Dealing With The Worst Case Scenario

bro i’m never getting over this series i think it’s gonna be engrained in my brain

TROUBLE ALMOST ALL MY LIFE MASTERLIST

Spencer Reid x Prentiss!Reader. pictures are not indicative of readers appearance. Reader has not got any racial features mentioned & we never see Emily’s dad so I have tried to make my fic as inclusive to all my fem!readers as possible! Please let me know if this is not the case <3

ACT I

TROUBLE ALMOST ALL MY LIFE | the ONE time the BAU need you + the FOUR times you need them

NEARLY BROUGHT ME TO MY KNEES | the FIVE times Spencer thinks he likes you + the ONE time he knows

BONUS: YOU’RE ALL I EVER WANTED | the time you realise you like Spencer

THERE’S NO SIGN OF LIFE | the one where you grieve Emily together + the one where you kiss him

THE KID SWINGS BACK | the THREE times things feel weird between Spencer and you because you’re just best friends.

WAS I FOOLIN MYSELF? | the THREE times you can’t have him no matter how much you want him

then strangers again | small drabble about what happened after

ACT II

SKIN LIKE PUFF PASTRY | the one where you help Spencer grieve another woman + the one with the promise

LET IT ONCE BE ME | the THREE times you wait for him + the ONE time you don't have to

I MIGHT JUST BE IN LA LA LA LA LA LOVE | the FIVE times you hide your relationship from the team + the ONE time you tell everyone

YOU CAN HEAR IT IN THE SILENCE | the TWO big steps you take

LITTLE OLD ME | the one with cat adams and the one where she tells him

MY BABY, HERE ON EARTH | the nine months of being pregnant

ACT III [FILE LOADING]

BUGSPENCE DRABBLES the one with the card counting the one with the surfboard the one with the glasses

i’m crying it’s so good

WHITE XMAS | mattheo riddle

summary; mattheo comes to spend christmas with you and your family.

word count; 15,245

notes; I have never played chess in my life, chess girlies don’t come for me. pic was made by @finalgirllx!

Keep reading

YES YES YESSSSS ITS SO GOOD

The One Where Everyone Finds Out

Master List

Spencer Reid is in love with Y/N, and she’s in love with him…only they don’t know it yet…and they might be are definitely going to be the very last to know. And since Spencer and Y/N happen to be surrounded by the best profilers in the country, the rest of the team is, of course, the first to piece together the romance. Little by little, bit by bit, the team solves the case of Spencer and Y/N. 

A 1K Celebration miniseries!

TIMELINE OF EVENTS MENTIONED IN THE SERIES

The One Where Hotch Finds Out

The One Where Penelope Finds Out

The One Where Derek Finds Out

The One Where Alex Finds Out

The One Where JJ Finds Out

The One Where Rossi Finds Out

The One Where Spencer Finds Out

The One Where Everyone Finds Out

Full Fic in Chronological Order

~~~

Taglist: @pinkdiamond1016 @shadyladyperfection @cielo1984 @rainsong01 @jhillio @pessimystic-fangirl @saspencereid​ @takeyourleap-of-faith @andreasworlsboring101 @avidreider @saays-bitch @waddlenut @nighttimerain123 @meowimari @aizawaxkun @babyspencersslut @no-honey-no @the-hermit @andrewhoezierbyrne @jessicarabbit09 @subhuman-queer​ @ncsls0515​ @liaabsurd​ @sizzlingclamturtlesludge​ @sassiest-politician​ @meowiemari​ @uhuhuh​ @closetedreidstan​ @whatamidoinghp​ @quillanpie​ @spongeshxt​ @spencer-blake-supremacy​ @itsametaphorbriansblog​ @vgirl-10123​ @peoplejustcanthandlemywierdness​ @stand-tall-pineapple​ @nighttimerain123 @padsfirewhisky​ @ceeellewrites​ @mggsprettygirl​ @drayshadow​ @cal-ifornication​ @theetherealbloom​ @teenwolfgirl90 @eevee0722​ @questionmymentality​ @wintermuteway​ @ellesmythe​ @mac99martin​ @supersouthy​ @obsssedwithjustaboutanything​ @ssa-githae​ @cherrystay​ @calm-and-doctor​ @icedcoffee187​ @devilswaldorf​ @annemijnisdancing​ @half-blood-dork​ @blameitonthenight21​ @happyreid187​ @ssa-kassidyhughes​ @goldeng1rl8​ @meangirlsx​ @honestlystop​ @lastpasttheposts​ @problemforfuturetech @justthewidevarietyofthingsilike​ @avengers-ass-emble17​ @bauhousewife​ @averyhotchner​ @underscorecourt​ @green-intervention​ @takeyourleap-of-faith​ @fan-girl-97​ @coolbeans3​ @boxofsparklingmuses​ @allaboutsml​ @day-n-night-dreamer​ @ssareidbby​ @percabethfangirl​ @spencerreidsimptime​​ @v-is-obsessive​ @tanyaherondale​ @usuck​ @mitchiri-nek0​ @olicity-beliver​ @kaitlynpcallmebeepme​

Link to Main Master List

OH HELL YEAHHHHH

VELVET & VICE | LN4

an: i can’t really remember how this idea came to me but i was listening to this song and the scenario popped in and consider this a late international women’s day fic bc let’s put respect on the real brains

wc: 5.7k

1940’s London

THE RAIN HAMMERED AGAINST THE CARRIAGE ROOF as it rattled through the darkened streets of London. The city reeked of coal smoke and damp earth, the fog curling around gas lamps like ghostly fingers. Inside, she sat rigid, fingers clenched in the folds of her lace gloves, the weight of her family’s ambition pressing against her ribs like a corset pulled too tight.

She was to be married tonight. Bound by ink and blood to a man she had never met, save for whispers of his name spoken in caution. Lando Norris. A name that carried weight in the underbelly of the city, a name that made men straighten their backs and women lower their gazes. A name that would now belong to her.

The carriage jerked to a stop in front of a grand townhouse, its brick facade imposing even beneath the gloom. A man in a flat cap opened the door, rain slicking his coat, and gestured for her to step out. She hesitated—just a beat—before she lifted her chin and climbed down, the dampness clinging to her skin like an omen.

Inside, the house smelled of whisky and tobacco, the air thick with the scent of men who made their own rules. And then she saw him.

Lando leaned against the mantle, his shirt sleeves rolled up, braces hanging loose over his shoulders. He looked exactly as she’d imagined—sharp-jawed, dark-eyes, his gaze heavy with something unreadable. He took a slow drag of his cigarette, eyes scanning her with the kind of disinterest that set her teeth on edge.

"So you're the poor thing they’ve shackled to me," he murmured, exhaling smoke.

She peeled off her gloves one finger at a time, ignoring the way his eyes flicked to the movement. "I’d say the feeling is mutual."

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it was gone just as quickly. He pushed off the mantle, stepping close enough that she caught the scent of tobacco and leather. "Let’s get one thing straight," he said, voice low. "You don’t make trouble for me, and I won’t make trouble for you. We do what’s required, and that’s it."

She met his gaze, defiant. "Oh, don’t worry. I have no intention of playing the doting wife."

Something flickered in his eyes then—something dark, something amused. He acted like her sharp tongue was a nuisance, but there was a tension in his jaw, a twitch in his fingers, that told her otherwise.

He liked it.

Lando let the silence hang between them for a moment, eyes narrowing as he took another slow drag of his cigarette. Then, exhaling a stream of smoke, he turned away, his voice clipped and businesslike.

"You’ll have your own room," he said, moving towards the drinks cabinet. "End of the hall, second door on the left. We do what’s necessary in public, but behind closed doors, you stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours." He poured himself a glass of whisky, the clink of crystal against the bottle cutting through the thick air. "You don’t ask questions, you don’t meddle in things that don’t concern you, and we’ll get through this just fine."

She folded her arms, unmoved. "Perfect. I’d hate to be under your feet."

A scoff left his lips, low and amused. He knocked back the whisky in one go, setting the glass down with a decisive thud. Then, without looking at her, he called over his shoulder. "Oscar will take your bags up."

Her fingers twitched at her sides. She could feel the weight of his words, the unspoken expectation that she’d simply nod, accept the help, fall into line like some obedient little wife.

Instead, she turned sharply on her heel, her voice crisp. "As I said—no doting wife from me."

She strode past him, ignoring the way his head tilted ever so slightly at her tone. Bending down, she grasped the handles of her two trunks—heavy with silk, lace, and a life she hadn’t chosen—and lifted them without hesitation.

Lando said nothing, but she felt his gaze on her as she walked off, her heels clicking against the polished wooden floor with each deliberate step. He was watching her. Measuring her.

And if she wasn’t mistaken, he liked what he saw.

The first week passed in a tense, unspoken battle of wills.

She settled into the house without asking permission, without waiting for instructions. She came and went as she pleased, taking the car when she wanted it, slipping through London’s streets with a confidence that said she owed nothing to anyone—not even the man whose name she now carried. She had no interest in playing the obedient little wife, and Lando, for all his grumbling, hadn’t tried to force her into it.

Not that they didn’t clash.

She was sharp-tongued, quick-witted, never missing a chance to throw his own words back at him. When he told her not to meddle, she raised a brow and asked if she should sit in a corner and do embroidery instead. When he came home late, smelling of whisky and cigarette smoke, she’d glance up from her book and say, "Busy night intimidating the weak?" with just enough amusement to make his jaw tick.

And yet, for all his irritation, she noticed the way his eyes followed her. The way his fingers twitched at his side when she smirked at him. The way he seemed to come home earlier than he used to, as if drawn back to the house by something he wouldn’t name.

But she never gave him the satisfaction of acknowledging it.

So when he strode into her room unannounced that evening, it wasn’t entirely surprising. What was surprising was the way he stopped dead in his tracks.

She stood by the vanity in nothing but her undergarments—lace-trimmed, elegant, expensive, the kind of thing a woman wore when she had no intention of being overlooked. She didn’t flinch, didn’t rush to cover herself. Instead, she met his gaze in the mirror, her expression utterly unimpressed.

Lando, for once, had nothing to say. His mouth opened slightly before he exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair.

"Christ—sorry." He turned on his heel, as if debating whether to leave altogether.

She barely spared him a glance as she reached for a brush, running it through her hair with slow, measured strokes. "What is it you need?"

There was a beat of silence, thick and charged. Then, slowly, he turned back, his expression unreadable.

Maybe he’d expected her to blush, to stammer, to pull a dressing gown around herself in embarrassment. Instead, she was calm. Unbothered. It was him who looked thrown off.

And that, more than anything, made her smirk.

Lando hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping further into the room, shutting the door behind him with a quiet click. Instead of leaving, as any decent man would, he crossed to the bed and sank onto the edge of it, elbows resting on his knees. His eyes never left her.

She continued brushing her hair as if he wasn’t there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be standing half-dressed while her husband sat on her bed, watching her with a gaze that was just a little too heavy, a little too slow.

She had no shame, no hesitation. It was infuriatingly attractive.

Lando dragged a hand over his jaw and exhaled sharply, forcing himself to focus. "We’re going out tomorrow."

She arched a brow in the mirror. "Are we?"

He smirked at the disinterest in her tone. "Another firm’s hosting a gathering. Their boss’ wife will be there, and I need you to keep conversation going."

At that, she finally turned to face him, one hand still idly twisting a strand of hair around her fingers. "You need me to be charming," she summarised.

"Something like that," he said, watching her closely.

He shifted slightly, fingers tapping idly against his knee. "There are rules, though. You don’t speak unless spoken to. You don’t ask questions—"

"Don’t drink too much. Don’t get pulled into business talk. Don’t act too interested in the men, or too cold to their wives. Always let you lead the conversation," she listed off, her voice laced with boredom. "I know."

Lando frowned. "How—?"

She gave him a knowing look, standing and walking towards the wardrobe as if this entire exchange was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. "You’re not raised as Verstappen daughter without knowing those rules," she said simply.

For a moment, Lando just watched her, his head tilting slightly. He knew her father had been one of the most calculated men in London, he’d met her older brother, but hearing the ease with which she recited those expectations made something settle in his chest.

She hadn’t just been married into this world. She’d been built for it.

And, for reasons he didn’t quite understand yet, he liked that far more than he should have.

The restaurant was the kind of place where the rich and the dangerous rubbed shoulders, where chandeliers dripped light onto crisp linen tablecloths, and where business was conducted in murmured voices behind half-filled glasses of whisky. Lando led her inside with a firm hand at the small of her back—not out of affection, but as a quiet warning to behave. She didn’t need it.

She knew exactly what she was doing.

The air was thick with cigar smoke and quiet tension, laughter that didn’t quite reach the eyes of the men who chuckled. Their host for the evening, George Russell, sat at the head of the table, his wife draped in silk beside him, her rings catching the light as she spoke with animated flourishes.

Lando had a job tonight. She knew that. This wasn’t just about keeping up appearances—it was about information. Alliances. Power. And while he was watching the men, reading their movements, she turned her attention to something far more useful.

The wives.

They always knew more than they should. They noticed things their husbands assumed they wouldn’t, and if you listened carefully enough, you could hear the real story behind all the posturing.

So she leaned in, eyes bright with curiosity, mouth curled in that perfect balance of friendly and conspiratorial. "I adore that bracelet," she murmured to one of them, tilting her head. "Is it new?"

The woman, delighted to be noticed, grinned. "Oh, George bought it last week, the dear. He felt guilty, I think—off on business in the middle of the night, you know how it is."

She hummed, sipping her wine. Business in the middle of the night. Interesting.

Another woman sighed, swirling her glass. "At least yours buys you presents. Alex’s been preoccupied with that warehouse of his—honestly, I think he’s more in love with those bloody shipments than me."

Shipments. Warehouse. Noted.

She let the conversation drift, guiding it where she wanted, letting them talk themselves into giving her everything. And by the time dessert arrived, she had more useful information than Lando would get from an hour of sharp-eyed stares and stiff conversation.

"Enjoying yourself?" he murmured beside her, his hand grazing her thigh beneath the table as he leaned in. From the outside, it looked like an intimate gesture. She knew better. He was asking if she’d behaved.

She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze with a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, very much so."

He had no idea.

She continued as the courses passed, her laughter light, her eyes wide with interest, each question perfectly placed. She never pushed too hard—just enough to make the other wives feel important, to let them believe they were the ones leading the conversation. A few coy smiles, a well-timed sigh of exasperation about the trials of marriage, and they practically handed her everything.

Lando, meanwhile, was locked in conversation with George and the other men, his voice low, sharp. He was fishing for something—information, leverage, an answer to whatever question had brought him here tonight. He didn’t notice how easily she was doing the same.

By the time coffee was served, she had the pieces she needed. A warehouse by the docks. A shipment coming in late, unregistered. A man slipping away in the night when he shouldn’t be. The men sat back in their chairs, cigars glowing in the dim light, convinced they held all the power in the room.

She smirked against the rim of her glass.

Dinner wrapped up in a slow, drawn-out affair of handshakes and parting pleasantries. Lando’s hand found her back again as he led her outside, his grip firm, possessive. The evening air was sharp against her skin after the warmth of the restaurant, and the street was quiet save for the low murmur of departing guests.

The carriage was waiting. Lando opened the door, helping her in before settling beside her. The door clicked shut, the city slipping past in shadows as they pulled away.

For a few moments, there was only silence. He stretched out his legs, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off the weight of the evening. Then he turned to her, studying her in the dim light.

"You behaved yourself, then," he murmured.

She hummed, tracing a lazy circle on the leather seat. "Oh, I don’t know about that."

He raised a brow. "Should I be worried?"

She leaned back, watching him. Then, casually, as if discussing the weather, she began listing what she had learned.

George’s late-night disappearances. The unregistered shipment. The dockside warehouse. The men who had not been where they were supposed to be.

She spoke with ease, watching as Lando’s expression shifted.

By the time she finished, he was silent. He tilted his head slightly, his fingers tapping once against his knee before he exhaled, slow and deliberate.

"You got all that," he said, "from gossip."

She smirked. "Oh, Lando. You should know by now—wives hear everything."

Lando stared at her for a long moment, his expression unreadable, the faint glow of the passing street lamps flickering across his face. Then, without a word, he rapped twice against the carriage wall.

The driver changed course.

She arched a brow. "Not going home?"

"We are," he said, his voice thoughtful, as if he were still piecing something together. "But we’re going to my study first, separate entrance. I need to put this all together."

She smirked. "Ah. So now I’m useful."

Lando didn’t rise to the bait, but she caught the flicker of amusement in his dark eyes. "Just come inside, will you?"

When they arrived, he led her straight through the house, his pace brisk, mind clearly working through everything she had told him. The study was dimly lit, the scent of leather and old paper heavy in the air. He went straight to his desk, rolling up his sleeves as he sank into the chair, reaching for a notepad and pouring himself a drink in the same fluid movement.

She, however, had no interest in taking the chair across from him. Instead, she strolled to the desk, hands trailing idly along the polished wood, before hoisting herself up onto the edge of it.

Lando glanced up, his gaze dragging over the length of her legs as they crossed neatly at the ankles. He exhaled sharply, shaking his head before reaching for his pen. "Go on, then," he muttered. "Tell me again."

She did. Slowly, carefully, repeating each scrap of information she’d gathered, watching as he jotted notes, muttering under his breath as he began to piece the puzzle together. He was sharp, quick, catching things she hadn’t even realised were connected.

It was almost impressive. Almost.

And then, just as he leaned back, his fingers running through his hair as the final piece clicked into place, his gaze lifted to hers.

"You’re amazing, you know," he murmured.

For a brief second, there was no teasing, no sharp remarks, no battle of wills. Just that raw, unfiltered admiration in his voice, his eyes dark and searching as they held hers.

She tilted her head slightly, lips curving in a slow, knowing smile. "I do know," she murmured. "But it’s nice to hear."

His chuckle was low, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary.

He had underestimated her.

And now, he never would again.

Two nights later, she was in her room, the fire casting a warm glow against the walls, the silk of her slip whispering against her skin as she moved. The house was quiet, the night settling in thick and heavy. She had just slipped onto the edge of the bed when the door flew open with a sharp bang.

She didn’t flinch.

Lando strode in like he owned the place—which, to be fair, he did—but this time, there was no hesitation, no muttered apology. He had the same sharp, intense energy as before, but now there was something else, something simmering beneath the surface.

"We did it," he said, breathless, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, his hair slightly out of place like he’d been running his hands through it. His eyes burned as they met hers. "We caught the bloody shipment."

She raised a brow, unimpressed by his theatrics despite the way her pulse quickened. "Good for you."

"You," he corrected, stepping closer, "helped us get it. We’ve been trying for four months, and tonight, we finally had them."

There was pride in his voice, raw and unfiltered. But there was something else, too—something deeper. The way he was looking at her, as if only now realising just how dangerous she truly was.

She tilted her head, considering him. "I did tell you wives hear everything," she murmured.

A slow smirk tugged at his lips, but it didn’t last. The air between them was shifting, thickening, the triumph of the night bleeding into something hotter, something heavier. He was still breathing hard, his chest rising and falling, and she was still perched on the bed, watching him with that same knowing glint in her eye.

And then he moved.

One second, he was standing a few feet away. The next, he was in front of her, his hands gripping her face, his mouth crashing against hers like he was starving for it. There was nothing soft about it—nothing tentative. It was heat and frustration, admiration and possession, all tangled into one.

She responded without hesitation, fingers curling into his shirt, pulling him closer. The silk of her slip was nothing between them, just a whisper of fabric as his hands slid down, gripping her waist, anchoring her to him like he had no intention of letting go.

The fire crackled in the background, but the only warmth she felt was him—his mouth, his hands, the weight of his body pressing against hers like he had been holding himself back for far too long.

And from the way he kissed her, deep and desperate, she knew one thing for certain.

He wasn’t holding back anymore.

The kiss deepened, ferocious, as if the world outside her room had ceased to exist. Lando’s hands moved with a possessiveness that made her pulse race. He slid them down her back, pressing her closer to him until she could feel the heat of his body searing through the thin silk of her slip.

His lips left hers briefly, only to trail down her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. She tilted her head, giving him more access, her fingers threading through his hair, tugging him back to her mouth. She could taste the whisky on his lips, the bitterness of it mixing with the sweetness of the moment, a dangerous combination.

He was a man who took what he wanted, and right now, he wanted her.

With a low growl, he broke the kiss, eyes dark and wild with desire, before he lifted her off her feet. She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carried her, almost recklessly, to the vanity. The cold wood of the table hit the back of her legs, but she hardly noticed as he set her down, pushing her back against it.

The tension in the air was palpable, thick with anticipation. His hands were everywhere now—gripping her hips, sliding up to her waist, fingers brushing the curve of her breasts, teasing the delicate straps of her slip. She arched into his touch, heart hammering in her chest, the heat between them making everything else fade into insignificance.

“Lando,” she breathed, her voice low, almost a whisper, but it felt like a command.

He responded instantly, his lips finding her neck, his teeth grazing her skin as he sucked gently, marking her, staking his claim. Her hands moved down, tugging at his shirt, desperate to feel more of him, to rid herself of the barriers between them. He groaned against her skin, the sound rumbling deep in his chest.

“You wanted this,” he murmured against her ear, his voice rough, full of raw need. "Admit it."

She didn’t respond with words. She didn’t need to. Her hands slid up to his chest, pushing his shirt off his shoulders, and she kissed him again, fiercely, determinedly. Her body pressed against his, feeling every inch of him as if they could somehow merge together.

Lando pulled back, his eyes scanning her face with that same intensity, as if trying to read her, trying to figure out what game she was playing. “You’re mine now,” he growled, hands tugging at the silk slip, pulling the bands off her shoulders.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t shy away. Instead, she met his gaze, a spark of something dangerous and defiant in her eyes. "If I’m yours," she purred, her fingers tracing the line of his jaw, "then you’d better take me properly, Lando."

The air between them crackled with tension. And then, without another word, he kissed her again, more urgently this time, his hands finding her skin, drawing her closer to him, until she could feel the weight of him pressing against her.

This was no longer about games or control. This was a raw, unfiltered need that neither of them could deny. And they were both too far gone to stop.

The air between them was thick, electric. The heat of their earlier desperation hadn’t faded—it had only settled into something deeper, something hotter. Lando was still pressed against her, his fingers gripping her thighs where she sat atop the vanity, her silk slip bunched around her hips. His breath was uneven, his lips red from kissing her senseless, but now, something shifted.

Without a word, he dropped to his knees before her.

She sucked in a breath, caught between intrigue and anticipation as she looked down at him. His hands smoothed over her thighs, slow and reverent, his touch softer now, but no less possessive. The sight of him like this—on his knees for her—sent a wicked thrill down her spine.

He tilted his head back to meet her gaze, his dark eyes burning with something close to worship. "I’ve been a fool," he murmured, voice thick with want. His fingers dug into her flesh, holding her in place as he spread her legs just enough to make her breath hitch. "For not seeing you for what you are."

Her lips curved into a slow, knowing smile. "And what am I, Lando?"

His hands slid higher, fingertips tracing the hem of her slip. He leaned in, just enough for his breath to ghost over her bare skin. "My equal," he said roughly. "More than that." His lips brushed the inside of her thigh, teasing, tasting. "The one woman who could bring me to my knees."

She exhaled, a quiet, shuddering thing, her grip tightening in his hair as his mouth travelled higher. He was usually all dominance, all control, but here he was—kneeling for her, worshipping her with his hands, his lips, his voice.

She let him linger, let him kiss and touch and revel in her, let him show her that he understood now. That she wasn’t just a wife for show, not just a piece to be moved on the board.

And then, when she was satisfied, when his grip was almost desperate on her skin, when his breathing was uneven with the sheer need of her, she tugged at his hair, forcing him to look up at her.

“Stand up,” she commanded softly.

His chest rose and fell hard, but he obeyed, rising to his full height, towering over her again. His hands found her waist, his thumbs brushing against the silk clinging to her body. She could see the restraint in his posture, the way he was holding back, waiting for her next move.

She reached for him, tracing her nails lightly over the bare skin of his chest. “From now on," she murmured, pressing her lips just below his jaw, feeling the way his pulse pounded beneath her mouth, "you’ll show me the same respect."

Lando’s hands clenched at her hips, his body taut with the effort it took not to crush her against him. His mouth hovered just over hers, breath heavy, his voice low and ragged when he finally answered.

“Yes, love,” he rasped. “I will.”

And then he kissed her again, deep and consuming, pulling her against him so hard that she gasped against his lips. And when he lifted her from the vanity, carrying her towards the bed once more, she knew—there was no turning back from this.

His breath was warm against the sensitive skin of her inner thigh, his fingers pressing into her hips as if anchoring himself there. He wasn’t in a rush—no, Lando was savouring this, savouring her.

She propped herself up on her elbows, watching him, chest rising and falling heavily. He looked up at her through thick lashes, his dark eyes burning with something raw, something dangerous.

"You like this, don’t you?" she murmured, her voice low, taunting. "Being here. Like this."

Lando exhaled a slow breath against her skin, his grip tightening. "You’ve no idea," he muttered, voice rough, strained.

And then he pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh, slow and deliberate. His stubble scraped against her skin, his mouth hot, teasing. She shivered, fingers twitching against the sheets. He was taking his time, deliberately drawing it out, and the anticipation was maddening.

"Lando," she breathed, not quite a plea, but close.

That did something to him. His hands slid further up, spreading her more beneath him, and then he leaned in fully, pressing a lingering, open-mouthed kiss where she needed him most.

She gasped, her head falling back against the pillows. He hummed in satisfaction, his grip keeping her in place as he set to work, slow, languid strokes of his tongue that had her body arching towards him.

She barely registered the way her fingers tangled into his hair, holding him there, guiding him. But Lando? He groaned at the feeling, at the way she responded so perfectly to him.

She wasn’t used to this—to a man like him showing this kind of devotion. But he was thorough, almost as if he had something to prove.

As if he wanted to ruin her.

And God, she was happy to let him try.

His name left her lips again, breathy and uneven, her fingers tightening in his hair as he worked her over with slow, unrelenting precision. Lando groaned against her, the vibration sending a fresh wave of pleasure through her, making her thighs tremble against his broad shoulders.

He was savouring this, taking his time, deliberately keeping her on the edge but never quite letting her tip over. Each flick of his tongue, each teasing stroke, was measured, controlled—because he wanted her desperate for it, wanted to hear her break beneath him.

She let out a frustrated whimper, her hips shifting, seeking more. "Stop—" she gasped, "—teasing."

He chuckled, the sound low and wicked against her skin, but he didn’t stop. If anything, he slowed, his hands pressing firmer against her hips, keeping her exactly where he wanted. "And here I thought you liked control," he mused, his voice thick with amusement.

Her head fell back, a soft curse leaving her lips. "You’re insufferable."

He smirked against her, his grip tightening. "And yet you’re falling apart for me."

She had a sharp retort on her tongue, something cutting, something defiant—but then he finally gave in.

A deep, languid stroke of his tongue, firmer now, deliberate. Her back arched off the bed, a strangled sound escaping her lips. His hands smoothed over her thighs, keeping her open for him, and then he truly set to work—thorough and utterly merciless.

The tension that had been winding so tightly inside her snapped without warning, pleasure crashing through her like fire, her entire body trembling beneath him. He groaned at the way she came undone for him, his grip never loosening, as if he wanted to feel every moment of it.

She barely registered the way he pressed one last, lingering kiss to her inner thigh before pulling himself up over her, his hands bracing on either side of her head.

Her chest heaved as she blinked up at him, still dazed, still recovering. His lips were swollen, his eyes dark with something feral.

"You," she murmured, voice thick, "are far too good at that."

Lando smirked, dipping his head to kiss her, slow and indulgent, letting her taste herself on his tongue. "And I’m nowhere near finished with you yet, love."

The shift between them had been subtle at first. A brush of fingers when passing, a lingering glance across a crowded room. But now, a few days later, it was undeniable. They moved as one—seamless, untouchable. Where Lando had once been guarded, careful, now his hands were always on her. A hand on the small of her back as he led her through a room, fingers tracing absentminded circles on her wrist as they sat together, a possessive arm slung around her shoulders when they held court among their people.

She had settled into her role with a quiet, effortless power. No longer just his wife, no longer simply the woman who had been given to him to tie two families together—she was his equal. And everyone knew it.

Tonight, the house was alive with warmth, the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the grand dining room as they entertained their closest allies. She sat beside Lando at the head of the table, her posture easy, confident, her silk gown pooling elegantly over her crossed legs.

Lando, ever the king of the room, leaned back in his chair, fingers idly tracing along the inside of her wrist where her hand rested on the table. He wasn’t even looking at her, too busy listening to one of his men recount some business in the East End, but the touch was absent-minded, second nature now.

She smirked slightly, turning her hand to entwine her fingers with his, giving a squeeze. His thumb stroked over her knuckles, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips before he lifted her hand to press a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

The room fell into a hushed sort of awe at the display. Their leader, cold and ruthless, was openly devoted to his wife in a way none of them had ever seen before. And she? She simply accepted it, like it was her due.

When dinner was over and the guests had drifted into the parlour for cigars and whisky, Lando caught her by the waist, pulling her into a quiet corner before she could follow.

"You realise what you’ve done, don’t you?" he murmured, voice rich with amusement.

She arched a brow, tilting her head. "And what’s that, darling?"

He smirked, fingers brushing down her spine. "Made me soft."

She laughed, low and sultry, trailing a finger down the front of his waistcoat. "Oh no, my love," she murmured, standing on tiptoe to brush a slow, lingering kiss against his jaw. "I’ve made you unstoppable."

Lando exhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening at her waist before he turned and kissed her, slow and deep, uncaring of who might see. Because she was right.

They weren’t just husband and wife anymore.

They were a force.

Lando had always prided himself on being the smartest man in the room. He had built his empire on instinct, on knowing where to strike and when to hold back. But now? Now he had something even sharper in his arsenal—her.

He now saw her skill for what it was. What he had once dismissed as idle gossip, frivolous chatter over tea and brandy, was in fact the deadliest weapon at his disposal. While the other men scrambled to find their rats and their loopholes, tearing through their operations in search of betrayal, they never once stopped to consider that the real danger was sitting beside them at their own dinner tables.

Because the truth was simple. It wasn’t their men who were loose-lipped—it was their wives. Women ignored, underestimated, left to sip their champagne and idly entertain themselves. They spoke of everything—the shipments their husbands fretted over, the officers they paid off, the backdoor deals and sudden disappearances. They let secrets slip between sips of wine, between boasts of fine jewellery and whispered complaints of infidelity.

And she? She had been listening.

Now, Lando had a new advantage, one his rivals didn’t even realise existed. Every other day, he was intercepting shipments before they even made it onto the docks. Smugglers were caught, safe houses compromised, backroom deals unravelled before they had even begun. The panic was spreading—men were at each other’s throats, convinced they had a traitor in their ranks. And all the while, she sat by Lando’s side, lips painted red, eyes sharp, watching their empire grow stronger by the day.

Lando leaned back in his chair, fingers running lazily along the curve of his glass, watching her across the room. She was laughing, a sultry, knowing sound, as she toyed with the pearl necklace around her throat, listening with that careful attentiveness that he now recognised for what it truly was. She was drawing out secrets as easily as she drew breath.

She felt his gaze before she saw it, glancing over at him with a smirk, tilting her head ever so slightly. See something you like? her expression seemed to tease.

He smirked in return, lifting his glass in a silent toast to her.

His wife wasn’t a problem.

She was his genius.

the end.

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my songs that would protect me from vecna would be cherry wine by hozier because that shit pulls my heart strings over and over again- crying listening to it rn

"Untitled" by Fiona, posted to Tumblr on May 21. 2014

The legacies people leave behind in you.

My handwriting is the same style as the teacher’s who I had when I was nine. I’m now twenty one and he’s been dead eight years but my i’s still curve the same way as his.

I watched the last season of a TV show recently but I started it with my friend in high school. We haven’t spoken in four years.

I make lentil soup through the recipe my gran gave me.

I curl my hair the way my best friend showed me.

I learned to love books because my father loved them first.

How terrifying, how excruciatingly painful to acknowledge this. That I am a jigsaw puzzle of everyone I have briefly known and loved. I carry them on with me even if I don’t know it. How beautiful.

~Edit~

Yikes guys I didn’t expect this post to blow up.

I’m grateful it did though. Looking at all the comments and tags really takes a stab at my heart because it just shows how wired we are for connection. If life has any meaning, then it’s that.

This concept really sunk its teeth into me as it reassures the notion that no one is ever truly gone. Parts of them just change into you.

That teacher I talked about inspired me to become a teacher myself. This was my first year teaching. Here’s to a new generation of curved i’s.

i don’t even need to say anything. just READ ITTTT

Love Letters in the Margins

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: Spencer has a habit of leaving handwritten notes in the books you borrow from his personal collection. One day, you finally write back.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid’s personal library was nothing short of magnificent. Towering shelves filled with well-loved books lined the walls of his apartment, their spines worn from years of eager reading. When you had first started borrowing from his collection, you had done so carefully, treating each volume like a fragile artifact. But what you hadn't expected to find—hidden between passages and prose—were his words.

The first time it happened, you had borrowed Pride and Prejudice. Nestled in the margins, in neat, slightly slanted handwriting, was a comment next to Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp-witted retort to Mr. Darcy.

“You remind me of Elizabeth—sharp, observant, and far too intelligent for the company you keep.”

You had stared at the note for minutes, heart pounding. Spencer had written this long before you borrowed the book, hadn’t he? It wasn’t meant for you, was it? The thought of confronting him about it seemed daunting. Instead, you traced his words with your fingertips, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.

That discovery led to another. And another.

In The Picture of Dorian Gray:

“You would never be swayed by vanity. Your soul is too kind.”

In Jane Eyre:

“If I were Rochester, I wouldn’t have kept secrets from you.”

Each annotation, each carefully placed comment, felt personal. They weren’t just general observations; they were thoughtful, tailored to you.

Days passed before you gathered the courage to respond. You chose one of the books Spencer often reread—The Great Gatsby. As you turned the familiar pages, you found a passage underlined in Spencer’s careful hand:

“He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity.”

And next to it, in his delicate handwriting:

“Longing is a difficult thing to master.”

You exhaled deeply, running your fingers over the ink. If Spencer had been leaving these notes for you, maybe he had been waiting for a response, just as you had been waiting for a sign. With a rush of courage, you picked up a pen and, in the same margin, wrote:

“I wouldn’t need a green light. You’ve always been within reach.”

When you returned the book, carefully placing it back on his desk at the BAU, you felt the weight of your silent confession settle in your chest. What if he never noticed? What if he saw it and said nothing? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but it was too late to take it back now.

The next day, Spencer found you in the bullpen, book in hand, his expression unreadable. Your heart leapt into your throat.

“You…” he started, voice soft, reverent almost, as he flipped open The Great Gatsby to the exact page where your response was written. His fingers traced your words like they were delicate, precious.

“I—” you faltered. “Was that okay?”

His eyes locked onto yours, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he smiled. Not just any smile—one of those rare, genuine smiles that lit up his entire face, the kind of smile that made your stomach flip.

“You wrote back.” His voice was breathless, in awe.

You swallowed hard. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

For a long moment, Spencer simply stared at you, the book clutched to his chest. It was as if he was processing every possibility at once, and you could almost see the thoughts racing in his brilliant mind. Then, before you could panic, he took a step closer.

“I—” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “I’ve been leaving those notes for you.”

Your breath caught. “You have?”

Spencer gave a short, nervous laugh. “For a while now. I didn’t know if you’d ever see them or if you’d—”

“I saw them,” you interrupted, a smile tugging at your lips. “And I loved them.”

His shoulders relaxed, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

You nodded, warmth spreading through you. “Really.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Spencer exhaled, flipping the book open once more. “So… does this mean I can keep writing to you?”

You tilted your head playfully. “Only if I can write back.”

His smile widened, his fingers brushing against yours over the worn edges of the book. “I’d like that.”

From that day forward, every book exchanged between you contained more than just stories. Between the lines of famous literature, nestled in the margins of classic texts, you found something even more precious:

Love letters in ink, waiting to be read.

The notes continued, hidden within the pages of literature both of you adored. A stolen thought in Wuthering Heights, a whispered confession in Les Misérables. Each time Spencer handed you a book, your fingers would brush, lingering longer than necessary, and his eyes would search yours for recognition.

Then, one evening, as you flipped through Anna Karenina, you found a note in the final pages, underlining a passage about fate.

“Sometimes, love is written long before we even know it exists.”

And below it, in a nervous, yet determined script, Spencer had added:

“I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I realized.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. This wasn’t just a passing thought, an intellectual observation. It was real.

Without hesitation, you reached for a pen and, with steady fingers, wrote beneath his words:

“Then it’s about time we stop reading between the lines.”

That night, when Spencer saw your response, he didn’t just smile.

He kissed you.

And for the first time, there were no more words left unwritten.

The notes continued, but they became something different now—love notes, secret confessions, playful teases. You wrote to him in the margins of history books, and he replied with riddles in the pages of mystery novels. The space between you had once been filled with unspoken words, but now it was a novel of its own, each sentence a promise, each underline a touch.

One day, Spencer handed you a book without a title on its cover. Puzzled, you flipped it open to the first page, where a single line was scrawled in his familiar handwriting:

“Every great love story deserves to be written.”

And beneath it, in smaller letters:

“Will you write ours with me?”

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