This Is The Most Creative Way To Write A Story And The Writing Is SOOO GOOD. I Love The Plot, The Realism,

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.

taglist: @alexisquinnlee-bc @carlossainzapologist @oikarma @obxstiles @verstappenf1lecccc @hzstry8 @dying-inside-but-its-classy @anamiad00msday @linnygirl09 @mastermindbaby @iamred-iamyellow @spiderbeam

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

May I request a Levi x Reader angst fic? Just barely any fluff, mostly angst going on lol. The reader is a traitor, formaly working for Marley, but betraying them in secret and putting their loyalty on Paradis. The reader is also a shifter and married to Levi for a couple of years. That love and care however is gone once readers identity is found. He truly despises them, insults them, maybe a bit violent with them, and outright tells them that they mean nothing to him anymore and hate them to bits. Readers punishment is to hand over her titan to Erwin, and they agree instantly, broken over everything, believing its all their fault. Once Erwin inherits Readers titan, he breaks down and screams, crying, because Reader was innocent the whole time. They never betrayed Paradis. Never killed anyone, never harmed anyone. They finaly know why they betrayed Marley, the abuse being to much for them, enough to just leave them behind for Paradis. Just... loving and caring as they all saw them. But now the damage is done. They wont come back, they're dead, believing that they died, hated and despised, with no one to mourn their death. Everyone regrets everything.

author note :: i was thinking of leaving this in my drafts but i already wrote it and may as well post it. it didn’t end up going the way i hoped but yeah i hope it’s ok anon. anyways ANGST. ANGST, ANGST. as always i love feed back :-) ⟹ all of the headings with the years are just meant to mean it’s a different moment from that year so those moments don’t happen right after each other i hope that makes sense!! word count :: 7.2k warnings :: canon typical violence, death

845, i.

Everything is falling in place when it shouldn't.

Sun never makes itself known in Liberio yet here it is shining down onto the bustling streets. You half expect for it to crash down and burn into the hundreds of civilians going about their daily business yet nothing of the sort happens. It's typical sunlight and you curse yourself silently for your sinister thoughts.

Secretly the voice at the back of your mind still whispers frantically but you don't wish to hear what it has to say. Instead you choose to drown it out with the sound of Zeke's voice. Finally deciding to pay attention to what it is he's been droning on about for the past ten minutes.

"Soon, soon, soon." He sighs dreamily looking a little delirious.

"Soon?"

Your question catches him off guard, he lightly shoves you with his elbow scoffing in annoyance.

"Did you sit here to not even listen to me?" He turns to take a sip of whisky and the hearty gulp he chugs shows his mild irritation. You assume he's been rambling on about Marley's plan to infiltrate Paradis. You have to admit that the idea of destroying those demons from the inside is amazingly well thought out. However it's all he's been able to discuss for the entire week now and frankly you're getting a little exhausted of it.

"I zoned out..." Quietly placing your glass back down onto the wooden counter you sigh closing your eyes. It's too early to be drinking and you don't trust Zeke enough to slip into ignorance and leave yourself vulnerable. Men are to not be trusted, especially Eldian men. The thought of Eldians triggers your flight of fight response, you want to shrivel up into a cocoon and never come out until the world is rid of the monsters. The lowest of the low, the dirt in between the crevices of Marleyan soldier's boots. That is what Eldian's are.

It's ironic coming from you, your entire family labelled as undesirable Eldians yourself but you, you know you're different. An honorary Marleyan is what you will become. What you are. The treacherous imps who are but an ocean away are the true evil.

Eyes flicking to Zeke he's lighting a cigar. Old habits die hard and he's yet to quit this self destructive custom of his. You couldn't care less if he chooses to cut his lifespan short by ten years, it's his own choice to make. A disgusting cowardly choice but it's a choice fit for an untamed man like him.

The Island Devils are said to be the bad apples but you can't help but stare at your fellow citizens from time to time and wonder what it is they could be hiding. If a demon slipped through the cracks you wouldn't be surprised. Sly in nature, persuasive in tone, that is how devils go about their daily lives alone The hymns they drilled into you all the way through elementary school echo and rebound in your mind.

Locking your bitter thoughts away you have to push yourself to not punt Zeke in the mouth when he teasingly blows a puff of hot smoke into your face.

Fingertips grazing with his he freezes at the sudden contact giving you the perfect opportunity to slip his cigar away and take it in between your lips. You allow for it to linger there but you aren't foolish enough to inhale its contents.

"Zeke, my dear friend. We shall soon be met with the fruits of our own labour but I assure you that discussing Marley's plan constantly will be of no benefit for you nor I."

The day you and Zeke had met had been at warrior training camp. Zeke was a miserable, unmotivated oaf. Always tripping and falling behind the rest of the warrior cadets. You felt rather bad for him, if you were born as unskilled as him you don't know what you would have made of yourself. Zeke, the only child of his parents ironically only ever ended up rising through the ranks after handing them over to the Marleyan government. His father and mother had been conspiring an escape plan but were executed immediately alongside their fellow team members once Zeke had outted them. Unexpectedly he was spared, the fact he turned on his own parents showed where his loyalties were. To his surprise, he was even allowed to continue his training with the other warriors - only this time everyone kept an increased distance away from him. The warriors weren't informed of what he had actually done but everyone had a gut feeling. Everyone apart from you stuck with that feeling. You thought strategically, If he were to become an enemy in the future you knew being close would come at your advantage.

The day you and Zeke had met your mother died, his mother passed away the same day. At least that's what he had told you.

The two of you bonded over the little things, told each other stories about your life at home. Reminisced about what it was you missed.

Then it all came crashing down the day Zeke confessed. The day he told you he killed his mother and father by handing them over to Marley. Your knees buckled underneath you, crashing the floor he tried to grab at you but you thrashed around in retaliation kicking and screaming not understanding why he did what he did. Yes, they were traitors but they were his parents and if the monster had the nerve to turn on the people who gave birth to him who's to say he wouldn't do the same to you or to Marley.

Zeke doesn't know it but ever since then you take the opportunity to sneak the occasional glance at him. Every single time you narrow your eyes in malice. If there's a man in Liberio who you don't trust in the slightest it's him, he must think the feud between the two of you from childhood has been put at rest but it hasn't.

Zeke takes another swig of his alcohol. On this occasion he downs it entirely slamming the glass down with vigour.

"ONE MORE GLASS BARTENDER!"

846, i.

Another day of extensive training is about to end, your back is layered in uncomfortable layers of sweat and the same can be said for your forehead. Kneeling down in the under layer of the forest you're hidden waiting to strike. Going up against the elites is nerve-wracking but you're sure you can pull it off so long as you stay calm during this game of hunters against prey.

It's simple enough if you can conceal yourself and stay out of sight. The robust trees that surround you act as decent enough camouflage and your green cape paired with them lets you veil yourself, keeping you further into the foreground, blending into the environment.

No one will be able to catch you if they can't see you.

All of a sudden your previous thoughts are thrown away when you sense something in the atmosphere has changed, the hissing of the wind behind you isn't natural.

Turning to your side you don't bother to cover up the sound of leaves rustling and branches cracking, your priority is slipping away fast enough to hide again, a tug can be felt at your cloak and your reaction time barely covers for you, your gear fastens itself to a low enough tree branch and the descent is mind numbing. Your breakfast churns in your stomach but you ignore the uneasy feeling, leaping and diving wherever you find a small enough gap. You believe you can outrun your huntsman.

That is until you sneak a glance back and your muscles nearly tense up in pure astonishment, you've been kicked in the teeth just by the man's presence. Captain, Levi slinks behind you weaving through the gaps with increasing speed, he's gaining momentum and all the while his face stays relaxed, this isn't even his full effort.

Terrified you dart upwards and then left, a corner comes into view - Levi should assume you've turned into it and so you rashly choose to dart back down. Much to your hard luck you find that his senses are well adapted, the direction of the wind is enough for him to trace your whereabouts.

The pursuit resumes, and he stays disturbingly relentless.

Arm shooting to the right you think perhaps making it look like you're aiming to fly somewhere else again will completely catch him off guard, he can't expect for you to pull the same trick twice.

Setting your plan into motion your finger pulls at the trigger but you startle when the cable doesn't come out, it's jammed. Panic seeps into you and to make matters worse your gas is running out.

Without warning you're thrust into the body of a nearby tree, the bark scrapes against you and scratches begin to form anywhere you've made contact with the jagged surface, you want to admit defeat but the warrior inside of you denies Levi the pleasure of seeing you beg. In its place you deliver a harsh kick to his thigh, you're aware he's injured it and you're certain there are no rules to say you can't play dirty. Your boots hammer against leg hard enough for him to give out and let go of your body, but then you realize you lost this game from the very moment your grapple hooks broke, you have nowhere to hold onto.

Before you can even let out a shriek of horror Levi's shot back to you, he frantically accelerates and by a miracle humanity's strongest is able to grab a hold of you again. This time you don't dig your heels into his leg and you allow for him to clutch you by the torso.

Within a minute the two of you descend towards the forest floor and Levi throws you into the dirt furiously.

"You could have died. Being foolhardy will only lead to an early death." He barks as he directs his blade towards your neck.

"Am I dead yet?" Whispering back your gaze isn't trained on the blade but right up at him.

His nostrils flare up, his hair sticks to his forehead haphazardly and the knuckles that hold his pointed blades are white in tangled dissatisfaction.

Grabbing you by the hips he flings you over his shoulder choosing to not continue with the confrontation.

"I know what you're up to." His voice is still rugged from the pursuit and it takes you a split second to register what he's said.

Your eyes widen and your breath hitches in your throat, no way, there's no way in hell he knows. He's sharp but he's not a mind reader.

Your position means he can't read your face seeing as you're facing his back, instantly steeling your features you let out a breathy laugh.

"And what may that be?" Silently you pray he's worded himself ambiguously to catch a slip up.

"Being gutsy, you think that makes you a good soldier. It doesn't."

Relief floods you. He doesn't know.

"Soldiers need to be brave." Your retort makes him grumble.

"If  you die with no meaning by being reckless what's the purpose of being a soldier?" His question has you stopping and thinking on what the correct answer is.

Unable to think of an answer you ask another question.

"Are you saying your previous comrades died without meaning?"

"No. Their deaths fueled me slay more titans."

"So if I died back there who wou-" He swiftly cuts you off showing no inclination of wanting to hear what it is you have to say.

"I'll cut your tongue off if it's stupid." He clearly isn't serious about the threat but he does mean it when he warns you to not overstep.

Despite the consequences you say what's on your mind. "I just wanted to ask who would give my life meaning if I ever died. I don't have siblings and my parents died long ago."

Silence follows and the crunch of his boots against the muddy leaves tells you he probably doesn't wish to answer your question.

"Sorry-"

"I would. I would give meaning to your life." He says it with such ease you almost want to admire the enemy but you know he's said it because he feels he has to.

"You barely know me but I hope one day you can stop thinking everyone has to rely on you." You say it with taunting understanding.

Another bout of silence follows. Only this time the two of you feel warmly comforted, he doesn't understand how you've seen through his facade but it's easy for you to spot another liar.

846, ii.

Brows drawn back you observe your surroundings attempting to mask your scrutiny. The place is running amok with uncontrollable Eldian folk. The stench of unadulterated sin makes itself known but you seem to be the only person able to smell it. Eren bumps against the table you're sat at and your face twitches a little but you say nothing. You're yet to get used to these people's lack of manners.

At least that's how you force yourself to think. To be truthful, you don't quite understand what it is these people have done wrong. Ever since you've arrived you've been nitpicking at every single minor inconvenience or possible issue. A girl stole a potato and broke it into uneven pieces to share and you attempted to twist the story in your head to make her look like an unfair, greedy voracious demon but... you found yourself finding very little to actually be angry at. These people are essentially normal in every way of the word, they aren't demons and you can't help but feel yourself slip away from everything you once knew as reality. You're finding it difficult to believe what years of Marleyan education taught you, the hymns that were once drilled into your brain permanently are but a vague memory.

You feel disgustingly under-dressed and out of place, you don't belong here not when you're meant to hate these people, not when you're meant to despise them. You should be fighting the urge to shove their heads onto pitchforks or to skin them alive and feed them to pigs. Everyone back in Marley told you to control your impulses but now you're here and you've settled down even having the opportunity to converse with these individuals, share their pain, share their loss, share their suffering, you wonder why you have no impulses to control. Have they brainwashed you? Or is it that you're the real demon in this situation?

Fingers mingling with each other on your lap you sit hopelessly alone. Interacting with the so called enemy is much harder than you expect. Worry consistently bubbles in the pit of your stomach and every night is spent tossing and turning evaluating then reevaluating who the bad guy really is. At first the task of daily interaction isn't a big deal, you find it easy enough to approach members of the team and fake interest in their lives until the original plan falls through. You do become invested in your team members lives and stories that it comes to the point where you don't have to force yourself to smile at their jokes or to sympathize with their tales of grief. You become one of them and you swear you're meant to feel like a traitor but eerily you feel like you belong.

Nevertheless you try your best to stick with what you know. You're nothing like Zeke, you're loyal, capable, faithful and trustworthy. Never will you turn your back on Marley.

Rising to excuse yourself from dinner you think you've just about made it and escaped finally able to hide away in the confines of your bedroom but your lips form into a straight uncomfortable line at the feeling of someone's hand latching at your wrist. You're halfway down the hallway just a few more steps away from your bedroom. You hope it's one of the rookies.

"Oi, come here."

Head shooting backwards your eyes land on Levi, his dark curtains fall in front of his eyes - you note that he hasn't trimmed them as he usually does. Despite his size his grip is firm and your wrist squirms around a little trying to manoeuvre out of his bruising grasp. He seems to notice he's underestimated his strength once again and loosens his hold on you. Narrowed eyes analyse your anxious form, they're grey and in this lighting almost glow appearing silver. For a brief second your mouth is left ajar by the delicate but rough manner of his face.

"Everything Okay?" He doesn't typically seem to care very much about anyone, the question activates your senses and you're on full alert but the eye contact you make with him seconds later slows down the gears in your mind, they only whir and hum in anticipation completely coming to a halt.

"Yes, yes everything is okay." You're playing around with the hem of your shirt and you silently question when you were ever this nervous around anyone. You're a Marleyan soldier for heaven's sake not an unrestrained, unsupervised child left to play in a park.

Despite your clear inability to cushion and shield yourself from your Levi's stabbing gaze you attempt to appear as nonchalant as possible.

"I'll be going I just feel a little —" At first you had thought to fake you were ill but at the feeling of a sudden strike of pain you hold onto your stomach, the ache burns into your abdomen and without permission it travels higher up towards your ribs. "A little unwell." You manage to wheeze out. Hand placed onto a nearby cement wall your thought process is hasty speeding up by the second. Have they figured you out and had you poisoned? No, you barely ate anything today.

You hunch over feeling the bile crawl up your throat, on reflex you clamp your eyes shut not wishing to anger a superior by acting insolent and disposing of your dinner in the hallway. Shaky palms reach hesitantly for your lips and you force yourself to keep it in. Levi would commit a murder if you heaved and gagged letting it all out in front of him.

You motion towards the door trying to emphasize that you can handle yourself in the privacy of your room. Tears bite at the sides of your eyes and your vision is so blurred you can only make out the faint outline of the man who was just in front of you.

"Relax. I'll clean it." Your hair is brushed away from your face securely held back and you can't hold it in any longer, the acrid storm surges through your throat, you retch at the harsh sting it leaves behind. Breathing heavy, perturbed and anxious you gasp in all the air you can get.

"I knew you looked ill." His hands hold your jaw gently, the pads of his fingers are calloused but his touch remains soft. A tissue dabs at your mouth wiping away the excess untouched sick.

Just like the sick which surged through you less than a minute ago you feel something else entirely tear into you. You can't put a finger on it but it's dangerous for you to not feel contempt.

847, i.

Your heart accepts what your mind has been ignoring for months on end when Levi looks you square in the eyes after a heart wrenching expedition. The vacant look on his face is enough for the guilt to consume you whole but he doesn't know that. He doesn't know of your sins.

The wagon of corpses reeks of death and desperation. It's rotten and the smell is sickening. Forcibly you  stop yourself from feeling any more grief. The despair isn't yours to go through.

Your first ever personal loss outside of the walls and you've learnt Paradis is not home to demons. Cheeks burning in mortification you can't formulate any thoughts on your own accord, instead they continuously emerge in bursts and finally a single thought sticks out from the rest - Are you aiding in the destruction of innocent human life?

The both of you are sat on guard duty with the corpses, half of the team has been wiped out in one sweep. Your trembling hands don't seem to want to steady any time soon and you sit there with your guilty conscience strangling you slowly, your airflow is getting shallower. Shorter, quicker breaths leave you. The imaginary gash in your chest is bottomless, and your lungs push and pull in a power struggle.

Levi's coarse hands abruptly hold onto yours and the floodgates open again, he doesn't know what you've done to him, done to his soldiers, done to his people. If he knew who you really were, would things be different?

"This was out of your control."

Do you tell him?

The question sits in your mind for a while until you shake your head. He takes it the wrong way and think you're responding to him.

"This was not your fault." For the first time in months you've heard his voice crack under pressure.

"Pe- Petra she- I could have taken one for the team and died instead of her." All that remains of your dear friend is her blood soaked cloak. Her body was one of the few that had to be hauled away earlier to decrease the carriage's load.

The fabric still smells of Petra, smells of honey and chamomile and the simple soap offered at the base, but it still smells of her.

Firm hands grab your shoulders and Levi's fingers dig sorely into your flesh.

"Don't."

"But I- I didn't contribute as much as her and she has family who are alive." Hiccuping you try to bare with the fact that you'll wake up tomorrow and not see her preparing breakfast for everyone else. You know you could have propelled her out of the way just in time if you hadn't been so taken aback by the entire situation.

"You were her comrade. She made the choice to die for you."

You want to reach out, sob into his chest and yell that you regret it all, scream and tell him about the secret you've been hiding. A sorry excuse of a comrade you are to let her die on the battlefield not knowing your true identity. The tears roll down your cheeks and Levi feels his heart constrict and squeeze as he comprehends the lack of regard you have for your life. "It should have been me." Is repeated over and over again, your eyes are raw and bloodshot, the vicious wind sinks its teeth into you.

"Then die."

"If you're willing for her life to have no meaning. Die." The words he spits out are as cutting as the bitter wind. He feels cheated and you're finally able to come to your senses.

He's faired much worse but you doubt he's ever acted out the way you have in front of another person. In this never-ending void of darkness locking away the dull ache caused by deafening loss is the best choice for everyone.

Much like the night you had been sick he takes a grip of your jaw and directs your face towards his, this time he's not as gentle as before but you conclude that it's because he's drained, completely exhausted from the battle. The eyes are the windows to the soul but Levi's window panes are shattered, completely crushed by the weight of the constant burden he has to carry.

"I'm sorry." You croak out the apology. He grits his teeth because he doesn't want you to apologize but he doesn't voice out his opinion. As a substitute he presses his arms against you, the terribly raw panic is murdering you. Levi's gruff voice is a mixture of faux irritation but mutual understanding.

"Cry." He allows for your head to loll against his shoulder.

As the dark envelopes both you and him the scent of the dead only becomes more and more pungent, recalling fond memories of Petra and the others you know your heart settles on a decision before your mind does. You're a two timing back stabbing traitor for this. What you hated Zeke for you have become yourself.

Disloyal, unfaithful and fickle.

That day you place your loyalties with Paradis.

847, ii.

Levi's wiping down one of the kitchen tables, you're kneeled on the floor scrubbing vigorously. The others have already given up, panting they've left using the excuse of fetching water from a nearby well. Your back aches but you find cleaning reassuring and somewhat of a decent distraction.

"Why do you like to clean?" You're used to Levi asking you abrupt questions by now, after all the two of you have been acquainted for well over a year now. Through that year he's learnt about you and you about him. When in the midst of what looks to be humanity's final year's, twelve simple months is enough to form a bond worth a decade.

"I'm not good at a lot but I am good at cleaning."

"You know that's not true idiot." The tone of his voice indicates that your answer doesn't please him.

"But I do think I'm good at cleaning? Maybe not as good as you but I am half decent."

"Not that. You're good at much more than half the people I've ever met." He sneers, his footsteps edge towards you. "Purely being a good person is a talent these days."

You suppress a flinch because you aren't a good person at all. Neither are you that middle ground between good and bad. Rough around the edges and uneven, you're shards of glass ready to slash and hack away at him if Marley somehow lures you back.

The confession, if you could even call it that catches you by surprise and anger fills you. You almost want for him to not trust you and call out your bluff. It's a little unnatural how badly you want for him to realize the truth.

Your head turns up to stare at the man who's a few steps away from you. "Or am I just good at acting genuine?"

You don't even mean to snap at him and you don't even realize you have until you see his eyes widen and mouth part in imperceptible surprise. Biting your tongue your attention is diverted back to the wooden floor. Driving your washcloth into the crevices and dips of the floorboards you ignore Levi's leather shoes which now stand right in front of you.

"Are you questioning my judgement of character?"

Be born in Marley, That's what you had done, trained to destroy people you thought to be devilish entities, foolishly chose to grow attached to the so called enemy. Your mind lingers onto a specific thought and you're deathly afraid to be thinking it in the first place but there's no more avoiding it.

Falling deeply in love with Levi is your worst mistake to date.

"What I did. It was out of my control." you reply, voice hard.

"Not disclosing what it was?" He asks.

Your silence is his answer. Kneeling down to where you are he disarms you, the washcloth is taken out of your hands and he places it onto a table.

"You are a good person." His voice is brusque and he states it like it's a fact, something you should know. Hot tears threaten to spill over, he's stupidly naive for not rethinking that opinion of his. Lips thinned and eyes watering you don't know how to feel.

"Levi. I'm sure you'd like to think that but I am not."

"You love the members of the corps unconditionally I can see it in the way you look at them."

"Sometimes you look a little sad when you stare." The last sentence he adds in has your pulse racing. He's right, you often feel miserable thinking about how everyone would react knowing who you really are.

"I'm not interested in bad people." He sounds distant saying such warm words and it takes a moment for them to actually sink in. You don't quite believe you've heard him correctly. The dread sinks to the bottom of your stomach and the feelings you've buried at the back of your mind hit you like a tsunami. The thought of him feeling the same way for you, is agonizing.

"Stop being ridiculous." The uncertainty is killing the both of you.

"Loving you is not ridiculous, if you don't feel the same way you can say that and I'll step away. We'll be back to normal."

"No, no, no. You don't get it. You're just saying that." Your voice quivers and the intensity of this new revelation is too large for you to cope with.

"Why would, you," He begins, voice just above a whisper, "ever think that way?"

"Why would you even look twice at me?" You reply.

"Because I worry for you."

"You worry for everyone."

"I worry for you the most."

Instead of letting you respond to him this time he carries on speaking.

"We both know we feel the same."

You already knew you were in love with Levi, you didn’t need for him to tell you. You knew you were in love when you tried to memorize his facial features, you knew you were in love when his laughter was the cause of your laughter, you knew you were in love when you threw yourself in front of that abnormal for him.

That's when you begin to understand what all his signals meant. You now knew why he'd let you stare so intently, you now knew why he laughed particularly hard when it was you who had made a joke, you now knew why he scolded you and nearly broke down at the sight of your injured arm after that specific expedition.

You know it. He knows it. You both know what this will lead to.

But you still lunge onto his lap, you still press your wobbly lips against his. You still choose to surrender yourself to him and he still reacts by taking a hold of your shaky hands which lay on his chest. He envelopes them in his warm grasp. Slowly but gradually the ice thaws and dissolves. Heartbreak, anguish and suffering when one of you loses the other will be the end of your romance, you're sure of it. Hell, the both of you are in the middle of a war but your heart flames up thinking of all of the possibilities.

Perhaps it'll play out the one way you wish for it not to.

Could your ending be in betrayal?

848, i.

"Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded hus-"

"Cut the crap and kiss me." Levi's crude interruption isn't appreciated by Erwin but everyone knows Levi doesn't care all that much for formalities and hates being in the spotlight for too long.

Gripping him by the collar of his suit your lips are a centimetre away, he stops you tightening the hold he has on your waist. His lips gently press against your collarbone and his breath meanders towards the shell of your ear.

"Swear you won't die on me."

Gulping you look away apprehensively. You know you can't promise that.

“Oi, I’m expecting an answer.” His voice flickers slightly.

Forefinger holding your chin up you see your soon to be husband close to tears, he valiantly blinks them away. Levi has never been one to make his pain public and your heart twists in your chest as you realize just how much of a hold his feelings for you have over him.

"I can't promise that, you know it'll only hurt more." The strange bitter taste in your mouth won't let you comply with his request and by measuring his reaction you see his eyes cloud in an unidentifiable emotion, you're sure it's nothing positive.

"We may not have a happy ending Levi but we'll always have a happy middle."

Levi scoffs in derision, he has to think your attempt at being meaningful is ridiculous.

You lean into him and it's all so heart-wrenchingly familiar yet foreign. His body sags comprehending that not everything will go the way he wants it to. One of you is guaranteed to leave first.

Hands finding purchase in the cloth of his white dress shirt Levi doesn't cringe at you creasing the fabric as he usually does. He allows for you to call the shots this time, your lips brush faintly against his before you nosedive into him. No resistance is felt and he replies almost immediately. Everyone applauds as his fingertips press into the back of your skull and you find that this is all incredibly hideous. The innate disloyalty you feel, you throwing your entire life away for this man but you find yourself not caring. To hell with that miserable life crammed with sin.

Levi smiles against your mouth, you assume you're meant to magically smile back but you can't make yourself. It's uncomfortable relishing in the undeserved happiness knowing it won't last forever.

The world you live in isn't ideal nor is it forgiving.

Momentary joy is all an antagonist can hope for.

849, i.

Jean can’t take his eyes off the newly weds.

You’re cooing into your Levi’s ear gently, his cheeks flush scarlet at the feeling of your hot breath against his skin and he scolds you for having the gall to rile him up in public.

Jean sniggers finding some sort of odd delight from the interaction - he’s never seen the Captain this content and at ease.

849, ii.

You don't know why you've dragged yourself out of bed just to stare at your husband's face but you have, despite the toll life has had on him he seems sound for once. His breathing peaceful yours is anything but that. When it's dark the weight becomes heavier, your skin tingles and your throat burns aching for release.

Eyes blurring your hands shake reaching out for him but you can't find the courage to make contact. Nothing will ever warrant plaguing him even more with your existence.

The memories become increasingly bitter.

"If we make it out of this alive we'll have children and they'll look just like you."

"I want them to look like you." had been your reply.

Levi winced not seeming to like the idea.

"No, I want them to look like you. You're beautiful."

How wrong he was for thinking that.

You, beautiful? He'd stab himself ten times over if he knew just who exactly he had said those words to.

850, i.

Zeke had betrayed you after finding out who you were to Levi but you half expected that he would tell him the truth at some point regardless of that fact.

Tear stains travel through the mud and grime on your face, Levi's eyes are indifferent as he twists his wedding ring off his finger flinging it into the surrounding rubble.

Without your permission he yanks your arm forwards intending to take your matching ring away but you hold on digging your heels into the dirt beneath you.

"You disgusting bitch. Give me it."

You scream, high and awful, he continues jerking at your arm the muscle throbs crying out for him to stop but he doesn't and no one steps in to put a halt to any of it. Levi having had enough grabs at your neck ruthlessly. In any other circumstance he'd be labelled callous or cruel but everyone on the battle field shares a similar empathy for their Captain. Neither they or Levi had expected your disloyalty.

"I said give me the ring if you know what's good for you." His fingers slide around your neck, his seemingly low words cling onto the little respect he has left for you.

"No." Your defiance has his eyes hardening in and posture tensing. "I'm not handing it over."

Levi says nothing, he only holds onto your throat tighter, if he really keeps at  it your windpipe will be crushed in no time. You know he's holding out on purpose, he's still giving you a chance. He expects for you to stand your ground, say you never deceived Paradis, say something, anything to make him let go of you.  

"Marrying you... It just happened somehow. I know it was selfish of me." He squeezes harder. "I know it was. I'm sorry Levi." Gasping and breathless you clench and unclench your fists finding it too difficult to explain.

Your mouth opens, you want to tell him you haven't seduced him like he thinks you have, tell him you dropped that plan of yours long ago but then you falter at the last second.  It's typically hard to tell when Erwin's infuriated but it's painfully obvious when you make eye contact with him over Levi's trembling shoulders. It's enough to tell you to give up. Enough to tell you that you're beyond redemption, you've ran and hid long enough.

"Hand over your titan." Levi says nothing to Erwin's proposition, the hold he has on your neck loosens but his silence is sickening. It means he agrees.

This is fate's idea of a cruel joke.

But you agree, on the basis of one condition.

"Fine but-"

Levi cuts in, all regard for you devoid from his system.

"You're in no place to be making demands." He snarls, his patience quickly running thin.

However Erwin urges you to continue speaking taking you aback.

"If it's not too much maybe we can accommodate your final wish." Erwin had always been thoughtful in nature and you thank him for even bothering to show you a sliver of benevolence.

Everyone's looking, all eyes are on you. Some are blinking away tears, others are disgusted unable to stare at you for more than a few seconds at a time. Levi falls into the latter.

Brazen with not an ounce of shame you mention the ring again. "Let me keep it." Your left hand covers your right and underneath the flesh is the last symbol left of your union with Levi.

Whispers and murmurs orbit you, none of them are kind and Levi loses it.

His reflexes are paralyzing, he's back at it clawing your neck mercilessly but you don't scream or shriek as you did previously. You take it, you let him unload his frustration.

"Levi. Let it go for the sake of humanity." Erwin says pointedly. Irritation pricks him, he wants this over and done with and your rebelliousness doesn't look as if it'll be tamed any time soon unless you're given what you want.

Levi's face is crimson, the fresh blood from the expedition still steaming. "Y/N, I'll saw your arm off if I have to." But, you know he's already given into Erwin's orders when he throws you to the ground letting you crash and wheeze for breath.

850, ii.

Levi's been appointed to guard you for your final night alive. The room feels wistful as you think back wondering if the life you lived was respectable.

"Why did you stare at me when I slept? Did you think of killing me?" Half commanding and half pleading his voice cracks. He coughs attempting to cover it up.

You jolt not expecting the interaction at all and you're not the slightest bit surprised that he had seen you all those nights staring so deeply. He'd always been a light sleeper. You turn your head up hoping he's looking at you.

He isn't.

"I wanted our children to look like you. I think you're beautiful."

It's now his turn to recoil, only he does so in repulsion remembering the familiarity of those words. They had left his own lips not too long ago.

"I'd never have children with the likes of you." He sounds tense then.

You understand. No one would want to have children with someone as hated and as despicable as you.

"I know." You whisper faintly.

850, iii.

When Erwin's eyes glaze over unable to focus on anything in particular Levi assumes it's him growing used to the titan powers. What he doesn't expect is for his Commander to bang his head against the floor unrelenting screaming your name.

Pairs of hands move to stop him but he thrusts them aside wailing. Levi stresses trying to figure out what it is you could have done in the wake of your death.

But Erwin Smith. Courageous, brave Erwin Smith, who never cracked at loss of life for the sake of humanity, who always eloquently spoke to everyone around him at all times, finds himself slumping down to his knees and weeping for you.

The warm blood from his self inflicted assault still trickles down his nose, a tremor shakes through his entire body when he thinks of breaking the news to Levi.

The edge in Erwin’s voice grows dangerous.

"We made the wrong choice."

Erwin can't word it any better than that.

But Levi understands right away, he wishes he didn’t, he wishes he was ignorant enough not to.

Hange sticks an arm out aiming for his shoulder but he stumbles away nearly falling back into the floor not wanting to be touched by anyone.

He finds that he is not human enough to cry. It’s that or he’s not human at all without your presence.

854, i.

Levi has grown old without you, lived to see months and new seasons without you by his side. Over time his eyelids have become heavier, the corners of his mouth naturally droop and he remains perpetually somber.

Sometimes you visit him in his dreams, each time you make a silly comment about how his grey eye bags make him look like he’s been punched in the face. “Levi Ackerman, I swear if you don’t sleep soon!” You cushion the blow by whispering sweet nothings, reassuring him that you still think he’s beautiful. 

Occasionally you add in that you don’t blame him for the past, but those conversations only last for a few seconds at a time.

“I don’t blame you.” It always starts off with the exact same phrase. 

“I should have listened to you.” Levi’s tone is stern and uncompromising .

“Lev, I was never going to tell you to spare my life. You tried to listen to me, I could tell you wanted me to deny it.”

Levi refuses to answer you, he still thinks he’s at fault.

Not a day goes by where he doesn’t think of that ring. He regrets throwing it away recklessly into the rubble.

Some day he’ll return to Shiganshina to find it. The idea sounds laughable but he has to find a reason to smile as he fights for his life.

That is what Levi thinks as two set’s of jaws snap shut onto his legs, a flurry of red surrounds him. His throat constricts at the feeling of his thighs being ripped away from the rest of him.

“I tried.” He whimpers to no one in particular, eyes blank and losing meaning.

“I know Levi, I know.” The same voice from his dreams soothes him.

“Do not despair. Find me again in another world.” The biting wind adds in.

Levi’s eyelids flutter shut unable to do much else.

He’s unsure if he has the courage to face you again in another lifetime.

A Soft Place To Land - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she came for the quiet—early mornings, silence, and a chance to find herself again. he came to disappear for a while, to bike through villages and forget what his name meant to other people. they weren’t looking for each other. but somehow, they kept meeting in the middle. (7.8k words)

content: slow-burn, mutual pining, found peace, simple life in a cmbyn type town off the grid <3

AN: so guess whose laptop died this weekend lmao :') nice excuse to treat myself to a MacBook finally! I feel like it makes me look extra sexy and mysterious now writing in my local cafe so bet I'm gonna be writing a lot upcoming days as I love looking sexy

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You arrived on a Wednesday. The kind of day that couldn’t commit to a forecast—sun, then shadow, then sun again—like the sky was tired of having an opinion. You came by car, winding your way through soft green hills and sleepy lanes until the town blinked into view, all shuttered windows and ochre rooftops tucked into the countryside like it belonged there before anyone decided to name it.

The cottage was waiting—slightly crooked, painted the kind of pale yellow that looks prettier in late afternoon. Ivy curled around the doorframe like it had been choreographed. Inside, there was no television. No WiFi. A teapot that wheezed when it boiled. A single mirror with cloudy edges and the kind of honest lighting that didn’t forgive. You liked that.

You weren’t fleeing anything dramatic. No messy breakup. No scandal. Just noise—the exhausting static of always being visible but never quite seen. Your old life had grown too curated, too performative. Lately even your laughter felt like it needed approval.

You wanted to be a person again. Quietly. Without audience.

The village made that easy.

It was the kind of place where mornings came slow and honest, dusted in that early golden light that made even the postboxes look charming. You wandered. Bought plums. Forgot your phone. The locals mostly left you alone, except for one old man who kept offering you pickled eggs. You politely declined. Twice.

That’s where you found the bike shop. Not a shop, exactly—just an open garage at the end of a lane. A few rusted frames leaned against the wall like retirees. One of them had lavender handlebars and a charm to it. You reached out.

So did someone else.

There was a brush of fingers—yours and his—and you both flinched.

“Oh—” you said, blinking up.

He was wearing sunglasses too scratched to be functional and a hoodie that looked like it had lived a full life. His sleeves were shoved up to the elbows, and his forearms were tanned and freckled like he hadn’t worn SPF since March. He didn’t look like he was trying. He just... was.

“No, no,” he said quickly, backing up with his palms raised. “Go ahead. You were there first.”

You tilted your head. “You sure?”

“Absolutely.” He tucked his hands into his pockets, like the thought of arguing offended him personally. “I’ve had my eye on that one for days. But to be fair... I don’t trust the brakes anyway.”

“Ah so you’re just setting me up for an accident.”

“Small town. I could use some entertainment.”

You smiled—just a little. The kind that surprised even you.

He answered with a grin of his own. Slightly crooked. Not polished.

The handlebars were warm in your hands. Sun-soaked. Familiar, somehow.

“Thank you,” you said.

He gave a small nod. “I like the colour. Suits you better.”

You weren’t sure what to say to that, so you didn’t. You wheeled the bike out toward the road, a little unsteady but determined.

He chose a different one—red, with one working pedal and a chip in the paint that gave it character. You glanced over your shoulder once, halfway down the lane.

He was already pedaling the other way.

His hair caught the wind. He tilted his head to the sky like he was letting it carry him.

You didn’t know his name.

…

You spend your time wandering the narrow lanes, sketchbook tucked under your arm, buying odd fruit from crooked stalls, sitting in patches of sunlight like a cat. You don’t know what time it is most of the day. You don’t care.

And you see him.

Always in motion, always a little removed—like he belongs here but hasn’t quite let the place claim him. Sometimes he bikes past humming under his breath, the wire of his headphones tucked messily into his shirt. Other times, he’s walking, one hand in his pocket, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh like he’s thinking through something he’ll never actually say.

You’ve spotted the slim outline of a scratched iPod in his back pocket. The bracelet on his wrist—faded thread, sun-softened red and blue—looks handmade and not in a curated, aesthetic way. Just... worn in. Familiar. Like it was given, not bought.

You catch each other’s eye now and then. Not deliberately. More like the way birds nod at each other from separate fences. A lift of the hand, a small smile. It becomes a rhythm. Not daily. Not planned. Just... familiar. Like heat rising off cobblestones. Or the first scent of bread in the morning.

On the third day, the weather turns.

You wake up to a sky stretched thin with heat. The shutters rattle faintly in their hinges when you close them behind you, and the gravel path crunches with the lazy sound of summer under your shoes.

You head into the village and buy a small paper bag of figs and a loaf of bread still warm enough to make your fingers curl. There’s no rush. No plan. You pause at stalls for longer than usual, breathing in lavender and dust, turning over tomatoes like they might tell you a secret.

Eventually, you duck into the café near the edge of the square just as the first fat drops begin to fall.

It’s barely more than a room. One wall all windows, curtains tied back with string. Five tables, each with a different chair. A counter lined with baskets of sugar cubes and a chalkboard that always says something vague like le soleil revient toujours.

The woman behind it—silver hair twisted into a knot, hands like poetry—gives you a slice of carrot cake without asking.

“Fresh,” she tells you. “C’est bon pour les jours tristes.”

It’s good for sad days.

You sit by the window, the cake warm and sticky with cinnamon. It tastes like something soft inside you remembers.

The bell above the door chimes.

And he’s there.

Hair damp from the rain, curls darker now. His shirt clings slightly at the collarbone, sleeves wrinkled like they’ve been rolled and unrolled all morning. He has his iPod in one hand, the headphones wrapped around it in a way that says he got distracted midway through.

He sees you.

And something about his face stills, but doesn’t change.

You smile first.

This time, he smiles back—full and quiet and entirely sincere.

He glances around—just you, the rain, the hum of a far-off radio. Then he walks over.

“Mind if I...?” he gestures to the chair across from you.

You shake your head. “Please.”

He sits like someone who’s trying not to be in the way. Like he knows how to fold himself small when needed.

The café woman appears without a word and sets down a glass of apple juice in front of him. He blinks. “Wow. Okay.”

You raise a brow. “Apple juice?”

He takes a sip, eyebrows lifting like he’s tasting something from a different era. “Sexy. Mysterious. A little bit fruity.”

You snort into your fork. “That your review or your Tinder bio?”

He grins. “Bit of both. Gave up Tinder though, I just go to tiny cafés now.”

A faint blush creeps on your cheeks and you take another bite of your cake.

“I’m Lando by the way.” He holds his hand out for you to shake.

“Nice to meet you, Lando.” You answer smiling.

The rain tickles the windows like it’s trying to join the conversation.

“So,” he says, leaning his arms on the table, “there’s like 20 people in this town, us included?”

You smirk. “Yesterday, I bought plums from someone who called me la petite perdue, the little lost one, and gave me a free one out of pity.”

“Rough.” He nods gravely. “I asked a guy where to find the best croissants and he told me to ‘go home and learn how to bake.’”

You wince. “Brutal.”

“French.”

“Did you learn how to bake, though?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

You both laugh. It’s the kind that hums in your chest, easy and bright and not at all forced.

He glances at your plate. “So? This cake—is it actually good or just charming-village good?”

You study it for a second. “It's like something an aunt makes when guests come over and she wants to pretend she isn’t trying.”

“That’s the best kind.”

You push the plate toward the middle of the table. “Go on.”

He takes a bite without hesitation. Chews. Nods. “Annoyingly comforting.”

“It’s the cinnamon.”

“It’s like crack.” He sits back, tilting his head. “You staying long?”

You lift a shoulder. “Depends.”

“On?”

“Whether I keep waking up feeling a little more like myself.”

He looks at you for a moment longer than is strictly polite.

Then: “Yeah. I get that. Same for me.”

You tilt your head. “Really? What’s your escape-from-the-world backstory?”

He lets out a theatrical sigh. “Was hoping to be reborn as a goat, but mostly I’ve just been eating bread and avoiding my Australian colleague.”

“A noble quest.”

He lifts his juice like a toast. “To secondhand bikes and rainy mornings.”

You clink your fork against his glass. “To language barriers and stale croissants.”

And just like that, the café feels warmer. The space between you looser.

When the rain finally began to slow, the world outside looked washed and reflective. You stood. So did he. The chairs scraped gently against the tile floor, and the café owner gave you both a little nod as you passed.

Your bike was still leaning against the wall, looking the same as it always had: slightly crooked, unapologetically stubborn.

“Still doesn’t brake properly?” he asked, nodding toward it.

You glanced at the frame. “Keeps me on my toes.”

He grinned, eyes a little too knowing. “I respect that.”

You swung a leg over the bike, adjusted your cardigan. He didn’t move. Just watched you like he didn’t really want to leave the frame of this scene yet.

“Well,” he said.

“Well.”

“I’ll see you around, then?”

You turned your head, meeting his gaze with something lighter in your chest than before. “You usually do.”

Then you pushed off.

The wheels hummed beneath you as you coasted down the glistening lane, droplets flicking up from the tires, the wind lifting your hair. For a moment, everything—the air, the street, even the puddles—seemed to glow.

…

You wake with the early light, when the shutters spill pale gold across the floorboards like paint from an open jar. The air smells faintly of honeysuckle and the soft charcoal tang of chimney smoke drifting from somewhere higher up the hill. You boil water, steep tea in the chipped mug you brought from home, and walk barefoot across the uneven tiles while the kettle wheezes like an old dog trying to gossip.

Then, tea in hand, you go to the bench.

It’s not much—just a wooden seat with flaking paint, half-swallowed by long grass and perched at the edge of a field where the light always seems to move slower. Like the morning itself hasn't decided what kind of day it wants to be yet. You sit there every day with your sketchbook balanced on your knees, pencil in hand, the silence soft and obliging. It doesn’t ask questions. It just keeps you company.

Sketching doesn’t demand anything. It’s a way of looking that feels gentler. Less about perfection, more about presence. It pulls you back when your thoughts drift too far forward or behind. It reminds you—you’re still here.

And almost always, he bikes past.

You’ve learned that his Airbnb is further uphill, on a narrow, winding road that loops lazily through the back of the village. He cycles into town most mornings, allegedly for fruit or pastries, but often—he’ll admit—it’s for nothing at all. 

The conversations started small. Breezy things. Half-thoughts, half-jokes. The kind of talking that fills the air without crowding it.

One morning, Lando pulled up beside the bench and asked—with complete seriousness—what your favourite film was. You said Before Sunrise. He said Fantastic Mr. Fox.

“That tracks,” you murmured, and he cracked a grin—bright and boyish and slightly crooked. You thought about that laugh for the rest of the day.

Lately, he lingers.

He slows down more, even when he doesn’t plan to stop. Sometimes, he leans his forearms against the back of your bench and watches your pencil move, offering oddly specific commentary like, “That tree looks like my mate Oscar,” or “This cloud feels like it would judge me in a job interview.”

You never look at him when he says silly things like that. But you always smile.

Some mornings, he brings you things. Once, a bruised nectarine. Another time a wrinkled leaflet for a jazz concert that had happened last year. One day, you asked what he was listening to on his iPod and he just said, “Early One Direction. But like, the deep cuts.” before cycling off with a wink.

You learn his rhythm. The way he hums on the downhill stretch. The way he says bonjour to the same grumpy cat outside the bakery. The way his hair curls at the nape of his neck when it’s humid. The bracelet he always wears—faded thread, frayed at the edge. How he never finishes a full pastry but always offers you the last bite.

You don’t know what to call it yet. This something. This him. But you’re starting to notice how much softer the mornings feel when he’s part of them.

And how strange it is to miss someone you never planned to see at all.

Then, one morning, he surprises you.

You’re sketching the tree line again, pencil balanced between your fingers, when a shadow lands softly over your knees.

You glance up.

He’s standing beside the bench, holding something in both hands—a mug. Not new, not pristine. Blue glaze around the rim, a daisy painted off-center. It looks like it came from a kitchen where the cupboards don’t match and no one minds.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just offers it out, his fingers curved gently around the handle.

“I saw this at the market,” he says, casual. “Figured it looked close enough to the one you chipped.”

You blink once, then again. It’s too early for your guard to be all the way up.

“You bought me a mug?”

Lando shrugs, like it’s not a thing. “Didn’t want you drinking out of something that might slice your lip open. Don’t even know if they have a doctor in this little town.”

You take it slowly, letting your fingers brush his just slightly. It’s warm.

“You’re very committed to my safety.”

“Some might say I’m an empath,” he says, trying to keep a straight-face. “You don’t have to look so surprised.”

You crack a smile.

He sits beside you, completely uninvited. Just like that. “Brought one for myself too, if you don’t mind”

His knee knocks yours as he shifts to grab another mug and a thermos from his bag. Neither of you adjust.

The breeze moves through the field, brushing the tall grass flat for half a second before it lifts again. You raise the mug to your lips and take a slow sip.

It tastes a little better than usual.

“Do you always make that face when you’re sketching?”

You didn’t look up. “What face?”

He coasted to a slow stop in the grass and launched straight into an over-the-top impersonation—lips scrunched, brows furrowed, eyes slightly crossed.

You glanced sideways. “Is that supposed to be me?”

He kept going. “I must... channel the essence of this leaf. I must suffer... for texture.”

You snorted. “You’re such a nerd.”

He grinned. “Come on, you do have a whole look. Very funny. I respect the commitment.”

You shook your head, pencil still moving. “Right. Says the guy who bikes around looking like he’s in Call Me By Your Name.”

He leaned on the back of the bench, smug as anything. “I can’t help it if I look like a movie star, darling.”

You gave him a side-eye. “So humble.”

“I don’t hear you disagreeing with me.”

You laughed, soft and unwilling. He didn’t say anything else—just stayed close, quiet, easy in your orbit. And your pencil kept moving, but the corners of your mouth hadn’t stopped lifting since he arrived.

He leans back, his arm resting casually along the back of the bench. His bracelet slides a little on his wrist, thread faded in the center.

A few minutes pass like that—his presence quiet but close, your pencil moving in soft lines. He smells faintly of laundry powder and sunscreen.

…

You are secretly thrilled to see him that morning.

You’re at your usual bench, sketchbook open, tea warm in your hands, the sun already softening the edges of your linen trousers. The field hums. You’re halfway through the slant of a tree that never quite sits still when you hear tires crunching over the path.

You look up.

It’s him.

Same bike. Different shirt. Canvas bag slung over one shoulder, baguette sticking out the top like he’s been personally styled by a charming cliché. He squints through the light, already grinning.

“Still terrorizing that poor tree?” he calls.

You glance at your page. “It has character.”

He rolls to a stop beside you. “It’s been, what—four days?”

“It has a lot of personality,” you say, straight-faced.

“Oh, well then. If that’s what you are looking for, I’ve got loads of personality for you.” He says with a cheeky wink.

You raise an eyebrow. “You? Sit still long enough to be sketched? Please.”

He swings a leg off his bike with flair. “I could try. But I’d probably get hungry halfway through.”

He lifts the canvas bag like it’s a grand prize. “Speaking of—come with me.”

You eye the baguette. “That your sales pitch?”

“Bread and charm. I’m working with what I’ve got.”

“And where exactly are we going?”

“That wildflower field past the creek. You need new inspiration. This tree deserves a break. I need breakfast.”

“You’ve been watching me sketch long enough to have opinions now?”

“I’m observant. It’s a hidden skill. I’ve built a whole career out of reading lines and curves.”

You catch it. The quiet drop of something—easy, offhand, like he assumed you already knew.

But you don’t ask. You just stand, close your sketchbook, and tuck it under your arm.

Lando watches you with a flicker of curiosity—like he’s waiting for the question that never comes.

“And you’re getting me there how, exactly?”

He pats the cross bar of the bike. “Hop on.”

“Are you serious?”

“I’m always serious about snacks. And this blanket’s not going to carry itself.”

You hesitate, heart skipping—not with fear, but anticipation. You jump on the bar.

“Hold tight,” he says, kicking off.

“Oh my God.”

He laughs, arm instinctively sliding around your waist. “Relax. Worst case, we fall into a bush.”

“You’re not even holding the handlebars properly.”

“I’m multi-talented,” he says, steering with one hand, humming under his breath.

The path dips and curves. Wind brushes your face. And for the next five minutes, you feel like you’ve been dropped into the part of a summer film right before the music swells.

…

The wildflower field is even beautiful and bright.

He rolls the bike into the grass like it’s muscle memory, drops the bag beside it, and pulls out a folded blanket with the confidence of someone who’s done this before.

“I’m genuinely impressed you remembered a blanket,” you say, eyeing the setup.

He shrugs, casually smug. “Some of us come prepared.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You don’t strike me as a planning-ahead kind of guy.”

“Among other hidden talents,” he says, casually flicking a grape your way. “Thought you might’ve Googled me by now.”

You catch the grape, just barely. “Wild to think I find you that interesting.”

He grins. “What if I’m a fugitive criminal and that’s why I’m out here, hiding.”

You hum. “I’ll think I prefer to remain in the dark about that.”

His eyes catch yours, teasing but quieter now. “You’re not even a little bit tempted to look me up right now?”

“Even less than before. For all I care you are the crown prince of Denmark, you are still an annoying little shit.”

He grins amused and grabs another grape.

You kick off your shoes and sit beside him, brushing your hair behind your ears.

“You ever bring anyone else here?” you ask, eyeing the setup—peaches in syrup, cheese, a suspiciously artisanal jar of jam.

He hands you a napkin. “No one. Only few get to experience my special seduction peaches.”

You almost spit your tea. “You did not just say that.”

“Oh, I absolutely did. You compared me to that Timothée movie the other day—so really, this is on you.”

Before you can respond, Lando plucks a flower from the grass and tucks it behind his ear like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Then he looks at you, smug and unbothered.

“What do you think? Suits the vibe, right?”

You give him a slow once-over. “You’re pushing it.”

“Sure,” he says, adjusting it with mock precision. “I think it makes my eyes pop quite nicely though, don’t you?”

You snort. “You always fish this hard for compliments?”

He shrugs, casual as ever. “Only from you.”

You roll your eyes at him but fail to hide your smile.  

Lando unpacks slowly, casually—like this is all just something that happened to him, not something he planned. You let him talk about how he once tried to make focaccia and accidentally started a small kitchen fire. He lets you tell the story of the time you asked a Parisian barista for a boyfriend instead of a straw.

“Did he offer his number?”

“No. He laughed and said ‘bonne chance.’”

He tips his head back and laughs, a full sound that seems to ripple out into the field.

You lie back beside him, full of cheese and sunlight. The grass is soft, the breeze lazy, and for the first time in ages, you feel completely still.

Your fingers rest close but don’t touch. His eyes are closed, lashes long, expression relaxed. There’s a smudge of jam near the corner of his mouth. The bracelet on his wrist has slid halfway down his forearm.

You look at him—not because he’s objectively handsome, though he is—but because being around him doesn’t feel like something you have to manage. He doesn’t need anything from you. He just shows up. With jokes. With peaches. With warmth.

You’re not used to that. But you’re starting to think maybe you could be.

You turn your face toward the sky.

And for a second, you let the quiet hold you both.

…

You don’t sleep that night.

Not for lack of trying. You go through all the motions—face washed, teeth brushed, window cracked open just enough to let the breeze curl across the floor. You even do the thing where you flip the pillow to the cooler side, hoping your body will take the hint.

It doesn’t.

Your legs still feel sun-drunk and grass-damp. Your hands remember the weight of the baguette you both pretended not to take seriously. Your chest, somehow, still echoes with the sound of his laugh—low and delighted and very much not meant for anyone else.

And your mind won’t stop showing you that moment again.

Lando. The field. His shoulder just barely brushing yours. That ridiculous flower tucked behind his ear. The way he looked when he wasn’t talking—just… there. Loose-limbed and open. Hair a mess. Bracelet slipping halfway down his arm. Eyes closed like the sun belonged to him.

You shift under the covers. Still no good.

Eventually, you slip out of bed.

Barefoot and quiet, you cross the tiles to the kitchen. The lamp above the stove gives off a soft yellow glow. The house creaks once as if noticing you’re up.

Your sketchbook is right where you left it—on the nightstand, corner bent slightly from use. You carry it with you like muscle memory and sit at the little table with your legs tucked under, pencil already balanced between your fingers.

You don’t plan what you’re going to draw.

You just start.

It begins with his posture. Easy. Familiar now. Then the curve of his neck where the sun had kissed it pink. The line of his mouth—not posed, just relaxed. And that flower. Silly and lovely. You add it carefully, even though it makes you laugh under your breath again.

You sketch the hills in the background, the fold of the blanket, the half-bitten baguette lying next to him like a punchline.

Your hand moves without asking your permission. Your pencil seems to know the parts of him that mattered. The crinkle near his eye when he made you laugh. The line of his jaw when he leaned back and said something that made your chest buzz in that quiet, dangerous way.

You sit back when it’s done, but you don’t close the book.

You just look at him.

Something in your chest lets go a little.

And then—without really meaning to—you start flipping through the older pages.

Tree trunks. Hills. Sunlight. Quiet things. But now you’re noticing shapes that weren’t the focus at the time. A shadow leaning against a bench. The outline of a bike resting just off-frame. Coffee mugs.

You frown a little. Then smile, too.

Because he’s been showing up longer than you thought.

And now he’s here, on the page in front of you, taking up space like he always belonged there.

…

You didn’t sleep—not really.

One of those nights where you lay still for hours, heart too loud, sheets too warm, brain spinning in loops you couldn’t name. You kept thinking of the field, of the flowers brushing your ankles, of the way his laugh curled around your spine. And of his knees—close, brushing yours like it didn’t mean anything. Like it meant everything.

When morning finds you, it does so unkindly.

The light is too sharp. Your limbs are stiff with something leftover from the night before—restlessness, maybe, or the quiet ache of wanting.

You sit up slowly. The room smells like warm wood and the tea you didn’t finish yesterday.

You skip the kettle.

Too gentle. Too slow. You need caffeine. 

You pull on whatever’s nearby—a linen shirt, a pair of sandals—and grab your bag from the hook. Your sketchbook is tucked inside, the top corner of the latest page still slightly curled from where your hand lingered too long the night before. It’s warm from the sunlit table. Warm from you.

It’s quiet in the village. That early, golden hush that only comes once the birds have tired themselves out and the people haven’t started yet. Everything smells like stone and heat and thyme. You walk without much thought. First slow, then a little faster. Like maybe if you keep moving, your thoughts won’t catch up.

The café is open. It always is.

You go straight to the counter and order an espresso without looking up. Your voice is quieter than usual. Automatic. The barista nods. The machine hisses.

You shift your bag on your shoulder. Fumble in the front pocket for coins.

The sketchbook slips.

You don’t hear it.

You’re too busy remembering the shape of his grin.

You pay. Say merci. Take your espresso and go.

Behind you, the sketchbook lies open on the counter, a breeze flipping the top page like it wants someone—anyone—to look.

…

You take the long way home. Not on purpose. Not really.

Your legs just keep going—past the chapel with the wonky bell, past the grocer unloading crates of apricots that smell like sun, past the bakery with its windows fogged from the morning batch.

You sip slowly. The espresso is sharp and bitter and unkind but also everything you needed.

When you pass the bench, it’s empty. You don’t stop. You don’t even glance toward the road that loops up the hill.

But halfway home, you freeze.

That ache in your chest returns—low, pulling. Something’s off.

You reach for your bag. Dig past your wallet, the folded napkin from yesterday’s market, a spare pencil.

No sketchbook.

You stop walking.

Check again.

Slower this time. More methodical. Like maybe it’ll appear if you’re careful enough.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach drops.

You whisper to yourself, trying to backtrack. “I had it. I know I had it. I remember taking it.”

And then it hits you.

The café.

You’re already running.

…

The bell above the café door jangled sharply as you burst in. The barista looked up, startled.

“Excusez-moi,” you said, slightly out of breath.  “Vous auriez trouvé un carnet, par hasard ? Je l’ai peut-être oublié ce matin.” (Excuse me, did you happen to find a notebook? I might’ve left it here this morning.)

She blinked, then frowned slightly. “Un carnet… genre un cahier ?” (A notebook… like a journal?)

You nodded. “Oui, un carnet à dessin. Noir. Je l’ai sûrement laissé sur le comptoir.” (Yes, a sketchbook. Black. I probably left it on the counter.)

She glanced around, lifted the napkin holder, checked behind the coffee machine. “J’ai rien vu, désolée. Mais y’a eu pas mal de monde après vous.” (Didn’t see anything, sorry. But there were quite a few people after you.)

Your stomach dipped.

“D’accord… merci quand même,” you murmured. (Alright… thanks anyway.)

“Pas de souci,” she said gently, already returning to the machine. (No worries.)

Your eyes scan the tables. The chairs. Every quiet shadow. But it’s gone.

Really, truly gone.

You step outside slowly. The sun is too high now, the village too awake. The world feels like it’s pressing in from all angles.

You sit on the stone step outside the café, espresso forgotten. The cup sweats in your palm.

You don’t drink it.

You just... sit.

Your breath is shallow. Not panicked, exactly. But cracked at the edges.

You think of the pages—your pages.

Not just trees or windows or bowls of fruit. But him.

The slope of his neck. The way the sun hit the side of his face when he laughed. The soft curve of his hand resting near yours.

The flower behind his ear. That ridiculous moment he wore it like a crown and said something about giving you something to look at.

And now someone else might be looking.

You walk home in silence.

You check the house. The table. The windowsill. Your bed. You check the chair you always leave it on, like maybe—maybe—you forgot and imagined everything else.

But you didn’t.

It’s not there.

…

After the café, you try to reset.

You tell yourself it’s just a notebook. Just paper. Just lines and impressions. You’ve lost things before. It’s fine. It’s nothing. It’s not everything.

You throw on your sandals, tug your bag over your shoulder, and head for the market—not because you need anything, but because standing still might make your chest cave in. You need noise. Fruit stalls. Shouting. Old men debating over melons. Something that reminds you how to be in your body.

The sun is already high, painting your shoulders gold. The rhythm of the stalls is comforting in its own strange way—baskets rustling, paper bags crinkling, the clink of coins and easy bonjours. You watch someone tear a baguette with their teeth. You buy a peach.

It’s soft in your palm, a little too ripe. You brush your thumb over the fuzz, trying to ground yourself in something small.

That’s when you hear it.

"Didn’t think I’d see you here this early," someone says behind you, casual like he’s been here all along.

You turn.

Lando’s leaning on his bike one-handed, an apple in the other, already half-eaten. He’s in a worn navy tee, curls pushed up by his sunglasses, grinning like he’s not even trying.

You blink at him. "I could say the same. You don’t strike me as a morning person."

He shrugs, taking another bite. "Very true. Thought I’d do something different today. Blend in. Be a local."

You eye his trainers and canvas bag. "Yeah. Totally inconspicuous."

“The very British sunburn really sells it,” he says, pointing to his red cheeks.

You snort. Keep walking. He pushes the bike beside you like it’s second nature now.

"You doing the full lap?" he asks.

"Haven’t decided. Just needed to move."

"Same. Mostly I’m out here hoping something vaguely interesting happens."

"And?"

He holds up the apple. "Might’ve peaked already."

You shoot him a look, but you’re smiling. He bumps your shoulder, just barely.

The breeze catches the hem of your dress. A tomato vendor yells something in French about someone’s parking spot. Lando steals a grape off a display like he owns the place.

You’re halfway past the cheese stand when he glances at you. “So you’re not sketching today.”

Your whole body goes still.

“Lost it,” you say, like it’s no big deal. “My sketchbook. Think I left it at the café. Was gone when I went back.”

Lando stops walking.

Then, slowly, he pulls the tote around from his shoulder and fishes something out.

“It looked something like this, right?”

Your eyes land on it—your sketchbook, worn at the edges, a smudge of charcoal on the corner.

You freeze. “No way.”

He flips it once in his hands. “Way.”

You reach for it, but he takes a step back, grin deepening. “Oi, snatching? Not even a thank you first?”

“I was getting there,” you say, eyes narrowing.

“Sure you were,” he says, flipping the cover open. “Let’s see all those trees you’ve been staring at in the past week.”

“Don’t—”

“Oh, I’m already in.” His grin stretches wider as he glances down. But then it falters—just slightly. Like the air shifts.

And then he looks up at you.

The teasing’s gone now, folded away somewhere beneath the warmth in his voice. He closes the sketchbook gently, hands holding it like it might bruise if he let it fall. “I just wanted to see if you drew the wildflowers already.”

You don’t say anything. Not because you don’t want to—but because something about the way he’s looking at you makes the words wait.

Soft confusion. A hint of something quieter underneath. A flicker of disbelief, maybe.

“I can’t believe you actually drew me,” he says, like it’s only just hitting him.

You want to joke. Deflect. Say something casual and light. But your throat feels too full. Your fingers fidget near the edge of your skirt.

He reopens it and looks down at the page again, as if he was expecting it to have disappeared.

“Not just a little sketch either,” he adds, thumb brushing the edge of the paper. “You didn’t just... doodle me. You saw me.”

You finally meet his eyes.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.” You half joke, trying to lighten the thick and heavy air that had dawned between the two of you. 

He breathes out—half-laugh, half-question. “I didn’t know I looked like that.”

You tilt your head slightly.

“Like what?”

He squints down at the drawing again, shifting the sketchbook in his hands.

There’s colour on his cheeks now. His voice is softer. “You got everything. My awful posture. The weird way I hold my hands. Even the mole I always forget is there.”

He smiles faintly. “It’s kind of weird, how much that gets to me.”

You don’t reply. You don’t need to. Because it’s written in the line of your shoulders, in the way your breath catches and holds still.

He straightens a little, pressing a palm flat over the closed cover like he’s anchoring it.

“Anyway,” he says, clearing his throat like he needs a reset, “That’s enough vulnerability for one market morning.”

You raise a brow.

He nods solemnly. “Look at me, being cool and composed and absolutely not affected.”

You laugh, finally.

He grins like he’s been waiting to see that. Then he shifts his bike with one hand, the sketchbook still tucked in his other arm like it’s something he's meant to carry.

You walk slowly now, shoes scuffing along the uneven stones. Your shoulder bumps his once. Then again. Neither of you pulls away.

You look up just as he glances over, lashes low, smile lazy, that tiny smug tilt creeping back in.

But now you know what’s underneath it.

And maybe he’s glad you do.

…

The walk to his cottage that evening is quiet.

You take the long route through the trees, basket swinging at your hip. The sky is blushing, the whole village exhaling after the heat of the day. Gravel crunches beneath your shoes, louder in the hush that settles around you. The afternoon still lingers on your skin. So does the sketchbook.

His door is ajar when you reach it.

You knock once.

“Come in,” he calls, a clatter following—a pot lid, probably, hitting the floor.

You step inside.

His cottage is smaller than yours, but warm in a wonky, lived-in way. One wall leans slightly. The light is golden, catching on the edges of hanging mugs and cluttered spice jars. There’s a low hum of wordless music playing from a vintage speaker in the corner. Something soft and jazzy. Something that matches the air.

Lando appears barefoot, damp curls still tousled from a shower, grey sweatpants slung too casually low, a t-shirt faded at the seams. There’s a smear of flour near his wrist. The towel on his shoulder has a questionable stain on one corner.

“You’re exactly on time,” he says, tossing the towel at the counter. “I was just ruining dinner.”

You lift an eyebrow. “I can see that.”

He waves a wooden spoon. “Rude. I’ve done my part. Now it’s your turn to salvage things.”

You join him by the stove. There are garlic skins everywhere and one tomato that looks like it’s been crushed in a fit of rage.

“Wow,” you say. “It looks like a proper crime scene in here.”

He grins, handing you the spoon. “It’s artisanal. You wouldn’t get it.”

You fall into step beside him—chopping, stirring, nudging each other out of the way. It’s chaotic in a way that feels easy.

“Is that jam? In the pasta sauce?”

He stirs, unfazed. “Might be. Might not. Who’s to say?”

You sigh. “You’re ridiculous.”

He winks. “Ridiculously sexy, though.” 

“You would be in jail in Italy for this.”

He nudges you with his elbow. “No way. It will be super good."

You raise an eyebrow trying to contain your laughter.

"If I mess this up, you’ll have to come over again. For redemption dinner.”

You laugh under your breath. “So this is a trap?”

“Obviously,” he says, smiling like it’s already worked. 

You shake your head, fighting the grin. “I’m just here to file the incident report.”

He laughs—easy, boyish. “Sure. That’s why you’re here.”

You nudge him with your hip, but you’re smiling now, and so is he.

There’s a beat where everything feels suspended—like the world’s trying to decide whether to lean in or let go.

Dinner, somehow, becomes edible. Better than edible, actually. The kitchen smells like garlic and warmth. Or maybe just him.

You eat perched on the stools at his narrow counter, knees bumping, plates resting on mismatched placemats. The music hums low. The wine he poured earlier—without asking—sits mostly untouched between you.

You scrape the bottom of your bowl, trying not to admit how good it all is.

The conversation drifts. Then slows. The air thickens, not in a heavy way—just... heavier than before.

You run your finger along the rim of your plate.

“I like this,” you say, quieter now.

“The failed pasta?”

You shake your head. “This. The whole thing. With you.”

He leans his elbow on the counter, watching you. There’s something less cheeky in his eyes now. But not serious, not exactly. Just a different kind of focused.

“I don’t even know when everything started feeling like a performance,” you murmur. “I don’t know. It’s nice to be here and not worry if I’m being too much or not enough.”

He sets his fork down. Fingers loose, gentle. 

“I get that,” he says. “Sometimes I walk into a room and feel like half of me’s already there. The one people expect. Loud, easy, fast. And then someone says something like ‘I feel like I know you,’ and I want to ask them which version.” 

You glance at him, a smile tugging at your mouth before you finish. “It’s nice to really let go and not having to try so hard.”

His gaze doesn’t move. “You don’t have to try at all.”

You blink.

“And that’s not me being smooth,” he adds, lips curving. “Okay, mostly not me being smooth.”

You nudge his leg lightly with your knee. “Mostly?”

He shrugs, letting it sit.

“You are so wonderful. I could watch you like this for hours,” he says. “And still feel like I’m missing something.”

You finish eating slowly, forks scraping the last of the pasta as the music hums behind you, low and warm. Neither of you rushes to clear the plates—there’s something easy about sitting there, knees bumping, the last of the wine forgotten between you.

Eventually, you both get up, brushing shoulders as you move around the narrow kitchen. He rinses the dishes. You dry. There’s a rhythm to it, quiet and unspoken.

And then—he reaches for a bowl at the same time you do.

Your hands brush. Not by accident.

You look up.

He’s close now. Closer than before. The counter feels smaller suddenly. The music softer. The room warmer.

He doesn’t move.

And neither do you.

His voice is low, playful, but there's something underneath it. “That thing you do with your rings... is that a tell?”

Your brow lifts slightly. “Do what?”

“You’re fidgeting, darling,” he says. “And have been for the past couple of minutes.”

Your mouth curves despite yourself. “You’re imagining things.”

“I’m not.” His fingers skim lightly over yours, still damp from the sink. “You’re a terrible liar.”

And then—he stands straighter. Like a decision’s just been made.

He lifts a hand to your cheek, brushing a loose strand of hair back, his knuckles warm where they linger.

You don’t pull away.

You don’t want to.

His thumb moves gently, tilting your chin. “You make me a bit nervous too.” he murmurs, grinning just enough to be trouble.

“Tell me to stop.”

You breathe in. Just once.

Then, “Please don’t.”

And then he kisses you.

Soft. Slow. Like he’s not in a hurry, but also like he’s been thinking about this every night since the first time you smirked at him from that bench.

You sink into it.

His other hand finds your waist, grounding. Yours slide up his chest, fingers curling against the fabric of his shirt like you need to hold on to something solid.

His lips part slightly. So do yours. He exhales into you, and the air around you shifts again—fizzing, slow-burning, like a spark finally catching.

When you pull back just enough to breathe, he doesn’t move.

Just rests his forehead lightly against yours.

“You good?” he asks, voice somewhere between careful and cocky.

You nod. “Still think you’re terrible at pasta.”

He grins. “Fine. But undeniable at kissing.”

“Cocky,” you say, smiling against his mouth.

“Only when I’m right.”

He kisses you again—deeper this time, more sure. One hand still at your waist, the other slipping behind your neck.

And you let yourself have it. The heat of him. The weight of it. The way his body presses into yours like this is exactly where he’s meant to be.

Because maybe it is.

…

You wake in his arms.

Not in some cinematic, sun-drenched way—no birdsong, no breeze gently billowing the curtains. Just warmth. Slow and steady. The hush of his breath tucked against the back of your neck, the weight of his arm heavy across your waist, the sheets tangled somewhere near your knees. The room smells like sleep mixed with his cologne. 

You stretch slightly, and his grip tightens instinctively.

“You awake?” he mumbles, voice scratchy with sleep.

“Mm.”

You shift, slowly, until you’re facing him. His eyes open, half-lidded and soft, focus still finding its way. And then—there it is. That lazy little smile, the kind that feels more like a secret than a greeting.

“Morning,” he says, barely above a whisper.

“Hi.”

The quiet between you isn’t awkward. It’s padded. Safe.

“I think,” you say, eyelids still heavy, “your pasta disaster got redeemed.”

He lets out a sleepy huff. “Told you. Charm and chaos. Balanced recipe.”

You smile, tucking yourself closer. He shifts onto his back, pulling you with him until your head fits into the crook of his shoulder. His fingers trail lightly down your spine, just under the hem of the hoodie you’re still wearing—his hoodie, which he definitely hasn’t asked for back and is definitely not mad about seeing on you.

You stay like that a while. No talking. No rush. Just letting the morning hold you.

“I get why people never leave places like this,” he murmurs eventually.

You tilt your chin up, just slightly. “Because of the views?”

He pauses.

“Because of the mornings.”

And he doesn’t say more than that—but the quiet lingers with meaning, like maybe this is new for him too. Not just the waking up like this, but the wanting to.

Then—because of course—there’s a doorbell.

He groans into the pillow. “This place doesn’t even have a doorbell.”

You’re already pushing yourself upright, sleeves covering your hands. He swings his legs over the bed, the light catching the lines of his shoulders, his chest. It’s kind of rude, honestly.

You throw him a look. “You’re going down there like that? Just underwear?”

He shrugs, already walking. “If it’s the postman, he’s earned a little joy.”

You follow barefoot, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles, hair messy, heart full of something that’s just starting to make sense.

He opens the door.

Oscar.

Holding his phone, keys dangling from his fingers, and an expression that sits somewhere between unimpressed and deeply unsurprised.

“There he is,” Oscar says flatly. “The missing child.”

Lando blinks. “Hi.”

“Hi. Zac says hi, too. You’ve gone full ghost mode for a week and a half now, and considering you’re allergic to not being online, we assumed you’d fallen down a ravine.”

Lando leans against the doorframe, completely calm. “Define fallen.”

Oscar opens his mouth—but then he spots you.

And you, still half-tucked behind Lando, offer the kind of smile that says: yes, this is awkward. No, you’re not sorry.

Oscar squints. His gaze drops to the hoodie. He exhales through his nose.

“Knew you had to be sticking around for a reason.”

Lando smirks, unapologetic. “Takes one to know one.”

Oscar sighs like he’s aged a decade in two minutes. “Anyway. Testing starts. Sim sessions are racking up. You missed three already, and if you keep slacking, I might actually beat you this year.”

Lando’s still looking at you when he says, “Any more room in the car?”

Oscar raises a brow. “For you?”

Lando doesn’t look away. “No. For us.”

There’s a pause. A flicker of something almost fond on Oscar’s face.

“God,” he mutters. “Fine.”

Lando turns to you, grin a little too confident now. “You into sketching race cars?”

You raise a brow. “That depends. Are they prettier than the trees?”

“They are,” he says, tugging you gently toward him. “Especially when I’m driving them.”

You let him. Smile blooming as your fingers curl around the fabric of his sleeve.

“Guess I’ll find out.”

I LOVE A BADASS FMC, LETS GOOOOO

In Case of Emergency (II)

(Spencer Reid x Medic! Reader)

Warnings: violence, mentions of assault, blood, slow burn, cursing, and eventual smut 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!!

word count: 3,300

Amidst an increase of injuries out in the field, a new team member is assigned to the BAU. A medic. Tasked with keeping the team alive, but when an unexpected threat challenges her ability to think on her feet, the team is forced to rethink their assumptions of their newest member.

Next | Previous | Beginning

Chapter Two: First Case

The team landed in Chicago just after sunset, stepping onto the tarmac as the crisp night air settled over the city.

Four women had been murdered in the past two weeks, all strangled and posed in public spaces- parks, alleyways, bus stops. No signs of sexual assault, no robbery, and no apparent personal connection between the victims. The Chicago PD was stumped, and the media was already running with the story.

Inside the local precinct, the officer in charge of the case briefed the team. A tired-looking man in his fifties, he ran a hand through his graying hair as he pulled up the crime scene photos, re-introducing the team to the case.

"All four victims were young women, ages twenty-four to thirty. They were found early in the morning by city workers or pedestrians. No eyewitnesses, no camera even caught the attacks," the officer explained. "The coroner ruled the cause of death as strangulation by ligature, but we haven't been able to identify what was used."

You stood towards the back of the precinct's conference room, taking in the gruesome images. The bodies had been positioned deliberately- hands folded across their stomachs, legs straight, eyes closed. Almost... peaceful.

JJ spoke up first. "He's not just dumping them- he's posing them. That suggests remorse. "

Hotch nodded. "Or it's a ritual."

Morgan studied the photos, frowning. "What about defensive wounds?"

The officer shook his head. "Minimal. No signs of a struggle. We don't think they were bound or incapacitated beforehand, either. It's like they didn't fight back."

You glanced at Reid, who tapped his fingers against the table, his mind already working.

"That could suggest a method of control, something that keeps them compliant," Redi said, his voice quickening with thought. "There are cases where killers use intimidation, coercion, or even psychological manipulation to subdue victims. But there's also the possibility of a chemical agent."

Your interest piqued. "A sedative?"

Reid nodded, flipping through the coroner's reports. "If the toxicology results aren't conclusive, we should check for less common paralytic agents- hydroxybutyrate, scopolamine, and even muscle relaxants. Some tend to metabolize quickly and wouldn't show up in standard tests."

Hotch turned to you. "We won't be heading out into the field until we get more information on the unsub. Could you go to the coroner's office and follow up?"

You nodded, standing, happy to be able to help the team. "On it."

Reid stood up quickly as well. "I'll go with her."

Hotch barely blinked before nodding, and out the corner of your eye, you could see Morgan smirking. "Alright. The rest of us will go to the crime scenes and see what we can find there."

As the team split up, you and Reid made your way to the coroner's office, walking side by side down the cold Chicago streets.

“You really think there could be a paralytic agent?” you asked.

Reid adjusted his satchel, his expression focused. “It would explain the lack of defensive wounds. Even in cases where a killer has overwhelming physical strength, victims typically scratch, claw, or attempt to break free. These women didn’t.”

You nodded, thoughtful. “If we find proof of that, it could tell us a lot about who we're looking for.”

Reid glanced at you with a small smile. “You catch on fast.”

You smirked. “Was that a compliment, Dr. Reid?”

His lips twitched. “Maybe.”

You laughed, and for a brief moment, the weight of the case felt just a little lighter.

The coroner's office was cold. The kind of artificial chill designed to preserve the dead and make the living feel uncomfortable. The air was thick with formaldehyde, and antiseptic.

You had spent enough time in med school around cavaliers to be unfazed, but the smell still lingered in the back of your throat. It always did.

The city's medical examiner greeted you both with a weary nod, leading you toward the sterile steel tables where the latest victim lay.

You and Reid stepped up beside the body as the medical examiner pulled back the crisp white covering. You immediately noted the pallor of the skin, the slight lividity around the neck, and the absence of external wounds beyond the ligature marks.

Reid spoke first. "Any signs of petechial hemorrhaging?"

The examiner nodded, gesturing toward the victim's eyes. “Yes, consistent with strangulation. But what’s strange is the lack of bruising around the trachea. Typically, in manual strangulation cases, we’d see deep tissue damage. The hyoid bone is intact.”

You leaned in, studying the marking with a clinical eye. "That means the unsub wasn't using brutal force. He applied even, calculated pressure- enough to cut off oxygen without crushing the windpipe."

You frowned slightly, slipping a glove from your bag and brushing your gloved fingers near the victim's clavicle. “See this slight indentation here? That suggests a flexible ligature—probably soft, something like a silk scarf, a thin rope, or medical tubing.”

Reid nodded. “That would make sense if he has medical knowledge. He would know how to strangle without causing excessive bruising, making it look almost… peaceful.”

You exhaled, removing your glove. “Which matches the way he posed them.”

The examiner glanced at you both. “You were right to suggest testing for chemicals—I ran an extended toxicology panel, and there were trace amounts of scopolamine in her system.”

You and Reid exchanged a sharp look.

“Scopolamine,” you muttered. “That changes everything.”

You and Reid returned to the precinct with the new discovery, presenting your finding to the team.

The both of you stood before the team who had just come back from the scene. You began to explain your findings. "Scopolamine is a powerful drug that can cause disorientation, suggestibility, and even temporary amnesia"

"If our unsub is using it, he could be convincing these women to follow him willingly," Spencer spoke, perfectly finishing your own thought process.

Prentiss frowned. “If he’s using scopolamine, that suggests a level of medical knowledge or access.”

You nodded. “It’s not something you just buy over the counter. He’s either making it himself, or he’s stealing it.”

Morgan reached into his pocket and retrieved his cell phone. "I'll call Garcia and ask him to check the hospital and pharmaceutical suppliers' records."

A few moments later, Garcia's voice came through the speakerphone. "Okay, I’ve got three reported thefts of scopolamine in the last six months—two from hospitals, one from a university lab. I threw in that last search to cover all our bases."

"Thank you, babygirl, you're the best." Morgan flirted before exchanging goodbyes with Garcia.

“That gives us a starting point. Let’s get a list of employees and students who had access.” Hotch spoke sternly.

Reid crossed his arms. “Given the control he has over his victims, he may have a background in psychology or persuasion techniques—maybe even a history of domestic abuse or coercion.”

Morgan leaned back. “You’re thinking he’s done this before?”

Reid nodded. “Not necessarily murder, but manipulation, control, coercion—this level of precision suggests experience.”

You shivered slightly. The idea of a man practicing on victims before escalating to murder was sickening.

JJ turned to the map. “If we can predict where he’ll strike next, we might be able to stop him.”

You studied the locations of the previous victims. Something clicked in your mind.

“These sites… they aren’t random.” You pointed at the map. “They’re all near major commuter areas—train stations, bus stops, places where people might be alone for a few minutes.”

Reid’s eyes widened slightly. “That’s… that’s good. That means he’s hunting in a pattern.”

Hotch nodded. “Morgan, Prentiss, take a team and set up near the Red Line train station—if he follows the pattern, that could be his next hunting ground.”

As the team moved into action, Reid turned to you, an impressed look in his eyes.

“You saw the pattern before anyone else,” he said quietly.

You shrugged. “I just… noticed.”

He smiled slightly. “I think you’re going to fit in just fine.”

You felt a warmth spread through you at the sincere praise from the resident genius of the BAU.

A black surveillance van was parked a block away from the suspected target site- a deserted alleyway near the Red Line train station. It was late, and the streets were quiet expect for the occasional car rolling past and the distant hum of the city's night life.

Inside the van, you were once again meticulously setting up your medical bag. Which was packed with epinephrine, suture kits, clotting agents, and emergency airway tools, among many other things. Everything had a place, arranged neatly for quick access in case things went sideways.

Reid sat across from you, watching as you adjusted the straps on your Kevlar vest. His eyes darted to the array of supplies, curiosity flickering across his face.

"You carry all of that with you on every case?" he asked.

"Pretty much. Never know what could happen; it's best to be overprepared than under. Even if it means my bag weighs tons." You smiled, zipping up the bag and adjusting the strap across your body.

He nodded, shifting in his seat. "That's smart. But also, extremely prepared."

You smirked. "That's what being a combat medic does to you. It might not be exactly the same as chasing serial killers, but if there's one thing the military drilled into me, it's always be prepared for the worst."

Reid blinked, processing. He tilted his head slightly in your direction. "It explains a lot, though."

"Like what?" you teased, resting your chin on your hand.

He hesitated before continuing. "Like why you're calm under pressure. and why Hotch trusts you in the field despite your..." He trailed off, suddenly looking unsure of his words.

You giggled. "Despite my 'cute and innocent' demeanor?" Recalling what Garcia had said about you previously, all of which the team, including Reid, had agreed with.

Reid gave you a sheepish look. "I didn't mean-"

"Oh, don't worry, Spence, I'm well aware of how the team sees me." You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice, a surge of playfulness and confidence overtaking you. "I'm just the innocent little medic, not a tough profiler. But between you and me?"

Reid swallowed hard as you got closer to him.

"I'm tougher than I look," you whispered, smirking slightly, then leaning back to rest your back against the van's wall.

Reid visibly blushed, the tips of his ears turning red as he fumbled for a response, once again surprised by you. There used to be a time when he would only allow one specific person to call him Spence, but when you said it, something shifted within him...he didn't mind it.

Reid cleared his throat, clearly trying to regain his composure. "W-Well, statistically, people tend to make assumptions based on outward appearances, but the reality is often much more nuanced."

You laughed softly. "I might have only gotten to know you for a small period, but I'm guessing that was a very Reid way of saying 'don't judge a book by its cover.'"

Before he could reply, Garcia, who had hacked into the city's surveillance, began to speak through the comms.

"Alright, my lovelies, we've got movement near the target location- unidentified male approaching a woman near the alleyway. Could be our guy.

You and Reid immediately snapped into work mode, grabbing your gear and pushing the van doors open.

The moment you stepped onto the street, making your way to the alleyway, you saw it.

A woman slumped against a wall, body limp.

"Reid, cover me." You said, rushing toward her, Reid nodding behind you, pulling out his gun, walking slowly to check the rest of the alleyway and informing the rest of the team on the situation.

You dropped to your knees beside the woman.

Immediately checked her pulse- weak and erratic. Her breathing was shallow, and her lips were turning blue.

Scopolamine.

"Stay with me," you murmured, pulling a vial of naloxone from your medical bag. With a steady hand, you injected the reversal drug into her thigh.

Seconds felt like an eternity as you monitored her, willing her to breathe. Then-

A sharp gasp.

Her chest rose violently, lung sucking in oxygen as she coughed.

You sighed in relief, hand on her shoulder. "You're okay. Just breathe."

But just as you began to catch your own breath-

A shadow creeps around the corner of the alleyway.

Your instincts screamed.

Before you could turn, you felt a hand grab your shoulder, yanking you backward.

The unsub.

Adrenaline surged through you as your military training kicked in. You twisted your body, using the unsub's momentum against him as you threw a sharp elbow into his ribs. He stumbled into the wall.

You didn't hesitate. Spinning on your heel, driving a kick into his stomach, crashing him to the ground.

The second he hit the pavement, you reached for you gun-

But before you could fire, Reid's voice rang out.

"Y/N!"

The unsub suddenly sprang back up, shoving you down to the floor and lunging straight for Reid.

No.

Your body moved before you could think.

Gun still in hand. Finger on the trigger.

BANG

The gunshot echoed through the alley, and the unsub collapsed, a bullet lodged in his shoulder.

Before you could stand back up, the rest of the team arrived, Morgan and Hotch moving to secure the unsub while Rossi and Prentiss checked on the victim. Sirens echoed in the background.

But Reid? He was immediately at your side, eyes scanning you for injuries.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice tight.

You nodded, adrenaline still surging. "Yeah, I'm fine. My back might not be in the morning, though." You attempted to joke to help shift the mood.

He exhaled, relief washing over his face. Then, he offered his hand.

You took it, letting him pull you to your feet.

"You saved my life," he spoke.

You smiled. "Told you I was tougher than I look."

Reid's lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something else, but Morgan's voice cut in.

"Damn, doc, remind me never to underestimate you again."

You grinned, glancing at Reid. "Did you hear that! I think they might be starting to come around!"

Reid playfully shook his head as you cheered, awe still written all over his face.

And maybe, just maybe, a little bit of something else.

The hum of the jet engines filled the cabin, a low, steady vibration beneath your feet as you settled into your seat across from Reid. The team was exhausted but in good spirits—case closed, unsub caught, and, thanks to you, no fatalities.

You could still feel the adrenaline thrumming through you.

Rossi leaned back with a smirk. “You know,” he mused, looking at you, “I was skeptical at first, but you handled yourself damn well back there.”

JJ nodded, smiling warmly. “I have to agree. You didn’t just patch people up—you kept a cool head, you read the scene, and you made the right call under pressure.”

Morgan grinned, pointing at you. “Give her some more training, and she could be one hell of a profiler.”

You blinked, surprised at the praise. “Oh, uh… thanks?”

Prentiss chuckled. “He’s right. You’ve got the instincts. The way you handled that unsub? Textbook situational awareness.”

Even Hotch, ever stoic, gave a small nod of approval. “If you’re interested, we can start incorporating more profiling training into your role.”

Your heart swelled a little at that. You had expected to be babied by the team for a while—especially after the whole ‘sweet and innocent’ first impression—but now? They actually saw you as capable.

“Wow, I—yeah, I’d love that,” you said, beaming.

Morgan smirked. “Still can’t believe you took down an unsub twice in one night.”

You laughed. “Beginner’s luck?”

“Yeah, sure,” Morgan drawled, shaking his head with amusement.

Reid had been quiet throughout the conversation, but you could feel his eyes on you. When you glanced over, he was already looking, an unreadable expression on his face.

"Impressed, Reid?" you teased.

Reid blinked. "I-um-yes, actually," he admitted. "Your level of medical expertise combined with your ability to assess danger is- well, statisically- extremely rare. It's very impressive."

His genuine admiration made your chest feel warm. You weren't used to someone analyzing your skills and appreciating them.

You smiled, leaning back in your seat. "High praise coming from you; you're the genius."

There was a moment of quiet between you, comfortable yet charged, before you shifted the conversation.

"So Dr. Reid," you said with a bit of humor. "Do you have any exciting post-case plans? Or is it all work and no play?"

Reid huffed a small laugh. “Well, statistically speaking, agents of the Behavioral Analysis Unit have a high tendency to engage in solitary activities after emotionally taxing cases, such as reading or watching television.”

You grinned. “Is that your fancy way of saying you’re planning a solo book night?”

Reid hesitated before giving a small nod. “Yes, actually. But I was also thinking about rewatching some Doctor Who episodes.”

Your eyes immediately lit up. “Wait—Doctor Who? Are you a Whovian?”

Reid blinked. “A what?”

You gasped, hand flying to your chest in mock offense. “Reid. Whovians—fans of Doctor Who. You’re telling me you watch the show and don’t even know what we’re called?”

Reid’s brow furrowed. “I—well, I suppose I knew the term existed, but I never personally identified with it.”

You squinted at him playfully. “Mm-hmm. Sounds like a closet Whovian to me.”

His lips twitched, amusement flickering in his eyes. “And what would that make you?”

You grinned. “Oh, I’m loud and proud. I take my Doctor Who very seriously.”

Reid tilted his head slightly. “Do you have a favorite Doctor?”

"The tenth," you answered immediately.

Reid gave a knowing nod. “I suspected as much. You seem like a Ten fan.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? What does that mean?”

“Well, Ten is often considered the most charismatic, the most sentimental. He leads with heart rather than just intellect,” Reid mused. “You… seem like the type of person who values that in people.”

You stared at him, momentarily caught off guard by his insight. “Huh,” you murmured. “That’s… weirdly accurate.”

Reid smiled faintly. “I do profile people for a living.”

You shook your head, still smiling. “Okay, genius, what about you? Who’s your favorite?”

Reid shifted slightly, a little more reserved. “Eleven.”

You grinned. “I knew it! You totally give Eleven energy.”

Reid’s eyebrows lifted. “How so?”

You crossed one leg over the other, studying him. “You’re ridiculously smart, sometimes talk a mile a minute, and you’ve got that whole charmingly awkward but incredibly endearing thing going for you.”

Reid opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly thrown. A slight flush crept up his neck. “I—uh—”

You laughed. “Don’t worry, it’s a compliment.”

He cleared his throat. “Right. Well—um, thank you.”

You leaned forward slightly, dropping your voice just enough to make it feel just a little bit suggestive. “You know, I was actually planning a Doctor Who marathon soon.”

Reid’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, curiosity sparking in them. “Oh?”

“Mhm.” You tilted your head. “Comfy clothes, way too many snacks, yelling at the TV when things get emotional. The full experience.” You let a beat pass before adding, “Could be fun to have some company.”

Reid blinked, his brain clearly processing at full speed. “Company? As in…?”

You smiled. “As in you, Spencer.”

Reid’s lips parted slightly. “Oh.”

You bit back a laugh at how comically stunned he looked. “Unless you’d rather watch alone.”

“No!” he said quickly, then seemed to catch himself. He straightened slightly, schooling his expression. “I mean—I’d like that. It sounds… fun.”

You smiled, a little softer this time. “Good. Then it’s a plan.”

Reid’s gaze lingered on you for a moment, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Yeah… a plan.”

Authors Note:

Ooooof, this was a long one! Haha! Sorry about that one. I really have fallen in love with this series, and once I started writing, I couldn't stop. I hope y'all enjoyed some reader and Spencer nerdy fluff at the end! I thought it would be a nice addition to such a case-driven chapter. Also, writing the case part was a bit of a challenge! But I tried my best and I hope it was good! I'm planning out the next chapter already, but I'm a bit torn between writing some more fluff or doing another case-driven one. Oh well, we'll see! If anyone has any suggestions, please do let me know! I'm open to any and all ideas!

Thank you for reading! <3

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

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?”

Please support my work with like and comment

Normalise letting your friends reply days/weeks late to your text messages bc sometimes people have:

☆memory problems

☆depression

☆fatigue

☆burnout

☆crises

☆illness

☆social anxiety

☆paranoia

☆manic episodes

☆irritability episodes

☆splitting episodes

☆executive dysfunction

☆anger episodes (so they're isolating to not lash out)

And a bunch of other things that could interfere with replying in a timely fashion.

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

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