#Car Park Ventilation

[streetsofdublin]

THE WATER FEATURE AT THE DLR LEXICON

The attractive water feature takes up a 1.5m change of level and is full of movement and interest. The central island provides ventilation for the car park, which is obscured by bamboo groves.

MORAN PARK DUN LAOGHAIRE 10 OCTOBER 2023 The attractive water feature takes up a 1.5m change of level and is full of movement and interest. The central island provides ventilation for the car park, which is obscured by bamboo groves. dlr LexIcon is a new public library for Dún Laoghaire designed to provide a new landmark between the town and coastline. The four-storey structure was built into…

[pucksandpower]

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.

[dilemmaontwolegs]

The Perfect Life || CL16 {3}

Summary: Charles is beginning to see the cracks in your facade and it only leads to more questions than answers in his quest to get to know you. Warnings: angst, swearing, sarcasm, abusive parents, flashback to Jules WC: 2.1k

One || Two || Three || Four

Ten Years Ago The nurses greeted you by name as you walked into the ICU ward with a book in your hands and your school backpack slung over one shoulder. For the last six months you had visited your friend twice a week and learned the names of all the staff while you sat at his side. 

“I have the new, unreleased, Jack Reacher,” you said as you took your seat between the bed and the window. The only other sounds in the room were the quiet whoosh of the ventilator and the rhythmic beat of the heart monitor. “Father knows the Editor at Bantam Press.”

You dumped your bag on the floor and opened the novel. The action thriller wasn’t something you would choose yourself but Jules had liked the series so you read it aloud. The neurologists seemed to think it could help him and the psychiatrists seemed to think it could help you.

“Moving a guy as big as Keever wasn’t easy,” you began the story. Time slipped away as you turned each page and you were so engrossed in the words that you didn’t notice your phone vibrating in your bag. You were late to your piano lesson, but more importantly someone else was arriving for his weekly visit.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Charles snapped as he breezed into the room and crossed his arms. 

“Same as you, visiting,” you murmured as you packed your bag up, leaving the novel on the table that had a vase of fresh flowers. You touched Jules’ hand with a silent farewell and kept your eyes low as you made your escape. 

You were almost to the door when an arm blocked your way. “Don’t come back again,” Charles growled. 

Your fists clenched at your sides as you dared to lift your head and meet his glare. “He is my friend too.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “You’re just a stupid little girl. He avoids you because he finds you annoying.”

“You don’t know what you are talking about.”

“I know he wouldn’t want you here.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat and nodded because he was probably right. That was the last time you visited Jules, and the first time you truly hated Charles. 

“That was harsh,” Lorenzo stated as you passed by on your way out of the room. 

Charles waited for the door to close before he asked his eldest brother, “Were they friends?”

Lorenzo chewed his lip and shrugged. “They weren’t friends,” he admitted and Charles turned his back with a scoff as he made his way to Jules, missing the quiet confession tacked on to the end, “They were closer than that.” 

You had been so furious when you left the hospital that you smashed your fist into a wall in the car park where your driver was waiting. 

“Phew, that’s quite the punch you pack, little lady,” a stranger had chuckled between the drags he took on his cigarette. “With a bit of training you could do some serious damage.”

You looked at the blood running over your knuckles but you were numb to the pain. “I like damage,” you commented quietly. “Do you know any trainers?”

Present Day Charles drove along the scenic coastal road towards Saint Tropez rather than the faster highways. He lowered the windows and donned a pair of sunglasses as the breeze whipped his dark hair back. Everything about his ostentatious image screamed old money until he smiled and it was too carefree. Old money didn’t show such emotion, your mother said it was uncouth to feel anything except superiority. Those weren’t her exact words but it was the gist of the conversation.

“You frown too much,” he commented as he handed you his phone. 

“I hardly have anything to smile about.”

“For starters, we escaped that - whatever that was, because it certainly wasn’t charitable. And now you are in control of the music. I think that is enough for a little smile.”

You tossed his phone back on his lap and turned your attention back to the waves breaking against the rocks. “I don’t listen to music.”

“Everyone listens to music.” 

He fiddled with the stereo and the slow melodic beginning to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata filled the car. Each note sent echoes of pain shooting through your fingertips and you closed your hands as they began to shake. Your knuckles throbbed with the memory of sitting before your mother and reciting the classical greats you had been made to learn. You were constantly showcased to her friends, placed on a pedestal to flaunt skills that had no real purpose other than to illustrate the other families' mediocrities.

Until you made a mistake. 

You flinched as the allegretto movement began and your hands snapped close to your chest as you felt the piano lid come slamming down on them again. It was like falling in a dream and startling as you woke up. Charles was watching carefully as you found yourself back in the leather seat and not the velvet bench.

“Turn it off.”

He hit a button on his steering wheel and silence descended in the small space. “Want to talk about it?”

“No.” 

Charles thankfully let it go and concentrated on driving to Monaco. You didn’t even bother to argue with him when he passed around the outskirts of Nice without stopping, you had found a small distraction by making shapes out of the clouds. It was only when he slowed to drive through the signature winding street that passed the casino that you looked down at your chiffon gown and frowned. “I am overdressed, even for this place.”

“You can wear something of mine.”

“No thanks,” you said, quickly shutting down the offer with a shake of your head. You grabbed your phone from your clutch and sent a quick message to Arthur. “I have some spare clothes at your brother’s place, we can just pick them up.”

Charles’ brow lifted. “Why?”

“Because I don’t want to stay in this dress all afternoon?”

“No, why do you have clothes at Arthur’s?”

“For when I stay there, obviously. Do you think I stay in a hotel here?” You rolled your eyes. “No, wait, you probably thought ‘Daddy bought me a penthouse’.”

He had the good sense to look guilty but it also confirmed your suspicion. 

You knew the small city almost as well as Nice and found your bearings as he made his way to Arthur’s apartment complex. It wasn’t far from Charles’ but you had never been there, Arthur had just pointed it out on one of the many outings into the city. 

“You have a key too?” Charles asked as you unlocked Arthur’s door instead of knocking.

“You’re starting to sound a little jealous now.” The door swung open and Arthur waved as you shot past the sofa he was relaxing on and ducked into his bedroom to change into a pair of leggings and one of his old Prema shirts.

“Who’s jealous?” he asked as you flopped down beside him and used his thighs as a pillow. 

You draped a hand over your forehead and sighed dramatically. “Your brother is madly in love with me, but he can’t get over how close we are, Tur. There may be a duel at dawn, ready your pistols and kiss your mother in case it is the last time.”

“You really need a nap don’t you,” Arthur teased. His fingers carefully plucked the bobby pins from your hair and Charles watched on silently as the haunted look that had been in your eyes the entire ride faded away. “Dare I ask why you are here? You didn’t kidnap her did you?”

“I’d probably be floating facedown in the riviera if I tried that,” Charles replied with an indignant snort. “She voluntarily got into my car.”

“Ah, that’s progress, I suppose.”

“It was the lesser of two evils,” you corrected as you closed your eyes. The late night was beginning to catch up with you and a yawn cracked your jaw before a soft blanket fell over you. “Mm, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” 

Your brain hadn’t realised Arthur’s hands were still busy and the voice came from the blanket box where Charles had stood. Rather than question the goodwill, it was easier to pretend he hadn’t been nice because it was starting to really confuse you. 

“Did your genius brother tell you his plan?” you asked as you shifted around until you were comfy and looked up at your best friend. 

“He may have mentioned it on the drive home last night,” Arthur said. “Honestly, it was all he talked about.”

“Was not.”

“Was too.” Arthur turned his attention back to you. “Are you actually considering it?”

You barked a laugh that was a big enough ‘no’ but followed it up with, “Absolutely not. It wouldn’t even work anyway.”

“Why not?” Charles asked, taking a seat in the armchair opposite.

“No offence, but what do you bring to the table? Outside of F1 your name doesn’t mean anything.”

Growing up in Monaco where one in three people were millionaires, Charles wasn’t blind to reality, he knew first hand how elitist the ‘old money’ families were. “So why marry Jules?” 

You heard the pain that one question held and sighed as you sat up, woefully abandoning the idea of sleep. Charles didn’t like how the question made him sound petulant, or that he was somehow a better choice than Jules was - he didn’t think that at all, he just couldn’t understand why the plan wouldn’t work.

“It wasn’t about Jules. You forget that while he raced under the French flag the Bianchi’s came from Milan. The Italian market is one Father wants to break into.” You got up and went to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of Prosecco from the fridge. It was a little flat after being open a few days and you swirled the drink around, watching the bubbles rise to the surface. “Father’s five year plan was for Jules to win a championship with Ferrari, cementing the name back into Italian households, and then train his new son-in-law to join the family business.” 

The silence was heavy but Charles eventually recovered from staring out the window deep in thought. “Did Jules know this?”

“He knew enough.”

“What does that even mean?”

“He knew he was important enough to blackmail my father, kind of ballsy if you ask me, but it worked. Jules threatened to quit racing if he revoked the funding for your driving academy.” You drank down the Prosecco in a few unladylike gulps before refilling it as the bitterness in your belly grew. “Must have been nice to have someone fight all your battles.”

“I’m trying to help you now, but you’re being stubborn,” Charles said as he crossed the room and took the bottle away. “I don’t understand why.”

“You don’t understand? Maybe it’s because you treated me like shit for years and I can’t trust you.”

“I thought Jules didn’t like you, I figured it had to be for a good reason.”

“No, you figured you could judge me without even trying to get to know me. That’s pretty fucking shitty, but you know what? I’ve come to expect it from everyone. The only person that’s ever treated me like a fucking human being is sitting right there.”

Charles followed the angry point of your finger to his brother and sighed. “I can’t change the past, okay, but I am trying to make up for it now. Please, just let me help you, it’s the least I can do - for you and for Jules. It’s just a job.”

You crossed your arms and tipped your chin back to look him in the eyes. “What makes you think I would even protect you? I could let you get mobbed and point them in the right direction.”

Charles smiled and you realised you were no longer impervious to the fact he was quite handsome but it was his words that shocked you more. “Because I believe you’re better than that.”

“That might be your biggest mistake.”

Charles held his hand out. “We will have to test it and see. Deal?”

You looked at Arthur and so much hope filled his face it was impossible to stomach the idea of watching it fall away. So, you shook Charles’ hand and swore you heard Jules’ laugh in the seagulls' cries. Yeah, he would probably be laughing, he always laughed when you made a mistake. 

“There’s no use crying, lapinette, might as well laugh and learn,” Jules would say.

You only wondered just how bad this latest lesson in the school of hard-knocks would be.

Part Four.

[dannyphantom-zero]

Doctor Danny chapter 2

Danny weighed his current options. As a civilians he could just walk away and pretend he never saw anything. But as a doctor with very strong morals, he couldn't leave a man to bleed out in some unsterile alleyway.

He wondered for a brief second how future him would feel about this, probably frustrated, still Danny picked up the very unstable patient and laid him in the backseat secured by seatbelts.

He wanted to take his to a hospital but he knew this patient wouldn't consent even if he could which he couldn't right now because he was unconscious.

Danny decided to respect the vigilante to the best of his ability. After parking the car he scooped up the vigilante bridal style and turned invisible.

He flew up to his apartment and went intangible, making it so he could safely pass through the wall.

As soon as he laid the patient on the floor he realized something needed to be done about his "research", he couldn't let the vigilante see it and start questioning it. So he opted for turning the cork board around.

It was regrettable that he couldn't put the guy on a proper bed but he didn't have one himself so there wasn't much he could do in that regard.

Danny peeled off the blood soaked clothes. He hated it when he had to cut clothes but in this case it was the only way to see the wound better.

It seemed like some kind of jagged weopen had made deep gashes to his abdomen.

He got to work cleaning the wound, despite how much he had bled before the seriousness of the injury seemed to be exaggerated by the mount of blood Danny saw at first glance. It looked completely treatable.

"There seems to be a deep puncture wound near the aorta, thankfully it didn't hit it" Danny muttered to himself.

"There a slight abrasion on the abdomen over the inferior mesenteric but not deep enough to cause any real damage. He would be fine after getting some stitches"

Danny really wanted to do this at the hospital, it would be so much better but he really didn't want to be watched all the time because he knows the vigilantes identity.

Gathering all his courage Danny grabbed his tools. He was hoping the unconscious vigilante wouldn't wake up during this. Danny could administer anesthesia but he was a licensed anesthesiologist. He also didn't have any anesthesia.

Well, most people didn't use anesthesia for stitches anyway, but he didn't have the numbing shots either. The most he could offer of his patients woke up is some pain killers and towel to bite on.

Danny decided to use absorbable sutures, a type of dissolvable stitches.

"Alright now, please don't wake up" Danny pleaded in a whisper.

He began stitching up the wounds. Because he was a vigilante, Danny had a bunch he wouldn't stop just because he was injured, Danny would have to put in extra stitches in case he tears the other ones.

Danny finished and sighed in relief. The man was still asleep.

He picked up the bloody towels and set out a clean shirt pair of clothes for the man. The man's pants were also stained with blood.

Danny left the apartment for a few seconds to get food. He was trying to be polite, he never really had guests so of the man was hungry he wanted to be ready.

Jason opened his eyes slowly. His entire body felt sore. His hand went up to his face only to feel a hard metal. His helmet. He pulled off the helmet and took a big gasp of fresh air.

The helmet must've shut off and stopped ventilating.

Jason scanned the surroundings. It looked like a small apartment, it was almost bare, not even a bed, on fact Jason just realized he woke up on the floor.

Well, at least there was a blanket beneath him. He was restrained on any way he could see, there weren't any visible surveillance devices either.

Jason sat up and felt the wounds to see how bad they were when his hand grazed a bandage. It was tight but comfortable, like a pro.

Jason peeked beneath the wrappings to find stitches.

"Why?" Jason asked himself in bewilderment. Who in their right mind would go through all the trouble.

Jason heard a sound from around the corner of the room he was in. It sounded like the door was opening.

Jason braced himself. Danny walked in carrying two bags, one with two steaks and the other with a case of beer. He didn't make it a habit to drink but he knew that the beer could be an olive branch.

There was just one problem, how would he eat with his helmet on. Maybe Danny could wrap up the food for the vigilante after he is done cooking it so he could eat in peace.

At least that was the plan. Danny almost shrieked when he saw the vague outline of a man's head.

HE TOOK OFF HIS HELMET!

Danny closed his eyes tight and blindly made his way to kitchen tripping in the process.

Jason had been expecting some thug, what he got was this. A healthy man.

He watched as Danny fumbled around trying not to look at Jason's face. He decided enough was enough when he heard a loud 'thump' followed by a silent "fuck~".

Jason put his helmet on and made his way to where Danny was. Danny stood up.

"Sorry, I wasn't expecting that" Danny said.

"Who are you?"

Danny didn't answer.

"I'm a doctor"

Jason felt a little frustrated, he was asking for a name.

"Im trying my best to stay out of your way, I only helped you because you were bleeding out in an alleyway and as a doctor I couldn't ignore that"

"And your making food because?"

Danny grew red.

"I'm hungry" Danny said.

"That's a lot of food for one person"

"I figured you would need something to eat, I was going to wrap it up for you"

"No need I'll eat here-"

"NO!"

Jason almost flinched.

"Sorry, I just, if you take off your helmet and I see you, then you'll be watching me so I don't tell anyone who you are. I don't have time for that"

Jason was even more intrigued. This guy acted like he was a vigilante.

"You seem familiar with this kind of stuff"

Danny shook his head.

"No, not really"

Danny started cooking the steaks.

"If you want to take off your helmet you can go to the next room. I'll let you know when the foods done."

"Alright" Jason said numbly before slipping out of the room. The only other room was the one he woke up in and the bathroom. So naturally he started snooping.

Not that there was much to find.

"It's ready!"  Jason bumped into a wall in surprise and knocked a cork board off the wall.

"Shit!" Jason said as he picked it up. He felt something on the other side. Jason flipped it around and laid it on the table.

It seemed like this person was gathering Intel on the biggest crooks in Gotham, he even knew who was "compromised".

"Is that...me?"

There was a picture of Jason that he had never seen before, it was of himself standing on a rooftop.

"I look kinda like Batman" Jason thought for a second.

"I'm coming in" Danny announced. Jason scrambled to put on his helmet but he wasn't able to return the cork board in time.

"Oh no" Danny said setting down the food before he took the cork board he checked it over making sure everything was intact.

"This is just research so I can better understand my patients, It's nothing weird"

Jason put up his hands.

"I don't think it's weird that you have a crock board full of pictures, especially mine. Nope, that not weird"

Danny let out an exhausted laugh.

"Yeah I had to pay for that one, it just reminded me of someone, not that it matters"

"What, did it remind you of Batman?"

"Ha, no. You looked lonely but free, I- know someone who can relate to that"

"Lonely but free" Jason muttered.

"Anyways here" Danny said holding the food out to Jason.

"I hope we never meet again, in a good way"

Jason grinned beneath the helmet.

"I hope we do" he opened the window.

"See you later Doctor" he said waving before leaping gracefully out of the window, food in hand.

"Wait what?" Danny asked.

"Do not!" Danny shouted out the window.

"Do not come back!"

Jason shook his head, there was no way he was going to leave him alone, call it curiosity but Danny wasn't different from most Gothamites.

And he wanted to know more about him. Danny's reluctance to know Jason made him want to get closer even more.

Danny sighed, there was no way he could shake a vigilante off his trail. He just hoped Jason didn't interrupt his work or his research.

[starsstuddedsky]

Blonde Phase

Renjun x gn reader

summary: spontaneous hair decisions always end in regret. that's what you expect to hear when you tell renjun you're bleaching your hair, but instead you find support, and even his help. you should appreciate his wholehearted support but instead it has you wondering: why doesn't he care?

genre: fluff, minimal angst, technically they're in grad school but that's not particularly relevant, non idol au,

warnings: swearing, mentions of drinking, spontaneous hair decisions (i do not endorse), lmk if I missed any

wc: 4.4k

a/n: in the immortal words of charles boyle, the most intimate thing you can do with a lover is wash their hair. yknow i made fun of him for that until i wrote this. i see it. also its been so long since ive finishing anything, pls forgive me if this is bad. renjun i love u. as always I'd love to hear what you think <3

“I’m bleaching my hair.” If you say it fast enough, Renjun won’t be able to talk you out of it. The plastic bag swings around your wrist as you walk across the parking lot. “I’ve already bought the bleach and gloves and stuff, and I’m going to do it, today.”

He’s quiet for so long you check to make sure the call hasn’t dropped. “Okay.”

You almost drop your phone. “Okay?”

“Yeah,” he says, drawing the word out. “Was I supposed to say something else?”

“Um, yeah?” You say. “You have opinions about literally everything. You talked me out of buying those pants two days ago.” You finally get to your car, tossing the bag onto the passenger seat and half-falling behind the wheel.

“That’s because they were made of polyester, and the thrift store was still charging $15,” he says immediately. “That was a scam.”

“Money is temporary, drip is forever.”

“Those pants would have lasted a year max, before they fell apart, and you still haven’t learned how to sew so you wouldn’t even be able to mend them or upcycle them.”

“You know what, I didn’t buy the pants, so this fight is moot,” you say. You set the phone on speaker, turning the engine on to blast the AC.

“Well, not moot. Technically I won,” Renjun says.

“I’d respect you more if you weren’t insufferable.”

“Here I was thinking you appreciated my insight,” he says. “You even asked for it.”

“I did not!”

“You literally asked about bleaching your hair.”

“I said I was surprised you didn’t have an opinion, not that I wanted to hear it,” you say.

“Semantics,” Renjun says. “So what time do you want to come over?”

You frown. “Tonight?”

“The roommates are out of town for the whole weekend, and I have way better ventilation,” he says. “I’d much rather bleach it without passing out.” He pauses. “You do want help, right?”

“Honestly, I was not expecting support. I was fully ready to fight you on this,” you say.

He snorts. “Come over whenever, I'm not doing anything today.”

“See you in twenty minutes.” You hang up, feeling a strange ball of tension roll around in your gut. That was… too easy? Renjun always has something to say about your admittedly impulsive tendencies. But if he’s going to help you’re not going to reject it—knowing Renjun he’s probably already watching Youtube videos and learning more than you will ever know about bleaching hair.

And it’s Renjun. When have you done anything without his help?

.

.

Renjun opens the door wearing a wearied expression. He doesn’t bother to greet you or even smile, just unlocks the door and steps to the side.

“Hi to you, too,” you say, trading your shoes for the spare slippers resting by the doormat. You follow Renjun into the space that serves as kitchen, dining room, living room, and Jaemin’s miniature gym, with weights and mats stacked next to the television.

“Who the hell clogs a toilet and then leaves for the weekend,” Renjun says.

You set down your plastic bag full of hair products and frown. “That’s disgusting.”

Renjun leans against the counter. “And you didn’t have to spend the last forty minutes trying to unclog it.”

“So which of the guys are you going to murder?” You try to guess, running through his roommates: you find it hard to believe Jaemin would do such a thing. Jeno maybe, and Donghyuck would certainly think it’s funny. But, in all honesty, it could have been any of them.

“Don’t know,” Renjun says, “but knowing them, they’ll make a pact to protect each other.”

“Seriously?”

Renjun pauses, gaze sheepish. “It’s what I did when I accidentally killed Jaemin’s little succulent that survived his college dorm.”

You fake a gasp, placing a hand over your chest. “Every day I learn something new about you. That’s devious.”

“I was drunk!” Renjun says, holding up a finger. “And Jeno and Donghyuck pushed me into it, so it was equally their fault.”

“If you say so.” You glance around the apartment. “Where are they all?”

“Jaemin’s visiting family, Jeno has a soccer tournament, and Donghyuck said he’s going camping with Yangyang.” Renjun says, counting off with his fingers.

“Donghyuck and Yangyang are friends?”

“Yeah, according to them they bonded over dealing with me.”

“Those were their exact words?”

“Dealing with my ‘stupid ass,’” Renjun says.

“That’s more on brand.”

Renjun nods.

You think about Yangyang, Renjun’s friend from when he was a kid. You’ve met him a few times now, especially since he’s moved half an hour away from Renjun. He’s fun, always bringing out a chaotic side of Renjun whether it’s dancing on a bar or bringing out angry-Renjun. But Yangyang and Donghyuck?

“That’s a terrible friendship. They’re going to ruin you.”

Renjun nods again, but you see the smile hiding in his eyes. He can rant all he wants, you know he’s excited his friends are getting closer with each other.

You point at the bag. “So where are we doing this?”

You half expect him to lecture you about rash hair decisions but he just gestures to the kitchen. “I figure right here should be fine. The tiles should be pretty easy to clean and probably could use some bleach anyway.”

He drags the chair with a rickety leg from the dining table. You dig through the bag and set everything on the counter. While Renjun cracks a window open, you begin to mix the developer and the bleach, curling your lip at the sharp scent. Renjun joins you, pulling on a pair of gloves.

“Wow that’s strong,” he says, wincing.

“Yeah,” you say. “Definitely a good idea to do it here.”

When the powder is finally combined, you sit on the chair, Renjun following behind you. You section off your hair together, then he grabs the bowl and the brush.

He holds the thick paintbrush brush up against your hair, glancing at you, giving you one last chance to back down. You give him the nod of approval and he shifts back to focusing on your hair, brushing the bleach into it as carefully as he spreads paint on a canvas. He works section by section, carefully drenching your hair with the creamy solution.

“So, are you going to tell me why you decided to do this?”

You can’t resist turning and glancing at him. “I thought you approved.”

“I didn’t try to talk you out of it,” he says, “that doesn’t mean I’m not curious about how you came to this decision.”

You nod until Renjun uses his gloved hand to hold your head straight. “I suppose that’s fair.”

You pause, trying to find the right words. But you find yourself drifting back to Renjun. Why didn’t he ask this before the bleach was in your hair? It’s not like him to keep his opinions to himself. When you first met him, he was yelling at Donghyuck for going to a philosophy seminar just to fight with the notorious bigot of a professor (which Donghyuck did and then got kicked out, and proceeded to get the professor suspended). You only knew Mark back then, a friend from another class who invited you to meet some of his other friends in the dining hall. When Renjun turned to ask what you thought, you said Donghyuck should do what he thinks is right. Renjun didn’t hesitate to call you an idiot then. So why isn’t he calling you an idiot now?

To his credit Renjun doesn’t rush you. He continues to paint the bleach into your hair, content to wait for you to figure out an answer. Except you’re thinking about all the wrong questions. Like, seriously, why do you want him to call you an idiot?

“I want a change,” you finally say. “I’m stuck in a degree that will make me absolutely no money when I graduate, I can’t afford to break my lease, and don’t have any major relationships that need upheaving, so, hair.”

“‘A change?’” Renjun repeats. “Like, you woke up this morning and thought, today I’m going blonde?”

“Like, I have this feeling in my chest, this aching feeling that there’s something I need to do, someone I’m supposed to be, something more than the person I see in the mirror but I’ve made my decisions and I’m happy with my decisions and I genuinely like who I am. So, hair.”

You see Renjun’s hand falter out of the corner of your eye, halfway between the bleach mixture and your hair. He freezes for a heartbeat then continues to move, lifting some hair off your ear, careful not to brush the bleach onto your skin.

“‘So, hair,’” he says.

“Are you really going to repeat everything I say?”

This gets a short laugh from him. “I think the fumes are getting to me already.” He pauses, setting down the brush and stepping in front of you. “For what it’s worth, I like who you are, too. I’m really glad we’re friends.”

You smile at him. “Me too,” you say. “I definitely would have fucked up trying to bleach this on my own.”

.

.

“There’s still some bleach left,” Renjun says after he finishes with your roots. “You’re sure you don’t want your eyebrows to match?”

“Why don’t we do your eyebrows,” you say. “Better yet, why don’t we shave them off?”

Renjun sets down the brush. “Okay, no eyebrows.”

You grin at him. “That’s what I thought.”

He helps you get a plastic bag wrapped securely over your head, then sets the timer.

“What do you want to do for the next half hour?” You ask. “Preferably something that requires little to no movement.” You gesture to your head. “We’re not winning any frisbee tournaments tonight.”

“It was one time,” Renjun mutters, shaking his head and stepping around you plop down onto the couch. “We can watch something.”

You follow him, sitting on the other side, a cushion between you. The space feels strangely empty. Though you’ve spent plenty of time alone with Renjun, even alone with him at his apartment, the silence is usually interrupted by one of the guys getting bored of playing League, or coming back because they can’t go out to a bar without someone forgetting their ID, or in desperate need of Renjun’s expert advice (read: Jeno never remembers to ask Renjun to look over his submissions until 12 minutes before they’re due). The cushion between you never stays empty for long but the moments stretch on, only making the distance feel greater.

You wonder, not for the first time, how long it’s been since you’ve thought of Renjun as just a friend. If he was just a friend, you wouldn’t care so much about what he thinks. And if he was just a friend, you wouldn’t care so much that he suddenly doesn’t think.

You sneak a glance at him, fiddling with the remote for a couple seconds before realizing he grabbed the wrong one. He’s certainly always been handsome—that was undeniable from the moment you met him. But more than just being good looking, it’s Renjun himself. Not just those dark eyes, but the way they burn with passion (even when he’s arguing about the proper number of appetizers to order). It’s his perfectly shaped lips, the way they betray how he feels with a slight curve up or down—and his smile. Always, always his smile, beautiful and breathtaking even though you’ve seen it a thousand times.

He turns, a little furrow in his brow. “What?”

“Hm?”

“You’re looking at me funny,” he says. “Did I get bleach in my hair or something?”

You turn to face the TV, trying to pay attention to the show Renjun chose. “I wasn’t looking at you funny,” you say. “I wasn’t even looking at you.”

“If you say so,” Renjun says, “but if there’s a blonde spot anywhere in my hair, I’m so making you pay for it.”

You shake your head. Where the hell did those thoughts come from? Renjun, more than a friend? Sure, you’re close with him and sure, he’s objectively attractive, but you’ve never had those thoughts before. Well, at least not sober.

“Um, why are we watching Singles Inferno?”

“Because I asked and you were too busy not staring at me to answer, so I put it on,” Renjun says. “And don’t you dare try to tell me you don’t like it. I saw you rant on your Instagram story the other day.”

“Okay, but you don’t get it,” you say. “This bitch really has the audacity to to—”

“I saw your post,” Renjun says. “Believe me, I get it.”

“If you didn’t want to hear about it you should not have turned it on, because now I can’t stop,” you say. Renjun rolls his eyes but even as you delve into a full on essay about the horrible men particularly common in dating shows, you see the corners of his lips tilt up into a smile.

.

.

The timer goes off halfway through an episode.

“Saved by the buzzer,” Renjun says. “I’m putting a ban on anything reality TV related for the next three hours.”

“You’re the one that brought it up,” you mutter without any real annoyance. Despite his banter, Renjun dutifully listened to your rants, and even got mad along with you.

You drag a chair to the sink while Renjun drapes a towel over your shoulders. He puts on gloves and unwraps the bag, letting your hair fall into the empty sink.

“Close your eyes,” Renjun says gently. He tilts your head back, cupping the back of your head for a moment before pulling the head of the sink faucet out. He runs the water, long enough for you to peek your eyes open.

You’ve gotten used to seeing Renjun focused. He gets a little furrow in his brow, always glaring at his work. Before you were friends, you used to think he was actually angry, that his frowns and short tone were real. You’ve learned since then, it’s not his emotions, it’s his passion. The frown only comes out when he’s focused, trying to be perfect. When he cares.

“Unless you want bleach in them, close your eyes,” Renjun mutters, with absolutely no malice behind the words. His eyes shift to meet yours and that’s how you know you’re right. He can glare and bluster all he wants, he can’t hide his eyes, warm and shining. Like when he’s looking at his art, his gaze is a combination of soft and intense, creating something stronger than affection. Except he’s not looking at his art, he’s looking at you.

You squeeze your eyes shut, feeling your heartbeat pick up. Despite every attempt to shut down the thoughts, they race through your head, a stampede grown out of control. Renjun, who you’ve only known a year and a half but who has become one of your closest friends. Renjun, who never fails to share the only opinion you really care about. Renjun, who you can’t imagine life without. Renjun, who you’ve never dared to imagine life with.

He places a hand on your forehead, bringing the faucet closer to rinse your roots while keeping the water from pouring onto your face. You prepare for a cold shock but the water that soaks into your hair is the perfect temperature—not scalding hot, not freezing cold. Some water sprays over his hand, falling onto your eyelids and cheeks.

“Sorry,” Renjun murmurs. He holds the head farther away, running his fingers gently through the roots of your hair. He’s so close you can feel his breath, warm against your temple. You can feel his body, hovering over yours, and maybe it’s just your imagination, but warmth seems to emanate from it.

His friends would laugh at you if you described Renjun as soft to their face, but it’s the only adjective that captures the way he works the water through your hair. Soft and gentle and careful and nothing like the Renjun that has to corral everyone into his car at 3 in the morning. And yet this Renjun doesn’t feel like a stranger to you.

Washing your hair takes a lifetime, but as soon as he steps away and turns off the water, you miss it. You miss him, even though he’s only a couple feet away.

“You can open your eyes now,” he says. As soon as you do, he tosses a towel at you. It hits you in the face before you can get your hands up.

“Hey!”

“Sorry,” Renjun says, not sounding sorry at all. He manages to hold back the laugh but still grins at you, unashamed. He steps forward and pats your face dry, with the same gentleness as before, though there’s still a mischievous glint in his eyes. You yank the towel away before he gets any ideas, drying off your face on your down and wrapping it around your hair. You wring it out a couple times before letting go, doing your best to get it to fall evenly around your head.

You raise your eyebrows at Renjun. “Okay, how bad is it?”

“Okay, first of all, I’m insulted that you think there’s any way I’d fuck up you hair,” Renjun says. “And it looks really good. Blonde suits you.”

You take a deep breath and pull out your phone, studying yourself in the mirror and… he’s right. The color is even, somewhere between blonde and orange that is unavoidable when using bleach. Radical hair changes generally end in tears but looking at yourself in the mirror, you don’t feel the usual dissonance. The hair is different but somehow more familiar than the “normal” you that doesn’t feel right anymore.

“I’m right,” Renjun says.

You smile. “Yeah, you are.” You put down your phone, meeting his eyes. “Thank you, Renjun.”

“For what?”

“Doing all of this for me,” you say.

“It’s the least I could do,” he mumbles. “You’re my friend.”

You shake your head. “Thank you anyways.”

Renjun just shrugs and grabs the bowl, rinsing out the bleach in the sink. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he’s avoiding your eyes.

You do your best to clean up the bleach from the floor, busying yourself until Renjun finishes. You wonder if you’re imagining the tiles getting a little bit whiter. Finally, he turns off the water and glances at you.

“You’re really happy with it?” He asks, sounding more like he doubts you rather than changing his opinion.

“Yeah,” you say, standing up. “I think it’s the ‘me’ of right now, you know?”

“Not really.”

“Like, I feel disjointed, and blonde hair is definitely not me, but it's the me that feels kind of all over the place, so even though it doesn’t look like me, it looks like me.” You wring your hands together, fingers tinged red.

“That makes no sense,” Renjun says, “but I think I get what you mean.” He smiles. “And I’m glad. I wouldn’t want you to have any regrets.”

So he did think this was a potential mistake? Why didn’t he say anything?

Renjun turns back to the sink, but before he can turn the water on, your voice calls his name. “Renjun?”

“Hm?” He doesn’t turn around.

“Why didn’t you fight me on this?”

He doesn’t move for a long moment. You wish you could see his face. “I have been told by certain people,” he begins, which is code for Donghyuck and Yangyang certified their position as Renjun’s worst nightmare. He turns to face you, wiping his hands on a towel.

“That I have a tendency to be overly opinionated in a generally negative direction. And I thought about it, and I realized I'm never really fully supportive, whether it’s a big decision, or, like, coffee, and I’ve always been this way, but, apparently, it’s especially… apparent with you.” He frowns. “This is all coming out wrong. I’m trying to say that it’s different when I’m around you. I’m different.”

Your eyes jump between his, trying to decipher what he’s saying. “Different?”

“I care a lot about you,” Renjun says, “more than anyone, actually.”

“Oh.” You blink once, twice. “Wait, you like me?”

Renjun’s eyes shift to the floor. “Yeah.”

You can’t help but let out a short laugh, reeling at the absurdity of it all. Renjun likes you? But he’s Renjun. Even though he’s the most common main character in your daydreams, you never once realistically thought he might be fantasizing about you too. But he likes you.

“I really didn’t want to say anything, I mean, before anything else you’re my friend, and I don’t want to ruin that,” Renjun says rapidly. “We’re good friends, and I really didn’t want to be the guy that pretends to be your friend but just wants to date you the whole time, that’s really not what I was trying to do, it’s just—”

“Renjun.” You put a hand on his shoulder and he freezes mid sentence, mouth still hanging open a little. Before he can move, you lean closer, the type of line you’d only dare to cross in your dreams.

“I’d like to kiss you,” you say softly. He blinks, eyes darting between your eyes and your lips.

“I’d like that,” he finally breathes. So you kiss him.

It starts light, his lips exactly as you imagined—soft and warm. His arm works its way around your waist, pulling you closer. The other works its way into your hair, still wet and sticking to your head. Renjun kisses like he’s been planning this for a long time, and maybe he has. Every movement is slow and careful, until he’s stolen all your air and even then you don’t want to pull away.

Your bravery fades the minute you meet his eyes. You bury your face into his chest, your cheek resting against your own hand. Renjun wraps both of his arms around you, holding you snugly in place.

“I like you, too,” you say into his chest. It’s the cowards route but if you look him in the eyes the words will never come out. “If it wasn’t obvious.”

“It wasn’t actually,” he says softly. “I think I drove all of my friends insane trying to figure out whether I should confess or not.”

“They all know?” You groan. “We’re never going to hear the end of this.”

“Yeah.” When Renjun laughs, it shakes your whole body. You can feel the rumbling, overtaking his heartbeat. “It’s okay though. It’s worth it.”

You turn your head, emerging from the sanctuary of his chest and tucking your head so that you can see his face. He smiles at you with the familiar warmth you’ve come to expect.

“Yeah,” you say, “it really is.”

Renjun grins.

“Your hair on the other hand…” He says.

“I thought you liked it!”

“I like it,” Renjun says, “but when has Donghyuck ever liked a single change to anyone’s hair?”

“Since when do you care what Donghyuck thinks?”

“I’m just saying now that we’re officially dating, my friends are going to be extra annoying,” Renjun says.

“Extra annoying? I didn’t think that was possible.”

“Don’t underestimate them.”

You groan, pressing your face back into his chest. “It’s not too late to get some hair dye.”

“You are not changing your hair because of my dumbass friends,” Renjun says.

“You like it?”

“You like it,” he says. “That’s the only opinion that really matters.” He pauses then adds, “But yeah. I like it.”

You grin, lifting your head to kiss his cheek. “Maybe we should dye your hair too.”

Renjun snorts. “Oh yeah?”

“We could have matching couples hair.”

He laughs out loud this time. “Maybe we should just get some shirts.”

“Three minutes of dating and you already want matching shirts? Huang Renjun, be honest.” You push off of him until you can place your hands on his shoulders and look him in the eyes. “Are you obsessed with me?”

“Yes,” he says, layering his voice in sarcasm that still isn’t enough to hide the truth of the admission. “All day every day, all I think about is you.”

“Well, see, that can’t be true because if you were that obsessed and I’m this close, you would already be kissing me because—” You forget whatever you were going to say, but it doesn’t really matter. Not when Renjun is kissing you like this. Your hands at his shoulders slink around his neck, while his wrap around your waist, leaning so close to you, you feel your back begin to dip.

Huang Renjun is poison, the kind that turns into a heart-shaped puff of pink when the bottle is opened. You melt into his kiss and it’s still not enough. You could die, right this instant, and you don’t think you’d notice. Death itself wouldn’t be able to tear you away from this moment.

“Renjun!” Donghyuck’s voice thunders through the kitchen. “How dare you? You bastard, you’re cheating?”

You jump apart, turning to see him looming in the doorway. His glare settles on you, and you see the exact moment he realizes he recognizes you.

“Jesus Christ, you could have knocked or something,” Renjun says.

“I live here too,” Donghyuck says automatically. He squints, then looks at Renjun, then back at you. “YN? Your hair is blonde.”

For some reason, you raise your hand and wave at him. “Hey!”

“Oh my god!” Donghyuck cries. “Yangyang owes me thirty dollars!” He races back out the door, screaming something that’s lost as the door swings shut.

You glance at Renjun. “Cheating?”

He frowns at the door, still a crack open. “Did he… seriously think you were someone else? That I was cheating on my unrequited crush?”

His eyes shift to yours. A heartbeat passes and you burst into laughter. His friends might be annoying, but they’re still endearing. You press a messy, smile-infested kiss to his lips and wonder if you’ll ever get used to the giddy feeling.

There’s plenty messy in your life, plenty to doubt. But watching Yangyang and Donghyuck drag their backpacks in (apparently Donghyuck forgot his power bank and they decided to give up on camping) as they attempt to interrogate Renjun on every detail, you can’t help but feel like it doesn’t really matter. You don’t doubt Renjun. You don’t doubt blonde suits you. And you don’t doubt the power of a last minute hair decision, not anymore.

thank you for reading!! likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated

[octuscle]

Fuck man using this app whilst I'm currently so horny might be a mistake but please tell me this thing has a forced growth feature. I'm so bored of being small already I just want to become so fucking huge the only thing I can fit in is under wear, skin tight gym shorts at the most. I want my stench and B.O to instantly fill up a room and make lesser men fall to their knees.

I just wanna be forced to become a young insanely huge freakshow of a bodybuilder.

RIPPPPPP! In the middle of lunch, the seam of your jacket rips open across your back. The whole restaurant is looking at you. You barely look up from your plate, on which instead of a coq au vin there are now six boiled chicken breasts with rice. You struggle to free yourself from the shreds of your jacket without stopping to gulp down your food.

RIPPPPPP! Your biceps burst the sleeves of your shirt. With your mouth full, you mumble something like "sorry" and just rip the remnants of the sleeves off the rest of the shirt. You eat your food like a pig. The glass of Merlot is now a canister of protein shake. Your colleagues and business partners stare at you with open mouths. You pause for a moment and do a double biceps pose. Fuck, the bushes under your armpits stink like a horse stable. You take a deep breath and grin. PIIIIING! Two of your shirt buttons can no longer withstand your pectoral muscles as you inhale and fly through the air like projectiles. You stand up with difficulty, apologize again with your mouth full and spit food scraps around. On the way to the toilet, you let loose a huge protein fart. A quick look in the mirror… You can throw away the shirt. For the rest of lunch it must still hold out with torn sleeves and unbuttoned. While you first fart and then burp even louder, your boss comes in. Holds you a telling off, what that was for an impossible behavior on your part. He asks you to leave the restaurant discreetly through the back exit. And to report to him in the office tomorrow morning.You put your hand to your temple in an "Aye Sir". And you fart again as a farewell.

Your fancy Porsche convertible groans as you squeeze your body into the tight seat. Fuck, the car is much too small for you. The remnants of the clothes you're wearing on your body are much too small for you. You desperately need a change of clothes. In your gym there is a small corner where they sell fitness clothes. And the gym is nearby, so you drive the car there. The receptionist stares at you. This is actually a posh place for yuppies and influencers who want to keep fit. Not for the big lads like you. You ask if they have anything to wear in your size. The lady asks you if you speak English. You repeat your question with a heavy Russian accent.

The only thing they have here in your size are shorts that are frighteningly tight on your thighs. At least there are shoes and socks in size 14. You look good. You do another pose in front of the mirror. The passing visitors of the gym hold their noses. You smell your armpit again. Good honest pumper sweat. You want to go to the training area when you are asked for your membership card. You search for your wallet in the rags that used to be your suit pants. There it is. But Anatol Ivanovich is not a member here. Anatol is a member of Gold's Gym.

You love your Jeep Wrangler Rubicon. A car like you. Massive and bursting with power. And fortunately well ventilated for any passengers. As you roll into the parking lot in front of the gym, you and your car stick out. This is certainly a place for the big guys. But you're the biggest of them.

After the third set on the leg press, you take a deep breath. Yes, this is what a gym must smell like. Like burps. Like protein farts. Like sweat. Like testosterone. Just like you!

Found the pic of your new you @muscleaddictza

[am-i-the-asshole-official]

WIBTA for leaving a note on my neighbors door complaining about his stupid dog?

pretty much what it says in the title: i (20, nb) live with my mother (50s) in duplex (relevant info). not too long ago this guy--we'll call him billy--moved in next door. at first i didn't really pay him much attention. i mean i'd wave if i saw him pulling into the drive and stuff but other then that our lives didn't really intersect.

then a bunch of little things started piling up, like the way his friends were always parking in one of our spots (everyone has two parking spots. we only have one car so it's not a BIG issue, but this meant if we had company over at the same time they had to park in the grass or on the street, which was really annoying), and the weed he smokes is so fucking strong that it travels through the ventilation system and stinks up our apartment (i've burned so much incense. it's never enough. idk what the fuck strain it is but its potent, god DAMN) and now he's got a dog. a big, mean, untrained and UNLEASHED dog. that dog...i don't think i've ever hated a dog before. tbh i never thought i would, like i'm not the biggest dog fan in the world but fuck, man. i hate this stupid dog. it barks all the time. it chases my cat through the yard. it's tried to rush me twice and had to be physically restrained by billy (who was laughing and acting super blase the whole time, btw) and most recently it lunged at my mother while she was in our backyard--which is the part that REALLY pissed me off. it's to the point where we're uncomfortable in our own home.

which is where we come to this crossroads; billy says that he's going to be moving in the near future, though he hasn't specified when. i'm thinking of leaving a strongly worded note for him before he goes, something to the effect of "hey dipshit, maybe put your psycho mutt on a leash before it catches you an assault charge" but y'know, less aggressive. bc even if he's leaving soon i feel like this is something he needs to hear. but at the same time, i wonder if that's too passive aggressive? i suck at confrontation so i can't say this to him face-to-face. i'm also not sure if any sort of comment (verbal or written) would be crossing some sort of line or not, as i'm also terrible at the whole 'understanding social rules' thing.

so, WIBITA?

What are these acronyms?

[divnydoodles]

“Scapegoat” (Story told through the Incubus Maine News Gazette)

(Warning for literary descriptions of violence, death, and injury)

~~~

“2 Bodies Found In The Harmony Arcadia; Owner Claims “Killer Robot” Is To Blame”

On April 22nd, 1994, The body of 25 year old [REDACTED] and 34 year old [REDACTED] were uncovered within the Harmony Arcadia. The victims were found tangled in an axial fan of the main ventilation system, recovered by unsuspecting maintenance workers. An autopsy revealed the cause of death to be blood loss and asphyxiation; [REDACTED] suffered blunt force trauma to his skull and chest, while [REDACTED] had visible fractures on her neck and clavicle from strangulation. The case was ruled almost instantly as a murder.

Police noted long, abnormal rows of shallow bruises and lacerations on both parties, wrapping around the limbs and torsos in a “spiral” pattern. Closer examination confirmed the wounds were sliced with metal coils, such as those represented on the Henry Security puppets (the Arcadia’s robotic security devision made to replace human security guards.)

Forensic investigators came to a definitive conclusion that the puppets were somehow used in the murders, and received verification from Arthur Greywhinder—the founder and creator of the Harmony Arcadia— in his police interview.

He confirmed that the puppets are programmed to only ever act on the commands of their artificially intelligent leader, the Commander Henry. Every action they make is result of its own explicit instructions, which provided a compelling lead to a deeper investigation. According to investigators, the Commander wasn’t able to be brought in for questioning; it verbally invoked its “fifth amendment right to remain silent” before the interrogators had the chance to speak with it one-on-one.

Only when security camera footage was accessed did law enforcement unfold the hidden story. Video logs reported that on the night [REDACTED] went missing, the Commander intentionally disabled all cameras in the Arcadia until the next morning. The same was said for [REDACTED], whose car would never be moved from the mall parking lot. It remains unclear whether or not the Commander itself was behind the assault, or if it sent the other security puppets to attack the victims, but its unmistakable involvement was enough to convince authorities to take action.

On April 30th, after the video footage was released, Commander was officially handed over as evidence to the Incubus Maine police department. First-hand police accounts reveal that the puppet violently resisted the arrest, regarding that it took six officers to restrain the machine and move it outside of the building.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” one injured officer told reporters. “You know, you wake up, have breakfast, go to work like usual, and the next minute you’re expected to take down a killing machine with a couple of your partners. Like c’mon now… I just barely got my shoes on. It’s too early for this…”

Greywhinder spoke with press that afternoon concerning the murders. He suggested that faulty wiring must have been the initial cause of the robot’s malfunction, but later doubled down on his first assertion, claiming instead that:

“…The Commander Artificial Intelligence grew sentient, and became filled with a bitter hatred for humanity…”

He continued:

“…What was once created to protect the Arcadia became its greatest threat… I believe I speak for all of us when I say no one could have predicted these horrific acts at the hands of our trusted ally. Given the subject matter, I fully understand the public scrutiny. A case as this one feels all too familiar…”

As of writing, the investigation is still underway. Greywhinder himself declared in his speech that Commander will be disassembled on May the 8th by authorities, and that the security puppets will be temporarily discontinued to avoid the risk of anymore attacks.

“…There comes a time in every man’s life where he has to put his foot down in the event of a liability. You do what you have to in order to protect your family. The Commander—in this situation— is a rabid dog. A once beloved pet, reduced to nothing but a raving, sputtering mess of an animal. It’s best for all of us that he’s swiftly put down before he gets the chance to infect anyone else…”

Ultimately, a trial will not be held for the android, nor was a confession ever recorded. The Commander was last seen in its final moments being transported away from the mall in a police vehicle. The Arcadia has agreed to make investments towards more human security guards, and the families of the deceased will be awarded with financial compensation.

—Journalist I.F. of the Incubus Maine News Gazette

~~~

[undeadorion]

Fall to be Free

Chapter 1 — The Door

Fandoms: Ghost (the band), original characters

Word count: 5,010

Warnings: cults, satanism, brief descriptions of abuse

So I wrote the most self indulgent thing. I AU’ed Ghost into my own world with my OCs. Because I had to.

The world is the setting of a comic I’ve been working on (I’ve had the characters for like 20 years). The basic concept is that it’s the late 90s in a slightly sci-fi-ish version of our world. And people with special abilities are common place. So the Papas (who are each their own person, not played by Tobias in this world but still a band) have some very special powers.

Dane drags Crawford to a small Ghost show at a record shop, and Crawford gets the Cirice treatment. Totally on accident and by chance.

Crawford followed Dane towards whatever the other had in mind. Dane hadn’t exactly explained what they were doing. A lot of rambling, a mention of making a “few stops” before hitting their usual bar. The fact that they were out at 3 in the afternoon left Crawford suspicious that these few stops would not be quick. He was more irritated that Dane thought he had to be sly to get Crawford to go anywhere with him than being simply outright. “Hey, let’s hit the record store for a while” is so much easier to say than the ten minute lead up he got instead. 

Because the record store was exactly where Dane led him. Crawford didn’t even realize that’s where they were until Dane was opening the door. He should have recognized it, he was here nearly every week, but the street was usually rather quiet. It was a hole-in-the wall sort of place, the door tucked away in an alcove so shadowed it looked like the service entrance for the restaurant around the corner on the more main road. Except today the street was teaming with people. A large bus dominated the parking spaces across the street, the sort of private affair with fancy cloth seats. Every other parking spot was filled as well, with people hangout out between and around the cars, on the sidewalks, even in the street. 

There were quite a few among the loiterers in black and white face paint. Metal heads, he thought, just as the pounding bass from inside the store hit his ears. The dread hit him that Dane was trying to drag him into some sort of concert. But Dane wasn’t into metal of any kind, not even in the slightest. Was the show just a coincidence?

“You can wait out here if you want,” Dane was saying, the door only open a crack. “There’s a shit ton of people in there, and I know how you feel about that sort of thing.” As he spoke, he pulled the door open a bit more. 

Crawford cocked his head to the side as he could hear the music better. It had a clarity he wasn’t expecting. The singer was neither screaming nor growling, and their voice easily lifted above the instruments. He couldn’t pick out the actual lyrics with all the noise on the street, but he could hear enough that it made him curious why this music had attracted the crowd gathered outside. 

Inside wasn’t any better. People crushed in shoulder to shoulder, making the already poorly ventilated store hot and damp. There was just enough space at the back to squeeze between the writhing crowd and the rack of CDs and records. People trod on his boots and knocked into him, but he just shoved them back into the crowd and they didn’t seem to notice. 

When Dane finally stopped at section of cassettes (it’s all his car could play), Crawford was able to catch his breath. It was an awkward corner where people hadn’t quite squeezed into. At the other side of the store, he could see the band that was the cause for such chaos. It couldn’t even really be called a band, really. It was just three people. The singer flanked by two men in masks, one with a guitar and the other a bass. The singer was almost entirely monochromatic in stark blacks and whites, except for the small portions of visible skin. Black hair, black jacket, white shirt, and his face painted vaguely to resemble a skull with bold geometric shapes. He spoke to the audience with a thick accent, something about it being his first time, only to clarify he meant in this city. This transitioned into the next song somehow, a very different style than the last. He was still wrapping his head around the tonal shift, when the singer pulled out something from his pocket, the yellow object standing out starkly against his white gloved hand. 

The sound of a kazoo floated out over the music, leaving Crawford completely and utterly baffled. Even more confusing was the reaction of the crowd. They screamed and howled as if it was the best thing they’d ever seen. Even though Crawford could only see them from behind, there were marks of it being a more hardcore crowd. A lot of black clothes and metal spikes, and patches as crudely sewn as his own. One guy bellowed “HAIL SATAN!” from somewhere in the crowd. All in response to a man playing a kazoo in the middle of a song that used the word “zombie” a lot. 

He turned to Dane to ask how much longer he would be, only to find the other not even looking at the tapes. Sure, he hand his hands on them, but he was half turned so he could look over his shoulder at the man on stage. Whatever harsh words were on Crawford’s tongue died immediately. He’d never seen his friend make such an expression. It almost like Dane were in pain, a deep and unspeakable pain, but softer. Even in the poor lighting of the alcove, his eyes glistened as if threatening to shed tears. With a heavy sigh, he rolled his eyes. 

Dane wasn’t exactly a brave person. He often needed a chaperone to do anything even remotely social. The idea of squeezing into a small record shop full of devil worshiping metal fans wasn’t something he could do alone. And Dane knew Crawford wouldn’t willingly walk into such a situation either. But it was obvious this was some band that Dane liked enough to even take a risk on it. 

“You’re a fucking asshole, you know that?” Crawford growled, before grabbing Dane by the shoulder and shoving him toward the crowd. He let out a yelp of protest before he disappeared into the crush of bodies. He’d be fine. Probably.

But before Crawford could step back to the safety of the alcove, someone bumped into him from behind. Half a step forward was all it took before he was also absorbed into the crowd. The zombie kazoo song had ended and everyone was jostling for the singers attention, shouting responses to questions Crawford couldn’t hear. It seemed that his every attempt to push back toward safety cause the crowd to surge and push him deeper. In desperation, his fingers clawed toward painted faces and studded leather. But no one seemed aware of him, enraptured in whatever was being said. 

No, the music had started up again. Softly at first. A few bass notes dropped and a stillness rippled through the crowd. Just for a moment, everyone hushed in anticipation. As the instruments started in earnest, the stillness broke and everyone crushed even closer. 

Suddenly, open space. 

Crawford froze, hands gripping some sort of rail. He was at an edge of the crowd. But he was still trapped. Before he could even begin to think of which way was out, he realized it wasn’t just any rail. All he registered in the song was the word “rumble” before his eyes focused on the shiny black shoes mere inches from his hands. Black shoes, white spats, black pants. Slowly, he lifted his gaze from the shoes, expecting to see the singer looking out over the whole crowd. But instead, he found himself staring directly into that painted face. No, not just his face. He wasn’t addressing the front row. He was staring directly into the man’s mis-matched eyes. 

“I can see the scars inside you.”

It was just a line from the song, but somehow it felt as if the man were speaking to him and only him. His gaze unwavering. A gloved hand gesturing as if to say “this is about you, only you. No one else.”

Crawford felt something in his chest. His heart pounding like a caged bird desperate to escape. No longer aware of the sweaty bodies crushing against him. Barely aware of the music. It was just him and the man who was so recently wielding a kazoo. 

Even as he saw nothing but that starkly painted face, he had the oddest sensation he was standing in a hallway. A hallway lined with doors of different styles. Some had windows, some even stood open. He had the sense they could all be opened with just a touch. Except one. The one directly in front of him. He knew, the way one knows things in dreams, that it had always just been an empty wall. That this wasn’t a place where a door was, despite being the only stretch of blank wall in the entire corridor. But now…now there were cracks in the paint. He reached out a hand, his fingers brushing the cracked and peeling paint. Pieces fell away, larger than such a gentle touch should have caused. They cracks grew, spreading the cascade of old, dry paint and rust. There stood a door. A massive, metal door held shut with a rusted iron lock. Scratched into the metal was a large symbol, off center and crooked. Newer than the door itself, but the lines still starting to rust. Two intersecting lines, with an incomplete circle around the point where they crossed. Above it, something else was scratched into the metal. Words of some sort? He ran his fingers over them, but before he could begin to make them out an elbow jabbed him in the ribs.

The dream? Illusion? Hallucination? burst like a bubble. In that split second of awareness, he could have sworn there was a blue glow in the man’s white eye. Maybe it was just the lights glinting. He was also aware that he hadn’t just reached out in the dream. The singer had dropped to one knee and was gripping Crawford’s hand firmly. But that vanished as quickly as the strange dream, as a young woman had been the one to bruise his ribs in an attempt to offer her own hand to the singer. 

As Crawford stumbled back, dazed, he swore he saw fury in the man’s face, his dark upper lip curling into a snarl as the young woman waggled her long painted nails at him, begging for him to hold her hand, too. It was a fleeting moment as she was quickly ignored, the singer smoothly moving back to his feet to continue the song as if nothing had happened. It was the same song, still. Surely he had stared at that illusory door for longer than it would take to finish  a song, but he had the sense it hadn’t even been the length of an entire verse.

He could feel the memory of the door fading, like trying to hold water in his hands, the way dreams fade so very fast. No, this was different. Usually he could hold on to a piece or two, but it was as if the memory were being sucked away down a drain as he desperately tried to hold on to some piece of it. He let the crowd push and pull him, drifting like a rudderless boat on the water, as he tried to remember what he’d seen. A door where there wasn’t a door? That didn’t make sense. A message? Scratches? A symbol of some sort? He felt as if it were staring him in the face but he couldn’t place it. Like a shape taunting him from the corner of his vision that wasn’t there when he turned. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” Dane’s voice cut through the noise as his fingers dug into Crawford’s arm. 

“What?” was all Crawford could manage. 

Dane managed to pull them both the rest of the way through the crowd and into the safety of the alcove once more. 

“How the hell did you get all the way up there?!” Dane managed to sound giddy and devastated at the same time. “And to be chosen like that…” He let out a whimpering sigh that was probably meant to be exaggerated or sarcastic, but even Crawford could see the envy in it. 

“What’s the big deal? I tripped. He probably thought I was reaching for him or something.”

“No!” Dane scolded. “It’s a whole thing. He only does it to one person per show! Not only cause what the song is about but it’s what happened in the music video. Papa picks one person to sing to like they’ve been chosen as someone special. Half the people in that crowd would trade vital organs to have been in your place.”

“So it’s just an act? It’s not like some mind control shit?” He still couldn’t shake that vague memory of doors. 

“It’s ALL an act,” Dane said with a scoff, as if it should be obvious. “Papa Emeritus III, the anti-pope of a satanic cult using music to overthrow governments and take over the world.” He let out a chuckle as if it were ridiculous to even consider something like that were real. “It’s all a schtick, but it’s pretty fucking hot.”

“If you’re into that sort of thing.” He glanced back to the stage and could have sworn the singer was watching him over the heads of everyone else. No, it couldn’t be.

“Hell yeah,” Dane said, wistfully as he watched the singer. “I’d let that man break me in half and I’d thank him for it.” He started detailing things he’d do for the singer, with increasing lewdness. But Crawford barely heard a word of it. He had the unsettling sense that every time the singer cast his gaze across the crowd, it lingered on himself. And not just for a brief moment. For entire lines of a song, it felt. That was impossible. He was a nobody and he didn’t even care about this band, so why would he even suspect a thing like that?

“What’s that symbol?” He asked, so suddenly he wasn’t entirely sure for a moment where the curiosity came from.

“What symbol?” Dane said, shaken out of his perverse musings.

“This!” Crawford grabbed the sleeve of a man’s jacket. On his shoulder was a sort of upside down cross symbol that struck Crawford like a punch to the gut. 

“Fuck off!” The man to whom the jacket belonged, jerked his arm away from Crawford.

“That’s just one of the band’s logos,” Dane said with a shrug, obviously not seeing anything deeper in it. 

Was that why it was familiar? Because now Crawford could see it was everywhere in the shop. On patches and necklaces and mingled into the promotional artwork hung on the walls. He shook his head as if he could shake off the weird feeling that it was important somehow. 

———

The rest of the show was only a few more songs. Needing time to think, Crawford convinced Dane he’d be fine and to actually go enjoy himself. What he really wanted to do was slip outside for a smoke. But something told him to stay there. That he was missing something. He wasn’t the sort to give a shit about celebrities, and this guy wasn’t even proper famous. Half a step above a basement show where no one cared about who the band was as long as they played something decent. So why the hell did he feel like the singer was actively watching him? It wasn’t necessarily a feeling of paranoia, but something twisted in his gut. Why couldn’t Jackie be here? She’d knock some sense into him and call him a paranoid idiot for it.

Finally, the singer went into some ramble about orgasms as a lead up to a song about a clock. At least that’s as far as Crawford could tell. He wasn’t paying very close attention, trying to shake off the feeling he was being watched and the relief that he could leave this surreal experience behind him. 

As the singer said his goodbyes, bowing and blowing kisses to the crowd, Dane staggered out of the loosening crowd. He was a sweaty mess, shaking slightly from exertion, but looking like he was having the time of his life. “Thanks, man,” Dane said with such genuine gratitude it seemed like he might cry. “I mean it, I really, really mean it.” He leaned on Crawford in a sort of half hug. Crawford suspected it was mostly to keep from falling over. 

“C’mon, let’s get out of here,” he said, an arm across Dane’s back to guide him towards the door. But he didn’t get two steps before bumping into a wall of black. A wall of black topped in silver. 

Two figures dressed like the musicians who had been on stage stood before them, stock still and facing them. These two definitely hadn’t been the ones on stage, both considerably wider in a way that suggested pure muscle. 

“You mind making room, assholes?” Crawford growled. He tried to step to the side, only to be met with another masked man. Both he and Dane staggered, stepping back to find another way only to discover another three behind three behind them. Six in total, boxing them in. All six facing them, and letting everyone else flow around them.

Rough, strong hands grabbed them from all sides, half dragging them through the dispersing crowd. No one seemed to take notice of this, chatting and celebrating amongst themselves. Ignoring Crawford and Dane’s shouts of protest as the masked goons forced them toward the back of the record shop. 

The fresh air should have been a welcome relief as they passed into the narrow alley out back, but all Crawford felt was a rising terror. Especially as he saw where they were headed. The singer stood there, talking with the two masked men from the stage as they packed up their instruments. He held a cigarette in his gloved fingers, looking as casual as if they were all just friends and there weren’t six men dragging people out to be presented to him.

“Oh, there you are,” the man with the painted face said, his voice just as accented as it had been on stage. Maybe that part wasn’t an act. 

“What’s the meaning of this!?” Crawford demanded, trying to pull free of the men who held him, but their grip didn’t budge. 

“Papa…” Dane breathed out. “It’s an honor…”

“You, my friend,” the singer said, pointing with his cigarette toward Crawford, “Have quite the gift. And you can’t even see it.”

“What the fuck’re you talking about?” Crawford growled. If the man behind him weren’t so tall, he could have nailed him in the balls with the heel of his boot to make him let go. He doubted a blow to the shins or knees would even be felt.

“That little song of mine, it’s…well, it’s mostly metaphor. A bit of exaggeration. But like with all forms of art, some parts of it are completely true.” A faint smile played over his lips as he regarded the two held captive before him. “The part that’s true is I can see into people’s hearts. Truly.”

“Fuckin’ exo…” Crawford didn’t care that people had abilities that he’d never have access to, but he hated when they acted like they were somehow special. Exos, phenoms, moxies, specials, metahumans, whatever term was used, it didn’t mean they were extra ordinary. Some people could do advanced calculus in their heads, some people could paint, some people can create fire with their bare hands. It didn’t make them special. 

“Do you often speak of yourself with such derision?” 

“I’m not a fuckin’ exo,” Crawford snapped. “He is,” he nodded to Dane. His friend who could change shape at all, but usually just turned into some sort of dog.

Dane was about to say something, but the singer placed a single gloved finger on Dane’s lips and he fell utterly silent. “Oh yes, I am aware of this,” he said, leaning closer to Dane’s face. “And so very eager.” His voice dropped to just above a whisper, “If you’re a good boy, you might have a chance to show your appreciation for your Papa…” he leaned closer still, his painted lips brushing Dane’s ear as he whispered something Crawford couldn’t hear.

Swallowing hard, Dane nodded, his face completely flushed. “Y-yes, Papa…” his voice trembled as he spoke. 

“But you,” he turned back to Crawford. “I can tell simple devotion is not in your…” he gestured vaguely with the cigarette. “…nature, as it were.”

“Get to the point, old man.” The more he spoke, and at this distance in the natural light, Crawford could more clearly tell the age beneath the makeup. The stark black and white did a lot of work to mask it, but there were deep lines in his face, especially around his eyes. From the back of the record shop, Crawford would have placed the man closer to his own age of 26. But at this distance it was obvious he was more than double that age. 

The man gave a slight nod as if it were a statement of fact and not an insult. He took a slow drag off his cigarette before continuing. “You remember the door, do you not?”

Crawford was barely aware of Dane asking “what door?” as he felt the floor drop out from under his feet. The memory had almost completely faded, and now rushed back with shocking clarity. 

“Ah, now you do remember. These doors you see, they’re all those things that make you, well, you.” As the man spoke, Crawford had the sense of walking side by side with him along that corridor of doors. “You have a lot of anger in here, do you not? But it is not without reason. Oh…” As if the man were peeking into a room that Crawford could not see into. “You are quite the talented musician yourself, Crawford Stone.” Hearing the man speak his name without even a vague introduction made it fell all too real, like the wind had been knocked out of his lungs. “Let us hope you do not take my job, huh?” 

A sound emanated from the masked men at the joke. A sarcastic sort of laughter. It was the first sound any of the had made and it lasted only a moment. 

“But that is not what we are here for, no.” He stepped closer, his back rigid and yet only coming up to about Crawford’s chin. Fingers grazed that chin, such a gentle touch yet forcing Crawford to look down into the man’s eyes. There were no stage lights here, yet there was that strange blue glint in the white eye. “No, we are here for a very special door.” 

In a sudden breathless flash the scene was as real as the alley. He and the man stood before the metal door marked inexplicably with a crude version of the band’s inverted cross logo. “This door!” the man exclaimed, gesturing to it with both hands. “Well, the door is not special. It is the thing behind this ugly thing that is special.”

“Why is it here?” Crawford’s head swam with questions. In a way he understood what he was seeing. There weren’t really any doors. It was just a way to see what was inside his head. But why would one of them be so hidden and locked? Why would he forget it so easily when he knew the things in the other rooms so well. 

“Someone put it here, of course.” The man ran his fingers over the carved symbol. His gloves were no longer, but skin tight black leather with gold claw-like nails attached. “By someone not exactly in our church, but affiliated perhaps. Someone who knew we would be the ones who might save you, my friend.” 

As the man pressed his whole had to the door, Crawford felt a stabbing pain in his head. He dropped to his knees and the whole corridor shook. The man jerked his hand back, eyes sweeping the space. “So that is why…” His fingers tapped his chin as he surveyed the door. “This will be no easy task to undo.”

“I don’t think you should be touching it,” Crawford growled, his head still throbbing.”

The man shook his head, clicking his tongue. “Sometimes, if a man is shot in the head or in the chest, he can live with that bullet inside of him. The body covers it. Encapsulates it. That is what you have done.”

“I didn’t do this. You did.”

“The door you did not do, nor the lock. But hiding it, resisting it, that is you. Well, mostly you. The door, it whispers ‘forget about me, don’t look at me’ and you were very good at doing that. So good you will slowly forget if you are not looking directly at it.” 

Crawford started to protest, but the man interrupted him. “Stop talking and listen. I showed you this door, and what is written upon it. Within the hour, you forgot even the symbol carved into it. Even now you fight to get away, to not even speak of it. But it is not fear that keeps you away, it is something else. It is…a twisted obedience. But not to me or mine…” He was watching Crawford’s face with those mismatched eyes, studying him intently. “To he who hurt you so deeply. He who gave you so many scars…” His fingers brushed first the scar under his right eye. A gift from his step father, landing a back-handed slap across his face so hard it knocked him flat on his back. The gems of his ring gouging a chunk of flesh from under his eye. He’d only been sixteen. 

The man’s finger trailed down to his lower lip next. Another scar from the same source. He’d come home one afternoon with his lip pierced, in a fit of rebellion against his step father. The man had used a knife to forcibly remove it, instead of just removing it properly. Anyone so much as asking about those scars would have had Crawford biting their heads off. But as the man’s gloved fingers caressed the scars, it was like something inside him broke. There was a tenderness in that touch that he hadn’t felt in so long. 

Slowly he dropped to his knees, everything in him feeling so very heavy. As he looked up to the man before him, blurry through tears he refused to let fall, he felt no judgement for this. “He did this?” he asked, his voice softer than he expected. 

“It would seem he had it done,” the man said, stepping back and turning his attention back to the door. “I thought my own father a real motherfucker sometimes. But this…this is a cruelness only a righteous man can dream up.” 

“Why…” was all Crawford could manage before his voice gave out.

“Greed. Hubris. Pride, perhaps. I’ve not had the…pleasure,” the word dripping with sarcasm, “of seeing much of this father of yours was like, just the rage you feel for him.”

Crawford shook his head, trying to get his thoughts straight. “No, why…why do you care?” He had never asked the question so earnestly. This man was the frontman of a moderately popular band. Crawford wasn’t even a fan, but he’d still been singled out. 

“Because of this.” He ran a clawed fingertip along the barely legible words that accompanied the cross symbol.

“I can’t read it,” Crawford admitted.

The man looked at him, seemingly with concern, before his shoulders relaxed. “Ah…” as if he understood. He read over the words again, then nodded. “Well, essentially, it’s a sort of ‘If found, return to the Ministry’ message.” He thought for a moment, the turned away from the door. “It is much too complicated to fix here.”

Crawford became aware of the alley around him once again. It was like the lights coming on after a movie. Like the physical setting had stopped being important but still there while wrapped up in the big glowing screen. He was no longer being held by the large masked man, instead on his knees, slumped against the singer’s shoulder as if he’d fallen asleep. 

Straightening up, dazed, he looked around for his companion. Why hadn’t he said anything. The deep strumming of an instrument caught his attention. Dane was standing around with a few of the masked men, with one of their instruments in hand. He was showing off what his long, slender fingers could achieve on the bass, working through some surprisingly complex riffs. Crawford hadn’t heard Dane play since they’d been in high school, foolishly planning to start a band of their own. Apparently he’d still been practicing. 

“We have a small church here in the city,” the singer held up a business card before tucking it in the pocket of Crawford’s jeans. His arm was still under Crawford’s arm and across his back. “I want you to visit them. They will be expecting you.”

“What—“

“I will be paying your city one more visit, in a few weeks, before I return to my home. You will be going with me, then we can fix what is inside that head of yours.”

“What—“

“Have your things packed when I return.”

“I can’t leave the city!” he protested, finally.

“Oh, we won’t be leaving the city, we’ll be leaving the country.”

Crawford was left scrambling to his feet, trying to protest, but the man walked away to gather his minions. 

“Be good, my little pet,” he said to Dane, caressing his cheek. “And you might get to come with.” One of the masked men caught the bass as it slipped from Dane’s hands. Before either of them could utter a word, the man and his followers slipped back into the record store’s back door, taking their instruments and other equipment with them. 

“I don’t think that cult thing is an act…” was all Crawford managed to say, as Dane just stared at the closed door as if he wanted to chase after them.

[ladybugsimblr]

Share a (fun?) fact you've learned recently. (Don't need to be Sims-related) 🤩

Randomly stumbled into nomad/van life side of YouTube and found some interesting info:

Smaller vans/cars work out better than traditional RVs because they're 1. less expensive, 2. easier to drive especially on more treacherous, windy roads, 3. better for "stealth camping"/parking at night.

If you have to park in a garage you should back your vehicle all the way up to the garage wall so people can't easily break in.

You should always crack a window or sun roof for ventilation and to let out moisture so your vehicle doesn't get mold (obvi depending on weather).

You can charge your portable battery/generator thingamajig at Starbucks if you're not going to be doing a lot of driving and charging it normally from the cigarette lighter.

Am I ever going to use these tips? Absolutely not. I hate driving and don't ever want to rough it when traveling lol, but I am fascinated by this lifestyle. 😆

[sooniessoulmate]

𝙻𝚎𝚐𝚒𝚘𝚗 - 𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟹 - 𝙰𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚣 𝟶𝚝𝟾

♥️𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟸♠️ 𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝♦️𝚌𝚑.𝟷𝟺♣️

𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝟷𝟹 - 𝚡𝚘𝚡𝚘 - 𝚓.𝚠

The crew followed behind the ambulance that took Wooyoung to the hospital, not fully aware of how dire the situation was.

Seonghwa parked his car behind the ambulance, trying to follow them inside as they pushed the gurney containing the unconscious Wooyoung, but security wouldn’t allow him to proceed.

“What the fuck,” Seonghwa snarled with tears in his eyes, “that’s my brother.”

“I’m sorry sir,” the security guard said. “Medical staff is only allowed beyond this point.”

Seonghwa reached inside his jacket, placing his hand on the butt of his gun. Jongho grabbed his arm before he could expose it. “Come on, let’s go in the other way,” he said, pulling Seonghwa towards the other entrance.

Seonghwa gathered his composure and led everyone inside the other entrance. He walked up to the reception desk, explaining their situation and she directed them where to go. 

They took an elevator to the fifth floor, walked down a solemn hallway and found seats in an empty waiting room.

Seonghwa looked at Y/N with tears in his eyes, “this is all your fault,” he snarled.

“My fault?” she gasped. “How is this my fault?”

“He was perfectly fine until he was alone with YOU,” Seonghwa growled. “If he doesn’t survive this, neither will you.”

“I don’t think Y/N did anything to him,” Mingi said.

“He got injured in Thailand,” San sighed. “I just didn’t realize the severity of it.”

“Why is this the first I’m hearing of it,” Seonghwa snapped.

“I didn’t think it was serious,” San yelled. “Look, you know I would never let anything bad come to Woo on purpose and if i thought it was serious i would have said something, damn it”

“He did look awfully pale,” Mingi sighed.

San looked at Y/N, “what exactly happened with Woo? What did he say?”

“He came into the room, woke me up, saw my tattoo, got mad, and went to leave the room. As he was leaving he grabbed his chest and fell to the floor,” Y/N explained.

“Why would he get pissed about your arm? That’s hot,” Mingi asked, confused. 

Y/N glared at Seonghwa “not my…”

“You know how he gets,” Seonghwa interrupted. “It doesn’t take much to set him off sometimes.”

Hongjoong rolled his eyes, “yea guess he’s just temperamental.”

After a few hours, a doctor entered the waiting room in full scrubs. 

Seonghwa stood up, panicked, “is Wooyoung ok?”

“We have him stabled at the moment. It appears his ventilation was affected by pneumothorax. Which his cardiac output was highly affected by a reduction in circulating blood volume secondary to hemorrhage and by cardiac tamponade,” the dr explained. 

Seonghwa stared with confusion written all over his face. Yeosang stood up and said “so basically his lung was punctured?” 

“Correct,” the dr nodded. “We managed to close the wounds up and replaced the blood that was lost, now it’s just a waiting game.”

“Can we see him?” Y/N asked as tears streamed down her cheeks. 

“Yes two at a time, may go in,” the dr informed. 

“Thank you, doctor,” Seonghwa said. 

The dr nodded in response before exiting the waiting room. 

Seonghwa looked at Y/N, “come on,” he ordered walking down the hall to go into Wooyoung’s room, she followed silently behind. 

They entered the hospital room, Wooyoung was lying in the line bed, with all sorts of wires and tubes coming out of his body. 

“Oh my god, Woo,” Y/N cried, running over and grabbing his hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?”

Seonghwa walked behind Y/N, gently rubbing her back, “he’s gonna survive this. Right, Woo? You’re not gonna let those fuckers get the best of you, are you?”

She turned her head to look up at Seonghwa and saw a tear stream down his cheek, “he has to wake up…he just has to.”

They sat in silence with Wooyoung for a few minutes before Seonghwa spoke again, “we should let the others come in too, then you can come back in.”

Y/N nodded without speaking, stood up and walked towards the door. Before she could exit the room, Seonghwa grabbed her arm pulling her back towards him. 

“I saw what you did for me the night I was drunk,” he announced. 

“How did you see that,” she asked, staring at the floor, not wanting to make eye contact. 

“I record everything that happens in my bedroom,” Seonghwa smirked as he grabbed her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “You took care of me the way a wife would take care of her husband.”

“I don’t know if I would say that,” Y/N argued. 

“YOU DID,” Seonghwa growled. “I appreciate it and that’s why I put my name on you because one day you will be mine. And only mine.”

He leaned down and pressed his lips against Y/N’s, gently placing a hand on her cheek and the other behind her head. 

She moved her hands onto his chest and pushed him away, “are you fucking kidding me?” She snarled as a red glint flashed through her eyes. “Wooyoung is lying unconscious right there and you think now is a good time to do this?!”

“There’s no time better than the present,” Seonghwa smiled. “And I figured you deserve an explanation.”

“Wooyoung hates me now because of you. He saw your name and now he thinks that we fucked. If this is how you conduct yourself in life, I will never be yours. I hate you Park Seonghwa!”

“Don’t be like this,” he sighed. “Woo will get over this. I promise. Once I explain the situation everything will be fine.”

“Well you might not get the chance to explain it to him,” Y/N snapped, storming out of the hospital room. 

She walked down towards the waiting room but before entering, she decided to go find some vending machines to purchase a drink. She walked down another solemn hallway. As she was passing what appeared to be an empty room, she felt a hand on her arm forcefully pulling her inside the room. Frightened, she looked up and saw Yunho smiling at her. His smile had an eerie appeal that sent mixed emotions.

“Oh my god, Yunho, you startled me,” Y/N gasped, grabbing her chest. 

“There is so much death in this hospital. I just found a room filled with dead bodies,” Yunho smiled. “Do you want to see it?”

“No I'm good,” she shook her head. 

“I heard Hongjoong talking to San about some tattoo you have that probably pissed Wooyoung off,” Yunho announced. “I want to see it.”

Y/N lifted her shirt to expose Seonghwas name on her stomach. Yunho smiled, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his switchblade. 

“I could cut that off for you, if you want,” he offered. 

Yn dropped her shirt, “no it’s ok.”

“Are you sure,” Yunho asked. “It wouldn’t be very difficult.”

“I’m ok,” she stated. 

“You look very pretty when you cry,” Yunho whispered. 

“Umm thank you,” Y/N said, scrunching her nose. “…I think”

“You’re not scared of me, are you?” Yunho wondered as he reached out to place a strand of her hair behind her ear. 

“Should I be?” She asked. 

“I’d only hurt you if you wanted me to,” Yunho announced, “or by accident. Sometimes I lose control but never on purpose. So you don’t have to be scared.”

“Ok,” Y/N nodded. 

“All this death really gets me excited,” Yunho proclaimed. 

He grabbed her hand, placing it on the bulge in his pants with a smirk on his face, “you should help me out with this.”

Y/N stared dumbfounded, searching for the appropriate response in this situation as Yunho leaned towards her firmly pressing his lips against hers. 

She put her hands on his chest, shoving him away, “stop this,” she ordered. “I need  to get back to Wooyoung.”

She quickly turned and exited the empty hospital room before Yunho had time to respond. She walked down the hall looking for a vending machine or store to purchase a drink. She smiled when came to a room containing multiple vending machines. She dug in her pockets, looking for money, unsuccessfully. 

“Damn it,” Y/N said to herself before turning to go back to the waiting room. 

“Do you need money?” Hongjoong asked, holding a five dollar bill out. 

“Yes please,” she sighed, reaching her hand out to grab the money. 

“I don’t know,” Hongjoong hesitated, pulling the money back so she couldn’t take it. “I am an asshole and I don’t think it would be very asshole of me to help you out by giving you money,” he smirked. 

“Whatever,” Y/N rolled her eyes. “I’m not really in the mood for your games today.”

“Here, little bitch, just take the money,” Hongjoong ordered. 

“What’s the catch?” Y/N asked suspiciously. 

“No catch,” Hongjoong sighed. “I'm just trying to show you that I’m not ALWAYS an asshole.”

She hesitated but eventually grabbed the five dollars from him turning around and inserting the money into the machine. She punched in the code she wanted and bent down to retrieve the bottle of water. 

She felt hongjoongs hands grab her waist from behind as his body pressed firmly against hers. 

“What the hell are you doing?” Y/N asked, quickly standing up. 

“We never had the chance to pick up where we left off when we were at the club,” Hongjoong stated. “You do have a nice little ass on you, little bitch.” He rubbed his hard dick against her ass with a smirk on his face. She quickly turned around, shocked. 

“Oh I see, you’d rather make eye contact with me,” He whispered, reaching his hands around, squeezing her ass cheeks as tight as he could. “I’m gonna make this clap.”

“No,” Y/N snapped, pushing him away from her. “I gotta go back to Wooyoung.” 

She ran out of the room with the vending machines, heading back towards the waiting room when San popped his head out of a hospital room that she was passing. 

“Woo is in here now,” he smiled signaling for her to come inside. 

Y/N stopped running and entered the hospital room, realizing it was another empty room. 

“San what the fuck,” she sighed. “Woos not in here.”

“No but I figured we could have some alone time in here,” San smiled. 

“Alone time to do what?” Y/N asked. 

“I don’t know,” San smiled, rubbing her cheek with his index finger. “I guess we could just talk.”

“Okay…” she looked at him, blankly. “What do you want to talk about?”

“You know Wooyoung gave me the ok to have my way with you,” San announced. 

“What?!?” Y/N snapped. “When did he say that?” 

“On the jet to Thailand,” San nodded. “He said he didn’t give a shit and if I wanted you then I could have you.”

“I’m not his to give away,” she stated as tears started to well up in her eyes. “He doesn’t want me anymore anyways.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” San said. 

“When he saw this,” she said, lifting her shirt to expose her tattoo, “he called me disgusting.”

San reached out and lightly ran his finger over the tattoo of Seonghwas name. “I don’t mind cumming on another man’s name,” he smirked. He reached around, placing both hands on her ass, lifting her onto the counter in the room. “I actually find it quite sexy.” He leaned down, lightly kissing her neck then running his tongue up towards her ear. 

“Oh my god,” Y/N snapped, pushing him away. “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?!? Your god damned friend is laying in a fucking hospital bed, fighting for his life and all you guys can think about is fucking me. Jesus!”

Y/N stormed out of the hospital room and continued walking until she reached the waiting room. 

Seonghwa turned to look at Y/N, “it’s about time you get back,” he said. 

She opened her mouth to speak but before she could get any words out, Yeosang came running into the room. 

“Woos awake!!” he yelled. 

Everyone ran into his hospital room without hesitation. Wooyoung looked up and forced a smile at yn. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered. 

She ran over, grabbing his hand, “oh my god, woo, you had me so worried.”

“Why the hell didn't you tell us what happened?” Mingi asked. 

Wooyoung ignored the question, “stay with me tonight,” he said lightly squeezing her hand, while reclosing his eyes. 

“A pack of wild dogs couldn’t tear me away from you,” Y/N stated, sitting on the chair next to his bed, still holding onto his hand. 

“Knock knock,” a delivery man said, entering the room, holding a bouquet of flowers. “I have a delivery for Wooyoung.”

“He’s sleeping,” Seonghwa said. “I’ll sign for them.”

He signed the clipboard and took the bouquet of flowers, setting them down on the table by the bed. He pulled the card out, reading it aloud. 

“Sorry for the inconvenience, Woo. But next time I won’t miss. 

Xoxo

J.W

Ps tell my fiancé that I’m coming for her and she will be mine once again.”

“J.W?” Yunho asked. 

“Jackson Wang,” San said. 

“I thought I killed him,” Wooyoung whispered slowly opening his eyes. 

“Who’s his fiancé?” Yeosang wondered. 

“Y/N,” Wooyoung announced. 

Everyone turned to look at her with their mouths agape.

♥️𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚟 ♠️𝚖𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝♦️𝚗𝚎𝚡𝚝♣️

♥️♠️𝚃𝚊𝚐𝚕𝚒𝚜𝚝 - 𝙾𝙿𝙴𝙽♦️♣️

@stayatinykatsy

[floridaboiler]

Things I learned from the movies:

1. If being chased through town, you can usually take cover in a passing St Patrick's Day parade - at any time of the year.

2. All beds have special L-shaped top sheets that reach up to armpit level on a woman but only waist level on the man lying beside her.

3. All grocery shopping bags contain at least one stick of French bread.

4. Once applied, lipstick will never rub off - even while scuba diving.

5. The ventilation system of any building is a perfect hiding place. No one will ever think of looking for you in there and you can travel to any other part of the building without difficulty.

6. Should you wish to pass yourself off as a German officer, it will not be necessary to speak the language. A German accent will do.

7. The Eiffel Tower can be seen from any window of any building in Paris.

8. A man will show no pain while taking the most ferocious beating but will wince when a woman tries to clean his wounds.

9. When paying for a taxi, never look at your wallet as you take out a note - just grab one at random and hand it over. It will always be the exact fare.

10. If you lose a hand, it will cause the stump of your arm to grow by 15cm.

11. Mothers routinely cook eggs, bacon and waffles for their family every morning, even though the husband and children never have time to eat them.

12. Cars and trucks that crash will almost always burst into flames.

13. A single match will be sufficient to light up a room the size of a football stadium.

14. Medieval peasants had perfect teeth.

15. All single women have a cat.

16. Any person waking from a nightmare will sit bolt upright and pant.

17. One man shooting at 20 men has a better chance of killing them all than 20 men firing at one.

18. Creepy music coming from a graveyard should always be closely investigated.

19. Most people keep a scrapbook of newspaper cuttings - especially if any of their family or friends has died in a strange boating accident.

20. It does not matter if you are heavily outnumbered in a fight involved martial arts - your enemies will wait patiently to attack you one by one by dancing around in a threatening manner until you have knocked out their predecessor.

21. During a very emotional confrontation, instead of facing the person you are speaking to, it is customary to stand behind them and talk to their back.

22. When you turn out the light to go to bed, everything in your room will still be clearly visible, just slightly bluish.

23. Dogs always know who's bad and will naturally bark at them.

24. When they are alone, all foreigners prefer to speak English to each other.

25. Rather than wasting bullets, megalomaniacs prefer to kill their arch-enemies using complicated machinery involving fuses, pulley systems, deadly gases, lasers and man eating sharks that will allow their captives at least 20 minutes to escape.

26. Having a job of any kind will make all fathers forget their son's eighth birthday.

27. Many musical instruments - especially wind instruments and accordions - can be played without moving the fingers.

28. All bombs are fitted with electronic timing devices with large red readouts so you know exactly when they're going to go off.

29. It is always possible to park directly outside the building you are visiting.

30. A detective can only solve a case once he has been suspended from duty.

31. If you decide to start dancing in the street, everyone you bump into will know all the steps.

[kaunis-sielu]

Payment: 15

A/n: mild violence

You watch him like a hawk. Sam is posted at the door, you’ve been scolded once for crawling onto Steve’s bed to sleep but you’d just glared at the woman until she’d left and gone back to sleep. The hospital clearly know that you and Steve are important people. As the CEO of Nomad Steve has been interviewed more than once and has been on some of the hottest men under 40 lists for a while.

Steve has been kept unconscious, something about wanting to make sure the smoke is cleared from his lungs before taking him off the ventilator.

You haven’t heard much from Bucky. Not a huge surprise, you did task him with finding who burned down your house.

“Please, my husband is in there! Just tell Queenie I’m here!” A familiar female voice cries and you slip off of Steve’s bed heading for the door. When you pull it open Bobbi let’s out a little relieved sob.

“It’s okay Sammy, this is Bobbi, Lance’s wife.” Bobbi wraps you in a tight hug. “Come on Bob. Let’s go in.” You bring her into the room and over to Lance, he hasn’t gained consciousness yet. Bobbi pulls a chair up to the side of his bed and takes one of his hands. You climb back into Steve’s bed and throw an arm over his waist.

Neither of you talk, you know she’s cried but you’ve had time to be sad. Now you’re just pissed.

A couple hours later Bucky calls. It takes you a second to register the noise of your phone from the sleep you’ve been in but once you do you snatch up your phone.

“Tell me.”

“We know who started the fire. We don’t know anything else.”

“Who?” You demand sitting up on the side of the bed. Bucky laughs humorlessly,

“Not a fuckin’ chance Queenie.”

“Excuse me?”

“You think I’m gonna give you a name and let you run off all pissed off and shit to take care of it yourself? Please. Steve is my brother, I probably know you as well as he does at this point.”

“I highly doubt that.”

“You wanna try me Queenie? He tells me things I don’t even wanna know.” When you don’t say anything he continues, “besides you said to bring them to you. So that’s what I’ll do.” Then, with the audacity of a man who has every ounce of his boss’ trust he hangs up.

“That fucking asshole.” You say in astonishment and Bobbi laughs softly, a welcome sound in the silent room.

“You get hung up on?”

“Yes!” She giggles again and you roll your eyes. “It’s a good thing he’s Steve’s right hand.”

“You’re his left?”

“No, I’m his queen.” You tell her.

“You’re happy with him?”

“Absolutely. More than I thought I could ever be.”

“Good.” You lapse back into silence, it’s nearly four in the morning when your phone rings again.

“Bucky.”

“I’m coming to pick you up.”

“Okay. Come up.”

“Yea, I’ll be there in ten.”

“I’ll be ready.” So you climb off of Steve’s bed and go into the private bathroom. You slick your hair back into a high ponytail and clean your face then put on some make up. You put your boots on and press a kiss to Steve’s cheek.

“If anything happens call me.” You tell Bobbi and she nods. “Anything.”

Bucky knocks on the door a few minutes later. He looks grim and when his gaze flicks to Steve on the bed you rest a hand on his arm.

“You want a minute?”

“No. I want to fuck up who did this.” He says and his cold blue eyed gaze meets yours.

“Yea. Let’s go.” You tell him and he escorts you out of the hospital and into Steve’s black car. “Where are we going?”

“The 107th.” You knew that Steve owned several clubs, this one you haven’t been to and judging by the outside of the building you know why.

“You’ve got them here?”

“Yea.” Bucky says pulling around back and into a covered parking space. He parks and pulls the door open for you then he guides you in front of him to the back door. When you stare at the key pad waiting for him to punch in the code he doesn’t move.

“Bucky, I don’t know the code.”

“Bet you do.” He says and you stare at the code then punch in Steve’s birthday. The light turns green and the door swings open.

The building is dark. You can tell that it’s well taken care of despite its decor.

“Down the hall, to the left, in the basement.” You follow his directions and when you reach the cold, empty room, you’re somewhat unsurprised to see Aida hanging from the ceiling by her wrists.

“Are you sure?” You ask Bucky, without taking your eyes off the furious brunette, she has a gag in her mouth and looks like she put up a fight. “Everyone okay?” You glance over at him.

“Yea.” He stands behind you with his arms folded over his chest. Then you turn your attention back to Aida.

“Look who’s playing mob queen now.” You sneer, Wanda looks furiously at Aida pulling the gag out of her mouth.

“That’s cute coming from you bitch.” Aida snaps and you punch her.

“Nice form Queenie.” Pietro seems impressed. Aida, much to her credit doesn’t make a sound, she does grimace and your knuckles hurt.

“Why did you start my home on fire?” You really, really don’t want to have to beat it out of her. You know you can, and you will, she could’ve killed you, Steve and Lance.

“Is that all you’ve got Princess?” She sneers and you sigh,

“Bucky. I’m going to need your shirt.” You tell him and he gives you a weird look before pulling his black tee shirt off and passing it to you. You pull it on over your dress then turn back to Aida. You walk up to her and say softly, “This will end better for you if you just tell me what I want to know. Besides, not telling me now is just going to make things, messy.” She glares at you and you hold a hand out to Wanda who passes you a knife. “Hmm, where should I start? I’m thinking that pretty face of yours. It’s really the only reason my father keeps you around anyway.” You muse and to her credit she stays quiet.

You don’t want to do this, you know you can but you don’t want to. This is never the life that you wanted.

It takes her less time to crack than you thought. Thank god. You don’t like the warm sticky blood that’s now dripping down Aida’s face. You’ve been careful to keep it off yourself but you haven’t been perfect in that attempt.

“He told me to get rid of you both!” She screams after yet another solid punch to her ribs. You’re fairly certain you’ve broken one of her ribs if not two.

“Who?” You need to hear her say it, to say his name.

“Your father.” She whimpers then her head drops down to her chest and her body goes slack.

“Well done Queenie.” Bucky says, you know that he didn’t think you had it in you to do this. But you won’t let your father take another person you love.

“Go get him. Do whatever you need to get him here. Take Pietro and Bruce.”

“You should involve Tony.”

“Fine. But my father is mine.” Bucky nods,

“I’m leaving Bruce here.” He tells you before leaving the room.

“Do you want me to do something with her?” Wanda asks gesturing at the unconscious woman hanging from her wrists.

“No.” It’ll piss your father off to see his little toy hanging from her wrists, “maybe stop the bleeding but don’t trust she won’t try shit.”

Wanda stops the bleeding but that’s all she does. Honestly, in your opinion it’s more than Aida deserves. You’re pacing the floor, trying to decide how you’re going to handle this when your father shows up. Your phone rings and when you see Bobbi’s name on your phone your heart stops.

“Bobbi.”

“It’s good news. They’re going to be able to take Steve off the ventilator.”

“And Lance?”

“No changes.”

“It was my father.”

“What?” She gasps, “what are you going to do?”

“Burn him to the ground.”

“Good.” You hang up with her then text Daisy. You know that she’s going to want to be in on Grant’s downfall, if father goes, so does Grant. You’re not leaving them a fucking thing to rebuild.

The moment Hydra came for the you and the men you love was the moment they chose death.

Tag list:

@andahugaroundtheneck @connie326 @also-fangirlinsweden @lumar014 @loving-life-my-way @pagina16ps @emdying @dumblani @valsworldofcreativity @blackwidownat2814 @sky0401 @dontbescaredtosingalong @abschaffer2 @patzammit @inkedaztec @newdaynewyearnewlife @sophham @sass-masterkittenmama @jaqui-has-a-conspiracy-theory

[ross-hori]

The epic Port Liner walk

A monorail connects downtown Kobe with its airport. The Port Liner is a 9km long, fully automated light rail running above street level for its entire length. I've wanted to walk it for a couple of years, and finally I had my chance.

With Mrs H safely delivered to the terminal and the car parked, I followed the monorail armed with my trusty Fujifilm X-T20 and a 35mm prime lens. The weather promised to be pleasantly cool and sunny, perfect for a few hours of walking and shooting.

Kobe Airport is built on an artificial island in Osaka Bay. It's a domestic hub, and you can turn up about 20 minutes before your flight and still catch it. There are decent amenities and a viewing platform that I might touch on in a future post.

The monorail runs out to Port Island, another artificial island with the lion's share of Kobe's docks. The road and foot bridge is close to 1km long, taking a lazy arch next to the docking station for Kawasaki's Hydrogen Road project. The walk offers stunning views of the docks and the mountains beyond.

Then the monorail veers left. We run past corporate headquarters, the home of Japan's Super Computer project and a zoo. This part of Port Island has an open, almost desolate feel.

Turning right, we're on our way to the main residential block. The walkway is still underneath the raised monorail, but things are about to change. The path rises and we come almost to the same level.

Then out into a park adorned with concrete structures imprinted with messages of peace from the cities Kobe is twinned with. Look a little closer, and those structures are revealed as light and ventilation wells for the car park beneath. 

Around us are the city's General Hospital, medical research centers and homes. Look hard enough and you might see the Ikea's deep blue box.

We keep on, past more apartments and parklets, once more beneath the twin tracks of the monorail. Onwards to the final park and the bright red arches of Kobe Bridge.

Up we go, climbing high. On our left, the double-deck highway runs back and forth, cars and trucks roaring by. On our right is the monorail, running along its bridge, carefully styled to blend into the box structure beside it.

Now down to the Port Terminal. Navigating the complicated mass of structures and supports keeps Kobe's transport flying through the air. Dare to stop and you will feel it shuddering and shaking through the soles of your feet.

Another small park. There are so many of these escapes, both figurative and literal. Created and maintained as refuges should history repeat and an earthquake come calling.

Now we're in familiar territory. These streets are ones I pound regularly to get here and there. So familiar I barely pay attention until I arrive at the terminus for the Port Liner.

Just over 3 hours to walk here. 11km covered with all my diversions and back-tracking. It'll take less than 30 minutes to get back.

[nrgs929]

Victor x Reader P¹

reminder:There are two Michaels, her brother Michael Monroe and Mike Ehrmantraut, so try to focus so as not to confuse them!

Your clothes:

*You were wearing a white, sleeveless shirt under your gray pajamas*

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

At first, you and Mike(Monroe)planned to spy on Gustavo Fring's work and gather the necessary information to threaten him with it...And you were hiding the fact that you were a young woman who worked as a hired killer, because as far as you know, there are a few women in Albuquerque who work as hired killers, but most of them are men...So you started wearing these masculine clothes, hiding your protruding chest or any of your femininity, and you forced Michael to call you Louis during work or during serious and important times only.

_______________________

You were watching Los Pollos Hermanos Restaurant from your car, which was a few meters away from the restaurant, when you noticed a black car approaching the restaurant and parked in the street. You tried to look closely and saw a man coming out of it... Victor...Then you wrote down in your notebook the time, location, and what you saw specifically. Then you returned to the surveillance, and Tyrus and Victor were carrying boxes with the company’s logo on it. It seemed to be bread dough or something like that... You continued the surveillance,Then something else happened and you decided to leave and search at night, since you were a semi-nocturnal creature...

23:04

Somehow, you knew one of the branches of the crystal meth business that Gus was hiding was a car wash. You were following them with your eyes inside your car, hoping to find an entrance through which you could sneak out...With the strength of your vision, you were able to see a ventilation hole located on one side of the building, and smoothly you entered the building quietly, watching closely. Tyrus, Victor, and a number of men were guarding the place. You sneaked into Gus’s office,You were sure that no one would enter, and while you were searching the place looking for some things that might be useful to you, you came across a closed drawer, and without thinking, you broke the drawer and saw some files that you began to read and photograph,At that moment, you heard the sound of feet heading towards the office. You quickly returned the files in the place to their previous state and went next to the door. While the man was opening the door, you pounced on him, knocked him unconscious, put him under the desk and left the room,You sneakily wandered among the workers and easily left the building and returned home...

the next day

Gus discovered the broken staircase and that one of his men had been knocked unconscious after being interrogated by Mike. Meanwhile, you and your brother Michael had called him to arrange an interview with him,Gus's men greeted you and let you in, and Gus began talking to Michael to join the drug trade with him. Victor and Tyrus were standing in front of the door, and you were sitting in a separate seat next to Michael, looking sometimes at Gus and sometimes at the two frowning men,Michael threatened Gus to expose him and tell the DEA about him if he didn't agree. After thinking, Gus agreed that you would join him. Then Michael looked at you « Louis let's go » You stood and looked at Gus, then Tyrus, and Victor as you walked out the door,From that hour, your night shifts began with Gus and his men, guarding and such matters...

°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

This is the first part of the story. Tomorrow I will publish the second part, stay tuned😉

[sunshinerapmonster]

The Saregeant's Daughter - Chapter 12 Madeline

"Thank you so much Jay"

Chicago MedS3 EP18: This is Now

Typing away on my computer I saw Will walk to the computer that was in front of the one I was using.

"Good Morning Ms.Sanchez," he said with a smirk on his face.

"Morning?" I said with a confused face.

"You are glowing," he said which caught Maggie's attention.

"Oh my, he is right you got laid last night didn't you" she said as a huge smile formed on her face.

I laughed at them before shaking my head, "Since were you two interested in my sex life huh? but yes I got laid last night" I said sending them a wink.

"So who was it?"

"I don't know, some random guy from a bar. Had to fake it" I said smiling.

Soon many police cars started arriving at the front of the hospital.

-

"Dr.Sanchez, April, Baghdad," Maggie said.

"On it," I said running towards the patient.

"All right, weak pulse, not breathing," I said doing chest compressions with one hand as we moved her to a room.

"One, two, three, four holes, face, neck, chest"

"Belly's hard as a rock. He's bleeding into his abdomen" April said feeling the stomach.

"Okay, we'll deal with that after we get him an airway. Intubation kit?" I said.

"Yes, Doctor"

"Half his face is gone. No change I get a tube in, he needs a crich" I said touching the face, I cut underneath his neck to insert a teach tube. The monitors then started beeping.

"He's crashing"

"Asystole. I'm his chest" April said starting chest compressions.

"No compressions, we can't save him," I said stopping her.

"Dr.Sanchez, I'm losing his pulse," one of the other nurses said.

"Okay, time of death 14:38," I said looking at my watch before running over to attend to the other patient.

I removed her mask, "Bag her" I said to the nurses.

"Time of death 18:52"

-

"Hey Maggie, my best friend might have gone to the park with my goddaughter park can you-"

"I have her number, I'll call her okay"

"Thank you," I said.

I walked out of the room and went to help other people, I just couldn't stop thinking that maybe Maria and Sofia were out there scared or maybe even hurt.

I saw April running with a small boy in her arms.

"April!" I said clearing the desk not caring that the items fell onto the ground.

"Trample victim, no pulse," she said.

I started to check for breathing but couldn't find any, "No breath sounds either. On his chest" I said looking at Dr.Bekker.

"April, quick look and an intubation kit," she said doing chest compressions, "Also then start a line to push meds"

"No, triple zero. Pupils are diced and dilated. He's dead. Where's his family?" I asked looking at the young boy who looked around Sofia's age.

"I don't know, Good Samaritan found him in the ground not moving, drove him in his car," April said looking at me.

Maggie walked towards us and stood behind April, "Dr.Bekker, Dr.Rhodes is calling you" she said.

I picked up the little boy's shoes that fell off and looked at them, "If Maria and Sofia went to the park today, what if they got separated too?" I said with tears in my eyes.

Ava reached over the counter and placed her hands on my shoulder, "Until you know for sure, don't let your mind lead you to a bad place." She said as I nodded my head, "Stay focused on right now" She said before walking away.

"Madeline, need extra hands," Will said I looked over at him as he walked away.

"April?" I said.

"I'll move him"

-

"I'm in. Bag her, then chest tube zone" I said to the two nurses.

"She's getting our last ventilator," the male nurse said.

"What? We're out?"

"Yes"

"We can switch to bags full-time," Will said from next door, all the trauma rooms had their walls taken down so they could become bigger rooms.

"W-who's gonna work 'em? We don't have enough nurses" I said asking the nurse to roll her out.

"We'll get extra tubing and split it, put two patients on a single ventilator," he said.

I shook my head, "No, the ventilator isn't strong enough"

"I'm in. Bag him. Yeah, if we match patients who are roughly the same size, and double the tidal volume, should be enough to hold" he said.

"Okay, okay," I said turning to look at the entrance.

I thought I saw Sofia being brought in and ran towards her but saw it wasn't her.

"I-I'm sorry, I-I-I just really need some air. Five minutes" I said taking deep breaths as I took my gloves off.

"Yeah, of course. I'll take care of the vents" Will said as I walked away.

I rushed out of the emergency room passing Jay, Sharon, and Charles.

I stood outside trying to catch my breath when Dr.Charles started calling for help.

-

"Ethan, April, I need you. Threads pulse, hole in the neck. Slashed his wrist. Multiple stab wounds to the abdomen" I said as we rushed back into the emergency room.

"Guys lost a lot of blood, let's give him two units of o-neg and start bagging," Ethan said.

"I need to intubate, 20 of etomidate, 100 of sux," I said as I started to intubate.

"Sats, 82. Heart rate, 130" April said.

"Interior abdomen stab wounds. Belly's distended. Fast scan" Dr.Bekker said.

"Razor slash to the bone," Ethan said.

"I'm in," I said.

"Fast scans positive," Dr.Bekker said.

"Where are we?" Dr.Rhodes said as he stood next to me.

"Belly's full of blood, he needs surgery now," I said looking at the patient.

"We'll take him to the doctor's lounge. Let's go" he said.

I followed them to the doctor's lounge, ignoring Jay calling for me.

-

My Apple Watch went off notifying me I had a message from Will.

Will: Maria and Sofia are safe they are being brought over to Med right now. I'm out by the main entrance of the hospital

I read the message and ran out of the cafeteria to the main entrance where Will told me he was waiting for me.

I opened the door and saw Will standing by the drop-off section.

"Maria Sofia!" I yelled out as I saw them come out of a pickup truck.

"Madeline!" Maria yelled out as I ran towards them and brought them into a hug.

"You guys are okay, I was worried sick," I said crying into her arms.

I didn't care that I was covered in blood as I hugged them tightly in my arms.

"I called Noah he is on his way to the hospital right now," she said with tears down her eyes.

"Who brought you guys," I said passing Sofia back into Maria's arms.

"He did," she said pointing over at the detective who was standing with his hands in his pocket.

I rushed towards Jay and brought him into a huge hug, "Thank you so much Jay" I said crying in his arms.

"It was no problem," he said patting my bag.

Noah soon arrived and thanked Jay as soon as he got there before he took the girls home.

Jay Master List

intro 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 Book Two

tattoos left to right on Madeline