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writingsoftarnishedsilver · 1 month ago

Note

hi hi i hope you’ve been well! i’m part of the itty-bitty titty committee and i’d love a fanfic abt seb comforting mc about it? i apologize if it’s a bit similar to your other request you recently fulfilled, but it’s been on my mind and your writing never fails to make me feel something. feel free to ignore this, but if you would be down then thank you so much in advance!

As You Are | Sebastian Sallow x Reader

Hi anon! thank you so much for your message. I am so sorry it took so long for me to finish this for you, but I really hope you enjoy! This is my first fic in what feels like forever ;.; excited to be back to writing. Thank you everyone once again for your patience while I took time away.

<3<3<3

Words: ~6,800

Tags: Mentions of Smut, Reader Insert, Female MC, No Y/N, Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Fluff, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Romance, Love Confessions

The locker room reeks of sweat, grass, and wet wool. It's a thick, clinging fog of damp socks, muddy cleats, and overworked gear. The air is humid with steam from the showers hissing at the far end, and the stone bench beneath you is cold against the backs of your thighs. You peel your jersey over your head, grimacing as it sticks to your skin.

You’d taken a bludger to the ribs somewhere around the half hour mark on your left side, just under the padding. It’s already blooming into a dull ache, a reminder of how seriously your Beater takes practice. Still, it had been a good session.

Around you, laughter echoes off the tiled walls, bouncing down from the other end of the changing room. You don’t pay it much mind until you hear your name.

“Well, I’m just saying,” comes a teasing voice. A voice you'd recognize anywhere: Araminta Lawson, Seventh year, Slytherin, and a total bitch. “Being Hogwarts’ little golden girl doesn't exactly get you a golden rack, does it?”

Peals of laughter erupt from the Slytherin girls, sharp, bright, a little too loud to be casual.

“I mean, really,” Araminta continues, louder now. “You save the school, you beat Ranrok, you’re everyone’s favorite little do-gooder, but Merlin help her, she's flat as a board."

You keep your head down, jaw tight as you continue undressing. Socks off. Shin guards unclipped. Jersey folded.

You’ve been on Araminta’s bad side since day one. Maybe it was your spellwork. Maybe it was the way you handled the goblin rebellion. Or maybe it was because people liked you more than her, and you didn’t have to try so hard to get them to. Whatever the reason, her and her friends always find a reason to mock, whether it's your upbringing, your House, the way you braid your hair, or the even the way you grip your wand.

Normally, it’s annoying. Occasionally, it’s cruel. But it’s always manageable. You've gotten good at brushing it off. At rolling your eyes. At winning.

But this time... this time it hurts.

Because it’s true.

You know you're not the most... well endowed girl in your year. You’ve had the thought a hundred times in front of your dorm mirror. You know the shape of your own body better than anyone.

You cast a glance to the side before you can stop yourself.

Araminta is lounging across the bench like she’s in a catalogue for Witch Weekly: flawless skin, hair cascading in bouncy curls, her cleavage practically engineered for envy. She’s not even bothering to get dressed, as if she's daring you to look at her in her matching lace underwear.

Your stomach twists. You curse her perfect figure. Her perfect everything.

You turn sharply, towel clenched tight around you, and start toward the showers. The tile is cold beneath your feet, the hiss of water a welcome white noise. You think maybe it'll drown them out, muffle them, and you can just get through the next ten minutes without looking like a complete fool in front of people who would love to see it.

But the Slytherin girls aren't done with you yet.

“Oh, come off it,” Araminta says, loud enough to carry over the steam. “She thinks if she acts mysterious and noble for long enough, Sebastian’ll just fall into her lap.”

A few of the girls snicker. One of them sighs, dreamy and theatrical. “Oh Sebastian,” she coos. “Please overlook my tragically underwhelming bosom."

Laughter explodes.

“She’s been following him around like a lovesick Crup since fifth year,” says qnother. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Everyone knows she’s in love with him,” Araminta drawls. “But have you ever seen him flirt with her?”

Another girl laughs. “He probably wants someone he can actually get a handful of, not someone who disappears when she turns sideways.”

You step into the shower stall and yank the curtain shut, the thick plastic rings clattering against the metal bar. You twist the knob until scalding water crashes over your shoulders.

It’s too hot. It stings.

Good.

You tip your head back and let it soak through your hair, over your face, down your neck. You’re not crying. The sting in your eyes could be the heat.

Beyond the hiss of water, their voices continue, though now they’re not the only ones speaking.

“Oi, lay off it, Lawson,” snaps Dahlia Moon, your team's top Chaser. She’s never liked Araminta, and subtlety has never been her strong suit. “She’s a better flier than all of you combined. Maybe worry less about her bra size and more about how she scored twice today while you were still tying your boots.”

“Oh, someone’s got her knickers in a twist,” Araminta drawls, but there’s an edge to her voice now. "Relax, Moon. We’re only having a bit of fun.”

“Right, because tearing someone down behind their back is such a laugh,” Dahlia fires back.

“We all know why Araminta's such a bitch,” June, your backup Beater, snorts. “She’s still sore Sebastian doesn’t give her the time of day.”

Araminta scoffs. “Please. As if I care. I just think it’s weird how everyone pretends it’s normal, her following him around all the time. He’s obviously not interested.”

“That’s rich,” June cuts in, tone now fully scathing. “You tried to slip your number into his Defense textbook last year and you’ve been hovering around him since he hit his growth spurt year before last.”

Another round of halfsuppressed laughter rises, this time from your side of the room. You can almost hear Araminta bristle from behind the curtain.

“Oh, fuck off,” one of Araminta’s friends snaps. “You lot are just pissed because your little golden girl can’t handle a bit of honesty.”

“Honesty?” June echoes, incredulous. “You mean jealousy. That’s the word you’re looking for.”

There’s a sharp sound, maybe a locker slamming shut, maybe someone’s foot hitting the bench, and then silence. A thick, crackling silence. One you could slice open with a knife if you wanted to.

By now, your skin is burning. Bright red from the heat. You haven’t moved since stepping into the shower, haven’t adjusted the tap, haven’t washed your hair. You’ve just stood there, letting it pour over you.

Araminta finally snorts. “Whatever. Keep defending her if it makes you feel better,” she says, loud and flippant. “Doesn’t change the fact that she’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

Silence.

Total.

No retort. No comeback. Not from Dahlia. Not from June. Not from anyone.

Because there isn’t one. Because it’s what you’ve thought, too.

A hundred times. A thousand. Every time Sebastian laughed with someone else. Every time his hand brushed yours and he didn’t hold on. Every time he looked at you and then looked away.

He's never treated you the way he does other girls. Like that Ravenclaw prefect. Or that Beauxbatons girl who’d practically climbed into his lap during the Triwizard exhibition last winter.

Araminta might be cruel, but what if she's right?

You think of Sebastian—his crooked grin, the way his brow furrows when he’s pretending not to worry about you, the rare softness in his voice when it’s just the two of you. The way he always insists on standing on the outside edge of the corridor, between you and the cold drafty stone. The way his shoulder brushes yours when you sit beside him, and he never moves away. Of the way your heart stumbles every time he says your name.

But if there was something there, anything real, wouldn’t he have acted on it by now?

You stand there under the water until the last voices fade and the water runs cold and the ache in your ribs has dulled into something distant.

You shut off the tap and wring out your hair with numb fingers. You dry off and dress in silence, pulling your clothes on in automatic motions. Undergarments. Uniform. Boots. Wand clipped at your hip.

You avoid the mirror.

When you step out into the corridor, you see him right away.

Sebastian Sallow. Leaning against the stone just a few feet away from the door, arms crossed, one knee bent and boot resting against the wall behind. His shirt is still a little wrinkled. Hair still damp. His eyes lift the moment he hears the door, and they light up when they land on you.

“There she is,” he says, voice warm. Familiar. “I was starting to think you'd drowned in there,” he adds with a crooked grin.

You manage a small smile, more habit than emotion. “Just taking my time.”

He uncrosses his arms, stepping toward you. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to read something in it.

“You alright?”

“Fine,” you say too quickly. “Long practice.”

He doesn’t look convinced. Not even a little.

“You sure? You’re being weird. Quiet weird. Not, you know, charming weird.”

You huff a laugh through your nose and shake your head, already turning away, already putting distance between his familiar gaze and the ache in your chest.

“I'm fine, Sebastian.”

He falls into step beside you like always, hands tucked into his pockets, shoulder brushing yours lightly like usual. But this time, you shift half a step away, just enough that the contact doesn’t linger.

He notices, because of course he does.

"Was it that Bludger?" He asks, voice gentler now. "You took a pretty nasty hit out there."

You glance over at him briefly. His brow is knit with that familiar line of worry.

Your ribs do still ache, a slow pulse beneath your uniform, but that isn’t what’s hurting most.

“It’s fine,” you murmur. “Just a bruise.”

The corridor winds ahead of you, long and dim, and the muffled sounds of the Great Hall are growing louder with every step—plates clinking, laughter rising, the low thrum of hundreds of conversations blending into a warm, golden haze.

You’re grateful for the noise. It’s a welcome kind of chaos, one you can disappear into.

You move quickly, weaving through the crowd with purpose, ducking toward your table before Sebastian can say anything else. Before he can interrogate you any further.

Your usual seat is open and you slide into it like it’s second nature, already reaching for the bread basket and pretending you didn’t just leave half your soul behind in the showers.

Ominis glances up from his plate, tilting his head toward the sound of your arrival. “You’re late,” he says, wry as always. “I was beginning to suspect Sebastian had finally convinced you to elope.”

Ominis is always like this. Dry, unbothered, maddeningly perceptive. Normally, you’d roll your eyes and volley something back, but tonight, the words hit differently. They land like a stone in your gut.

You manage a half hearted snort.

“Sorry. Took longer than I thought to clean up.”

Sebastian settles beside you, close enough that his knee nudges yours under the table. He spoons mashed potatoes onto your plate without asking.

"I think the castle is probably all out of hot water after the shower she took," he says, and that crooked grin is back in his voice, the same one that usually makes your chest flutter.

You hum in response—neither agreeing nor disagreeing—as you pull apart a roll with too much focus.

Ominis, not missing a beat, arches a brow. “If she’s been hiding a secret lover in the girls' locker room, I’ll be terribly disappointed not to have known.”

Garreth lets out a loud laugh. “What if she is the secret lover?"

The conversation spins on without you, quick and easy and full of friendly jabs. Natty makes some joke about Quidditch scandals and changing room hookups. Garreth chimes in with something ridiculous about charming the snitch to read love letters. Ominis murmurs that if anyone’s writing poetry in your honor, he hopes for the good of the school that it stays unpublished.

But all you can focus on is Sebastian’s thigh, warm and solid against yours, his knee brushing your leg each time he shifts. The way his arm bumps yours now and then as he leans forward to pass something. The smell of him—fresh soap, warm spices, woodfire and cedar—wraps around you like a second cloak. Familiar. Comfortable. Crushing.

It’s all too much. And yet not enough.

You pick at your food. Push peas across your plate. Nod along with half the jokes and forget them the second they pass. You don’t look up once, even though you can feel Sebastian glancing at you again and again.

He’s trying to be subtle. He’s never been good at subtle.

Eventually, the meal winds down. Someone complains about homework. Natty starts organizing the group for a study session later. Ominis mentions needing to speak with Professor Sharp. People shift, stand, collect their things.

You stand too.

“Gonna head out for a bit,” you say, trying for casual.

“To the common room?” Natty asks.

You shake your head. “Nah. Just… need a walk.”

Sebastian straightens beside you, instinctively ready to follow. “Want company?”

You pause jst long enough to be noticeable. “I’m alright.”

His brow furrows, but he doesn’t stop you.

You leave the hall quickly, the chatter fading behind you as your footsteps echo down the corridor. You don’t know where you’re going until your feet take you there.

The Room of Requirement opens for you without hesitation.

Inside, it’s quiet. Dimly lit. Calming. Filled with warm ambient light and shelves lined with books you haven’t touched in weeks.

You cross to the center of the room and sit down heavily on the edge of the rug, tugging your knees up to your chest. The silence wraps around you like a blanket too thin to keep out the cold.

Your breath shakes. Not quite a sob, not quite steady. You close your eyes and press your palms into them, like maybe you can push Araminta’s voice out of your head if you try hard enough.

After a while, maybe ten minutes, maybe more, you hear soft footsteps behind you. You lift your head just enough to see Deek approaching, small and quiet as ever. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t ask questions. He simply places a steaming cup of tea on the floor beside you.

You manage a soft “thank you” and Deek offers a smile before turning away and disappearing into one of the vivariums. The door clicks shut behind him, and the Room is yours again.

You take the mug in both hands and pull it close to your chest, letting the heat seep into your fingers, though it does little to warm the hollow space inside you.

“She’s got no tits and he hasn’t made a move. Merlin, it’s been three years. If he wanted her, don’t you think he’d have done something by now?”

You blink hard, willing, in vain, the sting in your eyes to go away.

You’ve always been aware of your chest. Or lack thereof.

Since you were thirteen and the other girls started filling out but you didn’t. When you stood in front of the mirror and tugged at your shirt, trying to convince yourself it would happen eventually. That you were just a late bloomer. That maybe tomorrow, you’d wake up different.

But you never did.

You’ve laughed it off before. Made the jokes first to dull the sting. “President of the Itty-Bitty Titty Committee,” you once said to Natty, trying to sound proud of the title, like it didn’t bother you. Like you were above it.

You’re not.

You’ve tried to believe it didn’t matter. That you were more than a body. That anyone who cared about your figure didn’t deserve you anyway. That if someone really liked you—if Sebastian really liked you—it wouldn’t matter.

But maybe it does. Maybe it always has.

It’s stupid. It’s shallow. You know that.

But you still think about it. Every time you see Sebastian laugh with someone else. Every time he leans just a little too close to a girl with long lashes and a low cut top. Every time he’s charming and flirtatious and never quite like that with you.

He’s always been warm. Protective. Devoted, even. But not hungry. Not drawn.

You’ve wondered endlessly if he just doesn’t see you that way because you don’t look the way girls are supposed to. You’ve wondered if maybe something in his brain just registers you as... not woman enough. Not desirable enough.

Not enough to be looked at the way Sebastian looks at other girls.

You lift the tea to your lips, finally, and sip. It’s perfect. Warm, sweet, soothing, and yet your throat still aches.

Then the door creaks open.

You don't turn to look. You don't need to. You’d know the sound of his gait anywhere.

Sebastian closes the door behind him. Then nothing.

For a long moment, he just stands there. You can feel his presence settle into the room like a weight.

Your hands tighten around your mug.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. He’s waiting.

So you save him the trouble.

“I don’t want to talk.”

There’s a pause.

“Too bad.”

You glance sideways, finally.

Sebastian’s standing just a few feet away now, arms crossed, brows drawn tight with worry.

“I know something's wrong,” he say. Like it’s a fact. Like it’s gravity. "You're too quiet. You barely ate. You didn’t look at me once at dinner. Whatever's going on, you can tell me, surely you know that, don't you?"

You do know. You’ve always known. Sebastian’s loyalty is a force of nature. When he cares, he does so completely. Fiercely. Sometimes recklessly.

But this isn't the kind of problem you can solve with loyalty.

This isn’t a wound to be mended with spellwork or a curse to unravel or a duel to win. It’s not something he can fight for you, or bleed for, or throw himself in front of like he always does.

This is you.

Your body. Your feelings. Your insecurities. A thousand tiny hurts stitched into the shape of a girl who’s been pretending they don’t matter for years.

You draw a shaky breath. Your fingers curl tighter around your tea.

"Sebastian, seriously, I'm fine," You swallow. "And... honestly, you won't understand anyway."

Sebastian’s jaw tenses. He looks like a boy who’s just been handed a locked door and decided he will find a way in.

“Try me."

You exhale, long and slow. There’s no point in fighting him. You knew the second the door opened and you heard his footsteps that this would happen. That he wouldn’t let it go.

He never does.

You shift, drawing your knees up tighter and setting your tea on the floor beside you. He watches, waiting, and when you say nothing, he lowers himself to sit on the rug across from you, legs folded, hands loosely clasped in front of him like he’s settling in for something important.

You run a hand down your face. “It’s not that big a deal,” you mutter, already bracing yourself. “It was just the Slytherin girls. Again.”

Sebastian snorts immediately. “Merlin, again?”

You don’t respond.

He narrows his eyes a little. “You usually handle them fine. You’ve shut Araminta down with a single look more times than I can count. So what’d she do this time?”

You shrug, trying to wave it off. “Nothing. They were just being rude. Like always.”

He doesn’t budge.

“Rude how?”

It’s a simple question, but it cracks something. You press your lips together, tighten your grip around your knee.

“They just ran their mouths,” you say, feigning indifference. “Same old stuff. Gossip, snide comments. It’s fine.”

“...What did they say?”

You look anywhere but at him. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It clearly matters."

You bristle, even though he’s right.

“I said I didn’t want to talk about it.”

“And yet here we are.”

Your eyes snap back to his, and there’s no teasing in them. Just patience. Frustrating, infuriating, endearing patience.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Hard. The words press at the back of your throat, hot and heavy, but you force them out through clenched teeth: measured, sarcastic, like if you keep the delivery casual enough, it won’t sound like it hurt.

“They were just talking shit,” you say finally. “Apparently my bra size is now a matter of great public concern.”

Sebastian’s eyebrows shoot up, and for a second he looks so baffled it might almost be funny.

“What?”

You shrug like it doesn’t matter. Like your heart isn’t thudding against your ribs like a trapped bird. “I don’t know. Araminta was bored, I guess. It’s not a big deal."

Sebastian blinks like he’s been hit with a stupefy. “...What exactly did they say?”

"Oh, you know... how I'm flat as a board, how there's nothing to grab, how I 'disappear when I turn sideways’—you know, classic material.”

Sebastian doesn’t respond. He’s gone very still, gaze fixed on you now with an intensity that makes your skin prickle.

You try to wave him off. “Don’t make a thing out of it. Honestly, they're clearly running out of material if that’s the most scandalous thing they can come up with.”

“I’m going to kill them.”

“Sebastian-”

“No, really.” His voice is deceptively calm, but there’s fire behind it. You know this look. It's the one he gets right before he does something stupid and noble in equal measure. The one he carries into every duel, every injustice, every time someone crosses a line.

“Don’t,” you warn, lifting a finger. “Do not go marching into the Slytherin common room.”

He drags a hand through his hair, agitated, like he’s weighing whether the impending detention would be worth it, and you both know he thinks it would be.

“I’m serious,” you say, sharper now. “Do not make this worse.”

Sebastian exhales through his nose. “They made you feel like shit. That is worse.”

You shake your head, laughing wryly. “They didn’t say anything I didn't already know. I already felt this way as it was.”

The words slip out before you can stop them, and you immediately wish you could swallow them back.

Sebastian stills.

“What?"

You sigh, "Forget it, it’s nothing—

“No—"

"Sebastian, seriously—"

"No." His voice hardens. "What do you mean you already felt that way?"

You press your forehead to your knees, wishing the stone floor would just crack open and swallow you whole.

“I mean,” you mumble, “that they weren’t wrong.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, the words tumbling out in pieces now, brittle and half-formed. “It’s not like I haven’t thought it before. That I’m... not like them. That I don’t look like them. There’s nothing about me that stands out. Nothing that makes anyone stop and stare.”

You take a breath. Your voice wavers, but you push through.

“I’ve seen the way people look at girls like Araminta. The way they light up a room. The way they get picked, noticed. And me? I just...” You try to laugh, but it catches. “Apparently, I vanish if I turn sideways. So.”

It’s meant to be funny. It lands like a bruise.

“They didn’t say anything I haven’t already thought." You finish quietly. "They just said it out loud. And now it’s stuck in my head.”

Sebastian is quiet for too long.

When you finally lift your head, just enough to glance at him, he looks stunned. His brows are knit in disbelief, mouth slightly open, as though he can’t decide if he’s more angry or heartbroken. And beneath it all… he’s blushing.

His ears are a little pink, and there’s a faint flush creeping up his neck like he’s just realized the topic of conversation has wandered somewhere deeply personal, uncharted territory neither of you has dared step into before.

His lips part like he’s about to say something, but nothing comes out. He falters, blinks, then tries again.

“That’s…” he starts, then shakes his head, clearly flustered. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

He throws his hands slightly in the air, eyes still wide, voice too loud in the quiet room. “You honestly think no one notices you?”

You just stare.

Sebastian scoffs, incredulous. “People notice. I notice. I—everyone—”

He stops himself suddenly, the momentum catching up to him, and scrubs a hand over his mouth. “I mean… not that it matters what I notice, just—” He clears his throat, stiffly. “Araminta has no bloody clue what she’s talking about. Guys aren’t as shallow as she makes us out to be. I mean, yeah—sure, some of them are idiots., but most of us aren't just basing our feelings on whether or not a girl has...” He gestures vaguely, helplessly, as if trying not to say big boobs out loud.

You raise an eyebrow, weary and unconvinced, the silence stretching between you like a challenge you’re too tired to issue.

Sebastian shifts where he sits, fidgeting like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. “Look, I just mean—bloody hell, they’re so wrong. About all of it. It’s not some universal law. You can’t just measure worth like that."

You give a quiet, tired laugh. “Yeah, well... I don't know about that.'

Sebastian frowns. “Why not?”

You hesitate.

“They... brought up the guy I like.”

His face shifts, just a flicker, but you see it. He schools it quickly.

“A guy... you like?”

You nod, staring at your hands now. “Said he’d never go for someone like me. That if he was going to, he’d have done it by now.” You laugh, tired and bitter. “They’re not wrong. It’s been years. And he’s never once—” You shake your head. “Not even a hint. It’s just… not happening.”

You glance up, and Sebastian is staring at you like you just told him the sky’s not blue anymore.

You watch as the color drains slightly from his face, the flush fading from his cheeks and settling somewhere behind his eyes instead.

“Wait,” he says, voice low and a little hoarse. “Years?”

You suddenly realize how much you’ve said. How fast it came out. And how dangerously close you’ve drifted toward the truth.

Shit.

Your face burns as the heat rushes to your cheeks.

“You’ve liked someone,” he says again slowly, “for years. And you never told me?”

Your mouth opens, but no words come out. His expression flickers. You don’t know what part of him takes the hit first: his stomach, his heart, his ego, but you see the impact. You see it in the way he goes still again, hands clenched together, throat bobbing as he swallows hard.

“And...” he starts, voice quiet now. “Is he... is he a complete idiot?”

You blink. “What?”

He lets out a breath that almost could’ve been a laugh if it weren’t so shaky. “Because if it’s been years, and you’re sitting here thinking you’re not enough, then he’s either blind, cursed, or the biggest idiot of all time.”

You laugh, short and incredulous, before you can stop it. It’s not funny. Not really. But the irony is so thick you could bottle it.

Sebastian frowns. "...What?"

You press your lips together, shaking your head as the laughter fizzles out into a sigh. “Nothing,” you say. "It's just not as simple as you're making it sound."

He narrows his eyes. “Doesn’t sound complicated. You like someone. You’ve liked him for years. You’re brilliant and kind and brave and you make people better just by being around them. That should be simple.”

You shake your head. “Yeah well... none of that matters when the person you're in love with doesn’t feel the same.”

He holds your gaze. You can practically see him digesting the fact that you love someone.

“...Do I know him?”

You hesitate. That's kind of the problem.

“I— Sebastian, don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t ask.”

He searches your face. “Why not?”

“Because you’re not supposed to know,” you hiss. “Because I wasn’t supposed to say anything. And now I have, and if I say any more—”

You stop. Clench your jaw. Shake your head.

But Sebastian is already sitting straighter. Already leaning closer, just slightly, like he can’t help it. Like your answer is a thread he's already started pulling, and now he can't stop.

“Alright,” he says, slowly, measured. “Alright. I won’t ask.”

You almost exhale with relief.

“I’ll just guess.”

Your heart lurches. “Sebastian—”

“No, no,” he insists. “Let me try."

You can see the way he’s watching you now, like he’s sifting through every name, every interaction you’ve ever had in front of him, lining guys up like suspects.

"It’s someone from school, obviously," he says. "Someone in our year? Or older? You're the type that'd like a bloke that's mature..." He squints a little. "Is it Professor Sharp's apprentice?"

You give him a flat look. “That’s illegal, Sebastian.”

He holds up his hands. “Just eliminating possibilities.”

You can tell he's still trying to keep it light, still clinging to the edges of humor like it's armor, but the tightness in his jaw remains.

“Okay,” he tries again. "So... someone in our year. And you've liked them for years so it's someone we see often. Someone who’s... what? Clever? You like clever.”

You give him a look, but you don’t argue.

“And funny,” he continues, nodding to himself.

You raise an eyebrow. “Are you profiling my type?”

He hums under his breath then starts muttering names.

“Not Leander. You threatened to shove his wand up his nose last year... maybe Amit?” Sebastian frowns. “No. You’d crush him. And..." Sebastian tilts his head slightly, looking at you like he’s seeing you through a new lens, puzzling out some terrible equation he doesn’t want to solve.

“Garreth.” he says suddenly.

You blink. “What about him?”

“I mean, he is clever,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Annoying, yeah, but clever—"

“Sebastian—”

"—you sit next to him in Potions. You share notes. He makes you laugh, doesn’t he? Merlin, he gave you chocolate on your birthday, didn’t he?”

You stare. “He gives everyone chocolate on their birthday. It’s what he does.”

He doesn’t look convinced. “Seriously, have you... have you liked Garreth this whole time?”

Your face scrunches in disgust. “Sebastian, no, Garreth is like a brother to me.”

The effect is immediate. Sebastian’s entire posture uncoils. His shoulders drop. His expression loosens with visible relief.

“Oh. Okay, okay... Good.”

You tilt your head. “Good?”

He blinks. “I mean, not that it would’ve been bad, I just—” He gestures vaguely. “I just… couldn’t see it. That’s all. You and Garreth. Doesn’t track.”

You raise a brow, but he’s already shifting again, visibly determined to move the conversation forward.

“So it's not Garreth, Amit, or Leander. And it’s someone you didn’t want to say anything to. Which means it’s probably someone who matters to you. Someone you were scared to lose.”

Your throat tightens.

“Someone... stable,” he continues. "Someone who listens. Loyal. Kind. And a little intense. I mean let’s face it, you’ve never been into boring.” He flashes you a quick, sidelong glance. “Which eliminates like, half the blokes in our year.”

You don't respond, just hug your knees tighter.

“So," he mutters, gaze distant now. "maybe he’s so used to having you around that he just... doesn’t see what’s right in front of him.”

You press your forehead into your knees again. Shit. He's getting close, too close, and you can feel it, like the floor under this entire conversation is starting to give.

“Sebastian—”

He holds up a hand. “No, no, wait, I’m on a roll.”

You groan into your arms, “Sebastian, please—”

“He must be someone you trust. Someone you spend a lot of time with," he pauses, brow furrowing in consideration. "...Is it someone I’d hex if I knew? Would I be mad if I found out who it was?”

You freeze. How do you answer that when the person you’re in love with is him?

But Sebastian watches your reaction. Sees the stillness, the tension in your shoulders, and you feel it, the way the air changes like the thread he’s been pulling has suddenly snapped taut.

“Oh,” he says, softly. Too softly. You can see the way his posture shifts, the way his mouth parts like he’s putting it all together and arriving at the wrong conclusion.

Fuck.

"Wait, Sebastian you don't understand—"

“Merlin’s beard…” he mutters. “You like Ominis, don’t you?”

You jerk upright, staring at him. “What?! No!”

But Sebastian is already spiraling.

“I mean, I guess it makes sense,” he says, hands gesturing wildly as he starts pacing in a circle. “He’s calm. Thoughtful. Tragic. Girls love that. He’s got that whole brooding pure-blood heir thing going for him—”

“Wait!”

“—and he listens, and h's polite, and he never says anything idiotic, and—bloody hell, you would go for Ominis, wouldn’t you? You two always sneak off to talk in the library to talk about ancient magic theory stuff. And you’re always looking at him like he’s saying something brilliant—”

“Sebastian!”

He doesn't listen.

“I don’t blame you, you know. Really. He’s the better choice. I get that. I do. He’s a Gaunt with Ministry connections and a bloody fortune, not to mention he actually knows how to shut up when he's supposed to."

You stand too, cutting him off before he works himself into another full sentence. “Sebastian, for fuck's sake it’s not Ominis!”

That finally stops him.

He turns to you, and you stare at each other, him with his eyes wide, mouth still half open from the rant he hadn’t finished, and you with your chest heaving, heart racing, the blood pounding in your ears.

“It’s not Ominis," you say again. "I love him, but not like that. Not even remotely. Not ever.”

He blinks. Once. Twice. But the storm clouds behind his eyes don’t fully clear. “Then… why did you look like that? Why... why did you think I'd be mad if I knew who it was?! Nobody else fits the profile!"

Your heart leaps into your throat. There is someone else that fits the profile. There is exactly one, and he’s standing right in front of you, eyes wide, every line in his body pulled taut with tension as the gears in his head begin to turn.

You can see it. And you start to panic.

Your hands begin to shake. You don’t know if it’s adrenaline or dread, but you can feel it in your fingertips, a restless tremor that has nowhere to go.

You take a step back. Not far, just enough to feel the air between you again, to breathe. Because this wasn’t how you imagined it.

If you ever told him, it was supposed to be quiet. Thoughtful. Gentle. Not like this. Not cornered in the Room of Requirement with your heart practically bleeding out between sentences, your chest heaving and your voice splintering every time he looks at you.

And he is looking at you. Staring at you like you’re not the same person he walked in after. Like he’s watching something fall apart and come together at the same time.

And then, quietly, so quietly it barely makes it past the space between you, he says, “Holy fuck…”

You flinch.

“You mean me?”

You can’t look at him. You can't. And when he takes a step forward, you instintively take a step back.

But you nod.

Just once.

He breathes in like the room has punched him. His voice is smaller now. “How long?”

Your throat is dry. “Fifth year.”

The silence that follows is a vacuum.

A black hole in your chest.

This is it. This is where the floor gives out. This is where everything breaks—your friendship, your years together, the late nights in the Undercroft and the whispered laughter in empty hallways. All of it shattered because you said too much. Because you couldn’t keep it inside.

And you always knew would happen—that the moment the truth left your mouth, the dynamic you’d built together would crack down the middle. That you’d ruin everything.

Your best friend. The person you loved more than anything. And now—

He laughs.

You blink. Disoriented. Did you just hallucinate that?

He laughs again, louder this time, and there’s no cruelty in it. No it's... It’s stunned. Relieved. Almost breathless. And when he speaks, he sounds like he’s trying not to let the joy in his chest burst out all at once.

“Merlin’s bloody balls, I must be the biggest idiot of all time.”

Your head snaps up.

Sebastian is grinning. Absolutely beaming. His hand runs through his hair like he’s trying to smooth out the disbelief crackling across his entire body.

“I love you too." He laughs. "Fuck, that's feels so good to say out loud."

You stare at him.

“But...” your voice is small, scared still. “You never made a move. You never even looked at me like, like I was—”

He cuts you off, incredulous. “—Because I thought I couldn’t have you!"

You blink, stunned.

“I didn’t think someone like you could feel that way about me,” he goes on, a little breathless. “And now I find out you’ve been walking around thinking you’re not enough? That you’re not, what? Womanly enough? Desirable enough?"

He shakes his head, jaw tight now.

“You say you disappear,” he says. “But I’ve never once walked into a room and not seen you. You’re the only one I ever see. I’ve loved you exactly as you are since the day you stepped into Hogwarts.”

A stunned breath escapes you.

“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met,” he says. “Gorgeous. Clever. Brilliant. And you’re hot as hell, if we’re being honest.”

You laugh. It bubbles up without your permission, cracked at the edges and filled with something new.

Hope.

Sebastian steps closer again, and this time, you don’t retreat.

"I mean for fuck's sake, have you seen yourself?” he says, like he’s the one overwhelmed now. “Do you know what it's like?"

You stare up at him, breath caught in your throat, and suddenly his hands reaching for you, one hovering near your jaw, the other ghosting over your waist.

“I’ve been trying not to stare at you since fifth year,” he says, voice rough now. “Trying not to imagine things I shouldn’t. Wondering how soft your skin is. If you’d ever let me touch you. Wondering what you’d look like with your shirt off—”

You let out a broken sound, something between a breath and a laugh,

His voice lowers. “I’m serious. I’ve dreamed about it. About you. Your body. The way you move. The way your jumper clings to your chest when you come in from the cold. The way you stretch after long practices. Merlin, the shape of you makes me crazy.”

He looks at you then, eyes burning with something unguarded. Something real.

“I love your body. I love you. Exactly how you are. I wouldn’t change a single fucking thing. And if you don’t believe me,” he murmurs, voice low and steady, “just say the word. And when you’re ready… I’ll show you.”

Your breath catches.

“How much I love every part of you,” he continues. “How perfect you are. Especially—” he huffs, a little laugh of disbelief, like he still can’t fathom you ever doubting it “—especially your boobs. I’ve imagined them more times than I should probably admit.”

Your cheeks flush, but the look in his eyes is steady. Heated, yes, but also tender.

“I bet they’d fit in my hands like they were made for me,” he adds, eyes flicking to your lips, then back to your eyes. “Bet they’d feel even better in my mouth.”

You make a small, shocked sound at that, and he smiles. A little wicked. A little breathless.

“And I’ll tell you again,” he says, voice a whisper now. “As many times as it takes. You’re beautiful. And I’m yours. Merlin, I love you."

He reaches up, brushing his fingers along your jaw, tilting your face toward his.

You lean in.

And then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss is everything. Urgent and aching, slow and desperate. His hands cradle your face, and when your hands twist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer, he groans low and rough, and deepens the kiss like he’s just realized he can.

He pulls back only when you’re both breathless, and even then, he doesn’t go far. His forehead presses to yours.

"I love you."

You laugh softly, and it feels like the sound has been buried in your chest for years just waiting to be set free. You touch his face, thumb brushing gently over his cheekbone, and say it. Quietly, surely.

“I love you too.”

Through his smile, he kisses your cheek, then your temple, then your mouth again, softer this time, like he’s sealing a promise between you.

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isasweetie · 2 months ago

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₊˚⊹♡ prissy!readers “self-care sunday” is interrupted by rafe.

( cw — fingering + sexual acts under the cut! )

sunday was your favourite day of the week. it was a fresh start, a peaceful bubble in a busy life. sunday smelled like vanilla and gisou shampoo, and felt like a warm hug. it was the one day that your boyfriend wouldn’t hang around, simply because you knew that he would find it boring.

at the moment, you were having an afternoon shower, singing along to the song ‘feather’ by sabrina carpenter. your wet hair was in a claw clip, a gloss treatment soaking into the follicles as you exfoliated your skin and face. your shoulders were moving along to the beat of the song while you moved under the water a few moments later to take the clip out and wash your hair.

as soon as the song ended, and ‘espresso’ started playing, was when the music stopped and was interrupted by a ringtone. you waited to see who the phone would announce was calling, until, of course, the ai voice said, “rafe, heart emoji, heart emoji, eggplant emoji, is calling,” before continuing with the annoying ringtone. you groaned, rushing to finish scrubbing your hair, before stopping the stream of hot water and wrapping your hair and body up in pink towels, and getting out to answer the call.

you dried off your hands and then picked up the phone. “hiii rafey, what’s up?” you ask.

“hey, baby,” he answers. you can hear the engine of his car in the background. “i’m on my way,”

you blink, confused. “did i invite you?” you ask, thinking maybe you forgot.

“uhh, no, but i’m finished my work for the day and i wanna see my girl,” he admits.

“oh— well m’kind of in the shower,”

“right now?’ he checks. “baby, don’t bring your phone in the shower, you’ll ruin the speaker,”

“no, i mean that i was in the shower like.. ten seconds ago,” you tell him.

“oh, a’ight,” he mutters. “i’m pulling up now,” he tells you, as if he doesn’t even care that he interrupted you.

“i’m gonna be busy,” you warn him.

he huffs. “yeah? with what?”

“my self-care.”

“jesus,” he sighs under his breath. “fine, whatever, i’m coming in,” you hear his car door open through the phone, and then he hangs up.

he comes in to pop music blasting from the washroom, and instantly goes in to see you. its steamy in there from the shower, and the first thing he sees is you trying to wipe the steam from the mirror with the towel that was in your hair. he wordlessly comes over and goes to take over for you.

“hi rafe,” you greet, looking up at him as he wipes your mirror. “you look good,”

he smirks a bit, one of those classic half-smiles that he pulls off so well, as he hangs the towel back up to look at you. “hey, you look great too,” he says in his deep voice, blue eyes spotting the towel wrapped around you, and never leaving it. “you got something for me under there?” he goes to hold your waist.

you giggle, pawing him off. “nooo, rafe, need to put on lotion and a face mask while my pores are open,”

his smile drops and he scoffs. he’s not mad at you for regretting his immediate advances, but he is disappointed because he thought that the scenario of seeing you out of the shower would be a little bit different. “jesus, while your pores are—“ he cuts himself off with a sigh. “alright, what am i supposed to do then?”

“i dunno, go sit on my bed, i’ll be in my room soon anyway,” you shoo him away, and he leaves you in the washroom.

you continue with your sunday, and spend a few minutes drying off your body. you put on your light pink bathrobe and then come into the bedroom. you’re back in your own world as you grab your vanilla scented lotion from your vanity and then sit on the edge of your bed, beside rafe, who’s chilling on your pillow and scrolling on his phone.

you start to lather your freshly shaved legs with the lotion, and then your shoulders and arms and chest. “hey rafe?” you ask softly once you get to your back. “d’you mind putting this on my back?”

“you can’t reach?”

“no one can reach their back, rafey,”

“alright, alright, c’mere,” he mutters, and you scoot in front of where he is on your bed, sitting in between his stretched out legs.

his big hands are a weight on your back but they’re still gentle. he squirts some lotion in his hands and then rubs it delicately on you. “where’d you get this stuff? you’re almost out,” he murmurs a question.

“victoria’s secret,”

“thought they just sold lingerie,”

“no, they sell everything. that’s where i got that lip gloss that you like on me too,”

“oh,” he mutters, before shifting his full focus back on your back. “i’ll get you some more of this lotion from there soon, then,” he promises, squeezing the last of it out for your shoulders.

you nod gently, expecting that sort of treatment from him by now. he often bought you things, his brain trained to make sure that you were happy and spoiled.

you get up off of your cozy pink bed to go to your vanity and do your haircare. rafe’s eyebrows furrow as he sighs. he was getting sick of having to wait around, he wished you’d just drop everything and come back over to him. “baby, you wanna come back over here?” he asks, patting his thigh as his back relaxes further against your pillows and headboard.

“mmmm, i need to do my hair,” you hesitate. he pats his thigh again expectantly and you sigh, relenting and going to perch yourself on it.

“you know, it’s not fair,” you start as you make yourself comfortable on him. “you can’t come over with no notice ‘n expect me to cater to everything you need from me—“

you’re cut off when he kisses you, ignoring your scolding and going against what you just said. you can’t help but giggle into the kiss, because it’s kind of cute that he just doesn’t care. you kiss him back, climbing further on his lap so you’re straddling him.

“raaafe, really need to put product in my hair while it’s wet—“ you complain, only half serious, and he shuts you up once more with a hand cupping your warm cunt under your robe.

you simultaneously moan and pout, conflicted into giving in as you glance back at your vanity. you really wanted rafe’s fingers, and god his hand felt good, but also, your blowout wouldn’t be the same without the product you need to put in.

you practically melt under his hand as a finger presses against your slit, teasing the entryway. he doesn’t play nice, and you don’t like that he interrupted your peaceful, men-less day. but also… how could you resist?

“does that feel good, baby, hm?” he’s muttering in your ear ten minutes later, as you’re a whimpering mess in his lap. his mean fingers are curling in as fast as ever on your g-spot, making you practically mindless. “you like that?”

you bite your lower lip and nod, moaning out when he goes harder.

“words, sweetheart,” he reminds you.

“mhm— like it so much, rafey,” you stifle out through the noises you’re making. “feels so good!”

“yeeeah, that’s what i thought,” he half-smirks, pleased with himself. “you wanna cum, pretty girl?”

“mhm,”

“when? now?” god, he’s practically the king of rhetorical questions. “or later? like, ten more minutes?”

“stop!” you whimper out as he teases you, making him snicker. “wanna cum now please,”

“alright, go ahead then,” he gives you permission, and you moan out and give the his fingers a milky coating as you finish.

you stay in his lap for a while as you catch your breath, curled up in his big arms. he wins, again, because you’ve completely forgotten all about your self-care agenda. your mind is back to only thinking about one thing — rafe.

taglist🪽(comment to be added!) — @dearapril @popou61 @suncove @hittmeandtellmeyouremine @dollyfiles @wtfdudesblog @yktayy9669 @nixcyrr @st6ined @thepinkprincesss

#౨ৎ isa writes #⋆˚࿔ rafe 𝜗𝜚˚⋆#౨ৎ prissy!reader #rafe cameron x reader #obx #outer banks #rafe cameron #obx x reader #rafe cameron obx #outerbanks rafe #rafe obx #rafe cameron prompt #rafe cameron outer banks #rafe outer banks #rafe x you #rafe fanfiction #rafe smut #rafe fic #rafe imagine

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scriptedinkbyxim · 5 months ago

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Past the Finish Line: Beyond the Checkered Flag [MV1]

As the final race of the 2024 season approaches, [Y/N] strives to reclaim her peace amidst chaos, love confessions and bittersweet encounters. Closure comes with the roar of engines and the glow of the podium — but just when the dust seems to settle, new– and old sparks ignite, all of them promising a bright future yet unwritten.

Pairings: Max Verstappen x Sainz! Female Reader, Sainz! Female Reader x Brother! Carlos Sainz, a little Charles Leclerc x Sainz! Female Reader and a little Lando Norris x Sainz! Female Reader.

Warnings: Charlos divorce. Panic Attack. Carlos last race with Ferrari. Open Ending. Is Kelly Piquet a Warning?

A/N: Hi, Xim here. Here is the last part of "Past the Finish Line" short series, hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writting it. English is not my first language so apologies in advance for any mistake. Are Max and (Y/N) Done for Good? What Happend with Charles? Lando enters the picture as well?

Part 1. | Part 2. | Lando's Ending | Charles' Ending

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

The weeks following Monza passed in relative quiet. (Y/N) retreated into her writing, pouring her emotions into her work. She disconnected from social media, avoiding the curated perfection of others' lives, especially the constant updates about Max and Kelly.

Her family had returned to Madrid after the Italian race, but she went back to Mallorca, finding solace in the island's tranquil beauty. The warm breeze carried the scent of salt and wildflowers, and the gentle rhythm of the waves became a balm for her restless soul.

One morning, as she sat on the terrace overlooking the sparkling sea, her visiting mother, Mercedes, joined her with two cups of tea.

"You've been quiet," her mother observed gently, placing one cup in front of her.

(Y/N) wrapped her hands around the warm mug, the steam curling into the air. "Just... thinking."

Mercedes gave her a knowing look. "About him?"

She hesitated before nodding. "I thought I was getting better, but then Monza happened. Seeing him, hearing his voice... it just brought everything back."

Her mother's hand covered hers. "Healing isn't a straight line, hija. But you're stronger than you think."

(Y/N)'s throat tightened. "Sometimes I wonder if I made a mistake. Maybe I should've fought harder."

Mercedes's eyes softened. "You fought enough mi amor. Love shouldn't be a battlefield where you have to prove your worth."

The truth of her mother's words settled heavily on her chest.

Spending peaceful days in Mallorca allowed life to beckon her back. Her agent had been persistent, urging her to attend an upcoming literary event in New York. It was time, (Y/N) decided, to re-engage with the world.

She packed her bags, leaving the island with a sense of quiet determination. Max might have moved on, but so could she.

As the plane soared over the Mediterranean, she watched the clouds drift by, her heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

A few months after her return to Madrid, (Y/N)'s phone buzzed with an unexpected call from her father.

"Hola, papá," she greeted warmly.

"Cariño," his voice was gentle but firm. "We need you in Abu Dhabi for Carlos's final race with Ferrari. The whole family will be there."

Her stomach twisted. The paddock again. The last place she wanted to be.

"I don't think I can..." she murmured grimmley.

"Your brother deserves your support," her father reminded her. "You’re strong enough for this, hija. And we'll all be there with you."

Her heart warred with her mind, but in the end, love for her brother won out. "Okay. I'll be there."

The decision was made, but anxiety clawed at her chest. The idea of facing Max again, seeing him with Kelly, was almost unbearable.

Still, she owed it to Carlos.

Abu Dhabi was a city shimmering with golden light and restless energy. The final race of the 2024 Formula 1 season had drawn an electric crowd, eager to witness the spectacle unfold. This was meant to be a celebration—Carlos’ last race with Ferrari. She was there for him, for the team, for everything but herself. The journey to this place felt less like a celebration and more like a reckoning.

She arrived early, blending into the sea of red-clad Ferrari fans who hoped for one last victory for Carlos in the iconic scarlet car. The weight of nostalgia and pride hung thick in the air. (Y/N) tried to focus on that, on the fact that she was here for her brother, not for unresolved heartache or awkward confrontations.

The paddock was a blur of activity as mechanics prepped cars and journalists buzzed around the drivers like bees to honey. She kept her head down, walking alongside her family until a sudden burst of laughter caught her attention.

She spotted a little girl running off in the paddock, too quick for her mother to catch. Instinctively, she reached out, stopping her in her tracks before she could get lost in the crowd. "Where do you think you’re going, pequeñita?" she teased, crouching to her level and catching the kid by the hand.

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes, momentarily surprised before breaking into a shy smile. "There is Maxie," she murmured, pointing toward the Red-Bull garage.

(Y/N)’s breath hitched. Kelly Piquet stood just a few steps away, radiating elegance. Her long dark hair fell in soft waves over her shoulders, this kid must be Penelope, the little girl twirled gleefully in a dress that sparkled under the sun.

Kelly hurried over, her expression grateful. "Thank you so much," she said breathlessly. "She’s always running off."

Now that Kelly was closer she could see it clearly—the subtle swell of her stomach, the unmistakable glow.

(Y/N) knelt down to Penelope’s level, smoothing the girl's dress. "You have to stay close to your mamá, okay?"

Penelope nodded solemnly before scurrying back to Kelly’s side.

Kelly's smile faltered for a brief second, replaced by an awkward but sincere expression. "It’s good to meet you, (Y/N)." She had seen countless pictures of Max ex girlfriend on his socials.

There was no malice in her tone, only genuine warmth. (Y/N)´s chest tightened, but there was no hatred, no resentment. Kelly had done nothing wrong. If anything, she had been the one Max had chosen

She forced a smile. "Congratulations," she said, gesturing subtly to Kelly’s visibly pregnant belly. "I hope everything goes well."

Kelly's hand rested protectively on her bump. "Thank you. That means a lot."

There was a beat of silence, heavy with unspoken complexities. Kelly opened her mouth as if to say something more but seemed to think better of it.

Moving on was supposed to be the goal. (Y/N) just hadn’t expected how much it would hurt. She excused herself quickly with a subtle nod as she felt the edges of her anxiety creeping in.

The paddock hummed with electric energy as preparations for the final race intensified. The tension was palpable, thick enough to cling to the humid desert air. (Y/N) stood on the fringes of the chaos, stumbling toward the back of a garage, away from the bustling crowds, her breath shallow and erratic. Her heart pounded against her ribs, a relentless drumbeat fueled by the weight of what she'd seen—Kelly's pregnant silhouette and Penelope's innocent laughter still echoing in her mind.

Her vision blurred, the sounds around her distorting as panic clawed at her throat.

She stumbled backward, Her chest heaved as she gripped the railing behind her, desperately fighting to ground herself. Her breaths came in sharp gasps, shallow and frantic.

"Hey."

The familiar British accent almost pulled her from the brink. Lando Norris stood a few feet away, concern etched across his face.

"You need to breathe, Darling." The voice was calm but insistent, cutting through the fog threatening to consume her.

He was now next to her, his blue eyes steady as they locked onto hers. He reached for her hand, not touching her yet but holding it within reach, offering reassurance without pressure.

"Look at me," he instructed gently. "We're going to do this together, okay?"

She gave a faint nod, her chest still tight.

"Tell me five things you can see right now," he urged.

(Y/N) blinked, trying to focus. "The... railing. The tires. Your papaya shoes. The garage entrance. And... the sky."

"Good," he praised softly. "Four things you can feel."

"My heart racing," she admitted shakily. "The metal of the railing... the heat... and your hand close to mine."

His lips quirked into a soft smile. "Three things you can hear."

"The engines. People talking. Your voice."

"Two things you can smell."

"Gasoline and... something clean, maybe soap?"

"That's me," he teased lightly. "One thing you can taste?"

"My own panic," she admitted bitterly, but a hint of humor broke through.

"How about hope?" he suggested, squeezing her hand lightly. "That tastes better."

A reluctant laugh escaped her, easing some of the tension coiled in her chest. Her breathing steadied, the weight lifting bit by bit.

"Better?" he asked, concern still lacing his tone.

"Yeah," she breathed, straightening up. "Thank you."

"Always," he assured her.

Silence hung between them for a moment before Lando leaned casually against the railing beside her, his playful demeanor returning.

"Y'know," he began, "I'm trying not to freak out about this race, but if Ferrari wins, they'll take the constructors’ title. If we win, it's ours. So no pressure or anything."

She arched her brow, grateful for the distraction. "Is that your way of saying you're nervous?"

"Terrified," he admitted with a grin. "But don't tell anyone. Gotta keep up appearances."

They shared a laugh again before the atmosphere shifted, turning serious once more.

"You okay?" he asked gently, stepping closer.

She nodded, though it was a lie. "Just needed air."

Lando's brow furrowed. "You're a terrible liar."

She let out a shaky laugh. "I know."

He didn't press further, simply stood beside her in comfortable silence. The weight of his presence was strangely comforting, steadying her frayed nerves.

"You wanna talk about it?" he offered after a moment.

She sighed. "It's just... everything. Seeing Kelly, knowing she's pregnant. It just brought back all the stuff I thought I'd moved past."

Lando's jaw tightened, but he kept his voice soft. "You're allowed to feel that way. Doesn't make you weak."

"I hate that it still hurts," she admitted quietly.

He tilted his head, his blue eyes earnest. "That's 'cause you loved him. Real love doesn't just vanish, even when it should."

(Y/N) met his gaze, surprised by the raw understanding in his tone. "Since when did you get so wise?"

"Been hanging around a lot of emotionally stunted people," he teased, lightening the mood. "Had to learn something."

She smiled softly. "You're an excellent driver, Lando. If anyone can do it, it's you."

"High praise coming from a Sainz," he quipped, giving in to her change of topics.

She laughed. "Don't tell Carlos, but I'll be rooting for you. Either way, one of my brothers will win."

Lando's playful grin faltered, replaced by something more serious. His gaze darkened with an intensity that made her heart skip.

"I'm not your brother, (Y/N)" he said quietly, his voice low but resolute. "I've never been able to see you that way. Not since the moment I met you."

Her breath caught, the weight of his words hanging in the air between them. His confession was unspoken yet undeniable, etched into the very fabric of the moment.

He rubbed the back of his neck, eyes flickering with vulnerability. "You've always been more to me. The woman I look for in every room, even when I know I shouldn't. And yeah, maybe that's selfish or stupid, but it's the truth."

(Y/)'s heart raced, caught off guard by the confession.

"Lando..." she whispered, unsure of what to say.

He held up a hand. "I’m not saying this to make things harder for you. Just... I needed you to know."

Ocean blue eyes met her deep ones, clashing and melding with unspoken emotions and for a moment, the world faded around them.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted honestly.

"You don't have to say anything," he assured her. "Just know I'm here. Always."

The sincerity in his voice warmed something inside her that had long been cold

He smiled faintly, a mix of vulnerability and confidence. "We'll talk after the race."

"Thank you," she whispered. Though she didn´t know what she was thanking him for. The support? His help with the panic attack? The sincerity in his confession?

Lando smiled softly. "Anytime, Darling."

With that, he turned and walked away toward the Mclaren garage, leaving her standing there, stunned and breathless.

The race was a blur of adrenaline and tension. Carlos drove with everything he had, determined to leave Ferrari on a high note. (Y/N) watched from the garage, her heart in her throat as the laps dwindled down.

When the checkered flag waved, it was Lando who took the victory, with Carlos following closely in second, earning a podium finish in his final race with Ferrari. Charles managed third completing the last step at the podium.

The celebration was wild, but and as she made her way to the podium, (Y/N) found herself wandering, lost in thought.

She almost didn’t see him until it was too late.

Max stood under the dim glow of the paddock lights, his expression unreadable.

"(Y/N)."

Her heart clenched painfully at the sound of his voice. No Schatje. Just her name.

She steeled herself, meeting his gaze head-on. "Max."

There was a beat of silence, heavy with everything unsaid.

"I need to talk to you," he began, his voice rough. "I messed up. I should've stopped you that night in Hungary. I should've fought for you."

(Y/N)'s throat tightened. "But you didn't," The anger she had been suppressing for months finally boiled over. "Did those eight years mean nothing to you?" Her voice trembled, but she held her ground. "Or was it just that you were finally ready for commitment—just not with me?"

Max’s jaw tightened. "They meant everything, (Y/N). I made a mistake."

"A mistake?" she scoffed. "You had sex with Kelly, and now she’s pregnant. That’s not a mistake, Max. That’s a consequence."

He nodded, guilt etched into his features. "I know I made it worse. I didn't mean for any of it to happen."

"You have a baby on the way," she said quietly, the weight of that reality sinking in.

Max's voice cracked. "I wanted that with you. Always with you."

Her eyes burned, but she refused to let the tears fall. "It doesn't matter anymore.”

His shoulders tensed, pain and panic flickering across his face. "I know, I have to take responsibility now."

"Then do that. Be better for them than you ever were for me. But don’t stand here and act like this conversation changes anything between us. It doesn’t." Her voice wavered, but her resolve didn’t. “You can't call your child a mistake, Max. And you can't make the same mistakes with Kelly and your new family.”

His expression shattered. "Schatje—"

"No," she cut him off, her voice firm. "I loved you. And maybe I always will. But we are done. For good. And that's okay. I need to move on, and so do you."

The finality in her words hung between them, bittersweet and liberating.

She didn’t wait for a response. Without another word, she turned and walked away, her heart lighter despite the ache that lingered, leaving him with nothing but the words that should have been said long before now.

The podium ceremony was a chaotic blur. The noise was deafening as the celebrations reached their peak. Confetti rained down in shimmering bursts of red, green, and gold, swirling through the night air under the harsh lights. The drivers stood triumphant, champagne bottles in hand, grins stretched wide across their faces.

(Y/N) stood at the edge of the chaos with her family, watching Carlos bask in his well-earned final moment with Ferrari and cheering loudly for him. Her heart swelled with pride, the weight she'd carried for weeks finally dissipating into the night air. The conversation with Max had hurt, but it had given her what she needed—closure.

She breathed in deeply, savoring the freedom that came with letting go. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough.

Laughter echoed from the podium as the drivers sprayed each other with champagne, their suits drenched and sticky with victory.

Just as she let out a slow breath, a movement from the podium caught her eye. One of the drivers that shared the Podium with Carlos glanced down at her from the elevated platform, bright eyes catching hers amidst the chaos.

A slow, mischievous grin spread across his handsome face. He winked, then pointed at the gleaming trophy in his hand and back at her, a playful challenge written in his expression.

(Y/N)'s lips parted in surprise before a laugh escaped her, light and genuine. "Oh, God," she whispered to herself, shaking her head.

A familiar face. A new complication.

Well, that was a problem for another day.

For now, she let herself revel in the joy of the moment, the weight of the past finally behind her.

For now, she was free.

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A/N 2: We reached the end of this Series. Who was the Driver winking at (Y/N) at the end, Lando or Charles?. Anyway that is a story for another day. Thank you if you stayed until this part, this is my first story that I post so it's very special for me. I hope you enjoyed it. What do you think?

Lando's Ending | Charles' Ending

Love you. -Xim

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demifiendrsa · 17 days ago

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youtube

Resident Evil Requiem - Reveal Trailer

Resident Evil Requiem will launch for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series X|S, and PC via Steam on February 27, 2026. A demo will be playable for the first time at Gamescom 2025, which runs from August 20 to 24, 2025 in Cologne, Germany.

Key visual

Stills

First details

From the Official Website Requiem for the dead. Nightmare for the living. Resident Evil Requiem is the ninth title in the mainline Resident Evil series. Prepare to escape death in a heart-stopping experience that will chill you to your core. A new era of survival horror begins in 2026. Technological advancements combined with the development team’s depth of experience combine in a story with rich characters and gameplay that’s more immersive than ever before. From the Press Release Resident Evil Requiem is the ninth and most immersive mainline entry yet in the iconic survival horror Resident Evil series. Powered by RE ENGINE and harnessing the full power of modern consoles, Resident Evil Requiem delivers spine-chilling realism like never before, with complex character details like lifelike facial expressions, realistic skin textures, and even high-fidelity sweat droplets that are sure to keep players on the edge of their seats. Resident Evil Requiem takes the series back to the iconic Raccoon City, home of the biological disaster that shook the world, combining deeply terrifying aspects of psychological horror with pulse-pounding action that franchise fans know and love. Prepare to escape death in a heart-stopping experience that will chill you to your core. Resident Evil Requiem features voiceovers and subtitles in English, Latin American Spanish, Brazilian Portuguese, Japanese, French, Italian, German, Castilian Spanish, Russian, and Mandarin, plus subtitles in Korean, Traditional Chinese, Simplified Chinese, Arabic, and Polish. This is just the beginning. More horrors from Resident Evil Requiem will be revealed throughout the year, including the first public playable at Gamescom 2025. A new era of survival horror begins in 2026. Will you survive it?

#Resident Evil Requiem #RE Requiem #Resident Evil 9 #RE9 #Resident Evil #Capcom #video game #PS5 #Xbox Series #Xbox Series X #Xbox Series S #long post

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whirligig-girl · 5 months ago

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Meet the locomotive crew on the South Lymer Railway on planet Gymnome! These are the crew of locomotive SLYM-11513, a small narrow gauge Advanced Steam switcher. The locomotive is a modernized form of a steam engine, with electronic controls rather than mechanical, and a closed off climate controlled cab.

The orange one is the conductor, and despite having the more junior role is actually the more experienced one. The blue one is the engineer, who is new to the SLYM Railway.

(These are characters for our train shunting puzzle game, Train Puzzle dot exe (title pending))

#Train Puzzle #slimegirl #slime girls #slimegirls #slime girl #steam engine #steam locomotive #advanced steam #tank engine #train cab #train controls #vehicle

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ltwilliammowett · 6 months ago

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Half time with our calendar and this is the perfect moment to introduce you to a lady who shows the interface of Age of Sail and Age of Steam. She is generally regarded as the start of the Age of Steam and yet she still has both elements. But who am I talking about ? - The HMS Warrior

More about her history here:

HMS WARRIOR was built as part of Britain’s response to concerns over France’s maritime ambitions which included the building of LA GLOIRE, a powerful ironclad which was the most advanced warship of its day. WARRIOR was commissioned on 1 August 1861 and at that time unquestionably ruled the seas. Her main guns, engines and boilers were contained within an armoured wrought iron hull and she could be driven by both steam and sail. This combination meant that she could outrun and outgun any ship afloat and she never fired a shot in anger – the classic deterrent.

During the first commission her main role was to lead the Channel Squadron. On 22 November 1864 she paid off for her first major refit at Portsmouth Dockyard during which the ship was comprehensively refurbished. She was also completely re-armed with 7” and 8” muzzle loaded rifled guns. However, in the American Civil War the success of the Monitor was to have a dramatic effect on naval thinking and WARRIOR’s role as ‘Monarch of the Seas’ was to be very short-lived.

She re-commissioned in July 1867 and re-joined the Channel Fleet. The second commission was rather less interesting than the first as she was no longer regarded as the most powerful warship afloat and faded from the limelight. The second commission ended in 1871 and she then spent four years in refit at Portsmouth being fitted with improved boilers, steam power for the forward capstan and a new poop deck to accommodate an Admiral. On completion in 1875 she became part of the First Reserve Fleet where she was to remain until paying at Portsmouth on 31 May 1883.

After periods as a depot ship and part of HMS VERNON she was paid off in 1924. She was then converted for use as a floating oil jetty and in 1929 was towed to Pembroke Dock where she was to remain for the next 50 years. In 1967 the campaign to restore WARRIOR started and prominent in this was Sir John Smith who formed the Manifold Trust. A committee chaired by the Duke of Edinburgh met in 1968 to discuss her future and from this emerged the Maritime Trust. When Pembroke Dock closed in 1978 the Manifold Trust agreed to underwrite the cost of restoration and the ship was handed over to the Maritime Trust in 1979.

In 1983 ownership was transferred to the Ship’s Preservation Trust which became the Warrior Preservation Trust in 1983. Although the hull was very sound the rest of the ship was in a poor state. The task which was part restoration and part re-building needed vast resources not only of money (£8M) but also of skill, patience and endurance. The 8 year restoration programme at Hartlepool transformed her into one of the world’s most important historic warships and in 1987 she returned to Portsmouth where she is now moored in the Historic Dockyard.

A planned preservation programme is in place for the ship and over the years she has been dry-docked twice, and the upper deck, (£725K provided by the Heritage Lottery Fund), all three fighting tops and half moons and the stern gallery have been replaced.

#naval history #naval artifacts #hms warrior #19th century #age of sail #age of steam #tall ship #day 12 #advent calendar

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lune-moon-nuit · 7 days ago

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Does our future depend on technology?

Since the Industrial Revolution, technology has established itself as a major driver of human progress, profoundly transforming our lifestyles, knowledge, and relationship to the world. From medical breakthroughs to information technologies, through automation, technology seems to guide the major directions of our future. But can we truly say that our future depends on technology? Does this mean that technology determines our destiny, as an unavoidable, even uncontrollable force? Or should we understand that, while humanity's future is shaped by technology, it still relies on other dimensions — ethical, political, spiritual — that technology cannot encompass?

Thus, we shall ask: Is technology the necessary and sufficient condition for our future, or is it merely one means among others, subordinate to more fundamental human choices?

We will first examine how technology appears to be the primary engine of human evolution and thus of our future. Then, we will show that it does not necessarily guarantee a desirable future and that it cannot by itself guide humanity. Finally, we will argue that if our future does depend on technology, it is insofar as we choose how to use it — which brings us back to our ethical and political responsibility.

I. Technology as the decisive engine of human development

Technology, understood as the set of means invented by humans to transform their environment, is one of the fundamental traits of humanity. Since prehistoric times, the use of tools has distinguished Homo habilis from its ancestors: technology appears as consubstantial to our species, as Henri Bergson points out in Creative Evolution: “Man is the being who makes tools.”

Since then, every technological advance has marked a major turning point in history: writing, printing, the steam engine, electricity, the Internet… all these inventions have radically changed our societies, our modes of production, communication, and thought. Today, innovations in artificial intelligence, biotechnology, robotics, or energy heavily shape economic models, public policies, and ecological prospects for tomorrow.

In this sense, the future seems to depend on our ability to invent new technologies, to respond with technical means to the challenges of our time: climate crisis, pandemics, aging populations, resource scarcity. From a deterministic perspective, technology appears not only as a driving force but as a condition for humanity’s survival. This is what Heidegger discusses in The Question Concerning Technology, when he asserts that modern technology is no longer merely a tool, but a “challenging” of nature — a way of extracting all its available resources. It shapes our worldview, and therefore, our future.

II. But a future governed solely by technology is dangerous and illusory

However, to consider that our future depends exclusively on technology is to forget that it does not think for itself. It is a means, not an end. It is at the service of human intentions — for better or for worse. History abounds in examples of technology being used for destructive purposes: nuclear weapons, mass surveillance, uncontrolled genetic manipulation. As Hans Jonas warns, technological progress does not necessarily imply moral progress.

Technology can therefore both serve the future and harm it, depending on how it is used. It is a power that is fundamentally ambivalent. The atomic bomb and radiation therapy both use nuclear energy, but their aims are radically different. Far from automatically ensuring a better future, technology raises fundamental ethical questions: how far should we go in manipulating life? Are we still free in a world dominated by algorithms? Who truly benefits from technological innovation?

Consequently, reducing the future to a technical dependency would be to deny humanity’s capacity to choose, to exercise free will. It would mean abandoning our future to a logic of efficiency and profitability that ignores essential values such as justice, freedom, or human dignity.

III. Our future depends on technology, insofar as we remain its masters

Rather than viewing technology as a fatality, we must acknowledge that our future depends on how we design, regulate, and direct it. Humans remain the originators of technology: it is the fruit of our inventive mind, but also of our collective choices. In this sense, our future depends on technology only insofar as we integrate it within a broader political, philosophical, and ethical vision.

Hannah Arendt, in The Human Condition, emphasizes the distinction between labor, work, and action. While technology belongs to the domain of “work” — that is, fabrication — “action” involves freedom and responsibility. It is through political action, democratic debate, education, and critical reflection that humanity can direct the use of technology toward a desirable future.

Moreover, some of the most crucial questions for our future — such as the meaning of life, social justice, the relationship to others or to nature — cannot be answered by technology. These questions concern our deepest humanity. Technology can offer solutions to problems, but it does not define what a good life is, what a just world is, or what a harmonious society looks like. These concerns belong to philosophy, culture, and ethics.

Therefore, our future does not depend on technology per se, but on our ability to inscribe it within a vision of the world that is both humane and responsible.

Conclusion

It would be unrealistic to deny that technology plays a fundamental role in shaping our future: it transforms our ways of living, addresses major challenges, and opens unprecedented possibilities. But it is not neutral, nor self-sufficient. The future cannot rely solely on a means, without reflection on the ends.

Thus, our future does depend on technology, not as a fatality, but as a choice — the choice to use it for the common good, in accordance with human values. The real question is not whether technology will shape our future, but whether we will be able to shape technology toward a truly human future.

#philosophy #technology #future #politics #spirituality #humanity #henri bergson #heidegger #Creative Evolution #The Question Concerning Technology #Hans Jonas #hannah arendt #the human condition

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cloveang3l · 2 months ago

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Infinity Nikki - 1.5

Listen i know that most of you won't read this (I'm mainly a DC blog) but I'm just SO UPSET - also I have Infinity Nikki in my profile.

...

Context: I play a game called Infinity Nikki. It is a gacha game centred around the female demographic where you pull for outfits and instead of combat, focus on platforming in the most GORGEOUS open world i have ever played.

This current version (1.5) was meant to do a lot - introduce a major outfit which is FAMOUS in this game franchise that's completely free to craft, a dyeing system that expands the current colour options, and co-op multiplayer that lets us be more lesbian with our fellow stylists! We were also finally getting a steam release!

This was also meant to optimise the game - this game is built on Unreal Engine 5, and mobile + ps5 have been struggling to get good quality, but they've been really consistent with improving the game so far - as a tablet player, the difference is outstanding!

So yeah, everyone was HYPED, especially after 1.4 was... pretty empty.

...

But we can't have nice things, can we?

...

Bugs that make the game shitty for some, unplayable to others.

A complete retcon of the fucking story, replaced by some shitty multiverse that focused more on the LIMITED BANNER OUTFITS than the actual free major outfit of the patch (the sea of stars).

Pointless/invisible pieces added to limited banner outfits, increasing the pity to make it harder to pull outfits.

An extension of the endgame without additional rewards, despite it being the major way for free-to-play players like me earn the currency.

HEAVY MONETISATION - the dyeing system costs a new currency PER PIECE, the prices have been secretly hiked, fake sales which are INSANE and technically illegal, and as I said - more pieces to banner outfits which makes them harder to pull for.

Oh right, and the game is still UNPLAYABLE!

They even nerfed one of the new limited banner outfit abilities (y'know, the one which they made harder to collect) secretly last night, without giving any information in advance.

...

They've fixed some things - the endgame is reset to be twice a month again, and they're doing a lot of bug fixes, but NOTHING to help players log in, nothing to fix the god-awful story retcon. I can't fucking believe it with my own two eyes - this was the patch titled 'No More Empty Promises'!

...

Before anyone comes at me with 'this is just how gacha games are' -NO. I played Wuthering Waves when it released and was hell to run. I played Honkai: Star Rail for two years before I got sick of the meta. I've never seen a game, so built on player trust and care, fuck up SO BADLY.

I never thought that I'd want to quit a game so soon after it launches - but it's been a week with no major compensation except for 30 pulls before going on a five-day vacation. Which the devs deserve of course, but a horrible release date nonetheless.

...

There's so much more that's wrong by the way, but I just NEEDED to say something about this - I love this game, but I HATE it right now.

I thought this game was for girls. I thought this company, while still being shitty anyways, would at least make the game worth the time. I hope to god that I'm still right, and that this isn't the end of me playing it.

...

If anyone wants some good information about what's wrong, watch this (no clickbait, no stupid rage posts, just good, disappointed criticism.)

youtube

#infinity nikki #infinity nikki 1.5 #rant #personal rant #rant post #fashion #nikki games #nikki #nikkiverse #infinikki #girlcott #infinity nikki boycott #infinity nikki girlcott #nikki series #Youtube

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pseudowho · 2 years ago

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The Accumulation of Little Despairs

(help me find the Nanami artist in the banner, for crediting and thanks/permission!)

Pure Nanami Kento fluff, written as per request for @nn-hh192 who is needing a bit of love.

As the Reader struggles with low mood, Nanami is on hand with the perfect words and the perfect date.

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Nanami Kento understood how depression could build slowly. At his least resilient, every small insult to his stability of mind was placed on his shoulders like a rock. Before he knew it, he was a broken man.

He watched this accumulation of despairs in you as the winter rolled in. Struggling to make it out of bed in the dark mornings, you missed your train. You had a needless argument with a co-worker. You saw tales of war and genocide, thousands of miles away, and felt so helpless. Your clothes didn't fit the way they used to. You noticed more and more people, homeless and cold on the streets, and there was not enough of you to help.

As you started to see your world through a grey filter, Kento did all he could to love you, to take the pressure off you. You were barely lifting a finger at home, but not needing to because Kento had it all in hand. He tried to talk to you, to encourage you to open up to him, but you were too numbed to engage. He watched as the fiercely independent you, became tired and listless, and it broke his heart.

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You woke, bleary-eyed, to warm kisses on your temple, and the mattress shifting beside you. You smelled Kento's warm morning smell, and buttery pastries and coffee. Nosing your way over to Kento under the covers, he chuckled as your hand reached out, patting around for food.

"We're going out today," he said, sipping his coffee as you groaned, "and you're in no way obliged to smile about it. But I think we'll have a good day."

You groaned again, a noise of pure disagreement. Giving you an affectionate squeeze through the duvet, Kento remained quietly present while you ate and drank.

"Where are we going? Can it wait?" you wheedled. Going out would mean getting dressed and pretending to be fine. You were sure you didn't have it in you.

"It's a surprise," Kento reassured smoothly, patting your bum as you scooted to the bathroom. Soaking in a hot bath, you psyched yourself up for pretending to be enjoying yourself.

Kento was a quiet flurry of activity, you heard outside the bathroom door. He slid soon after into the bathroom, looking everything but his usual neat and trimmed self. He hadn't shaved, dark blond shadows adorning his handsome face. His hair was soft and floppy, unstyled. He wore his oldest black jeans and jumper, comfy boots, and a big black wool overcoat. Puzzled, you raised an eyebrow at him as he held out a towel for you.

"Come on. Time to go." You wrapped yourself up, going to get dressed, the pressure of looking your best significantly lessened by your lover looking so...sloppy. Opting to match his dour palette, you were soon wrapped up, make-up free, warm, and he gripped your hand, pulling you out the door with no arguments.

Kento had set the engine running, warming the car up in advance and you sighed as you climbed in, glasses steaming up, nose red from the cold. You realised with a jolt, seeing the car clock, that it was already early afternoon.

"You left me in bed so long," you chastised Kento softly. He hummed, taking your cold little hands in his and pressing them gently to the warm air vents.

"You seemed to need it. Besides, where we're going, it's more fun when the sun's going down." Car sliding back out of the driveway, Kento's arm stretched round the back of your seat, you blushed, still having such a crush on him despite being together for years. As he drove, he put on a playlist he seemed to have made to match your mood perfectly. A warm coffee cup was pressed into your hands. Your eyes pricked with tears, feeling ungrateful that despite all his best efforts, you still did not feel happy.

Reading you so easily, Kento squeezed your hand, bringing it onto his thigh, stroking your palm. He kept his eyes on the road as he spoke to you, "I'm not under the impression that one lovely day out is going to make all of this go away for you, so don't feel pressured into being cured. I just think you deserve this. I want you and your company even when you're not feeling your best." He reached over, wiping a few small tears from your cheeks as you sniffled, handing you a handkerchief. You laughed, tickled that your love was absolutely the kind of man to carry handkerchiefs.

You parked, walking arm in arm through the cold, boots crunching on old snow, to a busy covered market. Sizzles, shouts, and the delicious smell of street food poured out to you. Nobody was well-dressed. The food looked invitingly homely. Despite your recent breakfast, your stomach rumbled.

Kento surveyed the food stalls, rapping your hand in his against his thigh as he hummed. "I was thinking...a bit of everything.". You laughed, not realising how completely serious he was when he visited a dozen food stalls, one after the other. By the time you had found a table, your arms were laden with food trays and you shared a long meal, talking about everything and nothing, at points stretching out minutes of comfortable silence as you people-watched in each other's company. Full to bursting, Kento warmed considerably, seeing small smiles start to grace your lips, enjoying your eyes twinkling as you teased him. He'd take every tease you gave to see you smile again.

"Ready?" Kento pressed, hand out to you, fingers wiggling.

"For what?"

Kento shook his pocketed hand, which was heavy with jangling change. "Arcades," he whispered, unusually excited, "We used to go all the time at school, but I haven't been since..." he tailed off and you squeezed his hand, knowing that losing Yuu had cut Kento's childhood abruptly to an end. Clapping your hands together, you stood.

"Come on then. You can kill Curses, but how good are you at dancing?"

Kento groaned, feigning reluctance as you dragged him through the backstreets until you reached the sprawling neon lights of a huge arcade, buzzing with teenagers. The sun was going down, your nose pink with cold and excitement; you gazed at the lights, the claw machines, the ra-ta-ta-ta of arcade guns, feeling your heart swell with childish joy. Kento's heart swelled too, eyes soft as he drank in your profile, arcade lights dancing across your glasses lens.

"Can you win me something?" you wheedled to Kento, pressing your hands from one claw machine to the next as you tried to decide which plushie was the cutest.

"Not yet. How do you expect to beat me at Resident Evil if your hands are full?"

You and Kento spent hours playing games, going through multiple pockets of change. You took several shocking first-person shooting game wins, Kento taking his revenge by being a dark-horse on the dance machines, small crowds of teenagers gathering to egg you both on as you became more chaotic together, more sloppy, tapping your feet on each other's pads as you tried to cheat wins from each other. Tears of laughter shone in your eyes as Kento became increasingly frustrated with the janky mechanics of the driving games, so you pulled him away to the claw machines.

Kento felt his manliness on the line, unashamedly competitive as he won you two delightful plushies. Completely sated, you felt your social battery running low. Pulling you close to him with one arm as you walked out of the arcades, Kento rattled his pocket one last time.

"Room for a doughnut?"

"Always. Extra tummy for dessert."

Finding a fresh doughnut stall on your way back to the car, you picked for Kento (a simple glazed ring) and he picked for you (a sweet pink heart, oozing with raspberry jam). Your drive home was warm, smooth, full of comfortable silence. You felt your eyes drift shut, eyelids occasionally glowing with orange as streetlights rolled in and out beyond your vision.

When you arrived home, kicking off your boots together, Kento held your shoulders for a moment, keeping you in the hallway. "Wait here," he urged, "it'll take a few minutes to warm up." Answering your questioning look with a sweet kiss to your forehead, you stripped out of your snowy coat as you heard Kento rattle about in the living room and kitchen.

Taking you by both hands, Kento walked you into the living room.

"A...kotatsu?" The heated table, plush with blankets, sat adorned with two steaming bowls of instant ramen. Pillows piled at the end opposite the television created a mini fort for you to curl up in, a selection of your favourite childhood movies stacked beside the sofa, ready for choosing.

Sniffling with gratitude again, you and Kento slipped into pyjamas, and you sighed with delight as your feet slipped under the heat of the table. Eyeing the love Kento had poured into this, you grasped his cheeks, pulling him in firmly for a kiss, scattering dozens of tiny kisses over his cheeks and eyes.

"Thank you," you pressed. Kento huffed.

"This is the bare minimum you deserve, I promise. Wait until I really get going."

Warm and safe, you realised, snug in Kento's arms, you'd never again have to weather your bad days alone.

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