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pucksandpower · 24 days ago

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The Shape of Your Silence

Max Verstappen x deaf!Reader

Summary: they call you “Charles Leclerc’s little sister,” “the deaf girl,” and “Ferrari’s newest junior engineer” … but Max just calls you the person he decided to learn a whole new language for (he’s totally chill and normal like that), because your silence has a lot to say and it deserves to be heard

The sun is high over Melbourne, heat shimmering off the asphalt like it’s trying to make the circuit dance. You step through the paddock gates, your pass clipped to your red Ferrari polo, heart pounding like it’s racing before the cars even start.

You’ve imagined this moment for years. Every lecture, every late-night study session with race footage playing in the background. Every time your brothers told you to be realistic, every time they hugged you tight and said they were proud , but still kept you wrapped in bubble wrap. Every second of wanting to be more than someone’s little sister.

You’re here now. Not as Charles Leclerc’s sister. Not as Arthur or Lorenzo’s baby sister either.

You’re here as you. Junior engineer. Ferrari. Official.

And you are not going to mess this up.

The paddock is buzzing. People shouting into radios, lugging gear, sprinting in and out of garages. Everyone looks like they know exactly where they’re going. You don’t — not quite yet — but you walk with purpose, tablet in hand, eyes flicking across the names on the motorhomes and hospitality units.

You’re so focused on the screen that you barely register the sudden blur of navy blue until it slams into you.

Hard.

Your tablet goes flying. You stumble backward, your shoulder banging into a column. And then a hand — strong, steady — grabs your elbow.

“Shit, are you okay?” The guy says.

You blink up.

He’s taller than you expect. Messy hair. Sharp jaw. Blue eyes narrowed in concern. It takes a second to register the Red Bull logo on his shirt, the sunglasses hooked into the collar, and the slightly scuffed trainers. The second after that, your brain catches up.

Max Verstappen just ran into you.

You don’t answer him. Not out of rudeness, but because you didn’t hear what he said. The world is a closed, silent room to you. It always has been. And he’s talking, voice moving in a world you don’t live in.

You sign quickly, I’m fine. It’s okay.

Then you kneel to pick up your tablet and turn on your heel, pulse still hammering. You need to find the engineering bay, check in with your supervisor, and double-check the tire compound setup for the weekend. No time for awkward apologies or flustered conversations. Definitely no time to explain your entire existence to Max Verstappen.

Behind you, Max is frozen in place.

He watches you disappear into the crowd, brow furrowed.

“What the hell just happened?” He mutters.

Carlos Sainz appears beside him, eyebrows raised. He has a protein bar in one hand and his phone in the other.

“You alright?” Carlos asks casually, eyeing the scene.

Max blinks. “I just ran into someone. Red shirt. Ferrari. She didn’t say anything. Just … did something with her hands and walked away.”

Carlos follows his gaze. His expression softens. “Ah,” he says, voice lowering. “That’s Y/N.”

“Y/N?”

“Leclerc. Charles’ sister.”

Max’s eyebrows shoot up. “That was her? I didn’t even know he had a sister.”

Carlos shrugs, unwrapping his protein bar. “Yeah. She keeps a low profile. Just graduated with an engineering degree. She’s starting as a junior on the team.”

Max squints after you, baffled. “She didn’t say anything. Just kind of-” he waves his hand vaguely, mimicking the motion you made. “Was that sign language?”

Carlos nods. “She’s deaf.”

Max stares at him, then back at where you disappeared.

“She’s what?”

“Deaf. Profoundly, I think. Has been her whole life. Charles is super protective. Don’t take it personally — she probably didn’t hear you. Or didn’t feel like explaining.”

Max doesn’t respond right away.

He’s not sure what he expected, but that explanation hits like an unexpected downshift. His brain races to keep up. Deaf? He’s never met a deaf engineer in the paddock. Never met a deaf person his age, actually. The way you signed — fluid, fast — he had no idea what you were saying. And yet you moved like it was second nature. You looked at him like you were already done with the conversation before he’d even said a word.

It shouldn’t bug him.

But it does.

“You said she’s Charles’ sister?” He asks again.

Carlos nods, taking a bite of his bar. “Yep. Youngest.”

“And she works here now? Like … full time?”

“Junior engineer. Started this weekend. First race.”

Max nods slowly. Then blinks, brows drawing together.

“I think she hates me.”

Carlos laughs. “You collided with her at thirty kilometers per hour in the hospitality zone. Maybe give it a minute.”

Max watches the crowds flow past, still mildly stunned. It wasn’t the way you walked off — not exactly — but something else. The way you didn’t flinch. The way you didn’t wait for his response. The way you carried yourself, like your silence wasn’t something missing, but something deliberate. Controlled.

He’s used to people reacting to him. Good or bad, they usually say something.

You didn’t.

You just signed and left.

Carlos nudges him. “You’re still thinking about it.”

“No, I’m not,” Max says automatically.

“You are.”

“I just didn’t expect-” he gestures vaguely again. “You know. That.”

Carlos eyes him for a beat. “Yeah. Most people don’t.��

Max exhales sharply through his nose. “I didn’t mean it like-”

“I know,” Carlos says. “Look. She’s good. Smart. Tough. But she doesn’t like being treated like she’s fragile. Just talk to her like a normal person. Or-” he grins, “-you know, learn some sign language.”

Max snorts. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just add that to my to-do list.”

Carlos shrugs. “You asked.”

Max watches the crowd one more time, but you’re gone.

You, meanwhile, are at the edge of the Ferrari garage, face still burning from the collision. You’re not embarrassed exactly, but you can still feel the jolt in your bones, and the moment plays on loop in your head like a replay gone wrong.

You’re also annoyed.

Not at him. Not really. But at how fast it happened. At how you didn’t get a chance to explain. At how quickly you had to slip back into the habit of brushing things off before they became complicated.

You scroll through your tablet, grounding yourself in data. Suspension settings. Weather patterns. Tire allocations. There’s comfort in numbers. They don’t expect small talk. They don’t look at you funny when you don’t respond.

Charles appears beside you ten minutes later, sunglasses pushed up on his head, hair windswept and face already faintly sunburnt.

“You okay?” He asks, mouthing the words clearly.

You nod.

He tilts his head. “I heard you ran into Max Verstappen.”

You roll your eyes. He wasn’t watching where he was going.

Charles grins. “He never does.”

You arch an eyebrow. He looked at me like I had three heads.

Charles shrugs, suddenly less amused. “People are idiots.”

You sigh and give a small shrug. It’s fine.

But something about the look Max gave you — surprised, confused, not unkind, just clueless — lingers longer than you’d like.

Charles squeezes your shoulder and gestures toward the engineering bay. “Come on. Practice starts in an hour. Time to show everyone what you can do.”

You follow him, head held high.

You don’t look back toward the Red Bull side of the paddock.

And Max, two motorhomes over, doesn’t stop thinking about the way you signed without waiting for permission.

He doesn’t know what you said. But for some reason, he wants to.

***

The suite smells like garlic and olive oil and something faintly burnt — probably Arthur’s doing. The balcony doors are wide open, letting in the sound of a Melbourne Friday night. Laughter from somewhere below. A street performer’s faint guitar. The deep thrum of traffic.

You slip your shoes off by the door and pad into the open-plan kitchen, still in your red Ferrari jacket, hair up in a messy bun. Your tablet’s in one hand. You haven’t stopped reading telemetry since you left the garage. You’re buzzing — wired from the day, exhausted and electric all at once. Practice went better than anyone expected. And your code — the custom data-cleaning script you finished at 2 a.m. last night — ran flawlessly.

You’re still mentally reviewing downforce numbers when Arthur barrels into the suite like a cannonball.

“Tu rigoles! You’re here before me?” He shouts, arms flailing as he tosses his keys on the table.

You barely glance up before signing, Barely. I beat you by five minutes.

“Still counts,” he huffs, kicking off his sneakers.

Lorenzo arrives next, a plastic bag of wine bottles looped around his fingers. He smells like his cologne and long-haul flights. “Do you ever stop working?” He says, watching as you flick through another screen on your tablet.

You flash him a tight smile, then sign without looking. Telemetry doesn’t analyze itself.

“I brought Pinot,” he says instead. “Don’t say I never support your dreams.”

“You don’t,” Arthur mutters. “You’re just pretending to like wine now to seem sophisticated.”

Lorenzo rolls his eyes.

The front door opens again, and you freeze before you even see him.

Charles steps into the room, hair damp from a shower, still wearing his Ferrari polo, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows. There’s grease smudged faintly on his wrist. His eyes land on you immediately.

He says nothing for a beat. “You’re still in uniform.”

You sign, So are you.

He sighs, drops his bag on a chair, then walks over and pulls you into a tight hug without warning.

You’re not expecting it.

For a second, you just stand there, his arms around you. Then your tablet lowers, and you press your cheek to his chest.

His hand finds the back of your head, fingers gentle.

You think he’s proud.

But when he pulls back, his expression is complicated.

Dinner takes shape fast — pasta boiling, Arthur chopping vegetables badly, Lorenzo opening wine, Charles strangely quiet. You hover near the kitchen island, half-listening to your brothers argue over whether the sauce needs more salt.

But your eyes flick to Charles. Again and again.

Finally, you sign, Say it.

He looks up from his glass of water. “Say what?”

You narrow your eyes. Whatever you’re thinking.

He hesitates. Then sets the glass down and leans on his elbows. “It’s not a small job.”

I know.

“It’s not a forgiving job.”

You nod. I know.

Charles exhales, rubs his hand over his face. “You’re twenty-two.”

You smile faintly. And you were twenty-one when you started at Ferrari.

“That’s different.”

Why?

His jaw flexes. “Because I wasn’t-”

Arthur throws a handful of basil into the sauce and cuts in. “Because you weren’t deaf?”

Charles doesn’t answer.

Lorenzo steps in smoothly, voice even. “It’s not about that. He’s just worried.”

Arthur scowls. “She’s not fragile.”

“No one said she was,” Lorenzo counters.

“You’re all thinking it.”

You cut in, fingers flying. Stop talking like I’m not here.

They all fall silent.

You press your palms to the countertop. I got this job on my own. I earned it. I’ve spent years watching you live your dreams while pretending I didn’t want the same thing. I’m done pretending.

Arthur’s the first to speak, voice soft. “We never wanted you to pretend. We just-” he breaks off, frowning. “We know what this world is like.”

Charles is staring at the wine bottle label like it holds the answers to the universe. “It’s brutal.”

And I’m ready for that, you sign. You don’t think I haven’t seen it? From the inside? I grew up in garages. I watched you kart before I even had baby teeth.

“You think I don’t remember Le Castellet?” Charles says suddenly, his voice low. “When you were six and someone on my karting team said you’d never survive a race track because you couldn’t hear the engines? You didn’t sleep for a week.”

You feel the memory hit like a punch to the ribs.

Arthur mutters, “I wanted to fight that kid.”

“You did fight that kid,” Lorenzo says dryly.

Charles’s voice goes quieter. “We’ve seen what this world does. We just wanted to protect you from it.”

You don’t get to protect me from my own future.

He flinches.

Lorenzo clears his throat and holds up a wine glass. “To new beginnings,” he says, trying to lighten the mood.

Arthur grabs a glass and clinks it with his. “To terrifying little sisters who are smarter than all of us.”

You raise your glass, but Charles doesn’t move at first.

Then, finally, he lifts his and meets your gaze.

“To you.”

You smile.

It’s soft. But real.

***

Meanwhile, two hotels away, Max Verstappen lies on his bed, one arm behind his head, scrolling through YouTube.

A video’s paused on the screen. The thumbnail shows a smiling woman with short hair and bright eyes. The title reads Learn 20 Basic ASL Signs for Beginners!

Lando, lounging on the couch with a bag of chips, looks over. “What are you watching?”

Max doesn’t even glance up. “Sign language.”

Lando snorts. “Since when are you learning that?”

“Since today.”

“… Because of Charles’ sister?”

Max finally looks up. “She ran into me.”

“Actually,” Lando says, mouth full, “you ran into her.”

Max groans. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true?” Lando throws a chip at him. “So? What? She blew you off and now you’re in love?”

Max narrows his eyes. “I’m not in love.”

Lando grins. “You downloaded Duolingo for sign language.”

“No, I didn’t,” Max says. “Duolingo doesn’t have sign language.”

Lando blinks. “How do you know that?”

“I checked.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Lando howls with laughter.

Max scowls and throws a pillow at him. “It’s not funny.”

“It is,” Lando gasps. “You’ve never even looked twice at anyone in the paddock and now you’re watching videos about finger spelling.”

Max shifts, face heating. “She’s just … different.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Different how?”

“She didn’t react to me,” Max says. “Not like people usually do.”

“She didn’t hear you.”

“No, but-” he shakes his head. “It wasn’t just that. She didn’t try to be nice. Or awkward. Or pretend she didn’t care who I was. She just signed something and walked away.”

“She probably thinks you’re a dick.”

Max sighs. “Maybe I am.”

“You’re not,” Lando says, surprising him. “You’re just not used to people not treating you like Max Verstappen.”

Max is quiet.

Then he reopens the YouTube app and hits play.

The woman on the screen smiles. “Let’s start with the alphabet!”

***

Back in the Leclerc family suite, you’re doing the dishes.

Charles stands beside you, towel in hand, drying each plate you hand over. It’s quiet. Peaceful. Arthur is on the couch, yelling at the TV. Lorenzo’s on the phone in the bedroom.

Charles breaks the silence.

“Do you like it?” He asks.

You glance over.

The job?

He nods.

I love it.

He nods again, slower this time.

Then he signs, You’re amazing.

Your breath catches. You smile — small, warm.

Thank you.

And for the first time that night, everything feels exactly right.

***

The morning is cool and bright when you step into the paddock, hair still damp from a rushed shower, tablet tucked beneath your arm. The air smells like fuel and fresh asphalt. The kind of smell that most people wrinkle their nose at, but to you, it smells like home.

Ferrari’s garage is already alive, buzzing with the usual symphony of controlled chaos. People moving fast, voices raised, tire blankets being peeled back. The pit wall team is calibrating headsets, and engineers are tapping away at laptops like they’re defusing bombs. But when you walk in, the air shifts just slightly.

One of the senior engineers, Sergio, gives you a nod of acknowledgment as you pass.

Another, Isa, offers you her usual crooked half-smile.

It wasn’t always like this — not even one day ago. But something changed after practice. The moment they saw your data lines. The way you isolated the inconsistent vibration through lap telemetry and flagged it before anyone else noticed. You didn’t say a word in the debrief, but the numbers did.

They’re starting to see you.

Not as someone’s sister. Not as a girl who needs shielding. Just as you.

You're mid-scroll through tire wear stats when someone taps your shoulder. Gently, like they’re afraid you’ll vanish if they push too hard.

You turn.

It’s him.

Max Verstappen, in full Red Bull uniform, cap pulled low, jaw clenched like he’s about to launch into a high-speed corner.

You raise an eyebrow.

His lips press into a tight line. Then he lifts both hands, takes a deep breath, and starts finger-spelling something. Slowly. Carefully. Like every letter might explode.

H … E … L … L �� O.

Then he hesitates. His brow furrows. His mouth moves slightly, mouthing the letters along with his hands. His finger flicks toward his chest.

You stare at him.

It takes a second before you realize what he’s trying to do.

And then it hits you.

He’s signing in ASL.

Your nose wrinkles. Not in annoyance, just surprise. Because you don’t use American Sign Language. You never have. You were born in Monaco. Raised in French. Your whole life has been in Langue des Signes Française.

And whatever Max just spelled?

It looked like a painfully slow attempt at ordering coffee in a different country.

You blink.

He looks so serious. Like this is a press conference. Like this is his world championship.

You burst out laughing.

Full-bodied. Loud. A rare kind of laugh that you don’t usually give out in public. It slips out of you before you can stop it.

Max’s face goes completely blank. Mortified. Like he’s just gotten out of the car and realized his fly’s down during a podium.

You hold up a hand, trying to breathe.

Then, still smiling, you reach behind you and grab a napkin off the coffee cart near the hospitality entrance. You scribble something with the pen clipped to your tablet.

You fold the napkin once, then hold it out to him.

He takes it, cautiously.

10/10 effort. 2/10 accuracy.

Wrong language, Verstappen.

Max reads it. Then blinks.

Then groans, tipping his head back toward the sky. “You’re kidding me.”

You shake your head, still grinning.

He rubs his hand over his face. “So what do you use?”

You sign, slow and clear. LSF.

“Is that … French?”

You nod. Then point to yourself, then your badge. Ferrari. Monaco. Surprise.

Max exhales, the tips of his ears pink. “Great. So I’ve been learning the wrong damn language all night.”

You shrug, amused. It’s cute.

He stares at you. “You think that was cute?”

You gesture toward the napkin. The effort. Not the execution.

Max looks at the napkin again, then folds it and stuffs it into his pocket like it’s a race strategy worth saving.

Then, after a beat, “Okay. New plan. I learn French sign language.”

You don’t have to.

“I want to.”

You blink. He says it with such ease. No hesitation. No bravado. Just … honest.

That’s new.

You cock your head. Why?

He shrugs. “Because if I run into you again, I want to say more than ‘hello’ and get laughed at in three seconds.”

You grin. Four seconds. Give yourself some credit.

He actually laughs. It’s short, but genuine.

Then he glances at the garage behind you. “You’re … uh, busy?”

You nod. Always.

He hesitates. Then holds out his hand. “I’ll get out of your way. Just … if I learn it. Will you help me practice?”

You eye his outstretched hand. Then, after a moment, you shake it.

Only if you promise not to run into me again.

He nods solemnly. “Deal.”

***

Later, in the garage, you’re reviewing a line graph on your monitor when Charles slides in behind you like a shadow.

He taps your shoulder.

You turn.

He signs hurriedly. You okay?

You nod. Then sign back, Why?

He tilts his head. “Because I saw Verstappen trying to mime at you and then you laughed so hard I thought you were having a breakdown.”

You roll your eyes. He tried to sign in ASL.

Charles frowns. “Isn’t that … the wrong one?”

You grin. Exactly.

He shakes his head. “This guy.”

He tried. It was sweet.

Charles narrows his eyes. “Max Verstappen is not sweet.”

He spelled hello and then looked like he wanted to cry.

Charles pauses. Then sighs. “Okay. That’s a little sweet.”

You give him a look.

His mouth flattens into a line. “Just … be careful.”

You raise both brows. Of what?

He gestures vaguely. “People like him.”

Confident men?

“Cocky men.”

You mean men like you?

He groans. “That’s not fair.”

You tap your fingers to your temple, smiling. Life isn’t fair.

Behind you, Sergio waves you over. You hold up a finger to Charles, then jog toward the data table.

He watches you go.

Isa sidles up next to him.

“She’s good,” she says.

Charles glances sideways. “She always has been.”

“No, I mean really good,” Isa says. “The sensor override fix she implemented this morning? Saved us thirty minutes in practice. Cleanest code I’ve seen from a junior in years.”

Charles stares at you across the garage.

You’re deep in conversation with two of the engineers. Laughing silently, eyes bright. You’re signing quickly, clearly. They’re following. One even signs back, haltingly, but with visible effort.

You’re not just holding your own.

You’re leading.

Charles lets out a slow breath.

Isa nudges him. “You’ve got nothing to worry about.”

He mutters, “That’s not how big brothers work.”

She shrugs. “Then maybe it’s time you learn.”

***

That night, Max sits cross-legged on the hotel bed, hair damp from the shower, eyes locked on his phone. His laptop is open beside him, playing a YouTube video titled Les bases de la langue des signes française – PARTIE 1.

The woman onscreen moves her hands with elegant fluidity. He mimics the signs, stumbling through them, pausing every five seconds to rewind.

Lando walks in, a PlayStation controller in each hand, then stops in the doorway.

“… Mate.”

Max doesn’t look up. “Don’t say it.”

“You switched languages.”

“Yes.”

“You really like her, huh?”

Max’s fingers pause mid-sign. He exhales through his nose.

“I don’t know,” he says. “She’s just … not like anyone I’ve ever met.”

Lando nods, surprisingly serious. “Yeah. I get that.”

Max clicks pause. The screen freezes on a still of the sign for “bonjour.”

He stares at it for a long time.

Then goes back to the beginning.

Again.

***

The rooftop bar is too loud. Too bright. Too many conversations colliding like spinning tires in a wet turn. Laughter ricochets off the concrete walls, neon reflections pooling in half-empty glasses. Somewhere across the rooftop, someone is already dancing on a bench with a Ferrari flag wrapped around their shoulders like a cape.

You stand off to the side, pressed against the railing, fingers curled around a glass of lemonade you haven’t touched. Your tablet is in your bag, and without it, your hands feel oddly empty.

The Ferrari team is celebrating — P3 for Charles, P5 for Lewis — and no one expected that after the struggles in FP2. There’s champagne being passed around like water, and someone has started taking shots off a tire-themed tray.

You’re smiling, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. You’re not uncomfortable, exactly. Just … aware. There’s always this moment, at these things, when the conversation starts slipping just beyond your reach.

Not because people are cruel. Not intentionally.

But because laughter doesn’t translate. Lip-reading fails in strobing lights. And the group talk always fractures into side chats you can’t follow unless someone remembers to turn toward you. Remember to include you. Remember that you’re still here.

You’re used to it. You’ve perfected the art of pretending you’re not watching the room, calculating how long before you can politely leave.

And then-

“Hey.”

You turn.

He’s there.

Max. Hands shoved in the pockets of a black jacket, slightly rumpled hair, looking vaguely like he walked into the bar by accident.

Your brow lifts. Coincidence?

He pulls out his phone and types something. Turns the screen toward you.

Total coincidence. I just happened to crash the Ferrari party for no reason at all.

You laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

He grins.

You sign, simple and slow. You came to see me.

He shrugs. Maybe.

You tilt your head. How many signs do you know now?

He pulls a folded napkin from his jacket pocket. On it, scribbled in surprisingly neat handwriting:

Bonjour

Comment ça va?

Travail

Voiture

Toi / Moi / Merci / S’il te plaît / Fatigué / Intéressant

You raise an eyebrow. Then sign, Impressive.

Max looks ridiculously pleased with himself.

You grin. Then grab a pen from your bag, pull a coaster off the bar, and write.

10/10 effort. 6/10 accuracy. Upgraded from last week.

He reads it and chuckles. Then scribbles underneath.

Still failing, though?

You scribble back. Barely passing.

Then, before you can overthink it, you add. You’re getting better.

He pauses. His fingers hover over the edge of the coaster, tracing your handwriting once, then twice. His smile softens.

Max gestures toward the quiet seating in the corner. You nod, and the two of you move over, away from the noise, to a pair of stools by the edge of the railing, facing the skyline. The Shanghai towers blink like circuit lights in the distance.

He pulls out his phone again and types:

Can I ask you something?

You nod.

What exactly is your job? I mean not like, in vague PR terms. But actually.

Your brows rise.

Most people ask about Charles. Or about how hard it is. Or how you “cope.”

Not many ask what you do.

You grab a clean napkin and start writing. It takes a few minutes. He waits.

I write code that analyzes car data in real-time. I help identify irregularities before they become problems. Everything from tire temp curves to ERS discharge rates. Yesterday I found a minor brake imbalance in Lewis’ car before FP3. Probably saved a lock-up.

You pass the napkin over.

Max reads it, lips moving silently as he follows the words. Then, after a beat, he signs — carefully, but clearly — Smart.

You grin. Correct.

He types. So you’re the reason Lewis didn’t spin into Turn 11 today?

You nod. Probably.

He whistles under his breath. Do they treat you like part of the team?

That one takes you off-guard. You blink.

Then pick up the pen and write. Sometimes. Depends on the day. It’s better now. I had to earn it. Twice.

He doesn’t ask what you mean.

But you keep writing anyway. Once as a rookie. Again as the deaf girl.

He reads it. And instead of offering pity — or worse, fake admiration — he just writes. They’re idiots if they can’t see what you bring.

You stare at the napkin.

He taps the pen between his fingers and looks sideways at you. “I’m not always good at saying the right thing,” he says, voice low. “But I mean that.”

You nod. Something tugs in your chest. A thread, long and old and quiet.

People don’t usually talk to you.

They talk over you. Around you. At you.

They smile politely while looking to your brothers for your answers. They ask if you “mind” being here. If it’s “okay” that you have to “struggle” so much.

No one asks about your code.

No one waits to read your words slowly. Pauses between questions. Watches your hands. Listens with their eyes.

Except him.

You sign, slow and clear. Why do you care?

He shrugs. “I don’t know.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I mean, I do. You’re interesting.” He hesitates. “You don’t pretend. You don’t do that thing where you act impressed or unimpressed. You’re just … you.”

You snort. Then write. You’re used to people trying too hard around you.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Or pretending I’m not human at all.”

You nod. I get that.

You both fall quiet for a moment, watching the lights. Somewhere behind you, the Ferrari crew is howling over a game of darts using pitboard numbers as targets.

Max leans forward, resting his arms on the railing. “I looked up how sound works in your car,” he says suddenly.

You turn to him.

“The sensor translation system. It’s cool. I didn’t realize how much it’s tied into the telemetry.”

You blink. You researched it?

He nods. “Yeah. I wanted to know how you experience the car.”

You don’t reply.

Mostly because you don’t know how.

It’s the kind of question no one ever asks. People assume you miss something. Like hearing is the baseline, and everything else is lesser.

But he doesn’t ask what’s missing.

He asks how it feels.

You take the napkin again. Then, carefully, you write. It’s not quiet. Just … different. I read vibration, motion, tone. I can feel a problem in my chest before I see it on a screen.

You hesitate.

When I work in the car, I feel like I’m part of it.

You push it across.

He reads it twice. His jaw flexes like he’s trying not to say something too fast.

Then he leans back and signs. That’s incredible.

Your throat tightens.

You sign back. You don’t think it’s weird?

He shakes his head. “I think it’s probably what makes you better.”

You don’t say anything.

But your smile says enough.

***

It’s well past midnight when the party starts winding down. Someone’s already asleep under the bar, and Charles’ race engineer is trying to organize a very serious group karaoke plan for the following Sunday night.

You sling your bag over your shoulder and glance at Max.

He types something on his phone, then holds it up.

Want to walk back to the hotel? It’s five minutes.

You hesitate. Then nod.

The Shanghai night is soft and humid, the skyline glowing above you like a ceiling of stars. You walk in silence, but it’s not heavy. It’s the kind that feels like a warm hand resting on your shoulder.

When you reach the hotel entrance, you pause.

Max stops beside you.

You pull out a pen one last time and write.

10/10 effort tonight.

He grins. Then signs, 8/10 accuracy?

You shake your head, smile wide.

9/10, at least.

And this time, you’re the one who walks away first.

But not before you look back.

***

The sun dips low behind the Miami skyline, throwing sharp shadows across the paddock as the race trucks rumble to life. The air still hums with the echo of roaring engines, adrenaline not yet burned off. Debriefs wrap, interviews trail off, and slowly the paddock starts to exhale.

You’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Ferrari finished decently well — Lewis P7, Charles P3 — but the mood in the garage is brittle. The race was messy. Tire strategy misfired. The late safety car scrambled everything.

Still, your data team caught the overheating rear brake sensor just in time. You flagged it at Lap 34, just before it could snowball into a full failure. Sergio clapped your shoulder when the drivers debriefed.

But you haven’t been able to enjoy any of it. Because you’ve felt Charles watching you.

All weekend.

And not in the proud big-brother way.

In the circling hawk way.

You’re mid-step toward the hospitality suite when he corners you. Right outside the motorhome, arms crossed, face unreadable. The same expression he wore at age seventeen when he found you trying to sneak into a karting track at midnight with Arthur.

You sigh.

Charles speaks first. “We need to talk.”

You frown. Now?

He nods. “Now.”

You glance around. The hallway’s mostly empty, save for a Red Bull junior engineer pacing on the phone.

You fold your arms.

Charles rubs the back of his neck. “This thing with Max …”

Your stomach drops.

What thing?

“You’ve been spending time with him.”

So?

“I just-” He takes a sharp breath. “I don’t like it.”

You blink. Then laugh. It’s small and sharp.

That’s not your choice.

Charles flinches like the signs hit harder than your voice ever could.

“I’m just saying, he’s … Max,” he says, exasperated. “He doesn’t do relationships. He doesn’t do people. He’s intense and impulsive and he plays mind games-”

He’s not like that with me.

“How do you know that?”

Because I pay attention.

Charles groans, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You don’t understand how he is when the pressure builds. He changes. I’ve seen it.”

You sign faster now, sharper.

What, and you think I can’t handle it?

“That’s not-”

You’ve never trusted me. Not really. You think you’re protecting me, but you’re just controlling me.

His jaw tightens.

You shake your head. I’ve earned my place here. And you still treat me like I’m twelve years old.

“That’s not fair-”

No, you sign furiously. What’s not fair is being watched like I’m a problem waiting to happen. What’s not fair is having my choices questioned just because they make you uncomfortable.

Silence stretches between you.

Your fingers are trembling.

Charles’ shoulders sag. “I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

You stare at him.

Then, quietly, you sign, That’s not your call.

And you walk away before he can answer.

***

The gravel crunches under your sneakers as you find your way behind the paddock, to the far edge where the energy dies off. A line of cargo containers sits in shadow, quiet and cold, forgotten.

You sit on the edge of one, tucking your knees to your chest. The South Florida wind is somehow colder here. Your breaths come sharp and uneven, not from crying, but from holding everything in.

You hate that your hands shook.

You hate that your voice always has to be your fingers.

You hate that people still don’t listen.

You lean your head back against the metal container and close your eyes.

“Hey.”

You don’t look up. You don’t need to.

The voice is quiet. Familiar.

Max.

You turn your head slowly.

He stops a few feet away, hands loose in the pockets of his jacket. No Red Bull entourage. No camera crew. Just him. Looking at you like he already knows you don’t want to be seen but came anyway.

He doesn’t say anything else.

He sits beside you. Careful not to crowd.

For a while, there’s just wind. The low hum of trucks packing down. The distant laughter from a hospitality tent.

Max pulls out his phone. Then sets it on the ground between you, screen facing up.

Are you okay?

You stare at it.

Then shake your head. Once.

He nods.

Slowly, deliberately, he turns his body toward you and lifts his hands.

You. Matter.

Your chest pulls tight.

He signs again, a little slower this time.

You. Matter. To me.

You bite the inside of your cheek. Then reach for his phone. I didn’t know how badly I needed someone to just say that.

He doesn’t smile. Just nods.

Then signs, I mean it.

You reach for your notebook, flipping to a clean page. Your hand shakes as you write.

Charles thinks I’m making a mistake. With you.

He swallows. His jaw ticks.

He thinks I can’t see who you are. But I do.

Max looks at you carefully. Like he’s afraid of breaking something already cracked.

You keep writing.

You’re stubborn. Competitive. Sometimes kind of an ass.

He barks a laugh. Muted and surprised.

You add, But you see me. You listen. You try. And you don’t make me feel like I have to fight to be heard.

He stares at the words. Then at you.

When he signs again, it’s slower than before, but steadier.

I want to learn how to do this better.

You nod.

Then sign back, softer now. So do I.

He looks at your hand for a moment. Then, carefully, threads his fingers through yours.

Your breath catches. The wind shifts.

You don’t need words right now.

You just sit with him in the quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, you feel understood.

***

Later, as the paddock lights flicker off one by one, someone watches from a distance.

Charles, leaning against the back wall of the hospitality suite.

He sees the way Max sits beside you.

Sees the stillness. The peace.

And something in his expression finally starts to change.

***

You’re not a morning person. Never have been. But the email came in at 6:13 a.m. from Ferrari PR, with the red URGENT tag glowing like a warning light on your screen.

Meeting at 8:00. Hospitality office.

No context.

By 7:45, you’re seated in the back of the Ferrari motorhome, legs crossed at the ankle, hair pulled up in a tight knot, tablet in your lap like a shield. You tap your pen once, twice, against the corner, heart drumming a half-beat too fast.

Silvia from PR sits across from you, all sharp lines and tight lips. Beside her is someone you don’t recognize — early forties, pale blue shirt, hair too neat for anyone who’s ever stepped foot on a pit wall.

To her left sits the interpreter.

You nod politely to him. His name is Luc. You’ve worked with him before. He’s kind. Precise. A rare comfort in a setting that so often feels too fast, too loud, too assuming.

Luc signs, They wanted me here to ensure full clarity on what’s being discussed.

You nod once, eyes already narrowing.

Silvia leans forward, elbows on the desk.

“There’s been chatter,” she says in Italian, her words slow but firm.

Luc mirrors them in LSF.

You frown. What kind of chatter?

The man in the pale blue shirt — Vincenzo, you learn — scrolls through his phone and swivels it toward you. It’s a tweet. And then another. And another.

Ferrari’s new engineer sleeping with the enemy?

Guess Verstappen isn’t just fast on track.

Charles Leclerc’s sister caught cozying up to rival.

Pick a struggle: nepotism or pillow talk strategy leaks?

Your stomach turns. Not from the words themselves. But from the way Silvia won’t meet your eye.

Vincenzo speaks again. Luc signs.

We’re not accusing you of anything. But this is … unfortunate. Distracting. The timing is poor. It’s the middle of a championship season.

You stare at them. So your solution is to what? Tell me who I can and can’t speak to?

“No,” Silvia says, gently. “But we need you to be aware. The optics aren’t ideal. You’re Charles’ sister. You work for the team. And you’re visibly spending time with someone from a rival camp.”

You exhale sharply. Then start signing quickly, hands snapping the air like a whip.

I’ve worked my ass off. I’ve earned this job. My deafness already made me a question mark to half of this paddock. Now I finally get taken seriously, and suddenly I’m a liability? Because I sat with someone at a bar?

Luc softens the delivery, but the heat still lands.

Silvia clears her throat. “That’s not what we’re saying.”

But it’s exactly what you’re implying.

Vincenzo’s tone turns clipped. “We are asking you to consider how your actions reflect on the team.”

You write a single word on your tablet screen, bold and in capital letters, then turn it toward them.

UNFAIR.

They don’t have a response.

***

You don’t cry.

Not until you’re in the back hallway near the logistics trailers, hidden behind a stack of wheel carts. Then you slide down the cold concrete, bury your face in your arms, and let the frustration roll over you in one silent, aching wave.

You’ve survived harder things.

But this … this feels personal. Because it erases everything. All the hours. The data streams. The quiet respect you’ve built in the garage.

Gone with a headline.

Reduced to someone’s sister. Someone’s rumored girlfriend. Not an engineer. Not a mind.

Just gossip.

***

The press conference is livestreamed.

You watch it from the back hallway of the paddock, standing just out of sight. The words blur together until you read your name cross someone’s lips.

A reporter from a sensationalist racing tabloid starts to ask, “Max, there’s been some speculation about your relationship with a Ferrari engineer — Charles Leclerc’s sister, to be specific. Any comment on the photos and what it could mean-”

Max cuts in. Instantly.

“Yeah,” he says. “I do have a comment.”

The room stills.

Max leans into the mic, eyes sharp.

“I think it’s pathetic.”

A murmur ripples through the journalists.

He continues. “She’s a brilliant engineer. She caught a mechanical failure in China that probably saved a race. She works harder than most people in this paddock, and instead of talking about that, you’re writing clickbait about her sitting next to someone?”

The reporter tries to interrupt. Max doesn’t let him.

“If this is the level of journalism you’re going to bring to this sport, I won’t be answering questions from your outlet anymore. Period.”

He sits back. Calm. Dead serious.

The moderator tries to steer the conversation back to tire strategy.

Max answers without looking away from the camera.

And just like that, it’s over.

You watch the video again. And again.

You don’t know what to feel.

Until your phone buzzes.

MAX

You free after debrief?

You reply, Yes. Why?

He replies with a location pin. A quiet hill above the paddock.

And nothing else.

***

You’re sitting on a bench beneath the cypress trees when he arrives.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just holds out a small brown paper bag.

You open it.

Snowdrops.

Not roses. Not some generic red bouquet.

Snowdrops — your favorite. Soft, white, delicate, and defiant. The first flower to push through winter soil. The symbol of beginnings. Of resilience.

Your throat closes.

You sign, slow. How did you know?

He shrugs, awkward. “I asked Arthur.”

That makes you laugh. Wet, shaky, but real.

You touch the petals gently. Then look up.

Why did you do that? At the press conference?

His jaw tightens. “Because they made it sound like you’re some pawn. Like you’re here because of me. Or Charles. Not because you earned it.”

You stare at him.

He breathes out. “And because I hate when people talk about you like you’re not you.”

You stand up. Walk closer. Just enough for him to see your face clearly.

They made me feel small today, you sign. Like all I’ve done didn’t matter. Like I’m just a headline.

“You’re not,” he says.

Then what am I?

He doesn’t answer right away. “You’re the smartest person in any room you walk into. You see things no one else sees. You care more than people deserve. And you still let them in anyway.”

You don’t move.

“You make me want to be better,” he says.

You’re shaking again. Not with anger this time.

With something warmer. Something more terrifying.

Max steps closer. Carefully. Always carefully.

Then signs, as well as he can, one word at a time.

You. Are. Not. Small.

And finally.

You. Matter. To. Me.

You reach for him before you can think.

He holds you like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. And you don’t let go.

Not for a long time.

***

The rain doesn’t fall at Spa. It assaults.

The skies opened just past lunch, and now thunder rolls low across the Ardennes like some ancient god is clearing its throat. The paddock buzzes in disjointed chaos: engineers reworking strategies in damp garages, drivers pacing, fans huddled under ponchos. Visibility on track is nonexistent. Qualifying’s already been delayed twice.

And still, the rain doesn’t stop.

You watch the chaos from inside the Red Bull motorhome, seated awkwardly on the edge of a modular couch in Max’s driver’s room. It smells faintly of eucalyptus and fabric softener. The low hum of the television murmurs in the background, some archive footage of past Spa races looping while the commentators stall for time.

Max is pacing near the window, watching water stream down the glass like it’s personal. You’ve learned he’s always restless before quali, but this is a different kind of tension. One that builds when plans are disrupted and control slips through fingers.

You tap your tablet once to get his attention.

It’s not looking good, you sign, eyes flicking toward the forecast scrolling on the screen.

He huffs. “They’ll probably cancel the whole session. Call it based on FP times.”

Which would leave you starting fourth.

He makes a face. “Behind both Ferraris? That’s tragic.”

You grin. I might be okay with it.

“I’m not.”

You let the silence settle. The storm outside is louder now, wind rattling the motorhome's metal panels. The TV drones on, the voices muffled even to Max. You glance at him. He’s not watching anymore.

Without a word, he picks up the remote and shuts it off.

He turns to face you fully.

Then walks over and sits, close. Closer than usual. His shoulder nearly brushes yours, his thigh just shy of touching.

You glance at him. Okay?

He nods.

Then he takes a breath.

And lifts his hands.

Tu n’es pas du bruit de fond.

You stare.

The signs are slow, a little shaky, but precise. Thought-out. He even pauses between words like you taught him to let the sentence mean something.

You blink hard. Then again.

You are not background noise.

Your throat tightens.

You open your hands, unsure where to begin.

You practiced that?

He nods. “All night.”

Why?

“Because I needed to say it right.”

You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. Then back at him.

People have always talked over me, you sign. Or around me. Or about me.

He nods, not breaking eye contact.

But not you.

“I never want to be that person.”

You exhale, a breath that leaves your chest softer.

It’s terrifying.

“What is?”

Letting someone see me. Like really see me.

He nods, slow. “Yeah. I … I think I’ve been terrified since Melbourne.”

You blink. Why?

“Because I’ve never wanted someone to look at me the way you do. And I’ve never cared this much about getting it right.”

Your chest feels like it’s caving in and expanding at the same time.

The thunder cracks outside again, closer now. The lights flicker just briefly.

You don’t look away from him.

And he doesn’t look away from you.

When he leans in, it’s not a dramatic sweep. It’s tentative. Slow. Like he’s giving you space to move. Space to say no.

You don’t.

His lips brush yours — just barely. A question, not an answer.

Your fingers curl instinctively in the fabric of his shirt.

You kiss him back.

Soft, deliberate, electric in the quiet way storms can be — no flash, no fury. Just the hum of something inevitable finally breaking the surface.

When you part, neither of you speak for a long time.

You touch his cheek once, then sign. You didn’t mess it up.

He grins, forehead resting against yours. “Good.”

Outside, the storm rages on.

Inside, it finally feels like something’s just begun.

***

The sun has barely dipped behind the trees in Monza when Charles finds Max.

The paddock is emptying out, crew members packing up gear with the dull exhaustion of another long race weekend, but Ferrari’s hospitality terrace still buzzes faintly — bottles of prosecco half-empty, leftover canapés untouched.

Max is sitting near the back corner of his own team’s hospitality, talking quietly with one of Red Bull’s engineers, face sun-flushed from the race, eyes sharp and clear despite the heat.

Charles approaches with purpose.

Max sees him and straightens a little, nodding at the engineer, who takes the hint and melts away without a word.

For a beat, it’s just them.

Max doesn’t move. Doesn’t smile. Doesn’t challenge. He waits.

Charles folds his arms. His jaw works once before he speaks.

“What are you doing?” He asks. Not angry. Just tired. Guarded.

Max tilts his head. “Right now?”

“You know what I mean.”

Max breathes in slowly. “If you’re here to threaten me, I’ve already heard it from Arthur. And Lorenzo. Twice.”

“This isn’t about them.”

“Then what’s it about, Charles?”

Charles glares. “It’s about Y/N.”

Max meets his eyes, unblinking.

Charles huffs. “She’s not like the rest of us. She doesn’t live for this circus. This pressure. This madness. She’s not-”

“-a driver?” Max finishes. “That’s funny. Because she knows more about these cars than everyone in the grid.”

Charles scowls. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant.”

Max stands, finally. Slowly. Not confrontational. Just level.

“You still see her as the girl who needed you to walk her across busy streets and translate for her at the store,” he says, voice quiet. “You still think she needs your protection.”

“I know what she’s been through.”

“Then maybe you should stop acting like she’s fragile because of it.” Max’s tone is sharper now. “She’s not a child, Charles. She’s a professional. A brilliant one.”

Charles’s fists curl slightly. “I don’t care how brilliant she is. You’re reckless. You’ve got a temper. You shut people out-”

“You think I’d ever take her lightly?”

“You hurt people without meaning to. I’ve seen it.”

Max’s expression doesn’t shift. But something behind his eyes flickers.

“I’m not perfect,” he says. “But I see her.”

Charles doesn’t respond.

“I see someone who moves through the world in silence, and still manages to command every room she walks into.” Max’s voice lowers, almost reverent. “You see a little sister. I see someone who redefines the space around her. Who doesn’t ask to be heard, but is impossible to ignore.”

He steps forward, not aggressively, but close enough that Charles has to listen.

“I care about her. I respect her. And if she wants me in her life, that’s not your decision to make.”

Silence hangs thick between them.

“You don’t get to decide who’s enough for her,” Max finishes. “She decides that herself.”

***

While that storm brews outside, you’re walking into the lion’s den.

The Ferrari senior management team is mid-way through their end-of-weekend debrief. The air is thick with numbers, data, and the faint aroma of burnt espresso. You’ve been invited — not formally, but pointedly. You know what it’s about.

The rumors.

The tension.

The whispers in the garage.

You walk in calmly, dressed in your team gear, hair pulled back, tablet in hand but unused.

Luc sits beside you.

Fred barely looks up.

“Let’s make this quick.”

Luc signs the words, but you already know the tone.

You speak with your hands, composed and clear.

Let’s.

“I think we’ve given you a lot of freedom,” Fred starts, “more than most first-year engineers would get.”

You’ve given me a contract. I earned the rest.

Someone shifts in their seat. Not a challenge, not yet, just discomfort.

“You’re good,” he says. “But optics matter. And lately-”

Optics?

He hesitates. “There’s a perception that your relationship with Verstappen is … unprofessional.”

You don’t flinch.

Would it be unprofessional if I was not Charles’ sister?

He says nothing.

If I were a man?

Still nothing.

You tap your pen once against your tablet, then lean forward.

Let’s talk about what actually matters. My performance. The improvements I helped Lewis make in sector two. The aero feedback I corrected that gave Charles a 0.2 advantage in Q3. The fact that the simulations I ran this morning predicted the tire degradation curve to within 0.3% accuracy. That’s what I do.

A beat.

I don’t trade secrets. I don’t let anyone near my work. I’ve never once compromised this team. Not for Max. Not for anyone.

Your hands are steady. Your voice, through Luc, carries like steel.

If you have concerns, say them. But don’t mask discomfort with sexism or ableism and call it team management.

It’s quiet.

Very quiet.

Finally, Fred leans back.

“Noted,” he says.

That’s it.

But you know it’s more than enough.

You stand, nod once, and walk out.

Luc catches your eye as you reach the hallway. He signs, You okay?

You smile, just a little. Now I am.

***

Charles doesn’t speak to you that night.

You notice his silence at dinner. Notice the way he watches you — carefully, cautiously, like he’s weighing something he doesn’t know how to say. Lorenzo speaks softly about the season. Arthur cracks jokes. But Charles says nothing.

Until later.

You’re walking back toward your room when you notice him behind you.

“Wait.”

You turn.

He’s standing alone in the corridor, hands in his pockets, hair still damp from a post-race shower. His eyes are tired.

You sign, What is it?

“I spoke to Max.”

Your brows lift. Okay?

“I thought he’d be defensive. Or angry.”

You tilt your head. He can be both. But not when it matters.

Charles exhales. “I didn’t expect him to fight for you.”

He didn’t. He stood beside me.

Charles’s eyes soften. “You always say things like that. That make me feel stupid.”

You’re not stupid. Just used to seeing me as someone who needed protecting.

“I know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I remember when you got your first hearing aid. You hated it.”

It hurt. And it made everything too loud.

“And you ripped it off in the middle of school and flushed it down the toilet.”

You smile. That was a proud day.

He chuckles softly. Then his expression shifts.

“I’m not proud of how I’ve treated you. Or how I treated him.”

You pause.

Why did you?

He hesitates. Then shrugs. “Because he reminded me of me. And I didn’t want that for you.”

You take a step closer.

But I’m not you.

He nods.

And Max …

“He’s not who I thought he was,” Charles says quietly. “He’s better.”

That hits harder than you expect.

You smile. Just a little.

So you’re okay with this?

Charles laughs under his breath. “I’m still your brother. I’ll never be okay with any of it. But I trust you.”

You nod. Slowly. That’s all I wanted.

He opens his arms, tentative.

You walk into them.

And for the first time in a long time, your hug is that of equals.

***

Later, as the paddock winds down and the stars emerge over Monza, you find Max leaning against the fence near the parking lot, headphones around his neck, head tilted back toward the sky.

You tap his shoulder.

He turns, and before he can say anything, you sign:

He trusts me now.

Max raises a brow. “Took him long enough.”

You laugh, and he smiles — really smiles. The kind that lights up everything inside you.

He pulls you close.

And under the cooling night, you realize something else.

You didn’t need anyone to fight for your place in this world. But damn, it’s nice having someone who wants to.

***

One Year Later

It rains, as it always does in Belgium.

Not the full-force storm Spa is famous for, but a light, steady drizzle that makes the tarmac slick and the grass smell alive. The clouds hang low and moody over the forested circuit, and the energy is electric in that uniquely race day kind of way — tension, adrenaline, caffeine, too many radios crackling at once.

You walk through the paddock with Max.

You’re both in team gear — Ferrari red for you, Red Bull navy for him — but his jacket sleeve brushes yours every few steps. There’s nothing secretive about it anymore. You’re a fixture. A year in. Public. Steady. Still occasionally shocking to people who never expected Max Verstappen to show up for anyone like this.

But you know the truth.

He doesn’t just show up.

He stays.

You sign, You have a hair sticking up.

He glances at you, amused. “Just one?”

You reach up and flatten it with a smirk. He lets you.

You’re halfway to the Red Bull motorhome when it happens.

A small, insistent tug at the leg of Max’s jeans.

He stops.

Looks down.

And there, standing in the slight drizzle with wide brown eyes and a worn little Red Bull cap, is a boy — no more than six or seven — reaching toward him like he’s trying to touch something he’s only ever seen on screen.

Max immediately crouches down, balancing on the balls of his feet to meet the boy’s eye level.

But before he can say anything, a woman rushes over, umbrella in one hand, backpack slipping off her shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” She blurts in French-accented English. “He just ran off. He saw you and — he doesn’t mean to bother, he just — he won’t understand, he’s deaf, so it’s okay, really, you don’t have to-”

Max holds up a hand, gently.

And then switches languages.

Does he use LSF?

The mother freezes. Yes … yes, he uses LSF.

You feel it before you see it — the shift in Max’s posture. The quiet focus. The ease in his shoulders.

Then he signs.

Clear, confident.

Hi, what’s your name?

The boy blinks. And then grins. Wide, startled, toothy.

He signs back, My name is Michel.

Max laughs — genuine, delighted — and nods. He points to himself. Mine is Max.

The mother covers her mouth.

You watch, heart thudding hard, as Max and the boy fall into an easy rhythm. Michel signs fast, little fingers moving with the eagerness of someone who doesn’t often get the chance. Max keeps up, asking questions, repeating signs when Michel stumbles, nodding along like they’ve known each other for years.

Do you like cars?

I love them!

Who is your favorite driver?

The boy points at Max’s chest. You! And I also like Ferrari. Because she’s cool too.

Max glances at you, eyes sparkling. “He says you’re cool.”

You blink rapidly. Try to keep your face still.

The mother is crying now — softly, silently. Happy tears, overwhelmed tears. You know that kind. You’ve seen them before. You’ve cried them before.

You step closer to her, gently touching her arm.

He never gets to talk to anyone, she signs shakily. People always say it’s too hard. That it’s not worth it. She laughs through the tears. But he’s talking to Max Verstappen.

You smile and sign, Of course he is.

Max is laughing at something now — something Michel just signed. He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a sharpie. Without hesitation, he takes Michel’s cap, flips the brim, and writes something carefully.

He hands it back with a wink.

Michel clutches it like treasure.

Max signs, Thank you for talking to me. Have a good race?

Michel nods enthusiastically.

Then, with one last beaming look, he runs back to his mother, holding the cap like it’s made of gold.

The mother mouths “thank you” to Max. Then to you. Then wraps her arms around her son and disappears into the crowd.

The paddock noise returns. Radios. Heels on concrete. Someone calling Max’s name from the motorhome entrance.

But the quiet between you two lingers.

He turns to you slowly, suddenly self-conscious. “Was that okay?”

You don’t answer.

Not at first.

You step closer. Press your hand gently to his cheek.

Then sign, I fell in love with you all over again just now.

Max swallows hard. “Yeah?”

You nod.

That was more than okay.

He exhales, eyes soft, posture loose in a way you know means he’s trying not to let it show too much. But you see it. The way his fingers twitch, like he wants to say more.

You give him a moment.

He takes it.

Then signs, a little slower, You once told me silence doesn’t mean nothing. That it has its own shape. Its own voice.

You nod, breath caught in your throat.

Max smiles. Small. Tender.

That’s what I want to be. Someone who knows the shape of your silence.

You don’t kiss him.

Not there, in the middle of the paddock, surrounded by team staff and cameras and noise.

But you do reach out, take his hand, and pull it to your heart.

And when you sign, you already are, he doesn’t look away for a second.

3K notes · View notes

salemrph · 4 months ago

Text

Sleepy morning with Sylus

A/N: While I was reading some other posts yesterday, I came across a user asking what it would be like to wake up next to Sylus. My imagination jumped on it right away! I would say this is more of a headcanon than a fanfic. I focused more how he would experience it. Short write, just because I'm working on other stuff.

Character: Sylus & Reader/MC/you

Genre: romantic, fluffy

Word count: 1,430 | Reading Time: 5 min | AO3

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Your laughter echoes through his bedroom as you try to break free from his grip, his breath tickling your skin. His arms are wrapped tightly around you, pressing himself against your naked body. You smell incredible, so intoxicatingly good that waking up next to you must be heaven on earth.

You squirm and kick, already in tears from laughing so hard. He can't get enough of that sound, of the way you smile, the way you close your eyes and lean your head back. Your presence is like a flowerbed in full bloom, vibrant and breathtaking. Blooming in its full splendor.

Whenever he can, he admires you. When you sleep, he counts the moles on your body, tracing them with his fingertips. He caresses the scars you've earned as a fierce Hunter, kissing every natural fold of your skin. His touch follows the curve of your back, the delicate shape of your ass, down to your legs. The same legs that always wrap around him in the intensity of passion.

He loves you, more than he could ever show to you. It wouldn't be enough, ever.

"Sylus—" you gasp between laughs, struggling against him as your muscles start to cramp.

"You have so much energy, kitten" you keep laughing, you are so ticklish this morning. His nose brushes against your neck before he nips at your skin, placing lazy kisses along your shoulder.

You squirm even more, still breathless from laughter. "I will pee myself... Stop!"

He hums against your skin, only tightening his hold. He isn't really awake, he wants to keep sleeping, enjoying the peaceful morning with you. Sylus has worked hard to clear his schedule, to be with you like this. To adapt to your routine, make breakfast, and simply enjoy a normal day at your side.

"Then pee..." he teases.

"Gross! Let go." You protest, thoroughly disgusted by his suggestion.

"Not even in dreams, sweetie" he chuckles while still kissing your shoulder.

"Sy..." you whine. That tone, the way you try to get your way putting that face, that tone in your voice. The one that makes his heart melt no matter how much he tries to resist. He growls, reluctant to release you completely. His grip tightening for a moment before he finally exhales and relaxes.

"Go. You have 2 minutes to come back".

You waste no time jumping out of bed, only to earn a slap on your ass.

"Hey!" You spin around, shooting him a glare. Sylus only smirks.

"I like how it wiggles"

You disappear in the bathroom. Sylus shifts onto his back, crossing both arms behind his head, staring at the ceiling with a rare sense of peace. Yeah… he could get used to this. No, he wants to get used to this. The wealth he possesses and everything he has done has been nothing more than a way to ensure your safety. The years he spent searching for you taught him that he had to be prepared for anything. Losing you again was not in his plans. And if the day ever comes when you no longer love him, it won’t change a thing. He would still protect you, even from the shadows.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice you sneaking back into bed. Carefully, you inch closer, suppressing a grin as you reach out to poke his cheek. But before you can even make contact, his hand shoots out, catching your wrist in a firm grip.

"Feeling playful this morning, my love?"

"Just a bit" you smirk. Sylus laughed.

"What do you want to play?" You tilt your head, pausing deliberately as your eyes drift over his bare chest, trailing down to his toned abs. The sheets rest low on his hips, and the way you’re looking at him doesn’t go unnoticed. He knows that look.

With effortless ease, he shifts, pulling you toward him until you land on top of his body.

His fingers brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. The color of your lips is already beautiful, but he loves it even more when they darken after passionate kisses. His lips part slightly, his gaze locked onto yours, mesmerized by the infinite depth of your shining eyes.

You lean in, pressing tender kisses across his face before finally finding his lips. Your entire body relaxes, melting into him. Savoring the slow movement of your mouth. Heat growing in your body. Between you two. The kiss deepens bit by bit, his tongue tracing your lips, later moving beyond, slipping inside, tasting you. You sigh into him, already lost in the spreading feelings of longing.

His hand has already trapped you. One sitting on your back, the other on your ass, keeping you close. He is getting harder by the second. His need for you is growing. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your fingertips grounding you in the moment. There is no rush, no urgency. You have the complete morning and day to melt in each other.

When he finally pulls away, just enough to rest his forehead against yours, his breath is warm against your lips. His eyes flutter shut for a moment as he exhales deeply. This is a dream, he thinks. A damn good dream. And he has no intention of waking up.

One hand moves to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing tenderly over your skin. He doesn’t need to speak; everything he feels is in the way he looks at you, in the way he holds you like you’re something precious. You cover his hand with yours, pressing your cheek into his palm. A faint smile tugs at his lips before he kisses you again.

Sylus takes his time, enjoying how your body reacts to him, the quiet gasps, the way your fingers tangle in his hair. His name escapes your lips in a breathless whisper. He watches you with a quiet intensity, taking in the way you melt under his touch. The space between you disappears, lost in the unhurried way he moves. Once more, your worlds merge, your bodies speaking a language only the two of you understand.

That's how you start the morning: with him, with you, with nothing beyond these four walls mattering. Just the warmth of his skin, the rhythm of your hearts, and the love that neither of you needs to put into words.

----

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#love and deepspace #lads sylus #sylus #sylus x reader #lnds sylus #sylus x you #lads x reader #soft sylus #i love soft sylus #sylus qin #sylus fanfiction #romantic morning #sylus love and deepspace #sylus fluff

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strawberry-nugget · 24 days ago

Text

You ask Katsuki to give you a massage and end up with him blowing your back out♡♡

Warnings: smut, 18+ minors do not interact, fem!reader, happy ending massage, p in v sex, fingering, (some light) anal fingering, oiled up sex yall #holyfuckingairball, slight!dirty talking, slow sex, biting, spitting, prone-bone position, unprotected sex, All characters are 20+

Katsuki’s hands are huge. Heavy. Warm like stones left out in the sun. His fingers are thick, bulky and chubby where his knuckles are, the pads of his thumbs are calloused and rough, freed from the texture of a print due to regular filing, and still, my god— do they feel good rubbing zig zag lines and uneven shaped circles against your sore back.

His hands settle over every curve of your back like they were made to be there. Broad palms that are quirk charged bracketing your waist, spreading heat through his thumbs over muscle and skin until you’re not sure where your body ends and his begins. The weight of them is grounding, like gravity doubled. Like exhaling for the first time in hours.

You have been sore for way too long. Debating on whether you should book an appointment for a massage or get doctor prescribed physios, but ultimately in your lack of time and indecisiveness, you’ve let the issue come to its boiling point, let your back feel sore and aching to even the touch of your nails when you scratch yourself.

You tell yourself it surely wasn’t an excuse to make Katsuki get his hands on you like this, but then again if you were asked, you couldn’t say the opposite. The feeling of his hands on your skin is scorching every cell of your existence at all times and now— now you’re enjoying this way too much.

Naturally, your breath starts to stutter. Just a little. Shallow at first—barely-there catches of air that stalls in your chest each time his thumbs roll in deep near your spine, right where it always hurts worst. Katsuki notices. Of course he does. His hands pause for half a beat, then glide lower, smoothing the ache with a gentler pass like he’s coaxing the tension out instead of breaking it.

“Too much?” he murmurs, voice thick with sleep and heat and something else he doesn’t name. Something that lives between the cracks of his touch.

You shake your head into the pillow.

No. Not even close.

If anything, you feel as if you might as well melt.

The room is candlelit, filled with that slow bloom of lavender and something warmer—jasmine? Chamomile? It smells almost toasted from where his palms heat up the oil, seeping into the air like steam curling off summer pavement after rain. Soft music is playing in the background, drumming low with every single lyric the singer sings; Katsuki has gone out of his usual way to make you feel comfortable.

You’re already half-melted into the mattress by now, face buried in a pillow that still smells like his skin, the edge of your tank top pushed up to your ribs. You feel him behind you, quiet, deliberate, the bed dipping beneath his weight as his hands find the bottle of oil again.

When his hands leave your back, you’re back to feeling like hell, like all the alleviated pain just punched its way back into your rear.

To save you from this agony, Katsuki’s hands—those massive, brutish hands that have torn through half the villains in Japan, the hands that have been worked in excruciating and harsh conditions over the years—are moving over your back again like they’re made of sunlight and patience.

He presses again, harder this time. Not cruel, not rough. Just deliberate. One thumb working in a crooked elliptical circle beneath your shoulder blade while the heel of his other palm drags slow, wide strokes across your lower back. There’s no rhythm to it, no pattern. Just instinct. Just him. And maybe that’s why it feels so good. Because it’s not technique, not some learned routine from a textbook. It’s just him and the way he cares about you. Cares enough to soften his rough edges, to make his hardened palms feel incredible and soothing on your back.

Katsuki settles on either side of your legs, sitting on his knees above you as his oily thumbs hook under your bunched up shirt, coaxing you to lift only ever just a little, so he can take the article of clothing off of you.

With only a small tag, the flimsy piece of clothing is over your head, discarded onto the edge of the bed and Katsuki moves over your legs again, this time sitting low, just over the back of your knees. Rough palms that drip of fresh lavender oil feel your tummy as you stay lifted up, running up, up, up, until they slide across your breasts, thumbs softly brushing your nipples.

You moan with a rasp, at the loss of the feeling, or maybe at how hot his palms are when they engulf your shoulders and give a pinching little rub.

You feel Katsuki press in with a slow, unyielding pressure that makes your breath hitch against the pillow. He knows exactly where to go—where you hold stress, where it bites. Right between your shoulder blades, far up on the back of your neck, low at the base of your spine, the outer edges of your hips. His thumbs circle there, digging in just enough to ache, then easing off like a tide pulling back from shore.

He tags at your pyjama shorts next, just the waistline at first, then the start of your panties, but his thumbs stain the fabric in lavender sweetness, tagging even further when he says “Off”

You lift your hips without a word. It’s not even a decision—it’s instinct. A quiet offering. A permission that’s already been granted a hundred times in your body before it ever reaches your lips.

The shorts slide down slow. The elastic tugs over the swell of your ass, catching just slightly at the curve of your thighs before easing off, guided by thumbs that are far too gentle for how rough they look. His hands are reverent, even now. Even with your bare skin revealed under the low flicker of candlelight, with the smell of lavender thick in the air, wrapping around you both like a silken ribbon.

There’s a pause. Not long. Just enough to make you breathe in, hold it. You feel the weight of his gaze on your back. Feel it like a touch. Like heat.

Then his hands are on you again, and it’s almost worse than before. Better. Unbearably better.

His thumbs drag low, slow, slick with oil as they part the dip of your spine. They don’t press too hard. Just smooth you open—figuratively, literally—with strokes that make your toes curl into the sheets. His fingers knead into the meat of your hips now, heavy and full, pressing into places that ache with tiredness, places that never get touched this way unless it’s under the guise of something much filthier.

“You wait too long,” he mutters. Voice rough, low, almost annoyed—but not really. Not at you. “Could feel the knots from the second I touched you.”

You hum, something low in your throat. Almost a laugh. Almost a whimper. “Didn’t have time.”

“Make time,” he snaps, but it’s soft. Almost affectionate. His hands say more than the words ever could. They dig in again, dragging slow zigzags along the base of your spine, making your back arch and your thighs twitch. He smooths them over your ass, dragging the oil agonisingly slow over you, until his thumbs brush over the lower crevices of your bottom.

“Just ask, I’ll rub your back”

You can’t tell if it’s the oil or your own sweat making your skin slick now. Can’t tell where the ache ends and the heat begins. Can’t tell where you end and his skilled fingers begin.

All you know is that Katsuki’s hands are still on you—huge and hot and unrelenting—and that you never want them to stop.

You’re starting to forget the ache.

Not because it’s gone, but because it’s changed, morphed into something else under his hands. It’s still there, but not sharp. Not angry. Just… full. Blooming warm in your chest and pooling low in your belly like syrup, like honey slowly melting down a spoon.

You breathe again. Really breathe. And it comes out shaky, lips parted against the pillow, lashes fluttering in the candlelight.

“Fuck,” you whisper. Not directed at him. Not even really a word. Just a sound of surrender.

Katsuki shifts behind you, and you feel it—his weight bearing down gently on the back of your thighs, his thighs bracketing yours now, his body closer than it was before. Still clothed. Still in control. But not distant.

Never distant.

You feel his breath brush across the back of your neck a second before his lips do.

A soft press. Nothing more. Just warmth. Just acknowledgement.

“I know you’re tired,” he murmurs, voice low, sticky with quiet tenderness and worn-down. “But you can’t let yourself get like this.”

You nod—barely—but he sees it. He always sees you. Even when you try not to be seen.

“I’m here,” he says. “You got a boyfriend to fix your back anytime”

It’s simple. Not romantic, not flowery. Just your usual Katsuki.

His palms flatten against your waist again, spreading out like wings, dragging slow and deliberate as they glide up your sides. They pass over the swells of your breasts without urgency this time, just pressure and heat and familiarity, before curling over your shoulders. His thumbs dip under your arms, into the softest parts of you, and rub gentle, grounding circles.

You lean into it. Into him.

“You don’t have to fix everything,” you murmur, voice hushed against the pillow. His hands still. Not gone. Just still.

You call out his name, almost sheepishly, sleep dragging a voice that’s ready to complain, in contrast to your previous statement. You pout even, “Don’t stop babe i'm sore”

Katsuki exhales through his nose, and it sounds like a laugh, except it’s lower. Thicker. Like he’s trying not to let on how fond he is of you when you get like this tired and whiny and melting beneath his hands like you were made to be touched and felt up by him.

“Yeah?” he mutters, and you hear the smirk even before you feel it. “Thought I didn’t gotta fix everything.”

You nuzzle your cheek deeper into the pillow, refusing to dignify that with an answer.

He hums. His thumbs move again, slow, small circles into the soft spot just below your shoulder blades. You sigh, finally loud and satisfied again—and he shakes his head like he’s trying to be annoyed, even as his hands keep coaxing little, blissed-out sounds from your throat.

“Back’s all locked up like you’re made of concrete. What the hell’ve you been carryin’ around?”

You shrug lazily, the motion barely registering. “Life?”

“Yeah,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “Too much of it.”

He shifts again, the bed dipping as his weight adjusts. One arm slides beneath your stomach, anchoring you gently, while the other keeps working slow and steady down your spine. Every stroke is fixated to every dip of your back like he’s trying to draw something out of you. Not just the tension. The tired. The worry.

You make another soft, contented noise, and he presses his lips to the side of your neck again—no heat, no rush, just a quiet, grateful touch.

One moment you’re relaxed, open, muscles soft, the dull ache of being rubbed with such pressure weighing you down to complete relaxation and the next—Katsuki’s lips find the edge of your shoulder blade. Smooching once, twice over spots that are oiled up.

He can’t help himself.

The lavender scent. The way your ass is curved upwards, so perky. The oil makes your skin shine in the low light of the candles. The angelic way the music starts sounding as the notes hit your skin like the softest raindrops on flower leaves; He feels himself lean into the fondly softness of the moment, growing hotter by each second. His cock has already started giving him warning throbs inside his briefs.

It’s almost quite dangerous, what you do to him. The sight of you sprawling limp and sleepy and soft under just the touch of his hands. So in a bold movement he smooths his wonders once again over your ass, thumbs parting your legs from the inside of your thighs, just a little. When he pulls back to his original position, vermillion eyes flicker where your slit is, glistening softly, not throbbing quite yet.

The slow drag of his hands, smoothing lower, is parted only by a moment from the pause just above the dip of your ass, where his thumbs rest—hover—like he’s thinking something over. Like he’s holding himself back, the way he always does when he thinks this might be too much, too soon, too selfish of him.

But to assure him, it isn’t, you push your hips back, just a tiny bit. So eager for him as always, even in this vulnerable state.

“Katsuki,” you breathe through a moan slurred, not like a question, not a plea. Just his name. Like you’re granting him permission by calling it out.

It’s all he needs.

His hands firm at your waist again, grip tightening just slightly, a groan catching low in his chest as his body bows over yours. You feel the warm press of his mouth at the nape of your neck, open and slow and wet. Feel his breath, the way it shakes. The way it matches yours.

“You drive me fuckin’ crazy,” he mutters against your skin. “Lyin’ here like this. Soundin’ like that.”

You’d laugh, a soft breathy chuckle, but it comes out like a whimper when his thumbs knead into the meat of your thighs and spread you gently apart. Lavender clings to everything. Your skin, your breath, the air—but now it’s mixed with eerie desire, like it wouldn’t turn out exactly like this when you asked him to rub your back.

His hands don’t rush, like they usually do when his chest is so tight with desire, arousal. They drag over your hips, your waist, until his fingers slide down the sides of your belly and find the edge of your hips again. This time, when he tugs your love handles, doughing them into the pads of his palms, there’s no hesitation. Just soft skin and warm oil peeling away from your skin, pooling on the sheets behind you.

You’re bare. Completely. The candlelight flickers, catching the sheen of sweat and oil across your back, your thighs. Katsuki pours more oil on his palms. You feel it trickle down your spine, between your legs. You feel him there too, kneeling behind you, hovering over you like heat itself.

And when his hands return, when his fingers slide between your thighs and find you already wet, already open—his breath punches out in one low, reverent curse, like he doesn’t remember seeing the way you were glistening when he looked over a second ago.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hands slowly opening your ass cheeks “Look at you.”

You press your face harder into the pillow, hips tilting, thighs spreading wider in a silent invitation you’ve never needed to say aloud with him.

He slides one thick finger through your slick and groans, low and guttural like it hurts. Like he’s the one unraveling.

“You feel so fuckin’ good,” he says, voice rough, dazed, groaning out his words “fuckin’ dripping…”

The first push of his fingers is slow, deliberate—just one at first, thick and sure. Dragging the edge of the knuckle softly against your clit. Your back arches. Your mouth falls open. His other hand braces at your hip, grounding you, owning you.

Then another finger joins the first.

And god, his fingers are just as big as his hands, and you swear they’re made for this. Not gentle, but not rough either. Just pressure. Heat. Depth. The kind of stretch that makes your legs tremble, your body pulse with something deeper than need.

You sob into the pillow, and he shushes you softly—lips at your shoulder, tongue dragging the edge of your skin, teeth sinking in.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he breathes in your ear. “Let me make you feel good.”

You shiver when the pads of his thumbs push on the outter lips of your pussy, spreading you wider for him with that same careful control he uses in a fight—like he knows exactly how much force to use, how far to take it before it ruins you. And maybe you want to be ruined a little.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Katsuki murmurs, voice nearly gone, wrecked from how hard he’s breathing. His thumbs hold you open while his fingers curl slow, deep—dragging against that spot, under the hood of your clit that makes your thighs jolt, makes your chest squeeze tight. He watches you clench around him, watches the oil and slick mix and drip down to the crease of your thighs. Watches everything with that starved kind of look on his face, biting his lips and scrunching his nose, eyes blown wide like he’s being allowed to witness something sacred.

And he can’t help himself, once again, not to drag his left thumb over your entrance, circling softly, to gather some slick before his finger taps at your other puckered hole, rubbing once, twice, before slowly sinking in.

At the same time, almost, his right pointer finger enters your pussy, the thumb never leaving your clit, always circling it lazily, elliptical.

You both hiss, you at the feeling of both of your holes being entered, him at the feeling of how tightly you clamp around just his fingers.

His cock is furious inside his pants now. Angry at the top and leaking over the spot the tip has settled at.

“Fuuuuck,” he whispers again, this time quieter. Like it’s just for himself. Like he can’t believe how good you feel, how warm and wet and tight you are, clenching down on both fingers like your body’s trying to drag him in deeper.

And he feels like he might as well go insane.

Because it’s not just the way your body reacts to him, not just the way you sob and tremble and push back against his hand like you can’t get enough, though all of that drives him crazy. It’s that you let him see it. Let him touch you here, like this, in this kind of quiet, candlelit intimacy where everything is soft and raw and slow.

Your thighs tremble. Your breath catches.

It’s too much and at the same time, not enough.

His left hand, still slick and strong, adjusts where it holds you open. That finger still lazily and slowly pumping —almost still of movement— in the hole of your ass, teasing in slow, subtle pushes that make your whole spine tense, makes your toes curl into the sheets. And all the while, his right hand works in tandem; pointer finger deep inside your pussy, thumb lazy and steady on your clit like he’s marking time. Like he knows just how fast to take you, just how slow to pull you apart.

You whimper, shamefully loud.

It’s the kind of sound you’d usually try to bite back, bury into your wrist or his bicep, but Katsuki doesn’t let you this time. He growls at it, low, like a threat, pushes in just a bit deeper, rubbing the pad of his thumb in slow, wet circles against your clit until your hips twitch again.

“There you go,” he mutters. “That’s it. Let me hear it, baby.”

You do. Because you can’t not.

As you carefully wiggle your hips just a little more upwards, you yelp, feeling just a little pain from the thick finger in your ass and it takes all of Katsuki’s humility to gather a ball of spit in his mouth and let it go off, past his raspberry blown lips and onto the slit of your ass.

His finger exits so, so, so slowly, still you groan at the slight discomfort due to it, making his chest swell, and he catches some of his spit with his finger and enters you again.

Every nerve in your body is lit, every edge of you aching and raw. Katsuki doesn’t let up and with his chest bearing all this excitement and humility that makes his ears red and tingly from seeing you so spread open like this, he doesn’t stop. Just holds you open like you’re something precious and obscene all at once, his fingers working slow and deep until you’re shaking under him, toes curling, face buried in the pillow to keep from sobbing his name.

Suddenly, the bed creaks under his knees as he leans down, dwelling chest brushing your back, breath hot on your neck. His fingers never stop working—sliding deeper, curling, then scissoring your pussy open just slightly as if to test how ready you are for what comes next. He simply rasps at how wet you are, but it’s swallowed under the silky sounds of your squelching.

You feel open, loose, hot to the touch and unable to move, like your lower half has been lost in a cloud of overbearing pleasure.

Then, like you're kicked to the gut and jolted out of your pleasure cloud nine— you feel it. The weight of it.

Katsuki’s cock, hard and heavy, presses against the swell of your ass, sizzling hot even through the thin cotton of his boxers, begging to be set free.

You feel yourself leak, a beady drop of sticky sleek that trails down the lips of your pussy and onto his thumb. He presses down on your clit like it’s a button, squeezing just enough before flicking it, left then right, up then down and all over again until you’re screaming into the pillow.

Your pussy feels like it’s on fire and for once, the finger in your ass is starting to feel way more pleasing than it’s ever felt in the few times you two have tried this.

You feel the steady pulse of his throbbing mushroom tip beneath your skin, a weight that drags and shifts with every careful motion of his hips, like he’s tracing the shape of you without needing to see. Every inch memorized in the heat of this moment.

Slowly and so deliberately, his hands exit out of you with a pop and a treacherous whine from the depths of your chest that drips on your lips and slip to the waistband of his briefs, fingers rough only to himself as they peel the fabric down his thighs, releasing the tight hold. The cool air hits the bare skin of his cock, already glistening with heat and promise, and your breath catches at the sound of his dick hitting his abdomen.

Katsuki shifts closer, lips trailing a feather-light kiss along your shoulder, warm and urgent, grounding and electric all at once. His fingers slip free from where they held you open just moments ago, replaced by the thick, slick head of him pressing between your folds, nestling there like he’s already part of you.

His cockhead on your clit feels like heaven. Everything nice. Big and bulky and heavier than his thumb, it glides over a few, agonisingly slow times, before his voice breaks into speech.

He finds your clit again, traps it between flesh and fingertip, giving a small, delicious pinch that makes you shiver and arch against him.

“Y’gonna let me in, baby?” he whispers, lips dragging over your shoulder as his fingers slip free, replaced by the thick head of him nestling between your folds again.

You’re going crazy. Aching at the loss of his tip on your entrance. Drool catches at the side of your mouth and spills over the pillow, walls clamping down around thin air. You need him inside you right now or else you’ll combust. You’ve been spread out and toyed with for oh so long.

“Y-yes, please baby, put it in”

His breath fans across your skin, hot and ragged, as he shifts the last bit of distance between you. The head of him presses deeper, teasing the wet, swollen gate of your slit, just at the edge of full surrender. Your body tightens, trembling with the delicious agony of waiting.

Then, painfully slow, he pushes inside you, past the tight rim of your entrance—inch by inch, and so deliberate, a tender invasion that makes your chest rise and fall in ragged gasps. The heat of him floods you, filling every ache and hollow with only his tip that's pouring clear precum like a river. A vein on his cock throbs, catches close to your g-spot and you moan at the feeling, your clit throbbing like its on fire, by the action.

Katsuki’s hot hands slide down your hips, gripping firm enough to anchor you but gentle enough to let you melt beneath him. His lips find the curve of your neck, pressing soft, chaste kisses that trail lower—each one a quiet confession, a promise stitched into flesh. He bucks into you again, broken breath and a rhythm to match it, hips far from even stuttering against you.

All Katsuki can think right now as he looks down at his hands on your plush skin is that he loves you. All blown out and barely spread open as he pushes your ass close, chanting his name as he feels you trap his veiny cock inside your walls. He couldn’t keep his hands off you for a second and it’s like a blessing that you asked him to massage you. A curse too, because he knew he wouldn’t hold back from turning it into sex even if he tried.

With every -barely- measured thrust, you feel his chest swell against your back, pounding with something more than desire—a love so raw and fierce it almost hurts. His cock drags deep inside you, the slow rhythm setting fire to every nerve, every whisper of skin-on-skin.

He buries his face into your shoulder, breath hitching, biting onto your earlobe and sucking before he speaks, voice thick and vulnerable at once. “Love you babe.”

Your body trembles, caught between the sweet sting of pleasure and the weight of his words. You press back into him, aching to close the distance, to be lost in the overwhelming pull of this moment—where every touch, every breath, every heartbeat says you.

“Love you too” you whisper, finally.

You gasp when he grinds deeper, and he groans like he’s hurting, like it physically aches how much he wants to make this last.

And then he starts kissing you. Everywhere.

“I gotchu babe, let go” he whimpers “You’re killin’ me,” he breathes. “Feels so good—I just wanna stay here, baby, please—lemme just…”

His hips stutter and you feel him shake into your sore neck, just a little—and his lips press harder, tighter, to your shoulder as he groans your name into your skin like a vow. Like he’s praying and you're his only god.

Your hand reaches back blindly, desperate to touch him, to grab at something real, with your face still squished into the pillow and he catches the movement, brings one of his hands to match yours and threads your fingers together without a second of hesitation. His hand tangles with yours above the pillow. Fingers sticky with lavender oil and need, pressing into yours like he needs the anchor. The other stays at your hip, guiding you back into him with the same rhythm he holds in battle—steady, devastating.

You can feel the way his heart beats against your back when he leans in close. Can hear the way his breath hitches when you let out a soft moan into the pillow, hips pushing back into his, seeking more.

His grip is tight, grounding. A promise made in the trembling space between sweating and hot skin.

You feel every inch of him, not just inside you, in the squelching in and out and the sound of skin slapping, but around you, covering you, his chest flush and hot on your back, the way his arm tighten around your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold you close enough.

With every thrust, he leans in, chest brushing your back, lips dragging kisses along the curve of your shoulder, your neck, the back of your ear. His breath is warm and ragged, but his mouth is gentle. If saying ‘I love you’ wasn’t enough, his cock spells it out inside you, like he can’t stop saying the phrase without saying it out loud.

“You’re killin’ me,” he mutters, kissing the nape of your neck, voice breaking against your skin. “Don’t even know what you do to me.”

Katsuki’s hips roll again, and you gasp more from the emotion than the sensation. You’re so full, he’s so deep in it almost hurts. But he’s so tender with it. You feel him kiss your shoulder again, then the spot just underneath your ear. You shiver under the weight of it, under the heat of his breath.

“Can’t get close enough to you,” he mutters, almost like he’s mad at himself for trying. “You’re all I fuckin’ think about.”

You reach for him with your other hand as well, fingers searching behind you until your hand finds his forearm. Taut, huge as always and trembling from the control he’s holding. You clutch him there, and he groans at the contact, your nails dig in and he’s thrusting just a little deeper, a little slower.

Each time his hips meet yours, your breath stutters, your throat tight with the aching swell of something bigger than arousal. It’s overwhelming—the way he fills you, how soft he’s being, how quiet and gentle he is when usually he’s all noise and heat and thunder. But now? There’s no room for temper now. And if he’s always just slightly embarrassed and aroused by that feeling in the bedroom, this time, it’s becoming something worse. His belly tightens, stomach tight and numb and falling like he’s been punched.

That bubbling feeling is travelling straight to his cock, making him impossibly hard, letting the start of an orgasm shimmer, his balls tightening so much he can feel it.

You can feel it where his hard abs brush your back, where his nose presses into your shoulder blade, where his hips move with more emotion than rhythm. His voice is cracking, his fingers are squeezing yours for dear life.

But the way he is fucking into you, is not rough, nor fast. It’s worship. Slow and delicious.

Every inch of his body sings with it, matching the soft song in the background. Every part of him is working to memorize a body he already knows like the back of his hand—not just how you feel around him, but the sound of your voice when you gasp, the way your hand tightens in his when the pleasure crests too high, the way your breath stutters when he kisses the back of your neck like he’s saying sorry for every time he ever doubted he’d deserve this.

He doesn’t even know what’s gotten into him right now.

It’s probably that he only feels safe when you touch him, when he touches you. It’s probably that the feeling of your skin on his is unlike any touch that he despises in this world. The hand you're digging your nails in is scarred, littered with skin tissue that’s newer, tissue that isn't going to match his old skin no matter how many years pass. And even though he hates looking at it, his cock throbs inside you at the sight of your bodies connecting there.

And it’s in every groan that leaves his lips, every kiss he drags across your spine, every tremble in his arms as he pulls you impossibly closer, like he needs your bodies fuse when he fucks you fron the back like a sin. Slowly, never picking up pace, likes he’s fucking you through it instead of towards it.

Your stomach feels likes it’s dropping, adorned in adoration, his love laced rhythm, that slow-motion hammering way he’s fucking you with is messing with your mind and body in delicious ways.

You’re almost at your breaking point.

Your breath catches again, again as the tension rises unbearably, a string pulled tighter and tighter through every snug and wet thrust, every kiss he plants tenderly, along your back

Katsuki’s forehead falls to your shoulder. He’s barely trembling by an inch but you feel it. Not from strain, not from fatigue, but from the way this is undoing him. And fucking hell if this isnt the hottest sex youve had in a while.

There’s no fight for dominance, no cockiness, just tenderness. Him not being close to you enough, you not being close to him enough either.

He desperately wants you two to merge into one.

You can hear it in his voice when he speaks next. Not a growl, not a command. Just a whisper. Frayed, cracked, raw.

“Can’t—can’t believe I get to touch you like this.”

The words split you open somewhere deeper than sore muscle. Because it’s not just the way he’s moving inside you, it’s the way his heart feels like it’s pulsing against your spine, the way he’s holding you like you’re both breakable.

You're scared for a second, that he's going to get irregular heart palpitations again, but the thought is pushed away when his lips brush your ear. “Your pussy 's so tight. Fuck...I’m not gonna last long if you keep squeezing me like that.”

But he doesn’t make a move to pull away despite his words. Doesn’t even speed up. If anything, he presses in closer. Slower. Like he’s trying to memorize this exact second—the shape of your back under his chest, the soft pull of your fingers on his scarred forearm, the hitch in your breath that comes every time his hips roll forward.

You can feel the tremble in his thighs now. The catch in his rhythm. You’re so close, just on the edge, and he knows it. You know he is too. But he’s holding it back like he’s trying to stretch this moment out forever, like climaxing would mean letting go and he doesn’t want to let go.

But oh—you can feel it coming, like thunder on the horizon.

It coils in your belly, winds tighter with every breathless thrust. Slow, grounding, devastating in its tenderness. Katsuki’s mouth is at your shoulder again, dragging crazed open-mouthed kisses along your skin, the base of your hair, drunk on the scent of lavender and your skin like it’s an aphrodisiac.

You think you hear him whisper your name. Just your name. Not even his usual ‘babe’ like it’s the only word he remembers how to say, but it’s so cracked and under his breath you can’t pinpoint it over the sound of your own heart beating in your ears.

His cock pulses deep inside you, catching the perfect angle of your g-spot and it’s so hard now it aches, dragging against every place that makes you cry out, stretch, tremble. He’s still slow. Still careful. Always clinging to you like the act of letting go might mean waking up from this.

His arms wrap tighter around you. His scarred hand finds your chest from underneath you , just above your heart, and stays there, pressing down like he needs to feel every beat. His other is tangled over yours, fingers still locked tight, sweaty and trembling and unrelenting.

“Katsuki—” you choke, and he moans like your voice alone just finished him. A total fatality.

“I know, baby,” he breathes. “I know—‘m right here, come f—ah— for me. Let me fucking feel you. Say it babe, say you wanna come and I’ll —fuck, I’ll get you there”

“Wanna come on your cock Katsuki, feels s’good”

“Let go babe, ‘m here, I got ya” he whispers against your ear.

“Please… please, mhmm”

You shudder under him, your legs trembling as you reach that edge and go right over, your whole body clenching, fluttering around him, pulling him deeper as everything breaks open inside you. Your cry is caught in the pillow, but he feels it. Feels you squeeze, feels your hips arch, your back press flush against him, feels your ass fill out the space on his v-line.

And then he loses it. Sweat drips from his forehead and it takes all of his restraint to not let anything in his body ignite his quirk right now. You feel so good, so wet, so hot around him.

He sinks as deep as he can go and stays there, buried, kissing your cervix with his leaky tip, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades, one long broken sound leaving his chest as his body jolts once, twice, into yours.

You feel him come inside you. Hot. Filling out every tight spot his cock doesn’t kiss in you. And still, he doesn’t stop holding you.

His breath is a mess against your skin. Lips still find you in the aftermath—your shoulder, the side of your neck, the shell of your ear. Your cheek. His arms won’t stop shaking. Neither will yours.

But he doesn’t move. He goes still. Stiff like his whole body is cramping.

Minutes pass like this. Breathing each other in. Skin to skin. Not a single space left between you as he pushes you with his hand from underneath you, into his chest.

You shift your head, enough to reach for him with your mouth, just barely brushing your lips to his knuckles where your fingers are still laced together.

“Babe—Kats,” you breathe, lunges closing in, a hint of guilt closing in as you know he has no other way to make you feel he means it when he says he loves you “I love you so much but I’ll pass out”

“Yeah, yeah, just let me—” he shifts a little, just to pull out, dragging his hand just enough to flip you over as he lays on the bed “all good now. Love you”

Katsuki catches your cheeks and presses a tiny kiss to the apples of both your squished cheeks. He flattens you against his chest with that same arm—the one that pulled you through it all. His hand is spread wide over your back like he’s trying to cover every inch of you.

Your cheek rests against his collarbone, lips parted, lashes damp. You feel the flutter of his pulse against your mouth, a part of you, the one that’s worried about his heart, tries to count how many times his heart beats in sixty seconds.

“I can’t feel my thighs,” you murmur, the words slurred, not really a complaint, when you decide his heart is pumping just fine.

“Shut up,” he says, but it’s all rasp, no bite. His lips press to your sticky forehead like punctuation.

You hum a soft laugh against his chest, then pout as you hold and squeeze onto his peck, kissing the outer rim of his scar over and over again. “No, really. I think I forgot how to walk, you’re gonna have to massage me all oooover again”

Likes, reblogs and comments are all appreciated equally

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gh0stsp1d3r · 6 months ago

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⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ That’s not a thermometer.

cw: fem!reader, they’re also married, anxiety, pregnancy, doubts of being a good father, mentions of daddy issues, but mostly fluff

A/n: the people REALLY wanted more nerd!rafe… and my baby fever is crazy rn so… this is curing it

MASTERLIST

A few weeks ago, you’d been panicking at the thought of it. As you stood there, waiting in the bathroom for the lines to show up, your mind ran wild.

What if you were pregnant? Would Rafe stay? Or would he be scared and leave?

No, you told yourself. Rafe was better than that.

You saw the two lines, and you just about passed out. Oh god, oh god. You took another test, just to be sure. Positive again.

You swallowed the lump that had formed in your throat, Rafe knocking on the bathroom door while clearing his throat.

“Y/n? Are you okay? You’ve been in there a while.” He asked, voice full of concern. The movie buzzed on in the background, but it was long forgotten at this point.

“Uhm- yeah! I’m- I’m fine!” You replied, taking both tests in your hands, looking around the bathroom. You thought of tossing it into the trash, but Rafe was very oddly observant. He’d probably notice it while he was taking out the trash or something.

You shoved it into the pockets of your hoodie, telling yourself that it would be okay, and that Rafe wouldn’t know anything as you opened the door.

He had a small frown on his face, leaning against the doorway.

“What’s wrong?” He asked you, immediately sensing something was off. You wished he couldn’t read you so well, sometimes.

“I’m alright.” You repeated, him quirking an eyebrow, pushing himself off of the doorway.

“Alright.” He replied, although not convinced at all. He decided not to press any further, sitting down on his bed. You sat down next to him, your head still spinning and swirling.

He laid down, waiting for you to do the same. When he looked at you, however, you were completely zoned out, your eyes glossed over and your face unreadable.

“Hey,” he spoke quietly, putting his hand on your thigh. You jerked slightly, turning to him with wide eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay? You’re looking a little pale…” he noted, moving his other hand onto your forehead.

You gave him a tight lipped smile, nodding as you pushed his hand off of your face. “I’m finee, Rafe. Quit worrying about me.” You told him, going to lay down with him in an attempt to act normal.

“I can’t help it.” He replied, kissing the side of your head, pulling you closer to him, his arm now lazily slung over your stomach.

The movie became less and less interesting, Rafe speaking over it at times and saying how the main character was “pissing him off.”

“Oh, are you serious? Whoever wrote this movie sucks. This doesn’t even make sense. The plot is all over the place and they just completely mischaracterized their own character.”

You didn’t reply, already knowing how deep he analyzed these movies and shows. Usually, you’d agree or laugh with him about it, but today you didn’t. You were quiet the entire time, actually.

Rafes worries grew. ‘Did I do something?’ He thought, replaying every moment with you recently. He couldn’t think of anything. So, he remained quiet after a while, deciding to not bother you.

He felt you slowly grow more limp in his hands as the movie played on, slowly dozing off with your head resting against his shoulder.

He had a soft smile on his face, glancing at you. That smile faded when he felt something cold touch his hands, dropping from your pockets. He furrowed his eyebrows, feeling the shape of it. At first, he thought it was some thermometer. He had felt the body of it, nothing more.

Why would there be a thermometer in your pocket?

He glanced at your sleeping figure once more, before moving his hand and pulling the object out from underneath the covers and your body.

That’s not a thermometer.

His eyes widened and his grip loosened on the object, dropping it for a moment. He quickly reached over your form, grabbing it and holding it close to his face as if it was unbelievable.

He examined it closely, looking over the two lines multiple times. He swallowed, looking back down at you. He sighed quietly, putting his hand on his forehead and staring up at the ceiling.

Okay, he wasn’t upset at you. He was more so confused and worried. He thought for a moment, would a child really be that bad? He had taken his father’s business over now, money pouring in like it was nothing. That wasn’t a problem. The main thing he was worried about was how good of a dad he’d really be.

He wouldn’t leave this child, god no. He knew that much. He loved you far too much.

Plus, you’d spoken about this before. Neither of you were against the idea, he just didn’t think it would be this soon.

But, living his whole life without a proper father figure screwed him up more than he’d like to admit. He didn’t know how a father should act, how a father should really treat a child. What if his child ended up like him? What if he needed to go to anger management and fucking therapy all because of Rafe?

His thought were interrupted when you began to squirm around in your sleep, your eyes beginning to flutter open. You saw Rafe staring at you, his eyes glossed over. He gave you a small smile, moving the hair from your face.

You gave him a tired smile back, and for a moment, he made you forget about everything else. When his arms wrapped around you again, there was nothing else in the world.

“I love you, you know that?” He rasped out quietly.

“I love you too.” You replied, although very confused at the random statement.

He pulled away, looking you in your eyes for a moment. He sat up slowly, you furrowing your eyebrows worriedly at him as you did the same.

“What’s wrong?” You asked him, him shaking his head.

“I..uhm..” he pulled out the test, letting it speak for itself. It was like the words had gotten stuck in his throat.

“Oh.” You mumbled, dropping your gaze down.

“I know this probably isn’t how you wanted me to find out.” He spoke, you looking down at your lap still, avoiding his gaze. “And I want you to know-“ he paused, looking at you.

“Y/n.” His hand moved, grabbing your face in his hands, moving closer towards you. You looked up at him finally, tears brimming your eyes.

“I love you.” He repeated. Those words meant more to you than he could imagine at the moment. You started full on sobbing, him wrapping his arms around you, letting you cry into his shoulder.

“It’s okay, it’s okay. We’ll be okay.” He told you in a murmur, your hands bunching up the fabric of his shirt.

“I love you.” You cried out, him letting out a quiet laugh, continuing to let you cry.

“Hey, hey,” he spoke when he heard nothing but little sniffles coming from you. You pulled away, looking at him again. He brought the pad of his thumb, wiping away any remaining tears.

“I meant it. I- I really, really wanna be here for you. For the both of you. Okay? I’m gonna- gonna get my shit together, ‘m gonna… figure it all out.”

“Thank you.” You replied quietly, him giving you a soft smile, pulling you in for another hug.

“You’re gonna be a really good dad.” You murmured against him, him smiling at the thought of it. With those simple words, all his anxiety was eased.

“You’re gonna be the best mom.” He retorted.

You giggled at him, leaning up so you could kiss hm.

When you pulled away, you both got back down into the sheets.

“You know, I think it’s gonna be a girl.” You told him quietly, him tilting his head to the side.

“Well, you’d probably be right. Most people think that the likelihood you’ll have a boy or a girl is inherited through the father… considering that I’m literally the only boy in the family, then, you’d probably be correct.”

“I’m trying to be cute and you’re spewing facts at me.” You teased him, him shrugging.

“Well, you knew about the deal when you decided to marry me.” He pulled his hand out from under the covers, showing the ring on his finger.

“You should have put it in your vows.” You replied.

“How would I word that, exactly?”

“I, Rafe Cameron, promise to never stop giving you extremely random science facts, even when you’re pregnant.” You spoke in a deep, mocking voice. It made him laugh out loudly.

“I do not sound like that.”

“You kinda do.” You laughed.

Rafe shook his head with a soft smile, and he knew, despite everything he’s gone through and everything that’s happened, if it led him to you, he’d do it 10 times over again.

Taglist:

@moonssyrup @koibleufish @anamiad00msday @wearemadeofstardust0 @10ava01 @mileyraes

#nerd!rafe #nerd!rafe x reader #rafe cameron imagine #rafe cameron x you #rafe cameron x reader #rafe cameron concepts #rafe cameron #rafe cameron x y/n #obx rafe cameron #rafe fic #rafe fanfiction #rafe x reader #rafe cameron fluff #rafe imagine #rafe cameron imagines

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razzafrazzle · 5 months ago

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a scribbling little rant about """""art tips""""" that infuriate me. hopefully i got my thoughts out in a way that makes sense

[image description: a four page comic about how gender is shown in art tips.

panel 1 shows various exaggerated examples of how artists divide male and female bodies, with men being depicted as strong and angular, and women being depicted as soft and curvy. on the bottom is the artist's sona, an axolotl with glasses named doc, is peaking out from below the background of the panel and saying "a slight bit of comic hyperbole notwithstanding, sentiments like this are very common with it comes to tips for beginner artists. and, while seemingly helpful at first glance, i something to say about any one of these that tries to define how "men" and "women" are to be drawn..."

panel 2 shows doc crumpling up the previous panel in his hands and looking crazed. he says "they're [bleep]in' scams! or, rather, they tend to do more harm than good..."

panel 3 has doc next to two diagrams of characters, the top having all 4 characters with similar body types, and the bottom having all 4 characters with different body types. doc says "setting aside the blatant misogyny, it's also just... repetitive and dull. by limiting the body types you draw by "male bodies" and "female bodies", you are not only severely limiting how visually interesting your designs can be, but also shooting yourself in the foot when it comes to improving at drawing anatomy. note how much more interesting it looks when you diversify bodies!"

panel 4 shows many examples of ways to diversify bodies, including disregarding gender when drawing bodies, diversifying shape language, playing with size and proportions, messing around with facial features and head shapes, and learning how to draw muscles and fat folds. at the bottom is doc giving a thumbs up and saying "don't let a bunch of old dead guys' ideas of gender and beauty weigh down your artistic potential! also, have fun!!" end id]

#i am being so real when i say that unlearning what beauty and gender are ''supposed'' to mean does wonders for character design #doc talks #my art #my characters #art tips

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aysrin · 2 months ago

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Needle Felt Siffrin Build Log: (oct 6 - nov 20, 2024)

Credits goes wholely to @insertdisc5 for creating ISAT and siffrin's design! I am just here to attempt to make cool fanart (and get more people to play isat.. my devious plans are going great so far :3) As always, this isn't a tutorial- it is just a log about how i go about approaching a sculpture and I hope this collection of resources can help others make their own sifs!!

PSA: this has some spoilers for endgame CGs/sprites on my references image board ( also might see it in the backgrounds of my process pics). And bc this is needle felting, you will see some sharp needles! beware!

my inspiration was the intro cutscene where Sif eats the star, so my main goal was to adhere to the style of ISAT as closely as possible while transfering it to 3D space. And I knew i also wanted to try making the cloak for stopmotion purposes, so my process was tailored towards having control over the fabric with wire inlaid within the cloak (more on that later).

I ended up not sticking eyebrows on top of siffrin's bangs lol but anyways, first order of business is Gather Reference! v important. pureref is free and an awesome program. I also do some sketches to visualize the pose and important details i wanted to include in the sculpt.

behold the isat wiki gallery page! tawnysoup wrote an awesome ISAT style guide that absolutely rings true in 3d space too!! adrienne made a sif hair guide here!! (sorry i couldnt find the original link, but it's on the wiki). It says ref komaeda hair so that's what i looked at, along with other adjacent hairstyles! I also like doing drawovers on in progress photos to previs shapes n stuff to get a better idea of the end result.

Also if you're like me and struggle with translating stuff into 3D space, take a look at how people make 3d models and figurines! sketchfab is also a great resource! I looked at the link botw model by Christoph Schoch here for hair ref. (I used Maya, but there's a blender version too ! you can pose characters too if your model has been rigged!)

Face:

Started off blocking out the main shapes of eyelids and iris, and then filling in the colour details in the iris and the star highlights before moving onto adding thin black outlines and eyelashes. I didn't take many in-progress photos cause i kept ripping stuff out to redo them many many times, sorry!! This eye took about 3 hrs bc i just wasn't happy with it!! Sometimes it do be the vibe to give up, go to bed and see how it looks in the morning (more often than naught, it looks fine and it was the "dont trust yourself after 9pm" speaking)

The Mouth:

Couldn't decide if i even wanted to add a mouth as per usual with all my humanoid sculptures.. but i did some drawover tests first to see what expression i liked and to try to visualize it from multiple angles. (I was also testing the placement of stars on the hat brim here)

And then I redid the mouth like 3 times cause the angle just wasn't right (this went on for about the course of a week yay!)

Hair: woe baldfrin be upon ye

I made the hair strands individually first, and then since Sif has some of the hair at the back dyed black, i covered some of the tips with black wool (manually) (I think it would go much faster if i just took a marker to it, but hahaha i love pain and detailing!! )

And then the rest of it was positioning strands with sewing pins layer by layer, always looking at it from different multiple angles- sometimes tailoring the angle or swoop of individual hair flippies. At one point I thought the back looked too cluttered, but the hat covers a lot of it anyways!! yay for hiding mistakes! (imo this is a similar process to how cosplayers style wigs, but on a smaller scale and the same level of time consuming)

As always, look to your reference for guides, and I always do a whole bunch of drawovers over in progress photos to ascertain what was working and what wasn't.

Hat:

A trick to get a super pointy tip, make another tip seperately while keeping the connection point unfelted, and then combine the two to make super pointy hat!! (this also helps if you made the hat too short and need it to be taller. ask me how i know)

The embroidery on the hat brim was done in a hoop and then invisible stitched to the felted top portion. Technically you don't need a hoop but it helps keep the fabric tension, so you avoid puckers in your embroidery. You can also use iron-on stabilizer if your fabric is loose weave or particularly thin. this is the tutorial i used for the stars embroidery! particularly the fly stitch one, french knots, and the criss-cross stitches. highly recommend needlenthread for embroidery stitches and techniques! i learned all my embroidery from this single site alone.

For fabric, I think I used a polycotton i had in my stash,, unsure of the actual fiber content bc i bought it a long time ago. I used DMC Satin floss which was nice and subtle shiny but frayed a lot so it was kind of a pain to stitch with... but keep a short thread length and perservere through it!! After the embroidery was done, I folded up the raw edges and invisible sewed it to the top portion of the hat.

General shape:

Ok general structure of the body is this: wire armature body covered with black wool -> cloak lining & wire cage -> edge of lining is invisibly sewn to the main cloak at the hem -> head

Don't be afraid to mess around with the pattern, it's essentially a pizza with a slice taken out of it to form a steep cone shape!! Use draft paper before cutting into felt to save material! (i think i made like 3 cloaks before i was happy with the shape lol).

You can also hide the seam of the cloak and collars by gently messing up the fibers of the felt with your fingers or a felting needle btw! you can also sandpaper the seams according to Sarah Spaceman in this vid (highly recommend them for their in depth cosplay/crafting builds holy smokes), though since sif cloak is at such a smol scale, I just blended the seam with my felting needle.

For the lining wire cage section, I sewed in wire around the cloak, so the main rotation point is at the top neck area under the collar. These paddles are used to keep whatever pose I need the cloak to be in for stopmotion purposes. Then after the wire is done, I invisibly sewed the lining to the cloak at the hem (same technique as the hat brim to the lining there).

In hindsight, I should've used a thinner fabric for the lining, but i only had sheer white in my stash so had to go with double felt, thus resulting in a really bulky lining but oh well!

Heels:

started with the general boot shape, then tacking on the diamond shape heel stack and also diamond shape sole bc we're committed to the bit here. I skewer the boot onto the armature which also conveniently hides the connection point into the base to keep the whole thing upright and also I can rotate the boot to tweak the angle if needed.

Pins:

I kinda just trial and error'd jewellery wire with pliers into the pin shapes. They're itty bitty!! had a whole bunch of fails before i got two nice ones. A hot tip is to use needle nose pliers and wrap the wire around the tip to get a smooth circle shape!

Base:

I smoothed out the edge of a circular wood base with a dremel, and then used wood stainer to get the black colour. It ended up kinda looking like I took a sharpie to it, but whatever.... now i have a whole ass can of black wood stainer........ I then made a rough mountain of black wool and stuck the feet armature in. And now he's standing!!

Normally at this point when I'm done felting everything, to get a smooth finish, I'd take a small pair of scissors and carefully snip away any flyaway fibers, but this time, I just left them fluffy cause i think that's what sif would do :3c

Photoshoot:

Normally I do shoots using daylight but it was winter so the sun was nonexistent. So I broke out the home lighting setup aka dollarstore posterboard for a nice smooth background, and then hit it with the overhead Fill, side Fill 2, and Rim light, and use white paper/posterboard for bounce light if one side feels too dark. But if things are overexposed, you can move the light sources away until the harshness dims down. I'm using a Olympus mirrorless camera (handed down to me by my sibling so i dont remember the model exactly), which can connect to my phone as a remote so I can avoid shaking the camera when i take photos. Pretty nifty for stopmotion purposes! (yes my camera stand is a stack of notebooks, a tissuebox and some eva foam under the lens, don't judge me)

Stopmotion animation:

I'm still figuring stopmo out on my part, but my process was straight ahead animation ... move the cloak a cm, take a pic.... move another cm, click.... and repeat until i get a version I was happy with. My ref was the cloak animation from Gris (beautiful game btw). The 2d star animation was also done straight ahead using procreate, exported in png with a transparent background, and finally stitched together with the stopmotion footage in photoshop.

My turnarounds are also stopmotion! also secret hack, the turntable is a fidget spinner sticky tacked to a cake platter.

And i think that's all! i mainly wanted to share how I go about thinking about taking a 2d concept and moving it to 3D. I also didn't go in depth into how to actually do the needle felting bc I don't think I''d be very helpful I'm a very good teacher by telling yall to just keep stabbing until it looks right (i'm self taught for this hobby),,, if anyone wants it though, i can share a bunch of tutorials and other felters' process that helped me learn more needle felting!

Hopefully this was helpful to someone! Feel free to send asks if ya got any questions or if anything needs clarification! Or show me your works! I love seeing other people's crafts :3

here have a cookie for making it this far 🥐

#in stars and time #siffrin #isat #isat siffrin #isat fanart #needle felt #soft sculpture #know that i am devouring all the nice words yall leave in the tags/comments of my posts :holding back tears:#I hesitate to call this a tutorial bc this is just how i fumble my way through crafting anything lmao #the only reason I know how long I worked on a project are timestamps on wip photos and however long the day's video essay or letsplay is #sorry time is immaterial when i get into crafting mode #reason why this log is so late is bc after i finish a project i'm perpetually hit with the ray of 'i dont ever want to look at this again'#hence why photos never get edited #AND THIS POST SAT IN MY DRAFTS FOR 2 MONTHS DUE TO BLOODBORNE BRAINROT SORRY #done is better than perfect!!!#sorry i dont control the braincell #sorry for using a million exclaimation points! i am not good at this.. conveying my anxiety in written form!!! my toxic trait

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the-halloween-jack · 2 months ago

Text

DC ✢ When he admitted he loved you

Characters: Bruce, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Clark. This is a companion piece to another headcanon called 'When he realised he loved you' linked here. Though, you can still read it independently.

B R U C E⠀W A Y N E

Bruce did not say it in a quiet moment — for such moments were rare. Though, when they did find him, he spent them with you in silence. Not with words but simply by being near, by existing in your presence.

No. It came during an argument. One of those arguments that shakes the very foundations of a relationship — not because of what was said, but because of what had never been, what was expected.

You had asked him — raw, wounded — what you meant to him. What all this was. Why he kept forming barriers between you, when all you had ever wanted to do was break through.

His answer had been frigid. Precise. Calculated and sharpened. A blade forged from old habits, Bruce wielded it with an unconscious mastery, a last-ditch defence mechanism perfected over decades.

You left. Not in fury, but in heartbreak, disappointment — the kind that does not cry, does not scream, but simply broods into silence. Your absence rang louder than a slammed door, louder than any yell you could have mustered.

Alfred did not speak. Just passed Bruce in the hallway with the kind of look that had once made him sit straighter as a boy. And now, it made him feel small once more, as though he were still a child.

Time passed and still, silence.

He found you in the garden, beneath a sky now thick with stars, the sun had still been gleaming when you had hurried away. You had not been crying. You were still. And in that stillness, he saw the damage he had inflicted upon you.

‘I can’t seem to protect what I love,’ he said, words fractured, conflicted. ‘Not my parents. Not Jason… Not you —’

You turned. Not startled by the confession, but by the break in his voice. You had never seen him like this before, never so fragile.

‘But I do. I love you. I want… I need you to know that.’

It was not cinematic. No kiss. No arms thrown around shoulders. Just him, standing before you, hollowed by an atypical honesty, praying you would believe him — even if he was undeserving of that trust.

And you did. You believed him. Bruce could see it in the ease of your countenance, in the smile that now warmed your face. But even so, he apologised as though he had committed a most heinous crime.

You pulled yourself to your feet, still wordless. And enveloped him in your arms.

‘I love you too, Bruce.’

D I C K⠀G R A Y S O N

Dick meant to say it casually — with that charming nonchalance that usually came so naturally to him. He had rehearsed it, even. Smiled in the mirror once or twice. But it never felt right, never felt adequate. It was too simple a word to describe what he felt for you.

But love, he discovered, should not wait for perfect timing.

It came unexpectedly late one evening, while a movie played in the background — some low-budget film neither of you had been truly watching. Your head was on his shoulder. His thumb was tracing invisible shapes into your side.

And then — suddenly breathless, it had grown too large to contain, he could not hold it any longer,

‘You know I love you, right?’

You blinked like someone newly roused from a dream, and looked at him as though he had spoken in a foreign language. Dick was not confident he had not.

When you remained quiet, he chuckled, uneasy. And brought his hand to the back of his neck, in a nervous, boyish manner.

‘I mean — I have. For a while. I just didn’t want to ruin it by...’ He trailed off, not quite sure what he was saying.

You remained quiet for a few moments more, contemplating. The juncture of silence stretched taut, he held his breath. And then you smiled.

As soft as the moonlight now shining through the curtains, you whispered, ‘I love you, too.’

He kissed you gently, as though he were trying to make up for all the times he had not said it sooner. In that moment, he was not Dick Grayson, he was not Nightwing or the Boy Wonder — he was simply someone lucky enough to be loved by you.

To this day, he cannot for the life of him remember the movie that had been playing. All he could remember was that smile — the way it had already lit up your eyes by the time it reached your mouth and the enthralling, glowing warmth that had flooded his system.

J A S O N⠀T O D D

You were stitching him up again — hands steady, breath shallow, a routine so familiar it hurt. Nothing fatal. Nothing new. His form was half-draped in shadow, skin cold under your touch. You sat cross-legged before him.

‘You’ve got to stop doing this,’ you murmured, not for the first time and certainly not the last.

He did not answer. Because what would he tell you? Not the truth, you would not want to hear it. Every stitched-up wound felt like proof that you cared; he could not resist the temptation. He did not believe you could love a man like him, but when he felt your gentle fingers work over his skin, he let himself consider it; he let himself yearn.

‘I’d die for you, you know?’ he muttered. Off-handed. As though it were the most obvious thing, as though it were as easy as breathing.

A frown turned your face. ‘That’s not comforting, Jason.’

And then — something unspooled. A thread that had been pulled too tight for too long. Jason sighed.

‘What I was trying to say… What I meant was… I love you —’ He looked into your eyes, gaze piercing, willing you to see the truth of it.

The words had flooded out like a barrage breaking open. ‘That’s all I’m trying to say. I’d die for you because… I can’t picture a world without you in it. I wouldn’t want to.’ He shivered at this, at the concept of a sphere you did not grace, the very notion made him ill.

You stilled. Hands held suspended above him, pausing their work.

He was not looking for a response — only a release; he had needed this off his chest. But you gave him one anyway.

‘I love you, too.’ You had uttered it so softly, had Jason not already been watching your lips, he may have missed it. His breath caught — not in fear, but in awe — as though his lungs had momentarily forgotten their most natural function.

Your words felt like electricity brimming beneath his skin — like every nerve had been awoken at once. A new fullness bloomed within his chest, as though the ribs could no longer host his heart; as if it had suddenly grown too large to contain.

He spoke up again, softer this time, ‘I’ll try to live for you too. That part’s harder. But believe me when I say I want it. More than anything.’ He gave you one of his rare smiles, and your heart jolted.

You silently placed the first aid materials to the side and leaned in, placing your head against his shoulder. After a short while you shifted, leaving scattered kisses across his fading scars, lingering on each for a moment, he felt that same electricity once more.

Your hands ghosted over him like he were something precious, as though the ruin of him was worth loving, and that was the message you were trying to convey, what you were trying to have him understand.

Jason did not sleep that night. Not out of pain or panic, but because he was afraid it had been a dream. That peace, for someone like him, was more fragile, more fleeting than any reverie; and he could not stand the idea of waking up.

T I M⠀D R A K E

You both had been working late, each focused on your own tasks, yet relishing in the silent company of one another; the peace of it. Tim sat at his desk, while you lay across his bed, legs swinging behind you with a pen in hand.

Tim had asked you to stay at the manor for the night, but you had gently refused, reminding him you had work in the morning. You got up and walked over, placing both hands on either shoulder. You then pressed a kiss to his temple and whispered in his ear.

‘I better head off now.’ He leaned his head back into you, and his eyes met yours, smiling.

And then — too casually, too instinctively — he said, ‘Okay, love you.’

The words had flowed out like a torrent. A sudden, unexpected failure in his system.

Then a silence dropped like a stone in deep water — sudden, heavy, and irreversible; absolute.

He froze. His eyes were wide, as though the phrase had been spoken by an imposter, by someone else within his skin. He had known this fact for a long time, it had only been a matter of time.

‘I didn’t — I mean — that wasn’t—well, it was, but —’ He stopped. His words crashed over each other, panicked and sputtered.

You tilted your head. Shock the dominant expression on your face.

‘You love me?’

He nodded, slowly, it would be silly to deny it; to lie. Shame crept into the corners of his expression. What if he had said it too soon? What if the word drew you away? Then suddenly you smiled, as though you had been waiting for this exact failure, this exact slip-up.

‘Well… that’s good,’ your whisper was tender. ‘Because I love you too.’

And just like that, his spiralling mind halted. His thoughts — so often a storm of what-ifs and whys — were suddenly still.

And in that stillness, something shifted.

The tension in his shoulders eased and melted away. He let out a breath he had not realised he had been holding — shaky, but smiling. It was not his usual tight-lipped smirk, nor the polite upward curve he would give strangers — this one was real. Quiet, disbelieving and full.

You leaned downward and rested your forehead against his, your hand moving to cradle his cheek. Tim leaned into it like he had been starved of its softness. You spoke through a grin.

‘Maybe I should stick around. Was that your plan all along?’

D A M I A N⠀W A Y N E⠀(Aged up as Batman)

Damian did not like the word love. Not at first. The word felt paltry. Trite. A flippant syllable never built to hold the sheer weight of what he carried for you.

You had just bested him in sparring. You always did, but only because he allowed it — Damian would sooner impale himself on his training blade than admit it, but it was not as though you were unaware. You had thought it cute, an adjective you would never dare utter to his face.

Damian had no shortage of self-pride. The fact he was willing to sacrifice it, simply to please you, always left you breathless.

You extended your hand to guide him up, but he simply stared at it from his place on the mat, his gaze shifting upward. You were standing over him, a barely contained smirk donning your features.

‘You do not understand what you mean to me,’ he said, voice low and filled with a thousand ulterior meanings, though they bled through, his tone turning earnest.

You did not speak. You simply waited.

‘This feeling,’ he tried again, ‘it disrupts everything. My training. My thoughts. My plans. Everything. It… it…’ He trailed off, not sure how to finish what he was saying, not confident that the words capable of conveying these feelings were extant across any vernacular, it seemed too implausible.

You smiled, faintly. ‘You mean love?’

He flinched like you had cursed. But then — after a moment — he nodded.

‘Yes. That.’ It was not enough, but he figured he would concede. ‘I feel it. Unwillingly. But truthfully.’

You laughed, it was warm and bell-like. It struck something tender in him, something still learning to hope.

‘I love you too, Damian.’

How was it, that word he had held with such contempt, such scrutiny and scepticism, was suddenly so weighted, so gorgeous uttered from your lips? How was it so impactful now it was directed towards him?

He looked away, not from shame, but from overwhelm. He had fought assassins, atrocious criminals, and the weight of his father’s legacy — but never had he felt something as all-consuming as being wanted, as overwhelming as the thought of your love.

C L A R K⠀K E N T

He had told you on a rooftop. Not because it was histrionic, but because it was distant — far above the world’s inescapable noise, yet still beneath its stars.

You were talking about something entirely ordinary. Rent, perhaps. The cost of your water bill.

But he was not listening, not truly. He watched as your lips moved and thought only of how he yearned to kiss them, to wake up to them each and every morning.

And then he looked at you. Really looked. And the words came like wind through the ether — soft, inevitable.

‘I love you.’ He had cut you off, but it needed to be said. He could not have lived another moment without these words held suspended between you.

You smiled, easy. ‘I know.’

But he shook his head. Shifting closer. There was an ache in his voice, a gravity to it.

‘No. I love you. Not in the way people say when they’re hanging up the phone. Or when they leave for work in the morning. I love you like… like…’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, ‘I’m not sure I can put it into words —’ He places his hands on either side of your cheeks.

You stopped breathing.

‘You’ve given me something no one else has,’ he said, his voice near breaking. ‘Not because you wanted a hero. But because you saw me — as nothing more than a man. The farmboy. The one who still forgets to fold his laundry, after you’ve already asked him five times…’

You let out a sudden laugh, but it was not for his joke, your joy at his admission could not be contained; it surged out. You kissed him.

‘I love you, too.’ You murmured, Clark could hear the smile within your voice. Then he thought of the stars glimmering upon them, they shone bright, yet still somehow paled in your comparison.

I was thinking of expanding upon the Jason Todd section and turning it into its own one-shot, would anyone be interested in that? Every comment and piece of advice is welcomed and appreciated <3

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