i'm currently halfway through university and very, very bad at keeping routines. i think about writing a lot, but write very little, so my WIP folder is actually never ending. as i mentioned before, i suck at routines so updates are somewhat rare (but they do come!).
I think I’ll post a few more things, then take a step back for a while. Lack of engagement will drive writers away, and that’s where I am. We’ll play it by ear, though.
I know I get a lot of engagement, so take my two cents with a grain of salt, lol. But engagement is important. Its what builds a community.
Ik we wanna be shy and not express our feelings, thinking we're being annoying going on long rants. But please go on long rants 👏🏽 comment a hundred times 👏🏽 i promise you. No writer will ever get sick of it.
We share because we all love these characters, we all flocked to this hellsite to read more about these characters loving on Black women 👏🏽
Please start commenting and reblogging. Because to a writer, we cant tell if you like it if you dont. To us, no one commenting, reblogging, or sending asks means no one is interested to see more so we get discouraged.
Yes, even I get discouraged. This is an anon app. No one knows it's you behind the pfp.
Please start showing other writers as much love as you can. Even if its a random "hey, I really loved this". Comments and engagement are writer fuel yall. No fuel? Can't keep writing.
Why I've spent my whole life trying to put it into words [Aaron Hotchner x Best Friend!Reader]
Masterlist|| Ao3||Word Count: 5k|| AN: This is inspired by the song You are in love by Taylor Swift...legit...my favorite piece I've written <3
Tags/Warnings: female reader, established relationship, sexual themes, mdni, no smut, but mentions of sex, yearning!Hotch, in love!hotch, best friends, Intimacy, this is INTIMATE, Hotch's POV, Sad!Hotch, Jack Hotchner is mentioned, Haley Hotchner is mentioned, 5+1, alcohol tw, ROMANCE IS NOT DEAD PEOPLE, Reader cannot cook to save her life, free-spirit!reader, reader struggles to open up sometimes
Summary: 5 Times Aaron Hotchner realizes you're his best friend + 1 time he tells you.
I.
The bullpen had long since emptied.
Desks abandoned, lights dimmed. The hum of the vending machines below, the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents—
Those were the only sounds keeping him company now.
Aaron sat in his office, perched over files like they held secrets no one else could see. The rest of the team had told him to go home, told him the case was done. Closed. Wrapped neatly in bureaucratic red tape.
But something still gnawed at him.
Something still didn’t sit right. He didn’t often get this feeling, but when he had an itch, he just had to scratch it.
Obsessively, almost.
He rubbed at his temple, willing the creeping headache to back off. His eyes burned from staring too long at reports that no longer blurred together but formed patterns he wasn’t convinced were coincidence.
Rossi had chuckled earlier, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, "You're overtired, Aaron. Let it go."
Morgan had shot him a grin, all charm and ease, "Man, you're gonna drive yourself crazy if you keep picking this apart."
Emily, exasperated but fond, had tossed over her shoulder as she left, "Get some sleep, Hotch. You’ve earned it."
He almost believed them.
Almost.
Until you walked in. Quiet, unassuming—
But so damn steady.
You didn't say much at first. Just nudged open the door with your hip, balancing an entire pot of coffee like it was some peace offering.
Like you already knew he wouldn’t leave.
Knew he wouldn’t rest until whatever weight clung to his shoulders shook free.
“I figured,” you said simply, setting the pot down beside his untouched cup. “If you’re going to obsess over this all night, you’ll need caffeine.” Settling in across from him, still in your clothes from the jet. Your blouse slightly wrinkled, “And company.” You smiled
He couldn’t help the ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You always knew exactly how to read him—
Without making him feel like a project.
Like something broken that needed fixing.
You didn’t ask questions or try to talk him down. Instead, you grabbed one of the files strewn across his desk, slid into the chair across from him, and got to work.
He watched for a second longer than he should’ve. The way you tucked your hair behind your ear absentmindedly, the soft furrow in your brow as you read, lips parting just slightly when something caught your attention. There was no complaint, no impatience—
Just that quiet, unwavering presence you always seemed to bring.
Time blurred. Reports shuffled between you both, punctuated by the occasional sip of coffee and the rustle of paper. Midnight came and went.
And still, you stayed.
Eventually, Hotch leaned back, pinching the bridge of his nose. His gaze drifted back to you. You looked up then, catching him mid-thought, eyes curious.
“What’s with the funny look?” you asked lightly, a small smile playing at your lips.
He swallowed.
Shook his head, “Nothing,” he said softly, almost too quickly.
But the truth sat heavy in his chest, undeniable.
Because somewhere between the case files, the stale coffee, and the quiet understanding you offered without asking for anything in return—
It hit him.
You were his best friend.
Not just his partner, not just his girlfriend.
His person.
The one who stayed. Who understood. Who saw every sharp edge, every obsessive tendency, and chose to be here anyway.
He wondered briefly if it showed on his face—
If you could see how the realization cracked something open in him.
But you just smiled again, tilting your head, and went back to the file without pressing.
That was another reason why.
He exhaled, forcing his eyes back down to the paperwork, but his focus was already elsewhere.
"You're my best friend."
He didn’t say it aloud.
Not yet.
But the thought lingered—
Settled somewhere deep, where it would stay warm until he was ready.
II.
Saturday mornings had never looked quite like this.
Aaron stood leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, coffee cup in hand, as he watched you work. Or—more accurately—watched you try not to set his kitchen on fire.
You’d insisted. Insisted that after the week they’d all had, you’d cook breakfast.
Something nice, you promised.
He hadn’t reminded you of that conversation months ago, where you admitted with no shame whatsoever that cooking wasn’t exactly your strength.
You were nothing if not determined.
And now, as he watched from a safe distance, Aaron wondered if it was possible to burn bacon and undercook it at the same time.
The smell of something acrid mixed with the faint scent of coffee as you plated… well, whatever attempt had survived the pan. Eggs scrambled into something that resembled the theme of a Dr. Suess novel. Bacon blackened on the ends, yet suspiciously soft in the middle. And the toast—charred just enough to set off the smoke alarm if you weren’t careful.
Jack, ever the polite little man, sat at the table with his fork poised, eyeing the plate in front of him with the same caution he reserved for vegetables.
You, for your part, plopped down beside him, trying valiantly to act like the mess wasn’t as bad as it looked.
Aaron bit the inside of his cheek, lips twitching, fighting back the laugh threatening to bubble out of him.
You poked at your eggs, then braved a bite—
Only to grimace so subtly he almost missed it.
Jack glanced between you both, unsure whether to risk saying anything.
The silence stretched—
Until you finally gave up, setting your fork down dramatically with a sigh.
“I think I’ve just committed a crime against breakfast,” you muttered, looking at your plate like it personally offended you.
You glanced over at Aaron, catching the barely-contained amusement in his eyes.
“I like it better when you cook anyway,” you added, soft but sweet, as if it were some confession.
That did it.
The laugh escaped before he could stop it. A real, genuine, rare laugh—
Deep, warm, and unguarded.
He hadn’t even realized how tight his chest felt until it loosened.
Jack blinked at him, then giggled too, relief flashing across his face.
“We should’ve had ice cream,” Jack piped up, earnest as ever. “For breakfast.”
Without missing a beat, you nodded, “You know what, you’re right. We should’ve.”
Aaron shook his head, still smiling, still trying to school his face into something more neutral but failing miserably.
You reached over, ruffling Jack’s hair as he beamed at you, already forgetting about the eggs.
And there it was again—
That look.
That tightening in his throat.
That weight in his chest.
He’d known for a long time now that he loved you. That much had settled quietly between you both, something unshakable and steady.
But sitting here, watching you laugh with Jack, watching you fold so seamlessly into the spaces of his life—the messy, imperfect spaces—hit differently.
Hit harder.
It wasn’t just love.
It wasn’t just partnership.
It was the way you’d become part of his family without ever asking him to be anything other than himself.
It was the way you burned toast and still made Saturday mornings feel lighter.
The way you looked at Jack like he was yours too.
The way you looked at him like all of this—the chaos, the quiet, the sharp edges—was enough.
"You’re my best friend."
The thought lodged somewhere deep, solid and true.
You caught him staring again, gave him a quizzical look, eyebrows raised.
“What?” you asked, playful. “That bad, huh?”
He shook his head, still smiling, voice soft, “No. Not bad at all.”
You didn’t press. Just gave him one of those grins that could unravel anyone if they let it.
Aaron glanced at the mess of plates, the laughter still hanging in the air, and decided he didn’t care if breakfast had been a disaster.
He had everything he needed right here.
III.
The case had wrapped, mercifully.
Suspect caught. Papers signed. Local PD…satisfied. As satisfied as they can be.
What should’ve been a relief, though, left Aaron gritting his teeth as he loaded into the car.
The jet was down for maintenance.
A mechanical issue, they'd said.
Nothing serious—
But serious enough to leave the team stranded with no choice but to drive back.
Hours on the open road, split between borrowed cars, all scattered in twos.
Rossi had made a crack about how it was probably some cosmic sign they all needed to "slow down and enjoy the journey."
Aaron didn’t find that amusing.
The idea of spending hours locked in a car didn’t exactly relax him. He liked efficiency. Control. Time maximized, not wasted. He would’ve preferred the jet.
But as it turned out, the universe had one mercy left:
You were the one riding with him.
Something about lovebirds sticking together, Derek encouraged.
At first, the quiet settled easily—
Your presence something familiar and grounding, the way it always was. He focused on the road, tuning into the faint hum of classic rock spilling from the speakers. Something he'd put on more out of habit than anything else.
Five minutes in, he noticed.
The soft, off-key hum coming from the passenger seat.
He flicked his eyes over briefly.
You were singing—
Badly.
And you weren’t trying to hide it, either.
So unapologetically you. The you he loved.
Adored.
The corners of his mouth threatened to tug upwards.
This wasn’t your kind of music. He knew that. But you’d asked once what he listened to on long drives, and he’d told you. And now here you were, nodding your head to the rhythm, mouthing lyrics.
He let himself glance at you longer than he should have, the road stretching ahead endlessly.
The way you tapped your fingers against your thigh, how you kept stealing glances at him between verses to see if he was paying attention.
You made the hours not so bad.
Actually—
You made them...good.
His best friend.
The thought slid in again, unbidden, familiar now.
His grip on the steering wheel loosened slightly.
Hours passed. Conversation came easy with you—
Quiet stretches filled with comfortable silence, broken only by the occasional sarcastic quip or comment that had him biting back a smile.
Eventually, at some point well into the drive, you insisted they switch. He pulled off at a rest stop without much argument, trusting you with the wheel.
For a while, he buried himself in a case file, pen scratching, his brows knit as the miles slipped by.
Until something small tugged at his attention.
The GPS.
You weren’t following it.
He glanced up. Frowned slightly.
“Where are you going?” he asked, tone calm but curious, almost suspicious.
You shot him a grin, eyes fixed on the road, “Trust me.”
Those two words.
They had more weight than you probably knew.
Aaron almost replied, almost protested—
Until he saw you slow, flicking on your blinker, pulling into a near-empty parking lot.
His frown deepened.
The ocean stretched out just beyond the sand dunes, gray and shimmering under a setting sun.
The air still held that early spring bite, not warm enough to be here, not really. The waves looked brutal, frothy, cold.
You parked, throwing the car into park before looking at him expectantly.
“Come on,” you said, already reaching for the door handle.
He blinked, “Are you serious?”
You didn’t answer. Just slipped out of the car like it was the most natural thing in the world, gravel crunching under your feet. He watched, momentarily stunned, as you kicked off your shoes without hesitation and darted toward the sand.
It took him longer to move.
You were already down the slope, the wind catching your hair, your jacket flapping behind you. You ran—
Ran like no one was watching.
Spinning in lazy circles, arms stretched wide, laughing at nothing at all.
The sky was streaked in pinks and blues, the sun kissing the edge of the horizon.
And there you were.
So carefree, so alive—
As if the week you’d just had hadn’t happened at all.
Aaron swallowed thickly, pulse strange in his ears.
You looked like something he’d forgotten he could want.
Youthful. Joyful. Unburdened.
How the hell did you always know?
Finally, he shoved open the door, hands in his pockets as he made his way toward you.
You caught sight of him as you turned—grinned—and without warning, ran straight back, crashing into him like a force of nature. A ball of warmth and energy, breathless and glowing.
“You’re insane,” he muttered, but there was no heat behind it.
You looked up at him, wind whipping strands of hair across your face.
“So I’ve been told.”
And before he could offer some other dry remark, you leaned up and kissed him—
Quick but firm, like it was the only logical response.
It was.
He felt himself smile against your lips despite the cold. Despite everything.
I love you, you’re my best friend.
The words echoed loud in his chest, clearer than ever before.
You had dragged him out of his head, out of the grind and exhaustion, into this moment. A simple, ridiculous detour—
But perfect in its absurdity.
He held you a little tighter, burying his nose in your hair, breathing you in.
Yeah.
You knew exactly what he needed.
You always did.
IV.
You didn’t fight often.
Rarely, in fact.
It wasn’t necessary.
You understood him—
Almost unnervingly well.
The rhythms, the silences, the unspoken things he kept close to his chest. You moved alongside him like you'd been doing it your whole life, sidestepping the need for arguments before they ever gained traction.
Which made it all the worse when it happened.
He could still hear the edge in his own voice, the sharpness he never liked to use with you.
It had started small. A briefing after a long case. You’d been quiet—too quiet—until finally you told him.
The Bureau had offered you a temporary undercover role.
A weekend. One week, tops.
A specialized operation, short turnaround.
You were perfectly qualified. More than capable. He knew that. Respected it.
And still—
He’d felt something ugly twist inside.
It wasn’t rational.
It wasn’t professional.
It was personal.
But instead of telling you that, instead of stripping down the mask of pride and control he always wore, he’d deflected. Asked if you were sure. If it was worth it. If you understood the risk—questions he had no business asking, because you knew damn well what you were doing.
You bickered—
Circling each other in familiar patterns, but the undercurrent felt different this time.
Tense.
Frustrated.
He wanted to tell you not to go.
He wanted to tell you he couldn’t stand the idea of you gone, out there without him, without knowing if you’d be safe.
But what came out instead was clipped remarks, deflections.
And pride. Always pride.
He'd watched as your expression shifted—tired, maybe even a little hurt—but resolute. You were going.
You had to.
And he couldn’t blame you. Wouldn’t.
Not when he respected the hell out of who you were and what you were capable of.
But God, he’d looked at you then. Looked at you with something you didn’t seem to recognize.
That look.
The one he’d caught himself giving you before.
The one you hadn’t figured out yet.
I love you. You're my best friend.
He hadn't said it.
Couldn't.
Thought it juvenile, silly.
What grown man confessed something like that out loud?
So he let the argument fizzle, let you walk away to pack, and found himself alone in his apartment, staring at the ceiling like it might offer him some clarity.
It didn’t.
The bed felt empty without you.
The space beside him cold, unfamiliar.
He tossed. Turned. Listened to the muffled sounds of traffic outside, wondering where you were at that exact moment—
What role you’d slipped into, how you were carrying yourself, who was around to watch your back.
He didn’t like feeling powerless.
Didn’t like this ache in his chest that he couldn’t quiet, no matter how many case files he’d tried to bury himself in earlier.
And the longer he laid there, sleepless and restless, the more one thought threaded itself deeper:
You’re my best friend.
He couldn’t shake it.
He thought about Haley, briefly.
How much he’d loved her. His wife. Jack’s mother. High school sweetheart. First…everything, pretty much.
But it wasn’t the same.
This—you—felt different.
With you, he never had to stop being himself.
You never asked him to shrink or soften the sharp edges. Never expected him to be anything other than exactly who he was.
You laughed at his dry, quiet humor—
The kind that others barely caught.
Matched it sometimes, firing back quips that no one else would dare say but always made him bite back a smirk.
You knew his next move before he did.
Knew the reasons behind the things he didn’t verbalize.
And you let him be.
You got him.
He wondered, lying there, when exactly you’d become his person.
Wondered if he’d ever really had a best friend before you.
The age difference between his brother and him. The forced parentified self he became around his brother, never allowed room for friendship.
Sure, in passing there were coworkers he trusted--relied on--the job pretty much called for it. But he’s not sure he’d consider Derek Morgan his best friend. He’s not sure he could call up a former body from his prosecutor days and expect them to put the type of smile you put on his face.
It was so much more than just love, romance, and companionship with you. He’s pretty sure he will spend the rest of his life trying to put into words what it is you do to him. For him.
His best friend.
It felt childish, stupid even, to think of it in those terms.
But there it was.
Simple.
True.
You were the one he wanted to tell everything to.
The one whose absence left something hollow in his chest.
The one he loved.
The one who knew him.
His best friend.
And somehow, that realization cut deeper than any argument ever could.
V.
He hadn't expected moving boxes and takeout containers to feel this monumental.
It was simple, really. Tiring. The kind of day that usually left him cranky and sore, mind already drifting to paperwork or tomorrow's responsibilities.
But tonight?
Tonight was different.
Your things were here now—
Intermingled with his. Coats hanging beside his in the closet. Your books tucked beside his on the shelves. Your toothbrush next to his in the bathroom, like it had always belonged there.
Aaron sat slouched on the living room couch, one arm lazily draped across the back, the other holding the nearly empty wine glass he’d been nursing. You were curled beside him, legs tangled with his, eyes heavy-lidded but bright. The bottle and a half of wine you’d worked through sat forgotten on the table next to the half-eaten boxes of Chinese food, now cold.
Jack had fallen asleep easily hours ago, his laughter still lingering faint in the air. Like the whole apartment felt lighter just from the two of you being here, together, as if something had finally clicked into place.
The music played low, some soft jazz station crackling through the speakers.
Neither of you said much for a while. Just occasional glances. The gentle brush of your foot against his calf. Comfortable silence.
Until you broke it, voice soft and a little slurred at the edges.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you.”
He quirked a brow, glancing over at you, “Haven’t we covered all the bases?”
You smiled, lazy and loose, shaking your head, “Humor me.”
So you traded stories—
Small things at first.
Embarrassing childhood memories. Weird quirks. The first concert you ever went to. He laughed at that, genuinely, the wine and exhaustion making it easier to let go.
And then you asked.
“What’s your biggest fear, Aaron?”
The question knocked something loose in his chest.
He blinked, caught off guard, searching your face.
You watched him carefully, but there was no pressure there. Just curiosity. Openness.
He hesitated. Briefly.
And you caught it.
You shifted, sitting up just slightly, balancing your wine glass on the armrest. There was something in your eyes now—
Not just the buzz of the alcohol, but that same steady, fearless look you had walking into danger.
Brave. Direct.
You licked your lips, almost nervous, but not backing down, “I’ll go first,” you said, voice quieter now.
He didn’t interrupt, letting you have the space.
You took a breath.
“My biggest fear is losing you.” Your fingers fidgeted with the hem of your shirt, eyes fixed on some invisible spot on the floor, “or Jack.”
You laughed under your breath—wet, almost self-deprecating—but when you looked back at him, your gaze was raw.
“I’ve never had this before,” you continued, voice cracking just slightly. “Never had…someone who sees me. All of me. Good, bad, messy. And it scares the hell out of me how much I don’t want to lose it.”
His throat felt tight, the words catching somewhere. It wasn’t the wine making him feel choked up—
It was you.
The sheer honesty of it. The fact that even after all this time, you still managed to surprise him.
He set his glass down carefully, reaching over to catch your hand, fingers threading through yours.
“It’s the same,” he admitted, voice low. Rough. He swallowed, “losing you. Losing this. I never—”
He paused, trying to find the right words, the ones sitting heavy in his chest. “I never want to lose you. And I’ll do everything I can to keep you. To keep both of you.”
You smiled softly at him, eyes glassy from the wine, the flush on your cheeks making you look impossibly angelic, impossibly his.
“You’re stuck with me now,” you teased, voice playful but laced with something tender. Then, almost mischievously, you added, “You know…you’re kind of my favorite person.”
He huffed a quiet laugh at that, shaking his head, but the weight of it—
God, it hit him hard.
You leaned in without hesitation, lips finding his, and the kiss tasted like fruit and something deeper.
Something permanent.
It wasn’t hurried.
It wasn’t messy.
It was moving.
All the weight of the day, the exhaustion, the vulnerability, poured into it.
When you finally pulled back, breath warm against his cheek, he stayed still—
Eyes opening slowly, wanting to just look at you.
Soak you in forever. And even after that. Even after forever ended, he’s sure he’d still want more.
You smiled, lazy and soft, and asked, “What’s that look for?”
He almost told you.
Almost let the words slip—
The ones he’d been feeling for months now, lodged deep in his chest every time you smiled at him, every time you laughed with Jack, every time you made his world feel brighter without even trying.
My best friend.
But instead, he shook his head faintly, voice quiet.
“I’m just thinking about you.”
You grinned, leaning in to press a kiss to his jaw, before pulling back, eyes glinting mischievously despite the wine haze.
“Well…” you murmured, voice dipping lower, lips brushing against his ear. “Now that we live together…want to go try out the bed properly?”
His breath caught.
Yeah.
He liked that idea.
Very much.
+1
The bedroom was dark, save for the faint orange glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. The occasional sound of a car passing below, the whisper of tree branches rustling against the windowpane—
Small things grounding him in the moment.
Aaron lay still, one arm wrapped tightly around you, the sheets tangled somewhere near his waist. Your head rested against his chest, breath steady, soft against his skin. The warmth of your body pressed close, leg draped lazily over his, completely relaxed in sleep.
It should’ve been easy for him to follow you there.
Sleep usually came fast after nights like this—
Hours spent wrapped up in you, nothing held back, every piece of himself laid bare.
But tonight…
He couldn’t.
Not when it felt like something inside him might split wide open.
Because he had never had this before.
Not like this.
He stared up at the ceiling, his fingers trailing absently along the curve of your back, and let the thoughts come.
You.
God, you.
These days, that’s what lived in his brain rent free.
You’d slipped into his life like you’d always been meant to be there, like some force had been quietly working all along to bring you to him when he needed you most.
He never imagined things could line up this perfectly.
Never imagined that after everything—loss after loss, disappointment after disappointment—something so good, so magnetic, would land right in front of him.
Aligning everything.
And stay.
You saw him.
You understood him in ways that no one else ever had. You didn’t flinch at the sharp edges, didn’t ask him to be softer or less guarded. You laughed at his dry, humorless jokes. Knew when to challenge him, when to let him be.
And the longer he lay there, the more it hit him:
You made him better.
Not by changing him.
But by showing him how to be—
How to trust, how to let himself breathe, how to love without the weight of past mistakes crushing him.
He swallowed, feeling it heavy in his chest.
You were his best friend.
His person.
His love.
The words sat so close to the surface he could hardly contain them.
And as if you sensed it, felt him turning them over in the dark, you shifted slightly against him—
Your hand tightening faintly on his chest, head nuzzling into his neck.
Your voice came out low, rough with sleep, but soft, “Aaron…why are you awake?”
He looked down, catching the faint outline of your face in the shadows.
The way you smiled at him—
Groggy, tender, like he was something precious.
That look.
The same one you always gave him when you caught him staring, trying to memorize this exact feeling.
He brushed his hand up to your cheek, thumb tracing along your temple.
For once, he didn’t hesitate.
“I was just thinking,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.
You hummed softly in question, eyes still half-lidded, waiting.
He swallowed.
Felt the words lodge in his throat, thick and almost too big to say—but needing to be said all the same.
“You’re my best friend,” he finally said, voice low and sure. His hand cradled your face gently, as if he needed you to feel the weight of it.
You blinked at him, surprised, brow furrowed slightly like you didn’t quite understand what he meant—
Why it sounded so much more significant than it seemed.
He continued, his voice quieter but unwavering, “I love you. You know that. But it’s more than that.” His thumb brushed beneath your eye. “I’ve never met anyone who made me want to tell them everything. Who I wanted to know me—all of me. And you…you do. You know me. You handle me better than I know how to handle myself sometimes.”
You stared at him, eyes glassy, lips parted faintly, breath catching as he went on.
“I want to know everything about you. Every story, every thought you’ve never told anyone.” He swallowed, pulling you a little closer. “I never want to stop.”
There was something shining in your eyes now, even in the dim light. Something soft and stunned, but glowing.
“You make me a better person,” he whispered finally, voice almost breaking. “You’re my best friend.”
For a moment, the silence stretched—
Nothing but the sound of your breaths mingling in the dark.
Then you smiled.
So big, so full of something unspoken, eyes glassy but sure.
You leaned up, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that was equal parts gentle and fierce. Like you wanted to pour all the words you couldn’t form right now into him.
When you pulled back, you gave him a lazy, flirtatious grin despite the emotion lingering behind it.
“Well…” your voice was thick, teasing but tender, “...how about we make use of that bed again, now that we’re a couple who shares absolutely everything?”
He laughed softly—really laughed—and let himself kiss you like he was holding the whole world in his hands.
the vile shit you disgusting freaks post on the internet is seen by people who are willing and capable of inflicting great harm to others. log off, get help, fuck off, stop posting your graphic death wishes on women online. "it was just a joke on my small blog and she's famous and rich and powerful, she'll be fine" read the news, grow a brain, log off, get help, fuck off. you're an active participant in harming women and girls and you're so gross and dumb
the way emily and jj both needed to be saved at some point in the series and both times the other was called in to help bring them home despite not having been in the bau for months if not years… Yeah You Go Save Your Wife
