#seventh cousin twice removed | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

inpizzawecrust · 3 years

Text

Bonus:

As he watched his Godson and his Godson’s boyfriend Floo back to their flat, a smile formed on Sirius’ face. He turned around to find Remus flipping through one of the photo albums Sirius had brought down hours ago to show Draco.

“Remember this day?” Remus chuckled as he pointed down at one of the pictures. Sirius walked over, but once he was in reach, Remus pulled him the rest of the way to his lap. He grabbed the album again and Sirius grinned when he saw the picture his husband was pointing at.

It was a picture of Harry in a muggle shopping center sitting on Santa’s lap. The page had muggle pictures of Harry crying, but Remus’ finger was pointed at the magic one that showed Harry screaming as Sirius brought him away from the stranger dressed as Santa. If Sirius closed his eyes, he could hear the screams and the conversation that followed with Sirius saying ‘I told you this was a bad idea’ followed by ‘I know, but the pictures are fucking hysterical’ from Remus.

“How could I ever forget?” Sirius laughed, “That was our first Christmas as a family.”

Years ago, Sirius would have probably said ‘it was our first Christmas without them’, but as he grew and grieved while settling into the role of a parent, Sirius found each stage of Harry’s life to be quite bittersweet. While yes, it was their first Christmas without James and Lily, that was their first Christmas as their family of three. He found that viewing each stage of Harry’s life that way to be a good thing. He could either let the sadness consume him or find a way to see the good in the situations, and raising Harry with Remus would always be a good thing—one of the constant things in Sirius’ life that filled him with joy.

They silently flipped through the photo album, smiling at certain pictures as they remembered them clearly, while others felt like a fever dream. When they finished the album, Remus set it on the table and loosely slung his arms around Sirius while Sirius rested his head on Remus’ shoulder.

“Are we not gonna mention it?”

“Mention what?” Remus asked as he ever so gently rubbed Sirius’ back. Sirius pulled his head from Remus’ shoulder and stared into his husband’s brown eyes, a smirk playing at his lips.

“The fact that Harry’s dating Draco Malfoy of all people?” Sirius said, the smirk still firm on his lips as Remus rolled his eyes. “You think it’s a good thing?”

“And you think it’s a bad thing?” Remus mocked, a slight smile forming.

“He’s my cousin—”

“Like once or twice removed or something,” Remus waved off, “Your entire family is built on incest and it’s not like they’re blood related to each other or were even raised as cousins—”

“That’s your defense? They’re not blood related or raised as cousins?” Sirius raised a brow.

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Draco or was even entirely blindsided by the entire thing. Harry did mention Draco quite frequently during his time at Hogwarts and even after the war when he returned to Hogwarts to finish his seventh year. He wasn’t even remotely shocked when Harry insisted on speaking for Draco’s trial. There was always something Harry had to say about Draco and Sirius knew it was the same at Malfoy Manor from the occasional letters he would exchange with Narcissa—even the letters he’d exchange with Andromeda when Draco lived with his aunt after both of his parents were sent to Azkaban. He thought the never ending conversations about Draco Malfoy would finally cease when they finished Hogwarts, and it did for a few years. But when Harry went back to Hogwarts as the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, the first line in his first letter to his Godfathers was ‘you won’t believe who the Potions professor is’, which only reignited the talks about a certain blonde in the Lupin-Potter household. It wasn’t that Sirius didn’t like Draco, he was just unsure of whether or not the two were a good fit.

“What’s yours?” Remus asked, pulling Sirius from his thoughts.

“Dunno, just not entirely fond of Harry dating a Malfoy.” He mumbled and shrugged his shoulders.

Remus pursed his lips before biting the inside of his cheek. There was only one instance where Remus would do such a thing and that was when he racked his brain trying to find a polite way to disagree with someone. Sirius couldn’t be too offended by the look, for as he watched the gears in Remus’ brain turn, he found himself curious as to what Remus would respond back with. He watched as the narrowed brown eyes eventually softened and the hand that had been rubbing Sirius’ back slowly stopped.

Without saying a word, Remus moved Sirius from his lap and rose before Sirius even had the opportunity to protest. He felt his brows furrow as Remus crossed the room and opened a drawer in the large china cabinet that held the fine china from Remus and Sirius’ wedding, which had also been from James and Lily’s wedding as well as Fleamont and Euphemia’s wedding. He watched as Remus opened and closed the drawers until he eventually found what he was looking for. It was a photo album, one that Sirius hadn’t seen in years, but he recognized the cover all the same. It was the large scrapbook from their time at Hogwarts, pictures dating from their last day of seventh year all the way back to one of the first weeks in first year. It originally belonged to James, but it quickly became the Marauder’s.

Remus flipped through the pages as he began to walk back over to the sofa. His brown eyes were still fixed on the pictures before him as he slowly sank back down on the sofa beside Sirius, his long fingers carefully turning the aged pages. Sirius tried peering over Remus’ shoulder to get a better look at the pictures, but Remus deliberately moved to hide the book from Sirius. Sirius let out a sigh as he continued to watch Remus flip through the pages and how his forehead was creased and his brows were knitted together until he finally found the picture he was looking for.

Remus turned the book around and pointed at the picture, causing Sirius’ heart to swell and shatter all in the same moment. It was a picture of James and Lily a few months before they started dating. It was in the Gryffindor common room, streamers hung around the room and when Sirius glanced at the bottom of the page, he smiled at the date written in Lily’s handwriting; ‘October 1977, Gryffindor won against Slytherin!’.

“Look at James,” Remus softly spoke and Sirius’ eyes flicked to his brother in the picture. He had the widest grin on his face as he stared down at Lily, who was smiling for the camera. Sirius brought his face closer to the picture as tears formed in his eyes and a smile formed on his face at the sight of James grinning at Lily. He had a particular way he stared at the redhead and Sirius didn’t need to go back in time to know that James’ eyes were filled to the brim with love for the redhead, just like they always were when he’d flash that particular grin. “That’s how Draco looks at Harry.”

Sirius’ head shot up to find Remus smiling, his eyes a bit glossy like Sirius’, then he looked back at the picture. He closed his eyes and replayed the events that happened just hours ago. Draco had a firm handshake, but Sirius remembered feeling the man’s hand shake ever so slightly as he pulled away. In the moment, Sirius clapped his hands together and suggested they move to the dining room for dinner, in hopes of easing the tension—Sirius would be damned if the first time Harry brought someone home, the partner felt anything but welcomed and at ease. Sirius thought back to the dinner and how Draco had surprised him by being so un-Malfoyish by relaxing in the chair and filling the room with his loud laugh, even cracking a joke here and there. Sirius thought back to the looks the two shared throughout dinner and how they would smile at each other whenever Remus or Sirius asked a question about their relationship or mentioned their school days filled with bickering with each other. Sirius thought back to the times Harry would speak and how Draco would be focused on Harry and only Harry. Sirius smiled at the thought of it, just like he did in the moment when he eventually realized Draco did that during the entire evening. But as Sirius squinted his eyes to really focus on how Draco looked in any of those moments where his blue eyes would be fixed on Harry, Sirius’ grey eyes shot open once he could see the look of pure love and adoration in Draco’s eyes as though Harry was the only person in the room. Tears silently fell from his eyes as he looked back at Remus, who was in a similar state, because Remus was right; Draco looks at Harry the same way James used to look at Lily.

“Fuck, you’re right,” Sirius whispered as he wiped his eyes. “Draco really does love our son.”

#james potter #remus lupin #sirius black #peter pettigrew #james & peter & remus & sirius #marauders headcanon #harry potter #wolfstar #lily evans #harry potter fanfiction #wolfstar raising harry #drarry headcanon #drarry oneshot #drarry #draco malfoy

61 notes · View notes

amxranthiine · 4 years

Text

c i c a t r i z e (aragorn x reader) pt. ii

cicatrize (v.) to find healing by the process of forming scars. Pronouns: She/Her

A/N: Welcome to part two! I’ve been working on this part for three days and it was getting a little long, so I saved Weathertop for chapter three. This chapter is 2.7k (or more) words. I hope you enjoy! Warnings: Some swearing, alcohol consumption, Nazgûl, the usual. Summary: Y/n is Aragorn’s childhood best friend. However, when they got older, Y/n’s feelings towards her long time friend changed, but he is infatuated with the Evenstar. Out of heartbreak, she leaves Rivendell and sets off on her own, leaving her love and all she ever knew. When Elrond’s Council takes place, Y/n is forced back to her home and everything she ever knew.

⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ Present Time Y/n POV Ale dribbled down my chin as I gulped down what seemed to be my hundredth Pint. In truth, I lost count after my... sixth? Seventh? I needed to drink away my sorrows after the day I had. I received a letter from Gandalf the Grey when the sun was at it’s peak, babbling on about the One Ring, how it was in the hands of a Hobbit named Baggins, and how I needed to make my way to the Prancing Pony in Bree as soon as possible. And, of course, that I needed to keep a look out for the Hobbit in the Prancing Pony, and bring him to Rivendell. What a way to start the day, I had only awoken not an hour prior!

Gods, I needed a drink. After the initial shock of knowing that the One Ring had indeed been found, I, not so happily, packed my few possessions into a warn out bag and went on my merry way. After leaving Rivendell almost seven decades ago, I had travelled all across Middle Earth, never staying in one place for too long. Though it’s been sixty-seven years since I left my entire life behind (in more than one way), I was still frightened- or was it ashamed? Ashamed. Yes, that was it. I was ashamed of how I left, why I left. Just leaving everything I’ve ever known because I was jealous and heartbroken. Over a guy! Only, he wasn’t just any guy. Yes, he is. I am and have been over him. Are you absolutely positive? No. Exactly. Fine, I admit! But how could I get over someone I’ve known since I learned how to walk? Not so easily, it seems. Perhaps that was why I was sulking in the Prancing Pony, downing ale after ale, trying to ignore the pure dread of having to see him again. Maybe he won’t be there? Maybe his adventures led him elsewh- My “what if’s” and “maybe’s” were cut short by a large shadow looming over me. Peering up at the owner of said shadow with the mug raised to my lips, I nearly choke at the sight. There he is, the man who has haunted my dreams for sixty-seven years. And, oh Valar, he aged like the finest Mirkwood wine. Sobering up immediately, I quickly placing the mug on the table and wipe my mouth with my sleeve, I greet him with a quiet “Hello?” Though, it sounds more like a question.

He doesn’t greet me in return, much to my pleasure. He just gestures to the seat next to me. “May I?” I numbly nod, though my eyes don’t leave him. Once he is seated, I glance down at my hands and take a deep breath. “What are you doing here, Aragorn?” My tone takes him off guard, it’s cold, hostile. As if I was talking to a stranger, which, in a way, he was. His face holds nothing but shock, with traces of hurt within the grey depths of his eyes. “Business from Gandalf,” Aragorn mumbles as he waves down a waitress. I look at him again, but this time I notice everything that’s changed about him. His hood is up, covering his eyes for all but me. His face is more defined, and there is a trace of stubble along his sharp jaw. He’s buffer, too. His muscles are prominent even under his many layers of clothing. I would be a liar if I said he didn’t look good. However, he also looked... nostalgic. Memories upon memories rushed to the front of my brain as I relived what we used to be. Oh, Mandos, I think I’m catching feelings. Again. “It’s been a while, Y/n.” I blink, looking away from him with a blush. You foolish woman, Y/n! He most definitely knows you were checking him out. Clearing my throat, I simply say “Yeah,” and look around for the Hobbit I’m supposed to be watching for. I could his gaze burning into the side of my head, watching my intently. “You left without saying goodbye,” he mentions with an edge to his tone. I sigh and close my eyes, I really didn’t want to have this conversation right now. Or ever. Never would be good. “Didn’t think you’d care.” I said, shrugging. Good going, Y/n. Is that really the only intelligent thing you could come up with in that tiny head of yours? In my peripheral vision I see him tense, and his eyes widen considerably. What did he expect me to say? That I was sorry for leaving all those years ago? That I was so desperately in love with him that the sight of him embracing Arwen Undómiel was too much to bear? No, my pride could never admit that, especially not now. “You didn’t think I would care? Y/n, are you ins-” Aragorn starts with what sounds like a hiss. I hold my finger up to shush him as four Hobbits walk into the Inn, soaked to the bone. The leader, a tall-ish Hobbit with curly black hair, approaches the bar and I can practically feel the evil radiating off of him in waves. I knew he was the one I was looking out for, he was Baggins. Aragorn gives me a ‘we will talk about this later’ look, yet still follows my gaze. His body language changes drastically when he spots the small men and I instantly know we were sent here for the same reason. “Gandalf sent us on the same quest, it seems.” I mumble as my eyes follow the Hobbit’s every move. Something was... off about them, ignoring the presence of the Ring. They seemed nervous, as though they were waiting for someone. Baggins, or Underhill, as he was called, looked exhausted. The true weight of the Ring was finally making itself known. As the four sat down at a table in the middle of the room, my eyes wandered over Underhill’s companions. The blonde next to him was on the bigger side, he had unruly curls as all Hobbits do, and he seemed the to the more cautious one out of his companions. The two across from him carried a carefree and youthful energy, both with almost golden hair. The blonde one looked around the room with distrust before his eyes landed on Aragorn and I. We were watching them carefully, Aragorn had his pipe in his mouth, and I held my mug snuggly within my fingers. I suppose our watchful gazes set off alarms in the small Hobbit’s head. He elbowed Underhill and whispered something to him, nodding his head towards the two of us. Underhill eyed us, I could see the suspicion and fear growing within him as he took in our appearances. Suddenly, he gestured to Butterbur as he passed by, and over the loudness of the Inn, I barely heard him ask, “The two in the corner, who are they?” Butterbur glanced at us warily before replying, “They’re two of them Rangers; dangerous folk they are, wandering the wilds. What their right names are, I’ve never heard, but round here they’re known as Strider and Randir.” Underhill looked at us again, “Strider and Randir,” he seemed to whisper as he nervously played with something under the table. Time seemed to slow as the younger one of the golden haired Hobbits seemed to yell for all the world to hear, “Baggins? Sure I know a Baggins!” Every pair of eyes flew to the young Hobbit, but he seemed oblivious for he kept speaking. “He’s over there, Frodo Baggins!” He pointed to Underhill, “He’s my second cousin, once removed, on his mother’s side and my third cousin, twice removed on his father’s side... if you follow me.” I sighed deeply and watched as Frodo raced to the golden haired boy, gripping his arm and shouting, “Pippin!” “Steady on, Frodo!” Pippin says, then pushes Frodo away. Frodo stumbled back, losing his balance on one of the many pairs of feet crowded around him. He falls, the Ring flying out of his pocket as gravity takes control. Aragorn and I watch with steady eyes, we could not let anyone near the small, childlike creatures. You never know who may be a spy, waiting, like a jaguar, for the precise moment to pounce. A small hand reaches out to grab the evil jewel, but it just slips through his fingers a moment too late. I wince as Frodo hits the ground, a loud “oomph!” leaving his mouth at impact. Though, my eyes never leave the jewel that seems to be calling my name, tugging at my heartstrings, as it made it’s graceful down a child sized finger. The owner of said finger was none other than Frodo, and the entire Inn gasped in horror as he vanished from sight. There is complete silence for a moment, and Aragorn and I jolt up, preparing ourselves for the chaos that is to come. And chaos it is. Excited, and slightly horrified, chatter explodes throughout the Prancing Pony. I look to each of the Hobbits once more. The blonde hobbit is as pale as a ghost, looking deathly ill with panic. Pippin, who seemed to realize his folly quickly, sobers up quickly. The unnamed one seems to be a mix of the two, a look of complete and utter bewilderment clear as day on his features. Aragorn and I spot Frodo as he reappears in a dark corner, shaking like a leaf and as pale as the wraiths that hunt him. Hidden in the shadows, we stride over to him, unseen by all in the Inn. The man reaches him first, however, and grabs Frodo by the cloak and drags him up the stairs to a dark room. “You draw far too much attention to yourself.. Mr. Underhill.” Aragorn hisses. I roll my eyes at his actions. “You could have been a little kinder to the poor boy, look at him! He looks like he’s seen Sauron himself.” I point out with a small grin, but it vanishes in a second with the look Frodo gives me. It was wide eyed, portraying the terrifying truth in my words. He had, indeed, seen Sauron himself. Aragorn ignores my statement and draws the attention back to himself as he looms over Frodo. “What do you want?” The quiver in the Hobbit’s voice is prominent when he asks this. Estel turns away for a moment to put out the bright and blazing candles. “A little more caution from you, that is no trinket you carry.” He replies. “I carry nothing,” Frodo lies. I watch the situation with interest, though I say nothing. The terror of the Ring was clearly effecting him, and having Aragorn and I practically kidnap him was likely not helping. “Indeed?” The taller man hums. “I can avoid being seen if I wish. But to disappear entirely? That is a rare gift.” He states as he finally reveals his face and the mess that is his hair. I gape at him as I take in his aged features, this time I really inspect him. His grey eyes, his lips, his hair... He was seemingly flawless. Stop it, you stupid girl! You have a task at hand! Shaking my head to clear those impeccably true thoughts, I barely hear Frodo whisper, “Who are you?” “Are you frightened?” This time, it was I who spoke, bringing the attention of both males to me. I say those words with a slight edge to my tone, and it could sound like mockery if we weren’t currently in a dire situation. Frodo looks me dead in the eyes. “Yes,” he says honestly, I almost laugh. “Not nearly frightened enough,” I uttered lowly, and narrowed my eyes. “We know what hunts you.” Aragorn adds, making me grimace. The Nazgûl were nasty, terrible creatures who should have stayed dead and rotting in their tombs. A noise from the corridor bursts our eerie bubble, and the three of us jump towards the door. In come three determined Hobbits carrying a chair, a candlestick and fists as weapons. I had to admit, their bravery was to be commended. The blonde one bellowed, “Let him go or I’ll have you, Longshanks!” I couldn’t help it, but I burst into laughter, giggles spewing from my mouth as I recounted what just happened. Maybe it was the ale, or maybe the fact that I haven’t spent more than thirty minutes in another persons presence in sixty-seven years, but that comment was the funniest shit I’ve heard in a long time. Everyone in the room turned towards me with bewilderment and confusion written all over them, making me laugh even harder. I had tears rolling down my face and my cheeks and stomach hurt from my sudden chortling. After a few moments, my hysterics died down a bit, demoting themselves to light chuckles every so often. “I- I’m sorry,” I babbled. “Please, go on,” I smiled and waved my hand in a dismissive manner. The five men looked utterly disturbed and puzzled, but it was Aragorn who finally said something, though it was quite dark and ominous. “You have a stout heart, little Hobbit, but that alone won’t save you.” He turned to Frodo, “You can no longer wait for the Wizard, Frodo. They are coming.” After that we quickly devised a plan, and quietly made our way to the Hobbits room and stuffed pillows under the sheets to make it look like little people sleeping. Then, we grabbed all of their packs and brought them to Aragorn’s room, and we waited for the inevitable. It had to have been two hours of silence before a single word was said by any of us. The Hobbits had already gone to bed, snuggled side by side on the large mattress. Aragorn and I sat across from each other by the window, watching for any sign of the dark servants. I was playing with my dagger, twirling it between my fingers and stabbing it into the wood of the window sill, lost in my many degrading thoughts. “Why did you leave?” Aragorn finally asked. I looked up to see him watching me intently. I stilled, dumbfounded. Out of all the things he could have said, he asked that? Gracious me, we are supposed to be watching out for the Black Riders, not sharing sob stories! Trying to think of a semi-intelligent, semi-vague answer, I finally came up with “My heart led me elsewhere.” It wasn’t a lie. But it wasn’t the truth. Before he could respond, however, I spot four Nazgûl riding into Bree. “Aragorn,” I call out and point to them as they make their way inside. The air thickens as heavy footsteps come up the stairs. I hold my breath, as does Aragorn, even the Hobbits seemed to stop breathing. Please, Valar, let us go unnoticed. It seems fate was feeling generous, the Ringwraiths strut right into the trap. And they stab. Over and over again, right into the pillows we set up just for them. I wince when I realize that it have very well been the Hobbits in place of those pillows if we hadn’t done something. Suddenly a deadly screech fills the air, followed by three others. No doubt they discovered the trap, and were positively pissed. I listen intently as they fled the Inn, and as they mounted their black steeds and left Bree, I hear multiple identical screams in the distance. My shoulders drop and I instantly breathe a sigh of relief. It worked. Our plan worked. “What are they?” Frodo’s quiet voice questions from behind me. I look back to see him wide awake and seated on the edge of the bed. “They were once Men. Great Kings of Men. Then Sauron the deceiver gave to them Nine Rings of Power. Blinded by their greed, they took them without question, one by one falling into darkness. Now they are slaves to his will.” Aragorn answers grimly. Sensing that he wasn’t going to say any more, I add on to his statement. “They are the Nazgûl, Ringwraiths, neither living or dead. At all times they feel the presence of the Ring, drawn to the power of the one...” I trailed off. Our two voices fill the air in unison as we conclude, “They will never stop hunting you.” ⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙⁺˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚⁺‧͙ TAGLIST @entishramblings (please tell me using my ask box if you want to be tagged in future chapters)

126 notes · View notes

boxoftheskyking · 4 years

Text

Pick Up Every Piece, Part Four

Ugh this took forevvvvver

I know that the MDZS map is like based on actual China, so my apologies to whatever Yiling is based on. I need a shithole for this story, and Yiling’s it.

In which Lan Zhan follows A Story

Part One, Part Two, Part Three

----

Early November 2000

Lan Zhan is headed back to Moling. It’s not a trip that he particularly enjoys, anymore. He takes the train these days, since he got rid of his car.

He used to drive the 45 minutes there twice a week when he and Liu Shirong were first dating, before they moved in together in Caiyi. There used to be a sense of anticipation, enjoyment, each landmark and familiar turning a step closer to someone he wanted to see. An arm across his back, a kiss to his jaw, Shirong reaching up on tiptoe to greet him. He’d pick up Shirong at school and they’d wave out the window at the little kids in the schoolyard. Bye, Teacher Liu! Moling was an escape, an innocent place, somewhere far away from the darkness and dirt he spent his days sifting through.

Dear Shirong. He’s a good man. Short, kind, a silly gasping laugh. Desperate for children. He has two now, and a husband. Lan Zhan has lunch with him occasionally.

Now that he thinks about it, their last lunch was over a year ago. He supposes that doesn’t count as “occasionally” anymore. He could reach out first, if he wanted to. But he’s never been the type to reach out. Shirong has a life, a family, all the things he always wanted. All the things Lan Zhan couldn’t give him.

“I cannot imagine myself with a child,” he’d said when they broke up. He hadn’t intended for it to actually be a breakup—he hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But Shirong had visited an actual agency the day before and handed him a brochure, and Lan Zhan had left the apartment and driven into the mountains in a blind panic. He’d ended up stopped outside someone’s cabin, all the way up their driveway, and parked outside this stranger’s house until he’d gotten his breathing under control. That’s one of the reasons he’d sold the car. He’d never done that before, taken off like that, trespassed on private property, so getting rid of the car was the safest option.

Precept 45 of the Lan Clan: Do not act impulsively.

Precept 213: Be strict with yourself.

Precept 341: When faced with temptation away from the righteous path, remove the source of temptation.

His brother finds his interest in the old clan rules an amusing idiosyncrasy. Even his uncle, strict as he is, finds the rules nothing more than an heirloom, evidence of some kind of hereditary virtue but nothing relevant to the modern day.

It’s not that he follows them. He just likes to know them, to turn them over in his mind. As options. When faced with a decision, there’s a comfort in turning to generations of dead Lans for guidance. Some people like astrology.

There are a lot of Lans, these days, enough that he’s never met a good number of cousins. There’s plenty of Lans he’s barely related to at all, at this point, but the name still has a good reputation. It’s the opposite of what the Wens have to deal with, those who weren’t involved in the insurrection. Everyone knows the old clans are ancient history and you can’t judge someone on their family name. But still, no one named Wen is going to find work in Lanling anytime soon.

The point is, the Lans have survived and multiplied, so whatever kept them going in the old days can’t be completely useless.

His original interest in the rules was mostly as a journalist, which he’d hoped his uncle might understand. Every rule implies a story. A reason. Thousands of them mean you can triangulate an entire context. Who were we? How did we get here? What did we lose, and how?

Precept 9: Do not speak dishonestly.

Precept 77: Do not make promises that you cannot honor.

“I cannot imagine myself with a child,” he’d said.

Don’t worry, Lan Zhan, we’ll figure it out together. “I’m not sure I want to imagine myself with a child.” It will be different when it’s ours. You’ll see. “The more you talk about it, the less sure I am.” That’s okay, Lan Zhan, I can be sure enough for the both of us.

“I don’t want this. I don’t want this with you.”

Precept 424: Do not be needlessly cruel.

Lan Zhan had killed men during the war. Cultivation was useful for long-range attacks, but he still found himself in the situation of killing up close, of watching the light leave an enemy’s eyes.

He saw the light leave Liu Shirong’s eyes. For a moment his instincts had jolted, shocking through his nervous system. You’ve killed him. You activated your core, by accident, and you’ve killed him.

But it wasn’t the end of Liu Shirong’s life, of course, just the end of his love for Lan Zhan, the end of their life together, the end of whatever future he’d imagined for them. Lan Zhan had meant to release him gently, like a small rabbit with a newly-healed leg, back out into the world he came from. But he’d crushed him instead, under his clumsy feet.

Do not be needlessly cruel.

There are pools of guilt around Moling. Every place that he recognizes, everywhere they went together, even if the memories themselves are good. The guilt gathers on his clothes, soaks through to the skin, makes him cold.

It’s not that he misses Shirong. Perhaps he should miss him more than he does. It’s been nearly three years since they split up. It should perhaps hurt more than it does. It’s embarrassing that it took longer for him to get over Wei Ying—a relationship that never happened.

The worst part of the breakup didn’t even have to do with Shirong himself. He hadn’t made a special call after Shirong left, or even after he officially moved out a week later, but he had mentioned it when Lan Huan called him as usual on the second Tuesday of the month.

“Oh, I’m sorry, didi,” Lan Huan had said. “I know you did love him, in your own way.”

In your own way.

Is he not— Did he not—

Had he never—

He is nearly to Moling. The train track curves here, about fifteen minutes out, and the rails were laid in crooked. It’s a jolt, every time. It’s easy to see who the regular commuters are, whose coffee sloshes over, who widens their stance in time, who looks suddenly out the window, worried. Sabotage on the tracks, maybe, or someone under the cars. The younger people don’t look worried, only bored.

The landscape is odd, he realizes suddenly. He’s been staring vaguely out the window, letting his mind wander, but where he’s used to a few farms, a man-made lake, and mostly open country there is torn up ground, heavy machinery, and miles of chain-link fence. Did he not notice this on his last trip? Had he been reading?

Out the window he sees a large sign on the fence announcing, “Future home of Jin Industries Moling Satellite Campus.” Typical.

In your own way.

He never asked what Lan Huan meant by that. Lan Zhan has won multiple awards for his reporting, for his ability to encourage others to talk. The right facial expression at the right time. A direct, polite question with just the right emphasis. Merciless is what they say about him, sometimes. He’s like a swordsman in an old movie, Nie Mingue used to say, in a way that sounded like a compliment. He moves so quick and so sharp, you don’t even know he’s cut you until you’re around the corner and your head falls off.

He’s poking at it like a sore tooth, needlessly. His golden core makes itself known, just a little sense, a small awakening. It’s always ready to defend him, even so many years later. He does nothing with the awareness, of course. No cultivation is authorized outside of combat. But his core was never removed, never shut down. Can’t put the hot sauce back in that bottle, Jiang Cheng had said once.

The train slows, stops.

“Moling station. Depart here—” The pleasant voice is cut off by a beeping. Lan Zhan stands and shoulders his bag.

“Attention passengers,” a crackled voice comes over the loudspeaker, far less pleasant than the recording. “Due to a security concern all passengers must depart the train at car fourteen. Doors will not open except for car fourteen. Departing passengers, please make your way to car fourteen.”

Lan Zhan looks around the car, then sees a “3” on the far wall. He sighs and follows the few people who are struggling with the connecting door to car four. The chimes that gently demand Get off the damn train are going. He has to speedwalk down the aisle, which is undignified, and everyone looks up at him with that poor bastard expression reserved for torn grocery bags and flat tires.

He makes it off the train a second before the door closes and it pulls away.

“Close one!” an old man grins at him, more humor than teeth.

The police have roped off most of the platform, everyone standing around looking at each other. A few are smoking. Lan Zhan goes over to the rope, coming up next to a kid with one of those handheld electronic games. The kid’s staring around at the cops while his game beeps vaguely in a lonely sort of way.

“What’s happened?” Lan Zhan asks him.

The kid answers without looking at him. “Abandoned bag. Nothing’s happening.” He sounds disappointed.

“Hm.” Sure enough, there’s a nondescript green backpack slumped on a bench.

“They always say it might blow up, but it never does.”

“Not so much these days,” Lan Zhan agrees.

“Like, if it was gonna blow up they wouldn’t be smoking near it, right?”

Lan Zhan smiles despite himself. “Good eye,” he says. His golden core is settled within him, curling beneath his breastbone like a sleeping cat, uninterested and unconcerned. No danger.

There had been a certain amount of withdrawal, after the war. And grief, and nightmares, and a limp for a while. But the end of regular cultivation, of relying on his golden core as a seventh sense, a second consciousness, a second self, the end of healing himself from the inside, of Wangji at his back and power at his fingertips . . .

It’s not entirely the government’s fault, if he’s being fair. Governments have always thrown away veterans, no matter who is in power. Always have, always will. Use you up and spit you out with maybe some benefits and the number of some overtaxed and underpaid case worker. And cultivation, being both new and more ancient than anything, was an unknown since the beginning. There are no peer-reviewed studies on the long-term effects of using a golden core. If Jin Guangyao hadn’t been doing his own research with the Wens for all those years, only to defect back to his father’s side when the tide began to turn, there wouldn’t have been a cultivator corps at all. So Lan Zhan can’t put the responsibility on any one person’s shoulders.

But it still claws at him, sometimes. His core wants out, wants to stretch, to strike, to light something up. It’s like wrapping his head in blankets, sometimes, stifling and muffled and hard to breathe.

Jin Zixuan likes to talk about it, how it feels. Lan Zhan and Jiang Cheng do not.

He checks his watch and picks up his pace, passing by another building down the block under renovation with a Jin Industries sign. The logo is close enough to the Sunshot flag that the government connection is implied, but different enough for plausible deniability.

Lan Qiaolian is leaning on her car a few blocks away, exactly where she said she’d be. Lan Zhan appreciates it—they’ve met only once, and he doesn’t trust his ability to pick her out in a crowd. She’s a short woman, but solidly built. Doesn’t look like a Lan, is what his uncle would say.

“Lan Zhan!” she waves to him and drops her cigarette on the pavement. “Thanks for coming.”

He nods and takes his place in the passenger seat. The drive to the Moling Children’s Center is quiet for a while. The Center is near Yilong’s old gym; he remembers the road.

“You had a meeting with the detective?” he asks, though he knows the answer.

“Yeah. Still stonewalling me. Everything’s fucking confidential. They say they’ve canvassed the neighborhood, everywhere between the school and the bus stop and home. But it’s like everyone saw him walking home with his cousin, his cousin turns around for a minute to chase a damn neighborhood cat up a tree, and Sizhui is just . . . gone. How does a kid just disappear like that?”

“But this lead?”

“The administrator I talked to at the Center said they might have something, some record of where he was born. Maybe someone from his birth family has been looking for him, would take him? There’s just— Even if the records do exist, if they weren’t destroyed, I don’t know who has access. And he’s just a kid, you know? I’m not special. We’re not special. So I can’t think of anything but the worst. You know what happens to kids, especially if they take them West, I know they sell—”

“You don’t know,” Lan Zhan cuts her off, gently. “No one knows. No reason to go down that road unless the evidence points there.”

Lan Qiaolian rubs her face. “I just don’t know what the evidence is.”

“We’ll find something. I have a hunch.”

He does not have a hunch. He doesn’t believe in hunches. Or, rather, he didn’t before he started cultivating. Now he believes in the extra-sensory perception of his golden core, which he has been ordered—and signed pages of documents agreeing—to never use it again.

Either way, he’s learned that the general public like hunches. It’s comforting, apparently, someone taking the lead off of no information. It doesn’t make much sense, but most reassuring things don’t.

“I can’t help thinking—” Lan Qiaolian trails off, tapping her thumb on the steering wheel. “Maybe he left because of me.”

This is not a comfortable situation. Lan Zhan should respond with Of course not, don’t think like that. But for all he knows it could be true. He doesn’t really know Lan Qiaolian, and he certainly doesn’t know Lan Sizhui.

All he knows are the facts. Lan Qiaolian began fostering Lan Sizhui a year ago, when he was eight. It was just the two of them until a few weeks ago when Lan Sizhui went missing. It’s not his job to find missing children, but they are technically family, and if there’s some kidnapping or a dangerous part of Moling where children are falling into holes in the ground, that’s a story.

“Why would you think that?” It’s not as gentle, maybe, but it’s useful.

“I got laid off a few years ago. A lot of us did, mass layoffs.”

“Construction?”

“Yeah. Everyone from site managers to the detailers to— well, everyone. One whole firm shut down. So I thought, you know, I’d be home for a while, I got some unemployment, so maybe it would be a good time to finally start fostering. You know? I could stay home until he got adjusted, then when he started school I’d have found something new.”

“And he was happy?”

Lan Qiaolian smiles. “He’s always happy. He’s a real happy kid. Whatever he went through when he was little, he doesn’t seem to remember. Makes friends easily, fine by himself. He’s a dream. But maybe he was just good at showing me what I wanted to see. You know? Coming from a traumatic background like that, being in the system. You know, kids learn how to survive.”

“If he seemed happy, I’m sure he was.”

She sighs. “I just— The work never came back. The last six, seven months I’ve been calling everywhere I can think of. Even considered moving. Nothing. And so it’s been tight, even though it’s just the two of us. I figured with my husband’s life insurance we’d be fine until I found something, but I didn’t anticipate it taking this long. I’ve got some unemployment, but the support payments from fostering messed with my benefits. And so it’s been tight. And maybe he— You know, the secondhand clothes, no takeout, no games. Not getting to go on the school trips because I can’t pay the— I can’t help thinking, maybe all that time in the system, he must’ve been dreaming about a home, you know, what it would be like. And then when it wasn’t—”

“That’s a lot of conjecture.”

She laughs. “True. I just— The brain, it spins. You know?”

“Hm.” Lan Zhan looks out the window at the familiar neighborhood, then startles a bit. “Did they tear down the market?”

Qiaolian glances over. “Oh, yeah. Couple months ago. No more independent groceries in this part of town anymore. Not that most people could afford it at the end. They tried to stick it out, but the big chains moved in after the war, got those tax breaks.”

“Ah. ‘Economic revitalization.’”

She laughs again.

“So, if I can ask,” he starts, glancing out of the corner of his eye to gauge her response. “On the train I noticed building sites. Jin Industries?”

Her jaw clenches. “They’re not hiring.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“We’ve all tried. They’ve bought up half of Moling, and whoever’s running the construction’s not hiring local. Union’s totally shut out.”

“Really?”

“I’ve tried, okay? I’ve called so many—” she cuts off with a frustrated noise.

“Forgive me. It wasn’t a criticism. I’m just curious.”

She nods curtly. “We’re here.”

The administrator who has agreed to meet with them has black toner smudged up the inside of her left forearm and a framed picture of a cat on her desk. She offers Lan Zhan room temperature water in a cracked coffee mug.

“So you’re my eleven o’clock, right? Okay, right.”

“That’s an old flag,” Lan Zhan says, nodding up at the wall behind her. “I haven’t seen that design for a while.”

For the most part, it’s a standard Sunshot, but in addition to the golden hand and red sun, thin black lines reach up the palm like branches.

The administrator looks surprised, turning around to it. “Oh. Yeah, I guess. I don’t know, I don’t have time to keep up with all that. We have to pay for our own, you know. We’re required to hang a flag in every room but the bathroom, but it comes out of our general operating budget. The official ones aren’t cheap.”

Lan Qiaolian chuckles. “My cousin got it tattooed right after he got discharged. He was pissed when they got rid of the black squiggles in the update. I told him, that’s why you gotta think for more than a week before you make a permanent decision, you know?”

The administrator smiles politely. “Anyway. Let me see here.” She starts digging through her pile of folders. “Lai, Lai—”

“Lan,” Lan Zhan corrects.

“Sorry?”

“The name, it’s Lan.”

“Right! Right, okay, Lan. Lan . . . Here we go. Lan . . . Qiaolian. Foster mother. Yes?”

Qiaolian nods.

“And you are?”

“Family,” Lan Zhan says.

“Right. Okay, let’s see. Lan Sizhui, age nine.”

Lan Zhan leans forward. “Anything you can tell us about where he came from, his life before Lan Qiaolian met him?”

She clicks her tongue and runs a finger down the page. “War orphan, typical story. Moved around, a bit once he got to Gusu. No injuries or disabilities. Hearing and sight all good, average height. Slightly underweight, but that’s not unusual.”

“When did he arrive here?”

“At our facility? Looks like ‘98.”

“So he wasn’t here long before you got him,” Lan Zhan looks to Lan Qiaolian.

“Yeah, I guess. We don’t really talk about his past. That’s what the counselors recommend. You’re supposed to wait until they volunteer, you know? You don’t ask first.”

“Any idea where he came from? Birth family?”

The administrator clicks her tongue again, flips a few pages. Lan Zhan catches a sight of a grainy printed photograph, a kid looking around six, big chubby cheeks and shaggy long hair.

“Came in through law enforcement. No note of any charges or juvenile detention, so likely if he had surviving family they lost custody due to a criminal conviction. Looks like the child didn’t offer any details to counselors or placement. Um, looks like Sizhui was the name he got here.”

Lan Qiaolian frowns. “You named him? That’s not his birth name?”

“Common practice, especially if we have multiple kids with the same given name. He never gave a family name—Likely he either didn’t know his parents or forgot after being in the system for a while. A-Yuan is what he was called when he got here.”

“Yuan,” Lan Zhan turns it over in his mouth. “Something Yuan. Any record of where he was born?”

“Mmm, can’t be sure. But he entered the system in Yiling.”

“Yiling?”

“Yep. First registered into care in Yiling, 1995.”

Lan Zhan looks back up at the flag. The others must be thinking the same thing. Yiling in 1995, the Sunshot Massacre. But that’s a ridiculous thought—there were no survivors then, and plenty of other battles, bombings, one-off murders in the area at the end of the war.

“No family names though?” Lan Qiaolian asks. “Any record of someone who might be looking for him, might want him back?”

The administrator suddenly yawns hugely, covering her mouth with both hands. “I’m so sorry. No, no siblings, no recorded birth family. I’m so sorry, I haven’t been sleeping.”

“It’s all right,” Qiaolian says.

“I live over on the East side. They’re building some new damn complex, pounding in pilings at all hours of the night.”

“At night?” Qiaolian asks. “Why?”

The woman sighs. “I don’t know. Lights coming in the windows at one in the morning. I had to dig out my old curtains, thank goodness I still have them. Wake up in the middle of the night thinking the bombing’s started up again, ha, the banging and the lights. We’ve been complaining, but the company offered all the neighbors a settlement stop reporting it. Two months’ rent, we couldn’t turn it down.”

“Lots of construction,” Lan Zhan says, carefully. “Unusual construction.”

“I wouldn’t know,” the administrator shrugs. “I just hope they finish up quickly. My cats are getting stressed to death.”

“Have you noticed— Never mind.” Qiaolian chews her lip.

“Noticed what?”

“The site over by me, there’s a lot of trailers.”

“Like trailers you live in?”

“They look similar—usually there’s a double-wide or two for an on-site office, break area, you know. The site by us there’s a dozen at least. I just find that odd.”

“I haven’t noticed. Maybe. I don’t know, I try to ignore it. Whatever office complex or hotel or whatever it is, I don’t need it.”

The administrator flips through the file again. “I’m afraid that’s about all I can give you. Yiling might have more information—I think the children’s home there moved a couple years ago so files might have been lost, but it’s worth an ask. Signature on the transfer form looks like a Xie Ling. It’s not a huge town, anyway, could be someone remembers the kid, or the family. Local police or courts maybe, if they keep decent records.”

Lan Zhan and Lan Qiaolian exchange a glance.

“Sounds like I’m going to Yiling,” Lan Zhan says.

“You don’t have to—”

He shakes his head, then hands his card to the administrator. “If you think of anything, or hear anything.”

She takes it. “Gusu Herald? You’re not going to mention the flag thing, right? We’re compliant with everything, this one’s just a mistake.”

“I doubt you’ll even be mentioned. I’m just following the story.”

She looks doubtful. “Okay. We’re compliant, though.”

“I work for a newspaper, not the government.”

She snorts. “Yeah. Okay. ”

It twists a little in his stomach, but he nods at her politely as they leave.

The hallway takes them past a large window showing some kind of playroom. Three adults huddle around a low table, arguing in hushed tones, while a child who looks around four plays by himself with a few scratched up toy cars. The child has a cast on one arm, rolling one car at a time solemnly around on the carpet. He looks up as they pass him and tracks them all the way down the hallway. Lan Zhan can feel his eyes on the back of his neck even as they go out into the sunshine.

“Did Sizhui talk about anybody here?” Lan Zhan asks as they get back in the car. “Any friends at the group home, or children he knew when he was younger?”

“Not really. I was worried he’d have a hard time making friends, because he always seemed so content playing by himself. It’s why I was so glad he had Jingyi, his cousin. He’s the same age. He’s the one who was with—” Qiaolian breaks off, blinking hard. “Sorry. Long day.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he says. He should say something else like It’s okay. It will be fine. We will find him. But he doesn’t, because that would probably be a lie. His silence rises like water in the car, over his mouth, his nose, stifling.

Do not be needlessly cruel.

“Yiling,” Lan Zhan says, to fill the space.

“Fucking Yiling,” Qiaolian agrees.

“I’ll go this weekend.”

“What? You can’t just take off across the country.”

“I haven’t taken vacation in three years. I can go.”

“Lan Zhan—”

“I will go. I’m not saying I will find him, but I will go.”

Lan Qiaolian doesn’t say anything else for the rest of the ride. When she drops him at the station, she just nods, lips pressed tight together.

“I will call you,” he says. She nods again and he gets out.

He stops by the payphone on the way in to the station to call the office.

“Can I talk to Lan Shu? Yes, thank you.” He waits while the call is transferred down to the basement. “Hi, Lan Shu. Have we got anything from Yiling? Anything we’ve covered. Is there a local paper there? I haven’t—”

Lan Shu snaps her gum on the other end of the line. He pulls the receiver away from his ear, wincing. It’s a very wet sound. “Yeah, I got some. I’ll check our clippings, but they’ve got some shitty local rag. A weekly, I think.”

“Please pull that for me. I’m looking for 1995, don’t know what month.”

“Eh, looks like it’s only been running a couple years. First edition I have is April ‘98.”

Lan Zhan taps his finger, thinking. “I’ll take everything you’ve got. Any of our coverage from ‘95.”

“So, Sunshot.”

“And anything else we covered.”

Lan Shu laughs around her gum, “What else is there? No one gave a shit about Yiling before Sunshot, and nobody’s given a shit since.”

Lan Zhan sighs. “Just pull what you can find. Please. I’ll be by in an hour and a half.”

He hangs up before she can snap her gum again. It gives him a headache, the wet sound.

He grabs a copy of the Herald for the train ride back. Instead of reading, he flips through the entire paper looking for one word: Yiling. He finds three mentions: once as the birthplace of a soccer player (a rags-to-riches story), once as the site of a hailstorm in the weather section, and once, as expected, in reference to the Sunshot Massacre.

He hasn’t thought about it much before. He’s never been to Yiling, but there’s never really been a reason. Even before the war it was a small, poor, middle of nowhere town with low property values, high crime rates, and the worst literacy numbers in the country. It was shitty, but not in an interesting way. Qinghe was always shitty but exciting—drug kingpins and porn producers and a famous red light district. It’s become more respectable since the war, though it’s kept some of it’s sleazy veneer. Lan Huan likes to visit, says there’s a good arts scene, but Lan Zhan has never been tempted. He traveled a lot during the war, but since returning home he’s never really felt the urge. For a while it was justified. Recovery. But five years? Maybe he’s more than comfortable, now. Maybe he’s stagnating.

Lan Shu gives him two-and-a-half years of weekly papers in a brown paper bag and slim folder of photocopied clipping from the Herald’s own files. He hauls it all home on the bus piles them neatly by year on the coffee table, then settles in with a cup of tea to read. There are empty gum wrappers in the bottom of the bag.

The Yiling Observer is a quick read, only eight pages in its first edition. There are no bylines, oddly, no editors listed, no photographs, just one phone number and a street address in the masthead. The stories are . . . not quite what he expected. No gruesome crimes or depressing statistics. Just coverage of a local amateur basketball tournament, a car accident that took out a storefront, an interview with a grandmother about her vegetable garden. Small stories, almost defiantly local, but clearly and concisely written. Professional. A recipe for xiao long bao attributed to a Mrs. Yi.

He flips to the back page, under the fold. Whatever it says in bold.

This is your humble author’s own column, where our fearless and frightening editor has given me these few inches to write whatever I like. Hence the name, Whatever. Today we’re going to talk about the Sunshot Flag, or as I like to call it, “Hey, let’s slap reminders of a war crime up on every building in the country, that’s a great idea.”

Lan Zhan snorts. Whoever the writer is, they’re not wrong. He gets up to heat more water and adds to his list of things to do on the kitchen counter. Read all of the newspapers. Call the HR department and schedule a few days of vacation, maybe a week. Wait until his uncle sees it on the out of office calendar and calls him in a huff to explain the story. Book a train ticket to Yiling. Make an appointment at children’s services. Find a hotel. Ask Lan Huan to water his plants. Do laundry.

He feels better with a list, like all of the static of potential responsibilities has focused into a clearly intelligible sound inside his skull.

He goes back to the paper.

And before you complain—and I know some of you will—you’re the one reading my paper. Maybe someday you’ll have better options and can use this only for lining your bird cages, but for now I’m the best you got. That’s Yiling, baby.

Part Five

#assorted writings #pick up every piece #the untamed #cql #mo dao zu shi #postwar journalist au #i hate plot

14 notes · View notes

loveforpreserumsteve · 3 years

Text

About Last Night (Pre-Serum Omega!Steve and Alpha!Bucky Modern Mpreg AU)

Twenty-Seven:

Steve seemed to not be the only one who thought the weekend before Bucky's birthday was the best time to celebrate. However, as Bucky pulled up outside the Barnes family home, Steve sure wished that he had been the only one. With there being twice as many cars outside the two story house, Steve's mouth dropped open. Only for him to remember that he had been eating a pop tart and hadn't swallowed it yet.

"Um," Steve started, but stopped. He wasn't sure what to say. Continuing to eat the pop tart, Steve joked, "This better not be a surprise baby shower."

"I told them I'd disown them if they did anything like that," Bucky reassured, unbuckling.

Since Bucky climbed out of his Volvo, Steve decided to as well. Shoving the rest of the pop tart into his mouth as he got ready to leave the warmth of his vehicle. Although Steve had never been a fan of pop tarts before, it seemed like Squirt did. Bucky even had an emergency box in the glove compartment just in case Steve got hungry while driving.

Steve had unbuckled and was about to open the door when Bucky did it for him. And while Steve feigned annoyance when Bucky helped him out of the SUV, he was glad to have Bucky's strong grasp keeping him steady. Especially with there being a thin layer of ice on the ground.

Up the slick walk, Steve clasped harshly to Bucky's arm and was glad when they reached the dry porch so he could stop worrying that he was about to fall. Bucky eased too and let go of Steve so he could open the door and hold it open for him. Smiling, Steve entered the house with Bucky right behind him.

When Bucky went to help Steve out of his coat, Steve complained, "I can do it myself. I'm not that big, yet."

In reply, Bucky kissed his temple, but let Steve shrug out of his jacket by himself. He did hang up the coat in the closet though. The packed closet. That overflowed onto the staircase across from it.

Steve could already feel his hands get clammy.

"Jimmy, is that you?" A woman's voice greeted.

Turning, Steve found an older woman who looked to be around Winnie and George's age. Bucky accepted the hug and greeted, "Aunt Diana."

Giving him a squeeze, she claimed, "You've gotten so big! Thirty-three, I can't believe it! I still remember when you and Becca were born!" Her eyes shifted to Steve then, and she quickly removed herself from Bucky's grasp and shoved the alpha out of her way to approach the petite omega. "Goodness, aren't you just the cutest thing."

Just as quickly as she hugged Bucky, the eager beta hugged Steve. Not knowing what to do, Steve gave her back a pat and Bucky introduced, "Aunt Diana, this is Steve."

Pulling back, Aunt Diana answered, "Well, I knew that. Your mom can't stop talking about him." Then, without missing a beat, she placed her hands on Squirt and asked, "And who will this be?"

"We're not sure," Bucky said since Steve was speechless. "They were too shy at the last ultrasound."

"Ya know, I've always been fond of, 'Georgetta,'" Diana offered, dropping her hands since Squirt wasn't kicking yet.

"Ooh," Bucky humored her. Steve gave him a pointed look that said, we ARE NOT naming our child that! Playfully, Bucky rolled his eyes and Steve was glad that they were on the same page, even as Bucky continued, "We'll think about it."

"Or, 'Heather,'" Diana suggested, linking her arm with Steve's.

"Yeah, that's a nice name," Steve falsely agreed, despite the name conjuring images of his seventh grade bully.

"Jimmy!" A man with shaggy brown hair cheered from the kitchen. With his outburst conjured more 20-something year olds as they tried to whisk the alpha away.

"Go on," Diana waved her nephew off. "I'm just going to introduce Steve to the family."

Steve exchanged a look with Bucky, wanting to be by his side. Yet, Bucky's extended family members had other plans as the presumed cousins dragged Bucky into the kitchen and Aunt Diana led Steve towards the living room. While they were still in sight of each other, Bucky flashed him a reassuring smile.

The louder than usual house was packed with aunts and uncles and cousins and second cousins and the rare third cousin. After every member, Diana leaned close and told him some juicy family gossip.

"That's Great Uncle Arnold, he's on his fifth marriage. That young omega beside him? That's Cynthia, she's twenty-two and younger than his kids. I heard that there will soon be some new editions, though." Cue Diana making a half-circle shape over her flat stomach.

Or, "Cousin Jack is supposed to be on the wagon. We'll have to keep an eye on him though because he's always been a bit of a lush. Guard the tequila," she laughed.

And how could Steve forget about, "Cousin Stacy is hiding her pregnancy. There are rumors that she had an affair with her husband's best friend. It's all a waiting game now."

There was even the, "gossip," that Steve didn't consider gossip. "Second Cousin Raymond has been going through the ringer lately. His son, Ray Jr., is adamant that he's an omega, not an alpha. There's been a lot of tension in their house. Especially since Ray Jr. has been staying with some tatted criminal lately."

As Aunt Diana paraded Steve around the house, Steve politely smiled and shook hands. Some relatives touched Squirt, but thankfully, it seemed to be more of the older betas and omegas that chose to be so bold. The younger generations and the alpha members knew that it wasn't socially acceptable to touch an omega's bump.

Continuing to show him off, Steve knew that he'd never remember all of them. Their faces melding together. Their names going in one ear and out the other. Genuinely, Steve had no idea how anyone could remember all of them.

Occasionally, Steve found the members he did know. Winnie softly stroking his bump the way she had been doing ever since he gave her permission two weeks ago. George giving Steve's shoulder a tender squeeze while he argued with his sister to, "give the kid a break, we want him to return." Becca handing him a glass of limeade. Dum Dum passing him a cupcake. Mandy rubbing his bump as she quietly told him to, "holler if you need an escape." Steve appreciated Tibby and Silas the most though as they tried to lure Aunt Diana away by using baby Lucy.

When Diana led him over to another group of people, Steve's bladder had other plans. And he had never been more thankful. Politely, Steve excused himself, "The baby has been using my bladder as a waterbed."

"Oh, of course, dear," Diana smiled and promised, "We'll continue later."

Steve nodded, even though he hoped not. Not that he didn't like Diana, and not that he didn't like meeting Bucky's family. It was just a lot. And it was overwhelming him.

Slipping into the half bath, Steve quickly relieved his bladder. Wondering when it would finally go back to normal where he would have to pee at the drop of a hat. Done and hands washed, Steve exited the bathroom. Half expecting to see Aunt Diana standing outside the door, waiting for him. Thankful that she wasn't though.

Wanting to find Bucky, Steve stood on his tiptoes. Unfortunately, Steve was seemingly the shortest person there. Remembering all the times Bucky would go upstairs to see his nieces whenever they came over for family night, Steve took a chance and headed upstairs.

Instantly, it was quieter, calmer. Steve took in a deep breath to ground himself. Child voices could be heard along with giggles and Steve couldn't help but smile. Following the sounds of kids playing, Steve found them in the first bedroom. Two bunk beds were on the walls and a small child size table was in the center of the room. That was where he found Bucky.

With a large white wicker hat on his head and a purple feather boa wrapped around his neck, Bucky sipped green juice from a porcelain cup decorated with purple butterflies. Bucky wasn't alone though. Sadie, Harper, and a couple of other little girls that Steve didn't know were all sitting around the table in similar outfits of floppy hats, boas, and white gloves. Some even had gaudy clip-on earrings to match the costume necklaces.

Leaning against the doorway, Steve just watched for a moment. No doubt in his mind Bucky would be a good dad. After all, Bucky was a phenomenal uncle. As he rubbed over Squirt, he knew that their baby was lucky.

Not taking long for Bucky to notice him, the alpha held his hand out for Steve to join them. Crossing the room, Steve allowed Bucky to wrap his arm around his waist while he leaned against him. Bucky pressed a kiss to Squirt before getting back to the tea party.

"I do say, Princess Mia, this tea is delectable!" Bucky exaggerated, looking at the little girl with black curls and straight across bangs beside him, "You'll have to give me the brand name."

"Uncle Bucky, it's Kool-Aid!" Harper giggled while Mia clarified, "Mommy made it!"

"Ah, yes," Bucky nodded, keeping up the phony accent of grandeur, "Kool-Aid, the tea fit for royalty."

Chuckling along with the little girls giggling, Steve shook his head, resting more of his body weight on Bucky. Taking the hat from Bucky's head, Steve placed it on his own, so he wouldn't be so out of place. The way Bucky beamed up at him reminded him that Squirt wasn't the only lucky one.

TAG LIST: @t3a-bag

2 notes · View notes

eliteprepsat · 4 years

Photo

With 2020 in the rearview and the hopes of a better year in sight, resolutions have no doubt been on many minds. New Year’s resolutions can be a great way to reset at the start of the calendar. They allow one to check in with themselves and to assess what deserves greater personal focus into the future.

Whether making a resolution (or two, or three) is new to you or a common practice, here is a list of resolutions specific to high school students that you might consider undertaking in 2021.

1. Improve your grades

Whether it’s resolving to score higher on your weekly reading quizzes or to go from a B to an A in math, try taking actionable steps to reach your goal. What is necessary to better succeed on those reading quizzes? Taking better notes? Going over assigned chapters twice? And what do you need to achieve that A? Staying after class to ask your teacher about the problems you missed? Visiting your school’s tutoring center? Improved grades don’t magically happen to us. Instead, we need to take the initiative to make them happen. So, go the extra step, and see how your grades improve.

2. Become a better student

The best students aren’t simply those with the best GPA. Beyond improving your grades, you can also resolve to become a better overall student this year. Participating more in class, asking teachers about extra credit opportunities, assisting classmates who could use extra help in a strong subject of yours. These are just a few ways that you can become a better student. What other ways come to mind?

Becoming a better student has many benefits. For example, voicing your thoughts by participating more in class can aid in developing your critical thinking skills. It also displays to teachers your interest in their course and your ability to lead. This likely won’t be forgotten when teachers calculate your final course grades, and it will also come in handy when you hope to receive a favorable letter of recommendation from them for college.

3. Focus on actual learning

Grades are important. Even more important, though, is actual learning. This means not just memorizing a vocabulary list for a quiz only to instantly forget it. It means internalizing lessons for greater purpose.

How do you go about this? Build a course schedule that will assist in a career you could imagine yourself pursuing. This might mean taking classes at your local trade school or taking AP classes so that you can test out of required courses in college to focus more on your major. Regardless, in all of your classes, always consider how the material can help you in practical, real-world applications.

4. Expand your mind

Don’t forget that there is also so much to learn beyond the subjects offered in high school. What new things would you like to try to learn or do this year? Learn how to code? How to tap dance? Or throw a pot on a ceramics wheel? The possibilities are literally endless, and so are the resources available to you. Research what kinds of classes are offered to high schoolers at your local community college. Perhaps your own school even offers enriching clubs you don’t yet know about. And, of course, there is no shortage of books, documentaries, and podcasts out there (many of them often free) to assist you in expanding your knowledge, too.

5. Expand your sphere

In addition to expanding your mind, you may also wish to expand your sphere in the new year. “Networking” can be very important for success—in school and beyond. So, whenever you can, reach out to teachers, counselors, tutors, and even friends to build up your network. You never know when you might need to call upon those you know for help.

6. Focus on your school-life balance

Education is extremely important, especially as a young person hoping to succeed in high school, college, and into the working world. But it is also extremely important to experience fulfillment outside of school. For more on improving your school-life balance, see our previous articles “4 Tips For Finding Balance: How to Study and Still Have a Life” and “A Guide to Achieving a Healthier School-Life Balance”.

7. Focus on self-care

After 2020, we could all stand to focus more on our personal self-care. Self-care involves nourishing all facets of one’s mental and physical health. What requires tending to in your self-care routine? Getting more fresh air or exercise throughout the day? Drinking more water or sticking to a regular sleep schedule? Stretching, meditating, or even just committing to flossing every day are all good goals that will add to your mental and physical wellbeing.

8. “Unplug”

While social media keeps us connected, helps us learn, and supports our creativity, it also has damaging effects. Studies have shown that too much scrolling on our phones increases feelings of isolation, inadequacy, depression, and anxiety. This likely isn’t news to you. But how do you break the cycle? If you think that you may spend too much time on social media, resolve to limit your use in the new year. A few tips include disabling notifications, leaving your phone behind when you go to bed for the night, and even removing one or more social media apps from your phone altogether. You can also redirect your attentions from social media to your offline friends and interests.

9. Break a bad habit

Excessive social media use can be quite a bad habit. What other bad habits might you benefit from axing in the new year? Biting your nails? Eating too many sweets? What about gossiping or even cursing? Write your intention on a piece of paper or share it with a family member or friend who can support you in your quitting efforts. And feel free to reward yourself when you’ve made strides toward achieving your goal.

10. Kick procrastination to the curb

But what if your bad habit is putting things off? Kick procrastination to the curb this year by trying to identify the cause of your procrastination. Are you easily distracted? Do your best to eliminate distractions at the outset of tasks. Are you simply overwhelmed by the task at hand? Break it down into more manageable parts on a to-do list. And again, don’t forget to reward yourself—both as you cross steps off of your to-do list and when you finally complete an entire task.

11. Get organized

Can you never seem to find your favorite pen? Your comfiest sweater? Does it take you ten minutes just to locate that history report on your laptop because your home screen is loaded with so many files? Perhaps your New Year’s resolution could be to focus on your organizational skills. Work to declutter your desk, your closet, your computer, or any other area in your life that always seems to be in the most disarray. Clear your space, and you will also clear your mind.

12. Become a better citizen

Once you’ve decluttered your closet, why not donate your unwanted clothes to a local shelter or thrift store? This is just one way that you can resolve to be a better citizen, giving back to your community in the new year. Other ways to help make the world a better place include assisting with food drives, collecting blankets and other necessities for animal shelters, and becoming a reading buddy for young learners. There should be no shortage of volunteer opportunities in your area. And with a simple Google search, you can discover them all.

13. Reach out to old friends and/or family

Miss your best pal from seventh grade? Only talk to your favorite cousin on holidays? Give them a call or shoot them an email to initiate a closer relationship this year. Don’t be afraid to take the first step. It’s amazing how quickly and seamlessly true friends and/or family can pick up where they left off when they reconnect.

14. Make a new friend

Alternately, you can always add to your roster of exiting friends. No number of friends is too many—especially when the friends are quality. Is there someone you know as more of an acquaintance who seems like a potential pal? Ask to sit with them in class or at lunch. Invite them to an event. Though it may be awkward at first, you’ll find that most people appreciate being reached out to as a friend. After all, don’t you?

15. Be a better friend

Although it’s true that no number of friends is too many, it’s also true that—as the dictum holds—quality is more important than quantity when it comes to relationships. So, how can you be a better friend? Practicing being a better listener is a great place to start. These articles from The New York Times and Psychology Today provide great tips on how to be a better listener.

16. Practice gratitude

This can take many forms. For example, you can practice gratitude by more regularly writing “thank you” cards to loved ones. Or you can begin each day by naming out loud three things that make you happy. You could also keep a gratitude journal, board or jar (on/in which you regularly write down things for which you’re thankful). Practicing gratitude can help to make you feel more outwardly compassionate and more inwardly positive and satisfied. According to a Harvard medical study, it can even improve your physical health. So, try one or a few of these practices in the new year, and see how it makes you feel.

A few final thoughts and recommendations

Remember that your resolutions can be as small or as big as you like. Often, setting smaller, more manageable goals is best, since you can more readily and frequently see your progress along the way. But don’t be afraid to set “shoot for the moon” goals, as well. Indeed, the old adage is true that you can accomplish just about anything you set your mind to. But also remember the wise words of Ralph Waldo Emerson, who said that the greatest accomplishment is “To be yourself in a world that is constantly trying to make you into something else.” So, whatever your resolutions for 2021, just be sure that they are right for you.

Serious about keeping your New Year’s resolutions? Check out Day by Day, Habitify, or Habitica—just three of many apps that allow you to keep visual track of your goals and your progress in achieving them. Such apps can help you to stay better focused and motivated on resolutions, and each is unique—from the more analytics-driven Habitify to the RPG-style Habitica.

And if you would prefer an app that is more tailored to a specific resolution, check out this list from PCMag, which includes apps for working on better eating, exercising, budgeting, and more.

Stacy G. is a writer and teacher who has taught composition, literature, and creative writing courses at a number of public and private universities across the U.S. She has also taught SAT, AP English, and Literature SAT Subject Test courses at Elite Prep. She likes poetry, dogs, and poetry about dogs.

#high school #studyblr #student life #study tips #New Year's Resolutions #goals #college prep

2 notes · View notes

marahoping · 5 years

Text

wlw: happily shipping a healthy f/f couple

ppl on tumblr dot com: uhhh aren’t they seventh cousins twice removed?

#still haven’t seen frozen 2 but elsamaren is what this is about

32 notes · View notes

ask-ethari-anything · 5 years

Note

Atleast your culture doesn't normalize cousin marriage, I would be lying if I said that I don't know anyone who is married to their cousin

Moonshadows value family and community very highly, so perhaps we count cousins further out than you do? My parents are seventh cousins twice removed, descended from two sisters who lived during the Judgment Under the Half-Moon.

We’re very proud.

#ask ethari #moonshadow elves #just genealogy things

10 notes · View notes

starksinthenorth · 5 years

Text

More ASOIAF genealogy no one asked for

Dany and Harry are 12th cousins once removed OR 11th cousins twice removed.

Methodology:

Roderick Arryn has two sons. One of them was presumably the father of Jeyne Arryn, aka Jeyne the Maid, and her brothers. The other was the father of Arnold Arryn and grandfather to Eldric Arryn.

Rodrick is also father of Aemma Arryn, grandfather of Rhaenyra, and great-grandfather of Aegon III and Viserys.

Rhaenyra and Jeyne are both fifth cousins to Joffrey Arryn, presumably through a sibling of Lord Hubert Arryn. Joffrey inherits after Jeyne.

Joffrey’s connections to the next named Lord of the Vale, Donnel, are unknown exactly. We can presume, since Donnel was lord during Daeron II’s reign, that Donnel is either the grandson or greatgrandson of Joffrey.

This makes him either the seventh cousin of Aegon IV or the eighth cousin of Daeron II.

Donnel is presumably the father of Alys Arryn, who married Rhaegel, and Jasper. This makes them either the eighth cousin of Daeron or the ninth cousin of Maekar.

Jasper is father to Jon, Alys, and Ronnel. They would be either 9th cousins of Maekar or 10th cousins of Aegon.

Their children, Robert and unnamed Daughter, are either 10th cousins of Aegon the Unlikely or 11th of Jaehaerys.

And Daughter’s son, Harry, is either a 11th cousin of Jaehaerys or a 12th cousin of Aerys II.

Aerys would be either his 12th cousin or his 11th cousin, once removed.

This makes Aerys’ children, including Dany, Harry’s 12th cousin once removed OR 11th cousin twice removed.

HOWEVER, because of Targaryen inbreeding, Dany might actually have more blood of Lord Hubert’s father. She possess .21% of his blood, while Harry has 0.025. This makes her biologically the 7th cousin of Donnel Arryn.

(This, of course, presumes that no maid of Arryn moved into House Hardyng or House Waynwood within the last three hundred years, and no Arryn married a cousin . . . but with what data we have, this is the most complete analysis I can make).

#asoiaf meta #asoiafmeta #daenerys targaryen #harry hardyng #i just really like genetics okay

4 notes · View notes

vicehectic · 5 years

Text

Want Emancipation Ch (2/?)

REWRITE OF “THE CURSE OF THE SKY”

In one world Tsunayoshi grows up under a neglectful family and hardships and makes relations with people associated with death by force.

In another, Tsunayoshi grows up under a loving and caring father and uncle and welcomes those touched by death with open arms.

Or; Byakuran Gesso adopts Tsunayoshi at a young age and that changes everything.

Parts 1 / 2 / ?

Also on AO3 and Fanfic

-------------------------------

He’s been in a world without Tsunayoshi’s influence. It feels empty.

-------------------------------

Okay, maybe he wasn’t telling himself the exact truth. And that was a hard pill to swallow in it of itself. He hates to lose to anyone – even if it is himself.

Tsunayoshi is the name people whisper across most worlds.

(Sometimes it’s Ieyoshi, others it’s Tsunahime but it’s still Tsunayoshi – after all what’s in a name? Sometimes it’s not Tsunayoshi at all; whether it’s someone under the guise of Tsunayoshi or it’s someone completely different. Those worlds don’t last long. If they do there’s chaos rampart and no peace in sight.)

To the people that know about the worlds, Tsunayoshi is praised like a god. In some worlds he’s the end, the beginning, or a stepping stone in-between. Tsunayoshi is never all those things. Sometimes he’s two of those things and in the worlds that he’s both the beginning and the end; nothing really makes sense.

Tsunayoshi is the catalyst. Tsunayoshi is the tool. Tsunayoshi is the sacrifice.

In those worlds Tsunayoshi never truly feels happy.

In those worlds his significant other dies. Kyoko, Haru, Hayato, Takeshi, Dino, Kyoya, Bianchi, Ryohei, Hana, Renato, Fon, Cherep, Colonello, Nagi, Mukuro, Spanner, Shoichi, Azucar, Belphegor- The world burns because of it.

In those worlds his mother is dead. Nana targeted because of her connections to the mafia – it doesn’t matter if it’s before everything happens or after.

In those worlds, sometimes, it’s good his mother is dead, but his father dies along with her. Iemitsu’s heart is big like that in those worlds and the world burns because of it.

In those worlds his guardians die. In those worlds his guardians crack. The world burns because of it.

In those worlds Tsunayoshi doesn’t get a chance to get involved. Tsunayoshi either lives a short life or a long life of misery. The world burns because of it.

He’s seen all those worlds and maybe there’s something wrong with him, dare he say one of the defective ones, but he wants Tsunayoshi to get a break among all the worlds he’s in. He wants Tsunayoshi to feel satisfied. And that’s a goal that he will have to fight tooth and nail for.

There’s a reason why he let everything in this world work out the way it did. Other versions of himself will mock him for his laziness but they don’t see what he sees. Tsunayoshi is not a tool for them to control. Tsunayoshi is everything and it’s ridiculous how none of them have realized this before.

He’s been in a world without Tsunayoshi’s influence.

It feels empty.

-------------------------------

The blanket is slung over his lap and his hands are cradling the mug full of his uncle’s famous hot chocolate as he waits.

The soothing chatter of a mischievous voice and an exasperated voice reaches him, and it somehow makes the dozens of thoughts circling in his head come to a stop. Tsunayoshi Gesso just sits there and breathes.

It’s winter break halfway through his first year of middle school but that hasn’t changed their tradition to visit Italy every year with his uncle. Honestly, after the drama his class has been through in just the first semester, Tsuna is glad to get a break.

“How are you holding up Yoshi?” There’s a hand in his fluffy hair and he immediately leans into the touch, his eyes closing unconsciously as a smile comes to his lips. “Are you finally relaxing a little?”

Tsuna laughs, “I would, but we left dad in the kitchen alone and we both know that’s not a good idea.”

His uncle’s hand leaves his hair as he laughs with him, “Don’t worry about that, I used all the marshmallows for the hot chocolate. I’m not letting Byakuran have the chance this year.”

“Geez Sho-chan!” his dad whines as he pokes his head out into the living room, “You could have told me that! I’ve been looking for marshmallows for the past hour and a half!”

Tsuna grabs his uncle’s arm dramatically, “You don’t think he’s going to go insane because of marshmallow withdrawal, do you?”

Shoichi Irie, Tsuna’s favorite uncle, plays along, “Oh god,” he jokingly grabs his stomach, “I’m getting a stomach ache just thinking about it.”

Byakuran Gesso jumps out into the living room with a dark expression, “My best friend and my favorite son ganging up on me? I won’t accept this!”

Tsuna shrieks, but would forever deny it, when Byakuran tackles Tsuna into the couch and drags uncle Shoichi down with him, “You’re heavy dad!”

“Are you calling me fat?! What happened to my cute little son who followed me around like a little duckling calling me papa?!”

“That never happened, and you know it!”

“I can’t breathe! I can’t breathee…..”

-------------------------------

Yes. A world without Tsunayoshi is empty.

-------------------------------

In most worlds Timoteo is barely a factor.

Timoteo Vongola is at his wits end. In his seventh and eighth decade he’s lost his three eldest sons and Timoteo is only getting older. His wonderful wife passed in his sixth decade and he wasn’t exactly as capable as he used to be – nor did he want to impregnate someone in his old age. Worst come to worst, Timoteo would tell the council to shove off and make Iemitsu Vongola Decimo – no matter what tradition said.

But Timoteo still has Xanxus. His beloved youngest son that was lost on the streets after one of Tolomeo’s many nights spent with common whores in the alleys of Naples. There was a reason why their mother chose Timoteo as Vongola Nono and not Tolomeo. In many ways Tolomeo bore much resemblance to the cousin twice removed of their great grandfather, Vongola Secondo, Ricardo, and that was passed onto Xanxus. Timoteo sees it in the slightest bit of wrath that Xanxus has in his flames but like Timoteo’s said.

He’s at his wits end.

Such a shame that Iemitsu’s child had died twenty-seven weeks in and his wife could no longer bear a child.

-------------------------------

In a small fraction of worlds, he’s the catalyst of destruction.

-------------------------------

Enrico is dead by an assassin, a bullet straight through his head so they have to cover his face at the funeral. His fiancé still cries over his cold body. The day of his funeral the Vongola all stand together in the Vongola graveyard with the Varia keeping guard despite being an assassination squad. Enrico wasn’t the favored heir to take on the mantle of Vongola Decimo, but he was reliable. He always said that Massimo was the one with the charisma of a leader. Enrico always rather preferred to be Massimo’s advisor and lead from the shadows. Massimo’s back is straight like his spine is iron and his is chest open in open defiance at the funeral – he doesn’t cry but the hands holding his younger brothers’ hands tremble.

Massimo is found dead in the fountain Chiavarone Ottavo gifted to Vongola Ottava as a poorly disguised courting gift. The fountain that is the center of the Vongola Mansion’s courtyard. Massimo is found dead in his pajamas without any signs of a struggle. The autopsy later shows that Massimo had somehow been heavily drugged and if he hadn’t died from the water in his lungs – he would have died from an overdose. His youngest brother is the one to find the body; poor Xanxus is found dragging his brother’s dead body out of the fountain and begging him to wake up. The event sends all of the Vongola into a frenzy to find the culprit and rats are killed on the spot. They still hold a funeral with lilies because its well known that Massimo had a preference to them. Federico looks so small as he holds his remaining brother so close. For the one to have screamed louder than Xanxus was Federico who crumbled at the seams at the sight of his pale brother’s corpse.

Federico is found dead with holes in him. After the death of Massimo, Federico was placed on intense watch. It takes years for Federico to even resemble the person he used to be. The last person in his family to have talked to him, after his father sent him out on a peaceful assignment to celebrate his return to the field, is Xanxus. He never returns. The party that went with him yell about a raid despite being unharmed and without any missing members besides Federico. He was the only one who died. According to his party he had welcomed death with open arms – he let himself get killed. Xanxus stands next to his father with twin guns engraved with “mi dispiace fratello”. The famiglia responsible for Federico’s death never sees the light of day because of him.

In some worlds Xanxus grows up loved by his older brothers and leads the Varia with intelligence of a leader from Enrico, with charisma he’s learned from Massimo, and with compassion from Federico. He recovers from the trauma the streets give and the way his mother had just abandoned him for a large sum of money. Xanxus learns how to be happy and be content in life.

In those worlds his flames don’t burn with wrath. His elements are attracted to how warm his sky flames are.

That isn’t this world.

-------------------------------

“Xanxus.”

Xanxus doesn’t have to turn to know that it’s Superbia Squalo who’s calling out to him.

“What do you want?” he grunts as he cradles the beer Federico used to love before he lost himself in his left hand.

Squalo doesn’t move to sit by Xanxus’ side and frankly, Xanxus doesn’t expect him too. Squalo just continues to stand behind him, a half step to the right so if he were to walk forward they would knock shoulders. Xanxus expects Squalo to stand exactly where he’s always stood.

Squalo doesn’t hesitate as he speaks. “Boss.”

Xanxus whirls around and the beer bottle almost cracks in his grip. “I’m not your boss anymore!” he practically screeches, “You’re the new head of the Varia dipshit!”

Squalo doesn’t even blink, “I pledged to follow you through thick and thin, boss. You may be a piece of shit at the end of the day but you’re the man I chose to follow. This… change in plans doesn’t change anything.”

Xanxus’ blood boils, “Are you fucking blind? You know that this is exactly what that bastard wants. The second he announces that I am to be his heir I’m fucking trapped. Everything we’ve done up to this point has been fucking useless.”

“So, you’re just going to give up?” Squalo shouts back, losing his calm composure – always being quick to anger. “Like hell you are!” he yells because he knows Xanxus just as well as he knows himself, “We aren’t going to be playing into his hands.”

Xanxus quells the anger in his chest to stop and narrow his eyes at the white-haired teen, “What do you know?”

Squalo grins wickedly, “If Timoteo is going to announce you as Decimo it’s going to be when you’re at least twenty – officially at least. We have time until then to figure everything out.”

“Figure what out?”

“We’re going to find another potential heir to the Vongola.”

The beer falls out of his hand, “If I wasn’t the only illegitimate child of Tolomeo then…”

Squalo turns on his heel, “Come on, shitty boss, we’ve got work to do.”

-------------------------------

But this also isn’t the world that Xanxus goes on a revenge trip.

-------------------------------

In most worlds Iemitsu leaves his family for his famiglia. In those worlds he usually loves the child he births with his significant other with all his heart.

In most worlds Nana is Iemitsu’s wife, but she’s easily replaced in others. In those worlds she’s usually an airheaded woman not capable of being a mother.

In worst case scenarios Nana shouldn’t be let out of an insane asylum.

-------------------------------

It starts with the Byakuran in one world and even in the worlds that don’t have Byakuran as the wielder of Mare Rings, Byakuran becomes the wielder of the Mare Rings. Each Byakuran reacts differently from the onslaught of memories and insights of other worlds. In some worlds Byakuran thirsts for power and grandeur. In most worlds Byakuran simply wants to live an easy-going life.

The Byakuran of this world doesn’t turn a blind eye nor does he try to grasp everything that has potential as his. The Byakuran of this world has a bleeding heart and he sobs over the chest of his best friend and he’s inconsolable even for the practical they have the next day in their final year of University.

Byakuran Gesso scours the world looking for the one that calls himself Tsunayoshi and he never looks back.

-------------------------------

“Are you sure that you want to go back to Namimori?” Tsuna barely hears his dad’s question as he walks between several spots in the kitchen trying to get everything ready for school as the minutes tick by. “I know the faculty said they were going to have a mental health assembly, but they just seemed like they wanted to brush everything under the rug as fast as possible.”

Tsuna laughs dryly, “The perks of public school,” he replied sarcastically as he opens the fridge looking for the water bottle he swore he put in last night.

“Exactly!” Byakuran cries as he stands on the other side of the fridge door, “You could have gone to Midori Private. It’s not like it’s only for girls anymore.”

Tsuna shifts his gaze away from his dad as he closes the fridge shut, letting his eyes settle on his Uncle Shoichi who just let out a huge yawn at the kitchen table, “Jii-san you didn’t have to wake up just to see me off.”

Shoichi immediately jolts and wipes the drool that leaked from the corner of his mouth. “Of course I do! It’s not everyday you head back to school,” he finally says after gathering his composure.

“I mean, it’s not like it’s my first day, I’m just heading back after winter break.” Tsuna shoves the black bottle into the bag that’s sitting in the seat across from Shoichi, “You were up late last night, right?”

Shoichi looks sheepish as he rubs at the back of his head, “Haha, just a little later than usual.”

“Yoshi,” Byakuran calls out gently and Tsuna turns because he’s weak to moments like this. And Tsuna’s supposed to be the one with the puppy-dog eyes. “Promise me if you feel uncomfortable at school that you’ll tell me.” Warm hands rub his shoulders, “I just want what’s best for you.”

“Yeah,” Tsuna says, “No problem.” Even to him his words sound hollow.

Byakuran’s eyes bore into him but his dad doesn’t push it and just embraces Tsuna in a hug, “What am I going to do when you grow up and leave me, kiddo?”

Tsuna cracks a smile at that, “Like I’m going to disappear from your life just because I’ve grown up dad.” He breathes in the relaxing scent of marshmallows and orchids, “We’re family and family sticks together.”

His dad pulls back and kisses the top of Tsuna’s fluffy head, “Get going kiddo or you’re going to be late.”

Tsuna grabs his bag off the chair and gives a sarcastic salute, “Yessur.”

“Have a good day Yoshi!” his uncle calls after him as he steps out of the house.

Tsuna very much doubts that it’s not going to be much different from most days at Namimori Middle.

-------------------------------

Tsuna doesn’t want to tell his dad that the assembly goes just like how he expected it to. The whole thing feels bland and useless as students are invested in their own little conversations and the teachers look bored. For Christ’s sake the mental health counselor is sleeping!

For a second, he regrets not taking his father’s offer to attend Midori Private School, regardless of the low percentage of male students due to only having allowed male attendance the year before, but Tsuna knows that if he wants to live as he does at school then Namimori Middle is the perfect place for him.

Even if he knows how toxic the environment at Namimori is when he takes one cursory glance at the first years around him and doesn’t see the student that had tried to commit suicide at the end of last semester.

-------------------------------

NOTE: I'm so sorry for the late update but I got swamped with the weeks leading up to finals and then finals at the end of June. As soon as my finals ended I went on a trip and I've just been recovering from that. I've also been writing scenes for this story and "Vongola Vigilantes" at the same time but the scenes also don't make sense chronologically so I have a lot of mess I need to piece together later for each story. Hopefully I will update quicker next time. Thank you for the love and support I've gotten already! I really appreciate it!

#katekyo hitman reborn #fanfiction #katekyo hitman reborn fanfiction #the curse of the sky rewrite #byakuran as Tsuna's dad #sawada tsunayoshi #Byakuran Gesso #byakuran #gesso tsunayoshi #tsunayoshi gesso #hitman reborn #khr #Want Emancipation

5 notes · View notes

countvonreutern · 4 years

Photo

Wishing the Earl of Snowdon a very happy 59th birthday today!

Born David Albert Charles Armstrong-Jones on 3 November 1961 at Clarence House, he is the son of Antony Armstrong-Jones, 1st Earl of Snowdon and Princess Margaret, The Countess of Snowdon.

2nd Earl of Snowdon is the nephew of Queen Elizabeth II and His Serene Highness’s seventh cousin twice removed.

The Count of Münnich and Reutern pictured together with his cousin, Lord Snowdon and Kate Hobhouse.

Photo: The Count of Reutern

2 notes · View notes

meadweos · 5 years

Text

Hello! I’m Ellie, this is Dorcas and I hope you enjoy this trainwreck of a soft as all hell introduction to my babe. I’m super excited to be writing here okay byeeeeeeeee.

is that LILY JAMES wearing that HUFFLEPUFF scarf ? no, it appears to be DORCAS MEADOWES who happens to be a SEVENTH year and a MUGGLEBORN !! SHE is CISFEMALE, and i heard they’re COMPASSIONATE and BENEVOLENT but might also seem NAIVE and DAMAGED. they appear to be leaning towards the side of the ORDER, but this is a conversation we should be having somewhere else. ( ellie / nineteen / gmt / she/her )

TRIGGER WARNINGS : death, injury, hospital mention, dogs.

PART ONE. BASICS / MAGICAL FULL NAME & MEANINGS : Dorcas ( GAZELLE ) Andromache ( MAN / BATTLE ) Meadowes ( LIVED IN OR NEAR A MEADOW. ) DATE OF BIRTH : November 16th. AGE : 17. ZODIAC SIGN : Scorpio. HEIGHT : 5 ft 7 in. EYE COLOR : Dark brown. LEFT OR RIGHT HANDED : Ambidextrous. FAVORITE COLOR : Light blue / black. SCHOOL : Hogwarts. BLOOD STATUS : Muggleborn. WHAT ARE THEIR PARENTS JOBS? : Her mother was a stay-at-home tutor, and her father was a doctor. ( Her aunt is a therapist. Her uncle is a lawyer. ) DO THEY HAVE ANY MAGICAL BLOOD? : Not in her immediate family. Her fifth, twice removed, much, much older cousin is a wizard (of Emeric Switch fame! Imagine that!) HOW DID THEIR MAGIC FIRST MANIFEST ITSELF? : She wanted to talk to the dogs at the local pet store, and accidentally ‘phased’ through the door. She was found half an hour later just stroking a pitbull puppy which had latched itself onto her. YEAR : Seventh year. HOUSE : Hufflepuff. PATRONUS : Panda. ( THE PANDA IS A RESOURCEFUL ANIMAL, AND THOSE WITH IT AS A PATRONUS ARE THE SAME. THEY ARE GOOD AT USING WHATEVER IS AROUND THEM, AND INCREDIBLY CREATIVE AND BRIGHT. THEY ARE FRIENDLY AND WARM, AND MANY MAY GO TO THEM FOR ADVICE OR HELP, WHICH THE PANDA WILL WILLINGLY GIVE. THEY ARE A BIT OF A HEALER BY NATURE, ENJOYING COMPANY AROUND THEM AND USING IT TO ENHANCE THEMSELVES. THEY LOVE TO EXPLORE MANY AREAS OF KNOWLEDGE AND THE WORLD, TRYING TO BROADEN THEIR HORIZONS AND KEEP THEIR MINDS OPEN. ) BOGGART : Her father, sat in the same armchair he’d always loved. His head turned towards her as he tells her it was all her fault, and the room shrinks. UPDATED: Earlier, and for very good reason, I wrote a drabble centered around what her Boggart would be for a different roleplay. It’s different than what it is now, but I’m nevertheless extremely proud of it. You can read it here. AMORTENTIA : What is it about true love, dearest? What makes everyone go wild? Is it the prospect that someone, someone whole, and unflinching, is out there - waiting for you? Waiting for your embrace, your touch? Or is it just that they are tired - tired of making homes in people and receiving nothing back? You, though. You make homes in all manner of things. And, anyway, who decided homes can’t be humans? Who decided home is a stationary concept? That your heart can’t be held in the hands of many people, that it cannot be crushed and sewn back together in a matter of minutes? Who decided that love, that great big messy concept, has to be romantic? You are as messy in love as you are in life - that is to say, you build pieces of yourself from the people around you, from the pieces of themselves they give you. The skin beneath your ear? Composed of the whispers of secrets from your first boyfriend. Your nose? Your mother’s love. The inside of your wrist? The balm of Emmeline’s arms around your body, shielding you the only way she can. No. It isn’t so impossible that love is greater than the romance. That love is so many more things. The Greeks of old always said there were many kinds of love. Eros. Agape. Philia. Storge. Ludos. Pragma. Philautia. It is these things that you, alone, recite in that dungeon. The cold seems to envelop you as you take in a breath, the tendrils of your senses magnifying. It can be overwhelming, you know, but you are not as surprised as you expect to be. Warmth, sinking between your fingertips, laps at your cheek, at your lips as you breathe out. It sticks to you, to your tongue. Like caramel and peanut butter, the batter of the cookies your aunt always makes, the s’mores that you made around the campfire just last week. Her hair, or is it her perfume (?) wafting in your direction - regardless, you stay rooted to your place. Daisies, growing wild, the way they had at home, in your back garden. The smell of old brick and something crumbling - that weird Dragonleather smell that stays in the air whenever Hagrid passes, the smell of bursting fireworks (that time that the Marauders hadn’t realized there was anyone still down the corridor) and butterbeer, warming. Your dogs breath, laughter bubbling up as you remark on the smell of toothpaste, on peppermint and mossy treebark. You’re not surprised to smell all the things that make this place home - you’re not surprised to smell that it’s not made up of just one person - just one thing, fixable - but many. Moving parts that flare up and slide away into the background of your senses. WAND : Phoenix tail feather core. 9 inches. Black Walnut. PETS : Owl, named Athena. Also owns a pitbull, the light of her life, Agape ( LOVE AND AFFECTION ) or Aggie, for short. CHARACTER INSPIRATION : Cinderella, Sonya Rostova, Izzie Stevens, Craig Middlebrooks, Ann Perkins, Ella Lopez, Jess Day, Riley Matthews, Penelope Garcia, Kara Danvers, Capheus Onyango, and Jane Villanueva. ( CHARACTER TAG HERE. )

PART TWO. ARE YOU GOOD AT… DANCING? : I certainly try. SINGING? : Yes! COOKING? : Somewhat. DUELING? : Never been better. STUDYING? : If my grades are anything to go by, yes. MAGIC? : Uh, I’d hope so.

PART THREE. HAVE YOU EVER… DRIVEN A CAR? : Yes. Not well, though. FALLEN IN LOVE? : … Yes. HAD SEX? : Yes. LAUGHED SO HARD YOU CRIED? : I don’t know anyone who enjoys their life who hasn’t. SMOKED? : ... No. DONE DRUGS? : Nope. BROKEN THE LAW? : Accidentally. KILLED SOMEONE? : No.

PART FOUR. LITTLE SECRETS BIGGEST FEAR : Losing everyone. And everything. SOMEONE YOU ADMIRE : Emme, McGonagall. SOMEONE YOU FEAR : I don’t really know. Dumbledore, when he’s mad. Whatever that ponce of a miserable Muggle hater is called. SOMEONE YOU MISS : Grandpa. Terry. My brother. Mum. Dad. SOMEONE YOU COULDN’T LIVE WITHOUT : Emme. Myself, too. SOMEONE YOU COULD KILL : Anyone who hates muggles. DO YOU WANT KIDS? : Maybe someday. DO YOU WANT TO GET MARRIED? : To the right person? Yeah. BIGGEST REGRET : Not sleeping in the same room as my brother that night. ( I could have saved him. I should have saved him. ) CAN YOU SEE THESTRALS? : Yes.

PART FIVE. FINISH THIS SENTENCE I AM… : Sleepy. Wishing Emmeline was here. I WISH… : Ice-cream could become a person. MAYBE ONE DAY… : I won’t feel this guilt anymore. SOMETIMES I… : Fall in love in the morning, and out of it by lunch. MY FAVOURITE SUBJECTS ARE… : Herbology. MY LEAST FAVOURITE SUBJECTS ARE… : History of Magic, Divination. IF I COULD DO IT AGAIN, I WOULD… : Save my brother. IF I COULD GO TO A DIFFERENT SCHOOL, I WOULD CHOOSE… : Beauxbatons, not Ilvermorny. IF I COULD CHOOSE A DEATHLY HALLOW, I WOULD CHOOSE… : The Stone. ( Say it like it isn’t a mantra, Dorcas. As though it isn’t something that’s poisoned your dreams since discovering those stories may be based in reality. )

PART SIX. MISCELLANEOUS

DESCRIBE THEIR AESTHETIC IN THREE WORDS : Sea, daisies, laughter. THEME SONG : Lavender’s Blue ( CINDERELLA SOUNDTRACK - 2015. ) / Sonya Alone ( BRITTAIN ASHFORD - NATASHA, PIERRE & THE GREAT COMET OF 1812 - ORIGINAL BROADWAY CAST RECORDING. ) / Times are Hard for Dreamers (Pop Version) ( PIPPA SOO - AMELIE - ORIGINAL BROADWAY CAST RECORDING. ) TOP FIVE SONGS IN THEIR ( MODERN ) PLAYLIST : You Are Enough - Sleeping at Last, Yellow - Coldplay, When I Kissed the Teacher - ABBA, Breathe - In The Heights, & Paradise - George Ezra. VINE THAT FITS THEM : ( x ) RANDOM HEADCANONS : 1. Dorcas loves deeply. Deeply, deeply, deeply. It’s intrinsic to who she is. She’s protective, maddeningly so, and unable to sit still. She wears her heart on her sleeve, and is a nightmare when it comes to pacing herself. She knows not of patience, or of taking time to breathe. She consists solely of love - a palace built between her ribs of the people that she loves. In this, she is a typical Taurus Hufflepuff. ( x ) 2. Dorcas lost her parents at a very young age. She doesn’t often speak of it - speak about them, about the parents that she lost and the brother that she was unable to save. They were killed in a home burglary turned murder spree when she was six. They’d been meant to go on holiday, but Dorcas had come down with the stomach flu, so they’d foregone the vacation when it spread to Dorcas’s younger sister, Calliope. The only reason that Dorcas survived was that she managed to climb beneath her bed with her younger sister Calliope facing the wall, only her back visible from the opening created by the duvet. She gets stabbed three times, one of those stab wounds narrowly avoiding piercing her spleen and the major abdominal arteries. She still has the scars on her lower back. Callie was uninjured, and she was the one who managed to get to the neighbors house (by climbing out of the window from the second floor and dropping at least eleven feet). Dorcas remembers, mostly, finding out her parents and brother were murdered. The rest of it often feels incredibly foggy. She went through therapy for a number of years before she was discharged from the North West Surrey Mental Health Trust. The nightmares, today, are infrequent, but some nights are worse than others. She often takes a calming draught before she goes to sleep - provided by Madame Pomfrey at the Hospital Wing. 3. Dorcas’s best friend in the universe is Emmeline Vance. They aren’t in the same house, but that doesn’t matter. They met at eleven, on the train to Hogwarts. Dorcas, with brown hair down to her hip, and Emmeline’s hair newly cut into a bob ( her parents had gone wild at her for that one, ) and that was it. The rest, as they say, is History. If you can’t find Dorcas, she’s usually with Emmeline. 60% of her spare time is spent wherever Emmeline is. They’re one another’s great loves. She doesn’t know what she’d be without Emme. 4. Dorcas wants to be a Herbologist or a Healer when she graduates. She’s not sure how likely that plan is to succeed with everything going on - how far she’ll get before she abandons it all to help the people that she wants to help, desperately. As it stands, 40% of her spare time is spent either in the Potions classroom or the Herbology classroom - Potions is a required course for becoming a Healer. 5. If this were a modern AU, Dorcas’d totally be a theater kid. She’d also be that kid that is always making scrapbooks - always half finishing projects, the one that has too many cacti and exotic plants in the corner of her room. She’d keep her phone on her, always, lockscreen always changing. She’d love bands like Little Mix and butcher the Spanish when she tried to sing songs like Despacito. 6. FUTURE: Dorcas manages to live through the Wizarding War ( well, mostly ) without casting the Killing Curse. She’s fast, she’s quick, and she doesn’t stand still. She’s often the one coming careening past the others, ducking beneath their outstretched arms as light - green, red, blue, yellow - is cast against the ground. She Apparates in and out, as though her being there is a mirage. People, injured, bystanders, disappear from where they’d been only seconds before, as soon as her hand secures around anywhere she can grip on. She works with trembling hands, to heal those that she can. Four separate times she manages to Apparate away from under Voldemort’s nose. The first time is with her arm hooked under Fabian Prewett, his unconscious body bruised and the cut on his arm infected with what she suspects is a modified strain of the venom of the Venomous Tentacula. The second time is with a handful of wands - all belonging to fellow Order members. The third time is with Dedalus Diggle. He’s a handful, that time, splaying limbs, cracking as they twist around. They have a spell maker in their midst but Dorcas is the only one that can sooth the pain, to make it all more bearable while they try and fix it. The fourth time is with Emmeline. Emme’s far too headstrong for her own good, and knows how rare it is that Voldemort himself makes an appearance. Dorcas is the one that breaks Bellatrix’s focus - the Cruciatus curse trained on her best friend, on her Emmeline, flickers when Dorcas passes, a blur of black leather and hair tied up in a bun, bangs hanging low and the light long since dimmed in her eyes. When Emmeline comes to, the pain still ricochets through her bones, and Dorcas is powerless to help. It takes days for the aftershocks to fade. The faintest roar of rage is still heard in Dorcas’s brain. She’s just too slow, in the end, to save herself, although she doesn’t try. She’s not ready, but she is. She’s not happy, but she is. She knew there was only one way this could end. The one incapable of love striking down the one composed entirely of it is the only end that makes sense in a world at war - in a world in which war stories are not one of morals. War stories are made of absolute and uncompromising allegiance to obscenity and evil. It just takes her years to realize. Years to reconcile. Being soft does not make her immune to this. Being alive doesn’t. She is happy, but it is not a happy ending. No - it’s a very sad beginning.

#sac:intro #wc will be up somewhere soon #skdfnskjdf

5 notes · View notes