#not really but i’m tagging it just in case

[shiningjustforreid]

stains

glimpses through fem!reader and Spencer’s relationship, through four instances of spills.

word count: 3.5k ish

a/n: i love the idea that for some of us, our personalities are made up all the things we like about the people we know and see. the idea that we’re all little bits and pieces of the things we love, and our experiences. this sort of explores that. (also this was mildly self indulgent because much like reader i’m a klutz!) <3

warnings/tags: 18+ for implied intimacy and canon typical violence for cm, pet names up the wazoo, reader is lowkey clumsy, Derek Morgan being himself, reader gets injured but she’s fine, who’s Maeve?, anxious love confession, Spencer adores reader so so much, S1 and S6 (ish) Spencer, Spencer in and post prison, love letters, marriage, kids, and briefly mentioned pregnancy, girl dad!Spencer Reid my beloved

- ✩ -

coffee - the first stain

To be honest, at first, he’s appalled.

The mug you set down on his desk isn’t his, so God knows whose mouth was on it last. You - somewhat carelessly - plopped it down on the file he’s working on, grinning that thousand watt smile he’s secretly become fond of. You’re wearing a sweater he noticed that brings out your eyes - a berry colored wool garment that he wishes you’d wear more.

“Hey! Morgan said you were exhausted. Thought I’d make you coffee.”

You pick it up, and set it down again, for emphasis, and a few drops make their way down the side and onto his case file, surely creating a cinnamon toned half circle that Hotch will not love. You don’t notice, watching his face.

“I made it with a bunch of sugar. Just how you like it, right?”

Suddenly, he realizes he’s been staring up at you, and then his mouth is moving faster than his brain.

“Yeah, I uh, I am pretty tired, now that you say it. Didn’t sleep well, long night, you know?”

You nod, sipping your own coffee, fingers wrapped around the ceramic.

“I get that. Goes with the job, right?”

“Oh, absolutely, yeah, I- wait, Morgan said that? Did he— what else did he tell you?”

You grin, coffee mug to lips again.

Stop staring, Reid.

“Nothing, really. Just said you needed a boost. Thought I’d provide.”

Titling your head a tad, you look down, a mild panic crossing your face when you see you’ve stained his file.

“Oh my God - Reid, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean-“

He’s quick to shake his head, hands coming up to reassure, his eyes wide.

“No no no, it’s okay, truly, I-I made a mistake on that one anyways. I’ll need to have a new copy printed, honest.”

Frowning, you look him over, searching for a tell, something to let you know whether he’s lying or not.

“Are you sure? I can do it, I’m not that behind on mine, I could—“

Before he thinks - you’d assume, with all his brains, he would - his hand grabs your arm, that gorgeous sweater under his finger tips, his eyes locked with yours. He says your name, once, his tone more serious than he’d like.

“It’s okay. Thanks for the coffee.”

You blink, and then a slow grin takes over your face.

“You’re welcome. Let me know if you need more.”

For a moment, neither of you move, the heat of his hand burning through the wool on your arm, until he lets go like you’re the one scorching his skin, like he’s just realized that he’s touching you. You laugh a little, awkwardly, and he grins with the same level of unpracticed nerves, and you head back to your desk.

He picks up the mug, and sips slowly, closing his eyes for a moment - it does have a mountain of sweetness, the saccharine liquid coating his mouth but soothing his senses. When he sets it down again, it’s on a part of his workspace not occupied by case work. Just as predicted, the file that once housed the beverage now bears a semi circle of dried java. His pointer finger traces the stain, clockwise and then counter, for a moment, before he glances up in horror to see Morgan, of all people, signature smirk in place.

“‘Thanks for the coffee’. I don’t what’s sweeter, that coffee you just got or-“

“Shut up.”

He mumbles, face flushed, small smile on his face despite the teasing. He traces the coffee stain one last time before he hastily tucks the soiled paper away in a drawer.

blood - the second stain

“What do you mean you aren’t getting a response from her on comms?”

He’s so scared, he can’t even stop to think just how breathless and afraid he sounds, as he turns to Hotch, who fixes him with a look that clearly says, Calm down, Reid.

“It could just be non-functional, or got knocked off, or caught.”

Hotch says calmly, almost maddeningly so. Spencer swallows back the protests, the arguments that swell up in his throat like bile.

They’d created, and given the profile, and once Penelope had narrowed down the couple possible properties their potential unsub owned, you, Morgan, and Prentiss had headed into an abandoned storage facility, silent and careful.

Perhaps not careful enough.

The voice in his head reminds him, almost sadly, and he grits his teeth inside tightly drawn and chapped lips. Shaky hands smooth over his slacks, again and again, as his eyes stay fixed on Hotch.

“Ask-ask Morgan again. If she’ll respond.”

He’s given a frown, dark brows pulling together in a very typical Hotch-like manner.

“Is there a specific reason you’re asking about her, Reid?”

Is there? God, he doesn’t know. You bring him coffee nearly every morning, but perhaps that’s just kindness. Then there’s the chocolate sprinkled donuts that start his work day from time to time - maybe you just enjoy pastry treats, and think of him, when you buy one. Oh, and heaven forbid he forget the way you’ll come by his desk, and ask for clarification on a piece of paperwork or a procedure - that you probably could’ve asked Hotch or Prentiss about. You listen, active listening too, eye contact, body still - when his explanations turn into rambles about statistics about this type of criminal, your eyes watching his face, your own voice quiet.

Is he deluding himself? Seeing phantom romance where there’s maybe merely nothing but platonic affection? Blinking, once, he shakes his head in response to his Unit Chief’s question.

“No Hotch. I’m just worried, she-well, she hasn’t responded, and Morgan has, and Prentiss has, and I—“

Speak of the devil, Morgan’s voice comes through, demanding and tense.

“I need a medic. Prentiss and I secured the unsub, but, not before—“

Oh God. Not before that bastard got to you with a baseball bat, to the back of the head, you unaware before your face met the concrete below. Spencer’s not even asking for permission, snatching the keys to an SUV off the desk nearby and flooring the gas pedal.

You can’t die. Not before I—

Driving there is like hell - his lungs burn like there’s smoke and ash polluting them, and fear feels like too tame a word to describe the overwhelming panic that seizes his heart the more he drives.

I’m a fool, he thinks wildly, as his knuckles grip the steering wheel like a vice. A damn fool if I don’t tell her-

He’s barely got the thing in park before he’s scrambling out the driver’s side door, Converse immediately coated from the dusty ground outside the facility.

When he finds Morgan, and you, head lolled to the side, eyes closed, face pale as his must be, he falls to his knees with little regard for his own pain or discomfort. Morgan watches, careful, his voice gentle when he speaks, trying to calm his terrified friend.

“She’s still out, Reid. Just a nasty whack to the back of her head, okay? Easy.”

Trembling thumbs trace and hold your face, like it’s made of paper, as he swallows hard to keep the ache behind his eyes from becoming tear tracks down his face. He spots the gash, trickling crimson down your ashy skin, onto his shaking hand, but doesn’t move from holding your face. A deep contusion, furious and violet-toned, on the back of your head, makes the air leave his chest like he’s been choked.

Beautiful girl, I couldn’t stop this.

He could sob, and he nearly does, until you make some sort of confused noise and force open your eyes. Light rushes through his heart, rekindled warmth as he meets your eyes, and yet, he finds himself almost frozen.

“Spencer? What, I thought-“

“Listen to me.”

He forces himself to speak - he has too. What if he doesn’t get the chance, and all he ever gets to associate you with is caffeine, sprinkles, and a listening ear? No, that won’t do. Not in the slightest.

You meet his eyes, hazy, but listening. Morgan’s brows furrow, as he protests,

“God, man, she just woke up, let her-“

Ignored, as Spencer often finds himself doing when there’s more pressing matters than banter, than propriety.

“You need to know. That I-care about you.”

Blinking, you swallow, and suddenly, the throbbing pain in the back of your skull is slightly dimmed.

“That I can’t let another sunrise or sunset go by where you don’t know that I’d give you the stars if you’d let me. Where I can’t touch you, where I can’t make sure you understand that I’ll protect the light you have inside you until I’m burnt from it. You absolute angel, I-“

He shudders, almost afraid of his own earnest, and says your name like it’s a prayer.

“I love you. Even if you don’t return it, my heart is yours.”

Morgan’s grin is wide, and he shakes his head, almost in amazement. Your own face is flushed, as you hear sirens and medics, your voice crackly and rough from pain, but still, that smile he’s grown to associate with his heart fluttering graces your face.

“My heart is yours, Spencer. Glad you’re finally realizing how absolutely in love I am with you, you goose, even if it took all this.”

He laughs a little, almost deliriously, and smooths his trembling hand over your face.

“Guess the doughnuts weren’t enough, huh?”

You manage, and he shakes his head, quick to push back.

“They were. You’re always enough for me, no matter what you do.”

Could he sound any more smitten?

Procedure says he can’t go in the ambulance with you - there’s no need, you’re just getting stitches and some ice and he can visit you at the hospital, okay? But as he heads back to the - oh dear, still running, he really was in a hurry, wasn’t he? - car, Morgan glances sideways at him, signature smirk in place.

“Pretty boy, I didn’t know you had it in you.”

Spencer stares down at his hands in his lap. They’re stained, and a grimace floods his face when he realizes it’s not dirt, but your blood, coating his fingertips. A soft sigh escapes his lips, and he bites back a nastier retort than his friend deserves.

“I guess I did. I can’t believe it took-“

Morgan sighs, stopping Spencer’s inevitable incoming guilt filled rambles.

“Hush. You told her. That’s what matters.”

Glancing down at Spencer’s fidgeting hands in his lap, he presses on the gas.

“Let’s get there, so you can get that off you. I’m shocked you got all dirty, with your germ thing.”

Spencer shrugs, looking out the window.

“For her? I’d-I think I’d do anything. No matter what it stained.”

Soap finds his hands at the hospital, but he finds you soon after, unable to stop the gentle press of his lips to your forehead, or the soft murmurs that follow as he tries to remind himself that much more of your blood didn’t spill.

ink - the third stain

Emily has to physically hold you back in the court room, when they take him out, his eyes fixed on you, and the team, almost hopeless.

“Then your client is a flight risk.”

You’re quite literally fighting her, suddenly terrified in a whole new way for your boyfriend, tears staining your face.

“Bail is denied.”

She’s got both arms wrapped around you, her soft, ‘I know’s, and ‘I’m sorry’s barely heard over your own pleas for her to let you go.

“Defendant will be remanded to federal custody pending trial.”

You hear someone sobbing - angry, fear-filled wailing - and until Emily has you turned around, your face in her shoulder, comes the realization that it’s you.

“He’s-Emily, what are we going to do, he’s not going to be okay, I-I can’t—“

The days that follow are dark. Going to the BAU without Spencer, let alone waking up without him beside you, is enough to send you into a spiral. You try to remind yourself that he’s worse off, that whatever hell he’s experiencing is ten times worse than your quiet fear and loneliness. So, to try to combat the weight that squashes your heart, you write him letters. Daily letters.

Spencer -

We have a case in Florida. Emily says it’ll be quick, but the Florida ones never are. We’d solve it ten times faster with you, you know? Geographical profiles are much harder alone, that’s for sure. The plane ride is quieter without you, and no one’s saying anything - you’d be saying something if you were here. Maybe that’s why we’re quiet. ♡

Every day. You don’t relent. If you can’t mail them in whatever town you get stuck in for work, you mail them in one big envelope when you get back home.

Spencer -

That case was rough. I cried twice - once when I spent over two hours staring at the map at the precinct and couldn’t find anything new, and once when Rossi accidentally snapped at me. He said he was sorry, that he’s ‘on edge’ right now - but aren’t we all? Emily’s working really hard to try to get you home. I wish I could come see you. I hope you’re safe. I love you. ♡

When you learn that he didn’t put you on the list of people who can visit him in that concrete hell, you almost lose what’s left your nerve, breaking down in Emily’s office, shaking. You don’t know whether you’re furious, in despair, or numb to it all.

“Emily, why? Why doesn’t he want me to come see him? If it was me, I’d want to see him every day, I wouldn’t want him to leave!”

She sighs, her face tight. Twisting your hands in your lap, you search her face for answers. Nausea claws at your throat.

“Honestly, my guess is it’s just that. He knows that if you come, he won’t want you to leave. It’ll hurt too much.”

“But Tara, and you, and his mother, and-

Spencer -

I think I understand. Sort of. I feel like there’s this pressure in my chest, and I can’t ever fully breathe. Not since you’ve been away. The weight on my heart never goes away. Missing you more every hour. ♡

Despite the slew of handwritten letters that reach him, you only get one back, after you and the team search his apartment - you keep it in your purse pocket, folded safe, and read it whenever your throat feels tight and your eyes burn. His untidy scrawl is enough to make you feel like a part of him is actually inside this letter - like he’s reading it himself to you, interwoven in the fibers of the paper.

Angel -

I wanted you to know I’m in solitary now - I made sure of it. I know you want me safe, almost more than I do. I love you beyond what I can say, my beautiful girl.

Yours, Spencer.

One night, you’re curled up in Spencer’s apartment, writing him a letter, as is your nightly routine. The ink stains the side of your hand now - an ever-present reminder of the fact that your heart constantly feels ripped out of your body. After addressing the letter to him, your phone buzzes - Emily.

Oh God.

“Hey. We figured out that- oh, you don’t care about all that. He’s coming home.”

She doesn’t need to tell you twice. Paper and ink pen tumble to the floor as you shove your feet in shoes and snatch your jacket off the coat tree. Tension is coiled in your body the entire way there. Ink still stains the side of your hand, a permanent reminder that every time you needed to just tell him something - you had to pick up pen and paper.

Heart in your throat, you push open the door with shaking hand. There he stands, your Spencer. He’s still him, you think, although his face is tight, and sleep clearly hasn’t been something he’s seen much of.

Three months.

You walk in slowly, body trembling. One hand reaches up, runs through the curls that have grown so long.

“Your hair.”

You breathe out, voice barely audible. He nods, his face almost impassive. Tentativel fingers trail down his cheek, make a path to hold his face. He nods, and then, you notice his eyes are misty.

“My angel.” He murmurs, almost in awe, and takes you in his arms with a fervor. Crushed against him, face buried in the cool fabric of his shirt, you bite back a sob, arms threaded around him.

“No. Cry, my darling girl, I’m— I’m tired of doing it alone.”

How could you refuse him? Just hearing his voice, let alone the relief you feel at being touched by him again, is enough to satisfy you for days, you think. For a bit, all that’s heard is uneven breaths, until he speaks, his voice rough and shaky.

“I need to see your face.”

He pulls back, face shining with tears, and you swallow back the lump that just won’t leave your throat.

Calloused hands - less soft than you remember - take yours, and then he frowns.

“Your hand.”

Your right hand is held up, inspected, like the blue on the inner side of it is red instead. You smile, laughing a little, still breathless.

“Ink, baby. Just ink. I was writing you a letter.”

He shakes his head, rubbing at the navy stain with his thumb, as if that will remove it.

“I would’ve kept writing. Never given up. You’d be sick of letters from me.”

“Never, sweet girl. There is no part of me who could ever find himself sick of you.”

After you’ve home, he wastes no time in pressing less than tender kisses to your mouth and jawline and the column of your throat. It’s not until he’s reacquainted himself with your contours and the dip of your hipbones and the soft way you gasp out his name when he does that, that has you next to him, so he can see your face.

He needs to see your face.

Hand in his, still faintly stained from ink, he examines it, and then, softly, hesitantly, he meets your eyes.

“You know ink poisoning is actually rare? Pens we use are designed with non-toxic ink, to decrease any chances of fatal ingestion.”

You never mind his information sharing, but your eyebrows furrow tiredly at his timing.

“Spence, I’m not saying I don’t care, but we just— you just—”

“Please. Let me look at the woman I love and pretend for a few moments that my damn eidetic memory won’t play back the last three months of my life like some wretched tape.”

You let him, as he holds your cobalt-colored hand and your eyes droop, his soft voice telling you that rubbing alcohol will probably get that stain out. It almost feels normal.

Almost.

paint - the final stain

“Spence! Can you get paint water out of carpet with any amount of ease?”

You call your husband, turning back to your mildly sheepish five year old, whose water color adventure on the coffee table has quickly done south.

In walks Spencer, not even noticing the overturned hard plastic cup or purpley-blue spill, eyes going straight to his daughter’s nearly finished picture.

“Beautiful, Penny. Looks incredible.”

He murmurs, bending to be eye level with a beaming Penelope, hand on her arm, before turning to you, mild tension and stress lining your face. His smile is gentle. It’ll wash out.

“Rubbling alcohol, angel.”

You nod, tension easing from your shoulders.

“We’ll go get it - we always clean our messes up, right lovely?”

He asks your daughter, lifting her with practiced care. She giggles, nodding, as they head from the room, letting you take a breath and set up the paints and picture in a new location - the kitchen table, with some newspaper tucked underneath because she’s five, and you of all people know spills happen.

Once she’s set up again - she really is so quiet when she’s engrossed in something - you find yourself curled up with Spencer on the couch, head on his shoulder, watching her paint and sing-song to herself.

“Think she’s lonely?”

Spencer asks, turning to you, his grin wide.

Troublemaker.

“Hmm. I think you just like me pregnant.”

He chuckles, pressing a kiss to your hair.

“Maybe. Maybe I don’t want Penny to be sad, ever.”

Silence, then, for a bit.

“She’s so much like you.”

Spencer muses, his fingers drawing patterns on the side of your sweater. You smile, fondly.

“You say that because I’m clumsy. She was dancing around with that paintbrush, that cup of paint water stood no chance.”

“No, I say that because she shines like you. No matter what tries to dim her.”

That night, when you peek in your daughter’s door to see Spencer reading her A Little Princess, she’s propped up against him, hazel eyes barely open. Affection swells in your chest as his voice carries on, even though she’s clearly almost in dreamland. In you walk, pressing a kiss first to her forehead, then Spencer’s. He smiles gentle up at you - this is his favorite time of the day - and keeps reading.

“Perhaps there is a language which is not made of words, and everything in the world understands it.”

Once you’re back in the living room, you check on the earlier spill from today. All that’s left is a barely visible blue spot, no bigger than a quarter.

“No one will see it but you.”

Steadying, warm arms wrap around your ribs, and soft lips press against the side of your neck, washing away any insecurity about the state of your carpet.

“Besides, stains aren’t bad, sweet girl. They’re little reminders that things happened, good things, or bad things that brought us together. Memories, attached to splotches, attached to wounds, to paper, to skin. How convenient, to carry our most impactful moments like heaven-sent tattoos.”

[lizziesangel]

https://www.tumblr.com/lizziesangel/768707161946750976/rafe-cameron-high-maintenance

can you make a part 2 of this? this is sooo cutieful🥹

thank you, angel!!

ᴀ ꜱɪᴍᴘʟᴇ ᴍᴀʟʟ ᴛʀɪᴘ

the mall was bustling with weekend shoppers,—shoppers drifting in and out of stores, the air laced with the faint aroma of freshly baked pretzels and coffee. you walked alongside rafe, your hand tucked into his while the other held a bag from an earlier stop at pandora.

“so,” you said, glancing up at him, “tiffany first, or should we get your new sneakers out of the way?”

rafe smirked down at you, his free hand resting casually in his pocket. “we both know i’m not gonna say no to tiffany’s. lead the way, princess.”

you grinned, tugging him toward the sparkling storefront. “exactly what i thought.”

inside tiffany & co., the polished floors and soft lighting created a luxurious atmosphere. you made a beeline for the display cases, your eyes lighting up at the sight of gleaming jewelry.

“okay, what are we looking for today?” rafe asked, standing slightly behind you, hands in his pockets.

“just looking,” you said, though he knew better.

a sales associate appeared, all smiles. “can i help you find anything in particular?”

you gestured toward a delicate shiny bracelet adorned with tiny charms. “this is gorgeous.”

rafe leaned over your shoulder, inspecting the bracelet. “it’s nice. simple.”

“simple is timeless,” you said with a shrug, already envisioning it on your wrist.

the sales associate pulled it out, and as you tried it on, rafe glanced around the store. “you don’t need another bracelet, though. what about a necklace? you love necklaces.”

you turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “you think i have enough bracelets?”

“i think you don’t have enough necklaces,” he countered with a grin.

you turned to him, mock-offended. “you can never have enough bracelets.” the woman from the store took off the bracelet and put it back in the display.

the sales associate smiled, pulling out another bracelet you’d been admiring and a matching necklace. “would you like to try these on?”

you nodded and smiled, slipping on the necklace while rafe watched. “what do you think?” you asked, turning to him with a hopeful smile.

the two of you left tiffany & co. with a small blue bag swinging from your hand and a matching smirk on rafe’s face.

“you’re the worst,” you teased, though the warmth in your tone said otherwise.

“And yet, you still stick around,” he said, throwing an arm over your shoulder as you made your way to the sneaker store.

at the nike store, rafe immediately zeroed in on a wall of new releases.

“these are sick,” he said, picking up a sleek pair of nike air maxes in black and white.

“they’re nice,” you agreed, inspecting them. “but what about these?” you held up a pair of blue new balances. “they’d go with literally everything.”

rafe shot you a look. “what’s with you and trying to put me in new balances?”

“because they’re classic and trendy!” you argued, shoving the box into his hands. “just try them on, you could use a pop of color in your wardrobe”

rafe gave you a dubious look. “a pop of color?”

“yes,” you said firmly, grabbing the shoe in his size and handing it to him. “try them on.”

he took it, shaking his head with a smirk. “you’re really making this a whole thing, huh?”

“obviously. you can’t just grab the first pair you see, babe. shoes are important. they pull the whole look together.”

as he laced up the sneakers, you stood back, arms crossed, evaluating. “okay, those look good. now walk.”

“walk?” he repeated, incredulous.

“yes, walk. like you’re at a fashion show.”

rafe gave an exaggerated eye roll but humored you, striding across the store like he owned the place.

he smirked, humoring you as he took a lap around the store. “satisfied?”

“very,” you said with a grin.

“perfect,” you said, clapping your hands once. “we’ll take them.”

he glanced at the price tag, his lips twitching into a grin. “these are actually cheaper than your last set of nails.”

when he reached for his wallet at the register, you stopped him. “uh-uh, no way. i’m paying for these.”

rafe frowned. “princess, i just bought you half of tiffany’s—”

“exactly,” you interrupted, holding up your card. “you deserve to get at least one thing today.”

he hesitated, clearly torn between letting you pay and sticking to his usual habit of covering everything. finally, he sighed, shaking his head with a small smile. “fine, but i’m not making a habit of this.”

“shut up and accept it,” you smiled, handing your card to the cashier.

as you walked out of the store with his bag added to your growing collection, rafe slung an arm over your shoulder.

“you’re impossible,” he said with a grin.

“and you love me for it,” you quipped, leaning into him.

“unfortunately,” he teased, pressing a kiss to your temple, his voice warm with affection.

MASTERLIST

CURRENT TAGLIST⋆⭒˚｡⋆

@maybankslover ⟢ @honeyluvsatj ⟢ @zazidot ⟢ @avada-kedavra-bitch-187 ⟢ @lunaleah ⟢ @maybanksangel ⟢ @wtfdudesblog. ⟢ @niktwazny303. ⟢ @outerbanksloverp4l ⟢ @slut4you ⟢ @hstbsl06 ⟢@percysley ⟢ @yesshewrites1 ⟢ @goldenvespa ⟢ @magicalyoura1

[kiwriteswords]

It's a Match [Aaron Hotchner x Female Reader]

Masterlist || Ao3||Word Count: 7.6k|| AN: I rescheduled a hinge date to finish writing this (I wish I was joking)...that is the inspo for this. I really enjoyed this one, though!

Tags/Warnings: non-BAU!Reader, suggestive themes, canon-typical themes, implied sexual themes, dating apps, meet cute ? kinda?, Aaron Hotchner's POV, Garcia-the-ever-supportive-friend, The BAU giving Hotch shit, Garcia signing Hotch up for a dating app.

Summary: Aaron Hotchner rarely sought out the opinions of others, but when his co-workers' incessant nagging about getting back out in the dating world continues, he begins to think about it a little more clearly.

Aaron Hotchner wasn’t fond of his personal life being up for debate. At this point in his life, he rarely found himself seeking the advice of others. He found that relying so heavily on other’s input, only made him feel less confident in his decisions. 

That isn’t to say that his team...his team that means well--he must add, that they…they tend to still give advice without him needing to ask for it.  

In the low hum of the bullpen, Hotch tood with a stern expression, his eyes scanning the case files in a folder he held. Despite the typical chaos of phone calls and keyboard clacks, an undercurrent of a different sort awaited Hotch--a well-meaning, albeit persistent, nudge from his team towards something resembling a personal life.

“Hotch, you seriously need to get out more,” Garcia quipped as she approached him, her fingers dancing across a colorful tablet, laden with what Hotch assumed were not just case notes but potential social engagements. “It’s been ages since Beth and...well, you know.”

Hotch merely nodded, his jaw tightening slightly. He appreciated her concern, a softness blooming in his chest, but the thought of venturing back into the world of dating seemed daunting, a distant terrain.

“You have to admit, Jack’s practically a grown-up now. He’s got his own social calendar,” Prentiss joined in, her voice light, trying to tread carefully around the subject.

Hotch sighed, setting down the file he was holding. “I’m not sure I’m ready,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. This admission felt heavy, laden with the unspoken grief of losing Haley and the subsequent dissolution of what little personal life he had managed to rebuild.

Morgan leaned against the doorway, his arms crossed. “Look, man, no one’s saying jump into anything serious. Just...meet people. Have coffee. Laugh a little.” His tone was earnest, edged with concern.

Hotch rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the weight of their stares. “I know you all mean well, but—”

“It’s healthy, Hotch!” Garcia interrupted, her voice vibrant, attempting to infuse some light into the somber mood. “And who knows? Maybe there’s someone out there who’s been waiting just for someone like you.”

Despite himself, Hotch’s lips twitched into a reluctant smile. He admired Garcia’s relentless optimism. “Maybe,” he conceded.

The team seemed to collectively hold their breath, waiting for more, but Hotch was not ready to offer anything beyond that concession. He glanced around at each of them, their faces etched with a mix of hope and caution.

“I’ll think about it,” Hotch finally said, a compromise that seemed to satisfy them for the moment. He hoped this was the last of it. 

As the team dispersed back to their tasks, Hotch returned to his office. His hand brushed over a photo of Haley and Jack, the texture of the frame familiar and bittersweet under his fingers. He wasn’t sure if he was truly ready to let someone else into his life, but the warmth from his team’s concern was hard to ignore. Maybe it was time to start thinking about the possibility, even if the thought alone made his heart race with a mix of fear and anticipation.

Hotch didn’t need to be a profiler to know his team would bring this up…again. And again. And you know what? Probably again. 

The evening found the team at a local bar, a rare collective moment of downtime that buzzed with laughter and casual banter. Hotch, though present and occasionally contributing to the conversation, often found his gaze wandering over the crowd, an observer more than a participant.

Garcia leaned in, her eyes twinkling with mischief as she nudged JJ, who was scanning the crowd with a mischievous grin. "Okay, so there's this woman at the bar," Garcia whispered loud enough for the team to hear, "and she looks perfect for Hotch."

Hotch, who had been sipping his scotch quietly, raised an eyebrow, his posture stiffening slightly. "I thought we agreed—"

"Oh, come on, Hotch, it’s just a bit of fun," JJ interjected, her gaze fixed on someone across the room. "No harm in looking, right?"

Morgan chuckled, clapping Hotch on the shoulder. "Let's see if Garcia's matchmaking skills are as good as her tech skills."

Reluctantly, Hotch turned his gaze towards the bar. The woman in question was laughing loudly, a little too boisterously, her movements slightly uncoordinated as she swayed to the music. As if sensing the attention, she looked over, her eyes locking with Hotch’s for a brief, unsettling moment before she raised her glass in a sloppy salute.

Hotch’s lips thinned, his discomfort clear. He turned back to his team, shaking his head. "I don't think—"

Before he could finish, the woman decided to make her way over, her steps uneven, a clear sign of her inebriation. Garcia and JJ exchanged a glance, their initial enthusiasm dimming as they watched the scene unfold.

"Hey there, handsome," the woman slurred as she approached Hotch, her voice loud enough to draw the attention of nearby patrons. "I saw you staring. Buy me a drink?"

Hotch stood, his FBI training kicking in to manage the situation with politeness mixed with firmness. "I believe you’ve had enough for tonight," he said, his voice low and calm.

The woman pouted, leaning closer, her sense of personal space clearly compromised by alcohol. "Oh, come on, don't be such a party pooper."

From the table, Rossi raised an eyebrow, his expression one of concern as he watched Hotch handle the delicate situation. Prentiss covered her mouth, trying to hide her cringe, while Morgan finally stood, ready to intervene.

"Ma'am, I think you need to go back to your friends," Morgan said, steering her gently but firmly by the elbow.

As the woman was guided away, muttering under her breath, Hotch sat back down, rubbing the bridge of his nose. The team was silent for a moment, the previous mirth replaced by a shared awkwardness.

Garcia finally broke the silence, her voice soft. "I’m sorry, Hotch. That was not what we expected."

JJ nodded, adding, "Yeah, we just thought...I don’t know what we thought."

Hotch managed a small smile, appreciating their intentions despite the outcome. "It’s okay. I know you both mean well." His gaze shifted to his glass, his mind not on the failed attempt at matchmaking, but on the quiet realization that perhaps he wasn’t quite as ready as they hoped he’d be to jump back into the dating scene.

The team spent the rest of the evening avoiding any further matchmaking attempts, focusing instead on stories from past cases and plans for the weekend. Hotch listened, occasionally contributing, but mostly he appreciated the laughter and the familiar, comforting presence of his team.

As they left the bar later that evening, Hotch felt a reassuring hand on his shoulder--Rossi’s silent support. "You'll know when it’s time, Aaron," Rossi said quietly, his voice carrying a weight of understanding.

Hotch nodded, the night’s air cool and refreshing as it cleared the remnants of the bar’s claustrophobia. "Thanks, Dave," he said, feeling a little lighter. Despite the evening’s missteps, the bond with his team had never felt stronger. He knew they had his back, in the field and beyond, and that was enough--for now.

But then it happened again and Hotch began to feel cornered by his own team. It was getting a bit ridiculous, if you asked him. 

The dull roar of the jet’s engines served as a backdrop to the team's winding down conversations, each member settling into their seats, weary yet content after a successful case closure. As the aircraft hummed its way through the skies, Derek Morgan turned his attention towards his teammates, a grin spreading across his face as he hatched another of his well-intentioned plans.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Derek began, his voice filled with a conspiratorial warmth, “I say this weekend, we do a guys’ night out. Just us, some good food, maybe a few drinks, and see what kind of trouble we can find.”

Hotch raised an eyebrow, a silent question hanging in the balance as he met Derek’s gaze. He appreciated Derek’s efforts, always aimed at lightening the mood or bringing them together off the clock, but the idea of a night focused on meeting women wasn’t particularly appealing.

Rossi, who had been quietly reading a book, looked up with a smirk. “Speak for yourself, Morgan. I don’t need wingmen,” he said, his voice smooth and confident. “And I doubt Aaron here needs one either. When he’s ready, he’s ready. No pressure needed.”

Derek laughed, turning to Reid, who was absently shuffling some papers. “What about you, pretty boy? You think you got game?”

Reid looked up, blinking behind his glasses. “I-I suppose I could… that is to say, I have read extensively on social dynamics and interpersonal—”

“Spencer, if you have to quote a study, it’s not game,” Hotch interjected, a rare, teasing tone in his voice as he shared a knowing look with Rossi.

Reid’s cheeks tinged pink, but his lips curved into a smile. “Well, I might surprise you,” he countered, the mock offense clear in his tone.

The banter lightened Hotch’s mood, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards as the familiar and comforting dynamic of their team played out around him. It was these moments, simple and unadorned, that reminded him of what mattered most.

Derek clapped his hands together, his smile broadening. “Alright, it’s settled then. We’ll table the wingman idea for now, but we’re still doing guys’ night, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Rossi and Reid chimed in, their voices overlapping.

Hotch nodded, feeling a sense of relief at the postponement of the original plan. “Agreed,” he added, his voice firm yet grateful.

As the conversation drifted to other topics, Hotch leaned back in his seat, his gaze fixed on the dark window, reflecting the soft interior lights of the jet. The thought of venturing back into the world of dating remained daunting, a distant shore he wasn’t quite ready to explore.

It seemed like not-subtle attempt, after not-subtle attempt, Hotch felt like he was getting further and further away from the idea of wanting to meet someone. 

Hotch's reluctance to step back into the dating world was not born of fear, nor was it due to a lack of interest in companionship. Rather, it was the weight of his past--a tapestry woven with profound love and devastating loss--that anchored him. The memories of Haley, vibrant and alive, contrasted sharply with the harrowing night of her death. Then there was Beth, a chapter that had closed gently, but still a loss that added layers to his guarded heart.

As he sat there, his eyes occasionally flickering to the photos of Jack on his desk, Hotch considered the complexities of introducing someone new into their lives. Jack, now a teenager, was his priority, and any disruption that could unsettle the stable life he had fought so hard to provide was a risk Hotch was hesitant to take.

The responsibilities of his role at the BAU further complicated matters. His job was not just a career; it was a calling--one that demanded everything of him, including long hours and the mental toll of delving into the darkest corners of human behavior. How could he find or ask someone to understand that? Hotch's brow furrowed as he considered this. How could he bring someone into this world--his world--where danger was a constant companion and where the balance between life and death was often precariously thin?

Hotch was lost in the meticulous review of case files when the whirlwind known as Penelope Garcia burst into his office, her tablet clutched like a treasure chest of mischief. Her arrival was usually heralded by her exuberant chatter or the bright clash of her eclectic fashion, but today it was her wide grin that signaled she was up to something particularly Garcia-esque.

"Hotch, you are not going to believe what I've done!" she exclaimed, barely containing her excitement as she approached his desk.

Hotch looked up, his expression a blend of wariness and resignation. "Garcia, please tell me you haven't hacked into another government database." He thought this moment itself could take years off his life. 

"No, silly!" She waved off the comment with a flick of her wrist. "Something much better. I've signed you up for a dating app!" She beamed, clearly proud of her handiwork.

Hotch’s eyebrows knitted together in concern. "Garcia, you know how dangerous those can be. I have no business being on a dating app."

"Oh, come on, Hotch! This is how people meet nowadays. It's all very safe, and you can be upfront about what you're looking for through DMs!" Garcia explained, her enthusiasm undimmed.

"DMs?" Hotch frowned, his confusion evident.

"Direct messages, Hotch. Keep up!" She tapped on her tablet, pulling up a profile that Hotch hoped against hope wasn’t his. His hope was in vain.

Garcia turned the tablet toward him, revealing a profile complete with photos of Hotch that looked suspiciously candid and slightly dated. "See? I even picked your best photos. This one's from that beach vacation you took ten years ago. You're shirtless! It's gold, Hotch, pure gold."

Hotch stared at the photo, his mind racing back to a much simpler time. "Garcia, I barely even look like that anymore. Where did you even find this?"

"In the deep recesses of the BAU annual trip photo archive thingy," she quipped, winking. "And everyone needs at least bathing suit photo, Hotch. It's like an unwritten rule of dating apps."

Garcia proceeded to scroll through the profile, pointing out the interests she had listed for him. "Look, I put down that you love long walks on the beach, are an aficionado of fine wines, and have a passion for rare book collecting."

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on. "Garcia, I’ve never collected a book in my life, unless case files count."

She shrugged, undeterred. "Details, Hotch, details. It's all about selling the dream."

Despite his frustration, a small smile tugged at the corners of Hotch's mouth. Only Garcia could get away with this level of audacity. She gleefully showed him how to use the app, swiping through various screens before downloading it onto his phone with practiced ease.

As Garcia finally left his office, still bubbling with excitement, Hotch looked down at the app icon on his phone. He couldn't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, this could be a good thing. Shaking his head, he chuckled softly to himself. "Only Garcia," he muttered, his annoyance fading to a fond exasperation.

Left alone with his new digital dating life, Hotch tapped on the app, curiosity overcoming his initial reluctance. As he scrolled through the interface, the absurdity of the situation struck him, and he couldn't help but let out a genuine laugh. Maybe exploring this new world wouldn’t be so bad, especially if it gave him more stories to share with Garcia--just maybe not the ones she was hoping for.

One night soon after, Hotch made it home at a reasonable (well, still very late) time--reasonable for him. He settled into the unusual quiet of his apartment, the absence of Jack's lively presence making the space seem larger and more silent than usual. With a sigh, he resigned himself to a solitary evening--a rare slice of downtime that was both welcome and unnerving.

After a moment of hesitation, curiosity nudged him towards the dating app that Garcia had enthusiastically installed on his phone. He still harbored reservations about the entire concept, but with the night stretching empty before him, the app seemed like a harmless diversion..

Sitting comfortably on his couch, Hotch opened the app and began navigating through it with a tentative curiosity. The light from his phone cast a soft glow in the dim room as he scrolled through profiles, his face a mask of concentration.

Methodically, he started tweaking his profile, softening Garcia's more flamboyant embellishments to reflect his true nature. He made it clear he was a devoted father and that his--undisclosed to the app--job was demanding, requiring anyone interested to understand the stakes of his career. His description was straightforward--seeking a meaningful connection with someone who could appreciate the complexities of his life.

As he swiped through the profiles, Hotch's brow furrowed slightly. Many were immediately unsuitable--too young, too flashy, or just too far from what he felt comfortable with. One profile made him pause, the woman's intense stare and array of self-purchased tactical gear a bit too reminiscent of an unsub profile he'd studied just weeks before.

But then, he swiped to the next profile, and everything stopped. The woman's photos--your photos exuded warmth and sincerity, your smile genuine, reaching your eyes and lighting up your entire face. 

Your description was simple yet profound, speaking of your love for literature, your passion for teaching, and your volunteer work with children. It wasn't just your physical appearance that caught his attention--it was the evident kindness and intelligence that shone through your words.

Hotch's finger hovered over the screen for a moment before he decided to swipe right, feeling a strange surge of hope. The screen flashed, and the word "Match!" appeared. A small, surprised smile touched his lips. It was the first profile he had responded to positively, and the immediate match was unexpected.

For a moment, Hotch stared at the screen, the implications of the match settling in. This was uncharted territory for him, stepping into a world of potential and possibilities. With a deep breath, he opened the messaging feature, contemplating his first words to you. He wanted to convey sincerity and interest, a reflection of the authenticity that had drawn him to your profile in the first place.

As he typed out a simple greeting, careful to be both respectful and engaging, Hotch felt a flicker of something like excitement—or perhaps it was just the thrill of new beginnings. Whatever it was, it felt right, and for the first time in a long time, Aaron Hotchner allowed himself to feel cautiously optimistic about the path unfolding before him.

The digital conversation was new territory for him, each notification a pulse of unfamiliar excitement. When your reply came, it was both thoughtful and warm, sparking a connection that seemed to transcend the mere pixels of his screen.

As the messages exchanged grew more frequent and personal, Hotch admitted, somewhat reluctantly, that he was a novice in the realm of online dating. He explained how his work  shaped his cautious view on things like dating apps, and he confessed that it was his team’s encouragement that led him here.

You responded with understanding, echoing his sentiments about the unusual path that brought you both to this app, yet expressing a selfish gladness that his coworkers had nudged him into this new experience. It was a sentiment Hotch couldn’t help but share, feeling a connection building that was both surprising and delightful.

The conversation naturally flowed, and soon, you suggested shifting from texting to something more personal. "I'm not much for messaging," you wrote, "Would you be up for a video call instead?"

Hotch felt a wave of relief wash over him. Navigating the app was one thing, but speaking to someone, hearing their voice, that was familiar ground. He agreed eagerly, and within moments, he was waiting for the call to connect, his heart rate subtly quickening.

He was glad this didn’t allow for much time to think in between--he’d be afraid he would talk himself out of it. Find a million reasons why he shouldn’t be doing this. 

When your face appeared on his screen, the connection was instantaneous. You were even more captivating in motion, your smile lighting up the digital space between you. Hotch found himself momentarily lost for words, taken aback by how the interaction felt so natural, so right.

"Hi," he started, his voice steadier than he felt. "I hope it’s okay to say this, but you’re even more beautiful than your pictures."

You laughed, a sound that was both melodic and grounding, easing the last of Hotch's nerves. "Thank you, Aaron. You're quite the charmer yourself."

As the conversation unfolded, the chemistry was undeniable. You both shared stories, your laughter mingling through the airwaves, bridging the physical distance with ease. Hotch, typically reserved, found himself opening up about aspects of his life that he seldom discussed outside his closest circles.

You were a professor at a university. A bit younger than him, but did not seem phased by that--especially considering his age, height, along with way too many other physical details, were displayed on his profile. 

Encouraged by the undeniable connection, Hotch took a breath before voicing a thought that had been on his mind since the call began. "I don’t mean to be forward, but I would really like to meet you in person. Would you like to go out for dinner this week?"

Your smile broadened, and it was all the confirmation Hotch needed. "I'd love to, Aaron. That sounds wonderful."

Plans were made for a dinner later that week, the details ironed out with mutual enthusiasm. As the call ended, Hotch sat back, a sense of accomplishment and anticipation settling over him. He hadn’t expected this when he first opened the app, but now, he couldn’t deny the potential that lay ahead.

He placed his phone down, his mind replaying moments from the call, each laugh and shared story a promise of possibilities. 

Hotch’s mind was a tumult of apprehension as he prepared for the evening. Each scenario he imagined was tinged with the occupational hazard of suspecting the worst. Yet, he meticulously chose his attire, settling on a sharp, dark suit that matched his formal, reserved nature. Despite the nerves, a part of him--the part trained to face unknowns head-on--compelled him forward.

He arrived at the restaurant punctually, the ambiance a blend of soft lighting and quiet chatter, ideal for a meaningful first date. Standing at the entrance, he scanned the area for you, his heart rate ticking upward not out of fear, but anticipation.

When he finally saw you, everything else fell away. You were waiting at the table, looking up from your menu with a smile that drew him in completely. As he approached, Hotch felt the last of his doubts dissolve, replaced by an unexpected surge of hope.

"Hi," he greeted, voice steady despite the whirlwind inside. "You look incredible."

You stood to meet him, extending a confident hand that he shook gently. "Thank you, Aaron. You're quite dashing yourself. I’m so glad to meet you in person."

As you both sat, the conversation began to flow naturally between the ordering of drinks and dishes. Hotch found himself genuinely smiling, engaged by your insights and humor. Almost forgetting that this was someone who had been a total stranger to him not long before. 

"So, you're a professor?" he inquired, genuinely interested. He remembered you mentioning it briefly in your first initial conversation. 

"Yes, I teach literature. I like to think of myself as a life-long learner and to be able to share words and pages that shaped so many lives--it’s incredible," you explained, your eyes lighting up with enthusiasm.

"That sounds extremely rewarding," Hotch commented, noting the passion in your voice. "It must be fascinating to see students develop their understanding over a semester."

"It is," you agreed. "And what about you? I know you work for the DOJ, but what does that entail day-to-day?"

Hotch hesitated, weighing how much to share, before deciding on honesty--he couldn’t deny that your presence…your aura made it easy to want to share. "It's challenging. My job can be intense--managing cases, leading a team. But it's fulfilling, knowing we're making a difference."

You nodded thoughtfully, sipping your glass of wine and looking at him over the rim of the glass. "It sounds like you're very dedicated. I admire that."

The conversation shifted seamlessly to lighter topics, and eventually to Jack. "He's staying with a friend tonight," Hotch mentioned. "He's growing up fast, involved in sports, school...it keeps us both busy."

"It sounds like you're a great father," you noted, your tone warm. "Balancing such a demanding job and raising him."

Hotch appreciated the compliment, feeling a flush of pride. "I try my best. Jack is my priority. It’s just us two."

As the dinner progressed, there was a mutual, comfortable--and natural--level of flirting that neither of you shied away from. You leaned in slightly, your interest clear as you spoke, "I must say, Aaron, I was a bit nervous about this date, I’ve never been on a date from an app before…but you've made this evening truly enjoyable."

Hotch mirrored your movement, leaning in, driven by a rare impulse to connect. "I can honestly say the same. I wasn't sure what to expect, but I'm glad I came tonight."

The evening ended with a promise to see each other again, both of you reluctant to part ways after such a promising start. As Hotch walked you to your car, he felt a lightness he hadn't experienced in years.

"Thank you for tonight," he said, standing a bit closer. "I'm looking forward to seeing you again soon."

"I'd like that," you smiled, your confidence and warmth evident even in the dim light of the parking lot.

As you drove away, Hotch remained for a moment, watching the taillights fade into the night. He allowed himself a small, hopeful smile, a sense of anticipation for the future blossoming inside him. Tonight, Aaron Hotchner felt not just the skilled agent, but a man stepping into a new chapter of his life, unexpectedly uplifted by the promise of new beginnings.

As Aaron Hotchner and you grew closer, the budding relationship unveiled a lighter side of Hotch, one that had been subdued for years under the weight of responsibility and duty. The dynamic between you was characterized by a playful banter that coaxed smiles and even laughter from the normally stoic FBI agent.

One crisp evening, as you both enjoyed a casual stroll through a local art festival, you pointed at a particularly abstract painting. "So, Aaron, if you were an art critic, what profound analysis would you offer here?"

Hotch studied the painting, his brow furrowng in mock seriousness. "Well," he began, adopting a thoughtful tone, "I would say that the chaotic swirls represent the tumultuous nature of...let's say, choosing the perfect wine to go with dinner."

You laughed, bumping his shoulder lightly with yours. "That sounds suspiciously like last night’s dilemma. Did this piece just speak to your soul?"

He turned to you, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. "It might have. Or maybe it’s reminding me that I should stick to my day job."

The conversation flowed effortlessly as you both shared stories and insights. Later, sitting at a small café, Hotch opened up about his work with a rare openness, prompted by your genuine interest and lack of judgment.

"You know, most people get intimidated when I talk about my job," Hotch admitted, stirring his coffee slowly.

"You're not just your job, Aaron," you responded, smiling warmly. "Though, I must admit, it’s a pretty impressive part of who you are. But I’m more interested in the man who can quote Shakespeare and knows his way around an impressive omelet."

Hotch’s smile was genuine, a little wider this time. "Well, I could say the same about a woman who can discuss Renaissance literature and beat me in a game of chess."

As the evening wore on, Hotch found himself sharing more than he usually allowed. The topic of fatherhood--the most important part of his identity, always seemed to weave his way through. And now, having a teenager, a wise teenager, it didn’t take long before Jack picked up on the fact that Hotch was seeing someone. 

"Jack’s been asking about you," he said cautiously, observing your reaction.

"Is that so?" you grinned, clearly pleased. "And what exactly have you told him about me?"

"That his dad is spending time with a very smart, beautiful, and funny woman who might just be a worse cook than I am."

Your laughter filled the space between you, and Hotch felt a warmth that went beyond the ambient glow of the café’s lights. "Challenge accepted. I’ll have you know, my culinary skills are...in development."

The playful back-and-forth continued, with each exchange gently peeling back layers of Hotch's reserved exterior. It was clear to both of you that something significant was taking root--something filled with potential and promise.

As you parted ways that evening, Hotch felt an ease and contentment that was new and invigorating. "I'm looking forward to our next culinary showdown," he teased, his tone light but sincere.

"And I, for one, can’t wait to see what other hidden talents you have, Agent Hotchner," you replied, your voice playful yet affectionate.

Walking back to his car, Hotch allowed himself a rare, contented smile. This new chapter with you was unfolding into something unexpectedly wonderful, showing him that life could indeed be vibrant and full of surprises, even for someone as grounded in reality as SSA Aaron Hotchner.

After an elegant evening at the theater, Aaron Hotchner found himself walking with you to the car under a starlit sky, the air crisp and cool, perfect for the light jackets you both wore. The play had been a profound one, sparking rich conversation between the two of you that continued as you strolled. Your love for classic literature and his lost love for theatre combined. 

Hotch, typically reserved, felt an unusual flutter of anticipation mixed with a warmth that had grown steadily since the night began.

He had thought about this often, but never felt the need to bring it up--in due time, he thought, but tonight…tonight felt like it was due. 

"You know," Hotch began, his voice calm but carrying an undercurrent of emotion, "I can't believe we've been seeing each other for this long, and I haven’t even—"

You turned to face him, a teasing sparkle in your eyes. "Haven’t even what, Aaron?"

He paused, looking into your eyes which were reflecting the soft streetlights. "Kissed you," he admitted, the words feeling more significant as they hung in the air between you.

Your smile widened, and you stepped a little closer, diminishing the space between you. "Is Aaron Hotchner nervous about a kiss?" you asked playfully, tilting your head as you gazed up at him.

The corner of Hotch's mouth lifted in a half-smile, a rare show of his lighter side that you had slowly uncovered. "Maybe," he confessed, his usual confidence tempered with a vulnerability he rarely showed. "But only because it feels important."

"It is," you agreed softly, your hand finding his. "But only because it’s you."

That was all the encouragement Hotch needed. He leaned down, his heart beating a touch faster as his lips met yours in a gentle, searching kiss. It was a kiss that started tentatively but grew more confident as you responded, your hands moving up to lightly grasp his jacket.

The world seemed to quiet around you, the buzz of the city fading into a distant hum. Hotch’s free hand came up to gently cup your cheek, his touch tender yet certain. The kiss deepened, stirring a warmth that spread through his entire body, a feeling of rightness that was both exhilarating and calming.

When you finally parted, both of you were slightly breathless, a flush on your cheeks that matched the one on Hotch’s. You laughed softly, the sound like music to his ears.

"So, was it everything you hoped it would be?" you teased, your eyes dancing with mirth.

Hotch, still holding you close, nodded. "Even more," he said sincerely. "I think using that app might have been one of the best decisions I've ever made."

Your laughter rang out again, joyous and free. "Just for the record, you're the only one I ever made it on a date with," you shared, giving him a playful nudge.

"And you were the only one I ever messaged," Hotch revealed, his usual stoicism warmed by the affection in his voice. "I guess we both got incredibly lucky."

The drive to bring you home was filled with a comfortable silence, punctuated by shared looks and soft smiles. When he stopped at your place, Hotch leaned over to kiss you again, this time with a confidence borne of the shared connection that had only deepened since the first.

"Goodnight," he said, his voice low and filled with a promise of more to come.

"Goodnight, Aaron," you replied, your hand squeezing his for a moment longer before you stepped out,

As Hotch drove away, his mind replayed every moment of the evening, each memory a treasure. He realized, with a clarity that was almost startling, just how much he had come to care for you.

Days later, Hotch sat solemnly at the round table, his usual composed demeanor slightly offset by an underlying layer of disappointment. As the team geared up for an abrupt deployment to handle a pressing case, Hotch couldn't help but think about the dinner plans he had to cancel with you. He had been looking forward to a relaxing evening, a rare chance to step away from the demands of his job and focus on the burgeoning relationship that had become a significant source of joy in his life.

"I'm sorry, I can't make it tonight," Hotch had said over the phone earlier, his voice carrying a weight of regret.

"It's okay, Aaron," you had responded, your tone light and teasing. "I'll just have to spend the evening sending you flirty texts instead. Stay safe, and catch the bad guys, okay?"

Despite your understanding and playful reassurance, the disappointment lingered. As the team discussed logistics and profiles, Hotch's mind wandered momentarily, reflecting on the personal sacrifices that came with his role at the FBI.

Suddenly, Garcia's voice snapped him back to reality. "Hotch, you seem more down about this trip than usual. Anything you want to share with the class?" Her tone was lightly teasing but underscored with genuine concern.

Hotch cleared his throat, shifting slightly in his seat. "It's nothing," he started to dismiss, hoping to steer back to the case details.

But Garcia, ever perceptive, wouldn't let it go that easily. She leaned forward, her eyes narrowing playfully. "No, no, no, this has to be something good. Wait! Did you meet someone on the dating app?"

The room quieted, all eyes suddenly on Hotch. The surprise on his team's faces was palpable, a mix of curiosity and amusement.

Hotch sighed, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he realized there was no dodging Garcia's sharp intuition. "Yes, I met someone."

"And I can tell he's incredibly happy," Garcia added, her voice squealing with excitement, filling the room with her infectious energy.

The team erupted in a mixture of chuckles and supportive remarks. "Hotch on a dating app, now that's something I didn't see coming," Morgan commented with a grin.

Rossi raised an eyebrow, his expression one of mock seriousness. "So, this is serious then?"

"It's...going well," Hotch admitted, allowing himself a small moment of vulnerability in front of his team. "And yes, I'm happy. It's just hard balancing the job with personal life sometimes. I forgot how difficult it is to cancel on someone you--someone you're starting to care a lot about."

The team's demeanor softened, understanding the conflict Hotch felt. Prentiss leaned in, her voice gentle. "We get it, Hotch. But it sounds like she does too. That's a good sign, right?"

Hotch nodded, appreciative of the support. "It is. She's very understanding. Makes it a bit easier."

Garcia beamed, her eyes twinkling with excitement. "Oh, I need to know everything. When we get back, you're giving me details, Hotch. Deal?"

Hotch couldn't help but laugh, the sound rare enough to cause a few surprised looks. "Deal, Garcia."

After all, he did feel like he owed Garcia…so much in this moment for if it wasn’t for her, he’d never had met you.

Throughout the duration of a challenging and complex case, Aaron Hotchner found moments of reprieve through the buzz of his phone. Each notification a reminder of the intriguing connection he’d developed with you. 

Your texts, infused with lightness and wit, became small beacons of joy amid the high-pressure environment of his work.

One evening, as he and the team were wrapping up a long day of interviews and evidence analysis, Hotch’s phone vibrated with a new message from you. He glanced around--most of the team was absorbed in their tasks--and allowed himself a moment to read your text.

"Thinking of a proper celebration for when you get back...Maybe we can explore the possibility of moving past just kisses? I have a few ideas I think you’d approve of..."

The message was smooth, playful yet suggestive, and it caught Hotch off guard. He felt a flush of warmth spread through him, a mixture of anticipation and slight disarray, emotions he usually kept neatly compartmentalized.

Sitting back in his chair, Hotch let out a small, almost imperceptible sigh. 

It was rare for him to connect with someone so deeply that thoughts of them could so easily unsettle his usual stoic demeanor. Yet, you did just that, and he found himself not only accepting this new dynamic but eagerly looking forward to what it promised.

He typed a response, his fingers pausing above the keyboard as he considered how best to reply. Finally, he settled on a message that matched your playful tone while still holding onto his inherent reserved nature.

"Exploring new possibilities sounds like an excellent plan. I’ll look forward to your ideas... very much so."

Sending the text, Hotch felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. It was an unfamiliar sensation to look forward to personal plans with such anticipation, but it was one he found increasingly appealing.

As he pocketed his phone and returned his focus to the case files spread out before him, Hotch’s thoughts momentarily drifted to what awaited him upon his return. The prospect of deepening his relationship with you brought a sense of excitement he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Even amidst the demanding rhythms of his job, Hotch found himself counting down the days until he could see you again, eager to explore the new dimensions of their relationship. The playful, flirtatious exchanges were more than just brief escapes from his responsibilities; they were reminders of the burgeoning connection that might just redefine his understanding of balance between his dedication to his work and his personal life.

After wrapping up the demanding case, Hotch found himself outside your apartment, his anticipation a palpable presence within him. He had been thinking about this moment throughout the flight back--about you, about the promise of what lay ahead. The door opened to your welcoming smile, and any remaining trace of professional tension melted away as he stepped inside.

For the first time in a long time, he felt like he could leave work at the door. 

The evening unfolded effortlessly, as if every moment were simply meant to be. Dinner was a shared endeavor, filled with laughter and gentle touches that spoke louder than words. As the night deepened, so did the connection between you, pulling you both inevitably toward a more intimate closeness that felt both exhilarating and utterly right.

Later, wrapped in the warmth and softness of your bed, Hotch lay beside you, his arm securely around you, feeling the comforting weight of your head against his chest. The room was quiet, the only sound the gentle breath of two people content in each other's presence. It was a profound intimacy that Hotch had rarely allowed himself to experience, yet with you, it felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"You know," Hotch began, his voice soft and thoughtful, "I never imagined that downloading an app would lead me here, to this moment. But I'm incredibly glad it did."

You shifted slightly, turning to face him. In the dim light, he noticed a hint of shyness in your expression--an unusual trait for someone usually so vibrant and confident. "Aaron, I need to tell you something, and I’m a little afraid it might be too soon...or…or how you might react."

He tightened his embrace reassuringly. "Sweetheart, you can tell me anything. You know that, right?"

You nodded, taking a deep breath before speaking. "It's just that...I've never connected with anyone like this before. Not from a dating app, not in real life. Like I feel crazy. And it scares me a little because I think I’m falling in love with you."

Hotch’s heart skipped a beat, not just at your words but at the earnest vulnerability with which you spoke them. For a brief moment, he was speechless, overwhelmed by the depth of his own feelings that mirrored yours.

"I’ve been trying to make sense of it all myself," he confessed, his voice a whisper against your hair. "This isn’t just unusual for me; it’s unprecedented. But hearing you say that...it’s exactly how I feel. I’m falling in love with you, too."

Relief and joy mingled in your eyes, and you moved closer, pressing a kiss to his chest--a simple, sweet gesture that sealed the words just shared. Hotch felt a profound peace settle over him, the kind that came from finding something real and true.

As you both lay there, entwined in the quiet aftermath of shared revelations, the world outside seemed inconsequential. In that room, with the soft glow of the nightlight casting gentle shadows, Aaron Hotchner wasn’t just an FBI agent or a guarded widower; he was a man deeply in love, grateful for every unpredictable twist of fate that had led him to you.

"You know," you whispered, a playful twinkle returning to your voice, "this is going to make a great story someday--how a skeptical FBI agent fell for a girl from a dating app."

Hotch chuckled, the sound rich and content. "It’s a story I look forward to telling again and again," he agreed, pulling you closer. 

As days turned into months, Hotch experienced a transformation in his daily life--a lightness and joy that were new and profoundly delightful. 

Your relationship flourished; the connection deepened with each passing moment you spent together. Jack met you and took an immediate liking to you, his youthful judgment never faltering. The integration of you into his and Jack’s life felt seamless, natural, like pieces of a puzzle that had been waiting to find their place.

You were fiercely independent and career-driven, qualities that resonated deeply with Hotch. The balance between your professional pursuits and personal life mirrored his own, creating a perfect symmetry that allowed both of you to thrive without sacrificing the bond growing between you.

Reflecting on this, Hotch couldn’t help but think back to several months ago when his team, especially Penelope Garcia, had pushed him to step out into the dating world. He was immensely grateful for their encouragement--grateful that Garcia had practically coerced him into using the dating app that brought you together.

Once (and due to his line of work, pretty much always will be) a skeptic of dating apps, he now sung its praise, in a…cautious way. It was praised enough that in a very Rossi-fashion, David Rossi bought stock in the app, Hotch and your love story solidifying the need to. 

Now, seated at his desk in the quiet hum of the FBI offices, Hotch decided to express his love and appreciation in a tangible way. He opened a florist’s website, browsing through the selections to find something that captured the essence of what you meant to him. 

Settling on a bouquet of wildflowers--bright, beautiful, and unpretentiously elegant--he filled out the delivery form to send them to your workplace. The note attached was simple but heartfelt: "For no reason other than I love you. Aaron."

With a contented sigh, Hotch then organized a second floral arrangement, this one for Garcia. He chose vibrant sunflowers and daisies, flowers as bright and cheerful as Garcia herself. The note for her was equally thoughtful: "Penelope, thank you for pushing me onto that (still questionable) app. I am forever grateful. - Hotch."

As he confirmed the orders, his colleague Morgan passed by his desk, noticing the slight smile on Hotch’s usually stoic face. "What's got you looking so happy, Hotch? That doesn't look like case work."

Hotch looked up, the smile still playing on his lips. "Can’t I just take a moment to appreciate the good things, Morgan?"

Morgan raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Good things, huh? Does this have anything to do with that special lady I’ve been hearing about?"

"You could say that," Hotch replied, his tone light, an uncommon but genuine warmth evident in his expression. "And I’m also sending Garcia some flowers."

Morgan chuckled, shaking his head in amusement. "Man, Garcia’s matchmaking really worked out for you, didn’t it? Never thought I'd see the day. She’s never going to let this one down."

"It did," Hotch acknowledged, his thoughts drifting back to you. "And it’s made all the difference."

After Morgan left, Hotch leaned back in his chair, allowing himself a few moments of quiet reflection. He felt a profound sense of gratitude--not just for the love and joy you brought into his life, but for the unexpected journey that led him to you. 

It was a reminder of the unpredictable beauty of life, how sometimes, taking a chance could lead to something extraordinary. 

Tag List: @zaddyhotch @estragos @todorokishoe24 @looking1016  @khxna @rousethemouse @averyhotchner @reidfile @bernelflo @lover-of-books-and-tea @frickin-bats @sleepysongbirdsings @justyourusualash @person-005 @iyskgd @hiireadstuff @kcch-ns @alexxavicry

[doyoulikethis-videogame-song]

Ask Masterpost 1/25/2024

I will be answering the BLOG RELATED asks that I have received since opening my inbox. Lucky number three this finally becomes consistent :).

I would like to state here that even though I don't respond to them (I'm persnickety about keeping ask spam low) I very much appreciate everyone's well wishes and compliments and gratefulness for this blog. I screenshot all of them and keep them in a folder. Thank you so much and I hope you keep having fun :).

@forrest-knight asked: Hello! I am here to ask for some clarification regarding the rules: “Songs from multimedia series that are primarily NOT video games (such as the Homestuck minigames, for example) will not be accepted.” I’m a bit confused with this rule, does this mean we’re not allowed to submit songs from licensed video games (aka games made for non video game media), even if the song is originally made for the game (ex. To The Moon from the DuckTales NES game). Or does this rule is intended for something completely different? *please note that I’ve never read homestuck, so this might relate to my confusion Anyways, thank you so much for doing this! And I hope you have a great whatever time you are reading this!

SO Homestuck was the only example I could think of at the time as a series that actually did this. I was specifically thinking about franchises/series/works that 100% did not start off intending to be a video game but, in the nature of being a multimedia series, added video game minigames or mobile games as it developed.

This is referring to things like homestuck (a webcomic that featured small browser/flash games within the comic), many idol gacha games** (hypnosis mic, love live), etc. This does not include series that were 'completed' (loosely used since I know many of these frequently get universe-expanding sequels and threequels and whathaveyou) and then had video game spinoffs, such as Star Wars, Marvel, etc.

** exceptions being tracks that are exclusively used in the video game itself, such as BGM.

I know this rule is probably the most complicated one and I'm still trying to figure out how to word it clearly and precisely LMAO. Fundamentally it comes down to intent, which is why I'm still on the fence some things like tracks used exclusively in promotional materials and things like that.

That being said: if the song is originally from a video game as in literally you can hear it while you are playing the video game you are totally in the clear

And according to your second ask (I won't name the songs in case you want to submit them): The one made for and coming from the NES game is fine (of course), AND the one that is the 8-bit version of the NON-VGM one is ALSO FINE, because it was REMIXED for the NES game :).

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**NUMEROUS QUESTIONS ABOUT PUTTING DISCLAIMERS ASKING PEOPLE NOT TO SPOIL THE SONGS**

The blind listening and polling period is just for fun! If someone really likes a song and wants to know what it is/where it's from, PLEASE feel free to tell them!!! And PLEASE always enter the notes with the expectation that there may be song spoilers!!

I will ask that you keep it in the TAGS rather than the comments or reblogs (you're more than welcome to DM people the title if they ask), just for the sake of people who might want to discuss the song without spoilers. I'll put that in the pinned and the (eventual...) formal rules.

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What's up! New here so sorry if this has been asked before but has the exact same song been submitted more than once before? Like it's clearly different people but the same song keeps getting submitted over and over again?

Ever since Mod Rae cleared duplicates I have no idea anymore, BUT I know there have been a lot of different submissions for a few select Disco Elysium songs. That doesn't shock me because I know it's got a cult following here :).

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do you get a lot of the same people in ur notes or is it like. a few of the same and then it branches out to fandoms where people know the song? or do u not pay attn to your notes at all (also fair)

I do read the notes (when I remember)! I really like hearing people's opinions, and I always look through the tags on songs I know (I find it really hilarious seeing 'is this dark souls?' 'is this nier?' on any orchestral ever). There are a lot of familiar faces but I'd say the majority for any given poll are new or sparsely in the notes :).

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Would you ever consider adding two more "i dont feel strongly/have an opinion" options to the polls? Specifically, "it sounds familiar and i dont have an opinion" and "ive def heard it before and dont feel strongly/have an opinion"? Of course, if theres a specific reason why you dont add those two as options, feel free to ignore this, ty <3

I've considered this -- but honestly, that button has always existed as more of a 'I just want to click a button' option than an actual datapoint I'm looking for (I think I might have answered an ask similar to this before but I don't remember so I'm answering it again LOL). When that option dominates, I always read the notes and tags for discussion and I'd encourage anyone who is genuinely interested to do the same. Actual complex opinions, of course, cannot be captured with the limitations of preset poll options anyways LMFAO.

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@mkcannothelpyou asked: I'm beginning to wonder if spacing series severely further apart and prioritising picks further down the queue that aren't as represented would make for a more interesting order - as it is, it feels like you can more or less still track what people submitted and when, with waves of series (and closely related works within those series, at that) coming in conspicuously densely. Hearing the same style only days apart might impact poll results for the negative as time goes on.

This was mostly the fault of me allowing people to submit multiple songs at once, leading to songs with similar qualities (as they are all liked by one person with a particular taste) being grouped together, even if they're from different series. I limit submissions to one per period now so this will not be a problem in the future :').

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@the-mayor-of-space asked: how long do submissions typically stay open once they are open?

I originally wanted to have them permanently opened (thinking people wouldn't mind waiting for their submissions) until I got an insane amount of submissions, severely underestimating the popularity of this blog. I then tried to do a 24 hr submission period, and then a 12 hr submission period, but both of these still ended up with a fuck ton of submissions so the current answer is 'They're closed until I can figure out something proper'...

I don't want purging the existing submissions to be on the table, but if I get to the 1 year anniversary of this blog without a better option I might have to go that route -- in which case I'd probably publish all the unposted options so people know if theirs was cut so they know to resubmit it if they're still interested.

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**NUMEROUS QUESTIONS ABOUT HOW FAR BACK THE SUBMISSIONS ARE**

WE'RE FINALLY IN AUGUST!!!!!!!!

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are fan/non official/non licensed versions of songs allowed? because i am 100% certain #293 is a fan made remaster and medley arrangement (im not the submitter but i know the song well - i found the youtube video the audio is from and the comments from OP confirm it is a fan remix). if they are, that's totally cool, but i couldn't find anything in the submission rules about it. i dont intend this ask to be rude or hostile at all, and either way im grateful you've created such an active community with this blog!

They're not really allowed unless they're from a mod or fangame. Since it's a fanmade remaster it's kind of towing the line, so I'm not inherently against it, but it might end up just being a highly situational thing.

Note: I'm not familiar with Fire Emblem at ALL but I knew this particular song was from an older game, which is why I wasn't opposed to posting the remastered version. In any future submissions I'd appreciate if this sort of thing were indicated just in case! I will add that to the submission guidelines :). And of course if there's a better way to go about this (i.e if the game is like, 30+ years old fanmade remasters/upscales are permitted or something like that) I will make sure that's made clear as well :).

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sorry if you've answered this before but I was just wondering, are people allowed to submit spoiler songs for the polls? like final boss songs and songs from endings and secret endings

Absolutely! But I think for all future submissions (this doesn't apply now since there's a huge backlog) I might put a hold on the submissions of OSTS from new games for like 1-2 months (i.e No Mario Kart 9 OSTs until two months after the game drops!) so people who are playing/going to play the game have time to play it before hearing the OSTs unprompted.

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@its-daisukenojobito asked: Just out of curiosity, do you prefer the more obscure submissions, or more well known? I feel like for the sake of reach, the more well known the better, but as a participant, i love being able to hear something I wasn't expecting, and knowing it!

I have no preference, but it's always fun hearing good stuff from games and series I've literally never heard of!

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@venonomnomicon asked: am i allowed to DM to check the status of a submission? it was a couple of months ago though i do respect it's probably just deep in the queue as you get hundreds of submissions a month lol

Absolutely, but you'll have to DM my main blog (@himejoshi) because apparently tumblr doesn't let you have DMs when you have more than one blog admin.

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@royvalentine asked: is the form supposed to be only submittable once?

Yes, so people would only submit one song per submission period. I intended to make a new form for every submission period... There just hasn't been one since.

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hi question, do pinball tables count as video games?

I don't think I have enough experience to answer this question... What do y'all think????

[cece693]

A Bright Place in the Dark

pairing: spencer reid x gender neutral reader tags: first impressions, reader sees Spencer as innocent and too good to be true, pre-relationship, all knowledge of this fandom comes from Tumblr fics and personal opinion, not fact checked

By the time you arrived at the Behavioral Analysis Unit, you were practically reciting facts about Dr. Spencer Reid in your head:

Over 187 IQ

An eidetic memory

A heart too big for a world as harsh as this

Those whispers, however, never prepared you for how human he would be. No legend of brilliance or office gossip about his quirks ever quite captured the softness in his eyes, or the halting way he spoke when he was nervous.

Your first day at the BAU felt like entering another planet. The bullpen buzzed with conversations about suspects, horrifying details of cases, and the flickering overhead lights seemed to spotlight every anxious beat of your heart. And then you saw him—a lanky figure hunched over a precarious tower of files, as though he didn’t know quite how to balance them against his chest.

You caught him looking around, scanning for an empty spot to set the documents down. Except he chose the worst possible moment to shift his weight; the top of the stack slid, pages scattered in every direction.

Dr. Spencer Reid froze, a rush of panicked words tumbling out of his mouth. “Oh no—sorry, sorry. I’m usually not this clumsy. Statistically, people trip at least—”

You bent down to help, offering a friendly grin. “Hey, it’s okay. It happens.”

He paused, as though your small kindness were a revelation. Slowly, he lifted his gaze, and for a split second, you glimpsed the vulnerability behind those gentle hazel eyes. When you straightened up with an armful of papers, you noticed the shy half-smile tugging at Spencer’s mouth. His cheeks had gone just a little pink, and he quickly busied himself by reorganizing the files.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, more subdued than before. “I’m Spencer Reid, by the way…Dr. Spencer Reid. You must be the new profiler—”

“That’s me,” you replied, introducing yourself. “It’s my first day, so I guess we can both say it’s a learning curve.”

He nodded, an anxious laugh slipping out. Then, as if remembering his role, he cleared his throat and motioned to the files. “These are some old case studies. We…we keep them around for reference, though I try to digitize them in my spare time.”

“Sounds fascinating,” you said. And you meant it, curiosity tugging at you like an impatient child. “I’d love to take a look sometime.”

His eyes flicked from the pages to you, wide and a little uncertain. Then, almost imperceptibly, relief smoothed the lines of tension on his forehead. “Sure. That’d be…good. Really good.”

In the following days, you quickly learned that your new job was every bit as tough as everyone warned. Each morning, the team assembled to face tragedies as mind-boggling as they were gruesome. Photos, crime scene details, and psychological autopsies filled your laptop.

Amid all the darkness, there was always him, moving through the chaos with a gentle sort of efficiency. Spencer held a wealth of knowledge in that brilliant mind, quoting statistics, classical literature, and obscure references effortlessly. Yet, you noticed how he spoke as though he feared his own intellect would push people away.

You tried to reach out, offering a smile or a small joke whenever he started rattling off something about “differential equations” or “geospatial profiling.” Each time, his shoulders would relax a fraction, as if he was grateful someone was listening rather than judging.

It wasn’t long before you started working late alongside him. You’d catch Spencer hunched over his desk, stacks of books and case reports spread in front of him, a half-full mug of coffee growing cold.

“Hey,” you said one evening, easing into the adjacent chair. “Mind if I sit?”

He lifted his gaze, blinking as if coming up for air. “Oh, of course, sure.”

Silence settled, filled by the low hum of the overhead lights and the distant clatter of a cleaning cart in the hallway.

“How do you handle it?” you asked, your voice quiet. “All the darkness?”

Spencer leaned back, momentarily lost in thought. “I—well, I guess I try to understand it. If I can figure out why someone does something terrible, maybe it’ll help prevent the next tragedy. At least that’s what I tell myself.” He gave a self-conscious shrug, eyes darting away. “I’m not sure if that’s the best answer.”

You offered a gentle smile. “It’s an honest one. And I think that’s what matters.”

As weeks turned into months, you and Spencer found yourselves gravitating toward each other. Lunchtime in the break room became a quiet sanctuary, where his commentary on quantum theory or historical murder cases was punctuated by the sandwich you’d share half with him because he often forgot to pack lunch.

He’d fret, insisting you didn’t need to share, but you found a simple joy in seeing his face relax when he finally took a break. Sometimes, a ghost of a smile would linger at the corners of his lips afterward, as if he was unused to anyone caring enough to notice his hunger.

You don't know exactly when your interest in the doctor turned into adoration, but perhaps it could be pointed back to when the team was out on a case and you were stuck trying to piece together a spree killer’s timeline. You hit a wall and decided to take a short break—heading to the building’s small courtyard.

Outside, you found Spencer leaning against a concrete pillar, lost in his own world. The afternoon sun gleamed off his hair, painting him in soft yellows and gold. For a moment, you hesitated. He looks so peaceful. But then he glanced up, and the sun highlighted the hope in his eyes. He waved you over.

“Hey,” you said quietly, sidling up next to him.

“Hey,” Spencer replied, his voice warm.

You stood together, the hush of traffic and a distant bird cawing filling the space between you.

“I was thinking about that timeline you mentioned,” he began without prompting. “If the unsub is traveling by bus, then the times might not match traditional driving estimates, and—” He stopped himself, a self-conscious smile forming. “Sorry. Work brain doesn’t really shut off.”

You laughed softly. “Don’t apologize. It’s actually pretty helpful. I think I’ll re-examine the public transit schedules as soon as we go back inside.”

His gaze lingered on you for a long moment. Then, so softly you nearly didn’t hear, he said, “I’m glad you’re here, you know…with the team. With me.”

Warmth flooded your cheeks, and you hoped he couldn’t see it in the bright afternoon light. “I’m glad, too.” Silence settled, but it wasn't uncomfortable. Sometimes no words are needed to enjoy someone's company��so, as you stared at nothing in particular, you developed the courage to ask Spencer out.

“I, uh, know it’s not exactly typical, but I was wondering if maybe you’d like to grab dinner sometime? Outside of the office, I mean.”

The request hung in the air. Spencer blinked, seeming to mentally catalog the entire situation. You could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“I-I’d like that,” he finally answered, voice a little too fast. A delicate pink brushed across his cheeks.

You had heard the rumors. You’d been told about his genius and his gentle heart—how he deserved the world, though the world often failed to deserve him in return. Watching him now, shoulders slightly hunched as he mentally rehearsed how to do something as simple as dinner, you couldn’t help but think:

If the world won’t cherish him…maybe I will.

He deserved that much, at least. And from the way Spencer offered you a shy smile—a small piece of his guarded heart—you knew he was willing to let you try.

[cannibalisation]

authors note. + tw for mentions of rape.

i wanted to share my overall thoughts on fanfictions about/relating to Luigi Mangione.

in no way am i targeting any specific writers (i really don’t want to start any drama, this is just an analysis of my own findings.) but i am fully aware of how impactful words can be. not a person alive is immune to propaganda, and, that’s simply what words are.

with the writing i’ve done about him, i have been mindful to portray him in a way that is not at all abusive, toxic or even simply rape-y. i’m not trying to place myself at a higher moral ground for doing so or directly shaming anyone else in particular, i just think it’s disingenuous to view him in such a way and honestly? i don’t really think it helps his case in anyway.

also another thing that bothers me is that fics will often be tagged with things related to “uhc shooter” or “brian thompson”. this directly links luigi as the shooter, which isn’t something that should be done if you believe that he’s innocent/framed.

regardless of your personal views on the case, most can agree on the fact that luigi has been terribly treated in the press. i have made the decision to no longer apply myself to any further misinterpretations of who luigi is as a human being, and as a victim of public humiliation and abuse.

i do not think that it is inherently cruel to write fics of him but there are boundaries, boundaries that haven’t even been set because he’s quite literally incarcerated and silenced.

again, i am not trying to garner any sympathy from anyone, because it’s really just not the time and place but i have been subjected to multiple anon asks that have been unnecessarily rude and mean. i initially thought that it was some type of constructive criticism but the more asks that were sent showed that it was not the case. the anon was pretty clear in how much they disliked my depiction of luigi, and had some not so nice words about me and my writing. i’m not going to lie, it definitely has made me reflect on my actions.

i’m not going to respond to any of the asks on my blog, as it will only add more gas to the fire (or whatever that idiom is 🙄) i’m only human, words do get to me, so, i don’t really know what to do now, i will still be supporting luigi but, i don’t really know if writing fics for him is a good idea. his name needs to be voiced aloud, if writing fanfictions is loud enough then i will continue but right now i’m at a loss tbh

if anyone has similar feelings/thoughts and would like to share, my inbox is always open and safe + feel free to dm me :)

[maudie-duan]

A/N: Hey guys! This chapter is kind of graphic in the sense that I wanted you to feel like "a fly on the wall" during Marlowe's day. I hope you guys enjoy it and have a lovely weekend!!

Tag List: Always Open

All Chapters<-

Word Count: 8.2k

Warnings: 18+, Language, Smut, Under Age Drinking, Eating Disorder, Body Dysmorphia, Mentions Of Pregnancy, Graphic Check-Up Scene, Mentions Of Abortion, Teen Angst, Emotions. (If I miss anything, let me know.)

I had every intention of going to school on Tuesday, but I panicked as soon as I woke up. I knew it was playing with fire to have unprotected sex with someone, but I did it anyway, and I knew the smart thing to do was to rush to Planned Parenthood and get the morning-after pill. 

I know that emergency contraceptive isn’t a good form of birth control, but I had no intention of having sex with Trent after I got off the pill; I had no intention of having sex at all. I thought I hated it all together and could go a lifetime without it, but then Harry happened. Every time I was around him, my fucking sound judgment went out the door, this whole other me slipping in like a piece of me got to be free, like I finally got to be free. There was nothing to live up to, no goals to meet, or a specific appearance to keep up with—and I know there are bigger things, but this was my life. 

When I stepped into the waiting room after calling ahead, I sat there, peering around at the people coming in and out—at the woman trying to console her baby, at the girl who looked the same age as me, smiling over at me as she stood when the nurse called her name, her belly rounding past her small frame. It made my heart sink. Even though I didn’t know her story, she was walking back alone, and something about it felt lonely. 

It was the heaviest dose of reality I needed—A hard hitter as I sat there alone, wondering if I should have been honest with Harry about everything and if I had, would he be sitting here next to me now? There’s no better way to suck the fun out of a carefree moment than to slap it in the face with the truth.

And what about him? I had no clue what his sexual history was like; I mean, I didn’t need a specific number, but how many girls was he fucking with no condom? It seemed strange on both parts—why has neither one of us said a word, and is no condom such a regular thing for him that it doesn’t even cross his mind? Or is he just assuming that I’m on birth control since I’m not walking around with a baby on my hip after two years of sleeping with the same guy?

My mind kept returning back to the day I tossed those pills in the trash, making myself sick at the thought of ever getting pregnant because what would I do? Would they tell my parents? I never pictured a baby in my life; would I keep it? I’ve never been opposed to abortion, but could I follow through with it if the time came?

How would I tell Harry? Because without a doubt, it would be his—and then I’m whipping my phone out of my purse, scrolling back one month…a month and a half…almost two months since I had my period, and I thought my heart would fall heart straight through to my ass. Had it really been that long? I sat there trying to wrack my brain, thinking, when was the last time?

I can only remember buying tampons that week before I hooked up with Harry for the first time. I remember now because it was like a miracle from the universe that I had just gotten off my period, not even spotting, like my body was just getting back to normal.

Can Plan B fuck up your period? I honestly didn’t know anything about it. My sister just told me to take it in case of an emergency, and dammit, that was an emergency, just like now, and holy fuck, it is so hot in here, and that baby will not stop crying, and would it be okay if I cried? Would that be okay because suddenly I’m freaking out? I don’t want this responsibility; this doesn’t seem fair; why am I the one sitting here panicking, on the verge of spewing up my breakfast? 

Should I text Harry, tell him what I’m doing, and hit him with the same menacing reality? Would he hate me? Would this be my fault for not speaking up sooner? Because I think this would ruin everything, and he is so good. I don’t want to let him go yet. Was this the moment I called my sister and told her she was right? That I should have waited to have sex because she was, in fact, right—it’s just as confusing as she tried to drill into my stubborn head before. 

Marlowe Asher, the nurse, calls, breaking me from my prisoning thoughts; I drag my palms down my jeans, force a smile, and stand, trying to keep my tears at bay. 

The nurse returns the smile, greeting me as I walk through the office door. “Hey there, I’m Hilary. I’ll be your nurse today,” she says, her friendly tone somewhat setting me at ease.

“Okay, we’re just going to get your weight,” she says, leading me to a scale, and I pull my purse over my head, planting my keys and purse in a chair close by.

“It looks like we have 115,” she says out loud, making my heart slam into my chest. The last time I weighed myself, I was 130lbs. I didn’t think I had lost that much weight—I wasn’t even trying this time.

“Wow,” I breathe, stepping off the scale.

Hilary is writing on her clipboard, unbothered by my shock, “And how tall are you she asks, glancing up at me, “5’4,” I tell her, collecting my things and following her to the exam room.

When I called ahead, I told them that I wanted to schedule a routine check-up and screen for any STDs. Before we even started, she handed me a plastic container with a lid. “So this is routine; we’ll need you to pee into this cup. We normally run a quick pregnancy test before we proceed with any forms of birth control if that’s what you end up choosing.”

I take the cup from her hand, familiar with their whole spiel because I’ve been here several times, and this always seemed like the easy part. Luckily, I had to pee, so I filled the cup, washed the outside of the container, then my hands, dried it off, and placed the cup in the assigned bin.

Hilary led me to exam room 8, and as soon as we stepped in, she had me sit for a few follow-up questions:

“So this is a list of questions we like to ask, you know, just to get a background on our patients. If at any time you feel uncomfortable and would not like to proceed with any further questions, please let me know, okay.” She says, 

Easy enough, right?

“Okay, so we’ll start with the first question and move down the list, and it’s okay if you are unsure of any answer. They don’t need to be spot-on or super detailed. We just need a general idea.” She nods at me, eyes surveying my face, then looks down at her clipboard, the tip of her pen skimming down the page:

“When was your last period?

The first question seems the hardest because I know as soon as I say it, it’s going to sound bad, “I would say about a month and a half ago,” and Hilary peeks up then.

“Is that normal?” 

“I’m not sure. It’s been kind of random lately.”

“About how long do they last?”

“I think the last one I had lasted almost a month. I just stopped taking my birth control.”

Do you ever bleed/spot between periods?

“Not lately.”

Do you have any unusual pain, itching, or discharge from your vagina or vulva?

“No.”

Do you have any other medical conditions?

“No.”

What medical problems do other members of your family have?

“None that I know of…”

Are you sexually active?

“Yes, recently,” I answer, my mouth going dry, and I swallow hard.

Have you ever had vaginal, anal, or oral sex?

“Yes, all three, but I’ve only done anal once.” and my heart is starting to race. I’m not sure if I needed to clarify that detail because now my face is beginning to burn.

What gender(s) of people do you have sex with, and what kinds of sex do you have?

“Umm…just males,” I tell her, then clear my throat, “And I think it’s just like normal sex…I’m not sure how to answer that.”

Is sex ever painful?

“With the current guy that I’m having sex with…it was more painful than before…I guess at first, but maybe that’s because it had been a while.” And Hilary must sense my nervousness because she looks up then.

“I think that can be normal, Hon. You’re doing great. Just a few more questions, and I’ll set everything up and let the doctor know you’re ready…Okay, so—” she starts again as I nod my head. 

Do you bleed during or after sex?

“The first time I had sex, which I know can be normal, and the first time I had sex with my current guy…like after, I noticed it when I peed, but it didn’t last long.”

Are you using birth control?

“No.”

Do you think you might be pregnant?

“No, the last time I had unprotected sex with this current guy. I took Plan B, like that next morning. So maybe that’s why I haven’t started my period. Maybe it threw everything off..”

Do you want to get pregnant?

“Definitely not,” I tell her, a nervous laugh slipping past my lips.

“Perfect, and okay…last one,” Hilary says with a smile on her face:

What do you do to prevent STDs?

And I shake my head, pressing my feet to the ground. “I haven’t done anything with this current guys to prevent anything…”

Hilary is silent, jotting her last few notes, and my eyes shift to the ground, embarrassed that I’ve put so much faith in Harry, but if he does have an STD. Hopefully, it’s treatable, and moving forward, I will not be such an idiot. That’s what this is—One big scare to put me on the straight and narrow. I’ll get tested and get back on birth control, and all of this will be behind me, and I can move forward with my life. Happy and free of any burden. 

Hilary rushes around the room, laying a dressing gown on the exam table. Then, she finishes setting up the exam cart with the various items she collected for the exam. “Alright, so I put the gown on the table. You’ll just need to undress from the waist down. The doctor will knock before entering; you should be set from there. Do you have any questions?” she asks, reaching for the door handle. 

“No, you were very informative. Thank you for your time,” I answer, trying to sit up straight, like I’m not scared out of my fucking mind, hoping I’m not walking around with some kind of STD.

As Hilary exits, I peek at the clock on the wall. It’s 10:45 a.m., and I stand, unbuttoning my pants to prepare for the exam. 

When 15 minutes pass, I don’t think too much of it. I saw that waiting room. There were a lot of patients waiting, and sometimes they were understaffed. 

By 11:15 a.m., I lay back on the table, closing my eyes, trying to calm myself. I thought of everyone at school and how I should have just gone and put this off for another day. I was already dying to see Harry; just a glimpse would have been enough. 

I pictured his eyes searching for me when he didn’t see me after my Biology Class, the one time a day that I got close enough to reach out and touch him when I could graze his arm, and no one would have a single thought. I couldn’t believe how amazing that weekend was. Aside from the emotional stuff, we seemed to hit it off, able to co-exist in one another company for days. 

My first thought this morning was how strange it was, hanging with a guy, the most sleepovers I’ve had in a row. I had never stayed more than a night with Trent. I felt like a grown-up, wondering if this was what life would be like in college—and then a knock sounded on the door. 

“Come in,” I say, sitting up. The doctor comes in, reading her chart, then glimpses up with a pleasant smile. She seems in good spirits, even though they’re obviously slammed because when my eyes flick to the clock, it’s 11:32 a.m.

“Hello, Miss. Asher, I’m Dr. Cooper. How are you this morning?” she starts.

“I’m not bad. I just thought I would have a little check-up. Make sure everything is sound. I leave this summer for school, so I might as well tie up some loose ends.” 

She smiles, “Well, I like that you are taking the initiative with something as important as your health—”

Another knock sounds on the door, and Dr. Cooper turns to grant their entrance; Hilary peeks her head in with a smile and then says, “I did get those results—” She conveys. 

“I’m sorry,” Dr. Cooper says, turning back to me. The lab was a little backed up this morning.” Then she stands to retrieve some paperwork while Hilary stands by reading over her shoulder.

Hilary doesn’t close the door behind her, so all the noise from the hallway is drifting in, a cold draft drifting over my bare legs hanging over the exam table, making me feel exposed, with only a thin paper gown covering my lower body.

The draft sends a chill up my spine, making my teeth clatter, and I clench my jaw and watch the two women. This time, Hilary reaches over Dr. Cooper’s shoulder, pointing to something on the page. 

Hilary’s eyes dart to me, then back to the page, “I can stay—” she suggests, finally stepping back to close the door.

As soon as the door closes, my heart starts hammering in my chest, the loud thud, pounding in my eardrums, the chill turning into a noticeable shake as I wipe my cold, clammy hands over the paper gown, that continues to slip down, clinging to my hands, so I clutch them in front of me as Dr. Cooper pulls the rolling stool towards her, and takes a seat.

Hilary is standing behind her, hands clasped in front of her, sending me a faint smile when my eyes flit to her and then back to Dr. Cooper, and god, it is so cold in here because I can’t stop shaking—the shudder coursing through my torse, and I think I might be sick, I think that stomach bug is still lingering. I should open my mouth and tell them about it, but the way they’re looking at me now says otherwise.

Dr. Cooper clears her throat, and already my eyes are stinging with tears; then I shake my head, swallowing hard, and as soon as the tears spill over, she looks to Hilary. They don’t even exchange a word, and out of instinct, Hilary moves next to me. 

“Is it okay if I put my arm around you?” she asks, and as soon as I look at her, my face crumbles. I am sitting here alone with two strangers who I know are about to tell me something that will change my life forever.

The wheels of Dr. Cooper’s chair sound as she rolls forward, the hard plastic effortlessly sliding across the shiny linoleum floor, concern etched between her brow, or is it pity? I can’t tell.

“Miss Asher, Before we can proceed any further, I want to go over the results of your pregnancy test—” And I hear every word that she’s saying, but every couple of seconds, she becomes a blur, tears running down my face uncontrollably, dripping past my chin, and into the cleavage of my tank top, becoming an irritating soggy mess of tears pulling between my boobs.

The same tank top I questioned wearing because when did my boobs get this big? And so sore? How I wrote it off, thinking I was about to start my period, you know, like that’s why I’ve been so emotional, pre-menstrual precursors; It’s all normal. 

“So, I’m sure Hilary explained that we have to perform a routine pregnancy test, and looking at your results now—” And she scooches to the edge of her seat, handing me a piece of paper.”

My eyes skim the page until I find the word “results.” But I didn’t need the paper to figure it out; all she had to do was look at me. I didn’t say anything, mostly because I was in shock, but I didn’t think I knew what to say because I couldn’t even see the paper anymore. All I could see were the tears spilling onto the page, one by one, a foggy blur when a tear splats over the word “Positive,” and I shake my head. 

Maybe I’m taking too long to reply because Dr. Cooper speaks up then, “Marlowe—” and she uses my first name now. “Do you understand what you’re reading?” And all I can muster is a faint whimper because my throat is aching, a knot so tight that it hurts to swallow.

I couldn’t look up; I just kept wiping my hand over the surface of the document, now creasing between my thighs—the once crisp paper rippling in small wet blotches across the page, and I am so fucking stupid.

I am so stupid and careless, and how could I be such an idiot? All I can think about is that damn Plan B pill, I took it, I took it, and then it’s spilling out of my mouth, “But I took Plan B,” announcing it like it’s going to change anything like the results aren’t exactly what they are. 

“I took—I took it…right after, I swear,” promising because I feel like a fool, like a child being coddled with Hilary’s arm around my shoulders; I thought that was the right thing to do. 

“I thought I did the right thing—” I tell them, “I did exactly what I was supposed to do. I thought I fixed my mistake—”

And now I feel crazy because what was the point of that, “I’m not allowed to make mistakes—Oh, god—” I panic then.

“Are you going to tell my parents—?” 

Dr. Cooper puts a hand on my knee to calm me down, but I can’t breathe; I can’t breathe when every breath is a sob stealing my breath, and I am all alone—I’m that girl in the waiting room, all alone, her big round belly holding her future.

“Marlowe, try and take a breath for me—” Dr. Cooper coos, trying to console me, “Everything will be okay…you have options, Honey.”

And I suck in a hard breath, peering down into Dr. Cooper’s deep blue eyes as sobs shudder through my chest, then I’m holding my breath, trying to calm myself down, and when I close my eyes, all I see is Harry’s face, and I hold onto that image—every touch, the kindness he gives so freely, and it seems to be working.

I draw a small breath through my nose, my chest quivering in the aftermath of the fading sobs, “By law, we are not allowed to tell your parents. Now that you’re eighteen, whatever you decide moving forward is entirely your choice.” Dr. Cooper explains.

“I want an abortion—” I tell her, no thought, just decision because that is absolutely my only choice. 

“Yes, that is an option, but maybe we can go over the rest so that you have a clear perspective on your decision.” She explains, but I know the other options and don’t have time for anything else. We have three months left of school, prom, and graduation—I’m moving away this summer. I can’t stay in the place another year, being this person, this fucking people pleaser, because I’m so fucking tired—I’m exhausted, and I need something to hold onto, something to look forward to. 

“I don’t need time to think—” I tell her, straightening my posture, attempting to clear the whine from my voice, “Can we do it today?” I push.

Hilary squeezes my shoulder, then steps away to start resetting the space. “Marlowe, why don’t you take a few days to think this through? This is a huge decision that could majorly impact your life.” 

“I don’t have any other choice…everything is already planned—” I tell her, waving my arms around, “Like my whole future for the next four years—”

Dr. Cooper interjects, “Trust me, I understand that, and we will support anything you choose. But why don’t you go home, take a day or two, and make the appointment if you still feel certain about your decision?”

“Here’s the thing—” she says, “If your period was a month and a half months ago, we still have plenty of time to make an adequate decision. Even if it feels like a rush, trust me, there’s not, okay? Whatever you choose, right now, you have plenty of time to make a sound, healthy choice. Listen—I’m a mother. If my daughter were sitting here today, I would hope someone gave her the option I’m giving you—”

She places her hand on my knee again, “I know whatever you're feeling is extremely scary—” And the tears are back, blurring her face. “But don’t make the mistake of not thinking it through. It sounds like you made the smart decision to take Plan B, and for some odd reason, it didn’t work, and I’m sure that feels scary, too, but in that moment, you made the right decision. Today, you made the right decision to come and take power over your choices in life. That was so brave and so smart, okay?”

And all I can do is nod because I just want my mommy, “And Marlowe, we have a great support team. We are here for whatever you need or have questions about, and Hilary will set you up with some helpful brochures that can guide you in making the best choice possible; it’s entirely up to you and whatever you choose. This is a safe, judgment-free zone. We’re here to support each other in one another choices—” 

Hilary gives me a sympathetic smile, but I believe what Dr. Cooper is communicating, so I nod and draw in a deep breath, stretching my spine so that I can take in more air, “Do you have any questions?” she asked as Hilary handed over a few brochures.

“Nope…” I say, pushing out a deep breath, “Thank you for your time.” 

Dr. Cooper pats my knee and stands, giving Hilary a slight nod. “Alrighty, Hon. Why don’t you go ahead and get dressed? If you have any questions before you leave, we’re happy to answer them. Go ahead and take your time; there’s no rush, Sweetie.”

As Hilary finishes resetting the room, I wonder if she’s ever been on the opposite side of her role, sitting in a spot similar to mine. Or was she smarter, always playing by the rules like I was supposed to?? I thought I did everything right before this, so why is this happening to me?

I didn’t take my time getting dressed; I shoved my legs through my jeans in a furry, pushing the stupid pamphlets to the bottom of my purse, forcing my foot into my boots, readying myself for the walk of shame, knowing I’d have to walk past all these people. Would my face give it away? I was so thankful I didn’t wear make up this morning, could you imagine the mess? 

As I stepped through the exam room door, I pulled my oversized flannel around my body. I walked at a pace that wouldn’t draw attention, trying to remember the route we took. I held my breath every time someone peered my way as heat rose to my cheeks, the shame almost unbearable. Was Hilary the kind of nurse to walk out of the exam room and gossip to the fellow nursing staff?

Keep your eyes forward was all I could think, walking down an empty hall, pushing my way through the door into the waiting room, don’t make eye contact with anyone—don’t focus on the baby crying, try and avoid the toddler running out in front of you on your way to the exit, oh shit, did this little fucking kid drop his toy in my path? Do I pick it up? 

The toy rolls to my feet, and I bend down to retrieve it, “Here you go…” and I crouch down, reaching out with the toy. His tiny fingers wrap around the toy hesitantly, his big green eyes so innocent. He grabs the toy and then runs back to his mom as my eyes follow. She sends me a gracious nod, rubbing a hand over her protruding belly. She looks tired, like she’s already spent all morning chasing that tiny kid around, and I smile, eyes dropping to her belly, a brief nod of recognition. 

Then I’m out of the waiting room doors into the chill of the morning, the fog of my breath drifting past my vision, forcing myself with every step to keep it together long enough to make it to the car.

I went straight home, knowing my parents would be at work—well, at least my dad. My mom has a strict workout schedule throughout the week. Today was water aerobics, a class that she usually takes with my grandma, but I knew she wouldn’t miss a day, even if my grandma was out of town.

I run up the stairs, huffing and puffing as soon as I reach the landing, and bound to my room. I went straight for the trash can and fell to my knees, reaching for it, but the trash can was empty, and I fell to my butt. My heart beat thudding in my chest, a rapid whoosh filling my ears, vibrating out. My lungs ached with every breath that I took in, the realization hitting that my mom emptied my trash and yet another stupid move.

My eyes dart around the room, looking for any changes, then they land on my perfectly made bed, and there lies the empty Plan B packaging, waiting in a neat pile—waiting for me to stumble upon it because, of course, this is the one time my mom wants to be passive. Why didn’t she just call me? The gesture confuses me, but it’s the least of my concerns right now. 

I pace over to the bed and swipe the empty box off the bed, flipping it around in my hands until I fumble across the date—Expired—the fucking pill was expired by two years. Had I really had it in my drawer that long? Does medicine really expire? I thought it was just a suggestion.

How many times can one person read and reread the same label? with the same expiration date—ignoring my phone buzzing in my back pocket because whoever is calling can wait? 

Whoever it was had tried to call three times, and on the fourth attempt, I pulled my phone from my pocket and flipped it open. “What, Sienna?” I blurted into the phone.

“Jesus, Marlowe—Chill—” My sister snaps back, “What’s your deal?”

I exhale, pulling the phone away from my mouth, attempting to decompress the onset of rage filling my lungs. “Nothing, I’m sorry. I was in the middle of doing something, and you kept blowing my phone up.”

“I’m sorry—mom said you didn’t go to school today…”

“You talked to mom—?”

“Yeah, why? What’s going on? She said you’ve been distant lately—”

“I haven’t been distant—” I tell her, raising my voice, “I’ve just been house-sitting for grandma—”

“Marlowe—chill, dude, I’m not coming for you. I’m just checking in. I know I’ve been busy, but usually you call. Is everything okay?”

I roll my eyes, still on the defense, “I’ve been busy, too—” and I try and keep my voice calm, but I can hear how it’s still coming out, and I can’t control this mood swing; it’s like it’s taking over me.

“Okay…?” Sienna says, and I don’t respond because she’s the one calling me. If she has anything to ask, then she should just ask it.

“Lowe—” She nudges, of course using my nickname, the name she gave me since birth, when “Marlowe” was too hard for her three-year-old brain, and decided she hated it, and even though that’s changed, she’s never stopped calling me “Lowe.”

“Did mom tell you?” I ask flatly, clearing my throat.

“Of course, she told me, but why didn’t you tell me?” Even though I should probably have felt freaked out, a sense of calm washed over me because, at this point, the worst had already happened.

“She left the Plan B package on my bed…” I tell her, rolling my eyes.

She clicks her tongue, “Dammit, I told her not to do that. She thought it would be like an open invitation…in case you wanted to talk.” 

“There’s nothing to talk about—plus that shit is passive as fuck. It makes me want to do the opposite, actually—”

Sienna’s laugh muffled into the phone, “I know! That’s what I told her…”

“She should have listened to you,” I admit.

“I mean—that’s what I’ve been telling you guys for years—”

“Shut up—Sienna, don’t be annoying…” And I roll my eyes again, falling back onto the bed.

“That isn’t all she told me…” 

“Okay…” I say, pausing for her response.

She clears her throat, “That there was a weekend that you didn’t come home, like didn’t even call—which is strange, by the way…and she told me that you came home in a hurry—Mom said she heard you while cleaning the kitchen—anyway…she said you came home in Harry Styles hoodie…like the one you had that major crush on in Junior High—”

“I know who he is, Sienna—”

“I’m just clarifying for details because you haven’t breathed a word about him since then.”

I sigh, “I don’t tell you everything—”

“Bullshit—you haven’t even said anything, and I know you’re about to lie to me.” She starts.

“Was that the same weekend you took Plan B? Because that’s what mom thinks, and that seems pliable?”

I snap then, “What are you guys working together or something? What the fuck, Sienna, whose side are you on?”

“I’m on your side—but it’s hard to be on your side when you’re not talking to me.” She retorts, then goes silent.

“You guys always—”

“Don’t say always, Lowe, because you know that isn’t true.” she interrupts.

So, I sit there, trying to think of a way to rephrase the sentence, “I just feel like, most times…instead of just asking me…it seems like you go straight to each other, and I told you how that makes me feel.”

“I promise it wasn’t like that. I swear Mom only called because she was worried…we were not trying to gang up on you.”

I ponder her words for a moment, trying to decide what I should tell her, but instead of confessing to everything. I start projecting all my life problems onto her.

“Listen, Sienna, I’m sorry if Mom bothered you. I know how busy you get, okay? I know that you have a life outside of me; you’ve told me plenty of times—” I spit.

“Marlowe—”

“No—Seriously—I feel like it’s always going to come down to whether or not Marlowe is living up to Sienna’s potential…because heaven forbid, I step out of line for one fucking second—”

“Mar—”

“Seriously, Sienna—” I continue knowing that every word that falls from of my mouth is just to hurt her, and I don’t know why I’m doing it because, really, I just want to confess to it all; because I know she wouldn’t judge me, she would have the perfect advice because she’s such a good person.

“Did mom get scared? Call you thinking—god Marlowes about to ruin it all, Sweetie, please make some time in your busy schedule to call your pathetic sister??”

“Was that it? Sienna, was I slipping? Was one of my million flaws showing because I’ll never be as perfect as you!” I yell, I fucking yell, and then everything around me goes silent, except for the sounds of the whooshing still pulsing through my ears.

Sienna’s sniffle fills the line, and I hate myself the second she opens her mouth, “Marlowe, one day—” She croaks out.

“I hope one day you see that all those years you thought I was outshining you—I was just trying to give you space to be you—you know, the opportunity to just be yourself, that all those years that mom and dad were riding my ass, you were the one that got to explore yourself, make the friends, go to the concerts, date the cute boy because you liked him. My whole life has been a show, Marlowe. Have you ever thought that maybe I wanted to be like you?

“I’m nothing—” I force, tears streaming.

“You’re everything—but what you just said hurt me, Lowe…”

“I didn’t mean it…” I cry out.

“I know—listen—I’m here for you always. I’m never too busy for you…I don’t know what’s going on, and clearly you don’t want to talk about it—”

“I just—” I try.

“No—Marlowe, it’s fine. I’m here, okay? And if you need me to come down this weekend, I can shift some things around. I love you.”

“I love you too, Sienna, I’m sorry.”

“Just call me, okay? I have to go—” Then she hangs up, and I crawl under my blankets and sleep until I open my eyes and the room is dark, except for the glow of the moonlight, casting a shadow of the window frame across my bedroom floor, and then I roll back over, and closed my eyes. 

The following day, I woke to an empty house and a note on the table. My mom telling me she was out running errands, which normally meant getting her hair or nails done. 

When I checked my phone, I found two missed calls from Harry and a text message from him checking in on me since I had missed two days of school now—Want to take a guess at how many messages Trent sent—zero.

I gathered some more clothes and drove to my grandma’s house, wanting to be totally alone and isolated from the world around me. I didn’t know how many hours I had just slept, but all my body wanted to do was sleep, so I crawled into my grandma’s bed and hugged her pillow—her scent still lingering in her bedroom, and I drifted off to sleep. 

The doorbell woke me, and I slumped down the stairs. When I peeked through the side blinds, Skylar was standing on the porch waving when she spotted me, and I opened the door.

“Hey—what are you doing here…” I ask squinting my eyes, the world a little too bright.

She shrugged nonchalantly, as if this was already boring her. I hate this side of her. Sometimes she can be extremely present, and others, she’s a self-absorbed drone, moving through the motions of our friendship, a lot like Trent.

“Just checking on you,” she says, looking around, “I forgot how cool your grandma’s house is…”

“Yeah—” I breathe.

When I push past her on my way to the kitchen, she follows. “I brought your homework…” she tells me, and I glance back, catching sight of the strap slung over her shoulder.

“That was nice of you…Thanks,” I say, forcing a generous smile, placating her a little. I feel like Skylar’s up to something, a weird twinge in my gut. Things have been off between us lately, so this feels a little off-putting.

 “You want a soda?” I offer. 

Skylar shakes her head ‘no’ then slings the bag onto the counter, “I’m shocked they’re still giving homework to be honest,” 

“I mean—when you’re in all honor classes…it would make sense,” she combats with a laugh.

“I guess…” I agree, bringing the can to my mouth, eyeing her every movement. She seems nervous, barely making eye contact, and when she feels my gaze on her, she looks up.

“Why are you being weird?” she accuses.

I match her indifference, “I’m not—” 

“Mmmm…” she hums, reaching for my can. Then she takes a drink. Actually, I changed my mind…” she laughs.

“I do want a drink.” 

I raise a brow, “Take it, I’ll get another…” I say, rolling my eyes, and as I turn to the fridge, she says:

“So, are you going to tell me what’s wrong? You’ve been acting really strange for the last couple of weeks…and you ditched my party—”

“I didn’t ditch your party—I was sick—” I lie.

“Marlowe, you were fine most of the night—”

“And then I wasn’t—” I voice, my tone sharp.

This shuts her down, her eyes moving to the label on the can, “And what about all the text and calls? You haven’t been messaging me back…it’s just weird—”

“I told you I was sick over the weekend…”

Her voice raises, “It’s not just this weekend, Marlowe—”

“Look, Skylar…I don’t know what you want me to say…I could say the same for you…” And she shakes her head.

“That night of the party. I tried talking to you so many times, but you kept blowing me off, and then you and Trent were up each other’s ass…”

And her eyes whip to mine, “Oh come on, Marlowe like I want to steal your boyfriend. If I wanted your boyfriend, then I could have had him—”

“I never said that…and what the fuck does that even mean?” My eyes roam her face then, taking in her stiff posture, searching for clues. My eyes dart to her throat as it contracts, a slow, shallow, her lips parting, and when I shift my gaze back to hers, she looks away.

“I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I know that you two are friends. I’m just saying I have tried talking to you…”

She shrugs her shoulders, visibly uncomfortable by this conversation. She keeps fidging with the can, scraping a fingernail over the cuticle of her thumb. I know her, and this is what she does when she’s nervous, “Okay—whatever—let’s just drop it—”

I pop the tab on the new can and bring it to my mouth, pulling my phone from my back pocket. Harry messaged again, asking if he could see me tonight, and I bit back my smile, sending him a quick text, telling him I’ll call once Skylar leaves. 

When I glance back, Skylar is watching me, “Trent text you?” she questions. 

“Yeah—” I mumble, shoving the phone back into my pocket.

“So things are good between you two?” She asks.

I shrug, “Yeah—I don’t know why anything would be wrong…” I tell her, fainting ignorance. Then she turns, looking out the window, and I glimpse a hickey on her neck. when she turns back, my eyes move back to her face as her hand comes up to her neck.

“You never told me you were hooking up with someone…” I pry.

She smiles then, “I don’t know…It’s nothing serious…just like casual. He’s kind of preoccupied…” and I arch an eyebrow.

“Plus—He doesn’t go here—” she quickly adds.

“So he has a girlfriend?” I push.

Skylar rolls her eyes, “Not everything is so black and white, Marlowe.”

I just stare at her because she has a point, I’m in a messy enough situation; I have no room to cast judgement.

“Anything good happening at school?” I ask, trying to find some commonality because this conversation feels like pulling at teeth.

She lights up then, “Oh—! Yeah—dude—yesterday, Harry Styles came to school with the biggest hickey on his neck….and now everyone is trying to figure out who the mystery girl is…like no girl is coming forward—”

“Hickey’s must be a trend…” I say, scowling, thinking about the hickey on Trent’s neck, the one he claims is a “rash” I call bullshit.

“I guess…” she says, checking her phone and smiling.

“Harry’s probably seeing some girl from another school…” I tell her, but she’s typing away on her phone, not acknowledging a word I’m saying.

“What did you say?” she finally asks.

“Nothing—”

“Hey, I have to jet. I was just dropping by to give you your homework,” she explains, grabbing the empty bag and leaving her can on the counter in her wake. She must be in a hurry and she’s out the door before I can even open it for her, and I watch her get into her car, peer down at her phone grinning, then I shut the door and call Harry.

I know this is how I got myself into this mess, but as soon as Harry walked in, my worries went out the door, if only for a short while, long enough for me to grab his hand and lead him to the guestroom, and that’s how easy it was to forget everything.

How easy it was to take off my clothes and get into bed with him, to feed on his carefree energy as his playful hands groped my body. When he pushed his way inside of me and whispered, “I missed you,” I closed my eyes, breathing in his familiar scent, while he pressed his mouth to mine, kissing my cheek, my nose—a kiss on the neck, kissing everywhere his mouth decided to roam. 

And when I came, he came with me, that easy because now it didn’t matter, now he could come inside me every day until I rid myself of this leech sucking away at my life; because this would all be over soon enough. Everyone will go their separate ways, and I’ll never have to see any of these people again. 

I didn’t have to tell Harry anything because why burden him with this? He deserves to be happy; he deserves to be as happy as he makes me, and I can do this. I don’t need to burden anyone with this, not Harry, not my sister, definitely not my mom because I don’t think she could handle this. A pregnancy would be too much for her.

“What are you thinking about?” Harry asks, stroking my cheek with his thumb, my head on his chest.

“I don’t know—everything…” I answer.

He laughs, “Everything?” and the rasp of his voice echoes through his chest, and I press my ear against him, listening to the rhythm of his slowing breath. 

“Yeah—everything—” I tell him, closing my eyes because the sound of his heartbeat is lulling me to sleep, and he lightly pinches my cheek.

“Don’t go to sleep yet…I haven’t got to see you in two days…”

I laugh then, “Two days, Harry?”

“Yeah, two school days,” he clarifies, and his chest rattles with laughter, and I lift my head.

“My mom told me to go to the doctor—” And I sit up, crossing my legs in front of me, still facing him.

Harry traces a line across my calf, “And how was that?”

“I don’t know—” I shrug, “Exactly what it is. A stomach bug.”

He looks at me then, “Luckily, it hasn’t hit me…”

“You are very lucky—trust me…” I tell him, leaning down to press a kiss to his lips. 

“Hey—” he says, pushing himself up on the bed, “Can we talk? I just thought we haven’t really talked about anything—”

And my heart drops then, “Like what?” I ask, clearing my throat.

“Like—I don’t know—” and he scratches at the back of his head, a nervous grin spreading across his face.

“I don’t—I’ve been like thinking about it, and I just wanted you to know that you’re like…the only girl I’ve ever, like, not used a condom with.”

My eyes dart to his, “Really?” 

“Yeah…I promise, and maybe it’s shitty, but I figured Trent was the only guy you’ve slept with?” he says, but it rings like a question.

I smile then, “Well, Trent, and now you…” 

“And you’re like on Birth Control?” he asks, nerves creasing at the brow, but all I can do is stare at him.

“Marlowe?”

“Harry—I lied to you—” I blurt.

“When? I’ve never asked you…” he straightens in the bed, all ears now. 

“Today—just now—I lied?” 

He laughs, “About which part? Who you’ve slept with? Marlowe, I don’t care—”

“No—about the doctor’s appointment—” Then his face falls.

The lines between his brow deepen, “What about it?” 

“I really went to Planned Parenthood…”

“You did? by yourself?” He asks, reaching over to grip my leg. I draw a deep breath through my nose, trying to get it all off my chest before the tears start coming because my throat is already growing tight, and the worry growing on his face is scaring me.

“I think I need to start from the beginning, and if you hate me after all of this, I’ll understand—I just…”

“It’s okay…take your time…” he says, leaning down to look into my eyes, and I nod my head.

“Before we had sex—I guess you should know that I stopped having sex with Trent, and since I wasn’t having sex with Trent anymore, I stopped taking my birth control…” 

Harry nods, swallowing hard, but lets me continue, “I just want to be clear that the first time we hooked up, that was not my intention—” 

“I know—” He tells me, and he squeezes my leg to resume.

“That day when you dropped me off at home. I ran straight to my room and took the Plan B pill that I stashed away for emergencies because that was definitely an emergency…

And Harry nods his head up and down, the muscles along his jaw tightening, “I took the pill; everything was cool. I didn’t think anything, then I saw you at the party—”

“Marlowe—I know that part—” he says, impatience tugging at his tone. 

“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—” I tell, him taking his change in demeanor like a scolding, feeling the emotions simmering at the surface.

“No—Lowe—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound rude,” He apologizes, cupping my cheek.

“Why did you call me Lowe?” 

He shrugs, a shy smile playing at the corner of his mouth, “I don’t know…it’s how I saved your contact in my phone…I just thought it was cute.”

I smile, “Only sister calls me that…”

“Do you want me to change it?” He asks lowly, his voice like a warm hug.

“No…” I whimper out because I was such a bitch to my sister earlier, and all of this is a fucking mess, and he is so kind and sweet, and now our time is over, and I’ll never have this with him again.

“Hey…don’t cry okay…I’m not mad, I’m just nervous—because I think I know what your about to tell me.” I bit down on my lower lip and nodded my head.

“Are you pregnant?” And I nod my head again as the tears cascade.

Harry blows out a shaky breath, tears filling his eyes. “I bet that was scary, huh?” he says, forcing himself to blink away the tears.

“Yeah—” I whisper. 

“I’m sorry that you had to do that alone…” And everything he says is so genuine, and it hurts even more to watch him try to keep it together for me. 

“Listen, I need to take a little walk—” he says, rubbing his palms over his eyes. I just need to clear my head…I promise I’ll be back. I just need a little air.” He tells me, pressing a long kiss to my forehead. Then he stretches past me, dragging the sheets with him. 

I don’t turn around. Shame is roaring its ugly head, and I don’t think I could look at him. I don’t want to see the pity, the look in his eyes, when he no longer sees me the same or feels the same feelings as before—See the look on his face when reality sets in, and everything changes—where we change from who we are in very this moment because it’s inevitable. 

“Lowe?” he calls from the doorway, but I don’t turn to face him.

“I’ll be back okay—?” and I nod my head, listening as he lingers in the doorway. Then the door clicks shut as darkness engulfs me, and I press my head into the pillow and close my eyes because as soon as I open my eyes again, everything will change.

A/N: Okay...so that's happened...now what?

All Chapters-> Here

Requests-> Here

[rosslovesspn]

okay first of all lady calm down it’s just a headcanon and a ship :/ no need to get angry about it, just like i’m not yelling at you for shipping wincest even tho it’s incest and imo fucking disgusting. we all have preferences darling, deal with it. all reblogging my post will do is get you more destiel and dean is bi posts on your for you page, which leads me to believe you actually like the attention that comes with being rude. since that’s the case, you’re welcome! i've taken a minute or two out of my night to type this for you, i hope you enjoy it! :]]

some advice: let people enjoy their tv shows. it’s what they were filmed for. don’t ruin people’s experience of the fandom just because you don’t like their ship and want to be a jerk. just block the fucking tag, and move on. it really is that simple! :D if you don’t know how to block the tag, just dm me and i can give you a step-by-step. another user did the same for me so i could block the wincest tag, which i did, instead of being rude to strangers on the internet because of their preferences :))))

hello kings queens and in-betweens welcome to my ted talk on why dean being bi is hardly subtext (evidence from s1 - s7ep20)

dr sexy

cowboy fetish

siren turning into a man (evidence isn’t concrete as it was for a brotherly bond but thought i’d add it anyway)

“i know two things - bert and ernie are gay, and you’re not gonna die a virgin.” (not direct quote)

looks upon castiel like a starving dog salivating over a bone

never denied it when anyone said he and cas were dating/in love (see: meg saying cas was dean's boyfriend & balthy saying cas was in love with dean)

“cas, not for nothing, but the last time someone looked at me like that, i got laid” *winks* (not direct quote)

totally got jealous at cas kissing meg

turned suicidal when cas betrayed him

everything to do with castiel

whatever the fuck was him flirting with the security guard through charlie in 7x20

etc, etc, etc (so many instances of him being sus asf)

[goforro]

⚠️ HUGE TW UNDER THE CUT FOR A WHUMPEE WITH AN EATING DISORDER. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!!! ⚠️

i’ve been thinking about a whumpee with an eating disorder/disordered eating recently

of course it has nothing to do with my own eating problems whatt?? that’s crazyyy haha

- a whumpee that just got back from a treatment center. they go a few days without seeing themselves in a mirror or changing clothes. that is, until caretaker asks if the want to go out. whumpee tries to put on their old clothes, only to realize they’re too small. cue panicked searching for a mirror and a meltdown when they see their body

- whumpees who were given their eating disorders by whumper. maybe whumper force fed them while in captivity, leading to a whumpee that binges often during recovery. maybe whumper simply made fun of whumpee’s body type, leading to a whumpee with who refuses to eat.

- whumpees that associate the smell of most foods with a chef whumper, so they can only really eat bland foods for a long time

- TW: EMETO whumpees that purge. whumpers that make their whumpee purge. caretakers catching whumpee in the act

- caretaker tries to play ball with a recovering whumpee, but eventually it’s too dangerous to let them continue their behaviors. whether it’s force feeding whumpee, keeping them on a strict eating schedule, or watching them in the bathroom, it destroys whumpees trust in caretaker. cue angst.

- all the awful symptoms that come along with malnutrition. dizziness, shivering, fatigue, nausea, muscle wasting, for AFAB whumpees missed periods, all the things

- EMETO whumpees that destroy their body because of how much they make themselves vomit. permanently damaging their voice box, losing teeth, scratching the back of their throat, etc.

- body dysmorphia. that’s it. that’s the prompt.

- caretakers that have to cover/lock up every mirror or scale in the house or give whumpee a time limit in the bathroom because whumpee is a persistent little shit

- whumpee ripping out their feeding tube (do NOT do this under any circumstances ever. i’m serious)

heavy heavy prompt list today, please take care of yourselves 🫶🏾

[remxedmoon]

black hole.

(full version below! also, tap to see the full effect!)

aaaaa i saw this trend on twitter and had to hop on the bandwagon!! and of course i had to play around with transparency again. it’s enrichment for me. also!! shoutout to this drawing for giving me actual wrist pain. not from actually drawing or anything but from having to resize the pieces 20 times because discord wouldn’t display them properly. but hey it turned out cool and that’s all that matters heart emoji

anyways!! here’s the full version + the version without the star! because for Some Reason i fully rendered the coin knowing it would get covered up. miseries!

[vic-does-battlecats]

Ik that the Erins will not handle her well at all but I’m so interested in Moonpaw’s sister as a character actually (Maybe more so than actual Moonpaw tbh…).

The writing of the book and even the warriors website treats her as if she’s Completely Evil (going so far as to literally name a character trait of hers as ‘malevolent’ on the website) but like… This isn’t just an evil spooky spirit cat being evil just Because. This is the ghost of a kid who never got to grow up properly, never was properly parented, who had to live vicariously through watching and interacting with Moonpaw when she was a kitten. She had nobody else who could hear her, no other contact with anyone else. And Thunderclan refused to even acknowledge she EXISTED whatsoever, even hiding it from Moonpaw herself. So when Moonpaw suddenly needs to focus without someone chatting to her all the time, and begins to treat her sister like a nuisance and literally begins ignoring her… it would make sense that said sister, who basically has the mindset of a jealous, hurt, abandoned kid, would be mad about it. This is her ONE CONNECTION WITH ANYONE. So her being all ‘if I can’t be with you in your world, you’ll be with me in mine’ makes sense. Moonpaw is all she has. I’m on your side voicepaw….

[daily-tango-doodles]

Day 259: um I didn’t feel like drawing a shirt so you get tango chilling at the pool with that random birb

[heshemejoshi]

brand new body

[poliffwoog]

The guide fweheuhuieheueuhehehhehehiheh

[scentofhydrangea]

hi, i’m a cj major and my dad is a lawyer! i just called him to ask about all of these and i’d love to provide an answer for the questions you are confused about!

please note that i am not a certified law official and to take what i say with a grain of salt. i am simply trying to supply some answers for those of you who are totally lost with everything going on. continue to keep luigi and his lawyers on your mind!!!

1. bomb/silent

new york is one of those states that just does everything weird or different compared to most other states, and silencers are (i’m pretty sure) fully illegal in new york. they are also federally illegal if you 3D print them, don’t pay your tags on them, or obtain them illegally. bombs and silencers are illegal in new york. when you are charged with a crime, they (prosecutors/state/judge) try and charge you with as much as possible in hopes to find you guilty. it’s sad and unfair, but unfortunately true.

3. dna and fingerprinting

fingerprints nowadays are extremely unreliable as everyone touches everything. however, they can be helpful on direct objects such as a gun. neither my dad or i have a direct answer, but i’m assuming that they either found no fingerprints on the gun or there are no fingerprints on the gun at all. they could be smudged or damaged in every place where a fingerprint would have been, which will also make it hard. to find a fingerprint, they need to have it in full condition in order to identify the person.

i also agree that it is weird that — as far as we know — they are not looking for any other person or even showing interest in looking. and i agree, the faces don’t match at all. ridiculous. but they should have some kind of facial analysis unit in the FBI, no? they need to look closer into the facial structures instead of all of these charges, imo.

4. forged instruments

they are talking about the ID! i don’t know if you’re asking about other stuff pertaining to the ID, but the charge is referring to the ID. not the gun.

5. both terrorism charges

i thought that it was completely unnecessary too! however, looking at the FBI (legal) definition of terrorism (i would paste but my phone won’t let me… you can find by looking up the legal definition of terrorism and going to the fbi.gov website!!) it says that domestic terrorism is violent, criminal acts committed by individuals and/or groups to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of political, religious, social, racial, or environmental nature.

now i will explain how they classify it as terrorism:

violent, criminal acts (shooting and killing) committed by individuals (shooter) … to further ideological goals stemming from domestic influences, such as those of political, religious or social (the idea that insurance groups are bad and only use you for money, etc) …

i don’t know if new york goes by the same policy since these are all state charges, but i guess we’ll see in february. i still firmly support the idea that the shooter is not luigi at all in any way, shape or form.

7. assault rifle

again, a new york thing! neither my dad or i have a direct explanation for this either, but this is just one of those charges i was referring to that they throw on you to try and make you look more guilty. we don’t really understand it because we aren’t in new york and don’t study new york law :( i wish i had more answers for this one!!

9. this is the “federal” complaint

another new york thing: they say “supreme court” but they really just mean the supreme court of the state. not supreme court like ruth bader ginsberg (rip)

i know thats not your question but i just had to address that

this is another one that we can’t really explain and is just weird. this is a high profile case and a lot of what they charged him with is just trying to make the prosecutor look better if he is found guilty. this happens pretty often, even for traffic cases as simple as running a red light. a lot of prosecutors will try really hard to cover high profile cases so that if they find you guilty for any small thing then it looks a lot better on them. unfortunately not a lot of responses to this one either :(

the interstate facility stuff is also weird. it’s literally exactly how it sounds: using interstate roads and crossing state lines in order to commit a crime. 🙄🙄🙄

yes, the nypd is overcharging him!!! this is only for the fact that, like i said, they are trying to make him look a lot more guilty! if he is found guilty for these things, it makes them look better.

i hope i was able to help you out some!!! 🩷🩷🩷 i am always available for questions lovebug!!

Hey legal tumblr, I have some questions about the charges Luigi Mangione has

Generally looking to know what they mean and generally just looking to converse with someone who knows more about law because some of these are flabbergasting.

What is the first one, exactly? It says bomb/silent.

I cannot fathom they just lump weapon silencers and bombs so perhaps I'm wrong about what that means. He did have a silencer. But he also allegedly he said he never would use a bomb (and even that is a dubious quote with no context). He was absolutely not arrested with an actual bomb in his possession. If he been, we'd have never heard the end of it.

2. Loaded firearm, fair if true.

I assume that just means he had one without a license to carry one. There's an arrest photo of a weapon and police documents stating there was at least one if not more bullets.

3. Murder with intent, fair if he's the guy, but-

There's conflicting documentation on what evidence, if any, they have that they even arrested the correct person. His fingerprints and DNA were not taken at arrest and we have police documents stating as much. He does not match the face of the person in the cctv footage, even facial recognition software struggles to confirm he's the same person or seems insistent that they are different. Luigi Mangione's cheeks are hollow, the cctv person's cheekbones are high and prominent. Lot of timeline inconsistencies. Claims from police and media that directly contradict the actual arrest information on file. He has no history with firearms and the TMZ documentary that claimed otherwise turned out to be supremely riddled with false information. All just very dubious.

There's also since been information that shows the only fingerprints recovered at the scene were partial/incomplete and cannot be used to match with Luigi. I'm rather confused as to what this means as well. They have him and supposedly the gun, are there no fingerprints on the gun? Or can they not confirm it is the gun in the cctv? Very strange to me that they are having any fingerprint issues. I don't exactly understand either why they cannot use the fingerprints they have, or why they did not fingerprint him. Something is lost in translation here.

4. Forged instrument.

What does this mean? Does this refer to forged documents or do they mean the ghost gun? I believe his charges for the forged document were already addressed in PA, would they be brought up again in NY? And, I mean, fair if true, we saw pics of a fake ID. Seems like he had a fake id. I am curious about it though.

5. Both terrorism charges. I firmly believe these are bogus.

Who could he possibly be terrorizing? He is widely regarded as a hero amongst the American people with polls showing 69% of Americans approve of his alleged actions. The very same alleged actions they are claiming are terrorism. As far as I'm aware, terrorism as a criminal charge is limited to acts meant to cause terror to the population of a nation, or its government. CEOs of healthcare companies are neither a branch of the government, nor representative of the American population. No other murders get labeled as terrorism. Not even cannibalism, not even far, far, far more horrific, and serial killer cases. How can this possibly be terrorism?

6. Possession of ghost gun and ammo clip

Yeah, we saw arrest photos of those too, Fair if true I guess. However, I have heard that the definition of a ghost gun is itself dubious and might be difficult to legally define in this case.

7. Does that say possession of assault rifle? What? What?

It was a glock-19 according to gun experts looking over the actual crime photos. In what way does this count as an assault rifle? I understand modified guns sometimes count, but not "3d printed the handle" kind of modification. Sawed-off shotgun kind of modification.

8. Plea of not guilty

Plea of not guilty: fair, because he's not guilty. From what I understand, the jury is able to nullify someone even if they believe the person did commit the crime. But if the punishments on the table are vastly out of line, the jury will still, and still has the right to, say not guilty. The charge has to make sense and in this case, a death penalty is not. Especially in a state with an abolished death penalty, especially when so few other shooters in NY have ever gotten the death penalty for gun violence. Does this of course also mean he should plead not guilty? I'm assuming his attorney is advising his decisions here and I trust her. She does seem like a very competent attorney.

I firmly believe the only logical response at least until terrorism charges are dropped is 'not guilty' and am interested in the thoughts of people in the legal field.

9. What is this?

Not part of his upcoming sentence, but equally confusing. Stalking charges, do they hold any water? If they did in this case, surely then all other incidents of premeditated murder would be stalking cases as well? I don't know how that makes any sense. It really seems like the second count is also equally nonsensical. Nothing in this case makes any sense and attempting to understand the extreme reaches they are making has me feeling like I'm losing my mind. Has everyone suddenly forgotten all of criminal case history? It's like they've never witnessed a crime before and are scrambling to find a way to charge someone for 'super murder' because they don't like how regular murder sounds. And it's just that. ...It's just regular murder.

I would love to know a little bit of what's going on. I do hear from people who claim to know a bit about the justice system and court proceedings say that the biggest error the NYPD is making with this case is vastly overcharging him. I just want to understand more.

[jellynotbees]

As promised, femboy hooters narinder dump (or jumpscare depending on your opinion of narinder)

Narinder doesn’t actually mind the outfit but he is very afraid of a, um, wardrobe malfunction.