#but you get older and immediately start seeing people’s shortcomings and how they refuse or can’t improve them

[butteryunlikelylady]

I hate having so many relationships in my life rn where I have to remain skeptical about the person, I have my reservations about them, and I must hold them at arms length.

[helliontherapscallion]

Why Couldn’t it Have Been Me?

Part 2

Paring: Wilbur Soot x reader (past), Ghostbur x reader

Disclaimer: This contains major spoilers for Tommyinnit’s 4/29 lore stream

Warnings: swearing, violence, death, near death, cheating, 4/29 lore stream, grief, blood, injury, panic attack

Word count: 6,737

(A/N): So in this, you’re Schlatt’s twin and Puffy’s your older sister. Also, sorry for any mistakes, I typed a good 2/3 of this on my phone

This was your own personal hell: being trapped within cement walls with your ex fiance, your asshole of a brother, and a Dream wannabe that seemed to never lose any energy. Your life was like a trope in a novel alive you would’ve liked, however being cursed to live in it made you absolutely loathe any and all mention of it. 

Alive you would’ve killed to hang out with your brother again, not the one that turned to the bottle. Alive you would’ve craved the sweet melodies that streamed from Wilbur’s mouth. You would’ve swooned and maybe, just maybe, you would’ve forgiven him. Alive you would’ve perhaps liked this ‘Mexican Dream’ guy, you would’ve perhaps become the best of friends. 

However you despised the three locked up with you with your whole heart. 

Your ex fiance was someone you adored. Hell, you even idolized him when you were alive. The Wilbur you knew was sweet, loving, attentive, and just all around someone that you swooned over. You could still remember how your heart exploded when he first asked you out under the setting sun by the ocean. You remembered every song he's written for you, every word and rhythm by heart, even after all these years. 

You remembered how you felt your heart completely shatter when you found the songs he had in his drafts for someone that wasn't you. Someone by the name of 'Sally'. After a heated argument you had broken up with him, taking the engagement ring off from your finger and throwing it deep into the ocean. You stayed on L'Manberg's side even after all that, too loyal and proud towards the country you helped forge to drop it. You wouldn't let some stupid boy or rabid tyrants prevent you from raising your beautiful nation up from the ashes.

That had been your downfall. You should've listened to Puffy and left the country behind when you had the chance, now you paid the ultimate price for your deep rooted loyalty and devotion towards independence. And your sacrifice didn't even matter in the end! Your deranged ex blew it all to smithereens. If you didn't despise him before, you absolutely did after your dumbass twin told you about his little 'escapades' while you were gone.

Every little thing Wilbur did, no matter how small it was, made you hate him even more. Every time he would shuffle those damned cards, it made you want to rip them to shreds and throw them across the train tracks. Every time he would sing or even breathe, you wanted to strangle him. You were absolutely certain that Schlatt felt the same. 

Oh, your twin was a real card. Always boasting about how his horns were bigger than yours (who even cares anymore? Yours grew in first anyways), telling the others about your shortcomings through crude jokes, even going as far as fighting you through headbutting; you could still feel the pain of being beaten to death before respawning immediately. Schlatt hadn’t known that you respawn even in the afterlife, so you knew he was serious about killing you. You just wanted Puffy, she was far more tolerable than your twin. 

The rustling of his suit jacket and his small grunts and pants resonated within the walls as he did various forms of exercising. You now knew about all of the differing variations of a pushup and you hated yourself for listening to his explanations. He would beg you, Mexican Dream, and Wilbur to stand on his back while he did his endless routines. The only one to readily take him up on that offer was Mexican Dream.

That man was arguably the only one you slightly tolerated, and you said that very lightly. He was still annoying as all hell, but he was a new face. Well, one that you didn’t know well enough to have a grudge against while you were alive. It was slightly refreshing, in a sense. When he first got here, his songs, stories, and humor gave you a nice break away from Wilbur’s depressing songs and Schlatt’s crude jokes. However when you spend eleven years trapped in a cage with one person, everything they do becomes the bane of your existence. 

You were running out of things that kept you sane in this dump. You've read the same novel, counted the same ceiling and floor tiles (32 ceiling tiles and 57 floor tiles exactly), traced the same cracks in the walls, temporarily killing the same cellmates, you've done anything and everything that this cesspool had to offer. You've done everything billions of times over, a never ending cycle of monotony. 

Tommy joining your group of miserable has-beens was perhaps the highlight of your fifteen, almost sixteen, years spent in this shithole. Though he finally dropped the brave facade and showed just how broken down he was after everything he’s been through, having him around was the saving grace to your sanity. He told you how your sister was, how your nephews were, and most importantly what you missed. You knew about all of the events leading up to Mexican Dream's death, but you were left in the dark with everything past that. Ender, you missed so much since you died; It baffled you how much you missed. 

When the train actually stopped at your cell instead of just passing by and it's doors opened, you were just expecting another poor soul to be dropped off here. You could imagine everybody's surprise when none other than Dream stepped out of those doors. The nephew that had betrayed you without a second thought, that had murdered you, that had your severed head displayed on his mantle (you weren't sure the truth of that last statement, Tommy has a habit of over exaggerating. Though, Schlatt did say that your body was found with a missing head when you first forced him to tell you what you missed). Tommy talked to you about how he died only once, so you knew just what your nephew has been up to. It infuriated you knowing that your adult nephew was manipulating and abusing this young teenager.

While you were releasing your pent up frustrations on the masked man, he merely brushed past you and drug Tommy into the train by the arm. You could remember Wilbur banging on the doors begging for Dream to return his little brother and his angered screams echoing down the railways as the train sped off back towards the land of the living. 

Lucky Tommy, he got to live out the rest of his life and actually age. You and your crew of intolerable jesters were stuck together once again. 

Everybody was silent for a few months, reeling at the newly discovered fact that Dream could actually resurrect people. During those three months, they were quiet and tolerable. In a way, the talks that came out of it was like one of those family therapy sessions your older sister would hold in the living room (you remembered how she would grab you and Schlatt by the horns if either one of you refused to go). You would kill to attend one of those therapy sessions again, and this is the closest you were going to get to it. 

You all talked about the things you regretted most while you were alive. Mexican Dream's was that he didn't protect his girlfriend Mamacita well enough. Schlatt's was choosing alcohol and power over his family (tears were especially shed over Tubbo, he really did regret abandoning him to be raised by you). Yours was that you were too loyal to a cause that would be absolutely decimated a short while after you sacrificed everything for it. Surprisingly, Wilbur's was that he had hurt you.

He had begged and groveled for forgiveness, telling you that he just didn't feel that special connection with you anymore. That didn't take away from the fact that he was seeing another while you two were still dating and that he blew up your life's work. He had stolen everything from you, and you would never forgive him for that. 

After you made your thoughts on him completely clear, he had started treating you like you treated him in the last few months. Tension was building up between you two that had laid dormant for thirteen and a half years like a rope pulled taut about to snap.

Everybody had slowly returned to their annoying selves slowly but surely. Schlatt resumed his workout routine, Mexican Dream had started loudly singing and ranting about Mamacita's everlasting beauty again, and Wilbur eventually started up his solitaire and songwriting once again.

The three of them made you want to rip off your twisting horns and shove them in your ears in hopes of muffling them, but you knew that whomever put you here would restore your hearing and make your horns regrow. You knew that first hand after you spent a couple of years alone in this hellhole; breaking your horns off by repeatedly banging your head against the dull stone walls in a manic state was never fun. The regeneration of the keratin only slightly stung, it was like you were a kid and they were growing in for the first time again. 

You felt your eye twitch as Wilbur sang about that damned train for the umpteenth time since he arrived. It’s always ‘train this' and ‘train that' and quite frankly you were sick of it. You were sick of him. 

“Shut the fuck up about that damned train,” Schlatt seethed. You never once thought you would ever agree with your twin, but here you were nodding in agreement and shooting a glare at Wilbur’s direction. The brunet merely stopped his singing and reshuffled his cards, the sound making an ugly cacophony and grating at your ears. 

“Not my fault you two don’t want to talk to me. I’m just making due with what I’ve been given.” He dealt the cards out in piles and started yet another game of solitaire. Seriously, how many games of solitaire can one play before they lose it? You supposed that you’d find out soon, Wilbur has been playing that monotonous card game nonstop for thirteen and a half years.

“Yeah, let the hombre chill! I like his music.” The masked man reached up to stroke his goatee, the scratching sound further penetrating your focus on your book. 

Everything was quiet before Mexican Dream's voice pierced it, "hey, did I ever tell you guys how beautiful my Mamacita was?"

"You told us millions of times, fuckface. You narrate entire love letters daily, so how could we not know how 'beautiful' she was?" You complained, not once looking up from your book. Schlatt snorted to himself and returned to his workout. Mexican Dream crossed his arms in anger, cursing you out under his breath. Wilbur merely glanced at you and rolled his eyes. "You know, I'm tired of your bitchy attitude. Let him talk about Mamacita, it's not his fault every time you think you love someone it fails." 

Your grip on your book tightened impossibly. If it were physically possible, the book would be crumbling to dust in your voice grip. You practically see red as you slowly dog-eared the worn page you were on and put your book down. 

"Oh shit," you heard Schlatt mumble and move away from you, Mexican Dream following suit. When you both were alive, your anger was always something you knew Schlatt feared. However, you knew that he's never seen you this angry; nobody has. The majority of what you've been holding in for almost fourteen years is about to be unleashed. 

"You know what I'm sick of, Wilbur?"

"Oh, do enlighten us."

"I'm sick of each and every single one of you. You three have been absolutely intolerable ever since you arrived. I was doing just fine alone and the universe just had to fuck everything up for me, just like it always does."

"There you go again," Wilbur laughed sardonically, "making everything about yourself." He gathered his cards and shuffled them repeatedly. 

"I make everything about myself?! Do you even hear yourself? Mr. Oh-I'm-such-a-disappointment-to-Philza, you wallow in self pity twenty-four seven! You fucking write every single song about yourself!”

"I didn't want to come here, okay?! I didn't think it was gonna be like this! God, I might as well be in hell with you here." 

"Believe me, my hell started fourteen years ago when you guys started showing up," you growled out, your ears flattening to the sides of your skull.

"Have you ever stopped to think that you're our hell? All you've done since we came here was complain and be a massive douche to all of us." He fluttered through the deck more and more as the argument escalated, the noise making you want to scream until you tasted blood.

"I'm the one that's in the wrong here? You fucked up my entire life. He," you pointed at Schlatt, "keeps beating me to death. And he," you jutted your chin towards Mexican Dream, "never shuts the hell up… Would you stop with that damn deck?! You're literally so fucking annoying." 

He narrowed his eyes, "make me."

A mixture of an animalistic growl and a guttural scream left your lips as you charged at him, your head tilted downwards so he could feel the brunt of your horns. He moved out of the way just in time, the side of your horn brushing against his arm. You crashed head first into the stone wall before you stabilized yourself and looked at the brunet with seething hatred. 

He was staring at you in shock, "how're you-" You used his shock to your advantage, throwing a right hook at his face. His head whipped to the side and his body followed, sending him to the ground in a heap.

"How am I still conscious? I'm a ram hybrid, dumbass. What'd you expect?" You huffed angrily before you pried the cards out of his hand and stalked over to the tracks. 

He scrambled up to stop you, but before he could even reach you, you held the deck over the tracks and looked down at him. You could just imagine how your horizontal pupils were blazing with fury. 

You reveled in the betrayal and animosity gleaming in his eyes as you dangled the thing he held dearest in this hell over the railroads. If you were to drop them, he'd never be able to see them again.

"We promised not to touch belongings on our first day here!" He yelled at you, his hands wrung in front of him nervously hiding the slight tremor. "Our first day here?" You scoffed, "the last time I checked, I was here for two years before any of you showed up." You gestured around the room in one angry swipe, the cards slipping slightly with how sweaty your hands were. It was then that you saw the fear in Schlatt's eyes. Good, that bastard should be scared of you. "If anything, you all are in my domain."

Wilbur flinched at the sight of the cards slowly slipping out of your hand, his breath hitching and panic stricken across his features. Mexican Dream stood up from his place and put his hands up. He was slowly approaching you like you were a cornered wild animal, making sure that you saw his every move. 

He nervously chuckled, "let's just put the cards down and have a nice talk. Doesn't that sound better than this, mi amigo?"

You shook the cards once again, taking in Wilbur's silent anguish with glee. "I'm not your friend, I'm anything but. Don't tell me what to fucking do or else that picture of Mamacita is the next to go."

"...Okay, you're in charge, man. Do what you want." He reluctantly sat back down next to Schlatt. The ram was watching in fear, yet it looked like he was entertained with what was happening. You couldn't blame him, the last interesting thing that happened was three full months ago when Tommy was taken. That and you probably looked feral at the moment.

"You understand that if you drop those, they're lost forever right?"

You threw your head back and laughed, "of course I know, why do you think I only have one sock? I already tried that shit out before you came." You hummed to yourself in thought, then grinned. Wilbur was going to love this.

While you shuffled the deck, you kept a close eye on the movement happening inside the cell. Another perk to being a ram hybrid was that you had a nearly 360 degree scope of everything around you. The only movement happening was the panicked breaths from Wilbur, good. You huffed in amusement, "alright Wilbur, let's do a card trick. I'd ask you to pick a card, any card, but I don't want to risk you fucking shit up again. So, I'm just going to draw for you." You drew a card from the middle of the deck and showed it to him. "The eight of clubs, how fitting." 

"(Y/n), I don't know what you're getting at, but if you don't give me those cards right now-"

"Shut it, I'm not done. I'm going to shuffle this back into the deck, watch the hands." You kept eye contact with him as you shuffled the cards rigorously, the card you pulled long since hidden with the slight of a hand. After a bit of shuffling and reshuffling, you had sneakily put the card between the two halves and bridged them until the cards were in one pile with the eight of clubs on top. 

You chuckled and pulled the top card, once again showing it to him. "Is this your card?"

He nodded slightly, never once taking his eyes off from the deck. "Yes, now give it back to me!" The angry and anxious undertones were like music to your ears.

You tapped your chin in thought, "hm, I don't think I will. You've taken so much from me, it's only fair that I get some revenge." Without another word, you threw the cards behind your head and smiled widely at the sound of the fluttering down to the tracks. 

Wilbur launched himself forward with a frantic yell, his hands flailing to catch all of the cards before they were lost forever. He only succeeded in catching a few. 

His breath shuddered as he stared at the three cards in his hand: the five of diamonds, the four of spades, and the seven of hearts. The fate of the universe was on your side for once, perhaps preternaturally so. 

"You- do you realize what you just did?!" He spun around to face you. If humans could froth at the mouth, a full waterfall would be streaming through his gritted teeth. His eyes held the rage of a man that had just lost everything in one singular instant, the resentment swirling in his dark brown orbs. Several veins were bulging in his face and neck, painting the skin in a red hue.

You walked over to your book and plopped yourself down. "Yeah," you said with a nonchalant shrug of your shoulders. You opened up your book and started reading it again, leaving the man to his grief. 

Everything was quiet once more much to your delight. Though you read this book from cover to cover thousands of times, enough to know most of the words by heart, you were never able to fully enjoy and immerse yourself in it with them around. You took this time to reclaim your designated corner and spend some quality time reading. 

You spent hours with your nose buried deep in your book, savoring the peace. That was until it was snatched out of your hands and ripped away from you. You looked up in slight shock at the sight of Wilbur snapping it shut and walking over to the tracks. 

No. No. Nononono he can’t. That was the only thing keeping you sane. He can't just get rid of it when he's done so much towards you when you were alive. 

A wail left your mouth as you tackled him to the ground, your arms wrapped around his midsection. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, his forehead smacking against the painted yellow stone. You straddled his back and ripped the book away from him, throwing it across the room and away from the tracks. 

You grabbed a fist full of his hair after yanking off his beanie and tossing it into oblivion with his precious cards. You pulled his head up and leaned close to his ear, "you try that shit again and your hat and cards won't be the only things lost to the void." Venom was seeping through your every word, "do you understand me?" 

He merely jerked his head to the side, colliding it with your nose and mouth. You shouted in surprise and let him go in favor of holding your aching nose. You could feel the warmth of the blood pouring from it. Through teary eyes, you looked up at Wilbur as he grabbed your book and flung it against the wall of the opposite side of the tracks. You scampered to the edge and watched in horror as it disappeared into the void. 

Without warning, you were forced to the ground, a hand holding you by a horn and a knee between your shoulder blades. You struggled before a dark chuckle was heard, "if you keep moving, you'll slip! Do you really want that?" You begrudgingly stopped, realizing that he had all the power in this situation. If he wanted to, he could just slide you off from the platform and toss you away like throwing a piece of paper into the trash.

"Good, you're not as stupid as you were earlier today." He slid you forward, holding your upper body over the tracks by the horn. You came face to face with the swirling abyss that was the void, small shapes appearing from your eyes adjusting to the sudden lack of visual stimulant. Your breathing picked up as he lowered you slightly, "you don't wanna do this." 

"No, I do. Thirteen and a half years of having to be around you was hell, but the shit you pulled today just put the icing on the cake. Do you have any last words before you go?"

You grunted as he shook your head slightly, a slight pain coming from the base of your horn. "Fuck you." 

"How appropriate, now let's see if you'll come back this time. It'll be our fun little science experiment!"

He dropped your horn without a care in the world, sending you plummeting to your demise. A terrified scream ripped it's way out of your throat and you screwed your eyes tightly shut in preparation for the void. Your body came to a jerking halt as you held your breath, preparing for… whatever awaited you. However, nothing came.

You cracked open an eye only to be met with the uncanny inkyness, the invisible mist freezing your face and its frostbitten arms opened wide for you. But you never fell into its embrace. 

Instead, you were pulled back onto the platform. You laid on your stomach with your horn supporting your head staring at the wall, tracing every single nook and cranny of the bricks. Your chest heaved as you greedily gasped for air. You never thought you'd be so relieved to see the cement walls you've been trapped in for over a decade and a half.

You were once again pulled up into a now sitting position and leaned against the wall, your back touching the cool cement. Across from you, you saw Mexican Dream pinning a struggling Wilbur down to the floor. Wilbur's crazed eyes met you, piercing through your very being. However, that didn't affect you in the slightest; you almost were just wiped from existence completely, you stared into the abyss and it stared back at you.

You felt… strange, to say the least. While icy fear and adrenaline coursed through your veins, you felt warmth blossoming in you at the same time. It was like the void was an actual person, politely giving you some form of relief from the hell you've been subjected to for over a decade and a half. It was so welcoming, not terrifying like you initially thought it was. When your fingertips grazed its surface it felt freezing to the touch, yet you felt the staticky power it was showing you. In that split moment of touching it, you had already accepted the power it held over you. 

A hand softly slapped your cheek, "c'mon, (y/n). Talk to me." Your eyes drifted lazily to your twin. He was extremely pale, his eyes frantically searching your face for any sign of responsiveness. When you looked at him, he visibly relaxed. "It was so… so beautiful, Schlatt."

"Yeah, what the actual fuck did you just say? You almost just- just died for good dumbass." He looked at you incredulously, you could just see the cogs in his brain working hard to process what the hell he was seeing. 

You looked back at Wilbur, he had stopped struggling slightly and was instead looking at you with a hint of confusion shining through the crazed daze. Mexican Dream tilted his head, the mask skewing slightly to the side of his face. "Thank you, Wilbur. You've shown me that there's… there's more to this hellhole than suffering. There's beauty in the darkness." His struggling had come to a complete halt, now staring at you with the most confusion you've ever seen from him. You also saw a very small hint of fear from deep within his irises.

A calloused hand gripped your chin and forced you to look back at your twin. "What are you on," he hissed lowly, "the stuff that's comin outta your mouth right now is actually batshit insane. He almost just permanently murked you and you're fucking thanking him." 

"I haven't felt this at ease in nearly two decades. I feel ethereal, Schlatt, and it's all thanks to him." You let your eyes drift over to Wilbur. Giving him a content smile, you nodded your thanks at him.

The next few days went by tensely for the others, eyeing your every move and keeping you away from the ledge. You had only peered over the ledge once since then, it was just so alluring to you. It was nothing, yet everything at the same time. Mexican Dream had pulled you back to the opposite end of the room by your horns. The part that disturbed the three men was that you said absolutely nothing about it. You didn't even struggle against it, you just laid limp and let it happen. 

With each passing second you spent away from the void, the feeling of utter peace was rapidly draining from your body; instead being replaced by icy fear, paranoia, and the realization that you were almost completely swallowed whole by the void. 

After coming back to your senses, you didn't allow anybody near you. Your instincts going haywire and screaming that they were going to hurt you if they came close. The last time Schlatt tried touching you, you damn near took his finger off. They didn't bother trying to approach you anymore, instead glancing at you from the corners of their eyes. Wilbur was perhaps the one you feared the most, you knew that if he didn't hesitate to toss you away the first time, he would surely do it a second time. He spent most of his time staring at you, you didn't know if he was zoned out or not.

Everybody was against you, you knew it. You just knew it. They were plotting to toss you back into the void. That thing- or was it an entity? Whatever it was held a power over you that you didn't know was possible. That trance that it put you in, the craving you felt, was something that was repeating like a broken record in your mind. You could still feel the void calling out to you, it was terrifying. 

You spent most of the time huddled in your corner staring at the fingers that had grazed the textured nothingness. You could still feel the buzzing and popping of the power on your fingertips, that inky residue staining your skin wouldn't come off. No matter how hard you scrubbed, scratched, or scraped, it would not leave your body. It was freezing.

The oncoming train screeching to a gradual stop was perhaps the only thing you fully acknowledged outside of your safety bubble in days. You watched in shock as it stopped at the platform. The doors opened with a fwoosh, fog pouring out onto the smooth stone floors. 

Out stepped Dream, the smile etched into his cracked mask sent chills to your core. Next to him was… was another Wilbur? How in the name of Ender was that even possible? 

This Wilbur was different though. This one was desaturated. This one didn't have an insane glint in his eyes, this one had grief shimmering in the tears that steamed on his cheeks. This one was broken compared to the well established man against the wall. This one was defenseless. 

Dream shoved him to the center of the room, the man falling to his hands and knees. Sobs escaped his mouth as steam left his skin and drifted along the sides of his face before dissolving into the air. 

"Got a new plaything for you guys, this one isn't as… fun as Wilbur is though." Dream's head turned towards you before it tilted. "What happened there? Did our dear little (y/n) get too close to the void?" 

"They are none of your concern, pandejo," Mexican Dream seethed at his counterpart from his position next to the train. "Why are you even here, man?"

"Oh, I'm just here to make a trade. I'm afraid that I'll have to give you guys Ghostbur here in exchange for Wilbur."

Wilbur stared at him with pure hope and glee springing up in his eye for the first time in over a decade. "Really?" 

Dream chuckled, "yes, really. What, do you really think I'd lie to you?" 

"I don't know, ya smiley freak. You've been known to fuck people over." Schlatt scoffed, his ear flicking in annoyance. 

"I'm telling the truth this time. Wilbur, come with me." 

Stars shone in his eyes as he reveled in the sight of the open train doors. He followed the masked man with a skip in his step, ecstatic giggles leaving his mouth as he boarded. 

Anger flooded you as you purse your lips together and you darted towards the train. The doors were closing already, if you could just- 

The door shut with a clank, blocking you from freedom. Your clenched fists banged against the window, glowering at the sight of Wilbur's happiness and Dream looking at you with a wave.

"You fucking bastard! Take me, he doesn't deserve it! He threw his goddamned life away, you're wasting your time with him!" Your angry shouts were ignored by the two however as the train once again started moving with a small hiss. 

A frustrated scream left your mouth as you pummeled the iron with your fists as it moved. If only you could find a train car to jump onto- 

Now. You leapt from the platform towards the junction between two of the train cars. However, your leap of faith was set to a halt midair by Schlatt holding your upper arms. You thrashed against him, desperate to get back to the land of the living, desperate to leave this godforsaken hell called the afterlife, but once again, you were torn away from what you were trying to achieve. 

You fell limp as you watched the last train car pass the platform and disappear down the tracks and into the void. The next possible time it would show it’s face would be in a few months if you were lucky. You let him take you back to your corner, your feet limply being drug against the floor. After you were plopped back down, you stared at the clone of your ex. You were pretty sure Dream said that his name was ‘Ghostbur’. What a strange name, yet you supposed that it was fitting for Wilbur’s apparition. 

“Are ya done with your little ‘moment’, (y/n)?” Schlatt was kneeling in front of you, his hands prepared to grab you if you made a run for it. Though his tone was annoyed, you could detect the very small worried undertone of his voice. 

You nodded and watched as he took a seat next to you, also staring at the newcomer. This is the closest he’s sat next to you in years. 

“...What do you think of the clone over there?” You hummed to yourself, “he looks pathetic, but I think that might be the only thing he and Wilbur share.” 

Mexican Dream took a seat next to you, slinging an arm over your shoulders. Normally, you would’ve shrugged him off, but you were too emotionally drained to do so. “Si, he does look kinda weak. But I think our new hombre here has promise.” 

“Promise for what?” Schlatt snorted. Mexican Dream hesitated, “...I don’t know. This is gonna be interesting, mis amigos.” 

“The party’s just begun, boys. Buckle up, this is gonna be a wild fucking ride.” You mused to them, unsure of what the future would hold with the newcomer. Though after a couple of years, you were sure you were going to hate him; that is if he’s nothing like his clone. Ender help you if he’s anything like Wilbur. 

As you stared at the broken man, you couldn’t help but wonder: why did he get to go back? As far as you were concerned, psychopaths like him do not deserve a second chance at life. If anything, it should be you boarding that train. It should be you getting a second chance. He was the one that so readily threw his life away while you had yours ripped away from you.

One continuous thought was circling in your mind: why couldn’t it have been me?

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

You wrung your hands together as you anxiously waited for Tommy, Ghostbur, and Friend outside of Pandora’s Vault. Ranboo and Tubbo sat next to you in the grass, giving you silent comfort with their presence. You were mainly worried for your boyfriend, his worst fear was Dream using the resurrection book on him. You had calmed him down from a panic attack prior to meeting up with the teenagers, begging him to let you go in his place. Of course, Ghostbur being the caring and brave soul he was, wove you off and ensured that he’d be okay. 

When you saw someone emerging from the portal, you leapt to your feet and steadied your head on your shoulders before you examined the people emerging. Except you only saw a human and a sheep, no ghost. 

Tommy looked pale and on the verge of tears as he led Friend towards you. Before he spoke, he used his sleeve to wipe at his tears. 

“Hey, Tommy! How did it- where’s Ghostbur?” The enderman hybrid stretched his usually slouched back to peer at the portal, keen eyes searching for any sign of movement. 

“I think he’s dead… He’s dead!” 

Tubbo tilted his head and looked up at the blond in confusion, “well, yeah. He’s a ghost. Of course he’s dead.” Ranboo nodded in agreement, “yeah, he can’t die again. That just isn’t possible.”

You said nothing (not like you could in the first place, your head wasn’t connected to your body), looking into Tommy’s eyes inquisitively. They were chock full of panic, grief, and fear, staring down at the lead in his clenched hands. 

“No, no you don’t understand, it’s not that he’s dead… it’s that Wilbur’s back.”

“Hold on, the Wilbur that blew up L’Manberg? That Wilbur?” Ranboo peered down at him incredulously. “Yes! C’mon, he- we gotta get to L’Manberg.” 

He spun around and led Friend towards L’Manberg, walking quickly with a purpose. You, Ranboo, and Tubbo followed. You hugged your head close to your chest, your eyes peeking over your arms. It was always something you’ve done whenever you were scared or worried about something. You heard stories about Wilbur from your nephew, if the stories of his insanity terrified you, you’d hate to see the man in person. 

“I was about to kill Dream, and- and Ghostbur died. Dream revived Wilbur… Fuck!” Tommy walked faster, L’Manberg far off in the distance. With one hand, you grabbed the blond’s attention and finger spelled, ‘are you serious? He’s actually gone?’

“Yes! How many times do I have to explain this?! Ghostbur isn’t with us anymore and Wilbur’s back. Wilbur’s back and we’re absolutely fucked.” He turned on his heel and resumed his beeline towards the crater in the wall. No, he couldn’t be gone. This was just a cruel prank they were pulling on you, right? 

Tubbo put a comforting hand on your shoulder, giving you a small sympathetic smile. You leaned into his touch slightly and carried on, stepping into the makeshift staircase behind Tommy. 

You moved your arms to cover your eyes as you stepped aside to make room for the other two teenagers. You heard a voice; it sounded exactly like Ghostbur’s voice, yet it sounded... off. You however remained hopeful and uncovered your eyes. 

The man that stood there certainly wasn’t your boyfriend. Everything about him was just so wrong. The emotion in his eyes, his clothing, his smile, his stance, his hair, everything. This was a completely different person. This was Wilbur Soot. 

“Hello again.” His eyes flicked around your group, his gaze lingering on you for longer than the rest. You noticed that he was staring at your neck, but that was okay. You were used to it; everybody did that. What you weren’t used to was the revulsion that flashed in his eyes. The eyes that once lovingly stared at you and reassured you that he’d love you even with your… condition were now filled with disgust. 

That was what broke you, the tears that you tried to hold in came streaming out like a waterfall. Stinging pain hit you as the water worked its way through the cloth of your uniform onto your arms, leaving steam floating upwards towards the cave ceiling. You phased through Ranboo’s body and made a mad dash towards your sister’s house. You needed her, you could feel a panic attack brewing inside you. Usually you would hate to be a bother to your older sister and Ghostbur would always calm you down, but now he’s…

You pushed that thought aside and focused completely on getting to Puffy’s house in the distance. You phased through the door without a thought to knock, frantically beginning your search for Puffy. 

You looked everywhere, but you couldn’t find her. Unable to cope any longer, you fell to your knees in the middle of the living room and hugged your head to your chest, your face being pushed against your uniform. Your shoulders shook with silent painful sobs, the only sound in the room being the sizzling of your skin. 

Why couldn’t it have been you? It should be Ghostbur standing there in that cavern, not Wilbur. This was completely your fault, you should’ve gone instead of him. You should’ve volunteered quicker than he did, you shouldn’t have let him talk you into it with his soothing words. Now because of your complete and utter cowardice, he was stuck in the afterlife once again. You were never going to see him any time soon. Your other half was ripped away from you because of your inaction. 

Between sobs, your lips repeatedly formed the same phrase: why couldn’t it have been me?

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[moonbeamsung]

Winter Nights & City Lights

Because nothing says ‘Christmas’ like spending the big day (and not to mention the whole holiday season) in the Big Apple living with your high school friend-turned-roommate, Mark Lee.

member: mark (featuring johnny)

au: roommate!mark x gn!reader, college roommate au, christmas au, ‘the gift of the magi’ au/inspired

word count: 9.5k

genre: fluff, angst, slice of life

warnings: profanity, underage drinking, hangovers, insecurities, mentions of food and drink, money issues, embarrassing moments

author’s note: This fic is close to becoming my favorite that I’ve ever written. It’s also almost twice as long as I planned, not to mention that tumblr crashed right as I tried to post it so here I am, two hours later. Overall I had a blast writing it and I hope you enjoy reading it! Please let me know what you think, too! :,) Happy holidays! <3

taglist: @astroboy-lele​ @kisshim​ @radiorenjun​

network tags: @kpopscape​ @neo-constellations​ @starryktown​ @culture-cafe​ @dreamlab-nct​

“That parade was so cool! I mean, did you see the size of all those balloons? They were huge! I’ve never seen so many people all in one place before,” Mark chatters away like an excited child as you navigate through the crowd that always seems to grow bigger year after year, gathered along the curbs of the New York streets to watch the famed Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

“How are you not more excited about this?” He questions, and you stifle an amused giggle. “I’ve lived in the city for over a year, Mark. I’ve seen a thing or two.”

“Oh, right. I knew that.” The cold air only accentuates the blush on his face as he remembers that particular detail about you. It isn’t often that it’s demonstrated, however, considering you spend so much time cooped up inside of your shared apartment cramming in university work and studying. There are hardly any opportunities during the year to take in the sights of the concrete jungle you live in the very heart of, but luckily, one of your long-awaited breaks is coming up soon.

Thoughts of Christmas vacation are the only things keeping you going, along with countless cups of steaming hot coffee, as you prepare for exams in just a few weeks, weeks that seem to go by in a flurry of snow.

There’s less than three days left until your first one, but you’re nothing short of drained after pulling so many all-nighters, and you need a break. A breath of fresh air seems like just the cure for your burnout, so you slam your textbook shut and lethargically drag yourself off of the soft comforter you’ve been sitting on for the past two hours. You grimace at the deep imprint left behind.

Trudging through the living area, you knock softly on Mark’s bedroom door. A tired “Come in” sounds from the other side, and you push it open, immediately noticing his disheveled state. Eyes heavy with fatigue and lacking their usual sparkle of youthful innocence, he blinks back at you, “What’s up?”

“You look like you need a break just as much as I do,” you insist. His already-open mouth widens a bit more, “But... our first exam is on Monday, we can’t just—”

“Mark, come on, you’re one of the smartest people in our class. If anyone’s going to pass, it’s you.”

He huffs, “Maybe you have a point.”

“I do have a point, and you know it. A little walk in the park never hurt anyone, right?”

Mark rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, fingers raking through his dark locks before he musters up enough strength to push himself off of his bed and into a standing position.

“I’ll get my jacket.”

Central Park is a sight to behold on its own all year round, but something about the Christmas season makes it even more magical. You and Mark step at the same pace, your paths lined by metal benches blanketed in fresh snow. Even through the many layers of warmth you’re both wearing, the chilly air still nips at your skin. It’s Mark’s first time experiencing the holidays in New York City, and you’re determined to show him everything this real-life winter wonderland has to offer.

The story of how you two came to be roommates in the first place is an extremely lucky one. You met in high school, and had been part of the same group of friends along with six younger boys. Both Canadian, you’d been hoping to get into the same New York college since what felt like forever. The day that you received your acceptance letters in the mail was full of joy and celebration, but not even a week later, Mark got an unexpected scholarship to a local but prestigious university not far from where you lived that he simply couldn’t pass up.

Parting ways after graduation, you had thought you might never see each other again until you got a call from him. It was the day after your last exam of the spring semester in college and you were sitting on your two-person couch, feeling rather lonely. The number seemed too familiar, too good to be true, and scrambling to pick up the phone as it blared throughout your fairly small apartment, you answered with a shaky voice. Mark’s recognizable tone met your ears, and a wide smile met your face. Though he couldn’t see it, he could hear the happiness in your words.

As it turned out, his college had given him the opportunity to transfer to yours for the remainder of his four years, as their programs were closely linked and on similar levels. Graciously, he had accepted, and wanted you to be the first to know.

“So, uh... are you living with anyone?”

The question he dreaded asking more than anything else. Call him cliché, but he had the biggest crush on you in high school, much to his dismay and to the rest of his friends’ excitement. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to like you, but he feared that college could tear a potential relationship apart, regardless of whether or not you went to the same one.

As a result of this, he had never acted on his emotions. But he’s older now, and wiser, which leads him to believe that maybe it wouldn’t be so hard to maintain one, should he ever gain enough courage to ask you out.

“No, actually, I have my own apartment.”

Silence.

“...Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

“Yes! Yes,” he replied a little too quickly, eager to accept what would hopefully be an invitation from you. He wasn’t disappointed.

“Well, my place isn’t the biggest, but you can live with me if you want to. Plus, we could split the rent between us!”

You’ve always liked Mark. He’s hardworking, kind, and humble, maybe a little too much of all these things for his own good. Even back in high school, you spent endless nights and very early mornings on the phone with him, trying to convince him to go to bed after he refused to stop studying. To reassure him that he did the right thing by ending that friendship, or to insist that he tell the teacher no one worked on the group project, so he did everything himself. You’ve been his shoulder to cry on for years, you’ve seen a side of him that he’s never been brave enough to show anyone else because they expect so much of him.

Mark knows he’s blessed to have had a picture-perfect childhood, a good family, and an education that was rigorous yet rewarding enough to prepare him for his next chapter in life. The pressures that came with being so lucky just got to him sometimes, and they made four years of high school seem more like fourteen.

You, on the other hand, didn’t quite have all the same luxuries that he did, but you still managed. He’s been there for you plenty of times, too. In your opinion, though, he’s the much more vulnerable one of the two of you, mainly to his cumbersome insecurities and shortcomings, however rare those shortcomings may be.

So in your mind, Mark Lee deserves the entire world and then some. The least you can do is share your apartment with him, either until he finds what you’re sure would be a much more desirable place to live, or if he wants to stay with you indefinitely.

What you don’t realize, and will eventually struggle to admit to yourself, is that your admiration for his perseverance and endless generosity is teetering rather precariously on the edge of blossoming into something more than just platonic.

“Sounds good, then. Thanks so much!” He had exclaimed, the sound of his pure excitement and gratefulness bringing a wave of heat to your face, and you were glad he wasn’t there in front of you to see it.

You talked a little bit more for the next few minutes, catching up and enjoying a lighthearted conversation about what you had both been up to. These sessions on the phone began to occur more and more frequently, turning into weekly, and soon daily, affairs. Mark planned to move in a couple weeks before school started again, giving himself some time to settle in and adapt to urban life in general. The calls became a highlight of your summer vacation, and every day without fail, you found yourself waiting to hear the unique ringtone you had set his contact to.

Less than twelve hours before Mark was scheduled to arrive at New York’s largest airport, you were on the phone with him just like always. The clock in your apartment chimed eleven o’clock, and as reluctant as you were to hang up, you knew you should turn in for the night. After all, the sooner you went to sleep, the sooner the morning would come. The morning you would meet him at the airport.

“So I’ll see you tomorrow?” His voice was hopeful. Slightly unsteady, but hopeful all the same.

“I guess so. What time does your plane land, again?” You confirmed the time you had scribbled down onto a neon yellow sticky note a few days earlier as he repeated the short string of numbers, nodding to no one in particular. Why did you feel so nervous? It’s just Mark, you had told yourself.

“Have a safe flight!”

He bade you goodnight in return, accidentally throwing in a “sweet dreams” before he could stop himself. When you put your phones down, you were both too busy trying to calm your racing pulses, however, so it didn’t matter. Mark collapsed onto his bed, hand bumping his duffel bag and heaving a sigh. You sank down into the couch cushion, closing your eyes and leaning your head against the back of the furniture. Neither of you could find the strength to stand in those moments, scared that your legs would give in from the unsteadiness of your nerves, your hearts, your emotions.

A singular worry occupied both of your minds from that point on until you greeted him in the JFK airport terminal the next morning, shy smiles on your faces: is it dangerous to enter into the impending situation of living together? Are you really ready to be in such constant close proximity to the object of your affections, however oblivious you might be to them?

Before his brain could talk his heart out of it, Mark had wrapped you in a tight hug, extra thankful for the welcome since you were all he had here, in the city. You wouldn’t have missed his arrival for the world, and you told him so. You also wouldn’t have missed the chance to make him flush a deep but adorable shade of red, reaching from his rounded cheeks all the way to the tips of his ears.

In your long-term rental car, you drove him back to your apartment, enjoying the quiet sounds of surprise and amazement that spilled from his lips, generated by the city’s sights. As you passed underneath towering skyscrapers, navigated bustling avenues, and caught glimpses of world-renowned landmarks that you both had seen only in the movies when you were younger, you just knew Mark’s eyes held their signature sparkle, despite your inability to see the dark brown orbs glimmer with wonder. You kept yours on the road ahead.

His first day was spent unpacking his suitcases and bags full of possessions, one of which was his most prized: an acoustic guitar.

It had been a gift from his parents when he finished the eighth grade, and all throughout high school, he had turned to music as an escape whenever he needed it. As any new musician does, Mark had played around with chords, experimenting and seeing what sounded good, and before you knew it he had composed a song. Another one followed, then another, and by the end of his freshman year he had written enough to fill an entire album if he so wished.

The guitar had heard every note, every lyric, carried every melody from his heart into the world. It had grown to be a part of him, a worldly sliver of his soul in the form of a simple musical instrument that could convey every hope and every dream, every concern or every frustration. Every love confession. Though that wasn’t saying much, since he only had eyes for you. You didn’t know it, but one of those songs was about you. For you.

You and Mark’s circle of friends tried to set you two up one day in the school’s band room after hours, with the excuse that the second-youngest of the group, Chenle, had forgotten his piano sheet music in there. They sent you to retrieve it, which you only agreed to do after being persuaded by the boy’s intimidating but still lovable pout.

With no sheet music in sight, your eyes landed instead on a diligent Mark that appeared to be the only sign of life in the room, plucking away at the strings as the sun set outside. You had sat with him for a while, neglecting your task and listening to him strum gracefully, softly murmuring lyrics that sounded like your name at one point. You didn’t think much of it, though, not making the connection behind the rest of the words coming out of his mouth and accompanying the chords. His love song was left unacknowledged by the subject of it themselves, and that was both the first and last time he ever attempted to confess to you.

He wondered if now that you were sharing an apartment, he would let something slip by accident. What would he do then?

University had other plans, though, and his fears were temporarily relieved. So fortunately and unfortunately, you were so occupied with schoolwork that trying to balance dating, or even mere thoughts of doing so, with all of your other responsibilities would have been exhausting, not to mention impossible.

Snapping out of your memory-induced daze, you realize that you nearly wandered off the path into a deep snowbank, only aware of this fact because Mark catches you by the wrist and pulls you back toward him to walk at his side. His fingers stay curled around your forearm as you approach a famous bridge, stepping to the side and gazing down at the icy waters below, calm and rippling with the chilly breeze.

“What do you want for Christmas?”

You honestly haven’t thought about it yet, so you can’t give Mark a definite answer. The same goes for him, both of you leaning against the brick railing in a comfortable silence.

In Mark’s mind though, he knows what he wants to give you: something to complement your own equivalent of his guitar, a large collection of handwritten letters and notes from your childhood and school days. Sentimental by nature, you had saved every colorful post-it note one of your friends would slip through the narrow slats of your locker, every birthday card received over the years, every thoughtful postcard from someone’s vacation.

Your favorites are undoubtedly the always-awkward Christmas cards that your friends’ families consistently mail out each December, by far the most humorous parts of your growing collection. You always found yourself chuckling at the pictures displayed on the front. Eyes bright with mirth, you would observe their forced smiles and arms slung carelessly over siblings’ shoulders, their eyes flickering between the camera and something going on behind it, probably the family pet getting into trouble across the yard. You pitied the photographers, surely beyond frustrated as they would try to get everyone to stand still for more than five measly seconds. Mouths were clamped shut and for a brief moment, the air was void of complaints of how itchy someone’s sweater was.

Then the camera would snap, capturing an image that was simply “good enough.” They’d plaster it on the card and in a few days, it would magically appear in the mailboxes of relatives and close friends. Grandparents would overlook the uncomfortable expressions and focus instead on how fast the kids were growing up. You didn’t blame them. Even in four years’ worth of cards, so much could change. In between fits of laughter, you’d stare in awe at the way your friends grew into their features, only becoming more handsome with time and some growing so tall that they even towered over their fathers. You always kept the letters they included, too, detailing the highlights of the year that was soon to come to an end by the time they dropped it into a nearby mailbox.

And like he could read your mind, Mark makes an offhand comment right then and there. “My folks texted me the other day to ask for our address. You know, for the Christmas card.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” he laughs. “Shame I couldn’t be there for the family photos this year.”

“Is it really a shame, though?” You prod, tilting your head a bit at the boy. “You always told me you couldn’t stand waiting around for the so-called ‘right lighting’ and all that.”

“Well, I couldn’t, but now that I’m not there I wish I could go back to those days. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, you know?”

“Right,” you sigh, thinking about how the same saying could easily apply to the way you felt about Mark all throughout your first year of university.

You have a box, made of a dark mahogany wood and lined with elegant golden trim, where you keep all of these letters, these handwritten memories and souvenirs from some of the happiest moments in your life. A gift from a past Christmas, your family had your initials engraved onto the front in a loopy cursive font, making it truly unique and utterly irreplaceable. And, you’ll soon come to realize, valuable.

Mark remembers it well, remembers the many times you’ve shown him its contents, remembers how his eyes sometimes land on the delicate container resting beneath the windowsill in your room, sunlight catching the accents. He knows how much those letters mean to you, and he also knows how much you love returning the favor.

That’s why he wants to give you the tools you need to do just that, and to do it well.

You’ve always been one for writing thank-you notes for any and every gift you receive, your parents having ingrained the habit in you since you were very young. Slowly, crayons turned into pencils and lead became ink. To this day you remain unfazed by the increasing amount of yellowing papers residing in the letter box, but the words imprinted on them never quite fade, strong enough to withstand the test of time.

Too many times in high school Mark would find you, hunched over your dining room table in frustration with a stack of letters beside your arm that you deemed “failed” because your handwriting was bad, or something of the sort. Usually it was the other way around, him being the one in need of comfort, but on those days your roles were reversed.

He had always wondered why you didn’t have fancier supplies that were more suited to your task, but he supposes now that maybe it simply wasn’t an option for you and your family. So a stationery set seems like the perfect gift for you this year.

On a similar note, you’ve already decided what you’re getting him: a guitar case. You happened upon a sleek leather one while browsing the website of a popular music store, coincidentally with a location not too far from your apartment.

Now it’s no longer a question of what to get the other, but how. As university students living on your own, money is scarce. Unknowingly, you both contemplate this concern as you walk side by side, returning to the start of the path that you set out on at least a half hour ago.

This stroll of yours was supposed to clear your minds, but why are they racing even more than before?

There’s no time to worry now, though, and for the next week, your thoughts are forced to shift back to the topic of school and midterms and all your academic endeavors.

Your exam week is over before you know it, and the two of you return to your apartment after the last one only to collapse onto your respective beds, beyond exhausted.

The dreary Friday afternoon clearly calls for a nap, but unbeknownst to you, Mark decides to seize the opportunity that has so conveniently presented itself to him: a chance for him to go out and buy your gift without suspicion. He drops his backpack on the carpet next to his dresser and sighs, wondering if what he’s about to do will be worth it. But it’s you, of course it’ll be worth it.

Thus, his next move is done with a heavy heart. He’s been forced by a lack of funds to come to a decision about your gift, and a difficult one at that. The only thing he can think of doing to even come close to affording a nice stationery set is to sell some things in exchange for cash. Namely, the most valuable item he owns: his beloved guitar. He doesn’t really want to, but deep down he knows that a true friendship warrants the occasional sacrifice. He’s done some research on a nearby pawn shop, and however sketchy those kinds of places may seem, it’s his only feasible option at the moment, with just a week left until Christmas Day.

After making sure you’re fast asleep, he not-so-stealthily slips out of your shared flat, his actions far from silent but even so, you don’t wake up. Mark winces at the unintended high volume of pulling the front door shut behind him, sticking his hand into his jeans pocket and relaxing when he feels his keys at the bottom of the fabric compartment. Guitar strung over his shoulder by the flimsy, fraying strap, he sets off.

With his phone in hand and directions to the pawn shop displayed on the screen, he strides through the lobby of the apartment building and pushes the revolving door, stepping onto the busy sidewalk and into the cold winter air. Shoppers crowd the pavement with hands full of department store tote bags, crinkling loudly as they pass by one another. Shoulders knock together and heels click against the concrete, just some of the many sounds of the city that Mark is still growing used to hearing.

A few blocks and several wrong turns later, he finds himself on a quieter street, standing in front of the shop. It’s dimly lit inside and looks almost abandoned, the letters painted on the window chipped and faded from the wear and weather of past years. A soft bell rings when he lets himself in, searching for some sort of employee.

From behind a cluttered shelf a tall man emerges, the shabby name tag pinned to his vest reading “Johnny.” Well, he’s not some shifty-eyed, balding man wearing a muscle shirt stained with grease. New York continues to be full of surprises.

His dark hair looks neat, the jacket he’s wearing free of any wrinkles and face young but chiseled, high cheekbones prominent.

“How can I help you today?” Johnny booms, stepping behind the counter and absentmindedly sifting through some loose change in bottom of the cash register.

Mark gulps, “I’d like to sell something.” Still not entirely sure he wants to do this, he instinctively tugs on the strap resting atop the fabric of his wool jacket.

“Well, you’ve come to the right place,” Johnny assures with a small laugh. “What did you have in mind?”

Taking a deep breath, Mark slides the guitar off his shoulder and holds it near his chest for a moment, before extending his arms out towards the counter.

“A guitar, huh? We don’t see many of these,” the tall man comments. “Are you sure? It seems pretty valuable to you in more ways than one.”

Mark’s fingertips trace the strings for the last time and he decides to just get it over with, before he can change his mind. His hands are shaky as he gently places the instrument down on the counter in front of Johnny, taking a step back once he’s done so. “I don’t have much of a choice. I need the money to buy a gift for my… uh, my friend.”

Johnny raises an eyebrow, “Just a friend? Or a special someone?”

“They are special,” Mark confirms, noncommittal to either title that Johnny suggested.

“They must be if you’re willing to give up something like this for them. Okay, that’ll be…”

Johnny tells him what the guitar is worth, matching the amount with a stack of cash and a few old coins, rusty but still holding their value.

Despite the pain of letting something so meaningful go, a bit of joy creeps into Mark’s heart as he realizes that now he can give you a gift that will hopefully become just as meaningful to you as his guitar was to him.

He thanks Johnny and bids him goodbye, step lighter than when he entered, much to his surprise.

It’s the next day when you and Mark find yourselves getting into the Christmas spirit for the first time this season. After he had returned yesterday, you were still out cold on your bed, so he chose to follow your example and do the same. The both of you had slept the rest of the day and almost the entirety of the following morning away, waking up just before noon.

With a sudden burst of energy you spring up from the sheets, overtaken by your excitement for the nearing holiday as you dig out the artificial Christmas tree you had bought last year from your closet. Sure, it may seem lazy of you, but let’s face it: there was no easy way to find a real one in New York City, let alone lug it down the streets, through an elevator and down a narrow hallway to a door it wouldn’t even fit through.

Mark hears the loud rustling of various decorations as he begins to stir, leisurely getting out of bed and checking one of his dresser drawers to make sure he hadn’t merely dreamed up his shopping adventure of the previous evening. There the stationery set sits, tucked safely at the back of the wooden cabinet.

The bookstore he stopped at on his way back last night had many different options to choose from, so he made sure to get one that both matched your box of letters and reminded him of you, with its color scheme and style. A surge of pride brings a smile to his features, pleased with his choice, and he pushes the drawer shut before joining you in the living area.

Your knees brush as he sits down next to you to help unpack the large but manageable box, taking out the tiers of the tree to eventually stack on top of one another. Working more quickly than usual (and probably necessary, there are six days left after all), you assign Mark to stringing the lights across your small balcony while you finish setting up the tree. You knew you shouldn’t have let him do it alone, though, because when you look over at his progress you find more lights wrapped around his body than the metal railing.

“Do you need a hand?” You question, holding back a laugh at the way the cord restricts his arm movements to the point where he can’t even reach for the handle on the sliding door.

From outside he opens his mouth to reply, but pauses, looking down at himself and the mess he’s made of the lights before meeting your eyes once more. His voice is muffled by the glass, but you hear him shout playfully, “I’m the tree now! We don’t need that one.” He tries to gesture to the one you’re currently decorating, but fails, and this time you aren’t able to contain your amusement.

“Let me help you,” you offer, joining him on the balcony and helping him untangle himself from the glowing strands. “Thanks,” Mark replies, sheepishly rubbing at the back of his neck. With your combined efforts, you manage to thread the string of lights through the railing with little to no mishaps, and both of you continue decking out the apartment with other seasonal items for the next several hours.

At some point during the afternoon one of you decided to connect their phone to a speaker and play some music, all Christmas songs of course. As the classic version of “Jingle Bell Rock” begins to blare throughout the living room, Mark abandons his task momentarily to walk over to you. He extends a hand down to you, sitting on the floor, and you accept the invitation to stand up with a questioning look.

“Dance with me?”

It’s hardly a platonic request, Mark realizes once the words leave his lips, but even so you don’t shy away, glancing down at your feet with a slight trace of bashfulness in the action.

He intertwines your fingers somewhat loosely, placing his non-dominant hand on your waist and beginning to sway, slowly at first but then his movements become more exaggerated, shoulders tilting dramatically to one side after the other and straying from the rhythm of the music. You join Mark in drawing out the jesting movements, losing yourself in laughter and leaning forward to bury your face in his shoulder, the heat of your breath hitting his skin through the thin t-shirt he’s wearing. In one last attempt to keep the joyful smile on your face, he steps back a bit and holds your wrist above your head to twirl you in a circle.

The electric guitar in the song fades as you collapse onto the carpet, recovering from your fit of giggles. The sun has begun to sink in the sky, you can tell by the gold and orange glow that your apartment becomes bathed in as it sets, inching closer to the horizon and eventually becoming hidden by tall skyscrapers in the distance.

Satisfied with your progress so far, you both decide to call it a day, though in truth there aren’t many decorations left to put out. A few stray ornaments and some garlands remain, still packed up in boxes that you would need help reaching. You’re also eager to get your mind off of the way your heart was palpitating as you danced with Mark, your roommate and friend but nothing more, nothing less. You have enough to worry about at the moment, not wanting to add potential feelings for the boy into the mix. Shit, you think, you still need to buy his gift.

“What should we watch?” Mark asks, scrolling through the list of movie choices on the TV screen.

“I don’t really care, anything’s fine.”

His finger presses a button on the remote to select a film at random, the intro playing as you scan the refrigerator shelves for a frozen meal. Hopefully it’s not one of those cheesy holiday romances.

Settling down on the couch a few minutes later, you with the warmed-up container in your lap and Mark holding a cup of ramen noodles, both of you fall into a comfortable chatter about the movie. Thank god it’s a comedy.

Occasionally you find yourself diverting your attention from the harsh display and directing it over to the panes of floor-to-ceiling windows, where you watch more and more lights flicker on in the distance, illuminating the urban landscape as night falls. The view is breathtaking, but so is the way your face softly glows with their warmth, even from blocks away. Not that Mark would ever tell you that, of course.

“I’m going out!” Mark hears shuffling from outside his bedroom the next morning, your voice instantly bringing him to his senses. Curious, he shoots out of bed and flings the door open to find you, one arm stuck through the sleeve of your coat and the other buried in a bag, but it’s not the one you usually bring when you leave the flat. Eyes wide and panicked at the boy’s unexpected appearance, you clutch it to your chest with a visible amount of difficulty, Mark notices.

“Where are you off to?” He squints at the brightness of the living room, the early morning light pouring in through the glass on the far wall.

“...Maybe I can’t tell you,” you respond with a huff, slinging the heavy bag over your shoulder and pulling the rest of your coat on.

“What do you mean, you can’t—oh.”

“Nice going, genius,” you shake your head, feigning disappointment. “It’s not like it’s Christmas this week or anything.”

“My bad, sorry.” Mark winces and rakes a hand through his bedhead, abashed.

“I’ll be back soon, okay?”

With that, you step into the hallway and offer a parting smile over your shoulder, shutting the front door behind you.

At least your being out of the apartment gives Mark time to wrap your gift. All he has to do is figure out how.

Johnny gets a familiar feeling when he sees you enter the pawn shop, fumbling with your things and reluctantly gazing at whatever’s in the tote you’re holding. Are you also about to make an exchange you could potentially regret?

“One second,” you excuse yourself as you step up to the counter, placing the heavy bag down and removing the large item from inside: your letter box, minus its contents. Of course you would never get rid of those, but despite the letters and notes being so special to you, the box they were always kept in is also a significant part of your attachment and the memories you hold dear.

With a thud you set it down, Johnny glancing between the hesitation on your face and the wooden container on the counter in front of him. “Let me guess, you want to exchange this for cash?”

“Yes, sir, that’s exactly what I—” You pause, biting your tongue. “Hold on… Look, I know this is a pawn shop and that’s what people do here, but how are you so sure?”

Johnny’s gut tells him he shouldn’t give away the fact that a boy wearing the very same expression and with the same sense of purpose and determination was in here just two days earlier. So he corrects his mistake with a simple “Lucky guess” and a hearty chuckle.

Without Johnny even asking, you tell him that you’re also looking for some extra cash in order to afford a gift for your “friend,” and you say the word with so much conviction and certainty that it’s almost laughable. The information given to Johnny helps him fully connect the dots in his mind, realizing that each of you are the one the other talked about.

Before handing you the money, Johnny tears off a sheet of paper from a nearby notepad and asks you to fill out your information, most importantly your address. He has to lie a bit, saying it’s for contact purposes, but his heart is in the right place nonetheless. Just in case something goes south (and the sinking feeling in his stomach tells him that it will somehow), doing so gives him an option, even if he doesn’t know what that option might be yet.

“Thank you, Johnny, and Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas!” He returns your wish cheerfully as you push the door open to leave.

“Good luck finding a gift for your ‘friend,’ too.”

You feel heat rise to your cheeks when you see his teasing use of air quotes, but still smile.

On your way back to the apartment Mark texts you and asks you to check the mail, saying he forgot to do so yesterday. When you arrive in the lobby and make your way over to the cluster of mailboxes, you’re instantly shocked to find a large cardboard box shoved into the small cubby with your and Mark’s name on it. You’re already struggling to carry the guitar case you bought for him, so you decide to make a second trip later.

A few moments after stepping out of the elevator, you knock on the door to your apartment, hoping with all your might that Mark won’t actually open it and instead just answer with a “Come in” as he always does. Your wish is, thankfully, granted, but it’s quickly followed by “Wait, wait, wait!” As it happens, he just finished wrapping your gift and needs another minute or two to tuck it away somewhere until the big day arrives. “Can you stay out there until I say?”

“Sure,” you reply, “but I’m going to have to ask you to do the same.”

“How about I stay in my room while you come in and do… whatever you need to?”

“Sounds good.”

With his door closed, Mark hears the front one open and shut as you enter. Trying not to make any noise that would give away the size of the item you just bought, you finally settle for hiding the leather case underneath your bed, concealed by the drapery attached to its frame that hovers just above the floor.

Mark had hastily placed the now-wrapped (though not elegantly so) stationery set back into his dresser, so he’s already out of his room by the time you leave yours. “Any letters or packages?” He questions when he sees you.

“Oh, right!” You snap your fingers, “We do have a package but my hands were full, so I’ll bring it up right now.”

“Eggnog?”

While the box had looked fairly ordinary from the outside, upon opening it and glancing at the return address you learned it was actually anything but that. Mark’s and your parents had sent a holiday care package of sorts, including both of your families’ Christmas cards and a carton of eggnog, along with some small gifts that are meant to be saved for the morning of the 25th. Also mixed in are a few small decorations (not that you need more), some baking supplies complete with a copy of the recipe for the cookies you make every year, and a soft pair of mittens for each of you. He hopes you don’t realize that one of the items is a sprig of mistletoe.

“You don’t like eggnog?” You ask, stunned. Mark shrugs, “I don’t really care for milk but it’s the thought that counts, I guess.”

That evening you and Mark take another stroll, this time choosing to stay on the streets and admire the festively adorned buildings and shops as you pass by them. Admiring Christmas lights at this time of year is nothing new to you and Mark. In fact, when you lived in Canada you would do the same thing. The only difference is that back then, it involved driving through quiet suburban neighborhoods and not ambling through crowded city streets and alleyways on foot.

Snowflakes begin to cascade from the heavens as you make your way back around to the block where you live. Mark sticks his tongue out to catch one of the small crystals, and it immediately melts in his mouth, eliciting a high-pitched laugh from the boy. Snow is also something you both are more than used to by now, having grown up with white Christmases all your lives. It makes you wonder if the holiday season would be the same without it.

“You know what we should do?” Mark turns to you just as you’re about to enter the apartment building again. “Go ice skating at Rockefeller Center.”

“Mark, c’mon, you know stuff like that is overpriced. And besides, I can’t skate to save my life. Remember—”

“That time in sophomore year? You bet I do,” he laughs as he remembers how you clumsily fell not even two seconds after stepping onto the ice with your skates, and then refused to let go of the railing for the rest of the day. The elevator whirs to life, climbing floor after floor with ease.

“Hey,” you offer, “we can still go and watch people skate, I’m sure there’s some place to sit.”

“And we can look at the Christmas tree, too,” Mark adds, eyes brightening at the idea.

“Right. I forget you haven’t seen it in person before.” The cabin doors open with a ding and you step out, your eyes landing on the door to your apartment a few yards away.

When you turn on the TV, Mark becomes mesmerized by the movie that’s playing, since it takes place in NYC and he recognizes so many places from actually being there. He scrambles to remove his jacket and beanie, plopping down onto the couch once they’re safely hooked on the coat rack.

Watching him, you sigh. Would anything really change if you were dating? Assuming your feelings were returned, of course, but you can’t imagine that your relationship would differ much. You certainly wouldn’t go on extravagant dates, or buy expensive gifts for each other, but that’s not what love is about, anyway. With the exception of a few extra hugs and the addition of kisses, along with more forms of physical affection in general (actually, scratch that, Mark’s always been awkward with those kinds of things), you’d still be by each other’s side just like always.

As you sit down next to him and feel an arm wrap around your shoulder, you don’t shrug it off, instead embracing the warm and fuzzy feeling in your heart that you can’t blame on the holiday season this time.

Mark’s glad, too. He’s been working up the courage to do that all day.

Late that night, you quietly tiptoe into the living area, retrieving an old box from your move-in last year that will fit his gift perfectly, and won’t give away what’s inside. Your hands fold and tape the wrapping paper with care, tying a neat ribbon once you’re done. Sure, you had to give up something that meant a lot to you in order to afford Mark’s present, but the gains outweigh the losses. You find comfort in imagining the way his face will surely light up with pure joy on Christmas morning, drifting off to sleep with ease once you’ve hidden the rectangular parcel back underneath your bed.

A few days pass and soon it’s the 23rd, and you join Mark at the railing of the ice rink, of course on the side with solid ground. “Ice is solid ground,” Mark had corrected, but you stood firm in your words. “More like slippery ground, if you ask me.”

Luckily you had been allowed to stand here for free, because god only knows what small, simple thing someone would be charged for in New York. It’s happened to you before, and you’re not even a tourist.

Mark’s dark eyes gaze up at the 75-foot-tall tree in wonder, pupils dilating and reflecting the tens of thousands of bright lights strung through the dark green branches. They seem to sparkle with sheer amazement. Just then someone skates a little too close to the section of railing you’re leaning on, startling Mark out of his LED-induced daze and putting the most adorable look of surprise on his face.

His focus shifts to the people on the ice, wearing sweaters and jackets of every color imaginable, and the sight is still as beautiful as the looming Christmas tree above. He notices some couples, holding onto one another or skating hand-in-hand, and it makes him wonder if that could be you two someday, at a future Christmas, or if it’s an idea absurd enough for an alternate reality.

Mark sees you shiver out of the corner of his eye, and it’s his cue to suggest returning home for the evening. In a very cliché and boyfriend-esque gesture he offers you his jacket, but you decline, insisting that it’s not far and assuring him that you’ll be okay.

Back in your heated flat, you twist open the lid of the eggnog carton and pour a small glass for yourself. “Are you sure you don’t want some?” You call out to Mark from the kitchen, snatching one of the cookies you made the other day and finding a paper plate for the thin shortbread wafer, lined with elegant white icing and dusted with sprinkles.

“I already told you, I don’t like eggnog!”

“Have you even tried it before?” Mark grumbles at your nagging. You really sound like his mom right now.

“No…”

You appear at the other end of the couch, holding out a small cup with just a sip or two of eggnog in it. “Try it. You never know.”

He knows you won’t leave until you see him lift it to his lips for yourself, so he does. Immediately the sweet drink overwhelms his taste buds, and also leaves a slight sting on his tongue.

“What’s in this stuff?” He coughs, nose scrunching a bit from the strong taste. Surprisingly, though, he doesn’t hate it. Following you back to the kitchen, Mark pours a full glass this time, already gulping it down.

“Uh,” you scan the ingredients on the back of the carton once he sets it down on the counter, “milk, cream, sugar, eggs…”

“...whiskey? What the hell?”

“It has alcohol,” Mark slurs, his giggling interrupted by a hiccup. Having never drank before, he’s undeniably a lightweight, and even a little bit can get him wasted almost instantly.

“Mom and Dad must have mixed something up, because they definitely didn’t mean to send us alcoholic eggnog.”

Sure enough, back home in Canada your parents are wondering why they only have the kid-friendly stuff in their fridge.

Mark latches on to you, arm curling lazily around your waist. Great, he’s one of those people that gets clingy when they’re drunk. “Try some,” he whines, nuzzling into your shoulder a little.

“Are you crazy?”

“No one will know,” he laughs, hiccuping again. Giving in to his adorably drunken pout, you take one sip from your original glass but no more, an unpleasant buzz taking over your whole mouth.

Not looking forward to finding a hangover cure on Christmas Eve of all days, you pray that you’ll stay sober enough to take care of the tipsy boy, who’s currently pressing his face into the back of your neck and—shit, did he just kiss you there? You really don’t need this right now.

“Mark, you’re drunk, okay? Stop it,” you caution.

“But I love you,” he murmurs, warm breath fanning your skin, and you want to kick yourself for almost saying it back. Does he even mean it, though? Alcohol makes people say crazy things, things they don’t mean, so you shouldn’t get your hopes up. You unhook his arm from your torso and turn around to push against his chest, frustrated. “Let’s get you to bed.”

He seems to have just remembered something, because he ignores you and instead goes over to where the care package was still sitting, digging into the bottom and pulling out something you hadn’t noticed before. “Look,” Mark declares in a nasal voice, “mistletoe.”

You exasperatedly hang your head, desperate to slam it into the nearest wall. With much difficulty, you eventually manage to get him tucked underneath the blanket, leaving a glass of water on his nightstand for when he wakes up. “Get some sleep,” you say simply.

He tells you goodnight with a fond mumble of your name as you shut the bedroom door behind you. Rubbing your eyes, you yawn before turning off the lights and heading to bed yourself, trying to block out the events that had just taken place.

Your head aches when you wake up the next morning, and you feel like garbage, so you can only imagine how much worse Mark must be doing. Quickly chugging a water bottle, you reluctantly go to knock on his door, hearing a pained groan once you enter. He’s sitting up, chin resting in one hand and the other anchored onto the heavy comforter covering his legs.

“How are you feeling?” The obvious question with an even more obvious answer makes Mark wince. “Awful.”

“Sorry.” It’s silent for a moment, Mark pressing three fingers to his throbbing forehead and you staring aimlessly at the wall. “I knew that eggnog was a bad idea.”

“You were the one that told me to try it!”

“I didn't know it had alcohol in it!”

You sigh, dejected. Something tells Mark that your head isn’t the only thing hurting.

“Hey, I know that look. What’s wrong?” He prods, voice soft and gentle and altogether unlike how it had been last night. You meet his eyes for a moment, about to speak but biting your lip at the last second. Mark’s brain puts two and two together at your expression.

“Oh god, did I say something? Do something?”

“Yeah, actually,” you reply in a huff. “First you kissed my neck, then you told me you loved me, and then you held up a clump of mistletoe and implied that we should kiss underneath it.”

His memories of the previous evening are all a blur, so he truly would have no idea what happened if you hadn’t just said something. Mark knows he screwed up, bad.

You tense when you feel him place his hand over yours, but you don’t snatch it away. After collecting his thoughts, Mark clears his throat.

“Look, I… I know that’s not the best way for you to find out how someone feels about you. But I’m completely sober, and I can tell you that I meant what I said last night.”

“You promise?”

“Promise,” Mark replies.

“...Can you say it again, then?”

He blushes, “That I…?”

You nod, the corners of your lips lifting into a small smile.

“I love you,” Mark tells you for the second time in the last 24 hours, but this time you know you can believe him. The pain of your hangover goes away for a moment as he takes your jaw in his hands and connects your lips, just barely retaining the buzz of the alcohol but not enough to bother you. Slowly you kiss him back, sinking down onto the mattress beside him.

Mark pulls away for air a few seconds later, thumb grazing your cheek lovingly. “Does this mean we’re—”

“Dating? If you want it to, then sure,” your finger traces swirly shapes on the small of his back while you assure him that neither of you need to rush into anything if you aren’t ready.

“I don’t want things to change, though.”

“Who said they have to? I’ve been thinking about it for a while, and we’re already pretty close, you know? Making it ‘official’ doesn’t necessarily mean ‘different,’ so...”

Mark hums in agreement, “You’re right. Okay, I can live with that.”

“And I can’t live another second without food. I’m making breakfast,” you quip, reverting back to the usual banter between you and him.

“I’ll cook the eggs,” Mark insists as you both make your way out of his bedroom and into the kitchen.

“You absolutely will not!”

The night before Christmas had started out unlike any that you’d ever experienced before, with you confronting your now-boyfriend about a drunken love confession the previous day. But now, it’s ending just like every year, with you cozy and curled up in front of the television as the last few segments of the news play.

It’s the coldest Christmas Eve in years. You learned this after the meteorologist had informed viewers of the record only a few minutes earlier, inadvertently planting an idea in Mark’s mind.

Right as you’re about to turn in for the night, setting a plate of decorated cookies and a glass of milk down on the end table (as is tradition in your families, no matter how old you are), Mark holds out his arms like a child might. “Can we…?” He asks in a quiet voice, nervous to finish his sentence.

“Huh?”

The boy inhales sharply, “It’s freezing. Do you wanna sleep in my bed tonight?” His cheeks flush a deep red that’s almost the color of Christmas itself.

You’re slightly taken aback, and then you remember it’s just Mark. “Sure, why not,” you answer with a light shrug and a smile on your face.

“But no funny business,” you inform him as you climb under the sheets together, instantly happy with your choice to join him because double the people means double the body heat. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Mark replies, pecking your lips. His wrist finds the warm skin of your neck and you flinch away.

“Your hands are cold!” He just snickers at your whining.

The two of you fall asleep more quickly than you ever have on Christmas Eve, usually overcome with nerves and excitement, but now, as two college-aged kids, you’re comfortable and not rushing the morning’s arrival at all, content in each other’s arms for the moment.

You feel like you’re 10 years old again as you rush into the living room at 8am the next day, the bright, early morning sky lighting up your entire apartment. At the base of your Christmas tree sits a humble amount of presents, composed of the two that you bought for each other plus the half-dozen small ones from your parents.

You hand Mark one of the cookies from the end table and grab one for yourself, taking a bite of the sweet treat as you sit down and motioning for him to do the same.

“Open yours first,” you say eagerly, referring to your gift for him. Mark shakes his head and points to what he got you, “No, you go first.”

“Fine, we’ll open them at the same time.” Mark nods, satisfied with the compromise and handing you both the packages.

“On three. One, two…”

The final number barely leaves your lips before you both begin tearing into the paper excitedly, Mark reaching for the flaps on the box and you unfolding the tissue paper.

When you each see what the other gifted you with, it’s completely silent, save for the TV playing a Christmas Day special in the background.

He gazes blankly at you, licking his lips as his eyes dart between the guitar case and your expression.

“I appreciate the gift, but I…” Mark pauses, unsure how to tell you this.

You don’t say a word, raising your eyebrows as a signal for him to continue.

“I sold my guitar to pay for your gift,” he breathes.

“You what? Mark, that guitar means everything to you! Why would you do that?”

“Because you’re worth it, of course!”

“Well, I did the same thing,” you break the news with an unamused expression. “I sold my letter box to pay for that case.”

His eyes become impossibly wider at that, nearly bulging out of their sockets. “Are you serious?”

“Dead serious.”

You groan and lie down on the floor, beyond discouraged. “Let me guess, the pawn shop on 23rd?”

“Yep.”

“Hey, wait a minute.” An idea hits Mark like a rush of cold air. “Maybe we can work out a deal or something.”

“Meaning?”

“We go back and see if we can trade in our new gifts for enough money to get our old things back.”

“One, I doubt it’s that easy, and two, pretty much everything is closed on Christmas Day.” You’re half tempted to laugh because of how ironic this situation is.

Mark sighs, “I guess that makes sense.”

“We can still try, though.”

Sure enough, the pawn shop is dark, even more so than usual, and the door doesn’t budge. A sign taped to the window from the inside confirms your fear: Closed on Christmas. Gloved hands pressed onto the glass, you and Mark admit your defeat. You had been bested by the giving spirit of the holiday season, almost too generous for your own good.

But it’s the message that the day itself stands for after all, for putting aside material value and doing something out of the kindness of your heart just to make someone else happy. That’s what it’s all about, and you and Mark had personally experienced it this year.

So you’re surprised to find two boxes leaning on the wall beside the door to your apartment the next morning, shapes oddly familiar. Could it be?

Just hours earlier, the hallway surveillance cameras caught a tall man striding down the corridor, carrying those exact packages under his arms. In the video he pulls out a scrap of paper and a pen from his coat pocket, scribbling a short message before tucking it underneath the ribbon of the larger parcel and leaving the building just as quickly as he came.

You and Mark’s only clue as to who had returned your items is a messy ‘J’ at the end of the note attached to the box containing his guitar. Exchanging knowing glances, you both grin, squeezing your intertwined hands with the same name in mind.

...So what if Johnny had to take a bit of money out of his own paycheck to cover the cost of the items? Besides, it’s Christmas. And his boss never has to know.

[kdramachitchat]

Hometown Cha Cha Cha episode 2 recap: Hye-jin tries to be more sincere to her new neighbors. Her clinic ended up being a success, thanks to Dusik. Looks like they met before in the past too.

The episode begins with a surrounding view of the ocean closing to night time. Then the morning comes with Hwa-Jung being busy with what looks like accounting matters. She then opens a folded paper that states her divorce mutual consent with her husband. Those are some of the moments she said that she regrets.

Another Gongjin resident Oh Chunjae is also going through his recorded tapes. Seems that he used to be a recording artist back at the 90s as he was reminiscing with his 2nd album casset demo. I wonder how he never made it. We were then shown with Dusik getting something out of closet, a black suit and he's looking at it pensively with a sigh. Minah finally opens her clinic but ended up sighing. Goes to show no matter what decisions you decided to take, you can never turn back the clock.

We go back to 2 weeks ago, Dusik enters the Chongho Scuba Diving shop with Hyejin in toe. They were checking out the possible office spaces. Dusik showed her a office space that has a nice view of the ocean. Hyejin though is not satisfied as she has requirements for her office, not just for a nice view. Despite not being satisfied she is running out of options. Dusik showed her a better option with a bigger space but the style is old fashion as its more ecofriendly. The interior isnt style. She wants a more antique european style. I dont think you could find that in Gongjin. Dusik offered her offwhite wallpaper isntead that is the simplest thing he could offer trhat's close to her taste. Hyejin is worried though in hoping that Dusik and Hwajung may end up scamming her because she's not from the countryside. Hwajung reassures her by saying that everyone knows the both of them. They could never scam anyone. She revealed her card and states that she's a zone chief. They show more proof and the office space that she just saw is the unit that Hwajung planned to save if ever she opens up her 2nd restaurant. Although, with the goodness of her heart she offered it to Hyejin because she thinks that the whole town needs a dental clinic and its much more valuable. Dusik tried to leave but Hyejin stops him by stepping on his foot.  They officially signed the contract as landlady and tenant. Hwajung then pays Dusik for 4 hours worth of work. Dusik ended up following her back. She owes him 17k won worth. Dusik offers services for renovating and shows her all his certified liscences. Hyejin ended up in shock and thinks he's weird. She's back in Seoul packing her things and showing her friend where she's moving.

Hyejin finally travels back to Gongjin looking content and satisfied while driving. The locals are curious as to who is moving in. Someone is moving into Ms Seo's house. The locals thought its a joke that she's a dentist although she really is one. She finally settles in and calls her parents updating them about her moving status. She even puts up her family portrtait. Dusik then visits her late at night to verify her registration. Dusik tells her the neighborhood rules and things she should know. Since Dusik was the one who set up the house, he sets up the door lock code too which ended up being his birthday. We now know that he's a year older than her and she accidentally calls him 'oppa' she instantly feels weird about it after Dusik asking if its a hint of affection. He says that he doesnt want any of it. She then asked him where the nearest coffee place is. In order to work she needs coffee to start her day and the only one nearby is the 4000won coffee stop, HAHAHA. She feels traumatized already and refuses to come back there. Dusik says let bygones be bygones as they're her new neighbors now, she has to get used to them despite the wrong introductories. She said she doesnt mind but the coffee is awful. The word has spread of a new dentist in town, the elderly talks about going for a visit. While running, Dusik finally renovated her dentist office and Hyejin complimented his work on a job well done. The villagers saw her running with the joggings but since they live in the village so long they do not know that its workout gear in the modern era. they ended up in shock. Hwajung stops by at Hyejin's to check up on her and is impressed by the renovation.

She then invites her to a party for the elderly the next day. Hyejin looks uncomfortable and tells her that she'll check her schedule, although Hwajung tells her to stop by even if she's busy. Its a way to introduce herself as a neighbor and to promote her clinic. Hyejin then sits with the elderly ladies, Gamri offers her bread wrapped with kimchi by the hand but Hyejin declines it, that's a wrong impression right away for someone who wants to promote her clinic. It comes off as rude. Hwajung comes to her aid and tells her if she needs any help to let her know because she rented 2 of her properties. Hyejin starts complaining about the minor details of her office space and Hwajung looks at her with a stunned expression. The rest of the village people started introducing themselves and offers help. They all stood up and she's left alone with the cafe owner Chunjae. He continues to promote his failed 1993 song to her as well as his life story on how he ended up in Gongjin. She starts to get annoyed and lose appetite and left. She starts complaining on how they're eating out in the open and its unsanitary. Being a dentist makes her become OC with the cleanliness but she doesn't have to be rude about the food either. The village people were trying to be nice to her. Dusik tells her she's fussy and picky. Tells her why cant she see the good things around her. Good point. Dusik trying to show her the good things about Gyongjin but she isnt listening to him.

The speaker ended up with a sound issue and Chunjae stopped singing. Hyejin was ended up exposed on loud speaker complaining that she should've stayed in Seoul. Uh oh. This is so embarassing. The mic at the office she's in is open. I'd be so embarassed to show my face infront of them after badmouthing them behind their backs. They may be annoying but dont be rude. Hyejin realized what happened quickly and Dusik was the most disappointed person in the room. Dusik defends her that she's just doing is ignorant blabbing, tells Chunjae not to take it seriously. She then decides to open applications for new employee recruitment for her clinci. She then receives a delivery from Dusik. Tells him that he does everything for the village. Dusik tells her that she thinks she knows everything just because she got good grades and has a good paying job. Just because she was able to get through the small bumbs she decides to act bigger than everybody else. Just because she freely judges the village people's lives but when its her life she's offended especially when she's being assessed. Dusik stating facts, life isnt fair for everybody. Dont judge on people's shortcomings just because you passed yours. Someone ran the doorbell and her best friend Miseon surprisingly visits her. It was revealed that her partner ended up cheating on her. Miseon tells her to take down the classified ad and offers herself to work for Hyejin. Her first day at the dentist finally started and nobody has visited. They're bored out of their minds, went out and tried to think of ways to promote the dentist. The village ended up ignoring her whenever she's trying to greet them. She deserves this and Miseon notices that everyone else is ignoring her.  Dusik observes her from afar looking worried and she finally tells Miseon what happened. Her friend immediately tells her to move out to avoid the red expenses and not to end up like her dad. Dusik then sees her jogging at night. Dusik advices her to at least meet with the village's expectations halfway. Be part of them. She needs to get acustomed and Dusik tells her that people make mistakes. She didnt know that the mic was turned on. He tells her not to worry as they all badmouth other people once in a while. He also tells her that since both sides are even she can move forward from this incident and start fresh. She then offers the rice cakes to the neighborhood as a way of apology. Not every delivery ended up smoothly. She ended up meeting the 2 kids from the last time. They asked for a favor to take care of their pet as they couldnt but Hyejin declined politely. She recommended Chief Hong but even Hong declined. She thought why would he ignore a child's request if he's acting high and mighty. The word has spread around even to children, they talk about how she's a cold-hearted person and this hurt Hyejin. She has no choice but to take care of the pet.

Dusik visits Chunjae and sees that he threw away his 2nd album demo casset. Dusik pays Hyejin a visit. Tells her off thinking that handing out rice cakes is enough for the village to forget about what she's done. She has to do more and be more sincere. Dusik offers his help and doesnt want her business to tank. She cant avoid them forever and Dusik invites her to a neighbor meeting. Hyejin tells him that they're all strangers and asks for support but Dusik sends her off and for her to do it alone with courage. Theyre still offended that Hyejin's standards are not met and they're surprised that she even attended. Dusik saves her by bringing snacks which were made by her. Dusik makes an excuse for her that she was edgy on moving and wants to apologize by preparing some food. The meeting is about a cleaning project they have to do and thanked Hyejin for her snacks. After the meeting Hyejin thanked him and is surprised that he ended up caring so much. Dusik gives her the bill with the snacks he bought and tells her to wire him the money. Hwajung shows up to her home and tells her to attend the weekly cleanup, she says that she just moved and as an excuse it was satisfying. But then Dusik ended up bothering her by his constant door knocking and bell ringing. She even faked her sickness but Dusik is not having it. He's acting like a strict father and forces her to join the cleaning.

A first visitor finally visited the clinic and its Euncheol. Then more visitors started coming in. Looks like a new leaf has turned. Euncheol reported back to Dusik about her treatment and the cost saying that its reasonable. Dusik visits Chunjae and tells him that his song has been imported digitally. Chunjae tells him that he shouldnt focus on the past anymore and move forward to the future. Chunjae asks for a favor from Dusik to teach him how to properly make coffee. We then see that the clinic is becoming more busy and it looks like its gearing towards sucess. They ended up with a satisfying and exhausting day. Although they suddenly thought how overnight their dentist clinic became a success and for sure Hyejin believes it's all thanks to Dusik. Hyejin bumps into Chunjae and tells him that the title track isnt her favorite but favors another and apologizes with his story. She asked where Chief Hong is and looks like his mood suddenly cheered up with her truthful compliment. Chunjae went back and listened to the track Hyejin liked. Hyejin gave him the confidence. She then finally has found Dusik sitting at the top of a small hill nearby the water.

Hyejin thanks Dusik for the many patients she received today. The ep ended up with her climbing the small rock hill but ended slipping and Dusik saved her from falling. A flashback of Dusik spending time with his grandfather. They spot a family and the father asked a favor to take a picture of them. Dusik tries to cheer up Hyejin and she ended up smiling for the photo. Is this why Dusik likes spending time with the elderly? Its because of the memories he has with his grandfather? They met before.

Du Sik is really Chief Hong. While everyone was shunning Hyejin and talking behind her back, he was the only one who became a leader and guide for her. He pointed out her mistake and encouraged her to do better, be more sincere to others.

[black-streak]

Waiting for the Worms- Goodbye Cruel World

Part 22

Second to last chapter. The last chapter is almost going to be more like an epilogue, by the way. I fit... A lot into this? It feels like a lot even though it mostly stays all in one room in pretty much one continuous scene. Anyways, it's almost the end, my friends.

CLOSED LIST of wonderful people: @northernbluetongue @thethirdwheelfriend @shizukiryuu @theatreandcomicfreak @michellemagic @karategirl119 @moonlightstar64 @my-name-is-michell @mystery-5-5 @zalladane @queen-of-the-trash-planet-tm @miraculousdisapointment @dorkus-minimus @jardimazul @allthebooksandcrannies @g-arya @worlds-tiniest-spook-pastry @persephonescat @mycupisbroken @luciferge @18-fandoms-unite-08 @dawnwave16 @alwaysreblogneverpost @kris-pines04 @emjrabbitwolf @mysteriouslyswimmingfan-blo-blog @weird-pale-blonde-person @you-will-never-know-how-i-think @kokotaru @naclychilli @slytherinhquinn @clumsy-owl-4178 @ladybug-182 @darkthunder1589 @evil-elf16 @dast218 @lysslovsanime @emilytopaz @naoryllis @iloontjeboontje @thepeacetea @danielslilangel @finallyaniguana @i-like-fairytail-and-stuff @vixen-uchiha @yuulxd @bleeding-heart-romantic @magic-inthe-stars @st0rmy-w1th1n

~---~

"You are no longer permitted to leave the house," Damian huffed, crossing his arms and staring Mari down.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Every time you leave, you come back with even more strangers. You are obviously incapable of going out on your own without collecting strays."

"I don't know, you seem to enjoy all our guests so far," Marinette answered, ruffling the boy's hair before picking him up onto her hip and wondering over to the couch.

Dick dropped into the seat across from them, observing the way she coddled the boy settled onto her chest. Her eyes stayed glued to Damian, tracing fingers through his hair as Jason sat beside her, arm thrown over her shoulders. The rest of the team had dispersed, staying within the city despite the urge to travel, not comfortable leaving the two completely, though respecting their need for privacy in these times.

Tim stood across the room, carefully blank, but everyone in the room could tell he felt unsure which side he belonged on more. Closer to the man who acted as his older brother despite the distance or the two teens who took him in and provided him shelter as though he were their own.

"So. You're the soulmate who toyed with me all those years ago," Dick broke the silence, faulty irritation maring his expression.

"Oh don't act like you were oh so sure of my having one," Jason cut in, smirk inching across his face.

"I told you, you acted off sometimes! I even suggested it wasn't you really in there," he perked up at the easy response.

"Suggested, but never truly caught on enough to say for sure," Mari responded now.

Here, Dick narrowed in on her once more, "You're the one who altered my suit, weren't you?"

"Might have done."

"And adjusted my equipment?"

"Guilty."

"The haircut?!"

"That one was me actually. That mullet was burning my eyes," Jason admitted.

"And… saving Tim?" He asked with heavy, guilt ridden eyes, catching the yet silent teen's attention at the focus lying on him instead of the events surrounding his capture.

"Both," they answered together.

"I can't thank you enough for looking out for him. Preventing his death. I can't say what I would've done had Bruce gotten another Robin killed that way," Dick looked down at his clenched fists, his past fights over his successors with Bruce flashing into all of their minds. There was never meant to be a second Robin. Now one had died and another came close. "I'm sorry, you know. I should've been there for you. For both of you. I probably couldn't have stopped you from helping. From taking the title. But I could've done more, been there for you when you needed it. Been a better brother."

"It wasn't your responsibility to look out for us."

"Excuse me?"

"It would've been nice to be closer, but you had no duty to us. You never adopted us or asked to have your retired position given away. I won't hold it against you for not playing house with some kid who took your place when Bruce kicked you out."

"But I-"

"Act too much like a martyr. Come back apologizing for things you weren't responsible for. Seriously, it's fine. You weren't a thought in my mind when I went after Tim, over there. I just refused to watch someone else follow our fate. You have no place in this mess, beyond having some similar skeletons in your closet."

His fists loosened and his pupils widened, glinting in a watery haze, "No place in this? Jason, you can't think I-" Mari cut him off now.

"That isn't to say we wouldn't want you to stick around and find a place. Just that you shouldn't hold guilt over what happened to us. Your reactions and emotions held no merit in our death. You need to let this go. It wasn't your fault."

A smile lit his face, a perplexed little thing, as though he couldn't quite grasp the concept of not being responsible for the shortcomings of his adoptive father. He opened up his mouth as though to correct them, only for the door to open just then, an older man entering the home.

"Master Jason has become quite wise in his time away, has he not?"

Jason was the first to react, removing himself from the couch and meeting the man halfway to pull Alfred into a much needed hug. As the two embraced, Mari nudged Damian up to stand and led the way over. The two men seperated and turned towards them, Alfred appraising her with warm, knowing eyes.

"Miss Marinette, what a pleasure to see you in your own body."

 Letting out a bark of laughter, she lurched forward into a hug of her own before turning to gesture her boy closer, "Alfred, this is Damian. We came to be family before our escape," she picked her words with care, knowing he would understand her meaning without making it too easy for the other two in the room. Likely, the little bird in the room would figure it out without the added help.

The elderly butler introduced himself to Damian, taking the distrustful look and tense posture in stride as the kid took his hand carefully for a small handshake. He, however, did cut his eyes back to Marinette afterwards, a question in his eyes that she offered a shrug to. She couldn't answer with complete certainty, but knew Alfred saw the possibility of the kid's parentage. It helped that he already knew she had spent years in close proximity to Talia, explaining how this could come to fruition.

Damian took the moment to grab onto Jason's hand and tug slightly, letting his grip on Mari fall away as he was brought back towards the living room where the other two still watched, though Dick had stood up and now made his way over to offer his own greeting.

Marinette took this time to speak with Tim, who stayed quiet and still until now, "Tim?" His shoulders tensed in an aborted jump, "Would you like some time alone with Alfred?"

His eyes bore into her, studying her as though for ulterior motives, unsure what to make of the offer. She couldn't help the small smile that tugged at her lips.

"You saw him nearly everyday for two years. Your main caretaker and likely only human contact as a civilian that was consistent. To go from that to zero contact for weeks on end… surely that must be quite the adjustment. I can keep the rest occupied for now if you'd like."

His gaze stayed weary for only a second before gratitude leaked in, nodding once, "If you wouldn't mind."

"Of course. Go ahead, dear, I'll keep Richard from trying to hover and butt in," she smiled, ushering him forward right as Dick joined Jason back in the living room and Alfred made way to the kitchen, ever knowing exactly where he was needed. The layout may be open, but the position of the furniture and distance gave the two some privacy for the time being.

"Damian, was it?" Dick began as they settled into their seats once more.

"Yes."

"How old are you?"

"Why do you ask?" Dami retorted.

Dick's surprised look told them that Barbara had not felt the need to inform him of where the boy came from, if she even bothered to mention the child at all.

"Just curious is all. I would like to know who got so close with Jason and his soulmate."

"Marinette is more than just his soulmate, she's her own person," he growled, tensing up only for Jason to wrap his arms about him in a comforting gesture.

Dick immediately backtracked, "I didn't mean to imply otherwise. You're absolutely right and I'm sorry for implying anything else."

Damian glared before turning to look up at Jason, "Who is he, again?"

"That's Dick, my… older brother. So kind of like your uncle," Jason laughed at the kid's sour expression.

…

Over half an hour passed before Alfred and Tim made their way back into the living room, the four already present taking the time to catch up and get to know each other. Damian took this moment to suggest putting on a movie, which Marinette whole heartedly seconded. 

"Alright, anyone spending the night, get ready for bed! I'm not dragging you lot around half asleep and whiny," Jason announced, ushering Dami into his room as Tim headed for the bathroom and Marinette found herself grumbling on her way into the bedroom as Jason set up the movie. 

Upon returning, all in pajamas with teeth brushed, Marinette settled into the arm of the couch, Tim sat to her side and Dick remained in the armchair as Damian went into the kitchen for water, The Chronicles of Narnia starting up on the screen. When Jason joined them, he drew Alfred into a hug, the man having already offered his goodnight and well wishes to the group, and showed him out.  Having locked up and settled opposite to Mari, he let Damian pull himself up beside him only to drag the kid into his lap where he huffed in indignation, but snuggled closer.

No one fully bothered with the movie, softly speaking over it.

"Everything alright?" Mari whispered to Tim, the boy scooting closer to hear her better.

"Yeah, we just had a lot to talk about."

"Did it help?"

"... Yeah. He helped me work through some things. To make some decisions," he glanced at her, lips quirking up hesitantly.

"Oh? Anything I should know about?" She felt her own face lilt up with mirth and encouragement in equal parts.

Tim seemed to stop breathing for a second, wholy still and silent, before breaking into a slow, steady breath, "Marinette, would it be alright if I stayed here? Permanently?" 

She looked over his head to meet Jason's gaze, his eyes soft and warm, nodding in agreement. She saw both Dick and Damian lean forward, eyes fixed on them in rapt attention, awaiting her answer. She felt certain Tim knew of this, but kept his eyes firmly on her. Settling further into her seat, she took his hand gently and nodded.

"Of course you can, Tim. This is your home now too. We'll have to make some adjustments, though," she saw his expression turn wary, "No way are you living on the couch."

At that, his face twisted into a relieved gratitude, shoulders slumping and body falling back into the cushions, "Thank you," he murmured.

She felt her eyes soften as she slowly drew him into a hug, leaving room to escape, "Welcome to the family, Birdy."

…

Within an hour of the movie's start, Tim fell asleep, slumped against Marinette, where she wrapped her arms carefully around him, almost completely out herself.

"I'm glad he has you guys. I would've taken him with me when he first showed up, but let's be honest. I'm hardly equipped to take care of myself. At least there, he had Alfred," Dick spoke in hushed tones, taking in how the two almost cuddled together, how the small child, Damian, curled up against Jason's chest in a sleepy daze of his own. How they made a makeshift family unit. He couldn't help the pained twitch to his smile at their easy love for each other, "He's in good hands here. You make a much better older brother than I did."

"Don't give me that bullshit," Jason half sneered, eyes narrowed, "You did your best. Don't think I haven't noticed what you did for him. Went out of your way quite a few times. For all of us, whether you needed to or not. And this better not be goodbye either. I'm fed up with losing people. You're ugly mug better make a regular appearance around us or I'll never forgive you," Jason gave a cruel smirk, knowing Dick will see the sincerity of it despite this. He couldn't help but enjoy the return of their old antagonistic relationship.

An appreciative little smile spread over Dick's face as he stood up, the movie having ended already. He followed as Jason lifted Dami and made way to deposit the boy into his bed for the night. 

"Yeah… I suppose I could visit every now and then."

Stopping in front of the other two on the couch, he stared down at them for a moment, unsure how to move them. Mari took that moment to open her eyes, blinking blearily at them. They carefully maneuvered Tim up into Jason's arms so that she could stand up, only for her to tug them towards the bedroom where she made him place Tim into the bed, following him back out to say goodbye to Dick.

"He sleeps with us tonight? Poor birdy is touch starved," she sleepily asked, receiving a fake sigh of exasperation and agreeance.

They then watched as Damian snuck out of his own room and went into theirs as well.

"They're going to take over our room at this rate," he spoke without an ounce of regret. She only shrugged in acknowledgment.

At the front door, Dick tugged Marinette into an easy hug, wishing her a goodnight and to get some rest. Turning, he froze before dragging Jason into a tight, crushing hug, "I'm so happy you're okay, Jay. I missed you so damn much."

"Yeah. I missed you too," Jason hovered only to hug him back, face ducking into his shoulder. They pulled back and offered each other small, hopeful smiles before offering one last goodbye. And then Dick was gone.

Door locked, the two turned to each other, reaching out for the other's hand simultaneously. Their eyes met and without another word, they headed to bed, where the rest of their little family awaited them.

[sweetwriting]

TimKon Week 2020 Day 4: Happy Birthday to You!

Category: Gen or Pre-slash

Genre: Angst/Fluff, mostly fluff

Fandoms: DC Comics, Teamverse

Continuity: Post-Crisis/Pre-Flashpoint Future AU

Summary:  What kind of birthday party do you give a kid who was abused by her parents when your own birthdays were already outside of the norm?

Word Count: 1840

AN:  Hola everyone. This was inspired by an old WIP of mine. it's kind of a plot bunny of a different fic. Anyway enjoy

Prompt:  Raising A Child - Fluff

Can be read on AO3

October 16th

It was Helena’s first birthday with them. Tim didn’t know what to do. To be fair he wasn’t familiar with children’s birthdays. Most of his had been spent with his parents being brought to shows he liked or that they’d thought he’d like. And then they forgot it one year and the next they were out of commission.

Helena came from an abusive home and he didn’t want to overwhelm her too much as she had been prone to having panic attacks when he didn’t pay attention and did something that was apparently outrageously nice. So he wanted her to have a great birthday but not so outrageous she’d faint.

Conner had made fun of him because he was apparently over worrying over “normal stuff”, but Conner was the last person allowed to talk to him about that. Partly because he hadn’t celebrated a normal birthday of his….ever, but also because the only kid’s birthdays he had gone to were Traya’s and Jon’s.

Still Conner had been there since the beginning so he kind of had a say in what they’d be doing for her birthday.

Speaking of which, they were supposed to meet for lunch for that exact purpose and Conner was late. For the 3rd time this week. It was getting real annoying real fast.

He looked at his phone to see if he had received any new message. And he had. Apparently Conner was late because he was walking with a classmate of his and couldn’t use his powers. So Tim waited.

Ten minutes later, Conner finally appeared around the corner. With a very pretty girl on his arm. Tim couldn’t believe Conner was late because he was flirting...Actually he could…He probably would have been too if he were in his place…If it was just a normal lunch but they were supposed to talk about Helena’s birthday! It was not a normal lunch.

Conner waved goodbye after the pretty girl kissed his cheek and then “sprinted” toward Tim who was crossing his arms in annoyance. As he arrived next to him Conner looked sheepish.

“Look I know what it looked like but she started talking about a school project at first and I couldn’t blow her off and then she said we were walking in the same direction so I had to….and then I used the opportunity, I wasn’t gonna miss that but still!”

Tim raised an eyebrow, just to mess with him but Conner saw right through him, untangled his arms by taking one of his hand and dragging him toward the restaurant Tim had been waiting in front of.

They settled down and started having their lunch when Tim received a new email notification. Which he showed to Conner. Now that could be a nice present.

- - - - - - - -

October 21st

Helena had had a fairly good day so far. Tim and Kon had woke her up with a cup of sweet tea and croissant while wishing her a happy birthday, Kon had even decided to accompany her alongside Tim this morning (even if he was gonna be late to class). Ana and Alois had also wished her a happy birthday and none of their teachers had given them any test.

Now it was time to go home and wait for Tim and Kon to come back home (well…Technically Kon already had his own apartment but he was there so rarely she hadn’t known about it for 7 months, when he talked about being with his girlfriend which had brought a new surprise as she had also thought he was in love with Tim. Even if they had told her immediately they weren’t).

Whatever. She hoped her da they wouldn’t be too long to get home as she usually was one her own for about three hours on her own before Kon would be there. And it had been so nice up until now.

But when she got out of the school, both Tim and Kon were waiting for her? Along with Bart, Cassie, Rose and Kiran.

She ran toward them and hugged Tim and Kon at the same time…kind of, she was way too small to manage but she tried and she considered that it was what mattered. She then went to hug the other four. Apparently they were gonna celebrate her birthday together. The only things missing were her Tim and Kon’s families. And a few others. Granted too many of them might be a bit too much for her. Family dinners at Wayne Manor were already too much even if there was never the full family roster at once.

When they arrived home however Anita and Cissie were waiting for them along with Donald and Oshi who lived with Anita and Cissie’s parents. Helena liked them, well…mostly Oshi. Most of the time Donald was not fun. They were a bit older than her but always nice.

They all ate very small pieces of cake (but her par Tim and Kon prevented her from eating more than two small pieces) and celebrated (with presents and everything). However at 4:30PM they had to leave though Bart promised he’d come back later. Only to be replaced by Jon, Ma, Lois and Clark. Who celebrated with a different, but still small, cake. At 6PM, they left too, only to be replaced by Dick, Alfred, Barbara, Bruce and Cass. With another cake. Now she understood why Tim and Kon had refused to let her eat more than two pieces every time.

So far this was the best birthday ever!

Her fath Tim and Kon had basically allowed her to celebrate her birthday with her favorite people without getting overwhelmed. She was getting tired though and nodding off on Dick’s lap. That was their cue to start leaving. Though Cass was staying with them for the night as would Bart.

Once they were all gone Tim and Kon had asked Cass if they could leave them alone. Once they did, they all sat down on the carpet. They both looked pretty serious. Oh no. She should have known it was too good to be true. But she had started getting used to this life. Was this whole birthday thing just there to butter her up? They were never this serious with her unless they were talking about her parents and her stay here with her foster dad, Tim.

Oh nononononononono. Did her parents get the right to get her back? No. Last she’d seen them they were trash talking the Court assigned parenting classes they were supposed to take. They shouldn’t be able to take her back.

Suddenly she felt a familiar weight on her shoulders and she heard Tim say “it’s okay, it’s not bad news, it’s simply important”.

The next few minutes were spent with Kon tracing circles against her back and Tim guiding her breathing until she calmed down.

Once that was done she was slowly being glided on Kon’s lap, probably by the hands on her shoulders, even if she felt like she was in a warm cocoon, she loved his TTK so much. Kon kept tracing small circles on her back while Tim was patting her head slowly.

That was actually rather nice. The only good part about her panicking way too easily.  

But then Tim pulled away and got papers out of his bag. That was the cue to return to the conversation that hadn’t even started yet.

Tim took a big gulp of air. He seemed nervous. Which was making her nervous, but then Kon was hugging her and she felt better. She felt him nod against her.

“Ok so, it’s been a bit more than a year since you were found in the street and we hadn’t been able to celebrate your birthday back then aside from getting you actual clothes and furniture and a cake, so I wasn’t sure how to do this but I think up until now we managed pretty well. Now since your parents never made an effort to go to the court mandated parenting classes during that time, It’s actually possible for you to be adopted as of last week.”

She could feel her heart start shrinking. They were going to make her go away.

“Which is why I sent a form as soon as I was allowed to do so. Now of course it’ll depend on whether or not you also want to become officially my kid. I merely sent the form so that I could have the papers ready when we talked about it so here goes.

Helena, would you like to officially become my child and live with me until you decide you’re too good for me and move out to live your life even if you’ll always have a room here ? We had already kind of talked about it but it always seemed too soon for that. It’s nothing to feel pressurized about. I won’t be mad if you don’t want to and we just won’t sign the papers. It won’t change the fact that I love you and you’ll always have a home here if you want to”

Helena froze. She had been staying here for a year. Tim and Kon had taken care of her so much. But what if it was like with her previous adopted parents? They had loved her very much before her dad decided to close his shop. On the other hand Tim and Kon had Cass and Bart and Dick and everyone else also looking after her. She knew she could talk to them and be listened to. At least Bart and Cass would listen to her (Dick tended to be a bit blind about Tim’s shortcomings which was pretty cute most of the time but could be irritating at others). She could feel her eyes start to well up when she heard a voice from behind her.

“Maybe it was too much. We should probably wait before telling her the other news”.

She turned to Kon and asked him in the most polite way she could muster what he meant.

“What? What is it? Kon? You can’t just say that and not tell me! That’s no fair!”

He looked above her head at Tim and he probably received a positive answer because he smiled and explained.

“Tim and I signed a Co-Parenting agreement. Of course it’s only if you accept his adoption and want me to be involved too but…yeah, I’d like to be your official parent too”.

She was crying now.

They wanted her too.

They really did.

It wasn’t just wishful thinking. It wasn’t them just being nice to her because she was sad. It’s not like they had never told her they loved her but it was always so hard to believe, even if they showed it every day.

“As if I’d say no to that !”

And she launched herself at Tim with Kon right behind him who scooped them in a hug.

This was the best birthday ever.

AN:    - Alright so here Donald and Oshi are Anita's parents who returned to an infant state in YJ. As such they’re like a couple years older than Helena.

- Helena is, in fact, Helena Kyle (her favorite color is obviously Red, that's why she imprinted on Tim). Basically her parents were nice at first but life became hard and they ended up moving to try their chance in Cali and it didn't work out so they took it on her. Red Robin now Flamebird found her right after she ran away and took her to the emergencies where she met Conner who was waiting for them (Tim had called on the way) so Tim could disappear and change. So until she learned their secret IDs, she thought the first one she had met was Conner even if only by a few minutes. Also she calls him Kon 'cause she doesn't like Conner as a name. She writes it "Con" to people who don't know about the secret (because that's how she wrote it when she thought it was just a nickname). She just turned 8 - Jon was born a year after Canon ended for the Pre Flashpoint universe so he's a year and a half - two years younger than Helena. - Bart, Conner and Cass have their own room because of how often they come. - Tim and Kon live in California. They moved there a couple of months before finding Helena. Kon needs sun ok. Tim's working fo the police station as a civilian working his way up so he can have his two years of work in law enforcement so he can open his detective agency with KOn. Kon's a double major of Law and Psychology (with a minor in international Law)

[fic-al]

PEOPLE CALL ME TRIXIE

CHAPTER THREE

TRIALS AND TRIBU- BLEEDIN‘- LATIONS

Trixie Franklin had been at Nonnatus House getting on for six months, but to the young midwife it seemed like years. Trixie had not trained at a London based hospital, but much nearer home, she was a stranger in town.

After the death of her father, the bright lights of London had lured the newly qualified midwife to the nation's capital. For the first time, Trixie felt she could finally start living her life for herself.

Her parents had encouraged her to take up nursing. The truth was, she had been a caregiver all her young life. Her father had suffered terribly from what they referred to in the Great War as shell shock. She knew it would be unfair to train to be a nurse, too far from home. Her mother still needed her daughter's support dealing with the horrors that tormented Trixie's father.

Following the loss of her husband, Mrs Franklin realized how much her only daughter had sacrificed for the family and much to Trixie's surprise encouraged her to spread her wings.

London had been one big fat disappointment. She loved the work; she was growing fonder of her mentor and the other nuns. Trixie had built up a good relationship with Sister Bernadette, but she could hardly ask her if she fancied accompanying her to a dance at the weekend.

The senior midwife Sister Evangelina could be sharp, but so could Trixie. The nun was never cruel or malicious, just particular. Unfortunately, the subtle bullying and resentment from the older nurses was starting to make Trixie doubt her decision to move to the city. She marvelled at how Sister Bernadette kept cool, calm, and professional in all situations. Trixie thought she surely must know that she didn't always have the respect and support she was due from Trixie's fellow nurses. If she did, she never let on.

One particular Tuesday clinic had been - as Sister Evangelina always liked to put it - an afternoon of trials and tribu-bleedin'-lations. Sister Bernadette had been seconded to the London and without her understated but firm direction, the clinic had failed to function with its regular military precision. Patients were getting restless, having to wait longer than they were used to. Notes went missing and instruments had been mislaid.

One of the doctors was berating Sister Evangelina, which Trixie thought was incredibly brave. The younger midwife made herself busy. Sister Evangelina had already had a go at her earlier - for what? She wasn't quite sure. This had come not long after, one of the nurses had loudly apportioned blame for her own shortcomings on Nurse Franklin.

Trixie couldn't help but overhear from the kitchen that Sister Evangelina and the usually placid Dr Turner were now at loggerheads. Apparently over the ridiculous decision, according to the doctor, of not choosing to send one of the useless ones to the London. Instead of the only nurse that actually seems to know what she's doing!

Trixie smarted, this day couldn't end soon enough.

A furious Sister Evangelina stormed out of the kitchen and pushed a set of notes into Nurse Franklin's hands.

"Would you please go and assist Dr Turner, Nurse! If I have to deal with him much longer, we won't just be a nurse short!"

Trixie took the notes from her superior and followed Dr Turner behind one of the screens. She wasn't phased by the order. Dr Turner and that particular Sister, did tend to rub each other up the wrong way at times and if it was going to happen, it was definitely going to happen today. She had noticed Dr Turner always appeared most at ease when he worked with Sister Bernadette, but then so did most people. The young nun always seemed to provide the calm eye to Poplar's frequent storms. The doctor had always been pleasant and appreciative of Trixie's work, so she marched behind the screen with confidence.

She handed Dr Turner the notes she had been given. The doctor turned on the young midwife immediately. Trixie didn't fully comprehend what was being said, but she knew he was angry and venting his anger on her. For not the first time today, she was taking responsibility for someone else's mistake. She had inadvertently handed the doctor the wrong set of patient notes. Trixie tried to muster an apology, but finally things had gone just too far for the young midwife. She turned on her heels and fled the clinic.

Trixie found herself in the alleyway that ran between All Saints' church and its parish hall. Her lithe frame shaking and tears threatening to fall. The doctor hadn't actually been that aggressive. Sister Evangelina had said much worse to her earlier. She wondered if it was the tone coming from a male voice that had upset her. It had been a while since she had heard an angry raised voice aimed at her, emanating from a man. Trixie clung to the wall of the parish hall, she now realized she was shaking with anger, directed at herself for her unguarded emotional response.

What would he think? What would they think? What would Sister Bernadette think when she found out? Sister Bernadette would never show such a lack of control in response to Dr Turner or anyone for that matter. Her thoughts were interrupted;

"Are you alright Nurse?" The voice was soft, controlled now. "It's been a difficult day, Nurse... erm, I didn't mean to raise my voice, Nurse.. er.. yes, Nurse."

"Franklin, it's Nurse Franklin. I have been here 6 months, Dr Turner!" Trixie could have bitten off her tongue, but she was afraid it was so sharp she might cut herself. Trixie's embarrassment at being discovered, propelled her into the well used strategy of attack.

When a reply didn't come, she figured he was waiting for an apology. She turned to face him. She realized he wasn't saying anything because he was trying not to laugh. Trixie was about to explode again when he suddenly asked her if she wanted a cigarette. Trixie would have sold her grandmother for a cigarette at that moment. Her cigarette case was in her handbag inside the clinic. She nodded.

Trixie had been a social smoker before coming to the East End. The perfected poise of lighting and holding a du Maurier taken from its signature red tin was more of a fashion accessory than a habit. That had all changed in the last six months. She was smoking nearly a pack a day now, still nowhere near as much as Dr Turner, she hastened a guess.

She took the ugly old fashioned Henley from the cigarette case he offered her and accepted the light. There was something about this small act of kindness that finally seeped through Trixie's last shred of defiance and the dam finally broke. She hadn't been able to tell anyone how she was feeling. Not her mother, who was so proud of her. Not her mentor, who she looked up to and didn't want to disappoint.

She poured her heart out to the man who five minutes ago was the cause of her distress. Dr Turner stood beside her quietly, puffing away. When she was done he refused the return of his now mascara stained hanky.

"You know what you need?" He said gesticulating his left index finger towards her. She shook her head. " You need! A bloody good night out!"

Trixie didn't quite know how to respond to this. Surely he was married. She had never met the wife, but she was more than certain there was a Mrs Turner. Yes, he was wearing a wedding ring. There was a son, wasn't there? Tommy or something?

Trixie looked at the doctor again. She supposed he wasn't bad looking for his age, but he must be well into his 40s. What was he thinking? Honestly, the arrogance of some doctors. Trixie suddenly realized she was up a back alley with a man she believed had just propositioned her. Then why wasn't she trying to get away? Why was she not more ill at ease?

"Heavens to Murgatroyd! What on earth are you pair doing taking a cigarette break now? Of all the times!" Sister Evangelina was now boiling with rage.

"Nurse Franklin," the accent on her surname was not lost on Trixie, "Was taken unwell and I simply came out to see if she needed assistance."

Sister Evangelina had her head in her hands. "And does she?"

"Are you fit enough to continue Nurse Franklin, or do you need to return to Nonnatus?"

Trixie smiled. "I think I am recovered. Thank you for your kind attention, Dr Turner."

The Sister raised her eyebrow in disbelief. "Well, isn't that just marvellous news Nurse Franklin! Now can we all just get back to work?" She growled.

They stubbed out their cigarettes and Doctor Turner gave Trixie a sly wink before following a glowering nun back into the clinic.

Trixie looked at the makeup ruined hanky and wondered what the initial P embroidered in one corner might stand for.

[zerochanges]

Valentine’s Chocolates and Glass Masks

The romance genre in anime is a little weird, and honestly on the whole the majority of the genre in anime is probably a bit too slow for its own good. “Will they or won’t they” is something most romantic fiction is guilty of, but I think you’d be hard press to come across 150 episode TV series dedicated solely to that premise anywhere else. And this has nothing on the pure silliness that can come with the genre; hand holding, indirect kisses, masked secret admirers, all that good stuff. Really, I’m not here to trash talk romantic anime though, but as I sat down and tried to think about writing a Valentine's Day blog post I just couldn't help but think to myself how romance anime might be the hardest to explain to anyone not in the fandom. I mean, I think I’d have an easier time explaining the plot of any given saga in DBZ than I would explaining “Notice me, senpai” to somebody.

You know what though, I kind of ironically enjoy all of this. Yeah, pure romance anime can be cheesy, but it’s just the right amount cheese that it’s like, c’mon, how can you not enjoy this? Perhaps the worst (or best!) offender of this are older shoujo titles where they can seem almost downright like a soap opera at times. Shows like these are just so full of bizarre, off-the-walls, and over-the-top melodrama that they manage to suck me completely in. They’re heartbreaking, they’re engaging, and the times when they fail at being those things they are hilarious. 

My most recent experience with an older shoujo title like this would have to be studio Eiken’s 1984 adaptation of Glass Mask. Now Glass Mask (or Glass no Kamen as it is known by some) is a manga that started life in 1976 and to this day has yet to be finished, with the manga creator Suzue Miuchi stating she would like to finish it soon, but hasn't quite figured out when that will be (move over Hunter x Hunter fans). Having been one of the earlier shoujo titles starting back in the mid-70’s the series is full to the brim with pretty much every cliche and trope you can think of for shoujo anime, and to a modern audience it can often be almost hilarious at times to sit through. It is important to remember that for its time Glass Mask was a trend-setter and arguably if not the creator than certainly the reason why a lot of these cliches became cliches in the first place. Over the years Glass Mask has received its fair share of adaptations and even parodies, and currently has 3 different animes as well as a live action drama series and real life stage plays based on it. I heard the most recent anime, the 2005 TMS adaptation of Glass Mask, does a pretty great job at modernizing several aspects of the series, but unfortunately I have yet to watch that to weigh in so all I can say is that I was inundated with more cliches than I could count and laughed a ton while watching the 1984 series and I loved every minute of it. 

Glass Mask is the story of a young 13 year old girl Maya Kitajima, who has a dream to be a great theatre actress. Unfortunately for Maya she’s from a very poor family, and even more unfortunately for her, she is incredibly average looking with no flair--and don’t worry, the anime will remind you of that fact countless times every episode. Despite her damnable curse of “just looking kind of average” Maya will stop at nothing to pursue her dream and eventually runs away from home after getting a scholarship for an acting school. There, the enigmatic Chigusa Tsukikage notices Maya’s talents and takes her on as her protege. Soon, Maya learns that her mentor Tsukikage was once a legendary actress thought to be truly one of the all time greats who due to a tragic Phantom of the Opera style accident had her face hideously scarred and retreated out of the spotlight. 

Tsukikage is looking to pass on her talents to the future generation and eventually pass on her greatest possession, the rights to the elusive Crimson Goddess play--a supposed legendary masterpiece that has not been seen by anyone in decades; not since Tsukikage’s career ruining accident. For some reason the director and creator of the the Crimson Goddess play saw it fit to beseech all the rights to his masterpiece to Tsukikage and thus nobody else has been able to produce this elusive phantom play since. It won’t be easy for Maya and the Tsukikage acting school, as media conglomerate and mega corporation Daito Entertainment will stop at nothing to get the rights to the Crimson Goddess, and isn't afraid to sabotage them at every step of the way. Perhaps Maya’s greatest rival however is the young Ayumi Himekawa, the daughter of an already famous actress who is said to be the favorite to inherit the Crimson Goddess role, and is everything Maya isn't; beautiful, rich, famous and well loved by all, and while not a student of Tsukikage she is more than willing to pass on the rights to Himekawa if Maya fails to prove herself.

It’s easy to already see the cheesiness just from me trying my best to summarize the basic plot, and we haven’t even gotten into the romances yet. Maya’s relationship with the young Yu Sakurakoji is fairly simple at first, as he helped rescue her from a feral dog and despite being in rival acting schools--one affiliated under Daito no less, he’s a pretty chill guy that enjoys spending time with her and doesn't care about all that stuff. It’s only after Maya starts to take off in her career that Sakurakoji starts to spiral into this insane inferiority complex centered around her, where he thinks she has become too good an actress for him to be around anymore and starts to give her the cold shoulder all because of his own make-believe shortcomings. It’s very odd and sudden, and the entire thing is blown out of proportions as Maya clearly does not think that and Sakurakoji eventually has to be lectured by bad boy Masumi of all people to come around and start spending time with Maya again. Even after this however it isn't like the old days anymore and the gap that was created from his own complex still lingers.

And oh boy, don’t get me started on Masumi, he’s quite the character. Masumi Hayami is the 24 year old son of the president of Daito Entertainment and is currently running the corporation in his father’s stead. Masumi serves as both an antagonist and love interest (because of course he can be both) in the early parts of the story and is often behind some (but not all) the sabotage done to Tsukikage’s acting school. Masumi will eventually take a more reasonable approach when it comes to trying to yank the rights of the Crimson Goddess away from Tsukikage’s hands as the anime progresses, often just by having his acting school beating Tsukikage’s students in contest and the like, and it’s here where we usually see Masumi’s employees that work under him being the more underhanded characters instead of Masumi directly engaging in the conflict.

Despite being on different sides, so to speak, Masumi catches one of Maya’s earliest performances, her role as Beth in Little Women, and falls in love with the young girl, impressed by both her potential as an actress and her fortitude for going on with the show despite suffering from a dangerously high fever and immediately being rushed to the doctors after the curtains fall. From this point on her takes the role of “Mr Purple Rose” named for the bouquet of purple roses he sends to her at every show. As her secret admirer and the first fan Maya has ever had he means a lot to her yet as his true identity of Masumi he’s an enemy that Maya cannot stand to breathe the same air as. So in short, Masumi is just your average 24 year old CEO of a mega corporation crushing on a 13 year old girl from a small acting school he is trying to ruin and also her secret admirer. Somehow Masumi is one of the best characters in the series, and is my best boy. Only in shoujo!

So far I've been having some cheap laughs at the expense of the 1984 Glass Mask anime but it’s not all like this. The over-the-top bombardment of old school shoujo cliches and the laughs I got from them may be one of the most memorable component of my viewing but there’s actually a lot more to this anime than that. When you get beyond the silly age gap romances and the flowery melodrama of young teenage love, Glass Mask is a story of artists trying to pursue their passions and dedicating their everything to them. Maya may be cursed to forever be “only average looking” but I really respect her drive to dedicate her entire life to theatre. 

Well, that is to say, the times when she isn't acting like punching bag to the rest of the cast (Glass Mask has a tendency to make Maya into a Cinderella surrounded by tons of wicked stepsisters). When Maya is written not as a Cinderella she’s fiercely determined, and never backs down despite some straight-up abusive behavior she is put through. At times her mentor Tsukikage is absolutely savage, regularly beating Maya and putting her through some training that is definitely highly illegal, at least for today’s standards. For instance she once threw Maya in a shed and locked the door refusing to let her out until she finally understood her character she was assigned. Did I mention it was in the middle of the freezing cold winter and snowing out and Maya only had the clothes on her back for warmth? She was out there for days with no food, water, or even warmth. But don’t worry, she had her script to read and that made it all okay. Like goddamn, somebody call child protective services on this lady.

Speaking about “the art” and everyone’s passions, the more you watch the series the more it becomes obvious that the creator, Suzue Miuchi, really cares for theatre and isn't just using it as a vehicle to propel her own story. There are countless renditions of classic plays shown in Glass Mask, such as the mentioned already Little Women, The Miracle Worker, and Wuthering Heights, just to name a few. Some of these plays are presented without any changes while others may have reinterpretations made to them by the characters who are trying to give their roles a life of their own away from the original source material. Miuchi very much understands theatre and does a great job converting many famous plays into a more compressed and easily digestible form of entertainment that can be viewed on a week by week bases. The analysis characters give about the plays and other characters’ performances, the ways characters interpret their parts, and how the plays that we are privy to see in the series end up all show a deeper understanding of the medium. Watching Glass Mask is almost like taking a beginning course in theatre that covers all the classics, only with way more melodrama and over-the-top romance than you will find in your local theatre group. I hope.

What’s the most impressive however goes beyond just Miuchi’s renditions of other classic works and instead are her own plays that she creates herself. As not only does Glass Mask use pre-existing plays it also has its own original productions that will spring up in-between the real world plays. A lot of these self created plays are very enjoyable too, and some feel way more fleshed out than they have any right to be and you often find yourself regretting that you are only privy to a small part of the performance and not able to just sit there and watch the entire play like the characters in the anime do. Maybe that’s why it shouldn't be too much of a surprise that some of the plays Miuchi has created for her manga have later been adapted into real life plays in Japanese theatres. This is probably the greatest testament to the series’ popularity right there, where its own fictional works are turned real. I can’t think of many examples of something like that happening before.

I’d be remiss not to mention the visual aspect of this series before wrapping up my thoughts on it too. While certainly no powerhouse in animation, Glass Mask 1984 goes for a more picturesque route, and does a great job with tons of beautiful still shots and intricately detailed background images. It’s a humble production but with the right use of lighting a lot of scenes can really shine (pardon the terrible pun it was an accident), especially the night shots which can be pure art. Hang it in a museum, I say. I’m almost surprised we don’t see more “aesthetic” anime blogs mining images from this series. Veteran director Gisaburo Sugii (Dororo, Touch, Osamu Tezuka’s Phoenix) leads the production with skilled marksmanship you would expect from his previous (and future) pedigree, and along with legendary animator the late Shingo Araki (Ashita no Joe, Galaxy Express 999, Saint Seiya) the series has a wonderful 80’s flair to it that just fills any retro anime fan full of nostalgia whether or not they have seen the show before.

Studio Eiken’s 1984 Glass Mask adaptation is a short, briskly paced 22 episode series that is easy on the eyes and not hard at all to still sit through for modern audiences. It’s full of tons of laughs (both ironic and sincere) as well as tons of melodrama and over-the-top romance. Most importantly though, it’s a full of passion; lots and lots of passion. During its short episode count the series watches Maya progress as an actress and grow older, with her finishing middle school and beginning high school while also balancing full time acting jobs on the side. The ending is left open--and let’s face it the manga hasn't even ended some 35 years later still--but there’s enough forward momentum in the series to really feel like your time with the characters wasn't wasted and that they were able to accomplish something--not to mention the ending spot is a pretty decent one leaving the viewer wanting more but enjoying a satisfying conclusion to one of the more interesting story arcs adapted. Overall I think anyone who enjoys cheesy anime romance can sit down with this series and have a fun Valentine’s.

[cookinguptales]

SO. Some thoughts on the shorts presentations.

(Note: I only go to the live-action and animated ones; the documentary shorts are harder to see in my city and frankly, they’re often too intense for my current mental health.)

I went to see the shorts yesterday and like I said earlier, I thought the live-action shorts were generally very good and the animated shorts were generally a waste of time and In A Heartbeat was fucking robbed. The live-action shorts were mostly based on true stories, oddly enough, but they were still beautiful.

(This is two years of underwhelming animated nominees and I’m like ughhhh bc some years everything is amazing but recently I’ve not been agreeing with their picks at all.)

I’m about to discuss like 13 shorts, so it’s all under a cut.

Live-Action Shorts

DeKalb Elementary

I have to be honest with you, considering our current political climate, I started crying from the moment this short started until it ended. Like I saw the title come up on the screen and I was like OH NO. The short is based on the real-life school shooting at Ronald E. McNair Discovery Learning Academy, and I teared up just typing that sentence. However, this school had one of the few “happy” endings of a shooting; a receptionist at the school started talking to the shooter and calmed him down until he could admit that he really needed medical help and didn’t want to hurt anyone. She probably saved a lot of lives, and this dramatic interpretation of her 911 call is really deeply touching. The acting was really incredible, and the connection between the two of them was palpable without lessening the terrifying suspense of the moment. A really beautiful and deeply affecting short.

(Though, all that said, I wonder at the decision to create a mostly apolitical short about school shootings in today’s climate…)

(cw: guns, threatened violence, mental health issues)

A Silent Child

Surprise, I cried through this one, too! A Silent Child is a short about a young deaf girl in the UK whose parents refuse to learn sign language or teach it to her. This is a depressingly common experience in real life, and watching this girl’s nanny teach this girl sign language and seeing her really come alive now that she could truly communicate, neither the mother’s jealousy and self-consciousness nor her eventual decision to fire the nanny and forbid her child from ever using sign language again surprised me.

To keep a somewhat objective approach, I do think the end of the short was a bit maudlin; it seemed kind of odd that the girl, in that situation, would choose to sign “I love you” — this seemed more heartstring-yanking than something that felt realistic. That said, the rest of the short was really heartbreakingly realistic. It’s a personal subject for me; deafness runs in my family and my little sister is profoundly deaf. My parents started learning sign language the day she was born and made sure I did, too. I grew up in a truly bilingual household and didn’t understand until I was much older that many hearing parents don’t do this for their children. At first I was sitting in the theater like “well, my parents knew it might be a possibility; they were prepared before she was born” but then it is revealed that the mother in this short knew of a family history as well; her utter self-involvement and ego become more and more clear throughout the course of the story.

The short presents a very complicated familial relationship that felt very foreign and very familiar to me at the same time, and I’ll admit I cried a lot. Despite some shortcomings in the character writing, it really is a very important topic to talk about. I think I would have preferred that the emphasis be a little less on the nanny’s feelings and a little more on the girl, but it was overall a very good short — and notable for using an actual deaf actress and real BSL.

(cw: Ableism, child abuse)

My Nephew Emmett

This is a dramatic retelling of the experiences of Mose Wright as he tried to save his 14-year-old nephew, Emmett Till. If that name is familiar to you (and if it’s not, google this important case — but guard yourself for some deeply upsetting events and imagery) then you can probably figure out about how this short went. The story is a familiar, if horrifying one, but this film is interesting in that it doesn’t show much of the part we’re all familiar with. There isn’t that much graphic violence (IIRC, punching a boy in the stomach, manhandling him, and threatening folks with guns is the extent of it), and the very famous pictures of Emmett Till post-attack are not shown. (Though they are evoked in animation during the credits.)

Instead, this film really focuses on the emotional build-up of the event, and very palpably expresses the horrors and tensions of living during this time period in this place while black. There is some absolutely gorgeous imagery in this short, and some of the images of Mose sitting up all night with a gun, waiting for his nephew to come home, will stay with me forever. The acting and cinematography are top-notch, and there is a sort of dignity to these people that is not always afforded in shorts that can easily become misery porn for fascinated gawkers. Really just beautifully, meaningfully done. Media based on true stories like this can sometimes be wooden or insensitive. This was neither. A familiar story, but a breathtaking short.

(Cw: extreme racism, including racial slurs, violence, child death)

The 11 o’clock

In a year full of strong contenders, this Australian short was a glaring weak point. It’s a film about a psychiatrist who gets a patient who believes he’s a psychiatrist, and the rest of the fairly predictable short is pretty much just who’s on first shenanigans that get annoying very quickly. Also, after the powerful DeKalb Elementary, it felt uncomfortable poking fun at people with mental illness and using personal delusions for comedy.

But hey, at least it was short.

Watu Wote (All of Us)

Though it was a great year, this was probably my favorite of the shorts. As the film introduced itself as being about racial tensions between Christians and Muslims in Kenya, I was kind of bracing myself for some of the frankly racist/xenophobic content I’ve seen in some past years. However, this short was actually about an event in 2015 during which the militant group Al-Shabaab stopped a bus with an eye towards killing the Christians onboard, but were thwarted by the Muslim passengers who protected their Christian co-riders with, quite literally, their lives.

The short follows a Christian woman who is traveling home to visit with her sick mother, and the trip clearly terrifies her. It is later revealed that her husband and child had been killed by anti-Christian radicals years before and she still views Muslims with a large amount of wary mistrust. She clashes with other passengers on the bus, but she is shocked when the bus is pulled over and the Muslim passengers immediately move to protect and hide her. There are some truly tense scenes during which she is hiding from the militants and Muslim passengers are arguing with them about how un-Muslim their actions truly are. The short is not without bloodshed.

The short could have veered into being preachy at any time, but was instead a very raw depiction of these religious and ethnic tensions in this part of the world. While you could not fault the protagonist for being wary after her experiences, a lot of catharsis is felt when she realizes that there is a large difference between the men who killed her family and the terrified yet heroic passengers on her bus. It’s a true story and one respectfully told. I’d heard about the event when it happened, but didn’t know all the details; it was nice to have these heroes (particularly the fallen ones) commemorated in a moving short like this. The acting and directing was incredible, and again, I cried. A lot. I cried through basically this entire shorts presentation with a short break during the psychiatrist one, during which I ???ed a lot.

In a time where there is so much anti-Muslim sentiment in the world, I think this film made a very powerful statement, and I was glad to see it. I cannot believe this was a student film.

(Cw: ethnic/religious discrimination, blood, violence, death, child endangerment, mentions of dead children)

Honestly, this was a very strong year for the live-action shorts, and I would happy if any of the non-Australian shorts won.

Who I think will win: My Nephew Emmett or Watu Wote

Who should win: Very, very narrowly, Watu Wote

Animated Shorts

Negative Space

This is a French stop-motion film, and probably my favorite of the animated shorts this year — not that that’s saying much. It was kind of slight, frankly speaking, but the animation was really inventive and it was a joy to watch, at least, even if it was mostly just a guy relating a brief anecdote about his deceased father. Besides praising the really visually interesting animation, I’ll admit there’s not much to say about this one.

(Cw: death, you see an open-coffin funeral)

Garden Party

Beautiful animation, for the most part, but like. The entire plot is that a bunch of frogs take over this rich guy’s house after he’s murdered, which is…again, not that much of a plot. I guess the main point of it was “nature doesn’t care about riches or human life” and “corpses are funny”, which I’d tend to agree with and disagree with, respectively. While I appreciated the rising tension as you notice all the creepy details of this broken-into house in the background of cute frogs cavorting, the “punchline” of this short, which was a detailed close-up of the prior resident’s mutilated, bloated corpse that’d been sitting in the pool is just like. Pointlessly disgusting, and after watching a short about Emmett Till, it felt almost unconscionably callous. Honestly I was like. Mildly interested for most of it, and completely repelled by the end. People talk about this short’s “dark sense of humor” and I’m mostly just reminded of all those edgy assholes I met in college and was happy to never meet again.

(Cw: violence, very, very grotesquely graphic depictions of a corpse)

Lou

This one is Pixar’s inevitable nomination, and it’s very… Pixar. Idk, this one was kind of fun to watch, had a typical slightly-maudlin moment of sentimentality at the end, but it really wasn’t Pixar’s finest. It’s a pretty slight film about a bully befriending a sentient lost and found and learning to Be A Good Dude along with some stuff about the cycle of bullying that was dealt with too briefly to really be hard-hitting. What was odd to me while watching it is that I found myself thinking “wow, this animation does not seem up to Pixar’s usual standard”, which really surprised me. Like, it’s by no means bad! It just reminds me of the work that Pixar was doing several years ago, y’know? All in all, kind of cute but ultimately forgettable.

Revolting Rhymes, Part 1

(Longer review because this one was a half hour long as opposed to the rest, which were all 5-7 minutes.)

Ugh, okay. So the Academy, in their infinite wisdom, keeps nominating children’s specials for this award. They’re typically long-winded, rhyming adaptations of children’s picture books with subpar animation, and while Revolting Rhymes was better than The Gruffalo or Room on the Broom, I still felt my eyes glazing over. Plus, frankly, I take issue with this “short” even being eligible. It’s not a short. Shorts (in the Oscars) are 40 minutes or less. Revolting Rhymes is a two-episode miniseries that makes up one hour-long children’s program. In other words, if you see this at the short’s presentation, you will only see the first half of the story. (I googled the second half when I got home so I could properly review it.) They just split it into two; that doesn’t make it two discrete shorts. But I digress.

So this is your typical fairy tale retelling, and while I liked some aspects of it, others were trite and overdone. It was fun seeing Red Riding Hood go full vigilante, I suppose. It was actually frustrating as hell, especially because of In A Heartbeat’s snub; Revolting Rhymes really seemed like it was about to go to the f/f place with Red and Snow White. I was starting to get interested. These women were fighting for each other, giving each other flowers, embracing, leaning against each other, they eventually move in together… Like it was pretty fucking gay. AND THEN THEY NO HOMO’D IT AT THE END. I even looked up the second half to be completely sure. So that was really going to turn me against this film anyway because there’s nothing more tiring of getting one of those “in the future, they are gal pals and Red grew up and had kids!!” epilogues, especially when an actual queer love story was utterly ignored in favor of subpar shorts.

That aside, though, it’s just overly long, predictable, and kind of dull after a while. Frankly speaking, it’s for children and it doesn’t really have great crossover appeal for adults.

(Cw: pretty intense non-graphic violence, some sexist overtones, no homo-ing)

Dear Basketball

This short is just incomprehensible to me. It’s a short poem by Kobe Bryant that’s animated by the legendary Glen Keane with music by John Williams. Which should tell you how bewilderingly weird this whole scenario is. The whole time I was like “Is this a vanity project? How did he get such talent to sign on for such a self-indulgent little film? Did he just start throwing money around? Are both of these men closet Kobe fans?” Like I really don’t understand what even happened for this film to get made. It was inexplicable.

I guess it’s exactly what you’d expect. Kobe Bryant has written a saccharine poem about how much he has always loved basketball, and how he is now sad he has to give it up. It’s beautifully animated with a sweeping score. I am deeply confused, and cannot understand why this was even nominated in the wake of the #MeToo movement, considering the allegations against Bryant.

*shrugs???*

(And the highly commended shorts. IN A HEARTBEAT DIDN’T EVEN FUCKING MAKE HIGHLY COMMENDED, FUCK THE OSCARS COMMITTEE TBH.)

Lost Property Office

Another short about a lost and found…? I mean, okay, why the fuck not, this year is clearly a debacle anyway. This one was basically about a guy who works for the MTA lost and found, and he’s being let go because no one ever claims anything. The film, to be fair, does have a really interesting visual aesthetic… But the direction it goes in, again, is just kind of like. Okay. Not exactly emotionally gripping.

(Cw: no one actually commits suicide in this, but the short very clearly utilizes imagery that conjures up suicide)

Achoo

Trite little film about a dragon I’m supposed to think is cute but I really thought was kind of gross and annoying. It’s this thing about how this annoying dragon wants to make a fireworks display better than the mean bully dragons and he sneezes goop everywhere and uses chemicals (which feels like cheating..?) and accidentally invents fireworks. It’s always, uh, awkward when there’s a piece of animation that does some cutesy depiction of another culture’s faux “mythology”, and this one really didn’t particularly do it well.

Weeds

Short about a dandelion (I guess? They didn’t really look like dandelions, but oh well.) trying to move from a dead yard to the yard next door full of sprinklers. It dies before it makes it and its seeds float over to the lawn. Then you get some inspirational quote about NEVER GIVING UP and I’m like okay but it died???? It didn’t make it????? Is this some really depressing point about the struggles of immigrant parents or something or did you actually think this was inspirational?

Forgettable.

Who I think will win: Negative Space or Revolting Rhymes Who I think should win: In A Heartbeat

IN A HEARTBEAT WAS ROBBED NEVER FORGIVE NEVER FORGET.

[biofunmy]

Facades on 1,400 Buildings in New York Are a Threat to Pedestrians

The warning from the New York City building inspector was blunt. The facade of the apartment building in the Bronx was crumbling and a corner was separating. The playground outside a day care center in the building had to close immediately.

That was in 2001. Nineteen years later there is still a three-foot gap in the brick facade and the playground, for the center’s 50 children between 2 and 4 years old, is still off limits.

The building’s owner has ignored at least 19 violations, failed to pay $49,000 in fines and has not shown up for seven hearings on the dangerous conditions.

Yet the city has been unable to force the owner to make any repairs.

Instead, a 150-foot stretch of scaffolding that envelops the front of the building was put up in 2011 to protect pedestrians — and remains there today.

Across the city, about 1,400 buildings are wrapped in wood-and-steel sidewalk sheds not for construction, but because their facades are a serious safety threat. The sites have major structural problems, including corroded masonry and fractured terra cotta, which could come loose and hurt or kill people on the ground.

[The addresses of the 1,400 buildings are at the end of this article.]

Many line the city’s most heavily trafficked sidewalks, from luxury condo towers near Central Park to office buildings in Midtown Manhattan.

Others are miles from Manhattan, tucked on impoverished and overlooked streets.

“Nobody pays attention. Nobody does anything about it,” said Alexander Perez, who lives next to the Bronx day care and whose two daughters attended the center, a half-mile from Yankee Stadium.

Scaffolding in New York often stays up for years without any repairs being done.

Despite rigorous city building laws and a string of high-profile accidents, including the death of a woman killed by falling terra cotta in December, an examination by The New York Times found that building owners routinely flout rules and enforcement actions with no repercussions.

Over the past decade, landlords have ignored more than $31 million in fines over unsafe facades, according to an analysis by The Times. Repairs at buildings have been slow-walked or not started at all. During that period, more than 6,000 buildings higher than six floors did not inspect their facades or failed to file their findings, as required by law.

One building, the Esplanade Manhattan, reported to the city in 2011 that its facade was safe, even though the site was never inspected. Four years later a 2-year-old girl was killed by falling terra cotta from the building.

Critics call the fines too small and say the city does not aggressively deploy the tools it has to impose financial consequences, such as threatening a landlord’s credit.

The city’s building inspectors charged with enforcing the rules can impose fines of $1,000 a year for missing facade inspections and $1,000 for each month that an unsafe building goes unrepaired.

The most powerful tools in their arsenal, such as emergency orders to vacate, are applied only in extreme cases.

City officials acknowledged the shortcomings but said they were moving rapidly to beef up the fines, punish negligent landlords, including charging them criminally in court and adding more facade inspectors.

“We’re taking aggressive action,” Melanie E. La Rocca, the buildings commissioner, said, “so that these owners make the needed repairs to their buildings, so that these sheds can be taken down.”

Some building owners have not even taken the basic step of putting up sidewalk sheds or netting, leading to deadly consequences.

In April, city inspectors told the owner of 729 Seventh Avenue, a 17-story building just north of Times Square, that terra cotta pieces were missing from its facade and ordered the owner, Himmel + Meringoff Properties, to pay a $1,250 fine and put up a sidewalk shed.

It didn’t and eight months later, Erica L. Tishman, 60, an architect, was killed when she was hit by a falling piece.

A sidewalk shed was installed hours after Ms. Tishman died, and the company plans to remove all of the decorative terra cotta. A spokesman for Himmel + Meringoff said repairs were not made earlier because the severity of the April violation had been downgraded by a judge who determined that the facade was not unsafe.

The vast number of faulty facades reflects, in part, the city’s successful effort to systematically assess the condition of building facades prompted by the death of a Barnard student in the early 1980s from falling concrete. Eleven other cities, including Chicago and San Francisco, have adopted similar facade rules.

But the proliferation of sidewalk sheds illustrates the weakness in enforcement.

[You can find more information about violations in New York City by searching this Department of Buildings website.]

In New York, sheds around unsafe buildings stretch for a total of 81 miles — eyesores that obscure first-floor businesses, collect trash and, according to Mayor Bill de Blasio, are “great for criminals as a place to hide.”

Even one of the most notorious buildings, a 12-story apartment tower at 601 West 115th Street owned by Columbia University, still has had problems.

In 1979, Grace Gold, a freshman at Barnard, was killed by a falling 1-by-2-foot piece of concrete from that building. Nearly four decades later, an inspection in 2017 found that there were still cracking and crumbling bricks. A sidewalk shed was installed and the university paid $4,150 in fines.

“There is no sense of urgency, and the fines are a joke,” said Ms. Gold’s sister, Lori Gold, who has advocated for safer buildings since her sister’s death.

A spokeswoman for Columbia University said the facade was fixed in November and that the university would ask the city to sign off on the repairs so the sidewalk shed could be taken down.

In addition to lax enforcement, inspectors have been accused of not acting swiftly enough to inspect facades when there are clear warnings. A city investigation after the death of Greta Greene, the 2-year-old killed outside the Esplanade Manhattan, faulted the Buildings Department for not acting on a tip eight months earlier that the facade had a “scary” crack that warranted getting “someone over pretty quick on this.”

In recent months, however, the Buildings Department has stepped up its targeting of negligent building owners.

In October, the department filed misdemeanor charges of noncompliance in Criminal Court in Manhattan against the owners of the seven buildings with sidewalk sheds older than a decade, which includes those used for construction and to shield against unsafe facades. A guilty verdict could bring a one-year jail sentence and fines up to $25,000.

“Sidewalk sheds are a critical tool for protecting the public against the dangers of falling debris,” said Ms. La Rocca, who was appointed commissioner last May. “They can also be a nuisance when building owners let repair work languish, keeping their sheds up far longer than necessary.”

The department has also brought charges against individual tenants, including the board president at 409 Edgecombe in Upper Manhattan, a 13-story apartment building, whose shed has been up for 14 years, longer than any other in the city.

Days later, building officials told the city that the facade would be fixed.

Now the department plans to press criminal charges against owners of all buildings with sheds older than three years, a list that includes about 570 properties, according to two people familiar with the agency’s actions. The agency is doubling the size of its facade inspection team to 22 members and will soon enact significantly higher fines for facade conditions.

In the days after Ms. Tishman was killed, the department also conducted surprise inspections of roughly 1,330 buildings previously deemed unsafe and found that 220 of them had no pedestrian protections.

“The building commissioner is not messing around,” said Ben Kallos, a Councilman who has urged the department to do far more to take on negligent building owners. “Regardless of who owns the building, they have to keep it safe — and the city should be helping out.”

Yet sidewalk sheds remain a common sight across the city.

In the Bronx, parents of children at the Mid-Bronx CCRP Early Childhood Center, the first-floor day care in the building where scaffolding has been up for over eight years, said they had not been told the facade was unsafe and believed that the shed was there for construction.

In fact, more than 18 years after a building inspector first noted the walls separating at the corner of the building’s exterior, another inspector, in Nov. 2019, cited the same problem during a review. “SUBSTANTIAL VERTICAL CRACKS,” the inspector wrote in a citation carrying a $6,250 fine, which has not yet been paid. A partial vacate order, prohibiting access to the playground, was taped to the day care door.

Olga Toledo, who had worked at the day care for 17 years, including as the director, said she quit in 2014 in part because of the landlord’s refusal to fix the property.

“You could see the stuff coming off and falling on the ground,” Ms. Toledo said.

Walter Puryear, an administrator at Mid-Bronx Senior Citizens Council, a nonprofit that owns and operates the building, blamed the city for the faulty facade.

The building, he said, was “not in a very good condition” when the city gave the property to Mid-Bronx in 1993 as part of former Mayor Edward I. Koch’s affordable-housing plan to convert city property into residential units.

The nonprofit has wanted to fix the facade, Mr. Puryear said, but could not afford it without financial aid from the city.

“They are taking us to court like we are landlords who don’t want to do repairs,” Mr. Puryear said. “The city is aware of that but instead of taking a more proactive initiative of how we can work together, the city instead fines us continually.”

An official at the city’s Housing and Preservation Department said it had no records showing that Mid-Bronx had sought help.

Two days after The Times started inquiring about the building’s facade, Mid-Bronx hired a contractor to start repairs, at an estimated cost of $659,000.

The nonprofit, Mr. Puryear said, was taking out a loan to help pay for it.

Susan C. Beachy contributed research.

Sahred From Source link Real Estate

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[benchgenderstudies]

Unresponsive Trump OSHA/followup

Dear David Schmidt

I am contacting you about failed response and action related to a letter sent to OSHA secretary Dougherty in April. The contents of this letter are enclosed below and they were sent in USPS express mail. There is no American Citizen in the means of employment that is outside the protection of OSHA's stated purpose in Title 29 Chapter 15 Section 651. That also means that women and minors in the fashion industry conditionally employed for specifically self destructive dieting and exercise addiction are victims of neglect, abuse and faulty instruction.

I have raised this matter with the George  W Bush administration and Obama Administration without movement. Edwin Foulke Jr referred the matter to the private sector CFDA who have proven themselves incapable of sound regulation. The Obama administration made no response from OSHA. Howard Shapiro mistook his excuse as credible to say because no mention was made in a 1970 document of body mass index that a 1998 accepted parameter could not be applied. OIG also minced that horse jockeys had a high incidence of eating disorders and weren't regulated either. Well, theres two groups at risk of eating disorders and nobody efforts improving that. I have never heard an average male aspire to be a horse jockey. The fashion model has a core influence on womens presumptions of beauty that well groomed horseparasites don't.

My address of OSHA began in 2007 and United States could have been on the map as an originator of regulation. Instead it stood idle while other countries took a lead role. How was I effected. This faggot country I was assisting its/my people among ignored my contribution. Following France's fake regulation at 18.0 BMI , Harvard columnists were granted an article to name OSHA the agency with the shortcoming of regulation.  Dr. Bryn Austin and Dr Katherine Record  wrote the article "Paris Thin". Link enclosed

http://ajph.aphapublications.org/doi/abs/10.2105/AJPH.2015.302950

There's no test to prove eating disorders are caused by fashion because its not a disease. Its a socialized class level gender role defined specifically by the fashion model industry and designers. Mainly they are homosexual male designers projecting their lusts of a gay male twink on the female body I(Its gay illness that can be slurred.rightly). The history of fashion modeling compels the link on its own. Disordered eating, fasting, behaviors of exercise addiction, drunkorexia,chain smoking the pounds away, and diets to offset the immune system. Much of this is contained in the comments below. OSHA regulation 1910.262 is lacking detail for the many more jobs of the fashion industry as well as all the female centric jobs yet lacking in its mention. Lets get on that.

If I just saw President Donald Trump semi defend the White Nationalists he should be atleast aware the same fashionistas he protected Ivanka from should be restrained from ruining other young peoples lives as well. The outlet of gay male fashionista design is a toxic dysmorphia being projected upon and sickening women models and their emulating fans. Its a step the republican party opted to ignore when trying to defend marriage. The evidence was all in the open. If gay was unnatural , the fashion industry was where to exploit at cause of eating disorders of current visionary designers.

<required info>

I can be reached at this email or 37 Bench LaneLehighton, PA 18235

5703865855

The change I request made1)models must be at least 19.2 BMI of a stature that fits in a size 8 dress. This effectively eliminates/bans haute couture as a purveyor of anorexic idealization. France's standard of 18.0 BMI is still in the pathogenic range of being underweight and poorly applied without a minimum stature within acceptable range not to fool the metric

2)Parental correlation of employment. An employer may not demand unhealthy or risky behaviors of diet, exercise or additional factors straying illegal or odd (using IVs for meals) for conditional employment. If a parent would be found for abuse and neglect then also would be an employer for the same. The industry may not create women even through photomanipulation to those ends either.

3) The minor will not be asked to alter her growth rate for any reason and will be enabled a normal growth curve up through age 27.

4)Fit models are a specific type of model known to inhabit the designers studios and tend to be even further emaciated than runway models. 'Fitmodels are a term by the designers wants of a dress shape and in no way suggest a healthy lifestyle. Neither shall they be catered to a designers preference against their wellbeing. The designer must be charged for endangering health and demanded counseling for dysmorphia.

5)Models may not consider themselves nutritionists nor attempt to counsel weight loss through media or otherwise. Weightloss is not a credible means of conditioning the body. No diet has ever credibly offset atrophy. Exercise in and of itself is required at all times and exercise requires proper and balanced food that fad diets historically lack.

6)Fashion media may not consider itself a purveyor of health or dietary advice nor will it intend to target minors with such advice and must be limited to Age 18 or older consumers. The link between target marketed fashion media and body dissatisfaction that would sell such diet products is a historical blemish of the industry. This doesn't qualify for free speech limitation because fashion media do not restrict or deny access to the garment itself. The conditions of the garment access are purely financial and physically distorted against a minors wellbeings

7a)While not related to OSHA , I suggest sanctions against france and european countries harboring unregulated haute couture designers and enabling models putting themselves at personal risk in front of children seeing her fame as sadistically motivated.

7b)Holding former US LABOR Solicitor M Patricia Smith and New York Department of Labor culpable for the endangerment of children since 2009. Smith deliberately circumvented the means of anti eating disorder legislation and general inspection of the fashion industry of new york. She failed to hire experts in the field of eating disorders to evaluate the very local New York City entertainment industry applicants and employees. The result of her negligence was girls as young as 14 being hired to walk the runway and presented as a norm of mature female stature. M Patricia Smith then prevented my gathering of information via FOIA as to why OSHA was failing to regulate.  David Michaels , former OSHA director also failed to act to those ends.

//How does this effect me. America has an expert in the field of eating disorders. That would be me.The people benefit from my keeping their kids off unnecessary antidepressants they wouldn't need for body dissatisfaction.My directives will be understood  .. starting with FBI. The effect of the fashion industry crosses state lines. They have a duty to act on threat foreign or domestic and have not.  To conclude the point, credit and fame leads to accommodations and fiscal opportunities that has since delayed my completion of 3 patent applications; requiring legal assistance.

I feel I have given a substantial detail to the means and reasons of why I am writing this letter to comply with standards of protocol. If you would require more information, do not hesitate to ask. When I wrote courteously USgovernment did nothing. See the truth, abide the truth and respect the truth for it exists greater than the path of this country's steering.  Responses from Donald Trump, Dorothy Dougherty and HHS Secretary Price are required and they will all say "we will regulate fashion,Sir." Cheers

Michael Bench,MEP,GCERT

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

OSHA

Department of Labor

200 Constitution Ave, NW

Washington DC 20210

Dear DAS/ OSHA Director Dorothy Dougherty

I congratulate you on your appointment to the OSHA secretary position. Of equal importance of this accomplishment raises the purpose I contact you declaring a necessary regulation of the fashion model industry. Since 2007 I have called on OSHA to this duty and Edwin Foulke Jr immediately deferred to the Council of Fashion Designers of America. He deferred to the private sector. The CFDA has not shown a timely interest to establish credible regulation or itself a dependable body. I refuse any suggestion of self regulation valid.  

The united states delay in recognizing the problem of fashion was a larger blunder in ignoring the health problems of Americans. There is a trail of medical bills for drug rehabs, street drug stimulant abuse, suicide attempts and grief counseling, unnecessary antidepressants treating physical immuno -depression caused by crash diets, body dissatisfaction and anxiolytics, alcoholism, and overshopping leading back to the fashion industry. Crash diets cause women to lose a dependable activity linked relationship with their clothing size due to supplements and “thinness tricks’. The united states government is not waiting on further data from Scientists. The united states government is waiting to mature a respectable identity that its seated plutocrats prioritize above self-involved two party dramatics

If the anorexic look prescribed by Haute Couture designers is truly ‘Feminist”, then he only appeals the female body when she is most like himself. The arl Lagerfelds and Hedi Slimanes sexualized the under-developed female body as a cudgel of consumerism.

Are there penalties for 'anime’ pornography that depict underage sex? If yes I will refer to the anorexic status as sexualizing an emulated underage female.. sometimes without clothes in promotions.

If it was not already known, most couture designers are gay males. When the female no longer maintains the nymphoid, emulated male, lean appearance she’s tossed out. She’s no longer beautiful for the industry when she’s mature enough to not be androgynous .. when she’s 100% recognized as woman. Haute couture is not Feminist for it shuns the female body through most of her lifespan. On this I must also raise a clear prognosis of body dysmorphia card against gay males. Conditionally employing females to abuse their identity  just appearing in their runway shows is unethical. The French government also has fiscal duties to pay for concealing the practices of the couture genre of fashion. The Donald Trump administration should not delay an aggressive move on this point of foreign policy.

The models are not contacting OSHA for protection for they are willing participants. Fashion models of couture are mental invalids; some form of attention needing creature positioning themselves in front of youth with addictive personality traits. They tolerate the intolerable for money. The addictive personality rewards itself through fame and the people drawn to modeling must be deemed suspect not only for eating disorders but also complicit psychological traits of masochism. While new models are entirely subject to personal morality, their exposure to the industry’s absent sense of limits cannot continue. It’s a corrupting force.

Fashion media employees  are also empty of morality. The Vogue editors will let unhealthy industry practices continue and then make huge profits on their tell-all book. Former Australian Vogue Editor Kirstie Clements is one of those grifters.  An International Business Times piece about Clement’s book “ The Vogue Factor” by Nadine Deninno revealed the runway model thinness is not even the most severe conditions of the industry.  Does New York City health board or New York Labor bother to look?

One model during a show revealed to Clements that her flat mate was a fit model and in the hospital most days with an IV in her arm.  This is the exerpt :

is a “fit model,” which are models used directly in designer ateliers to act as the mannequin while designers work on creations in the studio.  This flat mate, according to the model, is “in hospital on a drip a lot of the time,” referring to intravenous therapy, to keep herself nearly two-dimensionally skinny.

Clements wrote: “That the ideal body shape used as a starting point for a collection should be a female on the brink of hospitalization from starvation is frightening.” She added that a “dubious achievement” of this nature, “all in the quest to fit into a Balenciaga sample” size, comes with severe side effects such as mood swings, extreme fatigue, binge-eating and self-harm.

http://www.ibtimes.com/vogue-editor-says-models-think-its-ok-faint-food-deprivation-eat-tissues-go-hospital-drips-be-paris

The designer is present. His most near model is sickly and she is sickly from his preference in sizing. That’s all there is .. Fashion causes disordered eating. Fashion caused this consumer strain of  body dysmorphia. Women are being distorted by madmen having no concern of a females wellbeing. Much of the disordered eating crisis is the usual female target audience as far back as 1600s Europe.  Upperclass fashion was also a form of body modification. In most states you must be 18 or have parents permission by 16 to get a body piercing. The fashion based anorexia is a form of uneducated body modification in a form it cannot be: on terms of someone else’s ideals. Is it sexual ambivalence or conceit? What it is is cheap. Cheap on sample dress fabrics to an unrealistic frugality.

I don’t actually attribute being cheap to their real delusion.,It’s the “I’m going to leave a pretty corpse and I don’t care about eating till I’m dead” type of stubborn narcissism fuel. Across the luxury industry are parrots who pad their identity through movies. Billionaire heiress Daphne Guinness is one of them. None other than Karl Lagerfeld himself , quoted “ curves are out’, can be seen exhibiting his personal style as a pilgrims corpse for most of the past decade.  If Homosexuality isn’t directly an affliction, then among homosexuality are couture sadists. An obsessive self contentment creating the ultimate non female .. or dead female from a live fame glutton.  I don’t register that as karma. She followed other models into the industry with too positive an opinion of the work.

Refer to the quote just a bit earlier. If the studio fitting model is the ideal stature for the designer, realistically we have starvation tactics hurting the girls that needed employer assistance the most. There are smaller girls so conforming to the smallest dress doesn’t hurt them as much as an average size 8 or 10 model having no assistance from her industry agency who agreed to get her the job. Her looks got her in the door. What is being propositioned for employment…. are. not. her. looks. Not even DNA models of New York can see past their own company name to protect their models. Absurd. Its called Phenotype. They signed it. They have to protect it.  

I request your immediate assistance to regulate the fashion industry. All who seek to discontinue or obstruct that regulation among you or in the private sector are to immediately be charged with child and public endangerment. Please inform me of their identity for I will have sharp words with them. I am making this most immediate in your career at OSHA for it needs the most attention. No other human can better expertly decide that for this nation. Enclosed are tentative list of recommended regulations  to extend 1910.262 for including the fashion model career to regulation. Any career not being covered by OSHA is a Citizen not being protected by OSHA. Department of Labor OIG and Government Accountability Office have already failed for any legitimacy from 2009-2013.

I at this time will also report M Patricia Smith , Former US Solicitor and Former New York Labor Commissioner for willful failure of duty to protect youth from the fashion industry, willful neglect and contributing to the neglect of minor-employees during her time as Labor Commissioner circa the year 2009. Her lack of oversite led to girls as young as 14 being exposed to the corrosive atmosphere fashion modeling is made of.

David Michaels , and Edwin Foulke Jr, .. your predecessors, each are faulty to those matters. FBI will now again be called upon to arrest David Michaels for said charges whether they like it or not.

Regards,

Michael Bench, MEP, GCERT

4/26/2017

[edgysocial]

New Post has been published on http://edgysocial.com/12-refreshing-tips-on-how-to-live-a-stress-free-life-in-2017/

12 Refreshing Tips On How To Live A Stress-Free Life in 2017

You’re reading 12 Refreshing Tips On How To Live A Stress-Free Life in 2017, originally posted on Pick the Brain | Motivation and Self Improvement. If you’re enjoying this, please visit our site for more inspirational articles.

The Internet is full of resources on time management, tips for a stress-free life, and finding work-life balance.  Since we are unique creatures with varying personalities and goals, it’s nearly impossible to come up with a formula to a better lifestyle. The most we can do is to search, test, and share techniques that worked for us. In the bestselling self-help book Nine Things Successful People Do Differently, Heidi Grant Halvorson noted the science-based strategies on stress management. The principles, including having self-compassion and remembering the “big picture,” are recommended both for business and personal productivity. One of the most important tactics Halvorson shares is looking at your shortcomings with kindness and understanding. A study published in the Journal of Research of Personality suggests that self-compassion has significant positive association with happiness, optimism, and personal initiative. People with self-compassion are less depressed and more successful. For 2017, I vowed to make changes in my life. I refuse to waste away my energy worrying and devote my time on those that truly matter. Here are 12 techniques that helped me glide through the last year that might help you as well. #1: (Really) know yourself more

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How do you know yourself? Do you fully understand what triggers your anxiety, or what calms you down? In 1921, renowned psychoanalyst Carl Jung’s Psychological Types introduced two major personalities, the introverted and the extroverted types. Generally, an introvert draws energy from spending time in solitude while an extrovert functions better when surrounded by other people. Two years after Jung’s publication, the mother-daughter tandem of Katharine Briggs and Isabel Briggs Myers began their study on the various personality types. They later came up with the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI) with the main purpose of making Jung’s theory of psychological types “understandable and useful in people’s lives.” By taking the MBTI, you’d have a deeper understanding on your perception, strengths and weaknesses, emotions, and how you deal with others. Your personality can also explain your workplace habits, guiding you on how to plan your next career moves. #2: Understand your mental condition

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For some people, following a set of recommended steps to a stress-free life is not as easy as it seems. There may be an underlying medical condition that hinders you from calming your nerves. According to the National Alliance on Mental Illness, roughly 18% of US adults are suffering from an anxiety disorder. This mental condition is characterized by restlessness or irritability, feeling tense and jumpy, pounding of heart and shortness of breath, upset stomach, fatigue, and insomnia. The treatments available include psychotherapy, anti-anxiety, and antidepressant drugs, and alternative medicine such as yoga and meditation. Anxiety can make other conditions such as depression and sleeping problems worse. If your anxiety is interfering with your daily activities, see a doctor immediately. #3: Be kinder to yourself

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Our mistakes and failures help define us. If your relationship didn’t work out, there’s a reason for that. For many years, I also beat myself up for a relationship that ended bitterly. There were nights when I would replay our last days together to analyze what I did wrong and how I could’ve made the situation better. I only benefitted from these painful reminiscing when I finally decided to move on and learn from these mistakes. The same goes with my business decisions. Whenever I make a wrong turn, I briefly identify the problems, draft a solution, and move on to my next course of action. As Louise L. Hay wrote in You Can Heal Your Life, “Remember, you have been criticizing yourself for years and it hasn’t worked. Try approving yourself and see what happens.” #4: Aspire for quality sleep

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One key to a better life is adequate sleep. The National Sleep Foundation recommends that adults aged 18 to 64 should get seven to nine hours of uninterrupted sleep each night. Working as a manager in a real estate company is not an easy undertaking. Meetings can last for hours, leaving me too exhausted to doze off at bedtime. Sleep deprivation has a serious impact on your well-being. It can increase your risk to diabetes, heart disease, and hypertension, and weaken your immunity. According to the Harvard Medical School, insufficient sleep affect mental performance. “Concentration, working memory, mathematical capacity, and logical reasoning are all aspects of cognitive function compromised by sleep deprivation,” it warns. How do I manage to get right amount of sleep each night? I regulate my caffeine consumption. I skip coffee after 5 p.m. I also set a rule to disconnect from any electronic device (cellphone, laptop, and TV) at least an hour before bedtime. Finally, I decluttered my bedroom to free my mind from distractions. #5: Push yourself to exercise

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Like many people, I had my love-hate relationship with my rubber shoes. I could come up with the lamest excuses just to avoid going to the gym. Then about two years ago, I noticed that I could barely keep up with my older sisters when we go  malling on weekends. They called my attention. I was breathing hard and sweating profusely after only 15 minutes of walking. I weighed 20 kilos above my normal weight and I got tired easily. Getting into a fitness program is like climbing a mountain. The hardest part is the beginning. Once you get the hang of it, your body will demand it. I didn’t place any pressure on myself. First, I set an achievable goal—to log an hour of moderate exercise per day, three times a week. Then, I increased it to two hours, including 30 minutes of vigorous exercise. I also took note of my diet. I only eat the amount of calories I can burn in the gym. I lost 10 kilos in six months. More than losing weight and being able to move more freely, my perspective in life changed. I learned to listen to my body and prioritize its needs. #6: Less salt and fast food treats

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I only realized that I’ve been consuming too much sodium when I stopped eating in fast food restaurants for a month. Why did I do it? It was more of an experiment I placed upon myself after watching the Academy Award nominated documentary Super Size Me. In the 2004 documentary, American independent filmmaker Morgan Spurlock ate only  McDonald’s food for 30 days. The result? Spurlock gained 11 kilos, and increased his body mass by 13% and his cholesterol to 230 mg/dL. Scary! My schedule was jampacked, juggling work, writing, and pursuing other endeavors. I usually had working brunches in fast food restaurants. The only time I cooked my food, which were not exactly healthy, were on weekends. Super Size Me gave me a new perspective. I came up with a challenge—to stop eating out for a month. The changes were amazing. I couldn’t stand too much salt anymore and preferred to prepare my food. Most importantly, I recognized a drastic change in my mood. I was less stressed and irritable. #7: Declutter your life

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Your unkempt kitchen, messy work desk, and pile of clothes in your bedroom are stressors. Professor Joseph Ferrari of DePaul University in Chicago said: “It’s the danger of clutter, the totality of one’s possessions being so overwhelming that it chips away at your well-being, relationships, and more, drowning in a sea of stuff.” He noted that a chaotic and disorderly living space can disturb your “sense of home and ability to bond with others.”

Organizing consultant and author Marie Kondo shares some tips on how to declutter your space. Keep only the items that make you happy or those that “spark joy.” Clean by category, not by location. You can start with your closet. Place your pile of clothes in a corner and decide on every item. You’d realize how much stuff you’ve accumulated. This also applies with your work area. The cleaner your desk, the clearer your mind!

#8: Use technology to make jobs easier, not more complicated

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We have an app for nearly every type of activities, from tracking a project to monitoring our heartbeat. Use these to help you finish tasks faster. How do you choose the right app for you? You can choose those with good reviews from fellow users. Try them and decide whether they work for you or not. If you run your own firm or manage some areas of company’s operations, take advantage of outsourcing. You can’t run a stress-free business if you try to do things on your own. One area you can outsource is your social media management. Explore bots that can help handle the influx of queries or a third-party firm that can aid in your social media marketing strategies. Discover Customer Relationship Management (CRM) systems that can help your sales team monitor accounts and activities, and generate reports.

#9: Revisit a hobby you’ve been neglecting

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Do you have a passion that you keep on putting off? This may be a cause of your high stress levels. Before I joined the workforce, I have been a film enthusiast and a prolific reader. I also submitted poems and short stories to several publications in and out of campus. I was convinced that working in the corporate somehow drained my creative juice. Organizing my schedule to allow time for film watching, reading, and writing not only reduced my stress. It also boosted my energy in the office and kept my moods high even on the toughest of days. #10: Disconnect as you see fit

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Is it the fact that you’re online, or that you know you can get summoned for work anytime, that’s causing you stress? According to a new study, “Exhausted But Unable To Disconnect,” the anticipatory stress and expectation of answering after-office-hours emails are adding pressure to employees. “If an organization perpetuates the ‘always-on’ culture, it may prevent employees from fully disengaging from work, eventually leading to chronic stress,” said study author Liuba Belkin of Lahigh University.

As a manager in a real estate company, I was guilty of putting my team on edge 24/7. I didn’t care if they’re resting at home or spending the holiday with their family. I sent them text messages or emails regarding their prospecting and sales activities. Later on, I noticed that we’re all stressed and agitated about work. Sales is an ongoing process, making it tough for us to impose a rule on disconnecting at certain hours. However, our team came up with an idea—I’d ask for their reports before we go off to holidays. If a sales agent is closing a sale on a holiday, he/she would let me know the approximate time I can expect his call for assistance or updates. When the business is done, we’d disconnect.

#11: Walk as often as you can

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Walking has therapeutic effects. Do you know that a 10-minute walk can be as good to your mind and body as a 45-minute workout? Whenever my many activities leave me burnt out, I grab my trainers and walk around our neighborhood. Walking has a strong symbolism for me—I leave the worries behind me with every step I take.  Then, I enjoy a hot cup of tea and listen to soothing music. These I do before going back to a strenuous work. #12: Live in the present

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“The only thing that is ultimately real about your journey is the step that you are taking this very moment. That’s all there ever is,” says Eckhart Tolle. For many years, I struggled with anxiety. I didn’t understand where my illogical fears were coming from until I talked to a professional. I was encouraged to do therapy, one of which is meditation. Meditation is not easy for first timers. I couldn’t shut out my mental discourses and usually ended up frustrated after a meditation session. Eckhart Tolle’s Power of Now was my answer. It involved a mindset: being conscious about the present moment. I started by paying close attention to the sensations of my skin, the rhythm of my breathing and my surroundings. Whenever a difficult situation hits me, I stop and ask myself, “Do I have problem at this very minute?” The answer is usually no. According to Tolle, unless it’s quite rare to encounter a problem in the present moment. Most of our worries are in the past and future, which are inexistent. It is said that stress is the norm of our modern society. It is the norm because we make it so. Dare to change your lifestyle. At the end of the day, you’re the captain of your ship.  

You’ve read 12 Refreshing Tips On How To Live A Stress-Free Life in 2017, originally posted on Pick the Brain | Motivation and Self Improvement. If you’ve enjoyed this, please visit our site for more inspirational articles.

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