#break up imagine

[zillychu]

I NEED Loop to be further tormented by finding out confessing to their party doesn't break their loops, and Siffrin wishes to see Loop again so hard he pops out of the favor tree so he gets to be Loop's guide

[mischievous-thunder]

When you share a small flat with two shameless roommates that's the end of peace and quiet in your life

[akanemnon]

Yeah, Kris is definitely NOT alright.

FIRST - PREVIOUS - NEXT

MASTERPOST (for the full series / FAQ / reference sheets)

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

when they want you back after you break up with them (part two to this fic)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks pass in painful silence. For days after the sudden breakup, Max tried to call, to text, to contact you. But the longer you ignored him, thinking it was for the best, the more it hurt. Eventually, the phone calls stopped, and the texts too. Your world descended into self-inflicted silence and loneliness.

You knew it would be hard without him, but the loneliness was worse than you could have ever imagined. It settled deep in your bones, carved into your soul and invaded every aspect of your life. Every moment of silence was a reminder of what you had given up. 

Every second of silence was a reminder of how alone you were.

Friends tried to comfort you, tried to tell you that you had made the right choice. But in the middle of the night, with nothing but the cold emptiness of your apartment to hold you, you could only spiral into darker thoughts: you had done the wrong thing. But it was too late. What was done was done. Max had stopped calling, moved on likely. You needed to as well.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch his races. You told yourself that it was for the better. You needed to let go completely. It was the only way you could move on and build a life without Max.

But when you see him again, finally, it’s not at a race. It's not some flashy paddock media day or high-stakes press event, things you used to loathe and love so much. It’s on your doorstep, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion. 

“I keep waiting for you. Every night. I keep thinking you'll call, you'll turn up at my house. You never do,” he says quietly, holding your gaze for the first time in forever. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Tell me our love isn't worth it. Tell me you don't love me anymore. C'mon. Tell me to leave and I will.”

You open your mouth to reply, not even sure what you could possibly say in response beyond what you'd already said that infamous night, but Max just holds up one hand to quiet you. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before a sound starts to play out of it quietly. 

It's you.

Your voice echoes back to you, happy, laughing, talking about something stupid. You hadn't realized he’d saved it. You're not sure why he would until the sound of you hanging up echoes around you both.

I'll talk to you later, ok? Bye Maxie. I love you!

“That’s the last time you said you loved me,” he says, voice low, pure exhaustion dripping from his words. “And I’velistened to it every single night.”

Tears sting your eyes and threaten to fall. Max finally steps closer but still doesn't reach out for you.

“I haven’t driven better. I'm getting worse, I'm making stupid mistakes. I haven’t focused more. I’ve just... missed you. Every day. Every night. You think you were holding me back? I'm scared every time I drive, scared of winning and still going home alone. Scared of doing well and you thinking that it proves you right when I know I'm fucking miserable. I'msorry I told you to leave. I shouldn't have... fuck, I'm just scared, and tired, and I want you. Please.”

Behind him, thundering clouds threaten to erupt and pour down over the city. Dark storms brew with forbearing gloom.

“You want to protect me? You want to make me a better driver? Then stay. Let me love you again. Because losing you has nearly fucking destroyed me."

His hands finally reach out for yours, holding them tightly. His hands are cold, but you find that you don't mind. You need to feel him so desperately that you're willing to endure the torture of the weather on your fingertips. Within you, a deep desire to keep Max warm and safe resurfaces with renewed conviction.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside of racing. Please. I love you. I've only ever loved you.”

Despite the tears welling in your eyes, a small smile spreads across your face.

"It's cold. Come inside." You whisper the words, tugging slightly on his hands.

"Only... only if you mean this. I can't come inside if you're just going to turn me away again."

Swallowing guilt, swallowing your hurt and fears, swallowing everything you thought was right that turned out to be so wrong, you say, "Come inside, Max. Please."

Love you think, is the sound of Max closing the door behind him and knowing he is here to stay. 

lando norris

You know you shouldn't watch it, but when the clip comes up on your instagram you can't help but pause and watch. It's instinct: you see Lando, you watch. Despite everything, all you said, all that happened and tore you two apart, you still care deeply for him. 

It’s a post-race interview. Lando’s just gotten a podium, according to the video's caption anyway. He looks as he always does after a tough drive: hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, eyes wide, adrenaline high as he slowly calms down and takes deep breaths inwards. His smile is wide, until the journalist makes a passing comment...

"Must be nice having all the distractions out of the way now."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s barely a flicker, but if you know him—really know him—you can see it. You know what the interviewer means, the media, the sprint, the free practices, quali, it's all out of the way now. He only has to think about starting P1 tomorrow. All the distractions are gone. Almost all the opsticals of the week have been passed. But the joke doesn’t land. His smile falters, then falls completely. His eyes are hollow with want, tinged with a hint of fear.

And then he says it.

“Not all distractions are bad.”

The interviewer laughs, confused, asks him to elaborate, and he seems all too happy to comply. But he keeps going. The world around you seems stuck, you can't take your eyes away from the screen. If you listened carefully, you swear you can hear your life caving in around you.

“Sometimes the things everyone else thinks are a distraction are actually what keeps you grounded. What keeps you… you.”

He looks down, clears his throat, doesn’t continue. What's said is said. When he finally looks up again, staring into the camera lens, it feels like he is looking right at you. His eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks, even if it's just through the screen. The familiarity of his gaze burns. Your heart cracks. You miss him. God, you miss you. 

The video cuts off and you are stuck again in the quiet abyss of your empty apartment. Everything is quiet again. But later that night, you get a text.

I didn’t mean to say that. but I meant it.

Before you can question yourself, second guess your instincts, you reply.

congrats on P1 I didn't see quali but I saw the interview

Then, after a moment of consideration, you add:

I miss you too, btw

It's a few minutes of dead silence, eerie uncomfortable nothingness, before he responds again.

can i call you? please

You think of his words earlier, of the way he looked as you walked out of his life and shattered all you had built together. You call him without thinking of the alternative. 

"Hey," his voice rings out through your speaker.

"Hi."

There’s a pause. The kind that aches. You can hear his breath, unsteady, shallow, like he’s been holding it since the second your name lit up his screen.

“I didn’t think you’d reply,” he admits quietly.

“You didn’t leave much room not to,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. “You're not the only one who feels alone right now, Lando.”

“I know I can’t take back how I made you feel," he murmurs, "I just… I need you to know none of this, none of the podiums, none of the wins, means anything when I’m not coming home to you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to swallow it down, but his words eat at the fear in your heart...

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you say softly. “Giving you space. Taking myself out of the equation. I didn’t want to be the reason you—”

“You were never the problem,” he cuts in, firm but gentle. “You were the only thing that made the rest of it bearable.”

Another pause. This one is softer. He exhales.

“I want to fix this. I don’t care how long it takes.”

And maybe you should hesitate. Maybe you should ask for more time, time to think it over. But you’ve already spent weeks apart, feeling the ache of a life half-lived. And now, hearing his voice, hearing the tremble he’s trying to hide, something in you unclenches.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You smile, a little cracked, a little shaky, but real for the first time in days. “Yeah. Win your race, Lan, then come home to me.”

oscar piastri

The past few weeks had dragged by you in a dull, confusing haze. The sun felt dimmer, the rain less harsh, the breeze not so calming. Everything was just... off. You knew adjusting to being alone again would be difficult, but you never imagined it would feel like this. So helpless, so cold.

Without Oscar, someone you relied upon and loved so completely, your life felt empty. You spent your days going through the motions. You woke up, ate, slept, worked. It all felt so monotone. It was impossible to do something without wondering where you would be if you were still with Oscar. 

A seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. Maybe, just maybe, you think, you were wrong. Maybe things would have been better if you were still together. But you cut the sapling before it could grow into a full thought. 

Dwelling on the past was killing you. Dwelling on the past was leaving you tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that left you feeling nothing at all. Heaviness hung in your bones.

Sleep seemed to abandon you these days, leaving you alone in the moonlight hours. The howl of the wind was your only companion in the night.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. With nothing better to do, and no inclining that sleep would find you anytime soon, you reach for it from where it is charging on your bedside table.

Oscar's name stares back at you through the bright light of your phone, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of your bedroom. 

You hesitate before opening it, his name on the screen still does something awful to your chest. Memories of past late night calls, tired giggles and intimate words, swirl around you in a haze of regret. But, to your unexpected surprise, it’s not a text. It’s a voice note. 

You press play. The second you hear his voice, the pounding in your heart seems to double in speed. And yet, the comforting familiar sound also puts you completely at ease.

Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late where you are. I shouldn't— I know— I just got back from dinner with the team. Everyone was laughing about something, and I almost turned to tell you about it. As if you would be there, next to me.

He exhales sharply, so suddenly that it shocks you out of the trance you're in. Hearing his voice again, speaking directly to you, feels like a delusion after all this time. There’s silence for a few seconds, just the quiet rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him rubbing his hands against his clothes that way he always does when he’s nervous.

You can imagine it as if he’s standing right in front of you. But you know that if he was here, standing close and looking you in the eyes, you wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, to look him in the eyes and not admit all the regrets you’d been having.

Missing him feels like longing for a lost childhood toy, something you remember so fondly and yet is so resolutely out of reach. But loving him is something you can never let go of.

It’s stupid, I know. It's been weeks. We haven't even talked once since. I know. I should know better. But I just… I don’t think I’ve gone one day without reaching for my phone to text you, call you. And I haven’t sent anything, 'cause I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. But tonight it kind of hit me that maybe I should. Text you, I mean. Reach out. So, I guess that's what I'm trying to do. I don't even know if you'll listen to this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I should have fought harder. Should have told you more often how much you mean to me, how much you still mean to me. You were never a distraction. You were my balance. My constant. My love.

You wouldn't hear me then, but I have to make you hear me now. I love you. I love you. I'll say it as many times as you need to believe it again. And I miss you. Every day. I just want to try again. Please, let me show you how much I need you, how much I love you.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. When the recording stops, you drag the audio back to the beginning and listen through it again. Over and over, you replay the section where he tells you he loves you. 

He sounds just as truthful, just as honest, as the first night he said it to you. The night he held you so close, kissed you so slow and carefully that you wanted to melt into the floor and never touch anyone but him ever again. The night you felt whole, and loved, and so at peace with your life. The night you had remembered over and over through the past few weeks with a longing dread. Suddenly, yet slowly, in small thoughts, then all at once, it feels like you have no option but one.

You don’t text him back. No.

You press call. He picks up immediately.

carlos sainz

You probably should have expected this, should have seen it coming from a mile away. Carlos is not one to let something, or rather someone, he loves slip through his fingers like spring water. He's built his life around the people he cares about, painstakingly carved out a space for each of them in his chaotic, fast-paced life… he wouldn't let you think so lowly of yourself for long. 

It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s felt like a lifetime. 

You open the door of your apartment, dressed in pyjamas and an oversized hoodie that was likely his, once upon a time, to find him standing there. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie zipped halfway. 

His eyes drift over you, slowly, taking every inch of your appearance. It doesn’t feel crude though, or intrusive, his gaze is so familiar, so kind, it fills your heart with joy just to be seen by him again. A small pit of guilt sinks in your stomach, you are the reason you haven’t seen him. This was your choice, after all, one you made for him.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand, your favourite food from the place you always used to order from together when it rained. It was the food that comforted you in your worst moments and excited you when you were feeling your best. 

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Yet here he was. 

He offers the bag, holding it out in one hand while the other settles on his hip. But he doesn’t move closer. He looks stuck in place, unsure of what moves to make and yet so confident in his presence at your front door.

“I’m not here to fix anything. Not if you don’t want me to,” he says softly, a tone of admittance colouring his words. “I just thought… you probably haven’t eaten. You always forget when you are stressed, or tired.”

You take it. Hands brush. He pulls away first. You find yourself immediately missing his touch.

Carlos looks down, then back up, eyes dark and earnest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I’ve been telling myself to let you go if that’s what you need, what you really want. But I also know you pushed me away thinking it was helping me. That it was the unselfish thing.”

He pauses, breathes deeply as if centring himself. He speaks with a tone that tells you he has been thinking of the right words to say for days, and is still afraid of driving you away.

“But cariño… you were the thing keeping me sane. I didn’t need saving from you. I needed saving with you. I need you to save me. Every day I need you to save me.”

You bite your lip and look down at the bag. The familiar smell fills your nostrils.

“My house is so empty,” you admit, and it feels like exposing the deepest part of your soul. “I’ve still been watching you drive. You’re doing well. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m driving well, maybe. But I’m not happy, cariño. You have known me long enough to know that is the truth.”

You can’t find it in your to meet his eyes, he keeps speaking anyway.

“I’m not driving well because you are gone. I’m driving well despite it. Because my life is nothing but racing now and I am miserable. Every day I think of you. There is no one else for me, and you must let me show you again. Without you... without you I am no one. You make me whole.”

His words are sweet, and so painfully honest that they burn into your heart.

“I’ve missed you. More than I should. Even though I feel like I shouldn’t. I want you to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But watching you do that without me…” you trail off, unable to explain the hurt you have inflicted on yourself by forcing him to go. Doing this, this conversation, out in the open feels too exposed. You want to tell him you love him in the comfort of your home. The home you want to share again.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask it in a hushed whisper, like saying it loud will frighten him away again 

He smiles faintly. “Only if you want me to stay this time.”

“Will you? Please? I think... I think we need to talk.”

His smile is soft, understanding, filled with hope, “Of course, my love.”

That night, he holds you close. He doesn't leave, you don't ask him to.

alex albon

You don’t pick up the first time he calls.

Or the second.

But the third? You answer.

“…Hey,” he says, voice gentle and soft, but cautious. He's holding something back. Like he is afraid of scaring you off.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just listen. You half expect him to hang up, regret his decision to contact you and disappear again. After all, you were the one who walked away, who could blame him for holding onto resentment and anger and just... hanging up?

The,n quietly, you say, “Alex.” His name feels like the only thing you could possibly say.

He lets the silence stretch out. It doesn’t feel awkward, just heavy. Shared. Weighted with everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. Everything you didn't explain that day, everything you struggled to say. The silence reminds you not of the emptiness of your apartment, but of the comforting quiet of lying in each other's arms. Everything, even silence, feels better with him around. Even if it's just his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, finally. “Not really. I’m not calling to change your mind. I just—” He sighs, shaky and unsure. “I just wanted you to know I think about you. Still. Every day.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to your knee, trying too hard to not let your thoughts spiral away from you. You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, and your heart somewhere between breaking and blooming at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve been driving ok, not great, not badly,” he continues. “Doing the media stuff. Smiling for the cameras. Saying the right things when they ask. Everyone keeps saying I look happy.”

Happy, just like you wanted him to be. That's the reason you did all of this. For him. To help him, even if it hurt your soul to do it. 

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.

“But I’m faking it. All of it.”

Your breath catches, stuck in your throat. No.

“I catch myself thinking about you in the stupidest moments,” he says, softer now. “Like... I’ll be walking out of the paddock and I’ll reach for my phone to text you something dumb. Just muscle memory. Or I’ll hear a song you used to sing in the shower and it’ll hit me like I’ve run out of road.”

You stay quiet, swallowing hard and fiddling with your jumper sleeves. Against your better instincts to run, to hang up and hide yourself from the truth that maybe breaking up wasn't saving him, you stay.

“You remember how you used to tease me for holding my breath when I’m nervous?” he says, voice roughening just a little, like he's holding in a hollow laugh that is bubbling in his chest. “Like, properly holding it—like I’m underwater?”

You smile, just a little. Of course, you remember. 

"Yeah..."

“I keep catching myself doing it again. A lot. I didn’t even realise until Carlos pointed it out during a sim session... said I looked like I was about to pass out.”

Another small pause.

“Anyway,” he says, trying to collect himself. “If this is really what you want, I'm not here to yell at you. But I need you to know. I just... I hope you’re okay. I really do.  But if you’re not, if there’s ever a day you want to talk, about anything, bout everything.... I'm here. I'm always here”

You don't hang up.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the phone. "I ruined this. All of this."

"No, baby, no. Please don't apologise. You were doing what you thought was right." His voice cracks a little, rushed and urgent, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. Like breathing.

“I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt,” he says. "I know I can’t go back in time, but I want to move forward. With you. If there’s any part of you that wants that too…”

You wipe your eyes again and sit up straighter.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I’m scared. But I want that.” And that's all it takes. 

charles leclerc

After weeks of moping around your apartment, mourning your own decisions and cursing yourself, your friends had put their feet down and ordered you to have a night out. Something to take your mind off of him. Despite the fact that you had no desire to go out, you agreed. More for their peace of mind than your own.

You're dressed in your favourite dress, make-up done, hair perfectly in place. At any other point in your life, you would feel beautiful, but for some reason, you don't feel much of anything at all. From the second you enter the party, some rooftop bar event your friends had heard of through word of mouth, you want to go home. But you don't want to let them down, so you try and stick it out, try to pretend you feel ok.

Time passes by you, and it's hours before you notice it. Notice him. Because of course he is here. Why wouldn't he be?

Charles walks through the dancing crowd and it's like the sea parts for him, people move effortlessly out of his way despite the lack of room on the dance floor. His eyes scan the room and then, as if on instinct, they land on you.

He walks over without any dramatics, but there is a speed in his step. He's afraid if he's too slow you'll disappear into the crowd again. He's barely a metre away when he starts speaking. You can only just hear his voice over the booming music, but the heartbreak in his voice is unmistakable.

“Every time I win, I wish you were there. Every time I lose, I need you.”

You inhale sharply. He's suddenly right in front of you. He looks down at you with tired, hurting eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to hold me back. But love doesn’t hold me back—it grounds me. Keeps me from getting lost in all of this. Cheri, how could you ever believe your love was hurting me? Without it, I am nothing.”

You’re frozen in place, drink in hand, heart in your throat. You thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse... you never imagined it might get better. You never thought you'd get the chance to explain yourself to him again.

“Charles…” you say, barely audible, unsure if he even hears it over the bassline of the song thumping through the bar the screams of joy that pervade around the room, the sound of dancing feet shaking the building.

But he does. Of course he does.

“I know I should have said something earlier,” he continues, closer now, lips practically against your cheek so you can hear him clearly. His hands hold yours, keeping you close with a grounding grasp. His eyes flick briefly to your friends standing behind you, watching from the edge of the crowd, unsure whether to swoop in and save you or stay back and let this moment unfold. You hope they stay away, you couldn't stand to lose this moment because of well-meaning friends. His gaze returns to yours, and it’s the same one you’ve seen a hundred times before. 

“But I wanted to give you space. I thought… if I gave you time, you’d come back when you were ready.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humour in it. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

“I know,” he says, voice strained and tired. “That’s why I’m here. One of my friends saw you in the crowd, I had to come. I'm sorry. I had to try one last time.”

The music shifts suddenly to something slower, softer. You glance over your shoulder as the crowd shifts to accommodate the new rhythm, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He only sees you. The rest of the room fades into the background for him.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” you admit. “I didn’t think I could watch you go out there every weekend, chasing something so dangerous and demanding, and not become the thing that dragged you down.”

“You were never the weight,” he says, without hesitation. “You were the anchor. There’s a difference.”

You don’t speak for a moment, letting his words settle over the noise, the lights, the blur of people around you. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred ways over the past few weeks, some louder, some messier, but none quite like this. There is something so soft about this, despite the noise. 

“You look beautiful,” he adds quietly. “But you don’t look like yourself.”

That’s what undoes you. That sentence. The gentle truth in it.

“I haven’t felt like myself.”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Charles—”

“Not like that,” he says gently, quick to clarify. “Not unless you want that. I just… I want to talk. Or sit in silence. Or be there while you fall asleep on the couch watching something terrible. I don’t care what it is, just... let me come with you this time.”

You look at him, really look. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

lewis hamilton

You’re alone on a walk, one headphone in and hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, desperately trying to shield yourself from the cold wind of the mid-afternoon, when a familiar voice calls your name. The sound of the voice, so comfortingly recognisable, causes you to stumble over your own feet. He's here. 

It's Lewis. Hoodie on, hood up, looking just as surprised as you feel seeing him out in the world. He stops a few steps away from you. The distance feels like a gorge you could fall into if you take a wrong step. The fall would go on for ages, you can't risk slipping now. 

“I’ve been writing, texting you, then deleting it all before I send it,” he says quietly. “Trying to find the right words to say. Honestly, I don't think they exist. Every time I think I've figured out what to say, it just feels wrong.”

You just stare, hands fidgeting in your pocket as you feel stuck to the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably want me to walk away, but if I don't say this now, in person, I never will."

Before you can stop yourself, you say softly, "I never want you to walk away, Lew." The truth of your own words surprises you. Lewis can only smile slightly at the sudden interjection. But he knows, just as well as you do, that you didn't leave him because you fell out of love. It was fear that drove you away.

“I thought I could prove something by letting you go. That I could be strong. But the truth is, I’ve felt lost without you.”

"Lew—"

“I miss you,” he adds, and it’s almost a whisper. “God, I miss you so much. I've stayed up at night just thinking about what you said. I can't believe I let you believe all those things about yourself. I can't believe I didn't fight harder to prove how much I love you.”

You stare at him. This is the version of him that you always knew. The one who cares so deeply, it scares him. The one who never walks away unless he thinks he has to.

“You could’ve sent any of those texts,” you manage to say, voice uneven and slow. “I probably would’ve answered, no matter what you said.”

“I didn’t want to reach for you until I knew I could be what you needed. You need someone who can show you that you aren't a burden. You need someone who can prove how loved you are. You deserve perfection.”

You let the silence linger a beat longer. Then you take a slow, steady step forward.

“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed you.”

Lewis reaches out, gently, finally closing the gap between the two of you. “Let’s start again. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

You nod before your voice catches up.

george russell

It’s been raining all day, light, misty showers that make the city feel cold. The world is sad, you want to say to your friends, but you don't think they'd understand what you mean. Maybe you just mean you are sad. But even that feels wrong.

You’ve left the windows open just a crack, a small sliver of room to let in the crisp storm air as you curl up on the couch. There's a cup of tea in your hand that's slowly going cold, but you don't drink it. It's more for the company than for taste. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. It's just background noise to keep your thoughts from drifting back to him. 

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you’ve memorized the silence his missing presence has left behind. You miss him, but it was all for good reason.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your apartment, you don’t hear his car as it arrives at your building. But when the doorbell rings, something deep inside you seizes up.

You freeze.

You haven’t seen George in weeks. But when you open the door, he’s there, suitcase by his side, hair messy, expression shaken. You realise suddenly that he must have come straight from the airport. His race ended only 15 hours ago. He's come straight to you.

“I’m not here to argue,” he says softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Against your better instincts, you hold the door open and step aside, welcoming him in in silence. He walks in slowly. His eyes scan your apartment like he doesn't recognise it, like he hasn't been there a hundred times before. Seeing him feel so out of place feels like a punch to the gut. It's a reminder of what you said to him, the way you pushed him away so suddenly, so cruelly.

Eventually, after a moment of quiet contemplation and awkward insection, he sits on your couch, wringing his hands in his lap. When he speaks, finally, his voice holds with it a tone of practised care. He's been thinking about what to say for days, you're sure of it. 

“You said I needed to focus. That I needed to be selfish.”

He looks up.

“Well, this is me being selfish. I need you to hear me, let me speak before you turn me away again. Please." 

You swallow the lump in your throat and settle yourself down across from him on the couch. You keep a bit of distance from him, not trusting yourself to be able to not fall apart if you sit within arm's reach. You missed him more than words could explain, but you owed him the chance to speak. You know you do.

After a deep breath, long and slow, he starts to speak again.

"I need you. Not just the good parts. I want the hard days. The fears. The panic at 2 am. I want all of it. I’ve spent every day since you left wondering if I could’ve... should've... done more. So here I am. Doing more.”

You press your hands into the couch cushion beneath you to stop them from shaking, trying desperately to listen to every intonation and shake of his voice, as if you could uncover every thought he's had for the past few weeks if you just listen close enough. 

You aren’t sure what to say. You thought you were protecting him by leaving, giving him an out to finally focus. But now, here he is, telling you the absence of you is the only thing that’s really hurt him. The truth hurts more than your fears ever did.

“I kept thinking… maybe if I just left you alone, gave you time and space, you’d feel free again. Feel more like yourself again. ” His voice dips. “But I think about you constantly. Every second since you walked away. And I don’t feel free... I feel hollow. And you're right, I should be more selfish with my career, my life. So this is me being selfish about what I want: I want you. I want you next to me all the time. Every day. Every night.”

He swallows, hard. Like saying all he's feeling out loud is hurting him. But he keeps going despite it.

“If you don’t want this anymore, truly don't, not because of what you think is best for my career, for me, but because you don't want it, I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you that you weren’t a distraction. You were my calm in the chaos. You still are.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes glued to his sombre gaze. Your voice breaks when you speak.

“I've missed you so much, George.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “I know I'm not perfect. I know I wasn’t always good at balancing it all. But I never stopped loving you. That has never changed. Not for a second.”

He shifts, adjusting his posture sat upright on your couch. After a moment's hesitation, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

When you nod he moves slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll wake you from some fragile dream. But when his arms wrap around you, it’s like the weight of everything you've ever feared has finally lifted off your shoulder.

You melt into him.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe easy.

taglist: @fastandcurious16 @coolpeanutchaos @hangingwiththestars

-> ree here! I'm sorry for the length inconsitancy and any mistakes! I tried to just do what felt right for each set up and I have editted this very sleep deprived from uni study... send help for my incoming essay due dates i am avoiding by writing imagines instead...

[sidewalk-cracks]

Bruce would give up the mission if Dick ever died. And not in the angry-grief way of "this is the last straw on the camel's back" aka the way he sorta kicked Dick out, but in the "hasn't set foot in the Cave in over a month because the last time he did he kept hearing Dick's laugh echoing across the stalactites" way. He literally cannot bear to put on the cowl, to be Batman, because Batman has existed longer with Robin than without. Bruce doesn't remember being Batman without Robin (without Dick) anymore. He can recall his first meetings with a few of the Rogues, but beyond that? It's been so long that those first 2-4 years are all just a haze of self destructive grief. Dick flipped his entire life in a 180 to the total opposite direction. He showed him how to hope, to love, to live. If Dick dies as an adult, Bruce would've spent half his life with his first son. No matter what age Dick dies at, Bruce will have always spent more time being Batman with Dick Grayson as a son rather than without him. Dick changed Batman, changed Bruce so irrevocably that Bruce wouldn't ever be able to wear the cowl without remembering him.

[biggest-gaudiest-patronuses]

sometimes i take a look at your guys's favorite dripping wet repressed middle aged blorbos and honestly? i think the right foster cat could fix them

[zorangezest]

3/3

i've been getting a couple asks if redraws were allowed and yes! i love seeing how my art is interpreted in different styles, go for it!

previous laserbeak

phew! that's a lot of drawing...i'm going into hibernation now...

ive been working on this project for close to a month and i have to ask: what was your favourite moment?

[elalalune]

Favourite friend

(And nothing's wrong, when nothing's true)

I live in a hologram with you

[niinnyu]

DRAW OLIVER BANKS PLEASE-

Terminus...

[te4k3ttle]

Is this loss

[hinamie]

playing around w slightly different hair renders

[waitineedaname]

of course if bingqiu both got pregnant at the same time, the only way I can envision it happening is via mutual babytrapping. binghe finally convinces shen qingqiu to top him and then forgets to mention that he took a magic pregnancy pill beforehand. little does he know, the sex pollen flowers they encountered a week earlier that made them fuck like rabbits were actually fertility flowers, which shen qingqiu definitely knew but just. chose not to mention it. he was a little distracted, okay?! and sure, he could do something about it now, but!! that's binghe's baby!!! why would he abort binghe's baby????

they both dance around the subject for a while trying to figure out how to break the news to each other, only to be completely stunned to learn that they've BOTH been pregnant this whole time?? now they have to figure out if it counts as twins if they're born within a week of each other but technically did not share a womb

[mxmarsbars]

i think he hates them both

[whatsverstappeningnow]

how f1 drivers react

to you breaking up with them because you think you are distracting them from their career (requested) -> part two: getting back together

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks of contemplation hadn’t made this any easier. You still didn’t really know what to say, how to say it. But you knew what needed to be done. Every second you’re together is time taken away from his work. Hours wasted.

You don’t even get the words out all the way, just the beginning of a sentence, something about how maybe this isn’t fair to him, he’s distracted. He’s making mistakes he never used to make.

Max stills like you’ve poured ice cold water over him. His eyebrows furrow in confusion, eerie still.

“What are you saying?”

You keep your eyes on the floor. Meeting his gaze would hurt too much. You don’t have the strength to do it. “We need to break up.”

It’s quiet. So deathly quiet you think you can hear every thought whirl through his head at a million miles an hour. Your heart pounds heavy in your chest.

“You don’t mean it. Stop.” His voice is small, restrained.

“I do. We’re done. This is for you Max… you’re better off with me gone. I’m in the way.” You voice cracks and wavers as you speak, but you refuse to back down. You know you’re right.

Max lets out a sharp breath through his nose, like he’s trying not to raise his voice.

“You think I’d be better off?” His voice cracks on the last two words, his arms crossing like he can’t figure out what to do with us hands. “You think my life gets easier if you disappear? What the fuck?”

You start to explain, something about pressure, the pressure on him, his career, about not wanting to be the thing that takes his focus. About not being able to stand yourself if you were the reason he failed.

“Jesus, you think I don’t know pressure? You think I give a fuck about all this shit if the choice is it or you? You can’t decide for me that I can’t take it. You can’t decide that for us! For fucks sake!”

You flinch. His words hurt like a knife to the heart. His hands are in his hair, rubbing his face and then settling back into crossed arms, his chest rising and falling too fast. Then he stops.

He’s still so suddenly it makes your heart drop. He just looks… tired. The kind of tired that goes bone deep and settles in your soul. He looks up at you and you see the look in his eyes, he knows he’s already lost you.

If he won’t do this for himself, you will. You love him too much to let him fail.

“If you leave… don’t pretend it’s for me. Don’t. Just go.”

Leaving feels like giving up, but you don’t let yourself turn back. A flurry of texts erupt from your phone as you drive away from his house, a call rings. You let it go to voicemail and delete it without listening.

This is for the best.

lando norris

“No, nope, not happening.”

He’s pacing the room, a nervous energy filling his body and seemingly preventing him from sitting still for ever a second. His hands fidget, fighting for something to do. Ever since you told him you needed to break up, he has simply stopped listening. Nothing you were saying was getting through to him.

He refused to understand.

“Lando, please just listen—”

“I am listening. And you’re talking bullshit.”

You sigh slightly and look down, you’ve been fighting of tears all morning just thinking about having to have this discussion, but you can’t let yourself cry now. But still, they well in your eyes and threaten to fail your resolve. He softens instantly, moving toward you.

“I’m sorry, I just—” He looks desperate, eyes wide and searching your expression for any sign of hope. A sign that he can turn this around. Save what you have. “You can’t drop something like that out of no where and expect me to be okay with it. I don’t want you to leave. You don’t distract me.”

“You say that now—”

“I say that because it’s true. You ground me. You make me feel normal. You give me someone to come home to no matter if I’m P20 or P1. You make me feel like more than my fucking result. And if you walk away, I don’t know what the hell I’m doing any of this for. Cause I’m not sure who I am without you around!”

His hands reach out and grip yours, his hold tight and firm but not painful. Just constant pressure. Like he’s afraid if he lets go you will disappear. You might.

“You’re not leaving. You wanna talk about this? Fine. But you don’t get to pick up and leave me out of no where. You owe me more than that.”

“You need this. Trust me.”

“I need you!”

Finally, a tear falls down your cheek. You don’t brush it away. As it plummets to the ground, Lando knows something has shifted that can’t be undone. He’s lost you.

oscar piastri

Oscar doesn’t say anything at first. His face is straight, mouth in a tight line, but his eyes hold within them all that he feels. He just stares at you like he’s trying to figure out if this is a test. Or, maybe, an elaborate prank. He hopes it is.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I just… I don’t want to be the reason you lose focus. You’re so close to everything you’ve worked for.”

He finally exhales and looks away. “You think I made it this far alone?” he asks quietly, voice slow and careful.

You blink. “Oscar—”

“I didn’t. You were there. Every night I was doubting myself, worrying, thinking I wasn’t going to make it, you reminded me who I was.”

He pauses. Swallows hard. You take the chance to interrupt, to justify yourself.

“Things change. You needed that then. You need me gone now. You just can’t see it.” You plead with him, desperate for him to understand; this wasn’t because of any loss of love or heartbreak. You were doing this because you loved him too much to stand in his way.

“You think taking yourself out of the picture is going to help me? You keep me going.”

You say nothing, because anything you say will only make it worse.

So he nods, just once. Hurting. Resigned. He turns his head and stares out the window, his eyes glazed over with unshed tears.

“I don’t want this,” he says, unable to look you in the eye.

“I know.”

“You don’t either.”

“I know.”

“So don’t leave,” he pleads, but it’s too late. You had made your mind up days ago. If this is what it takes for him to reach his dreams, you’d glad to clap from the sidelines. Even if in your heart you would always be applauding in the front row.

carlos sainz

Carlos is quiet for a long time after you say it, the five fatal words. Long enough that the pit, already deep in your stomach, starts to feel like it’s going to cave in on itself. The silence is more painful than any screaming would be.

“I don’t understand. You think I’d give up what we have… because I had a couple of bad races?”

Your eyes sting, you try to hold your ground. But the sheer confusion in his voice makes you want to turn and run.

“It’s not just that. I can feel it, Carlos. You’re distracted. You need to be focused. And I… I can’t be in the way. I won’t let myself do that to you.”

He steps toward you, voice calm but firm and hands reaching out to grasp yours. You shouldn’t, but you let him. The warmth of his hands in yours grounds you.

“Hey, don’t say that. You’ve never been in the way.” He says it with such certainty, such conviction, you almost believe him. Almost.

“I don’t love you because it’s convenient. I don’t just love you when times are easy, mi vida. I love you because when the world’s spinning, you’re the only constant. You ground me.” He exhales shakily. “Don’t take that away from me. Don’t take you away from me.”

You press your lips together to keep them from trembling, and Carlos finally lets the emotion crack through his voice.

“If I crash and burn, I want you in the pit watching. If I win, I want you there too. But I want you. That’s never changed.”

“Then maybe I’ve changed. It’s me, Carlos. Not you.”

“No, no. Cariño, no.”

“We can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry.”

“Doing what? Loving either? You want to give this all up because, what, I am not performing well?”

“No, Carlos, it’s not that…”

He’s quiet then. He can’t understand , and you can barely explain. You know what you have to do. Even if it hurts.

“Please, I have to go.”

You don’t think you’ll ever forget ever forget the look of pure desperation in his eyes as you walked out of his house for the last time, carrying with you the weight of all the could have been, that now never will again.

alex albon

The colour drains from Alex’s face the second you tell him. The spark in his eye, the pure joy he radiates that you’d learnt to associate with him, and him alone, suddenly disappears. His whole body just stops.

“No—no, no, come on,” Alex says, voice panicked. “You don’t mean this.”

“I do,” you whisper. “You’re distracted, Alex. Every time you chose me over work, I know what you’re giving up. You’re so close to proving yourself again, and I don’t want to be the reason you miss this opportunity. I won’t be.

His mouth opens like he wants to argue, but he closes it again. His eyebrows furrow and his head dips. For a moment his hands twitches forward, but, like he suddenly thinks better of it, it stays in his lap.

“You’re not the reason for any of that. But you are the reason I get out of bed some days.”

You look away. It’s too much. “Alex…”

“No, c’mon. You want to know what you’re really responsible for? It’s not my failures. It’s not my losses. I know what it’s like to feel like you’re not enough. I’ve lived that for years. And then you showed up and made me believe I was more than all of that.”

His hands wave in the air as he speaks, but you can only stare at his eyes. The beautiful eyes that look so heartbroken, so afraid. He swallows hard

“You really think you could make me believe all that, and be standing in the way of my success?”

He doesn’t stop you if you walk away. Just stands there like he’s still waiting for you to come back, hoping you’ll wake up from the sleep of insecurity you’re deep in and turn back around to him. You don’t.

Walking away takes a kind of strength you didn’t know you had.

charles leclerc

“No.”

It’s immediate, institutional. He says it the second the word breakup leaves your lips. Whatever he was going before is immediately forgotten, he’s turned to you dead on like a challenge.

You try to keep your voice calm. “Charles, I just… I’m not good for you right now. I’m distracting you. You need something that I’m not.”

He laughs bitterly, eyes glossy with disbelief. One hand rest on his hip, the other rubs his eyes. He’s the picture of confusion and shock. It hurts to have caught him so unaware, just yesterday he was talking about holidays and date nights. In one sentence you’ve sent it all crashing to the ground.

“So, what? You think you’re the reason I haven’t won a championship yet?”

“Of course not—”

“Then stop trying to erase yourself like you’re some burden I didn’t ask for. If I didn’t want to be here, if I didn’t think what we had was special, I wouldn’t be.”

He steps closer, but doesn’t touch you. You fight the urge to reach for him, you know you have to stand your ground.

“I don’t care about perfect focus. I care about coming home to you. About having someone who understands me. Someone who stays.”

You whisper his name, but he shakes his head.

“If you do not want to stay, then leave, cheri.” His voice is low, and there’s a breathily disbelieving laugh that clouds the end of his sentence. He doesn’t think you’ll actually leave. That is his last mistake. He doesn’t realise how much you are will to do to help him reach his goals.

You love him so much. But you can’t keep holding him back, you won’t let yourself. Endless phone calls pile in throughout that night, but by morning they have stopped. A single text shines bright among the string of apologies.

“I love you. Please come home.” But home isn’t with him anymore.

lewis hamilton

It’s the hardest sentence you’ve ever had to say. Your heart beats heavy in your chest. Doing the right thing is never easy.

“I think we should break up,” you murmur, barely loud enough to rise above the hum of the hotel room’s air conditioning. “You’re better off without the distraction. Better off with me gone.”

The silence that follows is unbearable. Lewis doesn’t speak right away, he doesn’t even look at you at first. He just stares down at the floor, hands clasped tightly to the crisp white bedsheets.

When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. “You think you are a distraction? Baby, what?”

His head shoots up and his eyes meet yours with a tearful gaze. He’s stuck in place, so in shock that he can barely move.

You nod, swallowing hard. “I see the pressure you’re under. The expectations. The media. I don’t want to be one more thing pulling at you. You need to focus. And I— I can’t always be okay. You shouldn’t have to carry that too—carry me too.”

His jaw clenches like he’s trying not to fall apart from your words. Each thing you say, each self deprecating phrase, cuts into him like a knife.

“No. No! It’s not like that. Yes it’s hard, it’s always been hard. But no,” he says with a sudden firmness. But not anger. Somehow, that hurts more than rage.

“You’re not something I carry, you’re the reason I keep going.” He finally turns to face you, eyes glassy with something unspoken. “Do you really think I’d be better off alone in all this? You really think an empty house and an empty bed is going to fix me?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because it’s already too much.

“I’ve given up a lot for this career,” he says, voice shaking. “So many things. And I’ve told myself over and over it was worth it. I’ve made a million mistake and I’ll make a million more before I retire. I’m sure of it. But you’re the first thing in a long time that feels right. You’re the first person who has made me feel like there is more to life than winning.”

His voice cracks on that last word, and he curses under his breath, turning away like he can’t bear to let you see. Like the very sight of you hurts him. It’s hard to admit that it hurts you too.

“I love you,” he whispers. “And you want to walk away because you think I’d be better without you?”

You’re crying now, silent tears slipping down your cheeks, and it’s killing him. He crosses the room… then stops. Like he wants to reach for you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed to. He doesn’t want to over step in already shaky grounds.

“I won’t beg you,” he says, finally. “If you really believe I’ll be happier without you… then go.”

And so you do.

You feel his absence deep in your bones. It’s hard, figuring out what to do when the thing that made him feel most human leaves. But no one ever talks about how hard it’s to be the one who must walk away.

george russell

You’re standing at the edge of the room, arms crossed tight over your chest, like you're trying to physically hold yourself together. George is sitting on the edge of the bed, running a towel through his hair, fresh from the shower and smiling up at you with practiced fondness. Then you say it.

“I think we should break up.”

And it’s like a switch flips.

His hands still, towel frozen mid-motion. The silence stretches long and cold. Neither of you move, each waiting for the others next choice.

Finally, breaking the dome of silence over the two of you, he speaks, slow and careful. “You… what?”

“I just think maybe I’m a distraction,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “You’ve been under so much pressure and I— I don’t want to be something that takes your focus away.”

George stands, slowly, eyes narrowed just slightly. “That’s ridiculous.”

“It’s not,” you insist, your voice already cracking. “You’re fighting for a championship. You don’t need me in your head before every quali or after every crash, you need to think of yourself. You need to be selfish for once!”

His expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it sharpens, like he’s trying to understand how this could possibly be happening. He drops the towel onto the bed, his hands resting beside him with a practiced kind of care.

“So you’ve already decided,” he says, voice quiet and tight. “Without talking to me.”

You look away. “It’s better this way.”

“For who?” The question is sharp, angry in a way George rarely lets himself be. “Because it sure as hell isn’t for me.”

The fight drains from him almost instantly. He hates getting mad, especially at you. He runs a hand down his face and leans back, sitting back down in the bed and letting the distance between you grow.

“I thought we were a team,” he says, softer now, but broken. “I thought when things got hard, we worked through it. We talked. Together.”

You can barely breathe. “I didn’t want to make you choose.”

“But there was never a choice,” he says, shaking his head. “It was always you. Everytime.”

“And that’s why I couldn’t let you decide… I’m sorry.”

You move towards the door. He doesn’t stop you. Not because he wants you to go, but because he’s not the kind of man who’ll beg someone to stay who’s already halfway gone. Your decision your his own, he won’t tell you what you can or can’t do.

But after you leave, he sits on the edge of the bed, the one that used to be yours, staring at the door like he expects you to come back. You don’t. And George doesn’t sleep that night, or the one after. He’s not sure when he will ever sleep well again knowing what he let slip through his fingers.

part two here!

[whirlybirbs]

— THE FOOL ; KYOJURO RENGOKU ; 煉獄

summary: all you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside to the ubuyashiki mansion's onsen. pairing: kyojuro rengoku / f!hashira!reader wc: 3.6k tags: set-pre season 1, rated T, hashira dynamics, kyojuro's impeccable manners, tengen uzui is a son of a bitch, good fluff, embarrassed flirting, slightly forbidden romance, retable reader insert who just wants to be left alone to bathe in peace a/n: don't look at me.

Your bones are tired. 

Not just your bones — but every ounce of marrow in those very bones. The expression 'bone tired'? Yea, it was written and smithed with you in mind. Tonight, you're the muse for true exhaustion — battered, bruised, and barely hanging on. 

The short walk up to the Ubuyashiki Mansion's onsen is proving formidable. 

Every muscle in your body aches and with each step closer, you pray you'll have a moment of quiet peace to yourself. After all, Shinobu insisted (read as threatened) that you soak in the hot spring after administering simple medical aid post-mission. 

Something, something, hot spring stimulates blood flow, blah, blah, strong healing properties.

All you wanted was to pass out in your room, but no. Here you are, dragging yourself (quite literally) up the mountainside through the willows of wisteria on a lantern-lit path to the hot spring.

Your geta catches on a root and you trip up, scoffing tiredly as you catch yourself and grumble a curse. Ow. Irritation simmers under your skin, and you wonder absently what's gotten into you. 

It normally takes more for you to be so... cranky. And openly so.

When you reach the gate of the onsen, your eye twitches.

Son of a —

There's Hashira abound tonight. 

"Look who's back from her little foray out East!"

Did Tengen need to be so loud? 

All the damn time?

The small, dimly lit spot is surrounded by wisteria and maple. The gravel crunches beneath your feet as you sigh and shut the red gate behind you, paying careful mind not to catch your fingers in the latch. Lanterns are perched on rocks, candles only beginning to run with wax in the evening air. The open-air bath overlooks the sprawling estate down the mountain. 

You sigh deeply from your chest, your eyes practically at half-mast when you turn around to snipe Tengen with an unamused look.

"Our dear Dream Hashira... you look like shit," comes the rogue commentary, "No offense, beautiful."

Tengen is at the far edge of the steaming bath with both arms outstretched along the edge. As always, he's taking up as much space as humanly possible. His silver hair hangs about his shoulders — and he even goes so far as to pin you with a rogueish smile. You stare flatly at him in response.

Then: the middle finger. 

"Woof. Tough crowd tonight," he rumbles as he slides a look towards a decidedly uninterested Sanemi. The Wind Hashira has his head hung back against the edge with a towel over his forehead — his eyes are closed. If you didn't know any better, you'd assume he was asleep. 

"Tengen, do me a favor," comes the gritted reply from the scarred man, "and shut the hell up." 

You motion plainly to Sanemi — the gesture says thank you — with your brows raising in silent agreeance. Even the act of speaking right now is all too much. 

"I must agree with Tengen," comes the wistful and soft voice of Muichiro Tokito as he lifts his chin from its submerged position; his hair is swimming about him. The Mist Hashira looks... almost peaceful; but his words are damning, "You do look like shit."

Somehow it's worse when Tokito says it.

That makes Sanemi lift his head and pry one eye open. 

You serve him an unenthused look from your spot by the benches. You hope for a bit of sympathy, but instead:

"...What the fuck happened to you?" comes his dry response to your current state of being. 

Which — fine, maybe it's fair. The others rarely ever see you in any state aside from perfect. You're meticulous about your appearance; from your uniform to your posture, you value perfection over all else. The devil that has always haunted you is the details. Perhaps it was your rigid upbringing, but regardless—

"Ah!" suddenly, there's a resoundingly warm voice booming across the small courtyard from the onsen's koshitsu, "I see you've returned, Lady— Oh... my, are you quite alright...?"

You've got to be kidding me.

Kyojuro Rengoku's face is twisted into genuine worry. He's standing in the middle of the path, his focus entirely on you. His hair is undone and the sunburst strands are spilling along his chest and back. There's a small cotton towel slung around his narrow waist. You purposefully level your eyes with his, not daring to let your gaze waver — and then you curse Kocho Shinobu a thousand times over for sending you here.  

(Tengen is smirking. You want to throw your sandal at his head.)

Finally, you speak. 

"I'm fine." 

You don't sound fine. You sound like a woman who'd endured being unceremoniously whipped about by a snake Demon in a swamp for three hours before she could finally land a killing blow. 

Kyojuro frowns. His eyes — like two gems of carnelian — are nearly glowing with concern. Those dark brows of his knit and you try to grit out a tight smile. It fails. It looks more like a wince than anything.

It's... pathetic.

"Perhaps a soak will help," the Flame Hashira offers gently. His tone is soft with pity.

Shit. Fuck. Damn it. Fucking Shinobu, fucking hot spring, fucking swamp demon, fucking—

Right. Right, a soak. It's the thing that Tengen Uzui is somehow singlehandedly making more unbearable — he's dragging Sanemi and Muichiro by the necks from the onsen — by leaving you alone with Rengoku. 

"Go on you two! We're just leaving anyways, right fellas?"

"Die," you spit hoarsly in his direction; your expression is flat.

Tengen throws you a wink. "Relax a little, pretty. You deserve it!"

You could still hit him with your geta. Maybe if you put enough force behind it, it could kill him. 

After all, he's been doing this ever since you let it slip about your little crush. 

And just when a girl thinks she can trust an ex-shinobi... never again. You don't care if Tengen is the one offering to buy the sake, you're never drinking with that man again. He's a gossip and a whore. A gossiping whore. A devoted husband-whore who gossips like no-fucking-other. 

Admitting to Tengen Uzui's stupid face that you've been avoiding Kyojuro Rengoku because of your feelings was the second worst mistake you ever made.

Your first worst mistake was not dragging your sorry ass back down the mountain after you and Kyojuro were left alone in the onsen. 

At least — at the very least — it's quieter now, even if the silence feels oddly intimate. 

You're thankful Kyojuro has retreated into the water of the bath; the distance allows you to ignore the burning pit in your gut at the thought of him and you together. In the onsen. Alone.

You've bathed alongside the other Hashira before. The whole lot of you are warriors. There's no shame in the body — and admittedly, you grew up around konyoku onsen in Tokyo. 

It wasn't the nakedness that was the problem. 

...Maybe it was a little bit of the nakedness. 

But, mostly the fact it's Kyojuro Rengoku: the kindest man you've ever met, a man whose smile is nearly as bright as the morning sun, a man whose laugh feels like a summer thunderstorm. A man who is tall, strong, and handsome. It's no small secret he's well-loved among the ranks; respected, admired, sought after... Who wouldn't make an attempt atcatching his eye? After all, he's capable, swift, courageous, honorable—

Having a heart attack.

He's having a heart attack.

I mean — it's you. And him. Alone. 

...Naked. And alone.

He himself could have strangled Tengen when the ex-shinobi scurried off, leaving him here — though he'd never admit it. That sneaky bastard is fully aware of Kyojuro's feelings towards you, and Kyojuro swears the Sound Hashira gets off on forcing him to confront the very thing he forbids himself to even dwell upon. 

Your voice pulls him from his enraptured internal monologue.

"I am fine," you break the silence as your fingers work at the obi around your waist in nervousness. Your back is to him, and as the grey kimono slips down your shoulders, he panics, "I swear."

"I'm not sure I've ever seen you in such a state as this," he tries to sound level, confident, as he turns in the water; suddenly the mountainside is very beautiful. Yes, very nice. Very... mountain-y. 

Kyojuro's eyes flick over his shoulder briefly, back at you.

He sees skin. More of your skin than he's ever seen. There are dimples at the base of your spine. Good god. He swallows tightly and turns his gaze forward once more. 

Even the act of shrugging your kimono off is enough to make you rasp. The ribs Shinobu had been so concerned about are protesting now. It's fine. Everything is fine. You peek over your shoulder. Relief floods you as you realize Rengoku's back is turned. 

Quickly, you slip into the onsen. It's the quickest you've moved all night. 

You plunge in deep, ignoring the burn of the water along of the more raw marks and bruises bitten into your skin. Your ribs wail in protest as you inhale sharply at the heat, and you try your best to coach your expression into unwavering when Kyojuro turns back around. 

"Better?"

All you can do is grunt from your submerged position.

That makes him laugh.

You try to memorize the warm sound and tuck it neatly into your heart. It's cute, the way his eyes scrunch when he laughs. You find yourself staring for a second before swallowing down your affections.

"Shinobu demanded I come," you explain slowly, lifting your hands and playing with the surface of the water, "If I had it my way, I'd be in bed."

Or murdering Tengen in his sleep.

"The hot springs are good for healing," Kyojuro chirps brightly, canting his head as he speaks almost as if he's going to reprimand you. His voice drops an octave, "You know that, Lady Hashira."

He's teasing you.

He's — he's seriously teasing you.

You're naked and he's teasing you.

You sink a little lower into the water and narrow your eyes at him — the act makes you look a bit like an angry, wet cat. Kyojuro can only grin. Truly this is rare form for you. Your disposition is usually sunny, if not well-manicured and mindfully well-mannered. You are every bit a Lady Hashira. Moreso than Shinobu or Mitsuri in a way. 

You are the Dream Pillar, after all, and a woman composed purely of romanticism in his eyes. It's the way he could see you, in another life, in a fine silk kimono and delicate make-up; he could see you in gold and pearls, pouring tea worth more than his monthly salary into fine ceramic cups. Suitors abound.

Though, perhaps that's not so different than now.

Not with the way you're delicately pouring yourself a helping of Tengen's abandoned sake at the edge of the onsen. You'd think it was the most expensive liquor in the land with the care you take to not spill a drop. 

You slide him a hesitant look over your shoulder, the water lapping at your bruised back. Kyojuro lifts a brow.

"What?" you ask, feigning innocence as you turn back to the task at hand, "It'd be a shame if it went to waste."

"I didn't know sake had healing properties," Kyojuro offers slowly, his lips twitching upwards as he watches you take a long sip from the cup.

"Something, something, blood flow," you murmur mostly to yourself, tossing back the rest with a scowl and a wince, "I'm sure Shinobu would agree."

Kyojuro leans back against the wall, sinking a little deeper as he settles onto the seat beneath the water. The ends of his hair are soaked, turning an even darker shade of crimson. His shoulders flex as he relaxes his arms against the stones. 

His own body is tired. Beneath the water, he absently stretches his legs and pays careful mind to the twinge of pain in his left knee.

"Whether she agrees or disagrees is none of my business," he supplies diplomatically.

You reach for the jug, giving it a light shake. It's nearly empty anyway. 

You extend it, offering it to Kyojuro.

The Flame Hashira shakes his head. "No thank you. I reserve drink for special occasions only."

You quirk a brow. Your tone is light. Airy, almost. "I didn't know that about you."

He hums. You place the sake down, sink lower into the water, and try to focus on his face — not the strength in his forearms, nor the water running in rivets down his chest. 

"My father has quite a love for the stuff," he admits with a controlled frown, "I avoid it when I can."

Ah. 

Right. 

Your own father, also a retired Hashira, voiced many a feeling about Shinjuro Rengoku when he was given the chance. You'd visited home months ago and when you mentioned serving alongside Kyojuro, his eyes narrowed dangerously and impeccably sharp. His tongue lashed out at you — as if you were the retired Flame Pillar himself. 

There's a history there, it seems.

"I apologize."

"Don't," he says; firm yet soft.

"It is better that way, really," you mumble in an attempt to soothe the ache you can see across his face, "Liquor leads to making many a fool."

Kyojuro's brow quirks. "You sound as though you're speaking from experience."

"Perhaps," you say slyly, wandering to the far end of the pool. You're nearly submerged to your nose, "A lady shall never tell."

"And if I asked Tengen?"

"You wouldn't dare." The water splashes as you whip around and glare — though Kyojuro senses no real malice. 

It was no small secret you'd been dragged through the mud after you and Tengen's night on the town. Why the Master called a meeting that morning was beyond you, but there's a part of you that wonders if he was slightly amused at your less-than-pleasant state. You swore you were going to puke all over the engawa when you bowed — never mind the fact the morning sun's brightness was enough to nearly drill your brain into a pulp. 

Kyojuro had never seen you so... disheveled. 

Second to tonight, that is.

The Flame Hashira smirks. "If the lady forbades it, then who am I to ignore her wishes?"

Fucking Tengen, fucking Shinobu, fucking Kyojuro—

Fucking honorable, respectable, polite Kyojuro.

"Well, this lady does forbade it," you say with narrowed eyes, "So there."

"You really are in rare form this evening."

He's smirking. That's new.

"Yes, well," you mumble as you lull your head back and wet the rest of your hair; the warmth seeps through the strands and feels soothing on your scalp. You already feel better. Less like a swamp demon's plaything, more like a girl trying her best not to let her petal-mouthed feelings slip out, "We can blame Muzan Kibutsuji for that."

"I surmise it has been a difficult day?" he rumbles quietly from his spot in the onsen.

"You haven't the slightest idea."

"Care to enlighten me?" 

"And embarrass myself?" she mutters, splashing absently, "I'd prefer to remain capable in your eyes, Rengoku. I'll spare you the details. And anyone else who asks."

He's grinning. That sort that appears in an optimist's dream. Bright, sunny and so enrapturing it feels like your heart is being scorched by its warmth. 

"Your capability will never waver in my eyes," Kyojuro supplies as he flicks the water absently; his gaze has fallen to the sway of the wisteria in the evening air, "You are amazing. One particularly bad day does not diminish that fact."

Maybe it's the sake. Maybe it's the compliment. Either way, the tips of your ears feel warm. 

That little, nibbling feeling is back in his chest. The very one he's been trying his best to ignore for months. 

"You are only being kind," you mutter, "Because, as the other's made very clear, I look like shit." 

Kyojuro finds himself smiling a bit at the jest — his fingers glide along the top of the water, tracing idly patterns into it as he watches you sink deeper and deeper into the hot spring. Finally, for a moment, you descend below the surface.

Then, you break the surface slowly. Your hair is swimming around you, clinging to your bare shoulders. You exhale, brush water from your lashes, and inhale. You look... beautiful. A different sort of beautiful than he's used to. This sort of beauty is relaxed. Tired. You seem a bit freer than usual — unrestrained by the image you aim to keep well protected amongst the others. 

Kyojuro sinks a little deeper himself.

He's still watching you.

Your eyes find his. 

There's a moment where all you two can do is blink — Flame and Dream mingling for a breath beneath the stars. Wide eyes bound by a moment of silence, a moment of hesitation. He feels like all the breath has been swept from his lungs. All Kyojuro can do is stare into your eyes.

Then, he speaks.

Blurts, more aptly.

"You are beautiful."

...Did he just say that? 

Your lips part in quiet shock.

Suddenly, his posture is more rigid, and his expression a bit panicked — perhaps because your own eyes widen a mile at the words that spill from his mouth. Kyojuro raises his hands as he inhales sharply, the heat of the bath inching a degree hotter. Whether it's from the sudden admission or a misfire of his breathing technique, you're unsure. 

His cheeks are hot. He leans forward, shaking his head.

Damn you, Tengen. Damn you, damn you—

"I-I simply mean — you... You do not look like shit—" He attempts to explain.

"Oh—"

"Yes, yes, I—"

"Thank you," you say quickly, trying to calm your own racing heart as he swallows down a bought of embarrassment and offers a pained smile your way. It's enough to quell his panic.

"Of course," he breathes out, sagging a bit deeper into the water as he fiddles with his hands. He has a habit of rubbing at his callouses. Kyojuro swallows, then hoarsly admits: "One might think that I was drinking the sake with the way I'm making a fool of myself."

Your laugh is like a balm. 

"Hardly," you offer as you sink into the water with a smile; your eyes are glimmering with something a bit mischievous as you swim towards the water's edge. You pause, then slip a look his way over your bare shoulder, "...Do you mean it?"

"That I'm a fool? Of course."

You scoff quietly. Kyojuro's smile is tight — knowing. 

Then, he speaks warmly and kindly. He confirms your question with ease. His arms are wound across his chest. "You are truly beautiful. The most beautiful woman I have ever had the grace to lay eyes upon, my Lady." 

Maybe you could drown yourself here. 

You're not entirely sure how you'll ever recover from this — not from how tender he says it, not from how honest his words sound. So suddenly you feel as though he's hung every star in the sky for your eyes only, having wished upon them, time and time again, for nothing more than a moment of your time. It's reverent is what it is.

You're about to open your mouth and say something when a bright, girlish giggle cuts through the tension—

Kyojuro Rengoku has never been more thankful for Mitsuri Kanroji's ill timing. Behind her is Lady Shinobu. 

The pink and green-haired Hashira is ecstatic to find both yourself and Rengoku in the hot spring — her delight is palpable as she waves her arms and cheers brightly into the air. Her crow caws overhead. Her darker-haired counterpart levels them both with polite smiles.

"Oh, this is just lovely! My friends!" she's chirping as she closes the gate, "I am so glad to see you both back safe and sound—"

"Heading my advice, it seems," Shinobu says slowly — almost like she knows something you don't. Her pale, lilac eyes flick between you and Rengoku. For a moment, you almost suspect she's about to ask something.

"How are you feeling?" Mitsuri cries in your direction, shrugging her kimono off with ease — unbothered entirely by Rengoku's presence. The two are like brother and sister, and Mitsuri has never batted an eye about nudity, "How are your ribs?"

Kyojuro levels you with a look. 

You offer a sheepish grin. 

"Yes," Shinobu mutters as she slips out of her geta, "Four broken ribs."

Kyojuro's nostrils flare. "You said nothing about the sort."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I told you I was sparing you the details."

Mitsuri's bright eyes dart between the two of you — a little bit of giddiness blooming at the sight of Kyojuro looking so worried about their fellow Dream Hashira. 

He slides a look towards Kocho. Then rolls his shoulders. With a sigh, he moves to stand, the water lapping at his waist. You decidedly find the edge of the onsen very interesting as you try to coach yourself through the overwhelming urge to stare. 

"I trust you'll monitor her condition, Kocho," he murmurs as he moves through the water; the words sit nicely in your heart and you feel a little pride swell at his indication that he cares if you're alright, "I'll let you ladies have some time amongst yourselves."

You catch his eyes for a second. A moment. A lingering little breath that mingles between you — like Kocho and Mitsuri aren't there. Then, he stepped from the bath and gathered his robe.

For now, the two of you will pretend earlier never happened.

For now.

Just a little thing between the two of you — and suddenly, you're not so cranky. Once the muse for exhaustion, you're now the muse of lovesickness. 

When the gate closes behind Kyojuro, Kocho speaks.

"...What was all that?"

Nevermind. The crankiness is back.

"Shut up."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Hello Madam. Sorry Madam.

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