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stylesispunk · 4 months ago

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"Blind Faith" | part i

Priest!Joel Miller x nightclub dancer!reader

masterlist | next chapter

summary: Running away from your home, you found a small town to stay. Once there, you met people and the priest, Joel.

wc: 5,2 k

warnings: age gap (Joel is in his late 40s, reader in her late 20s), religious conflict, a crisis of faith, temptation, forbidden attraction, forbidden romance, eventual smut, social expectations, nightlife themes, the contrast between joel's and your world, protests, mentions of exile, mention of politics. For clarification, reader is Latina on this one.

a/n: Hello. I wanted this story to be something beyond a forbidden romance between two people, after reading books and watching things I wanted to recall that reader's background comes from her being an activist. I want to approach all the topics with all due respect and I hope you do too, nevertheless, those are not going to be the main center of the story.

Happy reading and please tell me what are your thoughts about this one.

You had built a life most people only dreamed of. A life filled with passion, purpose, and the kind of joy that comes from doing what you love. You were surrounded by friends who understood you, a family you cherished with every fiber of your being, and a career that made waking up every morning feel like stepping into a dream.

You had studied dance at university, dedicating years to perfecting your craft until movement became your language, your art, your very identity. But you didn’t see yourself just as an artist, you were educated. You had spent your life asking questions, seeking answers, and standing for what was right. Politics fascinated you, not as a distant game played by men in suits, but as something alive, something that shaped the world around you. You were drawn to justice, to fairness, to the fight for those whose voices were drowned out by oppression.

Protests became as much a part of your life as well as performances. You had stood in the streets, chanting until your voice was hoarse, raising signs, raising awareness, raising hell when it was necessary. You believed in change, in the power of people united. But belief alone was never enough to stop what came next.

The illusion of safety shattered the moment power fell into the wrong hands. The men who took control of your country did not tolerate opposition. They did not welcome free thought or voices that questioned their authority. People like you, the educated, the artists, the teachers, all who had seek justice, were dangerous but because you couldn’t be controlled. Because you saw through their lies.

You remember the night your world collapsed. The hurried whispers in the dark. The fear in your mother’s eyes. The way your brother’s hands shook as he cut your hair, disguising you in a desperate attempt to buy you time.

He drove you to the airport as your heart pounded, then, you boarded that plane, leaving behind everything you had ever known. Your home. Your family. The life you had built.

And that is why you ended up here, in a bus driving to a foreign city located in California. The bus rattled as it rolled into town, the low hum of the engine filling the silence of the nearly empty cabin. You sat near the window, watching the Californian sun stretch across the dry fields, golden and endless, nothing like the dense, humid air of home.

Home.

The word sat heavy in your chest, a place you could no longer name without feeling the weight of exile pressing against your ribs.

This town was small, quieter than you expected, but that was good. You needed a quiet, a place to disappear, to become no one, to not be recognized. You stepped off the bus with only a battered leather suitcase and a name written on a slip of paper.

The paradise, a nightclub where a friend of a friend had said you might find work.

You pulled your coat tighter around you, though the air was warm. You must have learned to move carefully, to keep your eyes down, to not be recognized. But you couldn't help glancing up at the church as you stepped off the bus.

That’s when you saw him.

He was standing on the steps, speaking to a woman holding a little baby in her arms. There was, a priest, dressed in black, with tired eyes and a kindness in the way he bent his head to listen. He looked up, meeting your gaze for the first, just for a fleeting second. Then, his gaze left your eyes, leaving you with a weird feeling, warmth rising up to your cheeks.

You pulled the slip of paper from your pocket, staring at the name scrawled in fading ink staring at the name scrawled in fading ink. The paradise.

When you lifted your gaze again, the priest wasn't there anymore.

You sighed and adjusted the trap of your suitcase over your shoulder, feeling anxious creeping upon your skin as you try to picture your life in a foreign place.

You looked towards the church in the front of the street, where the priest had stood minutes before, perhaps trying to look and answer to your questions. You weren't a religious person, but you did believe in calls, and you felt the pulling thread forcing you to walk towards the church, as if something were calling you, perhaps someone.

Your feet found their way to the old church at the edge of town, its stone walls worn and cracked from years of standing against the wind. It loomed tall and hollow, the kind of place that had seen more sorrow than joy. You hesitated at the entrance, your heart beating faster than you liked.

Why am I even here? you thought. But the pull wouldn’t let you turn away.

You stepped inside.

The stained glass cast soft, fractured colors onto the worn wooden pews, painting the empty space in hues of crimson, gold, and deep blue. The scent of burning wax and old books filled your senses, grounding you in a place that felt both foreign and strangely familiar.

Your footsteps echoed as you moved deeper inside, the vast silence of the church swallowing every sound. You weren’t sure what you were looking for, an answer, a sign, something to tell you that coming here wasn’t a mistake.

The priest where nowhere to be found, so you took seat in one of the wooden benches, perhaps waiting, perhaps resting.

You got yourself comfortable, the sleep catching upon you. Your body felt heavy, exhaustion creeping into your bones the moment you allowed yourself to rest. The weight of the suitcase by your side, the long journey that had brought you here, it all pressed down on you at once. The church, with its quiet stillness, felt like the safest place you’d been in weeks.

That was where Joel Miller found you.

On a quiet evening when the chapel was empty, save for the flickering candlelight and the faint scent of incense clinging to the air. You were curled up on one of the wooden pews, arms folded beneath your head, chest rising and falling in the steady rhythm of sleep.

He cleared his throat, but you didn’t stir. He hesitated before reaching out, tapping your shoulder. “Miss?” His voice came softer than he expected. “You can’t sleep here.”

"Father, do you always wake up strangers like this?"

Your voice was thick with sleep, eyes blinking against the dim glow of the chapel’s candlelight. The air smelled of old wood, wax, and something faintly metallic, like rain on stone. You looked young like this, your face soft, but Joel knew better. You shouldn't be older than thirty.

"You can’t sleep here," he repeated.

You smirked, rubbing your eyes. "Didn’t know God kicked people out."

Joel exhaled sharply. The world outside was changing, rock ‘n’ roll, free love, protests, women in miniskirts. But in this town, in this chapel, things were supposed to stay the same.

This town hadn’t met those changes.

Joel stood over you, stiff-backed, his fingers still hovering near your shoulder from where he’d tapped you awake. He shouldn’t have noticed the way your legs stretched across the pew, the way your blouse, too low-cut for a place like this, shifted as you moved, leaving no place to imagination.

Joel exhaled sharply. Lord, give me patience.

"This isn’t a shelter," he said. "If you need a place—"

"I'm not homeless" Your tone was firm and final, as if you were done, but there was something else in your voice too, something he couldn’t quite place, but it hinted sadness. "I just got into town," you admitted after a beat, glancing toward the stained-glass windows, dark now with the night. "Didn’t know where else to go. At least not tonight."

Joel studied you, his chest tightening."Are you in trouble?"

A small, humorless laugh left you. "Depends on what you call trouble."

Silence filled the chapel, thick and unmoving. The rain had stopped, leaving only the distant hum of the highway beyond the hills.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said finally. But his voice had lost its authority, had softened just enough that he felt the weight of it settle in his own bones.

“Why?” You asked

Joel exhaled slowly, shifting on his feet. He looked down at you, his expression unreadable, but there was something in the way his jaw tensed, something he was holding back.

"You can’t stay here," he said again, voice firm but not unkind.

You sat up properly this time, stretching your legs out in front of you, your boots scraping against the floor. His eyes flicked to them, brief, barely noticeable, you caught it, but you chose not to say anything.

"Didn’t mean to cause a problem," you said, rubbing the sleep from your eyes.

"You’re not a problem," he said, then hesitated. "But this isn’t a place for…"

You arched a brow. “For what? For a woman like me?”

For someone wearing boots and a blouse that clung a little too tight, a skirt that rode too high when you stretched out.

He didn’t utter that the sentence. Instead, he sighed, raking a hand through his hair.

"Where you planning on staying tonight?" he asked.

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head. "Haven’t figured that part out yet."

Joel frowned. "You got family here?"

"No father, I don’t."

"Friends?"

"No."

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. So, you’re alone.

You weren’t sure if that unsettled him or if it was something else.

He shifted again, exhaling through his nose like he was about to say something he’d regret.

"There’s a place near the church," he finally said. "A small guesthouse. Church used to use it for traveling pastors, but it’s empty now. You can stay there tonight."

You studied him. "Why?"

His brow furrowed. "What do you mean, why?"

"I mean, why help me? You don’t know me."

Joel was silent for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was quieter. "That doesn’t mean I should turn you away."

You held his gaze, searching for something in it—hesitation, reluctance. But there was only conviction.

And yet you could feel something else there, buried beneath all that righteousness behind his clothes.

Something you hadn’t named yet.

"Alright, Father," you said finally, standing up. "Lead the way."

He hesitated, just for a second. Then, he turned, stepping toward the chapel doors, and you followed.

Back at his house behind the church, Joel lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling. The wooden beams above cast long shadows in the dim glow of the lamp beside his bed. He should’ve been sleeping, his body was tired enough for I, but his mind refused to settle. It was noisier than ever.

His thoughts kept drifting back to something else, to you. To the way you’d looked at him when you stood up from that pew, like you already knew he wasn’t as correct as he pretended to be.

To your voice, husky with sleep, the way you stretched without a care in the world. To your legs.

Joel shut his eyes. Lord, give me strength.

It had been a passing glance, barely a flicker of a thought, but now it gnawed at him.

He had seen a lot of things in his years as a priest. A lot of people in need, a lot of wandering souls. But he wasn’t blind. He could recognize beauty when it was right in front of him. And tonight, for the first time in a long time, it wasn’t just his faith speaking.

It was something else. It felt dangerous.

He turned onto his side, sighing through his nose. This was just another test. He’d seen men struggle with temptation, had guided them through it. This was no different.

You were just a woman in need. That’s all. That’s all.

And yet, sleep never came easy that night.

The early sun cast long golden beams through the chapel windows as Joel made his way to the guesthouse. He carried a small plate of toast and eggs, as a gesture of hospitality. He thought about last night, on how he hadn’t offered food or a cup of tea.

He wanted to show kindness, but the second he stepped inside, he knew.

The bed was made, the blanket neatly folded. No sign of anyone.

And on the small wooden table by the window, a note.

Joel set the plate down and picked it up, his fingers tightening around the paper.

"Thank you for your help, Father."

That was it. No name, no explanation. Just a quiet departure, as if you’d never been there at all.

Joel exhaled slowly, staring at the empty room.

Something settled deep in his chest, something that felt too much like disappointment.

He was afraid of the fleeting feelings coming to him. Because last night, he’d told himself you were just passing through. But now, standing here, he wasn’t sure he believed it.

You were strong and brave enough this day. When you found yourself in the front of the paradise, the neon light flickered weakly in the daylight, music pulsed behind the doors, muffled but steady, a heartbeat beneath the night.

You inhale deeply, pushing the door behind.

The club smelled of sweat, perfume, and cigarette smoke. It wasn’t alive as you expected to be during the day, but there were men in tight pants, women in flowing skirts, people who existed somewhere in between, all shining under the low, colored lights of the place.

This wasn’t the kind of stage you were used to. But it was something.

Behind the bar, a broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard was pouring whiskey into a glass, his gold rings catching the light. He spotted you instantly, eyes narrowing slightly before softening.

“You must be the new girl,” he said, voice thick with an accent she couldn’t place.

You hesitated for a moment, but then you nodded.

The man wiped his hands on a towel, then leaned over the counter, studying you.

“You dance?” He asked.

You lifted your chin. “Yes.”

He smirked. “We’ll see about that.”

A warm hand touched your back.

Your turned to find a woman at your side, tall, dark-skinned, with a shimmering dress that clung to her curves. Her lipstick was deep red, her eyes lined in black.

“Come on, cariño,” the woman purred. “Let’s get you ready.”

You swallowed, but you followed her backstage.

Backstage was a blur of colors, perfume, and laughter. The other dancers moved around you effortlessly, adjusting their costumes, fixing their makeup, teasing each other in rapid-fire whispers. You stood still, taking it all in. People here were wild, free and beautiful, and you smiled at that.

The woman who had led you back, Carmen, handed you a black slip dress. It was simple, barely more than a tiny thing of fabric, with thin straps that draped off your shoulders.

“You need shoes?” Carmen asked, watching as you slipped it over your head.

You shook your head “I’ll dance barefoot.”

Carmen raised a perfectly sculpted brow but didn’t argue. “Suit yourself.”

The music outside shifted, growing louder. Your stomach tightened.

You had danced for crowds a thousand times before, but never like this. This wasn’t a stage with velvet curtains, with polished floors and orchestrated movements. This was something raw and new for you, something meant to be felt rather than admired.

You exhaled slowly.

You’ve already lost everything. What’s left to be afraid of?

A hand touched your shoulder. She turned to find Carmen smiling. “You’re up next, estrella.”

The lights were dim when you stepped onto the small, elevated platform.

The club wasn’t packed, but there were enough people to make the air thick with murmurs and expectation. A few heads turned, eyes gliding over you as you took your place.

You closed your eyes.

The music started, a slow, sultry rhythm, deep bass vibrating through your bones.

And then you moved. At first, it was instinct. The slow bend of your knees, the gentle sway of your hips. You let the music guide you, feeling it the way you once had in the studio, back when you were still the dancer, before you became the fugitive.

Your arms lifted, fluid and controlled, your body following in careful, deliberate motions.

And then you forgot to be careful. You turned, arching into a spin, the hem of your dress fluttering around your thighs. You let your feet move the way they had been trained to—pointed toes, precise steps, every motion a whisper of the ballerina you once were.

A gasp rippled through the crowd.

Someone murmured, “Mierda… she can dance.”

You barely heard them. For the first time in months, you felt like yourself again. Not a girl running, not a girl hiding, but a girl who had been born to dance.

You let yourself go. By the time the music ended, a hush had fallen over the club.

And then—applause. You stood there, breathing hard, your skin glowing under the soft red lights.

When you stepped down from the platform, Carmen was waiting, grinning.

“Dios mío,” she said, shaking her head. “Where the hell did you come from?”

You just smiled. You didn’t have an answer for that. But for the first time since you had arrived, you felt like you had found a piece of home to stay in.

The night air was warmer as you made your way back to the church, the scent of warm pastries wrapped in cloth filling your hands. The applause from the club still echoed in your ears, the feeling of movement still lingering in your limbs. You felt light. For the first time in what felt like forever, you felt less lonely.

You paused at the entrance, looking up at the towering stone structure, its stained glass barely illuminated by the sunlight. The contrast was almost laughable.

The dancer and the priest. A contradiction in itself.

With a breath, you stepped inside.

He was there, seated at one of the pews, his back turned to you. His posture was stiff, as if he’d been deep in thought, or perhaps in prayer.

“Father.”

He turned sharply at your voice, his dark eyes immediately landing on you. For a moment, he said nothing, just studying you as if trying to figure out why you had come back.

You held up the bundle in your hands. “I brought you something.”

His gaze flickered to the wrapped pastries before settling back on your face. Slowly, he stood, walking toward you with careful, deliberate steps. When he got close, the faint scent of smoke and candle wax clung to him.

“You didn’t have to,” he muttered, but he still took them from you. His fingers brushed yours briefly, warm, rough, calloused. The hands of a man who had worked long before he had ever been a priest.

You shrugged. “It’s a thank-you. For helping me yesterday.”

He watched you for a beat before nodding. “Did you find a place to stay?”

“I did.”

He didn’t ask where. He just looked at you, waiting. Maybe he wanted to know. Maybe he already had an idea.

You weren’t going to tell him either. Instead, you smiled. “Don’t eat them all at once, Father.”

Joel’s eyes flickered down, lingering for a second longer than they should have. You noticed.

It was brief, so brief you might have convinced yourself you imagined it. But you didn’t. His gaze had traced over the curve of your waist, the way the fabric of your blouse rested against your skin, the gentle swell of your collarbones. The flicker of something unreadable in his expression disappeared just as quickly as it had come.

He cleared his throat, shifting his weight. “Do you—” He hesitated. “Would you like to talk?”

You raised a brow. “Talk?”

He nodded, tilting his head toward one of the wooden pews. “If you want.”

A small part of you wanted to tease him, ask if priests usually invited strange women to talk in dimly lit churches. But you swallowed the thought.

Instead, you sighed, walking past him and settling onto the worn wooden bench. You crossed one leg over the other, tapping your fingers idly on the surface. Joel sat beside you, close, but not too close.

The silence stretched between you, heavy but not uncomfortable.

“Is this the part where I have to confess my sins?” you asked, breaking the quiet.

Joel exhaled through his nose, almost like a quiet laugh. “Only if you want to.”

You studied him for a moment. The way his hands rested on his lap; fingers curled slightly as if he wasn’t quite at ease. The tension in his shoulders, the quiet restraint in his posture.

You tilted your head. “What about you, Father?”

His gaze lifted to meet yours.

“What do you believe in?” you asked.

Joel didn’t answer. His jaw clenched, something shifting in his expression. He looked away, staring at the rows of empty pews, at the altar beyond. Instead, he let out a slow breath, his fingers drumming idly against his knee. Then, without looking at you, he asked, “Why’d you come here?”

You blinked at him. “Here? To the church?”

He nodded. “Last night”

You considered lying. It would be easier. But something about the way he was looking at the altar, like it held answers he wasn’t sure he wanted, made you tell the truth.

“I don’t know,” you admitted. “I just… felt like I had to. Like, something just called me, you know?”

His gaze flicked to you then, studying, searching. “You’re not religious.” It wasn’t a question.

You smirked. “Is it that obvious?”

Joel didn’t return the smile. He just kept watching you, unreadable. “Then what are you looking for?”

That was a harder question. Peace? A sense of belonging? A place to rest? You weren’t sure.

You hesitated, then shrugged. “Something different. A fresh start.”

Joel hummed, thoughtful. He leaned back slightly, stretching his legs out in front of him. “And you think you’ll find that here?”

You sighed, tilting your head toward him. “What’s with the interrogation, Father? Trying to save my soul?”

This time, he did smile. Barely. Just a flicker of amusement in his expression. “I think your soul is doing just fine on its own.”

That shouldn’t have made your heart stutter the way it did.

Joel shifted, bracing his elbows on his knees. His voice was quieter when he spoke again. “You got people looking for you?”

Your breath caught. There it was. The question you’d been dreading.

You glanced away, suddenly very interested in the cracks in the wooden pew beneath you. “No,” you said eventually. “No one’s looking.”

Joel didn’t press. He just nodded slowly, like he had believed you.

For a while, neither of you spoke. The church was silent except for the occasional creak of wood settling, the distant sound of footsteps from somewhere outside.

Then Joel inhaled, shifting beside you. “You should be careful.”

You turned to him, frowning. “Why?”

His jaw tightened. He hesitated, then sighed. “This town—it’s small. People notice things.”

Your chest tightened, but you forced yourself to keep your expression neutral. “And what have they noticed about me?”

Joel didn’t answer right away. His gaze dropped to your hands resting in your lap, then back up to your face.

“Nothing,” he said finally. “Yet.”

The word lingered between you, heavier than the silence that followed.

“What about?” you asked, “What do you notice about me?”

Joel didn’t answer at first. He just looked at you, eyes unreadable, something working behind them, something you couldn’t quite place.

You held his gaze, waiting, heartbeat steady but slow.

Then, he exhaled through his nose, tilting his head slightly. “I noticed you don’t like talking about yourself.”

Your lips quirked. “Maybe I just don’t like talking to priests.”

That got the barest huff of amusement from him. “Could be.” His fingers tapped lightly against his knee before he added, “But I think it’s more than that.”

You arched a brow. “Oh?”

Joel nodded, his voice quieter when he spoke again. “I think you’ve been running from something”

That made your stomach tighten.

Your first instinct was to deny it, to smirk, roll your eyes, brush it off like he was just another man who thought he had you figured out. But Joel wasn’t just another man. And the way he was looking at you, like he could see past whatever mask you were wearing, made it harder to lie.

Your fingers curled slightly against your lap. “And what makes you think that?”

Joel leaned back slightly, stretching one arm along the pew. His eyes didn’t leave yours. “The way you don’t settle,” he said simply. “Not even when you’re sitting still.”

The words sent something sharp through your chest.

You swallowed, looking away, suddenly feeling too seen, too exposed. “Maybe I just don’t like these wooden benches.”

Joel hummed, like he wasn’t convinced. But he didn’t push, instead he smiled at you.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The dim glow of candlelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long shadows across the empty church.

Then, finally, Joel shifted beside you. “Did you eat?”

The abrupt change caught you off guard. You blinked, glancing at him. “What?”

His expression was unreadable again, but his voice was casual when he repeated, “Did you eat?”

You frowned. “Why?”

Joel sighed, shaking his head. “Because if you haven’t, I got food in the back.”

You tilted your head, a small smirk playing at your lips. “Are you asking me if I want to eat these pastries with you, Father?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head as he glanced down at the bag of pastries still resting between you. “You brought them” he said gruffly. “Seems only fair.”

You pretended to consider it, tapping a finger against your knee. “Well, I supposed I must take you for a man who shares.”

He shot you a look, one that might’ve been stern if not for the flicker of something else in his eyes. Amusement, maybe. Or something deeper, something you weren’t ready to name.

“Don’t make me take it back,” he muttered.

You bit back a grin, shrugging as you reached for the bag. “Well, if you insist.”

Joel stood, nodding his head toward the back of the church. “Come on. I’m not going sit out here and eat in the dark like some kind of—” he gestured vaguely before shaking his head. “Just come on.”

You followed, the sound of your footsteps echoing against the stone floors. The air was warmer in the back rooms, less hollow than the empty church.

Joel pulled out a chair for you at a small wooden table, and you sat, watching as he grabbed a couple of plates and a knife.

“Tea?” he asked.

You arched a brow. “Didn’t take you for a tea drinker.”

Joel shot you another look. “Or coffee. Pick one.”

You hummed, pretending to consider. “Tea.”

He nodded, setting a teapot on the stove before sitting across from you. The candlelight flickered between you, soft and warm.

You broke off a piece of pastry, popping it into your mouth. “Not bad,” you admitted.

Joel took a bite himself, chewing slowly. Then, he glanced at you,

You weren’t looking at him, too focused on the pastry in your hands, the way the flaky crust crumbled against your fingers. But he was looking at you.

He hadn’t meant to, not like this, not for this long. But there was something about the way you sat there, elbows on the table, the candlelight casting soft golden hues over your skin. Something about the curve of your lips as you chewed thoughtfully, the way your lashes lowered when you focused.

You were different. A fresh breath in a town that had long gone stale, where faces blurred together, where days passed without change. But you—

You weren’t part of this place. Not yet. And maybe that was what drew him in.

His gaze flickered lower, just for a second. The delicate slope of your collarbones, the soft neckline of your blouse that dipped just enough to hint at what lay beneath. He swallowed, jaw tensing, and forced himself to look away, to focus on something else, the flickering candle, the steam rising from the kettle.

“You’re quiet,” you murmured, your voice pulling him back.

Joel cleared his throat. “Just thinking.”

You tilted your head, studying him now, those sharp eyes of yours peeling away layers he hadn’t realized were there. “About what?”

He could’ve lied. Could’ve told you something simple, something easy.

Instead, he exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. “Nothing important.”

A small smile tugged at your lips. You didn’t push, just took another bite of pastry.

And Joel? Joel tried not to look at your lips when you did.

The teapot whistled, breaking the silence. Joel pushed back his chair, a little too fast, the legs scraping against the wooden floor. He muttered something under his breath, maybe a curse, maybe just an exhale—as he stood and turned toward the stove.

You watched him, chin resting in your hand, fingers tapping absently against your cheek.

He moved with quiet fast, pouring the hot water into two mismatched mugs, the steam curling up between you like an unspoken thought.

“Sugar?” he asked.

You hummed, pretending to think. “Do you have honey?”

Joel shot you a dry look but opened a small cupboard, rummaging until he found a half-used jar. He set it down in front of you, his fingers brushing the edge of your mug as he did.

You wrapped your hands around the warm ceramic, taking a slow sip.

Joel sat back down, quieter this time, his elbows resting on the worn wooden table.

You tilted your head. “So, do priests always offer tea and pastries to strangers passing by?”

A corner of his mouth twitched, almost a smile. “No.”

You raised a brow. “Just me, then?”

Joel held your gaze, something unreadable flickering in the depths of his brown eyes. Then he looked away, took a slow sip of his own tea.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just you.”

You set your cup down gently, the porcelain clinking softly against the table. "Thanks for being so kind to me." you said, your voice low, more than just for the tea and pastries. It was for the quiet, for the refuge, for something you couldn't quite explain.

Joel didn’t respond right away, but you saw the faintest shift in his posture, the tightness in his shoulders easing just a little. His eyes flickered back to yours, and there was something different about the way he looked at you now, less guarded, almost as if he’d let a small part of himself slip into the space between you.

He nodded, almost imperceptibly, then reached for the teapot, his fingers brushing the warm ceramic. "You don't have to thank me," he said quietly. "It's... it’s nothing."

But you both knew it wasn’t nothing. It never was.

Behind his intentions there was always kindness, but now something new flickered.

A temptation threatening his faith, like the world had set on fire the moment you glances met for the first time and he wanted the flames to catch him to be saved by you.

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verstappenverse · 8 months ago

Text

The Price of the Podium

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: In the relentless pursuit of racing glory, Max faces the emotional fallout of missing an important weekend in his relationship, leaving your future uncertain.

1.5k words / Part 2 / Masterlist

Max's heart raced as the engine of his RedBull roared beneath him. The familiar hum had become a source of comfort, a steady rhythm that guided him through countless laps and countless victories. But today it felt different, a harbinger of an approaching storm that threatened to dismantle everything he held dear.

The season had been merciless. Each race had been a relentless pursuit of perfection, each lap a battle against time and competitors. Max understood that this world demanded sacrifices, but lately the weight of those sacrifices had changed.

When Max glanced at his phone during a fleeting moment of respite his stomach dropped as a surge of guilt swept over him. A string of missed calls and urgent messages from you filled the screen, each one more desperate than the last.

Hey, can you please call me when you get a chance? I need to talk to you.

Max, you’re really starting to worry me. I don’t understand what's going on?

It’s been three days since we spoke properly. Can you at least let me know you’re okay?

Max’s gaze fell on the calendar, he had promised again to visit your extended family this weekend, a significant step for you both that had been previously filled with excitement and anticipation. Your family were eager to meet him, and Max had been looking forward to it as well. But now with the punishing schedule of the season, he was struggling to find even a moment to breathe, let alone make the trip.

He knew he was being a coward, but it was easier to avoid the situation than confront it directly and risk letting down the person who mattered most.

As Max approached the racetrack for another testing session, the weight of his choices hit him like a sledgehammer. He was about to miss an important milestone in your life together and he didn't think you'd be so forgiving this time.

His mind was full of conflicting emotions. He wanted to be there for you, to prove to your family that he was serious about your relationship, but the world of racing had a way of consuming everything in its path leaving no room for personal commitments.

The testing session was a blur. Max’s driving was flawless, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The track blurred into an endless ribbon of asphalt. He pushed himself to the limit, hoping that the adrenaline would drown out the guilt gnawing at his conscience.

Finally, the session ended. Max’s team were in high spirits celebrating the improved performance. He barely registered their enthusiasm, his mind was occupied with the image of you waiting for him in a small town, wondering why he had not shown up. He could picture you there, waiting for him, checking the clock, wondering if he’d even bothered to leave. And it wasn’t just about this weekend, it was about every missed call, every text he hadn’t answered, every promise he’d let slide.

The moment Max stepped out of the car he took a deep breath and pulled out his phone. He dialed your number hoping against hope that you would answer. After a few rings your voice came through the line tinged with weariness and frustration.

“Max?”

“Hey, I’m so sorry. I know I’ve been out of touch.”

“Out of touch? You’ve been completely absent! I was supposed to introduce you to my family this weekend. It was important to me.”

“I know. I wanted to be there, but things just got out of hand here. I’ve been trying to make time, but…”

“But what Max? You keep saying you’re trying, but you’re never here. There's always an excuse.”

“I’m really sorry, I’ve been working so hard this season...I thought I could make it work, I just…”

“You know what? I don’t want to hear more excuses right now. You’ve missed something important to me again, and it hurts. I needed you here, and you weren’t.”

The silence on the other end of the line was heavy, almost unbearable. Max could feel the pain that you were struggling to mask, like a knife twisting in his gut. It cut him deeper than any criticism he’d ever faced on the track.

“Please. I know I messed up, I’ll make it up to you, I swear.”

“Make it up to me? I don’t even know if that’s possible anymore. This wasn’t like the other times when you just forgot or lost track of time; you made the choice not to come. I’ve tried to be understanding... I know how hard this season has been, and I know how much time and dedication it takes. I never wanted to undermine that. But I don’t know how much longer we can do this. I get it, you have to make tough choices sometimes, and I’ve done my best to support you, to step back and let you focus on your goals. But it’s happening too often now and it feels like every time, you’re choosing this… this life over us. Over me. Every single time.”

Max’s throat tightened. He wanted to argue, to explain more, but he also knew that he couldn't keep making excuses for his absence, and he couldn’t bear to hurt you anymore. He’d run out of explanations, out of promises he knew he couldn’t keep.

He wanted to say something, anything to fix it, but he could hear the finality in your voice. You’d reached a breaking point, one he’d seen coming but had been too afraid to acknowledge.

“I don’t know what to say,” he finally whispered, the words feeling hollow even as he spoke them.

The silence stretched on.

“I understand if you need space.” he murmured, barely able to get the words out, blinking back tears.

Your voice was barely a whisper throat locking up, it felt like he was giving up. Was this even worth fighting for if he wasn't?

Then, in a voice so small it broke his heart all over again, you whispered, “You’re right. Maybe space is what we need right now.'

The line went dead, leaving Max alone in the garage. The celebration of the session’s success felt hollow. The echoes of the track still rang in his ears mingling with the ache of your absence.

In the days that followed Max tried to bury himself in the upcoming races, hoping that the endless rush would drown out the regret gnawing at him. He avoided reaching out to you honouring your request for space.

Each day felt like an endless rotation of driving, media commitments, and sleepless nights. The thrill of racing was overshadowed by the growing distance between you and him.

You had always been patient and understanding of the demands of Max’s career. You had supported him through the highs and lows, celebrating his victories and comforting him through the losses, but it hadn’t been enough. Each missed call and unanswered message chipped away at your resolve. You couldn’t keep repeating the same cycles and expecting a different result.

The weekend you had planned for Max to meet your family was meant to be a milestone, a step toward a future together. Instead, it felt like a crushing disappointment.

You replayed the conversations you had with Max in your mind, trying to reconcile the man you loved with the absence he had become. You had pictured this weekend as a chance for Max to understand the importance of your family, to see the life you had outside of his world.

The hurt and frustration you felt were compounded by a growing sense of doubt, doubt that maybe this life of constant motion had created a rift too wide to bridge.

You needed time to process the hurt, to focus on yourself and figure out where to go from here. The support you had hoped for seemed distant and unreliable, and the future you had envisioned together felt uncertain.

Loving him had been a beautiful dream, but you knew it was time, you hesitated just a moment before hitting send.

Max,

I need you to know that I’m not angry anymore. I’m just… tired. I need to focus on myself right now.

Max read the message over and over, his hands trembling. The message was brief and seemingly final. The reality of your words sank in, there was no dramatic declarations, no harsh accusations, just a simple statement of exhaustion, a quiet resignation that tore through him. He wanted to call, to beg you to come back, but he knew it was too late.

As the season drew to a close, Max stood on the podium, the roar of the crowd a distant echo, his gaze searching as if somehow he’d see you there. The trophy was in his hands, but it didn't feel like he had expected. He looked out over the crowd searching for a sense of fulfilment that seemed to elude him, it all felt like ashes without you beside him.

Max only thought of you as he stood amidst the celebrations, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that in the pursuit of his dreams he had sacrificed something far more precious, and wondered if there was a path back to what he had lost.

#max verstappen #max verstappen x reader #f1 x reader #f1 #max verstappen fanfic #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen masterlist #max verstappen x you #f1 imagine #max verstappen one shot #max verstappen fic #max verstappen angst

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dannyriccsystem · 2 months ago

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I love your writing!! Could you please do the drivers being soooo angry at the world and everyone’s scared to approach them but they’re soft for you(idk if that makes sense)

YOU MAKE ME FEEL LIKE SPRING HAS SPRUNG!

FORMULA ONE DRIVERS X READER

SUMMARY: When you’re the only one they can tolerate when they’re angry!

OVERALL W.C: 2.6k

WARNINGS: Mean drivers (soft with you), Y/N usage, not proofread

FEATURING: MV1, DR3, LN4, KA12, CL16, CS55, GR63, OP81

MAX VERSTAPPEN - MV1

When Max was mad, everyone in the paddock knew. After the outcome of the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix, the air was undeniably tense. Your boyfriend was reasonably upset with his penalty— He didn’t want to deny and say it was unfair, because it wasn’t, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t allowed to be upset about it.

It didn’t help that the FIA had cornered him immediately afterwards and lectured him on his censorship. He could write four thousand paragraphs on that topic alone, but he didn’t need to get into it right now. The 2025 season had been undeniably shit for Max overall. With all the booing and the RedBull seat switching. It was a pain for everyone.

Everyone seemed to be walking on glass, unsure of how to approach the angry man, currently holding the title of 2024 champion. It was a lot to handle. The RB garage was scurrying around, trying to get things straight. Then you walked in.

One of the mechanics tried to warn you, but you brushed off the incessant complaining and walked right over to the Mad Max. Everyone held their breath, waiting for the surprise blow up, but it never came. He seemed to melt in his seat right then and there, staring up at you with such gentle eyes.

“Hi Max,” You whispered in that sweet voice he loved as you situated yourself to stand between his legs. He wrapped his arms around your waist, staring up at you.

“Lieverd,” He greeted, pressing a kiss to your clothed stomach. “Did you enjoy the race?” He asked it so casually, as if nothing was upsetting him and nothing went wrong. You were so capable of washing his concerns away, it astounded even Max.

“It was good, although a little frustrating.” Prying eyes figured now would be the time. You brought up his mistakes, so the only reasonable plan of action was to scold you like the mad man he was. But no, Max just chuckled and nodded.

“I know it better than anyone else.” You took a step back to let him stand up, his hand finding yours. “I’m just glad we get a week off now.” You both exited the garage, hand in hand. Meanwhile, the remaining staff members all locked eyes, unsure if anyone would believe them when they inevitably told the entire paddock about the astounding spectacle.

—

DANIEL RICCIARDO - DR3

It had been a really tough race for Daniel. He was typically a very positive and charismatic guy— Most people found that it was easy to love Danny, because no matter what happened, he tried to keep a positive attitude about it. This time was different.

He was approached by his engineer after his crash. Normally they’d discuss what went wrong, but instead, Danny brushed him off. He screamed in anger, clearly feeling immensely unsatisfied with his performance, as well as how the team was treating him.

You saw this. You saw him be angry and dismissive, but you approached anyway, because Danny needed you. You just knew it. Before he could even take his helmet off, you were standing before him. If you were anyone else, he might have shoved you aside or barked a comment at you, but instead he just pulled you into his arms, clinging to you tightly.

“Worst fucking race ever,” He’d mutter. He sounded harsh, but his voice was rid of malice. He slipped his helmet off and set it aside, allowing him to bury your face in your neck, inhaling your scent.

You ran your fingers through his curls, humming a low tune. “I’m still proud.” You could feel him smile against you. It was a seemingly slow process, but eventually his lips curved up into that grin you knew and loved. “It’s one bad performance out of many.”

“Yeah, I know.” He muttered, only audible to you. He was always like this, seeking comfort in your relaxing presence. When he pulled away, his hands were still upon your hip. “I think I’d be lost without you.”

“Glad you recognize that,” The two of you shared a laugh.

—

LANDO NORRIS - LN4

Lando had been pissed off all day. He showed up to the MTC in a bad mood, and it was very obvious to everyone. Nobody tried to ask why, because it seemed like every syllable directed towards him just put Lando in a worse mood.

He carried out the rest of the day feeling crappy. He didn’t seem to retain any of the information from the meetings, got nothing productive done, and ended up making them re-film a video for the Mclaren youtube channel like eight times. It was beginning to get uncomfortable for everyone else.

He was excused early, and told to go home and get some rest. When he arrived to the hotel you were both staying at, he still seemed fairly mad. He was just angry with the world, harboring a negative feeling from his performance at the last race.

Lando wanted nothing more than to scream and shout when he came back, but when he saw you lying on the bed looking so soft and sweet, it all melted away. You grinned at him, and for the first time all day he smiled back.

“It’s a little early, isn’t it?” You questioned with the tilt of your head. He didn’t answer, he just dived into the bed beside you, immediately encasing you in all his limbs. You laughed, your own arms finding his body immediately, and hugging him close.

“I missed you.” He finally spoke, his voice a whisper against your neck. He laid a few sloppy kisses there, just upon instinct.

“I missed you too.” You had never seen him behave in such a way. Lando was always somewhat clingy, but this was different. He seemed entirely dependent for a moment. Not that you were complaining.

You were just what he needed in that moment.

—

KIMI ANTONELLI - KA12

It was hard to imagine Kimi Antonelli truly angry. He seemed so happy most of the time, which is why it took everyone by surprise. Nothing should have angered him, either. He qualified quite high, especially for a rookie. But for some unknown reason, he was pissed.

The problem is, he had a hard time looking angry. He sort of just looked monotone from afar, but when anyone tried to talk to him, he’d get snappy and dismissive and the other person would eventually just leave him alone. It was weird. Even Ollie had trouble communicating with the guy.

“Kimi-” He heard your voice, and he immediately perked up. His head swiveled around the Mercedes garage, and his eyes immediately locked into you. You were talking with George, that sort of awed look on your face. He couldn’t hear the conversation, but he could assume it was about him.

When George finished talking you gave a confused look and shook your head, pushing past him. “Kimi you did great today!” Everyone watched, waiting to see what he would say. What sort of backhanded comment would he make this time? Hopefully someone had a tissue, he might even make you cry.

“Thank you, Y/N.” He had a boyish grin on his face, and he appeared somewhat dreamy as he stood up to greet you. He kissed your hand politely, and then both of your cheeks. “Did you see? I qualified P5!”

It was incredible. No anger, no disrespect, no snappy attitude.

“I did see! You’re doing so good this year.” Everyone claimed it was solely because of the team. He raced for Mercedes, of course he’d do good. Maybe that’s why he was upset, because whenever he received a compliment, it always seemed like it was directed towards the car rather than him.

But you… You were supporting him. He gave you a cheeky kiss on the lips, whispering in a soft giggle, “Grazie, cara mia…”

—

CHARLES LECLERC - CL16

The day had been especially rough for Charles. It was almost as if the whole world was pitted against him. The team strategies had been extra disappointed, he was continuously receiving hate for his performance, and the pit wall was being extra frustrating today. After the race, he seemed rigid and cold towards the rest of the team.

He stormed off to his drivers room, trying to seem as polite as physically possible when he was experiencing this sort of rage. He sat down on the sofa, burying his head in his hands. He felt like the next person he saw was going to end up getting decked in the face— Which was ironic, because soon after the thought crossed his mind, the door creaked open.

“What-” He spat out bitterly, but froze when he saw you. You looked surprised, mouth slightly agape. His demeanor melted away into something softer, his brows knitted together in an expression that was damn near pathetic. “Sorry, I didn’t know it was you.”

You carefully shut the door behind you, and then leaned back against it. It was silent for a moment, filled with comfortable eye contact as you let him adjust to your presence. He appreciated how understanding you always were. At times, Charles felt like he was taking you for granted.

“I know you’re upset,” You murmured quietly. You finally pushed away from the door and sat beside him, your shoulders brushing. He flinched at first, and then leaned his head over to rest on your shoulder. You hummed, following his lead and pressing your own head against his. “We don’t have to talk about it if you—”

“I don’t,” He spoke shortly and softly. You pursed your lips into a sad smile, nodding with understanding. “Thank you.” He shut his eyes, letting himself relax as he softened beside you.

—

CARLOS SAINZ - CS55

When you stepped foot into the Williams garage, you were faced with the unpleasantry of stares and quiet whispers. You glanced around yourself at the mechanics and other staff, who were acting rather shifty. It had never been like before; you were typically greeted with kindness, but right now you felt somewhat alienated.

You continued walking, brushing past the odd behavior, hoping that you weren’t the root of the problem. You figured Carlos was in his driver’s room, because he wasn’t present amongst the others. You put your hand on the door knob, but one of the mechanics rushed over to stop you.

“Wait-” They blurted out in a whisper-yell, waving their hands around. You froze, pulling your hand back as you pivoted, facing their direction. “Y/N, you probably don’t wanna go in there.”

This was starting to worry you. Your brain automatically jumped to the worst possible assumptions. “What? Why?” You questioned, looking uncertain as you began to reach for the handle once more. Was Carlos being unfaithful? These thoughts plagued your mind.

“He’s been super upset all day. Everyone’s made him angry.” They explained, shifting nervously. Your eyebrows furrowed as you hummed in thought. If Carlos was upset, you should be there for him.

“Thank you for the warning, but I can handle this.” You gave a polite smile, although you were somewhat frustrated with such unprofessional behavior. With a deep breath, you entered into his moody fortress. He was laying back on the small couch provided, his kneees scrunched up and one arm over his eyes.

Carlos slowly tilted his head, one eye peeking out from his makeshift blindfold. When he saw you, he didn’t say anything, he just sat up, manspreading and leaning with his elbows on his knees. “Hey,” He tried to force a smile.

“Hi,” You grinned sincerely, standing right in front of him. He looked up at you, and then tugged you down to sit perched on his lap. He leaned back against the wall, pulling you close to his chest.

You understood. He needed you— Your warmth and your comfort. You wrapped your arms around him, letting him safely bury his face in your neck. You both sat there silently, healing.

—

GEORGE RUSSELL - GR63

George was always regarded as the paddock’s mean girl. Regina George, of course. It was funny in theory, assuming it was just a silly joke shared between friends. It was funny until George realized people truly perceived him in such a way, disliking him for his “hateful ways.”

Most of the time he was just speaking the truth. There was lots of animosity between drivers on the track, and he was going to be truthful when interviewers asked him for his opinion. If he thought of someone as a bully, he’d happily call it out because sugarcoating it certainly wouldn’t help.

He was especially frustrated today. He was told to keep his peace and stay silent about any future conflicts, because his forward thinking caused a bad outlook on the team. That alone was enough to piss him off, but considering some unfair play that took place during the race itself, it was like adding fuel to the fire.

He knew you would be the solution to this issue. He always felt serene when you were around, which is why George immediately sought you out after the race. It didn’t matter to him that he came P4 and was supposed to celebrate— He wanted your comfort, and he wanted your praise and approval.

He found you on the sidelines, and he practically jumped the barrier to pull you into a hug, kissing you directly on the lips. He felt his anger beginning to fade as you smiled against him, whispering an “I love you” that was shared between only the two of you.

That’s all he needed to hear to know everything would be just fine.

—

OSCAR PIASTRI - OP81

Oscar rarely showed an emotion that wasn’t joy, or just his typical monotone expressions. Sure, he experienced rage and sadness just like everyone else, but he portrayed it differently. Like right now, instead of screaming at everyone to ensure his wrath was made known, Oscar was silent. Abnormally silent. Not a single thank you to the team, or a congratulations to his teammate, Lando.

He was quiet.

The absence of sound wasn’t abnormal, but it was usually when someone else was talking that Oscar remained so silent. This paired with his blank dissociating stare was enough to intimidate everyone amongst Mclaren. He was pissed, to put it lightly.

You walked in, and everyone stared at you as if you were a ray of sunlight, or as if you were their guardian angel. You greeted the team with a kind smile, calling a few of the people you were closer with out by their name. You were undeniably charming, and certainly a perfect match for Oscar.

He stood up to greet you, and he couldn’t control his smile anymore. There was a collective sigh of relief amongst everyone, who could safely continue their work without worrying about Oscar silently breathing down their neck. He kissed both of your cheeks and then finally your lips. “Thank you for coming to the race,” He spoke politely.

“Of course! You did great.” He only placed third, but that was clearly enough for Oscar as long as you were congratulating him. If not, he’d usually appear a little more grumpy, like he did moments ago. “Give me the rundown.” Of course you were watching, but you didn’t get to experience everything he did firsthand. It was always more entertaining to hear it directly from the source.

“Well,” He began his rant, and all was well with the Mclaren team.

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vintagecandy · 26 days ago

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1920s Edward Nygma, A.K.A -- The Riddler! ( I will try to make this one slightly more brief lmao ) ☆ ETSY // COMMISSIONS

So when it comes to the Riddler, ordinarily, I always struggle with him aesthetically, because he doesn't have as much obvious themeing as "southern halloween" or "the entirety of alice in wonderland", and so I knew I wanted to take advantage of how severely I am rearranging all the rogue's aesthetics to give the Riddler something specific and time period appropriate to visually do, yknow?

In my mind, when I think of the Riddler I think of... technically winnable but highly tilted competitions of wit. Almost like a rigged game. That, combined with a very cocky "wise ass" personality. So! I knew pretty early on I wanted him to be a carnival barker! ( Puzzles and riddles and things of that nature were more common as a pass-time back then ) I considered giving him a straw boater instead of his usual bowler hat... but the bowler hat is so iconic to him and time period appropriate, so I left it. I think it still gives carnival owner, tbh, just a little more greasy than cute. Which fits, frankly. Yes, so although carnival imagery is associated with the Joker, the Joker is, of course, a silent film comedian ( in loving homage to his origin ), thus freeing up the funhouse for Edward. Although, he's no clown, he's more the one making a fool out of you.

Edward Nygma, as an orphan immigrant of Irish descent, came to America with nothing but the clothes on his back and his eyes on that shining city on the hill, the beacon of opportunity, and above all-- the land of meritocracy. Of course, however, reality set in after he stepped foot off the boat. It also didn't help the city he set foot in was Gotham. Despite being an engineering prodigy befit the rapidly industrializing city of the future, he ran into bad luck after bad luck, constantly seeming to stumble on his way up the ladder as opportunities slipped away and seemed to be given to-- in his mind-- less deserving men. With his frustration mounting, and a compulsive mind that never seems to let him let any insults to his pride go, it all comes to a breaking point when one of Gotham's biggest corporations scams him out of the patent for one of his innovations. Its only then does he finally realize what the "land of opportunity" really means.

Giving up on the "honest man" approach, Edward resorts to cheap cons, eventually building enough success to open a carnival of games, mysteries, snake oil, and of course, riddles-- Taking on the performer name "The Riddler" as a face for the event. A big, shiny bauble to lure in the dumb masses to willingly fork up their money to him. After all, if they were stupid enough to fall for it, they deserve whatever happens to them. However, this was all a front for the far grander scheme he constructs to take down the company who wronged him all that time ago. Because who would ever suspect a two-bit carnie could be capable of such a thing?

But, careful as he was, stirring trouble that big was enough to bring the attention of the Bat, eventually-- of course-- leading to the reveal that the Riddler anticipated their arrival and turned his carnival into a puzzle laden death trap. Even though Batman wins, because of course, he does incidentally ( or perhaps on purpose ) reveal to the public that the Ed is the real genius behind his stolen tech, thus leaving Mr. Nygma laughing all the way to the mad house. Even if he still doesn't get to own the patent.

Edward has a more... modern and subtle mental illness, being his OCD and other symptoms, and I feel a corrupt 1920s mad house that only vaguely cares to cure its patients would struggle to even understand exactly what the source of his more erratic behavior is coming from. He's constantly tense, speaks a mile a minute and for long periods, and is prone to sudden and aggressive outbursts of anger. They will likely acknowledge he seems obsessive, hyperactive, and prone to grandiose thinking but consider him a less hopeless case compared to say, Jervis Tetch.

However, his alignment lands him squarely in the anti-society section, thus aligning him with his soon to be sometimes-partners in crime, Jonathan and Jervis.

#( I struggle with the color green.... its my least favorite color.... so you have to #tell me if his color palette is looking good because i physically just can't tell lmao )#fanart #batman #gotham rogues #batman villains #Edward Nygma #The Riddler #Batman Scarecrow #batman Mad Hatter #Jervis Tetch #Jonathan Crane

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flux1563 · 2 months ago

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Performance Disaster pt 1 feat. Tzuyu

Tags : tied up, kidnapping, creampie, piss, expanded pussy, expanded ass, expanded mouth

Words : 7k

Tzuyu stepped out of the crowded backstage area, her heart racing from the exhilaration of the concert. Sweat glistened on her porcelain skin, a stark contrast to the fiery red outfit she wore. The applause washed over her like a warm embrace, but she knew she had to keep moving. The rush of adrenaline propelled her through the maze of corridors, her high heels clicking against the cold floor with each step. The fabric of her skirt clung to her like a second skin, a silent testament to the passion she had just shared with the audience. She was a vision of unbridled energy, her hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of ink.

Her eyes, lined with smoky shadow, sparkled with the excitement of the night. The corridors grew quieter as she approached her dressing room. The air was thick with the scent of hairspray and perfume, a cacophony of scents that usually comforted her. But tonight, she found it suffocating. She needed to shed the layers of glamour and become herself again. The door to her sanctuary was a beacon of peace at the end of the hallway, the nameplate gleaming under the harsh fluorescent lights. She slipped inside, the coolness of the room washing over her like a wave. The mirrors reflected her flushed cheeks and the glint of the disco lights that still danced in her eyes.

Her fingertips grazed the soft fabric of the chair, the familiar texture grounding her as she sat. The sound of fabric sliding against fabric filled the air as she peeled off her top, revealing her black lace bra. Her breath caught in her throat as the weight of the costume lifted, the tightness giving way to the sweet embrace of air. Her hands trembled slightly as she unzipped the side of her skirt, letting it pool around her ankles like a crimson puddle. She stepped out, the coldness of the floor sending a shiver up her spine. The room was her own, a place where she could be vulnerable and let go of the persona that had captured the hearts of thousands.

The soft click of the lock echoed in the room, sealing her solitude. She reached behind her to unclasp her bra, the straps slipping down her arms like silk ribbons. The garment fell away, her breasts bouncing slightly with the sudden release. She kicked off her shoes, the echoing thud of their impact on the floor a declaration of freedom. She was Tzuyu, not just the idol on stage, but a woman with desires and fears. As she bent to unroll her stockings, the door to the dressing room slammed open. The sudden intrusion was like a slap across the face, jolting her out of her tranquil solitude.

Her eyes widened in horror as a group of men, their faces obscured by shadows, stormed in. They were a blur of malicious intent, their eyes raking over her half-dressed form with greed. Panic surged through her veins, her heart hammering against her ribcage. "What do you want?" she demanded, her voice a trembling whisper that seemed to bounce off the walls and dissipate into the thick, stale air. The men didn't speak, their silence more terrifying than any words could have been. They moved with the precision of predators, their steps measured and calculated.

Before she could react, rough hands grabbed her, their grip tight and unforgiving. They didn't bother to close the door behind them as they dragged her out into the hallway. The corridor was deserted, the lights flickering like a strobe in a nightmare. The cold floor scraped against her bare skin, sending a chill down her spine that had nothing to do with the temperature. They didn't say a word, their intent clear as they pushed her through the back exit and into the alley. The night air was a stark contrast to the stifling backstage heat, the coolness biting at her exposed flesh.

A van waited, its engine purring like a beast ready to swallow her whole. They tossed her inside, the metal floor cold and unforgiving. The doors slammed shut, plunging her into darkness. Her breaths came in ragged gasps as fear tightened its icy grip around her chest. The van jolted to life, the wheels screeching against the pavement as it tore away from the venue. Her thoughts raced, trying to make sense of this nightmare. What did they want with her? Why was this happening? The world outside the van was a blur of lights and sounds, taunting her with its obliviousness to her plight. Her stomach churned with each bump in the road, the reality of her situation setting in like a lead weight.

The journey felt like an eternity, the only company the sound of her own racing heart and the murmur of the men's voices. Finally, the van jolted to a stop, and the side door slid open. The men pulled her out, the cool air a slap to the face after the stifling confines of the vehicle. They didn't bother to blindfold her; she knew better than to look around, to try to find some clue to her location. Instead, she kept her eyes on the ground, focusing on the feeling of the asphalt beneath her feet, the grit of gravel biting into her soft skin. They led her into a dimly lit room, the air heavy with the scent of dust and stale sweat. The floor was sticky, and she had to fight the urge to gag as she was pushed into a chair.

Rope was tied around her wrists, securing her to the chair. It bit into her skin, a constant reminder of her captivity. Her eyes flicked up to the men, their faces a collage of cruel intent. One of them stepped forward, a sinister smile playing on his lips as he traced a finger along the line of her jaw. "You're going to be our little star," he whispered, his breath hot and foul against her cheek. She flinched at his touch, her body recoiling from his presence. The others chuckled, their laughter a symphony of depravity. They stripped her of the last of her clothing, leaving her naked and exposed in the harsh light.

The men worked with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine, setting up a contraption that looked like a twisted metal sculpture. Her heart plummeted when she realized it was a spinning sex swing. They hoisted her into the air, her legs and arms bound, leaving her face-down and vulnerable. The rope was taut, holding her in place like a marionette. Tzuyu closed her eyes tightly, willing herself to be anywhere but here. But the cold metal against her bare skin was an unyielding truth, a stark contrast to the warmth of the stage lights she had basked in just moments ago. The anticipation was almost unbearable, the silence in the room thick with tension. And then, the swing began to turn, slow at first, then gradually gaining speed. She could feel their eyes on her, devouring her with their gazes as she was displayed for their perverse entertainment. The fear was a living thing inside her now, writhing and snarling, demanding to be heard. But she remained silent, her mind racing for a way out.

"Please don't hurt me, I will do anything," she whispered, her voice trembling. The words tasted like acid in her mouth, a desperate plea she never thought she would have to utter. The men's laughter grew louder, their eyes glinting with excitement at her submission. The swing spun faster, the room becoming a blur of shadows and light. She felt their hands on her, roaming, claiming. A tear slipped down her cheek, tracing a sad path to her chin. The fear was a cocoon around her, tightening with each breath she took. But she knew she had to stay calm, had to find a way to survive this.

One of the men leaned in, his breath hot in her ear. "If you don't wanna get hurt, just accept it, don't fight back," he hissed, his voice a serpent's whisper. The words sent a shiver down her spine, but she nodded, her body going limp. Inside, she was screaming, a tornado of defiance and anger. But she knew that to survive, she had to play their twisted game. Her eyes searched the room, looking for anything that could help her, any crack in their armor of malice.

"Do you know that the dance you performed earlier was very sexy and seductive? We were all very turned on watching you," one of the men said.

"Get straight to the point, what do you want?"Tzuyu asked without beating around the bush.

"We want to fuck you, fill all your holes," one of the men leered, his voice thick with lust as he stepped closer, the shadows playing across his face like a twisted mask. The vulgarity of his words sent a fresh wave of horror crashing through her, but she knew she had to remain composed.

Tzuyu's mind raced, trying to find a way out of this nightmare. The swing continued to turn, her body on full display, a feast for their depraved eyes. She could feel her stomach churning, bile rising in her throat as they approached, their hands reaching out to touch her. The unfamiliar sensation of their rough fingers on her bare skin made her want to retch. She had never been with more than one man at a time, never even considered it. The thought of a gangbang, of being used by these monsters, was almost too much to bear.

One of the men stepped closer, his breath hot on her neck as he whispered, "If you fight back and didn't accept, it will make you hurt." His hand moved lower, his fingertips brushing against her pussy, the contact sending a bolt of revulsion through her body. She gritted her teeth, willing herself not to flinch. She knew that any sign of resistance would only fuel their sadistic desires. The fear was a living, breathing entity inside her now, a beast that demanded she submit.

"Okay, I will do it," Tzuyu said, her voice steady despite the turmoil within. It was a lie, a ploy to buy herself time, to find a way out of this hellish situation. The men grinned, their teeth flashing in the dim light like the fangs of hungry predators. The rope holding her aloft tightened, the tension in her limbs increasing. The swing stopped, and she was left hanging there, the cold metal of the frame digging into her skin. They were going to take her, use her like a toy, but she would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her break.

The first man stepped forward, his hands rough as they trailed up her legs. She bit her lip, the pain mixing with the humiliation. He was thorough in his exploration, his fingers dancing over her skin like a spider weaving a web. Her body began to respond, despite herself, a traitorous arousal that made her stomach churn. Each touch sent a shiver through her, her pussy growing wet with a mix of fear and unwanted desire. The men watched with eager eyes, their hunger for her body palpable.

Another man approached, his hands following the trail that the first had set. His touch was more deliberate, more aggressive. He cupped her breasts, squeezing them roughly, his thumbs flicking against her erect nipples. The sensation was a blend of pain and pleasure that made her whimper. She could feel her wetness growing, a slickness that coated her inner thighs. The men took turns, each touch more invasive than the last, as if they were claiming ownership over her body. Each caress was a violation, a brand burned into her soul that she feared would never fade.

The third man stepped up, his breath hot against her ear. "You're so wet for us, aren't you?" he murmured, his hand sliding between her legs. He found her clit, his touch surprisingly gentle as he began to rub it in slow, maddening circles. Her body betrayed her, responding to the sensation, her hips rocking slightly despite her best efforts to remain still. She felt the ropes digging into her skin, the only anchor in a world that had gone mad. She couldn't let them win, couldn't give them the power over her that they craved. She focused on her breathing, on the distant sound of a siren outside, a beacon of hope in the chaos.

As they touched her, whispered their vile intentions, she felt the wetness spreading, her body's involuntary response to the relentless assault. Her mind reeled, trying to find a way to escape, to fight back. But she knew that to resist now would only make it worse. So, she endured, her body a battleground for their twisted desires. The room spun around her, the only constant the rhythmic stroking of the man's hand against her most intimate part. It was a warping of the very essence of who she was, a desecration of her soul. And yet, she remained silent, her eyes squeezed shut, her mind racing with every conceivable plan of escape. The men laughed and jeered, their excitement growing with each passing moment.

Their touch grew wilder, more erratic, their greed for her body insatiable. Her wetness began to drip, splattering against the cold pavement like raindrops on a tin roof. The sound was obscene, a symphony of her own violation. And then, it happened. The pressure built, a crescendo of sensation that she had never felt before. Her body convulsed, a spray of wetness shooting from her pussy as she squirted for the first time in her life. The sound that ripped from her throat was a mix of horror and relief, a primal scream that seemed to echo through the deserted streets. "Ahhhh," she moaned, her voice raw and desperate. The men roared with delight, their grip on her tightening as they reveled in her forced orgasm.

Her body continued to quiver, the aftershocks of her squirting making her muscles spasm. She felt the hotness of their breath on her skin, their hands everywhere, touching, pinching, claiming. And in that moment of utter vulnerability, she realized something. Her fear had become anger, a white-hot rage that burned away the cobwebs of despair. Tzuyu opened her eyes, her gaze steely, her jaw set. She would not let them break her, not like this. The swing continued to turn, a macabre carousel of lust and degradation. But she was no longer the terrified girl they had snatched from the concert. She was Tzuyu, a warrior in a battle she never asked for.

The fourth man stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic joy. He leaned in close, his breath hot and sour. "You liked that, didn't you?" he whispered, his voice a mockery of tenderness.

One of the guys brought a chair to lie under Tzuyu to direct his dick into her entrance. The second guy stood right in front of her, positioning his dick in front of Tzuyu's mouth. The last guy positioned his penis in front of Tzuyu's ass hole.

The man under her swung the chair into motion, aligning himself with her pussy. She felt his cockhead nudging against her, the sensation of his precum coating her already sensitive skin. The man in front of her face smirked, stroking his cock as he watched the horror in her eyes. The man behind her spread her cheeks apart, the coolness of the air against her anus making her gasp. They had her trapped, her body a plaything for their sick games.

The first thrust was like a knife, tearing through her protests and sinking deep into her core. She couldn't help the scream that tore from her throat, the pain so intense it stole her breath away. "It hurts!" she cried out, her voice a ragged sob. "It's too big!" The man in front of her chuckled, his grip on her head tightening. "Take it, slut," he murmured, pushing his cock against her lips.

Her body was torn in two, a battleground for the men's depraved desires. The man beneath her pumped his hips, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh filling the room. She could feel the stretch of her pussy, the burn as he pushed deeper and deeper. Her eyes watered, the pain a living thing that threatened to consume her. Yet, she took the cock into her mouth, her tongue darting out to lick the salty head, her body's response to the situation a twisted dance of fear and arousal.

The second guy pushed harder, his cock pressing against her tight asshole. She tasted the saltiness of the first man's precum, her own juices mixing with his as she tried to relax herself for the impending violation. The third man held her hips, his breath hot and heavy in her ear. "You're going to take it all," he said, his voice a dark promise.

Her body was a symphony of pain and pleasure, each sensation crashing into the next like waves against the shore. The man beneath her grunted with every thrust, his grip on her hips unyielding as he claimed her, inch by inch. And then, with a final, brutal push, she felt herself tear open, the pain a searing white-hot agony that seemed to split her in two. The man behind her groaned in pleasure, his cock sliding into her now open and exposed ass. The swing's relentless motion made the sensation even more intense, her body a playground for their depravity.

Her eyes watered as she fought to keep her mouth open, to accommodate the cock filling it. Her jaw ached, the muscles in her face straining with the effort to not gag. But she knew she had to keep going, had to play their twisted game. The man in front of her took merciless advantage of her predicament, his cock sliding in and out of her mouth with a rhythm that matched the pounding of the other two. She could feel their excitement, their hunger for her, and she hated herself for the way her body was responding. Her pussy was tight around the invading cock, her ass clenching around the shaft that filled her so completely. It was a betrayal that she couldn't control, her body's natural response to the overwhelming stimulation.

"Glukkk glukkk glukkk," the only sound she could make as she was used by the men, her mouth full of cock. She tried to focus on the sensation, to find some semblance of control in the chaos. But the pain was too intense, the fear too consuming. Each thrust was a declaration of their power, each groan of pleasure a nail in the coffin of her dignity.

"Your pussy is so tight, like a fucking vice," the man beneath her grunted, his hips moving with an almost mechanical precision. His words were a slap in the face, a reminder of what they were doing to her. Yet, she felt a strange sense of pride in her ability to endure, to survive this ordeal.

The man in her ass spoke up, his voice strained with effort. "And your ass, it's like heaven, so fucking tight and warm." His words sent a shiver through her, a dark thrill that she immediately felt guilty for. This wasn't right, this wasn't who she was. But she knew she had to keep going, had to find a way out of this nightmare.

The man in her throat groaned his approval, his grip on her head tightening. "You're taking it so well," he said, his voice thick with lust. "So deep, so good." The compliments were like a sledgehammer, breaking down the last of her defenses. She had never been talked to like this before, never been treated like this. The degradation was almost a balm to her bruised ego, a twisted affirmation that she was still desired, still wanted.

As they continued to fuck her, their praises grew more explicit. "Your pussy is so wet," one of them groaned, his voice a mix of wonder and greed. "It's like a fucking oasis, taking me in so deep." Another added, "And your throat, it's so tight, so good at taking cock." His words were crude, but they echoed through her mind like a siren's call, twisting the fear into a strange, perverse thrill. She could feel their excitement growing, their thrusts becoming more erratic as they neared their climax.

The man in her ass spoke up next, his voice strained with effort. "Your ass, it's like a fucking glove," he hissed. "So tight, so perfect." His words were like a drug, a dark elixir that made her body respond despite herself. She couldn't help the way her pussy clenched around the cock inside her, the way her throat muscles tightened around the one in her mouth. The pain was a living thing now, a beast that she had to tame if she wanted to survive.

Her body had begun to accept the onslaught, a strange sort of numbness setting in. The swing's motion had become almost hypnotic, a rhythm that matched the pounding of her heart. She felt herself slipping away, her mind floating on a sea of sensation. The men's grunts and groans were the only sounds that anchored her to reality, a reminder of the horror that was unfolding. Her brain was a haze of lust and fear, a maelstrom of emotions that she couldn't untangle. The orgasms had taken their toll, leaving her mind reeling.

And then, as if on cue, the men's pace grew frenzied. They were close, she could feel it in the way their grips tightened, the way their thrusts grew more urgent. "You're going to cum for us," one of them said, his voice a growl of triumph. "You're going to take all of our seed." The words were a dark promise, a declaration of their power. And she knew that she had no choice but to comply.

The first man exploded inside her, his cum filling her pussy in hot, thick spurts. She felt it dripping down her legs, pooling on the floor below. The man in her mouth pulled out, spraying her face with his seed, a degrading finale that she couldn't avoid. The salty warmth of it coated her cheeks, her eyes, her mouth. She choked on it, the taste bitter and alien. The third man was the last to go, his orgasm a violent shudder that seemed to echo through her very soul. She felt his cock pulse deep inside her, filling her ass with his hot cum.

The swing stopped moving, the sudden stillness more jarring than the relentless motion had been. The men stepped back, their cocks still hard, their eyes still gleaming with desire. "You're ours now," one of them murmured, his voice a dark purr. "We're going to use you until you can't take anymore."

Tzuyu felt the warmth of their cum inside her, a stark contrast to the cold metal that held her suspended. Her body was a battleground, her mind a tempest of emotions. But as they stepped back, she felt a surge of something else, something primal and fierce. Her muscles tensed, her body begging for release from the torment. And then, she did the only thing she could. She screamed.

The sound was a howl of anger and despair, a roar that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room. The men looked surprised for a moment, their smiles faltering. But then, they laughed, their mirth a dark symphony that only served to fuel her rage. She felt the pressure building again, her body a volcano ready to erupt. And as she screamed, she did something she never thought she would. She squirted, her pussy clenching around the emptiness, expelling their vile seed in a powerful spray.

Their laughter grew louder, their eyes glinting with malicious amusement. "Look at her go," one of them chuckled, his hand reaching out to smack her ass. The sting was a jolting reminder of her vulnerability, her body's treacherous response to their abuse.

Tzuyu's mind raced, searching for a way to escape. Her eyes darted around the room, taking in every detail. The dirty floor, the stale air, the grinning faces of the men who held her captive. But she knew that to fight back, to give into the anger that roiled within her, would only bring more pain. Her body was already a canvas of bruises and rope burns, a map of their dominance.

The next trio of men approached her, their eyes gleaming with lust. They were eager to claim her, to make her theirs in the most primal of ways.

The first man stepped forward, his cock thick and heavy in his hand. He stroked it with a practiced ease that made her stomach turn. "Which one do you want first?" he taunted, his eyes raking over her body. "Your tight little pussy or that ass of yours?"

Tzuyu's heart pounded in her chest, the fear a living beast that threatened to consume her. She knew she had to play along, to survive. She licked her lips, the taste of the cum still on them, and whispered, "Whatever you want."

The man grinned, a predatory look that made her skin crawl. He stepped closer, his cock brushing against her still-quivering pussy. "Then let's start with this," he said, and with a brutal shove, he was inside her. The pain was like a knife, slicing through her with a cold precision that left her gasping for air. The other two men took their places, one at her mouth, the other at her ass.

Their praises grew more fervent with every thrust, their voices a chorus of depravity that seemed to echo in her very soul. "So tight," they murmured, "so wet," their words a twisted mantra that wove a spell around her. Her mind was a whirlwind of fear and anger, but their praise...it was like a balm, a seductive whisper that made her body respond despite her will. She found herself pushing back against the cock in her pussy, her muscles tightening around it as if trying to claim it for her own. The man in her mouth groaned, his hips jerking as he pushed deeper into her throat.

Their voices grew louder, their praises more intense, until all she could hear was their twisted litany of desire. "Good girl," they chanted, "you're doing so well." And with each word, she felt herself slipping further into a trance, her body moving in time with theirs. The pain was still there, a constant companion, but it had taken on a new dimension, one that was almost...enjoyable. The swing's creaking became a symphony, the only music in a world that had gone mad.

Tzuyu's eyes glazed over, the room spinning around her. The men's faces blurred into a single mask of lust and power. Her thoughts were a jumble, but one thing remained clear: she had to survive. And so, she allowed herself to sink deeper into the haze, to become the creature they wanted her to be. Her body was a marionette, theirs to control, theirs to use. And as they fucked her.

With each brutal thrust, she felt herself climbing higher and higher. The pressure in her pussy was unbearable, the sensation of fullness like nothing she had ever experienced. The man's cock was a piston, a relentless invader that filled her completely. She could feel her pussy stretching around him, the walls tightening and releasing in a desperate attempt to keep him out. But there was no escape, no relief from the constant pressure. And with every stroke, she felt the orgasm building, a crescendo of pleasure that she couldn't contain.

Her body convulsed around the cock in her pussy, her muscles spasming with the effort to push back, to give them what they wanted. But there was no release, no escape from the tight, wet vice that was her pussy. She felt the beginnings of another orgasm, the pressure building like a storm. But she couldn't squirt, couldn't find that sweet release. There was no room, no escape from the fullness that filled her completely. The man in her ass groaned, his thrusts growing more erratic as he felt her pussy clench around his friend's cock.

Tzuyu's eyes rolled back in her head, her vision a kaleidoscope of colors. The men's praise was a constant in the background, a symphony of lust and power that seemed to fuel the monster inside her. "That's it," one of them murmured, his voice a dark promise. "Take it all." And she did, her body a conduit for their pleasure. The man in her mouth grew bolder, his cock sliding in and out with ease now, her throat muscles no longer fighting him. She could feel herself losing control, her mind slipping away into a sea of sensation.

The man in her pussy grunted, his movements growing more urgent. She could feel his cock swell, the pressure building. And then, with a final, brutal thrust, he came, his hot cum filling her to the brim. She choked, her throat muscles contracting around the cock that was still buried in her mouth, the taste of him mingling with the salty bitterness of the other's seed. The man in her ass followed suit, his cum spurting deep inside her, the warmth of it spreading through her gut.

Her body was a cocoon of pain and pleasure, the two sensations so intertwined that she couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Her pussy was empty, the absence of the cock a strange sort of relief. But the emptiness didn't last. The men pulled out of her, their cum mixing with her own juices as it slipped out, painting her thighs and the chair beneath her. The swing swayed gently, a macabre pendulum in the quiet room.

Tzuyu's voice was hoarse, her throat raw from the abuse, but she found the strength to beg, "More, give me more." It was a plea that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside her, a place she didn't recognize. The men looked at each other, their eyes gleaming with excitement. They had broken her, turned her into a creature of pure need and desire.

The next man took his place, his cock standing tall and proud. He didn't bother with preamble, didn't bother with words of encouragement. He simply thrust into her pussy, filling her up once again. The pressure was unbearable, but she took it, her body responding despite herself. "Ah, yes," she moaned, the sound a broken whisper that seemed to echo in the room. "More."

The man in her mouth took up his position again, his cock sliding in and out of her throat with ease. She could feel the gag reflex, but she had learned to ignore it, to push past the pain. Her eyes rolled back in her head as the new cock claimed her, the sensation of fullness making her squirt around the one still buried in her pussy. The men watched, their eyes dark with hunger, their hands moving to stroke her body, to pinch her nipples and slap her ass. She was theirs, a plaything to be used and discarded.

The man in her ass was rough, his thrusts punishing. She could feel her body stretching, accommodating his girth. Her muscles clenched around him, trying to push him out, but it was futile. He was too big, too powerful. And with every thrust, she felt herself growing wetter, her body's treacherous response to the pain. "Good girl," he grunted, his hips slapping against her ass with a wet, obscene sound. "Take it all."

The pressure grew, the sensation of fullness becoming almost too much to bear. She could feel the beginnings of an orgasm, the tightening of her muscles, the coil of pleasure deep in her core. But she knew that if she came, it would only make it worse, would only spur them on. So she held back, her body a tightly wound spring ready to snap. The men's grunts grew louder, their breathing more ragged. They were close, so close.

And then, it happened. The man in her ass came with a roar, his cum filling her to the brim. She felt it spurt out around the base of his cock, a hot river that coated her thighs and the chair beneath her. He pulled out, leaving her feeling empty, used. The man in her pussy took his place, his cock thick and slick with her juices. "You're going to love this," he whispered, his eyes gleaming with malice. "I'm going to make you cum until you can't walk."

The man in her throat pulled out, his cock glistening with her saliva. He stepped aside, his job done for now. The next man took his place, his cock already hard and ready. The cycle continued, an endless loop of degradation and pleasure. Her body was a battleground, her mind a fog of pain and need. She couldn't think, couldn't feel anything but the relentless pounding of their cocks, the fullness that seemed to consume her.

The men took turns, their praise and taunts a symphony of depravity that filled her ears. "Look at that ass jiggle," one of them jeered. "It's like it's begging for more." Another spanked her, the sound echoing through the room, a dark music that seemed to drive her closer and closer to the edge. "You're going to take all of us," the man in her pussy said, his voice a growl of possession. "Every last one."

And she did, her body a receptacle for their lust. The swing creaked, a constant reminder of her predicament. The men's cum filled her, leaked from her, painted the room with her degradation. Yet, amidst the pain and fear, she found a strange sort of power. Her body responded to them, her pussy clenching around them, her ass eagerly taking them in. It was as if she had become something else, a creature of need and desire, a being that existed solely for their pleasure.

The night grew wilder with each passing moment. The men took turns, their seed mixing inside her, a perverse communion that she could not escape. They whispered sweet nothings into her ear, their praises a twisted symphony that seemed to dull the pain. "You're so good," they murmured, "so tight, so wet." And she took it, her body moving in time with their rhythm, a dance of depravity that she could not control.

Her mind was a blank slate, the edges of her consciousness worn smooth by the relentless onslaught. She couldn't remember her name, couldn't recall the feeling of the stage beneath her feet. The only reality was the cock inside her, the pressure of their hands, the taste of their cum. It was a world of sensation, of pain and pleasure so intense that it washed away everything else.

The men didn't bother to untie her. Why would they? She was theirs, a prize to be claimed again and again. They took her in every way imaginable, their cocks a blur of motion that seemed to never end. The room grew hot, the air thick with the scent of sex and sweat. The only respite was the brief moments between, when she hung in the swing, her body limp and trembling.

But even those moments of reprieve were short-lived, as the next man would soon step forward, his cock already hard and hungry for more. They were insatiable, a never-ending line of depraved desire that seemed to stretch into infinity. And she, Tzuyu, the once-innocent KPOP Idol, was their plaything, their whore. The ropes that bound her were as much a part of her as the skin she wore, a constant reminder of her new reality.

The men grew bolder with each passing hour, their creativity in how they used her a twisted testament to their lust. They whispered dark fantasies in her ear, their fingers exploring every inch of her body. And she, lost in the haze of pain and pleasure, could do nothing but comply. The room spun, the lights above her a kaleidoscope of color that seemed to pulse in time with their thrusts.

The men grew tired, their seed spilled, but she remained, bound and used. They stepped back, their eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. "You're ours now," one of them said, his voice a low murmur that seemed to resonate within her very soul. "And we're not done with you yet." The threat was clear, the promise of more to come.

Tzuyu hung in the swing, her body bruised and trembling. The ropes had become a part of her, a constant reminder of her newfound role. Her pussy and ass were sore, stretched beyond what she had ever thought possible. The cum of the men had long ago stopped being a mere sensation, now it was a part of her, a symbol of their dominance.

With a resigned sigh, she allowed the next to take her, offering no resistance as he pushed into her pussy. The pain had become a constant companion, a living entity that she had grown almost accustomed to. Her eyes remained closed, her mind a blank canvas for their depraved desires to be projected upon. She had ceased to fight, ceased to hope for escape.

The men took her, one after another, their thrusts a grim reminder of the fate she had accepted. The room grew dim, the only light coming from the flickering candles that cast eerie shadows across her abused body. Her cries had turned to whimpers, her body a limp ragdoll that they manipulated for their own amusement. The concert, the screaming fans, her dreams, all felt like a distant memory, a life she had left behind.

The men spoke in hushed tones, their voices a murmur of dark intent. They had broken her, claimed her, and now they could do as they please. They whispered of using her for days, of filming their conquest to share with the world. Her heart sank at the thought, the realization that her suffering would not end here, in this dingy room. It was a fate worse than death, a life of degradation and pain that she had never imagined.

The man inside her grew more aggressive, his thrusts punishing, as if eager to mark her as his own. She could feel his excitement, his lust, as he neared his climax. And with a final, brutal shove, he came, filling her pussy once more. She felt the warmth of his cum, a reminder of the many that had come before him.

Then, something changed. The room grew quiet, the men's grunts and taunts replaced by panting and the occasional slap of skin on skin. One by one, their hips stilled, their cocks softening as they pulled out of her. The swing swayed gently, a sadistic pendulum that had seen more than its fair share of abuse. They stepped back, their faces flushed and sweaty, their eyes glazed over with satisfaction.

But it wasn't over. Not yet.

The leader, a man with a cruel smile and eyes that gleamed with an unsettling light, approached her with something new. In his hands, he held a device that looked like a cross between a dildo and a vice. It was metal, with a thick, round base and two long rods that curved to form a perfect 'O'. "This," he said, his voice a purr of anticipation, "is going to keep you nice and open for us."

Without warning, he thrust the expanded pussy into her already abused pussy. Tzuyu screamed, the pain like nothing she had ever felt before. Her pussy stretched wider, the rods pushing against the walls of her vagina, holding her open. The man stepped back, admiring his handiwork, the metal bars keeping her open, like a gaping, obscene flower.

Then, with a wicked smile, he inserted another device into her ass, one that mirrored the first. She could feel the cold metal against her anus, the pressure building as he pushed it in. Her ass stretched around the bars, the sensation foreign and terrifying. It was like being split in two, her body no longer her own. The men watched, their eyes alight with excitement, as she was transformed before their eyes into their ultimate toy.

The ring in her mouth was the final piece of the puzzle. It was a thick band of metal, with a smaller ring attached to it. He forced her mouth open, the metal cold against her teeth, and slid the smaller ring over her tongue. The ring clicked into place, trapping her tongue, leaving her mouth open and gaping. The leader stepped back, admiring her transformation. "Perfect," he murmured, his voice a dark caress that sent shivers down her spine.

The first stream of piss hit her like a hot knife, the sensation of it making her pussy clench around the metal bars. She gagged, the taste of metal and urine filling her mouth. But the second stream was different, it was directed at her clit, the pressure making her squirt uncontrollably. The men laughed, the sound a twisted symphony that filled the room. They took turns, their pisses a golden shower that painted her body, filling her pussy and ass.

Her eyes watered, her nose burned, but she couldn't close them. The ring in her mouth held them open, forcing her to watch as they took turns pissing on her, in her. Her body responded despite herself, the pain and humiliation a strange aphrodisiac that made her squirt again and again. The metal bars kept her pussy and ass wide, the constant flow of urine a never-ending assault on her senses.

The leader picked up her phone, the screen a stark contrast to the grim scene playing out before him. He took a picture, capturing her degradation in perfect detail. Tzuyu's eyes widened in horror, the realization of what he was doing hitting her like a sledgehammer. The photo was a trophy, proof of their dominance over her. He showed it to the others, their grins growing wider as they saw the image. "Beautiful," one of them murmured, his eyes dark with lust. "We'll have to make sure she sees this."

The phone was passed around, each man taking a moment to capture the sight of her, bound and used. The flashes of light were like tiny explosions, each one stealing a piece of her soul. The leader leaned in close, his breath hot against her ear. "You're going to remember this," he whispered. "You're going to think about this every time you look in the mirror." The words sent a cold shiver down her spine, a promise that the torment would not end here.

Then, as if on cue, the phone buzzed in his hand. He glanced down, his smile widening. "It seems someone's eager to join us," he said, his voice dripping with amusement. "Let's send them an invitation, shall we?" He typed a quick message, the glow of the screen casting eerie shadows across his face. "Come to here, Tzuyu needs help," it read, followed by the photo they had just taken. The message was sent to Sana, another member of her group, TWICE.

The implications of the message were clear. The men were not just satisfied with her, they wanted more. They wanted to claim all of Tzuyu's friends, to show them the same twisted pleasure that they had just inflicted upon her. The thought of her friends walking into this hell was almost too much to bear. But she couldn't speak, couldn't protest. The ring in her mouth was a constant reminder of her silence, the only sound she could make was a muffled whimper.

Her heart raced, the fear a living creature in her chest. What would they do to Sana? Would she be able to resist? Would she become a part of this nightmare too? The men laughed, their eyes gleaming with excitement as they discussed their plans. "We'll keep her until the next one arrives," one of them said, his voice a dark promise. "And then, the real fun begins."

#kpop smut #male reader #girl group smut #gg smut #twice smut #tzuyu smut

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pucksandpower · 10 months ago

Text

Unremembered

Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: imagine looking the love of your life in their eyes and seeing a stranger stare back — but Max doesn’t have to imagine, not when this is his reality

Warnings: serious injury and memory loss

The roar of the V6 engine fills Max’s ears as he navigates the twists and turns of the Zandvoort circuit. It’s the first practice session of the Dutch Grand Prix weekend, and Max is in his element, pushing his Red Bull to its limits.

Suddenly, his race engineer’s voice crackles through the radio. “Max, box this lap. Come back to the garage.”

Max furrows his brow, confused. “What? Why? The car feels fine.”

“Max, just box now. It’s important,” GP insists, his tone unusually stern.

Reluctantly, Max steers his car into the pit lane, frustration building. As he pulls into the garage, he notices an unusual flurry of activity. His performance coach, Rupert, is waiting with a grim expression.

“Max, out of the car. Now,” Rupert says urgently.

Max climbs out, yanking off his helmet. “What’s going on? Why did you pull me in?”

Rupert takes a deep breath. “Max, I answered a call on your phone while you were out there. It was the hospital.”

Max’s heart skips a beat. “The hospital? What”

“It’s about Y/N,” Rupert says softly. “She was in a car accident on her way here. It’s ... it’s serious, Max. They’ve taken her to the trauma center.”

The world seems to tilt on its axis. Max grabs Rupert’s arm to steady himself. “What? No, that can’t ... is she okay?”

Rupert shakes his head. “I don’t know. They didn’t give me details. But they said you should come right away.”

Without another word, Max bolts towards the exit. Rupert calls after him, “I’ll drive you!”

The car ride to the hospital is a blur. Max stares out the window, his mind racing. “This can’t be happening,” he mutters. “We were just talking this morning. She was excited to watch practice ...”

Rupert glances at him sympathetically. “Try not to assume the worst. Y/N’s tough. She’ll pull through this.”

Max nods numbly, willing himself to believe it. They screech to a halt outside the emergency entrance, and Max is out of the car before Rupert can even put it in park.

At the reception desk, Max’s words tumble out in a panicked rush. “My girlfriend was brought in. Car accident. Y/N Y/L/N. Where is she?”

The nurse types rapidly. “She’s in surgery right now. If you’ll have a seat in the waiting area, the doctor will come speak with you as soon as possible.”

Max paces the waiting room like a caged animal, running his hands through his hair. Rupert tries to calm him, but Max barely hears him. After what feels like an eternity, a doctor approaches.

“Are you here for Y/N Y/L/N?”

Max nods frantically. “Yes, I’m her boyfriend. Is she okay?”

The doctor’s expression is grave. “She’s out of surgery now. The accident was very serious. She has multiple broken bones and internal injuries. We’ve stabilized her, but ...”

“But what?” Max demands, his voice cracking.

“She suffered a significant head injury. There’s swelling in her brain. We won’t know the full extent of the damage until she wakes up.”

Max sways on his feet. Rupert steadies him with a hand on his shoulder. “Can I see her?” Max asks weakly.

The doctor nods. “She’s in the ICU. I must warn you, she’s heavily sedated and on a ventilator. It may be distressing to see her like this.”

Max follows the doctor down sterile hallways, his heart pounding. When they reach Y/N’s room, he freezes in the doorway. The sight of her lying there, battered and bruised, hooked up to machines, is like a physical blow.

He approaches the bed slowly, tears welling in his eyes. “Y/N,” he whispers, gently taking her hand. “I’m here. You’re going to be okay. You have to be okay.”

Hours pass. Max refuses to leave her side, holding her hand and talking to her softly. Nurses come and go. Rupert brings him coffee that goes cold, untouched.

As evening falls, Max notices her fingers twitch. He leans forward eagerly. “Y/N? Can you hear me?”

Her eyelids flutter, then slowly open. Max’s heart soars. “Y/N! Oh, thank God. You’re awake. How do you feel?”

But something’s wrong. Her eyes are unfocused, confused. She looks at Max blankly, then around the room in bewilderment.

“Where ... where am I?” She croaks, her voice hoarse from the ventilator tube that was recently removed.

“You’re in the hospital,” Max explains gently. “You were in an accident, but you’re going to be okay now.”

She frowns, struggling to process. “An accident? I don’t ... I don’t remember ...”

Max squeezes her hand reassuringly. “That’s okay. Don’t worry about that now. I’m just so glad you’re awake.”

But she pulls her hand away, shrinking back slightly. Her eyes narrow as she studies his face. “I’m sorry, but ... who are you?”

***

Max’s world comes crashing down with those three simple words. He stares at you, his mouth agape, unable to process what he’s just heard. The room suddenly feels too small, too hot, too bright.

“Who ... who am I?” Max repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. “Y/N, it’s me. It’s Max. Your boyfriend.”

You shake your head slowly, wincing at the movement. “I’m sorry, I don’t ... I don’t know you. I don’t remember having a boyfriend.”

Max’s heart shatters into a million pieces. He takes a step back, running a trembling hand through his hair. “Okay, okay,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “The doctor said there might be ... complications. This is just temporary. It has to be.”

You watch him warily, confusion and fear evident in your eyes. “I don’t understand what’s happening. Why can’t I remember anything?”

Max takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself. He needs to be strong for you, even if you don’t know who he is. “You were in a car accident,” he explains gently. “You hit your head pretty badly. The doctors said there might be some memory loss, but ... I didn’t think ...”

His voice trails off as he sees tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m scared,” you whisper. “I don’t remember the accident. I don’t remember coming here. I don’t even know what day it is.”

Max instinctively reaches out to comfort you, but stops himself, realizing his touch might not be welcome. “It’s okay to be scared,” he says softly. “But you’re not alone. I’m here for you, even if you don’t remember me right now.”

A nurse enters the room, breaking the tension. She smiles warmly at you. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

You turn to her, relief evident in your voice. “Everything hurts and I’m so confused. I can’t remember anything.”

The nurse nods sympathetically. “That’s not uncommon with head injuries. Try not to worry too much. Your memories may come back gradually as the swelling in your brain goes down.”

Max interjects, his voice tight with worry. “But she will remember, right? This isn’t ... permanent?”

The nurse’s expression turns cautious. “Every case is different. We’ll need to run some more tests now that she’s awake. The neurologist will be by soon to evaluate her.”

Max nods numbly, feeling like he’s trapped in a nightmare he can’t wake up from. The nurse checks your vitals and adjusts your medication before leaving the room.

An uncomfortable silence falls. You fidget with the edge of your blanket, avoiding Max’s gaze. “So ... we’re together?” You ask hesitantly.

Max nods, a sad smile tugging at his lips. “Yeah, for almost two years now. We live together in Monaco.”

Your eyes widen. “Monaco? But I’m ... I’m not rich. At least, I don’t think I am.”

Despite everything, Max can’t help but chuckle. “No, but I am. I’m a Formula 1 driver. That’s why we were here in the Netherlands. It’s race weekend, and you were coming to watch me practice.”

You shake your head in disbelief. “This is so strange. It’s like you’re talking about someone else’s life. I can’t imagine dating a famous race car driver.”

Max’s heart clenches at your words. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos. “Here,” he says, holding it out to you. “Maybe these will help jog your memory.”

You take the phone hesitantly, swiping through picture after picture of the two of you together. At the beach, at fancy galas, cuddled up on the couch. In every photo, you both look blissfully happy.

“We look ... so in love,” you murmur, your brow furrowed in concentration.

“We are,” Max says softly. “Or at least, we were. I still am.”

You hand the phone back, your expression troubled. “I’m sorry. I wish I could remember. You seem like a really nice guy, and clearly we had something special, but ... it’s all blank.”

Max swallows hard, fighting back tears. “It’s okay. It’s not your fault. We’ll figure this out together, I promise.”

Just then, a doctor enters the room. “Ah, good to see you awake,” he says briskly. “I’m Dr. Smeets, the neurologist on your case. How are you feeling?”

You explain your symptoms and memory loss while the doctor makes notes. Max hovers anxiously in the background, hanging on every word.

“Well,” Dr. Smeets says finally, “the good news is that your physical injuries are progressing nicely. The memory loss is concerning, but not entirely unexpected given the trauma to your brain.”

“Will she get her memories back?” Max asks, unable to keep the desperation from his voice.

The doctor’s expression is guarded. “It’s impossible to say for certain. Retrograde amnesia can be unpredictable. Sometimes memories return quickly, sometimes it takes months or even years. And in some cases ...”

“Some cases what?” Max presses.

Dr. Smeets sighs. “In some cases, the memories never fully return. But,” he adds quickly, seeing the stricken look on Max’s face, “that’s relatively rare. The best thing you can do is be patient. Surround her with familiar people and places. Sometimes sensory triggers can help unlock memories.”

Max nods, clinging to that small hope. “Thank you, doctor. What’s the next step?”

“We’ll keep her here for observation for a few more days, run some more tests. After that, assuming there are no complications, she can be discharged to recover at home.”

After the doctor leaves, Max turns to you with forced cheerfulness. “See? That’s good news. You’ll be out of here soon, and then we can go home and work on getting your memories back.”

You shift uncomfortably. “I don’t know if I’m ready for that. Going ... home with you. I mean, you seem great, but you’re still a stranger to me.”

Max feels like he’s been punched in the gut, but he forces himself to nod. “Of course. I understand. We’ll figure something out. Maybe you can stay with your parents for a while?”

You nod, looking relieved. “That sounds better. I remember my parents, at least.”

An awkward silence falls. Max clears his throat. “Do you want me to call them?”

“Would you mind? I don’t even know where my phone is.”

Max steps out into the hallway to make the call, grateful for a moment to collect himself. When he returns, you’re looking out the window, lost in thought.

“They’re on their way,” Max says softly. “They’ll be here in a few hours.”

You turn to him, your expression softening slightly. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”

Max shrugs. “Of course I did. I care about you, even if you don’t remember that right now.”

You study him for a long moment. “Can you ... can you tell me about us? How we met, what our life is like? Maybe it’ll help bring something back.”

Max’s heart leaps at the request. He pulls a chair closer to your bed and begins to talk, recounting the story of your relationship. How you met at a charity event, how nervous he was to ask you out, your first date at a little Italian restaurant in Monaco.

As he speaks, you listen intently, searching your mind for any flicker of recognition. But the memories remain frustratingly out of reach, like trying to grasp smoke.

“I’m sorry,” you say finally, interrupting his story about your first vacation together. “None of this is ringing any bells. It all sounds wonderful, but ... it’s like you’re talking about someone else’s life.”

Max tries to hide his disappointment. “It’s okay. The doctor said it might take time. We just have to be patient.”

You nod, but your expression is troubled. “What if ... what if I never remember? What if these memories are just gone forever?”

Max takes a deep breath, steeling himself. “Then we’ll make new ones,” he says firmly. “I love you, Y/N. That hasn’t changed. If I have to make you fall in love with me all over again, I will.”

You look at him, a mix of emotions playing across your face. “That’s ... that’s incredibly sweet. But what if I’m not the same person anymore? What if the me you fell in love with is gone?”

Max shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not possible. You’re still you, even if you can’t remember everything right now. The core of who you are, that hasn’t changed. I know it.”

You don’t look convinced, but you offer him a small smile. “I hope you’re right.”

Just then, a commotion in the hallway catches their attention. Your parents burst into the room, faces etched with worry.

“Oh, sweetheart!” Your mother cries, rushing to your bedside. “We were so worried!”

Your face lights up with recognition. “Mom! Dad!” You exclaim, reaching out to hug them.

Max steps back, giving your family space for their reunion. He watches with a mixture of relief and jealousy as you interact easily with your parents, the rapport between you unchanged by your memory loss.

After a few minutes, your father turns to Max. “Thank you for calling us, and for being here with her.”

Max nods, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Of course. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”

Your mother looks between Max and you, sensing the tension. “Is everything okay?”

You bite your lip, looking uncomfortable. “Mom, I-I can’t remember Max. Or anything about our relationship. The doctor says I have amnesia from the accident.”

Your parents exchange worried glances. Your father puts a comforting hand on Max’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry, son. This must be incredibly difficult for you both.”

Max nods, not trusting himself to speak. Your mother turns to you. “But surely you remember something? You and Max have been so happy together.”

You shake your head sadly. “I’m trying, but it’s all blank. I’m sorry.”

An awkward silence falls over the room. Finally, your father clears his throat. “Well, the important thing is that you’re going to be okay. We’ll figure out the rest as we go.”

Max nods in agreement, but inside, he’s screaming. How can he just stand by and watch as the love of his life slips away? But he knows he has to be patient, to give you space to heal and hopefully remember.

“I should probably go,” he says reluctantly. “Let you have some time with your family.”

You nod, looking relieved. “Thank you for staying with me. And for ... for everything.”

Max forces a smile. “Of course. I’ll be back tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

You hesitate for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, that’s fine. Maybe ... maybe you can bring some more photos? Or videos? Something that might help trigger my memory?”

Max’s heart swells with hope. “Absolutely. I’ll bring everything I can think of.”

As he turns to leave, you call out softly. “Max?”

He turns back, his breath catching in his throat. “Yeah?”

You give him a small, uncertain smile. “I’m glad I have someone like you in my life. Even if I can’t remember it right now.”

Max blinks back tears as he nods. “Always,” he whispers. “I’m always here for you.”

***

Max trudges into his hotel suite, the weight of the day pressing down on him like a physical force. He closes the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment, eyes closed, trying to steady his breathing. The room is dark and quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos of emotions swirling inside him.

He fumbles for the light switch, wincing as the bright overhead lights flicker on. The suite feels cavernous and empty without you here. Your suitcase sits untouched in the corner, a painful reminder of the plans you’d made for this weekend.

Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out, seeing a flood of missed calls and messages. His team, his family, the media — all clamoring for information, for his attention. He can’t deal with any of it right now.

With trembling hands, he switches off his phone and tosses it onto the bed. He paces the room, energy thrumming through his body with nowhere to go. He should shower, should eat something, should call his manager and figure out what to do about the race weekend. But he can’t bring himself to do any of it.

Instead, he finds himself drawn to your suitcase. He kneels beside it, running his hand over the familiar fabric. Slowly, almost reverently, he unzips it. Your neatly folded clothes, your favorite perfume, the book you’d been reading on the plane — all these little pieces of you, reminders of the life you shared.

Max pulls out one of your sweaters, burying his face in the soft material. It still smells like you. And suddenly, the dam breaks.

A sob tears from his throat, raw and primal. Tears he’s held back for years, through every hardship and setback, finally break free. Max crumples to the floor, clutching your sweater to his chest as he weeps.

“Why?” He chokes out between sobs. “Why her? Why us?”

The tears keep coming, relentless. Max cries for the pain you’re in, for the memories you’ve lost, for the future that suddenly seems so uncertain. He cries for the little boy who was left alone at a gas station, for the young man who walked away from a horrific crash. He cries for every emotion he’s ever pushed down, every vulnerability he’s hidden behind a mask of determination and focus.

Through his tears, he hears a knock at the door. He ignores it, unable to face anyone right now. But the knocking persists, followed by a familiar voice.

“Max? It’s me. Open up, mate.”

Max considers pretending he’s not here, but he knows Daniel won’t give up easily.bWiping his face on his sleeve, Max staggers to his feet and opens the door. Daniel takes one look at his tear-stained face and immediately pulls him into a tight hug.

“Oh, mate,” Daniel says softly. “I just heard. I’m so sorry.”

Max breaks down again, sobbing into Daniel’s shoulder. Daniel doesn’t say anything, just holds him tightly, letting him cry it out.

Finally, Max pulls away, embarrassed. “Sorry,” he mutters, wiping his eyes. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

Daniel steers him towards the couch, closing the door behind them. “Nothing’s wrong with you, Max. You’re hurting. It’s okay to let it out.”

Max collapses onto the couch, feeling utterly drained. Daniel sits beside him, his usual joking demeanor replaced by genuine concern.

“Talk to me,” Daniel urges gently. “What happened?”

Max takes a shuddering breath. “She doesn’t remember me. She looked right at me and had no idea who I was. It’s like ... it’s like the last two years never happened for her.”

Daniel winces in sympathy. “That’s rough, mate. But the doctors think it’s temporary, right?”

Max shrugs helplessly. “They don’t know. It might come back, it might not. And even if it does, how long will it take? Weeks? Months? Years?”

“And you’re worried she won’t fall for you again,” Daniel says softly, understanding dawning on his face.

Max nods miserably. “What if she doesn’t? What if the girl I fell in love with is just ... gone? I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be around her when she doesn’t even know me.”

Daniel is quiet for a moment, considering. “You know,” he says finally, “when I first met Y/N, I thought you were crazy.”

Max looks up, confused. “What do you mean?”

Daniel grins. “Come on, mate. Mad Max settling down with a normal girl? I thought for sure it was just a phase, that you’d get bored and move on to the next model or whatever.”

Max bristles slightly. “Y/N’s not just some normal girl. She’s-”

“I know, I know,” Daniel interrupts, holding up his hands. “That’s my point. It didn’t take long for me to see how special she is, and how perfect you two are together. You bring out the best in each other. That connection, that spark — it’s still there, Max. Even if she can’t remember it right now.”

Max shakes his head. “You don’t understand. You didn’t see her in that hospital bed, looking at me like I was a total stranger. It was like ... like everything we had just disappeared in an instant.”

Daniel leans forward, his expression serious. “Listen to me. The memories might be gone for now, but the feelings? The connection you two have? That doesn’t just disappear. It’s still there, buried deep inside her. You just have to be patient and give her time to find it again.”

Max wants to believe him, but doubt gnaws at his heart. “What if she doesn’t want to? What if she decides she’s better off without me?”

Daniel scoffs. “Not a chance, mate. You’re Max fucking Verstappen. What girl wouldn’t want you?”

The joke falls flat. Max just stares at the floor, shoulders slumped. Daniel sighs, realizing humor isn’t the answer right now.

“Look,” he says softly, “I know you’re scared. But think about it this way — you’ve been given a chance to fall in love all over again. To experience all those firsts one more time. It’s not ideal, sure, but it’s not the end of the world either.”

Max looks up, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. “You really think she could fall for me again?”

Daniel grins. “Are you kidding? She fell for you once when you were an arrogant little shit. Now that you’re slightly less of an arrogant little shit, it should be a piece of cake.”

Despite everything, Max finds himself chuckling. “Thanks, asshole.”

Daniel’s expression turns serious again. “I mean it, though. You can’t give up. Y/N needs you now more than ever, even if she doesn’t realize it. You have to be strong for her.”

Max nods slowly. “I know. I just ... I don’t know how to do this. How to be around her when she doesn’t know me. When she looks at me like I’m a stranger.”

Daniel considers this for a moment. “Maybe that’s your advantage. You get to introduce yourself to her all over again. Show her the Max that she fell in love with in the first place.”

Max mulls this over. “I guess ... I guess that could work. But what if I screw it up? What if I say or do the wrong thing and push her away?”

Daniel claps him on the shoulder. “That’s where your friends come in. We’ve got your back. Whatever you need, we’re here for you. Both of you.”

For the first time since the accident, Max feels a spark of genuine hope. “Thanks. Really. I don’t know what I’d do without you guys.”

Daniel grins. “Probably crash and burn spectacularly. But that’s why we keep you around — you’re entertaining.”

Max rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling now. “Seriously, though. How do I do this? How do I help her remember without overwhelming her?”

Daniel thinks for a moment. “Start small. Don’t dump your whole history on her at once. Share little stories, show her pictures. Let her get to know you again naturally. And most importantly, be patient. This isn’t a race you can win by pushing harder. It’s a marathon, not a sprint.”

Max nods, feeling a sense of determination replacing his earlier despair. “You’re right. I can do this. I have to do this. For her.”

Daniel smiles, seeing the familiar fire returning to his friend’s eyes. “That’s the Max I know. Now, have you eaten anything? Because I’m starving, and room service is calling my name.”

Max realizes he hasn’t eaten since breakfast. “Food sounds good,” he admits.

As Daniel picks up the phone to order, Max’s thoughts turn to you. He imagines you in that hospital bed, scared and confused. He makes a silent promise to himself, and to you, that he’ll do whatever it takes to help you remember. And if you can’t remember, he’ll make new memories with you, ones just as beautiful as the ones you’ve lost.

The rest of the evening passes in a blur of food, conversation, and planning. Daniel helps Max sort through the flood of messages on his phone, crafting responses to his team and family. They decide that Max will skip the rest of the race weekend — his mind isn’t in the right place to drive safely, and you need him more than the team does right now.

As the night wears on, Daniel eventually leaves, extracting a promise from Max to call if he needs anything. Left alone, Max finds himself drawn once again to your suitcase. This time, instead of breaking down, he begins to pack a bag.

Photos, mementos, little things that might spark a memory — he carefully selects items to bring to the hospital tomorrow. As he works, he talks to you in his mind, imagining what he’ll say when he sees you again.

“I know you’re scared,” he murmurs, folding one of your favorite hoodies. “I’m scared too. But we’re going to get through this together. I’m not giving up on us, Y/N. Not now, not ever.”

As he zips up the bag, Max feels a renewed sense of purpose. The road ahead won’t be easy, but he’s ready to face it. Because at the end of that road is you, and a love worth fighting for.

Max crawls into bed, exhausted but no longer despairing. As he drifts off to sleep, his last thought is of you. Of your smile, your laugh, the way your eyes light up when you look at him. He holds onto these memories, these precious fragments of your life together, knowing that somehow, someway, he’ll find a way to share them with you again.

Tomorrow is a new day, a new chance to help you remember. And Max Verstappen has never been one to back down from a challenge.

***

The sun is barely peeking over the horizon as Max makes his way through the quiet hospital corridors. His footsteps echo in the empty hallway, the bag slung over his shoulder feeling heavier with each step. Inside are the stuffed versions of Jimmy and Sassy, and your favorite hoodie —his hoodie, really, but you’ve claimed it as your own.

As he approaches your room, Max takes a deep breath, steeling himself. He knocks softly before entering, not wanting to startle you if you’re asleep.

You’re awake, sitting up in bed and staring out the window. When you turn to look at him, there’s a flicker of recognition in your eyes, but it’s followed quickly by confusion.

“Max, right?” You say hesitantly.

Max forces a smile, trying to hide the pain those words cause. “That’s right. How are you feeling this morning?”

You shrug, wincing slightly at the movement. “Sore. Confused. But the doctors say I’m healing well, physically at least.”

Max nods, moving closer to the bed. “That’s good. I, uh, I brought some things for you. I thought they might help make you more comfortable.”

You eye the bag curiously. “Oh? That’s ... that’s very kind of you.”

Max sets the bag on the bed and starts unpacking. First, he pulls out the stuffed cats. “These are Jimmy and Sassy,” he explains. “Well, stuffed versions of them. They’re our cats. You can’t travel without these because you miss the real ones so much.”

Your eyes light up as you reach for the stuffed animals. “We have cats? I love cats!”

Max chuckles, a warmth spreading through his chest at your enthusiasm. “Yeah, two Bengal cats. They’re like little troublemakers, always getting into mischief. You adore them.”

You hug the stuffed cats close, a small smile playing on your lips. “Tell me about them?”

Max sits in the chair beside your bed, grateful for the opening. “Well, Jimmy is the older one. He’s very dignified, or at least he tries to be. But he has a weakness for cardboard boxes. No matter how expensive a cat bed we buy him, he always prefers a random Amazon box.”

You giggle at that, and the sound is like music to Max’s ears. He continues, “Sassy is younger and true to her name. She’s always chattering away, meowing at us like she’s telling us about her day. And she has this thing for water —she’ll sit by the sink for hours, just watching the faucet drip.”

“They sound wonderful,” you say softly, stroking the stuffed cats’ fur. “I wish I could remember them.”

Max reaches into the bag again. “Maybe this will help,” he says, pulling out the hoodie. “This is your favorite thing to wear around the house. Well, my hoodie that you’ve completely taken over.”

You take the hoodie, running your hands over the soft fabric. You bring it to your face, inhaling deeply, and for a moment, Max’s heart soars with hope. But then you shake your head.

“It smells ... familiar,” you say slowly. “But I can’t place it. I’m sorry.”

Max tries to hide his disappointment. “It’s okay. Don’t push yourself. The doctors said it might take time.”

You nod, but he can see the frustration in your eyes. “It’s just so strange,” you murmur. “I know things, like I know I love cats, but I can’t remember our cats. I know this hoodie is important, but I can’t remember why.”

Max leans forward, his voice gentle. “Hey, it’s okay. You’ve been through a lot. Give yourself time to heal.”

You look at him, really look at him, for the first time since he entered the room. “You’re being so patient with me. It must be hard for you, seeing me like this.”

Max swallows hard, fighting back tears. “It’s not easy,” he admits. “But you’re worth it. We’re worth it.”

A comfortable silence falls between you. You pull on the hoodie, snuggling into its warmth. “So,” you say after a while, “tell me more about us. How did we meet?”

Max’s face lights up at the question. “It was at a charity gala in Monaco,” he begins. “I was there representing the team and you were there with some friends. I saw you across the room and ... I couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of a smile on your lips. “Oh really? Was it love at first sight?”

Max chuckles. “More like anxiety at first sight for me. I was so nervous to talk to you. I must have circled the room three times before I worked up the courage to approach you.”

“You? Nervous?” You say, sounding surprised. “But you’re a famous racing driver. Surely you’re used to talking to people.”

Max shrugs. “On the track, sure. But off it? Especially with beautiful women? I’m a disaster. But something about you ... I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t at least try to talk to you.”

You lean back against your pillows, looking intrigued. “So what happened? Did you sweep me off my feet with your charm?”

Max bursts out laughing. “God, no. I was a complete mess. I walked up to you, tried to say something smooth, and ended up knocking over a tray of champagne glasses. Drenched myself and nearly you too.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh no! That sounds mortifying.”

“It was,” Max agrees. “I was ready to run away and hide forever. But then you did something amazing. Instead of being upset or embarrassed, you started laughing. Not at me, but with me. You helped me clean up, made a joke about how I was smoother on the track than off it, and then ... you asked me to dance.”

You smile at that. “I did? That was brave of me.”

Max nods, his eyes soft with the memory. “It was. You later told me you thought I was cute when I was flustered. We danced for hours that night, talking about everything and nothing. By the end of the evening, I knew I wanted to see you again.”

“And the rest is history?” You ask.

“Not quite,” Max says with a grin. “I still had to convince you to go on a proper date with me. And let me tell you, dating a Formula 1 driver isn’t always easy. But we made it work. We’ve been together for two years now, living in Monaco.”

You absorb this information, your brow furrowed in concentration. “It sounds like a fairytale,” you say softly. “I wish I could remember it.”

Max reaches out, hesitating for a moment before gently taking your hand. To his relief, you don’t pull away. “You will,” he says firmly. “And if you don’t, we’ll make new memories. Even better ones.”

You squeeze his hand, offering a small smile. “You really believe that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Max says without hesitation. “Because I know you, Y/N. Even if you can’t remember right now, I know the person you are. Your kindness, your strength, your incredible spirit. That hasn’t changed. It’s still there, inside you.”

Tears well up in your eyes. “I want to believe you,” you whisper. “But it’s so hard. Everything feels so ... disconnected. Like I’m living someone else’s life.”

Max moves to sit on the edge of the bed, still holding your hand. “I know it’s scary,” he says softly. “But you’re not alone in this. I’m here, your family’s here. We’ll help you through it, step by step.”

You nod, wiping away a stray tear. “Thank you. For being here, for bringing these things. It means a lot.”

Max smiles, his heart swelling with love for you. “Always. I’ll always be here for you, Y/N. No matter what.”

Just then, a nurse enters the room. “Good morning,” she says cheerfully. “How are we feeling today?”

You turn to her, still clutching the stuffed cats. “A bit better, I think. Max brought me some things from home.”

The nurse smiles approvingly. “That’s wonderful. Familiar objects can often help in recovery. Now, I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to step out for a bit,” she says to Max. “We need to run some tests and change some dressings.”

Max nods, standing up reluctantly. “Of course. I’ll be back later, if that’s okay?” he asks, looking at you.

You nod, offering a small smile. “I’d like that. Maybe ... maybe you could bring some more things next time? Anything that might help jog my memory?”

Max’s heart leaps at the request. “Absolutely. I’ll bring whatever I can think of.”

As he turns to leave, you call out softly. “Max?”

He turns back, his breath catching in his throat. “Yeah?”

“Thank you,” you say simply. “For not giving up on me.”

Max feels tears pricking at his eyes. “Never,” he says firmly. “I’ll never give up on you, Y/N. On us.”

As he walks out of the hospital into the bright morning sunshine, Max feels a renewed sense of hope. It won’t be easy, and the road ahead is still long and uncertain. But you’re still you, still the woman he fell in love with. And he’ll do whatever it takes to help you find your way back to him.

He pulls out his phone, sending a quick message to his team. He won’t be racing this weekend, or perhaps for a while. Some things are more important than Formula 1. Right now, his place is here, by your side, helping you piece together the memories of your life together.

***

The press room is buzzing with anticipation as Max takes his seat at the table. Cameras flash incessantly and the murmur of journalists speculating grows louder. Max’s face is a mask of calm, but inside, he’s a storm of emotions.

His manager, Raymond, leans in close before stepping away. “Remember, keep it brief. No details about Y/N unless absolutely necessary.”

Max nods curtly, his jaw clenched. The past few days have been a whirlwind of hospital visits, tense conversations with the team, and now this — facing the media to explain his decision to step away from racing.

The room falls silent as the press conference begins. A Red Bull spokesperson steps up to the microphone.

“Good afternoon, everyone. As you know, Max Verstappen has announced his decision to take a leave of absence from Formula 1 for an undetermined period. Max will now take your questions.”

The room erupts with raised hands and shouted questions. Max points to a familiar face in the front row.

“Max, can you explain the reasoning behind this sudden decision? You’re in the midst of a tight championship battle. Why step away now?”

Max takes a deep breath. “I understand this comes as a surprise to many. There are personal matters that require my full attention right now. I can’t go into details, but I assure you, this decision wasn’t made lightly.”

Another journalist jumps in before he can choose the next question. “But surely these personal matters could be handled while continuing to race? Many drivers balance personal issues with their careers.”

Max feels a flicker of irritation. “Every situation is unique. In this case, I need to step away completely. My focus can’t be divided right now.”

The questions keep coming, each one chipping away at Max’s patience.

“Is this related to your recent performance dip?”

“Are there issues within the team we don’t know about?”

“Some fans are accusing you of abandoning the sport. What do you say to them?”

Max answers each as calmly as he can, but he can feel his control slipping. Then, a question from the back of the room ignites the powder keg.

“Max, there are rumors that this is about a woman. Have you let a relationship interfere with your career?”

The room falls silent, all eyes on Max. He grips the edge of the table, knuckles white. For a moment, he considers sticking to the script, giving another vague non-answer. But something inside him snaps.

“You want to know the truth?” He says, his voice low and intense. “Fine. I’ll tell you.”

Raymond steps forward, a warning in his eyes, but Max waves him off.

“My girlfriend was in a serious car accident,” Max continues, his voice growing louder. “She’s in the hospital with severe injuries and memory loss. She doesn’t even remember who I am.”

The room erupts in gasps and furious scribbling. Max stands, leaning forward on the table.

“So yes, I’m stepping away from racing. Because the woman I love needs me. Because some things are more important than trophies or championship points.”

He’s shouting now, years of pent-up frustration with the media pouring out.

“You all sit here and judge me, speculate about my personal life, accuse me of abandoning the sport. But where were you when I was a kid, pushed to the limit by a demanding father? Where were you when I was struggling with the pressure of being the youngest driver in F1 history?”

The room is dead silent now, every journalist hanging on his words.

“I’ve given everything to this sport. I’ve sacrificed friendships, relationships, a normal life. And now, the one time I need to put something else first, you question my commitment?”

Max’s voice breaks slightly, but he pushes on.

“Y/N is fighting for her life, fighting to remember who she is. Who we are together. And you want me to, what? Leave her alone in a hospital room while I zip around a track?”

He looks around the room, meeting the shocked gazes of the journalists.

“So go ahead. Write your stories. Question my decisions. But know this — I don’t regret my choice. Not for a second. Because at the end of the day, the chequered flag won’t keep me warm at night. It won’t laugh at my jokes or hold my hand when I’m stressed.”

Max takes a deep breath, his anger giving way to a deep sadness.

“I love racing. It’s been my whole life. But I love Y/N more. And right now, she needs me. So I’m going to be there for her, every step of the way, until she’s better. Until she remembers us.”

He sits back down, suddenly drained. The room is still silent, the journalists too stunned to even raise their hands for questions.

Finally, a older journalist in the front row clears his throat. “Max, I ... we had no idea. I’m so sorry about Y/N. Can you tell us more about her condition?”

Max shakes his head, his voice softer now. “I’ve already said more than I planned to. Y/N’s privacy is important to me. All I’ll say is that she’s fighting hard, and I’m going to be right there with her.”

Another journalist speaks up. “You mentioned Y/N doesn’t remember you. How are you coping with that?”

Max runs a hand through his hair, considering his words carefully. “It’s ... it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever faced. Harder than any race, any championship battle. To look into the eyes of the person you love most in the world and see no recognition ... it’s gut-wrenching.”

He pauses, swallowing hard. “But I’m not giving up. I’m fighting for us, for our memories, for our future. Even if I have to make her fall in love with me all over again.”

The mood in the room has shifted completely. Gone is the adversarial tension, replaced by a somber understanding.

“What can fans do to support you during this time?” Another journalist asks.

Max manages a small smile. “Just ... be patient. Understand that there are things more important than racing. And maybe, if you’re the praying type, keep Y/N in your thoughts.”

The Red Bull spokesperson steps forward, signaling the end of the conference. But Max holds up a hand, not quite finished.

“I want to say one more thing,” he says, his voice steady. “To any of you out there who might be going through something similar — don’t be afraid to step back. Don’t let anyone make you feel guilty for putting your loved ones first. At the end of the day, that’s what really matters.”

With that, Max stands and walks out of the room, leaving a stunned silence in his wake. As soon as he’s out of sight of the cameras, he leans against a wall, emotions overwhelming him.

Raymond approaches cautiously. “That ... didn’t go quite as planned.”

Max lets out a humorless laugh. “No, I suppose it didn’t.”

“You okay?” Raymond asks, genuine concern in his voice.

Max nods slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. It feels ... good to have it out there. No more hiding, no more vague excuses.”

Raymond squeezes his shoulder. “You did good, kid. It won’t be easy, but people will understand now.”

Max’s phone buzzes in his pocket. He pulls it out to see a flood of messages — from his team, his family, even other drivers. But one catches his eye — a text from your mom.

“Just saw the press conference. Y/N would be so proud of you. We all are. Come by the hospital when you can. She’s asking for you.”

Despite everything, Max feels a smile tugging at his lips. He turns to Raymond. “I’ve got to go. Y/N’s waiting.”

Raymond nods understandingly. “Go. We’ll handle things here. Give her our best.”

As Max walks out of the building, he’s greeted by a small crowd of fans. But instead of the anger or disappointment he expected, he sees understanding and support in their faces. Many are holding haphazardly thrown together signs with messages of encouragement for both him and you.

One young girl breaks away from her parents, running up to Max with a hand-drawn card. “This is for Y/N,” she says shyly. “I hope she gets better soon.”

Max kneels down, taking the card with a genuine smile. “Thank you. I’ll make sure she gets it.”

As he stands, the crowd starts to applaud. It’s not the roar of a race victory, but a softer, more meaningful sound. The sound of people recognizing a different kind of strength, a different kind of victory.

Max raises a hand in acknowledgment before getting into his waiting car. As the driver pulls away, he looks at the card in his hands. It’s a simple drawing of two stick figures holding hands, with the words “Get well soon Y/N! Max loves you ❤️” written in childish scrawl.

For the first time in days, Max feels a weight lift from his shoulders. The road ahead is still long and uncertain, but he’s not alone. He has the support of his team, his fans, and most importantly, he has you — even if you can’t remember him yet.

As the car speeds towards the hospital, Max makes a silent promise. To you, to himself, to everyone who’s supporting them. He’ll face this challenge with the same determination and focus he brings to the track. Because this is the most important race of his life — the race to help you remember, to rebuild your life together.

And Max Verstappen doesn’t lose races that matter.

***

Max stands outside your hospital room, the handmade card clutched in his hand. He takes a deep breath, steeling himself before knocking softly and entering.

You’re sitting up in bed, looking more alert than he’s seen you since the accident. Your parents are there too, gathering your things in preparation for your discharge tomorrow.

“Max,” you say, a small smile gracing your lips. It’s not the warm, loving smile he’s used to, but it’s a start. “We saw your press conference.”

Max feels a flush creep up his neck. “Ah, yeah. I, uh, might have gotten a bit carried away.”

Your mother steps forward, enveloping him in a hug. “You were wonderful, dear. So brave and honest.”

“Thanks,” Max mumbles, still not entirely comfortable with praise outside of racing. He turns his attention back to you. “How are you feeling today?”

You shrug slightly. “Better, I think. Still ... confused about a lot of things. But the pain is less.”

Max nods, moving closer to your bed. “That’s good. I, uh, I have something for you.” He holds out the card. “A young fan made this for you after the press conference.”

You take the card, examining the childish drawing with a soft expression. “Get well soon Y/N! Max loves you!” You read aloud. Your eyes flick up to meet his. “That’s ... very sweet.”

Max shifts uncomfortably, unsure how to respond. Your father, sensing the tension, clears his throat. “We’re going to go get some coffee. Give you two some time to talk.”

As your parents leave the room, an awkward silence falls. Max takes a seat in the chair beside your bed, fidgeting with his hands.

“So,” you say finally, “you’re taking time off from racing. For me.”

Max nods. “Yeah. I hope that’s okay. I know you don’t ... remember us. But I want to be here for you, however you need me to be.”

You’re quiet for a moment, considering his words. “It’s a lot of pressure,” you admit softly. “Knowing someone’s put their whole life on hold for me.”

Max leans forward, his eyes intense. “Hey, no. Don’t think of it like that. This isn’t a sacrifice or an obligation. It’s a choice. My choice.”

You nod slowly, but he can see the doubt in your eyes. “Tell me something,” you say suddenly. “Something about us. Something ... happy.”

Max feels a smile tugging at his lips as he casts his mind back. “Okay, how about this? Last year, after I won the championship, we took a vacation. Just the two of us, no teams, no press, no obligations.”

“Where did we go?” You ask, curiosity piqued.

“Bali,” Max says, his eyes lighting up with the memory. “We rented this amazing villa right on the beach. You were determined to teach me how to surf.”

A small giggle escapes you. “Did I succeed?”

Max chuckles. “Not even close. I spent more time eating sand than standing on the board. But you were so patient, so encouraging. Even when I was frustrated and ready to give up, you just ... you made it fun.”

“Sounds nice,” you say softly.

“It was more than nice,” Max continues, warming to the subject. “One evening, we were sitting on the beach watching the sunset.” He pauses, swallowing hard. “I realized all the trophies, all the victories ... they didn’t compare to just being there with you, watching the sun sink into the ocean.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, absorbing his words. “We sound ... very happy together,” you say finally.

Max nods, blinking back tears. “We are. We were. We will be again.”

You reach out hesitantly, taking his hand. It’s the first time you’ve initiated contact since the accident, and Max feels his heart soar.

“I’m scared,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m being discharged tomorrow, and I don’t ... I don’t know where I belong anymore.”

Max squeezes your hand gently. “You belong wherever you feel comfortable. If that’s with your parents for now, that’s okay. If you want to try coming home with me, that’s okay too. There’s no pressure, no expectations. We’ll figure this out together, at your pace.”

You nod, looking grateful. “Thank you. For being so understanding. I know this can’t be easy for you either.”

Max shrugs. “It’s not. But you’re worth it. We’re worth it.”

A comfortable silence falls between you. Max is content to just sit there, holding your hand, savoring this small connection.

After a while, you speak again. “Can you tell me more? About our life together?”

Max’s face lights up. “Of course. What do you want to know?”

You consider for a moment. “What’s a typical day like for us? When you’re not racing, I mean.”

Max leans back in his chair, a fond smile on his face. “Well, you’re definitely the early riser between us. You usually get up first, make coffee. Sometimes you go for a run or do yoga on the balcony.”

“I do yoga?” You ask, sounding surprised.

Max chuckles. “Yeah, you got into it as a way to help me relax between races. Said if it could calm me down, it could work miracles for anyone.”

You laugh at that, a genuine, full laugh that makes Max’s heart skip a beat. It’s the first time he’s heard that sound since the accident.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I usually drag myself out of bed when I smell the coffee. We have breakfast together, usually something healthy that you insist I need.”

“Sounds like I take good care of you,” you observe.

Max nods, his expression softening. “You do. Better than anyone ever has.”

“What else?” You prompt, clearly engrossed in the story of your shared life.

“Well, if I’m training, you often come to the gym with me. You say it’s to support me, but I think you just like ogling me when I lift weights.”

You swat his arm playfully, a faint blush coloring your cheeks. “I do not!”

Max grins, delighted by this glimpse of your old dynamic. “Oh, you absolutely do. Not that I mind. I return the favor when you’re doing your yoga.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. “What else do we do?”

“We cook together a lot,” Max says. “Or rather, you cook and I try not to burn the kitchen down. You’re teaching me, slowly but surely. We have this tradition of trying to recreate dishes from all the countries I race in.”

“That sounds fun,” you say, a wistful note in your voice. “Do we have a favorite?”

Max thinks for a moment. “There’s this amazing pasta dish we perfected after the Italian Grand Prix. You said it was better than sex.”

Your eyes widen. “I did not!”

Max laughs. “You absolutely did. Then you made me prove you wrong.”

You blush furiously, but you’re laughing too. “I can’t believe I said that!”

“Believe it,” Max says, grinning. “You’re full of surprises, schatje. It’s one of the things I love most about you.”

The word ’love’ hangs in the air between you. You grow quiet, your expression thoughtful.

“Max,” you say finally, “I want you to know ... I’m trying. To remember. To ... to feel what you feel.”

Max squeezes your hand. “I know you are. And it’s okay if it takes time. Or if ... if you never feel exactly the same way. We can build something new, if we need to.”

You nod, looking relieved. “Thank you. For understanding. For being patient.”

“Always,” Max says softly.

Just then, your parents return, breaking the intimate moment. Your mother smiles warmly at the sight of your joined hands.

“Everything okay in here?” She asks.

You nod, offering a small smile. “Yeah. Max was just telling me about our life together.”

Your father clears his throat. “Speaking of which, we should probably discuss arrangements for after your discharge tomorrow.”

You tense slightly, and Max can feel your grip on his hand tighten. “Right,” you say, your voice uncertain.

Max jumps in. “Y/N, remember what I said. Whatever you’re comfortable with. There’s no pressure.”

You nod gratefully. “I think ... I think I’d like to stay with my parents for a bit. If that’s okay?” You look at Max, worry in your eyes.

Max forces a smile, ignoring the pang in his heart. “Of course it’s okay. Whatever you need.”

Your mother steps forward. “Max, you’re welcome to visit anytime. We know how important you are to Y/N, even if she can’t remember everything right now.”

Max nods, grateful for their understanding. “Thank you. I’d like that.”

As the conversation turns to logistics of your discharge, Max finds his mind wandering. It’s not the outcome he’d hoped for, but he understands. You need time, space to heal and rediscover yourself. And he’ll be there, every step of the way, however you need him.

As visiting hours come to an end and Max prepares to leave, you call out to him.

“Max?”

He turns back. “Yeah?”

You hesitate for a moment, then say, “Thank you. For everything. And ... I’d like to hear more stories. About us. If that’s okay.”

Max feels a warmth spread through his chest. It’s not a declaration of love, not a magical recovery of memories. But it’s a start. A willingness to explore, to learn, to possibly fall in love all over again.

“Anytime,” he says softly. “I’ve got plenty of stories to tell.”

***

The Monaco apartment feels cavernous and empty as Max pushes open the door. The silence is oppressive, broken only by the soft padding of paws as Jimmy and Sassy come to greet him. They meow insistently, weaving between his legs, clearly searching for someone who isn’t there.

“I know,” Max murmurs, kneeling to scratch behind their ears. “I miss her too.”

He moves through the space, every corner filled with memories. Your favorite mug sits on the kitchen counter, lipstick stain still visible on the rim. A half-read book lies on the coffee table, your bookmark peeking out from the pages. Your scent lingers on the throw pillows on the couch.

Max sinks onto the sofa, and immediately, Jimmy jumps up beside him, headbutting his hand for attention. Sassy follows suit, curling up in his lap.

“At least I’ve got you two,” Max says softly, stroking their fur. “But it’s not the same, is it?”

He pulls out his phone, scrolling through photos of happier times. You and him on vacation, at race weekends, lazy Sundays at home. Your smile, so bright and full of love, now feels like a distant memory.

“Come on, Max,” he mutters to himself. “You can’t fall apart now. Y/N needs you to be strong.”

But in the quiet of the apartment, with only the cats for company, it’s hard to maintain that strength. For the first time since the accident, since the press conference, since leaving you at your parents’ house, Max allows himself to truly feel the weight of everything that’s happened.

A sob escapes him, then another. Soon, he’s crying in earnest, all the pent-up fear and frustration and loneliness pouring out. Jimmy and Sassy press closer, as if trying to comfort him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Max confesses to the empty room. “How do I help her remember? How do I make her fall in love with me again? What if ... what if she never does?”

The cats, of course, don’t answer. But their presence is comforting, a reminder that he’s not entirely alone.

As his tears subside, Max takes a deep breath, trying to center himself. He needs to focus, to come up with a plan. You might not remember your life together, but he does. And he’s determined to help you rediscover it, piece by piece if necessary.

He stands, moving to the bookshelf where you keep photo albums. Maybe he could put together a scrapbook of your relationship, something tangible for you to look through. As he reaches for an album, his phone buzzes in his pocket.

His heart leaps when he sees your name on the screen. He answers immediately, trying to keep the eagerness out of his voice. “Y/N? Is everything okay?”

“Hi,” you say, and he can hear a note of confusion in your voice. “Everything’s fine, I just ... this is going to sound weird, but I needed to ask you something.”

Max sits back down on the couch, curious. “Of course. What is it?”

You hesitate for a moment before speaking. “I’ve been having these ... cravings. For food I don’t remember ever eating before, much less liking. And I thought maybe ... maybe they mean something?”

Max’s pulse quickens. Could this be a sign of your memories returning? “What kind of food?” He asks, trying to keep his voice neutral.

“Tomato soup,” you say. “And beef carpaccio. I know it sounds strange, but I can’t stop thinking about them. Do they ... do they mean anything to you?”

Max feels like his heart might burst out of his chest. “Y/N,” he says softly, “those are my favorite foods.”

“Oh,” you breathe, and he can hear the surprise in your voice. “I ... I didn’t know that.”

“The tomato soup is something my mom used to make for me when I was a kid,” Max explains, his voice thick with emotion. “And the carpaccio ... that was what we had on our first real date in Monaco.”

There’s a long pause on the other end of the line. “I don’t remember that,” you say finally, a note of frustration in your voice. “But I can almost ... almost taste it, you know? Like my body remembers even if my mind doesn’t.”

Max nods, even though you can’t see him. “That’s good, Y/N. That’s really good. It means the memories are still in there somewhere.”

“Maybe,” you say, sounding uncertain. “I just wish I could remember more. It’s so frustrating, having all these ... these echoes of a life I can’t quite grasp.”

“I know,” Max says soothingly. “But this is progress. We just have to be patient.”

You sigh. “You’re right. I just ... I feel bad, you know? You’re being so patient and understanding, and I can’t even remember our first date.”

Max’s heart aches at the sadness in your voice. “Hey, no. Don’t feel bad. This isn’t your fault. We’re in this together, remember?”

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Together.”

There’s another pause, and Max can almost picture you biting your lip, the way you do when you’re thinking hard about something.

“Max?” You say finally. “Can you ... can you tell me about our first date? The one with the carpaccio?”

A smile spreads across Max’s face. “Of course. It was about a week after we met at that charity gala. I was so nervous, I must have changed my shirt five times before picking you up.”

You laugh softly. “You, nervous? I find that hard to believe.”

“Believe it,” Max chuckles. “You had me completely flustered. Still do, if I’m honest.”

He launches into the story, describing how he’d taken you to a small, intimate restaurant overlooking the harbor. How you’d laughed at his attempts to pronounce the French dishes, how your eyes had lit up when you tasted the carpaccio.

“You said it was the best thing you’d ever eaten,” Max recalls. “But I barely tasted the food. I just couldn’t believe someone as amazing as you was interested in me.”

“Max ...” you start, your voice soft and a bit uncertain.

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I don’t mean to push. I know this is all still ... complicated.”

“No, it’s okay,” you assure him. “I like hearing these stories. They help, even if I can’t remember them myself yet.”

Max feels a warmth spread through his chest. “I’m glad. I’ve got plenty more where that came from, whenever you want to hear them.”

“I’d like that,” you say. “Maybe ... maybe next time we could do it in person? If you’re not too busy, I mean.”

“Y/N,” Max says seriously, “I’m never too busy for you. Just name the time and place, and I’ll be there.”

You laugh softly. “Careful, I might hold you to that.”

“Please do,” Max says, meaning every word.

As you say your goodbyes, Max feels lighter than he has in days. It’s not a magical fix, not a sudden return of all your memories. But it’s progress. A willingness to explore, to learn, to possibly fall in love all over again.

An idea strikes him as he ends the call. He quickly pulls up a food delivery app on his phone, searching for restaurants near your parents’ house. Finding one that offers both tomato soup and beef carpaccio, he places an order, adding a note.

A taste of our memories. Hope this helps satisfy those cravings - Max

As he completes the order, Max feels a surge of hope. It’s a small gesture, but maybe it will help trigger more memories. Or at the very least, it will show you that he’s thinking of you, that he’s here for you in whatever way you need.

He looks around the apartment, seeing it with new eyes. Yes, it’s empty without you here. But it’s not a sad emptiness anymore. It’s a space waiting to be filled again, with new memories alongside the old.

Max scratches Jimmy and Sassy behind the ears. “What do you think, guys? Should we start planning how to win your mom’s heart all over again?”

The cats purr in response, and Max chuckles. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Even if you can’t remember everything yet, your body remembers. Your heart remembers.

And Max is determined to help you rediscover every beautiful moment of your life together, one memory at a time. Starting with a bowl of tomato soup and a plate of beef carpaccio.

***

The shrill ring of his phone jolts Max awake. He fumbles for it in the darkness, heart racing as he sees the caller ID: your mother.

“Hello?” He answers, voice thick with sleep but mind rapidly clearing.

“Max, I’m so sorry to wake you,” your mother’s voice comes through, tense and worried. “It’s Y/N. She woke up about an hour ago and she’s ... she’s not okay.”

Max is already out of bed, fumbling for clothes. “What’s wrong? Is she hurt?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” your mother assures him quickly. “She’s just ... she’s crying and she keeps saying she needs you. We can’t calm her down. I know it’s the middle of the night, but I didn’t know what else to do.”

“You did the right thing,” Max says, pulling on a shirt haphazardly. “I’m on my way. Can you put her on the phone?”

There’s a rustling sound, then your voice comes through, small and broken. “Max?”

His heart clenches at the pain in your voice. “Y/N, I’m here. What’s wrong, liefje?”

“I don’t know,” you sob. “I had this dream and now everything hurts and I can’t ... I can’t remember but I know I need you. Please, Max. I need you here.”

“I’m coming,” Max promises, already dialing his pilot with his other phone. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. Just hold on, okay?”

“Okay,” you whisper. “Please hurry.”

As the call ends, Max is already rushing out the door, barely remembering to grab his wallet and keys. He calls his pilot as he takes the stairs two at a time, not willing to wait for the elevator.

“Frank, I need the jet ready as soon as possible. We’re flying to-” he rattles off the name of your parents’ hometown. “How fast can we be in the air?”

“Mr. Verstappen, it’s the middle of the night,” Frank starts, but Max cuts him off.

“I know what time it is. This is an emergency. How soon?”

There’s a pause, then Frank sighs. “Give me 30 minutes. I’ll call the crew.”

“Make it 20,” Max insists. “I’ll double your rate.”

“We’ll be ready,” Frank assures him.

Max ends the call as he reaches his car, peeling out of the parking garage with a screech of tires. His mind races as fast as the car, worry for you overwhelming everything else.

What could have triggered this? You’d been doing better, or so he thought. The memory of food had seemed like progress. But now ...

He shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on the road. Getting to you safely is what matters now. Everything else can wait.

Max makes it to the airport in record time, barely bothering to park properly before he’s sprinting towards his private jet. Frank meets him at the stairs.

“We’re fueled and ready,” he says. “Weather looks clear, we should have a smooth flight.”

“Good,” Max nods, already climbing the stairs. “Let’s go.”

As the jet takes off, Max finds himself unable to sit still. He paces the cabin, checking his phone every few seconds even though he knows there’s no signal at this altitude.

The flight attendant approaches cautiously. “Mr. Verstappen? Can I get you anything?”

Max shakes his head, then reconsiders. “Actually, yes. Coffee. Strongest you’ve got.”

She nods, retreating to the galley. Max resumes his pacing, his mind a whirlwind of worry and speculation.

What if you’d remembered something traumatic? What if this setback undid all the progress you’d made? What if ...

He forces himself to stop that line of thinking. Catastrophizing won’t help anyone, least of all you.

The flight seems to take an eternity. As soon as they land, he’s out of his seat, barely waiting for the stairs to fully deploy before he’s racing down them.

A car is waiting, arranged by his ever-efficient team. Max barely registers the driver’s greeting as he slides into the backseat.

He recites the address tersely. “As fast as you can.”

The drive is a blur of streetlights and quiet suburban roads. Max’s leg bounces nervously, his hands clenched into fists.

Finally, mercifully, they pull up to the familiar house. Max is out of the car before it fully stops, racing up the front steps.

Your father opens the door before he can knock. “Thank God you’re here,” he says, ushering Max inside. “She’s upstairs.”

Max takes the stairs two at a time, his heart pounding. He can hear muffled sobs coming from your old bedroom.

He pauses at the door, taking a deep breath to steady himself. Then he knocks softly. “Y/N? It’s me. It’s Max.”

The sobs quieten slightly. “Max?” Your voice comes through, small and uncertain.

“Can I come in?”

There’s a pause, then: “Please.”

Max opens the door slowly. The room is dimly lit by a bedside lamp, casting long shadows. You’re huddled on the bed, knees drawn up to your chest, eyes red and puffy from crying.

The sight of you so distressed nearly breaks him. In two long strides, he’s at your side.

“I’m here,” he says softly. “I’m right here.”

You look up at him, fresh tears spilling down your cheeks. “Max,” you whisper, and then you’re launching yourself into his arms.

Max catches you, holding you close as you sob into his chest. He strokes your hair, murmuring soothing words.

“It’s okay. I’ve got you. You’re safe.”

Gradually, your sobs subside, replaced by hiccuping breaths. Max continues to hold you, rocking slightly.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks gently.

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. “I had this dream,” you start, your voice hoarse. “It was so vivid. We were ... we were in a car, I think. And there was a crash and I couldn’t ... I couldn’t reach you.”

Max’s heart clenches. Is this a memory of your accident trying to surface?

“It felt so real,” you continue. “And when I woke up, I was so scared and confused. I couldn’t remember where I was or why you weren’t there. I just knew I needed you.”

“I’m here now,” Max says, cupping your face gently. “I’ll always come when you need me.”

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. “I’m sorry for making you fly out in the middle of the night.”

Max shakes his head. “Don’t apologize. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

You open your eyes, meeting his gaze. There’s something different there, something Max can’t quite identify.

“Max,” you say slowly, “I think ... I think I remembered something.”

His breath catches. “What did you remember?”

You furrow your brow, concentrating. “It’s not clear. Just ... feelings, mostly. But when you walked in, when you held me ... it felt familiar. Safe. Like ... like coming home.”

Max feels hope bloom in his chest. “That’s good, schatje. That’s really good. It means the memories are still there, even if they’re hard to reach right now.”

You nod, then yawn widely. The emotional toll of the night is clearly catching up with you.

“You should try to get some sleep,” Max says, moving to stand up.

But you grab his hand, holding him in place. “Will you ... will you stay? Just until I fall asleep?”

Max’s heart swells. “Of course. As long as you need.”

You scoot over, making room for him on the bed. Max kicks off his shoes and lies down next to you, careful to maintain a respectful distance.

But you close that distance, curling into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And for a moment, it feels like nothing has changed. Like the accident never happened.

“Tell me a story,” you mumble, already half-asleep. “About us.”

Max smiles, wrapping an arm around you. “Okay. How about the time we tried to teach Jimmy and Sassy to swim?”

You make a soft sound of agreement, nuzzling closer.

As Max recounts the tale of your misadventures with the cats and a kiddie pool, he feels you relax against him, your breathing evening out.

He continues the story even after he’s sure you’re asleep, partly out of habit, partly because he’s not ready for this moment to end.

Eventually, he falls silent, just listening to your steady breathing. He knows he should leave, go sleep in the guest room or on the couch. But he can’t bring himself to move, to break this fragile peace.

Just a few more minutes, he tells himself. Just a little longer.

Before he knows it, sunlight is streaming through the windows. Max blinks awake, momentarily disoriented. Then he feels you stir against him, and everything comes rushing back.

You lift your head, looking up at him with sleep-clouded eyes. For a moment, just a moment, Max sees recognition there. The look you used to give him every morning.

But then you blink, and it’s gone, replaced by confusion, then embarrassment.

“Oh God,” you mutter, sitting up quickly. “Max, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to keep you here all night.”

Max sits up too, trying to ignore the ache in his heart at the loss of contact. “It’s okay. I wanted to be here.”

You run a hand through your hair, not meeting his eyes. “Last night ... it’s all a bit fuzzy. Did I ... did I say anything? About remembering?”

Max nods slowly. “You said being with me felt familiar. Like coming home.”

You’re quiet for a long moment, staring at your hands. “I wish I could remember more,” you say finally, your voice small. “It’s all still so ... jumbled.”

Max reaches out, then stops himself, unsure if the touch would be welcome. “It’s okay. We’ll figure this out together.”

You look up at him then, a small smile on your face. “Together,” you repeat. “I like the sound of that.”

There’s a soft knock at the door, and your mother pokes her head in. “Oh good, you’re both awake. Breakfast is ready if you’re hungry.”

As you both stand to head downstairs, Max feels a mix of emotions. Disappointment that the night didn’t lead to a magical recovery of your memories. Hope at the small signs of progress. And an overwhelming sense of love for you, memory or no memory.

He knows the road ahead is still long and uncertain. But as he watches you smile at something your mother says, he feels more certain than ever that it’s a road worth traveling.

Because even if you can’t remember all of your history together, you’re still you. Still the woman he fell in love with. And he’ll spend every day helping you rediscover that love, one memory at a time.

***

The rhythmic clanging of weights fills the air as Max pushes through another set of bench presses. Sweat beads on his forehead, his muscles straining with each repetition. Rupert stands nearby, counting softly and offering encouragement.

“Nine ... ten ... good, Max. One more set and we’ll move on.”

The sharp ring of Max’s phone cuts through the gym’s atmosphere. Max grunts, arms shaking as he finishes his reps.

“Can you grab that, Rupert? Might be important.”

Rupert nods, retrieving the phone from Max’s gym bag. “It’s Y/N’s parents,” he says, eyebrows raised.

Max’s heart skips a beat. “Put it on speaker,” he says quickly, sitting up on the bench.

Rupert answers the call, holding the phone out between them. “Hello? This is Rupert, Max’s trainer. You’re on speaker.”

“Oh, hello Rupert,” comes the familiar voice of your mother. “Is Max there? We have some news.”

“I’m here,” Max says, leaning closer to the phone. “What’s going on? Is Y/N okay?”

There’s a pause, and Max feels his anxiety spike. Then, your father’s voice comes through, barely containing his excitement.

“Max, it’s ... it’s incredible. Y/N says she can remember. Not everything, but ... a lot. She woke up this morning and it was like a flood of memories just came back to her.”

The words hit Max like a physical force. He stands abruptly, forgetting the weight still balanced precariously on his legs. It crashes to the floor with a deafening clang, missing Rupert’s foot by mere inches.

“Whoa!” Rupert yelps, jumping back. “Easy there, Max!”

But Max barely notices. His entire world has narrowed to the voice coming from the phone. “She ... she remembers? Are you sure? How much does she remember?”

Your mother’s voice comes back on. “It’s still patchy, but she remembers you, Max. She remembers your life together, your home in Monaco. She’s been talking about the cats all morning.”

Max feels his knees go weak. He sits back down heavily on the bench, his head spinning. “Can I ... can I talk to her?”

“I’m afraid she’s with the doctors right now,” your father explains. “They want to run some tests, make sure everything’s okay. But she’s been asking for you. We thought you’d want to know right away.”

Max nods, then remembers they can’t see him. “Yes, of course. Thank you. I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll take the jet, I can be there in”

“Actually,” your mother interrupts, “Y/N has been asking to come home. To Monaco. She says she misses you, and the cats, and ... well, her life with you.”

Max feels a lump form in his throat. “She wants to come home?” He repeats, his voice barely above a whisper.

“If that’s alright with you,” your father adds quickly. “We understand if you need time to prepare, or if you think it’s too soon”

“No!” Max exclaims, perhaps a bit too loudly. He clears his throat. “I mean, no, it’s not too soon. It’s perfect. I can send the jet for her right away. If ... if that’s what she wants.”

He can hear the smile in your mother’s voice as she responds. “It is. She’s quite insistent, actually. Says she wants to sleep in her own bed.”

Max feels a grin spreading across his face. “I’ll make the arrangements right away. Can you have her ready to go in ... let’s say five hours?”

“We can do that,” your father confirms. “And Max? She’s ... she’s really excited to see you.”

Max swallows hard, emotion threatening to overwhelm him. “I can’t wait to see her too. Thank you both, for everything.”

As the call ends, Max looks up to see Rupert grinning at him. “So,” his trainer says, “I’m guessing our workout is over for the day?”

Max laughs, a sound of pure joy and relief. “Yeah, I’d say so. Sorry about almost crushing your foot.”

Rupert waves it off. “Small price to pay for good news like that. Go on, get out of here. Go prepare for Y/N’s homecoming.”

Max doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s already dialing his pilot as he rushes towards the locker room. “Frank? I need the jet ready as soon as possible. We need to pick someone up ...”

That evening, Max is pacing the length of his — your — living room, unable to keep still. He’s tidied the already immaculate apartment three times, checked on the cats twice, and changed his shirt four times.

Max takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. He sinks onto the couch, and immediately Jimmy jumps into his lap.

“Hey, buddy,” Max murmurs, scratching behind the cat’s ears. “Mama’s coming home. You excited?”

Jimmy purrs in response, kneading Max’s leg. Sassy, not to be left out, appears from nowhere and curls up next to them.

“Yeah, me too,” Max says softly. He looks around the apartment, memories flooding back. Your first night here together, nervous and excited about taking this step. Lazy Sunday mornings cuddled on this very couch. The time you tried to teach him to dance in the living room, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand.

The next hour crawls by at an agonizing pace. Max alternates between sitting rigidly on the couch and pacing the floor. He checks his phone obsessively, waiting for updates.

Finally, blessedly, his phone rings. It’s his pilot. “We’ve landed, boss. Y/N’s parents are helping her into the car now. Should be at your place in about 20 minutes.”

Max feels his heart rate double. “Thanks, Frank. Until next time.”

The next 20 minutes are the longest of Max’s life. He stands by the window, watching the street below, waiting for the familiar black SUV to appear.

When it finally does, Max feels like he might pass out. He watches as the car pulls up, as the driver gets out to open the back door. And then ... there you are.

You look tired, a bit pale, but to Max, you’ve never been more beautiful. You look up at the building, a soft smile playing on your lips. And then your eyes meet his through the window.

Max feels his breath catch in his throat. Because in that moment, he sees it. Recognition. Love. You’re really back.

He’s at the door in an instant, yanking it open just as you step off the elevator. For a moment, you both freeze, taking each other in.

“Max,” you whisper, and it’s the sweetest sound he’s ever heard.

“Y/N,” he breathes, and then you’re in his arms.

He holds you tightly, burying his face in your hair, breathing you in. You cling to him just as fiercely, and he can feel your tears soaking through his shirt.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur against his chest. “I’m so sorry I forgot you.”

Max pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, his hands cupping your face. “Hey, no. You have nothing to be sorry for. You’re here now. You’re home.”

You nod, a watery smile on your face. “I am. I remember, Max. Not everything, not yet. But I remember us. I remember loving you.”

Max feels tears spill down his cheeks, but he doesn’t care. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours. “I love you so much, liefje. God, I was so scared I’d lost you.”

You shake your head, your hands coming up to wipe away his tears. “Never. You could never lose me, Max Verstappen. Not really.”

And then you’re kissing, and it’s like coming home after a long, difficult journey. It’s familiar and new all at once, and Max never wants it to end.

A loud meow interrupts the moment. You break apart, laughing, to see Jimmy and Sassy winding around your feet, demanding attention.

“Oh, my babies!” You exclaim, kneeling down to scoop them up. “I missed you too!”

Max watches, his heart so full it feels like it might burst. This is what he’s been missing, what he’s been fighting for. You, here, in your home, with your little family.

As you straighten up, cats in arms, Max wraps an arm around your waist. “Welcome home,” he says softly.

You lean into him, a contented sigh escaping your lips. “It’s good to be home.”

Max knows there’s still a long road ahead. Your memory isn’t fully restored, and there will be challenges to face. But right now, in this moment, with you in his arms, he knows everything will be okay.

Because you remembered. You came home. And together, you can face anything.

***

The neon lights of Las Vegas blur into streaks of color as Max races through the city streets, his Red Bull car a blur of blue and red and yellow. The roar of the engine fills his ears, but it can’t drown out the beating of his own heart. This race feels different, more important than any he’s ever driven before.

As he navigates a tight corner, Max’s mind flashes back to the conversation that led him here...

“Max, you need to go back,” you had said, your voice gentle but firm. “Racing is part of who you are. I’m better now, and I want to see you out there doing what you love.”

Max had shaken his head, pulling you closer on the couch. “But what if something happens? What if you need me?”

You had laughed, a sound that still made his heart skip a beat. “I’ll always need you, silly. But I don’t need you hovering over me 24/7. Plus,” you added with a mischievous grin, “I miss seeing you in that race suit.”

Now, as he pushes the car to its limits, Max feels a renewed sense of purpose. He’s not just racing for himself anymore, or for the team. He’s racing for you, to make you proud, to show you that your faith in him wasn’t misplaced.

“Max, you’re pulling away,” GP’s voice crackles through the radio. “Gap to P2 is now 3.5 seconds. Keep this up, mate.”

Max grunts in acknowledgment, too focused to form words. He knows you’re watching from the garage, probably biting your nails like you always do during his races. The thought makes him smile behind his helmet.

Lap after lap, Max maintains his lead. The famous Las Vegas Strip becomes a blur of light and shadow as he speeds past the iconic hotels and casinos. In the back of his mind, he remembers your excitement when you found out about this race.

“Vegas, Max! It’s going to be incredible. Promise me we’ll stay a few extra days after the race?”

He had promised, of course. He’d promise you the moon if you asked for it.

As the final laps approach, Max’s concentration intensifies. He’s been in this position before, leading a race, victory within grasp. But it’s never felt quite like this.

“Two laps to go,” GP informs him. “You’ve got this. Just bring it home.”

Max takes a deep breath, visualizing the remaining track in his mind. He can almost hear your voice, the way you’d whisper “You’ve got this” before every race, a private moment just for the two of you amidst the pre-race chaos.

The last lap arrives, and Max is in the zone. Every turn, every straight, every gear change is perfect. As he rounds the final corner, the chequered flag comes into view.

“Yes!” Max shouts as he crosses the finish line, pumping his fist in the air. The team erupts in cheers over the radio, but Max is waiting for one particular voice.

“Brilliant drive, Max!” GP exclaims. “Absolute masterclass. How does it feel to be back on the top step?”

Max takes a moment to catch his breath, emotions threatening to overwhelm him. When he speaks, his voice is thick with feeling.

“It feels ... it feels incredible,” he says. “But this win, it’s not for me. It’s for Y/N.”

He can hear the surprise and emotion in GP’s voice as he responds. “That’s beautiful. I’m sure she’s over the moon right now.”

As Max begins his cool-down lap, he continues, knowing his words are being broadcast to millions around the world, but speaking only to you.

“Y/N, liefje, this one’s for you. For your strength, your courage, your unwavering support. You pushed me to come back even when I wanted to stay home with you. You believed in me when I doubted myself. This victory is yours as much as it’s mine.”

He pauses, swallowing hard. “I love you, Y/N. More than any trophy, any championship. You’re my biggest win.”

As he pulls into parc fermé, Max can see the team gathered, ready to celebrate. But his eyes scan the crowd, looking for only one person.

And there you are, pushing through the throng of mechanics and officials. Your eyes are shining with tears, but your smile is radiant.

Max practically leaps out of the car, not even bothering with his helmet. He meets you halfway, sweeping you up in his arms and spinning you around.

“You did it!” You exclaim, laughing and crying at the same time. “Oh Max, I’m so proud of you!”

Max sets you down but doesn’t let go, pressing his forehead to yours. “No, we did it. I couldn’t have done this without you.”

You shake your head, still smiling. “This was all you, Max. I just watched from the sidelines.”

“You’ve never been on the sidelines,” Max says firmly. “You’re the reason I’m here. The reason I push myself to be better, on and off the track.”

Before you can respond, the team descends upon them, whooping and cheering. Max is pulled away for the podium ceremony, but his eyes never leave you.

The champagne flows, the anthems play, but it all feels like a blur to Max. All he can think about is getting back to you, celebrating properly.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity of photos and interviews, Max is able to escape back to the team’s hospitality area. You’re waiting for him, a glass of champagne in hand and a proud smile on your face.

“There’s my champion,” you say softly as he approaches.

Max pulls you close, not caring who might be watching. “I meant what I said on the radio,” he murmurs. “This win is yours.”

You laugh, a sound that still makes his heart soar. “Well, in that case, I guess I should start preparing my acceptance speech for the Prize Giving Ceremony.”

Max grins, playing along. “Oh yeah? And what would this speech entail?”

You pretend to think for a moment. “Let’s see … I’d like to thank the academy, and of course, my incredibly handsome and talented boyfriend, without whom none of this would be possible ...”

Max laughs, feeling lighter than he has in months. “Handsome and talented, huh? I like the sound of that.”

You smack his arm playfully. “Don’t let it go to your head, Verstappen. I’ve seen you first thing in the morning, remember?”

“Hey, I thought you said I was cute when I’m all sleepy and rumpled,” Max protests.

“Cute, yes. Handsome is a stretch,” you tease.

Max clutches his chest in mock offense. “You wound me. And after I just dedicated my win to you and everything.”

You soften, reaching up to cup his face. “It was beautiful, Max. Really. I don’t know what I did to deserve you.”

Max turns serious, covering your hand with his own. “You existed. That’s more than enough.”

You stand there for a moment, lost in each other’s eyes, the celebration continuing around you unnoticed.

Finally, Max breaks the silence. “So, about that promise to stay a few extra days in Vegas ...”

Your eyes light up. “Oh, you remembered! I was hoping you would.”

Max grins. “Of course I remembered. I was thinking... maybe we could make it a bit more special than just a few extra days?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “What did you have in mind?”

Max takes a deep breath, suddenly nervous. This wasn’t how he’d planned to do this, but standing here with you, flush with victory and love, it feels right.

“Well,” he says slowly, reaching into his pocket, “I was thinking maybe we could celebrate our engagement.”

Your eyes widen as Max drops to one knee, pulling out a small velvet box. The noise of the celebration fades away, leaving just the two of you in your own little bubble.

“Y/N,” Max begins, his voice shaky but determined, “these past few months have been the hardest of my life. But they’ve also shown me, without a doubt, that you’re the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. Through good times and bad, wins and losses, I want you by my side.”

He opens the box, revealing a stunning diamond ring. “Will you marry me?”

You gasp, tears filling your eyes. For a heart-stopping moment, Max fears he’s misjudged, moved too fast. But then you’re nodding, a radiant smile breaking through the tears.

“Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, Max. A thousand times yes.”

Max slips the ring onto your finger with trembling hands, then stands to pull you into a passionate kiss. The team, finally noticing what’s happening, erupts into cheers and applause.

As you break apart, breathless and giddy, Max rests his forehead against yours. “I love you. More than I ever thought possible.”

You beam up at him, your eyes shining with happiness. “I love you too. Always and forever.”

As the team swarms around them, offering congratulations and calling for more champagne, Max holds you close. This, he realizes, is his true victory. Not the race win, not the trophies or the championships. But this moment, with you in his arms, promising a future together.

***

Emma settles into her favorite armchair, a steaming mug of tea on the side table and Max Verstappen’s newly released autobiography in her hands. As a long-time fan of Formula 1 and Max in particular, she’s been eagerly anticipating this book.

She flips through the early chapters, smiling at familiar stories of Max’s rise through the ranks of motorsport. But it’s the chapter titled “The Race of My Life” that catches her attention. This, she knows, is where Max will finally open up about the period when he stepped away from racing — a time that had puzzled and worried fans.

As Emma begins reading, she’s immediately struck by the raw emotion in Max’s words.

I thought I knew what pressure was. The weight of expectations, the split-second decisions that could mean victory or defeat. But nothing in my racing career could have prepared me for the day I walked into that hospital room and saw the love of my life look at me without a hint of recognition.

Emma feels a lump form in her throat. She remembers the press conference where Max had revealed the reason for his absence, but this ... this is different. This is Max laying bare his soul in a way she’s never seen before.

In that moment, I realized that all the trophies, all the victories, all the adoration from fans — none of it mattered. The true test of my life wasn’t on any track. It was right there, in that sterile hospital room, facing the possibility of losing the one person who saw me not as Max Verstappen the driver, but just as Max.

Emma finds herself blinking back tears. She’s always admired Max for his skill on the track, his determination, his fierce competitiveness. But this vulnerability, this raw honesty, shows a side of him she never knew existed.

The chapter continues, detailing the days and weeks following the accident. Max describes the pain of seeing you struggle to remember, the hope that would flare with each small recognition, and the crushing disappointment when progress stalled.

I’ve faced some of the best drivers in the world, pushed myself to the absolute limit of human capability. But nothing — nothing — has ever been as challenging as sitting by her bedside, day after day, telling her stories of our life together and seeing no spark of remembrance in her eyes. It was like watching the person I loved most in the world slip away, inch by inch, and being powerless to stop it.

Emma has to pause her reading, overwhelmed by the emotion. She tries to imagine what it must have been like for Max, known for his control and precision on the track, to face a situation where he had no control at all.

As she continues reading, she’s struck by Max’s honesty about his own struggles during this time:

There were moments — dark, terrible moments — when I wondered if it would be easier to walk away. To accept that the woman I loved was gone, replaced by this stranger who wore her face but didn’t know my heart. The guilt I felt for even thinking such thoughts nearly crushed me. But I realized that true love, real love, isn’t just about the easy times. It’s about choosing to stay, to fight, even when every instinct is screaming at you to run.

Emma finds herself nodding, moved by Max’s profound realization. She remembers following his career, cheering his victories, sympathizing with his defeats. But this … this feels like she’s truly seeing the man behind the racer for the first time.

The chapter takes a turn as Max describes the day you started to remember:

When she looked at me that day, really looked at me, and I saw recognition in her eyes — it was like winning every championship, every race, all at once. No podium celebration could ever compare to the joy of hearing her say my name, of feeling her arms around me, knowing that she remembered us, our love, our life together.

Emma feels tears rolling down her cheeks now, unashamed. She’s always been moved by stories of love and perseverance, but knowing this is real, that it happened to someone she’s admired for so long, makes it all the more powerful.

As the chapter nears its end, Max reflects on how this experience changed him:

I returned to racing eventually, but I was never the same driver … or the same man. I had faced my greatest fear and come out the other side. I had learned that there are things more precious than any trophy, more thrilling than any race. I learned the true meaning of love, of commitment, of fighting for what really matters in life.

Emma closes the book, needing a moment to process everything she’s read. She feels like she’s seen a completely new side of Max Verstappen, one that goes far beyond the confident, sometimes brash young driver she remembers.

Picking up her phone, she opens Twitter, scrolling through reactions to the book. It seems she’s not alone in her emotional response. Fans and fellow drivers alike are sharing their thoughts.

Just finished @Max33Verstappen’s book. I’m in tears. What an incredible story of love and perseverance ❤️

Always respected Max as a driver, but this book shows what a truly remarkable person he is.

Emma adds her own tweet to the mix.

Thank you, @Max33Verstappen, for sharing your story. You’ve shown us that the greatest victories in life often happen off the track 🥺

She picks up the book again, turning to the final pages of the chapter. Max’s closing words resonate deeply.

In the end, life isn’t about the races you win or the records you break. It’s about the people you love, the bonds you forge, the differences you make. My greatest achievement isn’t any trophy or title. It’s the life I’ve built with her, the love we’ve nurtured through good times and bad. That’s my true legacy, and it’s one that will last far beyond when the chequered flag last waves for me.

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