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wwinterwitch · 2 months ago

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friendly introductions – bucky barnes

summary: bucky unexpectedly shows up at your apartment, and he's brought a few people with him

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!reader (ft. the thunderbolts*)

word count: 3.4k

tags: thunderbolts* shenanigans, spoilers here and there obvs, slight miscommunication, big happy dysfunctional family in the making, google translator was used for the russian words (sorry), kissing, little bit of angst and little bit of fluff

notes: i just saw the movie yesterday and as soon as i got back home i decided to write this, which is loosely connected to this fic i posted recently. i just loved the thunderbolts* so much they mean the entire world to me right now. perhaps more fics are coming in the future because i have lots of ideas!!! as always, i hope you enjoy

please reblog and/or comment if you enjoy!

all masterlists | marvel masterlist | part 1 (not strictly necessary to read this one tho) | next part

“Sorry for such short notice,” Bucky mutters as soon as you open the door for him and the rest of the entire group. You could tell he’s been having a pretty rough time just by looking at him. Hair messy, frowning more than usual, dirty clothing and a cut on his left cheek. The rest of the people he’s with don’t look any better. It wouldn’t take an expert to figure out they’ve been in some kind of combat and, most likely, they didn’t come on top.

“It’s okay,” you quickly reassure him, leaving the door open until every single one of them were inside your apartment, closing it behind them. “Can I ask what happened?”

“We…uh, got our ass kicked, basically,” he replies, sounding quite exhausted.

You take a second to look at the group. Unfamiliar faces of people you could only assume are in the superhero/villain/whatever business. There’s a blonde woman who immediately leans against one of the walls of your living room, trying to get some sort of rest after the fight. The other woman stays by the entrance and you can’t help but admire how cool her suit is. There’s algo a guy in a red suit and he looks absolutely huge and terrifying, but the smile he sends your way with the silly little wave he makes as you make eye contact gives you the impression that he might not be as intimidating as you initially thought.

And then, your eyes focus on the other person in the room.

“You,” is all you say, your voice sounding anything but welcoming.

Everyone turns to look at Walker, who offers you an awkward smile. “Yeah, hi.”

“You two know each other?” the blonde one asks.

“Unfortunately,” you reply, keeping your eyes on the guy at all times. You know enough about John Walker to be stupid enough to let him out of your sight. “Listen, I don’t know what just happened to you guys, but in case Bucky hasn’t warned you already, you can’t trust this piece of shit.”

Noticing you’re starting to get a little heated by his presence, Bucky wraps an arm around your waist from behind, just in case you decide to go over him and confront him for everything that has happened in the past. “It’s okay. He’s here to help.”

You turn to look at him like he just said the most absurd thing you’ve ever heard in your life, but he simply stares back at you with a serious expression, nodding as if to emphasize on his previous statement, trying to let you know you can actually trust the guy. When you turn back to look at Walker, he raises both hands in the air as a sign to further prove that he’s harmless.

“I’ll be keeping an eye out,” you warn him, pointing your finger at him.

“That’s fair,” he nods.

“Whoa, she’s feisty!” you hear the excited voice of the guy in the red suit as he lets out a short chuckle. “I like her already!”

You feel Bucky’s grip around your waist tightening. “We’re just here to get some cover and figure out our next move.”

Suddenly remembering the fact that all these strangers are standing in various spots in your living room, you get away from Bucky to walk over to your couch. “Oh, so sorry! What a terrible host,” you attempt to joke a little in hopes of lightening the mood, quickly removing your laptop and various papers scattered across your couch. “Please, take a seat!”

None of them move at first, but they eventually accept the invitation and walk towards your couch to sit down. All except Walker, who decides to stay in the same spot he’s been since he entered your apartment. Not like you care, so you just let him stand there on his own.

A few awkward introductions later and you already know everyone. Alexei, Ava and Yelena. One a total stranger and the others slightly familiar to you due to them being related to Natasha. You couldn’t bring yourself to say her name out loud, though. If you struggle to think about her without bursting out crying, you can’t even imagine what it would be like for her dad and sister. Last thing you want is to cause them any discomfort.

“And how exactly do you know each other?” Yelena asks you and Bucky after you introduce yourself to them too.

“Former S.H.I.E.L.D. agent,” Bucky replies before you can say anything, and you can’t help but turn to look at him with a slightly confused expression. “We’ve been friends for a very long time.”

Friends. Sure. Whatever. If that’s what he wants to call it…

After what happened last time you were in D.C., Bucky was constantly making trips to New York to visit you. You’re not officially dating, but it’s established that you’re exclusive. Long distance isn’t ideal, but you’ve made it work so far. Probably the happiest months of your life. But now…you hear him introducing you as his friend. It’s not really a big deal. Technically you are friends? It shouldn’t affect you as much as it does, but…you’re internally fuming right now.

Still, you decide not to say anything regarding that. He’s always been quite a reserved person, so perhaps he didn’t feel comfortable enough to share that information with them just yet. “Can I get you anything to drink?” you decide to ask, looking at everyone else.

“We’re not-”

“I’m sure a glass of water won’t kill anybody,” you say, immediately cutting Bucky off.

There’s a brief silence before Ava speaks. “I’ll have a glass of water. Thank you.”

You look at Yelena as she shortly nods before you focus on Alexei. “Do you perhaps have something else other than water?”

“Dad,” Yelena warns him.

You ignore that short interaction. “Something like what?”

“Like vodka,” he replies simply, like it’s a normal request. Perhaps the russian accent and the fact that he does look like a walking Soviet propaganda adds context to it.

“Dad!” Yelena repeats herself, this time in a louder voice, before hiding her face in her hands. The scene of her getting embarrassed by her dad’s behavior is actually hilarious.

“Two glasses of water and one glass of vodka, got it.” Then it was time to acknowledge Walker again. Even when you deeply hate the guy, you still want to be polite. “Do you want anything?”

“Uh…just water,” he mutters, still unsure on how to really talk to you. It’s ironic how quiet he is right now, considering he had a hard time shutting his mouth when you first met him. “Thank you.”

You offer the group a smile before excusing yourself to go to your kitchen, leaving them momentarily alone. Bucky was about to speak, wanting to initiate a debate on what their plan is going to be to fight against someone as powerful and seemingly invincible as Sentry, but Yelena speaks before he does.

“Now, would you mind telling us how you really know each other?”

Bucky looks immediately confused. “What do you mean?”

“You know I was trained to be a spy since I was very little.”

“Surely you don’t say it enough,” Walker mutters, earning an unamused look from her.

“That must really bother you, Mr. I-was-in-the-military,” Ava chimes in, rolling her eyes.

Ignoring both of them, Yelena decides to continue. “I’m very good at reading people, Bucky. She almost wanted to punch you in the face when you said you two were friends, which let’s me know the comment upset her,” she says, tilting her head to the side. “Why is that?”

“Ah! That’s your lover!” Alexei comments with pleasant surprise.

“And you didn’t introduce her as your girlfriend?” Ava says shortly after, giving him a disapproving look. “No wonder she would want to punch you in the face.”

“Yeah, that’s not cool, man,” Walker agrees from his spot in the living room.

Alexei’s cheerfulness dries down, nodding. “I agree. It’s not very nice.”

Bucky scoffs, crossing his arms across his chest in a defensive manner. He couldn’t believe these people were judging him over something he thought was meaningless. It was just a way to keep his private life private. Why should they know he’s dating anybody? They’re not his friends to be sharing information like that with them. And it’s not like they’re ever going to see you again anyway. Why is this such a big deal?

“Whoever I date or don’t date it’s not your business,” he simply replies.

Ava scoffs this time. “Don’t bring us to your girlfriend’s flat then.”

“When did you guys became a thing?” Walker asks this time, looking like he's thinking back on it in hopes of remembering any indication that might've gave it away.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, getting more and more exasperated. “We barely got out of that fight against Valentina’s experiment and it’s a matter of time before we have to face him again. Why are we even talking about this?”

“Oh, Bucky,” Yelena shakes her head in a condescending manner. “You’re right, we do not care about your lovelife. Thinking about it makes me sick, actually. But she looked really hurt by what you said, so perhaps you should go talk to her and make things right.”

The other three agreed with Yelena almost immediately, and Bucky just stood there looking at them in disbelief because why are they giving him their input on his relationship? Why is Yelena giving him advice? Why are they getting involved in Bucky’s personal life?

But instead of arguing, he decides to listen to them and heads towards the kitchen. He walks in just in time to see you pouring Alexei an entire glass of vodka as he requested, the other three glasses of water already filled.

“Oh, good. You’re here,” you say nonchalantly, like what Yelena said about you wanting to punch him in the face was just something she misread in your body language. You surely don’t look like you're thinking about violence right now. “Could you help me with the drinks, please?”

Perhaps Yelena was wrong, but just in case she wasn’t, he decided to ask about it. “Are you okay?”

You let out a quick and confused chuckle as you store away the almost finished bottle of vodka. “Why would I not be okay? If you’re asking because you brought them here, I think they’re actually very nice…aside from Walker, of course.”

“No, I mean…the way I introduced you to them,” he says in a soft voice, walking closer to you. “I probably shouldn’t have said you were my friend.”

There’s a brief pause between you, until you’re eventually shrugging. “It’s fine.”

“Is it?” he insists, standing right before you as he grabs your hands in his. “Talk to me.”

You hesitate a little before eventually giving in. “I mean, you can’t expect me to be thrilled to hear you introduce me to a bunch of people as just your friend.”

Bucky sighs. Yelena was right. “I’m so sorry,” he says almost immediately, giving your hands a light squeeze. “I just met these people and I highly doubt we’ll keep in touch after this. I didn’t want to share that information with them. We’re not exactly…close like that,” he explains himself, looking genuinely sorry for what he said. “I should’ve considered how that would make you feel, or at least tried to explain why I did it as soon as I could. I didn’t mean to hurt you or downplay what we have.”

You can tell he’s genuinely sorry, understanding his reasoning behind it. Perhaps you forgot to put into perspective the fact that they’re just super people Bucky has been forced to work with. Not necessarily friends. “It’s okay, I understand.”

Bucky nods, but he still looks absolutely defeated. “I feel terrible,” he mutters. “I shouldn’t have said that.”

You let go of his hands, wrapping your arms around his neck instead. “It’s okay, babe,” you repeat, offering him a soft smile to let him know you forgive him. “I understand you didn’t feel comfortable sharing that with them.”

“I promise I won’t do it again.”

“You’re not obligated to disclose anything with anyone if you don’t feel like it,” you say, just to remind him to do whatever it feels right to him. “But I’m glad we had this conversation to hear each other’s perspective.”

He nods again, still uncertain. You lean in to give him a reassuring kiss before deciding to move away from him to get back to the living room with the rest. He hands the glasses of water to Walker and Yelena, while you hand the other glasses to Ava and Alexei.

The last one takes a big gulp of his glass, letting out a growl of approval. “Smirnoff! Not that Absolut der’mo!”

“I adore him,” you say to Bucky, letting out a quick chuckle as you watch the guy drink the entire glass of vodka in less than two seconds.

“It’ll pass, trust me,” he mutters back to you.

You gently hit his arm as a way of telling him to not be rude, immediately focusing on the cut on his cheek, dried blood around the wound. “I should clean that.”

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

“I do worry, Bucky,” you insist, patting his shoulder before pointing to one of the two chairs at your small dinner table. “Take a seat. I’ll be right back.”

You excuse yourself to go find the first-aid kit to clean the wound on his face. By the time you get back, the group has already started discussing some sort of strategy regarding some ‘Sentry’ person you don’t know absolutely anything about. Perhaps you’ll ask Bucky to give you a proper update on what the hell this whole thing is all about next time you’re alone.

As obedient as ever, Bucky was already sitting on one of the chairs you previously pointed at before leaving, so you walked over to him to attend to his injury. Even if it was a small, almost insignificant little cut, you wanted to take care of him in any capacity you could.

You were gladly surprised when you feel one of his arms wrapping around you, keeping you close as you stand next to him cleaning the dry blood with a small cotton ball before disinfecting the area, finishing it off with a small bandage above the cut.

The whole entire time you took care of Bucky’s wound, the group was talking about their strategy. Just listening to them was enough to figure out why Bucky didn’t think they’d stay in touch once it’s time to part ways. More than half of their interactions are more bickering than actual communication. They clash almost constantly and they don’t seem to agree on much. They’re quite honestly a complete mess. But still...even when it’s difficult to see how a group like this could work, they oddly do. There’s just something about them. Perhaps they’re the prime example of how opposites tend to work together perfectly.

“Done,” you whisper to him, not warning to interrupt their conversation.

“Thanks, doll,” he whispers back, giving you a smile.

After a few more minutes of planning, it was finally time for them to get back out there in hopes to put an end to the threat that seems to loom over New York (and perhaps the entire world). You accompany them to the door, all of them saying their goodbyes to you.

“Thanks for letting us hide here,” Yelena says with a polite smile, offering her hand for a handshake as a way to further prove her gratitude.

“Oh, it’s really nothing. I’m glad I was able to help out,” you reply, accepting her handshake. “And…you know, good luck. You probably don’t need it, obviously, but just in case…”

“You’re adorable,” Ava comments with a smirk, patting your shoulder as her way of saying goodbye.

Alexei doesn’t even say anything. He just straight up walks towards you and wraps his arms around you, lifting you off the ground as he gives you a tight hug. It certainly takes you by surprise, but you pat his back as a way of returning the hug, hearing how Yelena and Bucky are frantically telling him to put you down immediately.

The three of them are already outside your apartment and it’s time to face Walker. He just says a quick “thank you” before walking towards the others that wait for Bucky in the hallway, knowing you probably don’t even want to address him. For now, you decide not to say anything to him. If you do see each other again, perhaps then you’ll try to figure out if you can look past the awful things he has done.

Now Bucky is the one who stands before you and all you can do is hug him as tight as you possibly can, almost not wanting to let him go. You know he’ll be fine. You know he’ll come back to you. But still, you can’t ignore the knot forming at the pit of your stomach, anxiety and fear consuming you at the thought of something happening to him.

He senses how you feel, hugging you back just as tight. “Please be safe,” he whispers.

You break the hug, looking up at him. “I should be telling you that.”

The comment makes him smile softly because it sounds like you're reprimanding him for what he just said. Immediately after, he's placing a hand at the side of your face, gently stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be back before you know it, okay?”

“Okay,” you nod, still as anxious as you were before. The fact that you still don’t fully know what they’re up against makes your situation worse. If it’s anything remotely similar to an Avenger-like threat, you have plenty of reasons to be afraid. “Just…just take care, please.”

“I will,” he replies, giving you a kiss so sweet and gentle that it practically takes your breath away. He knows you’re worried like never before and he wants to make sure he’s able to give you as much reassurance as he possibly can.

After a few more seconds of him just looking back at you with a soft smile on his face, he moves back from you, knowing he has to leave already.

“Promise you’ll be back soon,” you blurt out as he’s leaving your apartment, still fighting the urge to just yank him back into the apartment to keep him from going back out there.

“I promise you I’ll be back, darling,” he says without any hesitation, knowing he’ll do anything he possibly can to keep his word.

Finally, he closes the door of your apartment, leaving you all alone in there as you try to calm yourself down until everything is back to normal again and he’s here with you. Until he’s back in the safety of the arms of the person he cares most about in this entire world.

You focus on the four empty glasses, the lingering presence of everyone, the trail of dirt their boots left on the floor, the chair Bucky was sitting on just seconds ago...you can only hope they stay safe. Meanwhile, you decide to clean up the living room as a way of distracting yourself.

On the other side of the door, Bucky is turning to look at the group, rolling his eyes when he sees all of them grinning and nodding their hands in approval after witnessing him being so lovey-dovey with you, discovering a sight of him they probably didn’t even know existed.

“Not a single word,” Bucky warns them, immediately walking in between them to get to the elevator.

“What? We can’t say you two looked disgustingly cute back there?” Yelena jokes as she follows after him.

"Who knew that was hiding beneath all that...grumpiness," Ava comments right after.

“I said not a single word,” he repeats, trying to act like he wasn’t feeling terribly embarrassed right now. Or like he didn't find the teasing slightly entertaining. Just slightly.

“I mean, you did look cute,” Walker agrees.

“So cute!” Yelena emphasizes.

Alexei wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders, much to his discomfort. “That was adorable. You, my friend, had the eyes of love looking at your zhenshchina!”

“And you had to make it weird,” Ava mutters after Alexei’s comment, just as the elevator doors are closing.

translations: der'mo (shit), zhenshchina (woman). again, i apologize if the translation is wrong, i don't speak russian

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky x you #mcu x reader #thuderbolts* x reader #thunderbolts x reader

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choslut · 8 months ago

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# PUSSY TALK !! (vi x reader)

$YNOPSIS. you’ve been feelin’ a little insecure about yourself lately. good thing you have a girlfriend who’s head over heels for you, no matter what! // wc. 2.4k

warnings. insecure!reader, talk of body image + weight, face sitting, spanking (ass + clit), praise, dirty talk, stripping, oral sex, size kink (?), teasing, fingering, begging, squirting, overstimulation, mirrors, awkward aftercare, spooning, pet names

NSFW below the cut. minors, stay away. enjoy your read!

Dresses aren’t your favourite piece of clothing. They never have been and they never will be, and even as you stare at yourself in the floor length mirror of your bedroom, you absolutely hate how this dress looks on you.

When you asked for something flared that would hide your curves, you didn’t expect your tailor to make you look like an overstuffed cream puff. The flared sleeves hang off of your arms like misplaced scraps of fabric, and the material pools at your feet, surrounding you in an unceremonious circle. You look frumpy, you feel frumpy, and nothing in the world could have convinced you that this is the dress you were going to wear to the annual Councillor’s Gala.

“What the fuck…” You turn around to inspect the back, and it’s even worse than you thought. It seems as if the tailor has attempted a daring backless design, but to you, it just looks like a gaping hole, the fabric tight and loose in all the wrong places before messily accumulating just above the apple of your ass. It looks horrible, and if you weren’t insecure enough, this dress makes you feel like a laughing stock.

And that’s when the dreaded words come out of your mouth. “I seriously need to lose weight.”

Someone doesn’t like that, because out of nowhere, you feel a strong pair of arms wrap around your waist and a sharp chin on your shoulder. “And why’s that? I think it looks perfect.”

Vi loves seeing you in dresses. She thinks they make you look so graceful, no matter what shape you choose. It solidifies the fact that you are her perfect princess, and she will never understand why you hate them when they make you look so pretty.

She also doesn’t understand this whole weight thing you have going on. If anything, one of the things that first had her on her knees for you was your body, and like now, she always feels a need to be touching it, whether it be stroking your thighs or kissing your collarbone or, like now, wrapping her arms around your perfect waist and pulling you into her chest.

“‘M not perfect though, Vi,” you grumble, hands running along the sides of your chest and resting over where her hands cradle your tummy. “I look like a creampuff.”

“Creampuffs are sweet. I like creampuffs,” she says, her eyes making contact with yours in the mirror as she noses your neck. “I like you.”

You roll your eyes and whine. “I know you like me, Vi. But that’s not gonna change the fact that I hate this dress.”

“Take it off then.” She says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like you’re not going to be stuck in it for three whole hours, playing the part of a member of high society whilst trying your hardest to ignore the obvious stares at the atrocity which is your outfit. You want to tell Vi that it seriously isn’t as easy as that, but you’re distracted by her hands slipping into the open back of your dress.

“I can help you,” she whispers in your ear, and you can feel the cold metal of her nose piercing against your heated skin. “Take it off, I mean. Relax.”

“Vi…”

“Can we try something?” She begins to kiss your neck slowly, and you whimper when you feel the rough scar on her lip brush against your heated flesh. “I know you’ve been feeling some way about your body lately, and to be honest, I have no idea why because your body is already so fucking perfect…” Her hands slide up the insides of your dress, and you lift your shoulders automatically as she slips those god awful sleeves off of your shoulders. “There’s something I want you to do for me.”

After all this time, she hasn’t broken eye contact once, and you notice her eyes go dark when she shoves the front of your dress down, only to find your perky nipples staring right back at her. “What is it?”

“Sit on my face,” she states simply, hands coming round to rub at your tits. “I want all of it, baby. Your whole body. I want you to fuckin’ suffocate me.”

You probably will. You stare at your girlfriend in the mirror incredulously, because there’s no way in the universe that you’re going to sit on her face. Not in a million years, and certainly not today. “No.”

“Give me one good reason why not.” She has a point, because it’s getting increasingly hard to refute her when her hands are making their way underneath the front material of your dress, letting it drop to the floor and revealing your regulation panties. “Go on, give me one good reason why you shouldn’t sit on my face.” Before you can open your mouth to protest, Vi smiles and bites your shoulder. “And your weight is not a valid answer.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Violet.”

“Yes, baby?” She acts like nothing is wrong, like asking you to crush her skull in between your legs a couple hours before the most important event of the year is a completely normal request. And she continues to act this way, even when she slips her hand into your panties, fingers eagerly in search of your clit. “So what I’m hearing is you don’t want to sit on my face, and you don’t want me to make you feel so good that you forget all about this stupid dress and that stupid gala?”

Your back arches into her chest when she starts rubbing your clit in small circles, lips widening into a smile as she watches you unravel against her. “That’s not what I said.”

“So why are you acting like you don’t want it?” She’s taunting you now, fingers halting all movement on your clit and sliding down lower, tips starting to tease your quivering hole. “Because I know you want it, baby. She’s telling me you want it.”

You hate how Vi can read you like a book. You do want this, but you’re worried, and she makes sure to eliminate of all of that worry by slipping her fingers into your cunt, mouth dropping open in wonder when you begin to crumple against her.

“Vi, please.”

“No.” Stubborn. “You’re not cumming unless you’re where you're supposed to be, princess. My game, my rules, and no amount of that pretty begging is gonna change that.”

You bite your lip as you feel her palm grind against your clit, fingers speeding up and continually assaulting your sweet spot. It’s so hard not to beg her to let you cum, especially with the way she’s holding eye contact with you so intensely.

“Say the words, and that orgasm’s yours,” she mumbles, smile ever present as her fingers alternate speeds. “Come on baby, I know you can.”

You can, you will, and you do. Your pleas to cum are replaced with nonsensical begging and whimpering, your hands futilely clawing at her biceps as you try to rip her fingers away from your weeping hole. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it, just let me cum, Vi, please-”

All of a sudden, the pressure building up inside of you dissipates, and you notice Vi licking her fingers clean as she backs towards the bed. “That’s what I like to hear,” she laughs, sitting down on the bed in a way that has you weak in the knees. “Come take a seat, princess.”

Embarrassingly enough, that’s all it takes to have you stepping out of the pool of fabric on the floor and crawling onto the bed towards her, legs planted on either side of her hips as you bend over and catch her lips in a heated kiss. It’s loud and it’s messy, her hands sliding up your thighs and onto your covered ass as you grind down onto her knee, tongue intertwining with hers in a clash of passion and need.

“Good fucking girl,” she groans, squeezing the flesh of your ass before slapping it hard, drawing a quiet gasp from your lips. “Come on, baby, c’mere, come sit.”

Your hands splay the surface of her chest as you push her back onto the bed lightly, chest heaving gently with every heated breath you take. Vi looks up at you like you’re the most beautiful girl in the world, because to her, you are, and she wouldn’t want to be underneath anyone else.

“There she is,” she whispers as you situate yourself comfortably on her chest. “My pretty girl, huh?”

“I’m nervous,” you mumble, hips beginning to move slowly as you plant your hands on either side of her head. “I… don’t wanna hurt you.”

“Trust me, you won’t.” She captures your hips in her strong hands and pulls you further up her body, letting you hover just above her collarbone. “I’ve lifted this perfect body with my own two hands before. What makes you think a little face sitting will hurt me?”

In a way, she’s right. Vi is strong, more so than most people. If it got too much, she would be able to move you effortlessly, and-

You’re pulled out of your train of thought by the feeling of Vi’s nose nestling in between your legs, rubbing up against your pulsing clit under your panties. “Vi…”

“You’re thinkin’ too much, baby,” she groans, voice muffled in between your thighs. “Just do it.” This time, she doesn’t leave you any time to think, because she’s now mouthing at your cunt through your panties, strong arms wrapping around your thighs and pulling you ever closer. You gasp in surprise, one hand coming up to grip onto the headboard as you fight not to lose balance.

Another thing about Vi: she’s impatient. And when you hesitate to begin moving your hips, she does it for you, fingers pulling the seat of your underwear to one side and arms pushing you down hard.

“She’s so wet, baby, I don’t know how you can say you don’t want this.” Her tongue darts out to lick your throbbing clit and you whine, hips stuttering as you stare hazily at the mess of pink hair in between your legs. Vi is staring up at you with lust swirling in her eyes, and you can feel her smile on your cunt as her tongue slides downwards to your entrance. “I mean, she is practically begging me to eat her out. Is that what you want?”

Before you can answer her, you’re caught off guard by her hand slapping at your clit playfully, sending pleasured shockwaves throughout your system. “ ‘M not talking to you anymore, silly,” she laughs, thumbs rubbing at the area she just assaulted. “I’m talking to her, since my girl doesn’t seem to know what she wants anymore.”

“Stop it,” you grumble, but Vi pays no notice, resuming her languid licks on your pussy. Your protests are quickly turned into prolonged whines and whimpers of her name, the pressure once taken from you beginning to build in your core with each shallow thrust of her tongue into your hole.

“Not until she’s satisfied, angel.” And she means it, because the grip she has on your thighs is nothing next to lethal, and you feel yourself begin to shake as the pressure builds more and more. “And she’s getting close, don’t you think?”

She is. Your head begins to swim and you tangle your fingers in Vi’s hair in an attempt to stabilise yourself but it proves futile, mouth dropping open as you beg her to let you finish. “Vi, please, please, I’m sorry, I-”

“Nothin’ to apologise for, angel, you’re doing a great job.” You have no idea how she still manages to speak when she’s being all but crushed in the trap that is your quivering thighs, but her voice drives you ever closer, your hips grinding down onto her happily awaiting tongue as you chase your orgasm desperately. You want it- no, you need it, and when she begins to massage your ass sensually, you think you might just squirt.

“Vi...”

“Yeah, baby? Is she telling you something?” She loves playing this game, delaying your orgasm as long as possible whilst making it impossible to hold yourself back. It feels like her hands are everywhere because suddenly her thumb is massaging your clit, and you’re begging her like there’s no tomorrow.

She seems satisfied by your begging, because she takes one arm off of your thigh to use her fingers to fuck your needy cunt. “Cum for me baby, c,mon. Give it to me.”

And give it to her, do you, and in gracious abundance at that. Your juices drench her face unceremoniously as you twitch above her, spine shaking as you hold on to her hair for dear life. You’re all but riding her tongue, and she’s moaning profusely into your cunt, the vibrations only heightening your sensitivity. And try as you might, you can’t pull her away, her mouth a suction as she pushes you unforgivingly into overstimulation.

When you’re all but ready to surrender your stability to her relentless assault in between your legs, you feel a strong pair of hands lifting you off of her mouth gently, and light kisses being littered all over the expanse of your thighs. Vi’s mouth travels along your skin lazily, her powdery blue eyes looking up at your shaky form with nothing but love etched into her irises. You barely begin to register the sweet praises she gives you, instead basking in the afterglow of your intense climax mixed with the feeling of her hands stroking your back.

Moments later and you’re laying down on the bed next to her, curled in a foetal position as you fight the army of sleep threatening to overthrow you. “Are you tired?”

“Mhm.”

“Why don’t you… skip the gala? Stay here with me, I’ll cook, and…”

You think the difference between the Vi laying next to you now and the Vi who made you climax to the brink of passing out is a cute one. She’s never been too good with aftercare, instead trying to make awkward conversation in an attempt to divert from the fact that she just rocked your world in more ways than one. “We can stay home. I’ll tell the organisers I wasn’t feeling too well.” That, and the fact that god awful dress made you want to bust a nerve.

Vi smiles at you gently, and you wish you could stay like this with her forever. “Sounds good. I’m looking forward to it.”

main masterlist

#arcane #arcane x reader #arcane smut #vi arcane #vi x reader #vi smut #league of legends #league of legends x reader #league of legends smut #fanfic #x reader

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dashcon-two · 5 days ago

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DashCon 2 Going Forward

Oh my god guys, it was SO GOOD.

The whole staff team has had quite the weekend, decompressing, unpacking our U-Haul, and tying up loose ends. This is one of them.

IS MERCH STILL AVAILABLE?

Yes! We are leaving merch sales open for one week, so sales close Monday, July 14th. We send the numbers out for production the next day and mail them as soon as we receive them. We should begin shipping later orders in August, but orders we currently have stock for will be shipping out as soon as we can. Please note that THE DUEL collection is a limited release that will not be available after Monday, July 14th.

OH NO, I THINK I LOST SOMETHING AT DASHCON 2

We have a big collection of lost and found items! I do not want these in my house! Please see this Google Doc to view our inventory of lost items. You will have 48 hours (Until Wednesday, July 9th) to claim your lost item(s). Please DM us or email us at [email protected] to claim your missing item

I HAVE THOUGHTS!

We’d love to hear from you! Especially about accessibility - we want to centre disabled people in our planning, but disability is a broad spectrum and we have blind spots, so we want to hear about what we can improve on. If you have the time, please fill out our accessibility feedback form.

Feedback for general comments/suggestions will have its own form, coming soon.

CAN I HAVE THE VODS?

Yep! If you attended DashCon 2 in any way (virtually, IRL, volunteering) you'll get the VODs emailed to you when we're finally done processing them. If you didn't get to attend DashCon 2 or VirtualDash, don't worry: you can still buy VOD access! We're selling them via Simpli Events. The listing won't go up until they can be purchased. Like VirtualDash tickets, a portion of the proceeds will go to the Canadian Cancer Society.

And now, the big one:

ARE YOU MAKING ANOTHER DASHCON 2?

TL;DR: We don’t know yet!

At the very least, we want to. We still have a lot of boring back-end stuff that needs our attention (for example, connecting with an accountant. Tax law, man, I've never felt closer to Edmund) and we have to have some long conversations about where we go from here. We have a few ideas, but nothing is settled yet. Seasoned event planners have given the sage advice to wait a few weeks before making any decisions, and they haven't steered us wrong before.

Even if we don’t ever do DashCon again, we will be opening a more permanent Discord where folks from both DashCon 2 and VirtualDash can keep in touch. You'll get that link by email, along with the VODs. Community is more important now than ever, and we won’t gatekeep that from you. gaslighting and girlbossing, tho, will continue until morale improves.

In conclusion, thank you all so much for such an incredible convention. We had a wonderful time, and we're grateful to each and every one of you who came up to us to share your experiences and excitement. We've been overwhelmed by how positive the reception to this event has been, and we're so incredibly happy and grateful to have cultivated such a beautiful community.

#dashcon #dashcontwo #dashcon 2 #dashcon two #virtual dashcon #yes this is real #updates

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sonrium · 10 months ago

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DP X DC: A Minor Drinking Problem

Phantom is a relatively new member of the JLA, but it's been a few months, and things are settling in well. He's shy and polite but is a master of the snark with villains.

Before a big mission, the all hands on deck kind, everyone is talking about scars and the crazy stories behind them to distract from the coming fight. Danny, finally feeling like he can join in the conversation with all these adult heroes, pulls off his right glove to show a pretty gnarly scar on the back of his wrist. “I got this one when I fought a guy from the Revolutionary War a few weeks ago! Didn't think he'd charge me with a bayonet.” He shares a couple more stories and scars, but only the ones that he can easily show off.

Because of stories like that and some historical depictions of Phantom from different time periods, they think he's this ancient and powerful immortal that just looks like a teenager, it wouldnt be the first time. He's powerful enough to go toe to toe with Superman, so there's no way he's actually a kid. He even sometimes has the haunted, world weary eyes that their most hardened members only get after experiencing too much. Danny, being our lovable, obliviously dense idiot, has not realized that they think he's an ancient being.

After the mission concludes -it was a rough one-, the JLA celebrate their victory with a couple drinks back at the watch tower. Danny is understandably uncomfortable with this whole situation and keeps asking, “Are you sure I should be here?” They reassure him it's fine as they pass around beers, which Danny politely declines several times. Danny eventually sees this as the perfect chance to pad his blackmail folders on his inebriated coworkers.

Anyway, as the night goes on, they have a good time, but Phantom still hasn't gotten a drink like the rest of them, and Green Lantern (or hero of your choice) really wants their shy friend to come out of his shell. So, he slams an open beer bottle on the coffee table in front of Phantom. “Come on Phantom! Let loose a little. Celebrate!”

“Dude! What the hell?! I'm 16! That's illegal!” Phantom squeaks in shock.

“We don't care how old you were when you died. It's how long you've been a ghost that counts.” Flash slings an arm around Danny's shoulders from where he’s sat next to him on the couch. Flash can't get drunk, but he also thinks it would be fun to see their uptight new member drunk.

“That's even worse! You'd be giving alcohol to a two year old!” Phantom is horrified that his coworkers are so casually breaking the law.

“But you said you fought in the Revolutionary War this morning!” Green Lantern said with his eyebrows knit in confusion.

“No, I said I fought someone from the Revolutionary War. As in, the ghost of someone from the revolutionary war!”

“You can't pull that on us. There's murals and stuff of you from thousands of years ago.” The Flash waves off with a laugh.

Phantom’s finger presses painfully hard into Flash’s chest. “I do not need to explain time travel to you of all people. My mentor hates you, and I'm STILL sent on missions constantly to clean up your messes.” Phantom's clear and low. Flash liked it better when he was shouting and not staring him down like a predator with narrowed eyes.

(This random idea popped into my head. It made me laugh, so I thought you might, too. Here you go!)

#dpxdc #dp x dc #dcxdp #dc x dp #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp crossover #danny phantom #dp x dc prompt #plot bunny #the flash #green lantern #time travel

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irndad · 10 months ago

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i wish i knew you wanted me - s.r.

a/n: okay this ended up being so so long forgive me!!! i hope you like<3 summary: based loosely on 'bad habit'. spencer got asked out by reader 5 years ago, when he was recovering from his dilaudid addiction, and turned her down. now, he's in love with her, and pining for her. also, jealous!spencer. she fell first, he fell harder. wc: ~2k

She’s very pretty. It’s distracting. Right now, she’s staring intently at his hands, and he feels hot under her gaze. It’s been a while since he’s done this, the little rocket trick, but she’s visiting the office, and Garcia had mentioned he’s a magician.

“That’s incredible!” She exclaims, a giggle in her laugh, and he feels the swoop of his stomach, the butterflies of it all, “You got them so high up!”

“It’s just physics,” he laughs, meeting her warm gaze. Her smile is one for the ages.

She’s here dropping off a file. They’ve known eachother a really long time, actually. She was an expert witness for them, once, years ago. She spoke with ease, both on the stand and in person. Equal measure kind and measured, and Spencer had adored her on first glance. They’d met when he was just getting clean from Dilaudid, and Spencer’s been in love with her since not long after than first meeting. That’s pretty much the only thing about her he wishes he could take back.

He still has a hard time thinking about it, the fact that he met her when he was barely himself. Still, she’d been kind, listened to him talk and let the others tell her that he was…going through something. It was on his two month sobriety date (which she’d had no way of knowing) that she’d asked him out.

Sometimes, when he can’t sleep, he replays the memory in his head. How she works just south of their office, and how they’d meet at the café nearest, and chat for an hour before calling a cab home.

On the other side of the veil, he can picture that night, years ago now. How she’d looked with the snow kissing her nose, dotting the edges of her faux-fur hood. She’d stuck out her tongue to catch a snowflake, and he’d almost combusted and the adorability of it.

“You look nice,” she’d said, although at the time he’s pretty sure he looked gaunt. He’d only recently started to gain the weight back- but still, her praise felt like stardust.

“You look nicer,” he’d said back, gently bumping her shoulder as a fond gesture. Her little grin is well-worth how awkward they both look on the street.

“Listen,” she had said, stuffing her hands into her pockets, the size of the coat causing her hands to disapear from sight entirely, “I asked JJ and Morgan, and they said you’re not seeing anyone.”

“Oh, yeah. They love reminding me of that. Not everyone can be like Morgan and have dated half the western hemsiphere.”

He felt embarrassed, her watching him. It’s nice, but sometimes feels like staring into the sun.

Her chuckle was nervous, not fully reaching her eyes.

“You okay?

“Yeah,” she swallowed again, before speaking, “I was wondering, um, if you might want to grab a drink with me?”

“Sure,” he’d replied back, amenably. He couldn’t tell why she looked so nervous, “I can’t really do hard liquor, though. Maybe we can invite the team.”

“No, Spence, I was wondering if you and I could go on a um, a date.”

And he’s frozen. Because this might be the second time he’d ever been asked out, and second, this might be his dream girl. She’s gorgeous and kind and she’s in front of him, asking him out.

“I um,” his mouth was dry. He’d be a bad boyfriend. He was a recovering drug addict who already was bad at talking to people, and she lit up a room whenever she walked in. She finds him easy to be with, easy to care for and he’s bound to fuck it up. He couldn’t imagine giving that up because he was too greedy to take what he got. “I don’t think that would be a good idea.”

He almost took it back with incredible speed, with that flash of disapointment on her lovely face, and the knowledge that it’s because she wanted him, before she quickly regained her speech.

“That’s totally alright! We’ll just be good friends, yeah?”

In the here and now, they are friends. Best of, really. And he made the right choice. He’d lashed out at Emily a month later in a withdrawl, and he knows that he’d have done the same to her, and now, she’s still in his life.

The drawbacks of course, to being her friend, means she has dates. Boyfriends, as well, and he’s been a…friend, through it all. Good friend. She’s never suspeced him of anything more, of course, after he’d categorically rejected it.

(Even though this rejection plays in his head all the fucking time, like a torturous groundhog day.)

She’s beautiful today, a blue blouse with a scarf lazily around her neck, and the way she’s leaning over his desk to see the trick before she drops off her analysis.

“Alright, Spence,” she says, her rose perfume wafting in the air prior to her hopping off the corner, “Did you need anything else? Today is my half-day, and Harry wanted to take me to Art Insititute.”

Harry, is the boy on rotation at the moment. Spencer has no impulse control and a super-computer expert best friend, so Spencer knows that Harry is 6’0 on his Driver’s License, and is a Financial Analyst. Spencer knows from her own mouth that this will be the third date, and that he’s a little boring but she’s attracted to the fact that he was direct and wanted to go out again.

Low bar, but one Spencer couldn’t even clear. He doesn’t say any of that, though.

“That sounds fun,” he says, instead of saying that he’d love to walk her through the inscriptions on each art piece, love to kiss her in front of something thats’ beauty does not come close to her’s. “Are you thinking it might run long, or are we still doing the bookstore and TV at mine after?”

He’s been looking forward to this all week. He bought special marshmallows for her cocoa. He also htes to imagine her date running long.

“Nah,” she smiles, “besides, he’s just some guy. You’re Spencer.”

Morgan doesn’t say anything when he looks down at his. paperwork, and scribbles instead of thinking, the best he can.

________________________________

Don’t think about the fact she was on a date. Don’t think about how Harry might have got to kiss her. Just don’t bring it up.

“How was the date?”

She shrugged, pulling at the spine of a hardcover novel.

“It was fine. Like I said, he was kind of boring.”

“So why’d you go out with him again?”

“I dunno, Spence, I just… I want a boyfriend, you know? I want someone to want to be with me.”

She is so beautiful. She laughs with her whole chest, and she listens to his stories and chimes in with her own expertise. She has a voice that seems like it’s spun gold thread, and he’d give anything to kiss her.

“I get that,” he says, instead of anything he’s thinking. She’s wearing brown lipstick, transfer proof. He’s in love with her. “There’s got to be guys lining up for a girl like you.”

“That’s a nice thought, Spence. Not the ones I’d like.”

___________________________

This thought haunts his evening, and when he parks and they start the walk-up to his apartment, a confession hammering at his throat, a physical urge. She’s giggling at some long physics joke he’d made, and he’s addicted to the soft bell of her laughter.

His apartment is small and lovely, and he enjoys having her in the small and dark of the night, the sun set over what he wishes were two lovers.

“You are really pretty, you know,” he says, once she’s settled into his chest, a sick satisfaction of knowing Harry got a quick thank you text before she darted over to Spencer’s arms.

“Thanks, Spencer. You’re a good friend.”

“Why do you always say that?”

“That you’re a good friend?”

“I’m not saying you’re pretty because I’m a good friend. I’m saying it because it’s true, and I enjoy saying true things.”

“You don’t…I don’t know why you’re saying that, Spencer. We’re friends and I adore you and I’m here right now, but you don’t need to make it harder on me.”

She looks nervous, and a little disapointed. He wants her to know, that even if he’s missed his shot, she’s not going to be alone. He’s gonna spend the rest of his life hating whoever knew to take the best thing offered to him, but Spencer- he knows he is not going to be the last to love her. He grabs her hand without thinking, her doe eyes peering into his with some emotion he can’t pin down.

“Hey, I’m not trying…to make anything hard for you. I don’t ever want to do that. I just… some day someone’s gonna see you and want to be with you and I’m going to watch it and know it was inevitable.”

The words taste like barbed wire.

Ask me again, he wants to beg, I’m ready now. I’ll do it right.

Is that even true? Is it just that he wants her bad enough he’s willing to risk not doing it right?

“You’re so sweet,” she sobs, and oh, she’s crying. Just a little, but tears prick at the corners of her eyes. “You make it so hard to be your friend. And I know that’s my problem, that you’ve always been straight up with me. I asked you out and you said no, and I know that-“

“I know that I was too late, and freaked out about being with someone like you when I was still so fucked up.” they’re so close to eachother, he can smell her chapstick. His chest aches. “Sweetheart, that had nothing to do with you. It was all me. It’s a train I missed that I’m gonna spend the rest of my life wishing I’d caught.”

He feels uncomfortably bare, even in the oversized sweater that she’d gotten him last Christmas, and that he’d pretended had been from his lover all of that week. But it’s important that she knows.

“What do you mean, ‘too late’?”

Her voice is small, so quiet he barely hears it. She threads her nimble fingers into his slender ones, and his heart is hammering.

“I-I was on Dilaudid, or just barely off, you know- you wouldn’t want to be with someone like me. You asked me out when you didn’t even know that.”

“I know you now. Years worth of knowing.”

“And you haven’t asked me since.”

“Spencer,” her voice is warm, rich like silk and grainy old music, and he wants to drink this image in, her fingers stroking the side of his face like he’s holy. He wonders if he’s dreaming, with how good she feels to be so close to.

Ask me again, he wants to beg. I’m ready, now.

“Spencer Walter Reid,” she says, properly holding his hand, bringing her soft lips to his hand, kissing his knuckle. He feels anointed, blessed by a higher power. “Could I take you out on a date?”

“Yes,” he says, finally. Five years of waiting melts away as he kisses her, warmth and light seeping into existence, a dream brought to tangible life, to touch and reality, “Actually, wait,” he says, and finishes before her face can fall, “Would you be my girlfriend?”

It’s maybe playing his cards too much, but her wide, ear to ear splitting grin is everything he needs to see, everything he might need to see for the rest of his life.

“Took you long enough, boy-genius.”

“All you had to do was ask again!”

If she has a complaint about that, it certainly couldn’t be heard by the many, many kisses that would follow.

#spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x fem!reader #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x reader

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burntoutdaydreamer · 2 years ago

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Things That May Be Causing Your Writer's Block- and How to Beat Them

I don't like the term 'Writer's Block' - not because it isn't real, but because the term is so vague that it's useless. Hundreds of issues all get lumped together under this one umbrella, making writer's block seem like this all-powerful boogeyman that's impossible to beat. Worse yet, it leaves people giving and receiving advice that is completely ineffective because people often don't realize they're talking about entirely different issues.

In my experience, the key to beating writer's block is figuring out what the block even is, so I put together a list of Actual Reasons why you may be struggling to write:

(note that any case of writer's block is usually a mix of two or more)

Perfectionism (most common)

What it looks like:

You write one sentence and spend the next hour googling "synonyms for ___"

Write. Erase. Write. Rewrite. Erase.

Should I even start writing this scene when I haven't figured out this one specific detail yet?

I hate everything I write

Cringing while writing

My first draft must be perfect, or else I'm a terrible writer

Things that can help:

Give yourself permission to suck

Keep in mind that nothing you write is going to be perfect, especially your first draft

Think of writing your first/early drafts not as writing, but sketching out a loose foundation to build upon later

People write multiple drafts for a reason: write now, edit later

Stop googling synonyms and save that for editing

Write with a pen to reduce temptation to erase

Embrace leaving blank spaces in your writing when you can't think of the right word, name, or detail

It's okay if your writing sucks. We all suck at some point. Embrace the growth mindset, and focus on getting words on a page

Lack of inspiration (easiest to fix)

What it looks like:

Head empty, no ideas

What do I even write about???

I don't have a plot, I just have an image

Want to write but no story to write

Things that can help:

Google writing prompts

If writing prompts aren't your thing, instead try thinking about what kind of tropes/genres/story elements you would like to try out

Instead of thinking about the story you would like to write, think about the story you would like to read, and write that

It's okay if you don't have a fully fleshed out story idea. Even if it's just an image or a line of dialogue, it's okay to write that. A story may or may not come out of it, but at least you got the creative juices flowing

Stop writing. Step away from your desk and let yourself naturally get inspired. Go for a walk, read a book, travel, play video games, research history, etc. Don't force ideas, but do open up your mind to them

If you're like me, world-building may come more naturally than plotting. Design the world first and let the story come later

Boredom/Understimulation (lost the flow)

What it looks like:

I know I should be writing but uugggghhhh I just can'tttttt

Writing words feels like pulling teeth

I started writing, but then I got bored/distracted

I enjoy the idea of writing, but the actual process makes me want to throw my laptop out the window

Things that can help:

Introduce stimulation: snacks, beverages, gum, music such as lo-fi, blankets, decorate your writing space, get a clickity-clackity keyboard, etc.

Add variety: write in a new location, try a new idea/different story for a day or so, switch up how you write (pen and paper vs. computer) or try voice recording or speech-to-text

Gamify writing: create an arbitrary challenge, such as trying to see how many words you can write in a set time and try to beat your high score

Find a writing buddy or join a writer's group

Give yourself a reward for every writing milestone, even if it's just writing a paragraph

Ask yourself whether this project you're working on is something you really want to be doing, and be honest with your answer

Intimidation/Procrastination (often related to perfectionism, but not always)

What it looks like:

I was feeling really motivated to write, but then I opened my laptop

I don't even know where to start

I love writing, but I can never seem to get started

I'll write tomorrow. I mean next week. Next month? Next month, I swear (doesn't write next month)

Can't find the time or energy

Unreasonable expectations (I should be able to write 10,000 words a day, right????)

Feeling discouraged and wondering why I'm even trying

Things that can help:

Follow the 2 min rule (or the 1 paragraph rule, which works better for me): whenever you sit down to write, tell yourself that you are only going to write for 2 minutes. If you feel like continuing once the 2 mins are up, go for it! Otherwise, stop. Force yourself to start but DO NOT force yourself to continue unless you feel like it. The more often you do this, the easier it will be to get started

Make getting started as easy as possible (i.e. minimize barriers: if getting up to get a notebook is stopping you from getting started, then write in the notes app of your phone)

Commit to a routine that will work for you. Baby steps are important here. Go with something that feels reasonable: every day, every other day, once a week, twice a week, and use cues to help you remember to start. If you chose a set time to write, just make sure that it's a time that feels natural to you- i.e. don't force yourself to writing at 9am every morning if you're not a morning person

Find a friend or a writing buddy you can trust and talk it out or share a piece of work you're proud of. Sometimes we just get a bit bogged down by criticism- either internal or external- and need a few words of encouragement

The Problem's Not You, It's Your Story (or Outline (or Process))

What it looks like:

I have no problems writing other scenes, it's just this scene

I started writing, but now I have no idea where I'm going

I don't think I'm doing this right

What's an outline?

Drowning in documents

This. Doesn't. Make. Sense. How do I get from this plot point to this one?!?!?! (this ColeyDoesThings quote lives in my head rent free cause BOY have I been there)

Things That Can Help:

Go back to the drawing board. Really try to get at the root of why a scene or story isn't working

A part of growing as a writer is learning when to kill your darlings. Sometimes you're trying to force an idea or scene that just doesn't work and you need to let it go

If you don't have an outline, write one

If you have an outline and it isn't working, rewrite it, or look up different ways to structure it

You may be trying to write as a pantser when you're really a plotter or vice versa. Experiment with different writing processes and see what feels most natural

Study story structures, starting with the three act structure. Even if you don't use them, you should know them

Check out Ellen Brock on YouTube. She's a professional novel editor who has a lot of advice on writing strategies for different types of writers

Also check out Savage Books on YouTube (another professional story editor) for advice on story structure and dialogue. Seriously, I cannot recommend this guy enough

Executive Dysfunction, Usually From ADHD/Autism

What it looks like:

Everything in boredom/understimulation

Everything in intimidation/procrastination

You have been diagnosed with and/or have symptoms of ADHD/Autism

Things that can help:

If you haven't already, seek a diagnosis or professional treatment

Hire an ADHD coach or other specialist that can help you work with your brain (I use Shimmer; feel free to DM me for a referral)

Seek out neurodiverse communities for advice and support

Try body doubling! There's lot's of free online body doubling websites out there for you to try. If social anxiety is a barrier, start out with writing streams such as katecavanaughwrites on Twitch

Be aware of any sensory barriers that may be getting in the way of you writing (such as an uncomfortable desk chair, harsh lighting, bad sounds)

And Lastly, Burnout, Depression, or Other Mental Illness

What it looks like:

You have symptoms of burnout or depression

Struggling with all things, not just writing

It's more than a lack of inspiration- the spark is just dead

Things that can help:

Forget writing for now. Focus on healing first.

Seek professional help

If you feel like it, use writing as a way to explore your feelings. It can take the form of journaling, poetry, an abstract reflection of your thoughts, narrative essays, or exploring what you're feeling through your fictional characters. The last two helped me rediscover my love of writing after I thought years of depression had killed it for good. Just don't force yourself to do so, and stop if it takes you to a darker place instead of feeling cathartic

#writing #creative writing #writer problems #writing advice #writing community #writing a book #writing problems #novel writing #on writing #writing tips #writing help #writers on tumblr #writers block #female writers #writers of tumblr #writers blog #adhd writer

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cressidagrey · 1 month ago

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White Horse - Chapter 33: September 2024 - Part 4

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Isabelle Leclerc (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen is a World Champion. Isabelle Leclerc is invisible.

She watched her family give up everything for Charles’ career—Arthur’s karting, their father’s savings, even her childhood horse. She understood. She never asked for more.

But Max does. He notices the things no one else does, listens when no one else will, and puts her first in ways she never imagined. With him, she isn’t an afterthought—she’s a choice. And for the first time, she realizes she doesn’t have to be invisible.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, talk about loosing a childhood pet, toxic families, mention of the loss of a parent.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

The office was quiet, soft. A low hum of air-conditioning filled the silence between words, the kind of ambient white noise that Belle had grown to find oddly comforting. She sat cross-legged on the couch, a mug of chamomile tea cooling in her hands. Simone, always calm, always precise, watched her with an expression that never pushed—but always invited.

“I think it’s… better,” Belle said slowly. “Not fixed. Not even close. But better.”

Simone nodded. “What feels better?”

Belle thought for a moment. “Arthur’s been texting more. Charles and Lorenzo send me links to baby things they think I’ll like. Nothing huge. Just... consistent. Like they’re trying.”

“And how does that feel?”

“Confusing,” Belle said honestly. “Nice, sometimes. Other times I want to scream. But I’m not… shutting them out. Not completely.”

Simone’s gaze softened. “That’s progress.”

“Yeah.” Belle gave a wry smile. “It’s baby steps. My mother sends me articles about parenting now. Like I haven’t already read everything the internet has to offer. But she’s trying.”

“And how does it feel when he does?”

“Complicated,” Belle admitted. “It makes me happy, but it also makes me angry, like—where was this five years ago? Where was this when I needed it?”

Simone nodded once, acknowledging the contradiction without judgment. “You’re allowed to feel both. One doesn’t cancel out the other.”

“I know.” Belle paused. “But I think… I want to keep the door open. Just a little.”

“That sounds brave.”

Belle gave a dry laugh. “It sounds terrifying.”

Simone tilted her head. “Would it help if you had more control over how you let them in?”

Belle looked up. “What do you mean?”

Simone set her notebook gently aside. “What if you invited them to something low-stakes? Something where they’re part of your world, but not the center of it. Somewhere you can set the tone, and where other people are around. Like a buffer.”

Belle blinked. “Like what?”

Simone smiled lightly. “You mentioned Max’s birthday. That you’re planning to decorate the nursery that weekend?”

“Yeah…” Belle’s voice trailed off as the thought formed. “We were going to build the shelves and hang the prints. Nothing fancy. Just… make it feel real.”

“What if you invited your family to be part of that?” Simone asked gently. “Not the whole day. Not a big deal. Just… included.”

Belle was quiet for a moment. “It wouldn’t be about them.”

“Exactly,” Simone said. “It’s about you. Your space. Your child. But it could be a way to let them step into that gently. On your terms.”

“And if it’s awful, I can make Max tell them to leave,” Belle muttered.

Simone smiled. “You’re not alone anymore. That’s the difference.”

Belle stared down into her tea. The idea sat heavily—but not painfully.

Maybe it wasn’t a reconciliation. Maybe it wasn’t forgiveness.

Maybe it was just… the next step.

“Okay,” Belle said softly. “Maybe I’ll ask them.”

Simone nodded, kind and steady. “Only if you want to. You don’t owe anyone a seat in your story. But if you want to hand them a folding chair—they’ll know where to find it.”

Belle snorted. “God, that’s such a therapist metaphor.”

“And yet,” Simone said, eyes twinkling, “you got it immediately.”

Belle smiled, small and tired and real. “I did.”

***

The fan hummed softly overhead. The windows were cracked open just enough to let the night air in, and Belle was half-curled on her side, head resting on Max’s chest, her fingers absently tracing the edge of his shirt.

They were supposed to be asleep. But the baby had kicked just hard enough to startle Belle, and now sleep felt like a distant thought.

“Do you want to keep talking names?” Max asked quietly, not pushing, just offering.

Belle didn’t answer right away. Her fingers paused, then started again. “Maybe.”

Max waited.

“I’ve been thinking about middle names,” she said eventually. “And… I don’t know. I’m stuck.”

“Too many options?” he asked, brushing his hand along her spine.

She shook her head. “Just one. That I keep coming back to.”

Max was quiet, letting her shape the words however she needed to.

“My father’s name,” Belle said softly. “Hervé.”

He didn’t react. Just shifted a little so he could see her face better. “Okay.”

“There’s this… expectation,” she continued. “I haven’t said anything to anyone, but I know. My family will assume we’ll use it. Especially because we are having a boy. It’ll be this unspoken thing that I’m supposed to do.”

Max ran his thumb gently along her arm. “Do you want to?”

Belle was quiet again. “I don’t know.”

And that was the honest truth.

“I loved him,” she said, her voice rough now. “He died when I was nineteen. There’s a part of me that still misses him every day.”

Max’s eyes softened. “I know.”

“But he also…” She swallowed. “He sold Blanche.”

Belle let out a breath. “Sold her. My horse. My best friend. Just—gone. For karting tires. For Charles. And I know it was to help the family, and I know he thought he was doing the right thing. But he never even told me. He didn’t say goodbye. I came home and the stable was just… empty.”

Max didn’t try to fix it. He just leaned in a little, one arm brushing hers. Letting her feel him there.

“So now,” she said, throat tight, “I think of giving our child his name, and there’s this voice in my head saying, you should. That it’s the right thing. That I’ll be ungrateful if I don’t. That everyone will judge me.”

Max reached for her hand and wrapped it gently in his.

“But then,” Belle whispered, “there’s this other part of me that still feels like that girl. Standing in that empty stable. Wondering why I wasn’t enough to keep.”

Silence bloomed between them. Not heavy. Not cold. Just true.

After a moment, Max spoke, voice low but certain. “You don’t owe anyone that name.”

“I know,” she said. “But part of me still wants to give it to the baby. Because he was my dad. Because I did love him. Because it wasn’t all bad.”

She turned to look at Max. “Is that stupid?”

“No,” he said immediately. “It’s not stupid. It’s human. He mattered to you. It’s okay that it’s complicated.”

Belle’s eyes glistened. “What if people think I’m being selfish for not using it?”

Max shifted closer, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “Then let them think it. This isn’t about them. It’s about what feels right to you. To us.”

She leaned into him slightly, comforted by the certainty in his voice.

“And Belle,” he added, voice gentler now, “you know Charles or Arthur or maybe even Lorenzo will use the name. One of them will. Hervé will live on, one way or another.”

Belle turned slightly toward him.

“And maybe they should,” Max continued. “Because he had a different meaning to them. Because Hervé was their father too. And that’s their grief to carry, their memory to honor.”

Belle gave a small, tearful laugh. “Arthur will probably make it the kid’s first name and then forget to tell anyone.”

Max smiled. “Exactly. So you don’t have to carry that weight for them. Not this time.”

She nodded, silent again. But this time, it felt less like drowning in indecision and more like finding breath.

He squeezed her hand. “This is our child. And this name? This is yours to choose. Not for tradition. Not for guilt. For love.”

Belle blinked back tears she hadn’t meant to let fall.

Max smiled softly. “If you want to use Hervé, we can. But it doesn’t have to be this time. Or ever. Our baby won’t love you less. He won’t even know unless you choose to tell him.”

Belle exhaled shakily and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Can we just… sit on it for a while?”

“For as long as you want,” Max said. “We’ve got time.”

Belle stayed curled against him, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of his heartbeat. One of his hands had settled over the curve of her belly again, warm and grounding. She didn’t want to break the moment—but she also didn’t want to hold it in anymore.

“There’s something else,” she said quietly.

Max shifted just enough to show he was listening.

“I saw Simone yesterday.”

“Yeah?” he murmured. “How was it?”

“Good,” Belle said. Then, after a pause: “Hard. But good.”

Max waited.

“She brought something up. Something I haven’t stopped thinking about since.”

Max hummed softly, encouragement in sound form.

“She suggested… maybe I invite my family to help with the nursery. On your birthday.”

Max blinked. “Oh.”

“I know that’s not what we planned,” Belle rushed to say. “And it’s totally okay if you don’t want to. Or if it feels like too much. I just—Simone said it might be easier if I let them come when it’s not just about me. When it’s already a full day. Less pressure. Less expectation. More people around.”

She lifted her head slightly to look at him. “Would that be okay?”

Max was quiet for a moment. Not because he was upset—Belle knew his silences now. This one was full of thought, not hesitation.

“I don’t care what my birthday looks like,” he said softly. “As long as you’re okay. If this helps you… if this makes it easier to let them in, even just a little—I’m all for it.”

Belle’s brows knit, uncertain. “Are you sure?”

Max reached up and gently tucked her hair behind her ear. “I’m sure.”

She searched his face for any sign of discomfort. There was none.

“I just…” She took a breath. “I don’t want it to become a whole thing. Like—‘we’re all fine now,’ or ‘look how close we are again.’ I’m not there. I’m not even close.”

“You don’t have to be,” Max said. “It doesn’t have to be anything more than a few hours of paint and furniture and wallpaper. If anyone tries to turn it into a redemption arc, I’ll lock them in the garage with Christian.”

Belle laughed wetly, wiping her eyes.

“Let them come,” Max said, gently. “Let them hold a paintbrush and hang some shelves and exist in a space that you created. That we’re building for our son.”

She exhaled slowly, like letting something heavy slide from her shoulders.

“And if at any point it’s too much,” Max added, “just say the word. I’ll fake a plumbing emergency.”

Belle snorted. “A plumbing emergency in a newly built Monaco penthouse?”

He grinned. “I’m very committed to the bit.”

She rested her forehead against his. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me have it both ways,” she said softly. “For letting me try.”

Max’s voice dropped, rough with affection. “I always will.”

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: you’re coming to my birthday next weekend don’t make a face we’re decorating the nursery

Lando: oh thank god i thought you were about to make me wear a button-down and socialize

Max: no button-down just emotional labor and assembling IKEA furniture

Lando: so… worse

Max: also the Leclerc brothers will be there all of them

Lando: MAX NO no no no no no i’m not sitting through Arthur quoting Pinterest at us and Charles making emotionally repressed noises

Max: that’s why i’m texting you i’m not sitting through that alone you’re my support gremlin

Lando: i hate it here

Max: bring a drill and snacks or just stand near me and make fun of Arthur under your breath either works

Lando: i had plans that day

Max: do you even know what day it is

Lando: not the point

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Lando: MAX IS MAKING ME GO TO HIS BIRTHDAY NURSERY BUILDING CHAOS THING

Emilie: yes. we are going.

Lando: WHAT WE??

Emilie: yes. You’re not getting out of it. I already RSVP’d for us when Belle mentioned it

Lando: this feels like betrayal

Emilie: it’s community support and if i have to be in the same room as Charles, i’m not doing it alone

Lando: but i was going to play FIFA and ignore my feelings

Emilie: congratulations. now you’ll be building a changing table and confronting emotional growth instead

Lando: i’m calling HR

Emilie: HR said bring cupcakes

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Max Verstappen

Lando: we’re coming emilie sold me out

Max: excellent i’ll save you a paint roller

Lando: i hope the baby grows up to be a McLaren fan out of sheer spite

***

Group Chat: WHAT IS HAPPENING

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri and Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: i need backup this is an emergency

Oscar: hello to you too

Daniel: what did you do now

Lando: MAX invited me to his birthday which is also apparently a nursery decorating session AND THE LECLERCS WILL BE THERE plural. brothers. full trio. mother. no escape

Oscar: so what you’re saying is you’re being forced to be emotionally supportive and also use a screwdriver

Lando: YES emilie said we’re going i didn’t even have a say i was mid toast when she RSVP’d for both of us

Daniel: mate that sounds like a you problem i’m in australia 8,000 miles away UNREACHABLE

Lando: that’s cowardice

Daniel: that’s geography 😌

Lando: oscar please don’t leave me alone with a roll of painter’s tape and charles leclerc talking about childhood trauma

Oscar: unfortunately i have a prior engagement

Lando: you don’t even know what day it is

Oscar: still. engagement confirmed. cannot cancel.

Daniel: i hope they make you do the stenciling

Oscar: i hope you get stuck between Arthur and Jos in a very small room

Lando: i hate both of you i want that on record

Daniel: duly noted, now post pictures of you holding a baby onesie and pretending to care

Oscar: bonus points if you cry during the wallpaper reveal

Lando: this is abuse

Daniel: this is family ❤️

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Lily Zneimer

Lando: Lily. Light of Oscar’s life. i need your help.

Lily: what did he do now

Lando: MAX invited us to his birthday slash nursery decorating emotional ambush oscar said he had “a prior engagement” please tell me that’s fake. PLEASE.

Lily: excuse me??? this is the first i’m hearing of it

Lando: I KNEW IT he’s trying to abandon me with a paint roller and charles leclerc’s unresolved childhood trauma

Lily: he said nothing about this we are absolutely going

Lando: thank god you’re my favorite

Lily: i am texting him right now “prior engagement” my ass the engagement is with Belle’s wallpaper

Lando: can i stand next to you the whole time

Lily: yes but only if you bring cupcakes and stop calling it an emotional ambush

Lando: i make no promises

***

Text Messages: Lily Zneimer & Oscar Piastri

Lily: “prior engagement” ??? MAX’S NURSERY DAY IS NEXT WEEKEND AND YOU LIED

Oscar: i didn’t lie i deflected

Lily: we’re going. you’re painting something. lando is emotionally fragile. you are not abandoning him.

Oscar: i regret all of my life choices

***

Text Messages: Oscar Piastri & Lando Norris

Oscar:I hate you.

Oscar:Lily said i have to help you emotionally regulate during baby-themed social situations

***

Leclerc Family Group Chat

(Members: Arthur, Isabelle, Charles, Lorenzo and Pascale)

Belle: Hi everyone— I wanted to let you know that we’re doing some nursery decorating on Max’s birthday. Nothing formal, just paint and furniture and probably chaos. We’ll be at the house all day. If anyone wants to come by and help, you’re welcome.

Belle: No pressure. But… if you want to be part of this, this is a good place to start.

Arthur: i’ll be there!! do i need to bring snacks??

Charles: Thank you for inviting us We’d love to help

Lorenzo: Do you need tools? Or wine?

Belle: both, probably

Pascale: Thank you, ma chérie. I’d love to come. Let me know what you need.

Belle:Just… bring yourselves. And maybe don’t wear white.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Max: just a heads up the entire Leclerc family might be at the house next weekend

Victoria: wait what like… the Leclerc family?

Max: all of them Belle invited them to help with the nursery on my birthday painting. furniture. emotional tension. the works.

Victoria: so… you’re telling me that i need to bring snacks, patience, and a fully charged phone for live updates

Max: absolutely arthur’s already trying to bring snacks so we’ll see how that goes

Max: i’m just warning you there will be wallpaper there will be feelings there may be passive-aggressive screwdriver moments

Victoria: i’m bringing wine and wearing black in case we need to mourn the concept of boundaries

Max: smart also maybe stay near belle just in case she needs backup

Victoria: always

Max: she’s trying so hard i just want it to go okay

Victoria: it will you’ve got me and a surprisingly motivated lando norris, apparently

Max: he’s been emotionally blackmailed into coming it’s beautiful

Victoria: see you there, birthday boy don’t let anyone cry on the crib mattress

Max: no promises

***

Team Redline Stream Transcript

Luke Crane: (laughing) “Okay, okay — last lap, and then serious question time. Max. Birthday boy. What’s the plan for tomorrow?”

Max: (without hesitation) “Ah, nothing crazy. My family’s coming over.”

Gianni Vecchio: “So what, big party? Michelin chef? Yacht? Balloons shaped like racing trophies?”

Max: “No, nothing like that this year.” (pauses, completely deadpan) “We’re doing the nursery.”

(beat of stunned silence)

Chris Lulham: “…You’re doing what?”

Max: (grinning now) “You heard me.”

Chris: “Mate. Like… baby nursery?”

CHAT: 🧡🧡🧡 “Wait. THE NURSERY??” “HELLO???” “Is this how we find out he’s building the baby room???” “MAX. HELLO. BACK UP.” “Soft dad mode ACTIVATED.” “27 and domesticated.” “Say ‘my wife’ next, I dare you.”

Max (nodding, smiling like it’s the best thing in the world): “Yeah. Belle wants everything up before December, so we’re starting now. Wallpaper, furniture, the works. It’s… nice. Feels real.”

Luke: “You’re telling me you, Max Verstappen, multi-time F1 World Champion, are spending your birthday assembling a crib?”

Max: “Yeah. Why not? We’ve got to put up the wallpaper. And the mobile thing. The one with the little monkeys. I have been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days and failing.”

CHAT: “BELLEEEE 🥺” “JUNGLE. NURSERY. I’M DEAD.” “Wait it’s a jungle theme I can’t breathe that’s so cute.” “HE SAID HER NAME.” “‘My family is coming over’ = wife + baby bump confirmed.” “IKEA collab when.”

Luke: “Do we get a vlog? A ‘Verstappen Builds a Jungle’ series?”

Max: “You can come help if you want.”

Luke: “Absolutely not. I’m not getting blamed if the giraffe ends up upside down.”

Max: (shrugging) “It’s Belle’s vision. I’m just the assistant. And maybe the muscle.”

Chris: “Can’t believe the guy who nearly flipped a kart at age nine is excited about monkey mobiles.”

Max: “Yeah, well. Turns out there are better things than trophies.”

Gianni: “…you’re telling me your birthday party is IKEA furniture and jungle wallpaper?”

Max (smiling): “Yeah. And honestly? I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

Chris: “God, he’s in deep.”

Luke: “Deep? He’s gone. Man said nursery like it was a five-star spa weekend.”

Max: “It kind of is. You don’t know joy until you see Belle looking at stuffed lion.”

Gianni: “Max Verstappen: Three-time World Champion. King of the jungle nursery.”

Max: “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey.”

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/gridwife: MAX VERSTAPPEN SAID “YOU DON’T KNOW JOY UNTIL YOU SEE BELLE LOOKING AT STUFFED LIONS” don’t touch me i’m emotional

@/rbrarchive: i don’t want Drive to Survive i want a 4-part miniseries called “Verstappen Builds a Jungle”

@/formulafem: Belle: “Don’t make it all about me.” Max: “Her name is Belle. She wants monkeys. I love her. My job is giraffe assembly.” 🥹🥹🥹

@/kartsandcookies: Soft dad era Max Verstappen is stronger than any Red Bull aero package. He’s GONE. He’s in the jungle with a mobile in one hand and an allen key in the other.

@/f1contentqueen: We just watched Max Verstappen admit live on stream that he’s building a jungle-themed nursery for his child. On his birthday. Because Belle wants it done before December. Sir. You are the prize.

@/itsgivingdadenergy: 27. Multi-World Champion. Could be celebrating on a yacht. Instead: – Crib assembly – Monkey mobile – Jungle wallpaper – Saying “there are better things than trophies” 🥹

@/alonsohascats: MAX SAID BELLE WANTS “EVERYTHING UP BEFORE DECEMBER” SOFT DEADLINE?? BABY VERSTAPPEN ETA CONFIRMED FOR DECEMBER???? HELLO????

@/verstappenanon: You can actually hear Chris Lulham’s soul leave his body when Max says “the nursery.” I need the highlight reel. I need the full transcript. I need therapy.

@/sheercontent: Please understand that “Soon-to-be father of one very spoiled, very loved little monkey” is now my religion.

@/formulaiconics: Someone asked Max Verstappen what he’s doing for his birthday and he said “assembling jungle furniture for my unborn child.” This man has never been hotter.

@/gridtea: Max: "My family is coming over." Us: oh cute. Max: "We're doing the nursery." Us: EMOTIONAL COLLAPSE

@/carbonsnack:

I regret to inform you that Max Verstappen is so deep in domestic bliss he considers building IKEA furniture a birthday treat.

@/chaosandcarbon:

Max Verstappen, in 2019: “I’m here to win.”

Max Verstappen, in 2024: “I’ve been trying to build the giraffe lamp for three days.”

@/iknowaboutthegiraffelamp

if you’d told me five years ago that Max Verstappen would be losing sleep over a giraffe lamp and grinning about baby mobiles on Twitch I would’ve called you delusional but here we are

***

The plan had been simple.

Paint the nursery. Assemble the crib. Maybe hang the curtains. A cozy afternoon with a few close people.

Instead, there were 20 humans, two stepladders, a very suspicious IKEA instruction manual, and one giraffe lamp with a death wish.

***

In one corner of the nursery:

“Don’t force it,” Lily said calmly, crouched beside Oscar as she braced the neck of the lamp, her fingers steady against the ceramic.

“I’m not,” Oscar replied, tone even, brows furrowed in concentration as he adjusted the internal wiring with surgical precision. “But whoever assembled this originally had a deep disregard for physics. Possibly also sanity.”

Lily glanced at him, amused. “So Max, then.”

He gave her a long, unimpressed look. “Do you want the giraffe to work or not?”

She held up one hand in surrender but didn’t let go of the lamp. “Please continue your delicate surgery, Doctor Piastri.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath about hostile work environments, but his hands were careful, his focus razor-sharp. Despite the chaos unfolding around them—Arthur dropping wallpaper paste on the floor, Charles reading the instructions upside down, Lando declaring himself a “pattern expert”—the corner they’d carved out for themselves was oddly peaceful.

They’d been working on the lamp for nearly twenty minutes. Rewiring the socket, re-aligning the brass hardware, and gluing down a chip in the giraffe’s ear with Lily’s travel-sized nail glue. The giraffe’s head, slightly cocked to the side, had a vaguely judgmental expression, as if it, too, was questioning every decision that had led to this moment.

It fit right in.

“There,” Oscar said finally, sitting back on his heels. “Moment of truth.”

He reached up and flipped the switch.

The giraffe’s eyes lit up—literally. Two soft golden bulbs nestled behind the ceramic pupils flickered to life, casting a warm, slightly eerie glow around the corner of the nursery.

Lily gasped, delighted. “It’s majestic.”

Oscar tilted his head. “It’s deeply unsettling.”

“Majestically unsettling,” she corrected. “I’m naming him Gerard.”

Oscar blinked. “Gerard?”

She nodded, solemn. “He’s seen things. He has opinions. He’s here to supervise.”

Oscar glanced at the giraffe’s glowing face and then at Lily. “We’re not keeping this in the corner. It’s going next to the changing table. That way the baby can meet Gerard during every diaper change.”

“Perfect,” Lily said. “An early lesson in judgment and accountability.”

They both laughed, low and warm, the kind of laugh that comes from knowing each other too well and still liking what they find.

Across the room, Belle caught the glow out of the corner of her eye and smiled. “Did you fix it?”

Oscar looked up. “Gerard lives.”

Belle blinked. “You named the lamp?”

Lily patted Gerard on the head. “He named himself.”

Max, overhearing, just said, “If that lamp judges me at 3am while I’m trying to swaddle a screaming child, I’m throwing it in the bin.”

Oscar stood, dusting off his hands. “He’d survive. Gerard has strong main character energy.”

***

In another corner of the nursery:

“Okay,” Alexandra said, holding up a brass knob shaped like a monkey. “We’ve got a giraffe, an elephant, a lion, a hippo, and this little guy. Rank them in order of jungle superiority.”

“Giraffe wins for drama,” Emilie said, without looking up as she carefully smoothed down a tiny cotton onesie covered in embroidered leaves. “Monkeys are too chaotic. They’re basically Lando with a tail.”

Charlotte, on her knees by the partially assembled dresser, looked up with a grin. “So lion goes in the center drawer. Obviously. Power placement.”

“Agreed,” Alexandra said, already unscrewing the generic silver knobs from the dresser Max had built three weeks ago and left in ‘temporary, totally functional’ mode. “This child will be raised with aesthetics and authority.”

“Also, do we alphabetize the clothes?” Charlotte asked, holding up a delicate pale green muslin romper. “Or organize by size? Or by outfit vibe?”

Emilie blinked. “Is… outfit vibe a category?”

Charlotte shrugged. “If it’s not, I’m inventing it. Look at this cardigan. It’s giving ‘baby goes to brunch.’ This one?” She held up a tiny zip-up hoodie with bear ears. “This is ‘baby goes camping but stylishly.’”

Alexandra held up a pair of overalls the size of a dinner napkin. “This is ‘baby is emotionally prepared for tax season.’”

Emilie snorted. “Belle is going to walk in here and either cry from joy or immediately revoke our access to her child’s wardrobe.”

“I’m betting on both,” Charlotte said.

They laughed, quietly, gently, surrounded by soft fabrics and the scent of wood polish. Emilie reached for the drawer handles and began screwing on the animal knobs—giraffe on the top left, lion in the middle, elephant bottom right. It was absurd how satisfying it felt.

“Does this feel… real to you?” Alexandra asked after a moment, her voice a little softer now. “Like… Belle is having a baby.”

Emilie paused, hand resting on the edge of the dresser. “Sometimes, no. And then I fold a pair of newborn socks and remember that a tiny person is going to wear them.”

Charlotte added, “A tiny person with Max Verstappen’s DNA. Which means we’re probably going to have to baby-proof the sim rig by month four.”

Emilie smiled, but her eyes were warm. “They’re going to be so good at this.”

“They already are,” Alexandra said.

Emilie screwed in the last knob—a hippo, slightly crooked, just enough to be charming.

“Done,” she announced.

Charlotte leaned over to inspect. “That hippo is judging me.”

“Perfect,” Emilie said, sitting back on her heels. “He and Gerard the giraffe lamp can have meetings.”

***

In another corner:

It was supposed to be a straightforward job.

One wall.

Four panels of jungle-themed wallpaper.

An afternoon of light banter and bonding.

Instead, it had become a cautionary tale about letting three Leclercs, two Verstappens and a chaos-addicted McLaren driver do anything involving measurements.

“Okay,” Max said through gritted teeth, holding the smoothing tool in one hand and a strip of wallpaper in the other, “this is the last panel. We just need to line it up with the tree trunk on the previous one.”

Charles leaned in, squinting. “It’s already misaligned.”

“I haven’t even put it on the wall yet, Charles.”

Arthur, standing precariously on the second ladder with a glue brush in one hand and his phone flashlight in the other, said, “It’s the giraffe that’s off. Look. Its legs don’t line up.”

Lando, sitting cross-legged on the floor, leaned back slowly until he was lying flat, arms splayed out dramatically. “I could be anywhere else. I could be in Bali. Or dead. Either would be better than this.”

“You’re not helping,” Max muttered.

“I told you I wasn’t helping,” Lando said, voice muffled by the carpet. “I was promised cake and low-stakes birthday vibes. Not psychological warfare disguised as home improvement.”

Lorenzo sighed loudly. “I said we should’ve started with the right side and worked left. But nooo, Arthur had a system.”

Arthur looked offended. “My system was logical!”

Jos, standing by the door like a deeply disappointed god, crossed his arms. “Your system has resulted in two upside-down leaves, a floating lemur, and ten minutes of arguing about tree trunks.”

Charles rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t be arguing if people listened to me when I said we needed a laser level.”

“NO ONE OWNS A LASER LEVEL, CHARLES,” Max snapped, eyes wild.

“I do,” Jos said, calmly.

Everyone turned to look at him.

“What?” he asked. “I like precision.”

Lando groaned from the floor. “I’m going to fake an injury. Someone drop a bookshelf on me.”

“Can we please just get this on the wall before my son graduates university?” Max asked, voice climbing into a pitch usually reserved for pit wall frustration.

Jos stepped forward silently and took the smoothing tool from Max’s hand.

“Oh, thank god,” Lando muttered.

With terrifying precision, Jos adjusted the paper, ran the tool down the seam, and stepped back. It was perfectly aligned.

No one said a word for a full five seconds.

Then Jos, still deadpan, muttered, “It’s like working with unmedicated squirrels.”

Arthur snorted.

Lorenzo looked personally wounded.

Charles opened his mouth and wisely closed it again.

Max dragged a hand down his face. “Why did I think this was a good idea?”

Lando, now half-asleep on the floor: “Because you love Belle. It’s always because you love Belle.”

Jos handed the smoothing tool back to Max and walked out without a word.

A moment of silence followed.

Then Arthur said, “Should we… fix the lemur?”

Max turned slowly. “If you touch that wall again, I’m using your face to test the crib mattress.”

***

In another corner:

The nursery was full of chaos—ladders, laughter, half-screwed drawer knobs, wallpaper that had probably driven someone to therapy. So Belle had retreated to the sun-drenched living room with a basket of baby clothes and a folding station made out of the coffee table. Victoria helping her sort the clothing by size.

Sophie knelt near the bookshelf, methodically stacking picture books and board games by theme and height. Pascale perched neatly on the edge of the armchair, holding a cup of herbal tea.

In the hallway just outside, the sounds of chaos filtered in: a thump, a shout, and the unmistakable hiss of an offended cat.

“I said don’t chase Sassy with the tambourine!” Tom called, exasperated.

“We’re not chasing it, we’re guiding her with sound!” one of the children yelled back.

Victoria winced. “That’s the third time today.”

Belle sighed. “She’ll live. Granted, she’ll loudly complain to Max this evening, but she’ll survive. ”

They shared a smile, the kind of tired, knowing thing women passed between each other without words.

The conversation drifted toward baby names as Belle started sorting through the pile of baby clothing.

“We’ve narrowed it down,” she said casually, “but we’re still thinking about middle names.”

“Have you considered something from your side of the family?” Victoria asked gently.

Pascale perked up immediately, voice sweet with just the faintest edge of expectation. “I always thought Hervé would be such a lovely tribute.”

The words hung in the air.

Belle’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly. “Yes,” she said, carefully. “We’ve talked about it.”

“I just think,” Pascale continued, smiling, “it would be such a nice way to honor your father. Especially since it’s a boy. Your father would’ve been so proud.”

Sophie, without looking up from her espresso, said, “Would he?”

Pascale blinked. “Excuse me?”

Sophie set her cup down and looked up slowly, voice as calm and cutting as a fine blade. “You speak as if love and grief are simple. As if honoring someone is a duty, not a choice.”

Belle’s breath hitched, just slightly.

“He was her father,” Pascale said, defensively.

“Yes,” Sophie said. “And he made choices that hurt her. That shaped her. That took something from her she never got back. That doesn’t make him a villain. But it does make this complicated.”

“I’m not saying he was perfect,” Pascale said stiffly. “But he was part of her.”

“And she’s allowed to decide which parts she wants to pass on,” Sophie said. “You may think you’re asking for a tribute. But what she hears is a demand.”

Pascale fell quiet. Not insulted. Just… still. Like someone who’d finally heard something that made the ground tilt.

Belle didn’t speak. She just folded a blanket slowly, fingers steady even though her throat was tight.

Sophie’s voice softened. “If Belle chooses that name, it should be because it brings her peace. Not because she feels indebted to grief.”

Victoria reached out and gently squeezed Belle’s hand.

And then—quietly, almost too quiet to hear—Pascale said, “I never thought of it like that.”

Belle looked up.

Pascale swallowed. “I just… I thought I was helping. I thought keeping his name alive meant something. But maybe I was asking her to carry something I should’ve been carrying myself.”

Sophie nodded, sitting back. “Then perhaps now, you can start letting her choose her own way to remember him.”

***

Instagram Stories: @/victoriaverstappen

***

Meanwhile on Twitter:

@/sportschaosnet max verstappen going from “i don’t need friends” to “i have a jungle-themed nursery and a sister who writes poetry about it” is MY roman empire

@/OscarHardLaunch MAX HAS A NURSERY THERE IS A JUNGLE THEMED NURSERY THE CATS HAVE BEEN DEFEATED THE ERA HAS BEGUN

@/wheresthedrama Studio_B tag = BELLE IS THE DESIGNER = Max Verstappen’s wife is actually an interior architect with immaculate taste Do not speak to me I’m in mourning for my own walls

@/featherandfuel “Happy birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” HELLO???? I’M CRYING IN TARGET

@/MaxVerstappenDefenseSquad can’t believe max verstappen’s redemption arc includes a eucalyptus mobile, a giraffe lamp, and an younger sister who now speaks in emotional prose

@/charlesgirliesunite i just know charles walked into that nursery and immediately questioned every aesthetic choice he’s ever made

@/formulalatte tbh the only thing more powerful than belle’s design taste is victoria's commitment to chaos. what do you mean “objective: avoid punching my brother” girl HELP

@/verstappenupdates victoria tagging @studio_b like belle isn't her sister-in-law and bestie now LMAOOO supportive queen

@/circuithearts max verstappen having a jungle nursery and victoria getting emotional about it was not on my 2024 bingo card but I’m here for the domestic era

@/softerverstappen “Happy Birthday, Max. You picked the best kind of life.” i am on the FLOOR. this is max’s roman empire.

***

The house was quiet. Max had gone out for a drive to clear his head after dinner, and the chaos of the day—the laughter, the teasing, the wallpaper war—had finally settled into a gentle hum in Belle’s memory.

She sat cross-legged on the rug in the half-lit nursery, a notepad resting on her knee. The giraffe lamp—Gerard—cast a golden glow over the list of names she’d scribbled and rewritten so many times the page had started to wrinkle.

She wasn’t even pretending to be objective anymore. The list was chaotic. A mix of classic and unusual, soft and strong. Names Max had liked. Names Belle had dismissed. Names from books. Names from nowhere.

And again—again—her pen landed on the same one.

Emilian.

She wrote it down softly. Fourth time this week.

She didn’t say it out loud. Didn’t need to. Just traced the letters, over and over, until the ink deepened and the paper thinned beneath it.

It was Max’s middle name. One he almost never used. One that came up once in conversation, early on, and she’d filed it away without knowing why.

But that wasn’t the only reason.

It was Emilie, too. The girl who had stood beside her in everything. The one who’d carried her grief like it was nothing and handed her back joy in return. It was Emilie’s laugh. Emilie’s loyalty. Emilie, who had become something like a sister without ever asking for the title.

Emilian.

It felt right in a way she couldn’t explain.

Strong, but soft. Steady.

She never said anything to Max. Not yet. She didn’t know if she was allowed to name something so permanent after people who already meant so much. Didn’t know if Max would see it as sentimental or strange.

So she kept the name to herself.

Wrote it at the top of every new page.

Circled it absentmindedly when she talked to the baby alone in the quiet.

Sometimes whispered it under her breath when she folded tiny onesies or passed by the crib and imagined someone small in it.

Emilian.

Maybe she was waiting to see if Max said it first. Or maybe she just needed to be sure.

But again and again—when she closed her eyes, when she dreamed of someone with Max’s eyes and her stubbornness—

That was the name that came back.

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