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trashytracktales · 15 days ago

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PLSSSS part 2 to this time tomorrow but it’s a year or so later and he’s dealt with his grief and guilt and happily ever after pls

Same time yesterday | MV³³

𝗣𝗔𝗥𝗧 𝟮 𝗢𝗙 𝗧𝗛𝗜𝗦 𝗧𝗜𝗠𝗘 𝗧𝗢𝗠𝗢𝗥𝗥𝗢𝗪

*can’t be read as a standalone.

✦ summary ──── It’s been eleven months since she left, and her absence haunted every aspect of Max’s life.

✦ pairing ──── Max Verstappen x she/her reader

✦ rating ──── explicit

✦ warnings ──── 18+, mature/sexual content, descriptive language, feelings of unworthiness, emotional angst, isolation, themes of guilt, grief and self-doubt, panic attack with descriptions of physical symptoms, struggles with self-worth, insecurity and personal trauma, healing through intimacy, smut, fingering & oral ─ (f)receiving, unprotected sex, pet names, praise, multiple orgasms, overstimulation.

✦ word count ──── 8.5k

✦ date ──── Jun. 12, 2025

✦ a/n ──── This is not very I don’t do part 2s of me, but the amount of people requesting it made me feel guilty, so here we are. YOU WIN (ILY) 🙄. All jokes aside, writing this healed something in me. Goodnight 🤍✨

MAX DIDN’T EXPECT her to actually leave.

In his stubbornness, he hoped that he’d find her back in his apartment once he returned from work a week later, when her mind would clear up and the adrenaline of the breakup would be long gone. But when that didn’t happen, and he came back to an empty place, he slowly began to panic. On the inside, of course. Because Max is the kind of person who rarely ever displays his feelings out in the open, and when he does it, it’s usually his ruthless side that comes out. He would never admit in front of anyone that he has weaknesses. The only time he’s ever done it was in front of the mirror, in those mornings when everything became too heavy to carry for a pair of shoulders already weighed by the burdens of the past.

He did not expect her to leave.

Not after everything they’d said to each other, not after the way she’d touched his face the night she walked out, and the way her lips lingered on his cheek like a goodbye she didn’t want to make real. Not after she whispered that he knew where to find her. That she was still willing to give them a chance, but this time, they as a whole had a price. And he needed to cover it in its entirety.

When her absence has finally caught up to him, Max got angry.

Not at her, but at the hole she left behind. At himself for not begging her to stay, even though that goes against everything he is as a person. At the way grief still had its claws in his chest even when he thought he’d buried it deep enough to allow himself to love again.

She said she understood. She acted like she did for so long. But then she left. She promised she wasn’t asking for more than he could give, and then she still walked away when he couldn’t give it fast enough. It felt like betrayal to Max, twisted and misplaced, but real.

After that, he threw himself into work like he always did: training, simulation, back-to-back race weekends. Late nights at the gym, longer ones behind the wheel. But no matter how many laps he ran, no matter how fast he drove, he couldn’t outpace the noise inside his own head. At times, it felt as if it tried to deafen him completely. And sometimes, there were so many voices in there that they overlapped and he had the impression that he could go mad.

It got worse when doubts started creeping in.

What if he’d ruined something good once again?

What if she was right, and he never actually moved on, not from grief, not from guilt, not from his dead wife?

He couldn’t trust himself anymore. The same instincts that made him a four-time World Champion now betrayed him on track. He second-guessed overtakes, overcorrected in turns, and crashed into his rivals on purpose.

The paddock noticed it, so did the press. Max Verstappen didn’t make mistakes, until he did. And the worst part of all: he stopped caring.

His despair was subtle at first. It bled in during the long flights, in the lonely hotel rooms, and in the silence after a shitty race. He tried texting her a couple of times, but it was always short, dry, and empty. She responded kindly, as usual, but never let it go further. Though Max hated it, he respected that, because he respected her, even if he thought it was bullshit. All of it.

It wasn’t until one particularly sleepless night, many months after she left, that the loneliness finally did what the anger couldn’t: it made his mind quiet. It made him sit with himself and be brutally honest. Realistically, he realized that no trauma will ever completely heal. A shadow of guilt will always follow him, no matter who he ends up becoming, what he achieves in his career and who’s going to be there with him.

That night, Max stood in front of the mirror, the ring on his finger slightly sparkling in the bathroom light. It somehow looked dull, like it, too, got tired from being worn by a man who didn’t know how to let go. Only this time, he didn’t see his wife. Instead, he saw the woman who stayed even when he didn’t have the words to explain himself, the one who kissed him like she was pouring pieces of herself into the cracks of him, the one who left not to hurt him out of spite, but to save them both. Or at least try.

And he understood that the ring didn’t remind him of grief anymore. It reminded him of who managed to give it a whole another meaning. It reminded him of what he stood to lose if he didn’t start choosing life instead of loss. And just like that, still panicking on the inside, he figured a new way of feeling the pain and owning it without hurting so much.

Max’s fingers trembled, but he took it off. He took. The damn ring. Off.

And something about the silence cracked open the moment he did it. At first, it was a strange numbness, like his skin and limbs and even his thoughts didn’t belong to him. Then the trembling turned into tremors. His hands shook so badly that the ring slipped from his palm, clinking against the sink like a warning. He had a tiny impulse to put it back, but he didn’t. His breath hitched, chest rising in short bursts that couldn’t catch enough air. The walls of the room seemed to press in, tighter and tighter, so he gripped the edge of the sink until his knuckles turned white. His heart thudded violently between his lungs, and he could hear it.

Then his knees gave out, and he collapsed to the cold tile floor, curled onto his side, eyes wide and unfocused as his mind raced with fear — am I dying? Is this how it ends? All alone…

He didn’t call anyone. He didn’t move, because he couldn’t. He just lay there, whispering to himself that he deserved this. That maybe this was part of it: the punishment, the penance, the cost of finally letting go. But he’d chosen grief so long, it felt wrong to be free of it. And, ultimately, he ended up convincing himself it was better that way, but every time he looked at the empty space on his finger, he wondered how long she’d wait. If she was still waiting at all.

He couldn’t stand the thought of her saying no after that, so he never texted her again.

IT’S A RANDOM Tuesday when Max is in the pet aisle, squinting at a row of identical cat food cans, wearing an old Red Bull hoodie from the early 2010s. The hood is up, casting a shadow over his face, a subtle shield against the world.

He isn’t expecting anything. Maybe a fan or two who may recognize him. But not her. However, the second she walks through the automatic doors, pushing her cart slowly, head tilted like she’s scanning the shelves for something specific, he sees her. Her hair is a little shorter now. Her coat swings open as she walks, and she’s humming softly to herself, unaware.

Until she turns, and her eyes meet his. Time doesn’t stop, but it does slow, just enough for Max’s chest to go tight. And they both realize it at the same time: they’re going to have to choose. Quickly. A nod and a half-smile, play it off like strangers passing in the middle of something ordinary.

Or talk.

Max does it before she gets the chance to. He doesn’t even glance at the shelves again. His hand reaches out and grabs two random cans of cat food, the labels facing the wrong way, something he wouldn’t normally touch. But it’s not about the cat food anymore.

It’s about how she notices the way Max squeezes the cans in his hands, and how his left hand, in particular, molds around the circular container, making her heart stop for a beat.

“Your hand’s all naked,” her mouth talks without her permission the moment he gets close enough for him to hear her; the fact that it’s the first thing she tells him doesn’t come as a suprise for either of them.

Max smiles a little, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Uh, yeah,” he says quietly, looking down at it like he hadn’t realized it himself until now. “It’s been for a while.”

They stand there, hands full of domestic normalcy, bodies not quite knowing what to do next.

“Hi,” her lips curl slightly into something that isn’t quite a smile, but not quite neutral either.

“Hi,” he echoes, voice a little raspier than he’d like. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” adds Max, glancing around like maybe the store has changed since he last looked.

“Yeah, well,” she shrugs, looking anywhere but at him.

There’s too much unsaid between them to make small talk feel right. Too many memories that exist in kitchens and beds and mornings with whispers and kisses. And yet they try.

“You look good,” Max says, his eyes flicking up and down, unsure of where to land. “Shorter hair suits you.”

She nods. “Thanks. You look…,” her voice trails off, checking him out from head to toe in order to find something nice to connect with, but when she can’t do that, she chooses to be honest instead. “Tired.”

Max smiles, but looks defeated as he does. “Not sleeping much.”

“Work?”

He hesitates. “And everything else.”

They both look like they want to leave but can’t quite make their feet move. It feels like there’s too much air between them, and yet, too many things have already been said, cried out, and broken open like bones that never healed right. Max can feel it rising in his throat. It’s bitter and sweet all at once. The fucking guilt. The longing. It’s her, actually. Right here, in front of him again, after eleven months and three days of not seeing her. Of only surviving her through old texts and ghost limbs.

His fingers twitch around the cans.

She’s standing like she’s braced for impact, but her eyes finally land all over him: his face, the hoodie she actually wore a few times before when she was waiting for him to come back home, his hand, his left hand. His bare left hand.

“This is weird, right?” Max finally asks, his voice sounding like he hasn’t spoken a single word for weeks.

She lets out a sigh. “A little, yeah,” she agrees, nodding.

And still, neither of them moves.

“You know, I almost didn’t come in,” she admits, fingers curling tighter around her cart. “I was parked outside for, like, ten minutes just sitting there. Because I realized this is your neighborhood and I’d risk seeing you,” she adds quickly.

Max feels his heart racing again before he even understands it. His throat goes dry, and when he speaks, he sounds hurt. “You didn’t want to see me?”

She blinks, startled, like she hadn’t expected the question to come out that way. “No,” she breathes. “No, Max, that’s not what I meant.”

He holds her gaze, and this close, he can see the sheen of emotion swimming in her eyes. There’s no anger in there anymore. Just, maybe, a little ache.

“It’s nice to see you,” she says. “I did want to see you so badly that I almost turned the car around, because I wasn’t sure if I could handle it.”

Max’s chest caves inward, his brows drawn together like the weight of all those lost months just landed right between his ribs. “Well, I think you’re handling it very well,” he jokes, but she doesn’t laugh, which makes his smile fade a little, not knowing if he crossed a line he shouldn’t have.

She looks down for a moment, biting at her kower lip, then back up. “I think you do, too.”

They both go quiet again, surrounded by fluorescent lights and grocery store music and the quiet chatter of other people, but none of it registers. The world has narrowed down to just them in the shortest time, like it always did. Knowing someone so intimately does that to a space, no matter how big or small.

Max rubs the back of his neck, like he’s trying to release the tension lodged there. “Listen, I don’t want to do this here. In front of the cat food and the Goldfish treats.”

His words earn the smallest smile from her, just for a second. “And what is this, exactly?”

He stops, looking around in order to get his thoughts together. “If you’re not busy, I was about to order a pizza for dinner,” Max hesitates, then adds quickly, “I swear, I just want to talk. I just…” he runs a hand over his jaw. “I haven’t been able to say anything that matters in a long time, and I want to. I owe you.”

She swallows, wary. “You don’t owe me anything, Max. Not anymore.”

He shakes his head. “I owe you my time.”

He sees the way her brow furrows, confusion flickering across her face, and Max knows she doesn’t understand what he means by that. And he can’t quite tell her that he means all the months he spent with her while only giving her a fraction of himself, because the most part was still buried in grief, clinging to a past he couldn’t change. He means the smiles she gave him that he didn’t return fast enough, the quiet ways she showed up for him while he kept one foot in a world that no longer existed. He means every second he spent being afraid to choose them, and every moment he let that fear win. What he owes her is his precious time, the kind that’s undivided, intentional, and fully present.

The time he should’ve been spending loving her without hesitation. Without conditions.

The time he still hopes to give, if she’ll let him.

THE MOMENT HE turns the key in the lock and nudges the door open, the apartment comes alive with a flurry of soft meows and pattering paws. Jimmy is the first to appear, coming out from the hallway with the usual cheeky air, followed by Sassy, who practically chirps in recognition when she sees that her owner is not alone.

The girl barely has time to step out of her shoes before the cats are circling her feet, tails high, meowing as if they’ve been abandoned for weeks. They don’t hesitate, don’t even sniff to confirm, yet the purring starts instantly, the kind of sound they only made when she used to come home late and curl up with them on the couch. Both cats cling to her like she’s their mother, like home walked back through the door after years of waiting.

Max watches it all unfold, frozen, with the cans stacked on top of the other still in hand.

“Fuckin’ assholes,” he complains under his breath, shutting the door behind him. “The only reason I even left the apartment was because they wouldn’t shut up about being hungry. And now they won’t even look at me,” adds Max, a little irritated.

She looks up with a smirk and gently takes the cans from his hand. “Allow me,” she says with a mock bow, brushing past him on her way to the kitchen with the ease of someone who still remembers exactly where everything is.

Max leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching her open the cabinets to pull out the tiny cat dishes they once picked together at a pet store in Italy. Her movements are fluid, the muscle memory guiding her every gesture; the clink of the spoon against the dish, and the way she splits the food evenly, as if it still matters that Sassy used to pout when Jimmy got more.

The remembering. That’s what gets to him every single time. The way it all looks like she wasn’t away for months. The way his own pets remember her scent and presence — more than that, they crave it. And they’re not the only ones, he figures.

Eventually, Max leaves her to it and goes to order the food he promised, knowing that he will be ignored anyway, at least until the cats eat and get bored of playing. The pizza arrives just as she finishes washing her hands, and they settle on the couch like they’ve done a hundred times before, the box open between them, the cats finally dozing at their feet.

For a moment, the quiet sets peacefully around them and it almost feels like they never fell apart at all. Their legs don’t touch, but the distance isn’t as wide as it used to be. Between bites, their eyes meet, without causing unnecessary tension, just a bittersweet quiet wrapped in intimacy. He watches the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, and she catches the way he still wipes his fingers on his thighs, like always.

Finishing his second slice, Max finally decides to disturb the peace. “Thanks for giving them some attention,” he says, pointing at the cats that are now back in their donut beds. “They’ve been such jerks lately.”

She glances at the cats, her gaze softening. “You know they treat you like you treat them.”

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his mouth lift. “I’ve been nothing but an endless fountain of joy around them since you left, so I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her smile falters the second his sarcasm slips out. And suddenly, the guilt wraps around her ribs like a vice, because she had no idea just how lonely it must have been. She tried to imagine it a few times, sure, but the truth is always harsher.

“Back at the store,” she begins, a little hesitant, “You said it’s been a while since you took it off.”

Max takes a moment before he nods, not immediately meeting her gaze. “Yeah, I did.”

“Why didn’t you tell me when you… you know,” she says, gesturing at his hand. “I thought that was our agreement.”

He swallows, running his fingers over his jaw, which he often does when he’s struggling to think of the right thing to say. “And say what? Thank you for waiting, I’m ready to finally offer you more than the bare minimum?” he says in a sarcastic tone, shaded by a trace of anger. “You deserve better.”

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches him with those eyes that always made him feel seen. Like she could read the gaps between his words, without needing anything else but him.

The girl shrugs. “That would’ve been a start,” she says casually, taking the pizza box and putting it on the coffee table in front of them.

Max almost flinches at the thought. It tastes so wrong in his mouth, because he doesn’t want to act as if the time they spent together was just a draft. He wants what they had and what they were. The laughter in the kitchen. Her voice humming in the bathroom. The weight of her body curling toward his in the middle of the night when she thought he was asleep. The way she used to look at him like he wasn’t broken beyond repair.

“I don’t want a start,” he insists. “I want what we left behind.”

Her brows lift slightly, her expression unreadable, but her lips part like she’s about to speak. He beats her to it.

“It’s been fucking awful,” the words come out unfiltered. “Missing you, I mean,” he explains, like the thought has been sitting on his brain for months, maybe since the second she walked out of his life. “Not just in passing. Every day.”

His hand moves without thinking, crossing a distance far greater than the space between them, and when his calloused fingers curl gently around hers, all those months of pain fade somewhere into a distant past. Her skin is just as he remembers, warm and soft like silk. The touch is tender, Max’s thumb brushing the back of her hand like he’s reminding himself that she’s real, and not just a figment of his twisted imagination.

He doesn’t want to go beyond the invisible line they’ve both drawn, but when she squeezes him gently, it’s more than a confirmation. It’s her equally strong desire to return to their own normalcy. And after that, it takes almost nothing, maybe just a look and the smallest shift in the air, and he pulls her in his lap.

Her legs straddle him, fitting there with maddening ease. Her hands wrap around the back of his neck, fingertips threading into his hair, playing with it absentmindedly like it’s second nature.

The sudden closeness forces him to breathe in sharply, inhaling her scent that fans across his lips.

“Max...” she whispers, her face tilting toward his, eyes dropping to his mouth as if kissing him is inevitable.

But he can’t have that. What good thing has ever come so easily in his life? Twice.

Max’s hand presses against her waist to push her away, and his head turns as a response. At that, she stills in his arms, eyes searching his face.

“Liefje?” she whispers again, hurt and confused.

He shakes his head, still avoiding to look at her. “I can’t.”

She frowns. “Why?”

Finally, Max’s eyes flick to hers as he swallows the lump in his throat. The blue in them is dark and faded, and it scares her a little. They’re glassy, full of things he’s never been good at saying out loud. “Because I don’t... I don’t deserve it,” he says, quiet like a confession passed through gritted teeth.

Her hands slide from his neck to either side of his face, forcing him to keep his gaze on her.

“Look at me,” she demands when he tries to look away again, but it sounds almost pleading. She can feel the way his muscles are tense beneath her, how hard he’s trying to stay composed. “You think I’d be here if I didn’t want to?” she asks.

His mouth opens, shuts, then opens again, “How could you possibly still want this?”

Her thumbs brush along his cheekbones, pressing closer, her nose brushing his. “Because you want this,” she replies simply. “I left because I thought you didn’t want us, and that hurt the most.”

Max flinches, “I did,” he nods, “Want us.”

“The ring on your finger told a different story at the time,” she smiles, a trace of sadness shadowing her face.

“I’m sorry,” it’s all he says.

She tilts his chin slightly, kissing the corner of his mouth, careful. She understands that, after all, this is their dynamic. She’ll always have to wait for him, one way or another. Do everything at Max’s pace. It may not be ideal, but it has worked in the past, when the tallest walls separated them.

He lets out a trembling breath, arms circling her waist to bring her closer.

“Please,” she whispers, “Let me kiss you.”

This time, his lips crash into hers with a desperate need. Her attempt was soft, but there’s nothing gentle in the way needs her. It’s heat and hunger and all the months of silence and aching compressed into one kiss. His fingers move to cup her face, and he groans against her mouth, finally letting go.

She shifts as the kiss deepens, slowing down until it becomes worshipful.

“I missed you,” he says again.

She smiles through the ache in her chest. “Yeah, I can tell.”

Her hips move unconsciously, but it’s enough for Max to catch her meaning. The girl slides forward and presses down right where he’s already hard beneath her. The friction hits hard between them, and they both still for a moment. Max breathes in through his teeth, and a silent gasp stutters out, all distance suddenly dissolved.

She traces down the curve of his neck, over his collarbones and lower, palms gliding across the fabric of his hoodie. It’s soft and worn, but it hides too much for her liking. So she hooks her fingers underneath it, pushing up, and Max doesn’t stop her. He lifts his arms, helps her peel it off, and the warmth of his skin underneath makes her breath catch in her throat. The muscles of his torso flex as he breathes, tight and lean, built by years of control and discipline.

But right now, he’s giving her none of that control. He just looks at her like he’s ready to rip his heart out and give it to her on a silver platter. With a smile on his face.

Her blouse is next, coming off in a smooth motion. And then, before she can say anything more, he shifts quickly underneath her. In a blink of an eye, he has her on her back, stretched out along the couch, his body poised above hers.

She barely has time to register the change in position before his mouth is back on hers, as possessive as it used to be, like the last kiss wasn’t nearly enough. Max’s lips trail down over her jaw and neck, leaving heat in his wake. Patient, he kisses along the edge of her bra, then he looks up at her. His pupils are blown wide, but there’s still that sliver of restraint behind them.

“Can I?” he asks, a tiny smile blooming in the corner of his mouth, because he already knows the answer.

She nods. “Yes.”

Swiftly, he unclasps her bra and slips it away, tossing it somewhere behind him. His hands slide down her sides as his mouth drops to her chest, breathing her in deeply. The first touch of his tongue on her nipple makes her inhale sharply, her hands flying to his back, gripping and squeezing. Max groans quietly against her skin when she arches up into him, and his hands weld themselves to her thighs to encourage her to wrap her legs around his waist. After that, he changes his position just slightly and grinds down into her, swallowing her whimpers with his mouth still latched onto her breast.

She closes her eyes, allowing herself to feel everything, all at once. His mouth moves from one nipple to the other, teasing, sucking, and she pulls him closer and closer by the shoulders, as if she can’t get enough of his weight. His presence. Him.

“Can you stay like this for a sec?” she asks in a trembling voice, the emotion evident in every word. She keeps him pressed down against her with her arms locked around his shoulders before Max can even process. “Just stay here, please.”

He lifts his head to search for her eyes, but doesn’t say anything. Then, he kisses between her breasts, and rests his forehead there, listening to her heartbeat decrease in intensity with each passing second. His weight is warm and secure around her, his breathing slowing, too. She brushes his hair back with one hand, and the other strokes his spine.

“I missed you, too,” she finally says. “So much it started making me sick.”

Max’s eyes flutter closed, but he’s content to just listen, offering her the space to speak her mind.

“I had to buy a weighted blanket,” she chuckles shyly. “I couldn’t sleep, either. My anxiety was so bad I felt like I was floating out of my skin.”

Max blinks, then slowly pushes up on his forearms to look at her fully. There’s concern etched into every inch of his face, and he sounds stern when he speaks again, “You never told me it got that bad.”

She shrugs, trying to brush it off. “Didn’t want to make you feel worse. You already blame yourself for everything else.”

His jaw tightens, fingers twitching against her ribs. “That’s for me to worry, right? You should’ve told me.”

With a small sigh, she shakes her head as if it doesn’t even matter anymore. “I’m telling you now.”

Her words settle into the air between them like a sudden change in gravity, and it makes Max still completely. It takes him a second to process what she’s said, and not just the meaning, but the weight of it. That she hurt too. That while he was spiraling in silence, buried in self-loathing and racing to outrun emotions he couldn’t face, she was also falling apart as quietly.

His forehead presses against hers, but this time, the tension in his shoulders give away the war he carries in his mind, the guilt and regret in his soul, the anger, and the fear that he might still mess this up. He chokes on a breath, the kind of harsh inhale you take before something breaks and can’t be stopped.

She can feel him slowly but surely detaching, so she doesn’t hesitate to bring him back to the present moment with her. She kisses him all over, not just his lips. A sweet series of soft, scattered kisses along his cheek, his temple, his nose. His shoulders. His collarbones. She kisses him as if that would cure him of all his guilt, insecurities and self-hatred.

Max lets out a broken laugh, unexpected yet warm, as she keeps going, clumsier now. “That’s how you used to kiss Sassy when you stepped on her paws,” he reminds her. “You didn’t break me, baby,” he assures her. “It’s not your fault.”

The words hang there, heavy with understanding, because he can see she feels guilty, as if his pain is somehow hers to fix. Even now. His heart cracks at the thought of her carrying that weight, but it also warms at her tenderness and the quiet way she’s trying to make everything stop hurting. For both of them.

He sighs. “Maybe we should just finish the food, hm?” Max offers, his tone laced with hesitation, trying to give her an out, without putting too much pressure.

She shakes her head instead, then stares at him for a second. While continuing to maintain eye contact, her hand moves down between them with purpose. The metallic sound of his zipper being undone slices through the air like a whip in an empty room, and Max’s body responds instantly, looking like he’s suddenly struggling to breathe, as she pushes his pants lower over his hips.

“I’m hungry for something else,” she says, smirking at him.

The last of their clothes disappear in a blur of heat and touch, the space between them closing until it’s completely gone, and not a speck of dust can seep in. Their bodies press together, skin on skin, making Max curse under his breath, his hands roaming her waist, thighs, and ribs, remembering the shape of her all over again. After taking the ring off, he convinced himself that being alone and deprived of her entirely was the new punishment. But now, he’s surprised to find out that no amount of penance could ever be worth losing her again.

She gasps when his lips catch her off guard, kissing her deeply, hand sliding south, slipping between silk folds already wet with want.

“Shit,” he whispers through gritted teeth, barely able to contain himself. “I forgot how soaked you get from a little nipple play.”

She moans faintly into his mouth, hips lifting with ease toward his touch. His fingers stroke through her slowly, savoring her sounds, while his middle finger presses in. Just the tip, to test her patience and give her all the time in the world to open up for him.

As if he’s under a spell, Max watches her face, completely transfixed. “I swear you’re trying to kill me,” he praises her deliriously, pushing his finger deeper. “You missed this, didn’t you?”

“Mhm,” she hums, her nails digging lightly into his back, leaving faint love scratches behind.

At that, he smiles a little smug, and starts pumping his finger with much purpose. He’s on a mission now, intending to relearn every twitch and tiny flinch, because for some reason, making her come like this has become his new life’s purpose. And the fact that she’s obscenely wet, encourages him to keep going, gliding his finger in effortlessly, the slick noises echoing between them like he’s already halfway inside her with his cock instead.

“I fucking missed it, too,” he admits, voice cracking at the way he feels her clenching around him. Every time his finger strokes against that soft, spongy spot inside, her thighs lock around his wrist like Max is her puppeteer, hips canting up, chasing more. “There it is,” he says with satisfaction.

Without pulling away, he eases in another finger, curling them with surgical precision, dragging against that same spot until she’s shaking. Her tiny gasps turns into broken moans, high and breathless, her palms squeezing his shoulders harder. Max starts scissoring them in the way he knows it’ll make her see stars, stretching her open, happy to watch her squirm and melt because of him.

“Want me to keep going until you can’t think straight?”

She tries to answer, but all that comes out is just another pathetic whimper. Her slick coats his knuckles, dripping down his palm, earning a low hum from Max while driving his fingers faster.

“So tight and desperate,” he says mostly to himself. “Let me see you,” his thumb finds her clit, rubbing delicious circles as his fingers keep fucking up into her, stretching her sweetly.

Her reaction is immediate: her whole body jerks, thighs quivering as her pussy fights to hold him in, harder than before.

“Max,” she tries to warn him in a shaky voice.

He doesn’t even hesitate. Instead, he pulls his fingers out and dives in on instinct, burying his face between her thighs like a man starved. His tongue replaces where his fingers had just been, fucking into her with messy, greedy strokes. Max grips her thighs, making sure to groan loudly into her, wanting her to hear exactly how much he’s enjoying this. She keens, hands flying to his hair as he eats her out with a kind of reckless devotion that leaves her gasping for air.

Her orgasm crashes over her with an unexpected loud cry. Her hips arch off the couch, body convulsing as she soaks his face, a warm flood dripping down his chin and onto the cushion beneath him. Max agrees satisfied, like he lives for this, licking her through it until she’s shuddering and whimpering and very much not thinking straight, trying to push him away from overstimulation.

He pulls back with a glossy mouth, chin dripping, and eyes blown wide. That clear blue has finally returned, contrasting beautifully against the bright pink of his flushed face. His hair is a mess, and he’s breathing hard like he just came. She wishes she could paint him like that, but she knows that no brush would ever do justice to the beauty she sees in him.

“My god, Max,” she laughs, still breathless, reaching up to pull him toward her. She wipes his chin with her palm, eyes half-lidded, before tugging him in for a kiss, tasting herself on his tongue. “You’re such a show-off.”

He smirks, resting his forehead to hers. “Well, I am a professional.”

“Oh yeah?” she teases, brushing her fingers through his hair. “Did they add that as part of your pre-race routine?”

Max shrugs with a deceptively serious expression on his face. “Helps with focus. And finger control.”

The girl chuckles. “You’re disgusting.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies quickly, leaning in to finish their kiss.

His lips are soft and plumped, and they give her the second she needs to breathe before the air shifts. Max’s hand cups her cheek, and when he looks at her, his voice drops, eyes filled with a tamed concern.

“You okay?” he asks, the kind of okay that means are you still with me?

It’s the care behind his voice that gets to her. The one that she only saw a couple of times in him, when Max really let her see the purest version of him. The version that’s not on any screen, nor the version that walks out the door everyday to go to work. This Max is too soft, afraid, and weak. Or so people would say if they’d know.

She finds it hard to speak, instead, she reaches down, fingers curling around his cock. She nudges the thick head through her folds, dragging it up and down in maddening passes, not letting him in, just coating it in the mess he made of her. It’s a sweet tease, a challenge, and a bit of revenge from her side, that gets the expected reaction out of him: Max whines, and his hips twitch in anticipation.

But before she can do it again, he bucks forward just enough to slip between her lips. Not inside. Just there. Nestled. Pressed. Bothering.

“Shit,” she gasps at the drag of his cock against her folds. Is too much already, yet not enough, her body betraying her before she can play it cool.

Max laughs at her failed attempt, dragging himself up her slit again, slow and sticky. “What do you think you’re doing, schatje?”

She moans, frustrated. “Nothing.”

He keeps going, rubbing himself through her wetness, teasing her entrance, but never pushing in. After all, she just showed him how to, didn’t she? It’s punishment for both of them, his cock is throbbing, coated in her, and every pass just winds them tighter.

“You feel that?” asks Max in a quiet whisper. “That’s how much you want me,” he continues, finally pushing in. The stretch is sweet, tight and wet and warm, and the moment he’s fully inside, everything goes still. He lets out a relieved sigh, his head dropping to her shoulder, “And this is how much I want you.”

Perfection in just the right amount. Being inside her like this shuts his brain off and, soon enough, the silence inside his skull becomes addictive.

The first thrust feels like coming home.

The second thrust brings all the memories back.

The third thrust makes her eyes roll, her hands clutching at his arms, hips trying to chase every retreat he makes.

Max has to grip her tighter to keep her in place, and gently pushes her thighs apart wider. He watches the way she spreads, how easily she welcomes him, and it lights something heavy in him, but also devastatingly tender. It pushes him to slide in again and again, deeper and deeper, and the sound she lets out has the power to knock the breath out of his lungs.

It’s not difficult to find their rhythm. That perfect pace that makes it feel less like fucking and more like a love language only they understand. Every push and pull is a new promise. Every moan, a certainty that they will keep those promises this time. As the pleasure builds, they understand it’s more than that. It’s healing. With every stroke and every breathless sound between them, they’re stitching something back together. Something they thorned and fractured because they didn’t know better, now is slowly mending, making them stronger than they’ve ever been.

Max fucks her like he’s never going to get another chance to be this whole again. Like this is the last time it’ll ever hurt, and the first time they’re finally allowed to live. Their bodies slap together, the sounds echoing like music against the walls; it’s hot, thirsty, a song made by them, just for them. He keeps her open, holding her thighs in place because he wants to see all of it. The way she takes him. The way she glistens for him. The way she gives herself so fully, without flinching. And if she can do that — if she can give him this —, then maybe he’s not broken beyond repair.

He fucks into her harder, hips slamming and claiming. It’s like his darkest side cracked open and poured out all the ugly through need, hope, love, all tangled in sweat and skin and moans and and and.

“Fuck, Max. Yes, you feel so good,” her praise makes him sob, hips jerking like he’s being praised for something holy.

He leans down to kiss her, but they’re both too far gone. It ends up being just open mouths, shared breath, moans between lips that can’t quite meet, not with how their bodies are still colliding, over and over.

“Mine,” Max spits out breathless, as he feels her start to tighten around his cock, fluttering repeatedly like her body is begging to fall apart with him.

Her hands curl around his biceps in order to be able to meet his thrusts halfway, nails digging in. “All yours,” she wails.

He shifts her legs higher around his waist, his hand sliding beneath her knee to angle her just right, and when he thrusts again, her whole body jolts. “Right there?” he asks, watching her eyes closing shut, her mouth falling open. “Ja, that’s it. That’s how my baby needs it.”

Her entire body shakes with pleasure, panting with every thrust as he drives into her with a need that’s no longer just physical. It’s every moment he missed her, every second he hated himself for letting her walk away, instead of ripping that ring off his hand, finger and all.

Max’s voice breaks against her skin, “You have any idea what you did to me for eleven months?”

She nods, arms wrapping around his neck.

“Of course you do,” Max smiles into her neck, maintaining the pace, sweat dripping from his brow as her walls spasm around him, pulling him deeper. “You know I jerked off to the thought of you every night,” he continues, the confession nearly unraveling him. “Couldn’t touch anyone else because your pretty face was everywhere I looked.”

Her fingers slide into his hair, pulling gently. “My good boy,” she purrs, and the sound he makes in response is feral, like it strips him down to his most basic instinct.

Max cries out, thrusts faltering for a second before he slams into her harder. “Say that again,” he demands in a pleading voice.

“You’re my good boy,” she whispers, then kisses his cheek, smiling as he loses himself a little more. “You always were.”

The words wreck him. He breathes wetly into her neck, almost embarrassed by how much he needs to hear it, and how much he actually craves being her good boy. Beneath his though exterior, there’s always been a constant need to belong to someone entirely. Not out of weakness, but out of a desire to be seen and chosen. To be loved, treasured, and protected like he mattered. Because as a kid, those things came rarely, if ever. And though Max learned to survive without them, part of him never stopped longing for that kind of love. The kind he once found and lost, the kind he almost recklessly pushed away. The kind she gave him, without asking for anything but his love in return.

“I didn’t let anyone else touch me, either,” she continues, breathless but determined to let him know, her fingers now tracing down his spine. “Told every guy that hit on me I had a boyfriend waiting for me at home. Did I lie, Maxie?”

He moans louder, his body surging forward like something inside him just snapped. His thrusts grow rougher, driven by the need to prove her right. To remind her that she is, indeed, his, and no one else can ever make her feel this way.

“No,” replies Max. “You’re mine,” he pants, “My little kitten, ja?”

She laughs, half-sob, half-moan, body shaking as she clings to him.

Somehow, his lips find her breast again, latching onto her nipple like it’s instinct. He sucks on it a little rough, making her head bury further into the couch cushion with a soft whimper. She’s obsessed with The Feel of Max — his weight, the way he pushes into her and how his skin presses into hers, the sound of his breath against her chest. Every cell in her body burns for him, a deep fire that’s been waiting to reignite since the moment she did one of the hardest things: removing herself from her heart, because she had to choose herself for once.

His left hand reaches for hers blindly, pulling her out of the dreamy state she’s fell into. Max threads their fingers together and pins them above her head against the cushions. Tears prick at the corners of her eyes as she clutches his hand tighter, her stomach flipping with emotion. Her eyes fly open, not from surprise but from the intensity of it and how light it is. It’s impossible not to feel the difference; that tiny missing weight that used to sit there like a wall between them.

Max notices the shift in how she exhales, in the way her body clings to his. He doesn’t ask, but he knows.

“I see you,” he says. “I fucking see you, baby.”

She sobs out a sigh, something between a moan and an overwhelmed yes.

“You feel so good. So good, my love,” repeats Max again and again, like he can’t say it enough. “I’m never letting anything come between us, I swear.”

His honesty is poured into every thrust, every kiss against her jaw, her mouth, her neck and shoulder. Everything she needed to hear, he’s saying now, as if he finally realizes that she’s been waiting. And he knows she believes him. He feels it. Feels it in the way her walls flutter around his length faster, needier. Sees how her hips lift to meet his and how her chest expandes rapidly.

Her stomach coils tight, pleasure rising sharp inside her, “Max, if you don’t shut up,” she cries, “I’m gonna fucking come all ov—”

He laughs softly against her lips, silencing her, but he doesn’t stop. “Make a mess for me then,” he encourages her, thumb brushing her cheek. “I’ve got you.”

He does. He always did.

With Max’s name on her tongue, his hand in hers, and every part of her clinging to him like gravity isn’t ever going to be enough again, she lets go. Her climax sends him spiraling, soaking everything, from the couch to his thighs and cock, with the kind of release that leaves no question how much she needed him. He wraps one arm around her waist in order to keep himself present as he shoves in deep one last time and stills, body shaking.

“Fuuuck,” Max chokes, forehead falling to her collarbone.

His cock throbs as he empties himself into her, her body welcoming every drop from him. His heart is hammering against her ribs, and he needs to breathe her in a few times before lifting his head, eyes glazed as they drop to where their bodies are still connected.

The sight nearly makes him come again.

Her thighs are trembling, spread wide, their slick mixed with his cum, smeared across her skin and his cock and the ruined couch. It’s absolute chaos, and he’s never seen anything more beautiful.

Satisfied, he collapses onto her fully, letting his weight sink into her just like he knows she needs. The girl sighs, breath tickling his temple, her hands finding his arms, scratching soft patterns along his skin. Goosebumps rise in waves, but Max doesn’t move. He just melts into her, letting her touch soothe him.

Her body acts before her brain has time to process. Gently, she lifts his hand and presses her lips to each knuckle. One by one. Then soft pad beneath his thumb. His palm, and the faint scar across it. She remembers how he caught the knife by the blade that night, and all the blood that spilled into the sink.

“Come home,” he whispers, voice cracking from the effort of saying it aloud. “Please.”

When there’s no answer, Max’s hands grip her waist, but he can’t find the strength to get up and look at her.

“Please,” he repeats. “I want to cook for you. Fight with you over stupid shit. Watch you fall asleep on this couch again. Just… let me love you right, baby.”

She closes her eyes, breathing in deeply. Max’s scent clings to her skin, to her hair, to the air around them, and that mix of sweat and sex drives her insane. It’s in the crook of her neck, on the inside of her thighs, behind her knees, soaked into her very inhale and exhale. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and he begins.

“What did you do with the ring?”

Max stills. Not the soft kind of stillness that comes from rest after sex, but the rigid kind, where his muscles lock and his breath stops short, like her words caught him mid-step somewhere deep inside himself. And unfortunately, she feels it in the way his touch pauses, not pulling away, but no longer moving forward either.

Her heart sinks into her stomach.

She hadn’t meant it to feel like an ambush, or a test she didn’t even want the answer to in the first place. But the silence stretches just long enough that fear creeps in. And her mind is relentless, thoughts flying around, mean and uninvited: It still means something to him. Maybe more than you ever will.

But then Max’s voice cuts through all that, pushing all the dark clouds aside.

“I gave it back to her,” he says. “Took it to her grave and—”

“I’m sorry,” she cuts him off, fighting the tears in her eyes. She reaches to cradles his face in her hand, thumb sweeping gently across his cheek. His skin is warm beneath her touch, his stubble coarse. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”

It’s his turn to interrupt her this time. “It’s okay,” Max assures her. “You were right. I needed to let it go if I wanted to be here. With you. It’s just… I am sorry it took so long.”

“No,” the girl shakes her head. “We can’t get mad at time for doing its thing,” she says gently.

Max’s jaw clenches. He doesn’t realize how badly he needed to hear that until it lands in him, like puzzle pieces falling into place. His eyes drift, settling on the digital clock glowing faintly on the wall. At the same time yesterday, he was lying in a cold bed, silence drilling through his ears louder than anything else. Swallowed whole by a grief so dark it didn’t even feel like sadness anymore. It was just a big hole of nothing.

A day later, he’s pressed against her, inside her, held by her. Breathing the same air as her.

Even though she didn’t say yes yet, even though he still has troubles sleeping, he’s content with the fact that the clock has reset itself for him. And for the first time since he got that call, he’s at peace.

. ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁ MASTERLIST . ݁₊ ⊹ . ݁˖ . ݁

Thank you for reading!

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sitepathos · 9 months ago

Text

From Gold to Mold

Chapter 5: The Departure (Warning: this chapter will contain violence. Read at your own risk.)

It’s been around two months since you accepted the Megamycete into your body and for the first time since you were dragged to Gotham, you’re actually happy. With its vast archives, you’re bursting with knowledge spanning over the course of four-hundred years, ranging from the academic to the arts and it’s thanks to that knowledge that your grades have skyrocketed in the past few weeks; where once you struggled with something, now you know better than even the teachers, even correcting them when they make a mistake and outpacing the best students in your class. Sure, by this time, it’s a little too late to get to the top of your class, but you really don’t care about your ranking; all that matters is being able to complete your homework, class assignments, and tests in record time, giving you time to work on more important things, like your game.

Included in the Megamycete’s records are the knowledge and memories of many computer programmers, some of them working for Bruce in his tech division; you also have many artists and musicians swimming in your head, many of them talented in making art on computers, so with your newfound knowledge, you’ve made tremendous strides in making your game. A year ago, you thought you would have to find a way to crowdfund the game in order to pay artists, musicians, and programmers and it would take a few years to make it ready for players, but now, you’re sure you can have this game ready by yourself within the year.

Not only has your intellectual attributes increased, but so have your physical abilities; the Megamycete’s records also include many athletes, both professional and student, and you know how to play every sport that’s ever been played in Gotham, but you haven’t shown any improvement in gym class. You never had any interest in sports before and you sure as hell don’t know. Plus, if you suddenly start showing everyone in the school that you’ve all of a sudden become smarter and stronger out of nowhere, you might attract enough attention that not even the Waynes can ignore.

And that won’t end well for anyone.

Speaking of them, you know they heard about what happened at the My Alibi bar and are working overtime to find the culprit, the only thing they know for certain is that it was the work of someone new. It actually brought a smile to your face when you learned about it, that for all their detective skills, they have no idea that the person they’re hunting for is under their own roof. While Damian is the only one to have ever told you to your face, you know they all think you’re stupid; that because you chose to deal with your fucked up life in a semi-healthy way and not dress up in some stupid little costume and fistfight psychopaths, that must mean there’s something wrong with you in the head.

Fuck all of them. You don’t need them and tomorrow night, you’ll be driving back to Goodsprings.

When you turned eighteen, you inherited all of your Momma’s assets, namely her life insurance policy, bank accounts, and royalties from all her books, all of which was worth a little over two-million; at first, you were going to save that money for when you moved back to Goodsprings in case you had to fix up your old home and pay the bills, but after almost dying due to relying on bus stops and bumming rides off of Alfred was unfair to the man, you decided to take some of the money and invest it in a car. The Megamycete had absorbed many modern car experts, so you were able to pick out a brand new car that was worth the hit to your wallet.

Plus, you had a way of earning a pretty penny and stick it to Bruce at the same time: sell his proprietary technology to Lex Corp. Many of Bruce’s employees are buried in Gotham’s cemeteries, some of them working on the latest technological breakthrough at the time of their deaths and you knew Bruce’s biggest business rival would kill to see what Bruce’s scientists are cooking up in their lab.

You reached out to the man using your computer knowledge to send him an email that couldn’t be traced back to you, stating you had the specs for several of Wayne Enterprises’ latest large scale projects and asked him if he was interested in buying them for a couple million in cash. Knowing he’d never consider the deal without some proof, you included bits and pieces of what you were offering, just enough to show you were legit, but not enough to be useful without the rest of it.

Sure enough, he took the hit and now, here you are, meeting with the most powerful man in Metropolis in his office, which overlooks the entire city. Of course, you’re smart enough to not show him your face, so you took the form of some Joe Schmo that died years ago.

“I don’t believe it,” the man exclaims as he sifts through the papers you drew the designs on. “Medicine, experimental aircraft specs, software designs! Over a million spent in corporate espionage and nothing to show for it. Then you come along, offering more than enough to recoup those losses and then some.” He looks back at you, an ominous twinkle in his eye that makes you shiver. “Any chance I can rely on your services in the future?”

“Perhaps,” you say in your disguised voice. “If I get my hands on more WE secrets, I’ll keep you in mind. Now, about my money?”

“Of course,” he purrs. He snaps at his assistant, who places the briefcase she was holding on his desk and opens it, revealing more money than you’ve ever seen in your entire life. “Twenty million in unmarked bills. I trust that’s more than enough?”

“Yes,” you say, trying to hide your shock from earning enough money to last you the rest of your life in just a few seconds. “I believe it is.”

(We see no signs of sabotage or subterfuge,) the Megamycete says. (It would appear Luthor intends to keep his word. For once.)

“Mercy will see you out,” Lex says as you take the briefcase. He then holds out a business card. “And this is my personal number and email. If you have more secrets you’re looking to sell, call me day or night.”

“Thank you,” you say as you pocket the card.

And with that, you follow the assistant out of Lex’s office and down to the lobby.

(You must be happy to have amassed such a fortune,) the Megamycete states as you walk out the front door. (And exacting revenge on Bruce Wayne makes this moment all the better.)

“You’re damn right,” you respond with a chuckle.

(Perhaps you could use some of that money to enjoy yourself? Since our joining, you have been hard at work with your education or your project. Taking some time to have fun will do you a world of good.)

Its words resonate with you. Sure, you’ve been busy with catching up on school and the gaps in your game, but you’ve done some fun things the last few weeks, right?

(No, we are afraid you have not.)

“Damn,” you mutter. “Guess I should change that.” You glance down at the briefcase in your hand. “Well, we have twenty mil of Lex’s money in here. How about have a night out in Gotham?”

(We agree wholeheartedly,” it exclaims, its voice full of joy and anticipation. (We look forward to seeing what you have planned.)

You chuckle as you change your form to your hardened mold armor and wings and take flight into Metropolis’ night sky. Fortunately for you, it’s a quiet night in the massive city, so Superman isn’t flying around, so you don’t have to worry about bumping into the Man of Steel.

“I gotta say, this city looks a helluva lot better than Gotham,” you remark as you soar above the skyscrapers. “Gotham looks like a giant tomb while Metropolis looks like the future.”

(Yes, we have noticed that no matter the era, the architecture of Gotham refuses to change. The city seems to be doomed to remain locked in a by-gone age. We look forward to seeing the world beyond.)

“You’ll love Goodsprings. Sure, it’s the size of a stamp compared to a behemoth like Gotham, but you can actually sit on your porch at night and not have to worry about gunshots or escaped lunatics. People actually have conversations with one another instead of telling you to fuck off.”

In a less than thirty minutes, you arrive back at Gotham and land on the roof of Wayne Manor and quietly sneak in. Joker’s still on the loose, no doubt waiting for the perfect moment to unveil his latest sick and twisted plan, so everyone’s out and Alfred’s stuck in the Batcave, keeping an eye on camera feeds.

You take out a few bills from the briefcase before hiding it under your mattress and heading out to the back where you keep your car parked. While Bruce has multiple cars, every single one of them is a high-end luxury car that costs way more than yours, so you didn’t want to take the risk of Bruce or the others finding it and doing something to it, so you keep your car behind a large barn that’s used to hold all the groundskeeping equipment.

As you drive off the property, you tell your phone to dial Alfred, who answers it halfway through the first ring.

“Master Y/N, is everything alright?”

“Yeah, Alfred, everything’s fine. I was just letting you know that I’m going out for a bit. Thought some time outside the house would do me some good.”

“While I agree that you need to get more, perhaps tonight isn’t the best time,” he says hesitantly. “I mean, the Joker is still out there, no doubt planning another heinous act.”

You’re touched by the man’s concern for you. Really, you are. But, with the Megamycete, you have nothing to fear.

“Don’t worry, Alfred, I’ll be fine.,” you reassure him. “I promise I won’t be gone too long. I’ll just be in Amusement Mile for an hour or two.”

“Still, I wish you weren’t going by yourself. Perhaps I can get one of your siblings—“

“No,” you cut him off. “I’m going out to have fun before I graduate, not be miserable. If I wanted to be tortured, I’d throw myself in Arkham’s Intensive Care Building.”

“I know why you feel that way, Master Y/N, but maybe you can give them another chance? You’ll be graduating tomorrow night and leaving after the ceremony. I just don’t want you leaving us under such bad circumstances.”

You know the man’s been trying to get the Waynes to notice you, but they’re all busy with their own lives in addition to being vigilantes at night, either fighting crime in Gotham, Blüdhaven, or elsewhere around the world. And when they’re all home, they’re spending time together, having fun that was never meant to include you. You learned that after countless times coming downstairs and seeing them, eating delicious food, laughing, watching movies, and enjoying themselves without you. After a while, you stopped going downstairs when you heard noises coming from the living room.

You don’t belong here, either in the Wayne Family or in Gotham. You never did. You know it, they know it, and deep down, Alfred knows it, whether he wants to admit it or not. You’re a Gould, not a Wayne and there’s nothing that’s going to change that.

“Alfred, I think the ship for us being a ‘happy, loving family’ sailed long time ago. They’ve made it clear that there’s no room for me in their world and I sure as hell don’t want them in mine. All I want to do is go home.”

“I understand,” he says after a brief moment of silence. “I hope you have fun, Master Y/N. And please, if you get into trouble, call me straight away.”

“I will, Alfred. I’ll talk to you later.” And with that, you hang up.

You let out a sigh when the line goes dead. You hated saying things like that to the poor man, but it’s how you feel about the Waynes. Ever since you moved in, all you heard about Bruce is that he’s a caring man and a loving father, but that care and love only appears to be for those he deems worthy of it. For someone like you, a bastard born from a careless one-night stand, he has nothing but neglect and indifference.

And the same goes for the others. They’re all a dysfunctional hodgepodge that are saturated with so much trauma and paranoia that it’s a miracle that they haven’t killed each other yet. You’re sure if they were locked up in Arkham and studied, they could fill an entire library’s worth of psychological textbooks.

(You should not concern yourself with them. They have made it clear that they are not worthy of your love or forgiveness. After so many years of suffering, you are so close to breaking free from your prison. By this time tomorrow, you will be back where you belong.)

“Yeah, back home. Finally.”

After thirty grueling minutes of dealing with Gotham’s traffic, you finally reach your destination: Bat Burger. As much as you hate any mention of Batman, Gotham’s cashed in on the “Bat Craze” and inserts him into anything they can. At least the food’s good; almost good enough to make you ignore the cartoonish Batfamily designs on all the walls. Emphasis on the almost.

“Welcome to Bat Burger,” the teenage cashier, dressed in a uniform designed around Batman, says in a monotone voice as you approach the counter. A brief look in his eyes tells you he’d rather be anywhere else right now. “How can I bring justice to your hunger today?”

“Can I get a Batburger with ketchup, large fries, and a large Bat Cola?”

“Do you want to Jokerize those fries,” he asks as he types in your order.

“No thanks.” You hand him a hundred dollar bill. “I don’t need the change. Keep it as a tip.”

“Oh,” he exclaims, the dead look in his eye gone, replaced by shock. “You sure?”

“Yeah,” you respond, happy to see such a transformation in the teen.

“Thank you,” he stutters as he hands you your cup for your drink. “Your food’ll be out in a minute. Let me know if you need anything else.”

You nod as you take the cup to the drink station.

(That was quite charitable of you,) the Megamycete remarks as you fill up your cup. (Such an action is rare in this city.)

“He looked like he needed it. I know what it’s like to be that miserable. Plus, it’s not like we’re hurting for money. If I ever run low, I still have plenty of Bruce’s secrets I can sell to Lex for a couple million.”

(Indeed. It would appear he had many of his employees working on secret projects that were not meant to be released. Perhaps such things were only meant for his nightly activities?)

“Wouldn’t doubt it,” you say as you sit down. “Kinda surprised no one’s figured it out. Batman’s toys look expensive and there’s not that many people in Gotham that could foot a bill that big other than Bruce Wayne.”

Not long after that, your order was called and you collected your fast food goodness. You practically moan as you take your first bite.

(This is quite appealing,) it says as you take another bite. (Savoring the food in real time is far batter than savoring it from the memories of the deceased.)

“I’ve wanted to come here for a while,” you say as you take a few fries. “Always saw the garbage cans full of Batburger bags when they came back from patrol. They never offered to take me and I never asked.”

(Their loss, we assure you. We can think of no better meal companion.)

“Shucks,” you chuckle. “You’re making me blush.”

After your meal, you decided to go to the arcade a few blocks away from the restaurant, eager to show the Megamycete all your favorite games. Also, with it behind you, you might be able to earn more tickets and win some of the bigger prizes. Your stride’s broken when you hear screaming, gunfire, and people running from the Gotham Arcade.

“What’s going on,” you ask a man as he tries to run past you.

“It’s Joker,” he exclaims, his eyes full of fear. “He’s shooting up the place!”

He runs away as you duck into an alley and call upon the mold to form the armor you’ve been using a lot lately. As you walk towards the arcade, you look through the roots and see the Bats scattered across the city, handling other crises; meaning they wouldn’t be here anytime soon.

“Guess it’s up to us to save the day.”

(The Clown has added many into our archives, all of whom spent their last moments of life terrified and in pain. We think it is time he knows fear.)

You walk into the arcade and are greeted by with over a dozen bodies, all of them riddled with bullet holes.

“My god,” you say, stepping over two teen boys who look like brothers. “There wasn’t a point to this. This is an arcade, not a bank. He just did this because he could.”

You follow the sound of gunfire until you see the Joker, dressed in his signature purple suit, shooting at a bunch of arcade cabinets.

“This is so much fun,” he exclaims as he rips a bunch of tickets from the machines. “Don’t you agree, Harley?”

“Sure do, Mistah J,” his partner, clad in her usual red and black spandex and jester hat, answers as she slams her giant mallet down on a poor Whack-A-Mole machine. She bends down and rips out a bunch of tickets from the smoking husk and holds it up to Joker like some offering to an ancient god. “Look, Puddin’, I won so many tickets!”

It’s then the two lunatics notice your presence.

“Well, well, well,” Joker says as he pockets his ill-gotten tickets. “Not the costumed freak I was expecting.” He holds his hands up to his head. “You’re missing the ears and everything.”

The two laugh and you roll your eyes under your mask.

“Looks like Ol’ Batsy has a new brat in his nest,” she jokes. “So, who’re you?”

“Oh, Harley, his name doesn’t matter.” He pulls out his gun and points it at you. “He’ll just be another corpse.”

He fires the gun and this time, the bullet actually penetrates your armor and pierces your lower torso. You wince at the feeling of a bullet in your gut.

(It would appear the clown uses a higher caliber than the common scum of Gotham,) the Megamycete explains as it heals your body, stitching the wound closed and hardening your armor to repel the stronger bullets. (Funny how he possesses such toys after being in Arkham for so long.)

“Oh, you’re a tough one, aren’t you,” he says, seeing that you’re not going down. “Normally, his little birdies go down from just a little love tap. Are you sure you belong to Batman?”

Now that pisses you off. Bruce may have had a hand in bringing you into the world, but you’re not his. You’re so pissed, in fact, that you raise your right arm and call upon a long tendril that pierces the center of the clown’s chest and pull him towards you.

“Mistah J,” Harley shouts in fear as you bring Joker to your face. She’s obviously paralyzed by fear because she stands there, doing nothing but watching the scene unfold before her.

His pasty white chin is covered in blood as it pours from his mouth and his eyes are wide as saucers.

“Now ain’t that a surprise,” he says with a chuckle, causing him to cough up blood.

“Get this through your sick and twisted head, clown,” you hiss. “I’m not Batman’s anything. There’s no words in any language that can express how much I hate him.”

You twist the tendril and take pleasure in watching him wince in pain.

(He fears you more than the Bat right now. Good. You are far superior than that worm and his collection of misfits. You always were.)

You feel yourself grin at that. You are better than them, aren’t you?

“And as much as I hate to admit it, Jason was right on how to deal with you. When you have a tumor, you don’t dress up in some stupid costume and beat it until it stops being a tumor.” You lift him far above, his head almost touching the ceiling. He flails around, but your tendril holds him in place. “You take a knife and cut it out.”

And with that, your tendril sprouts dozens of smaller ones that burst through his body, rendering it full of holes that it looks like a blood soaked piece of Swiss cheese. Said tendrils twist around until what was once the Joker is reduced to chunks of meat.

“Mister J,” Harley shouts, her voice full of agony, as his remains fall to the floor, landing with a wet splat. She looks at the pile of flesh, tears streaming from her eyes before turning to you, her gaze full of hate. “You bastard!”

She charges at you, her mallet raised and ready to strike, but you wrap her in your tendril, stopping her advance and making her drop her weapon. She struggles and as she does, she lets out loud sobs; ones were intimately familiar with. You let out similar ones when you lost your Momma and over the years you’ve spent in Wayne Manor.

“You killed my Puddin’,” she weeps. “When Bats hears about this, he’ll hunt you down like a damn animal! And when you’re thrown in Arkham, I’ll be waiting for ya!”

(She has a point. Batman and his flock are already looking for you and when they learn you have killed the clown, they will make finding you their top priority; they will marshal every resource at their disposal to finding your identity. Even if she cannot provide them with your identity, she presents a risk to our secrecy.)

You ponder on this as you watch Harley struggle against her bindings, her sobs now filling the arcade. You know the Megamycete is right; she’s a loose end you can’t afford, especially when you’re so close to going home. Plus, you know with Joker gone, Harley has no one to control her and with how racked with grief over the loss of her “love,” she’s a huge risk to everyone on Gotham.

You decide the risks are too great and command a smaller tendril to emerge from the one holding Harley, have it wrap itself around her neck, and quickly snap it, the noise it makes ringing in your ears like a gunshot. You release her from your grip and she tumbles to the floor, lifeless.

(It had to be done,) it assures you. (She represented a threat not just to you, but to the rest of the city. There is no telling how many people would have been hurt the next time she broke free from the asylum’s confines. Plus, the influence of the clown would have stayed with her, even after his death. She would most likely never have returned to what she once was. The rest of her life would have been spent mourning over the clown, inflicting pain onto the innocent, and escaping from and being returned to the asylum. You showed her mercy.)

You hear the words and in some way, they make sense, but right now, you don’t feel like you showed mercy. You’ve heard of the Tragedy of Doctor Harleen Quinzel, everyone in Gotham has at one point or another; the story of a poor psychiatrist new to Arkham who had been prayed upon by a manipulative mass murderer, turning her into his demented partner in crime and cutting a bloody swath across Gotham every time they escaped, leaving behind many orphans, widows, and corpses in their wake. She had spent years listening to other people’s problems and for once, wanted someone to listen to her, to make her feel like she was important.

In many ways, you can relate. Maybe in another life, you two could’ve been friends, wallowing together in your shared misery.

Just then, you learn from the roots that the Bats have been informed of the Joker’s appearance and are now on their way here to capture hm, unaware that you’d already beaten them to the punch.

“Let’s go,” you say, moving quickly. “We’re done here.”

In no time flat, you’re back to your car and out of the area before the Bats showed up.

“Sorry, buddy, but it looks like we may have to take a rain check on that night out.)

(We understand. And you should not feel guilty because of your actions. It is thanks to you that not only many will be able to sleep peacefully in their beds, but many beyond this mortal realm will finally know peace. While many threats to Gotham remain, its largest one has finally been put down.)

“Yeah, I guess.”

(It is also worth noting that we have only been joined for a short time, you have accomplished much more than Batman has the last two decades.)

That actually makes you feel a little better. Yeah, Bruce has been doing this for years and Gotham’s still a hellhole. In the span of a singe night, you make it visibly more safer. And to top it all off, he’ll be racking his brain trying to find out who the hell killed him and he’ll have no idea it was you, his forgotten firstborn son.

“That does make me feel a little better. Thanks.”

“Ok, when you find out who did this, can you please tell me so I can end them a thank you card before you lock em up,” Jason says as they watch what remains of the Joker being collected into a large evidence bag by GCPD while Harley’s body is placed on a gurney and covered by a sheet before being wheeled out.

“You know, I hate to say it,” Jim says as he dismisses a detective. “But I think this is going to make the city way safer. Hell, the mayor may want to offer whoever did this a key to the city.”

“It doesn’t matter if all crime in Gotham stops because of this,” Bruce responds. “It was done the wrong way and when I find out who did this, I’ll deliver them to Arkham myself. I’ll take Joker’s remains back to the Batcave, see if I can find any clues on the identity of his killer. I’ll give them back to you along with my findings.”

“Thanks,” the police commissioner responds as he takes the bag from a forensic investigator and hands it to him.

“Come on, B,” Jason whines as they leave the arcade. “Joker was a piece of shit and it was only gonna end with his death. Whoever this person is, do they really deserve to rot in Arkham over someone like him?”

“Whoever this person is, they took the law into their hands.”

“Pot meet kettle,” Jason mutters, but Bruce doesn’t acknowledge the remark.

“And this person clearly has powers. If they go off the deep end, there’s no telling what will happen. We need to find them before something happens and someone gets hurt.”

Finding this person just became their top priority.

This is it, the night you’ve been waiting for: graduation. It’s funny, when you first woke up this morning, you could feel every second of the day tick as you waited for the graduation ceremony. The only thing that made the time go by fast was you thinking about the conversation you overheard in the kitchen this morning.

Bruce and Tim talking about spending the day at their computers, analyzing every camera feed in Amusement Mile to look for whoever killed Joker. You had to bite your tongue to keep you from laughing. Here you are, the person they’re chomping at the bit to catch, and they have no idea you’re in the other room. You should be happy that they finally want something to do with you, but you know it’s only because you sent Joker to hell, something Bruce should’ve done years ago.

And when you heard that Tim was skipping the graduation ceremony to aid in patrolling? You immediately did a cartwheel down the hall. Not only will you finally be free from Gotham, but you won’t have to share the spotlight with Tim and risk catching their attention, though they probably would’ve had no idea who you were. Alfred tried to get Tim to reconsider getting Bruce to attend, but when those two are obsessing over something, it’s impossible to tear them away from it. The butler tried to tell Bruce that he had another son graduating, but the man left before the sentence could be complete, stating he had work to do.

At this point, it doesn’t even phase you. You know they’ve practically forgotten your existence and you couldn’t care less. You have everything you need to go back home and start your new life, you don’t need them for anything.

“Master Y/N, are you sure you don’t want me to call master Bruce and have him attend your graduation,” the butler fusses over your cap and gown for the umpteenth time. “As you father, he should be here to see one of the most important moments in your life.”

“It’s fine, Alfred, I don’t need him here. Frankly, with the way he’s acted over the years, I’m glad he’s not here. Same with Tim.”

The butler looks at you and you grimace at your remark. Ever since becoming the Megamycete’s host, you’ve noticed changes in your behavior. Where once you use to keep comments like that to yourself, you know say them in front of Alfred, unafraid for his reaction. Or how you use to always speak in a barely audible whisper for fear of being overheard by the Waynes, now you talk to Alfred at a volume that could easily attract unwanted attention. And you’re certain he’s noticed your change, too. God knows that man is aware of everything that goes on in his house.

(It is because you no longer have that fear. Before, you were a timid little thing, afraid of being seen by a predator lying in wait. Now? You are the hunter. They can’t hurt you anymore.)

Alfred opens his mouth to day something, but one of the teachers calls for all seniors to make their way to the field, signaling the beginning of the ceremony. He heads to the stands while you follow your fellow seniors to the field where you’re herded in alphabetical order. Once the teacher was satisfied with the order, she typed on her phone and the graduation music started playing from the speakers at the top of the stands.

As you follow in line, you look up to see Alfred in the front row, holding his phone up, no doubt intending to take several pictures and record just as many videos. You smile at the man, thankful to have him here on this important night. It’s then you think about your Momma and how she’d be cheering for you so hard, everyone could hear her. You feel something slide down your face and realize you’re crying. This is an important day in your life and you’re missing an important person in your life.

(She would be so proud of you. If your memories are anything indication of her character, she would give anything to be here right now. While the butler can never replace her, he is an acceptable stand-in.)

“Yeah,” you whisper as you take your seat near the front of the stage set up in the middle of the field. “He is. And I’m gonna miss him like hell.”

While you’re overjoyed to leave Gotham in your rear view and never step foot in it ever again, you’ll really miss Alfred. The man has been your rock since day one, celebrating your birthday which also happens to be the day of your Momma’s death. He held you while you cried and was your only company in the lonely halls of Wayne Manor.

Maybe you can hire him as your butler? Your smaller house would no doubt be much easier to clean than that behemoth of a mansion. Plus, Alfred is way more than people like the Waynes deserve.

After an eternity, the valedictorian finishes his speech and takes his place at up front, which is when the headmaster walks up to the podium and begins to call the students to come up and receive their diplomas. With each name called, you feel chest begin to tighten. This is the first time in years that so many eyes will be on you. What if you fall flat on your face while walking? Or try to shake the headmaster’s hand with your left instead of your right? Or—

(Relax,) the Megamycete says, bringing you out of your thoughts. (All will be fine. When your name is called, you will rise, walk with a level of pride none of your peers could ever hope to match, accept your diploma with such grace the headmaster will b in total awe, and walk back to your seat with the same pride as before. You are better than any of these children and you will make them know it.)

Hearing those words instantly makes you relax, your the knot that had been building up in your chest untangling, allowing you to breathe again.

“Thanks,” you say, taking a much needed deep breath. “Glad to know you think so highly of me.”

(We speak only the truth. We have seen the lives and memories of countless people over the past four centuries and not a single one holds a candle to you. You possess much potential and now that we are joined, we know you will unleash that potential and the entire world will be in awe of it.)

Wow. You actually have no idea how to respond to that.

(Pay attention, now. You will be called soon.)

It’s then you realize the headmaster is now on the Fs, almost to the Gs.

There’s three people ahead of you.

Then two.

Then one.

Then…

“Y/N Gould.”

This is it, your biggest moment in Gotham Academy. You stand up and walk with the grace the Megamycete said you would, accept your diploma from the headmaster with your left hand and shake with your right, and walk back to your seat. As you do, you see Alfred, a smile stretched across his face and cheering your name as he continues to hold his phone, probably recording a video just before your name was called.

(Excellent, Y/N,) the Megamycete praises as you sit back down. (We offer our most sincere congratulations on your triumph.)

You stare down at the piece of paper down in your hands and you while the evidence is right there in black and white, it still doesn’t feel real. You’re actually in awe of the fancy kind of paper Gotham Academy uses to print its diplomas, with its Coleen gilded edges, bold ink, beautiful calligraphy, and soft feel.

Hell, Alfred may fight you to keep it so he can frame it and mount it somewhere in Wayne Manor.

After that, the rest of the ceremony seems to speed up, the last of the names being called, the headmaster deeming all of you graduates of Gotham Academy, and the graduating class being told to gather behind the chairs for the moment every senior looks forward to: the Cap Throw. You follow your fellow graduates with bated breath, eager to throw your cap and complete your graduation experience.

“On three,” the valedictorian yells from the center of the crowd. “One! Two! Three!”

You eagerly toss your cap with everyone else, your cheers and laughs joining everyone else’s. You watch with joy as the caps soar above you all and begin to float back down to the field, your eyes tracking your cap, which you had decorated with paintings (the Megamycete allowing you to make them flawlessly) of the team you beat Cynthia from Pokémon Platinum with: Infernape, Luxray, Staraptor, Floatzel, Lucario, and Garchomp (you had no idea so many used the same team before you discovered the internet).

You collect you cap while so many try to find theirs and had towards the exit to meet Alfred.

“Congratulations, my boy,” he greets you, his wide smile still adorning his face, before bringing you into a tight hug.

“Than you, Alfred,” you respond, returning the hug.

When you separate, he flags down a passing man. “Pardon me, sir, would you be so kind as to take a picture of the two of us?”

“Sure,” the man says, taking his phone and aiming at you and taking the picture.

“Thank you, good sir,” the butler says as he takes his phone back.

He types on his phone and not even a second later, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket beneath your gown, indicating he sent you the picture.

“I’m so proud of you, Master Y/N. You’ve certainly earned this.”

“Thank you, Alfred. And not just for this, but for everything.”

You two leave the field and he follows you to the gym so you can return your gown and once you do, you two make your way to your car, which is when you realize this is the part of the evening where you two say your goodbyes and you leave for Goodsprings while he returns to Wayne Manor. And the sweet moment you’ve been waiting years for now turns bittersweet. You’ve looked forward to this moment ever since you started high school and while you’re ecstatic to finally leave this godforsaken city, you hate that you have to leave Alfred behind.

“Master Y/N,” he says, breaking the tense silence. “I know you’ve been waiting for this moment for so long, but do you have to leave right now? Maybe your return to Nevada can wait until morning? You really shouldn’t be driving so late.”

“We can put it off for as long as we want, still won’t change the outcome.”

“I know,” the poor man sighs. “But still, it’s over forty hours from here to Goodsprings.”

“I’ll be fine, Alfred. Really. I’ll be super careful. I’ll stop at a motel a few hours from here, take regular breaks, stop at restaurants to eat, and I’ll be there before you know it and in one piece.”

“I just wish I could convince you to stay. I’ll miss you, terribly. The manor won’t be the same without you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, Alfred.”

You two pull each other into another hug.

“Promise me that you’ll call me if you run into any trouble, be it on the road or in Nevada.”

“I will.”

“And that you’ll try to visit whenever you can. I’ll arrange for Master Bruce’s jet to come and get you, you just say the word.”

“I’ll try.”

You’re lying. You’re lying and both of you know it. But, neither of you bring it up.

“And promise me you’ll take care of yourself. I didn’t raise you for over ten years just for you to end up in the hospital just because you didn’t feed yourself.”

“I will,” you laugh. You know he’s joking, he taught you everything he knows about cooking, cleaning, and housekeeping. That, combined with the Megamycete’s records, you have everything you need to keep your house together.

“I just wish your father and siblings were here.” You just did manage to fight off the flinch at the mention of those assholes. “This is an important moment of your life and they should be here to celebrate it with you.”

“I know you do, Alfred,” you respond, thankful that you’re still hugging so he can’t see the face you’re making at the thought of them being here, insulting you and making you feel like graduating somehow made you feel like a failure.

Finally, you two pull apart and with one last goodbye and promise to be careful, you get into your car, the backseat covered by boxes that couldn’t be placed in the trunk. When you woke up this morning, you packed your computer, video games, books, and other things that you refused to leave behind at Wayne Manor, your Momma’s pen sitting in your pocket as you refused to part with it. Sure, there were some things were left behind and while Alfred told you repeatedly he could arrange for them to be delivered to your house, you told him that anything you left behind wasn’t important and could be thrown away.

You didn’t leave much behind, some stuff like a few books you hadn’t read in years, a bunch of notebook paper with stupid ideas for video games that you had years and threw away when you realized no one in their right mind would play them, and an old journal you kept when you first move to Gotham. You archived every major event leading up to Damian’s arrival in those pages, which is when you finally filled it up. You briefly thought about keeping it, but decided against it. You had your stay at Wayne Manor burned into your memory and weren’t eager to have been more reminders around you. Plus, you’re about to start your new life, so there’s no need to carry it around. Maybe you can start keeping a new journal?

You start up your car, put it into reverse, and when you backed up enough, put it into drive and wave at Alfred as you leave the parking lot and follow your GPS to Goodsprings. That’s when your phone finally connects to your radio and starts playing music, Hollow from FFVII Remake, playing at just the right volume.

“Wow,” you chuckle as the music begins. “Talk about great timing.”

(We agree. This song is about heading into the unknown with hope; perfect for the start of your new life. It is as if fate itself is smiling down upon you.)

“Seems like it. You with me, buddy?”

(Every step of the way. Until the very end.)

And with that, you pick up speed as you get onto the interstate.

Alfred watches you drive off and only when you’re out of sight does he finally shed a tear. To see Master Y/N leave is one of the most difficult moments of his life.

He understands, of course. Not only did you leave much behind after the tragic and unexpected loss of your mother, but Master Wayne and the children had given you zero reasons to stay. In fact, they’d given you a million reasons to leave.

But he can’t let you go. Not his favorite member of the family.

He’d never admit it to anyone, but out of everyone in the Wayne Family, he cared for you the most. You were raised by a wonderful, loving woman who knew how to properly raise a child and didn’t skulk about at night, battling with criminals night after night. You had a normal life and knew what life was like outside of being a vigilante, bringing a much needed balance to the manor.

You were a delight to raise, always saying please and thank you, offering to help around the manor, and carrying on pleasant conversations that were the highlight of his day. And if the family would take the time to get to know you, they’d come to the same conclusion he did many years ago.

However, as brilliant as everyone in the family is, they can also be equally foolish. Too wrapped up in their civilian and vigilante lives to see the gift they had been given, but spurred for years. And now, you’re gone.

But not for long. You belong here, with your family, and by God he’ll make sure you know it, your father knows it, and your siblings know it. One way or another, he’ll bring your father to his senses, and when that day comes, he’ll make him go to you and beg for your forgiveness, even if he has to get on his hands and knees. And after that, your father will bring you back home, where you’ll be lavished in the love they should’ve shown you from the beginning.

He’ll do whatever it takes to bring you back home, where you belong. He doesn’t care what he has to do or how long it takes, he’ll make sure you come back to the place where you belong. And when you, you’ll be showered with so much love that you’ll never want to leave ever again.

A/N: I got lucky this week. I was going to have 4 tests this week (2 regular tests and 2 midterms), but a professor I have for two classes got sick and cancelled, pushing the tests for next Monday and Tuesday. With only one midterm left and a study guide basically matching the test, I had plenty of free time to make this chapter. Hope you all enjoyed it!

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probablyasocialecologist · 5 months ago

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It is, as many have already pointed out, incredibly ironic that OpenAI, a company that has been obtaining large amounts of data from all of humankind largely in an “unauthorized manner,” and, in some cases, in violation of the terms of service of those from whom they have been taking from, is now complaining about the very practices by which it has built its company. The argument that OpenAI, and every artificial intelligence company who has been sued for surreptitiously and indiscriminately sucking up whatever data it can find on the internet is not that they are not sucking up all of this data, it is that they are sucking up this data and they are allowed to do so. OpenAI is currently being sued by the New York Times for training on its articles, and its argument is that this is perfectly fine under copyright law fair use protections.

[...]

OpenAI and Microsoft are essentially now whining about being beaten at its own game by DeepSeek. But additionally, part of OpenAI’s argument in the New York Times case is that the only way to make a generalist large language model that performs well is by sucking up gigantic amounts of data. It tells the court that it needs a huge amount of data to make a generalist language model, meaning any one source of data is not that important. This is funny, because DeepSeek managed to make a large language model that rivals and outpaces OpenAI’s own without falling into the more data = better model trap. Instead, DeepSeek used a reinforcement learning strategy that its paper claims is far more efficient than we’ve seen other AI companies do.

29 January 2025

#openai #sam altman #deepseek #ai #artificial intelligence

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rd0265667 · 21 days ago

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Yooyeon x Reader: A love like spring

Tags: College AU, Rivals to lovers

A/N: Happy birthday @1luvkarina

There’s nothing romantic about 7:59 a.m. on a Monday.

Your hair’s half-wet. Your backpack’s tearing at the seams. Your coffee tastes like burnt ambition. And worst of all, there she is—again—in all her smug, straight-A glory.

Yooyeon.

The school’s academic darling with the face of a webtoon lead and the GPA of a spreadsheet deity. Top of the leaderboard every week since her freshman year. If intelligence were a crime, she’d be serving four consecutive life sentences and getting bonus credits for charm.

And you? You’re the upstart sophomore who’s been stuck in her shadow since the day you decided you were good enough to try and outpace her. Since you decided you had to.

Spoiler alert: you’re not. Yet.

You slow your steps as the glowing digital leaderboard updates.

There it is.

#1: Yooyeon #2: You

Again. That unshakable, perfect name above yours like it's a personal attack.

“Good morning, second best,” comes a voice behind you. Smooth. Deliberate. Unreasonably amused.

You don’t flinch—you’re used to her sneaking up like this. Yooyeon has the uncanny ability to appear exactly when you least want her around. Like a pop quiz or a mirror when you’re breaking out.

You sigh. “Yooyeon.”

She steps beside you, holding a hot matcha latte like she didn’t just ruin your week with her existence. Her uniform is barely regulation—tie undone, sleeves pushed up, hair tied loosely like she’s got better things to do than follow rules and still somehow wins at everything.

You brace yourself.

“I see the board’s still allergic to change,” she muses, tapping her cup like she’s bored.

“I see your ego’s still immune to humility.”

She hums, like she’s actually considering your words. “Not immune. Just... in remission.”

“Do you practice this banter or does it come naturally?”

She looks at you, tilts her head just enough to be condescending. “Oh, please, spare me the jokes Princess. You think I have to practice for you?”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly detach.

Yooyeon leans a little closer. “You were third this time last semester, right?”

You clench your jaw. “Second now.”

“Exactly,” she says, like it’s a compliment. “You’ve been climbing. Just not fast enough.”

You turn to leave. But of course, Yooyeon follows.

Because she’s never known when to shut up—or maybe she knows exactly when, and just chooses not to.

“I have to admit,” she calls after you, “watching you try to beat me every week is the most fun I’ve had all year.”

You spin on your heel. “It’s not a game.”

She smiles. “Everything’s a game if you’re winning.”

Your fingers twitch around your coffee cup. “One day I will beat you.”

“I hope so,” she says with a glint in her eye. “It’s getting boring up there by myself.”

She gives you a lazy two-finger salute and walks off like she didn’t just light your brain on fire.

You hate her.

You hate her and her relaxed brilliance and her effortless grades and her stupid, elegant neck and the way she says your name like it’s a dare.

You definitely don’t have a crush.

You definitely don’t.

Your screen is blinding, your legs are numb, and you’re 97% sure you’re running on sheer spite and protein bars. You’re on your third pass through a theoretical physics paper that Yooyeon probably skimmed once and called “cute.”

You shouldn’t be doing this. You know you’re pushing it—skipping meals, running on caffeine, grinding until your eyes blur. But every time you think about easing up, you see her.

Yooyeon. Looking down from her throne of extra credit and cute smiles.

And suddenly, you’re typing faster.

You don’t even notice the chair slide out across from you until she speaks.

“Still here? Should I be worried?”

You glance up and she’s there—again. Her hair’s down now, loose and slightly damp at the ends like she just showered. She smells like herbal shampoo and quiet confidence. Unfair.

“I don’t need a babysitter,” you say, keeping your voice level.

Yooyeon shrugs. “Good. I’m not getting paid.”

She drops into the seat across from you like this is her table. Like everything here belongs to her, including your attention.

“You know,” she says casually, “there’s a difference between working hard and working smart.”

“You would say that,” you mutter, scribbling a correction into your notes. “Some of us aren’t born with magical perfect-brain genetics.”

She rests her chin on her hand, eyes sharp despite the lazy posture. “You think that’s what it is? Genetics?”

You pause.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you say. “You’re just a well-dressed calculator.”

Yooyeon smirks. “And you’re a sleep-deprived caffeine goblin with excellent handwriting. We all have our strengths.”

You try not to smile. You fail.

She notices. Of course she does.

“Are you... encouraging me?”

Yooyeon leans back, her chair creaking just slightly. “Don’t get used to it. You looked like you were about to pass out face-first into your textbook.”

You scowl, but yeah. She’s not wrong.

She slides a granola bar across the table without looking at you.

You blink. “What’s this?”

“An intervention.”

You stare at it like it might explode.

“Don’t be dramatic,” she says, unwrapping her own. “I can’t have my favorite competition collapsing mid-semester. Who else deserves second place behind me?”

You pick it up slowly.

“…Thanks.”

“Anytime, princess.”

She winks.

You hate her.

You hate her so much it might be love.

There’s a strange sound that’s started following you lately. A high-pitched ringing, almost like feedback in your skull. You’ve heard people describe burnout like exhaustion, like fire running out of fuel.

But this?

This feels more like an implosion.

You haven’t slept in more than a handful of hours since midterms. Your meals come in bites between classes. Water? Optional. The only thing you've consumed reliably is the sharp sting of Yooyeon's name above yours on every results board.

She’s always one step ahead. One mark higher. One moment faster.

The library is so quiet you can hear your heartbeat. You’re highlighting entire paragraphs. Useless. Your brain’s not retaining anything.

Someone slides into the seat across from you with the grace of a cat and the audacity of a god.

“Planning to absorb the textbook via osmosis?” Yooyeon asks, raising an eyebrow.

You look up through dark circles and dry eyes. “It’d be faster than this.”

“Bold of you to assume your brain still functions.”

You give her a flat look, but she doesn’t smirk like she usually does. Her gaze lingers on the way your hand shakes when you cap the highlighter.

“You know,” she continues, tone light but eyes sharp, “some people take breaks. Step away. Breathe.”

“Some people don’t have to play catch-up,” you mutter.

She leans back, kicks her boots up on the bench like she owns the place. “You act like I didn’t start ahead of you because you were busy flirting with mediocrity.”

There it is. Classic Yooyeon.

Still, something in her tone feels...off. Forced.

You go back to your notes. She stays longer than she needs to.

You don’t remember sitting down in the courtyard, but the sun is too bright and your coffee’s gone cold. Your head rests on your forearm while your untouched sandwich sits in front of you like a guilt trip.

“Sleeping Beauty,” Yooyeon’s voice says.

You lift your head sluggishly. She’s standing over you, holding a bottle of water. She drops it next to you like she’s not doing you a favor.

“Didn’t peg you for the collapsing-in-public type,” she says, eyes narrowing. “Very... first act of a tragic drama.”

You mumble, “Didn’t peg you for the fairy godmother type.”

“Please. If anything, I’m the charming villain with better cheekbones.”

Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitches. Her jokes don’t land like they used to—they land heavier now. Like they’re carrying too much meaning, too much watching.

She studies you for a beat too long before muttering, “Drink the damn water.”

You obey. Not because she told you to, but because... it’s her. And her gaze makes your skin buzz.

You’re sitting on the floor outside your dorm room. The hallway light flickers.

Your roommate locked the door while you were in the lounge. You forgot your phone. Your laptop bag is heavy against your back, your eyes sting, and your breath keeps coming short.

You crack your calc textbook open just to do something.

You don’t realize you’ve fallen asleep until someone crouches beside you.

“You’re kidding.”

You blink awake. Yooyeon. Of course. She’s staring at you like you’re a science experiment that’s grown mold.

“Seriously?” she says, voice flat. “The hallway?”

You try to sit up. “It’s fine—just locked out.”

“Oh, yeah. Very normal behavior. Just a girl, a textbook, and rock-bottom study hygiene.”

“Go away, Yooyeon.”

She doesn’t. She sighs, long and annoyed—then slips her phone from her pocket and dials.

“You’re not sleeping here. My place is closer.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“I’m not dragging your body to the nurse in the morning. I already have plans. Let’s go.”

You hesitate. She eyes you again. “You look like you haven’t eaten a real meal since the lunar eclipse. Grab a meal at my place, I’ll call your idiot roommate to open the door later.”

You follow her. You weren’t sure if it was the fatigue, or because it was her. And her hand on yours makes your heart beat faster

You're at your desk in the library again. You don’t remember how long you’ve been there. Two hours? Five?

Yooyeon walks past and drops a sticky note on your open book without stopping.

~You forgot your notes in the study room. Again. You’re lucky I like collecting strays. Study up. I expect you right behind me, beautiful. —Your number one.

You stare at the handwriting.

You don’t know how to feel. She's watching you too closely, caring too much, and you're not sure if it's humiliation or... something warmer crawling under your skin.

You crumple the note. But you don’t throw it away.

The professor compliments your analysis. Your voice wobbles when you thank him, and you feel a dozen pairs of eyes turn your way. You grip the desk.

Yooyeon cuts in casually. “We split the work pretty evenly. Honestly, they’re the real brains. I just added sparkles.”

The class laughs. Attention shifts.

You stare at her after. She avoids your eyes.

She’s helping.

She keeps helping.

She keeps pretending she’s not.

Something rumbles in your chest, and it might not be hunger.

Your pencil skids across the desk as you jot another definition into the margin. Your coffee is cold. You don’t remember drinking it — or making it, honestly. The page blurs, sharpens, then shifts entirely. You blink. The words don’t.

It’s fine. You just need a few minutes. A few more pages. Just until your head stops swimming.

“Are you trying to kill yourself with caffeine and stubbornness?” a familiar voice drawls behind you.

You don’t look up. You already know who it is. Only one person can make academic condescension sound like flirting.

“I’m fine,” you mutter, scribbling harder.

Yooyeon slides into the seat across from you at the library table. She sets her iced Americano down with a casual clack. She looks maddeningly well-rested. Hair tied in a loose ponytail, nails painted an obnoxious sky-blue. Her smile is faint — but not cruel. Just... curious.

“You look like you’ve fought a war and lost,” she says. “Did the mitochondria revolt in the middle of your flashcards?”

You glare at her, but it comes out more glassy than venomous.

Yooyeon leans forward slightly, lowering her voice. “Hey. Seriously. When’s the last time you slept more than four hours?”

“I don’t need sleep,” you shoot back, forcing the edge into your tone. “I need results.”

“Cute. You sound like a motivational poster taped to a stress ball.”

You huff and turn back to your notes.

Yooyeon stays quiet for a second too long.

Then she mumbles, “You’ve stopped eating lunch with your friends. I saw you in the atrium yesterday — you looked like you were arguing with a vending machine.”

You don’t respond. She sighs.

“I’m not saying this to be annoying, you know.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

There’s a pause.

Then Yooyeon says, quieter, “I notice things.”

You freeze.

She backpedals instantly, voice snapping back to normal. “Not because I care or anything — you’re just loud when you’re stressed.”

You snort, exhausted and bitter. “I wonder why I’m stressed, Yooyeon.”

“Hey, it’s not my fault you turned this into some Olympic-level grudge match. I just showed up and got better grades. It’s not my fault you-”

You flinch. She notices.

“Fuck” she mutters under her breath, turning to you “Listen, I didn’t mean that”

“Whatever. Just leave me alone.” You didn’t want her to see you like this

The banter sputters out.

Yooyeon opens her mouth, then closes it. For once, she doesn’t have a comeback. Her hands fidget with her drink, spinning the straw back and forth. Her mouth twitches like she wants to say something else — but whatever it is, it dies in her throat.

You’re not even mad. You’re too tired to be mad.

Midterms week hits like a truck.

The hours bleed together. You pull two all-nighters in a row. Your hands cramp from writing. Your head pounds from dehydration. You’re three minutes late to your Philosophy exam and your professor gives you a look that makes your stomach twist.

Yooyeon intercepts you in the hallway after.

“You’re late,” she says, arms crossed.

You don’t stop walking. “So?”

“So? You don’t do late.”

“Maybe I’m changing.”

“Maybe you’re crashing.”

You whirl around. “Why do you care?”

Yooyeon blinks. Her mouth opens — but again, the words don’t come.

“…I don’t,” she says finally, though it sounds like a lie. “I just don’t want my academic rival to turn into a cautionary tale. Or for this not to be a fair fight.”

You shoot her a look. “Touching.”

She’s silent for a beat. Then—

“…Did you get the chemistry lab notes from Tuesday?”

Your brows furrow. “No, I—”

She hands you a neatly stapled packet.

You stare.

“I noticed you weren’t there,” she says, words tripping over themselves, like if she rushes through them, they won’t mean anything. “Thought maybe you were busy... plotting my untimely demise or passed out on top of your textbook again. So. I wrote some stuff down. When I had time.”

You thumb through the pages. Clean, organized. Little side notes in the margins—some sarcastic, some oddly helpful. It’s better than what the TA would’ve given you.

You glance up. She won’t quite meet your eyes.

Two nights later, you wake up on the floor of the library hallway, your face pressed into the spine of your biology textbook.

Yooyeon is crouched beside you.

“Seriously?” she hisses. “Are you living here now?”

You try to sit up. Your arms don’t respond.

“Okay, nope,” she mutters, grabbing your bag and slinging it over her shoulder. “This is officially the dumbest thing you’ve ever done. And I’ve watched you voluntarily take an extra calculus elective.”

You don’t argue. You can’t.

You let her guide you up. She doesn’t look at you, not really. But her grip is firm. Protective. Almost furious.

She doesn’t say anything else as she half-drags you back to your dorm — until she sees your roommate’s ‘DO NOT DISTURB’ sign on the door. And a sock on the door handle.

“Unbelievable,” she mutters. “Come on.”

“Come on where?”

“My room.”

“What?”

“My dorm. Unless you want to go pass out on the quad lawn instead, be my guest.”

You blink. “You’re inviting me into your space to sleep?”

“Desperate times,” she mutters, not looking at you.

You don’t remember much after that.

Just that her bed is warm. Her sheets smell like citrus and something else you can’t name. You hear her pacing, mumbling things like, “idiot,” and “should’ve said something,” and “I’m not even good at this—”

There’s a damp cloth on your forehead. A straw pressed to your lips. Her hand hovering near yours, then quickly pulling away.

You hear her mutter, voice tight and quiet:

“Why’d you have to push so hard?”

And then:

“Not like this.”

You wake up to soft light.

Yooyeon is curled up in the chair by the bed, a book open on her stomach. Her glasses are slipping down her nose. Her head is tilted back, exposing her throat. She looks… peaceful.

Vulnerable, even.

You shift slightly.

She startles awake instantly, blinking blearily.

“Hey,” she croaks. “Welcome back to the land of people with functioning blood sugar.”

You try to sit up.

“Don’t even think about it,” she warns, pushing you back with two fingers. “You nearly went full Victorian fainting maiden on me yesterday.”

You stare at her. “You stayed?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, the Florence Nightingale fairy showed up and did all the work. Yes, I stayed.”

You swallow hard. “Why?”

She looks down.

“Because I was scared,” she says. Then quickly adds, “Not, like, scared for you or anything. Just—scared that my GPA would tank if you actually died.”

You huff a laugh. “Classic.”

She tries to smirk. It doesn’t land.

You study her face. The slight crease in her brow. The nervous way she keeps tapping her thumb against her palm. This isn’t the girl who taunted you across study tables. This isn’t the smug top-ranked student.

This is just Yooyeon.

Messy. Soft. Trying her best.

“…Thanks,” you whisper.

She looks at you, startled.

And then — a smile. Small. Real.

“Don’t mention it,” she says, softer now.

Then it all disappears. “Seriously. Don’t. I’ve got a reputation to keep. This night never happened.”

You were unsure why, but your chest ached as she said that

Monday. The rankings post.

You're second.

So is Yooyeon.

Tied.

The hallway buzzes behind you with a hundred voices and the low squeak of sneakers on linoleum. But all you hear is the steady beat of your pulse in your ears as your eyes scan the bulletin board—twice, then a third time, like the numbers might change if you look at them hard enough.

Yooyeon’s name sits right next to yours. Identical score. Perfect tie.

She appears beside you with the smooth nonchalance of someone running on caffeine and stubbornness alone. Her hair is in a messy bun, half-fallen. There’s a coffee cup in her hand and bruised half-moons under her eyes.

“Well,” she says, her tone light but stretched thin at the edges. “Guess the apocalypse came early.”

You don’t answer.

Neither does she.

The silence settles between you, not cold or hostile—just too quiet. You’re standing close enough to feel her shoulder nearly brush yours.

You should say something snide. You should win this moment, score the verbal point. Something like Guess you’re not so untouchable after all.

But nothing comes out.

Because all you can think of is the cold towel she pressed to your forehead. Her voice, breaking like glass when she called your name. The way she stayed.

The way she didn’t leave.

In the library, everything is the same.

Except nothing is.

You sit across from her, like always. Your textbooks open. Your pens lined up in color-coded formation. But the usual energy—your electric, relentless rhythm—is muted. Stiff.

You catch her glancing at you. She catches you too. But neither of you say anything.

“You misspelled ‘haemoglobin,’” she says eventually, flicking your notes toward you with a fingertip.

You raise an eyebrow. “You misspelled ‘delusional’ when you thought I wasn’t going to catch up.”

She snorts. “And here I was, thinking your near-death experience might’ve humbled you.”

“It gave me clarity,” you say with mock solemnity. “And a much better immune system.”

“Sure,” she murmurs. “All it cost was my sanity and my extra blanket.”

You smirk. She doesn’t.

And then the silence slides in again, heavy and stretched like a wire between you. Frayed.

You don’t know when it started feeling like this. This thing between you—too tense to be normal, too soft to be war.

It tries to hold. It tries to strengthen itself, in a vain hope to stop what is inevitable.

It breaks. You’re walking back to the dorms after study group. It’s late, and the air smells like wet pavement and budding leaves. The night feels like it’s holding its breath — like something’s about to change.

Yooyeon’s beside you, hands in her jacket pockets, kicking absently at the gravel path. There’s a beat of silence between you, stretched but not uncomfortable. Not quite.

“You haven’t picked a fight with me all week,” she says eventually. “I’m starting to worry.”

You glance at her. “Thought I’d give you a break. You’ve been too easy.”

She smirks. “Wow. A mercy from my greatest nemesis. I’m touched.”

You roll your eyes, but it’s fond. Too fond. And you both feel it — the quiet shift in the air. The kind of silence that doesn’t beg to be filled, but felt.

You stop walking. She does too.

“We’ve both been pretending that night didn’t happen.”

She turns to face you, her expression unreadable but her eyes tired. Honest.

“But it did,” she says. “You know it did.”

You nod. Slowly. “Yeah. It did.”

The silence settles again, but different this time—heavier. Expectant.

“I didn’t know how to bring it up,” you say. “Didn’t know if you wanted me to.”

She exhales through her nose. “I didn’t. At first.”

You study her face, the slight tension in her jaw, the flicker of hesitation in her eyes.

“I was scared,” she admits. “Because that night—how I felt—how I looked at you… I don’t think I could’ve kept pretending after that.”

You swallow. “Yeah,” you say, your voice low. “Me too.”

She meets your gaze then. Really meets it. And for once, there’s no smirk, no barb, no shield between you. Just Yooyeon. Just you.

“I think the truth is…” you begin, carefully, “…there was always something more. Even back when all we did was argue and try to outscore each other.”

Her lips twitch. “Back when you were too proud to admit I made you nervous.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t nervous.”

“You color-coded your pens every time I sat next to you.”

“That’s called being organized,” you mutter.

“That’s called spiraling,” she teases—gently, now. No venom. Just warmth.

You crack a small smile, but it fades just as quickly.

“I kept telling myself I had to beat you,” you say. “That I needed to prove I was better. Like if I didn’t, then… then maybe everything I’d worked for would mean less.”

Yooyeon’s expression softens. “And I kept telling myself it didn’t matter. That none of it—none of you—mattered. Because if it did, I wouldn’t be able to compete the same way.”

You nod, slow. “I think we were both lying to ourselves.”

“For a while now,” she murmurs.

A pause.

Then: “When you collapsed,” she says, voice smaller than you’ve ever heard it, “I didn’t care about the exam. Or our scores. Or the board. I just—” She breaks off, looking away for a second, gathering herself. “I was so scared. And all I could think about was how I never told you.”

“Told me what?”

“That I cared,” she says. “That I’ve always cared. Even when I pretended not to. Even when I was throwing jabs or pretending I didn’t notice the way you always tapped your pencil twice before a big answer.”

Your breath catches.

“I saw you,” she whispers.

You blink fast, the lump in your throat impossible to swallow.

“I think…” you start, but your voice wavers, so you pause, exhale. “I think I kept trying to prove something I didn’t need to prove. Not to you. Maybe not to anyone. But especially not to you, because I think deep down—some part of me just wanted to impress you.”

Yooyeon’s lips part, like she’s about to speak. But instead, she just steps forward. One slow, steady step.

You meet her halfway.

“I don’t want to pretend anymore,” you say quietly. “Not about how I feel. Not about you.”

“Neither do I,” she says, breathless.

“You remember the first time we met?” you ask.

She tilts her head. “Let me guess — you're about to say you knew I was your greatest threat the second I opened my mouth.”

You smile faintly. “No. I was going to say I hated how fast I noticed you.”

She blinks.

“Not just because you were smart,” you continue. “But because... you lit up the room the second you walked in. And I didn’t know how to deal with that. So I decided I had to beat you.”

Yooyeon’s voice is softer now. “You always looked at me like you had something to prove.”

“I did,” you admit. “I thought if I could outscore you, outrank you, maybe that ache in my chest would make sense.”

She lets out a breath, not quite a laugh. “You think I didn’t feel it too?”

You glance at her.

“From the beginning,” she says, voice quieter now. “There was always something more than just competition with you. But I told myself it wasn’t real. That it was easier to pretend, that it didn’t mean anything, that it was just a competition.”

She smiles, but it’s sad around the edges. “You worked so hard to push me away. I didn’t want to care about someone who saw me as an obstacle.”

“I never saw you as just that.”

She looks up at you, searching your face. “Then what did you see?”

You hesitate. Then: “Someone who saw through me. Who made me feel like I wasn’t alone, even when I was trying to act like I didn’t need anyone.”

Yooyeon blinks fast. “I cared,” she whispers. “Even when I tried to hide it behind sarcasm and insults and pretending like your dumb matcha obsession wasn’t growing on me.”

You laugh, low and raw. “I used to time my walks to the café just to run into you.”

“I knew it,” she says, half-laughing, half-breaking. “You were so bad at pretending it was a coincidence.”

“And you,” you counter, stepping a little closer, “you always offered me gum right before tests.”

“That was strategic.”

“It was sweet.”

Another breathless silence. Her eyes are wet, but she doesn’t look away.

“I didn’t want to admit how much I wanted you to see me,” she says quietly. “Not as your rival. Just... me.”

“I always saw you,” you whisper. “I just didn’t know how to let you see me back.”

She stares at you. Then slowly, deliberately, she takes your hand. Fingers lacing through yours.

You squeeze, just once.

“Can I kiss you?” you ask, so quietly you’re not sure the words made it out.

She nods. “Please.”

You lean in. And the kiss is slow — unhurried and trembling and full of everything you’ve both been holding back.

When you pull away, you stay close. Forehead to forehead.

“You still drive me crazy,” Yooyeon murmurs.

You smile. “Good. That’s half the fun.”

She pulls back just enough to see your face, lips curved in that small, teasing way. “So… does this mean I can finally stop pretending your annotated flashcards don’t turn me on a little?”

You laugh, cheeks burning. “Yooyeon.”

“What? They’re hot. Color-coded chaos? I live for it.”

“You’re such a menace.”

“Yeah,” she says, tugging your sleeve so you step closer again, “but I’m your menace now.”

You shake your head, smiling so much it hurts. “God help me.”

She rests her head on your shoulder for a moment. “He already did. He gave me you.”

You blink. “That’s disgustingly sweet.”

“I know.” She looks up at you, grinning. “It’s your fault. I was perfectly insufferable before you.”

You press a kiss to her temple. “Don’t worry. You’re still insufferable.”

She laughs, soft against your neck. “Good. Wouldn’t want you to get bored.”

“Not a chance,” you murmur. “Not with you.”

“You know,” you whisper, “this does technically count as fraternizing with the enemy.”

She smirks. “Are you calling yourself the enemy now?”

“I’m calling myself dangerous. You never stood a chance.”

Yooyeon tilts her head. “Please. I had the upper hand the second you fainted like a Victorian ghost and I had to tuck you into bed.”

“That’s slander,” you say, mock-scandalized.

“It’s documented.”

You laugh, breathless, and she leans in again, brushing your cheek with the back of her hand.

“I still want to beat you,” she whispers.

“Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m still going to outscore you in physics.”

“You won’t,” she says, nose brushing yours. “But I look forward to watching you try.”

And under the breathless night, with the world on pause around you, she kisses you again.

It tastes like promises.

Like spring.

#rd0265667 #fluff #kpop #kpop imagines #kpop gg #kpop idol x reader #yooyeon #triples yooyeon #triples yooyeon fluff

58 notes · View notes

itoshiierae · 1 month ago

Note

HIII IM BACK I hope you’re doing really well because you definitely deserve it and more! I was thinking about Rin x reader but like as academic rivals into lovers would be super cute!! I know it sounds super cliché but If you ever have time to maybe write something for this it would be so cute!! Thank you smm and have a great day 😚😚

- (ur biggest fan) 🪷

THIS WASN’T PART OF THE SYLLABUS ༄°ˎˊ˗⋆✩📝

ᡣ𐭩 ft: rin itoshi x f!reader ( academic rivals to lovers )

ᡣ𐭩 notes: hiii there 🪷 anon!!! i really hope you’ve been well too 🥹🩷 and omg academic rivals to lovers is literally peak delicious tension HAHAH like why are we solving math problems while secretly falling in love!!??? anywayyy, i’m sorry this took me awhile but i hope you enjoy this mini one-shot <33

ᡣ𐭩 cw: “enemies”-to-lovers, library tension, slow burn confession, high-school setting, first kiss, hand holding (yes it’s that intense), soft!rin but still sharp, mutual pining, competitive idiots in love, subtle angst, emotional tension thick enough to choke on, light banter

You've never hated anyone the way you hate Rin Itoshi.

Not in any real, visceral way, of course. Just in the way that makes your blood boil every time his name appears one line above yours on the rankings board. Just in the way that has you chewing on your pen in frustration when he hands in his paper before you again with that same unreadable expression, like he's already calculated your defeat before you even sat down. Just in the way that makes you scan every room for him, even when you swear you're not thinking about him.

And he? He's worse.

Because he never gloats. Never smirks. He just watches you with that same cold, heavy gaze that sees straight through you. The way you try to outpace him. The glances you think are subtle. And no matter how hard you deny it, he’s already pieced it together: he’s the one you refuse to fall behind for.

But tonight isn't about winning. It's the first time he's ever asked to study together. You only said yes to prove to him that you could be civil — that you weren't obsessed with him, especially not in the way everyone teased you for.

You simply just wanted to prove to everyone that you were capable of coexisting with Rin Itoshi; without combusting.

And now? It's past 9pm. The library's nearly empty. The overhead lights are dimmer than usual, buzzing faintly like they're tired too. Your elbows rest against the cool tabletop, textbooks spread out between you, notes scrawled in too many different colours.

"You're making that face again," he says, not even looking up.

Your head snaps toward him.

"…What face?"

He turns a page in his notebook, still expressionless. "The one you make when you're about to cry because I finished question eight before you."

You let out a quiet scoff — more embarrassed than annoyed, and shove his arm. "…. I am not."

He finally looks at you. And for the first time, his expression changes — the corners of his mouth twitch into something gentler, something real. It isn’t a smirk or a mockery, it’s something softer than you know what to do with.

You immediately freeze, because he’s never looked at you like this — not as a rival, not as competition to outscore, but as someone he’s been trying not to want, but failing miserably.

“By the way, Rin…. I’ll be honest, I actually used to hate you,” you blurt out, voice quieter than you mean it to be.

He leans back in his chair, legs stretching out beneath the table until his ankle bumps against yours and instead of pulling away, he leaves it there like he wants you to feel it.

“I never…,” he says.

There’s a pause before you look up, gaze cautious — wary, but laced with curiosity, like you’re bracing for the weight of whatever he’s about to say.

“….I never once hated you,” he continues, slower now. “You just made me care about you… And I don’t know why but that genuinely pisses me off…”

You don’t know if the ache blooming in your chest is from fear, or relief, or maybe both. Because the way he’s looking at you right now… it isn’t like you’re a name he needs to outrun anymore, but someone he’s finally willing to fall behind for. And then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, his hand slides forward, fingers ghosting over yours like a vow neither of you are ready to say aloud.

“… W-wait… Rin,” you whisper, throat tight.

He squeezes your hand once like he’s grounding himself in the moment. Almost as if he needs you to feel it, to understand that this isn’t a game. It’s him choosing softness in a world he rarely allows it. It’s quiet but it says everything he won’t yet put into words and then —

“Y’know… you still make me want to win,” he says, voice low and steady. “But it’s not about topping a scoreboard anymore, not when all I really want is you…”

His thumb grazes the back of your hand; a simple touch, yet it sends a quiet jolt down your spine. His eyes, usually sharp and unreadable, have softened at the edges, like they’re letting you in for the first time.

“I want you,” he says again, quieter this time.

And somehow — despite the rivalry, the history, the weeks of tension drawn tight between glances, you realize you might want him too. Not in the fleeting, competitive way you once thought. Not as a challenge to conquer or a name to outrun. But in this very moment, with your fingers brushing against his and his words still clinging to the air like something sacred, you feel it:

The quiet truth that maybe, just maybe, you’ve both been holding back the same feelings all along.

The weight of it settles slowly. The unspoken meaning in his eyes, the soft confession still clinging to the air. It’s so unlike him, so startlingly out of character, that you don’t know what to do with it. You glance down at your joined hands, barely intertwined, and you could swear your pulse is louder than the ticking clock overhead.

“…Why now?” you whisper, voice soft, afraid to shatter the moment.

Rin swallows, his jaw tightening like he’s holding back something he doesn’t know how to name. And then, still holding your hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to this moment — he leans in, slow and deliberate, each inch a silent question, each breath asking if he’s allowed to get closer.

But you don’t move, not even when your pulse is sprinting beneath your skin, not even when your lips are only inches away from his, almost as if you’ve already decided to let him in. He pauses, just for a moment, eyes searching yours for any flicker of doubt. But when he finds none, he tilts his head and immediately closes the distance between you without hesitation.

For a second, it barely felt real — his lips on yours, your first kiss, and somehow, it was with him. This kiss is quiet — like a truth neither of you have dared to speak aloud. It unfolds slowly, tentative at first, then deeper, steadier as if Rin is tracing a moment he’s already replayed in his mind a hundred times. He kisses you like he’s slowly memorizing it piece by piece: the hitch in your breath, the flutter of your lashes, the way your fingers tremble when his thumb brushes gently along your jaw. It’s deliberate, unhurried — not rushed or chaotic. Infact there’s no need to because everything he’s ever needed is right here.

This isn’t a kiss meant to prove anything, this is a confession sealed between two people who’ve been circling the truth for far too long.

And when you finally pull back just enough to catch your breath — he leans in, resting his forehead gently against yours. His eyes don’t leave you and his voice is low, barely audible between the quiet thrum of your pulse and the silence around you.

“You still make me want to win,” he murmurs. “But this time… I’d rather win you instead.”

#bllk #bllk x reader #blue lock #bllk x you #blue lock x reader #blue lock x female reader #blue lock rin #rin itoshi fluff #bllk rin #rin itoshi x reader #rin itoshi #blue lock fluff #itoshi rin #itoshi rin x reader #itoshi rin x you #rin itoshi headcanons

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moonselune · 8 months ago

Note

idk how you feel about "fix it" endings, but do you have any headcanons for karlach's engine getting fixed before having to go back to avernus and getting that happily ever after with her s/o?

i personally adore fix it endings, if my fiery sweetling karlach doesn't have to suffer then i am all here for it

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Karlach x Reader | The World Is Ours

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

It had taken blood, sweat, and every favor you could call in across the Sword Coast, but finally—finally—you’d done it. Karlach’s infernal engine, that hellish machinery that had cursed her to a life of torment and threatened to drag her back to Avernus, had been fixed. Her heart was at peace, no longer running on a devil’s borrowed power, no longer burning her from the inside out.

As she ran her hands over her chest, where the engine once roared and burned, the pure shock and disbelief in her face made your heart swell. Her hands trembled, her breath catching as she looked up at you with eyes glistening in the dim evening light.

“Wait—really?” she asked, her voice almost a whisper, like she couldn’t trust herself to believe it just yet.

You took her hands and nodded. “It’s real. It’s done, Karlach. You’re free.”

The joy that bloomed on her face was nothing short of breathtaking. She pulled you into a bear hug that nearly lifted you off the ground, her laugh echoing through the streets, full and rich and full of life. And in that moment, all you could think was that this was exactly what she deserved. Karlach, unburdened, free of the ever-present fear of being dragged back to hell, laughing and unbound.

“Well,” she said, beaming and breathless as she finally released you, “I don’t know about you, but I think this calls for a celebration!”

And celebrate you did. The tavern was alive with the sounds of laughter, cheers, and music as you ordered round after round of drinks. You’d never seen Karlach so carefree, so completely in her element. She slapped you on the back, clinked her mug with yours, and, for the first time in a long time, laughed without restraint. The sound was infectious, filling the room with a warmth that rivaled the fire of her heart.

The two of you were soon roped into a rowdy drinking game with a few of the locals. Karlach, competitive as ever, knocked back pint after pint with ease, each drink met with a triumphant laugh as she challenged the burly blacksmith beside her. You did your best to keep up, but you were quickly outpaced. Still, her enthusiasm was infectious, and even though you could barely see straight, you couldn’t help but laugh right along with her.

“Think you’ve had enough, fireheart?” you teased, slurring slightly as you lifted your own mug in a mock toast.

Karlach gave you a playful glare, downing another drink with ease. “Never enough! Not after what we’ve been through.”

The hours slipped by in a haze of celebration, the room spinning around you as you danced, sang, and stumbled through the night. Finally, after far too many drinks and even more laughter, the two of you found yourselves outside the tavern, arm in arm, the cool night air sobering you just enough to feel the full weight of everything you’d accomplished.

“You know,” Karlach said, her voice softer now, her eyes locked on the stars above, “I never thought I’d get this far. To be here, free and alive…with you.”

You squeezed her hand, feeling a rush of affection that was nearly overwhelming.

“We did it together,” you replied, your voice just as soft. “And now, there’s nothing holding us back.”

The two of you shared a quiet moment, the city quieting around you, bathed in the glow of lantern light and the faint whispers of distant celebrations. Finally, Karlach broke the silence, grinning as she turned to you with a mischievous glint in her eye.

“So…what’s next?”

“Well,” you replied, a grin spreading across your face, “we could see how many taverns we can visit before anyone notices we’re missing.”

Karlach laughed, pulling you close and kissing you with a fierceness that made your head spin all over again. “Lead the way, my fearless love.”

Over the next few months, you and Karlach carved a life that felt more like a dream than reality. From the soaring peaks of the Spine of the World to the golden sands of Amn, you traveled together, diving headfirst into whatever adventure came your way. Bandits, monsters, hidden treasures—you tackled them all side by side, unafraid and unstoppable. Each night was a celebration of the day you’d survived, a toast to the life you were building together.

With Karlach by your side, every day was vibrant, full of laughter and stories shared under the stars. She threw herself into every experience with the same enthusiasm she had for life itself, always eager to explore new places and meet new people. And, in turn, you found yourself looking at the world with fresh eyes, inspired by her joy and curiosity.

But it wasn’t just the adventures that brought you closer; it was the quiet moments, too. Those stolen evenings by the campfire, where Karlach would lean against you, her head resting on your shoulder, her engine humming softly—a gentle reminder that she was truly, fully alive.

One evening, as you sat together watching the sun dip below the horizon, Karlach took your hand, her fingers warm against yours.

“I used to dream of this,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. “Of being free, of having a life…a real life, with someone who didn’t just see me as a weapon. And now, here we are.” She looked at you, her eyes glistening with emotion. “Thank you. For giving me this. For being here with me.”

You felt a lump rise in your throat as you squeezed her hand, unable to find the words to fully express everything you felt. So instead, you leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips, letting your actions speak for you. In that moment, surrounded by the warmth of her embrace, you knew that this was exactly where you were meant to be.

With each passing day, Karlach’s gratitude became a constant refrain, her whispered “thank yous” filling the quiet spaces between battles and journeys. She’d lean into you, her voice filled with a fierce, unwavering love, a promise wrapped in every word.

And every time, with a smile or a laugh, you’d reply, “I wouldn’t choose any other life but this.”

─── ･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

this was so wholesome to write !! I really do adore karlach my beloved and i hope you guys enjoyed it ! - Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

#bg3 #baldurs gate 3 #bg3 tav #baldurs gate tav #baldurs gate iii #karlach #karlach x tav #karlach bg3 #baldurs gate karlach #karlach imagines #karlach x reader #karlach cliffgate #karlach cliffgate x reader #fluff #bg3 imagines #karlach fluff imagines #karlach fluff #karlach fix it ending

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stylesispunk · 1 year ago

Text

"But daddy I love him"

ceo!Joel Miller x f!reader

summary: you made up a lie involving joel for the sake of both your companies. What would come out from all of this?

wc: 3k.

warnings: age gap and grammar mistakes because I didn't check my writing.

a/n: this is the mess that comes from my mind after a week of migraines and being sick. The idea is corny and stupid but I had fun and I know the rest is going to be fun too, so I hope you like it. (please read before I regretted it and delete) Reblogs and comments are always appreciated. Happy reading 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

You sat at the head of the sleek conference table, your fingers drumming lightly against the polished surface. The room buzzed with a low hum of voice as the team discussed the latest financial reports and projections. Your mind, however, was elsewhere, focused on the challenge that lay ahead.

The company your father had built from the ground up was now facing unprecedented challenges. Competitors were closing in, and technological advancements were outpacing their current capabilities. Despite their best efforts, it was becoming clear that you needed a strategic partnership to stay afloat.

“Okay, what do you think?" John, the CFO, interrupted your thoughts.

You straightened in your chair, pushing a strand of auburn hair behind your ear. "I think we need to consider all options," you replied firmly. "Including a merger."

The room fell silent. Your suggestion hung in the air, heavy with implications. Everyone knew who you were referring to—Miller Enterprises, your fiercest rival.

"But your father..." John began, hesitating.

You raised a hand to silence him. "I know my father has strong feelings about Joel Miller. But we have to look at this objectively. Our future depends on it."

You could see the doubt in their eyes and the unspoken questions. How could they convince your father, a man known for his stubbornness and pride, to collaborate with the one person he despised the most?

The tension in the room was palpable as the team exchanged uneasy glances. You could almost hear the gears turning in their minds, trying to process the audacity of your proposal. The silence stretched on, heavy and suffocating, until finally, John spoke up again.

He called you by your first name to emphasize the gravity of the situation: "Do you really think there's any chance your father would agree to this? Joel Miller is his sworn enemy. They've been at each other's throats for years."

You nodded, taking a deep breath. "I know it's a long shot. I think their beef is stupid. I mean, my father hates Joel, and whatever the issue, they shouldn’t have passed it on to his son. And we have to at least try. If we don't, Carter Industries might not survive the next year."

Another voice chimed in, this time from Samantha, the head of marketing. "And what about Joel? Even if your father agrees, will Joel go along with it?"

"That's what I intend to find out," you said resolutely. "I'll speak to him tonight at the tech conference. We need to at least open a dialogue."

The room gradually filled with murmurs of reluctant agreement. The plan was risky, but it was the only viable option. The meeting concluded with cautious optimism, and you returned to your office to prepare for the evening.

Later that evening, you attended a tech conference at the Grand Hilton Hotel. The ballroom was filled with industry leaders, investors, and innovators, all mingling under the glittering chandeliers. You moved through the crowd with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries and making mental notes of potential allies.

As you reached the bar, you spotted a familiar figure—Joel Miller. Tall, with a commanding presence and sharp features, Joel was in deep conversation with a group of executives. His eyes met yours briefly, and for a moment, you saw a flicker of surprise before his usual confident expression returned.

You couldn’t lie and say that the man hadn’t caught your attention; since the first time you saw him, you developed a crush on him, looking from afar at how he had been able to save his father’s company after he got sick, which was something you truly admired from him. However, the man seemed to be despicable, only showing cold behavior in front of others and in front of you; after all, you were the daughter of the man, whom he hated the most, and you had to pay for the sins of old men.

With twelve years ahead of you, Joel never took anything you did seriously. For him, you were the spoiled little brat daughter of his enemy.

Your name came out of his lips in such a sultry voice that your back arched. You turned around to face him, and he greeted you with a wry smile as you reached him.

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked.

"Joel," you replied coolly, matching his tone. "I didn't expect to see you here."

"It's always good to keep an eye on the competition," he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. "I was hoping we could talk," you said instead, lowering your voice. "Privately."

Joel raised an eyebrow but nodded. He excused himself from his group and led you to a quieter corner of the room. The ambient noise of the conference faded slightly, giving you a semblance of privacy.

"Alright, what's this about?" he asked, his tone more serious now.

You took a deep breath, steadying yourself. "Our companies are in trouble, Joel.”

He widens his eyes at you, surprised.

“Yes, I know your company is in trouble, Joel. and we need to merge if we want to survive."

Joel's expression hardened, with a flicker of skepticism in his eyes. "You know as well as I do that your father will never agree to that."

"I'm aware," you admitted, your voice steady. "But I also know that you're smart enough to see the potential benefits. We need to find a way to make this work."

He studied you for a moment, his gaze intense. "And how do you propose we convince our fathers to set aside their differences and agree to this merger?"

Before you could answer, a waiter approached with a tray of champagne flutes. You each took one, the pause giving you a moment to gather your thoughts.

"We'll need to present a united front," you said finally. "Show them that we're serious and that this is the best option for both companies."

Joel took a sip of his champagne, considering your words. "And how do you suggest we do that?"

Your mind raced, searching for a solution that would make your proposal more palatable to your father. The idea came to you suddenly, reckless and desperate, but it was the only one that seemed even remotely feasible.

"We tell them we're having a baby," you said, the words rushing out before you could second-guess yourself.

Joel choked on his champagne, his eyes wide with shock. "What?!"

"It's not true, of course," you hurriedly explained. "But if they believe it, it might just be enough to make them put aside their differences and agree to the merger."

You held your breath as Joel's reaction sank in. His wide-eyed shock was exactly what you had expected, though it didn't make it any easier to withstand.

"It's the only way they'll take us seriously," you explained quickly, your voice low but urgent. "If they think there's a future together—both personally and professionally—they'll have no choice but to consider the merger."

Joel wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, disbelief still etched on his face. "You're suggesting we lie about something as serious as a baby? Do you have any idea how insane that sounds?"

"I know it's drastic," you admitted, stepping closer to ensure no one could overhear. "But think about it. They'd be forced to put aside their grudges for the sake of a grandchild. And once the merger is complete, we can come clean. By then, it will be too late to undo anything."

He stared at you, the intensity of his gaze making your heart pound in your chest. "And what if they find out before then? What if they never forgive us for the deception?"

You shrugged, trying to seem more confident than you felt. "It's a risk, yes. But it's a risk we have to take if we want to save our companies."

Joel ran a hand through his hair, his eyes never leaving yours. You could see the wheels turning in his mind as he weighed the pros and cons of your reckless plan. Finally, he sighed, a mixture of frustration and reluctant agreement in his expression.

"Alright," he said slowly. "We'll do it your way. But this better work, or we'll both end up paying for this."

You nodded, the weight of Joel's reluctant agreement settling over you. "Thank you, Joel. I promise, this will work."

He glanced around the room, ensuring no one was eavesdropping. "So, what's our next move?"

"We need to act fast," you replied. "We'll call a meeting with both our fathers and present the news together. We have to be completely united in this."

Joel's eyes narrowed. “And how is your father going to act when he finds out I touched his daughter?” he asked.

You took a deep breath, recognizing the concern in Joel's question. "I know my father is protective," you admitted, "but that's why we need to handle this delicately. We need to present a united front and show them that this decision is ours, not something forced upon us."

Joel's eyes remained fixed on you, the intensity of his gaze making your heart pound. "And what if he reacts badly?”

"That's a risk we have to take," you replied firmly. "But if we approach this with honesty and determination, they'll see that we are serious about our future—both personal and professional. They might be angry at first, but eventually they'll come around."

Joel sighed, rubbing his temples. "You’re a fucking child, and so stupid.”

Joel’s harsh words stung, but you squared your shoulders and met his gaze steadily. "Maybe I am," you said quietly, "but I’m willing to take this risk because I believe it’s the right thing to do. For our companies, for our future."

He looked at you for a long moment, frustration etched on his face, but something else too—perhaps a grudging respect for your determination. "Fine," he muttered finally. "We'll do it your way. But don’t expect me to protect you if this blows up in our faces."

"I don’t need your protection," you replied, your voice steady. "I need your cooperation."

Joel's eyes flickered with something that might have been respect, but he quickly masked it with a scowl. "Alright, then," he said, his voice resigned but firm. "Let's get this over with."

The following evening, you arranged a dinner meeting with both fathers at an upscale restaurant, choosing a private room to avoid any public scenes. The atmosphere was thick with anticipation and unspoken tension as you and Joel waited for your fathers to arrive.

When your father entered, his eyes immediately narrowed upon seeing Joel. "What is he doing here?" he demanded.

"Please, Dad, sit down," you said calmly. "We have something important to discuss."

Mr. Miller arrived shortly after; his expression equally grim. "This better be good," he said, his tone icy.

Joel and you exchanged a brief, reassuring glance before addressing the room. "Dad, Mr. Miller, we have some news that will affect both our families and our companies," Joel began. "We need you to listen with an open mind."

Your father crossed his arms, suspicion evident in his eyes. "Get on with it."

You took a deep breath, bracing yourself. "Joel and I... we’re having a baby."

The reaction was immediate. Your father's face turned a deep shade of red, his eyes widening in shock and anger. "What did you just say?" he thundered.

Mr. Miller's expression was a mix of disbelief and confusion. "This better not be some kind of joke."

"It's not a joke," you said firmly, trying to maintain your composure. "Joel and I are expecting a child. We understand this is unexpected, but we believe this is an opportunity for both our families and companies to come together."

Your father's hands clenched into fists, his voice shaking with fury. "You...you betrayed me. With him."

"Dad, please," you pleaded. "Think about the future. Our child deserves a stable, united family. And our companies need to work together to survive."

You still had no idea of the phantoms your father withe

Mr. Miller, though still shocked, seemed to be processing the information more rationally. "If what you're saying is true, then perhaps we need to reconsider our priorities. For the sake of the future."

Your father glared at him. "You're willing to forgive and forget just like that?"

Mr. Miller met his gaze steadily. "For the sake of a grandchild and the future of our companies, yes. We need to find a way to move forward."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable. Finally, your father exhaled, his shoulders sagging in defeat. "Fine. For now, we'll discuss this further. But know this: if either of you are lying, there will be consequences."

You nodded, the weight of your father's warning settling heavily on your shoulders. "Thank you, Dad. We promise this is for the best."

Joel gave your hand a reassuring squeeze, his grip firm but gentle. "We'll make this work, Sir. I promise."

The tension in the room remained thick, but the initial storm of emotions had passed. The fathers exchanged a few more guarded words, agreeing to meet again to discuss the logistics of a potential merger. As they stood to leave, your father pulled you aside, his face a mix of worry and anger.

"I hope you know what you're doing," he said quietly. "This isn't just about business. It's your life, too."

"I know, Dad," you replied softly. "But I believe this is the right choice. For all of us."

With a reluctant nod, he let you go, and you watched as both fathers left the room, the weight of their expectations pressing down on you.

Joel turned to you, his expression a mix of relief and residual frustration. "Well, that went...better than expected."

You managed a small smile. "Yeah. Now we just have to figure out how to make this convincing."

He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Please don’t say we need to spend more time together”

Joel's words hung in the air; his frustration evident. You took a deep breath, trying to maintain your composure. "I know this isn't ideal," you said gently, "but we need to make this believable. Our fathers need to see that we're serious."

Joel rubbed his temples, a look of resignation on his face. “They know how babies are made, but fine.” he muttered. "What's the plan?"

"We need to start spending time together publicly," you explained. "Go to events, be seen together, and show that we're committed. We also need to have private moments where our fathers can see us interacting genuinely."

Joel looked at you, his expression softening slightly. "Alright. But let's make this as painless as possible."

You nodded in agreement. "We'll keep it professional and focused on the goal. We don't have to be best friends, but we need to convince them that we're building something real."

“But please, don’t make it public” he begged. “I need to sort some things out first”

You recognized the seriousness in Joel's tone and nodded, understanding his request. "Of course," you replied softly. "We'll keep it low-key for now. Just focus on sorting things out on your end, and when you're ready, we can gradually start making our relationship more public."

The next day, you found yourself immersed in a crucial meeting, discussing the finer details of the potential merger with key stakeholders. Despite the weight of the situation, you maintained your composure and focused on the task at hand.

As the meeting progressed, an urgent knock echoed through the door, interrupting the discussion. You glanced up, surprised to see Joel standing in the doorway, his expression stormy.

"Joel, what are you doing here?" you asked, your voice tinged with concern.

He strode into the room, his jaw clenched with barely contained anger. "We need to talk," he said tersely, his gaze fixed on you.

Sensing the gravity of the situation, you excused yourself from the meeting, motioning for Joel to follow you to your office. The tension in the air was palpable as you closed the door behind you, bracing yourself for whatever news had prompted Joel's unexpected visit.

"What's wrong?" you asked, your voice laced with apprehension.

Joel paced the room, his frustration evident in every movement. "Your father," he began, his voice tight with anger. "He's made the news public. He's announcing our supposed relationship to the world."

Shock rippled through you at the revelation. "What? But we agreed to keep it low-key until you were ready."

Joel's expression darkened. "Clearly, your father had other plans. He's blindsided us, and now our private arrangement is splashed across every news outlet."

Your heart sank as you processed the implications of your father's actions. "I can't believe he would do this," you muttered, a mix of disbelief and betrayal washing over you.

Joel stopped pacing, his gaze locking on yours. "You need to deal with this now!” he said, pointing at you.

"Okay, what's so wrong?" you asked, trying to maintain a calm demeanor despite the rising panic within you.

Joel's eyes bore into yours; his frustration was palpable. "Do you realize what this means? Our private agreement is all out in the open now. We're going to be scrutinized and judged, and God knows what else."

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your racing thoughts. "I understand the gravity of the situation, Joel. But you can't panic. We need to think rationally and come up with a plan to handle this."

He scoffed with a bitter edge to his tone. "And what plan do you propose? The damage is done. We need to contain this before it spirals out of control."

"Why are you asking so crazily about it?" you questioned, a hint of confusion in your voice. "We're in this together, Joel. We need to focus on finding a solution."

Joel's frustration seemed to reach a boiling point as he paced the room, his movements tense and agitated. "Because," he finally spat out, his voice laced with bitterness, "I have a girlfriend, and she's not too pleased about being dragged into this mess."

Shock washed over you as his words sank in. "Wait, what? You have a girlfriend?"

He shot you a withering look, his anger barely contained. "Yes, I have a girlfriend," he snapped. "And she's not exactly thrilled about the fact that I'm supposedly having a baby with you, of all people."

The revelation hit you like a punch to the gut. You had never considered the possibility that Joel might be involved with someone else. The realization that you had unwittingly become entangled in his personal life only added to the chaos of the situation.

"I had no idea," you murmured, feeling a surge of guilt wash over you. "I'm so sorry, Joel. I never meant for any of this to happen."

He scoffed, his expression filled with scorn. "Well, it did happen. And now we're both in this mess, thanks to your brilliant idea.”

He scoffed with a bitter edge to his tone. "And what plan do you propose? The damage is done. We need to contain this before it spirals out of control."

"Why are you asking so crazily about it?" you questioned, a hint of confusion in your voice. "We're in this together, Joel. We need to focus on finding a solution."

Shock washed over you as his words sank in. "Wait, what? You have a girlfriend?"

He shot you a withering look, his anger barely contained. "Yes, I have a girlfriend," he snapped. "And she's not exactly thrilled about the fact that I'm supposedly in a fake relationship with you, of all people."

You swallowed hard, the weight of Joel's words settling heavily on your shoulders. "I understand," you said, your voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant to cause any harm, Joel. I thought…”

“You didn’t think! That’s the problem." He snapped, “You’re a spoiled woman, just as I always thought, and you don’t care about anything or anyone.”

Joel's words cut deep, slicing through your defenses like a razor-sharp blade. The accusation stung, and you felt a surge of pain and frustration rise within you.

"I do care, Joel," you protested, your voice shaking with emotion. "I care about our companies and about our futures. I thought I was doing what was necessary to save them."

He scoffed; his expression hardened with resentment. "Save them? You're willing to sacrifice anything and anyone to get what you want, aren't you? Including my relationship, my life?"

Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of guilt and anguish clouding your vision. "No, that's not true," you whispered, your voice trembling. "I never wanted to hurt you, Joel. I never wanted any of this."

He shook his head, his anger simmering just beneath the surface. "Don’t you dare to cry when you were the one who came up with this idea?”

Joel's words hit you like a punch to the gut, intensifying the ache of guilt and regret that had already weighed heavily on you. His anger was palpable, his frustration tangible, and you felt utterly defenseless in the face of his accusation.

"I'm sorry," you choked out, your voice barely above a whisper. "I never meant for any of this to happen. I never wanted to hurt you or anyone else."

His expression softened slightly, but the anger still smoldered in his eyes. "I know," he said, his voice gentler now. “I’m sorry for talking to you that way... It’s just... this girl; I haven’t felt this way about someone, and I don’t want to lose it because of you.”

Tension hung heavy in the air as Joel's words lingered between you. The raw honesty in his confession took you aback, softening the edges of your own guilt and remorse.

"I understand," you replied, your voice tinged with empathy. "I never intended to come between you and anyone else. I just wanted to do what was best for our companies."

Joel nodded, a sense of resignation settling over him. "I know," he murmured, his gaze drifting to the floor. "But we're in this mess now, and we need to figure out how to fix it."

You nodded in agreement, a shared determination filling the space between you. "We'll find a way," you promised, reaching out to place a hand on his arm. "Together."

As your hand made contact with Joel's arm, you both felt a sudden jolt of electricity shoot through the air, a tangible spark igniting between you. His gaze lifted from the floor to meet yours, and in that moment, you both sensed a shift in the atmosphere.

Joel's expression softened a flicker of something unreadable dancing in his eyes. For a brief moment, the world's weight seemed to lift from your shoulders as you stood there, connected by a string that threatened to pull the both of you together.

´+

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atlasthegreatest · 8 months ago

Text

A Game of Hearts and Ruins / Lara Croft x Indiana Jones! Male Reader

Which, Lara Croft crosses paths with Y/n Jones, a charming archaeologist and long-time rival, while both pursue the same ancient artifact.

Word count: 4788

The midday sun blazed mercilessly over the dense jungles of Cambodia, where the ancient ruins of a forgotten temple slept beneath layers of tangled vines and centuries of dust. Lara Croft crouched low on the edge of a broken stone pillar, her eyes scanning the scene ahead. She’d heard rumors of rare artifacts hidden within these ruins—legendary relics of power that would be a thrilling addition to her private collection. However, she wasn’t alone in the pursuit.

The soft crunch of a boot on fallen leaves caught her ear. Without looking, she smirked, already knowing who it was.

“Late as usual, Croft,” came a smooth, confident voice behind her.

Lara rose to her feet, brushing a strand of damp hair from her face. “If I were late, Jones, you wouldn’t have needed to follow me here.”

Standing a few feet away was Dr. Y/n Jones—a fellow British adventurer and archaeologist with a devil-may-care grin, ruffled hair, and an insufferable twinkle in his eyes. He wore a worn leather jacket over a white shirt and khaki trousers, looking every inch the reckless explorer he was. His belt was loaded with tools, and a coiled whip hung from his hip, further adding to his roguish charm.

Y/n’s grin widened as he tucked his hands casually in his pockets. “Follow you? I was here first, love. Just wanted to see how long it’d take you to catch up.”

Lara tilted her head, arching an eyebrow. “You’ve always been a terrible liar, Jones.”

He laughed, the sound low and warm. “And you’ve always been terrible at admitting when you’ve met your match.”

Lara felt the spark between them, that familiar current of playful rivalry. This wasn’t the first time they’d crossed paths on an expedition—nor the first time their competition had made things complicated. They both thrived on adventure, danger, and the thrill of outwitting each other. It was a game they loved to play, though neither would ever admit just how much they enjoyed the other’s company.

“Still planning to raid the temple alone?” Y/n asked, sauntering closer. “Or do you want to call it a truce and split the prize?”

“Please,” Lara replied, crossing her arms. “I don’t need help. Besides, we both know you’d try to take the lion’s share.”

Y/n grinned. “Of course. It’s what I do best.”

Lara turned on her heel, making her way deeper into the ruins without another word. Y/n followed, as she knew he would. They were drawn together like magnets—constantly orbiting, occasionally colliding, but never fully able to walk away from each other.

Inside the temple, the air grew cooler, filled with the scent of damp stone and ancient decay. The maze of narrow corridors twisted in every direction, and both explorers moved in practiced silence, each determined to outpace the other.

Lara was quick, slipping through narrow gaps and climbing crumbled walls with the grace of a cat. Y/n stayed close, his every move fluid and calculated, as if he were waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.

“Tell me something, Croft,” Y/n said as they entered a massive hall, its ceiling carved with faded murals of long-forgotten gods. “What’s your fascination with these relics? Is it the history, or just the thrill of stealing them before anyone else can?”

Lara shot him a sideways glance. “And what’s yours? Looking to get rich or just eager to impress me?”

Y/n chuckled. “Can’t it be both?”

She rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched in amusement. Y/n’s charm was infuriating, mostly because she found it oddly… endearing. But she wasn’t about to let that distract her. They reached the center of the hall, where a large pedestal stood. On it rested a golden amulet, glimmering in the dim light. Both of them stopped at the same moment, eyes locked on their prize.

“Shall we call it a tie?” Y/n suggested, his voice low and teasing.

“Not a chance.”

In a blur of movement, both lunged for the amulet at the same time. Lara’s fingers brushed the metal, but Y/n’s hand was already there, closing over hers.

“Not so fast,” he whispered, standing far too close.

For a heartbeat, neither of them moved, their faces inches apart. Lara could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek, and the intensity in his eyes made her heart race in a way that had nothing to do with the chase.

“Careful, Jones,” she murmured. “You’re playing with fire.”

“I always do,” he replied, his voice a husky whisper.

For a moment, the tension between them shifted. What had started as playful competition now felt like something far more dangerous? It was as if all the stolen glances, the teasing words, and the shared adventures had been leading to this exact moment.

Then, with a sly grin, Lara twisted her hand free and snatched the amulet. “Better luck next time.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned, then laughed—a deep, genuine sound that echoed through the ancient hall. “You’re impossible, Croft.”

“Thank you,” she said, slipping the amulet into her pouch.

Y/n shook his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “You know, one of these days, I’ll beat you to it.”

“I doubt that,” Lara shot back, her expression smug but playful.

They made their way out of the temple side by side, their footsteps light and their conversation even lighter. For all the rivalry between them, neither could deny the thrill they felt in each other’s presence—the way their hearts raced not just from the danger, but from the sheer joy of being together.

As they reached the jungle clearing where they’d first crossed paths, Y/n gave her a sidelong glance. “What do you say, Croft? Same time, same place next month?”

Lara smiled, a rare softness in her eyes. “We’ll see. If you can keep up.”

Y/n reached out and brushed a stray leaf from her shoulder, his touch lingering just a second too long. “I always do.”

And with that, they parted ways once again—two souls bound by adventure, rivalry, and something neither of them was quite ready to name. But as they disappeared into the wilderness, each knew the truth: the next time they met, it wouldn’t just be artifacts they were chasing.

————————

Several weeks later, the humid jungles of South America set the stage for their next encounter. Lara had tracked down rumors of a jade mask—an ancient relic tied to a pre-Columbian civilization, said to grant prophetic visions to its wearer. The mask was hidden somewhere deep within a forgotten temple, buried beneath layers of rock and a thick rainforest canopy.

As she approached the vine-choked entrance, a voice echoed through the foliage, smug and familiar.

“You know, Croft, you’re starting to make this too easy.”

Lara turned to find Y/n Jones leaning lazily against a tree, arms crossed, his whip coiled at his side. His grin was as infuriatingly charming as ever, and the sun caught the mischievous glint in his eyes. He had somehow beaten her to the site—again.

“Following me across continents now, Jones?” Lara asked, raising an eyebrow. “I didn’t realize I had an admirer.”

Y/n pushed off the tree and strolled closer, his expression full of playful arrogance. “Who says I was following? Maybe I just know you better than you think.”

Lara gave a scoff, though her lips curled into a slight smile. Their rivalry had become a dance—one they both enjoyed far more than they admitted.

“Then you must know I don’t intend to let you take that mask,” she said, brushing past him toward the temple entrance.

Y/n’s grin widened as he followed at her side. “Tell you what—how about we make things interesting this time? Whoever gets the mask first wins.”

“And what’s the prize?” Lara asked, giving him a sidelong glance.

Y/n leaned in just slightly, his voice dropping to a low, teasing murmur. “Winner picks the next adventure. Loser buys the drinks.”

Lara let out a quiet chuckle, her heart skipping a beat despite herself. “Hope you’re ready to part with some cash.”

Y/n’s laugh followed her into the darkness of the temple, a deep, infectious sound that made her chest feel annoyingly warm.

Inside the temple, they fell into their usual rhythm—both racing against each other and the ticking clock of hidden traps. The ruins were riddled with dead ends, collapsing pathways and intricately designed puzzles meant to keep intruders at bay.

Lara slipped through tight spaces with feline grace, while Y/n used his whip to swing over bottomless pits and climb crumbling walls. They traded banter along the way, their words light but carrying the weight of something unspoken.

“You know, Croft, one day your luck is going to run out,” Y/n said, watching her disable a complex trap with practiced ease.

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Lara replied, glancing back at him with a playful smirk. “Just skill—and better instincts than yours.”

Y/n chuckled, adjusting the strap of his bag. “We’ll see about that.”

They reached the heart of the temple at the same time—a grand chamber with towering statues and an altar at the center, upon which rested the jade mask. It gleamed under a shaft of sunlight that cut through the darkness, casting long shadows across the stone floor.

Both adventurers slowed their pace, eyes locked on the artifact. For a moment, neither moved, as if testing the other’s resolve.

“Ladies first?” Y/n offered the smirk on his lips suggesting he was anything but sincere.

Lara scoffed. “Chivalry doesn’t suit you.”

And just like that, they were in motion—both of them darting toward the mask. Y/n’s whip lashed out, aiming to knock the artifact into his hand, but Lara anticipated the move and dodged. With a roll and a leap, she reached the altar first, fingers grazing the jade surface.

But Y/n was faster than she expected. His hand closed over hers—just like before—and they both froze, breathing hard from the sudden burst of adrenaline.

Lara looked up, meeting Y/n’s gaze. His face was inches from hers, and for a moment, all the teasing banter, all the playful rivalry, melted away. She felt the steady rhythm of his breath and smelled the faint scent of leather and earth on his jacket.

“You’re predictable, Jones,” she whispered, her voice softer than before.

“And you’re impossible,” he murmured in return, his hand still resting lightly over hers.

They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity—caught between the thrill of competition and the pull of something deeper. Neither was willing to admit it aloud, but in these stolen moments, the game they played felt less like a rivalry and more like something… inevitable.

Y/n’s lips quirked into a slow, teasing smile. “You always this competitive on dates, Croft?”

“This isn’t a date,” Lara replied, though the amusement in her eyes betrayed her.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

And then, before she could think twice, Lara made her move. She shifted her weight, used Y/n’s balance against him, and twisted free with the jade mask in hand.

“Better luck next time,” she said, throwing him a playful wink as she tucked the mask into her satchel.

Y/n stared after her, half-exasperated, half-impressed. “You’re going to be the death of me, Croft.”

“Maybe,” Lara called over her shoulder, already heading for the exit. “But you’ll enjoy every second of it.”

Y/n laughed, shaking his head as he followed her out of the temple. As they emerged into the bright sunlight, the jungle buzzing with life around them, he caught up to her once again.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her. “Since I lost, I suppose the drinks are on me.”

Lara shot him a sidelong glance, the corners of her mouth curling into a rare, genuine smile. “I’ll hold you to that.”

Y/n grinned, something warm and knowing flickering in his eyes. “And next time?”

Lara gave a light shrug, though her heart was already racing at the thought of their next adventure. “Same stakes. Same rules.”

“Good,” Y/n murmured, his voice laced with promise. “Because I have a feeling our best adventures are still ahead.”

And with that, they disappeared into the jungle once more—two rivals bound by danger, drawn together by something far more powerful than either of them could resist.

——————-

Lara and Y/n didn’t part ways for long. Just a few weeks later, they found themselves standing in the shadows of the Atlas Mountains, on the outskirts of a Berber village. Their latest quarry was the Scarab of Anhur, an ancient amulet believed to bring victory in battle. A collector in Marrakesh had offered an obscene sum to acquire it, but neither Lara nor Y/n needed the money. For them, the scarab was just another excuse to outmaneuver each other—and perhaps, neither of them could stay away.

They stood together near the entrance of a remote tomb, surrounded by jagged cliffs and the endless stretch of desert sky. The sun was sinking low, casting long golden beams across the rocky landscape.

“So, what’s the plan this time?” Y/n asked with a grin as he adjusted his whip. “We race to the artifact, you leave me in a pit, and I show up at the bar later like nothing happened?”

Lara smirked, brushing dust off her cargo pants. “That does sound familiar.”

“You wound me, Croft.” Y/n placed a hand over his chest in mock offense. “I thought we were building trust.”

“Trust?” Lara echoed, raising an eyebrow. “This isn’t trust, Y/n—it’s foreplay.”

The words hung between them, thick with implication. Y/n’s smirk faltered for just a second, his eyes darkening with something that wasn’t entirely amusement.

“Careful,” he said, his voice quieter now, “or one of these days, you might get in over your head.”

Lara leaned closer, a dangerous glint in her eye. “I doubt it.”

They stood like that for a moment, caught in the web of tension and teasing that had been growing between them since their first encounter. There was no denying it now—their rivalry was more than just a game. It was a dangerous dance, one that neither of them knew how to stop.

Inside the tomb, the temperature dropped sharply, the cool air heavy with centuries of silence. The walls were adorned with faded carvings of ancient battles, and the narrow corridor stretched deep into the earth. They walked side by side, the sound of their boots echoing in the stillness.

“So, why do you do it?” Y/n asked after a while, breaking the silence. “Chasing after these things. The artifacts, the temples… What’s the endgame, Croft?”

Lara shrugged, her flashlight beam dancing over the walls. “It’s not about the end. It’s about the journey. The discovery.”

“And the thrill of beating me to the prize, I imagine?”Y/n teased, though his gaze softened as he looked at her.

Lara glanced at him, her expression unreadable. “That’s just a bonus.”

They reached a large chamber, the heart of the tomb. At the center, atop a pedestal carved with intricate hieroglyphs, lay the Scarab of Anhur. The golden amulet shimmered faintly, untouched for centuries.

Lara’s pulse quickened.

Y/n, ever-watchful, moved closer. “Shall we flip a coin this time, or are we sticking with ‘winner takes all’?”

Lara shot him a sly grin. “What fun would a coin toss be?”

Without another word, they both moved toward the pedestal—two shadows racing against each other through time.

Y/n was quick, but Lara was quicker. She reached the scarab just as Y/n lunged forward, and once again, their hands collided over the artifact. For a moment, they stood frozen, breathing hard, faces close enough to feel the warmth of the other’s skin.

“Déjà vu,” Y/n whispered, his voice low and rough.

Lara looked up, her eyes locking with his. This time, there was no witty remark, no teasing banter. Just the steady hum of adrenaline and something far more dangerous—something that had been building between them for too long.

And then, before she could stop herself, Lara leaned in and kissed him.

The kiss was brief, but it was electric. The moment their lips met, the tension that had simmered between them for so long ignited into a blaze. Y/n responded without hesitation, his hand cupping the back of her neck, pulling her closer.

When they finally pulled away, both were breathless, their hearts pounding in unison.

“Well,” Y/n said, his voice husky with surprise, “that was… unexpected.”

Lara’s lips quirked into a rare, genuine smile. “Maybe. But it’s been a long time coming.”

Y/n’s grin returned, softer this time. “No arguments here.”

The scarab glimmered between them, forgotten for the moment. The prize didn’t seem quite as important anymore—not compared to what they had just discovered.

Lara cleared her throat, stepping back but not breaking eye contact. “So… what now?”

Y/n shrugged, his grin turning lazy and affectionate. “We could fight over the scarab. Or…”

“Or?”

“Or,” Y/n said, slipping an arm around her waist, “we could call it a draw. Just this once.”

Lara chuckled, a rare sound that made Y/n’s heart skip a beat. “You’re getting soft, Beckett.”

“Maybe. Or maybe I’ve just realized that beating you isn’t the prize I want.”

Lara looked at him, the amusement in her gaze giving way to something deeper. For the first time, the lines between rivalry and affection blurred beyond recognition, and she found she didn’t mind.

“Come on,” she said, tugging his hand lightly. “Let’s get out of here before we both regret this.”

Y/n grinned, following her toward the exit. “Regret? Never.”

As they made their way back through the tomb, side by side, the weight of the scarab in Lara’s satchel felt lighter than it should have. For once, the artifact wasn’t the victory she cared about.

And maybe, just maybe, the adventure they’d found together was only just beginning.

Bonus chapter:

The bonfire crackled warmly in the moonlit desert night, casting flickering shadows over the sand. Lara sat cross-legged on a blanket, sipping whiskey from a battered flask, the glow of the fire soft against her bronzed skin. The day’s adventure—their narrow escape from collapsing ruins—had left them both exhausted but exhilarated. Across from her, Y/n Jones reclined against his rucksack, his leather jacket thrown carelessly aside, hair mussed, and a satisfied grin playing on his lips.

“This almost feels… domestic,” Y/n teased, raising a brow as he accepted the flask from Lara.

Lara gave him a smirk. “If your idea of domestic includes dodging spike traps, solving ancient riddles, and nearly being buried alive, then sure—domestic.”

Y/n chuckled, the sound low and easy, sending a warmth through her chest that had nothing to do with the fire. He tipped the flask to his lips and took a slow drink, the firelight dancing in his eyes. “It’s not exactly Buckingham Palace, but I’d say it’s the perfect evening. After all, I’ve got the stars, good company…” He shot her a playful look. “And the fact that I didn’t lose—entirely—today.”

Lara arched an eyebrow. “You didn’t win either, Jones.”

Y/n leaned closer, close enough for her to smell the whiskey on his breath, that familiar spark lighting between them once again. “Well, if it’s a draw, I say we call it a victory for both of us.”

“Ever the optimist,” Lara said, though there was no bite in her tone.

They lapsed into comfortable silence for a while, the night wrapping around them in a quiet embrace. The stars stretched endlessly overhead, and the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the distant whisper of the wind against the dunes.

For once, Lara wasn’t thinking about ancient artifacts or dangerous tombs. She wasn’t planning her next move or trying to stay one step ahead. For once, she was simply here—sharing the moment with someone who understood the same restless hunger for adventure, the same need to keep moving, always chasing something just out of reach.

“Do you ever think about it?” Y/n asked suddenly, his voice low and thoughtful.

Lara glanced at him. “Think about what?”

“Stopping,” he said, tilting his head back to gaze at the stars. “Walking away from all of this. The treasure hunts, the danger, the endless competition.”

Lara considered the question, surprised by how serious it sounded coming from him. She’d spent her entire life running toward the next adventure, always searching for the next discovery. But now, sitting here with Y/n, the idea didn’t seem as foreign—or as impossible—as it once had.

“And do what?” she asked softly.

Y/n shrugged, his smile lazy but genuine. “I don’t know. Open a bar in Marrakesh? Start a museum somewhere quiet?” He gave her a sidelong glance, his eyes warm and knowing. “Maybe find someone to share it with.”

Lara’s heart skipped a beat, but she kept her expression cool. “That doesn’t sound like you.”

He grinned. “I’m full of surprises.”

She shook her head, amused despite herself. “And if you had to bet on it—how long do you think we’d last in that quiet life?”

Y/n laughed, the sound rich and full of mischief. “A week. Maybe two.”

“Generous,” Lara said with a chuckle.

Y/n leaned back on his elbows, watching her with a gaze that made her feel as though he could see past every wall she’d ever built. “But we’d have fun trying, wouldn’t we?”

Lara smiled—a real smile, not the half-smirks she usually gave. “Yeah, Jones. We would.”

They stayed by the fire long after the flames began to die, sharing stories from old adventures, moments they hadn’t told anyone else. Y/n told her about the time he’d gotten trapped in a Bolivian cave with only a compass and a bottle of rum to his name. Lara recounted a narrow escape from pirates off the coast of Madagascar.

Somewhere along the way, the space between them disappeared.

Lara didn’t remember exactly when Y/n shifted closer, or when she stopped pretending to mind. All she knew was that his hand brushed hers, and for the first time, she didn’t pull away.

The kiss that followed was slow, unhurried—different from the adrenaline-fueled kiss they’d shared in the tomb. This one was deliberate, a promise made under the open sky, without the pressure of stolen moments or looming danger.

When they finally pulled apart, Y/n rested his forehead against hers, his voice low and rough. “I hate to admit it, but I think I might be falling for you, Croft.”

Lara’s heart hammered in her chest, but she met his gaze without flinching. “Then you’d better keep up, Jones.”

Y/n grinned, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

Morning came too soon, and with it, the pull of the next adventure. The fire had burned down to embers, and the cool dawn air nipped at their skin.

Lara rose first, brushing sand from her pants and adjusting her gear. Y/n followed, slinging his pack over his shoulder with an easy grin.

“So,” he said, falling into step beside her as they made their way across the dunes, “where to next?”

Lara glanced at him, her eyes sparkling with that familiar glint of mischief. “There’s a legend about a lost temple in the Himalayas. Supposedly, it holds a relic that grants eternal youth.”

Y/n chuckled. “You think we’ll beat the odds and live forever?”

Lara gave him a playful smirk. “I wouldn’t bet against us.”

And with that, they set off into the rising sun—two explorers, two hearts bound by adventure and something far more precious than any treasure they could ever find.

Because for Lara Croft and Y/n Jones, the real prize wasn’t the artifacts or the glory. It was the journey. And as long as they had each other, the adventure would never end.

———————

A month later, the frigid winds of the Himalayas howled around them as they clung to a cliff face. Far below, jagged rocks peeked through a blanket of snow, promising a swift end to anyone careless enough to misstep. But the danger was nothing new to Lara Croft and Y/n Jones.

“Still think eternal youth is worth it?” Y/n called over the roar of the wind, his voice muffled by the scarf wrapped around his face.

Lara smirked, planting her ice axe into the frozen rock. “You afraid of a little cold, Jones?”

Y/n huffed. “No, just making sure you don’t lose your edge.” He swung his body forward, driving his own axe into the ice next to hers.

They had chased the myth of the Temple of Shambala through ancient maps, local rumors, and narrow escapes from rival treasure hunters. Now, only a few hundred feet separated them from the summit—and the legendary temple said to be hidden beneath the glacier.

Y/n reached the ledge first, pulling himself up with a grunt. He turned and offered Lara a hand. “Come on, Croft. I’d hate to have to rescue you at the last minute.”

Lara raised an eyebrow but took his hand, letting him help her up. “You’ll never let me forget it, will you?”

Y/n grinned, tugging her close for just a moment, their faces inches apart. “Not in a million years.”

The entrance to the temple was hidden beneath layers of thick ice, but Lara had spotted faint carvings—indications of a doorway. Together, they set to work, their ice axes clanging rhythmically against the frozen surface.

When the ancient stone door finally cracked open, a rush of warm, stagnant air escaped from within, a sharp contrast to the biting cold outside.

“After you,” Y/n said with a mock bow, sweeping his arm toward the dark passage.

Lara rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the smile tugging at her lips. “So much for chivalry being dead.”

The temple was vast, its cavernous halls shimmering with ancient ice that glowed a ghostly blue. Enormous statues of forgotten gods lined the walls, their faces serene as they gazed down on the two explorers. The floor beneath their boots crunched with frost, and the air was heavy with centuries of silence.

“This place is unreal,” Y/n whispered, running a hand along one of the statues.

Lara nodded, captivated by the beauty of it all. But she knew better than to let awe distract her for long. “Keep your eyes open. If the legends are true, there’ll be traps.”

As they ventured deeper into the temple, they found more signs of its ancient purpose—symbols of renewal, carvings of stars and moons, and murals depicting pilgrims drinking from a golden chalice. At the heart of the temple, beneath a dome carved with constellations, they found what they had been seeking.

The Chalice of Shambala sat atop a pedestal, glowing faintly with an otherworldly light.

Y/n gave a low whistle. “That’s it?”

Lara approached it cautiously, her eyes scanning the room for any hidden mechanisms. “Be careful. If the myths are right, that thing grants eternal youth—but only if it deems you worthy.”

Y/n raised a skeptical brow. “And what happens if it doesn’t?”

“Let’s not find out,” Lara murmured.

They approached the chalice together, their hands brushing as they reached for it. Neither spoke, but the weight of what they had shared over the past few months hung between them.

Y/n broke the silence first. “You know, Croft… If this thing works, we could keep doing this forever. Adventure after adventure. Just you and me.”

Lara looked at him, her expression softening. “Forever, huh?”

“Think you could stand me that long?” Y/n asked, his grin playful but his gaze sincere.

Lara hesitated, her hand hovering over the chalice. For once, the temptation wasn’t the treasure—it was the thought of what came next. She realized she didn’t want a life without him, whether it lasted fifty years or five centuries.

With a small, mischievous smile, she pulled her hand away. “I think I’d rather grow old with you.”

Y/n blinked, momentarily stunned. Then his grin returned, warmer than the firelight on a desert night. “Well, Croft, that might just be the best treasure I’ve found yet.”

Lara rolled her eyes, though her heart swelled. “Come on, let’s get out of here before this place decides to kill us.”

Y/n grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers with hers as they turned toward the exit. “Lead the way, Croft. I’ll follow you anywhere.”

And with that, they left the chalice untouched, their footsteps echoing through the ancient halls as they walked hand in hand toward the next great adventure—one filled not just with danger and discovery, but with each other.

Because in the end, they realized, it wasn’t the promise of eternal youth that mattered. It was the journey—and the person they chose to share it with.

#tomb raider #indiana jones!reader #male reader #lara croft #lara croft x reader

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boxboxblog · 9 months ago

Text

Ex-Driver Profiles: Sergio Perez

Updated December 2024

Name: Sergio Michel "Checo" Pérez Mendoza

Age: 34

Nationality: Mexican

Years in F1: 14 (2011-2012 Alfa Romeo Sauber, 2013 Mclaren, 2014-2020 Force India/Racing Point, 2021-2024 Red Bull)

Number: 11

WDCs: N/A

Driving Style: Perez is most well know for his patient and defensive driving style. He regularly is able to hold off stronger and faster cars behind him for extended periods of teams, meaning he holds position well and also is an asset while defending his teammate. Perez is also known to have great tire management skills, often patiently waiting until his rivals tires wear out before going on the attack with his better-maintained ones. He is also excellent in complex weather conditions, including full wet and wet-dry. A downside of Perez's style is that he struggles with consistency and setting a qualifying pace. He often is outpaced and out qualified by his teammates, especially his current one.

History:

Born not to a legacy racing family but involved in racing nonetheless, Perez began his karting career in 1996 when he was six years old. In his first year of competition he achieved four victories in the junior category and was 2nd in the standings as a rookie karter. In 1997, he participated in the Karting Youth Class, where he was the youngest driver in the category, and had a positive year, finishing 4th in the championship. The next year, in 1998, he would become the youngest driver to win the championship in that same category.

(Perez in karting)

In 1999, he raced in the 80cc Shifter category, finishing 3rd in the championship. He actually was too young to race in this category, but obtained special permission to do so and was the youngest driver to achieve a win in the category. In 2000 he would go on to do much of the same, regularly being the youngest in the categories he race din. He would soon draw the attention of various sponsors and national racing organizations. The next few years of his career would yield similar positive results, though he did not win any titles.

In 2005 Perez moved from Mexico to Europe in order to compete in the German Formula BMW ADC Series. His first year in this series would not yield super positive results, but he would improve in the 2006 season, improving to 6th in the standings. In 2007 he would switch into Formula 3 for the first time. He competed in the National Class and would win his first title that year. In 2008 he would compete again, but only get 4th in the standings.

(Perez racing in Formula BMW)

Pérez joined GP2 in 2008 for the GP2 Asia Series 2008-2009. He was the first Mexican driver to compete at this level of motorsport since Giovanni Aloi took part in International Formula 3000 in 1990. He would show significantly positive results in this series, bringing home multiple podium finishes and sprint race wins. 2009 he would switch to the main 2009 GP2 Series. Pérez finished 12th in the standings, with a best result of second coming at Valencia. His 2010 run in GP2 would be a lot better, ending the season 2nd in the standings.

(Perez after a win in GP2)

Late 2010 it was announced by F1 team Alfa Romeo Sauber that Perez would be joining their team for the 2011 season. Through this, Perez became the 5th Mexican to compete in F1. During the time of the announcement, he also became a Ferrari Academy Driver. Perez had a relatively average rookie season with Sauber, finishing in points positions a few times. He would finish that year 16th in the standings after. bad crash knocked him out of three races. 2012 was a better year for Perez, as he achieved his first podium in Malaysia, and two more during the season. He finished the year in 10th, above his teammate.

(Perez on first podium)

In 2013 Lewis Hamilton vacated the Mclaren seat and Perez was announced as his replacement, ending his relationship with the Ferrari Driver's Academy. He would have a middling year withe Mclaren, his highest finish being 4th. He would also have friction with teammate and WDC Jenson Button, who described his driving style as 'overlyaggressive'. Perhaps this is why later Perez evolved into a cautious and patient driver.

(Perez, right, with Mclaren teammate Jenson Button)

In 2014 Perez would join Force India, and solidify himself as a midfield driver. For a majority of his career with the team he would be a steady driver, most often outpacing his teammates. He achieved a few podiums with them, but also had moments of disaster, famously suffering several crashes throughout his time. He outlasted the Force India name, and was retained when the team became Racing Point in 2019. He would achieve his first win with Racing Point at the 2020 Bahrain GP, an energetic race that allowed him to show his skill. All in all, his time with midfield teams yielded good results for him, often outperforming his teammates and pulling the car to higher positions than it should be. That year it was announced that he would be joining Red Bull for the 2021 season, replacing Alex Albon.

(Perez after first win)

His time with Red Bull would be a mix of bad and good. During this time, he would regularly achieve podiums and a few wins. In 2021 he would finish 4th in the standings. While this was deemed a positive result, his teammate finished first and it put some scrutiny on Perez. 2022 saw Perez finish 3rd in the standings, behind his teammate in 1st and Ferrari's Charles Leclerc. That would also be the year he achieved his maiden pole position, at the Jeddah GP. 2023 was his best year in F1, being one of few drivers to win a race that year other than Max Verstappen. He would finish 2nd in the standings behind Verstappen, and help Red Bull win another WCC. He would also help Red Bull win their first ever 1-2 in the championship.

(Perez with teammate Verstappen, 2021)

2024 was a very bad year for Perez, having multiple DNF's, crashes, and no points finishes. This was especially pronounced because his teammate Max Verstappen won the drivers championship that year, while he only finished in 8th, the biggest teammate gap since the 90s. This led to Perez losing his seat for the 2025 season, being replaced by Liam Lawson.

(Perez on the podium at the 2024 Austria GP)

Major Races:

2012 Malaysian GP - Perez's highest finish of his career then, and his first pole position. He displayed excellent tire management, completing a long stint and maintaining a competitive pace.

2014 Bahrain GP - His first podium with Force India. Perez displayed his famous defensive driving, holding off much faster cars for the entire race.

2020 Bahrain GP - Perez's first win in his last year with Racing Point. He had the greatest comebacks in his career, after being spun to the back of the grid. It was a remarkable race as he battled his way to 1st, and is the race that won him His Red Bull seat.

2021 Baku GP - His first win with Red Bull. Baku would become a track that he is known for competing well around. He held off Lewis Hamilton (who was fighting his teammate for the championship) the whole race. Many attribute his win in Baku as a major part of Verstappen's first WDC.

2022 Monaco GP- Monaco is famously a tricky circuit, and he raced extremely strategically, outmaneuvering both Ferrari's to win. It was also yet another race where Perez showed his skill in wet-dry conditions.

Cheers,

-B

#f1 #formula 1 #f1 driver profiles #f1 drivers #sergio perez #checo perez

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choco-pudding · 10 months ago

Text

The Vampire Dies in no Time, Chapter 215. Read text from right to left, do not repost.

(Translations by @lavoszero and myself. Edits and typesetting by myself)

Plain text below

Death 215: An Old Blood Gathering in the World of Eternal Night.

p. 39

Somewhere near Shin-Yokohama, Old Blood vampires gather.

Fwoooooo

Icy smile lord, Northdin Has a powerful charm ability that can captivate anyone. Can also manipulate the cold and freeze anything. A formidable old blood vampire.

Tap

p. 40

Northdin: "Good grief, am I the first to arrive? Draus called me over…"

Rise

Necro-Dealer, Elder Said he can easily create and manipulate a near endless army of ghouls. A formidable Old Blood vampire.

Slump

Elder: "Hey, Northdin, how have you been fairing?" Northdin: "! Elder…" Elder: "Have you grown tired of immortality yet? I'll spare no expense on acquiring your corpse if you have. " Northdin: "Quit it, your necromancy jokes are beyond tiresome." Northdin: "And you're having a ghoul act as your proxy, even at one of our gatherings? Lazy shut-in." Elder: "Oh, how rude of me."

p. 41

Snap Split

Elder: "It's simply too much of a hassle to travel on my own… I'll remain in this shell tonight, but know I'm here nonetheless." Ishikana: "Just what are you doing, are you aware of how grotesque that look?" "No matter the circumstance, you guys never change.

Sizzle Burn

The Immortal Flame, Ishikana Controls fire, bane of their kin, with ease. Sets ablaze to combatants and compatriots alike. A formidable Old Blood vampire

Ishikana: Ah, it seem the raven has arrived."

p. 42

Solar Eclipsing Raven, Ventrue Capable of transforming into an ominous six-winged raven. Can outpace the sun. A formidable Old Blood vampire.

Fwoosh

Elder: "Making a flashy entrance as usual I see~. show off." Ventrue: "Hmph, I do as I like. Now, why did Draus summon us to such a seedy place? Northdin: "It's his current fixation" Elder: "You're one to talk, by the way, how's that huntress fairing?" Ventrue: "I have nothing to say about that!" Draus: "Ah, Ventrue, it's been quite some time!"

Lean

Ventrue: "! Draus..."

p. 43

Draus?: "What a wonderful night too, such a beautiful full moon! It's dazzle rivals that of a woman's breasts~!" Ventrue: "Dra-Draus?" Draus: "Who says that!!!?" Dicknea: "Apologies, Apologies, I didn't mean to be rude, just having a bit of gentlemanly fun."

Shifting Shadow: Dick Can Effortlessly transform into all sorts of things, be it beasts, insects, plants, fog, or even the moon. A formidable Old Blood vampire.

[Most likely Draus]: "Is everyone here? I see Yo… That Yellow… he didn't show up."

That Yellow ← (Mr Lewd Talk)

Northdin: "He was invited!? If he shows up, I'll kill him." [Most likely Dicknea]: "I rather enjoy that vampire's company though [Most likely Draus]: …Well then, let's go inside.

And with that, "the Old Blood Meeting" has begun.

p. 44

But it's just a front for idle chit-chatting.

Draus: "Now, let us begin the council of ancient vampires!" Dicknea: "For tonight's topic, I propose "favorite breast shapes."

Conial, hemispherical, triangular.

[Most likely Draus]: "What kind of discussion topic is that!?" Draus: " This is a noble vampire gathering, the topic should mirror our awe!" Ishikana: "And we've had these gatherings for how long now? We've already exhausted all meaningful topics." [Unknown]: "We've mostly been lazing about since peace was achieved." Ishikana: "How about 'recent home appliances purchases." Draus: "That's… not awe inspiring… maybe… is it?" Dicknea: "A while back, I bought some silicone breasts that made for excellent pudding molds." [Most likely Draus]: "I thought I told you to hush!! That's not that even an appliance."

p. 45

Ventrue: "Hmph, centuries passed and you still lack even a shred of decency. As for me, I recently obtained a 'toaster oven.' Bread cooked in it is delicious, fresh or reheated."

Ding!!

[Unknown]: "What are you, an old lady?" [Unknown]: "An old lady with a daily cooking blog?" Ventrue: "I'm answering in accordance to tonight's topic, so don't talk smack!! If you despise it so much, then pick a different topic, Draus! Draus: "Oh, ah, um." Draus: "Fav… 'favorite dog breed." [Unknown]: "What are you, an old dog lady?" [Unknown]: "An old lady that visits a dog park two to three times a week." Draus: "WEH!" Northdin: "How about 'favorite duel against a hunter.' in regards to our conflicts with humans, I’m certain we have no shortage of stories to tell."Draus: "As expected of Northdin!" Elder: "Ah, like that story I heard not too long ago about how lil' Northy here was forced to wear a bikini by the Shin-Yoko hunters before they sent him flying." Northdin: "Octo-headed ghoul, I'll kill you! It was a corset and I was not 'sent flying!" Elder: "Aah, my deepest apologies, Icy Smile Lord." Northdin: "You're awfully chatty for a fossilized shut-in who only recently lost his extermination virginity!" Elder: "I'll have you know I'm quite the target on Nūtube as of late, you should subscribe." Northdin: "'NūTube,' I should cut off your internet connection with a blizzard!"

Absolute ruckus

p. 46

Northdin: " Moreover, how does Elder know about that In the first place, Draus?" Draus: "N-no... comment..." Ishikana: "Anyway, has anyone neared death at the hands of a hunter recently? Or is that a rarity nowadays?" Ishikana: "You guys, have any of you nearly died recently?" Elder: "Oh, I suppose that's one interpretation of awe." Dicknea: "Only about 3.5 time surprisingly." Ventrue: "Just the other day I was nearly hit by an airplane!! The skies are too crowed now!!" [Unknown]: "Just because you can fly so high doesn't mean you should."[Unknown]: "You'd cause a major wreck if you get sucked into the plane's jets." Dicknea: "A few days ago, during a raging rainstorm, I thought I saw an erotic book at sea and nearly went in after it. [Unknown]: "Shut the hell up!" [Unknown]: "Don't die over something so pathetic!" Ishikana: "Sometimes I choke on the tapioca while mindlessly drinking bubble tea. It’s always when I least expect it, too." [Unknown]: "That sounds like an old lady problem." [Most likely Ventrue]: "Those kind of drinks are out of style, granny. Elder: "Speaking of style, I just remembered something." Draus: "Oh?"

p. 47

Elder: A young vampire, rather, my grandson, told me that black cloaks are 'lame' now. Is that true?"

Black cloak Black cloak Black cloak Black cloak Black cloak Black suit

Ventrue: "No, it's not, it just depends on who's wearing It." Northdin:"Hmm, whether or not it's lame all comes down to a vampire's personal taste." Draus: "It's traditional fashion, more people need to understand that."Ishikana: "The black cloak is an iconic symbol of vampirism. Dicknea: "That's just how young people are." Elder: "Well, mine's 'unique' as a robe so it doesn't apply to me regardless." [Unknown]: "Hey, you're the one who started this conversation!"[Unknown]: "That's like comparing an onigiri to a rice ball, there's barely a difference!" Northdin: I wear a long coat, so I suppose that makes me the most stylish one here." [Unknown]: "Sure you are, Mr. long-term middle school syndrome." [Unknown]: "Okay, Mr. Final Fantasy Reject." Northdin: "I'll freeze you all Into popsicles!"

p. 48

Draus: "I bought this trendy vest not long ago." [Unknown]: "How are you this much of an old man!!" [Unknown]: "That's something old men wear right when they hit 70 or 80 years old!" [Unknown]: "What do you need so many pockets for? House keys? Blood Bons?

*^ A sweet similar to bontan rice candies for vampires.

Draus: "Enough, back to formidable topics! More topics that match our vampiric awe!!" Ishikana: "How's this, 'humans have become far too conceited nowadays." [Most likely Draus]: "Yes, a worthy topic for us awe inspiring vampires!! Northdin: "On that note… The night's far too bright in these modern times. To invade our territory with those vulgar lights, it is absurd. It's also inconvenient when hunting prey." Ventrue: "Agreed, even the backlights in blood pack vending machines are obnoxiously bright, it ticks me off. Only us vampires need it, so they should reduce the amount of light it produces."

Shine

[Most likely Draus]: "I-isn't that a little off topic? Elder: "There's someone who always dislikes and leaves rude comments on my videos, I hope someone splits their ass in half and they die!" [Most likely Draus]: "That's completely off!! Go back to being awe inspiring!!" Elder: "Fine, I'll drop the vulgarity. I hope that foolish person dies with their legs split wide open." [Most likely Draus]: "That's still bad! And a bit, you know..."

p. 49

Dicknea: "Is it me or has censorship in erotic manga gotten unnecessarily stricter with each passing year? It's for adults after all" [Unknown]: Is everything you output lewd?"

Topic → Dicknea → Lewd

Dicknea: "Of course not. In fact, I support curating separate spaces, it allows for non-conformity and a more unique erotic world." Draus: "Stop it, I get it!! Let's discuss something cool, now!!!" Elder: "If we were to form a band, what would our band name be?[Unknown]: "What brought this up!?Elder: "Bands are cool, are they not?" Elder: "Draus you can be out lead vocalist. You're such a talented singer after all." Draus: "Huh… Me? Me, as the frontman? truly?" Elder: "For sure." Ishikana: "If Draus is the lead, then we should name it after him. We can be The Dora*mons." [Unknown]: That reference is so outdated, do you even known the interests of today's youth!!!? Ishikana: " I know they read Champion." Ishikana: "At seven we'd have the right amount of members, too…" Draus: "Huh?" Ishikana: "Ah." [Unknown]: "Right, there's only six of us. Since he (Mr. Lewd Talk: Hahaha) isn't here... No it's for the best that he isn't here."

p. 50

[Unknown]: "Yeah, he emits a horrendous air about him just by existing! We would have been stopped at the entrance!!" [Unknown]: "Agreed." [Unknown]: "Not that is matters now." [Unknown]: "Splitting it rounds it up to 18,334 yen per person, right?"[Northdin]: "That seems fair enough." [Unknown]: "Will you hand them back the bill, Northdin?"

Beam

[Northdin]: "Pantsuits have a deep sense of erotism."

Mr. Lewd Talk Wielder of a potent hypnosis that forces people to speak the language of lewd talk. A formidable Old Blood vampire.

Death 215: End

----

Translator's notes:

There's a lot this time.

畏怖, translated here mostly as "awe," is awe in the fearful sense.

Page 45 Northdin is literally saying he was forced to wear "bondage." However, in Japanese, "bondage" is more commonly used today in reference to fashion (i.e. clothing made of leather/ rubber) rather than a restraining tool. "Corset" was chosen because it's the closest thing to what he was wearing and let's him keep some dignity.

If you're not in the known, Elder is a NuTuber and I'm 75% sure he's alluding to his own channel.

As a reminder, Ishikana's gender is a self-admitted "secret." They're called both masculine and feminine terms in other chapters, so don't take them being called an "old lady/obachan" here too seriously.

Page 48

Original text is comparing onigiri to omusubi.

Page 49

Draus's name is phonetically "Dorasusu" in Japanese, hence Dora*mon. The Doraemons, a spin off of Doraemon, does in fact have a group of seven Doaemons in it.

#the vampire dies in no time #draus #northdin #ydan ojisan #elder #ishikana #ventrue blueblood #von creature #//Please tell me if I made any errors #translations #kyuuketsuki sugu shinu #vamp dies

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