#feels so forced and contrived

[sapphire-weapon]

was in the middle of putting on makeup and getting ready for work when i started thinking about how ashley probably went through a legitimate mourning period after leon cut her out of his life, cycling through the different stages of grief over and over and sometimes out of order

because, while he might still be alive, he’s basically dead as far as she’s concerned. he’s gone, and she can’t see him or talk to him and has no access to any information about his life. if she calls him, his phone just rings as though no one owns it anymore.

and how it’s probably real grief in every sense of the word due to the fact that it never truly goes away. it fades over time, and some days she doesn’t even think of him at all -- and when she does think of him, it’s as a distant memory like “oh, that happened.��� but then every once in a while, she sees something, or hears something, or the wind blows just the right way, and she feels his absence hit her all over again. she just gets this feeling that this -- what she’s doing, where she is -- is wrong. this isn’t how her life is supposed to be, and there’s something missing.

and by the likely time of RE9, she’ll be 40, and will probably have never been married or really had any sort of successful relationship at all -- not just because anyone she meets isn’t him, but because no one she meets lives up to the unreachable standards that he set. no one else has ever made her feel as safe as he did. no one else has the perfect balance of kindness and strength and patience and confidence and tenderness and courage that he had. tough guys are always too aggressive and insecure, and sweet guys lack the hard edge. and even guys who do break through into having some kind of relationship with her eventually leave anyway, because none of them understand why she sometimes screams another man’s name in her sleep, because the only answer she ever gives to the question “who’s leon?” is “oh he worked for my dad when he was in office. he helped me out that one year that i got really, really sick and needed surgery.” because boy is that an obvious lie, but they can’t tell why and she won’t explain.

and all she wants to know is why. why he disappeared on her, what she did wrong. why did things turn out the way they did when it didn’t need to be like this -- what is he keeping from her, what doesn’t she know?

and the saddest part is that what she doesn’t know is that he’s really, truly 100% convinced that staying away from her is him doing right by her. that he’s doing her a favor by not being a part of her life. he assumes that she’s likely thriving due to his absence -- or, at least, is much better off now than she would have been if he’d stuck around.

and if he’d just answer her fucking calls or give in to his urge to call her himself, he’d know that that was bullshit and that she needs a support system just as badly as he does and doesn’t understand why they didn’t build one for each other after all they went through together -- because literally no one else could ever possibly understand what happened but them.

he doesn’t realize that just because she’s stronger than him doesn’t mean that she’s not invincible or doesn’t still need support. and his opinion of himself is too low to even consider the notion that he could be that for her. so they just live separate lives, cut off from one another, with both of them missing what was lost at the time of their split.

[babeygirlbuckley]

kinda tired of all these parent redemption arcs tbh. give chimney a gun

[skitskatdacat63]

This is very random but. I think a lot about the name of my oc Rüß. It was originally just a stand-in name and was spelled "Russ." But I didn't want people to pronounce it "Ruh-ss" so I changed it to "Ruß" and then to "Rüß" bcs that's the way to pronounce it but it was also fun to use special characters. But then ended up at the same place I started: some people still won't know how to pronounce her name bcs the ü and ß 😭 I think my one friend called her "Rub" in her head for a while. But it is now eternally her name and I don't call her by her full name :)

[yuridovewing]

Disclaimer: I personally have not finished TBC beyond the first book. I did finish AVOS and its back half is considered poor quality for a reason. If you aren't having fun now I can tell you right now you wouldnt enjoy the rest. At most I think (iirc) the last book is important bc it establishes Juniperclaw attacking SkyClan, and Shadowsight getting a vision to swim in the flooded lake to 'unite' the clans- both of which are relevant to TBC in some way. But even then you could probably skim to the rrlevant parts, IDK.

i'll be real when i made that post last night it was kind of out of sarcasm and pettiness, like i do think im still gonna read those last three books and skim the boring parts at the very least, but that's on me cause now when i look at the post it does come across as very whiny and serious so that's on me lmao. (and i was kinda whiny at the moment cause i always forget about how mean spirited these books are.)

buuuuut hearing what people are saying, it does make me feel a bit better for skimming the back half of avos cause i think thats what i'm gonna have to do for sanity's sake if i want to catch up. i do want to give quotes and takes that are really backed up by the books and not secondhand info so i will try to keep to it but i think if i'm gonna read about thunderclan being shitty to twigpaw then im gonna start skimming cause like, we all know they were shitty to twigpaw now, it was uncomfortable when she was a kid and its uncomfortable still now that she's an adult. you don't need to see that backed up once again.

[didsomeonesayventus]

every day I deal with phone calls in my silly stupid little job and all I wanna do is unravel and figure out the knot in this little fic project of how to get from "alear is naive and overly transparent and alcryst takes it upon himself to try and mitigate the consequences" to "can you please take care of yourself too argument" to "alear makes a big dramatic rescue and saves his boyfriend"

[smooth-boob]

-

[fictionyoubelieve]

hmm. So I will say that Xander’s speech to Buffy in the episode where Riley leaves came off very much like the “she let a good man get away” thing, and it does kind of feel like the audience is supposed to agree with him, like this is a “Xander is the heart of the team and has insight into people” moment rather than a “Xander is a mildly chauvinistic buffoon” moment.

In s6, I don’t think I would have called it Buffy seeing what she missed out on with Riley, but it’s definitely about Buffy feeling bad about herself compared to where he’s at and compared to how she was when he left. Like basically the whole season up to then is Buffy feeling bad about herself and wallowing/barely coping, and the Riley visit is a super extra dose of that, really rubbing her face in it and making her feel especially ashamed about the Doublemeat gig and her thing with Spike. Plus there’s some envy of his wife, both for seeming to have her shit together much more than Buffy does while still being humble and likeable, and for having a successful relationship with Riley.

At the start of the episode, she runs out of Doublemeat with Riley and quickly falls back into rapport with him, and it does feel like she sees this as a welcome chance to reset/go back to how things were, until his wife shows up and Buffy realizes that’s not what this is, and quickly “relapses” into wallowing with Spike, only to be caught in a compromising position.

So I also wouldn’t have said it’s primarily about Buffy seeing that Riley got better, and therefore she can too, or about relieving her of any lingering guilt about their relationship—though there is some of both when they talk at the end and forgive each other. The purpose is to force Buffy’s arc back in a positive direction, but I think it does so more by making her see herself from Riley’s perspective than by treating him as a ray of hope or role model. Maybe it just depends on whether you give the climax or the resolution of the episode more weight.

Sarah Z released a new video on Buffy Season 6 - looks like she isn't the only one doing a recent Buffy binge, great minds Sarah! Given her long track record as a Buffy lover I give her props for finally going all in and making a project of it. As is going to be a surprise to no one, I am pretty middling on this video - lets go to the random thoughts:

--- My first comment on this was going be a bit of a question mark around its title, "In Defense of Buffy's Most Hated Season". Season 6? Most hated? Sure you not thinking of Season 4? Or Season 1? Season 6 is very consistently ranked as a higher Season by most - no Season 5 or 3, sure, but normally top 3 or 4. Its a bit of a "cultural baggage" idea - because of, hm, reasons, it was an extremely controversial season back in the day. But removed from its airing that drama faded away, and particularly given that season 6's musical episode is one of the most lasting legacies of the show, now it stands on its merits and is generally liked. Sarah even almost accidentally cops to that with one of her example reddit posts, from a Season 6 hater but who frames that as a hot take:

However, looks like we agree, because Sarah changed the name of the video! Now its called "You Should Watch Buffy Season 6". I respect and empathize, honestly, realizing the cultural consensus has changed can take some time.

--- For a movie review about defending Season 6, it actually spends half of its analytical run-time criticizing it. And I was not swayed by these - which I am sad about, I have my critiques of the season too. Just trying to explain why the following thoughts are about criticisms, given the title.

--- Does anyone out there interpret Riley's departure in Season 5, and one-episode return in Season 6, as Buffy "losing a good man, and being shown the life she could have had married to him if she didn't screw up"? Because that is what Sarah thinks, and that to me is a buck wild take. Riley is not a subtle character, its pretty much a defining trait of his. Pretty sure his departure in Season 5 is him leaving a bad relationship, that is bad for him and Buffy, and Buffy realizing too late that she was letting pride and self-involvement get in the way of fixing it. Not that it necessarily could be fixed, or should be, just that that was the source. And in season 6 - this to me can't be any clearer - Riley's point in returning is to highlight that he, who was in an awful place in Season 5, got better. He got over it. He's strong even when he doesn't look it. And Buffy is too. She will get over it. Its why she breaks up with Spike at the end of the episode - Buffy realizes she is still strong, she can be way she 'used' to be. It does not forgive Riley's mistakes, or is even about any of that? This is a very weird take. Honestly I want to know if others have this take, tell me if you do.

--- This very weird take by the way comes from the "misogyny" moments that the video constantly alludes to, which tie back into Joss Whedon's behavior, which I want to flag here. I'll admit that from what I have seen of the evidence, while Joss does come off like a huge asshole on set, I actually haven't seen much of a case for a lot more than that. Some people see him as this like uber-predator and I don't know where that is coming from. So I might be biased a bit here, lacking that heft of conviction.

But I still think this is generally correct - someone's personal behavior is an extremely imperfect reflection of their writing chops. Some of the most insightful prose of all time was writing for crass monetization; serial abusers have written, in spades, the most complex and well-realized victim protagonists. Writing is a skill, not a morality trait. Personal action impacts writing, sure, but not in ways that *align* with morality. The fact that Joss Whedon was an asshole on set does not mean the writing on Buffy reflects misogynist abuse. Xander isn't a misogynist - when he is mad at Anya for sleeping with Spike he is portrayed by the narrative as a clear asshole. Riley isn't portrayed as a perfect boyfriend, dude fucking pays vampires to bite him! This all in your head! You don't have to like prove Joss Whedon is a bad dude through textual analysis. His work can still be #girlboss feminism, there is no contradiction there.

--- This will be brief, but I feel like we are past the weird 2010's hiccup of thinking "fridging" is a problem, right? This is about Tara's death, ofc. Stories aren't real life, in stories some characters are way more important than others. Side characters exist, very often, to further the arcs of those main characters. One of them dying as part of a main character's arc is completely normal. Its weird I feel I have to explain this; I don't really, right? Tara is not killed off on a whim; she dies because Willow has a season-long arc of tipping over the edge on magic power, its a lot about her relationship with Tara, and her death pushes her over the brink. I'll admit I find Dark!Willow's execution to be a bit weak, but that's its own problem; the motive is solid. This is how stories work.

--- Additionally, I think there is a big, but a bit unnoticed, shift in what "works" in media around character deaths. When Joss Whedon killed Tara in Buffy - and more notably killed Wash in Serenity - he was doing a deliberate "no one is safe" thing. It became a meme, actually!

Meme-ing about Joss Whedon man, right there in the garbage dumb of the past alongside Harry Potter memes shitting on Twilight thinking its the better franchise; life comes at you fast. But anyway this was a "big thing" to happen - audiences were shocked by it! It had dramatic impact.

Then Game of Thrones happened and this got turned up to 11, and the general plot twist even more of a meme. But meanwhile, TV changed in the background; entire seasons were getting dumped at once on streaming, everything was becoming "high context" with actors live tweeting their own set experiences, fandoms got more involved and contextual, "water-cooler" shows everyone was talking about faded due to audience separation, all sorts of shit. Which meant that the "kill a main character" thing stopped being powerful - it was overplayed, spoilers were more common, it didn't "air" as a standalone episode everyone talked about. The reason to kill off a character to raise the stakes faded away.

Which means when people go back and say things like "oh I loved Tara why kill her", its...well for one Amber Benson wanted to leave the show. But additionally you can't see the power it had in 2002. TV was different then, it wanted different things.

--- To give something positive, while I think Spike's attempted rape of Buffy is a strong writing choice - very in character for Spike, and its fine that it is primarily about his arc and not Buffy's because its a story, that is how these things work - I do agree that Buffy's response to the event is just not explored enough. It comes up multiple times of course, even in Season 7, but it also gets swamped by plot events in Season 6 with Willow, its not given room to breathe.

This imo relates to the fact that the pacing of the event is a bit wonky - Spike & Buffy had been on the outs for many episodes at that point, there wasn't this strong inciting incident for it. If it had happened much closer to their breakup, in a more focused arc, it would have had more narrative impact and allowed time for both of them to respond to it. I get that they had a lot of plot balls to juggle at that point, but still, missed opportunity I think.

Okay I had more thoughts but I am tired, I think that covers my most interesting complaints/observations anyway.

[essence-inked]

So I’ve been thinking about rational vs. irrational character decisions.

An irrational decision is great when your story is driven by your character’s personal flaws and struggles, and for crafting situations where your audience knows that these decisions are unavoidable because they are perfectly in character. Having your characters be perfectly able to solve their problems if they weren’t, y’know, themselves, is so very hard-hitting, and can be a fantastic part of a narrative.

The downfall with irrational decisions is that it can make situations seem less dire or make your antagonists seem less dangerous. If your characters are falling over themselves and their own personal issues, then it’s hard to show how the external problems in your story pose a serious threat, because you can’t demonstrate how they’re hard to deal with if your characters aren’t making solidly competent attempts in the first place.

Rational decisions are great for stories where most of your problems are external, like your characters trying to build a spaceship or infiltrate the bad guy’s lair. It’s also key to any horror writing, where you need your characters to be competent in order for your danger to be credible; if your audience spends the entire time wondering why your protagonists aren’t doing very obvious things to solve their problems, it’ll be a lot harder to get a properly spooky atmosphere going. But if your characters are only ever making the most optimal, logical choices without ever struggling, they won’t be very compelling, so just like with irrational decision-making, there’s a time and a place for this.

Ideally, you want some combination of both rational and irrational character choices. And maybe even more importantly, whatever choice a character’s making needs to be one that makes sense for them given everything you’ve already shown in the narrative so far. If the decision feels forced or contrived, then it doesn’t matter if it’s rational or not, because it’s not a choice that fits with the rest of the story.

But, yeah, ultimately, both types of character decisions are useful tools, and it’s less about one or the other being right, and more about both of these tools being useful for different types of situations.

[lazyyogi]

We shrink away from the experiences that make us feel squeamish: fear, awkwardness, shame, self-consciousness, and the like. Not knowing how to manage the involuntary cringe, we try to force a deliberate ignorance to make it go away. We avert our gaze, cover our face, or look at our phones.

Some people want so badly to avoid feeling cringe that they will carefully shape their words and actions, continuously monitoring and censoring themselves until it becomes conditioned into their consciousness.

When we kill the part of ourselves that is cringe, we become rigid and contrived. We lose access to the freshness and authenticity discovered in unconditioned spontaneity. As a result, we also become predictable and more easily manipulated.

What is the alternative? Freedom, of course.

If instead of hiding you stay with the experience, feeling all the cringe and enduring all the squeamishness, you create the opportunity to see through its illusion. You weaken and eventually break the power these experiences had over you.

Continue on that path long enough and you will awaken from the cringing fake self entirely.

[eff-plays]

Idk if this is a hot take of any kind but I actually really like that Astarion's romance starts off in an unhealthy way and evolves. That's like ... the point? Ya know?

It's interesting. It adds layers and conflict. It allows for growth and evolution. And Larian have claimed multiple times that it was on purpose, that many video game romances have sex as the culmination while here, some characters will fuck you immediately but then what? What happens after? Sex isn't the reward, but part of the relationship. There is more beyond. But people think that there being stuff beyond sex means that that's the only value that exists, and that the sex adds nothing. But in Astarion's case, it's extremely important?

It's complicated. His relationship with sex is complicated. They did it on purpose. That's the point. So what if it's not "uwu soft trust me I don't want sex please let's just hold hands" from the start? He doesn't trust the PC from the start, so why the fuck would he agree to that? He doesn't know them at all. He needs to do things his way because he's not ready for anything else yet. And if you feel sad for him, that's fine, because it's meant to be sad? But to the point of it becoming anger at the people who wrote it? That's weird, man. Astarion isn't real, you're not hurting a real person, and he literally asks Tav for it? In my case, he asks them twice before they say yes. They're not forcing him into anything. The only time you can force him is after the Araj scene, and he immediately breaks up with you after. So he's clearly perfectly capable of ending things if they get too toxic.

I swom to Jon just romance someone else at that point. Idk if this is my romance writer brain talking but well-written, not contrived, and non-abusive conflict is actually rare and sometimes difficult to write, but IMO every good romance needs conflict. Because at the end of the day, it's also a story?

It's not perfect because it's not meant to be. It's meant to be a starting point to evolve from. Sometimes things can be unhealthy without being abusive or problematic TM.

Anyway. Yeah I like how fucked up it is. Because Astarion is fucked up. It makes it more real and more compelling. I made my Tav fucked up to match.

"Well my Tav wouldn't fall for it and would realize ...!" Roleplay harder. Clearly Tav/Durge aren't meant to pick up on his manipulations from the start, or overlook them, or fall for them. There's a bajillion different ways to justify it. If you can't see past your own meta knowledge, romance someone else.

But if you really want the relationship to start without sex then just write that fic? Why are you demanding that Larian caters to your specific tastes and sensibilities? They had a story to tell and they told it. You not liking it is neither a personal a slight against you nor their problem.

[deception-united]

Before you kill a character...

Consider the following.

Does it advance the plot?

Killing off a character should serve a purpose in propelling the story forward. It could introduce a new conflict, escalate existing tensions, or trigger a series of events that drive the plot in a new direction. If the character's death doesn't contribute to the overall narrative arc, it might feel gratuitous or unnecessary.

Does it fulfil their personal goal?

Each character has their own arcs and objectives within the story. If the character's death aligns with or resolves their personal journey or goal, it can add depth and closure to their character arc. Conversely, if their death feels disconnected from their goals or character development, it may come across as arbitrary or unsatisfying.

Does it emphasise the theme?

The death of a character can highlight or support key themes by demonstrating their consequences or illustrating the moral dilemmas faced by the remaining characters. A well-executed death can deepen the audience's understanding of the story's themes and add layers of complexity to the narrative.

Does it motivate other characters?

Character deaths can serve as catalysts for growth or change in other characters. The loss of a loved one or ally can drive characters to reevaluate their beliefs, make difficult decisions, or embark on new paths. The impact of the death on other characters can reveal their strengths, weaknesses, and relationships, adding depth to the story's interpersonal dynamics.

Does it create realism?

The inclusion of death can lend authenticity to the story world. If the character's death feels earned and plausible within the context of the narrative, it can enhance the story's credibility and emotional resonance. However, if the death feels contrived or forced, it may strain the reader's suspension of disbelief.

Is it a fitting recompense?

In some cases, characters may meet their demise as a consequence of their actions or decisions. If the character's death serves as a form of justice or retribution for their deeds, it can feel narratively satisfying and thematically resonant. However, if the death feels arbitrary or disconnected from the character's arc or the story's events, it may feel unsatisfying or even unjustified.

Don't kill off a character for the sake of shocking the reader or invoking sadness; when considering whether to kill off a character in your story, it's crucial to ensure their demise serves a purpose beyond mere shock value or convenience. Ensure each character serves a purpose that enriches and enhances the story to avoid having to eliminate them solely for convenience. Don't use death as a means to remove an extra or irrelevant character—you shouldn't have them in the first place, if they're disposable. Doing so will undermine the depth and integrity of the narrative.

Hope this was helpful! Happy writing ❤

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[skzdarlings]

mine ; lee minho x reader

original ask: requested by @tattywood. “Can you please do ❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜ with Lee Know? I just know you’ll come up with something amazing! 🩶"

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: another pair of star-crossed lovers lol. reader is kissed by a different guy without her permission. possessive sex. unsafe sex. lots of biting and marking and grabbing. word count: 3700 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

-

You finally escape.

When the date is over and your supposed boyfriend leaves, you run out the back door.  Your parents are distracted, waving goodbye to your boyfriend as he pulls away in his expensive car.  They chat between themselves on the front porch of the family estate. 

“Such a remarkable young man,” they say.  “So wholesome.  So intelligent.“

So rich, is what they really mean.  Because he is not wholesome; he is a bully and a bigot at the best of times.  He derides anyone he deems beneath him, which is just about everyone.  He is also not intelligent, as true depth of intellect is revealed in conduct.  Someone that cruel and ignorant is not intelligent.  You have engaged in more stimulating discourse with birds.

But he is wealthy.  Your parents picked him for you and have been forcing the relationship along, contriving dates without telling you he will be there, inviting him into your home, encouraging his empty and shallow affection.  You encourage nothing, sitting stiffly whenever he touches you: an arm slung around your waist, a hand on your lower back, a kiss on the cheek.

Maybe you were naïve to think it would not escalate before its time, that you could bear it cordially until his interest withered and died.  Foolish.  He is not here for you but your name.  He does not care how you feel.  He does not care if you want him.  He wants the money and connections and power, sharing a bed with your parents through you.

Today he cornered you when you were alone.  He backed you into the wall and kissed you.  An unwanted kiss is a disgustingly slimy thing, all tongue and teeth and the bad, unfamiliar taste of a vile man’s breath.

Your whole unlived life flashed in your mind’s eye.  Every second was irredeemably awful.

So you run.  Out the back door, to the garage, weaving around your father’s cars.  Your old bike is hooked on its rack and you lift it down with some grunting effort.  You are dressed for a date, wearing a pristine ivory dress your mother picked, white lace stockings, and delicate flats.  It is not the ideal outfit for riding a bike.  It is a pretty but flimsy thing.  Summer nights are warm but there is a crisp breath on the wind as the sun sets. 

But if you stop for even a second, even just to change clothes, even just to catch your breath, then you will never get away. 

You swing onto your bike and escape via the back lane.  It is a long ride across town but your adrenaline propels you onward.

It is very obvious when you have crossed into new territory.  Across the park trail and over the railroad tracks is a different world.  The houses get smaller, more ramshackle, junk piled around the fully abandoned abodes.  Even the lived-in homes have old trucks and rusted goods stacked on their lawns.  It is a consequence of impoverished anxiety, hoarding in fear of one day having nothing.

Indeed, a very different part of town. 

Your parents are probably furious they cannot find you, but they will assume you ran to a nearby friend’s house.  If they knew where you really were, which friend you went to see, they would surpass furious and venture all the way into horror. 

But they are far away now.

You feel nothing but relief as the air changes.  You know it is the chill of a summer night as the sky turns blue, but it convinces you the air is clearer.  You exhale and feel as though you are releasing a breath that you have been holding all day.

Your journey takes you to a familiar yard.  You remember the first time you ever visited, standing so small and uncertain on the front steps, waiting for a kiss you actually wanted.

A kiss that never came.  

You park your bike against the side of the house.  You walk up the front steps on shaky legs, weak from speedy riding.    

You open the screen door to knock on the inside door.  While you wait for an answer, you fiddle with your appearance, adjusting any evidence of wind-swept dishevelment.

Oh, you are so nervous.  You were so hellbent on just getting here, you did not register any feeling beyond determination. But now you are standing on this porch in your flimsy white dress, the sun set, the day done.  You are doing something you should have done a long, long time ago and suddenly fearing you are far, far too late. 

No answer comes.  You knock again.

Your stomach forms a pit you hope you will eat you whole.  Is he ignoring you?  No.  The windows are shut, the blinds closed.  He cannot even see you.

You take a step back.  Even with everything sealed shut, you should be able to see a hint of light.  The house is small, a single story.  There are only so many places he could be.

He isn’t home, you realize, first with relief that he is not ignoring you, then with dejection.  Of course he’s not home, you tell yourself.  What were you even thinking?  Silly girl.  Riding all the way out here, expecting him to be sitting around and waiting for you.  He has a life of his own.  He probably doesn’t even think about you.  You’re pathetic.

You know you are being a little melodramatic.  Your emotions have been running at an extreme all day.  They finally become too much to bear.  You sit down on the steps and cry. 

Some time passes.  You eventually calm yourself enough to wipe your eyes.  You feel the cold more acutely now, wrapping your arms around yourself for warmth. 

You are not sure what to do now.  You refuse to go home, knowing what awaits you.  You have nowhere else to go. Your future is murky, which is still more comforting than the vision of it when your boyfriend forcibly kissed you.   

You sigh.  You know if you wait long enough, your friend will come home and help you.  Even if he doesn’t want you, even if he can be a bit standoffish at times, he has the warmest heart you know.  You met doing volunteer work, in fact.  You know he will help you like he would help anyone in need.

It does not mean you do not feel pathetic, curled up and shivering on his porch steps.  You are debating a course of action when a truck rolls into the yard with a flash of headlights and a noticeably hiccupping engine.  It pulls around the side of the house.

You stand and take tentative steps to follow.  You are still and quiet as the rough rumble of the truck comes to a wheezy stop. 

The driver door flies open.  He jumps out, cursing.  Your breath catches and all your hypotheticals dissipate in wake of the reality of him.

Lee Minho.

He is wearing his old, dusty leather jacket, something of a signature piece due its reliability.  His jeans are torn at the knee, likely a legitimate tear and not a fashion statement, his old work boots a bit scuffed.  He is a working man of limited means and nothing functional goes to waste.  

He is beautiful as ever.  Dark hair falls across his forehead and he pushes it back with a forceful rake, the softer pieces fluttering forward again.  He has an athletic frame, but delicate features despite his near-perpetual scowl.  When he does laugh, it is a hilariously boisterous sound.

He is scowling right now.  Cursing to himself as he stomps around the beat-up truck.  He wears a carabiner with a bundle of emergency tools, grabbing a miniature flashlight to guide his way.  He props open the hood and starts rustling around inside.  He curses again, then he puts the light away so he can reach inside with both hands.

You do not mean to startle him.  You thought he might have seen you, observant as he is, but apparently the truck has him distracted.

“Minho,” you say. 

You cannot see him too well in the dark, but you hear the distinctive thud of metal as he undoubtedly smacks his head on the open hood.  He curses louder this time. 

There is a small light on the side of the house.  You step towards it at the same time. 

He is rubbing the back of his head, frowning, but he comes to a total stop when he sees you.  His eyes widen ever so slightly, his brows drawn in confusion.  He stares intently at you. 

“Hi,” you say.

He just keeps staring. 

“Um. I was just in the neighbourhood,” you say.  “I wanted to see you.  I hope you’re doing well.”

He drops his arm and it swings at his side.  He continues to stare at you, the furrow in his brow more intense. 

“Right,” you say.  You feel a catch in the back of your throat.  Fortunately, you have cried all your tears and will not make a fool of yourself in front of him.  More of a fool, that is.  You want to say so many things but you cannot think of a single word that suffices. 

I missed you so much, you think.  I think about you every day.  Have you thought about me?

It sounds so clingy and pathetic.  Your boyfriend derides such women and their neediness.  Minho is not a man like that, though.  He has never spoken so disparagingly about someone.  You know that, but the words catch nonetheless. 

You exhale a shaky breath, looking aside at nothing. 

“I’m sorry,” you finally say.  “I probably shouldn’t have come here.  It’s been months since we last spoke.  I know we’re not really friends anymore.  I just had no where else to go and I…”

“You were crying,” he says. 

You look at him.  His expression has not softened.  It is still that same scrutinizing stare.  His gaze is intently locked on yours, on eyes that must show the evidence of your crying. 

You wipe your face quickly, embarrassed.  Your gaze lifts when he takes a small step towards you.  He reaches for you, as if he means to wipe your eyes himself, but then he catches the sight of his own hand, covered in black grease from the truck. 

“Shit,” he says, and snaps his arm back. 

“Minho,” you say, your heart fluttering just from the suggestion he was going to touch you.  A small touch from him means more than anything. 

“Princess,” he says, an old affectionate nickname for you, though he speaks it rather dryly.  He is still frowning.  “Are you hurt?”

“Maybe,” you say.  When he reacts physically, his shoulders stiffening, you quickly add, “Not like that.  Emotionally, I mean.  I just… I think I ran away from home.”

“You think,” he says flatly.

“Well, I didn’t really think it through, to be honest,” you say shyly.  “I just… I couldn’t stay there anymore.  You know what they’re like.” 

He flinches as if the memory comes with a strike.  You feel embarrassed, remembering too. 

You and Minho became fast friends through your mutual volunteer efforts.  You thought nothing of inviting him to a neighbourhood party at your parents’ house.  He wore his nicest shirt and fresh pants, but as soon as everyone found out where he came from, they wanted nothing to do with him. 

You are embarrassed to say you did not even notice at first, naively taking politeness for granted.  He had to explain it to you, then you saw their two-facedness everywhere and felt horrible.

You stayed on his side of town after that, at least until your parents put their foot down.  They didn’t want you developing feelings for that kind of boy.   You insisted he was just a friend, even while already in love with him.  His biting wit and good heart had you in thrall. 

You were in denial about your parents being bad people.  You wanted to believe they had your best interest at heart.  They were just set in their ways.  They wanted a good life for you.  You told Minho to just give them time.  He let you go.  They introduced you to your new boyfriend the next day. 

Minho takes a breath.  He shoves his tongue into his cheek, looking pensive.  You are thinking of something to say when he nods his head. 

“You look cold,” he says frankly.  “Let’s go inside.”

You nod, following him to the front steps.  He grabs the porch rail and jumps the steps in an effortless swing.  You shuffle behind him while he unlocks the door. 

He says nothing, just nods at you.  You follow him through, closing the door while he bends down to unlace his boots.  He kicks them to the side while you step softly out of your flats.  When you meet each other’s eyes, you feel a spark. 

You stood in this very spot a few months ago, almost nose to nose, arguing about your parents and what to do.  You knew, deep in your heart, the conversation was not about a mere friendship.  You both had stronger feelings, but you were both scared to act on them given your precarious circumstance.  He did not want to risk everything while you were indecisive.  You wanted to keep everything. 

You have lived a life of great privilege and you are used to getting everything you want.  You have had to confront reality, that you cannot always have everything.   

So, if you can only have one thing, you want him. 

He looks at you with the same dark passion as then.  Your heart skips beats under his intense gaze. 

“You’re here,” he says. Maybe the same memories flicker through his mind.  He tips his head, looking at you so closely, like he cannot believe you are real.   

“Yes,” you say softly, clasping your hands in front of you. “I’m here.” 

“To stay,” he says.

“If you’ll have me,” you reply.  Your heart is beating so hard, it is a wonder he cannot hear it.  Your legs feel even weaker than before, but this time is has nothing to do with bicycles and everything to do with him. 

He swallows, his throat bobbing.  He sniffs and looks aside while idly tugging his jacket.   

“And your boyfriend?” he says, glaring at the far wall. 

Your heart sinks.  It is your turn to swallow. 

“You know about that?” you ask. 

He laughs, not that gleeful sound you know but a sharp cackle.  He looks at you incredulously. 

“Of course I know,” he says.  “I don’t always stay on my side of the tracks.  Sometimes,” he speaks with sarcastic wonder, “I get to repair houses for the pretty rich people.”  He huffs, shaking his head.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “You should be with someone like that.  He’ll give you the house.  The car.  I bet your parents love him too.”

“I don’t want those things,” you say, bearing his bitterness because you understand what he is feeling.  You lift your chin and look him in the eye.  “You’re right, my parents do love him.  But I don’t.  He’s shallow and unkind.  And you—”  Your voice catches.  “You, Lee Minho, are anything but that.  You are everything.  And I… I love you.  I always have.”  You drop your eyes with this confession, suddenly overwhelmed with the sheer emotion pouring out of his gaze.  “I know it’s been a while,” you say.  “I don’t expect you to have waited for me.  I just—”

He laughs again.  It is still dry, but not so sharp.  You glance at him. 

“Princess,” he says. “Don’t tell me you seriously think I could just forget about you.”  He shakes his head.  “It’s like you don’t even know me.  I should kick you out just for that.”

You realize he is joking, the faintest hint of something warm melting his scowl. 

“I can’t give you that life,” he says seriously. 

You step towards him, holding his gaze, pouring as much emotion back at him.  He exhales, blinking quickly, long lashes fluttering as he looks at you. 

“I have no idea what we’re gonna do,” you admit.  “But I know I want to figure it out.  With you.  And no one else.” 

He smiles and it makes you smile.  Then he reaches for you, but stops when he once more remembers his dirty hands. 

“Shit,” he says again, then takes a step back.  “Let me just—”

You take him by the wrist and yank him towards you.  He follows your guidance, his breath catching when you plant his hand on your hip.  It will leave a big black stain on your perfect white dress, the shape of his hand in a possessive grip on your body. 

It is more effective than any word.  He swoops in and kisses you, his other hand cupping your other hip with the same deliberate possessiveness.   You are certain this horrid little gown will be destroyed and you do not care one bit.  You wrap your arms around his neck and kiss him back. 

“You’re cruel,” he says between kisses.  “Torturing me for so long.  I wanted to kill that man.  But I thought he made you happy—”

“He disgusted me,” you say.  “He kissed me without my permission today.”

“What.”  That stops the kiss and he looks at you with that scowl again.  “I’ll kill him,” he says without any hesitation. 

You just laugh a gentle laugh, shaking your head.  You twist a longer tuft of his hair around your finger, making his tense shoulders go soft as he leans in. 

“You don’t have to kill him,” you say.  “Just make me forget him.” 

Oh, Lee Minho is such an awful tease all the time.  Of course he goes back to just staring at you with a contemplative air, making you wriggle and wonder in his arms.  You whine his name, trying to kiss him, but he dodges it.  Your whimpering makes him laugh, because of course it does. 

Then he gets very serious.  Your heart sends a bolt of heat shooting through your body.  Your thighs press together. 

He presses his forehead to yours.  You gasp when you feel his fingers on your back, the careful slow touch as he tugs your zipper down.  The flimsy dress slides off your body as he steps back to look at you.  You shiver, gazing back at him.  His stare is unflinching as he peels off his jacket and tosses it aside.  His hands are already much cleaner, the distinctive print of his palms still plastered to your dress.  He wipes the rest on his own shirt then tugs it off and tosses it to the side. 

He smirks and wiggles two come hither fingers at you, walking backwards.  You follow him slowly, then give chase when he cackles and runs.  You follow him into the bedroom where he literally sweeps you off your feet.

“And you say I’m cruel,” you tease.   

He closes the door with a firm snap then leans you against it. 

“You are,” he says.  He looks down your body while running his fingers through his hair.  “You are.” 

Then he gets on his knees, first one while he tugs your panties down, then the other, when he hooks your leg over his shoulder and put his mouth on you.  He does not tease anymore, swiftly finding all the ways to make you moan his name.  You are scared your leg will buckle under you when he makes you come, but he holds you steady. 

Then he stands up and cups your face, kissing you deeply, making you taste yourself on his tongue.  It is a good kiss, everything a kiss should be, hot and hungry, slow and deep.  It makes you tingle with aftershocks, blinking at him with delirious pleasure when he pulls back.   

Minho can be loud, can be boisterous, can be scathing.  He can also speak gently, in such a soft, light rasp.  It makes your head spin.   He speaks like that now.    

“This is how it is,” he says, then kisses you again, licks into your mouth.  When you moan, he moans back.  “I make you sigh,” he says.  “I make your pussy wet.  I make you come.  Just me.”

“Yes,” you nod, clinging to him when he carries you to the bed.  “You, Minho.” 

He lays you down, kneeling between your open legs.  They are still quivering from your orgasm.  He looks at you, hungrily, while opening his belt.  He rips it out of his jeans and tosses it behind him, then unzips while leaning down to kiss you.  He dives past your waiting mouth to kiss your throat, biting marks under your jaw, on your neck, on your tits.  You grab his head, hands in his hair, arching your back under his desperate mouth. 

“You’re mine,” he says.  “You’ve always been mine.”

He holds your hips while thrusting inside you.  You imagine his hands leaving a permanent mark, just like that stained dress, a claiming that forever marks you as his.  He fucks you so steadily and deeply, holding you possessively, gasping your name and how good you feel while he takes you. 

“Perfect,” he says in that dreamy voice, rubbing you softly while fucking you hard. It makes you come around his cock, clenching tight, which makes him moan into your mouth.   “Mine.”

You wrap your legs around him.  You lay chest-against-chest, holding each other.  Your nails scratch his back, no doubt leaving your own marks, your whole body littered with his kisses and bites.  There is not a single inch of you that is not branded by him. 

“Yes,” you say.  “Always, Minho.”

Saying his name sends him over.  He comes inside you, claiming you even there, then stays inside you after while you kiss. 

You stay in his arms all night, making love and sleeping then making love some more.  When the sun rises, you wake to him holding you, stroking your cheek affectionately. 

He kisses your forehead and you nestle comfortably against him, happy to be home. 

[jaythes1mp]

Was just at the AUS vs RSA game and thought about yan batfam x professional player reader

^ pic I took, shared cause it looked pretty cool

How they would react to the reader being a famous sport player of any kind.

It's unlikely that they would kidnap you due to your massive fan base, as it would attract excessive media scrutiny and unwanted attention internationally, not just within Gotham. Fans from around the globe tune in to watch your games, so your absence would raise suspicions far beyond the confines of Gotham alone.

Based on the extent of their obsession, the Batboys would exhibit varying responses. In cases where their fixation is relatively mild, they might opt for a more subtle approach. Instead of outright kidnapping, they'd each form a more intimate connection with you, feeding you disinformation and manipulating you to question the stability of your career as an athlete. They might even go so far as to create fake evidence of misconduct, aiming to weaken your trust in colleagues and coaches. Each bat independently spinning webs of falsehoods, persuading you about the perilous aspects of your career. The move aims to create doubt and make you feel vulnerable, all while fostering the image of a concerned support system. Where they’re the caring family who just wants the best for you.

The fam, in their relentless quest to isolate you from your world, would orchestrate a web of manipulation to sow doubt and skepticism in your mind. Their goal? To make you question everyone and everything, sowing the seeds of paranoia deep within your psyche. Each bat playing a part in this grand scheme, they'd meticulously feed you false information, twist events, and exploit your trust, all to ensure that you become reliant on them alone, to the point where you’d feel a profound sense of isolation from anything and everyone outside their carefully constructed circle of control.

With a more intense level of obsession for you, the boys become more extreme in their approach, aiming to sever all threads that bind you to the outside world. They'd fabricate scandals, leveraging their influence and connections to spread misinformation and discredit your reputation through the media. Ultimately getting you canceled or thrown out from the league, leaving you vulnerable and isolated. Once they've successfully sabotaged your career, they'd position themselves as your sole support, exploiting the dependency they've forced you into, ensuring they become your only lifeline. The only ones who believed that you wouldn’t actually do any of those horrible things.

If all else fails and their attempts to manipulate and control you have fallen flat, they wouldn’t be above resorting to drastic measures. They'd orchestrate an 'accident' contrived to leave you physically incapacitated, prematurely ending your career against your will. With you out of commission, they'd swoop into the role of a caring, supportive family, ensuring they remain your sole source of companionship and aid. An ultimate move to bind you to them indefinitely, all in the name of protection and care for their "fragile" darling.

[flower-boi16]

Helluva Boss Season 2: How to Assassinate Your Characters

Option 1: Force them into being out of character for the sake of a forced conflict or "joke"

Seeing Star assasinated Loona by making her far more aggressive compared to how she used to be in the first season, which was done as a way to force a conflict between her and Blitz. Western Energy then goes on to continue Loona's derailment by just straight up turning her into a wild animal with her attacking the doctor. The writers are forcing Loona into being out of character in order to create drama that doesn't feel organic at all.

The same could be said for Moxxie, who Unhappy Campers made out of character by turning him into an attention whore jelouse of Millie, despite him never displaying that trait in the first season and him having no reason to even give a shit about this since he was sent here for a job.

There's nothing indicating that he suffered from neglect from Crimson so there isn't an explanation here. Moxxie especially comes across as a massive hypocrit in his argument with Millie; where he asks why Millie cares so much about what the teenagers think when Moxxie has been jelouse of Millie through this whole episode, yet it is NEVER called out.

This is done as a way of trying to add forced and contrived drama between the two just so the episode can have a conflict, because the writers most likely coulden't find a way to create a conflict that was organic.

Option 2: Make past issues with the characters worse by adding in new ones or just refusing to address them

A big issue with Millie as a character is that she doesn't have much of any real depth beyond being Moxxie's wife. The show tried to add depth to her in Unhappy Campers but all that did was create a new issue where they constantly introduce new stuff for Millie as a character out of nowhere in a failed attempt to give her depth.

Moxxie meanwhile suffered through a issue in Season 1 where he went through the same arc twice in the same season, but hey that was only two times so it's nothing to sneeze at...except that Season 2 not only has Moxxie repeat that arc again, it slaps daddy issues onto him in a poor attempt to give him further depth which not only feels tacked onto him but also just creates more issues with Moxxie as a character due to him now having truama that never gets explored.

Season 2 continues the issues with the first season but makes them worse as well as adding in new ones, which is the exact opposite of what a second season should do.

Option 3: Destory and remove everything that made the characters interesting and replace it with something completely unreconizable compared to how they previously were.

Stolas in Season 1 was arguably the most interesting character in the entire show, there was a lot you could analyze from him and he had the most potiential out of any other character in the show for a compelling arc where he grows as a person...

...that Season 2 completely destoryed in favor of turning Stolas into an UwU soft boy who the narrative frequently coddles and goes through little actual character growth...at all. His bad actions are downplayed by the narrative and the people who get mad at him for those actions are all demonized by the narrative, treated as if they don't have a reason to hate him even though they do.

Season 1 Stolas was a flawed person that realized his mistakes and chose to become better, Season 2 Stolas is an UwU soft boy that just wanted to be loved. These do not feel like the same character.

Season 2 completely assassinates the characters and removes everything that made them good in the first place with the only exception being Blitzo, as although Season 2's handling of him has issues he still isn't nearly as ruined as the other characters.

[yandere-toons]

I know this is a little early but can you do a Book of Life headcanon for Dia De Los Muertos? It can be La Muerte and Zebulba or Maria, Manolo, and Joaquin. (I love your writing so much!)

Yandere La Muerte & Xibalba (Platonic & Romantic Headcanons)

Warnings: Death, Toxic Mindsets.

A.N. – ¡Feliz Día de los Muertos!

While the candle of her chosen mortal is aflame with life, La Muerte dons it proudly in a prime spot among her dress or hat, close enough to where she can always feel its heat and wince at the exact moment it goes cold. If so exists even a whiff of foul play, it is her husband Xibalba who punishes the living with a sudden uptick in fatal snakebites.

Hot boils the resentment of Xibalba, who never so wished to eradicate the Law-Maker as he does watching his own helpless reflection in the window of a home where his favourite mortal lay despairing. Decades of deceit and contrivances just to share a few words, forced by ancient law to conceal his true name and nature, have worn his patience to a thread. At the same time, Xibalba is inclined to thank this purveyor of death in person, to offer a taste of what the latest victim endured and send the slain soul to rot, as he did, in the Land of the Forgotten.

La Muerte, for all her power in death, can in life offer only words of encouragement from the mouth of a kind stranger. She often observes their day from the secrecy of terraces and distant roofs, watching to ensure their happiness and step in with bits of wisdom should they seem lost. She refrains from direct intervention until the day they wander inside her castle, at which point she cannot help wondering how much longer it may have taken to meet them this way had they lived the life they wanted. Such rumination is channelled into action as La Muerte focuses on bringing them more comfort with their new arrangement than ever they found with the living, seeing it as a way to make up for all the strife she was forbidden from preventing.

La Muerte is happy to join their visitation for Día de los Muertos, believing it will help them grow more accustomed to her and accept her as someone deserving of a higher role in their existence. Xibalba gripes the whole time while wondering where he went wrong to make them so opposed to his presence that they would choose the company of mortals over a night spent drinking and feasting with him and his wife, even questioning whether La Muerte is behind all of this to punish him for some ancient crime.

Xibalba muses that, for a bond so strong as this, he could use his deathly touch to kill their relatives all at once, feigning the promise of a reunion — while keeping to himself that such a deed would only eliminate the last of their tethers to the living and thus send them straight to his realm in perpetuity. Xibalba has one finger outstretched to do just that when La Muerte slaps it down and swears she will never forget this should he go through with it.

Xibalba wilts at her wrath but soon grows restless with spite and decides a more clandestine approach will net him his petty vengeance. If simply snatching away a few lives is too vulgar, then perhaps he can make a wager of it. La Muerte, her inner child intrigued, listens as he spins the age-old tale of a fair trade: if their spouse in life leaves town; if the kids down the street go on to marry one another — Xibalba will claim hosting rights, and if not, he will stop cursing their mortal attachments.

Neither are too moved by sympathy plays, having heard every plea imaginable from souls desperate to live and reunite with those up above. A bet, however, draws from both gods the memory of a younger time, a splash of excitement in an otherwise predictable system.

La Muerte's conditions are more palliative: not protesting when she requests a day spent with her, not trying to breach the living-dead barrier before its time. When others or perhaps even the soul themselves begin to question these once-thought agape embraces and invitations to dine, the goddess admits to a more personal interest. She has walked beside them for much of their life and feels they were cheated by it, seeing the bad side of the world too much and the good side too little, and so has taken it upon herself to show them what could have been.

Xibalba's conditions revolve around staying with him for longer periods, say a millennium instead of a century, or granting him explicit permission to kill some mortal companion of theirs who stokes his envy. Such a blessing is by no means necessary to carrying out the hit; rather, it serves as a colossal show of deference as well as a convenient method of claiming the person's blood is now on their hands.

La Muerte can generally be relied upon to act as a restraining influence on Xibalba, keeping him from wiping out whole droves of mortals in a fit of cruelty; however, even she will leave them to their fate if the terms are clear and both parties have agreed, for a wager with a god is all-binding. By refusing to fulfil one's end of it, the winning side is bound no longer to the stipulations set forth in the agreement and may exact any price as recompense.

Only one path to victory remains: accuse Xibalba of rigging the bet, which La Muerte will be inclined to believe given his history, assuming a trip to lodge this complaint with her is even feasible. Xibalba may suspect this intent to oust him and cancel the next dinner date in haste, professing to La Muerte that he and his new roommate are getting along splendidly.

La Muerte laments their absence and voices her desire to see them again, to which Xibalba pleads that she has hosted them long enough and to give him a chance. Despite a winding series of lies and broken promises to consider, La Muerte is committed to forgiveness and thus gives her word that she will not try to ferry them back to her land, at least until the next bet is up.

Xibalba's lonely heart is all too eager to drag them down into the Land of the Forgotten, where souls hardly move or speak, having lost all sense of self. Immortals and mortals alike who spend any significant amount of time in this realm incur some degree of degeneration and start to lose touch with what made them human, a process Xibalba endlessly chatters about to fill an otherwise eternal silence.

La Muerte, once content with this tenuous sort of balance, finds the scales tipping when they express a disinterest in reconnecting with the living world. Chaos erupts as La Muerte challenges Xibalba to return their soul, convinced he is poisoning their heart with his own bitterness for humanity. Xibalba deflects at every opportunity, suggesting that he merely speaks a harsh truth and offers an escape from the drudgery of mortal life.

A deep frustration ignites within La Muerte, less now at the dark turn of her husband, which she has begrudgingly come to accept, and more at the threat of losing her chosen soul to exactly the kind of existence she strove so hard to separate from them. Even though the march of time will one day condemn the soul to what comes after, La Muerte sought to enrich their short journey and give them the taste of true happiness they could never afford.

While she has walked this path with many and knows the weight of her title demands she overcome her grief, cursed objects of half-formed immortality and interjections of the soul's name into increasingly unrelated projects and movements are the desperate final scratches of Xibalba. A god who chases off the inevitable, Xibalba scrambles to build this entire false history in those last few years, only to watch it crumble when his actions force La Muerte to banish him for upsetting the natural order.

[f0point5]

I just saw the picture of Max kissing Kelly after the sprint race and I just realised how much content that would have given for the Max smau 😭😭😭 him and Emilia after the sprint race I need it pretty please

Okay so I did a thing. Because that picture/video was so cute but I also could not get out of my head that it was very contrived so…I did a thing. But I think it’s still pretty cute

Also I knowwww I’m going to regret using this title for this and not something more dramatic but it fits too well

He just comes running over to me

It’s Christian who suggests that you wait for Max at the gap in the fence when he wins the sprint. In all the excitement, and frankly, relief, that Max was able to pull some performance out of that possessed jalopy, you don’t realise that he’s setting you up.

You realise now. Because none of the engineers bother to crowd around you, jockeying for the chance to congratulate their boy on his first win in months. Because the moment the track photographers are done taking pictures of the drivers getting out of the car, half of them make their way over to the edge of the track before you’ve even poked your head through the gap. You realise because the only Red Bull employee that does follow you to the gap is Anna, Max’s paddock PR this year.

Someone must have pointed you out to Max, because after wiping his face he makes his way towards you. He’s beaming, even with his cap obscuring some of his face as he walk you can tell. You don’t even care who planned it or why, or how many cameras you have to share it with, you’d give anything to see him so unburdened up close.

He waves to a crowd that actually cheers for him this time and you think you might start tearing up from that alone. He deserves it now, but he always did.

“Finally,” he says when you’re in earshot. It’s an exhalation, and his smile is brighter than you’ve seen it in months, his cheeks red under the lines pressed into his skin from his helmet.

You grin back, reaching your arms through the gap to pull him into a hug. “You were so good, Löwe,” you whisper, feeling his jaw move against your shoulder as his smile widens.

No sooner have you let go of him than one of the photographers asks, “Can we get a kiss?”

You look over to them, all waiting, as if they know they haven’t got their promised money shot yet. You fight the urge to roll your eyes and flip them off all at once. You’re now even more sure that this was all pre-planned.

“Sorry, I have a boyfriend,” you answer sardonically, forcing yourself to smile. Your admonishment doesn’t change the fact that they’re watching you expectantly, and you look over at Max, raising an eyebrow at him.

We don’t have to.

But he’s already leaning up towards you, so you meet him halfway.

He’s more practiced at this - the art of PR. Despite his well known dislike of media, he’s not above fulfilling his obligation, which today means proving that your relationship is as strong as ever, and that Red Bull Racing is indeed getting back to normal.

When Max pulls away from you the noise of camera shutters fades are suddenly audible again.

“Mwah,” you exaggerate the noise to make a point, and with his face turned away from the cameras slightly, Max rolls his eyes.

“They can leave us alone now,” he says, noting how most of the photographers have now melted away. It’s only Vladimir and a couple of b-roll videographers lingering, but you pointedly ignore them as you look down at Max.

His eyes look bluer, face redder, hair fluffier. He seems more himself than you can almost remember him. Because you know he’s happy, and that if his career ended tomorrow he would still be happy, but the track is still where he’s alive. That won’t always be the case, there will come a day when the balance shifts, when winning isn’t what gets him up in the morning, when home doesn’t smell like sweat and fuel. But it’s not today.

“The car looked a lot better,” you say, as Lando’s interview is broadcast over the speakers.

Max nods. “Yeah, the balance really felt like it used to. Couple of things we can do before qualifying maybe, but it was nice to drive a car that actually lets you go forward,” he says with a chuckle, squinting as he looks at you. “You look pleased,”

You shrug. “I have to. These pictures are going to be all over the F1 Instagram,” you say, deliberately angling your head so the sun is hitting your cheekbones like you’re being kissed by the heavens. “People kind of like me, you know,”

“Oh, I know,” Max chuckles.

“No, I’m just,” you shrug, ignoring the prickling of your skin. “I like watching you win,”

Max nods, leaning towards you again. “One more,”

You smile as you press your lips firmly to his, one hand coming up to cup his cheek. You gave the media their kiss, this one is just for him.

When he pulls away, your fingers ghost across his jaw as he drops down from his tiptoes. He smiles at you, something about it so boyish that you can feel a blush rise to your cheeks like you’re thirteen again.

Winning looks so goddamn good on him.

Like he can read your thoughts, he smiles wider.

“Shut up,” you say, reaching to tip his cap forward as you roll your eyes. “Now go get your little plaque thing,”

“Ik heb de prijs al,” Max says, giving you one last tight lipped smirk before he starts back towards Lando to wait for his interview with Guenther.

You watch his retreating back, eyes drifting directly into Mario’s lens. You wonder what he’s seeing, if you look half as in love with him as you are. You doubt it’s possible.

Stepping back off the edge of the wall, you meander down the pitlane towards the Red Bull garage. Max’s voice comes over the speakers and you smile.

“Feels a bit like old times,” he says, and the crowd erupts.

It really does.