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thebeauregardbros · 5 years

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LFRP: Alus Beauregard | Crystal Server

THE BASICS ––– –– –

Occupation: Free Paladin | Field Medic | Café Proprietor

Hobbies: Fashion | Tea Brewing | Pastry Creation | Jewelry Making | Reading Faerie Tales

Race: Miqo’te (Sunseeker Descent)

Sexuality/Romance: Asexual / Panromantic

Relationship Status: Single; never married

Languages: Eorzean | Common. Understands all languages; possesses The Echo.

Alignment: Neutral Good

PERSONAL ––– –– –

Alias: “Alice” (💢)

Residence: The Goblet, Ward 8 : Sultana’s Breath Apartments; Wing 1; Apartment #21

Place of Work: Café Nobilitea: Lavender Beds Ward 20, Lot #8 | Anywhere his Eorzean Grand Company sends him.

Birthplace: ??? (Grew up in Eorzea; particularly in the Thanalan area)

Fears: Slugs | Failing to keep his comrades safe | Failing to save his enemies from themselves

APPEARANCE ––– –– –

Height: “Tall for a miqo’te” (5′8″/173cm)

Build: Barrel-chested, muscular; untoned muscles | Long legs, wide shoulders, slender hips.

Age: Unknown; nameday 20 yrs ago. Approximately 23 summers old.

Gender: Male

Skin tone: Tan; Gold Undertone

Eye color: Heterochromia; Deep Fuschia (Right) | Golden Yellow (Left)

Hair color: Golden Blonde

Body Mods: Pierced ears.

Distinguishing Marks: [SPOILER] Large amounts of large-scale bruises and scars all over his body. They are almost always covered up with his clothing. There are no visible scars on his face, neck, or hands.

Common Accessories: Large amounts of gold jewelry; Excessive rings, bracelets, pocket watch chains, earrings, tiaras, circlets, crowns | Large amounts of fresh and/or fake flowers; On his lapel, coming out of his pockets, warn as a flower crown, tucked in his hair, tucked amongst the buttons on his outfits, etc.

BODY LANGUAGE ––– –– –

Walk: Excellent posture; he carries his upper body with strength, while his legs nearly cross in his stride like an elegant female runway model.

Voice: His voice is often strong, clear, deep, and commanding, with the slightest hinge of huskiness. While off-guard, however, his voice cracks into a higher pitched and goofier voice. His quiet tones are very soft and sweet, like a warm fuzzy blanket wrapping you up in it on a cold winter’s night. (Voiceclaim/reference: Johnny Yong Bosch, particularly his roles as Vash from Trigun and Zero from Marvel vs. Capcom.)

Tics or Mannerisms: His speech consists of a shakepearian inspired word usage with a consistent disuse of contractions, similar to Urianger. | He tends to step-dance or become especially physically clumsy while nervous in social situations. | He will elegantly dodge all physical contact, even minor, unless he is comfortable enough with you to make the first contact.

Smell: Gardenia (Jasmine) / Cuttlebone dust

Posture: Constantly straight and erect; shoulders rolled back, chest out. Never looks truly relaxed, even while sitting. A model of good posture.

Disabilities: [SPOILER] Surface numbness on his scar tissue. Mild numbness in his left-hand fingertips.

RELATIONSHIPS ––– –– –

Romantic Partner: (None.)

Parents: Gwenneg Beauregard (Adoptive) (Deceased)

Siblings: Arc Beauregard (Twin Brother) (Alive)

Children: (None.)

Extended Family: (Unknown.)

Pets: Various unnamed wild songbirds and a fledgling Dodo that followed him home. He keeps feeding them, so they keep coming back, but he does not claim ownership of any of them. | He has also developed a relationship with a wild white horse he’s named Marion who consistently comes to his call. | His military-issued chocobo is named Erminia.

Other: Alus considers everyone he meets to be a friend.

PERSONALITY TRAITS ––– –– –

Extroverted / In Between / Introverted

Disorganized / In Between / Organized

Close Minded / In Between / Open Minded

Calm / In Between / Anxious

Disagreeable / In Between / Agreeable

Cautious / In Between / Reckless

Patient / In Between / Impatient

Outspoken / In Between / Reserved

Leader / In Between / Follower

Empathetic / In Between / Apathetic

Optimistic / In Between / Pessimistic

Traditional / In Between / Modern

Hard-working / In Between / Lazy

Cultured / In Between / Uncultured

Loyal / In Between / Disloyal

Faithful / In Between / Unfaithful

Addictive / In Between / Nonaddictive

RP HOOKS ––– –– –

Café Nobilitea: Alus is the proprietor of a western-style teahouse with a distinct theme for elegance, royalty, and other-worldliness - His café is bright, full of flowers, and always playing soft kind-hearted piano music; the type of place a person could become lost in whence they’ve become tired of the grueling and dark outer world; a real heaven and haven. He often spends his free time there and enjoys sitting with his customers to get to know them.

Grand Company Militia: Alus is a very active member with the Eorzean grand companies in fighting against the Garlean empire and any other threats to the peace there might be upon the world. It’s very possible your character might have teamed up with him at some point in active duty.

The Prince on a White Horse: Alus patrols random fields often in order to keep the peace. Your character or someone your character knows might have been saved by the mysterious ‘Prince on a white horse’ while being attacked by bandits or beastmen, who oft leaves without giving his name.

A Fellow Warrior Of Light: Alus has helped out the Scions of the Seventh Dawn on occasion due to his status as a Warrior of Light; one of many.

LOOKING FOR ––– –– –

Long-Term ANYTHING!: Friendships, rivalries, casual familiarities, romances, anything. Alus has lived a long life without any PC RP interactions, and I feel his writing suffers for it. I want someone who will be there for the long run and get to know him. I want stories to develop. I want Alus to grow because of other people.

Open-minded villains!: Alus has the patience of a saint and will befriend the nastiest of criminals no matter what. Alus will stop them from directly committing serious crimes he may be there to witness (murder, kidnapping, robbery, etc.), but will ultimately be very forgiving and calm when dealing with these topics. He wants to genuinely make a connection with people he doesn’t understand and strives his best to soften anybody’s heart, no matter how hard. His ultimate goal is to change their ways for the better through patience and understanding.

Platonic flirts!: Alus has a lot of love to give and happy to give it to nearly everyone and anyone. He throws around the words ‘I love you’ quite easily, and if he is especially crushing on someone, he will hold their hands and hug them openly despite his normal dislike of physical touch. He is most happy when he has a large circle of queerplatonic relationships, but will be absolutely exclusive to their ‘steady’ when he has made that romantic commitment.

Distant family members!: Alus knows very little of the Beauregards; his adoptive father and surnamesake did not speak of them much. Alus is fascinated with Elezen culture and considers himself one of them. He would be incredibly happy to find anyone with the same last name who would welcome him to his adopted ancestor’s information.

ADVENTURE!: Once in awhile, let’s RP somewhere other than a unmoving place. Let’s RP in a dungeon. Let’s RP while doing gold saucer chores. Let’s RP while talking to random minor NPCs. Let’s RP while doing something other than just sitting! It can help a lot with improvisation and keep the creative juices flowing.

ABOUT THE MUN ––– –– –

Who I am: Hey, my name’s Will. I’m a 24 y/o prep cook living in Alaska. My family’s straight-up wiccan, I got 3 black cats, I love super flashy ridiculous fashion, 1980s comedies, and my favorite game’s Bayonetta. I’m a queer Aquarius with mild ADHD. Buddhism and pacifism are super important to me. I love the McElroys?? and uh. I yell in caps a lot. i WILL make you a playlist of music if you ask for recommendations, don’t fuckin tempt me. I’m a casual goofus fuck. here’s my ‘me’ tag on my personal,

Server: Balmung, Crystal Data Center

Time Zone: Alaska (GMT-8)

Availability: 11AM-2AM (subject to change)

Writing Style: Rapidfire! 95WPM. I like to RP just like I type normally - as thoughts pop up, I type ‘em, just like if I was talking. I’m not a big fan of waiting for turns; I have an anxiety disorder and that particularly makes me extremely anxious! However, I am happy to do short paragraph RP with you if we’ve been RPing long enough. Huge paragraph RP is 100% OK on Discord!

Platforms: In-game(preferred) or Discord.

Restrictions ––– –– –

No ERP!

No Permadeath! I really do not want to RP with anyone who intends to eventually kill off their character, either. This is a legitimate trigger for me.

RP Fighting...? I’ve never done this before. I’m not a fan of physical injury so it’s unlikely I would want to, either. But if the situation really calls for it, I’m open to learning. I will not allow you to permanently disfigure or disable my character - temporary injury is alright, but please talk to me about it first.

Mature Themes...? This is okay for me. Swearing, murder, prostitution, drugs.. I’m an adult! I don’t mind these themes being mentioned or being used as a backdrop to a prompt. Alus isn’t a fan of these things though! So just keep that in mind.

Sexual Assault...? For the most part, NO. However, a forceful kiss? An inappropriate touching that stops as soon as my character says no? Maybe. Ask me beforehand and be clear about what you’re thinking, no surprises.

More Info ––– –– –

Click here for Alus’ RP blog and all the memes and asks I’ve written for him!

tags;

@ffxiv-crystal-rp @crystalxivrp @mooglemeet

#final fantasy xiv #ffxiv #ffxiv rp #ff14 #ffxiv lfrp #alus beauregard #crystal data center #meme

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moniadler · 5 years

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( margot robbie. twenty-nine. cis female. she / her. ) was that monika adler ? i heard a rumour they work for the faust family, but who knows for sure ? they can be a bit calculating & vindictive but i also heard they can be adventurous & ambitious. you’ll usually find them at wolves in their spare time, when they’re not being a caporegime & burlesque dancer at centro del sole. you may want to keep an eye on that one !

bonjour! it’s me again—your local trashcan chrissie with another muse. this is my precious angel ( more like a demoness, tbh but still ) bby girl monika and, to quote the legends that are queen, she’s a killer queeeeen. she’s sassy, classy and a lot badassy. she’s a rather feisty, fiery, ball of rage and anger with hella abandonment issues like woah. but uhhh, anyways, hmu for plots here or on discord, i’m open to everything and anything so fire away!

MONIKA’S PINTEREST BOARD!

fundamentals.

full name. monika odette adler.

nicknames. moni, mon, & nik.

current age. twenty-nine.

date of birth. august 15th.

gender. cisgender female.

pronouns. she / her.

nationality. american.

religion. agnostic.

birthplace. manhattan, new york city, united states.

current residence. chicago, illinois, united states.

sexual orientation. pansexual.

romantic orientation. aromantic.

education. psychology degree obtained from nyu.

past occupation. bartender, & dancer at genesis.

current occupation. burlesque dancer at centro del sole.

affiliation. the faust family.

rank. caporegime.

connections.

birth mother. unknown.

birth father. unknown.

sibling/s. unknown.

adoptive mother. rachael adler.

adoptive father. william adler. †

adoptive sister. lucy adler. †

adoptive brothers. jacob, & noah adler.

significant other. n/a.

child/ren. n/a.

pet/s. a balinese cat named tigger after the character in winnie the pooh.

proficiencies.

spoken languages. english, spanish, french, italian, german, & russian.

negative traits. brusque, obstinate, destructive, deceptive, & promiscuous.

positive traits. elegant, headstrong, observant, independent, & confident.

strengths. optimistic, energetic, creative, practical, spontaneous, rational, knows how to prioritise, great in a crisis, & relaxed.

weaknesses. stubborn, insensitive, private, reserved, easily bored, dislikes commitment, & has a rather risky behaviour.

skills. skilled with blades and various knives, skilled with firearms, hand-to-hand combat, memory recall, physical stamina, able to use initiative, & excellent problem-solving abilities.

talents. violin, piano, ballet, dancing, singing, bartending, & photographic memory.

appearance.

eye colour. blue.

hair colour. natural blonde.

height. 5′5″.

weight. 61 kg.

build. she is considered average height for a female and is both slender and toned.

scars. a rather noticeable one across her clavicle and a few others in less visible places.

tattoos. a crimson lily on her left shoulder.

piercings. both earlobes.

glasses. n/a.

prominent feature. sparkling sapphire eyes.

miscellaneous.

zodiac. leo.

strengths. creative, passionate, humorous.

weaknesses. arrogant, stubborn, self-centred.

likes. theatre, being admired, expensive things.

dislikes. being ignored, facing difficult reality, not being treated like a queen.

element. fire.

colour. gold.

day. sunday.

ruler. the sun.

lucky number. three.

house. gryffindor.

myers briggs type. istp-a ( introverted, observant, thinking, prospecting. )

alignment. chaotic neutral.

enneagram. type 7: the enthusiast ( the busy, fun-loving type: spontaneous, versatile, distractible, and scattered. )

temperament. sanguine.

intelligence type. intra-personal.

character label. the vixen.

diseases. infertility.

past mental disorders. drug abuse, acute stress disorder, depression, & anxiety.

current mental disorders. addiction, & abandonment issues.

addictions. tobacco, cocaine, & alcohol.

vices. lust, greed, & wrath.

virtues. temperance, diligence, & humility.

allergies. penicillin.

diet. vegetarian.

dominant hand. ambidextrous.

accent. american.

blood type. o negative.

felonies. petty theft charge when she was fifteen. she also has a history of both kleptomania, & pyromania when she was a teenager.

vehicle. red 1966 shelby 427 cobra.

background.

( triggers for abandonment and abandonment issues ) in truth, monika isn't entirely sure where—or how—her story originated. well, minus the obvious: the birds, the bees, yadda yadda. whether or not her biological parents ever actually cared for her or loved her will remain one of life's greatest mysteries. at only one month old, she was discarded by those who gave her life; left abandoned and unwanted. a feeling the girl would grow up carrying around like a weight around her neck for the rest of her life. an incessant voice telling her she wasn't worth it, niggling at her every single time she would allow herself to get close to another human being. a dark shadow looming over her shoulder, whispering sinister thoughts into her ears—warning her that everyone would eventually leave in the end. they would always leave in the end.

( trigger for a mention of foster homes ) monika's earliest memories feature fragmented visions of various foster homes and the faces of many guardian figures; some good, some bad and some not worth even mentioning. that was her life for the majority of her childhood—bouncing from one home to another but never sticking in one place for too long. given her turbulent upbringing, she was somewhat of a difficult child. too boisterous, too unruly, too stubborn, too inquisitive. too much of everything but never enough of anything. never enough for anybody to want her.

( trigger for a mention of adoption ) finally, after eight long years of being uprooted and thrown into new environments time and time again, monika was adopted by the adler family. and, from that instant onwards, her upbringing was mostly positive. of course, she was thankful and grateful that she had been welcomed into their family and given a good life. things could have been a lot worse for her and she knows that. still, it didn't take the girl too long to figure out that it was just her alone, against the big bad world. from the age that she was old enough to realise it, monika knew that she had to fend for herself—that she could never truly rely on a single soul but herself. rachael and william adler were the best family that she'd ever had. the only family that she ever truly felt she might have belonged to. the only family that she cared enough about to continue carrying their last name, even to this day.

however, once monika reached a certain age, her personality shifted south. she was outgoing as ever but soon became meddlesome, troublesome and much too outspoken. the hollowness inside her chest never quite satiated, leaving her empty and only too well aware of the lack of her real parental figures. as a young adolescent, this started to crawl under her skin and mess with her mind. it rendered her void of affection and unable to form genuine bonds with others—filling her with deep-rooted resentment that festered beneath the surface of the indifferent demeanour she plastered over herself every day. no matter what the adler family done, monika always felt starved of love. despite their best efforts, monika never felt fully satisfied—as if some integral part of her heart was missing, leaving a gaping void nobody could ever fill. thus, as a teenager, she started searching for a cure in the wrong places. she fell in with the wrong crowd, causing trouble for both herself and her family.

as a result of her out of control behaviour, monika found herself shipped off to an esteemed all-girls boarding school from the ages of fourteen to eighteen. once again, she felt as if she was being cast aside. admittedly, at first, it didn't seem so bad and although she took a while to settle in and adjust, it wasn’t long until the girl found her feet and made her mark. she had always been intelligent so it was no surprise that she excelled in her classes and extracurriculars. of course, true to form, she remained prone to rebellion every so often, but never enough to become detrimental. she had a small group of friends and the clique was rather close-knit and she finally felt she belonged somewhere.

( triggers for mentions of death, cancer, mental health issues, alcohol, and drugs ) however, as all good things do, they come to an end. in monika's case, those few blissful years reached a rather abrupt cessation—taking a drastic plummet into darkness. she was sixteen when her younger sister, lucy, tragically passed away after battling leukaemia. as a result, monika lost control of herself and of her path in life. she spent weeks alone and aimless, wavering on her tracks. she became isolated and withdrawn. she hid away in her dorm room that school year, only leaving to go to classes. she became quiet, reserved and wanted to be alone. after months of this—reverting to type—she went looking for stability in the wrong places once more. running with the ‘wrong’ crowd was simply something that came naturally to monika, as if she felt comfort in pressing the self-destruct button when times got tough. for her last year at school, she partied hard, drank way too much, experimented with drugs and with people and although these instances gave her a thrill, it never lasted too long. therefore, she continually crawled back to the things and the people she knew deep down was no good for her. but as long as she felt the high, nothing else mattered.

( triggers for mentions of death and huntington’s disease ) after she graduated, she moved back home to her adoptive parents and brothers, which, at first, felt as gloomy as she'd expected with the absence of her sister. due to her lifestyle in the final year of her education, monika's grades didn't quite cut it—not for her dreams of attending an ivy league university, anyway. after some consideration ( and the encouragement of her mother ), she attended night classes in order to obtain better grades before she managed to obtain a place at nyu where she studied psychology. but, once again, tragedy hit the adler's like a freight train. the summer before she left for university, her father passed away. while monika had always known that william's death was imminent given the fact that he had huntington’s disease, it didn't make the reality hurt any less. still, monika knew that life had to move on—as it always had—thus, she had no choice but to pack up her belongings and move to into her new home for the following few years: nyu campus.

during her university years, monika worked a lot of jobs around new york while visiting her family home on weekends. finally, once she graduated with rather impressive grades, she'd decided that her life was no longer tethered to manhattan. so, aged twenty-two, she packed up and travelled around the states for two years until, eventually, she wound up in chicago. in the beginning, she managed to get herself a job at genesis as a bartender where she met oliver faust ( without knowing his surname, of course ). completely clueless as to his prominence within the city, the two had a one night stand, seemingly never to see one another again. at least, until a year later.

after bartending in the club for quite some time, monika plucked up the courage to take her work a step further and take her place on the stage as one of the dancers. it was during this time that she met another faust member and quickly, the two became friends and through this friendship, only then did monika find out a little background information on the faust name. this faust member was the one who brought monika into the fold where she started as an affiliate. of course, you could imagine her surprise when she uncovered oliver's role as the boss—especially after a whole year had passed since their first encounter. regardless, monika felt secure and welcomed among the faust family, thus she was more than happy to work for them.

due to her no-nonsense approach and attitude, and her ability to handle herself whilst dancing, she found herself promoted to a solider. then, after ‘dealing’ with a target ( a regular at genesis who just so happened to request a dance from monika every night ) under the guise of an escort, the blonde was swiftly advanced to a crimson whilst continuing to dance at genesis. after maintaining the role of a crimson for a year, she climbed the ranks where she now remains a caporegime while now dancing at centro del sole.

throughout her twenty-nine years of life so far, monika has built herself back up time and time again. with every punch swung her way ( both figuratively and literally ), she has risen to her feet each time. for as intelligent as she is, she is just as resilient and unyielding. the need to prove people wrong is almost overwhelming but never to her detriment. while she continues to bear the emotional scars of her past, monika refuses to write herself off. she allows herself to admire people, history, art, music, places, but she never grows comfortable enough that she is prepared to show even the people closest to her, her innermost, truest self.

as a result of her chaotic upbringing, fragments of monika are broken beyond repair—lost to the depths of her mind. yet deep down inside, the faintest sliver of that optimistic little girl remains. where she is now is precisely where monika wants to be and perhaps this is the exact path she needs to take in order to fully emerge from the ashes of her haunting past. from her teenage years, she easily fell under the bracket of an adventurous, charming, ‘party girl’ which hasn't altered much over the years. honestly, monika is content with playing this ‘role’ of a carefree, curious, typical blonde as she finds it helps with her work. after all, how unsuspecting does the pretty blonde dancer seem? not many people look at her and realise just how deadly she is underneath.

all in all, monika gets from one day to the other by dancing her worries away or drinking her problems out of her head. she rarely lets herself get attached to anybody and builds the highest walls around herself to ensure nobody wants to put the effort into trying to break them down. it's that little voice that's rattled around inside her head from childhood that has her this way—still telling her she isn't worth it. and she believes it. she believes that if she ever slowed down and stopped adopting her reckless lifestyle that the emptiness and loneliness would creep in and hold her prisoner. and if there's one thing that monika adler swears she'll never be, that's a slave to her mind or to anybody else.

some tidbits.

nicknames: monnie, moni, mon, nik, barbie, blondie ( if u wanna lose ur eyes ) … spawn of satan >:-)

scared of goats. thinks they’re satanic creatures. those eyes are hella creepy, don’t even try and tell her otherwise.

her signature scent is chanel N°5.

she’s fearless af. throwback to her upbringing, most likely.

she’s all sweet smiles and charming words until her expression turns sharp and deadly. it’s her tactic to entice then pounce, if you will.

she loves to surprise people. most assume she’s a pretty blonde but oh, she loves the look of shock on their faces when she waves a knife at them.

in a way, her words are like her weaponry but really, monika would much prefer to point a gun in a person’s face. plus, it’s more efficient, she thinks.

an angel of vengeance in a pair of designer sunglasses tbh.

much prefers to be called a murderess / demoness as she believes it has a nicer ring to it rather than murderer / demon. she’s dramatique like that.

owns waaay too many pairs of heels.

her signature look is her blood-red lips.

often wears suits and totally rocks them.

she’s … experimental. she’s experimented with just about everything: hairstyles, clothing, drink, drugs, people …

quite power hungry tbh.

she does have a shot at redemption but she doesn’t want it lmao. she’s already been to hell so why bother trying to right her wrongs?

and boy, are her wrongs a century long list shkjsh.

doesn’t believe she’s capable of loving anyone.

when it comes to whether or not she is morally decent or an extremely bad person, she is somewhere in the middle of that spectrum—she isn’t heartless but she isn’t compassionate either.

she’s v ambitious, v morally ambiguous, v self-serving and v self-involved.

extremely skilled with knives and blades. always her weapon of choice when on a job. always carries one on her person at all times.

although she wears a lot of red, black is actually her favourite colour. she feels her most powerful in an all-black outfit.

her most prized possession is her brushed chrome zippo. it has her initials engraved on it and where she got it or from who is something she’ll never tell.

always seen with a cigarette in hand. she seriously chain smokes. always says she needs to quit but never does and probably never will either.

when she was a little girl she’d always dreamed of having kids of her own one day and told herself she would love them unconditionally and never abandon them as her birth parents had but unfortunately, she is infertile and the likelihood of having her own kids one day is extremely slim. this is something that devastates her every day but you’d never tell. she has never told anybody about this.

drives way too fast but loves the thrill of it.

she can be pretty deadly if you piss her off enough.

thrives on chaos.

a tad theatrical.

is truly an independent woman who don't need no man.

plot ideas.

ok so pls excuse me and my last two remaining brain cells—we try real hard but it's tough skjhjks but gimme all of the connections from friends, frenemies, enemies, hookups, exes, rivals and everything else in between. added bonus if there’s angst or drama. if you have anything in mind feel free to throw it at me, i’m open to the majority of things and have zero triggers so come at me bro! below you can find some connections i’d love for my deadly bby.

the faust member who brought her into the fold. open.

her adoptive brothers. open and open. ( their names are listed as jacob and noah, but this can be changed if ya ain’t feeling those names! )

you’re a bad idea, but i like bad ideas. so, this could be somebody that monika knows through her dancing at genesis. maybe this gentleman pays for private dances and tips extremely well? i have an idea in my head that this man would trust monika and confide in her. in a way, she’d kind of act as a therapist for him and his paying for her private time would be more about talking than anything else. maybe over time, she would tell him things about her past or about the things she has done. maybe he could be somebody who, when he/if he realises she works for the fausts, asked her to take out a target for him. there are endless possibilities for this one! of course, added angst if he’s affiliated with a different gang. OPEN.

when friends become enemies. maybe this person and monika were friends from new york that she hung around with and got involved in reckless behaviour with. or maybe this person was someone monika befriended during her university years. or they could be someone that monika met when she moved to chicago. under whichever circumstance they met, one fact remains: the two are no longer on friendly terms. they were once close and trusted each other with anything but now, there is obvious hostility. perhaps there was a betrayal, blackmail, a breach of trust, lack of communication, a simple misunderstanding. whatever it was that cracked this relationship is set in stone and is unlikely to ever go back to how it once was. some things are just too broken to be mended. OPEN.

you’re in my veins, you fuck. monika has always had bad habits. has always gravitated to toxicity like a moth to a flame. thus, it would be safe to assume that 90% of her relationships have also been bad for her. the broken element inside her always found itself magnetised to the darkness in people. more especially, attracted to people she knew were no good for her. though, in the end, monika would always manage to break free and leave these people behind. however, there was always this one person she couldn’t seem to stay away from. she met them when she moved to chicago and instantly she knew they would break her heart yet it didn’t deter her from continuing to crawl back to them. these two have what can only be described as a toxic relationship. neither is good for the other yet neither can seem to walk away. OPEN.

if you don’t have enemies, you don’t have character. of course, it goes without saying that monika is the kind of woman who could make enemies for herself very easily. due to her sarcastic and distant nature, it would be safe to assume she has quite a few enemies and rivals. though this particular person would be the enemy of all enemies. somebody that she cannot abide and someone who cannot abide her either. they can’t stand the sight of each other and refuse to share the same space unless absolutely necessary. otherwise, there’s a massive chance of a fight outbreaking between them. there could be a history between them that has brought about their hostile nature toward each other. or they could simply dislike each other for no real known reason other than a sense they get from the other. bonus points if they’re walsh affiliated! OPEN.

a gal gang / her ride or dies. taken by amara ricci, & genevieve bisset.

a chance encounter / one night stand. taken by oliver faust.

#this is my second kid mon.#she's a sassy fiery badass.#crimson.intro

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dailyaudiobible · 4 years

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06/14/2020 DAB Transcript

1 Kings 12:20-13:34, Acts 9:26-43, Psalms 132:1-18, Proverbs 17:6

Today is the 14th day of June welcome to the Daily Audio Bible I am Brian it is awesome to be here with you around the Global Campfire as we twist the knob and step into a new week together just being aware that it's out in front of us. And here we are in the middle of a month and what a joy, what a gift it is to be here. I mean, we may have all kinds of things going on in our lives, some of them good, some of them challenging, but…and even if everything is challenging, what gift to be…like when we step back from the circumstance and we step back from the swirl of it all the that kinda wants to suck us into the vortex and right down the tube. When we step back away from all that all…all of that and realize, I'm here, this is a gift, these breathes that I'm taking, these are the breath of life. I'm here because God created and allowed me to be here. What a joy it is to begin this new week with you and work through it together. So, yesterday we started the slide downward in the Old Testament. King Solomon, the wise one, passed away, died after having his heart seduced away from the one true God, and to many of the gods of this wives. He had 700 wives and 300 concubines. That's a lot of ladies with a lot of voices from a lot of places and ultimately, Solomon was seduced. He died. His son Rehoboam became king in his place at his coronation where all the tribes are coming together to ratify his kingship. Things don't go well. 10 of the tribes have decided they will no longer have an allegiance to the house of David, which means that…I mean things are looking like this United people, the Hebrew people have decided they don't want to be united anymore. So, we’re in a brand-new week. We’ll read from the New Living Translation this week. First Kings chapter 12 verse 20 through 13 verse 34.

Prayer:

Father, we thank You for Your word and we thank You for bringing us into this brand-new, shiny, sparkly week. And we mark this time, we honor it. It’s a bit of our custom when we come to the beginning of a new week to just observe the fact that it's…it's out in front of us. We’re here. You have brought us to this point. All of our history has brought us to this point, but the rest of this week is out in front of us. It has yet to be written. The story has yet to be told. It will be told by the choices that we make and we invite Your Holy Spirit to lead us and direct us in the days ahead, and to inform us by Your word, as we engage, as we come around the Global Campfire every day this week and take the next step forward. Come Holy Spirit we pray. In the name of Jesus, we ask. Amen.

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And that is it for today. I'm Brian I love you and I'll be waiting for you here tomorrow.

Community Prayer and Praise:

Hey __ in South Carolina this your brother Ben in Columbus Ohio. I heard your testimony today and I just wanted to thank you so much for calling in today, for calling in and leaving your testimony. I haven’t personally lost children but just the message that you shared, that you heard from God, the fact that you’ve heard from God and that was so clearly from God. I needed to hear that today. And there’s just something…something about your voice. I don’t know what it was __ but I just feel connected to you. I feel like you are my sister and…and you also feel so different. I’m a 42-year-old man in Ohio, right? But there’s just something where I feel…I feel my forever family connection with you. And so thankful…so thankful you called in. I’m so thankful I got to hear your voice. God bless you.

That the Lord is faithful He will strengthen and guard you from the evil one. Heavenly Father I pray for brother Ruben in Burma. I pray that You will strengthen him and his family and the workers who are spreading the good news in Burma by the power of Your might oh God. Clothe them in Your armor so that they can stand firm against the schemes of the devil. We know that their struggle is not against flesh and blood but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Father, I pray that she would shelter the Burmese Christians in the shadow of Your wing. When life is hard help them remember that You are with them and that they are never alone. Thank You that You are the good Shepherd. Lead each of these dear ones beside still waters. Restore their souls. Thank You, Lord that You remain faithful. And for the dear lady in Spain who is struggling. Oh Lord, I felt her desperation. She is trembling, she is feeling weak. Yet You remain faithful for You are a good Father. She is in a difficult situation Lord and I sense that her faith is wearing thin. We reach out to You Father and ask You to meet every need. Give her the courage to cast every care on You. Your word promises that You will supply all our needs according to Your riches in glory. So, we stand together in this community and ask You to intervene. Thank You that You are a God that hears the cries of Your children and thank You that the answer is on its way. We leave these dear ones in Your hands. To You be all the praise and honor and glory. In Jesus’ name. Amen. Melody Faith from Canada. Love you family.

Good morning DAB family this is the other Melanie. It’s June 9th and I am calling in with a prayer request. I don’t know why I find it so hard to do this, to ask for prayer for myself, but I am going to add myself to the list of all the people who have called in asking for help with weight loss. And I agree, it does seem insignificant or certainly much smaller than a lot of the other things that people need prayer for. But for me, after having had two breast cancer diagnoses in the last three years, this is…it’s critical that I lose weight. And I had been doing really well __. And I’m a stress eater and it just made everything worse and I really have not coped very well. And added to that is shame because I feel like I should have done better, I should’ve leaned on the Lord and…and prayed and done all the things that I know to do as a Christian. And I know that all these thoughts of shame do not come from God. But it’s a battle, it is such a battle, and this is such a stronghold for me. So, family I just pray that you would lift me up in your prayers for strength. If anybody else out there wants to join with me, please email me my address is [email protected]. I would be so happy to walk this road with someone else who’s feeling the same struggle. I love you guys and thank you so much.

Hey this is Melody from Canada. I was just listening to the June 9th podcast and a couple things. Cherry thank you so much for your prayer about sleep. I really need it. My whole family needs it. Our toddler daughter is waking up a few times in the night and…yeah…I really receive that prayer in faith for…for her to sleep well and us…for my husband and I to sleep well. It’s hard doing a dayshift and a night shift. So, yeah, we’re really trying to problem solve and trust God with that. So, thank you for the prayer. Also, Vincent from Connecticut who was calling to ask for prayer about loneliness. That is…that is so significant. I’m…I’m so grateful for my husband and daughter because I don’t do very well alone. And I just pray God’s blessing on you and that you would…yeah…that you would receive the gift of relationship in God’s timing and God’s way. I was just thinking about what Brian was saying about Psalm 127. And I pray that God will build the home and family that he has for you and that he would be your strength in this time. And for all people who are alone right now, especially during COVID. And it’s hard to socially distance. It’s super hard. Yeah, just extra grace for those who are living on their own. Love you. Bye.

Marla Forgiven by the Savior this is Adrian from Maryland. I am praying for you. I have seen your request on Facebook, I have heard your request on…on Brian’s podcast. I’ve heard your request on China’s podcast. I know you’re suffering now, and I am praying for you, I’m praying for you, I am praying for you. Lord, please take care of Marla. Get her the medication she needs and help her survive this terrible, horrible disease of bipolar disorder. My…I…I know someone who suffers from mental illness and it is a horrible, horrible thing. Please, please just hang in there. The shipment of medication will come. God will take care of you. Please hang in there for…for…just hang on. We all love you and we are praying for you. Many people who are not going to call in, they are also praying for you. Please hang on. We love you.

Hi DAB family this is Marla forgiven by the Savior from Albuquerque and I’m listening to the June 10th podcast and I just heard my prayer request and I’m happy to report that my doctor called me on Monday to let me know the samples had come in. And this was right after I posted on DAB Friends with the same prayer request because I figured it would get you guys faster. And right after I posted it and everyone started praying for me, that’s when I got the phone call. So, I wanted to let you know that…yeah…I have the pills now. And it takes a while for them to kick in, but I am very much looking forward to the day when I wake up feeling like my normal self. If you could pray for me that…excuse me…that my bipolar depression does get lifted sooner rather than later, I would really appreciate it. And hopefully I will call in with a praise report very soon. I love you all more than you know, and God bless.

Hey DAB family, Alicia here from Pennsylvania. I’ve been listening and thinking and praying for a couple of people. Some man who called in about being diagnosed I think with pancreatic cancer last week. I just want to lift him up Lord and a few others. Lord You know their names and You know their…their prayers Lord. DAB family, I don’t usually ask for prayer for myself, but I do feel called to ask for some prayer. I am trying to move out of my comfort zone in a few different ways. One of them in trying to speak to friends of friends who make racist jokes that make me really uncomfortable. Lord, I just pray that You give me the words to say. And we know that if anybody can help them or change their minds that it’s You Lord and You alone. So, please if You want to use me as a vessel as a…as a facilitator for change Lord I am open and receptive to whatever You have to put in front of me Lord. I thank You for all the support that You’ve given me in these endeavors and I just thank You for that. Lord, I want to pray about my relationships in general. And please just help me to be able to find myself in a way that I can be complete with only You Lord and not rely on the people for energy. Lord, You know my issues and You know my prayers, You know my heart. Please just be with me, help me to accept You as Lord, as Him. Please if there’s any DAB…

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pengychan · 5 years

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[Coco] Nuestra Iglesia, Pt. 14

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

[All chapters up are tagged as ‘fake priest au’ on my blog.]

A/N: Hey, remember when I said this story was going to be about 90% humor? Good times, man. Good times. Art by Senora_Luna. [There is some somewhat graphic violence described, and brief mention of past sexual situations with dubious consent at best. Just a heads-up.]

***

Padre Fernando Mendoza did not like Americans.

It was nothing personal - he’d met a few decent ones - but as a whole, he suspected his country and arguably most of the continent would have fared much better without them. Even so, the telegram that reached them that morning had been entirely unexpected.

Americans attacked Veracruz. Battle ongoing.

It was all everyone in the Archdiocese was talking about, and it had taken precedence over everything else, because of course the last thing Mexico needed at the moment was hostility from a foreign power and the attack could not be ignored. However, not everything could come to a standstill, and Padre Fernando was expected to deal with menial tasks.

Which included replying to a letter that had just arrived from Sant Cecilia. And, ironically enough, it came from an American. That American.

Fernando had groaned when he’d opened it to see the signature. He didn’t much like that gringo; truth be told, even among clergy few people appreciated the foreigner who kept telling them at every turn how they were doing things wrong, bemoaning the persistence of pagan fetishes in Mexico like they were not already aware of it, muchas gracias.

But he had been sent in good faith, and he did uphold the Catholic Church’s official position - not realizing that the Vatican was, quite literally, an ocean apart - so they had to support him. He’d even had the blessing of their own Archbishop Eulogio Gillow y Zavalza, who’d had to flee Mexico and had found refuge in San Antonio first, then in Los Angeles.

“I am loath to offend traditional sensibilities,” he'd written. “It might turn people away from the Church rather than towards it. But I am concerned idolatry and too rampant religious disorder might weaken faith. This young man is eager to prove himself - it is fair to give him a chance.”

The letter didn’t add ‘if an American causes offense it won’t be on us’, but it may as well have. So far, it seemed that the one to truly take offense at… everything was the gringo himself. And it seemed that the sun and heat had gotten to his head, judging from the contents of the letter Padre Fernando was reading now.

“... Lastly, I find the new parish priest to be, quite bluntly, severely lacking. I do not question his faith, but his methods are concerning - likely due to inexperience, as perhaps the seminary did not adequately prepare him for his first task as a man of God. I will gladly assist however I can, but I would suggest you consider sending a more experienced priest…”

Ay, he’d lost it, hadn’t he? Fernando had been present when news had come of Padre Edmundo’s death, and when his replacement had been chosen. He’d never met Padre Joaquín, but had only ever heard good things about him. What was the gringo going on about?

Normally, he might have handed the letter to someone above him for consideration; but right there and then, with everyone busy discussing the possible ramifications of a conflict with the very country their Archbishop was currently living in, he felt it would be a waste of their time. So Padre Fernando sighed, took pen and paper, and took it upon himself to write a response to that idiota, who thought he was smarter than anybody else but was so up his high horse he couldn’t even tell a parish priest from a novice.

With all due respect, we believe - as certainly you have by now realized - that you’re mistaken. Padre Joaquín is no novice, his seminary days far behind him. He was highly recommended for his strong leadership, a very important asset in such turbulent times, when faith is tested. Is there a possibility you met one of the novices instead? Language can be a barrier…

***

“Hola, Juan! How’s your back?”

“GAH!”

All right, maybe Ernesto should have knocked before throwing the door open and calling out, but to be fair he was rather nervous for what was most likely going to be a very awkward meeting. And to be honest, considering his track record when it came to making wise choices, this wasn’t even the worst. This time, he hadn’t even patted him on the back as-- wait, what had he just dropped?

“F-father Ern-- what-- what are you doing here?”

Juan very nearly shrieked, getting Ernesto’s full attention before he could try to get a closer look at what looked like a handful of pieces of paper on the ground next to the bed. The wounds on his back were beginning to heal, most having scabbed over, but he was still on his stomach on the mattress, sheets up to his waist. At his sight, he seemed to be trying to shrink. Not a very successful attempt.

Ernesto smiled the way you would at a man who has absolutely not been whipping himself raw in sheer horror at his own desire to fuck you, and held up the tray. “Lunch,” he said lightly.

“But why you!” Padre Juan choked out, only to catch himself when Ernesto raised an eyebrow. His face began turning red almost immediately. “I-I mean, I-- I mean no disrespect but usually… the sisters…

“They were busy, and asked me to do this on their behalf,” Ernesto said, and went to put the tray down on the nightstand. Juan quickly reached down to pick up whatever it was he’d been looking at when Ernesto had come in.

“Wait, I’ll pick that for yo--”

“No!” Juan almost screamed. “No, I-- I got it, I got it, no need--” He snatched everything up quickly, but not so quickly that Ernesto couldn’t see it was photographs… and get a glimpse at his own face, smiling at the camera. “This is just-- these are just-- bad photos, the ones I couldn’t mail out, I was… I was…”

Juan stammered, and Ernesto couldn’t help but feel some pity for him. “Trying to figure out how you can take better ones next time?”

Juan gave him a look of pure relief. “I-- yes, of course. Yes,” he said, shoving the photographs under the pillow. His face was almost purplish. “Practice makes perfect a-and… I can’t say I aim for perfection, only God is perfect, but--”

“But you wish to properly portray His wonders, I am sure?” Ernesto said, feeling just a little smug. That, however, went well over Juan’s head: he just nodded, and cleared his throat.

“I… thank you for the meal.”

“You’re welcome,” he replied, and smiled, sitting on the chair. Juan stared at him, then at the door, then at him again. Ernesto leaned back, still smiling. The hopeful look on Juan’s face faded, replaced by utter confusion and some desperation.

“Aren’t you-- leaving?”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to?”

“I-- it would be best for us both.”

“Oh?”

“As a matter of… of safety. Your safety,” he added quickly, and looked down. His voice was quieter, weaker; his shame evident, plus something else that was a lot like fear.

Ernesto’s smile faded; it wasn’t much fun, all of a sudden. “I think I’m perfectly safe, Juan.”

“You are not. I am... grateful that you have told no one of my sins. But I fear you don’t quite grasp-- I desire you, and the devil is in me,” he choked out, blinking back tears. “I heard things in the seminary - I heard confessions in my journeys - such heinous crimes on unwilling victims. I am terrified of what it would make me do if I drop my guard for only one moment.”

Well, now it was... no fun at all. Ernesto almost pointed out that Juan couldn't overpower him if he tried with all his might, but he paused, knowing full well that was… not the real issue.

Don't think about the barracks, he told himself. Don't think about the barracks. Don't think-- ah, too late for that, wasn't it? He couldn't not think about the barracks, about what men who live and breathe war will do once the lights are off and they're so far away from everyone they care about. Anything for some relief, anything not to think for only a few minutes. A toss of the coin and maybe you were lucky - if not, you had to grin and bear and hope to be the lucky one next time.

Pray to be the lucky one next time because ah, it could hurt.

"... You wouldn't," Ernesto found himself saying; his voice sounded distant to his own ears. Juan seemed too lost on his anguish to notice.

"You are kind, but naive. You don't know that. The Devil--"

"Forget the devil, never met him. I know you. You would never."

Juan blinked, taken aback. Some tears fell down his cheeks; his lips were pulled in a tight line, but oh, there was just a hint of hope that maybe that odd priest might be right. Ernesto could see it for a moment before it was squashed and the gringo spoke again. “The things I’ve heard-”

“I have seen what you have only heard of,” Ernesto cut him off, without thinking. It wasn’t a smart thing to say, for a man who wished to leave his past unknown, but it only occurred to him after it left his lips and ah, it was late. He cleared his throat and straightened himself, staring back at Juan, whose eyes were suddenly wide, mouth slightly agape.

“I have met men like that, Juan,” he said. Somewhere in the back of his mind, there were screams of women. Men were not the only ones who had reason to fear soldiers when they came swarming, after all; officials turned a blind eye, and… and so did he. What else could he do? Confront them and risk being shot dead? He wanted to survive that war, and surviving is easier when you mind your own business.

Nevermind that now, in Santa Cecilia, he had ended up making everybody’s business his own.

“You have?” Juan asked, his voice barely audible, like old paper.

"Sí.”

“When-- where…?”

The truth - the army - was not an option. “Seminary,” Ernesto said instead, causing Padre Juan to pale.

“Were you… were you hurt?”

“... That doesn’t matter,” he said, voice dry enough to discourage further questions. “I’m not naive as you believe. I have seen more than you think."

Juan swallowed. "Then you should know how… how dangerous those like me--"

"None of them was like you. You would never," Ernesto cut him off, with the certainty of a man who's stating the tenets of the universe. Juan… stared, hope a little more plain on his face now. Ah, that was… sad. Just plain sad.

"You... truly think what you're saying?"

"I do."

Juan blinked again, and more tears spilled out. This time he acknowledged them, and reached up to wipe his eyes. "Ah, I-- my apologies. I just… that is not… do I not disgust you?"

“... No.”

"I harbor an unholy desire for you."

"Well, that's rather flattering."

There was a choked-back noise that was almost, almost a laugh. Juan wiped his face again, smiling faintly, and he even managed to chide him. "Heh. Pride."

"None of us is free of sin, no?" Ernesto grinned a little. The faintest smile curled Juan's lips, but ah, it was so bitter.

"My father feared I would taint my younger brother, when he cast me out. I never would have, I couldn't even imagine, but… it haunted my dreams, the idea that I would turn into-- that-- if I failed to rid myself of this sickness."

“That was never going to happen.”

“... That’s what my mentor said. Father Joseph - he was kind, too kind, he called me son and I didn’t deserve it. I didn’t listen to him. I was so sure-- what my father said, and the letter...”

Ah, right. The letter - Sofía had mentioned that, but of course Ernesto had to pretend not knowing what he was talking about. “A letter?”

“Yes. I wrote to my family when I was about to take my vows - I told them I had converted, that I planned to remain celibate and dedicate my life to God. I hoped for their blessing. But my father wrote back to tell me to never contact them again. And so I didn’t. They told my siblings I was dead.” A pause, then a sigh. “Michael was so young, I don’t know if he even remembers me. I don’t even know if they’re all still alive. It’s been so long.”

Ernesto paused to think of his own parents, back in his hometown in the middle of assfuck nowhere. He hadn’t seen them since he’d been drafted; he had no idea how they were faring. Not a huge loss when it came to his father, but… he would have liked to have some news of his mother. “I see.”

“I hoped that if I could make a name for myself… become someone important, perhaps even a Bishop, then maybe they’d hear about me. Maybe they’d…”

“Want you back.”

A sniffle, and Juan simply nodded, shutting his eyes. “I told you and… and myself that I was here to do God’s work here in Mexico. I do hope I have done good, but what I really wanted was to leave a mark. So that I could become someone my family could be proud of again, and… and go home. I could go back, to visit - they could tell my siblings that I was disowned for converting to Catholicism, but that all was forgiven.”

“... I see.”

Juan stayed silent a moment, then finally looked up. He looked immensely sad, but the tears were gone. “That’s never going to happen, is it? No matter what I do, I can never go home.”

"Well… it's their loss.” Ernesto reached over to pat his bare shoulder, noticing all too well the small but sharp intake of breath at the touch. “We’ve got you now. You can stay here.”

“I… I truly can’t.”

“Why not? No offense, but I think you’re going to stay a maricón regardless of where you are.”

He half-expected fury at the statement, but no such thing happened. Juan just blushed furiously.

“You know why I shouldn’t be in your presence, Father Ernest. This is still a-- a sin, something I need to cure. Or if Father Joseph was right, then… then it is a cross I must bear. But I should avoid all temptation. I will leave as soon as I can travel.”

Ah, damn, and there he’d hoped he could convince him to stay that easily. Holding back a sigh, Ernesto raised an eyebrow. “Am I that tempting?” he asked. Maybe he could, after all, use that to make him stay in Santa Cecilia.

Padre Juan’s blush grew redder. “W-well, I-- I--”

“The suggestion to help is still up,” Ernesto pointed out, and Juan suddenly choked.

“F-father Ernest!” He stammered, eyes wide as saucers. “I could never-- you should never-- that suggestion was outlandish even when you thought it was Gustav I lusted after, but yourself-- surely you jest!”

“I am perfectly serious.”

“It is a sin, Father Ernest!”

“No worries, I got everything covered.”

“What?”

“Once the deed is done, I can absolve you and you can absolve me. Easy.”

“That’s… not how it works.”

“Oh, come on. That is exactly how it works.”

“W--well, regardless, I...I…”

Ernesto shrugged, leaning back against the seat. “It might turn out you despise it,” he said, knowing full well that was impossible as long as he was involved - no matter what Sofía said. “And in that case, the urge might be gone for good.”

Juan swallowed, barely daring to look up. “And if I, God help me-- if I enjoy it?”

“Then you’ll at least know something about yourself. And I’ll still absolve you,” Ernesto added quickly. Hell, maybe he’d pushed too far, maybe it was too early to bring up that suggestion again. He braced himself for refusal, trying to think up of more rebuttals… but Padre Juan just fell quiet, and lowered his gaze again. When he spoke again, it was in a whisper as he stared at the pillow.

“I… need time to think,” he managed. Ernesto - who counted the fact he had not ran off screaming a success - supposed it was the closest to a ‘yes’ he could get out of him at the moment, and mentally patted himself on the back.

Not that he was that eager to do this, because Juan would probably turn out to be a pain in the ass in bed and for all the wrong reasons, but with some persuasion he could just be able to convince him to stay and not wander across Mexico, telling all the wrong people about one Padre Ernesto from Santa Cecilia. And by the wrong people, he meant specifically the Archdiocese.

And besides, he did sleep better with someone sharing his bed.

“Of course. No pressure.” Ernesto said lightly, and stood. “Might want to eat your stew before it goes cold-- er. Colder.”

“Ah. Of course.” John moved as though to sit up, but he paused, clearly uncomfortable. Ernesto took it as his cue to leave.

He suspected that was about as far as he could push it in one go.

***

“WE CAN’T WITHSTAND ANOTHER ASSAULT! WE’RE SPREAD TOO THIN!”

“Let’s get back in the Academy! We can barricade in!”

“Where the hell is Maass?”

“Fucked off to Tejería with his soldiers!”

“Not all of us!”

“Great, so there’s what, fifty of you left?”

The cadet’s laugh, a mixture of horrible amusement and just plain horror, was barely audible through the sound of cannon fire, but still enough to make Santiago’s blood boil. He could have gone to Tejería with Maass and most of his comrades, away from the fight and keeping his own ass safe, but he’d chosen not to - how much was it was desire to help and how much a thirst for blood was hard to tell - and that was the thanks he got?

“Be thankful we stayed behind then, cabrón!” he snapped, grip on his rifle tightening.

“Stop arguing-- Chago, for fuck’s sake, stop arguing and keep shooting!” Nando screamed somewhere on his left. On his right a man - a civilian who’d probably never used a gun before that day - was struck by something and fell back, blood splattering across the ruins of what had been a house until minutes ago. Everything around him was gunfire, screams, dust.

“Pier Four is lost!” someone was screaming. “It’s crawling with gringos!”

“Fall back! Fall back! In the Academy! We can shoot them from above-- José! Come here!”

“I’ll stay here, I’ll use the machine gun! You go in! I’ll cut them down!”

Nando reloaded his rifle, lips pressed together in a thin line. “We stay outside, too?”

“We stay outside. Let’s move someplace high up, we’ll do better shooting from a distance. The muchacho with the machine gun has better chances here, ” Santiago confirmed, wiping the dust off his brow. Nando groaned, and followed him in a side street.

“It’s not looking good.”

“We’re fucked. But we can take as many as we can down with us.”

A sigh. “I don’t know what else I expected from you,” Nando muttered, and gave a slightly unhinged laugh. “I’m almost out of ammunition, too. Guess I can use it this thing as a club.”

“And be shot dead before you can approach a single gringo?” Santiago reloaded his own rifle, and lifted it up. It was hard to see a thing; dust covered the sun, it covered them, it covered everything. “Once we’re out, we’ll fall back towards the deposits and see what we can find. Don’t waste bullets. Only shoot if you can see them clearly.”

And it worked, for a time: the few cadets left and civilians were a lot more helpful shooting while barricaded inside, especially with the enemy stupidly advancing in formation… to be met by heavy machine gun fire. The young man manning it - Commodore Azueta’s own son, Santiago would know later - was brave almost to the point of insanity, and kept firing and firing despite being hit several times… but he eventually collapsed, and had to be taken away.

And then came the heavy artillery, again. It was aimed at the Naval Academy. It hit the building they were on first. With a deafening noise Santiago would never forget.

“Mierd--”

“Move move move move!”

Half the building collapsed immediately, in a sea of dust and debris, the roar of the cannons barely covering the screams. Santiago fell, hit something and rolled in the remains of a broken-down wall, and came to a rest on his stomach. He lifted his head, coughing up dust. His ears rang, his side hurt from hitting something hard, and he had to blink several times before he could see a thing. A few feet before his face, there was an arm. Only an arm, the rest of the man buried in rubble, but what Santiago’s eyes paused on - all he could see - was the watch.

He knew that watch, he’d watched Nando win it at a card game.

“Nando?” He coughed again, and threw his rifle aside. Around him it was chaos, but he barely heard it. Gringos could be coming gun in hand, and he wouldn’t have known: he focused on digging through the debris, trying to pull out his friend - the only friend he had left, now.

Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead. Don’t be dead.

But of course he was dead. Santiago knew Nando was gone before he even saw the faraway look in his eyes and the caved-in skull, the blood coming out in rivulets from his head and nose and mouth to mix with the dust. He felt it in the heaviness of his limbs, the complete limpness as he pulled him out from beneath the debris and lifted him in his arms.

He had done the same for Alberto when he’d found him, that day in the desert. But Beto had been stiff, and what blood he had left in his body had set; he barely bled at all anymore, lying face down in red sand. But Nando was still warm; he still bled, turning Santiago’s uniform red.

When he’d found Beto, Nando had been there. Telling him to let go of the body, helping him up, holding him up when Santiago’s knees threatened to give in. Now, there was nobody standing by him. Nobody to help him up.

He had to get up on his own, and he did. He leaned Nando down, stood slowly, and walked away through the dust and the debris and the screaming, trapped men. Somewhere in the distance, there was an explosion he barely reacted to. His ears still rang, his gait uneven, his mind a blur. What snapped him out of it was the outline of a man running through the dust, towards him. Santiago raised his rifle without thought, as practiced countless times, and the man threw up his arms with a cry.

“Don’t shoot! I’m a civilian, I live here! Don’t shoot!” he cried out, almost sobbing. He stepped closer, hands raised; he was covered in dust, blood on his face his tears couldn’t manage to wash off. Not an inch of his skin was visible and his Spanish was perfect, but his accent gave him away - he was American, one of those who’d made themselves a life in Veracruz, who called it home.

Do rats call the house they infest their home, too?

“Please, help me,” the man choked out, stepping closer still. “My-- the building was hit-- my family is trapped, please--”

Santiago pulled the trigger, and the man’s face exploded into a fine mist of blood, brain matter and bone. He fell back with a thud Santiago did not hear: he was already turning his back to the body, reloading the rifle, looking through the dust for more enemies to appear. Soldiers or not, it made no matter now. They were enemies.

With Alberto’s death, he had one man to blame; one man he’d hunt down and kill someday, somehow. But for Nando, there was no individual to blame - so he blamed them all. Invaders, every one - who did they think they were? What right did they have to intrude in their war, to kill the only friend he had left as easily as you’d swat a fly?

He’s started out that war thinking he had something to defend. Now he had nothing left.

Traitors and invaders. They have no mercy. They deserve no mercy.

Santiago Hernández narrowed his eyes, lifted his rifle, and kept on fighting.

***

News of the occupation of Veracruz were no longer that new by the time they reached Santa Cecilia. With no telegraph line yet, they mostly relied on letters - and they travelled slowly - or occasional visitors for most news from the outside world. The visitor in question was a travelling leatherworker little cart from San Luz to offer his services and, most of all, the stunning news that American forces had attacked and occupied Veracruz.

The man, who was a mediocre leatherworker at best, had probably never received so much attention at once; within an hour of arriving, he was in the middle of the plaza, surrounded by people who had all but forgotten the market stalls around them… merchants included.

“Wait, what?”

“What do you mean, Americans? What do they have to do with… with anything?”

“So Veracruz is lost?”

“It is. They attacked on Tuesday. I heard that by Friday, all fighting had ceased. The gringos have occupied it."

“... What, the entire State?”

“No, idiota, only the harbor.”

“Haven’t they had enough of our land? Wasn’t taking the north enough for them?”

There was a lot of talking, a lot of speculation, and Miguel could barely understand a lot of it. Most of all, he couldn’t understand why Americans had suddenly decided to invade one of their harbors. But he wanted to know, so he’d done what seemed the most logical thing to do: ask the only American he knew.

It occurred to him just a moment too late, after knocking and then stepping in, that he wasn’t supposed to see or know anything about the wounds on his back. Thankfully, he didn’t have to pretend to be seeing them for the first time: at the wounds must have mostly healed, because while he rested still on his stomach, reading the Bible, Padre Juan did have a blanket on him.

He smiled when he saw Miguel walking in. “Oh, Miguel. It’s nice to see you again.”

Miguel managed to smile back, like he didn’t know what his back looked like under that blanket, like he didn’t know he had done that to himself for some reason he couldn’t begin to imagine. “You look better,” he said.

“... I do feel remarkably better.” Padre Juan closed the Bible, and put it down on the nightstand. “Sister Sophie told me you asked about me. It was very thoughtful of you. I do appreciate it,” he said, and he sounded so sincere Miguel felt rather bad for him. It occurred to him that he was probably the loneliest man he’d ever met. “She didn’t quite keep me up to date with the latest in town, however. How are things going? How do you like Héctor’s Latin class--”

“Americans attacked Veracruz,” Miguel said, and Padre Juan fell silent, staring at him like he’d just spoken in a foreign language to him. Well, technically he was, but… like he’d just spoken in a foreign language he didn’t understand all that well.

“The city with the harbor, Veracruz,” he repeated, hoping he could give him some insight to the actions of his country. “Americans took it. They attacked last Tuesday. Why did they do that?”

Padre Juan stared at him for a few more moments, seemingly stunned. Finally, he shook his head. “I am afraid I have no clue, Miguel,” he said slowly, and immediately sat up, blanket around him. “... I need to talk to Father Ernest,” he added. Miguel chose not to point out that they did, by the way, have a mayor.

Everyone he always turned to the priest first, anyway.

***

“This could be a good thing--”

“It’s never a good thing!”

“He’s right,” Ernesto spoke up, causing the other three to pause in their discussion and look at him. “Huerta counted a lot on that harbor to receive supplies. And now that route is gone.”

“Are we supposed to believe they did it out of the goodness of their heart? To help?” Sofía asked, sounding all the world like she was asking him if he really believed El Sombrerón was real, or that size did not matter.

He shrugged. “Of course not. But however you look at it, this is a blow to Federales. Veracruz was of huge strategic importance. And the enemy of my enemy… you know.”

He had… a point, Imelda had to concede. Still, it all felt wrong. “Only because they’re accidentally useful for once, it doesn’t mean we have to appreciate another country occupying our land. And God knows if they even are going to leave once this is all over.”

“That makes two of us,” Ernesto conceded. “Dealing with one gringo is enough of a hassle. I’d sooner stick my hand in a wasp nest than deal with more, believe me.”

Sofía shrugged. “I doubt you’re the only ones to think that way. I expect any gringo currently in Mexico is going to have a much harder life from here on. Huerta won’t take it well. Nor us. Let’s be honest, no one is happy.”

“But there could be a silver lining to this, if it weakens Huerta,” Héctor said, and sighed. “I guess we can only hope that’s worth the trouble, at least.”

“We can hope, I guess. Hey, what about our resident gringo? What are the odds someone is going to take it out on him?”

Imelda, Héctor and Ernesto exchanged a glance. “... They wouldn’t,” Héctor finally said, sounding nowhere as certain as he wished to. “He’s a priest, after all. People respect priests.”

Ernesto raised an eyebrow, glancing towards Imelda and Sofía. “With how I’ve been treated, I beg to diff-- ow!”

“You don’t count,” Imelda informed him, digging her heel into Ernesto’s foot another moment for good measure before pulling back, ignoring his complaints. Within moments, he would be very grateful she hadn’t said anything more specific aloud. “Someone should tell him what his countrymen have done. Just so he knows it’s in his best interest not to be too annoying.”

“Duly noted,” a very familiar, rather dry voice rang out. All three of them turned to the door to see Juan, of course, wearing the cassock again although the collar was missing. His hair was still ruffled from the pillow.

Sofía raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a promising start.”

“A promising start for what?”

“Being less annoying.”

An unimpressed look, and Padre Juan’s gaze turned Héctor and Ernesto. It was funny how he was still under the delusion it was them to take all decisions. It was annoying, but Imelda knew she had to pick her battles, and at the moment that wasn’t one she had time to pick.

“I believe you should try command more respect in the sisters, Father Ernest,” he said. “I don’t think they show you the reverence a parish priest deserves.”

… Come to think of it, what she was going to pick was an empty bottle to smash over his head. Her hand moved towards it, only for Sofía to grasp her wrist. She glanced at her sideways.

I hate him, she tried to communicate through her eyes alone.

Who doesn’t, Sofía somehow managed to respond without a single word.

Across the table, Ernesto was clearing his throat. “Ah-- well-- emotions are running high. I don’t know if you heard the news, but--”

“I have,” Padre Juan replied, his voice quiet again. “I promise you, I… I knew nothing of it.”

“None of us is so stupid to think an obscure priest would be informed on the decisions of his country’s government,” Imelda said, her voice cold as frost. She expected a retort, but the gringo just seemed to flinch at the remark, eyes still on Ernesto - whose expression became unreadable for a few moments before he spoke.

“What Ime-- Sister Gisela means is, we know you had nothing to do with this.”

“We’ll make sure that’s clear to everyone,” Héctor added quickly. Padre Juan gave a weak smile, but it did not reach his eyes.

“I have no intention to cause trouble. I did plan on leaving once I was better, so--”

“Too dangerous,” Ernesto shut him down quickly, causing Imelda to raise an eyebrow. He was a good actor, she had to give him that; if she didn’t know he had less than selfless reasons to keep the gringo in Santa Cecilia for the foreseeable future, she might have even believed he was concerned for his safety. It made her feel… slightly less foolish for falling for his priestly act

She didn’t notice how Sofía, sitting at her right, was very obviously biting the inside of her cheek in an attempt at keeping her expression neutral. Neither did Padre Juan who, unaware of it all, tried to argue. “I am no stranger to the dangers of travel. If God wills it, I will be safe.”

Ah, if not for the fact he might end up exposing Ernesto, Imelda might have wholeheartedly and loudly agreed, encouraging to leave Santa Cecilia as soon as possible. She really, really hoped the idiota currently posing as their parish priest knew and appreciated how much of an effort it took her to keep quiet.

“This is out of God’s hands,” Ernesto muttered, unaware of her thoughts. To his credit, the gringo flinched but did not launch into a full lecture on why what he’d just said was sacrilegious. He listened, eyes wide, as Ernesto went on. “Things are going to get more complicated for Americans in Mexico. Huerta will be pissed because they took an important harbor from his grasp, so you’ll have to watch out for Federales. And everyone will just be pissed because… well, come on. You-- they invaded us. We like it better when the States don’t do that.”

Padre Juan hesitated, gaze shifting from Ernesto to Héctor, who smiled. “We’d love you to stay,” he said, purposely avoiding to look over at Imelda and Sofía, who had raised an eyebrow each in perfect synchronicity. “People know you here. You’ll be safe.”

“And besides, we didn’t go through all this trouble to bring you back from the brink to watch you head out and commit suicide,” Sofía added, a seraphic smile on her face. Imelda held back a smile. Ernesto gave her an exasperated look.

“We might still need your help,” he spoke up quickly. “If this, uh, development makes it harder for resources to come from the States, we will need you to put in a good word for us.”

That seemed to hit a chord, and after a long moment Padre Juan gave a nod that was more of a bow of his head. “... I understand. Thank you. I will stay, if… if you want me to.”

As Imelda bit her tongue to hold back a retort, Ernesto smiled at him. When he spoke, his voice sounded startlingly sincere. “We do,” he said quietly. “I do.”

Juan was very quick to mumble his thanks and leave the room - giving Imelda no time to notice the sudden redness spreading on that pale, tired face.

***

Twenty-one dead. Twenty-two, if you counted the idiota who drowned while trying to get on land.

Twenty-two dead American soldiers, and they still couldn’t put a number to the Mexicans who had died in the attack. Some said two hundred, some said three hundred; it was hard to tell if civilians were included in the count, because they had taken up arms, too.

Soldiers probably accounted for at least half of the total. One-hundred and fifty at the very least. One-hundred and fifty like Nando, and the gringos had only lost twenty-two. And he had perhaps killed… one or two. Or maybe he had only wounded them, impossible to know. The only man he knew for sure had died was the civilian who’d had the galls to turn to him for help.

Not enough to avenge Nando. Not nearly enough, but oh had he tried.

They outgunned us. If not, we would have killed them one by one. Have they already counted Nando among the dead? Have they found him? Has he already been buried? He should be buried. He deserves it. I need to write to his family. If only I could tell them I have avenged him...

Resting on his back on a bed, his right leg ablaze with pain, Santiago shut his eyes not to see the cracked ceiling above. Somewhere on his left, a young man whined about not feeling his legs anymore. Somewhere on his right, a woman was talking.

“... Commodore Azueta’s boy was so brave. The American admiral with that funny name wanted to visit, but he said, ‘if the American enters my house, I will either kill him or me’. Doctor Xicoy said-”

“Good answer,” Santiago rasped, staring at the ceiling. It caused the nurses fall silent, turning to him. He barely noticed them. “Shame he passed up the chance to actually do it.”

“Oh, you’re awake.” One of the women walked up to his bed, tall and somewhat imposing. She looked tired, but managed a smile. “We took the bullet out of your leg. Nothing broke. You’ll walk again and probably won’t even limp. Now we only need to keep your wound clean, and then we’ll send you home.”

Wait-- what? “Home? I can’t go home. I’m in the army.”

“You don’t have to. You fought bravely and were wounded. You earned an honorable discharge.”

No, no, no, no, no. “I have to rejoin my battalion. The 19th Infantry. I have--”

“They’ll have been moved somewhere else by the time you recover, and--”

“Then I’ll join another,” Santiago snapped, making an effort to sit up and causing her to recoil. “I am not done with this war.”

She stared at him a few moments, stunned, then slowly her expression turned bitter. “You mean this war is not done with you.”

“I don’t care how you put it. I’ll recover and return to duty. I’ll join another battalion - any battalion,” Santiago snapped, and turned towards the wall. He kept silent for the rest of the evening, gaze fixed on a corner where a few uniforms had been thrown, drenched with blood. His own was among them, probably, stained with Nando’s blood as well as his.

There was barely any blood on Beto’s. The sand soaked up it all.

I never avenged him. I couldn’t avenge Nando. What am I still alive for?

Ah, but he could still do something, couldn’t he? He had one man only to blame for Beto’s death. One target only, and the last thing he knew was that he’d gone south, towards Oaxaca. So, once his leg had healed, he’d join any battalion heading there. He’d find him, make him pay. He’d see his blood run down his hands and all light go out of his eyes, he thought, and the idea was so soothing.

When the nurse returned to check on him Santiago was asleep, a serene smile on his lips.

***

“So. How is the seduction plan going?”

“There is no seduction plan and I’d really appreciated if you stopped blabbing about it where anybody walking in would hear you. We only talked. I made an offer. Up to him whether to take it or not. He’s staying in Santa Cecilia, anyway, so--”

“He was turning red when you said you want him to stay here yesterday.”

“So what? We know it’s me he wants. Unsurprisingly.”

“... You thought it was Héctor.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“You thought it was Gustavo, too.”

“That was, er… last week. He turned out to have better taste than I anticipated, is all.”

“Well. I guess he could have made worse choices.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. But really--” A knock at the door of the sacristy, and Sofía fell into blessed, blessed silence. Ernesto breathed out a sigh of relief, and turned to the door.

“Come in!” he called out. The door opened, and… well, speak of the gringo.

“Father Ernest - Sister Sophie,” John Johnson said, his voice quiet, and stepped in. He was almost back to normal, if… quieter than ever before. “I was wondering if I could have a word with you, Father,” he added, eyes resting on just about… anything across the room except them. Which was a good thing, really, because Sofía did precisely nothing to hide the grin that spread across her face. Not until Ernesto elbowed her, anyway. She recoiled.

“Oh! Of course! I was just leaving,” she exclaimed, sounding much too chipper, and walked past Padre Juan to the door. She turned on the doorway, with the expression of someone who is about to eavesdrop on every single word, and made a rather explicitly gesture from behind the gringo’s back. Ernesto held back from rolling his eyes.

“Close the door behind you. Gracias,” he droned instead. As the door shut - undoubtedly with her ear pressed on the other side - Ernesto turned back to Juan with a smile. “Can I help you?”

Padre Juan seemed to… well, shrink. He kept staring at the floor now, hands folded anxiously in front of himself, face quickly going from white to increasingly bright pink. “I have… thought about what you suggested. Long and hard. If you’re… still willing… if you’re certain…”

Ernesto bit the inside of his cheek not to make a ‘long and hard’ joke, laugh, or a combination of both. Through a supreme effort of will, he kept his expression neutral. He could easily imagine Sofía on the other side of the door, stuffing a fist in her mouth to keep quiet. “I am,” he said.

Padre Juan swallowed, his skin now red. Ernesto suspected it would feel burning hot to the touch. “I have… fought my urges for my entire life. I hadn’t felt a thing for a long time, I thought-- I thought I was rid of it. Until I came here and… and…” he swallowed again, and finally dared to peer up at his face. “Is it possible I will-- if I try-- hate it, and never long for it again?”

Well, now that would be a blow to his pride. Still, he wasn’t bothered. “... It is. You never know.”

“I might-- not hate it-- but then I’d know, I suppose--” he paused, and drew in a long breath. “You’d absolve me. And I’d absolve you. Right?”

“... Yes.” Not that Ernesto’s absolutions meant anything, but he didn’t need to know that. “I will.”

A sharp intake of breath, and Padre Juan gave him a quick nod before staring back at the ground, uncharacteristically silent. He hardly spoke to anyone for the rest of the evening.

And when Ernesto came to his room that night, he let him in without a word.

***

In case you're wondering how the night goes, here you go. Mind the rating.

***

[Back to Part 13]

[On to Part 15]

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

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ra-lek · 5 years

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I have watched mr robot so many times and I am still confused to why they picked “red wheelbarrow” as season 2 and 3’s symbol and how it ties the show together? Where did it come from? What’s the actual significance of it?

aalright first thing’s first- i’m so sorry for the long wait. i’ve been busy & all over the place but i wanted to give this ask my full attention because i’m beyoNd excited to get into it!!

second- this gets long. like, very long. so if you’re cool w that; buckle up, click on that ‘read more’ and let’s go: the red wheelbarrow

i’m gonna attempt to explain all the questions above- to the best of my ability. but to do so i have to make something clear: as you will see in my analysis below, or if you’ve, y’know, seen the show- mr robot does not play episodes in chronological order. or scenes, for that matter.

there was absolutely no way to know anything about a red wheelbarrow until the end of s2- so, naturally, there are going to be gaps in my list. but in order to fill them, we need to see what we missed out on once s4 comes out. (this is basically my apologies in advance if some questions are left unanswered)

so, some facts: the red wheelbarrow is a poem written by william carlos williams & published in 1923. it’s a real, existing poem, and the first time it appears in mr robot is actually in the FIRST season. and that’s exactly why it’s such a staple to the rest of the story.

but you see, the scene itself is split into puzzle pieces across 3 seasons.

so let’s treat it as such. i’m going to list & highlight important scenes in each season the best i can and then we’ll piece it all together, sounds good?

SEASON 1

this is the very base of the series. so it’s not surprising the red wheelbarrow is nested within it. trust me, if i attempted to piece everything together in one post it’ll be longer than a fucking bible so i’m only going to focus on the god night™

okay, so- the first time some shady shit happened was in episode 8 when we saw an SUV parked at coney island in which tyrell and mr robot were sitting & having a discussion. tyrell starts the conversation by saying he has to know what mr robot is planning because they were meant to be allies; that they want the same thing & he wants to be involved.

mr robot responds with flat out telling him he’s wrong- that there’s nothing they could possibly agree on. tyrell demands more explanations and mr robot is so fed up at this point he goes to leave only to be pulled back by his shirt. tyrell asks “aren’t you forgetting i know about your dirty little secret? there are people close to you who wouldn’t be happy if they knew what i know” to which robot replies casually. they’re both too smart to allow pettiness to dictate their actions, there’s no benefit to either one of them to say those things to anybody- and that the best thing for tyrell to do when it comes to HIM? is nothing.

the scene ends there but transitions into mr wellick coming home lookin’ like a wreck and downing half a bottle of vodka- this surprises joanna since she actually heard some good news from tyrell’s lawyer- but he interrupts by telling her none of that matters; because there’s this tech he met a month ago, talks about his motives a bit to a very concerned woman at this point- and when he mentions not seeing what’s above them- she asks what it is exactly. he responds, “god.”

at this point into the show, the ‘who is mr robot’ reveal hasn’t happened yet.

the conversation he had with tyrell happened the day before it, actually. since, in the same episode, elliot gets to find out who his family is- and the episode ends with mr robot saying “it’s time to talk.” and the reason i know this is because the following episode starts and,

episode 9.

suddenly, it’s morning. elliot is freaking out and yelling and he’s confused and we’re confused and we’re yelling and mr robot is not helping at all by being so goddamn vague but there is one sentence that stands out and that is - “especially since that unprompted visit from tyrell wellick last night”

he is referring to the car scene only. because both he and tyrell came home after that talk- so it is not a 5/9 attack they did then. because, once again, there’s a sentence mr robot says: “i’ll explain everything. tonight.”

alright then so how do i explain the fact darlene was in elliot’s room looking for his meds after the reveal scene and THEN tyrell entered? – it’s actually pretty simple, it didn’t happen the day of the reveal.

because, remember, elliot realized who darlene was the day before. she is concerned because he forgot again. those are the meds she’s looking for- they never acknowledge HIM.

once she leaves, and says she’ll be back with the meds soon- it’s understandable why she’s been looking for elliot for quite some time earlier in the episode and why mr robot came to elliot’s apartment at night- but they only had the ‘talk’ in the morning.

that same, unfortunate night for elliot tbh, tyrell enters the room and says he’s been waiting for darlene to leave. he approaches him for the first time, tells him how he strangled a woman and how he knows everything elliot’s been behind. that’s he’s the one constant in the sea of variables. so, he puts on his ‘fighting’ gloves and-

next thing we know, we’re in the arcade. elliot talks about changing the world and whatnot- says no one else is involved- tyrell very beautifully says “well it’s you and me now” and the episode ends with elliot looking over to the popcorn machine.

this is the night of the 5/9 attack.

we know, because elliot wakes up in tyrell’s car- 2 days later- and is met with world destruction (the song) playing in the background. you know what i mean- the deed has been done we don’t have time for this.

one more thing to point out about s1 before we wrap that one up is: when elliot searches for tyrell, joanna recognized him as the young tech her husband told her about when he was going on about god or whatever. she asked him when she last saw him and if he seemed strange- elliot replied with “a week ago” and “no” which she found funny because, the last time she saw him, he was acting very strange.

SEASON 2

elliot put himself in jail out of spite. anyway, as i said, not a lot of time to decipher everything so let’s get to the main meal. we get some teasers about tyrell being a wanted criminal associated w fsociety and the one behind 5/9. that’s all the info we need cause the piece we’re searching for here is in episode 12.

we get the full version of the car scene!! this time, we see elliot as mr robot- delivering the same line. however, we were lead to believe that once mr robot exited the car it was the end of the scene but no no no no no- tyrell now opens his door and calls out to elliot.

he’s desperate and just wants to be a part of this project honestly so he says there’s something between them and he can feel it. now, mr robot/elliot says “you’re only seeing what’s in front of you. you’re not seeing what’s above you” tyrell asks for an explanation, doesn’t get one, and so he decides to fight cryptic with cryptic and recite the poem we mentioned like 7 hours ago.

“so much depends upon a red wheelbarrow, glazed with rainwater, beside the white chickens.”

now mr robot/elliot is intrigued. he lowers his head slightly and tyrell explains how his father used to quote that old poem all the time, how it meant so much to him, that it had been the only english he knew. so today, tyrell is using it as a reminder. a reminder of him, and a reminder of what he never wants to become.

i’m going to take one more paragraph to dedicate to this season and say: no this is not the only important thing. i’m just trying to not spiral out of the main focus. but if you’re interested you can send me an ask about red wheelbarrow spottings and meanings in s2 by just sending “godot?” and i gotchu, granted, in a few days- but i gotchu.

SEASON 3

this is where we get the full picture. well, sorta. because we don’t know exactly what happened after they part ways. but it’s okay, it’s not like the show is over.

now, a psychology break: elliot alderson suffers from dissociative identity disorder. (shocker, i know) mr robot is an alter. but you know a fun fact? most DID cases have more than just one alter. there’s at least two besides the host personality. and they all serve a specific purpose in order to keep you alive and help you cope with extreme trauma.

mr robot, as we’ve seen him, is a protector. the moment tyrell put on those beating gloves it was a trigger and mr robot took over. same for when those neo-nazis were punching elliot, same for when he took a beating from ray’s men, and so on. — point is: alters come out with a help of a trigger. just how elliot says talking to darlene makes him see mr robot more often, for instance.

this is important because, even though neither he nor mr robot remember the quote, elliot can’t stop thinking about red wheelbarrows. he’s named his journal after it, he draws wheelbarrows in it.

the red wheelbarrow. something tyrell associated with his father whom he despised. something about that changed something in elliot- it could’ve been a trigger, it might’ve pulled another alter forward.

so, without further ado, let’s paint:

how about we pick up from what we see in s1e9. since, all of this happens in that day. welcome to 5/9

elliot remembers leading tyrell into the arcade, he remembers looking at popcorn. and that’s it. (he says so at the beginning of his journal, too) elliot switched with mr robot for enough time to remember tyrell and popcorn. but also there’s just something about wheelbarrows that keeps ringing in his head during his time in prison.

next, everything is from mr robot’s perspective. he slowly reaches for the gun, aims it at tyrell, fires- but nothing happens. this leads tyrell to an impressive conclusion: they’re gods. he insists they were destined to be together and work together. so he says “now i understand- when you told me i wasn’t seeing what was above me” and while he goes off we see mr robot’s face frowning with confusion because.

“what the fuck are you talking about?”

he doesn’t remember saying that, doesn’t remember the poem. but he disregards all of that once tyrell drops on his knees and aims the gun at his own head. he wants to test fate once more, so they do. which is when mr robot decides tyrell is just the right amount of crazy to save him from himself.

as the hacking is happening, the dark army arrives. irving, walking in, explains the honeypot situation which was reported to the FBI (dark army owns them) so. they’re here.

remember, elliot had discussed the honeypot with whiterose- not mr robot.

irving sees the gun on the table, sees the situation, casually threatens both of them in this very charming way of his. it’s very clear they’re fucked and have to comply with what the dark army says. they ask mr robot if he knows how to drive that SUV out front- he says yes. irving explains they will be taking care of tyrell, cause now he’s the most wanted criminal there is- and robot is advised to drive it to a location elliot wakes up in season 1 finale.

above him, glasses with an usb containing the ‘boardwalk fail’ clip.

NOW,

tyrell got taken to a cabin, kept away from the world, chopping wood and asking where elliot is, chatting with irving occasionally- until one day he wakes to see some unusual things, among which is mr. williams if you remember, that’s the last name of the poet- but doesn’t have to mean much.

he asks him questions, until he proves he’s loyal to them. however, he says he is only loyal to elliot. which is a good answer- because the DA is now giving him a laptop and they’re starting to work on stage2. but then;

“the operation will be called the red wheelbarrow, mr. alderson’s request.”

THAT is how it ties everything together, where it came from, who said it, the only thing left to decipher is why it stuck. maybe we can leave that for another time?

there are plenty of different interpretations when it comes to the poem, honestly. it seems tyrell’s resentment towards his father, and mr robot calling elliot’s dad a zero- was what got to elliot, or whoever it was, that can relate.

lemme know what you think!! i hope you’re satisfied w the answer and, again, im so sorry for the long wait.

if there are any mistakes just keep in mind it’s 7am right now and i need some mercy.

#a very very long post #im not even gonna proofread it im so tired im gonna go straight to bed #mr robot #elliot alderson #tyrell wellick #/mine #shutupneil

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beauknowsblogging-blog · 5 years

Text

Video Notes

Minecraft: The Story of Mojang – 20 Minute Short

· Markus “Notch Persson, of Sweden, built the game entirely by himself

· He always wanted to be a game developer since boyhood, programming since age 8

· Persson’s first individual take on game development, after having a job helping build other’s games, was a personal project he designed and was to take up to 12 months to make. That game is now called Minecraft

· Persson quit his job to try and keep up with the Minecraft demand. It went from a beta testing, 7 employee managed game, to exponential growth; Minecraft not long after its launch was making $250,000 a day!

· The Mojang founders are dedicated to developing a company that they want to work at for a long time to come, not sell for a quick profit, and this business model maintains the integrity of the game and its origins

· Mojang never received a penny from an investment party, it has never spent a penny on marketing, as all of it has become from blog users raving about it and the power of word of mouth. Entirely self-funded!

· Minecraft is not a linear game with tasks or objectives, but rather skills and tools and the power of the imagination to build practically anything

· Incredibly, Minecraft is still being built and developed, but more or less has been able to be played in a beta version since practically inception. All along the way, things have been added/improved and even at one point during ongoing development

· Mojang’s follow up game is ironically called the “The Game Which Is Not Announced Yet ™” and they already know it will be hard to top Minecraft

· As of February 2013, Minecraft continued to sell over $10,000 copies per day. As of May 2019, Mojang announced that Minecraft has sold over 175 million copies, and has over 200 million users in its free Chinese version already

Adults Try Minecraft

· Minecraft is the digital equivalent of Legos, built in 2009

· 2 game modes: Creative (limitless materials and no threats) or Survival, threatened by creatures and limited resources

· Although a much more preferred game for children on behalf of adults, it seems not a game for adults preference because of the time dedication

Moms Play Minecraft

· Minecraft?! I thought it was “Mindcraft” hahaha

· “What is the object of the game?” (There isn’t one)

· Totally zero to 100 once threatened and unprepared

· Endless creativity based option versus alternatives: shooter, violence, etc

Immersive Education Overview

· Immersive education is used to better engage students to material via a game-type atmosphere and mode of use for collaboration/education

· Can create/customize avatar to appear more like oneself & environment to resemble classroom or alternative landscape conducive to learning

· Immersive education, while not always designed for non-techonolgical courses, is a powerful tool designed to increase engagement and connection from teachers to students

· Unfortunately, Immersive education continues to worsen the social lack of interaction (anti-social) with others personally and face-to-face, despite a creative and significant alterative way to increase attention and students to material (I think that immersive education will be most successful in alternative education settings, but we should not lean on technology to learn as our primary resource, because the internet will eventually become that no matter what for each of us professionally)

China’s Web Junkies

· China has an internet addiction treatment center

· It seems like a horrible place where, rather than give people alternatives to using the internet like being outside and activities, they tie you up and make you have to quit cold turkey despite possibly thinking about using it still. Instead of healing oneself by not simply using the internet with an alternative, they are more of a detention center than treatment center

· In 2008, China declared internet addiction to be a clinical disorder, saying it’s a top health threat to its teenagers

· They say “treatment at this center includes a mix of therapy and “Military” drills, often lasting 3-4 months.

· “Our study shows that people who spend more than six hours on the internet for something other than work or study again, for other than work or study, are most likely to become addicted to the internet.” –Tao Ran, Addiction Specialist, Director of Daxing Center

· Parents are encouraged to stay during treatment and participate in therapy sessions, but this seems to be a conflict between parent and child

· It seems that the bigger issue amongst those addicted to the internet is loneliness, and that from this separation from daily life of loneliness, the kids in the treatment center bond over their interests in common, while the world continues to tell them they have a problem, instead of using their passion for the internet in a constructive and alternatively useful manner and practice to be beneficial society members.

· When somebody is lonely, they can always look to the internet for companionship, and this is a growing problem and concern

· One parent even drugged their child with sleeping pills to bring them to the treatment facility; this to me is a problem with parenting or lack thereof and the notion that if parenting is not done right at an early age, the child will more or less parent themselves based on a simple feel good or feel bad emotional system of right versus wrong or yes versus no

Video Game Addiction/Your Brain on Video Games

· Is video game addiction real? My opinion is yes and the ‘high’ or brain chemical levels react to the desire or need to play video games and that change biologically/physiologically is enough to warrant the label addiction from my point of view

· At first it may be an interest, a positive result, or emotional response to being safe and victorious in a game, but then can quickly become, if not in balance with other activities, feelings of anxiety, depression, agitation etc when not receiving their “fix” of gaming an adequate amount of time

· It is unique and “cool” yet concerning that the immersive virtual reality worlds in gaming we have entered and created are now coming back to us and entering our world more and more realistically and not providing a balance of separation from them, but rather taking over more of our time and energy in the real ‘finite’ world

· New Zealand has a national E-gaming team, oh no. I think at a certain point this has to stop being about the money and we need to start encouraging people to know that this is not the real world and that it can be fun in smaller doses, but shouldn’t take over or be the primary foundation of their schedules.

· If you are addicted to video games/alcohol then go work in the game development/alcohol industry, are you still an addict? Interesting parallel, but my answer would be yes from a medical/clinical point of view, even if you are capitalizing/profiting from your time spent now versus before

Growing Up Online

· 90% of teenagers are online, and the number is only growing

· Social media and the internet are seen by teenagers as an extension of real life and the continuation of their relationships not separate, essentially always keeping them connected even when apart. The new “currency,” if you don’t use it you will fall behind and stop becoming relevant or able to keep up with others

· Behind the comfort of a screen, people are much freer to behave in ways they would not normally. At first it may be an experiment of expression, afterwards becoming their identity and their escape from reality and the escape/decision to go with the identity that is cooler or more popular or welcoming and secure emotionally

· There is a fine line on the internet between privacy and public and the use of the information once it is out there is anybody’s and safety for children is the top priority for parents and their families/communities

· The internet is public, despite any claims to personal property, it is extremely hard to enforce and therefore it is said that the inaccessibility to children’s information by parents is considered invasive once they do and the internet has caused the biggest generational divide since rock and roll

· The internet is an enhancer, an accelerator of information and emotion and aspects of life that happen in the real world. A magnifying glass that inspects and magnifies the intensity of real-world feelings and questions and the way we go about solving them or letting them destroy us. It can and should be used positively, but often is misused and hurtful to others

· Cyberbullying is real and exists and is a serious issue that shouldn’t be taken lightly or any different than bullying in person and is truly concerning and making parenting and growing up for the children increasingly more difficult. We should provide them more ways to be trained and versed in cyber defense and protection so they can withstand the negative and embrace the positive of online/internet

Generation Like

· The current generation is dabbing in the currency of ‘likes’ and social media and broadcasting oneself out there in the world is a way for them to create an online identity and build oneself up emotionally. Unfortunately, this isn’t the real world and is sadly is just a temporary high and will forever be chased to increase unless we realize it is not what matters most

· Social media and the profile of individuals is free advertising and marketing for companies and data creation, collection, and free word of mouth

· We are all walking billboards and our own personal media and marketing companies/agencies etc. Therefore, we can provide exposure and time for free for companies and endorsements and through the power of connecting and relationships direct or indirect, people and products can connect and work together to increase their popularity and monetary value

· Consumers are the marketers if not more so than before. They want to be included and feel above or more involved in the conversation and by doing so they are rewarded and valued

· In a way social media is a real life hunger games version and the game is never ending and there will always be new players replacing those eliminated and just trying to live and survive for a share of the monetary value if possible for a split moment in time and doing so by exploring themselves and their interests and connections

· Fame by association, the interactivity, kids are using the very marketing techniques used on themselves and turning them onto others as increasingly manipulating middle people but appropriately getting their share of the cut on the things they endorse and support. I don’t think this is wrong but there is only a limited amount of exposure and ability to get a share of the pie even though it seems to be endless in the long run the short term it is a finite amount.

How Facebook Shares Your Information

· Shadow contacts/profile: the information you can’t see or control

· Information by people who know you that start to piece together a profile or an account about you and come at you from an aggregate group of sources of other sources that are connected to you in order to advertise and market to you

· Altogether, Facebook KNOWS you and your connections and it crosses lines and boundaries through connections and databases between people and connections in order to link everything and every one together simply by aggregate information. IE: Facebook is the data gatherers and organizers, and once they have them it is theirs because you didn’t provide all the outside info to them

· GO EUROPE! Battling versus Facebook because that information whether provided directly or indirectly is YOUR information and yours to decide who does and doesn’t have access to it. SCARY STUFF!

#phew

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tatelangdonsweater · 6 years

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ED TW

I suppose now’s a good time for me to tell my story.

I guess a good starting place is when I was very young. I’ve always been somewhat weird about food. I don’t remember this, but apparently, there was a phase when I refused to eat pasta (because of the texture). I loved certain vegetables that most kids my age didn’t like, such as spinach and mushrooms, and I hated the taste of milk.

My mom would criticize my eating habits from an early age. She was leapfrogging from diet to diet for most of my childhood. I tended to eat quickly, and large amounts at that. (I mean, I was a growing kid.) Whenever she scolded me for taking a third piece of bread or asking for seconds before anybody else, I felt disgusting and greedy.

I think I was about eight when I started sneaking food. It would be things like cookies, candy, butter or jelly, and I’d feel horrible afterwards for 1) indulging myself, and 2) eating “bad foods”. My mom noticed, and she did not understand this at all. (Quite frankly, neither did I.) She’d yell at me for it. We started getting into a lot more fights when I was older, not just about food.

Even when I wasn’t sneaking it, I felt guilty about eating too much food. My brother and I would sometimes go to Jamba Juice with our babysitter, and I remember feeling disgusting after finishing a smoothie and a pretzel. I almost didn’t want to eat for the rest of the day.

When I was in fifth grade, at the doctor’s office, the doctor asked if I exercised. Seeing as I hated most sports, I said no. So the doctor said I needed to get some exercise. That would have been fine, if my mom didn’t lambast me in the car on the way back. She’ll likely deny this, but I distinctly remember her saying I was lazy.

I remember it was Mother’s Day. My mom caught me eating butter. My dad, my brother, and I had bought a special dessert for the occasion, but my mom wouldn’t let me have it, saying I’d eaten enough calories for the day. Now keep in mind, I was ten. I didn’t know what calories were. I just knew that if you ate too many, it was bad.

At eleven, I started to feel more and more insecure about my weight and my eating habits. What didn’t help things was my mom yelling at me about the way I ate. It started with berating me for eating the rest of the Frosted Flakes in a single day. Then, as I was pulling on my pants, I noticed that they were a bit tight around the thighs. “Well, all those Frosted Flakes had to go somewhere!” Then she yelled at me for eating eight pieces of chicken at New Year’s dinner. And ever since then, at lunch every day, I was disgusted with myself and didn’t think I deserved to be eating. I was already horribly depressed because I was being bullied, and the only thing I looked forward to was food, because it tasted good. And even then, I still felt disgusting afterwards.

The summer before eighth grade, I started doing a lot of research on eating disorders, which was where I figured out I may have had BED. In the process, I developed an interest in nutrition. I would Google the number of calories in certain foods. Breaking food down into numbers felt neat and precise when the rest of my life was not. Towards the end of summer, I decided to conduct an experiment. I wanted to see what would happen if I reduced my calorie intake. So I trawled pro ana websites, looking for tips. I actually welcomed the idea of developing anorexia (and this is why I feel stupid now), because I figured if I was going to have an eating disorder, I could at least have something with behaviors that were marginally socially acceptable, and something that was met with pity when discovered rather than seen as gross. I was also somewhat jealous of people with anorexia because I perceived them as having more self-control than I did. What’s more, I felt like if I did become emaciated, it would be a physical expression of my emotional pain.

It wasn’t long before I was obsessed. I’d lost a friend who I’d felt somewhat attached to (I later realized she’d sexually abused me, but at the time, I thought it was just “experimenting”). Another friend was spending less time with our group. I fought with my mom a lot. I may not have been able to control all of that, but at least I could control what I put into my body. And if I couldn’t, I could throw it up (I rarely did that, though). My parents found out, and they were really mad at me. (Although.... why?) They threatened to kick me off the cross-country team, not let me go on a school trip (I ended up going, though), and once, I got invited to a classmate’s Bat Mitzvah, but they wouldn’t let me go to the reception.

This didn’t help, of course. I’m sure they thought it did, but it really didn’t. I just became more secretive about it. But one day in April, I was meeting with a psychologist to receive an IQ test. She asked me why I saw a therapist every week, and I told her about my eating disorder. She said, “You don’t look particularly underweight.” I heard that as, “You’re not sick enough.”

I’m in high school now, and I’m starting to understand the gravity of the situation. I’m taking a huge gamble with my health, and I have been since eighth grade. Part of me wants to get better, but part of me still feels like I’m not sick enough, because I’m not underweight.

#ed #cocsa mention #emeto tw #ok to rb

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poisonedapples · 7 years

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Anxiety—The “Dark” Trait

Summary: Virgil has always had problems fitting into a certain group, but Patton hasn’t failed to make him feel welcome.

Pairing: Platonic/Parental Moxiety

Warnings: None that I can think of. Let me know if that’s not the case, though!

This is also the first time I’ve ever published an actual story on here, and I am super nervous. I’ve been contemplating doing this for what seems like forever, but here we go I guess!

——————————

It’s no surprise that there was once a time Virgil didn’t fit in. Back when Thomas was just a teenager, he was the bad guy—always getting in the way of all the other sides’ fun. He made Thomas worry about things he didn’t want to worry about, he ruined his potential and threw away all the things Thomas could have done in his experimental teenage years. He wasn’t like Creativity, or Morality, or even Logic. He was bad. Virgil wasn’t Virgil, he was Anxiety.

Virgil knew that anxiety wasn’t necessarily bad, even with all the lies he hears from Deceit. He knows that he just wants to protect Thomas, even if he can go overboard sometimes, and that feeling is more real than any fabrication Deceit could ever bring up. But despite common belief, the dark sides were more than just Thomas’ evil traits, they were the parts of himself he hid away. The teenage host didn’t want to believe he was insecure, or deceitful, or had any trace of bad mental health at all. So just for that reason, just because Virgil was deemed as a disorder by society, he was placed into the dark areas of Thomas’ mind for many years. He was a dark trait. What Thomas wanted to believe was that he was strong, brave and had no reason to need the support of others. He was brave! He’d always been brave, and he’ll continue to be like that.

But in reality, Thomas was just as brave as he was completely honest. He was just as brave as he was completely confident in all of his abilities. It just wasn’t true.

Deceit however, made sure that the truth never exactly came out. “Yes Thomas,” Virgil would hear him say, “You’re a very honest person! Everyone says how honest, confident and brave you are. So it must be true! It’s always been true. You are brave. You’ve always been brave. People have no reason to be concerned for your mental health.”

But inside Thomas’ mind everyone else knew the truth. Virgil still had a say in the host’s decision making, after all. And you can deny a bad part of your mental health all you want, that doesn’t make it go away. Virgil was still there, he’d always been there.

But Thomas didn’t exactly need to know that.

So Deceit had no intention of making the teenage boy learn. Thomas didn’t want to know, therefore he would not find out. “Bosses orders, Anxiety.” He’d say, “Thomas wants to know about you. So he will find out all about you.”

“Thanks, but Thomas needs me more than ever right now, so I don’t have time for your taunting. I’ll make sure the door doesn’t tear your hamburgler cape on my way out.” Virgil smirked and made his way out of Deceit’s ‘lair’ (He loved taunting him with that), sinking to his own dark room in the back of Thomas’ mind. He decided to ignore the sarcastic mumbling from his fellow dark side, he wasn’t in the mood for a fight

But despite that, Virgil couldn’t help but feel a little...bad. Deceit, with an exception of a few other dark sides, were the only ones that moderately made Virgil feel welcome. After all, the dark ones gotta stick together, right? Especially in a mind where a dad who radiates sunshine, an arrogant prince, and a temperamental nerd call the shots. They have no one else but each other, but Virgil still couldn’t help but have a type of longing.

But Virgil didn’t want to be a dark side. He didn’t want to be the evil person Thomas and Deceit made him seem to be.

It was stupid, he was stupid, but Virgil kinda wanted to fit in with the other guys. They were nicer, more friendly, and put his constant racing thoughts at ease. Logic calmed him down, Creativity helped let out some of that bad anxiety, and parental warmth always made Virgil feel better. But nobody needed to know that, he saw those three every day and knew he could never fit in with such acceptable sides. Not someone who was bad and evil like he was. Even if in his mind he kept telling himself he wasn’t the bad guy they thought he was, that he wasn’t dark at all and just wanted to protect Thomas, maybe he was also lying to himself?

He can aim and protect all he wants, but Virgil could never fit in. He could never be accepted. He just had to find company in Deceit and the others, just accept his fate of always being the bad guy. So with this mindset Virgil technically did start to have it at least...hurt a little less. No more getting his hopes up, and just accepting that Deceit is the only “friend” he’ll ever have. Even if he’s manipulative, he was all Virgil had. And Virgil was just going to have to deal with that.

And he thought he was doing a good job at it. At least, until a certain incident.

“You have anxiety.”

In just one day, an hour long conversation with a therapist blew Virgil’s cover. He knew. Thomas knew he was there now. And he had finally been accepting that he was evil! He was finally moving on, now this!? This isn’t fair!

There had to be a way around it! Maybe Deceit could convince him otherwise? Maybe he could bring Thomas into denial? Virgil did the same thing with his sexuality, and even if that didn’t last then this one can-

“I have anxiety. A lot of people have it, I’m not alone or insane. I can still be brave. I can still move on. It’s alright that I have anxiety.”

...Darn it.

Virgil’s plan lasted about a month before Thomas stood in the mirror and said that phrase. The host admittedly did feel better about himself, but Virgil felt anything but. What was he going to do now!? He was too far in, he couldn’t fix this, now he had to interact with the lighter three and he’ll have to face the fact every day that he can never be one of them and will always be stuck with Deceit and the others and he’s bad he’s bad he’s bad he just wanted to protect Thomas but he’s just so bad and-

That’s when Virgil’s room shifted its location. Instead of being in the back corners of Thomas’ mind, it shifted closer to the main three’s rooms. It was still in a dark corner, but his room looked a little...lighter? There were less cobwebs in his corners, the lights were less dim and even had a red tint which was strangely more comforting than the black abyss, he had a cat plush on his sofa and even got some pretty sick Tim Burton posters on his wall.

Huh. This was...admittedly kinda nice. Virgil felt a little more homely in his dark, edgy corner. It wasn’t that dark anymore, maybe because some of the fears were taken out? Either way you weren’t hearing any complaints from this angsty teenager, because spending the time away in his room to avoid to lighter three didn’t seem half bad anymore.

That is, until a hesitant knock came from the door. “Heya, anybody in there? We’re not gonna hurt you, we just wanna talk!”

Oh God, was that Morality? It sounded cheerful enough to be him. And he was knocking on his door, and he wanted to talk. You never say that to an anxious person!

Nope nope not today I’m hiding under the covers nope.

“Hello? Knock knock, anybody home?”

“Considering that this door has never been here before, there’s a possibility it could be a new side. Perhaps they are simply confused and need some time alone.”

Oh God Logic was here too. Why is this happening to me-

“Well if it’s a new side, then I shall be the one to introduce them to the mind of Thomas! Maybe they’ll be interested in a tour of the imagination, or possibly the Mind Palace! Open up in there, Mr. Mystery, you have now peaked our interest!”

And of COURSE Princey is here. I hate my entire existence.

“Now kiddo, you can’t just force someone to come out of their room! Being a new side is a scary thing, you have to be gentle!”

“It’s quite strange, though. Based off of the door and it’s atramentous color I assume that this is actually another dark side.”

“...A dark side? On our turf?”

“App...rack...what?”

“Atramentous, Morality. It means black as ink.”

“Then why can’t you just say the word ‘black’, Poindexter?”

“Why must I have to dumb down my vocabulary just so a halfwit like you has to understand me?”

Virgil decided to tune out their pointless bickering before weighing his options down. There was no way he could just ignore them, he may not know Princey well but if he knew anything it was how that Disney wannabe was an expert at being stubborn. With all four of them here Virgil had no choice but to confront them, but he really didn’t want to.

Those blankets on your bed are just calling your name, Virgil. You know what Deceit always says, “What you don’t know can’t hurt you”. You can just sneak out while all three of them are asleep. They’ll constantly wonder what’s behind the weird door, but they don’t have to know. They don’t have to know about your existence. It’s better if you don’t exist, they won’t understand that you protect Thomas. You can do your job right in here, you can pretend you never showed up on their side of the Mind. They don’t need to know.

“Both of you, shush.” Morality’s voice was firm and sent the outside to a strange silence. The fatherly figure’s attention went to the unknown figure on the other side of the door. “I know you’re scared, kiddo. These three strangers are in front of your door and trying to coach you outta your comfort zone, and you’re already in a scary new place! I know we’re probably not helping, but I just want you to know that we’re here for you when you’re ready. There’s no pressure, take your time! We just wanted to stop by and let ya know that you’re not alone, okay? Trust me, I was the first to pop up in our peppy palace and I know it can be kinda scary. So come out when you’re ready, and I’m sure everything will be just fine when you do! Just wanted you to know, kiddo. And if it helps any, my name’s Morality but these two just call me Dad! See? You’ve already made a friend, ain’t that just nifty? Okay well, I’ll stop rambling now and let you have some good ol’ alone time. Come on you two, how about we go watch a movie or something?”

Morality? Virgil thought, That’s the first time I’ve been able to talk to him. And...he’s nice. Well, of course he’s nice, he’s Thomas’ morality, but still. He’s even nice to me...

But he doesn’t know who you are, just yet. They don’t know that all that’s happened here is that you’ve been relocated. He doesn’t actually care, once he finds out it’s actually you behind the door he’ll hate you. He’ll become afraid of you, because you’re evil. Even if Thomas accepts you.

“But maybe he doesn’t have to be...” Virgil whispered.

“There’s no pressure, take your time!”

“Maybe...I can teach him not to be afraid.”

...Go before you change your mind.

Virgil concentrated on teleporting to Morality specifically before he suddenly popped up right behind the couch in the common room. Princey let out a “manly” scream and nearly toppled over the side, Logic jumped and even Morality choked on a handful of popcorn. Princey paused the movie Aladdin before it had even gotten to the five minute mark and all three stared wide-eyed at the figure they could see in the black of the screen. Princey made a look at Logic, and Logic just made a face of “What do you want me to do?” in response. But Morality took a drink from a glass of water and collected himself before slowly looking behind them all, a giant welcoming grin on his face.

When Morality turned around, he didn’t exactly know what he expected to see. There weren’t many traits that people could get when they were in their fifteen’s anyway so the options were pretty slim, but he knew he wasn’t expecting to see Anxiety. He was just standing there, and for once the aspect didn’t look very taunting. Deep in his eyes, a place his eyeshadow tried to draw attention away from, there was a slight glint of vulnerability. A slight glint of Anxiety’s own fears, and Morality wasn’t dumb enough to try and brush it off. He knew what he saw.

“Okay, it’s obvious you two know that I’m here, so how about instead of staring at that nice black screen you got there you actually acknowledge me?” Princey turned around sharply at the sound of Anxiety’s voice, immediately shooting daggers his way. Logic’s expression looked like he was trying to solve a puzzle.

“What exactly are you doing on our turf, panic at the everywhere?” The Prince’s glare hardened, “Only the lighter traits are allowed on this side of the mind. What did you do to our precious Mindscape just to get over here?”

“I don’t know Princey, I just felt my room start to shift and then all of a sudden I was forced to deal with your egotistical embarrassment.”

Logic interrupted the Prince’s remark before it even came out, adjusting the glasses on his face. “If I had to take a guess, the therapy Thomas has been taking and his better understanding of his own anxiety has helped him accept Anxiety as simply another part of himself, and now that Thomas is no longer in denial he has been transferred to our side of the Mind. I assume that door we assumed belonged to a new aspect actually belongs to you?”

“Oh look, the nerd really does know his stuff! How should I reward you, I’ve got some cobwebs growing in my room if you wanna try and over-analyze those.”

Logic’s face went smug, “No thank you, over-analyzing meaningless junk to be bigger than it actually is seems to be in your department rather than mine.”

Morality shot him his signature dad look. Virgil had to try and contain his laugh, because it actually shut Logic up no problem.

Prince stood up shockingly quickly before kicking the table leg, almost knocking off the bowl of popcorn onto the floor. “Perfect, this is just perfect!” He cried as Princey flailed his arms around, “Now I have to deal with this stormy night following me everywhere, even in my downtime! Our own corner of the mind is no longer safe from these beasts if Anxiety is just going to be waltzing around!”

“Don’t flatter yourself Princey, I have better things than to follow you around.” The Prince decided to ignore him. “I’m going back to my room, call me if you need anything and that fiend isn’t in a ten mile radius of yourself.”

Princey sunk back down to his own room before a heavy sigh escaped from Logic. “I’m afraid it’d be best if I returned to my room as well.” He stood up with his gaze locked onto the floor. “I would like to research into this a little more. Try and discover more about these kinds of phenomenons and how they might shape Thomas in the future.”

Then Logic was gone as well, leaving Morality and Virgil alone in the common room with a bowl of popcorn and a paused Aladdin.

Great, now that he was no longer a dark side he had turned into an outcast. Just what he wanted. Really.

Now all Virgil waited for was for Morality to leave with his own excuse, probably something along the lines of “I think I’m just gonna get a cookie,” or maybe “Well, the last thing I want is to be stuck in a room with an evil and awful person like you, Anxiety! So how about you just get out of my face and we never talk again, hm?”

Okay, so what if that last one was a little far-fetched? He was Anxiety, what did you expect?

But neither of those things happened, not even the more respectful cookie route. Instead, something much more unpredictable happened. Morality gave Virgil a wide smile and patted the seat next to him, “Well, do you wanna watch some Aladdin with me? I’ve got popcorn!”

Virgil’s eyes widened before trying (and failing) to regain his cool composure. “Uh, Whatever. I’m bored, so I guess I can steal some of your food.” Morality’s smile widened, “Of course. Just here for popcorn. Totally!”

Virgil decided to absolutely not take the seat next to Morality and instead found himself completely on the other side of the couch. Sure, it smelled like Princey’s flowery perfume he liked to douse on himself and it was uncomfortable to reach for the popcorn bowl, but Virgil’s pride would never let him admit that. So instead, the two of them watched Aladdin in a complete silence between the two, Morality constantly looking over at the anxious side and giving his signature wide smile.

A smile which, to this day, Virgil refuses to believe he ever returned. Even if Morality didn’t see it, it didn’t happen. Totally not.

And now, in present day time over a decade later, when Virgil has long been forgotten as an outcast and they even know him by his real name, the four sides just did a video where the unwelcome guest of Deceit decided to impersonate Virgil’s best friend Patton. Virgil had been suspicious since the near beginning of the video, but near that end...Virgil was ready to pounce Deceit for even thinking of trying to be like Patton. No one could be like Patton, especially not someone as evil and manipulative as Deceit! No one has the right to try and hurt Patton’s love for everyone like that! No one, especially not Deceit, should have the right to do anything remotely bad in Patton’s name!

So when Patton popped back up with that passive aggressive “You’re in my spot...” Virgil didn’t even try to hold his smile. He was just happy to see his friend, and with Patton around then Deceit couldn’t do the harm that he wanted to.

Virgil was even happy enough to admit that just maybe he might have snorted at one of Patton’s dad jokes. Only Patton needed to know that though, he’d keep it a secret.

But now, well after that video had been filmed and Deceit was back in the dark area of Thomas’ mind, Patton and Virgil were alone in the common room. Logan decided to hang out in his room, and Roman (Who’s been acting stranger than usual lately) sank back to his room with even more dramatics than ever before.

So Virgil, who decided that there were no witnesses to see him in a moment of weakness, had decided in favor of giving Patton a hug Virgil very well needed. Patton was pleasantly surprised when he felt arms wrap around his torso and looked down to see Virgil’s face snuggling into his chest. The fatherly side decided against squealing in excitement and tried to contain himself, wrapping his arms protectively around his dark, strange son.

“I’m uh...” Virgil hesitated, “‘M glad you’re okay.”

“Aw, kiddo! Nothing bad happened to me! In all honesty I was just eating some pasta before I realized where everyone went! I wanted my container back from Roman, which reminds me, I might have to pasta reminder back to him again!”

Patton could feel Virgil holding in his laugh, and honestly why was his misunderstood shadowling just so gosh darn adorable sometimes!?

“Well, you showed up just in time. I was about to deck that smile right off of Deceit’s face.”

“Aw come on Virgil, violence isn’t the answer.”

Virgil pulled back a bit to look at Patton. “Yeah, but without our Morality around we all wouldn’t know that.”

Patton’s face lit up like Christmas lights, sending Virgil back into the bone-crushing hug, “Aw, Virgil!”

You know what? Virgil decided, Being an outcast was bad, and being the “dark” trait was worse, but this...

This was pretty nice.

#Sanderssidesfic #sanders sides #patton sanders #virgil sanders #Deceit #platonic moxiety

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thebipolarhoneybee · 2 years

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hey you amazing human you! I hope you are here with love and positivity; you can leave your negative vibes at the door because they are like, totally not needed here! Let me start off with a few assumptions— First one being, we don’t know eachother… so I guess I should introduce myself..? K well that’s easy. My name is Melissa, and well going on the assumption that we don’t know eachother; I’m thirty years old and most likely the most pessimistic optimist in the world. LOL. I am easily what you’d call a writer; someone who genuinely enjoys literature, poetry and the simple act of writing with a royal blue inked pen on a fine crisp piece of paper. Aside from writing, there are few other things I both enjoy and succeed in, I mean if you ask what my interests are in regards to what I am actually capable of….? Oooooor maybe that’s just the clinical depression talking ..? That’s another thing I should probably introduce early on; I am an unbelievably strong advocate for mental health support and ending any stigma that may prevent any kind of healthy mental recovery. Again, another thing I should inform , or introduce is that personally I have [currently] battled with ADHD, Clinical Depression, Generalized Anxiety Disorder, Agoraphobia and Bipolar 2 Disorder.. (and Cronic Physical Pain ) for the last decade of my life. I have been through it all, when it comes to mental health — I see a psychiatrist, I’ve cried my fair own fair emount of unnessecary tears; ive spent weeks in bed because there was ‘no point’ to get out.. I spent time in the mental ward at Bluewater Health (which im sorry, but was a joke), faking my way through the week stay because I needed right the fuck out of there, and ive spent my time down “medication-change-emotion-spiral alley thinking, this is how my life ends”. I will always fight for mental health both because I truly believe it is a thing ,and simply because not enough people do , and I don’t think that is okay. I am an avid weed smoker, like snoop dogg style and I legitimately could not give a smaller fuck about what anybody thinks about it because—-smoking weed has honestly given me SUCH a life to live back.. A life that I thought only mountains and mountains of drugs would give me. (you know, the other kind of drug) which I've since learned is not necessary. I live in an apartment in the small smelly Sarnia , Ontario with my beautiful sister Carrissa and out overabundance of pets! I, like every other person in this world, have a story to tell. Now, whether you’d like to follow along is your choice, but I have been through my own personal hell and back and I think that I have come a very far distance from where it had all begun. Usually, on a given day— I try to document each of my days in my paper journal, and when I do, i [usually] take a daily picture to go with it. Now, you are more than welcome to an invitation to join and follow my journey into [what is foaled to be] recovery; honestly the more the merrier. Any love and support of any kind that I have received from any body else literally lifts me to such high spirits, and throughout my journey I can’t even explain just how much love I have truly gotten and how many receiving hands and hearts I have had offer their support. All that I ask of /you/ personally is that if you are not here to support, nor do you have nothing positive to bring, that you simply do not be here at all. As we all know, im sure, life is a difficult place for us all, and everyday we all face a different set of challenges that we’ve each woken up to. N O B O D Y needs the added pressure or guilt of the opinion of another who does not support their fellow human, weighing down on them—simply because they are trying to change a shitty hand of cards. SO, I ask you now, if you are here to with any other intention but to support me in a healthy happy way, or quietly read along, you do not have to come back. So Thank You, and Take Care. After that being said, if you are still here— HEY YO! And welcome. Thank you for giving enough of a shit to even get through these first few little blurbs. I’m going to take the time in my first few entries to bring you all up to speed, but first I feel the need to explain my goal behind even documenting this all.. THE overall purpose here is to look back each day, each week, each year..and view my changes [which, I can PROMISE there will be changes] that will hopefully one day adapt to that of a healthy balanced individual. However, along the way I hope to be able to have my story heard, or told— for that somebody who maybe can’t speak theirs, or for that somebody who is going through something similar to what I am, and maybe doesn’t understand, or feels alone, or needs someone to talk to. My purpose here is to change a life. Maybe my own, maybe someone else’s..who knows. Maybe I wil get lucky and hit them both? So come.. Follow alongside my journey and who knows, maybe the bipolar honey bee and you have more in common than you think. I can’t promise it’ll be good, but you can bet your ass that I’ll always have something to say.

Thank you guys,

And much love!

-melissa

#thebipolarhoneybee

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botanistlester · 7 years

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Sweet Pea (24/34)

Summary: A nickname that goes bitter in your mouth. Cries for help that no one listens to. Gentle hands that make you quake on the ground you’re standing on. When Phil first met Nico, he thought he was a gift from the heavens. But behind the mask lies something daunting, something unnerving, that Phil never foresaw. Through his journey, he finds solace in Dan, the regular at his workplace, who seems to be the only one who sees through Nico’s mask to the darkness underneath. Warnings: Abusive relationship, violence A/N: Hi friends! I am SO SORRY for not updating last week! A lot of you guys are following my tumblr so you were aware I wouldn't be updating, but i'm sorry to those of you who didn't know! Basically I went to my mom's house and her internet wasn't working so I wasn't able to upload. Anyways, I hope you all had a good holiday and a good new year! This fic was also nominated for the @phanficawards for many awards (Edge of the Seat, Best angst, Best slow burn, best chaptered, and best of the best)!!!! You have NO IDEA how much this means to me. If you want to vote for this fic, I believe voting opens up in a week! Anyways, have fun reading this chapter! Thanks to @snowbunnylester for betaing this for me and the lyrics at the beginning are from the song Lonely Girl by Tonight Alive (:

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Chapter Twenty-Four

Lonely girl it looks like you are out of luck. Tell me how it feels to watch your friends give up. I was on your side, I stood by you. So go ahead and cry it's just like you.

It had been a few weeks since Phil had started to go to therapy. and he had grown a bit more accustomed to talking to a professional about what he was feeling. He liked that he could be open about literally anything, whether he was talking about what he had for breakfast that morning or how his body image was so ruined from Nico that he could barely look in the mirror anymore without feeling like he was an entirely different person.

Nate always had helpful handouts to give him, things about changing his behaviors and ways of thinking. He had handouts about how to handle panic attacks, how he shouldn’t fight against them but just accept that they were happening, that he should focus on breathing so he didn’t hyperventilate.

Nate didn’t mention anything about Phil being diagnosed with a disorder. He hinted at certain things, of course, gave Phil information about panic attacks and anxiety, but then he handed Phil a paper about how to deal with post traumatic stress disorder and how it didn’t have to be something only a soldier experienced, and Phil felt his heart stop.

Post traumatic stress disorder? He didn’t have that. He couldn’t have that. Looking back at everything, his relationship with Nico hadn’t been so bad as to lead him to have fucking PTSD. It was impossible and there must be a mistake.

For a while, Phil couldn’t speak. He nodded and tried to listen as Nate talked him through the worksheet, but he could hardly hear the words that came out of Nate’s mouth because his eyes were just focused on post-traumatic stress disorder and his mind was kind of blank.

He didn’t want to admit to anybody that this would make sense. That this could be the reason why he’d passed out while he was getting the restraining order, that this could be why he freaked out over sweet peas, why he still had panic attacks every time he tried to wear any slightly revealing clothing.

Phil was a fucking mess, but Nate tried to help him through it the best that he could.

It was working for the most part. Not so much that there was a noticeable difference each appointment, but just enough that Phil found himself feeling less like a robot and more like a human being again. He found that he could go outside more, that he could hang out with his friends and his laughs wouldn’t be faked anymore.

Most importantly, he found that Dan’s own mental health was getting better.

Dan didn’t sigh so much anymore. He laughed loudly and his dimples caved in so deep that Phil wanted to poke his cheeks. His eyes sparkled when Phil laughed, and he even seemed to have more colour to his skin, almost like he was glowing.

His body wasn’t ridden down to the point of exhaustion as much anymore, and Phil found that to be his motivating factor as to why he continued to go to therapy, why he tried to get better.

There were bad days, more often than not. There were days where Phil completely broke down in tears, days where he had a panic attack so bad that he would find himself lying on the kitchen floor ten minutes later after passing out from hyperventilation. There were days when he woke up crying, and days where Phil locked himself in the bedroom, refusing to let Dan anywhere near him.

But there were also days where Dan would come home to find that Phil had made five batches of chocolate chip cookies just because. There were days where Phil went to work and laughed at the stories his customers told him, where he was high on caffeine and too much chocolate. There were days where Phil would dance around the lounge to Rihanna, grabbing Dan by the hands and swinging him around with him until they both collapsed on the couch, completely spent. Phil also went outside with his friends now, finding that he was closer to Ledjon, Jane, and Charlie than ever, and he was also getting quite used to the company of Dan’s friend, Louise, as well.

It was a roller coaster. Phil never knew what mood he would be in when he woke up that morning, if he would want to stay in bed, or if he would want to sing his heart out to Mariah Carey.

That was normal. That was okay. That was healing.

There was a knock on the door to the flat, and Phil tensed up, his heart speeding up a little bit faster than normal. He didn’t know who was knocking, didn’t know who could possibly be coming over without a little bit of warning. He was currently home alone. Dan was at uni, probably bored out of his mind in one of his directing classes, and Phil had gotten the day off from work, so he was just lounging around in his pyjamas without a care in the world, a half finished mug of way-too-sweet hot cocoa sitting on the table in front of him. For some reason, he’d thought that it was a good idea to put in two packets of the cocoa mix instead of one, and his taste buds were angry, but his stomach was feeling the aftermath.

Phil knew for a fact that his other friends were all in class as well. It was noon, which meant that everybody else was sitting in lectures. There was no way they would be knocking on his door right then. So who could it possibly be?

Taking a deep breath, Phil pushed himself up, knowing that he wouldn’t be able to ponder over the occurrence all day. He’d already taken too long to open up the door. It was starting to get suspicious. He shouldn’t be freaking out over small things like knocks on the door, even though his psychologist said it was a common reaction to such a stimuli after everything he’d been through.

A stimulus, because Phil was an experiment at this point apparently.

His movements felt slow and sluggish as he padded across the room to the door. He briefly wondered how long it’d been since he’d had anything to eat and only realised then that he’d yet to eat anything that day. Maybe after he dealt with this person, whoever it was, then he could order some take out or something.

He opened the door, the hinges squeaking, and he yawned a little as he did so. Until he stopped mid yawn to start choking, coughing with surprise and horror.

“You- what are you doing here?!”

Bright blue eyes, blonde hair in a perfect ponytail, a nervous expression on her face. Chandler was stood in his door, gnawing at her lip as though it were her lifeline, and staring at the ground like it was the most interesting thing in the entire world. Her shoulders were caved in with defeat already, but she buried herself further into herself at Phil’s words, which were filled with venom and surprise.

How dare she show up on Phil’s doorstep? After everything she’d put him through! After tossing him aside like a fucking ragdoll and leaving him to rot with mental health problems and a constant worry that he was going crazy? After telling him that his boyfriend wasn’t abusive, that Phil was lucky for snagging someone as great as Nico and ultimately forcing him to stay in a relationship with someone who tortured his thoughts and emotions.

How could she just show up on Phil’s doorstep as though she hadn’t thrown him out as soon as an attractive man showed her the slightest amount of attention?

Phil went to shut the door, so fast that he couldn’t even think when he did so. His heart was pounding so hard that he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts or the breath escaping his lungs in sporadic gasps.

How dare she? How dare she!

Chandler shoved her shoe in the door before Phil could slam it shut. The door shut on her foot and she hissed, but Phil didn’t feel guilty. He felt like he was going to faint, and that wasn’t good. “Phil, please,” she begged, and Phil was already shaking his head. No. He shouldn’t have to listen to her. No. No. No. “I really need to talk to you. Please.”

At that, Phil couldn’t help but to bark out a short laugh. “You want to talk? After everything you put me through?” His words came out more confident than he felt, and they were dripping with venom. She was not welcome here. “Why should I give you that right? You left me to rot when I needed you the most, and then you had the audacity to tell me it was my fault. So why, please tell me, should I let you talk to me now? After all these months?”

Chandler took a deep breath. Phil could hear it like the breeze outside, swaying through the tree leaves. And then she spoke, and Phil’s resolve completely dissolved.

“Because you were right.”

Phil stumbled backwards, shaking his head. He shouldn’t be listening to this. He shouldn’t be giving in. But… but he needed to know. He needed to know how he was right, how Nico had destroyed Chandler.

He needed to know that he wasn’t alone.

He moved out of the way, silently allowing her inside. He didn’t know what he could say to her, so he didn’t speak and just walked to the table, sitting down as if he was in a haze. His movements were robotic and Chandler was crying, but he didn’t try to console her. It gave him a sick pleasure to see her crying, made him feel disgusting and like a horrible person, but he didn’t do anything about it. He just threw a package of tissues her way and made himself some tea without offering her any.

She did not deserve tea in his home right then.

Phil sat on the opposite side of the table. He took a sip of his tea to calm his nerves but it was tasteless, only burning his tongue and making him cringe. He hated that his heart was in his throat and his words came out scathing no matter how hard he tried to make himself be the bigger person. Here Chandler was, obviously upset, and all Phil could do was treat her like a piece of rubbish and spew bullshit at her. He couldn’t seem to help it, though. He was hurt. Beyond hurt. And seeing his ex best friend sat before him was opening old wounds that he had thought were originally beginning to heal once and for all.

“Spill it, then,” Phil ordered, and he noted the way Chandler flinched at his tone. Maybe he needed to take it down a notch. “What’s happened?”

Chandler didn’t answer for a long time. She sat rigid in the chair, her eyes glued to her hands. She didn’t move a muscle aside from the occasional blinking when her eyes got too dry from the staring. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft and timid. It was different than anything Phil had ever heard before. Typically, Chandler was loud. She was brash, unforgiving in her tone. But now, she was reserved. Shy, completely unlike herself.

Phil perked up as he saw the red flags immediately, even before she spoke.

“You were right. About him. About everything.”

Phil sighed and pushed his tea over to her. She needed it more than he did, evidently, because she was shaking and her voice was quivering as well. This was obviously hard for her, and Phil knew he shouldn’t just give in, but he didn’t like to see anyone in pain because of Nico, no matter what had happened in the past. “What has he done to you?” Phil asked softly, urging her to go on.

Chandler took a sip of the tea and swallowed. Phil could hear it from his chair, too loud in his ears. “I…” she swallowed again and cleared her throat. Phil waited patiently even though his heart was pounding with anger and anxiety. “He’s a very manipulative person. You have to understand that,” she started. Phil nodded. He knew that better than anyone. Better than her, thats for sure. “He’s very charming and makes it seem like everything he says is true. I think that’s why it was so easy for me to just… abandon you like that. Not excusing my actions, of course.”

Phil sighed. His head hurt. “Just get on with it, then. Stop dwelling in the past, yeah?”

Chandler flinched once more and nodded. Phil felt bad, but not too bad. Maybe he should listen to his own advice.

“He made me believe that you were cheating on him with Dan. He told me about you texting with him, and it wasn't hard to believe because I know you had a thing for him in the past and that Dan had a thing for you too. So it was easy to believe that. He would call me sometimes and he would cry and tell me about how he loved you but he didn’t think you loved him back, said that you told him that you were scared of him. Since you’d asked me about abuse, I was really angry when I heard this. I thought you were just making excuses because you didn’t want to be with him anymore but you were too scared to tell him. I thought you were just leading him on. So I became very angry with you after hearing everything he said.”

Phil grit his teeth and resisted the urge to hop across the table and slam her mouth shut. Every fucking word coming out of her mouth was a lie. A lie told by Nico to make him seem like the worst possible human in the world. What Chandler didn’t know was that Phil had loved Nico so much that it made him stop loving himself. He had loved Nico to the point where he had not been able to function without him.

That was not healthy.

That was not a relationship.

He told her this in a quiet voice and she nodded frantically. “I know this now,” she said desperately. “After everything, I kind of realised that he’d just been toying with me all this time. I think he had just been using me to get back at you. No, I know he was. And that fucking hurt.”

“Why do you think he was doing that?” Phil asked, surprised. Why would Nico try to get back at him with Chandler? Nothing made sense. Nothing seemed to become clear in his foggy brain.

Chandler sighed and took another sip of tea. “He loved you a lot. I don’t know. He has this twisted idea in his mind that he has to hurt the people he loves in order to keep them. Maybe he thought you were banging Dan and he just wanted to use me to make you come running back to him. Who knows? All I know is that he treated me like I was scum and he only cared about me when it involved information about you.”

Phil swallowed thickly. He should have kept his tea because his mouth was suddenly dry. Hearing that Nico still loved him… fuck he didn’t want to hear that. It was nice, despite the pain it brought him, but it also made nausea raise to his throat. He hated the idea of Nico thinking about him. But he loved the idea of Nico being upset about him. It was a conundrum, one that Phil didn’t quite understand.

Chandler went on, talking about how Nico treated her. She said that Nico really only cared about sex with her, and that he would get mad at her when she wore revealing clothes or shorts. He would call her a slut, would get mad at her for ignoring his texts, would get mad at her for having friends other than him. And apparently he had been cheating on her with three other people as well.

An image of the girl in the parfait shop came to Phil’s mind, but Phil brushed it off. He shouldn’t bring that up right then. He didn’t even want to think about it.

“I know it’s stupid to be this upset about it,” Chandler concluded, picking at a loose piece of skin hanging from her thumb. “My situation wasn’t as bad as yours was, and it didn’t even last half as long. I should be grateful for that. I shouldn’t be this fucked up over it.”

Phil slammed his hand down on the table, which made Chandler jump and stare at him with alarmed eyes. He pointed at her accusingly, shaking his head. There was fire in his eyes and he was aware he must have looked furious. “Don’t say something like that,” Phil hissed. “It’s not a fucking competition about how bad we both had it. We both went through horrible experiences and we’re bound to be fucked up about it, regardless of the level or extent of the abuse. Your experiences are just as valid as mine are. So I don’t even want to hear you say that your situation wasn’t as bad as it sounds or anything of that sort. You matter. Your experiences matter. You shouldn’t downplay what you went through when it’s fucked you up this badly.”

“How can you just-“ Chandler’s voice broke and her eyes welled up with tears “-say that? After what you’ve been through? After what I’ve put you through? How can you just recognise something like that? Why don’t you spite me?”

This made Phil laugh, the sound sharp and rather harsh. He didn’t mean to sound like that, but it seemed as if he had no filter anymore when it came to Chandler, when it came to concerns about Nico. The truth was that Phil did harbour bad feelings towards Chandler. Some might say that he hated her. But just because she did him wrong didn’t mean that she deserved the same treatment as him, that her feelings weren’t just as valid as his own. “Honestly? After everything that I’ve been through with both you and Nico, I hate you guys. I despise you and how you made me blame myself. I still haven’t forgiven you for that and I don’t know if I ever will. But,” Phil said, accenting his word and trying to make the distressed look disappear from her face, “just because you hurt me doesn’t mean that you deserve the same treatment that I went through. Sure, I was spiteful at first and even wanted revenge, but I’ve been working towards trying to understand the situation and to stop blaming anyone but Nico himself. Yes, you fucked up. Badly. You hurt me deeply, and I’m not over that. But that doesn’t justify how you were also abused by him, and I hope that you’ll come to that realisation sometime too. It’s taken me a long time to get here, and one of the only reasons I was able to get here was because I didn’t try to do this alone. I found a good support system through Dan and Ledjon, and I see a therapist now to help me through my panic attacks and other issues.” He didn’t mention how his therapist had mentioned PTSD, but he didn’t feel as though that was necessary for Chandler to hear. “You’ll get there too, and I know you will. It’s fucking hard, but you’ll get there.”

Chandler started to cry again, tears kissing her cheeks and painting her skin an angry red colour. She covered her eyes with her hands, pressing her palms into her eyes in a way that looked like it hurt. “Thank- thank you,” she gasped out, and Phil smiled at her.

“Nobody deserves to go through that,” he said again in a soft voice, and he felt as though a giant weight has been lifted from his shoulders. For the longest time, he had held so much hatred for Chandler inside of him, holding it close to him as though it were a little piece of comfort. He had blamed her for everything and had wanted nothing more than to wreak havoc on her life.

But now, all of his malicious intent floated away with her words. He didn’t know if he wanted to be close with her anymore, and he informed her of that, but nobody deserved to go through abuse, no matter what they’d done in their lives. Nobody deserved that.

Chandler thanked him profusely, saying that she was glad that he was listening to her, even though he was angry with her. She didn’t stop crying for a long time, but eventually her tears dried and turned into soft sniffles. Her nose was red and her eyes were puffy and Phil offered her to use the bathroom to wash her face if she needed to, but she politely declined, saying she actually had to go so she could leave for work.

As she stood up to leave, the front door creaked open, and Dan’s voice suddenly filled the room.

“Honey, I’m home!” Dan yelled, as they often joked about now since Phil was practically playing housewife while Dan was away at school. Chandler shot Phil a confused and incredulous look, to which Phil grimaced as Dan started rambling about something, completely unaware of Chandler’s presence as of yet. “I grabbed some more laundry detergent on my way back. I figured we needed some because I can practically smell your dirty clothes all the way into the kitchen. Though that could also be because you leave your socks everywhere you please-“ he froze in the doorway to the kitchen, eyes widening at the scene before him, mouth gaping wide. “Erm- oh?” he questioned, which was quite comedic, except Phil didn’t find any humour in the situation.

Phil ignored Chandler’s intrigued stare and awkwardly cleared his throat, gesturing to the blonde girl. “Dan, you remember Chandler, yeah? We were close friends.” Of course Dan remembered Chandler. How could he not? He’s heard about her enough that Phil was sure Dan could list all of her likes and dislikes off the top of his head.

Dan nodded, and it was obvious by expression that he was horribly confused. “Of course. It’s nice to see you again,” he said lowly.

Chandler nodded, eyes darting between Dan and Phil like she couldn’t quite understand what she was seeing. Dan seemed the same, both of them extremely lost as to what was happening. “Dan! I didn’t know that you two were…”

Immediately, Phil’s face turned a dark shade of red and his entire body felt hot. He shook his head, nudging her closer to the door so she could leave his home and allow him to explain what was going on to Dan, who was probably internally freaking out. “No, no, no,” Phil interjected at the accusation. He didn’t look at Dan, didn’t want to know what sort of facial expression Dan wore when someone assumed they were a thing. “We just live together now. You know. Best friend and all.”

“Right,” Chandler said, but she didn’t seem convinced. In fact, her whole face was filled with suspicion. Phil tried not to groan.

This was exactly what he didn’t need right now.

“Well, you should get going,” Phil rushed out, and Chandler couldn’t do anything but nod her agreement and head towards the door. Phil was pushing her a little bit after all.

Right before she was pushed outside, she turned to Phil and wrapped him in a tight hug. He stood stiffly, his hands glued to his sides. While he appreciated the fact that she came to him for help, he was still quite uncertain how far he wanted his relationship to go with her again. He didn’t know if he ever wanted to be close with her once more. “Thank you. For everything,” Chandler murmured into his shoulder. “You’re more amazing than you give yourself credit for, and I’m sorry again for what I've put you through.”

Phil sighed and nodded, smiling at her as she detached herself from him. “It’s no problem,” he said smoothly. “Thank you for the apology.”

He didn’t say it was okay, because frankly it wasn’t. Chandler didn’t comment on his choice of words, only bid him farewell and walked out the door with another half smile towards him and another curious glance towards Dan.

Phil didn’t allow himself to groan until the door was firmly closed and locked behind her, shielding him away from her prying stare.

“What was that about?”

Dan’s question made Phil startle and he turned to find Dan leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyebrows raised. He was the perfect picture of a woman who just caught her husband cheating, and the thought was a rather strange one to Phil.

Phil shrugged. “She apologised about the Nico thing. Said Nico did the same thing to her. I assured her that she didn’t deserve the crap that he put her through.” Phil made a face. “No matter how much I wanted to tell her that karma was a bitch and that I told her so.”

At that, Dan cracked a smile and pushed himself away from the wall. He engulfed Phil in a large hug, nuzzling his nose into Phil’s hair and inhaling loudly. His arms were tight around Phil’s shoulders and Phil relaxed into the embrace, wrapping his arms around Dan’s waist. “That was a strong thing you did. I’m proud of you.”

“It was nothing,” Phil murmured, even though he knew it was everything.

A week ago, he would never have dealt with something as smoothly as this. And yet, he stood up for himself while also recognising that Chandler didn’t deserve anything Nico had put her through. Phil had a right to be proud of himself.

“Bullshit,” Dan snorted, and he kissed Phil’s head, making Phil melt into his touch even moreso. Phil liked Dan’s hugs. It was as though he were hugging a giant warm teddy bear. “You handled that very well. I’m damn proud.”

And Phil wouldn’t admit this, but he was proud of himself as well. More than Dan could ever know.

Chapter Twenty-Five

#phan #phanfic #phanfiction #botanistfics #botanistlester #fanfic #fanfiction #dan and phil #writing #phan angst #sp #sweet pea #phan chaptered #gay

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andillbeancuteboyifiwantto · 6 years

Text

An flawed person

Warning: Long, my experince and by no means have I been perfect or will these words be.

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I was raised in an LDS family and I get that weird 'keep silent' feeling. It's strange to talk about church things to anybody except myself or in my chats with God. But also just feels so silly because it isn't at all secrets or anything shameful.

Hey there I am trans that means for me that God put my soul in this body. But for my soul to be comfy it is going to take some work and that maybe it was an lesson. Same with my sexuality. That it's not all about me or to punish me by any means.

Aside from that I am mentally ill and I have health issues. Put it altogether and add in hypersensitivity (I can sense/feel people's emotions and they affect my own) life can be an lot of frustration.

For 7 years of my life it really wasn't an big deal. But then in and out of church my life began falling apart. Feelings became more obvious, family issues and the feeling lost started settling in.

I got baptised for my family instead of myself. It was an big deal for them all, people came to visit, there was appropriate tradition gifts and everything. But I felt unsure and uncomfortable the whole time.

Now you know the big event in the baptisim and the room was so crowded with strangers, family that my anxiety was soaring higher each moment. I freaked out and had them close the door... With the witnesses just there in the side areas...

Made so much of my family upset and it was an disaster.

Them from there attendance was hit and miss, information didn't sink in well. I lamented being picked for any job or task and almost never sang along. Programs were the anxiety fuel of my nightmares but of course no wasn't an answer.

I was the kid who goofed off and drew in class as much I was the good,meek student. Who loved every pack of fruit snacks or handful of cheerios even on fast Sundays. But who could fast for no reason on weekdays due to my eating disorders.

That strung together words to bear my 'testimony' to the ward despite not having one and people thinking it was real for years. When the real one is an different outlook on life they might sneer at. The real one involves what nobody wants to talk about.

My best friend was that girl you know the one. From an seemingly so on point family with an sibling always off on an mission. Looking so attractive spiritually and otherwise that I lied and told myself it was nothing. Nothing when I let her play with my hair and felt so alive.

Nothing when I fibbed saying I did every thing in my Faith of God. She read her scriptures often, she gave thoughtful prayers, helped and tithing. I was depressed and lost finding myself in mental ditches.

For all church is an sore area and all the times I cursed at God. I also cried shouting apologies and found the Holy Ghost in trailing my fingers along the walls. In handing an dropped crayon to an child who didn't care I wasn't perfect.

I found comfort in the pitch black gym sitting or roaming the stage area, the empty classrooms. In the quiet walks home on sunny, summer days instead of getting an ride home. In just closing my eyes and talking to God informally to sort through things or act like I had somebody.

I found it on the floor of an old meeting house or in the way he seemed to scream at me that I was made to be and that I am not an mistake. That I can't be too mad every time they don't expand their hearts and heads. Because we're flawed and unique.

Sure I dreaded those days where it seemed like I had to bite my tongue. The conflict of laughing at not dating till 16 yet the relief it offered on another hand.

An roller coaster and maybe all I have to offer is what nobody's after.

Marriage is about an man and woman, only that is what people feel. There is only suits or frills. You'll never be recognized as who you are even if you want to participate. Because you won't be seen as eligible. Due to your feelings and due to your multi chrome soul.

An photo shoot an the Temple and I just wanted to go home. Feeling the most holy sat on an window ledge knees against my chest as opposed to silently looking in the eternity mirrors at the entrance inside. Baptisms for the Dead with no wish to have gone.

The tiny change room, and screaming head. Burning contacts and dissociation. Dead silence as I just wanted everybody to finish and to go home. Especially because it reminded me of the times I nearly drowned. Traumatic memories that ruined water for me.

Temple Square in Christmas less reverant more lost in thought. An cafeteria where I sat with just an cold soda while everybody else was having fun.

Temple opening tour thing in summer with an tendency to overheat easy. Nearly going unconscious and enjoying the architecture lost in that instead of anything my family was in awe over.

It's been standing on that picnic table at camp scared to step back, blindfolded but not because I knew nothing. But because it meant letting somebody catch me. And beforehand somehow knowing all the details of the 'surprise'..

The whispering freaking an kid who had hallucinations once or twice out. And I remember the bonfire afterwards. Notes from our parents and as they cried. As people were emotional I didn't even want to read mine.

Because my parents weren't accepting of me and my family was not the best. And it all felt condescending lies instead of actual love. So I just wanted to burn it in the flames. Or sharing an tent with my friends. The bathrooms and uncomfortable memories of camp in general.

Never feeling enough. It's been for years originally being so hateful towards the 'different' and not knowing why. Training myself to let myself think from my own source of perspective. That dyed hair is beautiful and God could care less if my hair is natural or bright blue. People look attractive in suits and anybody can wear an tie.

That family's aren't ever really perfect, that there is no right way to love or live your life. And gender is more than chromosomes and an doctors first look at your private parts. People are wonderful as much they aren't and I should try not judge too harshly.

Church doesn't 'cure' mental illness and every time that was implied or I got so desperate to believe it just hurt me more. Nor does it mean I can help who I am or who I love. Because trying to pray it away never was right. And every time God had to watch me struggle.

I know it's harsh to yell at him because it's not an burden. And he can't be training wheels for us. He has to watch as we either pedal or fall down. That I bet he has cried for me and knows what it is like my suffering.

But if I was 'normal' I would have less insight to offer, lessons to teach those around, been less helpful. And I would have been too involved fixing everybody else's scrapped knees so they couldn't actually learn for themselves.

Maybe it's all complicated but I stopped being mad. Did it hurt at times? Of course. And I may never feel entirely welcome in church. Endured years of people not taking the word no and pretending. Whenever they asked if I was attending and grinned saying sure I was.

Or standing there shaking the bishops hand with an empty promise. How I felt an neon sign in an church with dyed hair. Or in my first button up and slacks with dyed hair.

Or wearing my full suit and combat boots to an old ward with short short hair. The way my family has acted at various points. Some in disgraceful ways that God would scowl about because they missed the point of love one another.

My suit hangs unworn because I really don't go and quietly it has been less and less begging. Part of me wants to go roam the hallways, trace fingers on the scratchy walls and pay my respects in quiet reverance.

I miss cleaning on Saturdays but don't miss the tears standing between the bathrooms.

And part of me wants to indulge the person I wish I had been. To show up suit and tie dyed hair or not. Bare my real testimony because if even one teenager found peace then I gave more than I was offered.

To visit even if in passing or come back to my home town with my boyfriend in tow. Take him to the church building that will feel like home. Even despite the rough times and bad memories. On an sunny summer day its more peaceful.

Whisper all my stories and trace my fingers down those walls. Sit on the gym stage soaking in that I made it. To stand on an stage and just let it out. Even if I could never be officially an saint in most eyes.

I want to not think too much about letting missionaries in briefly or be scared to show I exist. Because I could learn more just like everybody else. And everybody else is just as flawed.

Maybe I will only take some of the good morals and lessons. Or maybe I will find myself only praying, skimming scriptures for years and the rest of my life. But maybe at some point I can see brighter days even if its an brave walk of the halls I once grew up in.

The ones I ran down, the ones I cried in, and the quiet chapel where I found comfort in the kids who offered snacks. Or played games with me because I was just the person who paid attention. That gave back lost objects and did peek a boo.

I think there is solace in how there can be change. That maybe one day my cousin who I found out was an lesbian doesn't have to 'understand what it means to be her and LDS' because my aunt had to whisper she was with my grandmother in the room.

After somebody joked about her falling for an missionary one day. Or the support my aunt had for her child that I didn't and still might never. Yet it still seemed terms and conditions. It was in my sister in law daring to say she's bisexual.

In as murky my coming out and well recoming out and misunderstandings... The letter I got back from my mother that showed progress. In the words she wrote in response to my words especially about God.

(Previously something she used against me but now) Now it was: "You say God made you this way, I agree!"

"God is real, God does love you."

If through all she put me through, all the murky water left to wade through. If my older brother who once teased me, abused me about supporting lgbt+ rights could be the first to ask me my pronouns and name. If my sister in law can give me an present with no name on it because I was still closeted.

And my aunt can love her daughter, support her being an lesbian. Enough she lightly joked in whispers that it means asking 'is it anything serious' and embaress her daughter about hanging out with her female friends. If people could just see the soul as most important.

God just wants us to try our best, to live this mortal life. He wants happiness for us, love not tears and screaming to be fixed. When he made us to be who we are. That he can't help us all the time even if it sucks.

I may not be flawless, the best saint around, active or even feel I get to say I am Mormon. Room for learning and growing. Have my lashing outs, scrapped knees and long nights. Make God cry an couple hundred times and tire him out with informal messages.

Because really who would want an prayer along the lines of 'yo so here's the thing its me yup anyways hope heavens doing good just wanted to talk about this cute person I passed by today or how handsome I felt briefly'. But at the same time its far more personable.

Have this little sign off and occasionally an peace sign across my face just in case he actually is watching me/the holy ghost or whatever. Because I can only be so depressing before I have to goof off and God won't just appear like 'please stop its 4 am why are you this way'. Even if that would be hilarious.

Though nobody would believe me afterwards.

#personal #lgbt mormon #long text cw #queerstake #(Woah wait is this like my testimony but unrefined and at length? Yeahh apparently)#(Just had an lot of feelings right now and felt bold enough to share)#(I really should make an faceless for now youtube channel where I can talk about my growimg up in the church)#(Growing up in it mentally ill and lgbt+ and all the things I felt were hush hush)#(That really werent and arent oh could share hilarious stories as well if not possibly relatable lds lgbt struggles)

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