#blinking puppet

[howcanitellya]

This College program is so fun im making a mannequin that opens its eyes and the skull opens to reveal the brain as u pull the heart but idk how to make it blink nor have its skull open since this is my frist time.. neither does the teacher know how to do this 😭

[gifs-of-puppets]

Bear in the Big Blue House (1997-2006)

[bergoozter]

[beckysinsta]

Duck guy feet pic - Saved by u/Riv_829 on reddit - Date: July 12th 2022 - It was probably just a slight teaser for the (back then) upcoming TV series

[gretchensinister]

There is literally only one change I would make to Labyrinth (1986) and that is having one (1) skeksis in the background of the ballroom scene as an easter egg

[italovision]

My October

[grouper]

I should replay deltaurnes. For culture

[neonvqmpire]

when they inevitably drag me home for a visit to my catholic family i should arrive blasting blink-182 edging on full volume . i aint that cool a little fucked in the head, punk rock kid came from hell with a curse, they say you're not safe here if i stay with a knife that sharp, no way no i leave the broken hearted, look at the mess we started, don't be fooled im only letting you down, theres a special place in hell that my friends and i know well, nightmare daydream you cant save me <3

[dxrknessembr8ced]

" We're both made of wax larry! "

" What are you made of? "

[krawdad]

Wait you can track geometry in blender you could augment the shit out of puppets with that

[gender-euphowrya]

it's kinda embarrassing how bad hololive's vtuber rigs are compared to some indie folks with Way WAY less budget

[ahqkas]

♯ JEALOU$Y ; theodore nott

PAIRING! theodore nott x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS! an unexpected situation catches you off guard in the heart of florence and your boyfriend reveals a side of him you’ve never seen before (based off this req.!!)

WARNINGS AND TAGS! fluff, jealous + italian theo, translation of foreign language + lmk !

WORD COUNT! 1.3k

NOTES! he’s so fine when he’s jealous❕

HARRY POTTER MASTERLIST!

© ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

THEODORE NOTT WAS FAR FROM HAVING A SHORT TEMPER (UNLIKE HIS BEST FRIEND) BUT THAT DIDN'T MEAN HE WAS NECESSARILY CARELESS. Sometimes, jealousy wrapped around his heart like the snake representing his house, squeezing and picking at the muscle, giving it wounds for blood to shed from.

And every time he tried to push those feelings aside, they came back even stronger than before in a crashing wave full of raw emotion. He felt like a puppet on a string that was pulled tight by the cruel hands of jealousy. His actions were no longer his own.

The summer sun bathed the picturesque streets of Florence in a warm, golden glow, casting a honeyed hue over the ancient city. Cobblestone pathways, worn smooth by centuries of footsteps, stretched along the bustling streets. Each turn revealed a new delight: charming cafés with wrought-iron tables spilling onto the sidewalks, historic landmarks standing as silent reminders of the past, and vibrant marketplaces bursting with life and color. The air was rich with the scent of blooming flowers, mingling with the earthy aroma of aged stone and the tantalizing whiff of fresh espresso. The fragrance was an intoxicating blend, making every breath feel like a taste of paradise. The sounds of Florence added to the sensory feast: the melodic chatter of locals and tourists, the clinking of glasses and cutlery from the outdoor restaurants, and the distant strains of street musicians playing heavenly tunes on their violins and accordions.

Florence, in the embrace of summer, was absolutely beautiful. It was a place where history and romance intertwined, where every corner held a new discovery, and every moment was a celebration of the beauty of life. The city's magic lay not just in its landmarks, but in the way it made you feel — alive, enchanted, and eternally in love with the world around you.

You walked hand in hand with Theodore, your fingers intertwined in one as you explored the enchanting city. This vacation had been his idea, a chance for the two of you to escape the pressures of Hogwarts and immerse yourselves in the beauty and romance of Italy. Theo's Italian heritage made the trip even more special; he was eager to show you the places that held a special place in his heart.

As you wandered through a bustling street, you paused to admire a street artist's breathtaking paintings. The vibrant colors and detailed brushstrokes captured the scenery of Florence in ways that made the city's beauty stand out even more, and you found yourself lost in the artwork. Theo had stepped away momentarily to get you both something to eat from a nearby stand, leaving you alone but content. The hum of the city buzzed around you, voices of people blending with the occasional strum of a guitar.

While you were engrossed in the art, a group of local boys approached, their laughter and chatter filling the air. They were handsome and confident, their flirtatious smiles and easy charm unmistakable. One of them, with dark, curly hair and a mischievous grin, stepped forward, clearly intent on catching your attention. His eyes sparkled with interest as he gestured towards you.

"Sei molto bella." ("You are very beautiful.")

You blinked, a bit taken aback. Although you had picked up a few phrases during your time with Theo, your grasp of the language was far from fluent. You understood enough to know that he was complimenting you, but the exact words of meaning escaped you.

Before you could respond, another boy joined in, his tone equally playful. "Vuoi venire a fare una passeggiata con noi?" ("Do you want to go for a walk with us?")

You felt a flush rise to your cheeks, both from the unexpected attention and your inability to respond. Your eyes darted around, hoping to spot your boyfriend. You were feeling increasingly uncomfortable, unsure how to extricate yourself from the situation.

Just as you were about to attempt a polite but awkward decline, you heard Theo's voice, sharp and commanding. "Ehi, lasciatela in pace!" ("Hey, leave her alone!")

The transformation in him was startling. Theo, usually so calm and composed, had a fierce intensity in his eyes. He stepped between you and the group of boys, his posture protective, his expression a stormy mix of anger and determination. The easygoing demeanor he often sported was replaced by a fierce warning.

His broad shoulders squared, blocking the boys' view of you completely, creating a barrier that was both physical and emotional. The bright warmth of the sun seemed to dim in comparison to the fire that burned in Theo's gaze. It was as if a switch had been flipped, transforming him from the gentle, sweet boyfriend you knew into a guardian ready to defend the owner of his heart and soul.

The boys, who had moments ago been brimming with confidence, raised their hands in mock surrender, laughing nervously. "Calmati, amico. Non volevamo causare problemi," one of them said, trying to diffuse the situation. ("Calm down, friend. We didn't want to cause trouble.")

But Theo wasn't having any of it. Each word was a blade of a dagger, cutting through the casual flirtation of the boys, leaving no room for doubt about his intentions. "Non vedete che non è interessata? Andatevene prima che mi arrabbi davvero." ("Can't you see she's not interested? Walk away before I really get angry."). His voice was low and menacing as he continued in rapid Italian, his words too fast for you to catch but clearly effective in making the boys rethink their approach. They muttered a few apologies before scurrying away, casting wary glances over their shoulders.

Theo turned to you, his eyes softening instantly as he took in your bewildered expression. The fierce protector you had just witnessed melted away, replaced by your sweet boy you knew so well. "Are you okay?" His hand found yours, fingers intertwining in a comforting touch.

You nodded, still a bit shaken. "I'm fine. They were just . . . I didn't understand what they were saying," you admitted, feeling a bit embarrassed.

Theo's lips curved into a reassuring smile. "They were trying to flirt with you," he explained. "But don't worry, they're gone now."

You managed a small laugh, the tension easing out of your body. "I figured that much," you said, your voice lightening. "Thank you, Theo."

He stepped closer, wrapping an arm around your shoulders and pulling you into his side. The warmth of his embrace and the steady beat of his heart were instantly calming. "I'm sorry if I scared you," he murmured, his breath brushing against your hair. "I just couldn't stand the thought of them bothering you."

You looked up at him, your eyes meeting his. The fierce protectiveness in his gaze had melted into something softer, more tender. "You were amazing," you said honestly. "I've never seen you like that before."

Theo's smile widened, a hint of pride in his expression. "Well, I can't help it," he said, his tone teasing but sincere. "You bring out the best in me."

As you continued your walk through the beautiful streets of Florence, Theo kept you close, his arm securely around you. The incident with the local boys faded into the background, replaced by the joy of being together in such a magical place. The city's charm and Theo's unwavering affection made you feel like you were living in a dream.

Later that evening, as you sat together at a cozy café, sipping on rich Italian espresso, you couldn't help but feel grateful for Theo. His protective nature, his deep love for you, and his ability to make you feel safe and cherished were all things you treasured deeply. As the sun set over the Florence skyline, painting the sky in brilliant hues of pink and orange, you leaned into Theo, feeling utterly content.

In that moment, with the world bathed in the soft glow of twilight, you knew that no matter where you were, as long as you were with Theo, you were home.

[casuallyanidiot]

Yandere Eldritch being who has taken over your entire town.

TW. Dead Dove Do Not Eat Horror, confinement, isolation, death, Stockholm syndrome, yandere

You didn’t know when it had happened, but there was something very obviously wrong with your town.

It was the little things like the warped street signs, the inconsistent cracks in the sidewalk, and the way that the uncanny faces of people seemed to stare at you. It didn’t use to be like this, but you found yourself cautious about your new reality on the daily. You did try to leave and call for help, but there was some mysterious force cutting off your network. And when you did try to pack all your bags and high tail it out of there, you would end up just looping straight back on your street no matter what direction you drove in.

So now you made do with the fact that nothing was normal.

You sometimes wonder why whatever has infected all the people decided to leave you alone. Because there was no way it wasn’t a conscious decision. Your favorite flowers would start sprouting out of concrete walls and glass despite the fact it would be the middle of winter one day and a scorching summer the next. Not to mention, those flowers didn’t even grow here to begin with. It was a gesture. If it was meant to tempt or be kind, you weren’t sure. 

The town functioned like nothing was out of the ordinary, though. Well, at least it tried to puppet the barely real bodies of your community to do things they would daily. The grocery store always had food and figures milling about, and even though none of the products ever tasted quite right or had words in a real language, you could tell “it” was trying to keep things running for you.

You’d once tried to hide away in your house, thinking that it was somehow protecting you from whatever was out there. But all you did was make it angry. Constant thunderstorms that shook the ground, and hail that pounded on your roof and walls. When you continued to stay inside, that’s when it made things clear: it was letting you stay as you were. The house shifted dramatically, doors disappearing and walls bending in front of your eyes. 

Come outside. Stop trying to resist.

Privacy was just another one of those far-out concepts now.

The thing, as you so liked to call it, had been more affectionate lately. You didn’t know exactly how to describe it, but it had started morphing all the “people” into more attractive versions of themselves. Or at least, what it thought of as attractive to humans. Their faces were more tangible now and less blink-and-you’ll-miss-it, but they were uncanny in a new way. Skin too smooth, too perfect in so many different ways. Symmetrical, full lips, pleasant expressions, soothing voices: all things that on paper would lure someone in, but it had alarm bells ringing in your head nearly all the time now.

“I don’t like this, you know,” You said one day as you sat in the diner. The room was stretched out wider than what it looked like on the outside, and the waitress had an unnaturally wide smile. Before you was a plate of… something. Your guess was pancakes.

“What do you mean?” Several voices asked at once. It came from all around, and the waitress’s mouth barely moved to match the words. 

“ I like you better when you aren’t trying so hard to be something you weren’t.”

There was a pause, and the building slowly unraveled into a jumbled mess of things that you could barely comprehend, the other patrons' faces and bodies melting away into linoleum floors. 

“You’re not human. You don’t have to be. I think I’d prefer that honestly,” You shrugged and poked at your food. From the corner of your eyes, a figure seemed to emerge from the mess of what used to be your favorite restaurant. It was a writhing mass of dark tendrils, reaching for anything nearby. You’re breath caught in your throat.

“Do you really mean that?”

The voice spoke, but there wasn’t any face to accompany it. It reverberated in the base of your spine, racing through your nerves like lightning. Your breath hitched, and you finally gathered enough courage to look at it. It was a mess of things you couldn’t quite make out, but it was almost comforting. 

“This is the first time I’ve actually seen you,” you admitted, a small laugh of disbelief caught in your throat. You couldn’t help but smile. It was the first time it had actually listened to you. 

The being twitched, pulsing as it slid over towards where you were sitting at the booth. It was the only thing that had stayed intact. For something so expressionless, you’d dare to say it seemed shy. 

From the inky mass, one tendril reached out for you, the air around it crackling. You stayed in place as it slid over your hand, and you felt the wonder and relief.

“Will you stay with me? I don’t want to force you, but I’m so alone… you’re the only one who doesn’t disappear when I’m near.”

You blinked as the mass filled the cracks between your hands, folding into the lines of your palms as if trying to memorize you. If it had a hand, you’d be holding it. If it had lips, yours would be slotting against them. If it had a heart, you were certain they’d be painted a similar shade of loneliness. 

You stood up and slowly approached it, holding out your arms as you leaned in, wrapped your arms around its slowly forming figure, and nodded in silence. 

[pucksandpower]

Looking Up

Max Verstappen x tall!Reader

Summary: despite being Dutch, Max isn’t exactly surrounded by many particularly tall people — Formula 1, after all, is one of the few sports where height can be a disadvantage — so maybe he shouldn’t be surprised when a strikingly tall beauty queen catches his eye and refuses to leave his thoughts

Based on this request

Max drags his feet through the paddock, the sun glaring down in waves that seem to radiate off every surface. His Red Bull PR officer, Gemma, walks two paces ahead of him, clipboard in hand, her voice relentless.

“… and it’s a fantastic opportunity for engagement, Max. She has millions of followers, the Miss Universe Netherlands title — it’s a dream crossover. Positive PR for both of you. You’ve seen her photos, right? She’s stunning-”

“I don’t care,” Max cuts in, irritation dripping from his voice. He pulls at the neck of his race suit, already sick of the day, and now they’re parading him around like a puppet. “I don’t need a gimmick.”

Gemma ignores him. “It’s not a gimmick. This is strategic. A guest with her profile draws attention to you. To the team. Think of it as-”

Max stops walking, forcing Gemma to halt and turn back. “I already get enough attention,” he mutters, folding his arms.

She raises an eyebrow. “Yes, but not all attention is good attention. Just try, Max. Be charming. Be … approachable for once.”

He groans but resumes walking, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Charming,” he mutters under his breath. “Sure.”

They turn the corner into the Red Bull hospitality area, the usual mix of engineers, staff, and guests milling around. Max’s eyes are already scanning for the nearest exit when Gemma stops abruptly.

“There she is,” she whispers, nodding toward the seating area.

Max follows her gaze — and stops dead in his tracks.

You’re sitting at one of the tables, long legs crossed gracefully, an effortless posture that radiates confidence. The light catches on your hair, making it shimmer. You glance up, and your eyes meet his.

Max’s mouth snaps shut mid-complaint.

“Max!” Gemma hisses, but he doesn’t move.

You stand up, impossibly tall in your heels, the hem of your dress brushing against your thighs as you extend a hand toward him. Max blinks, his brain tripping over itself.

“Hi,” you say, your voice smooth, warm, unhurried. “It’s nice to meet you. I’m-”

“You’re, uh-” Max’s voice cracks. He clears his throat, willing himself to act normal. “I know who you are.”

You smile, a touch amused. “And you are Max Verstappen. Right?”

“Uh, yeah,” he manages, shifting awkwardly. Your hand is still extended, so he reaches out to shake it. Your grip is firm, your hand soft against his calloused one.

“Pleasure,” you say, tilting your head slightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“Same,” Max blurts, though he hasn’t. Well, not much anyway. His mind scrambles for something else to say, but all he can focus on is how tall you are — how he has to tilt his head up slightly to maintain eye contact. And the heels. The heels are making it worse.

“Max?” Gemma prods, her voice sharp in his ear.

He jerks his hand back, realizing he’s been holding yours a beat too long. “Right, uh, welcome. To … the paddock.”

You laugh softly, a sound that feels like it cuts through the noise of the entire paddock. “Thank you. Everyone’s been very kind so far.”

Max swallows hard, his eyes darting to your legs, your dress, and then back to your face. He knows he’s staring too long.

“So,” you continue, filling the silence he’s left hanging, “are you excited for the weekend?”

“Yeah. I mean, sure.” He rubs the back of his neck, feeling his face heat up. “It’s … racing. That’s what I do.”

You laugh again, and Max swears his brain short-circuits. “That’s what you do,” you repeat. “Good to know you’re consistent.”

Gemma clears her throat loudly. “Max, why don’t you show her around? Make her feel at home.”

Max shoots her a glare. “I’m sure she doesn’t need me to-”

“I’d love that,” you interrupt, smiling at him. “If you don’t mind.”

He freezes, his excuses dying on his tongue. “Uh … sure. Yeah. I can do that.”

You step closer, and Max’s breath catches. “Lead the way,” you say.

He’s acutely aware of the way everyone’s watching as he starts walking, you falling into step beside him. His PR officer gives him a pointed look before disappearing into the crowd.

“So,” you say, your voice light, “is this how it always is? Chaos, cameras, and all?”

“Pretty much.” Max glances at you, trying not to trip over his words — or his feet. “It’s, uh … normal.”

“You make it look easy,” you say, and he catches the genuine note in your voice.

He laughs, short and awkward. “Not as easy as you make the whole pageant thing look.”

Your smile widens, and he immediately regrets how stupid that sounded.

“Thank you,” you say, your tone teasing. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was,” he insists quickly. “Definitely was.”

You keep walking, asking questions about the team, the cars, the track. Max answers them, though his usual confidence is nowhere to be found. Every time you laugh or nod, he feels his brain falter.

“You’re taller than I expected,” he blurts out at one point, then immediately regrets it.

You stop, turning to look at him. “Taller?”

He stammers, waving his hands. “I mean, not in a bad way. Just … I didn’t realize.”

You glance down at your heels and back up at him. “It’s the shoes,” you say, but your grin tells him you know exactly what you’re doing.

“Right. Shoes,” Max mutters, his face burning. He clasps his hands in front of his groin, trying to hide the very visible reaction his body is having to … all of this.

You don’t seem to notice — or maybe you do, and you’re kind enough not to mention it. Instead, you keep walking, asking another question about the weekend’s schedule.

Max answers automatically, but his mind is elsewhere. He’s never felt like this — off balance, awkward, like he’s two steps behind and doesn’t know how to catch up.

As you reach the edge of the hospitality area, you stop and turn to face him fully. “Thanks for showing me around,” you say, your voice softening.

Max shoves his hands into his pockets, looking anywhere but at you. “No problem,” he mumbles.

You tilt your head, studying him for a moment. “You’re not as scary as they say.”

He looks up, startled. “Scary?”

“Yeah.” You smile again, and it feels like a punch to his chest. “People talk. But you’re … normal. Almost sweet.”

Max doesn’t know whether to laugh or crawl into a hole. “Sweet,” he repeats, deadpan.

“Almost,” you tease, stepping back. “I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah,” he says, watching as you walk away, heels clicking against the floor.

It’s only when you’re out of sight that Max exhales, running a hand through his hair. His heart is pounding, his thoughts a mess.

Gemma reappears, smirking. “See? Not so bad.”

Max glares at her. “Shut up.”

***

The sun blazes high over Mykonos, the air thick with salt and the faint thrum of music from a nearby DJ booth. The exclusive beach club is buzzing with energy — groups of friends lounging on cushioned chairs, waiters ferrying trays of cocktails, and the occasional splash of laughter from the turquoise water.

Max leans back on his chair, sunglasses perched on his nose, a cold drink in hand. Lando’s perched on the chair next to him, scrolling through his phone, while Martin Garrix, their mutual friend and the reason they’re here, chats animatedly with someone by the bar.

“Tonight’s going to be wild,” Lando says, nudging Max’s arm. “Martin’s set at Cavo Paradiso? Epic. You ready?”

Max shrugs. “Sure. It’s just a party.”

“Just a party?” Lando scoffs. “It’s the party. You’re lucky to even get in.”

Max rolls his eyes, half-listening. The heat makes him drowsy, and the rhythmic sound of waves is almost enough to lull him into a nap. Almost — until something catches his eye.

A woman, her long limbs moving gracefully through the water, emerges onto the sand, droplets glinting like diamonds on her skin.

It’s you.

Max freezes, his drink hovering mid-air.

You walk toward a cluster of lounge chairs, your friends laughing and talking around you. One of them — a petite brunette — stands on her tiptoes, trying to reach a bathing suit cover-up that’s hanging from an umbrella. She jumps, stretching her arms, but the fabric remains just out of reach.

“Short girl problems,” Lando mutters, following Max’s gaze.

Max doesn’t respond. He’s too busy watching you stroll over, your laughter mingling with the sea breeze. You reach up without effort, your long fingers plucking the cover-up from the umbrella.

“Here,” you say, handing it to your friend, who thanks you with an exaggerated bow.

You laugh again, and Max feels a familiar heat creeping up his neck — and lower.

“Uh oh,” Lando says, his tone teasing.

“What?” Max snaps, glancing at him.

Lando’s eyes drop pointedly to Max’s swim briefs, where the outline of his very obvious arousal is already visible.

“Oh, man,” Lando says, grinning. “You’ve got a situation.”

“Shut up,” Max mutters, crossing his arms over his lap in a futile attempt to hide the problem.

But Lando’s not letting it go. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Are you actually — because of that?” He gestures toward you, who is now tying your hair back into a loose bun, oblivious to the chaos you’re causing.

“It’s not-” Max starts, but before he can finish, Martin strolls over, a fresh drink in hand.

“What’s going on?” Martin asks, looking between them.

“Max has a problem,” Lando says, his grin widening.

“What problem?”

“This one.” Lando points directly at Max’s lap.

Max’s jaw drops. “Lando!”

Martin looks down, then bursts out laughing. “Oh, no. Max, really?”

“Stop it,” Max hisses, his face burning. He adjusts his position, but it’s no use. The snug fit of his swim briefs makes everything painfully obvious.

Lando’s laughing so hard he nearly falls off his chair. “This is gold. I’m never letting you live this down.”

“Will you two shut up-”

“Problem solved,” Martin interrupts, his voice dropping into a mock-serious tone. “We’ll just get you a bigger towel. Or a cold shower. Or-”

He doesn’t get to finish because your voice cuts through the conversation like a knife.

“Is everything okay over here?”

Max’s stomach plummets.

You’re standing a few feet away, one hand on your hip, the other holding a glass of something bright and citrusy. Your impossibly long legs seem to stretch on forever, and the sunlight makes your skin glow.

Lando and Martin exchange a glance before dissolving into more laughter.

Max wants to die.

You tilt your head, your gaze dropping briefly — too briefly — to his lap. A slow, knowing smile spreads across your face.

“Is that a banana in your shorts,” you ask, your tone teasing, “or are you just excited to see me?”

Max’s mouth opens, then closes. His brain has officially checked out.

Lando is wheezing, clutching his sides. Martin’s not much better, his laughter loud enough to draw a few curious stares from nearby tables.

“I, uh-” Max stammers, every coherent thought fleeing his mind.

You take a step closer, setting your drink down on the table. “Relax,” you say, your voice low enough that only he can hear. “I’m just teasing.”

Max swallows hard, his gaze fixed on your face. You’re even more beautiful up close, and it’s doing nothing to help his situation.

“Uh … thanks?” He manages, the word coming out like a question.

You laugh softly, and the sound sends a shiver down his spine. “For what?”

“I don’t … I don’t know,” he admits, running a hand through his hair.

Your smile softens. “Don’t be so tense, Max. It’s a beach. Everyone’s here to relax.”

“Yeah. Right. Relax.” He shifts awkwardly, wishing he could sink into the sand and disappear.

You glance over at Lando and Martin, who are still trying — and failing — to stifle their laughter. “Are these your friends?”

“Unfortunately,” Max mutters, shooting them a glare.

“They’re fun,” you say, your tone neutral but your eyes sparkling with amusement.

“They’re idiots,” Max corrects.

You shrug, picking up your drink. “Sometimes idiots are the best company.”

“Not these two,” Max mutters under his breath, which only makes you laugh again.

“Well,” you say, taking a step back, “I’ll leave you to your … situation.” You give him one last lingering look before turning and sauntering back to your friends.

Max watches you go, his heart pounding in his chest.

Lando wipes tears from his eyes. “That was the best thing I’ve ever seen.”

“Shut up,” Max mutters, throwing a towel at him.

Martin grins. “You’ve got it bad, mate.”

Max groans, leaning back in his chair and covering his face with his hands. “I hate both of you.”

But even as they continue to tease him, he can’t stop glancing in your direction. And when you catch his eye and smile, he knows he’s in trouble.

***

Monaco bustles with its usual mix of tourists, luxury cars, and locals navigating narrow streets. Max walks along Rue Grimaldi, a paper bag from the pet store swinging at his side. Inside are bags of treats for Jimmy and Sassy, who are definitely more spoiled than they have any right being. He’s dressed low-key: a plain t-shirt, jeans, and sunglasses, blending into the crowd as much as someone like him can in a town where everyone knows his name.

The walk back to his apartment is uneventful — until it isn’t.

He sees you first out of the corner of his eye, a flash of long legs and vibrant fabric catching his attention. He stops in his tracks, his brain taking a moment to catch up.

You’re standing in front of a brightly painted wall, posing effortlessly as a photographer circles you, snapping shot after shot. A team of stylists, assistants, and what Max assumes is a creative director hover nearby, adjusting lights and offering directions.

It’s undeniably you.

Max exhales, staring like an idiot. Once is chance, twice is coincidence, but three times? That’s a pattern. And this time, he’s not letting the moment slip by.

He squares his shoulders, hyping himself up. You’ve won four world championships, he tells himself. You’ve faced wheel-to-wheel battles at 300 kilometers per hour. You can do this.

He takes a deep breath, straightens his posture, and marches toward the photoshoot.

The moment he steps into the circle of activity, the entire team freezes. The photographer lowers his camera, the stylists stop mid-conversation, and all eyes turn to him.

You look up, startled, and your gaze meets his.

“Hi,” Max says, suddenly acutely aware of how everyone is staring. His confidence wavers, but he pushes through. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

The photographer blinks. “Uh, we’re in the middle of a shoot-”

“It’s okay,” you say, holding up a hand to stop him. You step toward Max, your heels clicking softly against the pavement. “What’s up?”

Now that you’re standing in front of him, Max’s brain short-circuits. You’re even more striking up close, the sunlight catching on your skin, your outfit perfectly tailored to highlight every line of your frame.

“I, uh …” He glances around, suddenly aware of the audience. He clears his throat, his voice steadying. “I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight.”

You blink, surprised. “Dinner?”

“Yeah,” Max says quickly, his words tumbling out in a rush. “I mean, I’ve seen you a couple of times now, and I figured it’s not just … random, you know? So I thought — why not? Dinner. Tonight.”

You tilt your head, a slow smile spreading across your face. “You interrupted a photoshoot to ask me out?”

“Yes.” He hesitates, then adds, “Was that a bad idea?”

The creative director mutters something under his breath, and Max hears someone else stifle a laugh. He feels the tips of his ears burn, but he refuses to back down.

You glance back at your team, who are all watching with varying degrees of amusement and disbelief. Then you look at Max again, your smile softening.

“What time?” You ask.

Max blinks. “What?”

“What time should I be ready?”

“Oh.” Relief floods his face. “Uh, seven? I can pick you up at your hotel.”

You nod, clearly entertained by his flustered state. “I’m staying at the Hôtel de Paris. Does that work?”

“Perfect,” Max says quickly, ignoring the murmurs from your team.

“Great,” you say, stepping closer. You lean down slightly — because of course you’re taller than him — and press a quick kiss to his cheek.

When you pull back, there’s a faint smudge of lipstick on his skin. “See you at seven, Max,” you say, your voice teasing.

He nods, unable to form a coherent response. You turn back to your team, who are all pretending not to stare, and resume your pose in front of the camera.

Max walks away in a daze, the paper bag swinging at his side. He touches his cheek where your lips brushed, his mind replaying the moment over and over.

By the time he makes it back to his apartment, he’s smiling so widely that even the cats look suspicious.

***

Max pulls up to the Hôtel de Paris in his Aston Martin Valkyrie, the car’s sleek design gleaming under the soft glow of Monaco’s streetlights. He knows it’s over the top, but if there’s ever a time to make an impression, it’s now. The low hum of the engine draws a few curious glances from passersby, and Max shifts in his seat, checking the dashboard clock.

6:50 PM.

He’s early. Not by much, but enough to take a deep breath and give himself a mental pep talk.

“She said yes,” he mutters to himself, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “You can handle this. You’ve faced down Lewis Hamilton in a championship battle. This is dinner.”

At exactly 7:00 PM, the hotel doors glide open, and there you are.

Max’s hand freezes on the steering wheel as he watches you descend the steps. You’re wearing a sleek, floor-length dress that shimmers faintly in the light, paired with towering heels that make your legs seem impossibly long. Your hair is styled perfectly, and you move with the effortless grace of someone who knows how to command attention.

His throat dries. Wow.

By the time you reach the car, Max is already out of the driver’s seat, jogging around to meet you. “You look — wow.”

“Thank you,” you say, smiling warmly. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”

Max glances down at his tailored suit, a rare choice for him outside of mandatory galas, and tugs at the collar. “Figured I should try.”

You laugh softly, and the sound sends a flutter through his chest.

He opens the passenger door and instinctively places his hand on the edge of the roof, subtly cushioning the space so you don’t bump your head as you fold into the car. The move is smooth, almost second nature, but he catches the slight lift of your brow and the amused curve of your lips as you settle in.

“Chivalry isn’t dead, I see,” you tease as he closes the door.

By the time he rounds the car and slips back into the driver’s seat, his ears are burning. “Figured I’d give it a shot tonight.”

The Valkyrie roars to life, and you glance around the car’s interior, visibly impressed. “This is … something.”

“Just a car,” Max says, trying to sound casual.

You shoot him a knowing look. “A very subtle one, I see.”

He chuckles, pulling out onto the road. “What can I say? Monaco brings it out of me.”

The drive is short, but Max is hyper-aware of every moment — your laughter as he navigates the narrow streets, the way your dress catches the light when you turn to look at him, and the soft sound of your voice as you ask him about his day.

When you arrive at Le Louis XV, one of Monaco’s most exclusive restaurants, Max pulls up to the valet. The grandeur of the restaurant is impossible to ignore, its gilded facade shimmering under the night sky.

“Wow,” you say, leaning slightly to take in the view. “You really went all out.”

“I figured you deserved more than takeout,” Max replies, his tone light but his heart racing.

He steps out, handing the keys to the valet, and once again circles the car to open your door. This time, he offers his hand to help you out, and when you take it, his palm is warm and steady.

“Thank you,” you say, your smile soft but genuine.

The moment you’re both standing, it’s impossible not to notice the height difference. Max isn’t short — he knows that — but next to you, especially in those heels, he feels positively average. For a split second, he wonders if it bothers you.

But then you loop your arm through his as the valet takes the car, and the thought dissolves.

The two of you walk toward the entrance, and Max is acutely aware of the growing crowd around you. Fans have gathered, some holding their phones up to record or snap pictures.

“Max! Max, over here!” Someone calls.

He doesn’t flinch, used to the attention, but when he glances at you, he notices your calm expression. If you’re fazed by the cameras or the whispers, you don’t show it.

“You get used to this?” You ask under your breath, tilting your head toward the crowd.

“Kind of,” he admits, keeping his pace steady. “Does it bother you?”

“Not really,” you say, your tone amused. “But I think they’re more interested in you than me.”

He glances at you, his gaze sweeping up to meet your eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

At the door, the maître d’ greets you warmly, escorting the two of you to a private table near the back of the restaurant. The room is elegantly decorated, the ambiance intimate yet luxurious. A soft glow from crystal chandeliers bathes the space in golden light, and the quiet hum of conversation adds to the atmosphere.

Max pulls out your chair before sitting across from you, trying not to overthink every movement.

“This place is beautiful,” you say, looking around.

“Glad you like it,” Max says, reaching for the menu. “The food is incredible.”

A sommelier approaches, recommending a bottle of wine, and the conversation flows naturally as the first course arrives.

“You’ve been here before?” You ask, raising a brow as you take a sip of wine.

“Once or twice,” Max admits. “Usually for team stuff. Not exactly a regular spot for me.”

“So this is a special occasion?”

He hesitates, meeting your gaze. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

The corners of your lips lift, and Max feels the tension in his chest ease slightly.

As the meal progresses, the conversation deepens. You ask him about racing, and he asks you about pageantry, genuinely curious about your career and the places it’s taken you.

“What’s the hardest part of it?” Max asks, leaning forward slightly.

“Probably the constant travel,” you say, swirling your wine. “It’s amazing to see the world, but it’s exhausting sometimes. You must get that, though.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “The travel’s a lot. But I guess it makes the quiet moments at home more meaningful.”

“Home is Monaco?”

“Mostly now. Though I spend more time at the track than anywhere else.”

You nod, studying him. “Do you ever wish you had more time to yourself?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Sometimes. But I love what I do. It’s worth it.”

There’s a pause, comfortable and filled with mutual understanding.

“And you?” He asks, his voice softer. “Do you ever wish for something different?”

You smile, but there’s a hint of wistfulness in your expression. “Sometimes. But I think we all do, no matter how much we love what we have.”

Max nods, his gaze lingering on you.

By the time dessert arrives, the tension has completely melted away, replaced by an easy camaraderie. You tease him about his driving habits, and he counters with stories of other drivers’ antics.

As the evening winds down, Max finds himself reluctant for it to end. He can’t stop glancing at you, at the way you seem completely at ease, despite the crowd of fans still waiting outside.

When the check comes, Max reaches for it without hesitation.

“Chivalry again?” You ask, arching a brow.

He grins. “I’m on a roll tonight.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Fine. I’ll allow it.”

Max leans back in his chair, his gaze fixed on you. “So, was it worth it?”

“Was what worth it?”

“Interrupting your photoshoot.”

You smile, resting your chin on your hand. “I think so. But I guess that depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you’re planning to ask me out again.”

Max feels his chest tighten, his pulse quickening. “I was thinking about it,” he admits, his voice low.

“Good,” you say, your smile widening. “Because I’d say yes.”

***

The paddock buzzes with its usual pre-race energy: the hum of machinery, the chatter of teams, and the occasional roar of a nearby engine. But today, Max isn’t thinking about the upcoming race, his strategy, or even his car. No, today his focus is entirely on you.

You’re walking beside him, effortlessly chic in an AlphaTauri knit dress paired with stilettos that highlight your impossibly long legs. The team had sent you the gear ahead of time, but you’ve somehow managed to make it look runway-ready.

Max steals a glance at you as you navigate the chaos of the paddock with ease. You greet every camera pointed your way with a polite smile, and even the hardened mechanics pause to give you a second look. Max can’t help the small, smug grin tugging at his lips.

“Having fun?” He asks, leaning slightly toward you.

You look at him with a raised brow. “Are you asking me or the twenty people currently taking our picture?”

He laughs, brushing a hand over his face as if it could hide the grin. “Both, I guess.”

“Definitely more fun than the first time,” you tease. “I don’t think you’ve complained once today.”

“Because you’re here,” Max says simply, shrugging.

The honesty of his answer catches you off guard, and for a moment, you just look at him, your expression softening.

“Come on,” he says, clearing his throat and grabbing your hand. “I want you to meet some people.”

Max doesn’t miss the way heads turn as he guides you through the paddock, his hand securely wrapped around yours. He’s used to being the center of attention here, but today it’s different. The whispers and double takes aren’t about him — they’re about you. And if he’s honest, he loves it.

As they approach the Ferrari motorhome, Charles Leclerc steps out, chatting with one of his engineers. His conversation halts the second he spots you.

“Charles!” Max calls, waving him over.

Charles smiles, walking up to the two of you. “Hey, Max. And-” He pauses, his eyes drifting up as he takes in your height. His grin widens. “-and you must be the famous girlfriend.”

You laugh, offering your hand. “I suppose I must be.”

Charles takes your hand, shaking it warmly. “It’s nice to finally meet you. I’ve been hearing about you nonstop.”

“Oh, really?” You ask, shooting Max a playful look. “Nonstop, huh?”

Max rolls his eyes. “Don’t start.”

Charles chuckles, his gaze flicking between the two of you. “I have to say, you’re even taller than I expected.”

“Thanks, I think?” You say, laughing.

Max grins, clearly enjoying the sight of Charles craning his neck to meet your gaze. For once, the usually confident Monegasque driver seems slightly flustered, and Max files the moment away as one of his new favorite memories.

As they part ways with Charles, you nudge Max gently with your elbow. “Are you introducing me to people just to see them react to my height?”

“Maybe,” he admits, his eyes sparkling. “It’s fun.”

You shake your head, laughing, but let him lead you further down the paddock.

Then, as you near the motorhome, you spot Yuki Tsunoda walking toward you, his petite frame standing out among the crowd.

“Yuki!” Max calls out, and Yuki looks up, his face breaking into a grin.

“Max!” Yuki replies, jogging over. His gaze shifts to you, and his steps slow slightly. “Oh, hi.”

“Yuki,” Max begins, his tone dripping with barely contained amusement. “This is my girlfriend.”

Yuki’s eyes widen as he looks up — way up — to meet your gaze. He blinks, his mouth slightly open, before glancing back at Max.

“She’s … tall,” Yuki says bluntly, his expression both amazed and confused.

You laugh, offering your hand. “Hi, I’m-”

“Yuki,” Max interrupts, clearly enjoying himself. “Why don’t you stand next to her for a second?”

Yuki looks at Max, then at you, and then back at Max. “Why?”

“Just humor me,” Max says, trying and failing to keep a straight face.

Yuki sighs but steps closer to you. The height difference is … staggering. Yuki barely reaches your shoulder, even without your heels, and when you smile down at him, he looks like he’s reconsidering every decision that brought him here.

Max takes one look at the two of you and doubles over laughing.

“Max!” You exclaim, though you’re laughing too.

“It’s not fair,” Yuki says, crossing his arms but grinning despite himself. “Why do you always have to make me look short?”

“You do that all by yourself, mate,” Max manages between laughs.

Yuki looks up at you again, shaking his head. “How do you put up with him?”

“It’s a challenge,” you say, your tone light.

Yuki snorts. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

Max steps back in, his grin still firmly in place. “Thanks, Yuki. That was everything I hoped for.”

Yuki rolls his eyes but can’t help grinning. “Yeah, yeah. You owe me for this.”

Eventually, the shorter driver waves goodbye and heads off, leaving you and Max to continue toward the motorhome.

“That was cruel,” you say, though you’re smiling.

“That was perfect,” Max corrects, his grin wide. “I’ve been waiting for that moment since the second I realized how tall you are.”

“You’re terrible,” you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow.

“Terribly lucky,” he replies, his voice softening slightly.

You glance at him, your expression shifting from amused to affectionate. “You really don’t mind the height difference, do you?”

Max stops walking and turns to face you, his expression serious. “Why would I mind? You’re gorgeous, and I love that people notice when we walk into a room. It’s like … I get to show you off, and they get to see what I already know — that you’re amazing.”

His honesty catches you off guard, and for a moment, you just stare at him, your heart swelling.

“Max,” you start, but he cuts you off with a shrug and a playful smile.

“Besides,” he says, leaning in slightly, “I think it’s hot.”

You burst out laughing, and Max joins in, his arm sliding around your waist as the two of you continue toward the motorhome, drawing every eye in the paddock.

***

Five Years Later

The hospital room is warm and quiet, save for the occasional soft coo of the newborn nestled against Max’s bare chest. The baby boy, barely a few hours old, rests peacefully, his tiny fists curled against Max’s skin. Max sits in a reclined chair, his head tilted back and eyes half-closed, utterly absorbed in the weight of his son and the moment itself.

In the bed next to him, you stir, your head turning toward the two of them. The exhaustion of labor still lingers in your features, but there’s a gentle smile on your lips as you take in the sight of Max cradling your son.

“Are you comfortable over there?” You ask, your voice soft but teasing.

Max’s eyes flicker open, and he glances at you with a faint grin. “More comfortable than you, I think,” he murmurs.

You chuckle lightly, wincing as you shift in the bed. “I don’t know. He looks pretty cozy to me.”

Max looks down at the baby, his expression softening. “He’s perfect.”

“He is,” you agree, your gaze lingering on the two of them.

The door creaks open suddenly, startling both of you. Max’s head snaps up, and his body stiffens when he sees who’s stepping into the room.

His father.

“Max,” Jos says, his voice gruff and clipped. He doesn’t wait for an invitation, stepping further into the room, his eyes scanning the scene.

“What are you doing here?” Max’s voice is low, measured, but there’s a sharp edge to it as he shifts in his chair, pulling his son closer.

“I came to see my grandson,” Jos replies curtly, his gaze settling on the baby. There’s no warmth in his tone, no trace of the pride or joy one might expect from a grandfather.

Max stands abruptly, careful not to jostle the baby. He moves toward the door, positioning himself between Jos and the rest of the room. “Now’s not a good time.”

Jos ignores him, his eyes narrowing as he takes a step closer. “Looks like he’s going to take after his mother,” Jos remarks, his tone disdainful. “With those long legs, he’ll be too tall for single-seaters. Not exactly ideal for racing, is it?”

The air in the room shifts instantly. Max’s jaw tightens, and a flicker of anger flashes across his face. His arms instinctively tighten around his son as if shielding him from the words.

“Get out,” Max says, his voice dangerously calm.

Jos scoffs, crossing his arms. “I’m just saying. If you’re hoping for another Verstappen on the track, you might want to manage your expectations.”

“Stop.” Max’s voice is sharper now, cutting through the tension. He glances at you, his expression softening briefly before returning to Jos. “I mean it. Get out.”

But Jos doesn’t move. “You know I’m right. Height matters in racing. You’ve seen it yourself. It’s not about love or coddling, Max. It’s about preparation, discipline-”

“Enough!” Max’s voice rises, and the baby stirs slightly in his arms. He immediately takes a deep breath, rocking gently to soothe the infant before continuing, his tone quieter but no less firm. “I won’t let you do this. Not to my kids.”

Jos raises an eyebrow, his expression unreadable. “Do what?”

“Turn them into something they’re not,” Max says, his eyes blazing. “Make them feel like they’re only worth something if they win. If they race. If they’re … perfect.”

Jos frowns, but Max presses on.

“If either of my kids wants to race, I’ll give them every opportunity. I’ll teach them, support them, and make sure they have everything they need — whether they’re five feet tall or six and a half. But if they don’t want to race, if they want to do something completely different, that won’t make me love them any less.”

There’s a beat of silence, heavy and charged.

Max shifts his son in his arms, his voice softening but remaining resolute. “I’m not you, Dad. And I never will be.”

Jos’ mouth opens slightly as if to argue, but whatever words he was planning to say seem to falter. He looks at Max, at the baby, then back at Max, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something almost like understanding in his eyes.

Almost.

But Jos says nothing, his jaw tightening as he turns and walks out of the room without another word.

The door clicks shut behind him, and the tension dissipates like a released breath.

Max exhales shakily, lowering himself back into the chair. He looks at you, his eyes apologetic.

“Sorry about that,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, your voice soft but firm. “You don’t have to apologize. You did the right thing.”

He nods, looking down at his son, who has settled back into a peaceful sleep. “I just …” His voice catches, and he clears his throat. “I don’t ever want him — or her — to feel like they’re not enough. Not for me.”

You smile gently, reaching out to rest a hand on his arm. “They won’t. Not with you as their dad.”

Max’s lips quirk into a small, grateful smile. He leans down, pressing a tender kiss to the top of his son’s head. “He’s not going anywhere near a kart until he’s ready. If he even wants to.”

“Good,” you say, your tone teasing now. “Because I think Mariska has already claimed the first shot at it.”

Max laughs softly, shaking his head. “She’s three.”

“And already faster than you in her Little Tikes Cozy Coupe,” you counter, grinning.

Max chuckles. “She’s going to be trouble.”

“Good trouble,” you say.

He looks back at you, his expression softening again. “Yeah. The best kind.”

As the room settles into a calm silence once more, Max leans back in his chair, his son still resting against him, and he allows himself to soak in the moment — a moment of peace, love, and the quiet certainty that he’ll never repeat the mistakes of the past.

***

Seven Years Later

The karting track buzzes with energy — engines revving, parents-turned-mechanics making last-minute adjustments, and young drivers darting around in full racing gear. Among them is Mariska, standing tall in her dark blue suit with “Verstappen” emblazoned across the back. At ten years old, she’s already a striking presence, her confidence tempered by the nerves of a child shouldering a big name.

Max watches from the sidelines, his arms crossed, a proud but protective look on his face. He’s been here countless times before, both as a driver and as a father. He knows this world, knows the pressure and the teasing that can come with standing out. And Mariska, with her long limbs and sharp mind, stands out in every way.

You’re beside him, your hand brushing against his. “She’s got this,” you say softly, your eyes never leaving your daughter.

“She does,” Max agrees, though the tightness in his jaw betrays his worry.

The race begins, and Mariska takes off like a bullet. Her natural talent is undeniable, her lines clean and her determination fierce. But the other kids aren’t just racing her — they’re ganging up, cutting her off in corners, and one boy even leans too aggressively, nudging her kart as they pass.

Max tenses, his fingers curling into fists. “That little-”

“Max,” you warn gently, placing a calming hand on his arm.

“She’s fine,” you add, your voice steady. “She can handle them.”

And she does. On the next lap, Mariska out-brakes the boy who had bumped her, overtaking him with a sharp precision that leaves him scrambling. A few laps later, she claims third place, her kart crossing the finish line with a triumphant roar.

The moment the race ends, Max strides toward the pit lane, his eyes scanning for Mariska. He finds her climbing out of her kart, her helmet tucked under her arm. A group of boys stands nearby, whispering and snickering.

“You’re too tall for this,” one of them says loud enough for her to hear. “Shouldn’t you be playing basketball or something?”

Mariska freezes, her posture stiffening.

“Yeah,” another chimes in. “You’ll never fit in a real car anyway.”

Max’s jaw clenches, and he’s ready to storm over, but Mariska surprises him. She turns to the boys, her expression calm but fierce.

“At least I don’t need dirty tricks to keep up,” she says coolly, her voice steady.

The boys’ smirks falter, and they shuffle awkwardly before walking away, muttering under their breaths.

Max approaches, his heart swelling with pride. “Hey, Mari.”

She turns to him, her face still set in a determined line, but her eyes betray a flicker of uncertainty.

“You okay?” Max kneels down to her level, his hands resting on his knees.

“Yeah,” she says after a pause.

He tilts his head, studying her. “You sure? Because you were amazing out there. Third place is a big deal.”

Mariska shrugs, her gaze dropping to her helmet. “They’re just … they’re always saying stuff, you know? About how I’m too tall. That I’ll never fit in a car.”

Max’s heart aches at the vulnerability in her voice. He reaches out, gently lifting her chin so she looks at him.

“Do you think Mama is pretty?” He asks softly.

Mariska blinks, startled by the question. “What?”

“Mama,” Max repeats, his tone light but serious. “Do you think she’s pretty?”

Mariska’s face scrunches in confusion, but she nods. “Of course I do. Mama’s the prettiest girl in the world.”

Max smiles. “I think so too.”

Mariska tilts her head, still unsure where this is going.

“You know,” Max continues, “you got your height from Mama. And she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. So, what does that make you?”

Mariska stares at him, her brows furrowing. “I don’t know.”

Max leans closer, his voice steady and full of warmth. “It makes you beautiful too, Mari. You’re tall because you’re strong, and you’re special, just like Mama. Don’t ever let anyone make you feel small because of that.”

Mariska’s lips tremble slightly, and she nods, a small smile breaking through.

“And for the record,” Max adds, a mischievous glint in his eye, “if you keep driving like that, those boys are going to have a lot more to say. But it won’t be about your height — it’ll be about how you’re faster than all of them.”

Mariska giggles, her confidence returning. “I was faster than them, wasn’t I?”

“You were,” Max says, his pride unmistakable.

You walk over then, crouching down beside them. “What’s going on here?”

“Papa says I’m beautiful like you,” Mariska says, her voice filled with a newfound certainty.

You smile, your hand brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. “That’s because you are, schatje.”

Max watches the two of you, his heart full as he pulls Mariska into a hug.

“Now,” he says, pulling back with a grin, “what do you say we go celebrate? Ice cream from that little place down the road.”

Mariska cheers, her earlier doubts forgotten, and the three of you walk off together, leaving the track and its pettiness behind.

Max knows there will be more challenges ahead — more races, more comments, more moments of doubt. But he also knows his daughter is strong, just like her mother. And with a family like yours, there’s nothing she can’t face.

[gf2bellamy]

Okay okay so I was watching episode 6x6 (Devil's Night) and the beginning when Spencer was really excited to share the origin of Halloween and talk about his Halloween plans and everyone just went 🙄 when he invited them mad me so sad - my poor baby just wanted someone to talk to :(

So is it alright if I please request fem!bau!reader just shyly being like "I'd love to come, if that's okay 😊" and he's like 😳🥹🥰 "yeah"

I found a link to that scene if it helps (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WrBzi9VBIFw)

halloween — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: some facts abt halloween a/n: thank you so much for your request ( and the link !! ) <3 i hope you like this <3 also this healed something in me bc this scene always made me sad like i'd go with you pookie ☹️

You sat at the conference table, flipping through the file in front of you. Next to you, Rossi sipped his coffee, deep in thought, while Derek leaned back in his chair, absentmindedly twirling a pen between his fingers.

Suppressing a yawn, you blinked tiredly at the text on the page. But then your ears picked up on something, or rather, someone.

Spencer.

His voice carried through the open door and just like that, your mood shifted instantly, a small smile tugging at your lips before you could stop it.Derek caught the change. From the corner of your eye, you noticed his amused smirk as he tilted his head slightly in your direction.

He didn’t say anything, he didn’t have to.

The look alone was enough to say busted. Still, he simply shook his head and returned his attention to his paperwork, letting you off the hook.

Moments later, Spencer and Emily entered the room. Spencer was mid-sentence, his voice animated, eyes bright.

“—it became a little more commercialized in the 1950’s with trick or treat and today it only rivals Christmas in terms of popularity.”

As he spoke, his gaze found yours, his expression softening just slightly as he smiled in greeting. You felt your heart stutter in response, but you quickly masked it with a small nod, returning the smile.

Emily, on the other hand, looked less than amused. With a sigh, she dropped into the chair beside Rossi, rubbing her temples.

“All I asked was what he was doing this weekend,” she muttered, exasperation evident in her voice.

You glanced at Spencer, who remained standing, still lost in his Halloween tangent. Your eyes trailed down, taking in his outfit, a soft red cardigan over a button-up.

It suited him, and you had to resist the urge to comment on how ridiculously cute he looked.

Across the table, Rossi, Derek, and you were all watching Spencer with varying degrees of amusement. His hands gestured slightly as he spoke.

“You know, I'm toying with the notion of either going to the Edgar Allan Poe puppet theater or the reenactment of a 19th-century phantasmagoria,” he said, sounding excited when naming those two events.

As he talked, Garcia swept into the room in a burst of color, her outfit an explosion of orange hues. Your gaze flickered to her for a brief second, a smile forming at the sheer Garcia-ness of it all. Rossi, however, had no interest in indulging Spencer’s train of thought. He raised a hand in protest, shaking his head. “I don’t want to know.”

You frowned at his answer, turning back to Spencer with genuine curiosity. “I do,” you chimed in, tilting your head slightly as you watched him.

“Phantasmagorias are these amazing pre projected go shows invented in France where the showman attempted to spook the audience using science magic.” Spencer explained, his voice picking up excitement.His eyes lit up as he emphasized the words science and magic, his enthusiasm practically infectious.

And if you weren’t already hopelessly smitten, well, you were pretty sure you had actual heart eyes by now.

Spencer met your gaze, and for a fleeting moment, his confident rambling faltered. A faint blush crept up his neck, blooming across his cheeks as he registered the way you were looking at him. But, ever Spencer, he pressed on, his hands moving expressively as he spoke.

“And it just so happens that I have an extra ticket,” he said, nodding slightly, his voice just a touch more careful now.

You weren’t oblivious, you could practically feel the impending remark forming on Derek’s lips or the teasing smirk playing at Garcia’s expression. Rossi looked thoroughly unimpressed, as if this entire conversation was a waste of his time. The disinterest from the others was obvious, and you knew exactly where this was going.

So, before anyone could ruin the moment, you spoke up. “I’d love to join you,” you said, your voice warm.

The room, somehow, impossibly, grew even quieter.

Spencer’s wide eyes locked onto yours, his lips parting slightly as though he wasn’t sure he’d heard you correctly. “Really?” he practically whispered.

You nodded, offering him a warm smile. “Sure. It sounds fun.”

For a second, Spencer just stared at you, as if trying to determine whether or not you were joking. When he realized you were serious, his lips curled into a small, shy smile. His fingers fidgeted with the hem of his cardigan, and you could see the gears turning in his mind, he hadn’t expected this.

Garcia’s eyes flicked between the two of you, a knowing grin slowly spreading across her face. Derek, meanwhile, chuckled, shaking his head in amusement.

Spencer, still looking a little shocked but undeniably happy. “O-okay,” he stammered, clearing his throat. “Uh, great. I mean—yeah, it’ll be fun.”

“Well, pretty boy, looks like you’ve got yourself a date,” Derek teased, his tone light but clearly pleased.

Spencer’s face went an even darker shade of red. “It’s not a—” He stopped himself, glancing at you quickly before deciding not to finish that sentence. Instead, he cleared his throat and adjusted his cardigan, trying to regain composure. You just smiled to yourself, finding his flustered reaction entirely too adorable.

Maybe this Halloween was going to be more fun than you thought.

[baeshijima]

— stardust

the world is a vast place. in the grand scheme of things, humans are but a speck of dust; much like how you are sure you are nothing but a meagre speck of dust in the world he lives in, forever to be remained unseen. (if only you knew how you are the brightest star he'd ever laid his eyes upon.)

CONTAINS : gn!reader, 1.5k wc, royalty!au, contract marriage/marriage of convenience, fluff, smitten reca bc what would he be other than smitten, a little hint of bittersweet at the end if read between the lines aha...

A/N : ....i have a paper due monday. i havent started it. why do i do this to myself. (reca i love u can u not hear my cries and wails as fic after fic appears in my brain for u...)

Duke Reca of the northern territory; to many he is a well-accomplished noble, a young genius set for greater things, and the owner-slash-founder of the top theatre company. He is an idol — a role model to those who aspire to be more involved in the artistic side of the world.

To you, however, he is an absolute lunatic, the bane of your existence, and your contractual husband.

It's not like you had much choice. It was either: a) remain as a hollow puppet whose strings danced at your family's fingertips, or b) find some way to escape with outside power.

You, of course, chose the second option. Unfortunately, that somehow led to you meeting the young duke when out in the shopping district, trying to escape the suffocating presence of your family's knights accompanying you by running into a secluded alleyway, even if it was for but a momentary breather.

It was a whirlwind of a meeting... quite literally. Bodies flew; clothing tousled; breaths stolen. Well, at least for you it was like this. He, on the other hand, looked right as rain. (Lucky bastard.) You hadn't realised it was him at first, too absorbed in hasty apologies and the numbing bloom spreading across your backside like a wildfire (really, they ought to incorporate more padding in these flimsy clothes!), but when he uttered an apology of his own for not paying attention to his surroundings with an arm outstretched to help you stand, your mind all but blanked. What was someone of his status doing in a dingy alley? Didn't the newspapers report word of his self-confinement, having not stepped foot outside his manor in fervent preparation of his upcoming performance?

No, never mind all that; wasn't this a blatant opportunity being presented to you? An outside power that could help you escape the clutches of your family...

With gritted teeth, all sense of self-dignity was cast aside as you grasped his outstretched hand with both of your own, gazing into his widened eyes with your own narrowed ones.

"Your Grace, I know this is hardly the appropriate time nor place, but please... marry me!" Your words echoed within the enclosed space. Duke Reca blinked slowly down at you, and it was then you realised you never elaborated. "In... in a contractual marriage of convenience, of course."

"Oh?" he grinned, amusement and intrigue twinkling in his eyes. "And what is it you can offer me?"

"I..." Truthfully, there was nothing you could offer which would be beneficial to someone like him who had everything at the tips of his fingers. You were but a speck of dust in his world, merely floating and remaining unseen within his view. But even so, here you kneeled before him, his gaze wholly fixated on a speck of dust such as yourself. If nothing else, you at least had your desperation — a desperation to be your own person. "My lineage may be from that of a baron's, but I am confident I can be of use to you if you would permit it. So long as you accept my offer, I will do anything to aid you, whether that be through practical means or a performance you wish to see."

A beat of silence.

"Ha... haha... ahahaha!!"

And, as if things couldn't get any worse than a sore rear and disgruntled self, you were pulled out of your daze by a pair of gleaming carmine eyes, a maniacal grin, and his body, now kneeled just like you were, so very close to your own.

"That determination... how brilliantly you burn with such an expression!" The sheer glee which bled through his tone sent shivers down your spine, having never realised someone so esteemed had such a side to him. The duke breathed a breathy laugh and slightly backed up, his hands still holding your arms. "Alright, I look forward to seeing how brightly you will shine in your performance, my dear leading actor."

...Was it too late to back out and find an alternative solution?

Admittedly so, for the next thing you knew vows were declared and you were moved into the duke's residence. You could still remember your family's aghast expressions the moment you declared you were marrying Duke Reca and thus cutting ties with them. It was oddly freeing to see their contorted faces reveal their true nature.

Life as the duke's spouse was... something, to say the least. His servants and attendants almost seemed to have shed tears of joy at the revelation of their ever so lonely duke (their words, not yours) finally settling down and getting married, asking you questions such as how you both met, what drew you to their duke, who popped the question first, why you chose him of all people, so on so forth. It was... cosy. Something you admittedly weren't very accustomed to, but found yourself welcoming nonetheless.

One thing you never expected was for the duke to have a little pet of his own; a little toad dressed in a miniature beret and matching suit, at that. Assistant Director is what Reca had called her, and you think for someone so obsessed with the arts he ought to up his naming sense. She was also quite susceptible to compliments, something you discovered when commenting on the little toad's cute attire, with the duke's baffling translation of her bashfulness and her own compliment on your own looks. Apparently. You're not really sure, but you're inclined to believe it ever since she claimed a spot on your shoulder.

As the days-turned-weeks-turned-months bled into each other, you found yourself oddly lost at how well-adapted you have become of your new life and the duke's personality. From impromptu displays of affection both in and outside the manor to sporadic radio silence on his end when wholly consumed by his fervent passion for a project, you sometimes wonder just how you're still alive with the amount of heart attacks the man has given you.

But despite his... eccentricities, to put it lightly, there are times where you can't quite put a finger on certain expressions he would make when he thinks you're not looking. They're unlike his (once again, to put it very lightly) passionate eyes when rambling to you during mealtimes about an upcoming performance the troupe has; unlike the sheer mania he can exude when something truly sparks his inspiration; unlike the playfully smug grin he would give you when swooping down in dramatic flair to press a long kiss to the back of your palm; unlike the rare darkening of his expression that you cannot help but stiffen at when something or someone in the troupe doesn't quite match his expectations.

No. These ones are... soft. A kind of tenderness and unprecedented longing able to be identified if scrutinised close enough. It was evident in the ghost-like touches he would trail along your skin, as though afraid just a little more force would do irreparable damage. It was evident in the attention to even the most minute details, having everything from clothing to food to the decor suited to preferences you yourself never realised you had. It was evident in the way unadulterated fondness leaked through his tone when his unique terms of affection for you slipped through his lips when all was silent and you were supposed to be asleep.

"My dearest star..."

...Much like now, it would seem.

The bed dips by where your knees slightly bend, hidden under the beige covers. A familiar musky scent surrounds you not long after, and you find yourself involuntarily relaxing at the comfort it brings as your head further burrows into the pillow.

You want to stay awake, even if it's just for a second longer, to hear what he has to say to your less than conscious state. But, oh, his fingers threading through your hair and softly massaging your scalp and the gentle touch of his forehead against yours and the subtle comforting warmth that rolls off his body in waves does little to help you fight the sleep which easily takes over.

Oh, whatever! You'll just try and catch what he has to say next time.

Eventually your breathing evens out, only soft snores now heard within the large shared bedroom. Upon noticing this, Reca cannot stop the fond smile which lifts the corners of his lips, nor can he prevent the softening of his eyes as he continues to gaze at your sleeping form.

"My dearest [Name]," he whispers into the dead of night. Even now, several months later, he still cannot believe his luck to have run into you in that alleyway. It must have been fate which made him heed its call, urging him he would discover something sure to escape that terrible slump plaguing him for weeks on end.

Sure enough, it brought him to something irreplaceable; something he has been searching desperately for.

You.

And, with the tenderest of kisses pressed to your forehead that would put even the most sickening romantics to shame, he murmurs words of promise against your skin, an oath he swears to uphold no matter the obstacles which stand before him.

"In this life, I will ensure you have only the best of endings."

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