#SLN

[rabidbatboy]

VOORHEAN: slasherval loving men / SLM

TIFFANIC: slasherval loving women / SLW

LENZIC: slasherval loving nonbinary / SLN

TAGGING: @radiomogai @juvelic-archive @orientation-archive

🧼 ——— COINED BY ME

[canwntfan]

Bienvenue Roses FC 😍🌹😍

[dunmertitty]

this is wayy besides the point but i was interested in the origins of Dutch sign language because this looks very similar to American sign language, which came from French sign language. so i looked it up and yup sure enough!

not only is dutch sign language also from french sign language but there���s a whole fuckin group of sign languages that have french roots

sign linguistics!

March 15 2020 - Dutch sign language interpreter telling people to stop panic buying, or “hamstering“ as it’s called in Dutch.

[scribbledlovenotes]

soft. t.n

soft. tender. p in v. delicate sex. mentions of abusive ex. fucked sweetly. mdni.

After all the heartache and hurt that you’d pushed through and endured over the past eighteen months; dating Theodore Nott quite literally felt like taking a first breath of fresh air. He was a far, far cry from the likes of your ex who had been for lack of better words – harsh; his words searing, his hands careless, someone who forever demanded without giving, leaving you to feel like nothing other than a shadow of yourself. Theo though – he was… different. Or at least, compared to the only other love you had experienced. A quiet storm of both intensity and charm. A boy who moved with a casual grace but made it clear, without intent that there was an edge to everything he did – showcasing a subtle kind of danger that make your knees weak, your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

Irrespective of whether in full uniform; green tie perpetually askew around his neck as if he just couldn’t be bothered getting dressed every morning or the dark, oversized hoodies he’d throw on last minute for late night smoking sessions out by the black lake with mates; Theo was effortlessly alluring. You oh so badly wanted to trust the innocent flicker of ambition laced into his lazy smirk and lose yourself within his baby blues that hooked you in despite the guard they held – the way they took in all surrounds with almost a haunted depth.

He was undeniably good to you in his own reserved way. Distant at times, yes, with words sparse and often only spoken when deliberate, yet the warmth he showed, was for you and only you. With a voice that low, slightly accented, felt like poetry torn up right off the parchments scribbled by the greats like Keats or Eliot, Theo guided you through doubts and reservations with a quiet confidence. Was he manipulative like some of his friends were? No, you’d convince yourself – just perceptive to your requirements. Clever, ugh, was he ever. The kind of boy who could have a year of female students drop to their knees with a simple flick of his wand if he ever wished, yet didn’t bother to because he had you. He chose you. This, and this alone, making your heart flutter uncontrollably with a mix of equal parts love, gratitude and curiosity, all whilst easing the sting of your ex’s abuse.

It was late night on a Wednesday during the middle of winter beneath the dim candle light illuminating your dorm room what you let your walls crumble around him. You were both trying to study for an upcoming transfiguration exam. Your phone had lit up. A message from your ex saying how much he missed you and wanted you back and you confessed, without prompt, yet with an unsteady tone; just how awful he was.

“He’d snap”, you explained, “Over anything – over everything. Just… grip to tightly, spit, call me any combination of colourful expressions under the sun one could think of. Force me to admit that I was worthless. Tell me he’d take what he wanted. Like it was always about him.”

The energy in the dorm shifted as Theo’s eyes darkened; a flicker of icy fury painting through irises as blue as raging sea waters, not at you, but at the thought of someone foolish enough to try and dare hurt you. Tossing his textbook aside on the bed, he shifted over toward you, a hand brushing the back of yours which moved to creep up your arm both with a touch so gentle and yet grounding, you weren’t sure if it were actually happening.

“Forget about him.” The instruction more so than suggestion was sharp yet controlled. “You’re with me now. What’s done is done.”

That night, Theodore listened intently as you unravelled pent up unsureness and pain. His presence calm; akin to that of protective. He didn’t overpromise with any responses, no; but his words were soft, honest, reassuring that you’d move past the hurt you felt you only knew and that you were strong than the girl you’d been before. That he could see it, that he knew it. Lips quirking into a reassuring smile; Theo’s usually guarded demeanour melted like soft butter left on the kitchen counter in summer as he tucked an unruly strand of hair behind your ear and wiped tears which danced across your cheeks while kissing you so that you’d forget everything about the past and that he, would become the only boy that you’d remember.

It was weeks later after a few too many shots of fire whiskey at a party in the Astronomy Tower that you admitted just how much you wanted him. He’d walked you to your dorm that night. Tucked you into bed. Knew you weren’t in any state to consent and sung you Italian lullabies he fondly remembered his nonna teaching him as a child until you fell asleep. The next morning though; when you woke up, still dressed; noticing him sprawled out beside you in the bed, your mind finally comprehended what your heart knew all along. A boy like Theodore Nott was potentially just too good to be true.

You woke him my curling in a little closer to his chest; nails grazing delicately at the stubble on his cheeks he’d not yet shaved away and as Theo ever so slowly opened his eyes, you both smiled – gazes soft by a warmth immediately connected that felt both personal and unique. It didn’t take long for his lips to meet yours. Slow. Deliberate. Savouring every moment the way a critic would each bite of a Michelin star meal. He was both possessive yet restrained. Tender hands guiding you to shift beneath him in a way that clearly outlined the desire which flared and ran course within his veins. You sank back into soft pillows and caught your breath before it hitched. His body settled between your thighs; his touch careful yet weighted with passionate purpose.

His shirt slipped off first; white boyfriend material tossed to the floor which revealed muscle you weren’t sure how he’d managed to keep hidden and sun-kissed skin which seemed to glow faintly within the low light of the new morning. You bit your lip, anxiety brewing in the pit of your stomach as the ideal of intimacy carried the weight of your exboyfriends roughness, his disregard for your comfort, yet Theo wasn’t him. He was far too composed, far too attentive, far too delicate with you to use you carelessly.

You’d have been surprised if you knew just how often Theodore thought of you. How often you’d cross his mind from day to day. That in his quiet moments, his mind lingered on just how vulnerable you could be – how you needed tender loving care after that you hand ensured. His friends often joked of submission and control with their latest one nights stands, yet when it came to you; the thoughts never dared to infiltrate how he actually felt.  What he believed. What he thought you deserved. How he wanted to be the boy – man, to provide it. How he wanted to shape you into something both cherished yet undeniably his own. Now, with you beneath him like this; that desire, that want, that urge – it burned, and yet he managed as expected, to temper it with a gentleness you had earned.

His lips grazed your jaw with an affection so pure you saw stars as your hands sat hesitantly pressed against his chest. Your eyes shut for a moment; not tightly, yet out of uncertainty that Theo caressed away as he eased off most of what you’d fallen asleep in, leaving you nearly bare; body from head to toe slightly trembling.

“Nervous?”, he asked as his eyes searched your own and noted how you agreed with a quivering lip, “You don’t have to be. I promise; not around me...”

Overwhelmed by his affection you couldn’t speak. Glancing down, you watched with baited breath as he slid your panties down, causing you to instinctively press your thighs together; hands pulling back in towards yourself as they began to fidget over your chest. Theo paused; watching you with an awe before shedding the rest of his clothes and tossing them off the bed – his arousal toward you not forceful, yet evident. Gentle fingertips finding your chin, he guided you to look up at him.

“You’re safe with me. Promise.” He nudged your thighs apart with a touch that felt angelic. You managed to only breathe out his name in a whimper as his hands ran down to your hips and he positioned himself pressing into you slowly with a care that contrasted any sharp edges you may have been expecting. You were tight, warm, inviting. Theo let out a quiet groan against your skin as his lips nipped at your collarbone before snaking up to the crook of your neck. The stretch was intense. Pleasure convoluted with a hint of faint shame at how you could do this with someone after everything you’d been through, yet you tried your best to push the thoughts to the side and pack them away. He was yours. You were his. You held onto that idea as he began to move, deep, deliberate, devoted.

“Feel good?” The question came out as a soft whisper; intimate yet edged with a serene intensity. He began to stroke your sides, feeling every inch of you available beneath him as if to soothe the invisible wounds left by another, he wanted oh so ever to heal. In response, you nodded; fingers grazing his shoulders before clawing kitten like down his back hesitantly. Shyly. He noticed – by god did Theodore notice as you moaned his name again softly; memories of your ex’s cruelty still creeping in.

“You’re so beautiful like this. So perfect. He was a dick. He didn’t deserve you. Not then. Never again.”

Theo’s words caused tears to prick in the corners of your eyes as your hands shifted to cling to him. Hiding in the crook of his neck you murmured an apology you weren’t expecting to admit and he quietened you with a simple ‘sshhh’ that was soothing; not mocking but comfortably. Turning his head to brush his lips against your temple he begged for you to just let go and that you did. Submissively giving in. your lips found each others, tongues exploring in a way that stole both of your breaths away that you weren’t expecting. Eventually, Theo pulled away; studying your flushed peachy cheeks and glassy eyes of the tears you’d tried to blink away.

“Mine..” “Yours..”

You couldn’t help but begin to crumble as a warmth built inside you, Theo quickening his pace, still controlled; given away only by the way his breath began to become uneven as he drew closer and closer to his edge. He spilled through every language that he knew – in depth, ineloquent if needed – ‘perfetto, perfekt, taiuslik, popolno, sampurna, teleios, perfect….’

His release came with a low groan only after you whimpered that you were close; filling you after your own high hit; your back arching, body tightening around him; hands knotting into his hair to draw Theo in close. He held you through it. Exactly the way you deserved. The way you wanted. The way you’d imagined; resting his forehead softly againstyour own as you both caught your breath. Hearts racing. Minds clear.

You were his. Loved. Protected. Claimed wholly. Cherished.

[kroosluvr]

PROFESSOR MORITSUKI / SHERLOCK POMS

[stardestroyer81]

SLN-002: Geyser Man

Height: 7'6" Special Weapon: Chain Geyser Good Point: Honorable Bad Point: Unintentionally hazardous A towering robot modeled after volcanic eruption, Geyser Man was initially in charge of monitoring the characteristics of crypto-domes and hotspots before being armed for battle by Synth, a rogue military robot with a drive to amass a powerful army of unstoppable robots dubbed the ‘SLN’ (The Synth Legion Numbers). In spite of appearing as a power-hungry giant, Geyser Man believes in a fair battle, but his internally stored magma can reach up to temperatures of 3,000 F, so he often begins with the upper hand. His antagonistic side notwithstanding, Geyser Man is a highly dependable robot who loves hot springs and often goes on vacations to sight see volcanoes with Magma Man.

[justsomebechloe]

I’ve had Beca since 2017 and I finally got around to getting Fat Amy and Aubrey. Still not sure why they never made a Chloe, but my nerd shrine is looking nice regardless.

[feminariden]

Remember when the writer strike happened and everyone realized how much shit modern Hollywood writers actually are

[bunny-banana]

42

Jaz sem, ti si...........

[75-6312511213735335]

what are you

There are many things that people believe. Reapers, urban legends, grims. I am myself.

[scribbledlovenotes]

distracted. p.t.r

mdni. professor tom riddle. good grades. bad distractions. age-gap sex.

Months. For months you’ve trapped within the flickering candlelight of the libraries restricted section, parchment and quill in hand as you scribble down notes, pretending to care about the intricacies of advanced magical theory. It’s a ridiculous assignment for a stupid class and the only reason you’re even committed to finishing it is him. Your obsession. The one thing that causes your heart to race and forces your thighs to clench uncomfortably beneath your desk. Him. Professor Riddle. Potentially the one and only reason you returned back for your seventh year. You can’t get enough. Come to notice it; either can the other female students around you from the whispers you’ve heard them speak.

He’s forever tailored to perfection, the robes which drape over his lean frame as intoxicating as the silken menace of his voice as he discusses topics such as the ‘seduction of power linked to dark arts’ or your personal favourite, the ‘elegance of a well cast spell’, as if the words were a spell themselves. You’re hooked; lustful. He knows it, surely. Those dark, melted chocolate eyes of his catch yours just a little too often. Lingering with a heat that feels like what you presume legilimency would as he peels back the subtle layers of your restraint.

It was last Tuesday, after a lecture on the morality of the dark arts that left your head spinning that he stopped you as you gathered your textbooks and piled them neatly into your arms. His presence standing before you was polished yet predatory. Almost like a knifes blade wrapped in velvet. The curve of his smirk; stealing your breath.

 “I’d like to discuss a recent essay you submitted”, Professor Riddle explained, taking his time to fold a piece of parchment between his fingertips tat you couldn’t for the life of you, pull your gaze from. The simple movement almost ritualistic in practice. “Come to my office tomorrow evening. Any time after 6.”

Your heart lurched at the proposal; frantically thudding against the inside of your chest as you felt the back of your neck warm up with a scarlet style fever you’d potentially have to see a nurse about. Every sensible part of you knows that this is just a student-professor discussion. Nothing more, nothing less. However you can’t help but wonder. Should you agree, should you tell anyone, should you brag, should you mention something to your absolutely oblivious Hufflepuff boyfriend who you loved dearly but ugh – god, he was fucking useless when it came to feelings. Your wants. Desires. Needs.

“Of course, Professor”, you responded with a small smile; innocently tucking some hair behind your ear which you flicked up on and over the back of your shoulder. “Um, should I bring my boyfriend? He did help me with the paper. Perhaps he could learn something.”

The question came out as pure innocence whispered from between your gloss coated lips as you’re waiting, patiently to try and catch any look or expression that might give away a little more than what Professor Riddle already has; but the shadow in his eyes that transpires like a storm is gone in a blink, as his smile sharpens. A chuckle, rumbling just at the back of his throat. “Just you will suffice. I prefer… focused discussions.”

And with that; the air crackled as if there had been some kind of sudden declaration of a silent challenge.

This evening; the castle is as quiet as the fields of Scotland midwinter as you climb, step by step the stone staircase to Professor Riddle’s office. The air surrounding you on the way thickened by the scent of burning ensconces and a shimmer of magic which leads the way. You knock against the hard wood door before his voice commands you to enter. As the door creaks open, he’s revealed to be sitting behind a desk – quill in hand, grading papers as the roar of the fireplace lights up the office almost.. romantically.

Professor Riddle’s features are sharp. More so now than when you see him during class. He looks absolutely devastating in what he’s wearing; robes hooked up on a wall behind him, the crisp white shirt he’s wearing pulls to sit exactly as it should on his shoulders, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms twilled with a quiet strength. You swallow harshly, eyes tracing up one particular vein that you notice beneath his skin almost poetically and he gestures to the chair across from him as you hesitate before taking a seat. The office’s intimacy – shelves of tomes, trinkets and artefacts on display in a curated yet chaotic fashion closing in like a charm you might just become.

“Your essay”, he begins, picking up the work almost delicately off a pile of others before he hands it to you, “…is bold. I’ll give you that. Yet your research clearly lacks precision.”

You gaze down at the essay; eyes taking in the corrections and question marks scattered over it in a dull, red ink – the grade scribbled into the top corner something you’re vaguely satisfied with but Professor Riddle is clearly not. You attempt to stammer out some kind of response; some knitted reply as an excuse for work you were actually content with, yet you notice from the corner of your eye the way he rises from his seat. His critique a pretence to a game you know you both shouldn’t be playing, yet as he circles around the desk, coming around to where you start, you can’t help but note that each step seems deliberate. Like a wolf closing in on a lamb or in this case, a snake on a mouse which is desperate to feast.

“You have potential”, he murmurs as his steps stop behind you. he’s standing close enough that you can feel his breath graze the back of your neck. “…but clearly you’re distracted.”

Your pulse hammers; skin beginning to gleam with a soft sweat that coats your brow and a thin line down the nape of your neck. You’re suddenly grateful that you never told your boyfriend about coming here; about this little meeting – just that you’d see him tonight, as always for a little alone time and well…

“I’m not”, you manage as a response. Words clear. “Distracted – that is.”

Professor Riddle’s hands find your shoulders as he scoffs a chuckle; running down to the small of your back, burning through your robes. He leans in; lips to your ear, his voice sounding like that of a velvet hex. As his fingers trace along the curve of your skin; slow – possessive, you feel a slick heat that you want to curse away blooming between the chaffing of your thighs.

“Aren’t you? Well..”, he gently guides you up onto your feet, pushing you forward so that you’re pressing against the edge of his desk as he cages you in, body warm pressed up against you. “I still think I’m right. You see that’s a perk to teaching. With a little experience, you begin to learn to read a classroom and see through masks that students prevail while hoping to fool you… and you dear, most definitely, are, distracted.”

A hand slips up beneath your skirt, finding the dampness of your underwear which his fingers push aside with ease and before you know it, both skilled and merciless; he parts your folds, a slick drag up towards your clit that rather quickly swells with need. It’s a blend of a gasp and a choke that escapes you. You lean forward; hands clawing at the wood of his desk and as his fingers continue to circle exactly where you need them, your body trembles; like a wanton secret of his to please.

What follows? That’s a blur. Professor Riddle twists you around; his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that’s bruising. One that tastes like a rich red wine. He manages to muffle your gasps with a firm hand as he undoes his belt with the other and before you know what you’re doing yourself, you shift back and lift onto his desk – lips parted; eyes glued to that wicked smirk he wears before they drop down to his waist, taking in full view of his cock; thick, glistening, that he pumps twice before pressing against your entrance with a friction and tease.

You shouldn’t have. You’re not meant to. Either way, you whisper a desperate ‘please’, and without any patience as what he’s known for, Professor Riddle shifts your thighs further apart to wrap lets around his waist as he fills you with a single deep thrust that takes your breath away. The office falls into silence. You fall back onto the desk. A bottle of ink is spilled. Papers go flying. You hear a quill crack beneath you but couldn’t care less. His thrusts are both torture and bliss. Each movement a revelation. It’s forbidden; it’s fucking perfect. Your thighs split further as he grasps at the soft flesh and you bite down on a knuckle to try and keep yourself quite; relishing the fact that he’s thorough and rough, satisfying. Not quite like your boyfriend.

You hear him spit; saliva hitting your clit which he draws out a series of wand motions you – you know them, they’re the unforgivables and yet you couldn’t care. Your cunt begins to clench around him. You claw a little further at his desk. The desk lamp gets knocked over; you hear the bulb shatter as you cry out a moan through gritted teeth and your back arches up as he spills out inside of you. A warmth flooding in but also dripping down your legs as he withdraws – the both of you breathless.

“Much improved”, he mutters, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear almost tenderly before he taps a teasing slap against your clit as a reminder of what’s just happened. It’s about a minute before you can stand. A minute before you make yourself look a little more decent that you just had been. A minute for your cheeks to swell down from a harsh red to a soft peachy pink and by this time, Professor Riddle has already returned to his seat.

“Same time next week. We can discuss any course work you might be struggling with.”

Is that an offer, or a request? You fix your hair; running your hands through it before you lick your lips and nod. Unable to shake the feeling of what’s just happened.

“You’re an exceptional student. Just – don’t get distracted.  Wouldn’t want you being dissatisfied; it’s a shame about the boyfriend.”

Ugh – that prick. He’d been inside your head the whole time.

“Yes Professor”, you respond as you make your way towards the door to exit; making a mental note to keep this little rendezvous to yourself forever and ever and e—

“Tom.” He corrects you. “Professor Riddle is merely a formality we must maintain within the classroom.”

Fuck. Why’d he have to wait until seventh year.

[sins-of-the-sea]

Meanwhile....

TRYING NOT TO DROWN.

[stardestroyer81]

Hydro Man of Mega Man Ultimate fame is sporting a brand new look— and with it, a completely redrawn stage select portrait!

Initially, this wasn't going to be anything more than concept art drawn from the bust-up, though I'm so proud of what I managed to draw that I think it's time this blog sees some more Mega Man Ultimate content! 💙🏳️‍⚧️✨

[scribbledlovenotes]

cant not love this work!!!

Don’t Touch Her -S.R

Spencer Reid x Hotch’s daughter!reader | secret relationship |

The slap of your sneakers on the pavement used to be a comfort, a routine that cleared your head—but lately it’s a metronome for your anxiety, a countdown.

You weren’t trying to attract attention. You were trying to outrun fear. Outrun the texts, the emails, the notes in your dorm room that shouldn’t have been accessible. The way your photos kept getting more invasive. The way whoever he was…knew your schedule.

It’s so hot, the kind of sticky early spring day that makes your tank top cling to your skin by the third mile. Sweat trails down your spine. The black running shorts ride up slightly—practical, not sexy. You’re just trying to clear your head, trying to ignore the way your phone’s notifications have been a never-ending storm of sick, twisted messages for the past three weeks.

You told yourself he was bluffing.

But he’d said he was watching. And you could feel it. For the last mile, your skin had itched with the awareness—every shadow behind you warped with dread.

You turn the corner—

—and slam straight into him.

Arms like iron clamp around you, dragging you off your feet. You scream, kick, thrash against the unsub as he snarls into your ear. His breath is sour. His voice is sickening.

"Thought you were too good for me, huh, bitch?"

The cold press of a blade slices the scream in your throat into silence.

Suddenly—shouting. Tires screech. A vehicle door slams. Then another.

“FBI! DROP THE KNIFE!”

Oh god. The voices—the voices you know like second nature. Your dad. Morgan. JJ. Emily. Rossi. And Spencer.

Your eyes snap toward him, and time warps. He looks like he’s going to be sick, his body frozen halfway between movement and panic. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe.

And your father—your father is yelling your name like he’s afraid he’s about to watch you die.

“I’ll slit her throat! Don’t come closer!” the man shrieks behind you, knife pressing deeper into your skin, the sharp bite of it threatening to cut.

You cry harder. You try not to, but it’s too much.

"Let her go!" your father barks, gun raised, voice like thunder.

“I swear to god, if you touch her—” Morgan snarls, eyes locked on the unsub.

Spencer’s voice is quiet but sharp like glass. “She’s not one of them. She’s not a message. You don’t want this.”

The unsub hisses in your ear, dragging the blade higher, pressing it under your jaw. He laughs. “Oh, I’ve wanted to for a long time. The things I’ve thought about doing to this slut—”

The unsub keeps talking, but Spencer is watching him—no, he’s watching you. And you know exactly what that look in his eyes means. You’ve seen it in the dark, whispered against your neck, in the hush of your sheets tangled with his. You’re his. And if you die here, he will never come back from it.

The unsub starts shaking. He’s losing it. You’re shaking too. Spencer’s eyes won’t leave you. And you can’t stop thinking—I love you. I love you. Don’t let me die.

Then—Bang.

The unsub screams. Blood splashes your legs as Morgan tackles him from behind. The blade clatters to the pavement. You’re released, and you stumble forward, into the only arms you know will catch you.

Your dad’s.

You bury yourself into his chest as he cradles you, as if you’re five years old again and nothing could ever touch you. He keeps asking questions—if you’re hurt, if he touched you, if he’s the one who’s been threatening you—but all you can do is sob.

“She needs to go home,” Hotch mutters to the team. His voice is thick with restrained rage. “Reid, take her. Stay with her until I get back. Don’t leave her side.”

He doesn’t even look at Spencer when he says it.

Spencer nods and gently touches your arm. “Come on. I’ve got you.”

You curl into the front seat of Spencer’s car, hoodie over your scraped knees, throat raw. The whole ride is silent—except for the music he puts on, quietly. Something soft. Piano, maybe. You don’t realize you're crying until you feel his fingers brush the tears from your cheek at a red light.

When you get to your apartment, you wordlessly let him unlock the door. The second the door shuts behind you, your composure shatters.

You’re in his arms. You’re sobbing into his chest. Your fingers grip his shirt like it’s the only thing keeping you tethered to the planet.

Spencer doesn’t say anything. He just holds you. Presses your face into the crook of his neck. His heart is pounding too fast, too loud.

You finally whisper, “He wanted to—he said he thought about—what he wanted to do to me—”

Spencer’s jaw clenches against your forehead.

“I should’ve told someone,” you breathe. “I should’ve told you. But if I told you, I’d have to tell him. And then he’d hate me. And I—I just—”

You’re cut off by his mouth on yours. Spencer kisses you. Hard. Desperate. You whimper against him, still trembling, your body pressed against his like you’re trying to crawl inside him.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” he mutters against your lips. “You hear me? You were scared. You didn’t ask for this.”

“I wore shorts.”

“I don’t care.” His voice is rough. He cups your face. “If anyone looks at you like that again—talks about you like that again—I swear to god, I’ll kill them.”

That shouldn’t make you ache. But it does.

“Spence,” you whisper, lips brushing his. “I need you. I need to feel something that isn’t fear right now.”

He hesitates. “Are you sure? You’ve been through a trauma—”

“I’m sure.”

His hands are on you in an instant.

He pushes you back against the wall, kissing you with feral need, his fingers digging into your thighs as he lifts you. You wrap your legs around him instinctively, letting him carry you down the hallway to your bedroom like you weigh nothing.

He kicks your door shut behind him without looking. The second your back hits the sheets, Spencer is on you, your fingers fumble with the hem of his sweater, shoving it up his torso, your nails dragging across the soft ridges of his stomach. He’s lean, but the tension under your hands is all wiry strength and frayed nerves. He doesn’t stop you—just watches, eyes blown wide with need

You slide your hand between your bodies, gripping the hem of his shirt. “Off,” you whisper, tugging. “I need all of you.”

He pulls back just long enough to strip, shirt over his head, belt unbuckled, pants shoved down with haste. His cock is already hard, flushed, aching against his stomach—and your mouth waters just looking at him, even through the haze of adrenaline and leftover terror.

But he slows again, kneeling between your legs, just looking at you.

“You’re my entire goddamn world,” he whispers. “You know that?”

You nod, voice gone.

“I mean it. I would’ve let him kill me if it meant you got away.”

“Don’t say that,” you breathe, tears pricking again.

He leans down and kisses the corners of your eyes. “Then don’t make me live in a world without you.”

Your hips arch as he lines himself up, dragging the tip of his cock through your slick folds. You’re already soaked—wet from the adrenaline, from the fear, from the overwhelming need to feel him, to claim him, to be reminded that you’re alive.

He pushes in slow. Your head falls back against the pillows, a moan slipping out before you can stop it. He’s so deep, and you’re so tight around him—every inch of him pushing into you like he’s trying to fill the ache in your chest.

Spencer curses under his breath, forehead pressed to yours. “You feel—fuck—so good. You’re perfect.”

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. “Move. Please.”

He starts slow, thrusts measured, letting you feel every roll of his hips. But it doesn’t stay slow for long. The fear that drove you both is still clawing at your ribs, begging to be drowned out.

His rhythm picks up, hard and deep, the bed creaking beneath you. He grips your wrists and pins them above your head, his mouth crashing back to yours as your bodies slap together.

“I need you to know,” he gasps, dragging his cock deep enough to make you cry out, “I would burn the world down for you. Even if he wasn’t the unsub. Even if he wasn’t hurting other women. If he touched you—just once—I’d kill him.”

You moan, thighs shaking around his hips. “You’re mine, Spencer.”

He bites your neck. “Say it again.”

“You’re mine.”

And it’s possessive now—the way he fucks you like he’s branding you, claiming you in every thrust. He fucks you through your first orgasm, and doesn’t stop until he’s coaxed a second from you, your nails clawing down his back as you scream his name.

When he finally comes, it’s with your name on his lips—broken, hoarse, sacred.

You stay tangled in each other after, his body half-crushing you, your fingers drawing patterns into the sweaty skin of his back.

Eventually, he lifts his head and looks at you, still breathing hard. “You scared the shit out of me.”

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. Just… let me protect you next time.”

Your eyes flutter closed. “You already do.”

There’s a pause. Then, softly: “I love you.”

You open your eyes and smile. “I love you more.”

You’re still trembling, even in the afterglow. Spencer presses soft kisses to your shoulder, your neck, your hairline—like each one is an apology for not saving you sooner.

Your body’s wrecked, exhausted from adrenaline, fear, and the sharp release of being his again. You feel safe. Finally. And then you fall asleep.

Spencer watches your face—relaxed for the first time in hours—and he knows he can’t stay like this.

Not when your father is about to walk through the front door.

Carefully, he slips out from under the covers, grimacing as he moves slowly, not wanting to wake you. He leans over and tugs the blanket up over your shoulders, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek before he quietly starts pulling his clothes back on.

His shirt smells like you now. He tries not to think about it.

There’s a knock at the door—three steady raps. It’s unmistakably Hotch.

Spencer runs a hand through his hair and exhales slowly, making sure his tie is straight. He opens the door just enough to step outside, closing it behind him like you’re just sleeping peacefully in the next room.

Hotch is standing in the hall, dressed down from the case but still looking sharp, jaw tight. “How is she?”

Spencer softens his voice. “She’s… okay. She was still shaken up, obviously. But she let me stay with her until she fell asleep.”

Hotch glances toward the bedroom door. “Did she talk at all?”

“No. Just needed quiet. I think it helped, being with someone familiar.”

Hotch nods. “I’ll check on her, but I’ll let her sleep.” He looks at Spencer and for a split second, his gaze lingers—fatherly suspicion flickering for just a second—but then it’s gone. “Thanks for staying. I knew she’d be safe with you.”

Spencer swallows, trying not to flinch at the irony. “Always.”

“Go home. Get some rest,” Hotch says, stepping past him.

Spencer lingers for a second longer, eyes flicking to the door where you sleep, still wrapped in tangled sheets that barely hide what they just did.

a/n: he almost lost her. so yeah, he had to hit. sorry not sorry.

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[bunny-banana]

is Carpe Diem JO's best song? perhaps not.

but it does invoke unique emotions in me every time i hear it