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beauty-and-passion · 1 year

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Eurovision 2023: the show of unfairness and the triumph of people’s hearts

My god, this year left me exhausted.

It’s 1:30 am, the Eurovision Grand Final just ended and I am starting to write this post now, because I need some time to calm myself before going to bed. And maybe putting down some thoughts about this year will help me find some peace - at least for a couple hours.

This year has not been what was supposed to be, starting from the show and ending with the winner.

But let’s start from the beginning.

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Ukraine: robbed of their own show

We all know Ukraine couldn’t host Eurovision in their country because of the war, so they asked the UK to do that.

And the UK tried to be a good host. They reminded us of the reason why Ukraine couldn’t do it, they tried to call Ukrainian artists and make the show about them... only to systematically forget it two minutes later and start acting as if they won and this was their show.

I hope now you understand why last year I said to not give them power over anything. The UK has a tiny little problem called “massive ego” and if you give them a little crumb, they will immediately scarf the whole cake down.

This year should’ve been 70% Ukraine themed and 30% UK themed. What we had instead was the other way around: the UK gave us a tiny little interval show in the semifinals about Ukraine, then a massive show all about the UK.

The Gran Final has been the icing on this disgusting cake. It started with a bang, featuring all of our favourite Ukrainian artists in the span of five minutes: Tina Karol (I had no idea she was Ukrainian, what a nice surprise!), goddess Verka, my beloved Go_A with The Only Queen That Matters, aka Kateryna Pavlenko. And, of course, our favourite winners: the Kalush Orchestra. Man Carpet is still an icon and I still wonder what the singer sees behind that pink hat, but I don’t care. It’s perfect, it’s great, I want this but 200x more. I want them to steal the show, I want them in all interval acts. But no worries, I’m sure they will definitely appear more during the final. I mean, there’s no way the UK called them just to appear for 20 seconds, right? Right?

Oh sorry, my bad. I forgot this isn’t Ukraine’s show, this is UK’s show. We should definitely have Sam Ryder in the interval act and we should definitely make it all about English songs. I mean, it’s not like there are four of the most beloved Ukrainian artists in Liverpool. Let’s make it all a huge masturbation session of the UK instead.

I apologize if my metaphor offended someone, but this is what I felt while watching the UK celebrating itself. Like... can’t you do this in a private room? Do I really have to watch it? This is just one step below Portugal’s show, which showed a massive ego as well and tortured me for three nights straight, by repeating how cool they were and how nice they were and how I would’ve done a great choice visiting them.

But even if that was torture, at least Portugal was the winner of the previous year, not a host masturbating over the fact they are allowed to host a show they didn’t win.

The only choice I fully approve of in this show is the postcards idea: that was very elegant and respectful and I want to thank the person who thought about it. The cards show Ukraine’s beautiful places, UK’s beautiful places and every country’s beautiful places. It’s all beautiful and it’s a great way to both honor Ukraine and emphasize UK’s hosting role, since it looks almost like the UK acts as a “connection” between Ukraine and every other country.

Unfortunately for us, this is the last proof of elegance we will see for the rest of the show.

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Danemark and Poland: robbed even before starting

Do you remember Danemark’s and Poland’s entries? I know, me neither. Bland, forgetful, two huge balls of nothing.

Well, I have a good news and a bad one. The good one is that Danish and Polish people are not insane and their musical tastes are actually way better than this. The bad news is that the two entries we got (Bejba and Tiktokkid) were not supposed to win their country’s competition, because the public’s favourites were different. But, like, VERY different.

Same thing happened last year for Spain, but at least Chanel was able to put on a great show - even if her song was boring. Danemark and Poland didn’t have that either: one gave us a meme, the other gave us nothing. Disappointing.

So let’s clean Danemark’s and Poland’s names, by listening to the artists they were actually supposed to bring. Let’s start with Danemark and please, tell me if the tiktok kid is better than this (if you dare):

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And before you think: “oh my gosh, this could’ve been a great entry for Danemark!”, please listen to what Poland was supposed to bring:

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I love this song. I love this cute nice boy. I love the classical vibes. And when I played this song for my father, my 70-year-old father told me, with no hesitation: “Oh, this is way better than the other one!”.

So if a 70-year-old can recognize how good this song is, then there’s no generational gap and it’s not true that people are accustomed to the same boring stuff. If a song is good, is good. If a song is bland, is bland.

By now you probably already heard from Polish people about how the voting system of their competition was rigged and how Blanka won thanks to the power of nepotism. So our duty as Europeans (and as people with some fucking taste) is to stream Gladiator, listen to all of his songs and shower this boy with love because he needs to know the world loves him.

And for you all, Polish people: thank you for making us know about your true winner. He really looks like one and we love him too.

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Germany: robbed while trying

I really cannot understand why people keep hating Germany this much. Is it still because of WW2? What did they do, to deserve the bottom of the chart? I know it’s funny, I know it’s for the memes ah ah ah, but also... come on. Come. On. Are you really telling me that Poland was better than Germany? Are you really telling me that the UK was better than Germany?

I can assure you that if Sweden brought this exact same song, the jury would’ve given this song 300 points. But hey, ThE jUrY iS iMpArTiAl, right?

German people: I don’t know why the world hates you. I think you would’ve gotten more votes, if only the system wasn’t so stupidly rigged and forced everyone to choose one winner only, hoping to defeat the jury’s sheer power. Personally, I enjoyed your song and I enjoyed Lord of the Lost and I will definitely listen to more of their songs to add to my playlist.

However, I also understand your frustration. So you know what? Just go nuts. Choose whoever the fuck you want to represent your country, attend Eurovision whenever you want and do whatever you want, give us insane shit and amazing stuff. You will be treated the same either way, so why give a fuck? Have fun showing your insane side, I will support you 100%.

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Italy and Israel: what did they ever do to deserve these places?

As an Italian, I am honored people gave so many votes to Italy. Seriously, thank you all, nice to know people appreciate our singers.

But also: why so many votes? Why? I know Mengoni is a good singer, he has a great voice and if this was a real singing competition he would’ve probably deserved to win.

But since Eurovision is not a singing competition, why all these points? Were people really so in love with this ballad? Why? What does he have I cannot understand?

Even more important: why Israel, with their stupid unicorn song, got all these votes? Why? Is it because she’s good-looking? Seriously? Are we still stuck thinking with our genitals, instead of using our brains? I thought Europe moved past the need of thinking with genitals only and started developing some good fucking taste.

Or did her amazing “dance moves” get the public? Ok, she’s very flexible... but do I really really have to remind you of Chanel? A small dance segment is really worth so many points, when last year we had someone who was able to sing AND dance as she did for the entire song? I didn’t even like Chanel, but I am mature enough to recognize that THAT was a show, while the unicorn lady did nothing more than a small dance. Definitely not worth 185 public votes.

At least I know that my country didn’t go insane and the true points (aka the public’s points) didn’t go to the unicorn but to Moldova. Thank god, we are still able to recognize what’s good.

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Finland: the real winner

When Eurovision started, I was sure Czechia would’ve been the winner. However, their performance wasn’t enough to grant them victory.

Finland, however, had everything a winner needs. And now I will explain to you why, because I love this funky green man and you should love him too.

1) “A little man from Vantaa”

Käärijä is a rare gem, not just for Eurovision, but in general. He’s a simple, genuine, silly guy, who comes from a city few people knew before. He doesn’t speak English too well, but he tries and fails in comically sweet ways. He’s a huge fan of Rammstein, so he’s a man of culture. He became besties with Bojan from the Slovenian band Joker Out and their bromance has been the best part of this Eurovision: these two share one single braincell and I love them for this.

But, most of all, he’s humble. He never considered himself above all others, even after his victory. He knew right from the start that it would’ve been a battle between him and Loreen and yet, he never grew arrogant about it. He always talked about their rivalry in funny ways, through memes and by treating her nicely. But he also never underestimated her: he always put his whole self into every performance, knowing full well he had to give everything, to reach the public’s hearts.

And he did. He reached the public’s hearts and like many others all over the world, I also love this little man. He’s genuine, he’s honest, he’s a fashion icon (Finland changes their flag to green when), his dancers are funky and nice like him. You look at him once and all you can think is: “I want to protect him at all costs”. It’s just impossible to hate this man.

2) His song is a banger

Not only his song is a fusion of three genres (industrial metal, hyperpop and hip-hop/rap), so he’s already serving you three songs in one, but the language he used is Finnish.

I’ve heard Finnish people saying that they never used their language because it’s “too weird”. People, that’s exactly because it’s weird that you should use it! You have this gem and you hide it to us?!

If you don’t know why Finnish is so great, please consider that while all other European languages are part of the Indo-European family, Finnish, Estonian and Hungarian are not. They are part of a completely different family (the Uralic languages).

That means they have nothing similar to any other European language. They are something completely different and new, a whole new world to explore. And they’re here, in our continent!

In addition to that, Finnish is an agglutinative language, which means words are formed by stringing together morphemes. How fucking cool is that? I love this kind of language!

As someone who studied English, French, German and Russian, Finnish is something that gets my attention. I can recognize similarities between Germanic, Slavic and Italic languages and I love them, but Finnish is an unexplored world. It’s made of sounds that well, sound familiar even if they’re not. It’s a constant surprise, you know?

Also, I love that it’s a language full of vowels because it makes me think of my own mother tongue (Italian). It’s a bit like feeling at home, even if our languages have nothing in common <3

3) The best performance of Eurovision 2023

I love the Croatian daddies like the next person (and I’m glad the public gave them the top 10 because they deserve it), but Käärijä’s performance had everything: it told us a story (i.e. how Käärijä slowly emerges from behind his barriers to join the party), he gave us the best stupid dance moves and there’s even a family-friendly human centipede. What else do you need, to start dancing?

Also, another shoutout to his dancers, because I live for those shocking pink dresses and for their immensely creepy expressions. And I live for the public always welcoming them with screams: they deserve it.

I know you already enjoyed it 200 times, but you know what? Let’s fucking destroy the views of this video and let’s watch it again. And also, let’s notice how much the public enjoys it. How much they screamed, how they sang with him, how they enjoyed this party.

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Even without knowing Käärijä, you can feel he put his whole self into this. And the public felt it too.

And the final result was astonishing: he got 376 points from the public. It’s the second-highest public score, after Kalush Orchestra, who got 439 points.

If you notice, Käärijä’s percentage is even higher than Kalush Orchestra’s! And such a high result means one thing and one thing only: the public has chosen its winner. He is the winner. People are sovereign and people’s will has been very clear about it. So when I say he’s the winner, it’s not because I want to indulge him: it’s because it’s the fucking truth.

Also, please notice the kind of songs the public chose as their top 3 favorites: songs with nothing mainstream and native languages. All while the jury thinks what we want is the same boring shit we can hear on the radio 24/7.

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A painful evening

Let me start by making something clear: I don’t hate Loreen and I don’t hate Sweden. It’s not their fault if they win. They are just exploiting the situation, because they learned what the good formula is and keep using it over and over.

Loreen knows that if she sends another song that is just like all the others she made, she will get a high position. And now, thanks to yesterday’s victory, she knows she doesn’t even have to try. Why should she do something different, when doing the same thing twice made her win twice? Why try something different, why step out of her comfort zone? If she does the same thing, she can win. So she will keep doing the same thing.

Same goes for the entire country of Sweden. They learned that if they bring the most boring, generic pop song you can listen to on every radio on planet Earth, you will win. So, they will keep sending it. After all, a bland pop song is what the world is more accustomed to, so why change? Why do something different, when they can be teacher’s pet and always get a high score? This isn’t being stupid, this is being clever.

But is it elegant and fair too? Oh honey, absolutely not. This is the exact opposite of what elegance and fairness are.

On Saturday evening, when we reached the voting part of the show, the crowd literally CHEERED AND SANG Käärijä’s name or “Cha Cha Cha”. Multiple times.

Once the public clearly states who they want to win, then the competition is over. When the consensus is unanimous, there’s no competition anymore. The winner is already here. Everything else is just white noise and bureaucracy.

That’s what I felt, while I was forced to keep listening to a bunch of people loudly kissing Sweden’s ass. The public had already decided, we already have a winner. Why are we still wasting time?

And if forcing us to keep listening to this pitiful charade was not enough, the hosts decided to lose that shred of elegance that was still left on this joke of a show and not only shushed the public all time but even said “just ignore everyone”, as if their voices didn’t really matter. It’s not like this is a music competition and the public is the final receiver of said music, after all.

I don’t know you, but I don’t like to see the sovereign public being silenced and told they do not matter, all while a bunch of people takes the decisions for them. Maybe the Brits are accustomed to being silenced because an old rich man has to decide for them, but other countries don’t work like that. Like, you know, the one they’re hosting the competition for.

There was nothing democratic about Saturday evening. There was nothing fair in silencing the public and pretending they haven’t chosen their winner one hour ago, because teacher’s pet had to win again.

Do you really think Sweden deserved this victory more than Finland? Do you really think that a country that won six times needed to add this victory to their list, so they can say “ah ah we won as many times as Ireland”? Or just because they can do their stupid ABBA anniversary next year? Is this the reason why we choose our winner, now? The past glories of a country? Well, then in 2048 is the anniversary of Dana International’s winning song, let’s all go to Israel! And in 2056 we’ll go to Finland, because it’s the anniversary of Lordi’s winning. And in 2071 will be 50 years from the Maneskin’s victory, so let’s come back to Italy.

What, does that sound ridiculous? Tell that to the jury, then.

I feel immensely sorry for the Finnish people, because I read online how much this victory could’ve meant for them. This could’ve been so important, such a good chance to shine for a country that considers their language “too weird” and who hasn’t won in 17 years. And since they are stuck between that ticking bomb that is Russia and the always perfect Sweden, they really needed something that gave them more positive attention.

And it broke my heart even more to see Käärijä suffering. He even apologized to his nation. He did something amazing and he still apologized. He literally won and apologized for not winning. That’s unfairness to its finest.

And if all of this is not enough, the results of the public’s vote came out and oh, look, not a single country gave 12 points to Sweden, while almost every country gave 12 points to Finland. Wow, who would’ve fucking guessed that teacher’s pet won because of the teacher.

Again: does that seem fair and democratic to you?

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Oligarchy masqueraded as democracy

Let’s do a little bit of math, shall we?

Each national jury consists of five people + one backup juror. They supposedly vote for the best singer and performance- AHAHAH great joke, very funny.

But let’s not focus on this, now: let’s focus on numbers.

37 countries participated this year. So 37 x 6 = 222. The jury is made up of 222 people in total.

The entire population of Europe is around 451 million people, but let’s keep it low because Eurovision isn’t watched by all Europeans. Let’s take just the number of views on the Youtube streaming of the Grand Finale: 9.5 million people. Let’s round up to 9 million, okay?

Okay, so now we have 222 people on one side and 9 million people on the other. Let’s pretend that less than half of them voted at least one time.

Okay, now look me straight in the eyes and explain why the votes of 222 people should have the same weight as the votes of 4 million people. Please, explain to me how democratic this decision is, can’t wait to hear it.

But you know what? Even if it was 1 million voters only, that wouldn’t have been fair either. In no universe is fair to put one million voters on the same level as 222 voters.

There’s only one possible scenario in which this is fair: if Eurovision was a talent show specifically centered around performances and voices, with a jury made of vocal teachers and choreographers, and all I have to do is passively watch it on my couch.

But from the moment you gave the public the power to choose who the winner could be, then why do the votes of all the people from Europe (and Australia) have the same weight as what 222 people decided?

This isn’t a democracy. This is an oligarchy masquerading as a democracy: a bunch of people decides what you should like, basing their decision on their own interests. And you have no way to oppose them, unless you focus all your votes on one single artist, hoping it would defeat the one the jury chooses.

But this deprives Eurovision of the competition aspect. It’s not a competition if I have to endure a tug-of-war against the jury. It’s not a competition if I am forced to give all of my votes to one artist only, instead of spreading them out to all my favorites. And even in that case, basically all of Europe should vote for that specific artist to try and overcome the sheer power the jury has. Again: does this sound democratic to you?

Now you may say: but the jury is made of experts. Oh, you mean the same experts that proved multiple times they base their votes on politics, who their neighbor is and who can corrupt them better? Or do you mean the same experts that in the past made their choice even without listening to the songs?

The truth is that we have 222 people who can easily be influenced by anything and their power is as strong as the power of 4 million people at least. Four million people, who got invested and followed the entire show from start to finish, if I may add. Please, tell me about the fairness of this system again.

And before you say “but Eurovision is a music competition and we need experts”... sorry, but no. According to Wikipedia, the jury was present before televoting was born, but once televoting was extended to all competing countries (1997 ca.), the jury was no more. It came back only in 2009, with this unfair compromise of 50/50 between jury ad public votes.

So there was a period of time in which there wasn’t a jury and in that period we had the first win for Estonia, Turkey, Latvia, Greece, Finland, Serbia and Russia. How weird that, once the jury isn’t there, other nations have a chance to win too.

The thing is: Eurovision isn’t a simple music competition. It’s more like a window. A window where anyone can have their chance to shine. No matter if you’re from a well-known country and everyone knows who you are or if you’re from a tiny piece of land in the middle of nowhere and all you can do is speak your native language: if you have the right combination of song+performance+voice, you can win.

And it’s beautiful we have this window, because it allows us to see something we’ve never seen before: rock bands, silly songs, folk songs and straight-up weird songs. In Eurovision, you don’t have to listen to just the same generic bland song, but you are allowed to listen to different artists and different cultures - and if you like them, you are free to choose your winner, no matter how not mainstream it is.

And we Europeans need this. We need to celebrate the diversity of Europe and embrace them. We need to see people from different countries hanging out, having fun and becoming best friends. For a continent that has always had (and still has) a problem with wars, we need something that allows us to look at each other and not see a piece of land to conquer, but a place full of life and culture to learn about.

And since we pride ourselves to be the continent where democracy was born, let’s put this democracy in the show we’re so proud of. Do we really need the jury vote? Do we really need the vote of this bunch of people? Okay, let’s have them. But it’s not acceptable to give them the same weight as the public’s vote. 50/50 isn’t acceptable anymore. 20/80 is fairer. I’m feeling nice, we can even do a 30/70. It’s just not acceptable that 300 people should have power over millions over something those same millions will enjoy. As always, the public is sovereign.

And if the public’s taste is shit, at least we will be free to blame ourselves for something we brought unto ourselves - and not feel sick and angry over something others forced upon us.

Or everything can stay the same and the 50/50 system will keep going. But at least, be honest enough to not waste everyone’s time, by pretending the public can do something more than watch what a bunch of people decide for them. Do not pretend to be righteous and democratic, when you’re not.

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The triumph of people

This finale drained me. If it were just a little fairer, I would’ve been thrilled to see Luxembourg coming back after years. But right now I don’t feel like watching next year’s show. I know it will probably be amazing, because Sweden is very good at hosting. But I don’t want to see them masturbating over how good they are and how much they deserved to win - even if they didn’t win.

And, honestly, I don’t care about ABBA either. I don’t give a damn about them, nor about their anniversary. I’m definitely not looking forward to that either.

I will listen to the songs as always, then I might give it a try and watch the semifinals. It depends on how bitter my grudge will be, after one full year. If it will still be very bitter, I will probably spend my time better, by listening to the songs more times, watching the performances and making my own personal final chart. I won’t have ABBA or funny interval acts, but I can try my best to make it enjoyable to read. And it won’t be a fucking charade, at least.

Sorry, but I will keep being bitter for some time. And if you feel bitter too, you have every right to be, no matter what people say. Your voice has been silenced and ignored and numbers don’t lie. It’s very understandable you feel bad.

But you know what you can do? Use your anger in a positive way. And no, that doesn’t mean sending death threats to Loreen. You can accuse Sweden of its lack of elegance and decorum if you want, but always be polite. Don’t be like some of them, who are such sore losers they had the guts to be angry at Finland because it didn’t give Sweden any public points. Bo-hoo, may I add.

What you can do instead is make some noise: ask for the jury to be abolished or for this shitty system to change. And, even more important, support your winners. A lot of amazing artists have been wronged this year, so shower them with love.

And send your love especially towards our winner. Stream Cha Cha Cha, check his other songs, shower him with love and support, make a statue for him in Vantaa, pay me a plane ticket because I need to tackle him in a hug and tell him how much the world loves him. Let’s show the world that he slaps, Finnish slaps and we want more of this.

Do you still need more Cha Cha Cha in your life? Good news: Lord of the Lost made a cover for Cha Cha Cha and OH MY GOSH it’s insanely good. It has a lot of Rammstein vibes, it’s cool and it slaps even harder. Check it out because it’s amazing!

Also because the German singer learned some Finnish, just to spell every word correctly and, according to the Finnish people in the comment section, he did a great job. What a wholesome guy, I love and stan him and his band - and you should do the same, because they are amazing and they don’t deserve last place <3

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And if you need more Käärijä in your life, there are amazing Youtube channels with great collections of his moments, like Eurovision Is Ambition and Uni Dash Corn. I especially suggest you see his bromance with Bojan - and speaking of him, another shoutout to Bojan! He’s such a nice, wholesome guy with great charisma, you cannot hate him. I am not head over heels for his song, but he’s so fucking wholesome, he deserves good things only.

And I also suggest you see how Käärijä has been welcomed in Helsinki. He has been welcomed like a fucking hero, a national treasure. And of course he was: he is the true winner after all, he deserved the welcome only winners get.

It’s a bit like he said in his apology: the better one won. And so he did.

You know, I think the only good thing that came out from this shitshow that was Eurovision 2023, is the people’s heart. People showed their kindness, their love, the best of humankind. We saw acts of friendship, we saw empathy and appreciation. The hug between Käärijä and Bojan, despite its sad meaning, is also a perfect example of what we all should be: kinder, softer, more empathetic, together, no matter how far and different our countries are.

In a way, I am happy that Ukraine’s message of unity was still carried out, even if indirectly and definitely not the way the UK wanted.

And in the end, the trophy isn’t so important: it’s just a piece of glass after all. And no piece of glass is worth the impact one little man from Vantaa left on so many people all over the world.

I know you will never read this post, but I wish you a lifetime of success, Käärijä. You have everything a winner needs and, in fact, you are one. So don’t be too hard on yourself, because the world still needs to show you how much it loves you. Take your time, relax, have fun and come back when you’re ready - just don’t leave us hanging for too much, ‘kay?

And you, Finnish people: please treat our beloved winner with love for us too. We will do our best from afar, so let’s be together on this as we should <3

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ghouljams · 4 months

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fruit as a metaphor for love my beloved

It's delicate and must be handled carefully; yet it grows resilient and hardy, always tended to by those that know its worth. It's reached for with tender hands and parted lips, and soft appreciative sighs. It bursts on your tongue, sweet even when it's sour. It makes you want to dig your teeth into its tender flesh, to lick the juice that drips down your fingers, savored even when you don't have the time for it.

It's the off season and you crack open a can of peaches, pluck the fruit out of its sugary syrup with careful fingers. Ghost watches every swipe of your tongue as you lick the sugar off your lips. The offered can feels like a communion wafer (This is my body, sweet and dripping, open to you like my home, or perhaps my body will be your home, the bed on which you lay your head and cry for mercy) the syrup like wine. He takes it carefully, reverently, glances at you before using the same method of extraction. If you knew about the blood that stained his fingers would you still offer to eat from the same container, still smile when he pulls a slice of peach free?

Do you notice the taste when you pull another piece for yourself? Does it stink of iron? Of violence and warfare? Ghost knows every way to kill a man, every soft point, every calculation of every angle and tilt. Violence has never hurt like your laughter does. He's never felt his heart clench like this, has never felt his stomach knot so tight, has never feared what pain might mean like he does when you offer him half a peach from your own fingers. Honey drips from it like gold, communion from the hands of the divine, he couldn't say no even if he tried. (as if he could ever say no to you, deny you anything you asked for, didn't ask for, didn't know you needed)

The fruit breaks under his teeth, the juice of it drips down his chin, he only permits himself one taste of it. One small piece of salvation. You eat the other half without a care for the way his eyes lock on your fingers, his breath trapped in his throat. Can you feel the ghost of his lips on your fingers? Is that why you lick them clean? This is my body, he thinks reaching to brush some of the syrup off your lips, broken for you, his thumb swipes over the soft skin and you kiss it affectionately, do this in remembrance of me;

he kisses you.

#cod x reader #x reader #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #ghost mw2 #simon riley cod #simon riley x reader #ghost cod #ghost call of duty #ghost x you #the ghost distribution system #tw religious themes #tw religious imagery #the undertones and overtones are mixing #anyway you ever see someone and go “you could save me but you wouldn't you'd accept me as I am”#"and I'll know that your love is all the sweeter for it'

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sleepynegress · 3 months

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So, I Just Watched Netflix's DAMSEL...

...And I'm wiping tears?? ...Because I loved this movie and the allegory and it was the perfect girl movie for International Women's Day which was yesterday??? This movie got a 58% Rotten Tomatoes score and I'm honestly confused! It was a beautiful perfectly original fairytale. In the good old days, this would have either been a sleeper hit in the theatres or a beloved classic discovery in the VHS rental market and likely overplayed at odd times on HBO like The Neverending Story. It for me is on tier with The Seabeast and Predator for excellent modern "girl-power" films, that should have been released in the theaters. It subverts so many fairytale tropes, and while it's predictable, I'm an old soul who still can cast myself back to girlhood and for me, again, the allegory touched me. Much in a similar way that Maleficent did, with its origin for the title character as a metaphor for the loss of trust and innocence after a violation, "a sexual assault" with loss of wings. It 100% wasn't intentionally this deep, but this for me was about the price of colonization; of adhered-to ancestral memory that the "winners" who write history carry, sacrificing 'the other" for generations destroying their own souls.... Until the convenient lies are finally faced. Ugh, I loved what they did with the dragon, with all the supporting characters, with the amount of harrow, and some consequential violence, enough to genuinely scare but not enough to scar. It felt very old school in that way. -Like a good solid 80's style fantasy, except for some of the non-practical effects. IDK, maybe it's just about my soft heart, but again...

This movie made me cry. I honestly and truly adored this fairytale.

#THISISAREC --For the fairytale girlies... The ones who like dragons, Grimm teas, and girls bloodied and determined.

#loved it #damsel #angela bassett #millie bobby brown #nick robinson #robin wright #shohreh aghdashloo #netflix #loved-loved-loved #thisisarec #I was totally absorbed and onboard from first to final frame

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pixiespax · 20 days

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GUILTY AS SIN? – MATT STURNIOLO

WARNINGS: RELIGIOUS METAPHORS, edging, male masturbation, sub!matt, use of, goddess/mistress, don’t like don't read xoxo

A/N:this is one of my favorite works, I'm fucking so happy that it's my 500 FOLLOWER fic, thank you so much everyone, I love you all.

"my bedsheets are ablaze, i screamed his name..."

Matt's skin prickled with anticipation as he approached the altar. The air was thick with the smell of incense and candle wax, and the flickering flames cast shadows on the walls. He laid down and closed his eyes, feeling the heat of her breath on his face as she asked him to say the prayers she usually says. As he began to pray, he felt a surge of energy coursing through his body, a heat that traveled all across his bed like a fire. But just as quickly, his hand was pulled away and the feeling was gone, replaced by a deep sense of longing and frustration. He knew he could never attain the ultimate release he craved, not while he worshipped his goddess. Agony ripped through his throat as he screamed out the name of his goddess with all his might, his voice pleading for mercy and release from the unrelenting punishment that he was enduring.

The searing pain in his throat was almost unbearable, but he kept on shouting, hoping that his cries would reach the divine ears of his beloved deity and she would take pity on him

."...building up like waves, crashing over my grave..."

Matt had been yearning for a release from his agony for what seemed like an eternity. His mistress had been subjecting him to unbearable suffering, and he had been pleading with her to let him let go. He had been praying fervently, hoping to be heard by his higher power. Every moment felt like a lifetime, and he whispered to himself that his pleas would eventually reach his deity, and he would be granted the relief he so desperately craved.

As he stood there, gazing up at his mistress, he suddenly heard her voice. It was like nothing he had ever heard before - beautiful, yet ominous at the same time. It was as if a pure, divine creature was singing to him. The sound flowed through him, filling him with a sense of relief that he had never experienced before. He felt his chest heave with emotion as he finally let go of all his held-back tears and agony, as he began to chant his gratitudes to the sky - to the goddess that he knew was watching over him from above. It was a moment of pure bliss, a moment that he would never forget.

"...Without ever touching his skin, how can I be Guilty as Sin?"

The sensation of her touch lingered like a ghost, but he could never quite feel it. He yearned for his goddess to appear and envelop him in her embrace, amplifying the euphoria he felt. He begged and pleaded for her to reveal herself, to let her hands glide over his skin and intensify his state of bliss. However, despite his fervent prayers, she remained elusive, leaving Matt with only the memory of her touch.

Matthew found himself in a state of inner turmoil, wondering if the situation he was in was a form of punishment for his past wrongdoings. His hands were clenched tightly around his bedsheets as he struggled to maintain his composure in front of the divine figure before him, who seemed to possess an all-seeing gaze. He couldn't help but wonder how he could be held accountable for sins he had not committed, and how he could be considered guilty without ever having laid a hand on his goddess' golden, sun-kissed skin.

THANK YOU FOR 500 FOLLOWERS MWWWAH

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notiddygxthgf · 1 year

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munch!

★ pairings: wakasa imaushi x f!reader

★ synopsis: waka loves his fiancee. especially when her legs are around his head.

★ content warning: smut, pwp, porn without plot, cute porn though, simp wakasa, oral sex, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, pussydrunk!waka, unprotected sex.

★ a/n: all my juicy bitches wya 😩😩 thought id do some fan service. enjoy!! mwah mwah xo

★ w.c.; 3.8k

mdni! smut beneath the cut

"YOU'RE SO FULL OF SHIT," Keizo hummed. "There's no way you actually, genuinely think that's a good way to live."

Shinichiro shrugged. "I'm just not a fan."

"Fan of what? Eating pussy?" Wakasa chimed in. The three men were lounging in the living room of Shinichiro's apartment, sharing friendly banter. "Don't be ridiculous."

"I like receiving better," Shinichiro retorted.

Wakasa couldn't possibly disagree more. "Just say you're bad at it, Shin."

"Shin, you sound like..." Keizo began. "You sound like one of those guys who just want to be included in the conversation, but you actually have like... no experience whatsoever."

"Eating pussy is so much better than getting blown, man," Waka mused. "I mean really, you're missing out."

"Take it from him," Remarked the largest of the three, who sat back in his chair with his legs spread wide. "He's a devoted munch."

"For enjoying giving my girl pleasure? Alright, dude." Wakasa rolled his eyes. "The way the girls' legs grip your head, the way she squirms... you're telling me you don't eat that up?"

Wakasa had a sort of reputation around these parts, although it wasn't like he didn't have anything to do with it. He adored his queen. His beloved fiance. It was no secret to anyone from one end of Tokyo to the other that she was the apple of his eye, and that he lived to please her to the furthest extent possible. However, in more recent times, he had made a name for himself. The name in question?

"You know what that makes you?" Keizo remarked with a sharp exhale. "A munch."

The two men were seated in the lounge shortly after a meeting. Their coworker and boss, Shinichiro Sano, sat just off to the side of them, watching the exchange with a shit-eating grin.

"What does that even mean?" Wakasa furrowed his brows. Sinking further into the couch, he reached into his vibrating pocket.

Shinichiro decided that now would be the perfect time to chip in with his own two cents. "A munch is, like, the male equivalent of a dickrider, obsessed," he answered, although it wasn't like anyone asked. "Someone who's all up in one girl's pussy – metaphorically and sometimes physically. Like you."

After a brief pause, Wakasa's weary lilac eyes scanned the illuminated text on his screen. "Rather be all up in one girl's pussy than be getting none at all," He retorted, holding the phone up to his ears. The tone of his next few words was virtually unrecognizable from that of his previous statement as he answered the incoming call.

"Hi, pretty baby," He greeted. "How are you?"

From the other end of the receiver, he could almost see the way her face scrunched together when she yawned. She paused, and then in that sultry, soft-spoken voice that drove him wild, she said, "Hi, Daddy."

Shinichiro's eyes widened as he leaned forward in his seat. Although Keizo's surprise wasn't as outward, even he couldn't hide the quiet chuckle that escaped when he dampened his lips with his tongue. Wakasa clutched the phone closer to his ear, turning away from the two men.

"I'm with the guys, baby, behave," he warned her, although his tone remained as soft as ever. "Is something the matter?"

He heard his precious girl sigh on the other side of the phone, followed by a quiet rustling sound. He wondered where she was right now. It sounded like she was in bed. If that was the case, he could already picture her in all of her sculpturesque beauty – tangled in the sheets of their queen-sized bed, heart-shaped lips parted ever so slightly, face dusted with a hue of pink that matched her pretty pink satin jammies. He wondered if, then, she would be wearing his hoodie. Fuck, just the thought of that had him squirming.

"Nothin's the matter, um..." His muse trailed off. He knew she was fiddling with her earlobe, just as she always did when she was deep in thought. "Jus... I jus' miss you."

If it were even possible, Wakasa felt his exterior soften even more. "I miss you too, princess."

"When are you coming home?"

If she asked him like that again – in that quiet, beautiful voice of hers – he would be coming home within the next few minutes, no questions asked. He didn't tell her that, of course. The two of you had spent the entire night indulged entirely in one another. His neck bore the battle scars of such an altercation; two small red hickeys which had been tactically placed by a devious little gremlin without his knowledge.

"Not sure, why?" He asked, fighting off his internal monologue which had memories of last night on replay in the back of his mind. "You need somethin'?"

"No," Was all she said. There was a brief silence, during which Keizo and Shinichiro resumed the conversation they had been having.

He heard her rustling around in the background again – his phone vibrated once, signifying a new message, but he didn't go to answer it – and then she said, "Look at what I sent you."

Wakasa obliged, like the munch he was, and opened the message. It was from her, of course. He'd expected that. What he hadn't expected though, was the image that awaited him when he entered the private message with her.

Immediately, he shielded the phone from his friends (who were, in hindsight, far too deeply immersed in their own private conversation about the politics of gender roles and derogatory nicknames to care ). Feeling heat crawl up the back of his neck and the corners of his lips twist into a grin, he fought to regain his composure.

"You took that just now?" He asked, a little more quietly than before. "Have you been waiting for me to come back all morning?"

"Mhm," The girl mumbled proudly. "And when you do come back, that'll be waiting for you."

That was all he needed to hear. Wakasa stood up from the couch and dusted off his shorts. "Be there in 15."

"Kay," you giggled, and that was the last thing he heard before you hung up on him.

Wakasa sighed, pocketing his phone, and then turning back to his two friends. "I gotta bounce," He called, interrupting their conversation to announce his departure. "I'll catch you guys later."

Keizo crossed one leg loosely over the other, throwing his arms along the backside of the couch. "The missus calls?"

The shorter man – who was already reaching for the doorknob – flashed a small grin. "What can I say? I'm like superman."

Shinichiro, who was now against one arm of his loveseat while his legs were thrown over the other, commented on Wakasa's choice of words. "More like Supermunch."

Wakasa ignored his comment, pulling open the door. "Suck me." .

"Oh fuck."

Wakasa groaned in response, although the noise was muffled by her thighs. Buried nose-deep in the world's wettest pussy, his grip was like a vice, strong hands digging into the girl's hips in such a manner that he knew his fingers would leave pretty purple bruises.

His thick, beautiful goddess. He loved everything about her. More than that, he loved eating her out. When he'd run his tongue over the most sensitive part of her, her whole body would twitch. Her hips, painted with stretch marks, were his handles. He adored the way her soft, supple body careened into his touch.

She tasted like heaven, and god, she was gushing for him.

He sucked gently on her clit, which was flushed red with arousal, watching in awe as the woman arched up off of the bed. He could see this show a thousand million times and he would still be just as enthralled as he had been the day he had taken her like this for the very first time. Pressing open-mouthed kisses to her pretty pink pussy, his tongue found its way down toward her dripping hole.

Leaving not a moment to waste, she gripped his disheveled ponytail by the root, pushing his head in deep enough for the tongue to slide right in – like it was meant to be there.

"Please," His fiancee pleaded, although he wasn't entirely sure what she wanted. She knew full and well that he wasn't planning on slowing down anytime soon. "Mnnnh-"

And, just to tease her, he withdrew, replacing his tongue with two damp fingers. "Feel good, sweetheart?" He murmured softly, just up against her red-flushed skin.

While he wasn't answered with words, the response he got was nonetheless gratifying. With a gasp and a desperate rut of her hips against his mouth, against the low vibration of his voice, she sent a message as clear as day.

He made no effort to stop her. Instead, adjusting his hands to grip the meat of her ass, he allowed the beautiful, frenzied girl to shamelessly ride his face. Her hips jumped up and down, rubbing her pretty little clit on his lips and his nose, smearing her juices all over his face. She shuddered, opening her legs even further, and arched into the warm, mushy mess he had created with his mouth.

She looked so fucked out like this, so ruined. Her head was thrown back, hair strewn haphazardly over the satin pillow, pink lips parted gently to make way for her trembling breaths. The little red babydoll she was wearing – what started all of this – complimented the undertones of her skin in such a way that it made his head spin. One of the straps hung loosely off of her shoulder, just barely exposing her breast. She was too much; he wanted to touch everything. To say he was enjoying the view would be an understatement. God, he could paint it if he could – on some Van Gogh shit, but if he were a porn addict.

Her smooth legs clamped shut over his ears. He huffed a satisfied little laugh before prying them apart and continuing to make a ruin out of the poor girl in the open.

Unfortunately, as he was only one man, he had to pull away for some air. He plunged two digits back into her, curling them up against that spot that would make her purr. He knew her body like the back of his hand, having memorized every curve, every crevice. Moving forward to continue lapping at her clit, he tried sucking in more air without having to stop. He never wanted to. He could hardly breathe but, fuck, he wouldn't mind going out like this: squished between his fiancee's thighs, feeling her warm essence drip down his chin while she cried out for him.

He couldn't take his eyes off her. The way she took his fingers so well, sucking them in and then clenching around them like she never wanted to let go. The way she gasped out his name over and over like a broken mantra. He could feel the heat of his own arousal straining against the seam of his boxers, but he didn't care. Being able to see her like this was more than enough.

With a gasp, he pulled back. "Fuck," he breathed. "You're purring like a kitten for me."

She carded a trembling hand through his hair, taking some of it into her small fist and tugging on it. He arched into the sensation. He loved the pain.

"Please," She begged again.

Though his fingers never stopped, he paused his desperate licking to draw the moment out even longer. An hour wasn't enough. He wanted to be inside of her all day, in perfect tune with the rhythm of her body, every arch, every stutter of her hips spurring him on. He rubbed the point of his index finger over her sweet spot, pulling her apart from the inside. "Use your words, princess."

Judging by the way her walls were beginning to spasm around his fingers, fun time was about to be cut short. He wanted more. No, fuck, he needed more. But honestly, he wasn't so sure that she could take anymore. Her eyes rolled back, slurred words and broken moans pouring out of her mouth a mile a minute while she struggled to hold on.

Deciding she had taken too long to answer, he dove back into her, parting her lips with his nose and then forming a light suction seal over her clit. He had to readjust himself to fit his fingers and his mouth in such a small space.

She felt so good inside, so warm. He could die in this pussy.

His fiancee gasped, "Waka, stop, 'm gonna cum."

His lips departed from the woman's dripping wet cunt, but only to roughly slide her ass closer to his face. Then, completely disregarding her previous please, he devoured her. His hair was beyond disheveled, tangled in her fist, while the rest hung in damp strands around his face.

He peered up at her hungrily, pulling back and greedily licking her off of his fingers. "Say my name like that again," he'd practically moaned, running his hands up and down your trembling thighs. The poor girl was shaking like a leaf in the breeze and he was reveling in it. "Say my name while you ride my tongue, baby."

"Mmmfuck– wait," She gasped. Her body, however, sent a different signal. She yanked his hair – hard, too – and trapped his head between her thighs. Those pretty little noises she was making increased in pitch and became more frequent within. She was near the breaking point, broken pleas of his name tumbling from her devilish lips. "Wait, wait... Waka, baby."

He wasn't planning on obeying her, moaning against her now abused clit while his lips and tongue alternated applying pressure on it. The pleasure coursing through his veins was enough to drive him wild – fuck, if she kept swallowing him up like that he was gonna cream his pants. She was getting loud and, to be frank, that was turning him on like crazy. He wanted to reach down and palm the ache between his legs, rut his hips down against the bed – anything to release some of the tension that was building between his legs – but he was far too enamored by the sight of her to take any attention away.

Head thrown back, hand gripping his blonde (and purple) tresses like a vice, back arched up off of the bed while that red babydoll dress slipped further off of her shoulders... she was a sight to behold. He never wanted to stop, never wanted her to stop moaning his name. He didn't care if the neighbors heard – hell, the whole building.

His tongue swapped places with his fingers.

The way she was mewling for him like a cat in heat made his heart run wild with desire. She was beautiful, so fucking pretty. She always was. But nothing compared to the way she looked like this, spread open for him like a mouth-watering buffet. He whined, feeling her tug harder at his hair. Her guts were clenching around his tongue like she wanted more. He knew it would only be a matter of time before he got what he wanted from her, so he removed his mouth from the girl's dripping cunt, allowing his fingers to work her open – an obscene mix of her juices and his spit glistening as it ran down his chin. Somehow, he found the strength to utter the words, "I need you to cum for me."

He had power over her at that moment, he knew he did. He had her rocking her hips back on his fingers like a desperate whore, chasing that sweet release she so desperately craved. When she slapped her hand over her mouth to keep quiet – because she had gotten a bit louder, to say the least – he quickly grabbed her wrists, pinning them down into the mattress. "Let me hear you, baby," He panted. "Let the whole building know who's making you feel good."

And he continued the downright slaughter of your pussy with his mouth this time.

"Daddy," the girl mewled, curling into herself. He'd been edging the poor thing around for far too long. He knew that. He just didn't care enough to stop.

It slipped out. It must have... Yet, still, when his fingers curled up against a particularly sensitive spot with all of the ease of a harpist plucking at the strings of her core, her lips spilled praise of his name. "Daddy!"

His smirk grew in size. He licked some of her off of his lips, and then hummed, twisting his fingers around. "That's it, princess. Such a good girl for me."

And then he could see something in the girl snap. The coil of her release snapped with all the power of an oncoming freight train, slamming into her in such a way that had her back arching up off of the bed. Her hips jolted up against his fingers and his tongue, lips chanting his name like a mantra while savoring the slow strokes of his long fingers against her gummy walls. He could feel the shock tear through her in waves, ripping trembling gasps from her lungs while she clenched around him.

"Baby," she mewled. "Oh, fuck, baby."

He slid his fingers out of the girl slowly, savoring the way her pretty pussy clenched over his fingers one last time before pulling out. Taking the soaked digits up to his lips, he sucked them clean. God, he would never forget how she looked right now, even if he'd seen it a thousand times before.

"Fuck, I wanna feel you," He shuddered, pushing himself onto his knees and then reaching for his tee shirt. Seeing her cum on his tongue like that was enough to drive him mad, dick straining hard against his pants. His lips found their way to hers in a messy clash of tongue and teeth, slick spreading from his face to hers while juices dripped down his neck. He pulled back, "Wanna feel you so fucking bad it hurts."

His beautiful fiancee sat up with uncalled quickness, small hands grabbing at his wrinkled shirt. That was all he needed to push the girl onto her back, promptly tugging the damp fabric over his head and tossing it somewhere to the side. When he turned back around, he caught the way her eyes studied the linework of his tattoos with newfound hunger.

She reached a pretty manicured hand out to rest on his abs, fingers splayed open, roaming the expanse of his ink. She traced the lines down to his abdomen, down to the junction between his hip and his pants – where his v-line was peeking out. He felt himself twitch beneath her touch.

"Don't be a tease," He breathed, although that breathless smile never wavered. He had to make a conscious effort to regulate his breathing. If he didn't restrain himself, god, he didn't even know what he would do to her. He had spent the whole ride over here fantasizing about her, about his pretty girl. He could do so many things, but there was so little time to do them. At least, that's what he'd been thinking before he felt her hand cup his erection through his sweats.

He let out a pent-up gasp that turned into a breathy chuckle. "Ah, fuck."

And then he pulled the girl into another bruising kiss, gripping her ass in his hands and pulling at the flesh like he was tearing into Thanksgiving dinner. Her hand pressed further into his crotch.

She parted from his lips to mumble, "Want you..."

"Yeah?" He breathed. It was getting hard to keep his composure when her hand was palming at him through his pants. His hands slid over her waist and gently cupped her face. "Where do you want me, princess?"

She laid back against the bed, arching her back down. Her legs remained folded against his waist. He quietly observed her, mesmerized by the woman and the way she welcomed him with open legs. Sighing blissfully, he lowered his hand to the warmth between her legs, which had begun to drip

Wordlessly, she brought her legs up onto the table. The man quietly observed her as she did so. He was mesmerized by the girl and the way she welcomed him with open legs. He hummed, lowering his hand to the warmth between her legs. "Right here, baby?" He asked.

Instead of answering, she reached for the waistband of his pants.

He left no time to waste, sliding them down over his hips with a hand at her back and letting her tug his boxers down below his thighs.

Immediately, she pushed her hips back against his, rubbing the head of his cock between her drenched folds. Something in him snapped, or rather, something was about to snap.

"Put it in, Daddy," she whined, and, fuck, when she was getting his cock wet like that he had no right to refuse her. The way she was so desperate even though she just came... he was going to get her pregnant one of these days.

He sighed, adjusting her legs around his waist, running his hands down her stomach – which rose and fell with every ragged breath – to rest on her hips. He let one hand move down towards his dick, wrapping around the leaking tip and then lining it up with her entrance. She was dripping all over him.

Before he could put it in himself, the girl slammed her hips back, sheathing the entirety of his cock in her heat.

"F-Fuck," He gasped, although it came out more like a whine. He let her set the pace at first, sliding back and forth in a way that had his head spinning. Her walls were so wet, so warm, so gummy. Fuck, it felt like he was melting.

Fucking into his dripping-wet fiancee, he couldn't fight the strangled moans that were ripped from the depths of his soul. "Fuck," He whimpered. He slowed down to savor the way her pussy sucked him in, and then pushed him out, and then sucked him in again. It made him dizzy. "Fuck, fuck."

"Mmm," the little devil chuckled. "Feel good?"

"So warm," he panted in response, sounding like a bitch in heat. "Oh fuck, I–" He angled his hips upward, bringing his hand over her cunt to roll his thumb over her clit, relishing in the way she cried for him. "I'm not gonna last long."

He'd never put it in so soon after eating it before. Fuck, the sensation was indescribable. He wanted to die like this – buried eight inches deep in her warm, wet cunt.

"Kay," she giggled. Then she moaned, "I want you to cum inside, okay?"

He knew that if even thought about getting to paint her insides right now he wouldn't last much longer. Hell, this would mark the fifth time he'd done it this week, even if it was only Tuesday. But, shit, whatever the princess wanted?

"Okay, baby."

Princess would get.

a/n: hey heyyyy, I hope you enjoyed it!!! if you liked it, you would loooove my other waka fics which can be found here.

I obviously do not own tokyo revengers or anything related to it. please do not reproduce, copy, or translate my works anywhere. dont fk w me im a bruja.

taglist: @tokyorevengersslut69, @mikeys-bike-slut, @midtwenties-angst, @sleepysnk, @enneadec, @noaabean, @galactict3a, @em1e, @drakensdarling, @wakashawty, @satanlovesusall666, @sin-and-punishment, @mztoman, @sanzuicide, @bontensbabygirl, @strawberrychrome, @scaraphobia, @bertholdts--butt

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theladyyavilee · 1 year

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HEART METAPHORS THIS WEEK HEART METAPHORS NEXT WEEK

OH YEAH WE ARE FEASTING

#9-1-1 #911 spoilers #me watches a new thing #heart metaphors my beloved

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wondernus · 1 year

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˗ˋˏ a winter interlude ˎˊ˗

synopsis: maybe this is meant to be an interlude – an unforeseen passing moment in each other’s timelines. but with the stroke of a conductor’s baton, the symphony lands on the fermata hovering above the note. do we allow this interlude to become something longer than a short period in our lives, or do we end it after all of it is over?

pairing: wonwoo x coworker!reader

genre: romance, drama, light angst

tags: children's book illustrator wonwoo, publisher reader, enemies to lovers, fake marriage, food/drinks, work husband jeonghan cameo, small town dynamics, snowed in, scene where reader almost gets physically injured

wc: 11.3k

message from nu: waaaa first fic of the year. special special special thank you to my beloved madi (@heartkyeom) for being my beta reader well after midnight. I also wanna thank mars (@onlymingyus) for being mars c: I remember a while ago I answered an ask with a possible wonwoo work husband spinoff. this is it. this is wonwoo's work husband spinoff. this can be read as a standalone fic. happy winter and happy new year to all of you. I hope you all enjoy this svthub snowventeen collab fic - nu ♡

wondernus's masterlist / snowventeen collab 18+

one

“Don’t forget to wear you layers because it’s about to be chillier as the week passes by. For those trekking into the mountains, make sure you look out for weather updates from the signal tower and stay indoors because a large snowstorm is about to paint the mountains white. Stay safe, and have a great day. Now, onto Yoon Jeonghan with the traffic.”

“‘Trekking?’ What are you? A protein bar wrapper? Anyway, thank you Joshu-"

Never really understanding why other people say they often find themselves turning down the music while driving to see better, you find yourself doing the same – driving in silence as if the silence could create such a frictionless surface that would shoot and propel your car to your destination. A couple of hours late to your annual winter work retreat, a clear understatement defined by the speed at which you are driving, what was supposed to be a carpool event turned into you sitting in a pool of cars while stuck in traffic.

The Sun shines lightly, a gentle kiss against your skin, but not enough to hug everything it touches in warmth. With the heater on high, you sit in your front seat sweating and dreading the moment when you have to get out of your car, thighs peeling off the leather seats and leaving a pool of sweat where you were sitting. Perhaps it is not the Sun and the heater’s heat that causes you to sweat, but a psychological factor – an amalgamation of stress and anxiety that stemmed from the moment you realized you were late.

No longer can you allow yourself to forgive him that easily, yet you really did not want t blame him for giving you incorrect meeting minutes. But when the retreat itinerary clearly stated to meet in the morning at seven in front of the publishing house, you should have known better than to wholly trust your ditzy new intern to attend your office meeting while you traveled out of town to hunt down your author for her overdue speculative fiction novel draft. Instead of writing the correct time to meet, he incorrectly noted the arrival time.

This unprecedented-precedented blip is the catalyst for a series of chain reactions that would metaphorically send you pummeling down the steep side of a mountain in a snowy avalanche that you could have avoided. But you do not know it, nor do you know how it, whatever “it” is, ends.

Dark circles under your eyes and a forgotten paper-thin pimple patch a jolt over a speedbump away from falling off your oily skin, you keep telling yourself that everything will be okay once you get to the camping grounds. Hopefully, this sort of denial could make up for the fact that you spent all of last night kicking your feet under your covers while binge-watching the reality show that your favorite boy group filmed rather than packing for your trip. But there is only so much your heater turned on high can do for someone wearing an old flimsy university tee with a couple of cat teeth-made holes who forgot to put their contacts in last night. You are better off skipping the winter retreat, but you are already nearing the mountains. There is no turning back – especially on winding roads.

And the embarrassment. This feeling of creeping anxiety seemingly washed away the moment it stepped foot into your head even though you are utterly unprepared and inappropriate for being late to the paid work retreat. Because this sudden realization hits you mid-drive: the only person who you would be embarrassed to meet in your current situation is excused for the retreat. Reasons unknown. And not that you would let any man define you, but at your core, you are simply a person with an embarrassingly big fat crush on your co-worker (and seemingly everybody else you work with). This crush is so bad that if HR made every team create their own set of photocards, you would put his in a protective cover with tiny holographic hearts, and then in a sturdy toploader decorated with overpriced stickers. One glance at him would put you in a trance, daydreaming about what it would be like to wake up in his arms on a sunny day with birds chirping outside your window, and him with a soft smile on his face.

Except for one thing – he hates your guts, so you decided to hate his too.

They always say “try, try again,” but how many tries would it take before the attempts turn Sisyphean? Sure, Hades enchanted Sisyphus’s boulder so that it would roll away before Sisyphus reached the top, but what about you? Car tires struggling against the icy roads, you drive carefully so your car does not turn into a giant hockey puck or a curling stone on (what is essentially) a giant ice rink. But being careful does not help the fact that you are unprepared. And being unprepared means your car has absolutely no way for you to drive over any sized slopes, no matter how many times you try.

You only realize any further attempt of going over the slope or taking any other route is fruitless when your tires spin in place after digging themselves well enough into the road. And you slump against your steering wheel like an exasperated character in a movie – pounding your head against 12 o’clock a few times for good measure. So much for a fifteen-minute-saving de-tour through a small town you have never seen before. And so much for you trying to drive over a slope you could easily walk over. Trying sucks.

Still, the only thing that keeps you from abandoning your hand-me-down car to trek forty-five minutes to the campsite is the fact that it is freezing outside, and your cellphone Wi-Fi gets especially spotty when you are in areas of high altitudes. With one final sigh, you push yourself away from your steering wheel to sit upright, leaning the back of your head against your headrest. There is not much to do except to put your car in neutral and try to push your car out of the little hole it dug itself in.

The thing is, the texture of real snow is a lot different from the snow that giant portable snow machines shoot out of their gigantic cylindrical nozzles to cover the courtyard in front of the city hall whenever the local city has its annual winter festival. Real snow is also incomparable to the “snow” a child creates along the perimeter of an ice skating rink, hands holding onto the rails for support while they repeatedly scrape the inside of one of their blades towards the inside of their other shoe, creating soft ribbons of shaved ice before the navy blue Zamboni can create a clean slate before private lessons start.

Real snow is relentless toward anybody who does not come prepared to interact with it. So, no matter how much you try to dig and twist your sneaker sole into the snow, that tactile grip that you wish to create that supports your feet while you are pushing against the back of your car can seldom be created. You slump against your car’s bumper in defeat. The Sun still shining on your skin, a little bit stronger now, leaves you with the same warmth you felt against your skin, a bit tingly and upsetting, when you knew your skin would still burn no matter how nice the cordiality of the Sun felt on that one Spring day in the past.

Plus, there is a little more time to observe your surroundings when you have given up completely.

In the grassy median strip that denotes the entrance into the small town is a wooden welcome sign with the name in loopy golden lettering against a beautiful pine green: “Welcome to Interlude.” A few feet ahead of you, the mountainous road marries smooth concrete, and the sidewalks pave in a festival town-esque brick lining. And you conclude you must be on the outskirts of the town. Leftover snow fills the grooves between each brick and covers the dark-colored awnings in front of each shop along the town strip. Where flashy LED shop signs and brightly colored bulbs decorate sidewalk trees drawing visitors in from around the world, is surprisingly a lack of people. And you frown while thinking about how you would be able to push your car to the side of the road if another vehicle wants to enter the town.

Not a few moments later, a navy blue truck slowly climbs up the road, and you feel the littlest bit of hope surge into your body. Forcing yourself to stand up, you move out of the way and wave at the incoming car. But as your day could not have gotten any more unfortunate, your car starts rolling backwards towards the pickup truck. And you cannot help but see your entire life flash in front of you – a person dressed too lightly for the snow and the used car passing by like a celebrity on a parade float, all in a moment.

What is scarier than the fact that your car is now bumper-less and the pickup truck remains unscathed is the man who hops out of his truck. Looking like a snow-stage boss from a video game, the man who is large and menacingly looking enough to make his shiny dark green car look like a minivan next to him stalks over to you with his finger pointed directly at your face. The only thing missing from the scene is the army of ice ogres that are supposed to follow closely behind him.

However, the only thing you can register is the fact that he is yelling at you – face glowing bright red and spit flying out of his mouth. Your body is frozen in fear. There is a lack of capacity for you to be able to stand up for yourself while you are shocked and unable to recognize your surroundings while terrible words spill out of the man's mouth. And you cannot do anything except take in his expletives while teardrops well up, ready to spill out of your tear ducts.

But they do not. A figure puts himself between the man and you, and your view is too obstructed to see the other side.

“I called the insurance company. Give me your information and I’ll handle it,” the mysterious person says.

“And who are you?” You hear from the other side.

“I’m their husband.” He fishes for his wallet in his back pocket and takes out a business card, handing it to the man between two fingers. “Call me. Email me. Your choice. I’ll get it sorted. Sorry about the whole thing, I didn’t have time to drive my partner. Bad husband right?... So, I heard you’re the new fishing shop owner? I’ll drop by sometime.” He tries to switch subjects to lessen the tension while slipping his wallet back into his pocket.

The thing is, it works. The presence of the man who uses his body to shield you calms the angry pickup truck driver almost exponentially. And the man who yelled at you seemed to forget he was yelling at you just because he realized your marital status. The man calms down, and even falters in his speech.

“Ahh…I’m not a fishing shop owner. I guess it’s fine now that you’re here, but you know men. There aren’t bad husbands, only ba-”

“I’ll be at Town Hall if you need more information from me.” The man who calls himself your husband purposely and curtly cuts the other man off, knowing very well that he would be even more upset if he heard the man finish his sentence.

The man does not turn back to address you until he is done taking photos of both cars and waving the other man goodbye. And your piece of junk car stays in the same spot, bumper-less and bruised, while the pickup truck, clearly without any injury, smoothly makes its way into Interlude, disappearing from your sight.

“You’re just going to dumbly let that man say those things to you? About you? Do you have no respect for yourself?” He lectures you, his deep voice muffled by the black wool scarf wrapped around his neck and mouth.

You see him clearly this time, how his black locks fall in front of his face in neat curtain bangs, set in a defined “C” shape. The oversized fleece-lined collar jacket falls to the middle of his thighs, leaving little room for his cream-colored sweater to peep into view. And his stance, focusing his weight on his right heel while his left foot slightly protrudes forward, allows him to tap his foot against the snow while he waits for you to answer him.

But what is shocking to you is not the code-switching he uses when speaking to the driver versus when speaking to you. What is shocking, you realize, are the thin silver-framed glasses that sit on the bridge of the man’s nose and the familiar deep woody scent that clings onto him, touched with a hint of peach.

It couldn’t be.

A cold chill leaves your tongue dry and squeezes your stomach.

“Are you dumb? Did you not hear about the snowstorm coming?” He asks you, a voice without concern, all while pulling out his phone from one of his pockets.

He tugs his manicured thumbs out of his gloves to wake his phone and proceeds to reveal his face from under his scarf to unlock his phone. After a few loud keyboard taps, you hear your phone’s notification sound from your car. But all you can do is stare back at the man, stomach gurgling and queasy.

“Yn,” your co-worker sighs, clearly annoyed by your lack of response. “Why are you here?”

two

A backpack-wearing piglet who happily crosses the street. A fashionably dressed lumpy toad who rows across the pond in a wooden paddle boat. A shrew who picnics with a chipmunk in a grassy city park. Tiny children who sit between each of a stegosaurus’s scutes. An angry and scruffy-looking Siamese cat who wears a cone too big for it to see. The backside of each illustration states:

Jeon Wonwoo ILLUSTRATOR Same Dream Publishing House Work Email | Work Number | Personal Website

Nicely squared recycled textured card stock printed with soy ink, Jeon Wonwoo’s business cards can very well double as collector cards. And the owner of these cards himself, in your eyes, is the most beautiful man you have ever laid your eyes on. No fantasy writer, no Renaissance artist could ever truly depict how you see this man. Yet it makes you feel terrible, so entirely rotten on the inside, knowing that he would rather crawl up several flights of stairs made of tiny plastic building blocks than take a fifteen-second elevator ride with you.

If you could pinpoint the exact day Jeon Wonwoo started hating you, it would be the Monday after coming back from a previous work trip to the vacation home of a poet the two of you were assigned. The two of you were amicable with each other, even more so – close friends. A power couple in the children’s books and short stories field – a force to be reckoned with. And the hotel rooms adjacent to each other where the two of you decided to sit on opposite sides of your shared door and talk to each other with both your backs against the door. You remember the sound of his hair brushing against the wood and his soft chuckle when you accidentally bump your head against the door. The goodbye after the trip lingered for a little too long while the first hello back never came. And you can only watch from the back of the crowd during meet and greets and panels, sometimes only catching the tip of his tiny flyaway from far away.

It would hurt your feelings a lot less if he turned away whenever you walked near him, but he chooses to frown instead. Unfortunately, it doesn’t make you like him any less. But you do not know what you are holding onto (or if there is anything to hold onto at this point).

Even now, there is a blatant emotional and physical distance between the two of you. He briskly walks at least a meter in front of you, never turning his head back to see if he left you behind or if you were following closely behind.

The thick uncomfortable shoulder strap keeps slipping from your shoulder, unable to find any traction against the smooth nylon of the puffer you put on earlier. And it is just a walk, a measly ten-minute walk to the police station where you can report the accident, but it is hard to walk while looking ahead when you are so close to crying. No matter how much you try to adjust your shoulder strap so it doesn’t stop falling, it finds a way to slip from your sore shoulder or frozen grip. Overwhelming emotions usurp any will to continue onwards and leave you feeling so annoyed, so dejected, and so frustrated with everything that happened today. And when your bag’s strap slips again, you let it slip from your shoulder, sending your entire duffle bag crumpling against the wet and icy brick pavement.

And so you crumple with it, sinking to your knees and wallowing in your unhappiness.

The winter boots that clop in front of you never stop. Jeon Wonwoo would never stop for you, never walk backwards to pick up your heavy duffle and offer you a hand. So it wracks your head trying to understand why he would help you out in the first place, leaving you in the snow once everything was settled, and threatening an IOU coupon for the future. Why he would be in this town in the first place.

The shop window lights of the tiny electronics store to the side of you flicker on. On display and pressed flat against the glass are a bunch of old television sets stacked on top of each other, creating a large screen if not separated by the thick plastic television frames. Golden tempera paint in a modern Serif font exhibits the store’s logo across the glass: “Stay For A While,” in a wide downward pointing arc.

Every single television screen livestreams the local news. According to the subtitles, a giant snowstorm is about to hit the local area. Residents are advised to seek shelter and stay home. The sunny weather is only a farce.

But you don’t notice the news. To you, the only thing in front of you is a lachrymose shadow of a blob trapped in a foreign town with nowhere to go. And your heart follows closely behind the man as if dragged by him on a leash – blindly bouncing, cobbling, and getting scratched by the various pebbles and dirt on the pavement.

The man never looks behind to check on the organ. He doesn’t even know it’s there.

“What do you mean you’re cat sitting? Jeonghan, you never volunteer to do things willingly…Oh, for the friends who are high school teachers? Then road trip with their cat and save your cousin who is stranded in the mountains.” You adjust your grip on your phone while mindlessly browsing through the several knickknacks for sale in the souvenir shop in the town’s only lodge.

Passing the wall of graphic tees and sweaters and passing through a shelf of souvenir mugs, you stop at a shelf of tiny woodcarvings. Your eye lands on a figurine of a whittled cat, hand-painted orange with a white belly. On the other end of your phone call, your cousin complains about the weather, but you don’t listen – clearly too entranced by the tiny cat.

“Of course I listened to the radio this morning,” you mutter while running the tip of your pointer finger against the cat’s ear, feeling the smooth sanded wood under your touch. “Okay, you got me. It was for background noise. Look, I’m not asking you to pick me up today. I somehow ended up booking a room after finding out cab services are down today. But if you’re not going to pick me up then I’m going to hang up and solve this myself. But if you don’t hear from me in three days, then call a search party. Okay?”

Except he hangs up before you can say goodbye, grumbling about how you never listen to him. Still, you’re unbothered by his action. The tiny cat, now in the palm of your hand, looks so content with life, unbothered by what goes on around it. Your mind wonders about its artist, how long they must have spent carving the cat from a single block of wood, the hours it must have taken to create something so tiny yet so fulfilling to own. And you wonder about the artist’s emotions, if they ever felt sadness after parting with their cat. If the cat was the artist’s friend, even for the brief moment, that juncture, in their individual timelines.

It would be best if you left the cat on the shelf, you think. Just in case the artist ever changes their mind about selling the cat. And the cat looks happier sitting on the shelf with its other animal friends, happier than what its painted lazy smile suggests.

And for the first time today, you feel a tiny bit of happiness – a halcyon moment surrounded by forest-themed trinkets and flashing keychains with generic names and soft 2010s pop music playing from the store speakers. That is until you see a familiar figure being escorted to the lobby of the lodge. Curiosity causes you to leave your spot in the souvenir store, edging closer to the creation of a new scene.

“I have a room.” You hear him try to reason with the security guard. “It’s not called loitering if I am a guest.”

You can’t hear the security guard, but it seems like Wonwoo’s bluntness is not a strong enough source of logos for the guard. And the guard stands in front of the illustrator, fully unconvinced that the man wearing a suit and holding his work briefcase would be any other out-of-town guest. And one look of pure panic on Jeon Wonwoo’s stupidly handsome-looking face sends you on autopilot, making your way to his side for no good reason.

“Babe.” You lie through your forced smile while looping your arm around his right arm. “Where were you?”

His arm jerks in the tiniest bit before it relaxes as if he hesitated for a moment before making his decision. Of course, another explanation could simply be because he experienced a negative bodily reaction to your mere presence. Flabbergasted, he would mutter. The nadir of today’s excitement. And you would hate him even more for using vocabulary without incorporating any malapropisms. He is as pretentious as the outfit he wears.

“Baby,” he grits through his teeth. “This gentleman seems to think I’m stalking the halls like some animal out to hunt its prey.”

“Sorry, Sir.” You pout at the security guard, hoping your natural pathos could appeal to the man. “My husband has a tendency to walk around whenever he’s bored. It’s been a while since we went on vacation, and he clearly has too many thoughts in his head. You see his outfit? It’s a bad habit.”

The security guard strokes his chin and nods, eying Wonwoo’s ineffable outfit. He wonders why the man in front of him would pack a business suit for a vacation in the mountains, but he doesn’t want to be the one too quick to judge. Rather, he agrees with the fact that the suit actually fits the man very well. If the man wasn’t stalking the hallways just a few moments ago, he would’ve asked him about which tailor he sees. “If he’s so bored, why don’t the two of you join couples night tonight? Winners get a free bedroom upgrade. And between you and me, I heard there’s a famous author who’s staying with us,” he whispers the last portion, a quick cheeky wink.

You don’t realize that you are still grabbing onto his arm until you dragged him into your room. And he shrugs you off, taking the extra step to smooth out his suit fabric while looking through your vanity mirror before turning to you.

“You have the grip of a snapping turtle,” he scoffs while looking around your room.

It is a standard room with a single queen-sized bed at the center of the room. If it were not for the carpeted floors, the entire room would look like a wooden box from its Western Red Cedar planks that make up the four walls to the wooden paneling that covers the ceiling, giant circular wooden beams that keep the ceiling steady by design. The rooms in this lodge are a termite’s dream feast and an art deco enthusiast’s nightmare. Even the bedframe is made of logs, cylindrical in every piece, and the bedsheets are of deep burgundy red bordered with silhouettes of black bears as if it came straight from the video game your cousin was so obsessed with a few Summers ago.

What catches his eye is not the fact that your duffle bag is thrown across your bed, nor the fact that the lamps in your rooms may as well be oil lamps. Rather, he stares at the door to the right of your mounted television, the divider between your room and your neighbor’s. And you can’t help but wonder what is going on in that head of his.

“You are insufferable, you know that?”

“How long did it take for you to think of that comeback?” His attention is drawn away from the door and aimed toward you. “Just because I compared you to a turtle didn’t mean you had to act like one.”

Your jaw drops and becomes your turn to scoff at him, loudly. You cannot believe what you are hearing, and your breathing becomes shallower as you glare at him. “Are you kidding me? Me helping you literally saved you from being pathetically kicked out by the security guard. You should be happy I didn’t record it and post it online.”

“Like you would have enough followers for it to go viral,” he sneers while taking a step toward you. “And I never asked you for help.”

“Loitering in the hallways? Wearing a business suit when you’re supposed to be at the retreat?” Now there is almost no space between the two of you. And you reach over to his chest, grabbing the plastic nametag that dangles from his neck, and holding it up to his face. The item feels as cold as the person who wears it. “Wearing your work badge? Fine, I’ll admit I have no idea why you’re here. But if you thought that walking around and waiting for some author to come out of their room and have some preplanned accidental meet cute could work, then you’re so wrong. And I’m not going to let you defame our company just because you have no social skills whatsoever.” You let go of the item you’re holding, letting it drop against his chest.

“Okay, I’ll be the bigger man and admit that I was waiting for the author my team wants to work with to show up. But talking about defaming the company? You want me to care about what you say when all of that was coming from someone who would rather let some random man verbally degrade their worth than to stand up for themselves? You’re all bite and no tongue. Just like a snapping turtle,” he says, his face entirely without emotion.

“SNAPPING TURTLES HAVE TONGUES. DUMBASS,” you snap at him.

“That’s exactly what a snapping turtle would say,” he challenges you.

The thing is, Jeon Wonwoo likes to keep things short even though he is not as quick-tempered as you are. He prefers to relay everything he wants to say at once, saving anybody from asking for clarification. Yet, you can feel that Wonwoo only seeks to maim you with his words. Even at your most imperturbable composure with your intern, you cannot stand being alone in a room with Wonwoo once he starts opening his mouth to speak. And stupidly and repeatedly you let his elementary quips affect you like rubbing salt on an open wound. The laceration in your heart.

“You’re so rude Jeon Wonwoo. No wonder I hate you more and more every single day. You’re the single-most worst person in the entire world, and I hate how I once considered us friends.”

He looks like he has something to say to you but mentally drops the notion. Instead, he sighs and makes his way to the door beside your television, unlocking the knob and opening the door. He doesn’t make some offhanded comment about being your neighbor and only quietly closes the door behind him, making sure it’s locked with a tiny click.

three

It is a tiny office breakroom, the kind with a beige refrigerator whose motor is a little too loud, a low-watt microwave, and light green walls decorated with random pen marks from the lodge workers signing up for holiday potlucks. The late afternoon sunlight shines in an ethereal orange glow through the window, casting what could be the day’s last warm ray across the round wooden table in the middle of the room. Central heating runs throughout the building, and the lodge manager sits in the hot seat, his hands folded in front of him while he stares at you and your “husband.”

“Darling?” A nice elderly receptionist on break holds up a bag of mini marshmallows, the tri-colored kinds you can only find in baking stores, and points to it with her manicured finger. “Marshmallow?” she asks you from her place near the kitchen cabinets.

“No thank you,” you reply, your hands wrapped around a warm disposable cup filled with generic brand instant hot chocolate. Gratis, courtesy of the elderly receptionist before the manager arrived to talk to the two of you.

You bring the sugary drink to your lips, blowing softly and watching the steam disappear into the air. The drink itself, velvet chocolate that coats your tongue, is a warm invitation to this little town in the middle of nowhere. However, you cannot help but feel the only thing – or person – that unwelcomes you is the man who tries to angle his body away from you and the manager if the two of you ever cause trouble for your neighbors. Again.

“Look, we’re not going to kick you out. It would be inhumane to kick someone out during a snowstorm. And also we’re all kinda snowed in…actually, we’re super snowed in so nobody is coming in or out at this point. Funny how it was sunny earlier, right? Anyway, word has it that the two of you are married. So why don’t you two take some time to work things out, yeah? I’m no relationship counselor, but this is a small lodge in a small town so word gets out fast. So, seeing how far the two of you are sitting apart from each other, maybe channel that pent up anger into some competitive spirit during couple’s night because we can’t have you two being loud and arguing elsewhere. And I hate to be the bad guy here, but no more calls from your neighbors complaining about the two of you arguing or else we will contact authorities. Alright? Just keep it down and work it out, would ya?”

The manager’s lengthy spiel is immediately followed by silence, although not awkward, but one that provokes thought. And when you sense Wonwoo, being the smartass he is, open his mouth to counter his marriage status, and you immediately kick him in the shin with the heel of your tennis shoe. And he folds like his latest pop-up book, glaring at you while trying not to wheeze in pain. A fake smile and a solemn pledge to not bother the other patrons for the rest of the night are enough for the two of you to be excused from the conversation with the manager.

But not from each other.

How you ended up blindfolded and dizzy with a bat in your hands while Wonwoo angrily yells at you from the sidelines is beyond you. For the time being is what the two of you agreed with, albeit this one is far from Ruth Ozeki’s version. It’s a small promise to try to prove the two of you are more than amicable: attend a few games and activities together with the other couples, attempt to act like a married couple, and dip after an hour.

After twelve elephant spins with your forehead against the baseball bat, you and the other blindfolded contestants try to cross to the other side of the banquet hall in order to smash one of the many squashes on the large blue-colored plastic tarp laid across the floor. And Wonwoo, along with the other separated pairs, barks into the open air in the direction he wants you to move.

The funny thing is, you would expect to hear him call your actual name out of all of the pet names being thrown around, but Wonwoo cannot yell for the life of him, so much to shout your name in public. So even though you hear a bunch of people getting confused with the various forms of “honey” and “baby” being called out, you struggle to find his voice amidst the cacophony of shouts. Once the physical dizziness from spinning around evaporated, you feel a new kind of dizziness from being agitated as an aftereffect of trying to find Wonwoo’s voice in the middle of the crowd. By the time you decide on giving up, the shrill sound of a whistle signaling the end of the game fills the air. Shrugging the blindfold off your face, you look around to see the aftermath. While the other pairs are on the other side of the room surrounded by broken pieces of squash, there is only one man standing in front of you alone and separated from the others.

Your breathing hitches when you realize he’s walking towards you – long, even strides like the romantic lead in a movie. By the time he places himself in front of you, your baseball bat is in his hand while your cheek is in his other.

“It was hard, wasn’t it?” he whispers while looking into your eye.

Except you can’t help but train your eyes elsewhere, unable to look him in his eyes while it feels like your heart is beating erratically. And even though you know very well how he is faking everything, you can’t help but regress to the same you, the same you who is so helplessly in love with the man you hate. The same you who spends every day wondering how did the two of you end up that way.

“You only took the bat from me because you’re scared I might whack you with it. And not going to lie, I was contemplating it,” you mumble.

“It’s okay babe.” He tries to cheer you up, a slight undertone of insincerity in his voice. He continues to ignore your statement. “You did your best. Snapping turtles are slow, but they still manage to survive.”

Ignoring the fact that Wonwoo’s hand is warm because he has warm packs in each of his loungewear jacket pockets (and the fact that he refused to share one with you), someone catches your eye in the distance. Where workers are cleaning up the aftermath of the squash game, a familiar-looking man stands to the side where some lodge patrons flock around him with rectangular objects in their hands. Once you see him turn his head your way, your entire body freezes – Wonwoo’s touch suddenly begins to feel cold against your skin. And Wonwoo, who was expecting you to get mad at him for calling you a turtle, can’t help but notice your state of panic. And he not so subtly turns around to see who could be causing you so much fear.

“Oh my,” he mutters, coming to his realization.

“I can’t believe –” you begin before Wonwoo interrupts your train of thought.

“I hope he rots in hell before he can get his next book deal,” he almost spits at the man from several feet away. He drops his hand from your cheek and takes a tiny step back before taking a deep breath as if he is about to ask you something that he would regret, “Do you mind staying a little longer? I want to make sure chauvinists never win book upgrades.”

“Room upgrade,” you correct him while glaring at the other man from afar.

“What?”

“You misspoke.” You guide your attention back to the man who is, for what you think is the first time, looking at you attentively and without malice. And the fact that he is looking at you amicably makes your brain go haywire, but you subdue your thoughts and continue the conversation. “It’s the ‘room’ upgrade that we’re trying to stop him from winning.”

“Book upgrade or room upgrade, it’s the same thing.” He frowns while tapping the end of the bat against the ground. “It turns out your pickup truck man is the author my team is after. But I’d rather be jobless than to work with someone like him.”

So he works with you, absolutely demolishing the competition during the Dinner and Paint section and loudly cheering for you while you stacked plastic cups. And the way he smiles at you, lovingly and with the glimmer reflected from the ceiling lights contrasted against the cocky attitude he surrounds himself with when one of you wins a game – it almost makes you forget that you’re supposed to hate him. How easily he wraps his arms around you, hugging you tightly against his embrace so much that his cologne lingers on your clothes, leaves you feeling hopeless. Because the only time Jeon Wonwoo could ever approach you without visibly withering in repulsion is when he acts like he is in love with you.

Outside the cozy lodge, the Sun sets its rays on the heavy layers of snow. While the Earth turns to face the other way, the rays wash the pillowy white crystals in a warm and deep burgundy orange – a warm embrace, a promise to return, before parting for the night. As you clean Wonwoo’s smudged glasses with the hem of your shirt, he sneaks his right arm around your waist while he leans further into his seat as the Couple’s Night host announces the next game. You feel something warm enter the pocket of your jacket and look down to see Wonwoo’s hand back on your waist. The untouched hand warmer gradually feels hotter in your pocket when you gently place your fake husband’s glasses back on the bridge of his nose. He whispers a small “thank you,” and you can only smile back at him with a heaviness in your heart that only you can carry.

The hand warmer feels like it would burn through your clothes at any second.

four

“Team Snowball, what did your partner answer for the question: ‘What is your partner picky about eating?’” The emcee points at the woman sitting next to you who gladly flips her sketchbook around for the other half of the room to see. She squints her eyes, trying to read the woman’s squiggly writing, and smiles when she realizes it’s a match. “Soft grapes? It’s a match. Point to Team Snowball.”

Despite everything going around you, you can’t help but fidget in your seat, the sketchbook’s pages starting to feel damp in your sweaty palms. Wonwoo sits with the separated pairs across from you. He crosses his legs, and his sketchbook lays comfortably across his lap so he can twirl his black marker in his hand. Even when you know you wrote the correct answer to Wonwoo’s food preferences, the two of you are still several points behind the other teams. Your stomach cannot help but feel queasy every time you embarrassingly flip your sketchbook for others to see. Because every single wrong answer about your “husband” whom you love very much feels like a punch in your gut every time you hear snickers from the others around you.

Seafood is your answer; you’re the last to answer this round’s question. You earn a small cheer from the woman reading your answer and a small smile from Wonwoo. He sneaks you a tiny thumbs up, the tip of his thumb poking out of his sweater.

“Next question,” dictates the emcee. “When did you know they were the one?”

It’s an abstract question – one that doesn’t necessarily need matching answers from both sides. Still, you look across to look at Wonwoo, uncertain whether or not he would put much thought into an answer he would have to pull out of thin air. Uncapping his marker with his mouth, he pulls the sketchbook closer to him to scribble down whatever comes to his mind. The action leaves your mouth feeling dry: one, obviously, because he uncapped the marker with his mouth; and two, he was the first to start writing.

Some answers are simple. Some answers are meaningful. Some answers are like yours – “love at first sight.”

Corny, overused, and unusual, your answer is the safest route you knew you could take. And despite how clichéd your answer is – its timelessness, its Hallmark-ability – still garners a series of awws from everybody around you. Technically, there is some truth to your answer. You developed a tiny crush the first time you saw him at the office. Who wouldn’t? He surrounds himself with illustrations of anthropomorphic animals and has a laugh that bellows and fills any room with joy. He made your days brighter by simply existing.

Now, the brightness struggles to navigate its way through the thick fog. And you’re left alone in the cold, the fog’s misty droplets clinging onto your skin.

It’s weird how in this life, time moves linearly, but moments and experiences with others exist in intervals – interludes that we can relive over and over again through memories. Sometimes we experience interludes of happiness, interludes of pain, and interludes where it only seems like there are only two people in this world. But nobody can determine how long these interludes can last and for how long you can try to hold on to these moments before letting go.

“Let’s see if Team Turtle can earn a point. Please show us your answer.”

“I’m kind of embarrassed,” he softly chuckles, voice more sonorous than ever, while standing his sketchbook on his knee.

9 pm is his answer. You, and the rest of the people sitting beside you, cannot help but gaze at his answer in confusion.

It is only when he sees you staring at him he finally clarifies, “When we were sitting in my car eating donuts while the waves crash on the shores in front of us. You smiled at me with pieces of maple donut glaze stuck to your upper lip.”

You. He speaks in the second person and looks directly at you with a soft gaze. It couldn’t be, you think. But it is true, you recognize his diction as true. He’s speaking to you.

And you remember that shared moment in the front seats of his car, the night of the work trip. The donuts were for the poet, but the two of you had the door slammed in your faces before being able to hold a full conversation with the poet. And after an entire day of confusion and apologies, the two of you were finally able to fulfill your portions for the work trip. Who knew that the tiny suggestion of walking along the pier after dinner would turn out disastrous – frigid ocean winds strong enough to blow people away? The clothes the two of you packed were not meant to sustain harsh winds but harsh sunlight – after all, the work trip’s destination is a beach town. So the two of you sat in his car, eating donuts, people-watching, and sharing anecdotes to get to know each other better. It was the type of conversation that you would do anything to prolong its duration, the type of conversation with the right type of person.

“You were so happy,” he finishes.

You were so happy, it echoes in your head.

Are you happy now?

“How about you?” The emcee turns to you for clarification. “Your partner gave us such a beautiful explanation. So, you have to explain your ‘love at first sight.’ Tell us about it.”

“Ohh,” Wonwoo begins awkwardly while giving an equally awkward chuckle. “You don’t have to if you do-”

“I was having a really bad morning.” You smile into your lap and look up at your supposed husband. You don’t know why or how the full day with unease bubbling inside of you dispersed so quickly after Wonwoo’s particular answer. But you launch into your story, letting the words flow out of your mouth like melted snow on a grassy hill under the bright Sun. “A really bad morning. I ended up working overtime and accidentally missed my morning alarm. I had to chase the bus while my hot coffee poured out of its opening and onto my skin. My entire day at the office was a mess because I kept messing up. I felt awful and exhausted. So I worked overtime for the second day in a row to clean up my errors. Someone places hot green tea in front of me, the free ones at the office. There is a doodle of a stingray with the dumbest-looking smile on its face. It looked so pathetic that it made me feel a little better about myself. He says that he accidentally boiled too much hot water and thought to make a cup for me. And then he holds his own up in front of his face. There’s a picture of a cat wearing glasses. ‘You can do it,’ he tells me in a squeaky voice. And he leaves. We don’t meet again for about a month, but his kind gesture pieced me back together. And I held onto his kindness for days.”

He stares at you, a few strands of his hair out of place and in front of his eyes. He doesn’t care to move them back in place. There’s that smile on his face, the exact one you imagined to be on his face that time he sat on the other side of your shared door. Soft coral lips relaxed, but the cupid’s bow is slightly perked as the corners of the lips turn upward. He tries to hide the fact that he is smiling, keeping his happiness hidden and only to himself.

So you smile at him. An honest, genuine smile where the cheeks kiss the lower lashes. And his lips stretch thinly so that his brilliant white teeth shyly make their way into the open. He smiles back at you.

Musicians know that an interlude, in music, is an interrupting or intervening passage that connects different parts of a song. An interlude can also be a song in an album. In other words, there are different ways for musical interludes as well as temporal interludes to exist. Now, there is a new interlude in your timeline, this shared moment where two timelines from two completely different lives collide and converge. Anybody can tell that this shared moment is filled with happiness and understanding…perhaps, even longing.

But what do you call it when these two timelines have converged in the past? If two timelines that once converged reconverge at a further point on the timeline, did that initial interlude ever truly end? Are interludes simply short periods in our lives if these interludes stay in our timelines forever, even when the moments they denote end?

Nevertheless, at this moment, you know you’re happy. And you can only hope the man who sits across from you, the one who looks at you with a reminiscent expression you once experienced so long ago, is feeling the same way.

“Okay. We’re in third place. If we win this one, then we’ll be a point ahead of them.”

“I tied it pretty tightly. Is the tightness okay with you?” Wonwoo frowns from below you, seemingly exploring a different problem at hand. He inspects the rope he tied around your leg, poking and prodding at different sections. “It’s a three-legged race, but I don’t want you getting hurt from an accidental rope burn because I tied it too tightly.”

“Wonwoo, it’s fine.” You pat his left shoulder, letting him know he doesn’t have to worry.

He grabs your stretched hand, and you help hoist him upwards. But there is an apparent frown on his face.

“Why do you still call me Wonwoo,” he mumbles while wrapping your arm around his back and on his waist. There is a tiny pout on his face pointed downwards as he naturally loops his arm around your shoulders like he had done it a thousand times. “Are you not comfortable with calling me ‘babe?’ Any other name also works.”

Deep down, or not even deep down, you know he is right. You are uncomfortable with the idea of casually calling him by these pet names over and over again. Calling him by fake pet names, not counting the many idealistic scenarios that once played in your head, in this case, feels very wrong. His sudden change in attitude towards you as well as his overall demeanor after the last game left you in shock. A plot twist in a season finale would be less shocking than what you feel at this very moment. Like every other hypothetical person in your situation, you choose to ignore your problems by focusing on your other problems at hand. Because you know very well, allowing yourself to fully play into this fake husband rouse, even in times when you’re truly happy, would only hurt you in the end. And you’ve been hurt by him before, not really sure if you ever fully healed.

But you can’t deny he looks and seems nothing like the literal he-devil he was this morning. In fact, he seems to be the opposite. Even without being physically tied to you, he trails behind you like a lost puppy and clings onto your sleeve like a cat who kneads dough on your arm, nails hooked onto the fabric of your clothing. And you let him hold you close to him so much that he leans his chin on your shoulder while listening to others talk. And you let his hair tickle your scalp and would let him melt into you if he asked.

Getting hurt by the same man twice does not make a right. Succinctly, it only makes you dumb. So, to protect yourself, you use the image of the screaming man from the morning to remind yourself that everything is a rouse no matter how much you enjoy each moment with the illustrator.

The three-legged race’s course starts in the banquet hall, passes through the hallway and into the lobby, takes several twists and turns throughout the sitting area, and finishes in the banquet hall. Wonwoo takes the lead, firmly holding you against him while he chants “in, out, in, out” to direct how the two of you should speed-walk. But the excitement of the games and the promise of the upgraded room must have gone over the heads of several of the teams, causing each team to speed walk into a sprint once they left the banquet hall.

Wonwoo and you are also victims of wanting to win, or at least of wanting to beat the author. But in this incredibly small lodge, there are only so many paces you can take before having to try to squeeze past another team. And Wonwoo practically hoists you onto his foot without notice, penguin-walking you to make it past another team to navigate through the sectioned seating area.

Startled by his sudden lack of communication, you demand he set you down. “Let me go,” you grunt after being jostled against one of the round wooden tables. You are absolutely sure your hip would bruise in the morning if he bumped you into one more object. “It’d be easier if one of us walks ahead of the other.”

Does it look like I care?” His ego slips from his tongue, completely coating the sweet words that came out of his mouth before the game started. His sudden change in tone catches you by surprise. “I’ll buy a sled from the gift shop if it means I get to drag you instead of hauling you around.”

“It’s just a game.” You try to push yourself off of him, annoyed that he’s suddenly being uncooperative with you. In the meantime, the team behind the two of you catches up and pulls ahead. “Let me go before one of us gets hurt.”

Wonwoo’s eyes aren’t trained on you. Instead, he stretches his head to look at the few teams in front of the two of you. Surprisingly, the two of you make it out of the seating area without any trouble. Before the two of you can make a sprint back toward the banquet hall, you pull yourself away from Wonwoo, yanking his arm off of your shoulder.

“Babe, come on.” He holds out his hand for you to grab onto. “We’re going to end up being last.”

But your hand never reaches out to meet his.

“Babe? Are you serious? Are you kidding me? Are you really calling me ‘babe’ right now?” You almost shriek at him if it weren’t for the fact that the two of you are standing in proximity to the reception desk. But you are exasperated, your voice wobbles as you voice what is bothering you. “I’ve had it with you, Wonwoo. I tried communicating with you. I tried voicing my fears. But your head is so far up your ass that you couldn’t even think about the safety of the person right beside you. Am I sad and mad about what happened this morning? Yeah, I still am. Nobody deserves to be treated that way, but nobody deserves to be ignored. I don’t care about winning anymore. I feel humiliated, utterly and devastatingly humiliated by you and by myself. To think I let myself have fun around you. To think I believed for a second that you truly did care about me. At one point, I thought we were friends. At one point, I really did like you for who you were. But I guess I can’t expect people to stay the same, can I?” More words and sentences pour out of your mouth – like a small tornado that grows larger in size after picking up all of the things you left unsaid, the words that threatened to slip from your tongue all picked up and twirled into the tornado, you ended up saying more than what you meant to say.

“Look, I’m sorry. I don’t know what to say,” he begins, but he can only hopelessly stare at you squatting in place to untie the rope that binds the two of you.

“There.” You bitterly drop the rope in his free hand. “You’re free from me now. You can go back to hating me all you want.”

“But I don’t hate you.”

“I’m done, Wonwoo. I’m done with being confused so I’m just going to give up and wallow in my room until Jeonghan picks me up once the snow clears.”

five

“No offense, but I would never spend that much time or energy on a guy…especially a guy who treats you like that. He even stopped pounding on your front door so that obviously means that he’s the type to stop trying after a while,” your cousin rants from the other side of your phone screen. He shuts his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose while the cat he is looking after purrs contently on his lap. “So what are you? A masochist? You like men who treat you poorly and then reward you with like an hour of happiness? That’s literally like if professors gave you the hardest final you’ve ever taken in your life and told you to grab a free cookie after you turned in the final. What are you even holding onto at this point?”

“I don’t know,” you wail at the older man, crumpling your used tissue in the palm of your hand. It quickly joins the growing pile of snot-riddled balls of tissue at the edge of your bed. When you recline into your initial position, the shifted blanket knocks Wonwoo’s hand warmer onto the floor.

“Eww stop holding your phone so close to your face,” Jeonghan complains, “Vernon says I kinda look like you, and I can’t help imagining that’s how I look when I cry.”

“I don’t know why I still like him,” you mumble to your cousin. You honestly still don’t understand why you like him despite every single recent negative encounter with him. To be honest, your heart doesn’t flutter as it does with the characters in the novels you read. Nothing cliched happens when you see him, like how the world stops and he is the only one who walks in slow motion. Quite frankly, your days pass by whether you see him or not, but it doesn’t mean that the thought of him crosses your mind every once in a while.

“Maybe you just like the idea of him,” he offers with a sigh. There isn’t much that he could do for you in the middle of a snowstorm except to be on a video call with you and hope that the can solve whatever you have going on before his bedtime.

“I make up scenarios of him in my mind but I still prefer the real him,” you admit with a twinge of embarrassment. You can only sink deeper under your covers, pulling the cabin-themed sheets closer to your chest. Maybe you’re still holding onto the Wonwoo who existed during the work trip, and maybe, you think, he still exists somewhere.

“Hypothetically, do you maybe think that the reason why he’s so bad at everything is because he spends most of his time with children and draws instead of writing so his communication skill is basically hindered? Like how you’re good with feelings and ideas because that’s the bulk of the media you surround yourself with daily so you have more exposure to that area. So you have man-child versus person with skewed expectations on love and relationships. But then you literally have people like me…perfect in every aspect.”

“Shut up. You talk about traffic every morning but you can’t even name the model of your car. You were also tricked by a catfish.”

“I’m hanging up.”

“I’m sorry,” you beg him. “Please don’t.”

“My point is.” He places his phone down on the sleeping cat to use as a temporary phone stand while he gathers his thoughts. “The two of you seem like total opposites. And the only time the two of you seem to work well together is when you meet in the middle. So, have you ever tried communicating with him? Ever pulled him to the side to ask him why he’s such an ass?”

Yoon Jeonghan’s simple solution to your problem causes your brain to briefly short-circuit. Silence fills your lonely cabin room as your mouth slightly hangs open while your cousin silently judges you from the other end of the phone. It took a simple suggestion to make you realize that you have been hanging onto Wonwoo’s personality change to even think to consider the idea of confronting him about it. And Jeonghan’s hypothesis may not be wrong at all – life isn’t a fictional novel where everything can be magically solved in the incoming chapters.

“No?” Your answer is meek. You don’t know what to feel after this revelation. Anger? Despair? Peacefulness?

“And is he still knocking on your door? Trying to talk to you?” His tone is gentle for once.

“Yeah?” You look to the right side of your room where the door stands between his room and yours. Slips of lodge notebook paper often found in the nightstand drawers slowly shove themselves through the tiny crack under the door. “I think he’s pushing slips of paper under our shared door.”

“Then go talk to him. But throw away your snot pile and fix your appearance before you do. Yeah?”

“What would I do without you?”

“I don’t know. And I don’t care. Bye.”

Sitting on the floor with your back leaned against the door, you shuffle the sheets of paper in your hands. There are a couple of sorry notes partnered with sad and apologetic-looking animal doodles. There are a few slips where he asks you to forgive him. Then there are these series of slips – a mini cartoon of his morning, this morning – that somehow cause a small upwards curl to form on your lips.

Blue ballpoint pen ink depicts a series of panels starting with a text he received this morning. This comic is void of cute tiny animals and can only be drawn with the sincerity of a children’s book illustrator. He draws himself staring at his phone screen in confusion – you’re missing, and the rest of the work group chat has no idea where you are. And he’s worried. Everybody is worried, but nobody is worried enough to send search parties for you. Blue-figured Wonwoo rushes out of his room, completely abandoning his presentation for the author, to rush to the entrance of Interlude. Because he knows that your team always passes through Interlude, but you’re known to arrive at the campsite while rubbing your eyes, hair frizzing from the static built from your head rubbing against the headrest while you were sleeping on the way there. But the scene he stumbles upon makes him angry despite how relieved he is to know that you are okay.

The few pages that you hold in your hand are smudged with blue ink, and the ending is unfinished. Wonwoo softly rasps his knuckles against the shared door, calling out your name. When you don’t reply, he sighs and sits down with his back against the door. You feel a tiny jolt with his added pressure against the door. Still, you can’t bring yourself to confront him. At least not yet.

“I’m childish and I let myself get caught up in moments. And you were right, if something happened to you, I would never forgive myself for hurting you. At one point, I really did forget that the reason why we agreed to work together was because we didn’t want him to win. I ended up wanting us to win, or at least for you to win so you could have the upgrade. I’m really sorry for not communicating well with you, and for how I acted.”

The sound of his hair leaving the door lets you know that he probably dropped his head toward his lap.

Taking a shallow breath, he mutters into his hands, “And I wasn’t lying when I talked about us at the beach. I really did like you then. I still like you.”

“Then why ignore me? Why act like you hate me? What did I do to deserve how you treated me?” The questions leave your mouth in a flare of anger.

“I started ignoring you because I was hiding from you. I couldn’t confront you because I knew I would make it obvious that I liked you. But I guess I hid from you for too long because you thought I hated you.” His voice muffled from being on the other side of the door.

“So all of this happened because of some big misunderstanding? Just because we couldn’t confront each other?”

So it really was a simple problem with a simple solution. The revelation feels like a sore punch in the gut, one that’s so surprising that all you can do is laugh.

“I’m sorry, Yn. I really am.”

“I’m also sorry.” You feel really guilty now that you know that you were wrong to believe that he hated you. “I should’ve confronted you about this earlier.”

“Does it still hurt?” His voice sounds clearer as if he shifted his body so he sits facing the door.

“Oh, from the race? Actually nothing happened.”

“From when you fell from heaven,” he finishes with his voice trailing in diminuendo, almost as if he is slightly embarrassed from using the overused pick-up line.

“It actually hurt a lot,” you joke. “But I’m glad it was you who found me in the middle of the road.”

“Then can I stay by your side? Not separated by doors, but by your side?”

So you push yourself away from the door, turning around to unlock the brassy knob. The door slowly swings open to Wonwoo, who is still sitting on the floor, now facing you. And you awkwardly sit in front of him, not really able to meet his eyes.

“I think I have a lot to learn.” He fiddles with the hem of his sweater. “I’ll start by being more communicative about my feelings,” he promises with a soft smile. “Because I really do like you.”

“I like you too.”

There is a magnetic pull that slowly draws the two of you closer together, a comforting sort of sensation that offers a moment of solace created from two extremes. The outside world is dark. The snowstorm has long gone. The surfaces where the sunlight once touched are replaced with the soft yellow glow of several lamps around both of your rooms. Kaleidoscopic remnants of shards of light scatter around every surface. But the two of you, seemingly in the very corners of your shared world exert a different type of glow - one that can only be created in a collision like the break of dawn after a devastating snowstorm.

“I really like you too,” you can’t help but reaffirm.

“It’s actually ‘I also like you.’” He can’t help but playfully correct you. “You’re the publisher. You shouldn’t be making these errors.” He teases.

“And you’re the illustrator, so shouldn’t you stay quiet so I can kiss you?”

one month later

At the base of a computer monitor, a tiny wooden whittled cat naps lazily next to its turtle counterpart. Two people sit side-by-side in the breakroom a few rooms away, the metal seats practically stuck to each other. While their lunches heat up in the microwave, the two happily discuss the upcoming young adult novel they are finally working on together. Under the table, their pinkies naturally interlock. The man who scrolls through art ideas on his tablet can’t help but let his eyes linger on his partner for a little too long while they scroll enthusiastically through the several concept art slides he created. When the microwave sounds, he quickly leaves a soft and brief kiss on the side of his partner’s temple before getting up to remove their heated lunches. And the partner smiles while turning back to look at him, a smile brighter than the soft sunlight that wraps the room in a warm afternoon glow.

There’s a new interlude in their timelines. In this interlude, the two opposites are taking it slow, learning to meet in the middle.

dedicated to ellie (@flowershu/@eliphant). just wanted to thank you for supporting wondernus for all these years. happy new year <33

#svthub #svthub.collab #seventeen imagines #svt imagines #seventeen x reader #seventeen au #seventeen fluff #wonwoo imagines #wonwoo au #wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x yn #wonwoo fluff #wonwoo angst #wonwoo scenarios

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coralinnii · 1 year

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Being Reincarnated into a New World as the Bad Guy feat: Floyd genre: humor, budding romance note: set in the same universe as previous works (Azul’s and Jade’s ver specifically), no pronouns were used, villain/ess!reader is not a merfolk, 1.6k word count, use of non-canon family name (I’ve officially adopted you),

My wifi is on the fritz again so going online hasn’t been easy but hopefully I can get it working again soon. I’ve been hiding in cafes but my wallet isn’t appreciative because I don’t like going into a cafe and not order anything T_T. Anyway, hope you guys enjoy our number 1 crazy eel boi

Series masterlist

You’re contemplating your life choices as you wonder what on Earth you did to deserve this. You can’t remember what happened that brought you into this world you once thought fictional but you were aware of how you’re probably gonna leave this world if the story stays in its original path.

You were a nameless mob character who was caught in the crossfire of your imbecile brother. During a party, your brother started bragging about your father who was a famous knight and started a knight training program after being given the title of baron, which grabbed the attention of the dangerous son of a marquis family, the Floyd Leech. Since then, the merman would suddenly visit your home to curiously watch the training while your brother continues to brag and even starts talking about how close he is to the notorious Leech family son who, while not the heir, was in line to inherit a great bit of land and some “business assets” from his father.

Your younger brother didn’t think that associating yourself with a family of suspicious background was too bad…until a rival of the Leech family invaded their home and proceeded to interrogate your family for information on the Leech household. Obviously knowing nothing, the rival family ended you and your mother’s future in anger. Your father, heartbroken and weakened by the lost of his beloved and one of his children, collapsed and became bedridden.

Still, you couldn’t hate your brother no matter how foolish he was, especially when he begged Floyd in tears to avenge his family, only to be ignored by the eel merman. “How is it my problem?” He cruelly said as he dismissed your brother to deal with his broken family.

You grew cautious, wary of people associated with the Leech household and any other noblemen that aligned themselves with them, which included the Golden Count Ashengrotto with his new partner, and that family that recently arranged an engagement with the Leech family heir with their only child.

You also taught your younger brother to learn when to hold his tongue, your family’s business is your own and avoid excessively bragging to others as it lures unpleasant leeches (he thought you meant metaphorically).

Then you explicitly told him not to interact with anyone from the Leech family, especially Floyd. You were willing to smack him over the head to get that warning across, telling him, “To him, we’re just toys. Not friends”

This was a clear solution, just don’t meet Floyd…or Jade…and have anything to do with that crazy eel family and your future is secured. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy.

Then one day, at a party…

The night was going well. Your younger brother found a clique of his own to interact with so you didn’t have to worry about catching the attention of a certain someone. Although, while you saw Jade mingling with the crowd, you haven’t seen even the shadow of the other Leech which worries you somewhat. However, you chose to let your guard down to enjoy the ambiance of the party. You deserve to have some fun too.

Some time has passed and soon you felt your body growing tired of all the socialising. You wandered around alone to find a secluded room to rest while contemplating whether you should call it a night. Typically you stay behind until your brother was ready to leave together as to keep a watchful eye over him. But since he’s been on his best behaviour, you wondered if you’re really needed. But then, voices then disrupted your train of thought as you heard someone speaking from the other side of the closed doors of the room you were occupying.

“If you need some time to rest, Sir Leech. I suggest one of these rooms my master has prepared” someone whom you assumed to be a servant spoke but that’s not what concerned you. Did he say Leech?!

A mental battle was going in your head as you assess your situation. Which Leech was it? (Does that matter?) Should you stay? (No!) How would you get out?? (!!)

You looked around in panic as you prayed for maybe a door to a conjoining room, maybe a bathroom to hide in until he leaves. You then looked to the balcony and without a second thought, pulled the doors open. You were on the second floor which wasn’t too bad. The balcony faced the back of the house towards the back garden which meant no one should be there to witness you climbing down. You’ve seen enough parkour videos that you figured you could come of this unscathed.

But the logical part of your brain is pulling you back, telling you that this absolutely reckless, stupid really. You can imagine your dumb brother doing this but your parents urge you to be the level-headed one of the two of you (which you like to argue on, why do you have to be the responsible one?).

But before your senses could come to you, you heard the knobs of the room door shaking, and you decided that you only live once.

So jumping, it is.

Without looking down (in fear of your nerves winning), you leapt off the railings of the balcony and braced for impact. Your clothes flutter loudly in the air as you try to push the fabric from your eyes to watch your landing. But instead of the marbled flooring, you were met with a pair of surprised heterocromatic eyes.

Floyd was sighing in irritation as schools of bottom feeders noblemen rushed over to him and his brother (mainly his brother) in hopes to find themselves in good graces with the Leech household. Jade may have a better facade going but Floyd was having a harder time not to snarl and squeeze the living souls out of these suck ups. In this pompous tank, no one was worth his attention. So, Floyd figured he could kill some time away from the mindless minnows and walk towards the backyard of the mansion, maybe chill out in a tree until his brother finds him.

In no imagination he had thought of for today did he expect to see something - or someone - flying down towards him in a mass of fabric fluttering in the wind. With quick reflexes, the ocean-haired man raised his arms and swiftly caught your waist through the mess of your clothing but momentum still won against the two of you as Floyd fell backwards with you, crashing onto the ground rather unceremoniously. His anger building quickly, Floyd raised his head about to take a good look at the crazy human he’s about to squeeze. But like how quickly his anger started, it immediately extinguished when he did take a good look at you.

He saw you, a flushing mess slightly shaking from your reckless decision to literally take a plunge off the second floor. Your hair in a disarray from the wind and likely the landing as well. And your eyes that Floyd found himself watching in intrigue as a swirling range of emotion was evident in your expressive face. Most visually present was your look of fearful realization.

Floyd Leech. Out of the billions of people you could ever meet, you ended up bumping…ah no crashing into the most unpredictably violent man in this world. Granted, you’re glad you survived your frankly dumb behavior but to be saved by the man that would be your future downfall was just proof that the world was messing with you for sh*ts and giggles.

“Hey you” you let out a small shriek as you hear Floyd call out to you slowly, reminding you of a shark slowly swimming its way to you for a meal, though really what difference is there? “What’s your nam-“

In an act of reckless desperation (your second one already), you didn’t let Floyd finish his question as you rolled over to the side, twisting your body out from the merman’s grip. Disregarding your absolute messy appearance, you sprinted your way away from Floyd who was still on the ground, rounding the corner of the manor to dash towards your carriage. You’ll tell a servant to inform your brother of your early departure later. You just needed to disappear from the menace’s sight immediately.

Though there was no real hurry as the menace in question chose not to pursue as he preferred to watch you flee in such a cute manner, entertained by the way you sped off like a prey in chase.

“Floyd, are you alright?” a familiar voice called out to him from above to which he then recognised and looked up to see his brother on the second floor balcony, the same general area you appeared from, immediately understanding where you came from.

Huh, you just got more interesting.

Floyd ignored his brother’s concern and asked a question back, “Hey Jade, you got any idea who that flying fishie was?”

The Marquis heir, who noticed the opened balcony doors, managed to glimpse upon the fascinating human who not only took a chance at jumping off the second floor, but also managed to intrigue his brother enough to escape his grasp…for now.

“I cannot be certain but I believe that was the first born of the Linni family. The youngest child is still here if you would like a chat with him” Jade oh so generously offered his knowledge to his brother, knowing full well that Floyd has started itching to sink into something fun. And what kind of brother would he be to interfere in his brother’s joy?

Floyd grinned, his sharp teeth visually showing. He got back onto his feet and with one more look towards the path you fled to, walked the other way, back into the manor and towards the party area where he was giddy to have a chat with your brother. You can flee for now, Floyd loves a worthwhile chase.

#twisted wonderland #twst #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #twst imagines #disney twisted wonderland #twst scenarios #twisted wonderland imagines #twisted wonderland scenarios #twst floyd #floyd x reader #floyd leech #villainess au

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aboxthecolourofheartache · 2 months

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Premises for Kryn Operas, Part III

- “I Am Romanticizing Our Perpetual Border Conflicts With Lots of Noble Horns and A Tenor With Washboard Abs”

- Actually, The Sound Engineering For This One Involves A Totally New Spell Because Everyone Is Wearing Insectoid Helmets The Whole Time

- This Is Just Hamlet

- “Beloved, Leave Me Behind And Seek the Surface, I Will Be With You In The Breeze That Caresses Your Cheek” [adaptation of a pre-Luxon fable]

- “The Matriarchy Is Still A Problem, And I Can’t Believe I Have To Write Another Goddamn Opera About It In Every Life So Far”

- Four Confusing Hours of Dancing Invertebrates [What If The Local Wildlife Were Twee?]

- Blatantly Racist Holdover Classic That Makes Everyone Uncomfortable, And There Are Academic And Critical Brawls Every Time It’s Performed [It’s About Orcs]

- “My Ph.D. Thesis About Themes of Lust In Early Dynastic Literature, Because Putting It To Music Was Less Scary Than The Defense Panel”

- The Scripts Were Collected And Censored, So It’s Anyone’s Guess

- “Wow, The Aurora Watch Sure Are Cool”

- Horrid, Accursed Musical Instrument As A Metaphor For The Seductive Lies Of The Spider Cult

- Edgy Import/Translation/Adaptation Of An Empire Piece

#Box attempts CritRole

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evilminji · 2 months

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My WIP fairy hates me. But like... in that homoerotic Nemesis sorta way, I swear.

Cease an desist, woman! (I scream into the void, knowing damn well she, being my own brain, SHAN'T.)

Cause NOW? Now I CAN NOT stop Pondering, with a Capitol P, the life of a Sentient Quirk. The trials and tribulations. The indignities and sufferings. Countless micro-aggression and out right dismissal of sentience. The reduction to the EXTENSION of another.

You are not a person.

You are JUST a Quirk.

An organ that "thinks" itself separate, in the way knees spasm when struck just so. The child you are attached to just needs to get better CONTROL of you. Your words and actions are actually THEIRS. You are simultaneously an unruly animal and strange adult, not allowed near other peoples children.

Why are you trying to follow this four year old into their school? Why are you SITTING out side a pre-school? Are you stalking that child?

You are a grown adult. Connected to a random Japanese child.

The child is expected to "control" you.

Punished if they do not.

No one is listen to EITHER of you, as you try to explain the situation. The child is upset, scared, and does not have the emotional maturity to understand why you are not to blame. All they can understand is that you appeared and everything became stressful and "bad". They started getting punished. Have to share their room now.

Do you even have rights? If you get hurt, get MAIMED, what will happen to you? Can you hold a job? Own land? Open a bank account? Fuck it! Can you have a RELATIONSHIP?

If you went out RIGHT NOW and punched a purse thief, would the FOUR YEAR OLD be arrested?

If the kid grows up, becomes a hero, and you do secretarial work... does his license cover you? If YOU wanted to become a Hero, would he be your hero partner? Could he technically sit in a corner and let you work?

If no one could TELL, over an internet connection, then surely that should prove SOMETHING? Right?

And! The question NO ONE ever seems to ask!

Could..... could you LEAVE? Do people have the right to force you back? If you don't WANT to be some kid's Quirk? You're sentient. If, unlike Dark Shadow, you are not PHYSICALLY connected, but tethered by distance?

Could. You. Leave?

Just "Allright, I'm out. The way you're all treating me is unacceptable. See ya never." And walk out the door? You'd be able to gain distance as the kid grew older. As long as you hid? You be homeless, without papers, but free.

A sentient Quirk means free will. Means you don't HAVE to do shit. It's like being born with a twin, not a slave. And that Twin does NOT have to put up with your bullshit. YOU are the one asking THEM to work with you, after all.

This? Of course, ALSO just ABSOLUTELY BEGS the question? What if that four year old grew up to be a BASTARD? Just... NO self reflection or empathy. Everything is everyone else's fault, always. And they want a NEW Quirk. One that won't question them.

So they sell theirs, buy a new one. Probably die off screen trying to throw it around.

What happens to you THEN? Pain, obviously. Like... massive, massive amounts of pain. You ARE a Quirk. You're being ripped out by your metaphorical roots. By the NERVE ENDINGS. But? Do you... for lack of a better word, "reset"?

Are you back infront of "your" person? Or do you stay, safely, where you are? Both would be fascinating, honestly. Because I imagine All for One? Does NOT get sentient quirks often. If at all.

They'd sooner kill themselves.

After all, if your choice is "kill yourself and your beloved twin" or "be ripped apart and watch them die horribly, then be used to go against everything you both stood for"? You weep and promise to make it fast.

Then you make it fast.

It's... really annoying, I'd imagine, for All for One. It's not necessarily that he WANTS a sentient Quirk. But they are INTERESTING. And he likes interesting.

He also likes owning things that can't leave. Ever.

So of course he'll poke and prod at the Quirk. It will inevitably be a nightmare, either way. Because EVERY Sentient Quirk has some degree of communication aspect to it. Just because the original holder never figured it out, doesn't mean HE can't.

And while your range may now be much, MUCH bigger? Because the fucker is strong as hell? How useful is that... if he can talk to you when ever HE feels like it? Day or night. 24/7.

And that's assuming you don't reset. God help you if you reset. Because THEN your STANDING infront of, most likely, pre-face-smash All for One. Who's looking at you like he just won a Mildly Interesting Prize and you would PREFER HE NOT. But what are you gonna do?

Walk out again?

You think THAT'S an option here?!

I mean... you can and do TRY. But, obviously not. So like? Fuck ™.

THEN the question becomes? Would YOU go to Tarturaus. Are you a hostage? Or an accomplice? You have the same level of power and authority as a cat, deliberately knocking pages of tables and cups to the floor, but... like? Oooooh~ oh yeah! THATS gonna slow him down! His empire crumbles beneath the sheer MIGHT of your petty inconveniences!

*trips the doctor again*

Fffffuck you.

#bnha #bnha ponderings #minji's writing #minji's ponderings #bnha oc #sentient quirks #all for one #prompt i guess?#bnha prompt

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yxstxrdrxxm · 8 months

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SYNOPSIS: Lyney has a patience of a saint, but he's had enough of this game of cat and mouse. This time, he wants you, and no one will stop him for getting what he wants. (2nd POV) [ IDENTITYV AU ]

TW/S: Yandere tendencies, stalking (he's chasing you), minor character death (other survivors died), emotional manipulation, Arle teaches him how to """metaphorically""" cut off someone's 'wings', ooc Lyney and Arle, gore, teeth, Lyney is unhinged

You couldn't remember what tipped him off. It could be from your actions, or it could be from what you said. Hell, it may as well be something that you unknowingly did that offended him— something that would normally not be a bother to him that became its own trigger.

Whatever it could be, you were in the other end of such a horrible fate. And alas, the last place you wished you didn't end up in had to be the one you loathed the most.

The eerie chimes of the bell echoing around the haunted town continued to plague your senses, followed by the faint meowing of the grin-malkin cats as you sprinted for your dear life.

You can hardly focus on what is there and isn't there, as all you had is to get the hell out of here and save this sinking match.

Your only task is to survive.

Survive the madness of the man that loved you in such a twisted, horrible way.

You were his rabbit, and Eversleeping Town was the location of his greatest show yet— a show that will capture not just your attention, but your own will.

Granted, the ever forgiving Illusionist made a simple deal— if you get out by any means necessary, be it the dungeon, exit gate, or, hell— even by completing the ciphers with your companions or saved by the Nightingale… He'll let you go.

However, should you go down, he would consider that as a win of his own, and that meant you cannot leave this forsaken match that you're under.

It's why you were prepared. You came with a companion or two that can assist you, even if it had its own drawbacks.

Alas, this did not stop the Knave from simply going after them first, leaving only 4 ciphers and the dungeon still hidden and closed from many prying eyes. You were clever to cover your tracks, but he is more so with removing the most trickiest companions yet.

…

Or, that's what many may think.

The Knave bas been taught from the best of the best— his "Father" has taught him of how to, in simpler terms, keep a bird from flying away in its cage.

Should Lyney need it, he needed to learn one crucial detail: he needed to learn just how to clip his beloved's wings first and keep them in his cage.

After all, if he had found a way to do such a thing… the outcome of the match will be nothing but predictable.

And the Knave thrives off of the uncertainty, and especially with being dubbed the Trickster of Eversleeping.

He'll let you off for now. He'll let you scurry around, trying and praying that he never catches wind of your antics.

After all, the moment he catches you, you will have to pray to whatever God you believed in that he feels nice enough to not take you down to his very grave.

"Now, Lyney," he could vaguely hear 'Father' speak as she handed him his cards. Gesturing right before them was the sight of someone bound in the chair. The magician stood as he saw the stranger shake and struggle, trying to say something under the gag.

"You must learn how to use your tricks to matters such as this. I'm sure it will be hard, but I have faith that you can do it."

He seemed rather hesitant to speak with how the fool was trying and failing to scream. To beg, even. It was a pathetic sight if Lyney didn't had morals... Which he had, much to 'Father's' chagrin.

Oh well. It wasn't as though having morals can be a bad thing. Maybe it was better, so she can use it to her advantage.

"Take this, Lyney."

She hands the young magician an item. One that can be used with just a bit of force.

"Now, let Father teach you how to clip a bird's wings. All you have to do is watch and follow my lead. You can do that, right?"

He turned his gaze to the taller woman, then to the item she handed to him. The sight of the iron and leather caught his attention, and especially with the ends of it's 'mouth' being bloodied.

Pliers.

He should've dropped it the moment he had it. He should have done that and not agree. It was brutal to harm another person, and he knew that.

... But his 'Father' would simply dangle the life of Lynette over his head. She could simply threaten to send Lynette off to a dangerous mission, especially one where dying is guaranteed.

Many have died, and Lyney was not a stranger to that.

However, his sister was special. She was the only one he had left, and she to him. Should she die, he didn't knew what he'd end up doing.

And so, with a deep breath, he nodded and faced his 'Father'.

"Yes, Father."

...

That day didn't end in a simple case of dental work.

But he learned how to 'clip' a person's wings in exchange.

Your chest began to heave as you traversed through the empty buildings of the town, fatigue catching up to you the more you spent running.

Although your legs ached and begged for a break, you continued running, feeling the rush from behind you— one from the grin-malkin cats.

Now, one can say that you thought covering your tracks was a skill you need to learn. And with that, you assumed it to be the case. However, you've yet to learn that it was better not to underestimate a hunter's skills.

A lesson that Lyney, a man whom you've helped when you were both survivors, would be more than happy to teach you.

As you vaulted over an open window, you felt the air grow harsh as it whipped you on your descent, your feet landing on the pavement. Feeling your muscles tighten, you grit your teeth and sprinted onwards.

Come on, I just need to get to the graveyard. I can lose him from there!

Alas, you were not gifted with the matter of stamina. Just as you've reached past the tracks of the tram, you could hear Lyney speak from behind you.

"Look at what we have here! Scurrying off, are we?"

And then, you felt it.

Pain.

The harsh hit from Rosseland, his cat, as you vaulted over the window leading to the land of tombstones sent you flying; your back soon collided with one of the worn headstones, making you groan in pain.

In the midst of your suffering, Lyney vaulted through the window, his purple eyes twinkling as he crouched down to look at you.

"My, my, my little rabbit," he tutted, chuckling as he watched you crawl away from him with no avail. "Haven't we made a deal? If you manage to escape this match, I'll let you go. But since you went down... I get to keep you. Do you remember that?"

... You kept your mouth shut.

"... [Name]," he said, his right hand reaching over to grab your neck. "Answer me. Do you remember what our agreement is?"

"... I do."

And yet it feels like it's stacked against me.

Coughing, you turned your head away from him. You didn't need to see his face to know that he was happy to hear your agreement to the matter.

"See? It isn't so hard to agree, now, is it?" he asked with a lit of his voice. "Now, my darling... Now that I have you, I'd like for you to answer a few questions for me."

Questions?

"... And if I refuse?"

Lyney laughed at that, but his voice was less composed. Perhaps it was more manic.

"Ahahahaha! What makes you think you're able to refuse, my little hare?" he asked, his eyes closed before reaching up to grab your chin. With an iron grip, he turned your head to him, his eyes open to face you with a chilling smile.

"I'd hate to have you toy with me like that. You know that, right?"

You wanted to say otherwise, but you were already incapacitated. If you ever decided to counter his claim, you knew that he would do worse than simply chairing you to one of the... Less than desirable chairs with rockets strapped onto them.

".. Fine," you breathed out. "I agree."

"Splendid," he said, pulling his gloved hand away to grab his hat. As he pulled it off of his head and turned it upside down, he reached his left to slip inside.

"Now, I don't want to you to force my hand. It's only a few questions that I want you to answer, and if you answer them truthfully... I may spare you by chairing you myself."

You didn't knew what that meant...

... Up until you saw a pair of pliers peek out from his hand, the dull gleam of iron greeting your horrified face.

"But if you lied, I'll have to resort to some more... Drastic measures."

The hours you two spent together was, in short, torture.

You couldn't count the amount of times that your teeth got yanked with those metal ones, the pain and blood gushing as you wailed.

You could count other ways that would be better than feeling metal graze and nick at them. You could've asked for simply to be drugged, to face death by his hands, to bleed onto the ground that he walked on.

However, death was not a fate worse than this. And Lyney— rather, the Lyney you see now, not the one you know of— was a man who had a manic streak hidden under that smile.

As he yanked the nineteenth tooth out of you, he turned his head down to see blood drip down and stain your clothes. He scowled and placed his pliers down with four teeth now on his right side, grabbing a handkerchief to wipe the blood away.

He knew it was pointless. You did, too.

Maybe it was a way to distract yourself from the pain, and for him to justify his actions in doing such a thing.

Alas, delusions can only take you so far, and pain is karma's many mistresses. One of many that everyone in the manor is familiar with, you and Lyney included.

"Shhh..."

He began to dab the cloth more as blood spilled and tainted the fabric, his smile empty of its sympathy for your decision to lie to him. All he could see before him was his darling, whose way, way too stubborn for his good.

And one that is good to make him lose his patience.

"I have warned you, haven't I?" he asked, his voice chilling yet sickeningly sweet while he pulled the handkerchief away. Tossing it to a direction he could care less to look, he grabbed another from his hat to continue his 'treatment'.

"If you had simply stayed truthful, you wouldn't have to loose your teeth! And yet, you didn't listen," he concluded, tutting as you sobbed and turned your head from him.

"I pity you, my dear hare. But it's the price to pay with how you didn't listen to my warnings."

When the blood stopped spilling, he placed the bloodied fabric and stared at his handiwork. From the answers he got from you, he was quite... Intrigued with what you told him.

"Now... I'm going to ask you one more time."

Grabbing the now bloodied pliers, he positioned it to your twentieth tooth, ignoring the sobs you let out and your gaze full of fear.

"Do you prefer my dear sister, Lynette?"

He could hear your breath heave as the metal 'teeth' of the pliers began to tighten.

However, the answer you gave him was interesting... Especially when you whispered out 'yes' with your greatest efforts.

...

"Is that so?"

He couldn't help but laugh. So, you do prefer Lynette, his sister... Over him? What a farce!

He may care for his sister to death, but he would rather have you than her survive to be his lifelong assistant.

Especially now that his 'Father' gave him the role of Knave, and how his siblings have been punished for trying to go against him and save that sorry excuse of magician. Himself.

"Ah, I see how it is," he said, his voice merely a wheeze as his hand shook. However, it went still and firm once more, and he gave you a lopsided smile.

"Do you remember what I've told you before, hm? Back when we were simply 'survivors' in this forsaken manor?"

Your body shook.

"Magicians generally do not reveal the core secrets behind their tricks," he said, his smile widening. "And especially if it concerns their heart. However, I may just revoke that if you call me 'Master Lyney' and swear to be my only assistant— and only me."

He could see that you were shaking even more, and the fear was what drove him mad. Alas, he knew that he might nick at your gums if he got too rough.

Not that you mind, right?

"I'm curious how much of it you'd understand," he concluded, leaning over to continue in a whisper.

"And how long you'd last, hehe~"

And thus, he yanked your twentieth tooth, causing your screams to erupt all through the barren town and the Illusionist to shiver in glee. He always enjoyed the thought of performing, but maybe he has lost it while staying here for so long.

Putting the pliers away, he hushed you and began to rock your body, uncaring of the sobbing and your blood staining his attire.

"I just wish to make a point. And I hope you understand that, my assistant."

Alas, the day cannot last forever. Lyney knew that, and it's why he decided to do one last trick.

Covering your eyes, he grabbed a crimson red handkerchief— one tainted with your blood— and covered your face. With a whisper, he pulled it away, leaning back to see his handiwork.

"And... Voila!"

He seemed rather smug as he saw teeth were back in your mouth, each one untainted and straight like new. Still, the damage was done, as you continued to sob and wail, begging for him to not do it again.

...

That day didn't end in a simple denture fix, that he's certain of.

But he utilized what 'Father' taught him all those years ago.

And that was good enough.

@.throw-letter-away | do not republish or repost my works anywhere | 2023

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