I just want BDE to hold me; cradle me in his lap like a baby while he reads to me as I lay my head on his chest. Is that too much to ask for?
nonnie.. NONNIE.!! i wish you could hear the wistful sigh i let out reading this. i'm kicking my heels and twirling my hair about Big Daddy every chance i get 💌
just wanna curl up with him anywhere - in bed, on the couch, in the backseat of the car - wherever he is, wherever he's already comfortable, that's exactly where i wanna be.. 💓
[also i was just rambling i didn't mean for this to turn into any aCTUAL writing but.. uH 👉👈 yah sure whatever it's a blurb now ig]
wanna sneak up and slip into his lap while he's got that pretty nose of his buried in a book, disrupting his focus for only a second as he holds his book away to make room for you while you get comfy. his arms wrap securely around you once he's sure you're done moving, holding you tight, keeping your bodies flush as he reopens the paperback in his hand.
what follows is a kiss on the cheek and a murmur of sorry, didn't mean to bother you, just wanted to sit with you a little. go back to your book, and he hums a little absentmindedly in response as he keeps reading. you're pressed so close you can feel the rumble of it deep in his chest.
you busy yourself with nothing in particular, playing with the tuck in his shirt sleeve or the fringe on his jacket, occasionally running your fingers over some of your favorite parts of him: the plush swell of his belly or thighs, warm and strong underneath you; the soft slope of his shoulders, the curve of his neck, sometimes even reaching up to trace the ridge of his brow or the line of his nose. never for an extended period, just long enough for him to register and relish in the gentle touch. you wouldn't think he even noticed, too absorbed in his reading, except for how he squeezes your waist every time.
eventually, you sigh and wriggle in his arms, and he immediately drops them and clears his throat, faking that he's unaffected at the thought of you getting bored and leaving... but you're just sitting up a little higher in his lap to adjust your reach. you pout a little in discontent at the loss of his sturdy closeness so tight around you and pull his arms back where you want them. the barest hint of a smile on his face is given away only by the slight blush that colors his cheeks as he chides himself for bein' foolish, but it immediately widens to a cheshire grin as you begin running your fingers softly through his hair instead.
you don't know how much time passes like that, both of you content just to soak in the others' presence, before he speaks. wan' me to read out loud to ya, baby? his voice is quiet and sweet - not shy, per se, but like he's savoring the moment, like he worries you might get up anytime now and he wants to appreciate you here, snug and lovely in his arms, while he's still got it. you just nod in response, knowing he can feel it. he nods once, too, throat working as you watch his pillowy lips begin to form the words.
he thinks he's being surreptitious, but you're not so distracted that you don't notice how he flipped back to the very beginning of the book - a ploy to spend more time with you, but you don't mind one little bit. you hide your answering grin in his shoulder, sealed w a kiss pressed there, into the warmth of his body underneath the silky fabric of his shirt.
his voice is a little hoarse, at first, from slight disuse, but the longer he reads, the smoother it gets, the rich ebb and flow characteristic of his extensive vocal range becoming apparent. his cadence is lilting and musical in and of itself, so much so that you almost aren't listening to the words in favor of focusing on the sound.
the more he reads, the more comfortable you get, your fingers moving down to twirl in the fluffy curls at the nape of his neck as you rest your head on his shoulder. soon you find yourself sliding back down into his lap even further, to settle more firmly against the breadth of his chest. you can feel more so than hear the steady thump-thump of his heartbeat under your cheek. you've never felt so safe and loved as you do right here with him, and you know he knows it.
before long, lulled by that feeling, you find your blinks growing slower and your head growing heavier. you lost the plot of the book long ago, too distracted by his delicious closeness to keep track of the host of details, but now even the white noise of his voice is blurring in your ears as you drowse in his arms. not gonna fall asleep on me, are ya, little? he chuckles, his fond amusement audible. you grin a little but don't open your eyes, playfully slapping his shoulder as you settle more firmly against him. that, mr. presley, is for me to know and you to find out. now keep reading!
anythin' you say, honey.
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tips for getting people to like your ocs
*disclaimer: this is based on what’s worked for me, aka an artist that likes to make comics/storyboards. so this advice is directed at people who do that
you can do things like this:
Which is fun! Character sheets like this are great, especially for personal reference! But frankly, I don’t think most people engage with this (at least I personally don’t). You could have the coolest character in the world, but it will be harder for most people to feel invested when they’re presented so neutrally like this.
My main piece of advice is: get better at writing.
That might sound harsh when said like that, but let me explain what I mean! (Not trying to imply you’re bad at writing either!)
What I tend to do is just throw characters into situations with as little handholding as I can. Give enough context that readers can follow along, but don’t feel like they’re being explained to.
what can you learn about the characters through their designs alone? (age, personality, economic status, occupation, etc)
what can you learn about the characters’ relationship though their interactions alone? (are they close? familial? romantic? is there hostility? are they tense/relaxed?)
what are the characters currently doing? what were they doing previously (how long have they been talking)? what are they going to do next? can you convey this without dialogue?
how do they feel about what they are doing? are they content? focused? over/understimulated? would they rather be doing something else?
where are they? does it matter? would establishing a setting in at least one panel clarify the scene? is there anything in the enviroment that could tell some of the story?
what time of day is it? what time of year is it? what is the weather like?
Now, with all this in mind, I'm going to give you another example. I'm going to use completely brand new characters for the sake of the experiment, so you won't have any bias (aka I can’t use Protagonist from above, since you already know all about him).
Did this get more of an emotional response from you than the first example? Why do you think so? Who are these characters? How do they know each other? What else can you infer about them? What happened? Who is "she"?
Now, you don't have to actually answer all those questions. But think about them! You can tell people a whole lot about your characters without ever showing them a list of their likes and dislikes.
Obviously, comics aren't the only way to get people invested in your original characters! But regardless, easily digestible formats will grab people's attention faster than huge blocks of text, and comics are a lot less work than doing wholeass storyboards.
Now go and share your ocs with the world!!!
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Like … for Uber?
Max Verstappen x Reader
Summary: maybe you should have been a bit more specific when you told your parents that your boyfriend drives for a living
The aroma of roast chicken and freshly baked rolls wafts through the air as you nervously adjust the centerpiece on the dining room table. Your parents and younger brother are due home any minute, and you’ve spent the afternoon preparing for this pivotal family dinner. Tonight, they’ll finally meet your boyfriend.
The doorbell chimes, sending a jolt through your body. You hurry to the entrance, smoothing down your dress before opening the door. Max stands there, a bouquet of flowers in hand and an easy smile on his face.
“Hey,” he says, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “These are for your mother.”
“Thanks, you didn’t have to do that,” you reply, taking the flowers. “Come on in. My family should be here soon.”
As you lead Max into the living room, you can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt. You haven’t exactly been forthcoming about Max’s career, telling your family only that he’s “a driver.” It wasn’t a lie, per se, but you knew they assumed he worked for a ride-sharing service or delivery company.
“Nice place,” Max comments, looking around. “Very ... homey.”
You laugh. “Is that a polite way of saying it’s nothing like your fancy Monaco apartment?”
“No, I mean it,” he insists, pulling you close. “It feels lived-in. Comfortable.”
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway interrupts your moment. “That’ll be them,” you say, your stomach doing somersaults. “Ready?”
Max squeezes your hand. “Always.”
Your parents burst through the door, arms laden with grocery bags. Your mother’s face lights up when she spots Max.
“Oh, you must be the boyfriend!” She exclaims, setting down her bags to give him a hug. “You’re even more handsome than Y/N said.”
Your father steps forward, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, son. Heard a lot about you.”
“All good things, I hope,” Max replies with a chuckle.
As introductions are made, you can’t help but notice your parents exchanging curious glances. You know they’re dying to ask about Max’s job, but they’re too polite to broach the subject right away.
“Dinner smells amazing,” your father says, sniffing the air appreciatively. “Shall we sit down?”
Everyone gathers around the table, and you begin to serve the food. The conversation flows easily at first, with your parents asking Max about his family and where he grew up. But as the main course is cleared away, you can sense the questions they’re itching to ask.
Your mother finally breaks. “So, Max, how long have you been driving?”
Max looks momentarily confused. “Uh, professionally? Since I was 17, I guess.”
Your father’s eyebrows shoot up. “Seventeen? Isn’t that a bit young to start with Uber?”
“Uber?” Max repeats, bewildered. “I don’t-”
You quickly interject, “Dad, Max doesn’t work for Uber.”
“Oh, my mistake,” your father says, looking embarrassed. “Lyft, then?”
Max turns to you, a mix of amusement and confusion on his face. “Schatje, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”
Before you can explain, your mother chimes in. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of, dear. Driving for those apps is honest work. We’re just curious about what it’s like.”
Max opens his mouth to respond, but you cut him off. “Mom, Dad, I think I need to clarify something. When I said Max was a driver, I didn’t mean-”
The sound of the front door slamming interrupts you. Your younger brother, Tommy, comes barreling into the dining room, out of breath and wide-eyed.
“Sorry I’m late, I was at practice and-” He stops short, his jaw dropping as he spots Max. “Holy shit! You’re Max Verstappen!”
The room falls silent. Your parents look from Tommy to Max, then back to Tommy, confusion etched on their faces.
“Language, Tommy,” your mother scolds automatically, before adding, “Wait, what did you say?”
Tommy is practically vibrating with excitement. “That’s Max Verstappen! He’s not just any driver, he’s a Formula 1 World Champion!”
Your father turns to Max, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. “Is this true?”
Max nods, looking slightly sheepish. “Yes, sir. I’m a Formula 1 driver for Red Bull Racing.”
The silence that follows is deafening. Your mother is the first to recover, letting out a nervous laugh. “Oh my, and here we were asking you about Uber! We must look so foolish.”
“Not at all,” Max assures her, his smile warm and genuine. “It’s actually quite refreshing. Most people I meet already know everything about me.”
Your father leans forward, his interest piqued. “So, Formula 1 ... that’s the racing with the really fast cars, right?”
Max nods, launching into an explanation of the sport. As he talks, you can see your parents becoming more and more fascinated. Tommy, meanwhile, is peppering Max with questions about his latest races and rival drivers.
“I can’t believe my sister is dating Max Verstappen,” Tommy says for the third time, shaking his head in disbelief.
You feel a blush creeping up your neck. “Tommy, please ...”
Max reaches under the table to squeeze your hand. “It’s alright, liefje. I’m just glad they know now. No more secrets, yeah?”
Your mother stands up suddenly. “Oh, goodness! I completely forgot about dessert. I’ll just go fetch it.”
As she hurries to the kitchen, your father clears his throat. “So, Max, I have to ask ... is it dangerous? All that racing, I mean.”
Max considers the question carefully. “There are, of course, risks. But the cars are incredibly safe these days, and we take every precaution possible.”
Your mother returns with a homemade apple pie, setting it down in the center of the table. “I hope you like pie, Max. It’s an old family recipe.”
“It looks delicious,” Max says sincerely. “Thank you for going to all this trouble.”
As your mother serves the pie, the conversation shifts to more casual topics. You find yourself relaxing, relieved that the truth is finally out and that your family seems to be taking it well.
“So, how did you two meet?” Your father asks, between bites of pie.
You and Max exchange a glance, both smiling at the memory. “It was at a charity event in London,” you begin.
Max jumps in, “She spilled her drink all over my shoes.”
“Max!” You exclaim, swatting his arm playfully. “I did not spill it, you bumped into me!”
He laughs, holding up his hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. Maybe we bumped into each other. Either way, I’m glad it happened.”
Your mother sighs contentedly. “That’s so romantic. And now look at you two, so happy together.”
Tommy rolls his eyes. “Gross, Mom. Can we talk about racing again?”
The rest of the evening passes in a blur of laughter and conversation. As the night winds down, you find yourself in the kitchen with your mother, washing dishes while Max chats with your father and Tommy in the living room.
“He’s a lovely boy,” your mother says softly, handing you a plate to dry. “I can see why you like him so much.”
You smile, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, Mom. I’m sorry I wasn’t more upfront about his job. I just ... I wanted you to get to know him as a person first, you know?”
Your mother nods understandingly. “I get it, sweetheart. It must be hard, dating someone so famous. But from what I’ve seen tonight, he seems very down-to-earth.”
“He is,” you agree, glancing towards the living room where you can hear Max’s laughter mingling with your father’s. “He’s just Max to me.”
As you finish up in the kitchen, Max appears in the doorway. “Need any help?”
Your mother shoos him away. “Absolutely not, you’re our guest. Go relax.”
Max insists on helping anyway, drying the last few dishes as you and your mother put them away. The domesticity of the moment strikes you, and you find yourself imagining a future where scenes like this are commonplace.
Later, as you walk Max to his car, the cool night air nips at your skin. He wraps an arm around you, pulling you close.
“That went well, I think,” he says, a hint of relief in his voice.
You nod, leaning into him. “Better than I expected. Sorry about the Uber mix-up.”
Max laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “Don’t be. It was kind of fun, actually. Your family is great, by the way.”
“They liked you too,” you assure him. “Even before they knew you were famous.”
He stops at his car, turning to face you. His eyes are soft in the moonlight as he cups your face in his hands. “That’s all that matters to me. That they like me for who I am, not what I do.”
You lean in, pressing your lips to his in a gentle kiss. “I love you, Max Verstappen, Uber driver extraordinaire.”
He grins against your lips. “And I love you, Y/N Y/L/N, girl who definitely did not spill her drink on my shoes.”
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