouth free and moaned with a cocky smile. Chris’ jaw was dropped with a look of sheer disbelief on his face.

You grabbed the bottle and took a mouthful of the brown liquor and moaned as the flavorful liquid washed down the mouthful he’d just given you.

“Fuck outta here,” Chris chided, letting his accent shine through. He then grabbed the bottle, took a gulp of his own, and grabbed you before he pushed you over the ottoman. In seconds he’d sank into you again like he hadn’t just come. He was more than ready.

This round, he was in full control, and he used his control to show you just how much he’d grown and how much he knew now. Long gone were the days of him experimenting and practicing. He was a big boy now, and he was fucking you the way big boys did—roughly, deeply and thoroughly. You screamed his name and panted with every snap of his hips into you. When he grabbed your hair to pull you back against him to then gently grab your throat, you lost it. Never in your life had you been into this kind of play, but with him right now, the forceful and dominating way he held you and commanded your body was making you weak and ready to let him take it any way he wanted.

From the ottoman, you moved to one of your couches where he used it at a perch for his foot to give you a deeper, more intense angle that sent you over the edge. From there, he pressed you against the cold window tempting anyone who dared look in to watch as he fucked the life out of you. When you finally came again, you were back on the floor with him over you, giving you slow, deep strokes that were next to impossible to take, but you took it. You took every fucking thing he gave.

-The Next Day-

The sound of the passing garbage truck and then street sweeping machine stirred you wake. Groaning, you sat up only to get shriek when the harsh light beamed down into your face. Shielding your eyes, you waited for them to adjust before you peeped through them and to your right. Your head was pounding, and everything you looked at was blurry.

“Oh my god,” you groaned. Waiting a few minutes, you sat there feeling worse than you’d felt in a long, long time. When you looked to your right again, you saw the nearly empty bottle of Hennessey and groaned.

“Uuugh, fuck you, Henny,” you groaned out before you opened your eyes wider.

You felt a body beside you shift, and then you felt the unmistakable nudge of a dick against you. Your head snapped to the right to see Chris lying there shirtless with your throw blanket draped haphazardly across his man parts. Your jaw dropped as panic began to set in. You looked at yourself and saw you were topless and that the same throw was across your lap as well.

Slapping your hand across your mouth in an attempt to keep any sound from escaping, you began to hyperventilate. Again, the nudge of a dick pressed more forcefully against you. You were horrified but filled with a strange curiosity that you fought with every fiber of your being. You were afraid to move. It was as if you thought if you didn’t move, then none of this would be real. It wouldn’t be real that you’d just had sex with your best friend. So, without moving, you sat there and stared out the window before you.

You don’t know how long you just stared out the window in a daze, but you felt when Chris woke. His groan said he too felt the pounding in his head. You decided not to look his way; this would only get worse that way. You remembered everything.

“Oh—fuck,” Chris whispered. You nodded, knowing the weight of everything had set in. He sat up beside you, but neither of you spoke, you just stared out the window in front of you.

After a few moments, you couldn’t handle being this close, and you got up to realize you were completely naked. Chris instinctively looked over you before he shook his head and looked away.

“Oh fuck,” he repeated. You hurried away toward the second couch and took the other throw blanket and wrapped yourself in it before walking out toward the kitchen. You needed coffee.

As you worked the almost five-thousand-dollar espresso machine in your kitchen, you went over everything that happened the night before. The more you remembered, the more panicked you became. When Chris came into the kitchen, he was dressed with his shirt unbuttoned enough, showing his chest tattoos. He approached the espresso machine as you turned to walk away from it. Your bodies bounced, and with it came another memory of the night before. You abruptly turned and went the opposite way to sit at the nook. You sat in silence while staring into the cup of coffee.

Chris sat with you, but he also remained quiet for several more minutes.

After a few sips of coffee, he spoke, “Soooo, that happened.”

“Did it? Do you actually remember it happening?”

Chris nodded slowly as his facial expressions became more and more animated. “Uh—yeah. I remember a lot of things,” Chris answered.

“Oh, god.” You rubbed your forehead and took a big gulp of the black sludge in your white ceramic cup.

“Where did you learn to do that thing with your mouth?”

“Chris!” Your shock was evident.

“Sorry. Right not important.”

The silence returned and stretched as both of you still struggled to wrap your heads around the last eighteen hours.

“Have you always been able to make it jump like that?”

Chris paused his coffee cup filled hand in midair as he glanced at you. “Did you like it?”

“Shut up, shut up, shut up. Not important,” you drilled.

Again, you were silent, just sipping away at your coffee, refusing to address the enormous elephant in the room.

“What about the way you squeezed me? How’d you learn that?”

You slapped your hand to your face. “Oh my god, Chris. We have to forget what happened. It shouldn’t have happened,” you began.

“Yeah, but how do we forget it all? It was a lot. You did things to me—whooo, no good catholic woman knows how to do what you did,” Chris admitted as your jaw dropped.

“Shut up. You’re the one to talk. You’re no good catholic boy. Does your mother know what you do with that mouth?”

When the two of you began laughing together, the tension between you fell away, and you were left with the normal way you always talked. It was comfortable.

“Oh my god,” you groaned out again.

“I don’t want anything to be weird,” Chris quietly began as he looked at you. You nodded your agreement. That was the last thing you wanted too.

“It won’t be. It was a one-time thing. We were really, really, really fucked up.”

“One-time thing,” Chris repeated as you both nodded in agreement.

You finished your coffee and made him a quick bowl of oatmeal that you shared. Though both of you tried to ignore the elephant and forget it was there, it wasn’t so easy. You caught his eyes on the parts of your body the throw exposed as you moved, and you recognized the look on his face. You were sure he caught the way your eyes stayed glued to his exposed chest or his hands as he used them. All you could think about was the way he’d touched you, and the feel of his weight hover you.

You were now in this weird limbo place, and you didn’t know what to make of it. You knew, though, that you didn’t want to lose what you had.

“Ah damnit,” Chris hissed as he looked at his watch.

“You gotta go,” you informed. He nodded and confirmed.

“I have an appearance to film before my flight out.”

“Yeah. Go, go. It’s cool. We’ll talk,” you rushed out.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes, Chris, get to work.” You smiled, then stood and led the way to the front door. Chris made sure he had everything he needed and stopped in front of it facing you.

“Uh—thank you for last night,” he awkwardly began. You quirked your eyebrow and scrunched your face.

“Uh---.”

“Weird?”

“I mean, it’s like you’re thanking me for sex,” you informed.

“Fair enough. At least I’m not shoving an envelope of a few thousands in your hand,” Chris teased before he got a slap to the gut.

“No thank yous, no I’m sorries, just—go.”

He nodded and came in to kiss your cheek awkwardly. Your eyes met, and they lingered before he pulled back to kiss your forehead. After he did, he turned to walk out the door.

“Jesus,” you whispered.

All you wanted to do was bury your head under your blankets, but you knew you’d obsess over the entire night and think about it way too much. You also knew the chances of you overthinking it and making things worse were almost guaranteed. You decided to keep yourself busy. For the remainder of the day, you ran errands, cleaned your house, and did everything not to give yourself any time to sit and think.

By the time evening came, you got a text from Chris letting you know he was lifting off and that he’d call when he landed. Your reply was typical Y/N.

MSG: Eh, don’t worry about calling. It’s not necessary. Have a safe flight.

When you asked him how he’d handle when you pushed him away, you were being honest. He knew you had this tendency. Even though you told him it wasn’t necessary, he still called. You watched it ring and ring until it ended. That was how things went for the majority of the weeks that passed. Every time he called, you either ignored it entirely and pretended it never happened or sent a meager text a few hours later, apologizing for missing his call. You’d then text back and forth in intervals thanks to his busy schedule until one of you—usually, you let the conversation fade.

A week passed, then two, then four until seven had passed where you’d barely spoken or texted. You knew you were being super weird about things even when you were the one to promise things wouldn’t be weird. You also knew that you were pushing him away, and it was the absolute opposite of what you wanted to do. It was apparent in how you kept up with him in the tabloids and news articles. Every time he had an accomplishment, you cheered for him while sending a dry text showing your support. It was usually a text he responded to with the same dryness.

In that time, you used your work as a crutch and excuse to pile more on to keep busy. You stayed so busy that you ignored the signs of exhaustion your body was sending you. When you passed out at work from severe dizziness, you finally listened and took the rest of the day off to work at home. While in the cab and tapping away in an email, you felt the first bout of nausea. That one feeling had you opening your calendar to go over your dates. When you realized you were over six weeks late, you nearly passed out again.

After stopping by a pharmacy for not one or two but eight pregnancy tests, you beelined it home. It took you a whole hour to get the nerve to take them. You kept putting it off and doing everything else but. Once you took them, you sat on your bathroom floor, surrounded by pregnancy tests. You tried your best to keep your head clear and not think any thoughts. Your phone went off for the fourth time, signifying that the five minutes needed had passed long ago. You’d sat on the floor for twenty minutes, unable to look at not even one test.

“Come on Y/N. You fought for everything in your life. You’re successful, financially comfortable, just look at the damn test.” You took several deep breathes and looked down at the first test to see two double lines.

“Oh.”

You moved on to the next one and bugged your eyes, seeing another pair of double lines. Quickly you moved to the next and read the word “pregnant” in the clear blue window. As you looked around you, each and every text showed double lines, a plus sign, or the word “pregnant.” You couldn’t believe what you were seeing.

You were pregnant with your best friend’s baby.

You were pregnant with Chris’ baby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#light of morning fic #Chris Evans #chris evans fanfiction #chris evans x reader #chris evans x you #chris evans x black reader #black fanfiction #chris evans smut

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mcwriting · 4 years

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The Marriage Project (1)

Omg I can’t believe it’s taken me THIS long to post this. I wrote this chapter probably in like April or May and it freaks me out to finally post but here it is!

My slow burn (American) High School AU with Tom Holland!

All the general info for this series is on the story masterlist, but I’ll list warnings and word counts on every chapter. Chapters will be much longer than my typical 2000 or less babies

Warnings: This will become a mature story in the future (no smut; more info on masterlist). Some profanity in this chapter

Word Count: 4140 (I told you!)

% approximately the 2nd week of August %

Ah, senior year. One last year of high school, one last year of seeing the people you’ve grown up with every day.

You’ve been told it’s easy. The best year ever. And yeah, maybe it will be. It’s not like you’re taking too many hard classes or overloading yourself with extracurriculars, aside from volleyball, soccer, the National Honors Society, and quiz bowl.

(Okay maybe it was a little much, but you loved it anyways)

The only real problem was the certified thorn in your side, Tom Holland.

He’d essentially been your mortal enemy since the sixth grade when he beat your mile time by only a few seconds.

Now, it’s not that he was a bully or anything, he was just so insufferable to be around. And yes, everyone always says boys pick on girls when they like them, but rest assured that wasn’t the case. You’d both always hated each other, nothing more.

You were always competing, and because of that ended up in the same place a lot.

He was in all your honors classes, in NHS, played boys soccer, and did quiz bowl. The only thing you had to yourself was volleyball except, oh wait, his younger brother’s girlfriend was on the team and Tom was his ride home every day.

All these thoughts raced through your head as you walked in on the first day, sitting down in AP calculus as soon as you finished up at your locker.

Everyone did the “how was your summer?” and “long time no see!” as students filed in. Eventually walked in Tom, and you shot each other a glare as he sat down right next to you.

“Holland.”

“Y/l/n.”

Everyone around you groaned. They all knew you two were forces to be reckoned with and probably dreaded spending another year listening to the two of you bicker everyday.

Though you were often in close proximity, you never really talked much, except to argue. Rarely did you agree unless it was on basic facts, and even then was it hard to admit sometimes.

Because of this, you typically resigned yourselves to only speaking when it came to grades so you could keep a mental tally of who was in the lead. You were both in the running for valedictorian at the end of the year, and you were not about to let Tom win.

The week was almost over and things had gone smoothly for the most part.

Sure, you and Tom had had a couple of spats, but nothing that wasn’t handled quickly.

He’d been to all of your volleyball games so far, even the summer ones, which meant he was forced to watch you dominate the court as both a setter and right side hitter.

It was a nice little satisfaction.

Especially because you’d watched him throw some horrendous passes in the preseason football game last week that led to a loss by one touchdown. (Okay, he’d had some good passes too, but they were lucky shots).

You settled into your seat in senior home economics Friday before lunch. The class was your school’s attempt at teaching some life skills for rising adults. For the most part however, it was a glorified cooking and sewing class. You didn’t mind per say, since you could cook up a pre-snack lunch sometimes.

Most of your friends were in there, including your best friend Alexis, whom you hadn’t seen all morning.

You, Alexis, and two other girls stood around a mixing bowl with the ingredients to make chocolate chip cookies since it was a Friday, which Mrs. Flynn called “dessert day.”

“Oh! Before I forget,” your teacher, Mrs. Flynn, started getting everyone’s attention. “This year we’re doing something new for this class! Next week I’ll have you all split into pairs for a semester long marriage project! I will be drawing names out of a hat, so don’t get too comfortable yet. Anyways, be thinking on what kinds of careers you might want and things of that nature! Okay, now get back to your desserts!”

The whole room broke out into chatter the last part of the hour-and-a-half class, people speculating who might end up with who and what jobs they’ll get.

“Oh my God, wouldn’t it be funny if y/n got Tom?” Alexis stated as you stirred chocolate chips into the dough. The other girls laughed as you just snorted.

“Yeah, I’d rather lick the inside of the microwave than be paired up with him for a semester,” you replied, earning more laughter from your friends.

You assumed Tom’s friends were saying the same however, because when you looked over to see how bad their dough looked, he was rolling his eyes as his group pointed in your direction.

The next week came and went, and it was once again Friday. Or, as Mrs. Flynn was calling it, Wedding Day.

Every time she’d pull a couple’s name, she was going to make you both come to the front of the class and exchange plastic wedding rings and sign a fake marriage license.

Yay.

Everyone chattered excitedly as she tore up the strips with your names and mixed them around. Finally the time came for her to start the drawing.

“Okay, friends. First up we have...” she drew the first name. “Katherine and... drumroll please?”

The class drummed their hands over their thighs.

“Chris! Come on down folks, let’s get this marriage on!”

She “married” the first couple, and then continued to draw. You had to admit that you were a little nervous, but still eager to see who you’d get.

Two couples later, she pulled Tom’s name.

You shot him an eyebrow raise to which he returned a discreet middle finger. You rolled your eyes as you prepared a drumroll for Mrs. Flynn.

“And his lucky partner is... y/n!”

“What!” you both exclaimed simultaneously.

Almost the entire class burst into laughter.

“Mrs. Flynn, this has to be a mistake,” you said.

“Yeah, can’t we have a redraw?” Tom asked.

You hated that he was agreeing with you.

“Nope! You get who you get and you don’t throw a fit! And if it doesn’t work out in a few weeks we can discuss divorce plans.”

“How about annulments,” you stated dryly, earning a chuckle from her.

“That… kinda depends on if you have kids,” she trailed awkwardly before perking back up. “Now come on down! They always say your first marriage is the most memorable!”

“Who has ever said that?” Tom asked.

“You know. They. Now just get up here and do the ring thing!” she commanded.

You both sulked up to the front of the room.

“Okay, now stand here facing each other and hold hands.”

“Do we have to?” Tom whined.

“Yes, now do it and it’ll be over with faster.”

He groaned, rolled his eyes, and grabbed your hands, holding them loosely.

“May I have the rings please!” Mrs. Flynn asked Caroline, the girl whose desk was closest that she’d asked to be designated ring bearer. She handed over the basket to let you both choose from the mix.

You took a silver colored ring with a faux white diamond in the shape of a star. Tom chose one with an oval “ruby.” You couldn’t help but notice how every single person was on edge watching the two of you.

“Okay now Tom, repeat after me. I, Tom Holland, take thee, y/n y/l/n, to be my wedded wife to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”

He mumbled through the vow, avoiding eye contact, and slipped your star ring onto your finger. You were surprised at how gentle he was, carefully caressing your hand and making sure the ring faced straight up once it was on your finger.

You, too, said the lines and placed the ring onto his left hand.

“Alright. It is with the power vested in me by this very school that I am proud to now pronounce you husband and wife! You may now air kiss!”

You took a deep sigh and pretended to kiss each other's cheeks.

“Class, I’d like to introduce you all to Mr. and Mrs. Holland!”

They began to cheer and clap and laugh when you interjected.

“Uh, no. It’s Mr. and Mrs. y/l/n.”

Tom began to argue with you when Mrs. Flynn stopped you both.

“Alright fine, we’ll do a combined name. How’s the y/l/n-Holland family sound?” she asked, writing your names on the fake marriage certificate.

With reluctance, Tom agreed to having your name first and you both signed the paper.

Finally you were able to sit back down where your friends were waiting.

“So what was that about licking the microwave?” Alexis asked.

“Oh shut up.”

After your volleyball game (another win!), you and Alexis conversed over cheese fries at your favorite diner.

“Still not ready to talk about today?” she asked. You shook your head.

Alexis had been paired up with Caroline. They were both straight, but you had both been friends with her since freshman year and they got along well.

Today had just been the marriages, and next week you’d be learning more about your family dynamics.

“I’m just so pissed at him. This afternoon in senior art he told all the guys in there that he was going to make it as hard as possible for me. I mean jokes on him, he’s going to want to get an A too, but he was just so smug about it. He also strung his stupid ring on that necklace he’s always wearing. What’s that all about?”

“I mean you’re still wearing your ring. But yeah, that is a little weird.”

“I’m wearing mine because compared to some of the others, the star is actually cute.”

“True. I got unlucky with the selection,” Alexis admitted, digging hers out of her purse to show you a big square blue gem.

“I just wish there was a way to get back at him after all these years. I mean, we’ve been at each other’s throats for almost six years but nothing has ever seemed to really hit hard. This is the last year I’ve got to really make it count.”

Alexis gave you a look, one you knew to be quite mischievous.

“You know what’s the best way to get revenge on a guy?” Alexis asked.

“Uh, no, but by the look you’re giving me it seems to fall under Carrie Underwood ’before he cheats’ directive.”

“No, dumbass. You make his family fall in love with you.”

It took a second to process what she said before you could give a decent reply.

“You’re kidding right? His family already knows who I am because of all the stuff we’re in together. They probably also know about our rivalry. I mean, he’s told his brothers to never become friends with me.”

“And you know that, how?”

“The libero is Sam’s girlfriend. She’s been spilling tea for me for the past year.”

There was a break in the conversation as the waiter brought your meals out. Once he was gone, you spoke up again.

“Look, do you really think that would work? I mean sure I’d get under his skin, but it doesn’t really constitute revenge, does it?”

“Look at it this way,” Alexis put down her burger so she could splay her hands out in front of her. “If you can get on everyone else's good side, they’ll all talk about how much they love you and he’ll be forced to listen. If he really hates you, it’ll drive him crazy.”

You thought on it for a minute as you chomped on a chicken tender.

“Alright, I’m in. If it doesn’t end up working, I still have all of next semester to mess with him anyways. Now if I can just figure out how to really get to know his family…”

By the time Monday rolled around, you and Alexis had done some more scheming, but your plan wouldn’t even begin to be put in action until your volleyball games Wednesday and Friday, when you’d try to talk to Sam.

You sat down in home ec, where today you’d be picking careers. The catch, however, was that your family unit would have a set income, so each couple had to decide how it would be split up.

“Y/l/n-Holland family, you’ll be making $200k a year,” Mrs. Flynn announced, handing you the slip of paper. “Get together and decide who’s getting what jobs.”

“At least we’ll be rich,” you thought as Tom plopped into the seat next to you unhappily.

“So I’ll be the doctor and you’ll be the trophy wife, right?” he asked immediately.

“Hah, good one. I think we all know that I’m the smarter one here and wayyyy more likely to get into med school than you. And don’t call me trophy wife. I mean, what, you think I’m hot now? Can’t wait to tell everyone that little number.”

His ears turned beet red and he balled a fist.

“I don’t think you’re hot, except maybe hot shit. It’s a figure of speech.” he spat.

“Oh get over yourself. I know I’m hot anyways. Let’s just both pick jobs that earn $100k so we can be equal. How’s that sound?”

“Fine.”

He played with the plastic ring on his necklace as you looked up jobs on the computer. After a half hour of searching, Tom and you decided that to be fully equal, you’d both take the same job as physician’s assistants.

“Just so you know, I’ll never actually be anyone’s assistant,” he said.

“Oh yeah? Ten years time if you’re lucky I’ll hire you as mine.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Hey everyone, since class is almost over, we’re gonna wait to draw how many kids you’ll have and other financial things Wednesday. See you then!” Mrs. Flynn called out as students packed their things.

“We have to have kids, too?” Tom asked incredulously.

“Good thing it’s fake. I’d hate to see you as a parent,” you shot smugly, earning another middle finger from him that left you laughing.

Wednesday came kids, and thankfully all you got were twin girls, age 9. The project didn’t make you carry around flour babies or anything like that, you just had to account for them in your weekly budgets.

There goes the annulment plan, though.

Each week, Mrs. Flynn would be drawing something new for you all that would either be good or bad for your budgets, and it was up to you to figure out what to with the funding, or lack thereof. You also had to come up with a story each week that explained why money was put somewhere or what your “family” did that week.

She would also be doing progress checks, so you couldn’t wait until the end of the semester to do all the work. By the end, each couple would have to give a presentation over what they did and learned.

“Okay, so we each get to name one. That’s pretty equal,” you stated, thinking up baby names.

“Well I like Elizabeth,” he almost immediately replied, writing it down on one of the “birth certificates” you’d been handed by Mrs. Flynn.

“That’s… surprisingly good. I’ll go with Francesca. What about middle names? I like Rose.”

“Hm. How about Opal? Then they’ll have the same number of letters in their names.”

You were surprised at how much though he put into this, but let it go as you wrote your child’s name down.

“By the way, we need to plan time to get together and write a budget and find a house this weekend. I have a volleyball game Friday so how about Saturday?”

“I have football practice Saturday.”

“Well yeah but only until like 10 right? We could just meet at like 1. We’re doing construction at my house right now so could we do it at yours?”

You spoke sweetly in an attempt to receive a yes and put your plan into motion. Tom sighed and thought about it.

“I mean I guess. But you’re only going to be there to work on the project and then leave right?”

“Uh, duh. The less time with you the better.”

“Likewise.”

Tom and Sam weren’t at the volleyball game Wednesday, so you had to wait until Friday’s.

Friday was muffin day in home ec, so you thankfully didn’t have to talk to Tom. Instead, you and Alexis discussed the plan of getting Tom’s family on your side as you mixed up batter.

Later that afternoon, you watched from afar as Sam and his girlfriend, Julia, sat on the bleachers speaking. It was still an hour until game time and coach had asked you to round up the girls for stretching.

“Hey, Jules!” you called, jogging over to where she was. “Oh, hey Sam!” He looked at you like you were crazy before responding.

“Uh, hey y/n.” He gave a slight head nod.

“Anyways, coach wants us to start warming up. Wanna be my partner today?”

“Um yeah. Sure. See ya later babe,” she said, giving Sam a quick peck on the cheek before standing up to follow you.

After another win, you were helping take down the net and noticed Julia once again talking to Sam while Tom stood a few feet away looking bored.

“Hey, could you wrap up the net? I need to do something real quick,” you said to another teammate as you headed over.

“Hey, Jules! Solid digs today! You were making my job way too easy,” you joked.

You could see from the corner of your eye Tom look up at you in annoyance.

“Ahaha thanks girl. But I can’t take all the credit. You were on fire tonight. What was that like 15 aces? And your hits? Incredible,” she replied.

“Yeah, you were amazing tonight,” Sam added.

“Ohhhkay we can stop the compliment parade on y/n now. We need to go anyways, Sam, mom wants us home,” Tom interjected, putting an arm out in front of his brother, who was rolling his eyes.

“Alright fine. We still on for dinner tomorrow?” Sam asked his girlfriend. She nodded and they exchanged a quick hug and kiss.

“I’ll see you tomorrow too, Tom,” you said. “I’ll bring my laptop.”

Sam looked at him in confusion.

“Yeah whatever,” was all Tom could say to you as you strutted off to the locker room.

You stood nervously on the front porch of Tom’s suburban home. You had texted him when you parked but now dreaded actually going inside.

After shifting back and forth for a minute, you finally rang the doorbell.

It was only a few seconds later that the door opened, revealing Sam’s twin Harry. He looked confused.

“Y/n? What are you doing here?”

“Hey Harry. Tom and I are supposed to be working on a school project today and he said to come over at this time so...” You awkwardly shifted your backpack straps and looked down.

“Tom! Someone’s here to see you!” he yelled out, making you snort.

He appeared shirtless in the doorway and looked at you blankly.

“Oh. It’s just you.”

“Just me? What did you just forget that we have to work on our project today,” you replied, holding up your left hand to point to the plastic ring on it.

“You’re still wearing that? Why?”

“Firstly, the little star is cute. And secondly, you don’t have a lot of room to speak, Tom. Yours is still on your necklace,” you pointed to the chain around his neck, to which he instinctively reached up and grabbed the ring, twisting it between his fingers.

“Touche. Now come on, let’s just get this over with.” He opened the door wider and let you in, locking it behind you.

As he led you down a hall covered in photos towards the stairs, his mom stepped out, almost running into her son.

“Oh, sorry.” she looked at you, “Y/n? What are you doing here? It’s nice to see you.”

“Nice to see you too, Mrs. Holland. Tom and I have to work on our home ec project and we couldn’t do it at my house.”

“Oh dear just call me Nikki. And I do remember him mentioning something about a project. Are you the one he’s married to? I never thought I’d see the day.”

Tom tensed up and clenched his jaw while you gave a light chuckle, holding up your left hand again.

“I hate to say it, but yeah. You’ll probably be seeing a lot more of me throughout the semester.”

“Well you kids have fun. And Tom, honey, would it kill you to put on a shirt?”

He went red again and you had to stifle your laughter.

“I was just on my way to do that, mom. Come on y/n,” he mumbled, grabbing your wrist and dragging you up the stairs.

You turned and waved at Nikki one last time as she called up behind him,

“And make sure to keep the door open!”

He was totally embarrassed by that, and made it a point to shut the door behind him once you made it to his room. Finally you could let out a hearty laugh at his expense as he dug through his drawers and pulled out a simple black t-shirt.

“Finally. I was getting tired of looking at your man boobs,” you quipped, looking around the room.

“Ha ha. Good one,” he shot back dryly.

You were surprised at what his room looked like, though you didn’t know what you’d expected. It was very neat with sleek grey walls. His blue and grey bedding was made up with decorative pillows laid out. On his desk were a few random school papers and a computer, and one shelf held some Spider-Man paraphernalia while another contained medals and ribbons and trophies.

You dropped your backpack to the ground and pointed up at one figurine.

“Hey, that’s pretty cool,” you said sincerely.

“Yeah, I’m sure you think so,” he replied sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

“Uh, no. I’m serious. It’s actually really dope.”

He looked taken aback at your compliment, and even to you it felt weird to be saying that out loud about Tom of all people.

“Oh. Well uh. Thanks. Spider-Man was my favorite growing up. But let’s just get to work.”

After an hour of sitting on his carpet searching for a house and arguing over general money allocations,

“Yes Tom, tampons actually cost like $7 for 30 of them and most girls need at least one box a month. And that’s just one factor of personal hygiene. Do you even condition your hair?”

“I’ll have you know my hair is well moisturized. I just don’t ever have to pay for it.”

You finally came to an agreement on the week’s budget.

Packing up your things, you looked up at Tom who was now sitting on the side of his bed scrolling through social media.

“So next week. Your first game of the season, yeah?” you said, remembering that September was already almost here.

“Oh yeah. You coming? I’d hate for you to see just how incredible I am.”

“Psh whatever. I saw your throws at preseason. But yeah, I’ll probably just rinse off after my volleyball game and head to the field. Gotta see what cuties they’ve got on the other team.”

“Ugh gross. You know you’ll regret saying that when half the school is swooning over me in the stands.”

“The only thing you’d ever see me swoon from is dehydration. And that’s a pretty weak excuse already.”

You stood and Tom got up to lead you back out.

“Oh, I think I know the way. You don’t have to take me.”

“Yeah I do. Gotta keep my eyes on those grubby little fingers of yours. Who knows what you’d do unsupervised.”

Before you reached the door, Nikki spotted you from the living room.

“Done so soon? Wow, good job guys. Come back any time y/n!”

“Thanks, Nikki,” you called back to her, then turned to Tom. “So same time next week? We can do it at my place if you want.”

“Nah let’s just do it here. I’m always exhausted the day after a game and I don’t really want to get up.”

Okay then

“Well, see ya Monday then. Bye.”

You were halfway down the sidewalk when Tom called out, “Be safe,” before shutting the door. You stopped in your tracks in shock, but eventually got into your car.

What really mattered, though, was that you were already on Nikki’s good side.

1 down, 4 to go.

Yay! It’s finished! I really hope you guys enjoy this new series because I’m so excited to share it with you all! Once again, future chapters will have some mature content (s*xual harassment and mentions of assault; underaged alcohol consumption) but those chapters will be explicitly labeled with warnings.

Anyways, thanks for reading and please send an ask or message if you’d like to join my story or permanent tag list!

Tag List: @jackiehollanderr, @one-big-fangirl,

#The Marriage Project #tom holland #tom holland fanfiction #tom holland imagine #tom holland x reader #tom holland x y/n #tom holland x you #enemies to lovers #slow burn #Harry Holland #sam holland #tom holland au #high school!au #high school!tom holland

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omg-fangirl-lol · 4 years

Text

Here’s a story I wrote. Enjoy.

“And I’m telling you for the sixth time today that no, you can’t come back to work early.” He stated as he started walking around from the front desk of the station.

“It’s only three days early Enj. I don’t think it’ll kill me.” Eponine threw back as she started following him around. She and another firefighter had been injured a few weeks back during a call. Due to protocol, she had been forced to stay at home after she got out of the hospital to recover. Now with only three days left before she could officially return to work, she was getting antsy.

As Enjolras went into the gear turn-out room to inspect the fire suits, he gave Eponine one of his glares, which of course never worked on her, basically stating that they would talk about this later. Eponine, however, was having none of it.

“Oh, so by later you mean once you’ve taken me to bed, and when I ask you about, you just so happen to magically fall asleep?” She asked nonchalantly.

Enjolras abruptly looked up from his spreadsheets and looked around the room to make sure no one had heard her. Luckily, no one else was in the room which of course Eponine knew this little fact. They had been together for quite sometime and even lived together. Most just thought nothing of it because they had been best friends since grade school. They were going to announce their relationship, but then the captain, Epoine’s father, fell into a coma and has yet to wake up. Since this all happened rather quickly, the chief of the fire department didn’t have a solid replacement for one of his finest captains. He promptly put Enjolras in charge of the station 'temporarily’ until he ‘found’ another captain because of him being Captain Thenardier's right hand man aka his best lieutenant. Although, everyone at the station except Enjolras knew that he was the new captain.

Enjolras sighed once he saw the clear room. He turned back to Eponine.

“Jeez Ep, do you want the entire department to know about us?” He questioned. Eponine just rolled her eyes. While she loved her boyfriend dearly, he did have the tendency for dramatic flairs.

“Are you ashamed?” She asked as he moved to check the supply closet. They both knew the answer to that, so therefore Enjolras just chose to ignore the question. He didn’t feel like getting into what could be a rather heated argument at work.

“Besides,” Eponine starts as she moves to stand against one of the gear racks behind him,”I could be a lot louder and not just about us dating.”

Enjolras stood up and faced her getting ready to say something when the door opened.

“Hey Cap.” Enjolras winced as Vince Rodreguiz said as he walked into the room to grab something from his turn-outs.

“Hey Ponine,” He said smiling at her,”you finally coming back to work?” He question

Eponine laughed a little, but inside her fire was slowly gaining fuel.

“Not yet. Trying to convince this doof though.” She said slightly laughing while jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Enjolras. Rodreguiz laughed.

“How long have you been back?” She hoped for the sake of Enjolras, not long.

“About a week.” He stated before walking out of the room.

Eponine turned so fast, Enjolras barely had time to comprehend what was happening before she was up in his space.

“Seriously Ethan Richard Enjolras?!” She all but yelled.”You let Rodreguiz come back to work a week early, but you won’t let me come back three days early?!”

Enjolras couldn’t help but wince when not only Eponine yelled, but saw that a small crowd of the other firefighters started to gather.

“Ep,” He started only to be cut off.

“Don’t Ep me Enjolras.” Eponine yelled so loudly that Enjolras was sure the buildings across the street heard her.

“I guess I shouldn’t be surprised,” She started as she quickly paced the room,”that you wouldn’t let me come back early.” Enjolras had a feeling this was going to get ugly as Eponine started to get more furious by the second.

“Considering that we sl-”

“Eponine! My office. Now.”

Enjolras sat behind his desk looking at Eponine. This wasn’t the first and sure wouldn’t be the last time she was in this office.

“Do you know what would happen if people found out about us?” He questioned. She just rolled her eyes. Every chance she got, she would always take it to be at the station with her father. Obviously growing up there, she’d seen her fair share of affairs and secret relationships gone awry. In some cases, both people got transferred out of the station. Some were lucky enough that both got to stay, but in most cases the females were always painted as people who initiated it. They ‘seduced’ the men of the station, and since most of the head of the fire department was full of men stuck in the old ways, the women would almost always get transferred to another station.

“No one is going to find out.” She stated

“But they could’ve.” Enjolras shot back. “I don’t know if you know this, but you have a tendency to blurt out facts or secrets when you’re angry.”

“Would you just relax?” She questioned. “I wasn’t going to say that we were sleeping together. Just that we sleep in the same house. No one would bat an eye towards it. They all know how close we are.” She finished. Enjolras just sighed.

“Maybe not this time, but what if the head of the department was here?” He questioned.”They know we’re close, but I don’t think most of them know we live together.” He concluded.

“And I’m telling you, I grew up here. Most, if not all, know my dad, and with me being the oldest, they know how protective he can be. Not to mention how many times my dad called me into this very office.” It was no secret that Eponine was a firefighter to be reckoned with. After graduating from the academy, she was put under her father’s service to see if she would be treated differently. Despite many thinking that she got where she is because of her father, most would argue that her father was the hardest on her. Not to say Eponine wasn’t responsible for her actions. In fact ninety-eight percent of the time, she was in the office because of what she did out in the field. Her father even had to suspend her after a call where she broke several protocol rules. But that’s what made her one of the best female firefighters that has been at that station in years.

“I just don’t understand why you won’t let me come back three days early. It’s just three days.” She said exasperatedly after a minute of silence.

“You know,” She continued,”I could report you to the chief saying that you’re abusing your power by not letting me come back.”

Enjolras just simply sighed and rolled his eyes. He knew she wouldn’t do that, but it was best to not test her.

“I’m technically not abusing my power because you and Rodreguiz aren’t supposed to come back until Thursday. I only let him come back because you know how his wife can be.” He stated as a matter of fact. Rodreguiz’s wife wanted him to become an accountant after high school. He decided to chase after his dreams of being a firefighter like his grandfather. Needless to say, his wife wasn’t pleased about it but let him carry on. She hoped that she could change his mind after she told him that she was pregnant with their first child. Now after three kids, his wife is still unhappy about his job.

Eponine always hated it when her boyfriend was right. She was just tired of sitting at home doing nothing, waiting for Enjolras to come back so he could tell her about his day. Just as she was getting ready to mention this fact, the alarm sounded. Enjolras cursed as he quickly got up and started getting his gear around. Eponine just looked at him with pleading eyes. He sighed, he really didn’t feel like fighting with her right now, and he knew how stir crazy she was getting at home simply from her telling him about her days.

“Fine,” He relented,”you can come back to work early.” She smiled.

“But I’m putting you on desk duty.” He stated as he pulled his boots on. As he went to grab his hat, Eponine grabbed his arm. He was sure that she was going to argue with him before she pulled him into a short, but hard kiss.

“Go kick ass.” She simply said. Enjolras couldn’t help but smile as he ran towards the truck.

While desk duty wasn’t Eponine favorite thing to do at work, it was a start.

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foxlolpop · 4 years

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Do you have a best friend? If so what are they like? Do you guys have similar personalities? I love your page btw <3

oh wow thank youuu <3 you’re so sweet! 💕

I actually have two best friends (mind blown, i know. i don’t know why they choose to stay but i guess theres no going back now lol). one of them- lets call her G- i’ve known since preschool bc my grandma and her mom lived on the same street. at first i hated her and only wanted to hang out with her older sister but when she switched from her private school to the local public school where i was, we ended up in the same third grade class, fourth, fifth, and we’ve basically had the same schedule ever since. she was attached to my hip her first day of school with me, since i was the only one she knew, and we bonded from spending so much time together. i can’t really imagine my life without her; she got me into reading, she made school fun, she makes things make sense and i wouldn’t trade her for anything in the world.

G is logical, a mother hen, and heavily Christian. she respects my boundaries and can be quite outspoken at times. never a bad thing though, in fact, i admire it. G is not like me at all except that we’re both nerds. G is one of those people who tries in those effortless ways that don’t look like trying at all and simply make you frustrated watching her lmao. i look up to her and- she’d say ew if i told her this in person- but i love her. shes an amazing friend.

now, my other best friend is M. we met in fifth grade through G actually bc i was antisocial and refused to expanded my friend circle any wider than the meager 2~4ish people it contained. M tells me that when she first met me i said “hi” and then transformed into a brick wall. she also told me that G was intimidating af (mostly bc she’s been 5′8 ft/172.7 cm since fifth grade and looks like a female Jean Moreau) and that she looks like my personal bodyguard. M is a big bookworm just like me and G and thats basically what brought us together.

M, oh gosh, her personality is intoxicating. i dont know how to describe her except that shes real (so real). You know when you hold your breath and your lungs burn? shes that burning sensation, that lightheadedness. this all encompassing feeling that becomes the only thing you can focus on, that makes you so very aware that you are alive and running out of oxygen. shes just as small as me but shes a force to be reckoned with. shes pansexual. shes what G likes to call “the rebellious sister” because shes an adrenaline junkie. M threatens to murder me 24/7 and literally called me a “fuck twat” 2 seconds ago over text. we pretended to date in the sixth grade so we could mess with her US history teacher and her whole class thought we were in a happy lesbian relationship (long story 😂). she is nothing like me but somehow shes the easiest person i can connect with.

whoa this got long haha 😅. i didn’t know i could talk about my best friends so much, but there you go anon. thank you again for the ask (i love them & love you too <333)!!! I sincerely hope you have a killer day or night (its night where i am). till next time 😋

#asks #anon #anonymous #thank you #ily #books #friends #bffs

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jessicainwonderlandx · 4 years

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So this is what I wrote for my cousin's funeral on Monday

This is what I wrote:

Hi. My cousin Kaitlin asked if I could write to you and tell you a little bit about Sara. I'm not sure where to start. How do you capture a person's spirit into a few words?

Sara was kind, sweet and caring. She was strong, independent, and fierce. She was a force to be reckoned with; a storm of a girl.

Sara and I were friends since day one. We were inseparable and we could tell each other anything. Sara came and lived with my family the year that we were headed into the sixth grade. That was probably the best school year of my life! I got to see my best friend every day and not just on weekends or at church. That summer we went to Bible camp together for a week and even got to be bunk mates. We had so much fun there, even if our parents did get a little lost taking us up there. After our week at camp we decided we were ready to be baptized. You see, I never liked the spot light or being in front of people so they said we could be baptized together! I will never forget that when it was my turn Sara was behind me doggy paddling around the baptismal pool. She was always silly like that.

Over the years our relationship only grew stronger. Like true best friends we had our ups and downs but we always forgave one another. We spent so much time together after we were both done with school. I was at her house pretty much every weekend. She was still the same goofy girl that I knew growing up and we had many inside jokes. Her mom always called us weirdos but we were weirdos together.

After Sara moved to North Carolina we still kept in touch and talked every day. Be it a phone call, text, or tagging each other in memes.

Most people may not believe in soul mates but we knew that's exactly what were. Of course it wasn't the typical type of soulmates you see in movies or on tv. We were two peas in a pod. She was the Mac to my Cheese.

Sara had her demons, as most people do, but she was working on making herself better, not only for herself but for her two children Jackson and Tallulah. She was trying to be happy but it can difficult in this world. Whenever one of us was sad, happy, angry the other was always there to talk to. Through good times and bad times we had each other's backs.

I was fortunate enough to be able to talk to her the night she died. At the end of the conversation we told each other "olive juice", our silly way of saying I Love You. I never expected it to be the last time we would get to say it.

You never know when it will be your last time to say it. So hold your loved ones close and make sure you tell them how much you love them before you can't.

To my cousin, my best friend, my soul mate: I will love you always.

Until we meet again.

Jessica.

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teddystrap · 5 years

Text

[神なる君と] Osananajimi Duo - Yakumo

Second route of the game. #mfw ==== (ง•̀_•́)ง‼

-Takekiyo Yakumo-

Niiiiisssssaaaannnnnnn!!!

Yakumo is the other osananajimi of the trio. He is one year older than Sakuya and Narumi, and acts as the protective big brother - when they were young, some older kids took Sakuya’s *precious amulet*, and Yakumo went to get it back from them and got beaten up really badly.

Sakuya later tells him that at that time he seemed like a ‘hero’ and she had always looked up to him. So I guess there’s like a love triangle (...love flowchart??) that goes: Narumi --> Sakuya --> Yakumo since the very beginning.

Also early on in the story, Yakumo tells Sakuya in a ‘simulation event’ that, even if he loved her, he would never confess and they can never be together, because it would end in tragedy. Pfffft whatever nii-san, that just means I will have to make the first move *evil laugh*.

My feelings during his route went from hilarious, to sad, to finally disconcerting. He’s kind of a poor bastard and MIA in half of his own route. When I finally got the the two endings I wanted to throw my game console out of the window... (╯°□°)╯︵ ԀSԀ

Yes, exactly.

Aaanyway, there are two big revelations here:

1. Aki’s backstory: Kibi Aki is the 16-year-old spirit medium sent by the Ministry to spy on monitor Kunihoshi Shrine, because Mikoto forgot to send in his report (#justMikotothings). After Sakuya accidentally fucks up one of her assignments, it’s revealed that she actually comes from a renowned onmyouji family, and left home to train under the ministry at a young age in order to prove herself.

2. Kunugi’s backstory: Kunugi is the shape-shifting demon who stole the *magical seal* that protects the town, and Aki’s target of investigation. I didn’t expect to like him at first, but his tragic romance is pretty kewl I have to admit:

Kunugi was a douchebag since birth and terrorised the village so all the villagers hated him. One day, a girl named Yuki wandered into his territory. She was a grade A-level village idiot idiot, and after 3 days of trying and failing to find her way out, he gave her some food and water so she wouldn't die on his grounds. She was very grateful and started to get close to him. She also begged him to stop terrorising the village. Eventually she annoyed him enough that he agreed.

Then gradually, he began to help the villagers here and there, and even became friends with them. One day they wanted to thank him for his help. They gave him a small wooden box, and told him it was some kind of national treasure. Just then Yuki intercepted, and the box emitted some light beam that went into her body.

After that Yuki got progressively sicker and on the brink of death. Out of anger and confusion, he tried to destroy the box, but it's more sturdy/fireproof than an LV tote bag. Eventually she told him that the box contains a cursed rock (i.e. the remains of the Great Demon), and once every two hundred years the village has to offer a human sacrifice to prevent the curse from escaping and causing disaster. This time the villagers chose him, so she gave her life to save his...

Kind of hard to imagine how she fell in love with this (ahem *Aki*)... hopefully a few hundred years ago he took on a sexier appearance...

But I digress. Let’s get back to Yakumo XD. So his deal is basically that the Takekiyo bloodline has been chosen as the human sacrifice every 200 years. As a result, Yakumo is inflicted with a curse that puts him to sleep for longer and longer periods, until he eventually goes into a longggg sleep and never wakes up. This also explains his superhuman athletic abilities and sixth sense, because the Force be with him powers of the Great Demon live within him.

Early on in the common route, he occasionally says things like, ‘you must live on happily when I am gone’ and gives Sakuya a #sadface, like someone with a terminal illness. Eventually Sakuya finds out the truth from his parents, after which he couldn’t hide anymore, and starts to reveal all his fears and doubts, as well as his feelings for her.

As it turns out Yuzuru knows a way to break the curse, but it requires putting Yakumo into a coma for years, and there’s a good chance of death. Basically the supernatural equivalent of a high-risk medical operation I guess. He has until the hoshimatsuri to decide whether to take a gamble with this method, or let the curse continue slowly chipping away at his lifespan.

...Of course he chooses the former. You’d be an idiot not to.

1. Good End: It’s been 7 years (!), and he still hasn’t woken up from his coma. According to Yuzuru, 5 years is the ‘safety period’, and after that he’s as good as gone. Sakuya doesn’t give up, and **10 years later** (#tumbleweeds) he finally wakes up on hoshimatsuri night. They go on to have a baby who looks ridiculously like Yakumo ...and will probably be affected by the same curse...? Oh well let’s hope Yuzuru is still alive by then to do his thang.

2. Tragic End: Under Yuzuru’s advice, Sakuya gives up and lets him erase all her memories. Yakumo eventually wakes up after 10 years anyway, and it sucks for him because unlike in Narumi’s end, Yakumo still remembers everything and has to live with it for the rest of his life. Like I said, poor bastard...

Understatement of the year.

[Thoughts] Somehow this route felt shorter and less tearful than Narumi’s, maybe because I got used to the general setting and gameplay. Yakumo’s ema events feel like they came out of a shounen manga and had me in stitches the whole time. I can’t recall any other otome game that made me laugh this much (...except maybe 「私のレアルは充実している」).

What I like about this route is the added tension here compared to Narumi’s route: in Narumi’s case it’s pretty obvs that he has a crush on Sakuya. He said it himself that he’s never viewed Sakuya as a sister from the beginning. So on that front there’s no doubt from his side, his whole conflict revolves only around the ‘forbidden love’ aspect.

Whereas with Yakumo, when he shows hints of feelings towards Sakuya, they’re often ambiguous between the actions of an older brother towards a little sister vs. a love interest. That made it all the more exciting.

Also apart from the curse/risk of death and that stuff, Yakumo also had his ‘manly pride’ to reckon with - letting Sakuya see his weak side and realise that he’s not always her ‘hero’. It was pretty damn emotionally satisfying when he finally came clean about his secrets and started letting Sakuya into his world. Although, much of his later dialogue is pretty cliche tbh. I actually found his baka persona more interesting. But eh.

I guess it’s this pride of his that makes it necessary for Sakuya to be an adult here. Whenever his white lies or ‘fake cheerfulness’ made her angry, she had to learn/choose to coax things out of him gently instead of calling him out on it. Conversely I felt that with Narumi she was more direct, and had more leeway for wagamama.

The Aki/Kunugi story arc was a high point of the route for me. Aki’s background helps to explain her personality in so many ways. I love her character growth and development here, as she eventually learns to accept help from other people, instead of trying do everything by herself. Ahh... her whole story strikes so many chords with me. I also love how she got her own grand love story here.

(Part of me is curious if the Aki-lookalike and Kunugi’s ‘true form’ will make an appearance later on. It’s a long shot, but let’s hope!)

This route also revealed a lot about Yuzuru, whom I’m liking more and more and whose story I’m really looking forward to... I thought I had more to say about him but nahhh. Asshole who’s a secret softie at heart <3.

I’ll sign off this post with the following pun from Genpei which I thought was pretty cheeky -

#otome #otome game #idea factory #otomate #psp #kami naru kimi to #sakurai takahiro #wafuu #supernatural #fantasy

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arckhaic · 5 years

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Favorite mythological figures?

oh, you’ve asked my favorite question.

my favorite mythological figures, hands down, are king arthur and his knights.

picture a lost guy, unsure and unstable and unknown in everything he does finally picks up a book he randomly stole from sixth grade on a whim nearly ten years later. the book was the sword in the stone by t. h. white. and he found himself following along and laughing with a boy named wart, a silly ol’ wizard that ages backwards, and the growth of that boy into a king by taking lessons from the natural things around him. & oh, he fell in love with a mythical legend and the once and future king.

i’ve always had a soft spot for king arthur & his knights. i can’t exactly pinpoint the beginnings of that. i watched merlin (1998) and the disney movie the sword in the stone when i was young which probably started it or at least introduced it. but it was reading the sword in the stone really sparked my love for the legend. and i don’t know, i was just swept up by it. a boy who discovers he is king at a time when england needs a king the most, leading them into a mythical golden age of peace ( with the hundreds of quests ) that is eventually broken by mistrust & vengeance & prophecy. and arthur going from the chosen king to a side figure in his own kingdom to an echo that promises to return.

and! i just! love it! because in some ways, it gives this sense of hope to me. which, in my life, has been very rare. arthur symbolizes a time of peace but also a man of war. he’s gallant and mistrusting, he’s weak and he’s a force to be reckoned with. he loves his knights and is broken by them in return. he’s a man — just a guy, chosen by a destiny he had no clue about put into motion long before his birth. and like … for me, i’m just a guy too. and i could be destined for great things. i could be someone who creates a mythical camelot and brings in an age of peace even if it’s just me and in my life, in my own head. he brings me hope and just makes me so happy.

and! i love everyone! lancelot, the flower of all noble knights, doomed by his love for a woman he can’t have to break apart the kingdom his beloved king built. percival, the trans knight who goes to seek the grail and it’s right there and he still fails. balan and balin, the brothers who end up killing one another. guinevere, the fairest queen of them all, caught between her duty and her heart — her king and her beloved. the lady of the lake and all of her secrets, her women, her sword, and her magics. morgan le fey and her own quest to have what is hers. galahad, the only redemption camelot has in the form of a soft, young boy. gawaine and his brothers, igraine, (every single) elaine and nimue — fair women who are so much more than their being cast aside, tristan and isolde & most of all, my tragic boy and heart of my heart, mordred, who — like his father — is beholden to prophecy and his only purpose is kill him & the line from mort d’arthur that speaks about mordred just breaks my heart every time: sir, let him be, said sir lucan, for he is unhappy.

my love for arthur and the mythical camelot knows no bounds. i have a whole shelf dedicated to king arthur and all the books i can get my little hands on. my car is named galahad. my phone is named excalibur. i plan to get a tattoo of the lines: whoso pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil, is rightwise king born of all england & o king arthur, the flower of all knights and kings. i just bought a $40 antique letter opener that is a sword in a stone. i just love him.

i could go on forever about my king, how much i love him and his knights and the hope they built in my heart. they’re epic and glorious, awful and human and i’m getting so weepy, i just have a lot of emotion and feelings and thoughts about them.

some other mythological figures i love are the monkey king, ariadne & the minotaur, baba yaga, and my brain is drawing a blank, oh my god. i can only think of fairy tales such as the pied piper, the seven swans, east of the sun and west of the moon and more.

#HEY DID U GUYS KNOW I LOVE KING ARTHUR?#too much ... not enough #also percival is trans and i will die on that hill #i wish my brain worked so i could go on abt the things i like #but its 11pm and im tired #ask me tomorrow about more #Anonymous #arthuria

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in-the-bookish-dark · 4 years

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Just One Swing - RL

The report card in my shirt pocket burned.

I knew there would be more burning when I got home.

Last six weeks, my report card had three B’s, two C’s and a D, and I didn’t sit for three days.

In the envelope in my pocket this time were two B’s, two C’s and two F’s.

Nothing good was going to happen when I got home.

Bobby going off to the Army had made dad meaner than he already was, which was plenty. He wanted him to stay and work at the steel mill, but as soon as he finished eleventh grade and could sign himself up, he was gone. I was ten when he left – twelve now – and Emma was eight. I never knew if the old man was just mad that Bobby was gone or it just meant he had that much more meanness to take out on us kids.

I stood outside the house for a good ten minutes before going in the side door.

I hugged mom coming through the kitchen and gave half a wave to him, reading in his chair by the front door. With the other hand, I sheltered my pocket, as if he could see through my jacket and into my shirt. After dinner was soon enough. He didn’t need to know until he needed to know.

“Carl!” I was almost through the door to my room.

I stuffed the envelope with the report card in my jacket pocket, then yanked it off and tossed it toward my bed. I straightened my shirt and went back down the hall to the living room.

“Sir?”

“We’re having rabbit tonight.”

“Yes sir.”

“My foot’s ailin’ me.”

“Sir?”

“So, it’s your turn. Get to it.”

I reckoned it wasn’t so much his foot acting up as that pint of whiskey he had on his side table, but I wasn’t so stupid as to ask that question.

“What should I ~”

“~ kill him, skin him and quarter him, goddamn it. What else would you do?”

“I just mean … nevermind. Which one?”

“I don’t give a damn, just not the breeders. You know which five to pick from.”

There was Old Henry, my favorite, then Boxy, Carter, and the twins, Elmo and Davey. He didn’t like that I named them, but it wasn’t like they were pets, really. We ate them. I understood that. I might have been in sixth grade, but I wasn’t completely stupid.

I went in to wash my hands and face, buying myself a little time. I’d seen him kill the rabbits plenty of times. He’d make us watch sometimes, and lately make us watch and help. All he’d say by way of invitation or explanation was “You wanna eat?”

I heard him rustling around while I washed and dried, and tried to remember exactly what the procedure was. There was all that, and gutting them, and … I half wished I’d paid more attention, but I was glad I hadn’t. I was sure I’d mess it up a little, but probably not enough for anyone to notice. I didn’t need more trouble tonight.

When I came out of the bathroom, I almost collided with him in the hall. I glanced up, then looked away as I veered. I was looking the wrong direction when he straight-armed me right in the shoulder. I landed on my hands and knees and he was kicking me repeatedly on the butt.

“You think I didn’t know you were hiding something from me? You think you can bring a problem into my house and I won’t know, you stupid sob?”

“Daddy!”

That’s all I could think to say, and all I could get out before he had me up by the scruff of my neck. “Two goddamn F’s? What are you, some kind of imbecile? Some kind of moron? I wouldn’t be here today if your grandfather had seen me bring a D into the house, much less a goddamn F!”

I raised my palms up just enough to slow down the slaps. They weren’t stopped, by any means, but their strength was reduced a bit before they drove the backs of my hands into my cheeks.

“If you goddamn kids can’t have the least little bit of discipline on your own, I’ll by God teach you some. Your brother might be gone, but it’s not too late for you and your sister.”

Each phrase brought a flurry of slaps. He stopped, panting, when he got to the end of his monologue, then grabbed my collar and shoved me on my way.

“Now get on out and get to your business. We are not through with this, mister.”

I kept my head down through the kitchen, wiping my nose on a sleeve as I passed mom. Just as I got to the door, he called out one last thing, “Hey, stupid! We’re having Old Henry tonight.”

That stung more than the slaps. The vindictive old bastard wasn’t satisfied with the beating – or with the promised beating that still awaited me. He had to invent special ways to try and hurt me.

I walked up slowly and called each of them by name when I got there. I reached in and gave them all a couple of strokes on the head, all except for Old Henry. I was afraid to touch him yet. I went and got the club from its hook under the overhang and walked back even slower. I hefted it as I went, slap-slap-slap into my palm, feeling each sting intensify. I let the sting die away, then drew back and swung the club extra hard. I flinched instinctively, though, so I still didn’t get the full force. It would be enough, though. I was sure that Old Henry would only feel pain for a second, if that long. I replayed that swing again and again in my head. My arm knew what to do – I just needed to make sure my brain wouldn’t turn away.

I looked back to the house. I don’t know what I was hoping for – my mom or him coming racing out hollering “Stop! It’s all been a mistake!” would’ve been nice, but I knew the impossibility of that. He was too set and she was too afraid. He was at the back picture window, though, with Emma beside him. His fingers were running through her hair in that way that made her uneasy, and her struggle not to squirm was causing her to grimace. He was talking to her, though I couldn’t tell what he was saying. He just kept his eyes on me.

I unlatched the hutch and scratched at the chicken wire with my closed hand like it held a treat – like so many times before. They shuffled in close. Old Henry took his time and still lagged back a little, so I waved the hand his direction to coax him forward. “Come on, old friend” I said, then immediately felt guilty for it. He loped another eight inches, and as his nose reached my knuckles, I snatched the scruff of his neck and dragged him from the hutch.

Clear of the cage, I swung him until his back legs were stretched out and scooped them into my other hand, my fist holding them secure. It was quick and almost over.

I raised him up as he squirmed. The club came into my hand and I drew it back.

I looked into his eye and we both froze. He seemed to accept his fate, having seen this very thing time and again with other rabbits from our hutch. I accepted my job, though still my arm held. At least I would make sure he didn’t suffer any more than he had to. Sometimes, especially when he’d been drinking, his aim was wild, and he’d have to club them a couple of times, but that wouldn’t happen, especially with Henry. My swing would be true. Any moment.

I would do it and it wouldn’t be as bad as I feared; I would do it and I’d become an animal; I would do it and simply feel nothing. I played all those possibilities through my head and more. The one common element was that I would do it, and that was that. As soon as my arm chose to move, it would all be over.

But my arm waited on something, and while I waited on it, I raised the other arm for a closer look at Henry. His body didn’t move, but his head twitched now and then, probably in anticipation.

I hoisted Henry up a little more until he and I were eye-to-eye. His body swung a little my direction as I shifted. “Goodbye, Henry, I’m going to do it now, buddy. I’m sorry.”

I tightened my face and glanced back at my dad. I wanted him to see my resolve. This wasn’t going to make me cry.

The instant my eyes left Henry, he swung and twisted, and his jaws clamped around my bicep, ripping through my sleeve and then into my muscles. As he bit down, the searing pain in my nerves racing both directions on my arm, and filled the cavities of my chest with fire.

I wanted to fling him away, but I couldn’t unclench my fist and he wouldn’t unclench his jaws, so we were at an impasse. Finally, my right arm unlocked and swung once and again and again. Henry went limp. His jaws opened and he dropped from my bicep.

I needed to run into the house, I knew. What I needed was to race in and get the spewing wound on my arm tended to, but my right arm kept swinging. Henry’s head was pulp, pieces spattering everywhere with each swing. My good school shirt, which I had stupidly left on, was soaked in my own blood and sprayed in Henry’s.

I threw the club aside and pivoted. It was ten feet to a tree, and once there, I flayed Henry against the trunk until he was a shred of flesh and fur and bark. It wasn’t until I finally dropped him that I realized I was crying. I couldn’t see for the tears and couldn’t breathe for the mucus.

I kicked at our dogs that had run up for a chance at a bit of fresh rabbit, but with each kick and almost toppled myself right on top of Henry. I gave up trying to hold them back, and trotted toward the house, clasping my bicep.

He and Emma were still framed in the window. Her face was buried in her hands. His hand still upon her head. He tracked me as I trotted. I couldn't see him clearly, but I never blinked, all the way back to the door.

Mother was ready, already propping the screen open, holding it wide to keep the blood and violence from getting all over her. I got bandaged up tight. She'd been a nurse during the war and did it up right. I should’ve gotten stitches, but he didn’t mention them and she wasn’t going to raise the matter of a doctor’s bill with him. It healed up okay without, I suppose. To this day, the scar makes a conversation point, though I spare some of the details.

We had no rabbit for dinner that night. Alongside the carrots, green beans and rolls, the four of us split a can of spam. Nobody spoke, not even to get anything passed. It was all self-service for that meal.

Emma just stared at me without speaking, that evening and for the next week, before she began to relax around me again. In maybe a month, things were back to as normal as they tended to be.

Mom said to shower and go on to bed early, and nothing else. No, she also said to be careful and not get the bandages wet. The next day, she acted as though nothing had ever happened, aside from checking the bandages. Easy for her; she had a lot of practice.

The old man told me to be sure and clean up the carcass before bed. When I stopped to look at him, he said “Some lessons last forever, boy.” That was it. Plus, no further punishment for the grades; none for destroying dinner. Two weeks later, he decided it was time for rabbit again, and that’s about all he told me. “Rabbit tonight – get to it.”

From that first time, I've always made sure that it only takes one swing.

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limejuicer1862 · 5 years

Text

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews

I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me. I gave the writers two options: an emailed list of questions or a more fluid interview via messenger.

The usual ground is covered about motivation, daily routines and work ethic, but some surprises too. Some of these poets you may know, others may be new to you. I hope you enjoy the experience as much as I do

Marisa Crane

Marisa Crane is a lesbian writer whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Jellyfish Review, Hobart, Pithead Chapel, Pidgeonholes, Riggwelter Press, Pigeon Pages, Cotton Xenomorph, and elsewhere. She is the co-founder of Collective Unrest, a political resistance magazine. She currently lives in San Diego with her wife.

http://www.marisacrane.org/

The Interview

When and why did you start writing poetry?

I started writing poetry around sixth grade. I used writing as a means to whine about everything going on in my life. Real angsty shit. All of the poems rhymed, too, if you can imagine the absolute horror. Occasionally I even tried to rap them. It was a dark time. But then I won the first poetry contest I ever entered (and haven’t won one since). It was a contest at school. My winning poem was published in the yearbook and I rose to instant fame, and by instant fame, I mean no one noticed and the world continued to spin madly on.

2. Who introduced you to poetry?

I can’t remember anyone introducing me to poetry. My parents had science / medical backgrounds and as much as my mom loves to read, she almost exclusively reads fiction. I think it was just one of those things I fell into because it felt good and right.

2.1 Why did it feel good and right?

I think because it allowed me to process my emotions, fears, insecurities, anxieties, uncertainties etc. in a way that made sense to me. I could revisit old poems in order to conjure up old feelings and ghosts. I could also tear pages out and put those memories to sleep if I wanted. Poetry is magic, a form of time-travel.

3. What is your daily writing routine?

Right now I’m unemployed so my schedule was very different until about a month ago. When I was working, I would wake up around 6 AM and make coffee, do a little creative meditation, then write for about two hours. Generally I’d be working on fiction, whether it was stories or my novella. Then at work if i wasn’t too busy I’d be able to get some writing done on my breaks as well. Now that I’m not working, I wake up a little later, between 7 and 8, and have a slower morning, drink coffee, talk with my wife, beg her to play hooky, which she declines. Once she goes to work, I go to a coffee shop and work on whatever my current project is. This past month I’ve been writing for about 4-6 hours a day.

4. What motivates you to write?

I always feel like this is a tough question to answer, because almost everything sounds cliché to me. I suppose, at the core of it all, my feelings and experiences motivate me to write. Writing helps me process what I’ve been through. It often helps me to forgive myself for my past that I cannot change. I also allows me to express my fears in a healthy, channeled way. For example, I never wanted children until I met my wife, who very much wants to have kids, always has. I’m both excited and terrified of having children. A specific fear associated with this prospect is that my wife will die during childbirth or shortly thereafter, leaving me to raise our child alone. I know that it’s not likely, but it’s something I obsess over. I feel ill-equipped to raise a child. Most days I worry that I’ll break our baby. Anyway, I recently wrote a story about this very thing: having to raise my child after my wife dies during childbirth. The fear hasn’t dissipated since I wrote it, but it’s certainly dulled a bit, which is all I can ask. It’s a pretty damn good story too.

5. Who of today’s writers do you admire and why?

I admire the hell out of Kelly Link. I think that she is a rare genius who can tell a story and captivate a reader in an unprecedented way. She’s not afraid to play and her confidence shows. She could make me believe just about anything. Rivka Galchen is a new favorite of mine as well. She is imaginative, fearless, and unapologetic. Her work takes on a dream-like, surreal quality that stuns me. She also has a sneaky way of surprising the reader on a sentence level. Every time I think a character is going to do, say, or feel a certain thing, I am wrong, and I’m never happier to be wrong than when I’m reading Rivka. Also, Celeste Ng is a force to be reckoned with. I recently read “Little Fires Everywhere” and I swear I barely took a breath the entire time. She is a magician when it comes to creating dynamic and memorable characters. And lastly, Rachel Khong, who has the unique ability to write sentences that are at once heartbreaking and hilarious. Her work packs a huge punch in not so many words. Her turns of phrase sit with me for days.

6. Why write, as opposed to doing anything else?

I fear this response is going to sound really over-played, but the simple answer is that I can’t keep from writing. It’s not something that I ever have to force myself to do. It’s my natural way of processing and understanding life. Everything that isn’t writing feels like second best.

7. What would you say to someone who asked you “How do you become a writer?”

I think I would start by saying that you’ve got to sit down and write something. Or you can stand if you’re so inclined. Or do jumping jacks between words. Burpees, lunges, flame-throwing, etc. No matter how you want to do it, you’ve got to get words down. If you enjoy writing and you in fact DO write, then you’re a writer. I think if it’s something that remains inside your head then you aren’t a writer yet. But otherwise I can’t stand all of the debates surrounding whether someone is a writer or not. In fact, I find them elitist. It’s not a secret club with a special knock. Write the words down and you can confidently call yourself a writer. Try the word on sometime. Say, “I am a writer” in the mirror three times while spinning in circles.

8. Tell me about writing projects you’re involved in at the moment.

I’m currently working on a novel but for the first time in the history of my writing, I haven’t told anyone about it, including my wife. For some reason I feel very suspicious and I want to keep it to myself until it’s done. I’m about halfway there. I have a completed novella called “A Shooting Star Isn’t a Star at All” that I’ve submitted to several contests and presses. It was born out of a private, ongoing workshop with author Elizabeth Crane. The content is based on my experiences as a behavioral health worker for disturbed youth in the Philadelphia school district. It’s written from several different perspectives, including inanimate objects like a baby blankie and bullets in a loaded gun. That’s all I’ll say on that for now. I’m also shopping around a short story collection called “Human Pulp,” which explores the consequences of inaction through off-kilter and quirky voices. Lastly, I’m working on revising and submitting a poetry chapbook called “Our Debatable Bodies,” which documents my experiences as a lesbian and a woman. Another short story collection seems to be on the horizon as well. I can’t shake the idea of writing a series of stream-of-consciousness close third person stories about children / adolescents who experience discrimination / trauma / abuse and the implications of said experiences.

Wombwell Rainbow Interviews: Marisa Crane Wombwell Rainbow Interviews I am honoured and privileged that the following writers local, national and international have agreed to be interviewed by me.

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vyldan · 5 years

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Culturebox

Where I’m From

How a trip to Kenya changed the way I think about the terms African-American and black American.

By Aisha Harris

July 29, 20145:12 PM

One of the first times I recall being asked the question “Where are you from?” was also one of the first times I realized that being black wasn’t a sufficient answer. For a sixth-grade project, I had to create my own version of a family crest to be presented to the class. The idea was for each student to celebrate her ethnic heritage. I knew my ethnicity, but where were my ancestors from? While almost all of my classmates in my predominantly white Connecticut elementary school could proudly claim that their grandparents—or great-grandparents—had come to America at some point from Ireland, or Italy, or Greece, I was forced to acknowledge that I had no idea where my forebears had lived, as they were brought here against their will and any records of their origins had long since been lost. My grandparents and great-grandparents on both sides of my family were born in the South and the mid-Atlantic—hardly an interesting story, or so I thought at the time.

I was recently asked where I’m from again—multiple times—in an entirely different context: while in Kenya for a wedding. On one occasion, I struck up a friendly conversation with a young armed guard (and aspiring engineer) who stood watch within the gate of the compound where my boyfriend and I, along with several of the other foreign wedding guests, were staying.

“Where are your parents from?” he clarified, after I told him I was a visiting American. “They’re also from America,” I explained, slightly confused about what he was getting at.

Eventually, it dawned on me: He was asking the same question my school project had asked: He was curious what non-American country my family was from. Kenya, Nigeria, both? I tried to explain that as far as I know, I have no immediate or extended relatives outside of the States, but he didn’t seem to fully grasp what I meant.

Later, another Kenyan I met—the cousin of the bride—posed the same question to me during the wedding afterparty. His complimentary response: “Ah, you look like you could be African!”

AdChoices

I am at least partially African, genetically speaking. A few years ago, my father took an ancestry DNA test, which revealed that some of his roots can be traced to Nigeria. But I don’t consider myself Nigerian-American, or even African-American. Where I’m from is America—who I am is a black American.

I was about 7 or 8 when my dad sat me down to watch Roots—all 500 hours of it—recorded on VHS tapes from an ’80s cable rebroadcast. Alex Haley’s tale of genealogical discovery resonated with my father as a powerful attempt to re-establish the lineal connection between Africans and African-Americans that had been erased by slavery. Roots was just one of the African-themed cultural artifacts that my father introduced to my sister and me: There was also the gorgeous soundtrack to Sarafina!, a Broadway musical about the Soweto Uprising in South Africa; the African-themed art in our home; Anansi tales; Kwanzaa celebrations. He attempted to instill in us not just a sense of pride as black Americans, but as Americans of African descent, and throughout my adolescence, I identified as black and African-American interchangeably. All of this without knowing, at the time, from what country our ancestors had come, due to the loss and erasure of their birth records prior to the turn of the 20th century.

Despite my father’s efforts, however, my first in-depth encounters with first- and second-generation Americans who had immediate family from African countries made me question my adherence to the label of African-American. To me, people with such explicit connections to their relatives’ home countries accurately embody the term; they truly have access to both cultures. As someone who grew up with a much stronger sense of my black American roots, and an understanding of African culture distilled primarily through an American sensibility, I feel as though the term African-American doesn’t quite suit my identity.

That didn’t stop my father from (sort of) jokingly asking, upon my return from Kenya last month, “Did you feel different when you landed in the motherland?” What he meant, of course, was whether I felt as if I’d returned “home” to a place I’d never before been. People have spent their whole lives hoping to find the equivalent of their own personal Zion. Had I?

My answer to him, without hesitation, was no—at least not in the way he meant it. I definitely felt different in Kenya, but it was the kind of difference I imagine everyone experiences when exploring an entirely new place for the first time—that of a tourist. (I suspect that visiting my supposed ancestral homeland of Nigeria would produce the same effect.) In addition to the obvious differences in transportation and living conditions (livestock roam the streets even in urban areas of Kenya), there were smaller but significant cultural gaps. While the wedding featured familiar traditions like the tossing of the bouquet (accompanied, naturally, by a sound bite from that universal anthem “Single Ladies”), many parts of the ceremony were in Swahili, the country’s official working language alongside English. Even some of the jokes the emcee made in English delighted the Kenyan guests but flew over my head—I later had one of the guests, a cousin of the bride who also lives in the U.S., explain the playful digs to me.

But it’s not just the lost-in-translation humor that made me frequently aware of my outsider status. Having to explain what I am—an American with American parents, grandparents, and great-grandparents—emphasized the gulf between the Kenyan understanding of race and my own. For the Kenyans I interacted with, having black skin also means being African. For me, being black means, well, being black.

During that sixth-grade project, I envied my classmates’ apparent abilities to trace their lineages as far back as the turn of the 20th century. My teacher surely intended to instill pride in family heritage, and to celebrate the varied paths each student’s family had taken to this country. The assignment, made in the mid-’90s, was likely a product of America’s obsession with hyphenated identities (“Kiss Me—I’m Irish!”), formed in the decades following the civil rights movement. As Matthew Frye Jacobson notes in his book Roots Too: White Ethnic Revival in Post–Civil Rights America, the rise of black nationalism in the ’60s and ‘70s coincided with a growing emphasis, among white Americans, on the idea of America as a “nation of immigrants.” He argues the two phenomena are not unrelated:

This blunted the charges of the Civil Rights and Black Power movements and eased the conscience of a nation that had just barely begun to reckon with the harshest contours of its history forged in white supremacism.

Americans who traced their ancestries to the Great Wave of immigrants who arrived at Ellis Island at the turn of the 20th century couldn’t be blamed for the horrors of slavery or Reconstruction, or so the thinking went.

In hindsight, I had nothing to be ashamed about; the family crest I created was just as valid as any of the other kids’, even if I couldn’t claim to know for certain the foreign lands in my family history. But it wasn’t the last time I felt a tinge of inferiority. Later, when I was in college and met African immigrants or first-generation African-Americans, I felt it again.

I’ve since changed my point of view on that as well, however, and am comfortable now with defining myself by my upbringing rather than by where my ancestors may have come from. The distinction between black and African-American has been expounded upon in recent years, on both a semantic level (Slate just this year changed its standard from African-American to black American) and, by extension, a cultural one. I know I’m not alone in wishing to identify as a black American. And I believe that every individual, and especially people of color, who so often have their existences defined by the standards of a white majority (recall, for example, the one-drop rule), should be able to identify as they see fit.

I don’t see my preference for being called a black American as a way of denying or distancing myself from my genetic African heritage. Rather, I believe it acknowledges the similarities that do extend to all black people—in spite of our differences—as black people: the prejudices we can face from nonblacks (from police brutality to skewed standards of beauty) to the cultural influences we share with one another, like the aesthetic notion of “black cool,” traced to West Africa and translated more recently into black American art.

Having never lived in the land of my ancestors, I will never truly understand what it means to be Kenyan, Nigerian, or, more generally, African. But my recent travels, which included a cross-country road trip from Nairobi to Diani Beach and Mombasa on the coast, gave me my first immersive understanding of an African country, and I did feel a kinship with the people I met: It was fascinating to spend time in a country where the majority of the population was not white, and to interact with such a wide range of social classes and cultures, from the traditional Maasai tribes to the rural farmers and city dwellers. Finally, after years of learning from afar, I got to understand a small slice of African culture for myself. I’m eager to experience even more in the future, even if it’s only as a tourist and not as a long-lost family member returning “home.”

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