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not-close-to-straight · 4 years

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You Give Love a Bad Name (Three)

MASTERLIST

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Chapter Three: Somewhere Between “Oh Shit I’m Gonna Die” and “Ho Ho Holy Crap I’ve Never Been So Horny”

“Hon?” It was late by the time Bucky made it back to the house, his head spinning from the shock of it all, the information overload that began with Natasha and ended somewhere fuckin’ crazy. His fingers were shaking on his gun but he held it anyway, his nerves were shot but he walked through the door anyway, his heart breaking but he forced it away so he could be cold and calculated and everything the Winter Soldier always was.

“You’ve got twenty four hours to make that woman disappear or the company will step in and do it for you.”

“That’s my wife, Rumlow.”

“Does it matter?”

“...No.”

“Hey Tasha, did you make it home yet?” He called faux cheerfully, easing the safety off on his gun. “Sorry I missed dinner, but I can’t wait for left overs! Your cooking is always mm-mm-good!”

A quiet laugh from somewhere in the house, up the stairs and echoing in the hall and Bucky closed his eyes for a split second because Christ he loved Natasha’s laugh, but right now it was just a precursor to what promised to be a painful death at the hands of the Black Widow.

“Oh hello darling.” Natasha called and in the quick silence that followed came the unmistakable sound of a shot gun being loaded. “I skipped making dinner tonight, thought we could order take out!”

“Take out.” Bucky darted across the open hall and took cover again behind the huge china hutch. “Is that some sort of assassin joke?”

“I don’t know, is you demanding to keep the house at some frosty sixty five degrees some sort of Winter Soldier joke?”

“Natasha--”

“You lied to me!”

BOOM a hole the size of Bucky’s head tore apart the wall in front of him, and he yelped, ducked and rolled out of the way.

“I lied to you?” He shouted in disbelief. “Tasha, they literally call you the Black Widow! How long was it going to be until you killed me anyway? Strung me up in some web of last seasons jewel tone scarves and ate me for dinner?!”

“I’ll have you know I never once killed a husband, and honestly I’m offended you think so.” Natasha loaded another shell and blew out a deep breath, counted to ten so she wouldn’t burst into tears. “My worst crime against you is being hot enough to make your brain short circuit so you missed every sign of me not being a housewife!”

“Yeah, and my worst crime--” Pop pop pop Bucky lay down cover fire as he advanced through the house and tried to get closer to the stairs. “--was apparently being hot enough to attract your attention! What exactly did I do to deserve you stringing me along for three years?”

“Stringing you along?” Natasha cursed when a bullet whizzed by her head, then vaulted over the railing and down into the living, tucking and rolling to lessen the impact. “And how exactly was I doing that? By having dinner ready every night? By buying you new toothbrushes?”

“Newsflash sweetheart.” A quick flash as Bucky ducked into another room. “Your cooking is fuckin’ terrible. Pot roast on Tuesday was so tough I needed a damn chain saw to get through it.”

“Newsflash, sweetheart.” Natasha swallowed back the devastation clawing up her throat and snarled, “I’ve never cooked a day in my life! I order in catering and my world famous pies come from a bakery in Jersey!”

“Oh, so she shoots and she lies.” Bucky picked up one of those infernally shiny decorative trays Natasha had always insisted on and in a rare moment of gratefulness for his wife's horrible taste in decor, used it to peek around the corner to see where Tasha was posted up. “What else don’t I know about you? Are you really a 34 B cup?”

“My love.” Natasha caught sight of the glimmer at the corner and leaned further out of sight. “If you’d spent more time getting to know the girls instead of rabbit humping away at the final destination, you’d be fully aware I am a perky two sizes bigger than a B-cup.”

“Damn it.” Bucky rubbed his hand over his face because damn it he was not going to laugh right now. Not when he was trapped in his house with the Black Widow and fighting for his life. He was not going to laugh, even though the sarcasm from Natasha made him think of that one night in the hotel and how she’d been so funny and so damn sexy all at once. He was not going to laugh even though this was the first time in almost three years Natasha sounded like the woman he’d fallen in love with.

“You still alive, baby?” Natasha called, mocking and teasing and so damn sad and that was enough to pull Bucky from his more morose thoughts. “Let’s finish this already, I have drinks and pedi’s with Maria in the morning.”

“Call her and tell her you won’t make it.” Bucky breathed in once, twice, then yanked his other gun from his back holster. “Come out of hiding, Widow. vykhodi i poigray so mnoy. Come out and play.”

*************

The battle destroyed the house.

Bullet holes in the walls and through the expensive flooring they’d put in just last summer. The china hutch knocked over and thousands of dollars of dishes shattered. Drywall punctured and a television sized hole contorting a door frame when Bucky hadn’t bothered to check his strength and launched the sixty inch thing towards the hail of bullets from Natasha.

Wires frayed from speakers that had been torn down and used as projectiles. Curtains in tatters after Natasha had launched into one of them and used it as a rope to kick Bucky square in the face. Knives from the kitchen everywhere, the wall of the den missing after Bucky had chucked a grenade, blood smeared on the wall when Natasha cut her hands on glass and lost her balance.

A shotgun snapped in half because Natasha winged it at Bucky and he simply broke it before tossing it away. A dagger in the hall where it landed after carving a line across Bucky’s cheek bone. Thousands of spent ammo cases that glowed copper in what was left of the lights. The door to a hidden safe ripped away because Natasha was far stronger than even the most in depth intel had suggested, the weapons inside turned on the advancing Winter Soldier who had stuttered mid step because he hadn’t known Natasha could do that.

The house was destroyed and when the guns clicked empty and the knives were out of reach, the fight turned physical, master assassins trading punches and kicks, dodges and jabs, retreating and advancing and staring into the face of the enemy with the same steely resolve they’d faced down countless other opponents.

Except Bucky pulled his punches when Natasha didn’t, held back from sure blows when Natasha climbed his body like a tree and threw him to the ground with her thighs clamped around his neck. She was shockingly strong but Bucky was stronger and only when the redhead pulled another knife from somewhere and held it to his throat did Bucky let his strength surge again and grab her wrists in a single bruising grip to force her still.

“Let me go.” Natasha kneed him in the side and Bucky wheezed, but didn’t break his grip even as Natasha rolled them over and got those deadly legs around his neck again, effectively burying Bucky’s face at the vee of her hips and missing the hilarity entirely.

Bucky didn’t miss it though. “Ooh, it’s been a long time since you let me eat you out.” he grinned and Natasha snapped, “Well maybe if you’d done it more often, I wouldn’t be tempted to snap your fucking neck!”

“Take your own advice, sweetheart.” Bucky lunged to his feet but Natasha didn’t let go, he shoved her into a wall hard enough to crack the plaster and the vicious redhead only winced and sassed, “You saying I don’t give you enough blow jobs, Bucky?”

“I’m saying--” Bucky was starting to see spots when her legs tightened at his jugular. “M’sayin’ if you spent more time deep throatin’ and less time doing hot yoga with the girls--”

“You’re such a pig!” she screeched and Bucky only, “Oink oink oink!”ed until Natasha arched her back to break his hold and connected a swift kick to the side of his head.

“Ow! Fuck!” Bucky didn’t mean to throw Nat half away across the room-- or maybe he sort of did?-- but boy howdy did he knew he messed up when she slowly, painfully got to her feet and wiped the blood from her bottom lip, eyes blazing. “Oh shit. Okay. Sweet heart, that was actually an accident. Bullets and everything aside? I’d never just throw you across the room, I promise.”

“Well I fully meant to kick you in the head.” She countered, and Bucky’s heart sank when Natasha reached behind and pressed at a spot on the wall and a handgun dropped out into her waiting palm. “No harm no foul, darling. Both just doing the job.”

“Just the job.” Quick as a flash, Bucky tucked and rolled towards the fireplace, wrenched the sawed off rifle from behind the bricks and whirled around with it ready to fire--

--and met Natasha face to face, her pistol pointed squarely between his eyes.

“Tick tock, husband.” There were suddenly tears in Natasha’s eyes, and Bucky squared his jaw, straightened his shoulder and told himself to be strong. “Either your company comes in to finish the job, or mine does. Tick tock.”

Be strong, Widow. She told herself, and tightened her grip on her gun. Be strong, you don’t love him, you don’t love him, he’s just a job.

“Tick. Tock.” she bit out through clenched teeth. “Or are you going as stupidly chivalrous as always and tell me ladies first?”

You don’t love him, you don’t love him, you don’t love him.

“Damn it Tasha, don’t test me.”

A shot gun shell locking into place was a sound every person in the world recognized, and it made Tasha’s blood run cold in her veins.

You don’t love him, you don’t love him, you don’t love--

“Tick. Tock.” she said again, mocking and devastated and all the other things she didn’t want to be feeling right now. “Come on, Soldier. Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

“Show me--” Bucky huffed what sounded like a laugh and Natasha blinked at him. “Ah fuck, this shouldn’t be funny, Tasha. This ain’t funny.”

“Then stop laughing.” she hissed. “What are you doing?”

“It’s not funny.” the words were whispered now, nearly breathed and Natasha narrowed her eyes uncertainly. “Jesus Tash, this isn’t funny but all I can think about right now is how much I miss you.”

“How much you-- you what?”

“This is the closest I’ve felt to knowing who you are since the first day we met.” Bucky’s gun lowered inch by inch and Natasha’s heart caught up in her chest. “You’re beautiful like this. Wholly in your element, bein’ funny and sassy and fuck, I miss you. The last three years have been packed full’a lies, Tasha but the beginning wasn’t. I love you. And I miss you.”

The rifle dropped away, clattered to the floor and Bucky put both hands up. “I won’t do this. I won’t.”

“Damn you.” Natasha put both hands on her pistol, widened her stance and snarled, “Don’t be like that! You don’t love me and I don’t love you and we are just each other’s jobs! Fight me!”

“No.” Bucky shook his head, took a few steps away. “No, babydoll. If you want this, take it. But I’m not going to do it. I love you.”

“You are not allowed to say that!” Natasha was shouting now, almost screaming. “That night at the beach you were working a mission that I set up! You showed up and you fucked my mission up and I brought a building down on you! You are not allowed to say you love me, because I watched the Winter Soldier through the scope and ordered a building blown around you! You don’t love me. You are supposed to be dead and instead you showed up in New York and I was a job so you made me fall in love with you but you-- you don’t--”

Bucky took a step forward and she jerked the gun back up. “--no don’t you dare. Don’t you come near me. You made me love you--” she stuttered, stammered, bit at her lip until it bled and then cursed, “--damn it, Bucky. You made me love you viciously and now I hate you for it. I hate you for it. This is a job, so finish it.”

“I won’t.” Bucky said hoarsely. “Vy ves' moy mir, you are my whole world, Tasha. I never meant to love you, but now it’s too late and I do. So I won’t do it. You want to finish it, then finish it, but I’m done fighting you.”

“You cannot be the bigger person right now.” Natasha protested, begged. “Three years you’ve been petty and sort of obnoxious, don’t change now. You unscrewed the toilet lid and took it off just so I’d stop bothering you about leaving it up. Do not be the bigger person right now.”

“You said you love me viciously.” Bucky took another step forward, hands up so she wouldn’t jerk away again. “It’s been so long since you said that I almost forgot how good it sounded. Say it again. Please.”

“No.”

“Tasha.”

“I--” the gun wavered, tears slipping out the corner of Natasha’s eyes as her resolve crumbled and the self control she’d been clinging to started to shred. “I love you.”

“Viciously.” Bucky stripped the guns from Tasha’s hands and tossed it away, framed her face in both his hands and pushed her into the wall. “Say it. Say you love me viciously.”

“I love you.” They weren’t sure which one was crying when their lips met, tentative kisses that tasted of sweet sweet sorrow and full of everything they hadn’t ever said to each other in three years of marriage. “Bucky, yes.”

“C’mere.” Tasha was so little and for once Bucky didn’t check his strength when he swooped his wife up, when he grabbed her tight into his body and crushed their mouths together, when he got his left hand on her shirt and just tore it away, breathing a curse over the myriad of cuts and dried blood on her perfect skin. “Oh babydoll, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“It doesn’t hurt.” Natasha tossed her head back and gasped ragged over each tender kiss on the cuts. “But don’t stop, don’t stop, I’ve missed you. I love you.”

“Viciously.” Bucky pleaded hoarsely. “Say it, Tasha please.”

“Viciously.” she half sobbed. “Bucky, I love you viciously.”

Don’t stop.

Bucky didn’t stop, not when they tumbled onto the broken couch and Natasha felt around for a knife to slash at his jeans and shove them off his hips. He didn’t stop when Natasha scored fire down his back with her nails, when her ankles locked around his waist and brought him in deep sooner than either was ready and the burst of pleasure pain popped light behind their temples.

“I’ve missed you.” Bucky dug bruises into Tasha’s waist as he held her down, closed his eyes and hissed when she bit at his pulse, at the hinge of his jaw, when her teeth scraped his tongue in a messy, brutal kiss. “Fuck Tasha, I’ve missed you. Missed my wife. Need you.”

“You weren’t a mission at first.” Natasha promised when they fell off the couch and Bucky brought her up on top of him. “You weren’t, I swear. When Fury told me to chase you I thought-- I thought--”

“Pierce told me the same thing. I know. I know.” Bucky murmured as they moved together, running his hands up her perfect body, over the barely there scars her nightgown always covered, the tense of muscle and flex of power that made him wonder how he’d ever thought she wasn’t every bit as powerful as him. “I never meant to lie to you, Tasha. Not like this. Never like this.”

“I never meant to lie to you either.” she reached for him and Bucky came willingly, sat up to chase a kiss, wound their fingers together and held tight so Tasha knew he would hold her, take care of her, ground her when she fell apart.

Oh I love you viciously.

***********

“I can’t feel anything in my left hand.”

Later, after they’d fought and fucked and finally tore apart gasping for air, later they lay amid the destruction of their home and what was left of their fake marriage and just talked. The comforter from the guest bedroom was spread out on the floor, Natasha wrapped up in Bucky’s shirt, and Bucky with a throw pillow over his dick because he was too hot to bother with clothes.

“No?” he rolled over onto his side and picked up Natasha’s left hand, kissed each of her fingers and then her palm. “Why not?”

“Shrapnel.” Natasha was soft and rumpled, her lips swollen and cheeks still flushed red and Bucky couldn’t resist leaning in to kiss her. She was intoxication and he would never have enough. “Carved into my left side. Took a plastic surgeon to fix the damage but we never fixed the nerves.”

“Ain’t no thang, baby.” Bucky rotated his left shoulder purposefully. “Remember my wind surfing accident?”

“Mm-hmm?” Natasha swept her tongue along the line of Bucky’s jaw and practically purred when her husband shuddered beneath her. “What about it?”

“Not a windsurfing accident.” Bucky tugged a few times to disconnect the cling that kept his silver arm quite literally under wraps, and watched Natasha’s mouth drop open as it fell away. “That building you brought down on me caused some pretty serious damage, and old man Pierce is all about building terminators these days.”

“This is my fault?” Natasha touched the silver limb carefully, up to scars that had been revised at least three different times to make them all but invisible. “Bucky, I--”

“Didn’t say it was your fault.” Bucky shook his head. “Not your fault, just like you trying to take a shot at me yesterday morning wasn’t your fault. Plus it’s not the first time I got good and hurt. See this line right here?” he traced a faint line low on his body. “Botched appendix removal, my body kept trying to heal over mid surgery, I almost died from the shock.”

“Super solder serum saved you?” she guessed and he nodded. “That’s both gross and amazing.”

“Speaking of amazing.” Bucky pinched at her bicep playfully. “I saw you rip that safe door off. You juiced too? Always heard rumors that the Black Widow got a pint sized dose of what they gave me.”

“I’m strong enough.” Natasha said dismissively. “But sure, that’s why we’ve been chasing each other for decades on end. Why most of my scars heal up quick too. This one was Bogota. I fell off a helicopter during a rescue.”

“Afghanistan.” Bucky craned his neck so she could see the thin white scar at his hairline. “Bullet about took my head off.”

“Our first wedding anniversary I was so high on tranquilizers to deal with almost getting run over, I don’t even remember the night.”

“S’alright, sweetheart, Valentine’s Day last year when you wore that pretty pink lace thing?” Bucky pointed down at the dick-covering throw pillow meaningfully. “I slid down a banister thinking I was real slick chasing after someone, turns out there was a big ol ball on the end of the railing and it connected with my tenders. I could barely walk much less get it up in the way you deserved.”

“My love, I think tonight has been the first time in years you’ve gotten it up in the way I deserve.” she teased, and Bucky shot back, “Well maybe if you didn’t wear granny night gowns all the time my dick wouldn’t be so shy!”

“I wear granny night gowns to cover all my bruises from work!” she laughed out loud. “What’s your excuse for wearing tighty whities and long sleeves to bed?”

“I like they way they cup my package, and also to hide my arm.” Bucky shrugged. “Why do I get th’feeling that if we’d kept doing the deed like we did at the beach, all this would’a come out sooner?”

“I almost wish it had.”

“Me too.” Bucky wound his finger around a strand of Natasha’s hair and tugged lightly. “Was it you in Saint Paul last winter? One damn time we were sure the Widow had come out of hiding long enough to fuck up my mission.”

“The week I said I was visiting my mother and you said were at Brock’s bachelor party.” She confirmed. “I didn’t know the Winter Soldier was in Saint Paul.”

“Yeah well, apparently wearing polos and playing golf is the world’s best cover. Turned me from Most Wanted to Most Ignored over night.”

“By the way?” Natasha raised her eyebrow, then smiled when Bucky leaned in and kissed it. “I hate your khakis. If you don’t stop wearing them, I’ll burn every last pair.”

“That’s fine, I only wore them so the neighbor women would stop ogling me.” Bucky admitted. “Figured you were the only one I wanted looking at me anyway, plus it’s easier to stay under the radar if no one notices me for any reason, right?”

“Same reason I started wearing modest dresses and got rid of any high heel over two inches.” Natasha agreed. “Easier to blend in if I look like the rest of the pretty plastic housewives.”

“There’s nothing plastic about you.” Bucky brushed over Natasha’s nipple and grinned when it hardened beneath his thumb. “And you could wear a potato sack and still be the most beautiful woman on the planet, Tash.”

“I’ve missed you being ridiculously sappy with your compliments.” she admitted, and Bucky admitted softer, “I miss feeling like you want me to say that sorta stuff.”

And later still, when they’d ordered delivery pizza and laughed until their stomach hurt because the poor delivery kid looked so damn confused over the destruction and then over Natasha wearing a lot of not much, Bucky inhaled most of a pepperoni slice and asked, “Not to put a damper on our sorta spectacular make up sex but um-- you know what I’m thinkin?”

“You’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking, which is that it seems highly suspicious that we cohabited for three years together and somehow never really ran into each other on any missions and that it almost seems too much of a coincidence that we both ended up on the same mission on the same day.” Natasha wiped a bit of cheese from his chin. “That’s what you’re thinking.”

“Actually I was thinkin’ that when you sit cross legged like that I can see all of your hoo-hah.” Bucky admitted and Natasha practically cackled with laughter. “But yeah, it’s sorta weird that we used’ta interrupt each others missions all the damn time but the whole three years we were together, other than Saint Paul we didn’t even check into the same time zones.”

“Last week one of my techs went missing in a quick snatch that literally should have never happened.” Natasha pointed out. “My company has some of the highest levels of security out there, and yet he was snatched and tossed walking home from a bar he’d never been to with a woman he’d never seen?”

“One of our gals.” Bucky confirmed. “No idea how she stumbled on an actual tech for your end of things, but she did, called it in and we moved quick. Easiest kidnapping of my life.” And then after a pause, “Too easy, maybe.You guys couldn’t find him at all.”

“And we tried for the better part of a week.” Nat took a drink straight from the two-liter of mountain dew. “We tried but he was gone.”

“We weren’t even being all that stealthy.” Bucky said slowly. “And he gave up his information real quick. Told me about you being active again and about the hostage situation taking place at the border. I didn’t even have to get scary with him, just threatened to eat him is all.”

“That’s not scary?”

“I’m the Winter Soldier, Tash. You think threatening to take a bite outta someone is my scariest version of torture?”

“Touche.” She took another drink. “So one of my guys got snatched way too easily, you got the information with barely even a threat and after three years of missing each other, you and I were on the same mission, staring at each other through a rifle scope from a thousand yards away. If you were reading this file as an outsider, what does it look like to you?”

“Like the powers that be were fully aware of us but made sure we were never aware of each other until the time came t’knock us both off.” Bucky answered immediately, and then, “Oh fuck me.”

“How much time do you have left on your directive to get rid of me?” Natasha asked quietly. “Cos my clock is down to two hours and some change.”

“Two hours and some change.” Bucky confirmed.

“Shit.”

“So what are we gonna do?” Bucky sat back against the couch and hauled Natasha up into his lap, getting rid of the pillow so he could set her pert butt right against his thighs. “You wanna run? You wanna fight? What?”

“...you want to do this together?” Natasha blinked at him a few times. “Really?”

“You’re my wife.” Bucky smoothed his hand down her back and rested it at the curve of her hip. “And more than that, the first time you pinned me down and rode my face--”

“Bucky!”

“--I knew I’d do anything for you. So what’s it gonna be, baby? Three years of marriage for nothing? Or are we gonna Bonnie and Clyde this shit?”

Natasha looked down at their entwined hands, at the ring on her left finger and the gleam of Bucky’s silver palm. “Didn’t Bonnie and Clyde die?”

“Yeah, right before they went down in the history books as one of the best stories out there.” Bucky nipped lightly at her earlobe. “I could go down in history with you, especially if it means fucking with Fury and Pierce after they tried to trick us into this whole thing. What’d’ya say? Wanna blow some shit up?”

“I could blow some shit up.”

Bucky pulled her into a sweet kiss, slow and nearly tender as the last of the walls between them came tumbling down.

“Shot to the heart.” he sang softly, teasingly, as they parted. “And you’re to blame. Sugar, you give love a bad name.”

“That used to be our song.” Natasha laughed and hummed the next line. “I can’t believe you remember that.”

“It’s still our song.” Bucky corrected. “And we got about two hours before someone else comes and tries to finish the job neither one’a us finished. So why don’t we find some clothes, steal us a car and get the fuck outta here?”

“I’m with you.” Natasha got to her feet, then leaned down to give him one last kiss. “And I’m sorry for trying to kill you.”

“I’ve had uglier people try a lot worse.” Bucky said solemnly. “Finding out you’re a total bad ass instead of a super boring housewife is the best anniversary present ever.”

Natasha tossed her hair behind her shoulder and finger gunned at him and Bucky clapped his hands over his heart, laughing out loud as she ran for the stairs to change, singing along to their song as she went.

Darlin’ you give love a bad name.

********

A mile west of Mr. and Mrs. Barnes’s house, Brock Rumlow sat in the back of a van with a rifle held tight to his chest, watching the countdown clock on his next hit tick down to zero.

“This seems wrong is all I’m saying.” one of the other men said. “I worked with Barnes for damn near ten years now, how come all the sudden he’s on the hit list?”

“None of your business.” Rumlow grunted. “You see the guy, you put a bullet in the guy, you get another mission tomorrow and do the same thing.”

“But it’s Bucky.”

“Yeah, and now it’s Bucky’s time.” Rumlow racked in a round in the chamber. “Personally, I’m looking forward to seeing just how many bullets the mighty Soldier can take before he bleeds like the rest of us. What do you think, twenty? Twenty five?”

“I think you’re a sick bastard.”

“And that’s why I’m next on Pierce’s list of soldiers to super juice.” Rumlow grunted. “T-minus one hours and forty minutes boys. Stay steady.”

***************

SAY SOMETHING ABOUT THE CHAPTER!

***************

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#ncts fics #winterwidow #bucky barnes #natasha romanov

39 notes · View notes

vivithefolle · 4 years

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I love your analysis about the Cho/Ron interaction, but I'm just curious as to how Harmionie shipping Quorans would respond to it if you post it there. Knowing them, they'd probably see it as more proof that Harmony works because "Look! Hermione doesn't care when Harry is tactless but she can't stop nagging Ron when he is tactless!" 🤣 Seriously, though. Hermione is WAY nicer to Harry than she is to Ron. Come to think of it, Hermione is nicer to most people than she is to Ron.

Aaaah, well that’s simply because Hermione is… awful.No, no, seriously, when Hermione is in love, she’s terrible. She can be a nice friend but when she’s in love with you she’s horrible. Especially since she’s a teenager.

Hermione is a prime example of a Tsundere.

The cute, blushy, giggling Hermione who flirts with [insert character here] and cries delicately when she’s rejected? Pure fanfiction. Canon Hermione keeps her love aggressively hidden behind countless iron walls, only letting it peek through when she’s absolutely sure the person she likes isn’t looking.

“How was practice?” asked Hermione rather coolly half an hour later, as Harry and Ron climbed through the portrait hole into the Gryffindor common room.“It was -” Harry began. “Completely lousy,” said Ron in a hollow voice, sinking into a chair beside Hermione. She looked up at Ron and her frostiness seemed to melt. - Order of the Phoenix

Rare footage of the Hermione Granger, scientific name Selfinsertus Overratedus, displaying interest in specimen of mighty fine hunk

Hermione isn’t sweet and tender and kind with the one she loves. At least, the teenage Hermione isn’t. She’s harsh, she’s disdainful and only gives out breadcrumbs of affection once in a while as part of the complicated mind game she’s playing.

You see, Hermione is never going to make the first move. You must be the one to ask her out, because she sure as hell ain’t going to do it for you.

This is due, I think, to the events of Goblet of Fire. Viktor Krum asks her out because Rowling absolutely wants Hermione to be the ugly duckling who transforms into the beautiful swan, so she brings in Cardboard Cutout With No Personality Aside From Being Famous to woo her self-insert.

Now Hermione has gotten the experience of being asked out, and being a rather socially awkward person who also hates being vulnerable - more on that later - well, now she just assumes that if someone asked her out once, then anyone who does like her can do the same.

Which is why she doesn’t realize that Ron is actually aware he loves her. There’s a big comedy of assumptions going on in Romione’s love story.

Hermione believes that Ron either 1) likes her but is oblivious to his own feelings and so she thinks she has to “give him hints” to make him realize it. Emphasized best by this exchange:

Hermione laughed.“Harry you’re worse than Ron… well, no, you’re not, “ she sighed, as Ron himself came stumping into the Hall splattered with mud and looking grumpy. “Look - you upset Cho when you said you were going to meet me, so she tried to make you jealous. It was her way of trying to find out how much you liked her.”“Is that what she was doing?” said Harry, as Ron dropped on to the bench opposite them and pulled every dish within reach towards him. “Well, wouldn’t it have been easier if she’d just asked me whether I liked her better than you?”“Girls don’t often ask questions like that,” said Hermione.

“I’ve sent him so many signals and yet he doesn’t notice. Woe is me!”

2) doesn’t actually likes her, but sees her just as a good mate or worse, as another sister.

Hermione keeps flip-flopping between her two assumptions throughout the series, all because of her biggest assumption: she thinks that if Ron was interested in her, he would ask her out. Because Viktor Krum was interested in her, and he asked her out, so why wouldn’t Ron do the same? They’re both boys and she’s a girl, after all. Isn’t that how it works?

This is also why Hermione’s “““invitation”““ to the Slug Club isn’t even an invitation - really, it’s worse than Ron’s invite to the Yule Ball, at least he was actually offering her to come:

“We’re allowed to bring guests,” said Hermione, […], “and I was going to ask you to come, but […] I won’t bother.”

“I was going to ask you to come but I won’t bother.”

This is literally what she said. It’s more of a “look Ron! An invite! If you’re good maybe I’ll think about letting you have it!” than anything else.

It’s because this is Hermione’s last resort. The ultimate humiliation. She has to resort to inviting Ron when in her mind, he’s supposed to be the one asking her out. He’s the boy! He’s supposed to do it!(And this is why I laugh at all the fools who claim that Hermione is the pinnacle of feminism. Seriously, the girl is more of a misogynist than any other character in the series.)

Hermione failed to take into account that Ron’s insecurity cripples him worse than she imagines, and that he copes with it differently than she copes with her own insecurities.

And this is the part where I explain about Hermione’s hatred of being vulnerable.

You see, I can relate quite a lot to Hermione - I see a lot of me in her, and a lot of people who hurt me in the past as well.

Bullied because she was an easy target, being the know-it-all and local teacher’s pet? Yep. Bullied for her appearance (I got braces when I was 8 and have been wearing glasses since I was a toddler, she had her bushy hair and buck teeth)? Can relate. Cried easily? Super check. Rule enforcer when the teachers weren’t around? Mega check.

And naturally, when you’re such a water fountain as I was, there’s nothing more humiliating than ending up crying in front of your bullies. You quickly learn that it will bring you nothing but more bullying. More humiliation. More vulnerability.

Hence why you start despising any form of vulnerability you find in yourself.

Obviously, being in love? That’s one of the most terrible things you can find yourself in when you’re afraid of being vulnerable. Because, oh god, your feelings are completely insane around the person. They make or ruin your day. You keep wanting to show them how cool / great / impressive you are, and you try desperately to mask all your little faults so they will hopefully return your feelings.

Given that Hermione is already not the most socially-aware battering ram in the knife drawer, she acts especially nasty to Ron, because she’s overcompensating for the vulnerability he makes her feel. And she most likely isn’t even aware of it! Forget Fanfic Hermione cringing as she realizes how mean she sounds, welcome Canon Hermione who just doubles down on a pointless argument just to drive home how totally in control she is and how Ron has absolutely zero effect on her, no siree!

In short: Hermione overthinks. She overthinks everything. She’s overthinking every of Ron’s actions, she’s assuming he’s either out to get her because she assumes he’s perfectly aware of her crush on him and he’s just toying with her (this is the very insecure, pessimistic Hermione speaking), she’s assuming he’s completely oblivious to her feelings and so she uses the ages-old technique of the “subtle hints” to make her feelings known to him (and fails miserably because she doesn’t want to put herself out there too much in case he rejects her, which would be the ultimate humiliation and the worst possible thing to happen to her, in her teenage girl mind), and she’s assuming he’ll never like her the way she likes him, all the while being woefully oblivious to the fact that Ron does want to be with her but she keeps sending him signals that she sees him as a troublesome child rather than a potential partner.

All in all, a teenage Hermione in love is utter torture. She’s her own worst enemy, and it’s only when she decides to let go of it all - of the mind games, of the distancing, of the passive-aggressive; of the overthinking - and just takes a chance that her efforts bear fruit.

There was a clatter as the basilisk fangs cascaded out of Hermione’s arms. Running at Ron, she flung them around his neck and kissed him full on the mouth. Ron threw away the fangs and broomstick he was holding and responded with such enthusiasm that he lifted Hermione off her feet.

(As much as I’m disillusioned with Romione, this kiss is still one of my favourite parts of the series. They mutually sweep each other off their feet for god’s sake, you wish your ship would.)

#ask #vivi answers #hermione granger #ron weasley #analysis #hp analysis #character analysis #harry potter #romione #shipping #hermione granger critical #hermione critical #ron x hermione #ron weasley defense squad #ron weasley defence squad

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laws-yellow-submarine · 3 years

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The X Shaped Mark

My entry to your contest! Congratulations to your followers!

Prompt Choice: Coffe;

Characters: Nico Robin; Nefeltari Vivi

Warnings: None, but I included a little theory

Pseudonym: Barista at the coffeshop

Soft music played in the background. The smell of coffee and baked goods lingered in the air. Today, only a few people were walking by your tea and coffeehouse, near the promenade and the beach. You knew sometimes customers got swayed in by the most curious circumstances. That was one of the many reasons you loved your job as a barista. There were so many interesting people to meet, so many stories to hear. You had seen many relationships and friendships being formed in here. All in all, your work gave you a fantastic chance to view the world from a very specific angle. Right now, everything was quiet – as if the air held it’s breath before a storm.

You didn’t expect many customers today. In fact, there was only one in the guest room right now. She – stunning, with the air of mysteriousness and untouchable charm – came in about an hour ago. With a faint smile and a curious, yet skeptical look in her eyes she ordered a teapot of your famous black tea blend. She took a seat on the table in the corner. It was a bit more secluded than the others and provided a sense of privacy while giving her an excellent view over the coffee shop and the street in front of it. You had never seen her before, but you were sure that she didn’t like others meddling with her business. After you asked if she’d like something else to her tea – sandwiches or chocolate cake perhaps – you left her alone. The warm smile she gave you after you brought her a plate of bagles eased your mind a little bit. Still, you hoped she wouldn’t have any reason to cause trouble. With your keen eye for others, it wasn’t a secret that she held far more strength and power than one would otherwise assume.

You were engaged in your book when the door opened again. The mysterious lady, pushing her long dark hair behind her ear, gave the new visitor a calculating look. It was a girl, or young woman rather. Clothed in fine garments, hair and makeup done perfectly, this other woman came in with swift steps. She exuded glamour and a softness that made her instantly like-able. Though she was obviously wealthy, she showed politeness and respect when she greeted you. You were about to ask the girl for her wishes, gesturing to the empty tables, the girl however made way to the other woman’s direction. You realized that they knew each other from the way the exchanged looks. But you weren’t sure if it was a friendly relationship they shared. The girl with the sky-colored hair agreed when the raven-haired offered her a seat. She ordered a café latte and piece of cake. Your two customers appeared to be on neutral terms with each other, but you could feel the strained past between them with every fibre. You chose to listen a little more carefully than usual, as you prepared the order. The blue haired one was the first to speak.

“Ms All-Sunday,” the girl leaned to her – ‘acquaintance’?, you wondered – and proceeded in a calm tone, “you have some business with me?” The raven-haired woman chuckled and it sounded a bit like a threat. “Indeed, Ms Wednesday.” You looked up and saw her smile towards the girl. It gave you chills.

“I was surprised. It’s been quite some time, since we last met.”

“I assumed it was about time we reached a conclusion for our unfortunate past. Once and for all.”

“That would be the best!”

“Your café latte and chocolate cake. Is there something else, I can do for you?” Call a relationship counselor or something? Your interruption would hopefully manage to break the tension between your customers. Both of them smiled politely and thanked you. There was nothing left for you to do, but to hope that whatever was going on wouldn’t cause to much damage. They continued their conversation as soon as you reached the counter. Luckily neither of them noticed that they were still in hearing range.

“Though, my friend and bodyguard wasn’t too pleased about me meeting you again.” That a girl like her had a body-guard wasn’t a surprise. “Ah, yes – Igaram – wasn’t it?” commented the woman. “How is your country doing, Princess?” “Excellent. The country is peaceful and the people are thriving,” she lowered her voice. Now it appeared that the girl was the more dangerous one. “Are you upset about that, Ms All-Sunday?” The woman replied with a stare, cool as ice. Then she smiled with all sincerity. “Not at all. In fact, I am pleased about it. To harm any of your people was never my intention.”

“I know that.”

That line surprised the raven-haired woman even more as it surprised you. The girl continued softly,

“I know that you didn’t have any bad intentions. You wouldn’t be his friend if you did.” You didn’t know who they were talking about, but you thanked him. He probably saved you a lot of trouble by whatever he did to make the two females allies. It would have been a pain, if they actually started an argument in your peaceful coffeeshop.

“You heard about it. I should have figured.” The woman laughed. Honestly and full of relief.

“How is he doing? And the rest of them?”

“They are doing just fine. Causing ruckus as they go.”

“I can imagine.” Now the girl laughed wholeheartedly, making her blue hair dance along her shoulders. “I hope I can see them again soon.”

“You will. Right now they are quite occupied with some – adventure, but I am sure they will stop by eventually.” There went your hopes and prayers that whoever they were, would never show up near your place. The woman continued to talk about the mysterious group of people. The more you heard about it, the more you believed that it was all made up. The girl however, listened with glee and excitement. She didn’t seem to doubt any of the fantastic tales. Probably because she knew better.

“He is still the same,” the girl concluded eventually.

“That’s for sure. Even after two years, they didn’t chance a bit. Not one of them.”

Whoever they were talking about, your two customers cared a lot about them. Probably more than they would let on. You started doing the dishes, only to keep listening to the interesting conversation.

After a while – and another serving of tea and coffee – the woman asked about the reason for their meeting. She seemed unusually hesitant.

“Why did you agree? You can’t possibility forgive the past?” There was a remorseful look on her face, the air of vulnerability and sincere concern. The girl however, smiled reassuringly.

“Igaram told me you saved his life,” She chuckled, “even though you claimed the opposite.”

“Yes. That incident was a red herring. For a long time I had no choice but to infiltrate certain organizations and get rid of them – I didn’t have any other chance to survive. I tried to make the most of it. And I wanted to prevent as much damage as I could.” You almost didn’t hear what she added with a whisper.

“I hated it.”

“When Igaram told me about it, I started to do some research. I heard about your hometown. About what happened to Ohara. I understood that you did what you had to do. But I am really glad -” she hesitated to continue, “I am really glad that you don’t have to live this kind of life anymore.”

You could see how much those words meant. What impact they had. That there was one burden less hiding in her eyes. That was probably what gave her the courage to continue. There seemed to be a question she needed to ask.

“What happened to that man? I heard that he prevented that – on the plaza…” For a second the blue haired girl was confused. Then she quietly replied:

“You mean Pell. He is doing fine.” The woman almost dropped her cup, as she heard that.

“I thought..” The blue locks danced around slender shoulders once more.

“We thought so too, after he used his powers to fly away with the… - Well, luckily he recovered pretty soon.”

“Then it worked out after all.”

“What do you mean.”

“I suppose you can’t know. This ‘contraption’ that injured your feathered friend was sabotaged.” The woman closed here eyes, seemingly to indulge in the memories as clearly as possible.

“I was convinced you wouldn’t find the place in time. There wouldn’t have been that much damage. When I heard you had been in the clock tower, that the brave guardian – well, that he did what he did – I assumed the worst.”

“What do you mean it was sabotaged? Wasn’t that thing,” she almost spat out the word, only to get interrupted.

“As I said, I worked behind closed curtains to prevent as much damage as I could. I was the one who gave the task to the constructors, I chose the place to hide it – and I told them that the whole construction was designed to be a distraction. It wasn’t designed to be fatal. Your friend only got injured because he was too close.” The girl was outright shocked.

“But how, how did you do that?”

“I was the right-hand man of the boss himself. If I gave an order, who would dare question it?” The woman smirked. Now you were certain that you wouldn’t want her to be your enemy. “It was easy to get away with it.” Her features softened as she continued,

“I am glad that he recovered. Would you mind give my sincere apologies and best wishes to him?”

The girl still looked like she stumbled upon the one piece. After a moment she laughed and agreed.

“Seems like you fit right in with the others.”

The strange conversation turned to marvelous stories of adventures and friendship once again. As the day passed and the sun started to set, your two guests decided to move on.

Now the atmosphere felt like spring. Like a fresh bond blossoming.

As they parted ways, the girl turned around once more:

“You truly are amazing, Miss All-Sunday.” The woman smiled brightly.

“Thank you. But please – call me Robin.”

“I remember that you hated that name.”

“I did,” She paused, as if she needed to push some bad memories aside, “but now it’s the name my friends use. And you are part of our crew, right – Vivi?”

She left the girl standing and walked away – waving with her left hand,

a visible X-shaped mark upon her arm.

#writing contest submission #950 follower event #submission

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thatssomental-blog · 5 years

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Too Coward for the "Coward's Way Out": Living with Passive Suicidal Ideation

TW: This article may be hard for some to read, but is intended to assist others who may be dealing with passive, or active, suicidal ideations. The following text contains details of suicidal thoughts (without intent) and mentions self harm (briefly, and without detail), in addition to depression and it’s relationship with suicidal thoughts.

So many people label suicide as the “coward’s way out”. If that’s true, then why is it that I feel like a coward because I could never follow through? Passive suicidal ideation is defined as wishing you were dead or that you could die, but having no intention to take your own life. Whereas, active suicidal ideation means one is not only struggling with these thoughts, but may have full intention, or a plan already in place, to take their own life. Passive suicidal ideation is still a risk factor among patients with depression and suicidal thoughts, and just because you are not planning your great escape from this world now, doesn’t mean you should skip out on your therapy sessions. All that being said, it is very real, your thoughts are just as valid, and you are not alone in feeling the way that you do.

Before I continue, I would like to specify that “wishing you were dead or that you could die” isn’t a reference to how you feel waking up in the morning, before you reluctantly drag yourself to work/school, it is in reference to a very real, deep desire to stop living, that may come or go, or may stay with you incessantly, even on your best days when everything seems hunky-dory. I am specifying this, because as someone who suffers from Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, the mental illnesses that myself and others suffer through daily are not meant to be #relatable, just because you like things neatly organized or hate your job/school.

My own struggle with suicidal thoughts is a plague that I can't seem to get rid of. I suffered from them long before I even knew what suicide truly was. I was about 14 when the first thought came along, and I clearly remember it. I was putting away the clean dishes and took a knife from the dishwasher. I stood there for about five minutes straight, just staring at it, and thinking that I could just slash my wrist open and the numbness I’d been feeling for weeks would all go away. I scared myself with that thought, put the knife away, and didn’t do it; I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t have done it. I can’t remember any other thoughts as vividly as that single instance, but sometimes they were there, and sometimes they weren’t, and every time I had them I could never bring myself to act on them.

Health care is necessary for a healthy life. In the US healthcare is expensive, whether you have coverage or not. Health Insurance, especially with Mental Health included, is hard to come by. Even if you’re one of the “lucky” ones that manages to land a job that provides it, a good plan for yourself, not to mention a whole family, can easily eat up what little bit of wages you work for, and have to live off of. In the past several years, life has been difficult for me, though it was mostly adjusting to living the independent life, learning how to pay bills, and learning how to take care of myself. Despite all of the challenges and obstacles I’ve faced in that time, I was doing pretty well. Even through the trauma of sudden death, which my family is not equipped to handle, I managed. Within the past eight months, I attempted to better my situation by leaving a toxic work environment and moving on to something new. Unfortunately, by choosing to leave that job I also left what little health coverage I had, and since have had to move on to even worse challenges and obstacles, all with untreated, depression, anxiety, body and gender dysphoria, and Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. If you’ve never been through that, I’ll tell you right now that it is hell, and as petty as I am, I wouldn’t wish anything I’ve been through on my worst enemies.

Factoring in all of the above, with the soul crushing feeling that your whole life and all of your freedom is crashing down around you, like an imploding dumpster fire, it really adds up. In my last few months before moving back home with Mom and Dad, something none of us want to do even if we love our parents with a fiery passion, I was at rock bottom. I couldn’t bring myself to do anything but the bare minimum, which made moving day tougher than it already was, and left me feeling hopeless and drained of life. I would lay on my couch for hours, wrapped in a blanket, staring at the wall with an empty mind and heavy heart, it was the worst I had ever been, and I allowed myself to wallow in it, only making it worse.

Even now that I am home, and surrounded by the love of my family, I frequently wish I was dead. I don’t think such things only when everything is going wrong in my life, but the harder times get the more I just want all the pain to go away. I think of scenarios in which I could put myself out of my misery. I own a gun, I have access to others, and medications, not to mention every knife in the block or kitchen drawer that could easily end all of my suffering. But, why is it that despite my desires to no longer deal with life's stresses, my battle with my seemingly, ever changing, gender identity, and my unbridled hatred for the world we live in and the multitude or horrible people in it, do I refrain? Why, when it seems like the only option for peace of mind and escape from the emotions I can’t control, can I not do it? Why, when I wish for the calming embrace of death, do I fear strangers who could kill me in cold blood? Why, if I want to die, did I seek medical attention, without any health coverage, and go to the ER when I legitimately thought I was dying?

Fear of the unknown. I was raised in the Christian faith from a very young age, and was even baptized twice. My mother was raised within that same faith, and my father is an atheist. Despite my current pagan-leaning/agnostic dogma, there is a fear bread into me from childhood that I will burn in hell. Since becoming “woke”, so to say, I have completely denounced the Christian god for what he is. Despite my genuine certainty that this god does not exist, and if he does, he’s actually quite a terrible deity, because of how I was raised, I will more than likely carry that fear of denouncing him and burning in hell with me, for the rest of my life. Religion aside, and taking things from an atheistic perspective, maybe I’m just going into a hole in the ground when I die, but the thought of everything being black forever is also terrifying for me. Even though I am aware that, in this scenario, I will literally not be conscious of my own death, it is almost impossible for me to wrap my head around it, and as someone who has exhibited a very present case of FOMO all of their life, that just doesn’t fly with me. Regardless of whether we go to sit at Odin’s table in Valhalla, or up to a magic golden kingdom in the clouds where everyone is happy and wants for nothing, or we just literally kill over like a toy with dead batteries, no one actually knows until they actually die.

Fear of failure. I have had a very hard time succeeding at pretty much everything I’ve tried in life. No matter what I do, I never feel like the product is good enough. I am my own worst critic, and, on top of that, I am a rage-quitter. If I am not instantly or naturally good at something, I get bent out of shape when I mess it up, maybe I cry, then I quit, and I move on. (Though that statement doesn’t apply to absolutely everything, it applies to a pretty big chunk of things.) One of the greatest fears that keeps me from “attempting” is knowing that if I mess up, I may not recover. Some people are saved at the last minute, and depending on what you’ve done to yourself, sometimes the wounds or the manner in which you’ve attempted will mend. However, if some things are done incorrectly, i.e. putting a bullet in your brain, or a fall that just wasn’t quite big enough to kill you, you may still survive, but there could be permanent consequences such as brain damage, loss of mobility, etc. I’m sure you catch my drift. I suppose this also technically falls under fear of the unknown, because you never truly know what’s going to happen until it does. Sometimes you just have to stop and ask yourself, would you rather be depressed and fully functional to the best of your capabilities? Or depresses and handicapped, and therefore, with your anxious/depressed brain, if it works anything like mine, an even heavier burden on those around you?

Forcing others to suffer. I am very lucky to have an amazing family that is full of love. Even for those of us living a life that others may not agree with, disowning and/or not loving one another is not in our vocabulary. I am very close to my mother and my grandmother, and it would devastate them beyond comprehension. That used to be my only line of thinking, however things have happened and times have changed. Less than two years ago, we buried my grandmother’s youngest child, my mother’s youngest sister, and one of my best friends, who was more like my sister than my aunt, along with her unborn son. Even if I intended to follow through on my own suicidal thoughts, and even excluding the above reasons, I could never force my mother to bury her only child, or my grandmother to bury another grandchild. I also have an amazing SO and friends who would at least be a little devastated, as well.

I just can’t. Ignoring every other reason I have included, I just can��t do it. Despite my fear of death, failure, and hurting those I love most, I just don’t have it in me. It’s not the pain that I worry about, one could easily swallow a bunch of sleeping pills and hope to not wake up, and as much as I hate to admit it, I have physically self harmed before, way back in my teen years. I don’t know how else to explain it, other than I just can’t. I have a huge fear of missing out, if I don’t know all the details of something it will drive me nuts, and I hate surprises. Despite how great it would be to just not have to worry, and despite how hopeless I feel, there is a part of me that knows something better is coming. If I were to take my own life, there are countless things I would miss out on, things I’ve always wanted and things that I may not even know that I want yet. The future is a mystery, and I’ll never find out what it holds if I don’t have one.

Do those things make my suicidal thoughts invalid? No, and though your reasons behind your lack/full intent may differ from mine, they do not make yours any less valid, either.

I am by no means encouraging suicide, though if you ever lose your battle just know that I will never call you a coward when you’re gone. Suicide is the final side-effect of losing your battle with a very real illness, one that may not be visible to even those closest to you.

My parting wisdom is this: Whether you intend to follow through on your suicidal ideations or not, if you take your own life, you will never be around to see it get better. I know it seems hopeless, I personally feel hopeless about 95% of the time, and I know that sometimes it seems like the only escape from not only the world, but your own mind. I really do. I know it hurts, and even if I don’t know what you’re going through, or how you feel, perseverance is the answer, not death. If you are strong enough to make it this far, through all the grief and torment and suffering, then you are strong enough to build your own future. Please don’t take that away from yourself, no matter how much you may want to.

If you, or someone you love is feeling suicidal, please check thatssomental.tumblr.com/resources for a list of suicide and mental help phone lines, chats, and websites.

©thatssomental.tumblr.com 2019

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pengychan · 6 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 3

Title: Nuestra Iglesia Summary: Fake Priest AU. In the midst of the Mexican Revolution, Santa Cecilia is still a relatively safe place; all a young orphan named Miguel has to worry about is how to get novices Héctor and Imelda to switch their religious vows for wedding vows before it’s too late. He’s not having much success until he finds an unlikely ally in their new parish priest, who just arrived from out of town. Fine, so Padre Ernesto is a really odd priest. He’s probably not even a real priest, and the army-issued pistol he carries is more than slightly worrying. But he agrees that Héctor and Imelda would be wasted on religious life, and Miguel will take all the help he can get. It’s either the best idea he’s ever had, or the worst. Characters: Miguel Rivera, Ernesto de la Cruz, Héctor Rivera, Imelda Rivera, Chicharrón, Óscar and Felipe Rivera, OCs. Imector. Rating: T

[Tag with all chapters up here.]

[Also on Ao3]

A/N: “I mean being a Catholic priest only takes years of study and training how hard can it be” -- Ernesto, probably.

***

“We have to keep going.”

“Santiago, we don’t even know which way he went…”

“Then we split up and keep looking!”

“To regroup where? And what if we meet enemies? We’d be easy prey-- Chago, wait! We lost him. We can’t keep looking blindly for--”

“Then go back to the barracks. De la Cruz is out there somewhere. I’ll find that traitor myself, and hang him with my own hands for what he did to Beto,” Santiago snapped, and turned his horse to face Nando, a scowl on his face. It caused the other man to rear back on the saddle, but Santiago didn’t see him, not really.

All that he had before his eyes - all that he’d been seeing, even behind his own eyelids when he shut them - was Alberto’s body on the ground, the blood and brain matter splattered on the rocky ground, carrion birds already beginning their descent… and the tracks of two horses leaving.

They had found Beto’s horse not too far away, wandering lost, but Ernesto de la Cruz was nowhere to be found. He’d fled like the coward he was, after shooting a man from behind.

He didn’t have to do it. He was giving him his back, he could have stunned him if he so wanted to escape.

“Chago, listen,” Nando spoke again, reaching to put a hand on his arm. “There is nothing more we can do now, and you need to be reasonable,” he said, and sighed. “I know he was your friend. I am sorry it was you to find him.”

Santiago almost snapped back, but he suddenly found he had no strength to. He had to swallow before he spoke. “His mother is waiting for him at home,” he said, very quietly. “How can I go back and tell her Beto is dead if I don’t at least avenge him? I promised Raquel I’d look after him, and now…”

“It is war, Chago. She knew death was a real possibility.”

Of course they all had known that, but it had seemed such a distant concept when they’d signed up - Alberto with the eagerness of a man who wants to prove something, and Santiago with a sense of duty that compelled him to follow his friend as he always had. And even afterwards… death in battle, or even in a skirmish, was one thing. Being shot in the back by a deserter was worse. It was unfair. It was personal.

“I should have been the one on patrol with him,” Santiago murmured. He would have been, normally, but the day Alberto had died he’d been assigned to some other menial task, and Ernesto de la Cruz had been chosen to go with him instead. Beto - who had waved at him before going off, telling him he’d see him later - had liked the man, but Santiago had never quite warmed up to him; he recognized a coward at heart when he saw one. He hadn’t trusted him but even so, he’d never thought he’d kill Beto in cold blood and flee.

“It wasn’t your fault that you weren’t,” Nando was saying, a hand still on his arm. Santiago nodded, but in truth he’d hardly heard him.

I joined the army because he had, but now he’s gone and I can’t do this on my own.

But he would have to, of course. He’d have to brush it off the best he could and keep marching on. He didn’t have to like it; he just needed to make himself keep going through the motions until the right moment came, until he could finally get his hands on Beto’s murderer - because he would, come what may. He couldn’t allow himself to doubt that for one moment.

De la Cruz couldn’t get away with it. He wouldn’t. Maybe not today or tomorrow or the day after that, but someday Santiago would face him again.

And that day, Ernesto de la Cruz wouldn’t get the luxury of a quick death.

***

When it was time to thank God for his food and whatnot, Ernesto barely needed to pretend; he hadn’t had a proper breakfast in so long he was ready to personally thank everyone, from God down to the hens who had laid the eggs, and the nun - Sister Sofía, was it? - who had put the dish in front of him.

If anything, the hard part was focusing on the prayer with that delicious smell distracting him, and trying to make himself pause and chew instead of guzzling it all down in seconds. After the first few bites, he found that easier.

“Where are Gustavo and Brother Héctor?” Ernesto asked after swallowing another mouthful. It occurred to him that the novice would likely live there as well - he hadn’t bothered looking around much after being led to his room the previous day, and he’d have expected the sexton to have showed up by now.

Sister Sofía shrugged, and dropped another couple of eggs on his plate. She was a good deal shorter than him, thin as a twig and nothing much in the way of looks, but as he wolfed down the extra eggs Ernesto thought he could kiss her on the mouth right there and then if it weren’t so likely to land him in trouble.

“Gustavo showed up earlier, but he was absolutely useless here, so I sent him off to feed your horse. Brother Héctor is helping Chicharrón at the cemetery. His joints aren’t what they used to be, and he needed some assistance straightening up a tombstone. Not that he’ll admit it. He’s probably grumbling that Héctor didn’t need to show up at all right now, while watching him do the heavy work.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, trying and failing to picture the beanpole he’d met at the church’s steps lifting anything heavier than a basket of laundry, but he didn’t ask. “Chicharrón?” he asked instead.

“The old grave digger, Padre. You’ll meet him today, I wager.”

“I’m guessing that’s not his real name,” Ernesto said. For a moment he kicked himself for not giving a fake name, or asking the dying priest for his own so that he could use it. But then again, he suspected that might have led him to fail to respond when called, which would have probably been rather suspicious.

Unaware of his thoughts, and pouring some more water in his glass, Sister Sofía shook her head. “No, but good luck getting the real one out of him. No one knows.”

“Must be embarrassing, if he’d rather be called after fried pork,” Ernesto muttered. Sister Sofía laughed and so did he - only to realize his mistake when she spoke again.

“It’s good to see your headache is gone, Padre.”

For the second time in a minute, Ernesto felt like kicking himself really hard. He’d come out of his room mumbling that his head hurt, so that he could get out of saying the afternoon mass, but breakfast had been so good he’d simply forgotten to keep the act up.

No matter. I can claim it spiked up again. I just need to be careful now.

“It is slightly better,” he said, and put the fork down on the plate. “It was all delicious, Sister.”

Sister Sofía smiled. “Oh, I’m glad,” she said, and went to take his dish off the table, standing close to him. Very close. Close enough that her arm brushed against his own, startling him a little and causing him to look up. Still, nothing showed on her face. “Anything else, Padre?”

Nothing a nun can give, but thanks for the reminder I’ve gone too long without a woman.

“No, nothing,” Ernesto said, a bit too quickly, and stood. “Is… is there a schedule, or…?”

“This is about the time people come in for confession.”

“Oh, great. I mean-- I’ll be in the confessional in a few minutes,” Ernesto said quickly, and left, heading to his room - he needed the Bible, plus pen and paper - before she could ask anything else, acutely aware of her gaze fixed on his retreating back.

***

They will come collect everything tonight. Keep the back door open. Ensure no one is there.

The note had no name on it, as always. It was safer that way; if she and whoever was keeping direct contact with the revolutionaries kept ignoring other's identity, they could be sure that information could never be forced out of them under any circumstances.

The notes, always written in the same handwriting, came inside the collection box, and Imelda always made sure she'd be the one to collect the offerings for the orphanage - or, if not, that Sofía would do it. She, at least, could be trusted to be discreet.

... Well, no. Not really. But on such serious matters, she knew when to keep her mouth shut.

After giving a quick look around - the church was empty aside from a few people waiting by the confessional and, she assumed, Padre Ernesto inside said confessional - Imelda held the note over a candle, and let it burn. The small piece of paper quickly turned to ashes, the smell easily covered by incense burning, and she went to look for Sofía.

She found her in the sacristy, getting the purple robe out of the closet and ready for the afternoon mass.

"He's bigger than Padre Edmundo was," Sofía muttered when she saw her walking in, eyeing the robe. “Broader shoulders, deeper chest. It's going to be a tight fit."

"I can just hear the sorrow in your voice," Imelda said, holding back a smile, then lowered her own voice. "They'll come to take the weapons and ammunitions tonight."

"Your friend wrote you, huh? Ever wonder who it is?"

"It's not relevant. Have you found out anything about Padre Ernesto?"

Sofía shrugged. "He's got a cleft chin. Still like him best without the beard."

Imelda forced herself to hold back an exasperated sigh. "Anything else?"

"I'm almost positive he puts something in his hair to keep it that glossy. It can’t be natural."

"Are you making a point to annoy me?"

"I want to see how far I can push it before I make you curse in a church."

If not for the fact she had the basket with the offerings in her hands, Imelda would have smacked her. Maybe she should consider using the basket. "Anything of any relevance?"

"He's got a healthy appetite. And he seems rather out of his depth," she added quickly when she noticed Imelda's eye twitching just a little. "He almost began eating without a prayer. He's like a fish out of water. But that's likely because he just arrived."

Yes, Imelda had to admit that was a likely explanation. Still, with all that was going on, having a perfect stranger at the helm of the parish unnerved her. She'd feel safer once she knew something more about him. If only Héctor had taken his vows already... no. She wouldn't allow herself to think of that. "Nothing that gave any indication of where he stands?" she asked instead.

Sofía rolled her eyes. "That's hardly something you tell a stranger over breakfast. Give me time, Imelda. I'll crack this one and give you answers."

"It might be worth having a look at his room."

"I told you, I need time to--"

"Without him in it, Sofía," Imelda said drily, getting herself a laugh and a hand on her shoulder.

"You worry too much. He's just a priest, from way out of town and probably fresh out of the seminar. At worst, we need to be careful around him as we are around most others."

Imelda hated to admit that maybe she was worrying too much, but... well, maybe she was worrying too much. She sighed, and nodded. "All right. But if you find out anything--"

"You'll be the first one to know," Sofía reassured her. "And if there is any reason to, we'll search his room. I think I know where I can find a spare key."

"Gustavo?"

"Gustavo the Disappointment. Though to be fair I was expecting little, so being let down wasn't a long drop."

Imelda's lips quirked upwards. "I believe I heard you saying never again, though."

That gained her a solemn nod. "I did. But if it's to get that key, so be it,” Sofía said, and gave a long sigh. “I did commit myself to a life of sacrifice, after all."

***

Ernesto hadn’t bothered to confess himself in a very, very long time.

Even when he had to, it had simply been… something he had to do. It wasn’t always easy, because apparently he was supposed to confess to wrongdoings - and he couldn’t think of any, he had good reasons for everything he did - or actions that he regretted, which was… rare.

For his first confession as a kid, prior to his first Communion, he’d flipped through the pages of a Bible and taken note of sins that sounded especially impressive: just because it was something he had to do, it didn’t mean he had to half-ass it. He wanted it to be memorable.

He hadn’t understood most of the words he’d read, and the priest inside the confessional had been quite confused to hear a nine-year-old confessing to fornication; much later on, Ernesto would muse he had simply been confessing his main sin ahead of time. Back then, he’d fixed everything by adding ‘and I just told lies’ at the end of the confession. He’d had to say hell knew how many Ave Maria for that, but at least he hadn’t made the confession boring to listen to. Like, say, the ones he was listening right now, sprawled on the amazingly uncomfortable wooden seat inside the confessional.

Miguel had been right: absolutely nothing of interest seemed to happen in that place.

“... And what’s worse, I have…” the whisper became fearful, getting up Ernesto’s hopes to hear something interesting. “I have lain with my husband, last night...”

Thunk.

“Padre? What was that?”

With his forehead resting against the wooden panel he’d let it drop against, Ernesto held back a sigh and a muttered ‘congratulations’. That was worse that the idiot who had confessed to stealing an apple, or another who envied the neighbor for his plump chickens. “Nothing, child. So, you slept. With your husband. Great. And...?”

“And… we did not… we didn’t do so in order to conceive. We know it is wrong, but we cannot afford another child!”

“That’s fair enough. How many children do you have?”

“Seven.”

“... It does sound like a good place to stop, yes.”

“I need your absolution, Padre.”

“What for? It’s your husband.”

“But we committed onanism!”

“That’s… what usually happens when it’s done right?”

“What?”

Oh, Ernesto thought, straightening himself. Wait. He quickly glanced down at the the piece of paper he’d scribbled his notes on, squinting. “Ah. Right. Onanism. That is concerning.”

The voice on the other side of the wooden panel turned anxious. “Can I have absolution?”

“Of course,” Ernesto muttered, turning the piece of paper on the other side. “Ego te absol--”

“No… no penance?”

Yes, start reciting the goddamn Holy Father and keep going until you die.

“... Say ten Hail Mary. Ego te absolvo a pa… pe… peccatis tuis in nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Next,” Ernesto sighed, rubbing his forehead as he heard the woman rising from her kneeling position outside the confessional. His head was really starting to hurt, so maybe he wouldn’t even need to lie about it later that day.Not that he planned to confess a thing either way.

After that confession nonsense was over with, he’d go out to have a walk. He needed to be out in the open again… and to check the quickest route out of that town, just in case.

***

“This… this is for me? Really?”

“Of course!”

“Made it ourselves!”

“Couldn’t make you keep using that old thing!”

“No offense, Cheech.”

“Please don’t chase us with a stick again.”

“Hmph. You can count yourselves lucky I just sat down.”

There was something oddly amusing in the protective way Cheech patted the old guitar on his knees, and if he’d looked Miguel would have seen Héctor - still sweaty and panting a bit, because pulling tombstones back upright was hard work - trying and failing to hold back a smile. But he wasn’t looking, all of his attention taken by the guitar Óscar and Felipe had just handed to him, white and shiny and with a skull motif on the head. It was the most beautiful thing Miguel had ever seen, let alone owned.

“You mean it? It’s mine?” he asked, his voice suddenly small, and looked up to see both twins grinning, clearly pleased with his reaction.

“Sure!”

“We said it, didn’t we?”

Miguel smiled, trying to ignore a sudden tightness in his throat. “Thank you! It’s… I just don’t know if they’ll allow me to keep it…” he muttered, barely daring to touch the strings. The sisters at the orphanage tended to frown upon personal possessions, saying it wasn’t fair for one child to have more than the others. But maybe, if he promised he'd let other children use it, and play it for them...

"Of course they won't," Felipe muttered, sounding almost offended.

"Imelda wouldn't let them," his brother added, causing Héctor to frown.

"Your sister is still a novice, chicos. She can't argue against a decision taken by one of the Sisters, or la Madre Superiora, any more than I could argue a decision by Padre Edm-- Ernesto."

"But she would," Felipe pointed out. That caused Héctor to smile a bit, a fond smile that he wasn't quick enough to smother.

"Oh, I know she would. That's exactly what worries me," he said, causing the boys to laugh a little and Chicharrón to scoff.

"Hmph. That is an argument I'd like to see," he muttered, throwing away the stick he'd been chewing on for his pet rooster to catch and, apparently, try to kill. Miguel was pretty sure Juanita wasn't right in the head. "Either way, these two pend--"

"Cheech," Héctor said, a bit warningly, but the old man waves a hand in dismissal.

"... These two are right. That guitar is yours. If those penguins--"

"Cheech."

"-- If the nuns try to take it from you, they're thieves," he finished, rolling his eyes at Héctor before looking at Miguel. "Just do as Héctor did when he was your age and leave the guitar with me, muchacho. I'll keep it at my place and you can come play it whenever you want. If anyone asks, it's mine."

"That's lying," Miguel pointed out, but he was already grinning from ear to ear, holding tightly onto the guitar. "Thanks, Cheech."

"Don't mention it. Better to hear your music than your whining when it's taken from you."

"Aww, he has a heart!"

"Soft as butter!"

".. Don't push it, kids," Cheech warned, but Óscar and Felipe just grinned before looking back at Miguel expectantly.

"Well, come on! Play us something!"

"Yes, we made it for a reason!"

"It probably needs tuning first, that is not our thing..."

It did need tuning, but Miguel took care of it quicky; when he gave a strum, the sound was perfect. For a moment he considered playing one of Héctor's songs - he wrote so many of them, he'd showed him his songbook once - but he knew he didn't like to let too many people know he wrote songs that were not about religion at all, so in the end he just went for something else entirely. There was that song he'd heard a couple of weeks ago from a few travellers, how did that go again...?"

"En el condado del Carmen Miren lo que ha sucedido Murió el Cherife Mayor Quedando Román herido"

"Otro día por la mañana Cuando la gente llegó Unos a los otros dicen: 'No saben quien lo mató'"

“Se anduvieron... anduvieron…” Miguel's voice faltered, the next line failing to show in his mind, his fingers stilling on the strings. For a moment he felt lost, that odd sense of utter confusion when something you should know escapes you for no reason - but then another voice rang out and yes, those were the right words.

"Se anduvieron informando Como tres horas después Supieron que el malhechor Era Gregorio Cortez!"

"Wha-- oh! Padre Ernesto!" Héctor exclaimed, quickly standing upright - he'd been leaning on a grave, which he wasn't supposed to be doing. Not that Padre Ernesto seemed to care.

"Brother Héctor. My apologies, I couldn't resist," he said brightly, leaning against the low dry stone between the cemetery and the path he must have been walking on.

“You can sing!” Miguel exclaimed in awe. They really had been sent the best possible priest. “I mean-- you sing so well!”

Ernesto smiled, looking almost giddy at the praise. "Gracias, niño. It’s been a while since last time I got to really sing. This is one of my favorites,” he said, climbing over the low wall to step in the cemetery. Miguel blinked up at him as he approached.

"You know this song?"

"Who doesn't? He-- er," Padre Ernesto paused, and seemed to hesitate, but then he shrugged and he was smiling again, like it was nothing. "It's a very popular song up north near the border, but it makes sense it's not heard as often here," he added, and glanced towards Chicharrón. "You’re the gravedigger, aren’t you? I don't believe we have me-- gah!"

With a sudden screech, Juanita threw himself at Padre Ernesto in a whirlwind of fury and feathers. Padre Ernesto hurriedly stepped back just as Héctor yelled - “No, Juanita!” - and launched himself to grab the rooster. Still sitting on his chair, Cheech raised an eyebrow.

“Juanita doesn’t like him,” he noted, sounding oddly solemn and ignoring the confused look Óscar and Felipe were exchanging. Miguel would have pointed out that the rooster didn’t seem to like anyone he didn’t know well, but his attention was taken by Héctor’s struggle to contain Juanita. He’d managed to grab the rooster, who didn’t seem pleased at all but wasn’t struggling as hard as Miguel knew he could to break free.

"Sorry! Juanita is not always like this. I mean, he's often like this. Just not always," Héctor was saying, causing Padre Ernesto to blink.

"Juanita?"

"Yes."

"But it's a roos--"

"We know. Cheech wouldn't change his mind, though," he added with a chuckle, and to Miguel's relief Padre Ernesto laughed, reaching up to smooth back his hair. There had been a lot of protests from people visiting the cemetery, claiming that Juanita had tried to attack them as they paid their respects. Padre Edmundo’s calming words were the only thing that had kept some of them from trying to turn Cheech’s pet into dinner. It was good to see the new parish priest wasn’t adding himself to the rooster’s long list of enemies.

“Cheech, this is Padre Ernesto,” Héctor said, thrusting Juanita in his arms a little more forcefully than it would have been necessary. The old man huffed, but reached to stroke his rooster’s head to calm him down before nodding towards the priest. He didn’t try to get up from the chair, but that could be excused due to his wooden leg… as long as you couldn’t guess that he simply didn’t want to stand up.

“Juanita doesn’t like you,” he repeated drily. A slightly annoyed expression crossed Padre Ernesto’s features just for a moment before he smiled and shrugged.

“Then it seems Juanito and I--”

“Juanita.”

“-- Shouldn’t come too close to each other for our mutual safety, then,” he said, his smile a little sharper, and turned his attention on the guitar in Miguel’s hands. “That’s a fine guitar.”

“Of course it is!” Felipe piped in, crossing his arms and puffing out his chest.

"We made it!" his brother echoed immediately.

"The best guitar we ever made!"

"Also the first guitar we ever made."

"Which still makes it the best, though."

“Right!”

Padre Ernesto laughed. “You did an impressive job, then. It sounded really good. And you’ve got some real talent there, muchacho,” he added, causing Miguel’s chest to swell with pride. Héctor had said that, too, but Héctor was always nice and encouraging to everyone even when they were terrible at things, and it made it hard to tell how real his praise was.

“Thank you! Can you teach me the rest of the song? I could only memorize the first part.”

“... You’re playing it by memory?” Padre Ernesto blurted out, blinking, and Héctor chuckled, reaching to ruffle Miguel’s hair.

“As you said, Padre, he’s got real talent,” he said. It was something he would have never said in front of Padre Edmundo, because he would have definitely muttered something on how he should be mindful not to feed a child’s pride, as it was a deadly sin and whatnot. Padre Ernesto, however, just nodded in agreement and held out a hand.

“Would you mind?” he asked, and Miguel’s eyes went huge. All fear that someone would take away his guitar seemed very far away; he knew, instinctively, what that was about.

“You can play, too?” Miguel asked, handing him the guitar. He took it with a wink.

“Some say it’s what I do best,” he said, and gave the guitar a strum. The sound put a smile back on his face. “Now, it’s been a while, but let me see. Brother Héctor, care to join…?”

***

Gustavo hated horses.

They stank, they tried to bite you or kick you or worse and they always, always made a mess; Padre Edmundo’s donkey had been so much easier to look after than the beast the new priest had come riding on. But looking after it now was among his duties, even though it was clear the horse wasn’t especially fond on him, either.

It followed that, as he walked back to the church, he wasn’t in a good mood. What did help, however, was hearing music and singing coming from the cemetery, because he recognized at least two the voices.

Insortaron a Cortez Por toditito el estado: "Vivo o muerto que se aprehenda Porque a varios ha matado!"

Well, now that was a good chance to knock Héctor down a notch or two.The darling of the parish, and the darling of the orphanage before then - who did he think he was? The cemetery wasn’t the right place to play music with that brat who kept following him around and the old gravedigger who kept refusing to die. Héctor was so clearly good for nothing, but Padre Edmundo had been entirely blind to that.

Well, now the parish was under new management. What an unwise move, letting himself be caught; it would make for a rather bad first impression with the new priest. Certainly Padre Ernesto would see things his way.

Decía Gregorio Cortez Con su pistola en la mano: "No siento haberlo matado Al que siento es a mi hermano"

Almost giddy with anticipation, Gustavo walked the few steps that separated him from the stone wall and leaned on it with a sneer. “Giving spectacle in the cemetery, brother Héctor, really? I wonder what Padre Ernesto is going to sa-- Padre Ernesto?”

Under his stunned gaze, Padre Ernesto looked back at him in mild confusion, a white guitar still in his arms, pausing mid-twirl. At either side of him, the little brat and Héctor - who was holding that old guitar made out of scraps - stared at him like hares before a coyote. The old man was scoffing, the the two boys whose names he kept forgetting snickered.

“Oh, Gustavo! Care to join in?” Padre Ernesto smiled.

Gustavo opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Ignored the way Miguel was beginning to smirk, ignored the smile beginning to tug at the corners of Héctor’s mouth, and took a step back. His eyes kept shifting from the priest to the guitar in his hands, and then back to him.

“No, I. Er. I was just here to… to…” A bell rang, and Gustavo recoiled. “To remind you that the afternoon mass will be in a hour,” he blurted out.

The smile on Padre Ernesto’s face faded like a blown-out candle. “Ah,” he said. “About… about that--”

“We need to go and get ready!” Miguel - who, for some reason, was the main altar boy despite being nothing but trouble - exclaimed, and took the white guitar from Padre Ernesto to hand it to Chicharrón before he took off running. “Come on, Héctor! See you in church, Padre!”

No running in the cemetery, Gustavo should have yelled, and he normally would have, but now he couldn’t quite find his voice. He just stared at their retreating backs, speechless, and didn’t notice Padre Ernesto glancing at the church as though staring at a hangman’s noose.

***

Everything was going fine.

Mass was about to begin, he barely remembered how it was supposed to start off, the purple robe for la Cuaresma was uncomfortably tight - "We'll get Ceci to fix it up," Miguel had said, like Ernesto would know who the hell that was - he generally had no idea what he was doing, and he was rather sure he was about to throw up. But other than that, all was well.

All right, all right. No need to panic. I've got this. I can do it.

"... Are you all right, Padre Ernesto?"

Ernesto looked at Miguel, all prim and proper in his altar boy clothing, and smiled brightly.

Oh God I can't do this.

“Never been better,” he said, and he sounded like he meant it. “Where’s Brother Héctor?”

“Oh, he plays the organ. He’s really good, hear that?”

He did, yes; he could hear the organ playing, and a chant he recognized - the entrance chant. So, time to go out there. Ernesto drew in a deep breath, nodded at Miguel, and stepped out of the sacristy. Just as he did, everyone stood.

The damn place was crowded despite it being a Saturday afternoon mass, likely because that entire damn town wanted to have a look at their new priest; in different circumstances, Ernesto would have appreciated being at the center of attention. Now he could only focus on moving towards the altar, trying to look at no one at all, and the short walk seemed to last hours as he tried to remember what the priest always did at the beginning of mass.

He bowed to the altar, right? Right. And kissed it. And I think he incensed it and the cross. Miguel has incense, that has got to be it. All right. I got this.

He went through the motions mechanically, very nearly spilling the burning incense on the altar and on the Bible - in Latin, so entirely useless to him - but thankfully completing the task without incidents. He handed it back to Miguel, stared up at the cross, and swallowed. What was it that the priest always did no-- oh, wait. Right. He remembered that, at least.

Slowly, Ernesto crossed himself, knowing that behind him everyone else was doing the same. He spoke staring at the cross, trying to keep his voice firm. It came surprisingly easy, considering that he was beginning to regret not letting the army hang him.

"In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti," he said loudly.

"Amen," everyone spoke as one behind him. So far, so good. Shame that he had absolutely no clue how to go on. He should have paid attention at Sunday school.

Ernesto looked down at the Bible, hoping to find a clue there, but absolutely not a single word made the slightest amount of sense to him. He uselessly scanned the pages, and he let his expression slip into panic for a moment, forgetting that he had his back turned to most of those present, yes, but not to all of them - and he completely missed the wide-eyed look Miguel was giving him. In the end, he set his jaw. What the hell, he would just do it his way, and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, he’d run for the back door.

“Brothers and sisters,” he said, turning and putting on his best smile. “Let me say it is a honor to be here with you all."

His words caused the parishioners to recoil, clearly taken aback. It was not how a mass was supposed to go - the priest, Ernesto knew, babbled in Latin with his back turned to everyone else almost all the time, turned around to administer the Eucharist, and then went back staring at the cross and babbling in Latin until it was over. Hopefully, they’d enjoy a change.

"I would like to once again extend my condolences for the loss of Padre Edmundo," he went on. His gaze wandered left, past a group of slightly confused nuns to Héctor, who still sat at the organ. "Let's... let's have a minute of silence to pray for him, sí?" Ernesto added, and bowed his head, hands joined. He shot a quick glance around to see that everyone was doing the same, a couple of people on the front rows wiping their eyes before doing so.

The change of pace had probably taken them aback, but if he played his cards right he could make it through that without raising too much suspicion - just a young, new priest from out of town breaking the mold for his very first mass there. They could think him eccentric, perhaps, but that wouldn’t be a problem, at least in the short term… and he had no intention to stay any longer than he had to.

With a deep breath Ernesto looked up, unclasped his hands, smiled, and began talking. And kept talking. He was good at it, and no one interrupted him, no one argued. Little by little, he found he didn’t have to fake confidence anymore. All was well.

As long as no one saw through his act, he’d be fine.

***

For several moments, Miguel could only stare at Padre Ernesto in stunned silence.

He was talking about God now, suggesting that they had the choir sing again because ‘he who sings prays twice’ - a quote from a saint, though now Miguel couldn’t remember which one - and he sounded really confident, convincing, and charming. Everyone in the church was listening intently, clearly surprised by the change from the usual liturgy but going along because, well, the priest would know.

Except that the man standing before him - the man who had saved him from drowning, agreed not to tell as much to anyone else and just taught him a song - was not a priest. He simply couldn’t be. No one else knew because they hadn’t stood where he stood now, they hadn’t seen the look on his face as he stared at the Bible... but Miguel had. He knew.

‘Padre’ Ernesto could swim, he could ride, he could sing and play and who knew what else, but he didn’t know a single word of Latin.

***

Father John Johnson found himself staring at the mass - no, the mess - unfolding before his eyes, speechless.

It had been a long journey to Santa Cecilia, as he'd been warned, but with God at his side he'd made it there unscathed. Tired, yes, and hungry and thirsty and burned by the sun, but he accepted it all gladly - especially on Lent. Jesus Christ had suffered far worse while fasting forty days in the desert; he could endure some discomfort as he carried out his mission to teach those people proper Catholicism, to free them of their ridiculous superstition and stomp out the pagan... rites they kept trying to mix with the Church's teachings.

He'd been travelling for the better part of a year now, going from town to town, from parish to parish, to that end. He wasn't always welcomed, but then again neither was Christ. He would endure, preach to those who’d listen, and carry on as every Jesuit should - prove he was worthy of the cloth he wore.

He was in the right. He could not be led astray, or frightened into giving up his mission; he wasn’t afraid of putting his life on the line. Salvation does not come for free, after all, and he would pay the highest price if need be.

Todo modo para buscar la voluntad divina.

When he'd arrived in town, there had been few people in the streets. Most were in church for the first mass by their new parish priest, a man had told him while glancing curiously at his blond hair and pale complexion; that was how John had learned that the priest he'd written to and was supposed to meet, Father Edmund, had died, and that one Father Ernest had just arrived to replace him. John had nodded, and murmured a silent prayer for him before he'd continued towards the church, following the directions.

Even though he usually stuck out like a sore thumb, his arrival had gone unnoticed; when he’d silently stepped inside the church to go stand in a corner, not one head had turned towards him. Everyone was staring, as though transfixed, at the priest… who was currently giving his back to the cross. And leaning on the altar with one elbow as though he was simply having a pleasant chat about God. Which, really, was exactly what he was doing.

In Spanish.

Good God, that was worse than any other place he’d visited. Even though those people kept insisting on mixing paganism with Catholicism in the most distasteful ways, at least the other parishes had known how to hold a proper mass. It seemed that he’d arrived just on time to help the people in that town; God had been wise to guide him there. There would be a lot of work to do, but all well worth it and desperately needed.

As that mockery of a function continued, John tiredly closed his eyes and allowed himself a long sigh, a hand reaching beneath his cassock where, in an internal pocket, he kept his Bible. He brushed his thumb on the worn-out cover, tilted back his head and opened his eyes, staring at a painting of Jesus Christ ascending to Heaven right behind the altar.

Lend me strength, he thought, not knowing just how many times he'd find himself repeating that plea in the weeks to come.

***

[Back to Part 2]

[On to Part 4]

#pixar coco #miguel rivera #ernesto de la cruz #hector rivera #imelda rivera #coco #fake priest au

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avengers-nextgen · 6 years

Text

Prometheus V (Part I)

The kids weren’t active in battle, but that didn’t stop their enemy from finding a way to attack them. He invaded their dreams like a disease. It was rare any of the kids made it through the night without waking up in a cold sweat. What’s more, he knew how to tempt them. He knew their deepest desires like the back of his hand, and it was frightening.

Poor Enzo was taking it the worst, and he’d practically been glued to Alex’s side since the first nightmare. He’d even begun sleeping in her room at night, and when he couldn’t-he slept in James’.

Enzo wasn’t the only one displaced at night. Thalia, who was normally a sound sleeper, was finding it increasingly difficult to shut everything out. The nightmares were driving her mad, and the only way she had any decent sleep at all was by slinking into Siyanda’s room and climbing into bed with her.

Chloe wasn’t much help when it came to Penny’s nightmares, and Penny wasn’t much help for Chloe’s either. It often resulted in mild arguments when Penny was too frightened to sleep with the lights off. She grew so frustrated she moved to sleep on Arthur’s floor half the time. He just gave up on keeping his door locked most of the time.

As for Scout, he wasn’t just troubled by his own dreams-he had to worry about Orion’s as well. His powers were stronger when it came to people he was attached too, and he often saw exaclty what was going on in his boyfriend’s head. It was troublesome. Thankfully, Orion had Scout, and he had his music to find comfort in. Normally, Groot would rock him to sleep-something he pretended to hate-but there was never any persuading the tree even if Orion was well too old for such things.

But the effects weren’t just nightmares. Sometimes the kids were caught staring off into space, being oddly skittish, or even more irritable.

— — —

Chloe had been washing dishes at the kitchen sink when she recalled the events in her dream. Reliving the car accident every night was beginning to wear on her. She set aside the plate from her lunch to be dried later when her thoughts began to wander.

“So how much time until curfew?” Ethan asked, not wanting to take his eyes off the road.

“Ethan, stop worrying.” Chloe laughed, “We’re an hour early! My Dad’s not going to kill you like he says he is.”

“Doesn’t mean he doesn’t scare me,” Ethan winked, glancing over his shoulder to switch lanes. “So, about that notebook of yours. You should seriously consider publishing your works.”

“No.” Chloe shook her head vigorously.

“Oh come on. You can’t be afraid of the critics. Everyone has them. Besides, what’s not to love about you or your writing?” Ethan smiled.

“It’s not the critics I worry about. It’s just, it’s not something people can really make a living at. Not to mention there’s so many great authors already. There’s no way I’ll ever be able to live up to them. Besides, no one even reads poems or short stories anymore.”

“I feel offended. I read them!” Ethan scoffed, feigning hurt.

“Ethan!” Chloe laughed. “You know what I mean!”

“And you know what I mean,” He glanced at her briefly with a look of sincerity, “you have a gift, and I’ll be damned if it goes to waste.”

“I’ll think on it,” Chloe sighed, resting a hand on his knee. Not wanting to take one of Ethan’s hands off the wheel.

“That’s all I ask for,” Ethan smiled proudly, “and I only have one condition.”

“Yeah?” Chloe snorted, arching a brow. Her eyes caught sight of something bright on the road, and her brain barely registered what it was.

“Whatever it is you publish, I have to be the first one to read it.” Ethan caught onto the weird light shortly after Chloe had. They both came to the same conclusion at the same time, and before she could react Ethan threw his arm out across her chest just as the impact happened.

“Woah!” Chloe snapped back to her reality at the panicked response. She glanced down to see the water steaming hot, and running over her hands. How long had she been standing there? Nathaniel practically leapt the counter to shut the water off. “What the-look at your hands.”

“Sorry, I zoned out.” Chloe winced, looking at the raw flesh.

“First Fox and now you?” Nathaniel sighed, “someone’s going to die if I’m not always paying attention and getting in the way.”

Chloe winced, not from the pain of her hands, but from his remarks. They were too similar to what had happened. “Do you know where Arthur is?”

“Yeah, he’s keeping an eye on Penny and Enzo.” Nathaniel scanned the room as if he were looking for anyone else in mild danger.

“Great, thanks.” Chloe fled the kitchen in a rush. Her heart was hammering. She hadn’t zoned out like that in ages. Why now?

— — —

“You can’t keep sleeping on my floor,” Arthur insisted, “and you can’t keep sleeping on Alex and James’ floors!”

“Well I’m sorry,” Enzo huffed, “next time I’ll just get in bed with you!”

“You’re too tall and lanky.” Arthur argued.

“Then what do you suggest?” Enzo sighed. “I don’t like this. It makes me miss my home and my dog and my mom.”

“It’s a shitty thing for everyone Enzo. No one’s having fun with this.” Arthur frowned.

“Well I don’t see you having nightmares.” Enzo pouted.

“That’s because I’ve experienced it enough to shut it out.”

“What do you mean?” Penny asked. Enzo nodded in agreement.

“Nothing, just-I can at least get you guys sleeping bags or something.” Arthur shrugged.

“Works for me.” Enzo nodded. “I’m uh... gonna go do something not shady or conspicuous at all.”

“If you’re going to see your sister you can just say that you know?” Penny laughed. Enzo rolled his eyes and left them behind. “And for you, what exaclty did you mean?”

“What I said.” Arthur shrugged.

“Don’t shrug,” Penny shrugged excessively, “at me.”

“Well, everyone’s handling an experience that changed who they were as a person. So that’s mine.” Arthur sighed, running a hand down his face. “I used to have a boyfriend.”

“No way!” Penny grinned, “what was he like? Was he awesome? Cool? Hot?”

“He was a dick.” Arthur replied flatly.

“Oh.” Penny’s smile immediately vanished.

“It was before I was like this,” Arthur gestured at himself, “we’d been dating and I felt bad keeping what I was feeling a secret. I told him I was a boy, and a lot of hell ensued after that.”

“Oh,” Penny nodded, “I’m sorry. That must have been awful, but I understand.”

“You do?” Arthur asked in surprise.

“Yeah.” Penny smiled faintly. “Lots of bad relationships here.”

“Oh,” Arthur nodded, “how so?”

“Just guys being guys. You know, the usual date a girl then dump her.” Penny explained with a flippant wave of the hand. She busied herself by twiddling her thumbs as the conversation died down. In Arthur’s defense the conversation had brought up one of his worst memories.

“Listen, you’re just confused.” Caden insisted.

“I’m not confused,” Arthur frowned shaking his head, “I know who I am.”

“Yeah, you’re Arlie. Everyone knows that.”

“I’m Arthur.”

“You can be a Tomboy without being an actual boy Arlie. It’s not-I don’t get it. I. Don’t get any of this. How can you tell me you’ve always felt this way? Like what about when you were a baby?” Caden snorted.

“That’s different! No one knows who they are as a baby!” Arthur glowered, “Just try and see things from my perspective for once. I want you to understand, I do, and I get it if this is hard for you, but I couldn’t lie to you anymore.”

“So this is your version of honesty?” Caden arched a brow.

“I’ve always been honest.”

“Right, which is why I’ve been dating you for how long now? Only I’m just hearing about this now?” Caden crossed his arms and took a step forward.

“I care about you. That’s why I told you, but I don’t like how you’re acting.” Arthur stammered, “If you want to break up I’m okay with that. I’d understand.”

“It’s not just about you Arlie. My reputation is ruined now. What am I supposed to tell people? Oh, I broke up with my girlfriend because she thinks she’s a man.” Caden puffed out his chest and pantomimed the conversation.

“You’re being insensitive.”

“Am I now?” He laughed. “You know what? We’ll finish this conversation later. We’re at school and I’m not about to let everyone overhear what sort of delusions you’ve got going on.”

Arthur recoiled as Caden roughly tapped his index finger against Arthur’s temple.

“Hey!” Arthur jumped nearly a foot in the air and glanced over his shoulder to see a furious Ethan storm over, “You keep your hands hands off of him.”

“I didn’t do anything.” Caden argued.

“Yeah you did,” Ethan glared copying the gesture Caden had done to Arthur, “prick.”

In two seconds flat the boys were swinging at each other. Ethan pinned Caden to the ground and the fight went on from there.

“Ethan stop,” Arthur grabbed the other boy by the collar and tried to tug him away from the fight, “stop. You’re going to get expelled.”

“I don’t care,” Ethan’s breath was ragged from effort as he punched Caden twice more in the face, “this idiot needs to learn that you respect people! I’m not letting some jerk walk all over you!”

“He beat the shit out of him,” Arthur laughed to himself, earning a curious look from Penny. After a moment of hesitation he decided to tell her what he’d remembered.

“He sounds like a really good friend. What happened to him?” Penny asked gently.

“He-he died in an accident. He saved my sister.” Arthur swallowed tightly. “Put his arm in the way of the air bag, but it opened him up and he got hit wrong. His neck broke on impact. It was a stupid drunk driver.”

“I guess that explains why Chloe’s so...” Penny couldn’t find the right words, “Chloe.”

“Yeah, just go easy on her. You’ve got a strong personality-not that it’s a bad thing. I find it awesome-but sometimes it may be too much.” Arthur stammered.

“Of course.” Penny smiled.

#avengers #avengers next gen #marvel #black widow #captain america #mcu #natasha romanoff #pepper potts #romanogers #scarlet witch #prometheus

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valiantqueensoul · 3 years

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10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Courses

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Programs

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Reliaslearning

Mavraac is amongst one of the best corporate training companies in the NCR region - Delhi, Gurgaon, Noida (India) with certified trainers for behavioural skills training, outbound training, team building workshops, leadership development programs and employee engagement workshops. Feedback for the Mock Behavior Analysis Exam: Feedback for the Mock Behavior Analysis Exam is provided by content area, not by individual questions. You will receive a percentage score for each content area only. This ensures that individuals focus on specific content areas for review, instead of specific questions. A complete skills training manual for DBT with adolescents, focused on practical application for teens, parents and therapists. Part One covers DBT for teens with comprehensive and age-relevant skills explanations, examples, and applied worksheets. Behavioural Training is an extremely important element of all corporate training programs for companies as globally it is recognized in inculcating the right attitude in their employees. 'If you want to change attitudes, start with a change in behaviour', says Dr. William Glasser who is the great psychiatrist from the US.

Having someone watch you closely, as you perform what is asked of you, can seem daunting and intimidating...but it doesn’t have to be. Compiled are my top 5 tips to nailing every PT practical and getting one step closer to becoming a physical therapist.

1. Maximize your time

It’s incredibly tempting to mentally check out during PT school, especially when you’ve had back to back 2-hour classes since 7am, plus you're running on an empty stomach. Fight the urge, because the majority of learning occurs during classes and labs. Additionally, if mock practicals are offered, take them! This is the most important piece of advice I can give from this article. A mock PT practical provides you the chance to see exactly what is expected of you and how grading works. More importantly, the feedback the professors give you is invaluable. Therefore, when it comes time for the actual practical, you’ll have refined your skills to get good marks.

2. Visualize success

Visualization is one aspect to preparation that will increase your chances of nailing your PT practical, yet doesn't require finding a study/practice partner. Professional sports athletes have used the power of visualization to increase their performance. It may seem a bit new age for some of you, but visualizing every aspect of the practical helps me reduce stress and better prepares me to perform well.

Truly visualize everything you expect to see.

How do you see yourself performing?

Who else is in the room with you?

What can you smell?

What steps do you plan on doing in successful sequence?

What are you saying?

What can you hear your grader instructing you to do?

All of these thoughts are in my mind as I do busy work, such as washing the dishes or taking a shower. This kind of practice can occur outside of the test setting, and will help you prepare for almost any situation you can create in your mind. (Editor's note: Visualization is definitely helpful. I used this technique throughout PT school, and it truly saved my hide on several occasions when I procrastinated prepping for a practical!)

3. Collaborate

I had a professor once tell me, “you don’t know what you don’t know.' Aside from the profound deep philosophical wisdom bomb being dropped, the truth is, you only know as much as you think you know. Working with other people who have different ways of doing things or have questions you haven't even considered, will expose you to what you don’t know. This new knowledge and insight into different paths of problem solving are where a lot of learning can occur.

Even if you're a solo studier, carve out some time before each practical to discuss things with your classmates. You may find that they gleaned some crucial info in class that you missed while you were taking notes.

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Courses

4. Picture perfect

All the hours of practice should equate to being able to create a quick mental image to any of the techniques you are expected to know. If something doesn’t come to mind within 5 seconds, you need more practice.

Consider how you'll be tested. Does your professor verbally read a test? Do you pick a card from a table? Practice every possible method with all the techniques you learned in class. Simply practice selecting the card or hearing the test stated out loud. You'll be more prepared for the moment of truth, if you've practiced that stress-inducing moment ahead of time.

The worst thing you could do during a practical is to be under prepared pick the wrong test, use the wrong direction of force, or make any other mistake where it's an automatic fail. Take a step back, see it in your mind, then go perform it.

5. Stress management

How do you manage your stress? This questions is commonly asked in job interviews, and may even have been asked of you while applying to PT school. This is a great question to get insight into how you plan to keep stress at bay. It is easy to caught up in what feels like chaos while you are in the moment. Stress can be your friend or your enemy depending on how you manage it. Not to fear! I’ve adopted a technique used by Navy SEALs (Can you imagine a more stressful job? It's literally a life or death situation everyday they are out on the field!)

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Programs

The technique is simply called 4x4. All you have to do, when you’re feeling stressed out, is inhale for 4 seconds, hold for 1, and exhale for 4 seconds. Do that 4 times and you’ll notice your heart rate going down. Now this may not calm you down fully, but it does give you enough stress relief to perform without stress impeding on your performance.

10 Practical Ex Pt 2dialectical Behavioral Training Reliaslearning

So for your next big MSK or neuro practical, try these 5 techniques. See what works for you and what doesn't, but 1 thing is for sure, if you find a routine that works for you, I'm sure you will nail your next PT practical.

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razieltwelve · 7 years

Text

Combat Pairing Analysis: Yang and Neo (Final Rose)

Although they are not members of the same team, for some reason or another, Yang and Neo frequently find themselves going off on missions together, either just the two of them or with their teams. What Yang doesn’t know is that Neo is the one largely responsible for this. After all, she does know someone who has access to all of the security backdoors of the Beacon Senior Academy’s computer systems (Diana), so rejigging mission assignments isn’t that hard.

Nevertheless such actions would never be tolerated by the person in charge of computer security at Beacon Senior Academy (Vanille) if they weren’t also beneficial. As it turns out, Yang and Neo have highly complementary fighting styles. To make things more interesting, I’ll be talking about what they will eventually be able to do together.

Yang

Yang is essentially a sledgehammer/tank.

She is capable of taking massive amounts of damage both due to her Semblance and her large Aura reserves. By the time she reaches the peak of her powers, she will be one of the few people in the world to possess a SSS ranking in Aura capacity. That means she will have higher Aura reserves than even Averia (until Averia transforms) In fact, the only two people with significantly higher Aura capacity than her are Elsa and Diana (even without transforming, bearers of Ragnarok possess stupidly huge amounts of Aura and Elsa possesses the highest Aura capacity of any non-transforming character in Final Rose).

To put this into perspective, at full Aura capacity, Yang has more Aura than the rest of her team combined. Admittedly, Weiss has fairly small reserves (relatively speaking), but neither Ruby nor Blake are slouches in that department. That said, although Elsa and Diana stand out as the two people form her generation with significantly higher Aura capacities, there are people with comparable capacity (e.g., Claire, Korra, Pyrrha, and Jaune).

What makes Yang scarier than a lot of people with comparable capacity is that her Aura regeneration rate will also be incredible once she reaches the peak of her powers. That combined with her capacity, makes engaging her in a battle of attrition pretty much pointless.

All of this is reflected in Yang’s eventual fighting style. With the control she will achieve over her Semblance, she will be able to focus her damage absorption ability into a much smaller area temporarily, allowing her to weather blows that would previously have seriously injured her. It will also allow her to do cool things like grab knives in her bare hands. Basically, if she can see a blow coming and predict where it will land, she can greatly nullify its impact while increasing her own strength.

This means that Yang’s future fighting style aims to close the distance as quickly and directly as possible, using her Semblance to negate any attempts to keep her at bay. Once engaged in close quarter combat, the extent to which she can enhance her blows with her Semblance and Aura ensures that even a single clean strike can cause tremendous damage. However, rather than swinging for the fences all the time, in the future, Yang will have learned the value of patience (it’s more like she’ll have it pummelled into her through sparring opponents she can’t hit easily at all) and technique, allowing her to fight much more intelligently, setting her opponents up and counterattacking when she can, to maximise her chances of landing the blow or two she needs to end most fights.

Neo

Neo is in many ways a glass cannon. She has excellent control over her Aura and the ability to output a large amount of it extremely rapidly. This means that although she can’t enhance every single blow to the extent someone like Yang can, she can supercharge a single blow to the point that even someone like Yang could be seriously injured, possibly even killed by it. As an aside, this is actually how Vanille fights if she’s forced to fight unarmed at close range.

In contrast to the damage she can dish out even unarmed (and she’s even deadlier if she uses her weapon’s blade), she is relatively fragile. She has a reasonable Aura capacity, but much like Weiss, what makes her so dangerous is her fantastic control of it and how versatile and deadly her Semblance can be. More importantly, her small size and Semblance do not lend themselves to getting hit a lot the way someone like Yang can be.

As befits someone of her stature and offensive firepower, Neo’s approach to combat emphasises speed, agility, and technique. In terms of pure skill, there are few who can match her prowess in hand-to-hand combat, and she will often win her fights by simply evading or parrying her opponent’s strikes until she sees an opening and strikes, using a pinpoint attack enhanced to an incredible degree to end the fight in a single blow.

Her Semblance bolsters her fighting style. Much like Jahne (from Team ACEJ), Neo is already very adept at using illusions to confuse and befuddle the enemy, which will give her plenty of chances to land a decisive strike. As she gets older, she will only become better at this, meaning that any fight with Neo will often revolve around whether or not the opponent can see through her illusions before she can end the fight. Most of the time, the answer will be no, and even if they can see through her illusions, Neo’s skills will make any fight quite hard.

Fighting as a Pair

Both Neo and Yang possess enough firepower to end a fight in only a handful of blows (often less). The question thus becomes: what is the best way for them to land these blows?

When fighting together, their default plan will be for Yang to simply engage the enemy in as frantic and attention-grabbing a manner as possible. This works perfectly well since it’s how Yang naturally fights. With the enemy’s attention drawn to Yang, it will be incredibly easy for Neo to use her illusions to swing the fight in Yang’s favour, giving the blonde openings that would not otherwise be there. Furthermore, if the opponent focuses on Yang, Neo will be ideally situated to land her own attacks, catching the opponent off guard or simply overwhelming them with her speed and agility before they can adjust to the sudden change in opponents.

If the opponent tries to go after Neo, they risk turning their backs on Yang, which is a terrible, terrible idea. Likewise, ignoring Neo leaves them vulnerable to illusions and the possibility of the shorter woman taking on the role of assassin, striking swiftly and decisively the moment an opening appears.

In many ways, Neo can also alleviate some of Yang’s weaknesses. Her illusions can help make it difficult for a faster opponent to take advantage of Yang in close combat, as well as make it more difficult for long-range attackers to land blows. Likewise, Yang’s toughness allows her to act as a shield of sorts for Neo, allowing the shorter woman to control the pace of battle and use her keen analytical abilities to help devise a plan of attack.

The worst possible matchup for a pair like Neo and Yang is someone who possesses the ability to attack vast areas from long range, negating the usefulness of Neo’s Semblance while also allowing Yang to get picked off before she can close in for combat. Someone like Elsa fits this role nicely although Weiss will eventually become an absolute monster at long-range and mid-range combat due to her refinement of her Semblance and Dust techniques (short-range is a different story, which is where the rest of her team comes in). Arguably their most interesting matchup would be against Jahne and Claire due to the similarities in strategy both pairs would use. The worst possible matchup for them from their own generation would be against Elsa and Averia.

X X X

Author’s Notes

Someone asked about Yang and Neo fighting together, so here is a quick analysis.

Let me know who else you’d like me to analyse (it can be an individual, a pair, or even a team).

P. S. My favourite analysis would be of Fang and Vanille fighting as a pair. Imagine fighting Ragnarok when everything that can possibly go wrong is going wrong. Your weapon jams. Your shoelaces come undone. Your sweat gets in your eyes. And Vanille just smiles while Fang transforms and murders you. Lucky Fox and World-ending Monster… a potent combination.

#final rose #fanfiction #neopolitan #yang xiao long

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ryttu3k · 7 years

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For the ask meme: Sycamore for 3, 6, 7, 12, 14, 19, 28, 30, 33, 34, 45, 49!

Oh boy howdy let’s go :D These will generally be for both gameverse and animeverse versions, although where they diverge, I’ll note it down.

3. Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

Just working at the lab is pretty good exercise! Looking after the Pokemon in the enclosure and running around after them, giving squirming baby starters their check-ups, meeting up with students - he doesn’t have an official exercise regime or anything, but does plenty of running around just in his everyday life.

6. Eating habits and sample daily menu

Vegetarian, although that’s very much the norm in my headcanon Pokeverse. His eating habits are best described as ‘holy shit dude how are you not malnourished’, since when he gets right into working, he pretty much subsides on pastries and coffee, aside from when friends/family/concerned coworkers actually get him something with actual vitamins and minerals that aren’t caffeine and go “EAT THE FUCKING HEALTHY FOOD, AUGUSTINE” and stare at him intently until he shows a bit of self-care. …Ahem. If he was to go out for dinner or something, he prefers comfortable, homey dishes like ratatouille and minestrone and green salads and some nice crusty bread, nothing super fancy. He is a bit pickier with his coffee, though, and has pretty refined tastes there.

7. Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Drawing. He’s a natural doodler. Given a few spare minutes, out come the pencils, drawing everything from still-lifes of his surroundings, to Pokemon, to people and landscapes from memory. He does tend to feel guilty about wasting time, though, and will generally tell himself off and make himself get back to work. Animeverse version also enjoys TV, including watching performances. (Great use of lab equipment there guys A+.)

Putting the rest under a cut, it’s getting long ;D

12. Favorite book genre?

Very much with escapism, he’s pretty fond of fantasy, when he’s reading for pleasure. It’s pretty rare these days, but he enjoys it a lot just as an escape from everything else, and there’ll often be a novel at the bottom of his bag.

14. Physical abnormalities differences? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

So if we’re including disabilities, then technically Aspergers and ADHD comes under this? So, comorbid Aspergers and ADHD, yeah, although they’re much more just… neurotypes rather than disabilities.

On an actual illness note, for the gameverse version, he also has depression, anxiety, and is prone to insomnia, so general health issues resulting from not enough sleep and a fairly shoddy diet. Medication-wise, he takes an antidepressant for it, something Diantha encouraged after everything with Lysandre.

The animeverse version doesn’t seem to have the same depression and anxiety issues, I feel? He’s still autistic and has ADHD, but basically has his life together more. Still kind of prone to overworking, weird sleeping patterns, and not eating as well as he should, but not quite as badly as gameverse.

19. What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

For both versions, work work work, lots of thinking about work. Gameverse version tends to have a lot of dark/sad/upsetting/guilty thoughts about everything with Lysandre, which, honestly, is a big part of his insomnia. Animeverse version had a lot of trouble sleeping through stress after the Flare incident, mostly in the form of guilt about not realising what was going on with Alain sooner, but that’s slowly working out, especially since he knows that Alain is sleeping comfortably in the next bedroom.

28. Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Best friend is Diantha, and that’s true whether they’re twins (gameverse) or unrelated (animeverse)! Although her career does tend to mean she’s pretty busy, they get together as often as they can and just. Hang out. In animeverse, Meyer is also one of his closest friends as well as his partner.

Worst enemy is… uh, in gameverse, it’s basically himself :| Lots of guilt over Lysandre. In animeverse, it actually is Lysandre and his only regret is not being able to punch the fucker in the face in person for everything he did to Alain.

30. Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

Gameverse, he canonically does the whole “:) :) :) Nothing is wrong :) :) :)” thing. Like the Couriway scene, he starts out pretty flat and sad, using a lot of ellipses, generally subdued body language, actually turning away from the protag. Within seconds, he’s all smiles and energy and !!! again, so basically suppress, suppress, suppress, and fall apart when there’s no one else around.

Animeverse strikes me as being more emotionally honest and proactive? Like gameverse did make moves to stop Lysandre from behind the scenes, but animeverse, when Gabby was stolen, actively and immediately went out to find her and like. Flung himself down a cliff to defend her! He acts quicker and actually shows much more honest expressions - when he’s angry with the Rockets, it shows, when he’s scared, it shows. So I feel animeverse would react to intrapersonal disaster by actually reaching out to people and not bottling everything up (unless he’s trying to keep a strong face for someone else, like Alain or the kids).

33. Concept of home and family?

Family and home are basically synonymous! I see him having a pretty good relationship with his biological family (gameverse Diantha, Auntie Drasna, parents, et cetera), but also others becoming part of family of choice. Best example, of course, is in animeverse, with Alain, who is definitely his son, and his relationship with Meyer, and Clemont and Bonnie becoming his stepkids (and he’s already great with Bonnie even before that, like lifting her up to pet Gabby in the second episode!), and he’s sort of adopted all his other students too, especially Manon (protective Papa Wolf Sycamore defending Manon from the Flare grunt was SO GOOD). Whoops, he’s acquired another child :’)

Gameverse version pretty much adopts all his students too, although since they seem to be older than in gameverse, the dynamic can sometimes be more like a mentor and protege than a parent and a younger child. Sina and Dexio, for instance, are more like grown-up offspring - he’s still protective and proud of them, but also trusts them more to be independent. He’d have quite a different dynamic with 10-year-old Serena (a child, he’s protective of her, is proud and encouraging of her, and basically looks after her during the Flare crisis) than he would of 17-year-old Serena (still protective, proud, and encouraging, but he knows she’s much more capable of taking care of herself, and sees her more as a protege or apprentice than a dependent).

34. Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

Private, definitely, although he’d basically joke about TMI without actually like… revealing actual things. So he’d basically deflect attention with masks and jokes, because he doesn’t want to worry people, or he doesn’t think it’s anyone’s business, stuff like that.

45. Superstitions or views on the occult?

So I always get stuck on this question for the Pokeverse because they have like. Actual canonical Ghost-types and various Gods and stuff like that, haha. Ghost-types definitely exist! Ghosts of Pokemon and people, probably, there’s been reputable sightings. Also, frankly, the Paris/Lumiose underground is probably A Mess thanks to the catacombs, I bet they’re packed with Ghost-types and. Actual ghosts. Probably more ‘it could definitely happen but haven’t personally encountered them’ for the actual ghosts. Superstition-wise, I bet there’s a ton related to the legendaries, and I’d bet the ones relating to Zygarde become a whole lot more interesting for animeverse version now that he’s actually met them! “Oh, yes, the deity of the balance between life and death? Yeah, swabbed the little one, they didn’t seem too pleased. My stepdaughter carried them around in her little bag. Cool li’l bean. Well. Big bean.”

This question becomes really funny for my Xerneas!Sycamore, incidentally.

49. If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

OPERATION HIDE BEHIND THE GARCHOMP. …Okay no he does grab that Flare grunt but, uh, that wasn’t really a fist fight, and he was still pretty quick to get Gabby out, haha. He’s, um, not formidable. (Gameverse is basically the same except it’s OPERATION HIDE BEHIND THE CHARIZARD or something XD )

AND DONE.

#pokemon #memes #professor sycamore #long post #whew!

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puckish-saint · 7 years

Note

hey how about a hanzo, genji, s76, mcree s/o who is a writter and they found one of the manuscripts (on the pc or on a paper sheet up to you) but they confuse it with a suicide letter and latter they ask their s/o what is that(because they never read their books because time) so how they deal with the situation (fun fact it actually happend with me now it take time to convince my mother that was not a suicide letter...) actually it bonus if they s/o say it "you should see my browsing history"

Hanzo

He has written his share of suicidenotes. Most of them were addressed to Genji, whom he thought dead. Heasked for forgiveness, promised that with his death he would makethings right again. To atone for leaving his family when he killedGenji for wanting to do the same.

He lost each letter at some pointduring his run. Deliberately destroyed, sometimes, but most just leftbehind when he had to pack up quick and move.

Writing a suicide letter, he finds, ismuch more freeing than finding one.

His eyes are stuck on the first line,when you read this I’ll no longer live, and he can’t go on,afraid of what he will find, afraid that it’s true, he already istoo late and there’s nothing he can do.He drops the letter andruns. Runs towards your room as fast as he can, pushes aside Lena whoshouts something after him he doesn’t stop to decipher.

You so rarely use your own room thesedays, only to write in peace, but even that you do, more often thannot, in his quiet company. You were content in those moments hethought, but he must have thought wrong and what if he finds youalready dead, he can’t go on without you, he’ll follow you if itmeans-

You’re not dead. You are moving aboutyour room, lifting books, peering under the table and bed, searchingfor something.

“Oh, hey.” you say when you spothim, smiling still when he crosses the distance between you and pullsyou into his arms.

“Hanzo?” you say, patting his backawkwardly. “What’s wrong?”

“I should be asking you that.” Heclings tighter to you, as if he’s afraid you’ll snap your ownneck the moment he lets go. “All this time I burdened you with mysorrows and never realised how you felt. I- I’m so sorry, my love,please let me make it up to you. Give me a chance to helpyou.”Narrowing your eyes you go through everything thathappened lately. Nothing explains Hanzo’s little speech.

“Love.” you say, putting somedistance between you to look him in the eye. “I have no idea whatyou’re talking about.”“The letter of course. Your note, youwanting to-”He can’t finish the sentence, can’t put intowords what has been his worst nightmare from the day he fell in lovewith you. “What letter? Do you mean the- oh! You found it!Thank God, I’ve been searching everywhere for it.”It’sHanzo’s turn to owlishly blink at you.

“What?”“You thought it wasmine, of course. But why? I never had any diamonds, much less lostthem to my evil twin.”

“What?”You both stare at eachother for a full minute as you both catch up with the conversation.

“Maybe.” you suggest quietly. “Youshould read the whole letter.”

Hanzo does. And, because the shock hasworn off and he did have some practice writing them, he gives you afew hints to make yours more believable.

Genji

When he finds and reads the letter hisfirst inane thought is how to organise a funeral in the midst of thechaos that is Overwatch right now. It’s such a strange thought tohave, so far ahead of anything that might happen in between, that hecan’t help but wonder if it’s his mind trying to protect him.From the image of finding your lifeless body. From the thought ofhaving to tell the others, Mercy’s attempts to resuscitate you. Thepanic, the grief.

Genji covers his mouth with his hand asthe realisation kicks in that you might be dying right now.

He activates his comm, calls you onyour private frequency.

“Genji, what’s up?”

He needs to sit down. Relief floods hissystem, makes him weak-kneed and simultaneously terrified. Nothinghappened. Not yet.

“Nothing.” he says and hopes youwon’t hear his voice waver. “Where are you?”

“This time of day? Duh.”Hechances a look at the clock. 3pm. Hana’s stream in the common room.

It takes him a few attempts to get tohis feet, heart still pounding in his chest at the thought you mightwant to kill yourself. He can’t bear to think about it, searchesfor any other explanation.

It hits him halfway.

Your writing. You write. The lettermight not even be real. That has to be it, it has to be fictional,some kind of project you’re working on. He wishes now he’s readyour books. He clings to that hope until he’s with you, sittingby your side while you watch Hana talk to her fans and trashtalk theenemy team. “So.” he says, deliberately casual. “What haveyou been up to lately?”You throw him a glance out of the cornerof your eye. You must think he’s lost his mind. Genji is about to.

“We saw each other thismorning.”“Yeah! Yeah, I know. I mean writing wise. Doanything … interesting?”

It’s not the first time he asks aboutyour writing and so you think nothing of it when you, in hushed tonesas to not disturb Hana, tell him of your latest project.

“It’s pretty cool actually. It’sabout this woman who leads her crew to colonise a new planet, butwhen they get there they see that some aliens had the same idea. Sothey sort of gotta-”“Any people dying?” he blurts out andagain you look at him doubting his sanity.

“Are you sure you’realright?”“Just tell me?”

You shrug, nod.

“I mean, a couple. Her first officerkills himself. I’ve been trying to get his death just right, but Ihave about a dozen versions lying around somewhere …”You keeptalking but he barely hears you. Leans against you, dizzy and closeto tears. It’s nothing. You’re happy, healthy. Just afictional letter from a fictional character.

He really has to start reading yourbooks.

Soldier: 76

During the First Omnic Crisis there wasa woman at the SEP who had bad side effects from her treatment. Heremembers talking her down from committing suicide more than once. Heand Gabriel would sit with her for hours. In the end it didn’tmatter. The pain she suffered was untreatable and she died shortlyafter the program ended.

It has stuck with him, even though hebarely knew her. For years he wondered if there was something more hecould have done or if by talking her out of it he ultimately causedher more pain.

She didn’t leave a letter, at leastnot to anyone he knew, and now he’s glad she didn’t. Holding thenote in his hand he wishes you hadn’t written it. He would havebeen left to wonder but this feels worse.

“Don’t panic.” he mutters tohimself, forces himself to take deep breaths. Everything in himscreams to run and call for help, but he’ll help no one acting likea headless chicken.

First things first. He tries to callyou on your comm, then your phone. Neither call goes through but thatisn’t surprising. You often shut off everything but the emergencychannel when you need to focus on your writing. It doesn’t meananything.On his way to your quarters he calls the medbay. Angelatells him nothing out of the ordinary has happened so far. But then,she would have called him if something happened to you.

You’re not in your quarters andthat’s when he can no longer hold the panic at bay. Where the fuckare you? Bleeding out somewhere or choking on a rope tied around yourneck? Succumbing to poison or a remote place where no one will hear asingle gunshot.

He has to break off his search to storminto the nearest bathroom and throw up.

He’s heaving, swallowing down bileand tears.Don’t panic, don’t panic. Organise the search.There are still plenty of spots he hasn’t looked. You might stillbe alive.

The rooftop is his next stop and thereyou are, leaning against the satellite dish and writing on yourtablet. Eyes open, breathing, smiling when you spot him.

The overwhelming fear makes way foranger. He stalks up to you, pulls the tablet out of your hands andthrows it away. You shout, rise to meet him eye to eye. He doesn’tlet you get a word in.

“Do you think this is a joke?” hebarks, waving the letter in your face. You don’t recognise it, orpretend not to. He doesn’t know and cares little.

“Jack, what the hell-”“Don’t.This must be very funny to you, writing that goddamned note andhiding up here.”“I wasn’t hiding, you know I come up hereto-”“No comms, no phone. No one knows where you are or ifyou’re dead. Leaving that letter lying around-”“Whatletter? Oh … Oh no.”

You finally recognise what he’s allbut shoving in your face.

“Jack, that’s not real.”“Nofucking kidding. You have some nerve to write a suicide note and thennot even die.”

“Excuse me?”“You heard me.Pull your stupid pranks on someone else.”He shoves the letterinto your hands and storms off, leaving you alone on the rooftop.

There’s no talking to Jack. You tellJesse what happened and after laughing himself silly, promises to tryand approach him on your behalf. Everytime you do, Jack slams thedoor in your face. Literally more often than is comfortable.

But even to Jesse he won’t listen.Even when somehow you get the message through that the letter isfictional and that you never intended to give him a scare, he givesyou the cold shoulder. Days go by in icy silence and shouted and veryone-sided arguments on your side.

Eventually you manage to corner him inthe hallway. He tries to get away, shoves you aside but you’requicker, grab his wrist, throw him off balance and then against thewall, pinning him in place.

“Let go of me.” he snaps, tries towrap his foot around your leg and send you flying. You have half amind to just give him a decent kick between the legs, but settle forsomething less extreme.

He does have a right to be upset afterall.

“Jack.” you say, sidestepping hiseffort to get you off of him. “Jack, calm down. I’m sorry.”

That shuts him up. He stills, huffs andpretends as if he’s just choosing to wait you out. But he’slistening.

“I never meant to scare you. Younever read the stuff I write, I saw no harm in letting it liearound.”Jack shakes his head in disbelief.

“How the fuck did you not realiseleaving a suicide note might give people the wrong idea?”

He obviously expects a counterargument,expects that you’ll fight.

“You’re right.” you say insteadand ease your weight away from him. Instead of pinning him you moveto hold him, relieved beyond measure when he lets you.

“You’re right, I should have beenmore careful. And it didn’t help that you had to search for me, Iknow. You must have been so worried. You have all the right to beangry. But don’t believe for one second that I wanted any ofthis.”At last he nods, all the fight gone out of him. You pullhim closer against you, stroke his hair and back until he has calmeddown, the tension he held since finding that letter finally seepingout of him.

“Maybe I overreacted a little.” hesays, a bit muffled on account of having his head buried in the crookof your shoulder. “I should have let you explain.”“It’sokay. You let me explain now, that’s enough. And I’ll make sureyou can call me anytime, so you won’t have to spend hours lookingfor me. Deal?”“Deal.”

McCree

He’s reading the letter for the fifthtime and doesn’t feel any better about it. He knows you’re alive,because you’re out on a mission and you wouldn’t jeopardise yourteam to commit suicide. He can count on you coming back and that’swhy he’s reading the letter again and again, to memorise everyword.You never told him you feel overwhelmed by your work, healways thought you enjoyed the challenge. But he’ll talk to youabout taking a holiday, cutting back on hours. The problems youdescribe having with him are harder to solve.

Jesse tries to accept that you don’tlove him anymore but stayed with him out of pity. It’s alright, hetells himself, you can still be friends. If ending this relationshipwill make you happier, then he will be the last to argue. Even if itfeels like his own life is ending along with it.

You come back unharmed, laughing andjoking with the others. Jesse watches you, thinking that you playyour role better than anyone he’s ever known. No one would thinkyou are about to commit suicide.

When you come up to kiss him he movesback a little. You look disappointed but now he knows you’re justhiding your relief. His heart aches but he puts on a smile andaccompanies you to your quarters.

“Ever think about takin’ some timeoff?” he asks and doesn’t tell you about having found the note.He wasn’t technically snooping around in your stuff but maybe hecan help you without having to make you justify yourself for writingit.

“A holiday? Just you and me, swimmingnaked in a lagoon?” you ask and grin, sidling up to him. Normallyyou would have sex now, to properly reunite after your time apart.Another duty, another push towards the point of no return. He gentlypushes your hand down.

“Nah. Thought maybe you’d bewanting to relax, away from us. For a time.”You frown, stop inthe middle of the hallway.

“I get the feeling you’re trying tobreak up with me.”He can’t look at you when he says, quiet asa breeze: “That what you want, ain’t it?”

“Why would you say that? Jesse,what’s wrong?”

He shrugs, shoves his hands in hispockets.

“I know how ya feel ‘bout me,alright? Read the stupid letter and you don’t need to be goingabout pretendin’ anymore. I’ll get over it. But I ain’t evergetting over it if you kill yourself.”

“Jesse ... “ you say and he peeksup at you, tries to look not as heartbroken as he feels. “Jesse,dear God, that letter isn’t mine.”He does a double take.

“It ain’t?”

“Well, technically it is, because Iwrote it-”“You did.”“But I’m not the one it’sfor.”“You lost me there.”You take a deep breath andpull Jesse into a hug.

“It’s for my new novel. It’s notreal, just for a character in a story.”It takes a while todigest that, a while he doesn’t mind spending in your arms,breathing in your scent, enjoying the kisses on his temples andknowing you enjoy them, too.

“So you still in love with me andeverythin’?”

“Of course. I could never stop lovingyou.”“Oh.” he says and wonders why with all the times heread the letter he never figured out it wasn’t him and you you weretalking about.

But some small worry still lingers.

“And you’re not, y’know, tryin’to get some stuff out of yer system by writing about it, right? Likefolks sometimes write about stuff they secretly wanna do orsomething.”“Jesse.” you say with the gravity of the seriouswriter. “If I wanted to do everything I write about, I’d go tojail. You should see my browsing history.”

He does see the browsing history sometime later. He has spent the better part of his life in a gang and ablack ops organisation and he’s still vaguely unnerved by thethings you researched in the line of your work.

It also explains some of the crazierideas you suggested for your missions.

#overwatch imagines #Hanzo #Genji #McCree #Soldier 76 #reader insert #suicide mention #Anonymous

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muggleriddle · 7 years

Note

Second round barman pls! Headcanons for Feliks Ravenwood

Heheheh let’s go, now with the floppy haired doctor!

What does their bedroom look like?

It’s full of stuff. Like, aside from your usual bedroom stuff, many books and weird knicknacks (idk, the skull of an animal? or a human skull? bc why not). But like… many… books. Books pilled on the floor, on the bedside table, inside the wardrobe. Astronomy maps and world maps on the walls because he doesn’t like empty walls.

Do they have any daily rituals?

Make a cup of tea before going to bed every night. Checking his keys in his pocket every time he leaves the house (he checks at least 3 times). He tries to read a little before bed every night too.

Do they exercise, and if so, what do they do? How often?

He swims. And after Frank arrived, he sometimes tries to practice punching a sandbag -q

What would they do if they needed to make dinner but the kitchen was busy?

He’d sneak into the kitchen and steal something that he could prepare in his room. Idk, bread and cheese for a sandwich, biscuits, chocolate, etc. And then proceed to make a little picnic on his bed.

Cleanliness habits (personal, workspace, etc.)

Even though he’s not the most organized person in the world, he’s cares a lot about cleanliness, thank you very much. He’s a doctor and a pathologist, he knows the value of a clean workplace and how not washing your hands can fuck things up. He bathes as soon as he arrives at home because ‘I’m smelling like formoldehyde and my hands are dry as fuck because of the gloves, just wait a minute and then you can tell me everything about your plants, Frank’.

Eating habits and sample daily menu

Again, he doesn’t eat much. He tries to keep track of time to have his meals on time, but sometimes it slips away from him. He doesn’t starve himself like Tom Sr, though. He usually has lunch outside and dinner at home (after Frank moved in, he was the one in charge of cooking and Feliks had to learn to eat spiced mashed potatoes, one of Bryce’s favourite dishes).

Favorite way to waste time and feelings surrounding wasting time

Reading or looking at stars, the later not being possible after he moved to London. He has trouble allowing himself to waste time… He thinks he should be working most of the time.

Favorite indulgence and feelings surrounding indulging

Taking a train and having a trip to Scotland just for the sake of seeing a scottish landscape. And letting his accent become evident just to see someone (who most likely is irritating him) looking confused because they didn’t understand a single word that he’s said.

Makeup?

I don’t think he ever wore it? But the original Feliks, by Thams, wore kohl on his eyes and I really would like to see it in this Feliks aww yess.

Neuroses? Do they recognize them as such?

He’s terrified of failure. He tries to hide it behind an easy going behaviour, but he’s terrified of failing in something. Maybe that’s the reason he decided to dig deeper into the Riddles’ deaths. He’s also terrified of being alone.

Intellectual pursuits?

He just really likes to learn? Anything? He’s not a Gemini, but he enjoys learning lots of new stuff. His major focus is pathology, especially forensic pathology, but he enjoys lots of stuff.

Favorite book genre?

Fantasy and crime solving stuff (Sherlock Holmes fan, that’s him).

Sexual Orientation? And, regardless of own orientation, thoughts on sexual orientation in general?

Feliks’ sexual orientation is really… complicated for me? I find it difficult to put my finger on the right one. I mostly see him as asexual, but panromantic. He enjoys kissing and cuddling (he’s the king of cuddling), but for him to risk going deeper in a relationship (like, accepting having sex?), there needs to be something about the person… Idk how to explain???? He might even enjoy sex, but I don’t think he ever looked at someone and “ah, aye, I want to sleep with this person right away”. Anyway, he enjoyes the company of boys and girls and whatever you choose to call yourself.

Physical abnormalities? (Both visible and not, including injuries/disabilities, long-term illnesses, food-intolerances, etc.)

He’s short sighted. Like… really short sighted. His myopia is so bad he can’t see a thing a hand in front of his eyes. He has scars on his hands (between his pointing finger and the thumb) from a ‘accident in a forest’ from when he was 16 and he happened to break his jaw once, in his early 20s (I’m using here info from the original Feliks by Thams, but I still need to adapt this into this Feliks Ravenwood).

Biggest and smallest short term goal?

Biggest: solve the Riddles’ case

Smallest: make Frank Bryce laugh (or is it the biggest one?)

Biggest and smallest long term goal?

Biggest: do something about his life in order not to feel like a background character in it

Smallest: … I can’t say without giving spoilers for three of wands.

Preferred mode of dress and rituals surrounding dress

Pants + shirt + vest/sweater. When he’s outside, he wears a suit or a coat. When it’s cold, a scarf. He’s okay with ties or bowties. He really likes the colourful clothes of the wizarding kind. Glasses. He loves wearing labcoats because there are MORE POCKETS FOR HIM TO FILL WITH PENS AND LITTLE NOTEBOOKS AND OTHER STUFF.

Favorite beverage?

He likes whiskey, I guess. And he’ll learn to like Butterbeer.

What do they think about before falling asleep at night?

Stars. He feels a little foolish, but it’s one of the things he remembers about his mum (actually, that his aunt told him about her): that she wished good night to the stars. So he does it too.

Sometimes he thinks about corpses, but hey, it’s his job.

Childhood illnesses? Any interesting stories behind them?

Chicken pox, colds, broken jaw, sun burns from rare outings during sunny days.

Turn-ons? Turn-offs?

Turn on: a good talk (those chats that you have with someone and spends hours and hours talking just to notice it’s five in the morning?), cuddling and sometimes, the person’s magic, depending on how it looks to his eyes;

Turn off: anyone that makes him feel uncomfortable;

Given a blank piece of paper, a pencil, and nothing to do, what would happen?

Doodles, random words, some stuff written in cyrillic alphabet.

How organized are they? How does this organization/disorganization manifest in their everyday life?

His house is full of useless stuff, but they’re organized… for him. But his workplace is neat. Don’t you dare to move a scalpel from his table or to change the order of his histology slides.

Is there one subject of study that they excel at? Or do they even care about intellectual pursuits at all?

Pathology, especially forensic pathology. He really enjoys learning about astronomy too.

How do they see themselves 5 years from today?

He just wants to be happy and not alone, tbh.

Do they have any plans for the future? Any contingency plans if things don’t workout?

Again, I can’t give out spoilers!

What is their biggest regret?

Studying Medicine. It’s a regret and it’s not at the same time… It’s complicated. Not being able to know his mum too, and leaving Scotland.

Who do they see as their best friend? Their worst enemy?

Frank Bryce and another character that has not been introduced yet. And his worst enemy? I think Feliks would laugh at the thought of having a worst enemy, I mean ‘I’m not a character in a book, why would I have an enemy?’

Reaction to sudden extrapersonal disaster (eg The house is on fire! What do they do?)

He’d try to help. He’d be terrified of not managing to do so, but he’d try.

Reaction to sudden intrapersonal disaster (eg close family member suddenly dies)

If the disaster can be helped, he’d try to help. If not, he wouldn’t know what to do, try not to feel bad about it just to have a emotional breakdown when he’s alone and thinking about the said disaster.

Most prized possession?

Photos of his mum and his microscope. (and a human skull he used to study anatomy when he was a student and now keeps at his house). And something else I can’t say because of spoilers.

Thoughts on material possessions in general?

He… likes to have useless stuff?

Concept of home and family?

You choose your family. He loves his mum and dad, even though he never met them, but he also loves Frank as a family that limped into his life while shouting and threatening to call the police.

Thoughts on privacy? (Are they a private person, or are they prone to ‘TMI’?)

Feliks enjoys privacy, but he also hates being alone? He was kind of used of living by himself, but once Frank moves in, he just can’t help but be near him to talk or just… be near him. You know, sharing the bed while they read just to comment a thing here and there about the book etc.

What activities do they enjoy, but consider to be a waste of time?

Going to a park just to sit in a bench and watch people who walk by him.

What makes them feel guilty?

Taking breaks and not working as a ‘regular’ physician. He’s young and a lot of people tell him that a doctor like him should be out there on the field, being a clinician or a surgeon, but he can’t do it and he feels a little guilty about choosing pathology over clinic/surgery.

Are they more analytical or more emotional in their decision-making?

Ahm… a bit of the two? But I guess his emotional side wins.

Would they consider themselves a Type A or Type B personality?

What recharges them when they’re feeling drained?

When his piano was tuned, he used to play it. But just lying down on his bed, in silence, also helps. And working with corpses, because.. they’re quiet. And he ends up talking a little with them when he needs to talk and has no one to talk with.

Would you say that they have a superiority-complex? Inferiority-complex? Neither?

Ahm… I think neither?

How misanthropic are they?

He’s not misanthropic. Frank is a little baffled by it, because Feliks works with the results of human violence, he sees victims of murder, accidents, suicide, etc, but he keeps being a pretty positive person who can see good things in everyone and is most of the times trying to make someone smile.

Hobbies?

He draws a little, mostly anatomy or histology stuff. Plays the piano, when the piano is tuned. Reads a lot. When he was younger, back in Scotland, he used to love hiking in forests and glens.

How far did they get in formal education? What are their views on formal education vs self-education?

Feliks has a degree in Medicine and is a especialist in Pathology and Forensic Pathology.

Religion?

Catholic.

Superstitions or views on the occult?

He wants to believe in everything you tell him… And he at least considers the possibility of it being true. He likes to test things, as he’s a scientist. I mean, this is the man who decided to investigate three deaths further because of some thing he (and only he) saw on the bodies. Once he discovers about magic… well, then the sky is the limit to his beliefs.

Do they express their thoughts through words or deeds?

Words.

If they were to fall in love, who (or what) is their ideal?

Someone who can keep him entertained, like, who has a good chat and is avid for knowledge like him. Someone who makes him laugh and laughs with him. Someone with a good hug kkkk.

How do they express love?

He loves cuddling and hugging. He likes to share those silent moments, where you’re doing nothing but are together. He tries to make the one he loves laugh and feel comfortable and good.

If this person were to get into a fist fight, what is their fighting style like?

He knows where to hit, but he’s not that good of a fighter. Frank is teaching him, though. He’d be better off if you gave him a knife, then he’d know where to stab to make someone bleed to death -q

Is this person afraid of dying? Why or why not?

No. Death is like an old friend to him. He works with dead people and illnesses, he faces death everyday, so he has learned to see it as something natural and beyond control.

#feliks ravenwood #trio csi #mine #asks #ask

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