theseventhdimension

[theseventhdimension]

Hi! I’d like to ask for a really fluffy, domestic fic. Season4 Spencer x gender neutral reader, it can be a long awaited date night or just a regular afternoon. A lot of touching, hugging, kissing etc.

Thank u so much!!

The Constellations of Us

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: How does an anniversary sound for a long awaited date night? Though, like always, the hunt for a serial killer has to try and mess up your plans.

I uhhh.. may or may not have forced my current interest of stars on Spencer. Maybe. ⊙⁠.⁠☉ As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ＼⁠(⁠^⁠o⁠^⁠)⁠／

“…and the craziest part is that the light we see from them is millions of years old—so in a way, when we look up, we’re literally seeing into the past. It’s like every time we look at the night sky, we’re peeking into a history book written in radiation.”

Spencer leans his head back against the passenger window, words trailing out like a tide that hasn’t quite figured out how to recede yet. He’s exhausted—you can see it in the slump of his shoulders, the half-blink of his eyes—but he’s still wired in that particular Spencer Reid way. Sleepy, but talking a mile a minute. Starlight in his head.

The soft hum of the car fills the gaps in conversation. The city blurs past your windows—half-lit buildings, the blur of headlights, the rare echo of a siren somewhere distant. You drive one-handed, the other draped over the gearshift, listening.

Then, abruptly, he goes still.

“Wait…” His head snaps up. “Is today the twelfth?”

You glance over at him, confused. “Yeah, it is. Why?”

His eyes widen like he’s just discovered he left the oven on back in 2009. “Oh my God. It’s our anniversary.”

You blink. “It is.”

“I—I meant to do something.” He fumbles over the words, already sitting up straighter like he can physically chase the panic away. “I swear I didn’t forget, I had ideas, but the case went long and the interview ran over and Garcia’s database lagged and—”

You reach over, take his hand in yours.

He stops talking instantly.

You squeeze. Firm. Grounding. Enough to bring him back from spiraling into the guilt-void he’s so familiar with.

“Spence,” you say, smiling softly as the traffic light ahead turns green, bathing you both in a dreamy wash of color. “Relax. I’ve got something for you.”

His eyes search your face, blinking like he’s not quite sure he heard you right. “You… you planned something?”

“Mhm.”

His voice drops. Softer now. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

Spencer looks down at your joined hands. He rubs his thumb over your knuckles, eyes suddenly glassy with something deeper than exhaustion. The kind of love that builds slowly and settles heavy in the chest.

“You’re incredible,” he murmurs.

You smirk, steering into your street. “I know. But wait ‘til you see the view.”

You barely finish parking before Spencer’s opening his mouth to ask where you're going—eyes flicking to the elevator, then to your apartment door—but you squeeze his hand again and give him a look.

“Up,” you say simply, hopping out of the car. “C’mon.”

He follows with a tired but intrigued little frown, cardigan sleeves pushed up just enough to catch a breeze. The walk through the building is quiet save for the soft hum of fluorescents and the occasional creak of old floorboards beneath your steps. You lead him past your floor, up the final flight of stairs, and push open the rooftop door with a flourish.

And there it is.

The sky—alive. Crystal-clear tonight, unusually so. A scattered mess of stars thrown like glitter across the velvet dark. The city hums far below, but up here? It feels like the edge of the universe.

In the center of it all: a thick woven blanket, corners pinned down by books and a paper bag of takeout still steaming. A thermos sits off to the side, cups beside it. There’s even a small speaker playing something faint and lo-fi. Atop the blanket: a wrapped gift, rectangular, clearly a book, with a little note tucked beneath the twine.

Spencer stops dead in the doorway.

His mouth parts just a little.

He doesn’t move.

“Spence?” you say, tugging gently at his sleeve. “You okay?”

His eyes don’t leave the scene. “You… did this? Tonight? After everything?"

You nod, stepping onto the rooftop and motioning for him to follow. “Yeah. I figured if some serial killer that you were sent out to catch was gonna try and derail our anniversary, I could at least make sure we still had a sky to lie under.”

He laughs—just once, soft and breathless. It breaks something in him. “You’re incredible,” he says again, but this time it’s less awe and more reverence. Like a vow. Like prayer.

You sit, pat the blanket beside you. “C’mon, Doctor Reid. Stars don’t wait.”

He does, finally, stepping out into the open and lowering himself down beside you like he’s afraid it might all vanish if he moves too quickly.

He picks up the gift, eyes darting to yours. “Can I…?”

“Of course.”

Carefully—like it might be fragile—he peels away the paper and reveals a thick, deep blue hardback: A Field Guide to the Night Sky. But it’s not just any copy. You’ve written little notes in the margins. Circled constellations. Added hearts beside facts you knew he’d love.

Spencer doesn’t speak for a moment.

Then he turns to you, voice thick. “You annotated it.”

You shrug, smiling. “Figured if you were gonna fall in love with the stars, I might as well give them some competition.”

His breath hitches. “Too late.”

He kisses you. Long, slow, steady. The kind of kiss that doesn't ask for anything but this. Right here. This moment.

Above you, the stars shimmer. Like they know.

The book rests beside you now, pages rustling gently in the rooftop breeze. Spencer lies half-curled against you, cardigan warm and soft where his arm wraps around your waist. His head is tucked just under your chin, breath rising and falling in rhythm with yours. It’s the kind of quiet that feels deliberate—like the universe paused, just for this.

You thread your fingers through his hair, combing it back slowly, letting your fingertips trace the curve of his skull, the back of his neck, the top of his spine. He melts under your touch, sighing contentedly, pressing impossibly closer.

"You feel like gravity," he murmurs, voice low against your collarbone.

You huff a soft laugh. "That sounds like a compliment only you could come up with."

"It is a compliment," he says, peeking up at you with a sleepy smile. “You're what pulls me back. Every time.”

Your chest aches in the sweetest way. You lean down, brushing your lips across his forehead. Then again, slower this time, on the corner of his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, hands finding your sides, gripping softly like he needs the reassurance that you’re real.

You kiss again—longer now. His mouth warm and pliant against yours, one of his hands sliding up your back to cup the base of your neck. When you finally part, noses still brushing, you both stay close. Touch anchoring everything.

The stars above shimmer like tiny secrets, scattered across the sky.

Spencer’s hand trails down your arm until your fingers tangle again. “That one’s Lyra,” he says quietly, nodding upward without looking away from you. “And there’s Cygnus—the swan. Vega’s right there, brightest one in that little triangle.”

You turn your gaze to where he’s pointing, eyes tracing the shapes in the sky. “It’s beautiful.”

“So are you.”

You glance back at him, and he’s already watching you.

Before you can say anything, he gasps—his eyes widening. “Wait—look!”

You whip your head toward the sky just in time to catch it: a streak of silver blazing across the dark, fast and fleeting.

A shooting star.

Spencer squeezes your hand tight.

“Make a wish,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes instantly.

You do too.

I wish… for this to last. For him. For us. Forever.

There’s a long pause before either of you open your eyes again. You shift slightly, pulling him more fully into your chest, both arms around him now, like you could shield him from time itself.

He nuzzles into your shoulder. “What’d you wish for?”

You smile into his hair. “You first.”

He hesitates… then quietly says, “You. Always.”

Your throat catches. You kiss the top of his head, and your voice comes out shakier than you mean it to.

“Same.”

You lie there a while longer, tangled and kissed-out and glowing from the inside out. Spencer traces shapes into your hip with his thumb. You stroke the side of his jaw, the line of his cheekbone, the curve of his lips before you lean in to kiss him again.

Not rushed. Not because you have to. Just because you can.

He sighs into your mouth.

You think maybe this is what stars are jealous of.

[theseventhdimension]

Hey guys little urgent update, I've ended up burning my right hand pretty badly due to a workplace accident so it's pretty hard to type.

I'm still taking requests but please be aware it's definitely going to take a while for me to write them ( ๑‾̀◡‾́)σ"

I apologize in advance for any spelling mistakes I make on some fics. I'll still be releasing all the ones I've finished but for the next few days I'm not gonna be working on any while may hand heals :((

Thank you guys for understanding (✿◦’ᴗ˘◦)♡

[theseventhdimension]

i know you like some good old Morgan x reader fics

so hear me out, in the early seasons we see Morgan do a lot of stunts and stuff, like s1e12 where he and Hotch stop that fist fight?

imagine, reader and Morgan are pretty early on in their relationship, but reader is staying over at morgan’s or something

reader uses the bathroom during the night and derek wakes up, not quite that sharp yet and he thinks there’s an intruder or something so we end up with derek tackling reader or something when they come back, leading to somewhat of a ridiculous situation, because reader is half asleep, literally just had to use the loo and suddenly they’re on the ground with their boyfriend having not quite realised who he’s pinning down and in the end it’s like, well, that was kind of hot, but please don’t do that again

Gotcha, Punk!

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 1.1k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: This is such a good idea, i hate you, why didn't i think of this?? This is definitely one of my shorter fics soo i apologize for that.. ( ˇ෴ˇ )

Still, as always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ( ˘ ³˘)♥

Creak.

Derek’s eyes snapped open.

Creak. Again—slower this time, like someone was trying not to be heard.

At first, there was only the dark.

Not cozy, blanket-dark. No. This was the thick, swampy kind. Heavy across his chest, clinging to the walls, warping the shape of every coat hook and bookshelf into something not-quite-right. The curtains stirred slightly—no wind—and shadows from the tree outside jittered across the ceiling like restless fingers.

He held his breath.

Silence.

Too much of it.

The fridge wasn’t humming. The heater hadn’t kicked in. No faint upstairs pipes clanking in protest. It was the kind of silence that doesn’t soothe—it listens. That primal kind of quiet that precedes something awful.

Then— Creak.

The precise one outside the bathroom—that floorboard. The one that always squeaked unless you stepped on it just right.

Morgan hadn’t stepped on it.

You were still in bed. You’d dozed off curled into his chest, snoring like a kitten with allergies. If you were up, he would've felt it. And that step hadn’t been yours. Too heavy. Too slow.

That wasn’t the fridge. That wasn’t the neighbor’s cat. That wasn’t anything normal. That was a “get your ass stabbed” kind of sound.

He sat up fast, sheets hissing against the mattress, breath locked tight in his chest. Years of habit sent his hand flying toward the nightstand—

Gun? Gone. Badge? Not even close. All he found was a glass of water and the sad realization that this was the one night he’d let himself go off duty completely.

Hydrate or die-drate, you’d said with a grin. And now here he was—hydrated and about to square up with a ghost, barefoot and half-naked in his own damn house.

Another sound—a soft, almost polite shuffle. Then the quiet click of the bathroom door.

Derek froze.

Nah. Nope. You don’t just pick my house to rob. Not this house. Not with me in it. You think you’re gonna sneak in here, steal my TV, maybe grab a chocolate bar on the way out and leave like it’s DoorDash? Not happening.

He moved like instinct. Muscle memory. Silent, precise, deadly. His feet glided over hardwood. His breathing slowed. Even his heartbeat seemed to hold its rhythm.

I’ve tackled unsubs through barbed wire fences, strip malls, and once—once—during a bouncy castle birthday party. You think I won’t throw hands in my own damn hallway? In my socks?

As he moved, the fridge whined—a sudden mechanical sigh—and Derek nearly elbowed it on reflex.

He hissed under his breath.

God, I need to sleep more. Or maybe less.

A flash of a memory hit him—Chicago. An unsub had broken into a family’s home at 3 a.m., left the husband unconscious, and tied the mother up in her own bathroom. Morgan had shown up too late to stop the bruises from forming. That woman’s terrified eyes had been burned into his memory for years.

He wasn’t going to be late tonight.

The bathroom door creaked open.

A silhouette stepped out. Backlit. Slow. Unaware.

Gotcha, punk.

He surged forward in one flawless motion—tackle clean, grip tight, momentum precise. Years of FBI training kicked in as he brought the figure down, pinning them to the floor with a practiced hand and a sharp growl—

“Gotcha, punk—”

“THE HELL—?!”

There was a pause.

A beat of silence.

A very familiar groggy voice.

Your voice.

Derek blinked down, and sure enough—

There you were.

Hair sticking out in all directions, t-shirt bunched awkwardly around your waist, blinking slowly at him like a confused owl. You squinted up at him, one arm pinned, the other flopped dramatically beside you.

“…Babe?” you asked, voice hoarse from sleep, face squished against the tile. “Can we, I dunno… cuddle in bed and not on the bathroom floor?”

Derek froze.

Like a statue. Like a dumbass. Like a dumbass statue.

“…Oh my God,” he breathed, eyes wide, pupils dilating in horror. “Baby. Baby, I’m so sorry. I thought—I thought you were—Jesus, are you hurt? Are you okay?!”

You blinked up at him again, unimpressed.

“I woke up to pee, Derek.”

“I tackled you.”

“You tackled me.”

“I tackled my partner.”

“To the floor.”

“Yeah.”

A long pause.

“…Y’know what’s fun?” you said, eyes still mostly closed. “This tile is cold, and my spine hurts.”

That did it. Derek immediately scrambled to gather you into his arms like he’d just drop-kicked a newborn puppy.

“Nononono, come here—God, I’m such an idiot. I didn’t see—I wasn’t awake—fuck, I tackled you. Oh my God. You’re never sleeping over again.”

You let him scoop you up bridal-style, but your face was already pressed against his shoulder, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at your lips.

“I can’t wait to tell Garcia.”

That made him pause mid-carry. “You wouldn’t.”

You yawned. “Oh, I would. I’ll tell her you yelled ‘Gotcha, punk’ like a Saturday morning cartoon villain while I was barefoot and half-blind.”

Derek groaned. “You’re evil.”

“And you love it.”

He deposited you onto the bed like you were made of glass and his own unrelenting shame. He fussed over you—pulling the blanket up, tucking it beneath your chin, running his hands over your arms like he expected to find bruises.

“You sure you’re okay? Your back? Your neck? Baby, I could’ve—God, I didn’t mean to—”

You silenced him with a kiss. Lazy, warm, still sleep-drenched but affectionate.

“I’m fine,” you murmured. “Though…” You tugged him down beside you, a teasing glint in your eyes. “That was kinda hot.”

He blinked. “Hot?”

You grinned. “I mean, you did tackle me to the floor with surgical precision. Bit much for a midnight cuddle, but the form? Chef’s kiss. Nine outta ten.”

“...Nine?”

“Lost a point for trying to arrest me.”

Derek buried his face in your hair with a groan. “I hate how much you’re enjoying this.”

“Oh, come on, babe. We’ve had like two fights and neither involved a full-body takedown before tonight. Milestone achieved.”

“You’re never letting me live this down.”

“Top three most dramatic Morgan moments. Number one: tackling your half-naked partner. Number two: yelling ‘Gotcha, punk’ like you’re on an old cop show. No, I'm not letting you live this down.”

A long beat. You were drifting now, warm and safe in his arms, your breathing slowing.

Then, quietly, casually:

“…If you do wanna pin me down again though…”

Derek pulled the blanket over your head. “Go to sleep.”

Your muffled voice replied from beneath it:

“Love you, too.”

.

.

.

“I still need to pee by the way.”

[theseventhdimension]

okay, so, i really liked the Triathlon story you wrote for Hotch x male reader, therefore, here comes a little spark of an idea it gave me

Say, the team split up on a case to go interview suspects or something and Hotch and reader get one that runs away but they’re like a track athlete or something and they take off after the suspect but reader has a lot more stamina and better pace? idk and Hotch calls like Garcia or someone to get them to track reader’s phone because they need to know where the suspect and reader are going? so the team is somewhat surprised to learn reader is so athletic?

idk, do what you want or not with this idea,

sending a virtual hug if you’d like it (consent’s sexy af)

Catch Me If You Can

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner + Gn! Reader (Their relationship comes off as platonic imo ^—^)

Word Count: 1.4k+

DNI: All are Welcome!

Author's Note: Shhhhshshshshhhhh we're going to ignore I've had this in my drafts for like 2 weeks now, okay? shhhhhh just take this shhhhh. (-‿◦☀)

Also, i would absolutely accept that virtual hug, and i will send you one back if you'd like it.

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! hope you enjoy ٩꒰ʘʚʘ๑꒱۶

The market is a riot of sound and motion.

There’s a dull hum of conversation, half a dozen languages tangled together in the air.

Somewhere, a kid is crying over a dropped popsicle.

A butcher slams cleavers into bone with metronome precision.

Color bursts from every stall—clementines piled high, rows of purple eggplants, threadbare umbrellas casting shaky shade.

You pass a crate of garlic so strong it makes your eyes water. It’s summer in the city, and the heat sticks to your shirt like anxiety.

You’re trying not to fidget.

Which is ironic, because your whole job right now is to spot people who are fidgeting.

The badge still feels too new in your pocket. The holster sits strange on your hip, like it doesn’t quite belong to you yet. You haven’t even memorized everyone’s coffee order on the jet, but you’re out in the field with Hotch in the middle of a live case, walking stall to stall in the hopes that someone saw something. Or someone.

It’s the perfect chance to prove yourself.

Which is exactly why your pulse is pounding like a bass drum.

“You’re sure?” Hotch asks the vendor beside you, voice low and even.

You glance sideways at the man he’s speaking to—a florist, maybe mid-thirties, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dirt under his nails, and shaking like a leaf. Not obviously. But enough.

The guy smiles a little too wide, scratches his arm once, twice. Blinks hard. Shifts his weight between both feet and back again.

And you see it.

It’s in the eyes first: a flick toward the alley to the left, toward the gap between stalls. The microsecond tightening of his jaw. The way his hand curls around the edge of the crate, not like he's steadying himself—like he’s about to launch.

You’re already moving before he bolts.

“Hey!” you shout, and then he’s off like a shot.

Hotch is right behind you at first, fast for someone who spends more time behind a desk than chasing suspects down alleyways, but you’re faster. You always have been.

Your legs remember before your brain does. How to lengthen your stride, control your breath, dodge between startled shoppers. Your shoes hit the pavement hard, rhythm steady. The suspect throws himself over a produce crate—you clear it like it’s the last hurdle on a track you haven’t run in years.

“Left!” you call over your shoulder. “Down the alley!”

You don’t have time to see if Hotch heard you.

Crates crash. A woman screams. Someone drops a whole tray of oranges and you dodge them, fast-twitch muscle memory in full control. You’re running full tilt now, weaving through the market like it’s a course you’ve trained for your entire life.

Because it is, in a way.

You used to run like this every day. For glory. For medals. For scholarship scouts.

Now you’re running for a criminal.

And—okay—you might be enjoying this just a little.

You and the suspect tear through the market like a two-man wrecking crew.

He’s fast, you’ll give him that. He vaults a crate of papayas, nearly slips on a puddle, and knocks over a display of novelty hats, but he keeps going. You match him step for step, weaving past startled vendors and ducking under flapping tarps. Someone yells. A basket of lemons explodes across the pavement.

“Move!” you shout as you hurdle a cart stacked with onions. The air is thick with spice and sweat and the sharp tang of crushed fruit.

You’re gaining. Every sprint drill, every bleacher stair, every grueling race in eighty-percent humidity—your body remembers. Your legs burn, but it’s a good burn. A familiar burn. You haven't felt this alive since your last national qualifier.

Behind you, you hear Hotch yell your name—but it’s faint, and getting fainter.

Hotch stops short, breath ragged, hand already pulling his phone from his pocket.

“Garcia,” he barks, already moving again, slower now, dodging a fruit stand. “I need you to track newbie’s phone. They’re in pursuit of a suspect, headed southeast from the market square—no backup, no visuals.”

There’s a pause. A soft click of keys.

Garcia’s voice comes through the comms, laced with concern:

“Uh, yeah, I see their GPS… wait, how fast are they—? Are you sure this isn’t a bicycle?”

Morgan breaks in, grinning. “What’s going on, Hotch?”

“They ran after a suspect. Took a sharp turn and disappeared.”

“You lost the newbie?” Emily says, half-laughing. “What are they doing, parkour?”

Garcia’s typing gets louder. “No, no, this is wild. I just pulled their high school track records—Hotch, they were state level. Cross-country, middle distance, relays. Almost went D1. Why is this the first time I’m hearing about this?!”

Hotch doesn’t respond. He’s too busy trying to breathe through what might be early cardiac arrest.

You duck under a tarp, breath steady, legs pumping, and leap over a stack of overturned milk crates without slowing. The suspect’s about ten feet ahead and flagging—his pace is wild, desperate. Yours is measured. Calculated. You’re in your rhythm now, lungs expanding just right, shoes slapping the pavement like music.

He glances back. Big mistake.

You launch.

Your shoulder slams into him with practiced force, sending both of you sprawling to the ground. He scrambles, but you’re faster, already flipping him over and jamming your knee into his spine. His chest heaves under you as he swears, writhes, tries to twist out of your hold. You twist his wrist just enough to get the cuffs on with a satisfying click.

“You’re under arrest,” you say, breath still smooth, like this is just a Tuesday jog.

People nearby stare—some pause, some scatter. Someone’s dropped a bag of oranges that roll around like startled mice. You don’t notice. Your blood’s buzzing too hard to care. You forgot how much you missed that rush—how easy it is to fall back into it. No gun drawn. No backup in sight. Just you, instinct, and muscle memory.

You straighten, dragging the guy to sit against the brick wall behind you.

Footsteps pound behind you, heavy and uneven, and then Hotch rounds the corner, bent slightly like he’s about to pass out.

He slows when he sees you, taking in the suspect cuffed and sulking on the ground… and you, standing above him, barely winded.

Hotch doesn't speak. Just breathes hard, lips parted, eyes slightly wide. You give him a beat. Two. Then tilt your head.

“…You alright?”

He lifts one finger. “Don’t talk to me right now.”

His chest is rising and falling like he ran a marathon. Which, for him, this probably was.

Your comm crackles. “Okay,” Garcia’s voice says, far too loud in your ear, “I’ve pulled your high school track records and I just need to ask—WHAT?”

There’s a pause. You don't respond. She keeps going.

“You almost went pro? You were state champion three years in a row and you just—never mentioned that?!”

You shift your weight and glance at Hotch. He’s finally upright again, wiping sweat from his forehead with the back of his sleeve.

Garcia’s still rambling. “Do you know how many medals you had? You got scouted. You literally turned down Stanford. What are you?!”

You shrug. “Didn’t want to run in circles forever.”

Hotch exhales hard through his nose, like that sentence alone might kill him.

He doesn’t speak for a few seconds. Then, dryly:

“You could’ve warned me.”

You pat the cuffs on the suspect’s wrists and smile faintly.

“You said this would be a low-impact day.”

He gives you a sharp look, but it’s undercut by the way his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to smile. The lines around his eyes crinkle as he finally turns back toward the street.

“Let’s get him processed,” he says. “And next time? You chase. I’ll stay at the perimeter.”

You follow him out of the alley, still riding the endorphin high, half-listening to Garcia muttering over comms about pulling up every archived stat you’ve ever had.

It’s not exactly how you expected the day to go. But hey—at least now the team knows what you’re made of.

And more importantly, so does Hotch.

.

.

.

"Uh, hey Hotch? ..Do you think I'll have to be the one to pay for the broken crates of food?"

[theseventhdimension]

me seeing that my fav character barely/doesn’t have any fanfics OR imagines

[theseventhdimension]

The Smartest Person in the Room (And you too, I guess.)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Gn! Reader

Word Count: 2.1k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Authors Note: I'm so bloody sick (⁠ب⁠_⁠ب⁠) arrghhARGHUAW DH IUQ uodqdq ew ew ew my nostrils are clogged my throat is clogged im gonna spewwwwwwwwwwWWOIJQXOMH.

Anyway (⁠•⁠‿⁠•⁠) I'm so normal it's crazy how normal I am

Low-key was reading through some toxic ff 💔 and, well. here's this. Spencer my baby would never do this but it's for the plot (⁠・⁠–⁠・⁠;⁠)⁠ゞ

The first time it happened, you thought it was a joke.

Spencer had been pacing the room, gesturing wildly as he explained something about quantum cognition—something dense and thrilling that lit him up like a string of fairy lights. You didn’t really follow, but you loved the way he talked when he got excited. His brain on fire. His voice rushing to keep up.

You’d asked a simple question. Something like, “Wait, what’s that theory called again?”

Spencer stopped mid-stride, blinking. “You’ve never heard of it?” Not cruel. Just surprised. “It’s pretty foundational.”

You laughed, sheepish. “Guess my brain didn’t come preloaded with the genius pack.”

He smiled—quick, distracted—and returned to the stack of books on the table, already mid-explanation again, this time with the tone of someone simplifying something for a kid.

“Think of it like… your brain taking mental shortcuts,” he said. “Like crossing the street without doing the math on every moving car.”

You nodded, pretending interest. But the bruise was already forming—small, invisible, internal. Not from what he said. From how easy it was for him to say it like that.

That moment didn’t stand alone for long.

They piled up. A shrug here. A correction there. A sigh so soft it barely counted as one. But you noticed. Always.

Never malicious. That was the worst part. Spencer wasn’t trying to hurt you. He just did—gently, unconsciously. Like academic shrapnel. Paper cuts from pages he didn’t know could slice.

It happened again over dinner, when he queued up an old black-and-white film, thick with Cold War allegory. Halfway through, you’d asked, “Wait, is this based on real events?”

He didn’t even glance at you. “Kind of. I mean… that’s the entire subtext.”

When he did look over, he added, “It’s not really subtle. Most people pick up on it within the first act.”

There it was again—that tone. Offhand. Unthinking.

You turned back to the screen, your appetite for the movie vanishing.

The next morning, you barely spoke.

“You okay?” Spencer asked over coffee.

“I’m fine.”

He paused. “You didn’t ask about the caffeine thing I mentioned earlier. You always ask.”

You shrugged. “Maybe I’m tired of not knowing the answers.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Never mind.”

He put his mug down. “No, say it.”

You looked at him, suddenly worn out from carrying so many small wounds.

“I’m tired of feeling like I have to pass a test every time we talk.”

Spencer frowned. “I don’t quiz you.”

“You don’t mean to,” you said. “But I feel like a student half the time. Like you’re lecturing, not talking. Like I’m… always catching up.”

Spencer seemed to flinch, even if just internally. “I’ll try to tone it down. Use simpler terms.”

And there it was again.

As if that had been the problem. As if you’d needed the world explained slower. Simpler.

Two nights later, you brought up a book you’d been reading—something about the psychology of digital intimacy. You were proud of it. You’d taken notes. You’d underlined entire chapters. It wasn’t even one of his recommendations—you’d picked it up yourself.

“There’s this chapter about parasocial relationships,” you said, leaning into the conversation. “It talks about how constant digital feedback can blur the lines of emotional intimacy. Kind of explains why people feel close to influencers they’ve never met.”

Spencer didn’t even look up. “Yeah, I’ve read about that. Horton and Wohl, right? I cited them once.”

The conversation died in your throat. “Oh. Cool.”

He kept eating. Unaware. Unbothered.

You didn’t bring the book up again.

And that night, you stared at the ceiling while Spencer slept beside you, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing on your ribs.

It was subtle at first—the way you pulled back. The way you stopped asking questions. Stopped offering ideas. Stopped trying.

But eventually, he noticed.

“You’ve been different,” he said one morning. “Is something going on?”

You looked at him. And before you could stop yourself:

“Do you respect me?”

Spencer’s expression flickered. “What?”

“Do you respect me,” you repeated, quieter. “As an equal? Or am I just someone who makes you feel smarter?”

“That’s not fair,” he said quickly. “Of course I do.”

“Then why do I feel like I have to earn your attention every time I speak?”

He stared, stunned. Like the math didn’t compute.

“I love how brilliant you are,” you continued, voice steady. “But I’m tired of feeling like I have to apologize for not knowing everything you do. I’m tired of having my excitement—my curiosity—treated like something small.”

“I don’t talk down to you,” he said, but the words came slower now. Unsure.

“You do. Without meaning to. Every time you say something’s basic. Every time you explain like I’m five. Every time you correct me mid-sentence.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened. But he stayed quiet.

You inhaled, chest tight. “I used to feel proud of myself. Of what I brought to a conversation. But somewhere along the way, being with you made me feel… behind.”

The silence stretched.

You grabbed your coat. “I need air.”

He didn’t stop you.

Didn’t say a word.

You didn’t go home to him that night.

Your phone buzzed. Twice. A message. A missed call.

You didn’t answer.

Eventually, you returned—but only to grab a bag, a few clothes.

On the counter sat a note. Spencer’s handwriting, careful and painfully neat:

“I didn’t know I was hurting you. I wish I had. I love you. I want to talk when you’re ready.”

You stared at it until the words lost their shape. Then you folded it and slid it into the trash.

He cornered you four days later. At your favorite café—the one you used to go to together when life wasn’t so damn heavy.

You didn’t expect him. You certainly didn’t expect the way he looked: tired, unshaven, a little wrecked in that beautiful, messy way he got when he hadn’t slept.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, like it explained everything.

You didn’t respond right away. Just sipped your lukewarm coffee and stared at the table like it might rescue you.

Spencer sat down across from you. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to read you like a file.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel small,” he said, quietly. “You have to believe me.”

“I do believe you,” you replied. “That’s part of the problem.”

He blinked, caught off guard.

You continued, voice steady even though your chest was burning. “You didn’t mean it. You never meant it. You didn’t yell or insult me. You didn’t mock me. You just… made me feel less without even realizing it.”

“I’ve been thinking about what you said. About respect,” he rushed on. “And I do. I respect you. I just—my brain doesn’t always process how things sound. I’m so used to facts and logic and being the guy with answers that I forget not everyone needs them.”

You shook your head slowly. “It’s not about answers, Spencer.”

His voice wavered. “Then what is it about?”

You looked him in the eyes, and for once, he didn’t have an answer waiting.

“It’s about how I always felt like a guest in your world. Like I had to earn my place by keeping up—by pretending I understood everything when I didn’t. And when I did understand something, when I shared something I cared about… you looked at me like I was wasting your time.”

“That’s not true—”

“It is,” you cut in. “You just didn’t notice. And that’s the part I can’t get over.”

Spencer stared at you like the words were landing late. Like he was still trying to reframe the situation in a way he could fix.

You leaned back in your chair. Exhaled slow.

“I used to be proud of myself,” you said. “Proud of what I knew, of what I liked. I used to feel like I had something to offer. But somewhere along the line, being with you made me feel like I was always… behind.”

Spencer’s lips parted, but he said nothing.

“I don’t want to feel like that anymore.”

There was a pause. A long one. You watched the realization settle on his face like a slow, devastating wave.

“You’re breaking up with me,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“I already did,” you said. “I just hadn’t said it out loud yet.”

His eyes flicked down, then back up. “But I love you.”

You smiled, sadly. “I love you too.”

“Then why—”

“Because love doesn’t undo the damage,” you said. “It doesn’t erase the feeling that I’ve spent the last six months trying to be enough for you—and failing.”

Spencer looked like he wanted to argue. Like he had one more fact to recite, one more theory to prove this could work if you just understood it better.

But there was nothing to fix. Not anymore.

You stood up.

“I hope you find someone who makes you feel seen, Spencer. And I hope they feel seen by you too.”

He didn’t stop you.

He just sat there, alone at the table, in a café full of strangers, holding onto a silence he couldn’t explain.

You didn’t look back when you left.

And he didn’t come after you.

For once, he had no words left to say.

Later that night, back at the apartment, he moved through the silence like it might have answers.

He wandered the living room aimlessly at first—touching the back of the couch where you used to sit curled up, glancing at the half-empty mug you'd left in the sink, untouched since you packed your bag.

Then he saw it.

A book—worn but well-kept—sitting on the edge of the coffee table like it had been left behind in a rush. Disconnected Minds: The Psychology of Digital Intimacy.

The same one you'd told him about. The one he had interrupted. The one he'd brushed off like it was old news.

Spencer sank onto the couch and picked it up slowly, flipping through the pages out of habit. The spine creaked, and his fingers froze.

You’d annotated nearly every margin.

There were notes in different pens. Highlights. Stars. Asterisks next to key passages. Brackets with tiny, excited comments scrawled into the corners.

“Is this why influencer obsession feels so personal?” “Could this apply to how we form attachments offline too? Digital leaking into physical?” “Fascinating parallel between mirror neurons and online projection—!!”

He kept turning pages, faster now. The deeper he went, the more his chest tightened. You hadn’t just read this. You’d devoured it. You had questioned it, challenged it, applied it to your own world.

You weren’t trying to impress him that night.

You were trying to share something.

And he hadn’t even looked up from his damn coffee.

His thumb caught on a sticky note tucked halfway through the book—bright yellow, crooked.

His eyes scanned your handwriting.

“This chapter kind of overlaps with what Spencer said about social schemas—but the author contradicts it here… I wonder if he’d agree or argue it?”

He stared at it.

You weren’t just learning. You were thinking. Engaging. Even referencing him like he was part of the text, part of your curiosity.

You’d wanted his thoughts. Not his approval.

And he’d given you neither.

Spencer closed the book slowly, resting it in his lap. The weight of it felt heavier now. He realized—too late—that you hadn’t been asking him to slow down. You’d just been asking him to see you.

And you were never stupid. Never behind.

You were brilliant. Just… not loud about it.

His throat tightened.

He should have read this sooner.

He should have read you sooner.

But all he’d done was explain things you already knew, while missing everything he should have noticed.

(Altnerate/happy ending! requested by; @dramioneforevertilltheend)

He cornered you four days later. At your favorite café—the one you used to go to together when life wasn’t so damn heavy.

You didn’t expect him. You certainly didn’t expect the way he looked: tired, unshaven, a little wrecked in that beautiful, messy way he got when he hadn’t slept.

“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, like it explained everything.

You didn’t respond right away. Just sipped your lukewarm coffee and stared at the table like it might rescue you.

Spencer sat down across from you. His eyes searched yours like he was trying to read you like a file.

You didn’t answer right away. Just sipped your lukewarm coffee and stared at the table like it might rescue you.

Spencer sat across from you, looking like hell in a sweater—creased at the elbows, hair unkempt, eyes ringed with sleepless regret. He didn’t even bother with a greeting. Just breathed out—

“I didn’t mean to make you feel small.”

You looked at him. Really looked.

“I know,” you said quietly. “That’s part of the problem.”

He blinked, like he hadn’t expected that.

“You never meant it. You never said anything cruel. But I still shrank. I still started second-guessing myself every time I opened my mouth.”

Spencer’s fingers curled slightly around the edge of the table. “I’ve been thinking about everything you said. About respect. About how I… how I talk to you. And I don’t have a good defense.”

You tilted your head. “Then why are you here?”

“Because I want to try again,” he said. “Differently. Better.”

You didn’t respond—not right away. You wanted to believe him, but belief isn’t built in a day. And you’d spent weeks—months—trying to hold your worth together with duct tape and nods and understanding smiles.

“You said you loved me,” he added, quieter now. “You said it even when you were leaving. I haven’t stopped thinking about that.”

You looked down at your hands, thumb brushing the rim of your coffee cup. “Love wasn’t the issue, Spencer.”

“I know. It was how I showed up. Or… didn’t.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh. “You showed up plenty. You just didn’t always see me when you did.”

His jaw flexed. “I read the book.”

That caught your attention.

“The one about digital intimacy,” he clarified. “Disconnected Minds. I read all of it. Every margin note. Every question you wrote down. You… you’re incredible.”

You looked at him slowly. “I didn’t write those notes to prove anything.”

“I know,” he said. “You wrote them because you were curious. Because you were thinking. Because you wanted to include me in something that mattered to you.”

“And you didn’t even look up from your coffee,” you murmured.

He winced. “I know. I keep replaying that night. How excited you were. I missed it. I missed you.”

There was a pause. Not tense. Just… full.

“I’m not asking you to forget it,” he said. “I wouldn’t. You shouldn’t. But if there’s still anything left—if there’s a version of us where I learn how to listen, how to meet you where you are instead of where I expect you to be… I want to find it.”

You studied him.

He looked nothing like the man who used to correct your metaphors or raise a brow at your questions. He looked gutted. Not because he’d lost the upper hand, but because he’d lost you. Because he’d seen it now—all the little things he never meant to destroy but did anyway.

“I'm not starting over from the same place,” you said. “If we try again, it has to be with the understanding that I'm not a student in your seminar. I'm not a puzzle to be solved.”

Spencer nodded instantly. “You're my partner. Or—I want you to be. I need to earn that again. I know I do.”

He reached across the table, fingers tentative, eyes asking rather than assuming.

You stared at his hand for a moment, then reached back—fingers curling into his.

His shoulders dropped in a slow, grateful exhale. Like the weight of the last few weeks finally eased, just a little.

You still didn’t smile. Not yet. But the anger had gone quiet. The ache, too. What was left was the stillness of possibility.

“I’m not promising anything,” you said.

“You don’t have to,” he replied. “Just… let me start by listening.”

And this time, when you spoke, he didn’t interrupt.

The café door clicked shut behind you both, the bell above it chiming faintly like punctuation at the end of something… or maybe the beginning.

Spencer offered to walk you, and you didn’t say no.

The evening air was cool—brisk enough to make your sleeves matter. The streets had that in-between hum: not quite quiet, not quite busy. You walked side by side, a careful foot or two of space between your arms. The distance wasn’t cold. It just… belonged there. For now.

You could hear him breathing beside you. Could tell he was trying not to talk too much, not to fill the silence with facts or half-baked theories. His restraint felt unfamiliar, like watching a bird stay perfectly still. A little miraculous. A little sad.

“So,” he said, after two blocks. “Your friend lives nearby?”

You nodded. “A few more streets over.”

He hesitated. “Are they nice?”

You gave a small laugh through your nose. “Yeah. Too nice. Keep trying to get me to watch dating shows and eat ice cream straight from the tub.”

“Sounds healing,” Spencer said softly.

You glanced sideways. “You’d hate it.”

He smiled a little. “Probably. But if it helps you, I support it fully. Even the ice cream crimes.”

That earned him a real laugh, quick and low.

You passed a bookstore on the corner—the lights inside still glowing, warm and yellow. He glanced at the window display but didn’t stop. You caught the way his fingers flexed at his side, like part of him wanted to drag you inside and browse until closing time. Another part knew not to ask.

He was trying. And for once, he wasn’t trying to fix. Just… to be.

“You know,” you said, as you reached the street before your temporary place, “you don’t have to walk me the whole way.”

“I know,” he replied. “But I wanted to. Not to push anything. Just… to make sure you got back safe. And to show you I meant it. That I see you now.”

You stopped at the gate. Porch light flickering gently above the door.

Spencer stopped too.

There were so many things you could say. None of them felt quite right.

So you went with the truth.

“I’m scared to let you back in.”

He nodded slowly. “That’s fair.”

“And I don’t know how long it’ll take before I stop feeling like I’m waiting for the next moment you talk over me. Or explain something I already know.”

Another nod. No excuses. Just acknowledgment.

“I don’t want apologies every time we talk,” you added. “I just want you. Just… you, but aware.”

His voice was quiet. “Then I’ll be aware. I’ll keep learning.”

You studied him—this man who could recite obscure linguistic patterns but sometimes forgot how tone worked in a conversation. This man who had made you feel so small without ever raising his voice—but who now stood in front of you like he would do anything just to get it right.

Something inside you softened.

“I’m still staying here,” you said. “At least for a little while.”

“Okay.”

“But you can call. Or text. Or send me those stupid articles you always forward at 2 a.m.”

He smiled, just barely. “I haven’t sent one since you left.”

“Well,” you murmured, stepping closer, “you can start again.”

A beat passed.

Then you leaned in—slow, careful—and kissed his cheek. Just a whisper of contact, your lips barely brushing the stubble there. It wasn’t a promise. Just a touch.

A tether.

His breath caught, chest rising with it. And for once, Spencer Reid—the man with a million words—didn’t say anything at all.

He just watched as you slipped through the gate and up the steps, pausing at the door.

You turned back.

“I’ll see you soon?”

His face warmed. “I hope so.”

[theseventhdimension]

I'm combusting, people go read this now

Of Dragons and Dinos

Aaron Hotchner x Reader (should be gender neutral but if i missed anything, lmk)

Summary: You’re watching Jack and it’s late when Aaron finally comes home.

Fluffy af with a tiny bit of angst in between, maybe.

A/N: I know that the timeline makes no sense at all with the canon events and such, but i give to care right now and wanted to write a comfy fluffy fic about domestic life with the Hotchner family :)

The door shut almost without any sound at all, just the lower hinges screeched the way they always did. Aaron didn’t let that bother him too much. He almost didn’t hear it anymore and if you didn’t show the reaction you always had to small noises no one ever noticed, he’d probably be unaware of it by now. Even a world class profiler like Aaron Hotchner got used to little things that weren’t quite obvious to the ordinary observer. With you, however, every time the two of you would enter his and Jack’s place together, though in all fairness with how much you stayed there and even having your own set of keys, you almost lived there, too, you would cringe at the hinges and he would take notice of the familiar noise as well.

Tonight, he did not come in with you, yet he still noticed the noise as he was trying to be as quiet as possible, given the hour and the fact he knew you’d had a bit of a stressful day at work, and if he was correct you’d actually kept most of it to yourself when texting him to not make him worry more, so you probably had an almost awful day at work, maybe even a headache or something to go with it and were most likely to be asleep already. He stepped into the apartment and therefore into the living room. Your laptop was connected to the TV but by now, both screens had gone black. He took off his shoes and put down his bag by the door, but curiosity won and so he opened the disc department of your computer, a small smile emerging on his face as he saw that you’d seemingly watched How to train your dragon with Jack. Aaron knew it was a comfort movie of yours and that Jack had been a big fan of whatever it was you liked lately. He closed the department and shut your laptop down, you’d probably have done it yourself in the morning, but he was already here, why not save you some time.

His next stop was the kitchen, as you’d usually wait up for him if you knew he would be coming home later that night, but they’d been able to close up a case sooner than they’d expected and he forgot to let you know over all his paperwork and such. You had not waited up, what for even his overworked mind couldn’t fathom, but because you notoriously prepared enough dinner for three people and usually even something for lunch next day, there was some leftover pasta in the fridge. Aaron quickly plated some and heated it up, careful to open the microwave just before it would ding loudly. It was simple pasta with tomato sauce, but Jack swore you made it better than anyone else, Aaron included, and it felt like coming home to his tired mind.

He glanced up as he heard rather heavy footsteps down the hall where Jack’s and his bedrooms were. Both Jack and you were light on your feet, you even more so than Jack because it was a childhood habit to be as quiet as you could possibly be. Technically, it could be neither of you, and that stressed Aaron. His hand went to his holster almost on its own as he quietly made his way towards the sound, silently cursing his earlier decision to leave the hallway lights off. His first thought was to check Jack’s room, he knew you could hold your own, and even though he loved you, his love for Jack was above all else.

The door to Jack’s room was ajar and he could just make out a shadow where he knew Jack’s bed to be. The shadow leaned down before straightening back up and walking back towards the door. Aaron stood back, gun drawn, ready to pounce on the intruder.

“Who are you?” he hissed when the shadow emerged from his son’s room.

“Jesus, Aaron.” you exclaimed as you flinched back in surprise, a hand coming up towards your chest.

“Sorry, love. Thought you were… i don’t know. Are you alright?” he holstered his gun and pulled you into a tight embrace, glad it was just you and a little embarrassed at his reaction.

“Why didn’t you call?” you asked, still whispering as to not wake Jack. Aaron pulled you along to the kitchen, where his half eaten plate of pasta was sitting on the table. “I forgot. The case finished up sooner than any of us expected and we got a rather spontaneous flight allowance and then with all the paperwork i just didn’t think to call ahead, sorry.” He watched as you got yourself a glass of water and sat down opposite him before he continued, “What were you doing in Jack’s room? Didn’t sound like you walking at all”. You took a sip of water, “He wanted to sleep in your bed, had a bad dream last night and thought he couldn’t fall asleep on his own. I just didn’t feel like arguing with him, and who can blame the kid, he missed you. But I have to get up early tomorrow and didn’t want to wake him on a weekend day so i carried him into his own bed. And then you almost shot me, i guess.” That last part, you said with a little smile and a wink, even though he could tell you were a bit tense, probably the headache, or fatigue he knew you were trying to hide away from him.

He chuckled, though you could tell he was analysing you and worrying, “I didn’t mean to shoot you, or scare you or anything like that. You just sounded like a burglar.”

“i know, i know, you just worry. How was the case?”

“Tiring.” he observed your every move, be it just the slight deepening of your frown as the light began bothering you more and more over the course of the conversation.

“Let’s get you to bed then, huh?” you stood and waited for him to follow, when he spoke up, “How bad was today really, hm?” You sighed but from the look he gave you, you knew any answer but the truth would be useless, “I just… I didn’t really know how to deal with Jack’s nightmare last night, so he asked me if i’d sit by his bed, so, i didn’t sleep a lot… not Jack’s fault, and you know i’d never blame him for it; but i was worried he’d think i would-“ Aaron stood up and hugged you but he didn’t interrupt, so you went on “when i got to work, two out of three lab assistants called in sick and we still have to cover the same amount of cases, so that was stressful and then i got a headache that wouldn’t go away from drinking water or taking medicine so i just tried to push through, but i promised Jack we’d watch How to train your Dragon some time this week and he wanted to go to the cinema, i think, but i guess we compromised and stuff but i don’t want him to think i don’t want to do stuff with him… Aaron, what if he hates me?” He looked at the defeated expression on his lover’s face and hugged you even tighter, “Jack doesn’t hate you. He loves you, adores you. You’re his hero. He stopped me from buying you a ridiculous dragon tie, because he explained to me, while How To Train Your Dragon and such movies are your favourites, you actually preferred dinosaurs over dragons and therefore i should buy you a dino tie or something because if i’m getting you a dragon tie already, it better have toothless on it… He wanted to sleep next to you because he missed me. My son, my dear, loves you and just because you didn’t have the capacity to go to the movies with him today, he could never hate you for that. Okay? Let’s get you to bed, hm?” A single tear flowed down your face as you listened to him and by the end, you could just nod and hug him back, thankful for his words and understanding.

“Come on, now, i still have to get ready but you can take something against that headache while i’m at it… If you feel up to it, we can just go to the movies to watch the live action tomorrow.”

[theseventhdimension]

loved the domestic hotch x male reader you wrote (think it was “Some Guy, in Hotch’s kitchen?!”)

imagine, Hotch, reader and Jack going on a nice vacation together, basically shocking the team once again when they find out that Hotch was actually going somewhere for his vacation?

Do Not Disturb (He’s Relaxing!)

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Word Count: 1.4k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's Note: Hotch on vacation is rare. Hotch relaxing on vacation? (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞ Someone call security we have an imposter in our midst..! !

Hotch and Jack are absolutely perfect for writing domestic fics! They already have their cute vibe going on and. Well. Haley's dead so it's easier to insert the reader. But you didn't hear that from me.. ಥ‿ಥ

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy :))

Aaron Hotchner, in contrast to the serial killers he chased every day, was a serial over-worker.

Vacation days, for him, were never used for their intended purpose. No beaches, no sleep-ins, no fruity drinks with umbrellas.

Just an excuse to work from home — because hey, now he didn’t have to drive. If anything, those “rest days” gave him more time to review files, catch up on paperwork, and reorganise the already ruthlessly optimised spice rack (and not alphabetically — by culinary frequency, of course).

That was, at least, until you came into the picture.

You were just as hard-working, just as driven — but you knew when to step back. When to unplug. When to stand between Hotch and the printer like a security guard and say, “Aaron. No unsub is going to strike between now and Monday. But that crab in the tidepool? He's about to raise hell.”

So when you planned a quiet getaway — just you, Aaron, and Jack — Hotch surprised everyone, including himself, by agreeing. Not with his usual sigh and reluctant nod, either.

No. He’d smiled.

Now, here he was: in bed, on vacation, sleeping like someone who didn’t have seventeen open case files and a permanent crease between his eyebrows.

The morning light was warm across the sheets, honey-gold and slow. A breeze stirred the curtains lazily, carrying the scent of salt and sunscreen. Somewhere outside, near the dunes, a child’s voice rang out:

“Daaaad! Come see! There’s a turtle! I named him Steve!”

You blinked at the ceiling, grinning. An arm draped across your waist. A weight tucked in behind you — all warmth, all exhale.

You turned your head to see Hotch still dozing, face soft and half-buried in the pillow, peaceful in a way that made your chest ache.

You whispered, “Jack found a turtle.”

Hotch groaned. “Tell the turtle I’m off duty. He can leave a message.”

“Jack named him Steve.”

“…Damn it.”

You pressed a kiss to his temple and began to wriggle out of bed. He groaned again, reaching for you like a grumpy, sentient furnace.

“Stay.”

“You can join us in a minute,” you said, pulling on a hoodie. “Or explain to Jack why his emotional support turtle was neglected.”

“That’s a lot of pressure for a reptile.”

You tossed a pillow at him. It hit him square in the face. He didn’t even flinch — just smiled into it, eyes closed.

Outside, Jack was already ankle-deep in tidepools, gesturing at a rock with intense conviction.

“Where’s Steve?” you asked.

Jack pointed solemnly. “He’s shy.”

You laughed. “Aren’t we all.”

By the time Hotch emerged — sleeves rolled, hair sleep-mussed — you and Jack were soaked and halfway through a sandcastle war with the sea. Jack ran toward him with a shout and leapt into his arms. Aaron caught him easily, laughing as water splashed up his legs.

You didn’t take a photo.

You didn’t need to.

You'd already captured the moment in your mind — that rare, gold-dusted sight of Aaron Hotchner letting go.

Back in Quantico, three days later…

The bullpen was unusually quiet.

Reid was scribbling theories no one had asked for. Garcia was working through a pink monstrosity of a coffee. JJ and Prentiss were watching Morgan try to wrestle formatting out of his laptop.

And then a package landed in the middle of the nearest desk with a heavy thunk.

From: Jack Hotchner :D!! (and Co.)

To: BAU Family

Garcia was the first to pounce. “Mail from the Hotchlings!”

Inside: a postcard and a handful of odd little trinkets wrapped in paper.

The postcard was hand-written, signed by both you and Aaron, but clearly dictated by Jack — who had also drawn what might have been a turtle, or a hamburger, or possibly Godzilla in a sunhat.

The postcard read:

Dear BAU, We are alive. Hotch has eaten three ice creams. He cried at a seagull and said it looked like freedom. Jack found a turtle named Steve. We are not bringing him home. Also, Hotch has been spotted smiling. In daylight. Multiple times. Love, The Vacation Survivors (+ Jack, who picked out the gifts.)

The team erupted.

Morgan opened his tiny package to find a small wooden shark carved out of driftwood. “Hell yeah. This lil guy’s got fight. Or should I say.. Bite?” He smirked as absolutely no one laughed at his joke.

JJ got a jar of locally made strawberry jam. “Jack said it matched your ‘vibe.’”

Emily received a keychain in the shape of a lizard holding a beer.

“Oh my god,” she said, nearly wheezing. “It’s me.”

Garcia held up a neon plastic bracelet with “HOT DAD SUMMER” printed across it in glitter font. “This is going on my shrine.”

Reid turned over a paperback book titled Tidepool Creatures for Curious Minds, with a note:

I told Jack you’d like it. He picked the one with the most tentacles.

He smiled quietly to himself. “He gets me.”

And then they read the rest of the card — the part in Aaron’s handwriting.

Please don’t panic. I’m fine. The sea is not a cult. Darling made me relax. Jack made me buy flip-flops. I hate them. Send help. — Hotch

Emily wiped a tear from her eye. “He wrote that like he’s being held hostage by joy.”

Reid nodded solemnly. “But he’s letting it happen.”

Garcia hugged the whole bundle to her chest. “They broke him. In the best possible way.”

Morgan smirked. “He’s not broken. He’s free.”

JJ smiled, gaze soft. “About time.”

Back at the beach, you caught Hotch frowning slightly as he flipped through his wallet. You leaned in.

“What’s wrong?”

He showed you.

Tucked into the fold: a second copy of the postcard. The one Jack insisted he keep. The turtle was colored in this time.

Hotch smiled, barely.

“I guess I just wanted to remember what it felt like,” he murmured. “To stop.”

You reached over. Took his hand. “Then let’s never forget.”

Hotch stepped into the bullpen with his usual briefcase in hand and a coffee that was, for once, not scalding. His tie was back. His sleeves were buttoned. The tan was already starting to fade.

But he still walked like someone who remembered how to breathe.

And yet.

There was something… off.

Not in a bad way. Just in a wait, is that relaxation on his face? kind of way.

Garcia noticed it first.

She froze mid-step, eyes widening behind her glitter-streaked glasses. “Oh my god,” she whispered. “He’s back.”

Emily glanced up from her desk. “Yeah, so?”

“No, Emily. He’s back from vacation.”

Reid’s marker squeaked to a halt on the whiteboard. JJ slowly lowered her coffee like she was watching a live miracle unfold.

Morgan blinked. “Wait, that was real? That wasn’t, like… medical leave disguised as a beach trip?”

They watched him walk — no, stroll — across the bullpen. Calm. Composed. Well-rested.

Garcia gasped. “He looks… hydrated.”

“Is that sunscreen I smell?” Prentiss whispered, horrified.

“I think he’s actually… tanned,” Reid murmured.

He made it three steps before Garcia gasped theatrically from across the room.

“He returns!” she cried, throwing her arms in the air. “Behold, the man, the myth, the Sea Dad himself!”

He paused.

“…What?”

JJ waved from her desk, where a small jar of jam sat proudly next to a photo of her family. “Welcome back. We missed you.”

Emily sipped coffee from a mug with the lizard keychain dangling off the handle. “We’re just glad you survived the wilds of leisure.”

Morgan leaned back in his chair, flicking the wooden shark between his fingers. “Tide looked good on you, Hotch.”

Reid, flipping through Tidepool Creatures for Curious Minds, looked up and said sincerely, “Did you know octopuses taste through their arms? I did, but it's a nice reminder. You can never refresh on your current knowledge too much.”

Hotch blinked. “...Okay.”

Then he looked around.

One by one, he spotted them — all of them.

The bracelet looped around Garcia’s desk lamp.

The shark.

The jam.

The paperback.

The lizard.

All of it, scattered like proof. Little reminders. Tokens from a time he’d almost convinced himself wasn’t real.

You appeared beside him, all warm grin and raised brows.

He glanced down at you, then back out over the bullpen.

“…They kept the souvenirs,” he murmured.

You nudged him lightly. “Of course they did.”

He nodded once. “Good.”

Then, without another word, Aaron Hotchner walked calmly to his office…

…wearing flip-flops?

[theseventhdimension]

in honour of the stupidly hot and dry weather where i live and the fact i had to sit in the sun and entertain children for 8 hours today, here is my request:

BAU x reader who doesn’t do too well with heat and such and is more of cold weather guy with low temperature preference

maybe they’re on a case and have to try to deal with extreme heat conditions? idk but like, maybe this is a fic idea for you :)

Satan's Microwave

Pairing: BAU Team (Spencer, Morgan, and Hotch) x Male!Reader

Word count: 1.3k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: I've been letting this rot in my drafts for like 2/3 weeks now I'm so sorry king (⁠-⁠_⁠-⁠;⁠)⁠・⁠・⁠・Though, I am pretty happy with how this turned out. I'd love love love the opportunity to write a reader that's more angry, so if anyone has any ideas around that I'm definitely open to it ♡⁠(⁠Ӧ⁠ｖ⁠Ӧ⁠｡⁠)

As always, all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy ✧⁠◝⁠(⁠⁰⁠▿⁠⁰⁠)⁠◜⁠✧

The air tastes like asphalt.

Hot. Dry. Dead. As if the sky had taken a blowtorch to the town and never turned it off. Every breath clings like syrup in your lungs, and you can feel your pulse dragging in slow, overheated slogs beneath your skin — thick and sluggish, like your blood is trying to swim uphill.

“This is inhumane,” you mutter, wiping your forehead with the handkerchief that gave up being useful four hours ago.

Morgan snorts, lounging against the SUV with one arm hooked on the door. “What, you don’t like a little sunshine?”

“This isn’t sunshine,” you deadpan. “It’s Satan’s microwave.”

The heat doesn’t just press — it shoves. There’s no breeze, no shade, no mercy. Just wave after wave of shimmering, sandpaper-thick air. You’re a cold-weather guy, built for snowstorms and scarves, not dust and fire. You like layers, not sunstroke. Rain. Ice. The reliable hug of a jacket zipped too high.

Here, even your bones feel like they’re sweating.

The case hasn’t helped. Tiny desert town. One sheriff. Two burned bodies. A station with no A/C and a ceiling fan that whines like it’s about to confess something. The unsub’s been setting ritual fires in isolated areas — charred shrines, scorched symbols — and now the team’s spending hours hiking through heat mirages to analyze the wreckage.

You’re trying to keep up. Really.

But everyone else seems fine.

Hotch is wearing long sleeves like it’s a breezy spring day in D.C.

Reid’s turning steadily pink but remains more concerned with topographic cult behavior than his melting skin.

Prentiss hasn’t broken a sweat. She’s sipping lukewarm coffee like she’s feeding off it.

And you?

You’re three degrees from passing out and actively fantasizing about sticking your face in a walk-in freezer.

You try not to stumble getting out of the SUV, but the soles of your boots have practically melted to the rubber mats. The ground tilts when you step down — just a fraction, but enough to make your stomach pitch.

The air hits like a wall. Noon light bleeding from every direction, bouncing off the sand, the rocks, your skull.

“Quarter-mile radius,” Hotch says, already walking. “Sweep north. GPS tags on. Stay hydrated.”

You’ve been trying. You really have. But no matter how much you drink, your mouth still tastes like coins and crushed dust. Your shirt clings like a second skin, and the sun’s needlepoint focus behind your eyes feels surgical.

Reid’s voice cuts gently beside you. “Don’t forget to take breaks. You’re showing early signs of—”

“I’m fine.”

You aren’t.

But you say it anyway.

Ten minutes in, and your hands are trembling. Not from adrenaline — from heat. From pretending.

The trail winds into scorched nothing. Ash instead of dirt. Charcoal rings where fires once roared. You crouch beside one, thermal scanner buzzing faintly in your hand. The world sways left when you bend.

Too fast. Too much.

A white-hot bolt shoots behind your eyes. Your stomach twists. Cold sweat beads on your spine — the kind that screams danger, not relief.

Your vision pulses. You’re lightheaded. Distant. Everything feels just a touch off — like someone pressed mute on the world and smeared vaseline over your focus.

“Fuck—” slips out before you can bite it down.

Morgan’s voice comes sharp through the haze. “You good?”

You stiffen, forcing your voice steady. “Yeah. Just, uh- ...shoelace?”

You crouch lower, fake a tug at your boot — half to sell the lie, half because your legs are not going to hold. Your fingers are numb. Your mouth’s dry. The desert buzzes.

Get up. Move.

You try. And the second you do, your knees almost buckle. The sky ripples. Your chest seizes.

“Hey,” Spencer again — closer this time. “You just swayed. Are you—?”

“I said I’m fine.” Pshhh, what was that? the fourth time you've had to say that in the span of thirty minutes??

The lie breaks on the way out. It’s all breath, no bones.

Hotch is turning even before you finish speaking. His eyes snap to yours — cool, focused, cutting.

“Sit down,” he says. “Now.”

You don’t even think. You just drop.

Your knees hit dirt. Palms follow. The world swirls.

Morgan’s beside you a second later. “Shit, you’re boiling. You didn’t say you were this bad.”

Reid kneels in next, already digging into his bag. “His skin’s flushed, breathing’s shallow—core temp’s rising fast. This could be heatstroke.”

Morgan pops a bottle of water and presses it into your hand. When you don’t grip it fast enough, he helps guide it up.

“Drink. Don’t argue.”

You drink.

But it doesn’t stop the pressure building in your chest. Not the heat — the eyes.

Your ribs are tight. Your throat, tighter.

And suddenly it’s not just the sun that’s too much.

You yank your arm back from Reid’s hand, pulse thrumming with embarrassment, frustration, anything to drown out the helplessness curling in your gut.

“I said I’m fine!” The words snap sharp, too loud. You push away from Morgan’s steady shoulder and hiss through your teeth. “God, how many times do I have to say it? Stop treating me like I’m slowing you down!”

The silence afterward is immediate — heavy.

Reid’s eyes flicker down, startled but soft. Morgan leans back, but doesn’t bristle. He just watches you. Not angry. Just… there. And Hotch? He doesn’t flinch.

“No one said you were,” he says calmly. “But you are pushing too hard. And we care. That’s not an insult.”

You don’t know what to say. Your hands tremble harder now — maybe from the heat, maybe from something closer to shame. You lower your eyes, jaw clenched so tight it hurts.

Then Morgan exhales and murmurs, “You think we haven’t all had a moment like this?”

Reid offers a small nod. “It’s okay to not be okay in the middle of a desert crime scene.” He manages a faint smile. “That’s not exactly the ideal working environment.”

Hotch doesn’t say anything else. Just reaches into his jacket, pulls out another cold pack, and offers it without a word.

You hesitate.

Then you take it.

You press it to your neck. Let the cold in. And let them in as well, if only just a little.

[theseventhdimension]

Not a request or anything, just wanted to say how much i love your writing style and such. Been rereading a lot of your work over and over again on like train rides and whenever there was some time, and i’m pretty sure i will be coming back to reread over and over again.

Thanks for sharing your work :)

And what if I said I love you? ತ⁠_⁠ʖ⁠ತ 🤨

You don't know it but this has been EXACTLY what I needed to hear. I've been really sick as of recently and been struggling with some bills and the wedding photograph says it's gonna take over a month to edit, finalize, and give them to me even though my family keeps pressuring me for them and I haven't been posting as much because I have like no inspiration WOAH THAT WAS A RANT AND A HALF.. (⁠･⁠o⁠･⁠;⁠)

I always appreciate comments like these!! to anyone and everyone who reads fanfiction of any kind, please know that every like and kind words means so so much to the authors 💗💗(⁠人⁠ ⁠•͈⁠ᴗ⁠•͈⁠) you guys literally keep me going 🥰

Best believe I'm almost done with like two works though!! *Wink wink nudge nudge*

You're so real for reading during train rides too lol twin fr, hope you have a nice day Fred <3

[theseventhdimension]

okay okay, but imagine Tech analyst reader who frequently helps out or takes over for Garcia. The team technically knows they do that but sometimes they forget so imagine Derek calling the tech cave and reader answering just hearing “What’s up baby girl?” and reader just being like “Excuse me?!” because he’s definitely not at that level of comfortable with Derek and also not exactly a girl

also, congrats on getting married!

404: Garcia Not Found..

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Male! Reader

Word count: 1.3k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's note: Arghhh this is a really nice idea, and i'm always looking to write more stuff for Morgan but I'm absolutely hopeless at coming up with ideas for him.

Thanks so much for the congrats! Everything went perfectly, except for the fact someone brought their kid despite being specifically told not to. As always, all feedback is appreciated. Hope you enjoy!! (⁠´⁠ε⁠｀⁠ ⁠)

By noon, the heat had evolved sentience and declared itself sheriff. The Nevada heat clung to everything like regret—sticky, unrelenting, and just a little personal.

Two murders in three days. Both victims were hitchhikers, both picked up near the I-80, both found stripped of ID, with matching bruises around their wrists and necks—suggesting a clear dominant/submissive dynamic between the killers.

The locals were out of their depth. Hotch was in an interview. JJ and Rossi were talking to truck stop staff. And Morgan?

Morgan needed tech backup. Now.

He stabbed the call button on the secure laptop connection, barely watching the screen flicker as the signal went through to Quantico.

Ring. Ring. Click.

“What’s up, baby girl?” Morgan said automatically, leaning one hip on the desk. His voice was smooth, familiar—pure muscle memory. “We’re out here baking in the sun with two vics in the morgue, and I need you to work your magic. See if you can pull anything from highway cams near the last truck stop they were seen at—mile marker 178. Also, if there's any pattern to the direction the victims were headed, maybe someone’s choosing their targets based on where they’re trying to go. Could mean the unsubs are mobile. I’m thinking truckers, maybe a couple? Something about the crime scenes says shared space. The bindings were too clean. It’s coordinated. Might be a dominant-submissive thing. Maybe sexual, maybe just control—either way, it’s intimate and practiced.”

He paused just long enough to breathe.

“You still with me, baby girl?”

A beat.

The voice on the other end was not high-pitched, not glittery, and absolutely not Penelope Garcia.

Then—

“…Excuse me?”

It was deep. Masculine. Smooth in that ‘voice actor for luxury car commercials’ kind of way, and currently laced with dry confusion and more than a little judgment.

Morgan blinked. “Wait—what?”

“It’s me. Not Garcia,” you said flatly, already typing away like this happened more often than it should. “You know—the other tech analyst? The one who’s been covering for her while she’s off presenting at that FBI coding retreat in Maryland? The guy who’s been patching your signals and processing your half-sent field requests all week?”

Morgan sat up straighter, suddenly aware of how much talking he’d done. “Oh. Oh, damn.”

“Yeah. That’s the correct response,” you said, amusement starting to creep into your voice. “You just called a grown-ass man ‘baby girl,’ listed four crimes, and didn’t even pause for breath. Honestly, I’m flattered. But also—deeply concerned.”

Morgan rubbed his forehead, suddenly feeling every degree of the desert heat. “I didn’t check the name—I just hit the line. It’s usually Garcia.”

“Yeah, well, today it’s me,” you said, matter-of-fact, fingers flying over your keys. “And for future reference? Maybe wait for the voice to talk before you start handing out nicknames like candy.”

Across the makeshift office, Reid coughed pointedly into his elbow, and Prentiss didn’t even pretend she wasn’t listening.

Morgan groaned, quietly and with soul. “She’s gonna hear about this, isn’t she?”

“Oh,” you said with a smirk he could feel through the phone. “She’s gonna make a slideshow.”

Two days after wrapping the Nevada case, you were elbows-deep in corrupted metadata, muttering darkly at your monitor like it had personally insulted your family line.

Your desk looked like a warzone: a battlefield of empty energy drink cans, half-eaten protein bars, and one worn notebook full of scribbled access codes and passive-aggressive post-its to yourself.

The door creaked open.

You didn’t look up.

"..You’re not Garcia," you grunted. "So unless you’ve got a sandwich, an apology, or the exact GPS coordinates of an unsub’s burner phone, I’m not interested."

There was a pause—then a familiar throat-clear.

"...Actually, I’ve got two outta three."

You looked up.

Derek Morgan stood in the doorway like a man approaching a trap he helped build. In his hands, a cardboard tray of two iced coffees—the sides slick with condensation—and a paper bag radiating "guilt muffin" energy.

One cup had your exact order written neatly across the lid.

The other just said: BRIBE.

You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but entertained. "This your version of groveling?"

"It’s a start," he said, stepping inside like the floor might reject him. "Also brought a blueberry muffin. I hear your kind can be appeased with carbs."

"...Garcia?"

"She may or may not have emailed me a PowerPoint titled ‘How to Apologize to the Other Hot Nerd.’"

You squinted. "Other hot nerd?"

"She wrote it. Not me."

You leaned back and crossed your arms. "So let me get this straight. You call a grown man ‘baby girl’ in the middle of a double homicide case, ignore three emails about the tech rotation, and now you think caffeine and a muffin are gonna fix it?"

"...Yes?"

A beat.

You reached for the coffee and inspected the lid.

"I will accept this tribute," you said, taking a long sip. "Only because you spelled my name right. That’s rare."

Morgan exhaled. "Good. I was afraid I’d have to beg."

"Oh, don’t worry," you said, licking some foam from your lip. "I haven’t decided not to make you change your ringtone to ‘Oops I Did It Again.’"

He blinked. "As in... Britney?"

"You called me baby girl, Morgan. We’re past embarrassment. We’re in consequences now."

You turned back to your monitors. Morgan hovered nearby, unsure whether to sit or evaporate.

Then, with the faintest grin, he said, "For the record... your voice threw me off. I expected Garcia’s sparkle and jazz hands, and I got Morgan Freeman after two Red Bulls and a week without sleep."

You smirked. "Damn right. Now sit down if you wanna watch me reroute a VPN signal through six countries in under ten seconds."

He did.

Somehow, between the quiet clicks of the keyboard and the occasional slurp of coffee, the awkward began to smooth into something easier. Familiar. Not quite friendship, not quite anything else—but a start.

Almost.

Until you muttered, "Also... I am keeping the BRIBE cup. For legal leverage."

"Noted."

Just then, the sliding glass door to the tech office cracked open with the softest of squeaks.

Garcia peeked in—just her head at first, curls bobbing, glasses slightly askew. Her eyes scanned the room like a hawk on a sugar rush, pupils dilating the second they landed on the scene.

Morgan, sitting casually at the edge of your desk, coffee in hand, looking far too pleased with himself.

You, leaned back with his cup labeled “BRIBE,” one leg hooked under the other, sipping coolly mid-keystroke like this was just another Tuesday.

She froze.

Her eyes widened—comic book style, full saucers. Her mouth parted slightly, as if to gasp, but no sound came out.

She squealed—silently, violently, like her entire body had been possessed by the spirit of a thousand fangirls trying to behave in a museum. Shoulders shaking, hands clenched in excitement, every cell of her being vibrating at a frequency only dolphins could hear.

And then—

She turned on her heel and sprinted out of the room.

Just full cartoon physics. Gone.

You didn’t even blink. “She’s gonna turn this into a PowerPoint, isn’t she?”

Morgan sighed into his coffee. “She already has one.”

[theseventhdimension]

Little update!! (⁠✷⁠‿⁠✷⁠)

So, uh, my wedding's tomorrow.. yay? (Definitely yay) (I love my (soon to be) husband so much he's so cool ehehehehehe [ʃ⁠ƪ⁠＾⁠3⁠＾] )

Pretty pretty promise I'll have all the requested fics out by next week!!

But I may need some time to cry while my wallet hurts from how much I spent planning this event.. why do flower arrangements cost so much? (⁠༎ຶ⁠ ⁠෴⁠ ⁠༎ຶ⁠)

[theseventhdimension]

He’s his what?! (Pt. 3)

Alright, so, i’ve been a bit stressed depressed and therefore not in a writing mood, but today i felt like it.

Lmk if you want me to actually keep going with this, or if you have other ideas or requests.

Not even beta read by yours truly me, but here you go.

I’m so bad at writing social interactions, someone rescue me please.

Part 1 - Part 2

The streets seemed far too busy for Hotch’s nervous mind. Everybody’s world was spinning on and on and his was so fragile it could be shattered by a leaf falling due to the wind. He didn’t know if you were alright, he just knew that there was an emergency and upon pressing for more information was told about a hostage situation turned explosion. He knew you were capable of taking care of yourself. He knew you were careful and he knew that you were a tough enough guy, but still. Aaron hadn’t been able to talk to you on the phone, apparently no one had actually talked to you when the call took place. He couldn’t lose you, not like this and not now. Jack loved you, Aaron loved you and you loved them. You were a happy family, as happy as could be in the situation you were in.

Aaron pulled into the parking lot, the last of his stubborn hope disappearing as he saw your car in your designated spot. He knew it had been foolish to hope you’d just stayed home without telling him or been a bit late that morning. You’d deviated from your usual routine as Aaron had had to go to work early because of a meeting. He’d trusted you to take Jack to school as you’d done before, but due to Jack’s class leaving for a trip you’d had to get there at a different time as well. Usually, for the past two weeks at least, Aaron would drive by your field office at the same time as you stepped through the doors to start your day. He hadn’t told you about this little ritual of his but it helped him feel better in the morning, knowing you were at work and well. This morning, however, he hadn’t been able to see you step into work.

Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner wasn’t one to believe in bad luck or such, yet, him not having seen you that morning and him sitting in his car just outside the building where you’d been in an undefinable emergency situation seemed connected somehow.

With a sigh, he opened the door and stepped out of the car, making his way towards the building’s entrance when his phone rang.

“Dave? What is it? This really is-“

he was cut off when Rossi started to speak “Listen, listen. Garcia told us about your fiancé, we’re just a little mad that you didn’t tell us, but that doesn’t matter. We’re here for you, alright? Do you have any news yet?”

As he walked into the building, he replied “I… thank you, Dave. I just got here, i… Dave, i can’t lose him.”

The other man stayed silent for a moment before trying to give the best advice he could, “Aaron, i know this sucks, but until you have more information, i need you to not make assumptions, alright? We’re here for you, or for Jack or whatever you need, just let us know. You’ve got this.”

He nodded even though he knew Rossi wasn’t able to see him, “I appreciate it… Jack’s on a class trip, so… i think i’ll just have to go in. Talk to you later.” and with that, he hung up, walking up to two agents standing at the inner entrance, basically blocking it, “Excuse me? I’m here for Doctor M/N L/N?”. The agents looked up with stern expressions, “Are you his…?” “I’m his fiancé, yes.” he interrupted them, not even caring about seeming rude or anything.

“Of course, sir, we’re just… You won’t be able to see him right away, we’ve got an exposure situation.”

Aaron’s face paled slightly at those words, “Exposure to what?”

The agents shared a look while leading Hotch deeper inside the building towards where he knew your laboratory to be, “Well, seems like the guy used neurotoxins in his bomb and now your… fiancé and his colleague are, well, high? Still trying to figure out what kind of toxins those were.”

“Neurotoxins? So, are there any other effects? Other than him being high?” his mind slipped into his analytical profiler thinking on its own.

“Well, L/N seems to be reacting differently to it than Watts. The unsub got out before he set off the bomb but we’re already interrogating him. The paramedics are already getting ready to go in but i’m sure they’d be happy with any medical information you can provide.”

“One more question: Who takes hostages in an FBI laboratory?” that question had sat on his mind ever since answering that phone call.

“A guy who thinks we’re developing the cure to cancer, apparently, best we could get out of him was that his mother is terminally ill and Doctors L/N and Watts were hiding away the cure on order of the state…”

They stepped through the sliding doors leading into the hallway just outside the laboratory doors, black with what looked like soot.

People were hurrying back and forth, paramedics, agents and firefighters trying to figure out how the two scientists were faring and how dangerous it would be for anyone to come into the lab to check on you.

Aaron felt dread flood his mind, he didn’t want to be in the way, but he needed to see you. Needed to know you were alright, needed to know you were alive at least.

Aaron Hotchner couldn’t lose you. He just couldn’t.

[theseventhdimension]

absolutely loved your Rossi fic!

could i ask for a male reader x season 5 Rossi where they’re on their own during a case because like a storm or whatever but maybe reader is slightly hurt? Rossi takes care of him and voila?

idk, i just crave some hurt/comfort sometimes

Mildly Drowning With a Hand to Hold Onto

Pairing: David Rossi x Male! Reader

Word Count: 1.6k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's Note: This took me WAY longer than it was supposed to I am SO sorry :(( This is a reallyy cute idea though! Rossi is definitely one of my favourite characters just because he's so funny, soo i tried to add some humour into this 😅

This feels like the part where the narrator says, ‘they should’ve turned back.’

The sky shifted so suddenly, even the trees fell still.

One moment it was just another overcast afternoon—quiet, the air heavy with the kind of chill that settled in your bones late in the season.

Then the clouds churned like smoke, dense and low, swollen with the weight of something coming. A low rumble rolled through the hills, slow and deep—the kind of sound you felt in your chest before you ever heard it in your ears.

“..That doesn’t sound promising,” you muttered, squinting up through the windshield as the first fat drops of rain smacked the glass.

Rossi adjusted his grip on the wheel, expression unreadable. “That’s not a storm,” he said. “That’s a biblical omen.”

You huffed a laugh, but it didn’t last long. The rain turned violent in seconds, crashing down in thick, slanting sheets that drummed the roof like it was trying to get in.

Visibility dropped fast. The narrow stretch of gravel road vanished under water and mud, winding uselessly through the forest, flanked by tall pines shivering in the wind.

“Think we’re close enough to the guy’s property to walk?” you asked, already reaching for the door handle.

“Depends,” Rossi said without looking over. “You want to get struck by lightning, or just mildly drowned?”

“Optimism. That’s what I like about you.”

You popped your hood and pushed the door open before he could argue. The wind hit you like a slap—sharp and cold, the kind that found its way past every layer you had on. The rain was sideways, stinging your skin, loud enough to drown your thoughts.

You stepped down to check the faded mailbox you’d passed a minute ago—just in case the GPS had screwed you over again. But the moment your foot landed, it slid. Too fast, too loose. The ground tilted under you, slick with mud, and before you could catch yourself, your ankle twisted hard and your whole body dropped like a shot deer.

Pain lanced up your leg, fast and hot, and you hit the ground with a grunt, palm sinking into freezing mud.

“Shit,” you breathed. The ache pulsed behind your teeth, white-hot and wrong. You stayed down for a beat too long, rain soaking through everything, heartbeat hammering in your throat.

The driver’s side door slammed. “You alright?” Rossi’s voice cut through the downpour, close now—already moving.

You forced yourself upright, bit down the groan that wanted out, and limped back onto your feet like it hadn’t happened. “..Yeah,” you said, sharp smile in place. “Didn’t bring me out here to baby me, right?”

Rossi stopped a few feet away, squinting through the rain. His eyes were sharp, narrowed. “You’re limping.”

“I’m walking.”

“Like a guy with a nail in his boot.”

You opened your mouth—something witty ready to go—but before you could fire back, a crack like the sky splitting open rang out overhead.

You both flinched instinctively, turning in time to see a massive pine tear from the earth and crash down across the road behind the SUV. Branches clawed at the windshield like fingers as it hit.

“Jesus,” you muttered, rooted in place.

“Tree,” Rossi said flatly, like it was evidence. “That’s new.”

You both stared at it for a beat. Then the radio crackled—once, twice—sharp bursts of static before going dead. Rossi flicked the dial, toggled channels, swore softly under his breath. Still nothing. The storm swallowed the signal like it had swallowed the sky.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re officially in the opening scene of a cautionary tale.”

“Let’s hope it’s not one of mine,” Rossi replied, giving you a sidelong look—dry, unreadable. “You sure you’re alright?”

You looked down at your ankle. It was already swelling, the joint misshapen and caked in grit. You couldn’t feel your toes—though whether from injury or cold, you weren’t sure.

“No worse than usual,” you said. But the quip came out thin, worn down at the edges.

Rossi didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything at all—just looked at you, long and level, like he was taking inventory of every pain you didn’t voice.

Finally, he nodded toward the woods. “Come on. I passed a service road a mile back. If we’re lucky, there’s still a ranger cabin out there.”

“And if we’re not?”

“Then I’ll try not to say ‘I told you so’ while we freeze to death.”

You gave him a crooked smile, dragging your weight forward with a wince. Tree down. Radio dead. Ankle a mess. Storm closing in.

But you followed him anyway.

Because it was Rossi. And if there was anyone you trusted to get you through a long, cold night in the middle of nowhere—it was the man muttering about waterproof shoes and moral victories while the storm swallowed you both whole.

The path barely existed anymore—just a forgotten scar through the trees, swallowed by undergrowth and the weight of rain. It wound ahead like a dare, slick and uneven, and every step was a test of your patience and pain threshold.

You didn’t pass all of them.

The ankle had started to swell halfway in, stiff and unforgiving. Now it throbbed with every movement, each pulse a white-hot beat against the skin. You bit down on it. Gritted your teeth. Pretended the wetness on your face was just rain and not the sting of frustrated, burning tears you refused to let fall.

“Fuck—” you hissed under your breath as a root caught your boot wrong, jolting the injury. You stumbled forward half a step.

Rossi didn’t say anything. Didn’t reach out, didn’t slow—but you knew he heard it. You could feel his eyes on you, even if he didn’t turn.

Every time you faltered, he was one step ahead. Never offering help, but never pulling too far away. Like he was making sure you wouldn’t collapse alone.

By the time the outline of the cabin appeared through the trees—hunched and leaning, half-forgotten in the fog—you felt like you were walking on a splintered knife.

You let out a shaky breath that trembled more than you wanted it to.

Rossi reached the door first, shoulder-checked it open with the kind of practiced force that meant this wasn’t the first time he’d broken into shelter during a storm. The hinges groaned. He turned and held the door just long enough for you to cross the threshold.

His hand caught your arm as you passed. Gentle, firm. You didn’t brush it off.

Inside was dim and stale. Dust and wood rot. The smell of long-dead fires and damp stone. But the roof held. The hearth was intact. You could feel heat in the idea of it, even if there was none yet.

You exhaled hard, trying not to let it sound like relief.

“It’s not exactly five-star,” you muttered, voice raw around the edges, “but I guess room service is overrated.”

“You can complain once we’re not potentially dying of exposure,” Rossi said evenly, dragging a rickety chair toward the fireplace. “Sit. Before you faceplant and I have to explain to Hotch why you broke your own face.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re still limping.”

“I’m functioning,” you shot back, but the words came out hoarse. Tired. And just a little too high in your throat.

He turned. Looked at you. The full weight of that Rossi stare—cool, level, impossible to argue with. The same one that stripped suspects down to their bones. But this time, it didn’t come with judgment. Just quiet insistence.

Your throat felt thick. You sat.

The moment your weight came off the ankle, your whole body sagged. You hated how obvious it was. You hated the sharp, wet blink you had to force away before it turned into something weaker.

Rossi didn’t say a word about it.

He just peeled off his soaked coat, folded it into something vaguely pillow-shaped, and set it on the table. Then he knelt down in front of you like it was nothing. Like there wasn’t a storm raging outside or a fire still waiting to be lit. Like your pain had priority.

“Let me see.”

You hesitated. Gritted your teeth.

Then lifted your leg with a wince and a whispered, “Fuck,” barely audible through clenched teeth.

The joint was a disaster. Angry red and purple bloomed across the skin, swelling already stretching the fabric of your sock. Every beat of your heart made it throb harder.

Rossi didn’t flinch. Just nodded, rolling up his sleeves. His tie came off with a practiced flick—calm, clean, no fuss.

“You always carry emergency medical supplies in your neckwear?”

“I’ve got a handkerchief, too,” he replied. “Don’t ask where that goes.”

You tried to laugh. It cracked in your throat. Came out broken and breathless. You looked away.

He worked in silence, hands steady against your shin. Warm fingers against freezing skin. Every brush sent sharp pain up your leg, and once—just once—you let out a shaky exhale that might’ve been a sob if you hadn’t crushed it behind your teeth.

Rossi paused.

But didn’t look up. Didn’t draw attention to it. He just pressed the tie into place, wrapped it slow and even, gave you time to breathe.

"You’ve done this before," you murmured, voice fraying like the knot in your chest.

He didn’t answer for a long moment.

Then: “Too many times.”

When he finished, his hands didn’t move. Just rested there, light on your leg. The fire hadn’t been lit yet. The cold crept through the walls like a patient hunter.

You looked down at him, eyes burning, voice quiet.

“..I’m not usually this much of a mess.”

He met your gaze. Didn’t blink. “You don’t have to be.”

And somehow, that was worse.

Because it broke something loose inside your chest. Something tight and knotted and tired. You turned your face toward the dark fireplace so he wouldn’t see your jaw tremble.

But he stayed there, close and grounded, like he wasn’t going anywhere. Not tonight. Not while you sat there pretending it didn’t hurt.

Outside, the wind clawed at the trees. Inside, the silence held.

But it didn’t feel empty anymore.

[theseventhdimension]

In the heavily fem dominated reader insert space, my friend you are a saviour. I've been absolutely devouring your Hotch fics and you are very much making me fall deeply, madly in love with him. Thank you for all your work!

This is so sweet how dare you..

I, admittedly, don't read much reader insert anymore, though I still do a little. But, I still enjoy writing for male and GN readers, It's nice to be represented sometimes, y'know?

Thank you so much for the kind words and for reading my stuff 🥰 if you ever want to read anything specific, go ahead and put in a request!!

I'm so glad you enjoy the Hotch fics so far, I'll be pumping out some more soon 😉

[theseventhdimension]

The Weight of Small Things

Pairing: Derek Morgan x Gn! Reader

Word count: 3.2k+

DNI: All are welcome!

Author's note: Hurt no comfort enjoy this guys xoxo :P Okay, NOW officially the longest fic i've ever written. This took me like 2 moths because i stopped half way through.

..Every single Morgan fic I've posted, AND the 3 I have in my drafts, AND the drabbles I'm working on, AND the thirsts I'm working on, AND the sentences starters I'm working on, all have some kind of angst in them.. it's like same face syndrome but for writers instead of artists.

As always all feedback is appreciated!! Hope you enjoy :))

Most mornings, you were the first one in the office.

Not because you were ambitious. Not because you were trying to impress anyone. But because the silence was easier to sit with than the weight of walking into a bullpen already humming with lives more competent than yours.

You’d log in, boot the computer, make a beeline for the printer... only to find the same jammed tray again. Page one stuck in the rollers. Toner light blinking like it was mocking you. It didn’t matter how many times you’d cleared the warning—every single day, it felt like something else wouldn’t work.

You were supposed to be good at this. Quick. Analytical. Calm under pressure. That’s why Hotch picked you straight out of college, why your professors wrote glowing letters, why Quantico accepted you so damn fast.

But lately? All you could see were the cracks.

Yesterday, you tried to contribute to a profile session.

Suggested a theory. A pattern.

Hotch didn’t dismiss it, but he didn’t nod either. Rossi raised an eyebrow. Reid corrected a detail. Morgan didn’t say anything at all, just leaned back in his chair and tapped his pen against his thigh.

You tried not to look at anyone after that.

You stopped speaking up during briefings.

The vending machine had eaten your money again.

Your favourite snack hung just barely by the foil — taunting you, caught behind the glass like it was dangling on purpose.

You banged the side with your palm. Twice. Harder than you should have. Someone down the hall turned their head. You forced a smile and walked away without it.

You didn’t really want to eat anymore anyway.

Lunch breaks blurred into white noise. You’d sit in the kitchenette or outside near the parking lot, phone in hand but not really looking at it.

No scrolling.

No texting.

Just staring.

You thought about the girl. The hostage.

The way her skin had already gone cold. How her fingers curled in like she’d tried to hold on to something that wasn’t there. The flecks of blood on her lip. The last location ping that came in too late. Your ping. Your lead.

She was dead, and all you could think was: I was too slow. Again.

Everyone said “you did your best.” But that sentence had started to feel like a polite eulogy. Like something people said when the job didn’t get done.

You couldn’t sleep anymore. At night, you’d sit on your couch in the dark with the TV off, watching the muted windows of other people’s apartments. People who weren’t calculating time of death. Who weren’t running through everything they should have done faster.

You’d re-read your field reports three times before submitting them. Always afraid of missing something. Of writing something wrong. Of one more mistake tipping the scale.

And the worst part? Spencer Reid. Fresh out of college too. A prodigy, sure. But sometimes it felt like a personal dagger every time you saw him slice through cases like they were puzzles made just for him.

“You’re a fresh-out-of-college graduate too,” you found yourself thinking bitterly more than once. “Why can’t you be like him?”

Because no matter how many nights you stayed late, how many times you tried to prove yourself, it felt like the bar was always just out of reach—sometimes held higher for you than for anyone else.

When your one-year anniversary came, no one remembered.

..Which was fair.

You didn’t either — not until Garcia asked how long you’d been “our shiny baby agent!” and you checked your watch and realized the date.

You nodded, smiled, said “Yeah, a year today.”

She beamed. JJ said “Wow, congrats!” Reid quoted some statistic about average retention. Morgan clapped your back.

But when you sat back at your desk, all you could hear was the way your heartbeat didn’t pick up. The way nothing felt different. The way your hands still shook when you tried to type up your findings.

You stared at the blinking cursor.

It blinked back at you.

So that night — long after the bullpen had emptied and the lights had dimmed and your badge felt heavier than the gun on your hip — you pulled out the letter.

You’d written it weeks ago. Changed it. Tore it up. Wrote it again.

This one you didn’t rip.

You just folded it.

Walked up the stairs.

Slipped it onto Hotch’s desk, right between the edge of his keyboard and that photo of Jack he always kept beside his monitor.

You didn’t linger.

You didn’t cry.

You just turned, walked back into the dark hallway, and told yourself this was you doing something right for once.

Leaving before you could fuck up again.

It wasn’t even 8 a.m. yet.

Morgan pushed open Hotch’s office door with the easy confidence of someone who’d done it a hundred times before — because he had. He just needed a stapler. His own desk one had jammed again, and Hotch always had that solid, no-nonsense industrial one tucked into his organizer tray.

He didn’t notice the envelope at first.

The office looked the same as always. Neat. Predictable. A photo of Jack smiling beside the monitor. A legal pad with notes from yesterday’s briefing. Nothing out of place, nothing screaming for attention.

Except...

There.

Centered perfectly on the blotter, right where Hotch’s hand would land when he sat down.

A plain white envelope. No decoration. No elaborate seal.

Just a name.

Aaron Hotchner written in neat, steady handwriting — your handwriting.

Morgan didn’t mean to touch it. Honestly.

He stood there, stapler in one hand, envelope in the other, as if one had accidentally replaced the other. His brow furrowed. Something in his gut pulled tight.

Personal? Maybe.

Private? Definitely.

But something felt off. Something about the way your name hadn’t come up that morning. How your desk was still cold. How you hadn’t answered the group text Reid had sent about new security badge protocols. How quiet everything felt.

He flipped the envelope open before he could stop himself.

Just one sheet inside.

Hotch, Thank you for taking a chance on me. I’m sorry I couldn’t live up to it. I tried. I swear I did. I thought this job would make me stronger. But it’s been a year, and I still can’t walk into a room without thinking about the ones I couldn’t save. I know I’m leaving things unfinished. I know it’s not the “professional” way to do this. But I don’t think I’d survive another case like this. Not emotionally. Maybe not even physically. Please tell Garcia I’m grateful for the playlists. Tell Reid I wish I could think like he does. Tell Morgan… never mind, it won't matter anyway when I'm gone. I’m sorry. I just can’t stay here any longer.

Morgan stood there for a long time.

The words didn’t change.

His eyes caught on that final line — “Tell Morgan…” — and he felt something slip in his chest. Something quiet. Something sick.

You’d looked him in the eye just hours ago with a smile on your face. You lied to him — but only because you thought it would be kinder.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it?

You really believed your absence would hurt less than your failure.

He folded the letter once, then again, his jaw set hard enough to ache. Hotch hadn’t seen it yet — Morgan knew that. If he had, he'd be making calls already. Pulling favors. Sending someone to your apartment.

There was still time.

Morgan tucked the letter into his jacket pocket.

And then he turned on his heel, stormed out of the office, the forgotten stapler still sitting on Hotch’s desk.

He wasn’t going to let this end with a note.

Not if he could help it.

The locker room was quiet — dim overhead light humming faintly, rows of steel-gray doors reflecting shadows like ghosts. You didn’t expect anyone to be here, not at this hour. You just wanted to grab your spare go-bag before slipping out for good.

No goodbyes. No drawn-out awkwardness. No one trying to tell you this wasn’t what it looked like.

You turned the corner and froze.

Derek was already there.

Leaning against the row of lockers like a man built from stone and steam — arms crossed, one boot braced against the metal behind him, jaw set like it had been clenched for hours.

His eyes met yours, and they were not soft.

“You quit without saying a word?”

You didn’t answer at first. You just let the locker room door swing shut behind you, sealing the tension in like heat in a pressure cooker.

“I left a letter,” you muttered. “Didn’t realize I needed a performance.”

“That’s what you think this is?” Morgan’s voice cracked like a whip across the tile. “A performance?”

You set your jaw. “I didn’t think anyone would care.”

“Bullshit.”

The word echoed too loud. He stepped forward. Not threatening — just close. Big enough to block the light. Warm enough to drag the heat right out of your chest.

“I’ve been watching you, man. We all have. You think you’re invisible? You’ve got the instincts, the head, the heart — you’ve got everything we need.”

“Then why does it never feel like enough?” you snapped.

The words spilled out, unplanned, all cracked and sharp like broken glass beneath your tongue. “I found the hostage, but it was too late. I flagged the profile, but the victim still died. Every fucking time it’s just a second too late, or one piece short. And all I get are looks—sympathy, maybe. Pity. But never respect.”

You looked away. Shame swelled hot behind your eyes.

Morgan didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, he exhaled.

“First year I was here... I let a father walk back into his house. We thought it was clear. Unsub was still inside. Man bled out trying to protect his daughter. I heard it on the radio before I could get there.”

You looked at him — really looked — and saw it. A scar, old and buried, behind the steady force he always carried. The past lingering in his posture.

“You think you’re the first person who wanted to walk out after a loss?” he said, voice quieter now, low and rough. “You’re not. But you’re here. Still breathing. That means you’re still learning.”

You opened your mouth — maybe to argue, maybe to thank him — but nothing came.

Morgan stepped closer. Close enough now that you could feel his warmth, the real kind. The kind that pulls you back from the edge.

His hand rose, slow and steady, and settled on your shoulder.

“Don’t make the mistake of leaving before you figure out how good you are,” he said. “Because trust me... you are.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stood there, chest heavy, throat tight, everything you’d been carrying starting to come loose all at once. His hand stayed, solid and grounding. Not a weight — a tether.

You met his eyes. His gaze didn’t waver. Something passed between you — unspoken, but real. An understanding. A question.

Your silence lasted just a second too long.

Morgan’s hand lingered on your shoulder like a question, but you gave him the answer he needed to hear — the lie that felt kinder than the truth.

You nodded once. “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.”

Your voice was steady enough. Convincing enough. Morgan searched your face — those sharp profiler eyes scanning every twitch in your expression. But you held it together, just enough. Just long enough.

“Good,” he said, with a small nod of his own. “That’s good.”

He didn’t smile. Not quite. But the relief in his posture said enough — a subtle loosening in the line of his shoulders. Like something unspoken had been pulled back from the ledge.

He patted your arm before turning. Left you alone in the locker room.

Morgan’s hand stayed on your shoulder longer than it should’ve — like he was asking you to stay without saying it out loud, and god, you almost did. You could feel the heat of him even when he stepped back, the kind of warmth that made your chest tighten in ways you couldn’t explain.

The way he looked at you—like you were the only thing worth fighting for—made your breath catch, but your lips stayed sealed. Morgan didn’t have to say a word to let you know he wanted you here—wanted you—and you wanted to believe it, even if fear held your tongue hostage.

You traced the ghost of his touch on your skin, wishing it wasn’t just a fleeting promise but something you could hold onto. There was a softness in his eyes you’d never let yourself crave, a quiet invitation that made you want to break your own rules.

His presence lingered in the space behind you like a question begging for an answer you weren’t ready to give, yet.

And when the door swung shut behind him, you sank back against the metal lockers and let yourself breathe - once, shallow and burning.

You knew what you had to do.

The bullpen buzzed like it always did — phones ringing, keys clacking, background noise stitched together like the pulse of the building itself. But Morgan noticed it the second he arrived.

Your desk was too clean.

Not just tidied — emptied. Drawers cleared. Mug gone. No badge clipped to the lanyard on the monitor. No half-scribbled profile notes scattered across the tabletop.

He walked over slowly, brows pinched, a deep knot already forming in his gut.

Then he saw it.

Folded in half, resting perfectly square in the center of his desk blotter.

His name on the outside in your handwriting.

His throat tightened as he opened it. The paper was thin. The message shorter than he expected.

I’m sorry. I really am. But I can’t stay here any longer.

He stared at the words for a long time. They didn’t change.

There was no scene. No call. No confrontation. Just a ghost trail of someone who’d made up their mind long before he ever stepped into that locker room.

Morgan set the letter down, hands heavy on the wood.

No one else noticed — not yet. But they would. And when they asked, he’d have to lie, just like you did.

Tell them you were tired. That you needed a break. That the Bureau wasn’t a good fit.

He wouldn’t tell them about the moment in the locker room — about the way your voice cracked just before you said you’d stay. About the weight in your eyes you tried so damn hard to hide. He wouldn’t tell them how he’d let himself believe it. That maybe he’d gotten through.

But what he did do, quietly, without ceremony, was fold your note once more and slide it into the inner pocket of his jacket.

Not for evidence.

Just so he could carry the truth with him, even if no one else ever saw it.

It took Derek two days to decide. Two weeks to act.

Not because he didn’t care — but because he did. Too much. Enough to doubt whether showing up would make anything better, or just pour salt into a wound already halfway scabbed over.

But after your resignation hit HR officially, and Hotch read your name into the record like it was a fallen comrade, Morgan couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t shake the image of your face in that locker room — of how still you’d stood, like movement would shatter you. Couldn’t forget how your voice sounded when you said “Yeah. Okay. I’ll stay.” Like someone reciting the lines to a role they never wanted.

So when he knocked on your door, it wasn’t because the Bureau sent him. It was because he couldn’t not.

A cool breeze kicked up behind him. Late evening. Orange bleeding into indigo across the sky. Your apartment wasn’t far from Quantico — too close, probably, for someone trying to leave it all behind.

He knocked again, a little louder this time. Waited.

Then he heard it — soft footsteps inside. A pause.

You opened the door partway.

Didn’t chain it. Didn’t smile, either.

“…Morgan.”

“Hey,” he said. Voice quiet. Hands in his jacket pockets.

You leaned against the doorframe. Still in sweats. Hair messy. A line of exhaustion carved under your eyes like you hadn’t really slept since the day you left.

“You stalking me now?” you said. It wasn’t cruel, just flat.

He shook his head once. “Just checking in.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I know.”

You hesitated. Looked like you were about to close the door. Morgan stepped forward just enough to keep you frozen there.

“I read your file again. After you left,” he said. “Went back through all the cases you worked.”

You looked away.

“You’re not here to talk about stats.”

“No. I’m here because I made the mistake of believing you when you lied to my face. And I’m not making that mistake again.”

Something flinched behind your expression. A crack in the stillness.

“I get it,” he went on. “Every mistake feels like proof you’re not enough. You carry them like weight plates — notches in a record only you keep score of. But that scoreboard doesn’t exist outside your head, man. You do good work. You did good work.”

“I didn’t do it well enough,” you said, the words dragging like rusted nails. “I don’t want to wake up every day knowing I’m a step too late. I don’t want to keep surviving just to watch everyone else lose.”

Morgan stepped closer again. Close enough now for you to smell the faint woodsmoke of his cologne. His jaw tensed.

“Then don’t come back for the job. Come back for the people.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Come back for the ones who don’t die. Come back for the families that do go home. Come back for yourself, if you’ve got it in you. But if not… come back for us. For the team.”

He paused, gaze heavy but steady.

“Come back. For me.”

Your breath hitched. A small, ragged thing.

“I can’t,” you whispered. “I can’t go back in there pretending like I’m fine.”

“Then don’t pretend,” he said. “Come back broken. Come back scared. Come back pissed off and messy. We’ll take you however you are.”

His voice dropped, softer now.

“You don’t have to fix yourself before you come home.”

Silence. Deep and heavy. The wind tugged at the doorframe. Your hand trembled slightly against the edge of it.

“I thought leaving would stop me from drowning,” you murmured. “But it just made it quieter.”

Morgan’s face softened. He reached out, slowly — gave you time to move, to stop him — and rested a hand over yours on the door.

His thumb brushed your knuckle. Gentle. Anchoring.

“You’re not alone,” he said. “Even when you think you are."

He said you weren’t alone — but the second he was gone, you remembered how easy it was to lie to yourself. You didn’t have the heart to tell him you’d already packed the part of yourself that used to believe him.

[theseventhdimension]

Season 7 Hotch x male reader (FBI but maybe not directly BAU, because you know, conflict of interest…) who gets migraines frequently but usually he knows a day or so before from how he’s feeling that he’ll feel shit soon; but he’s at work or something and is hit with one because a smell or something really triggered a tough migraine? idk, fluffy comfort is my gem

Bright Lights = Big Ouch

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Male! Reader

Word Count: 1.5k+

DNI: Fem-aligned

Author's Note: This is hilarious because as you sent this in, I had a migraine the day prior, I think I have a stalker on my hands.. 🤨

As akways, all feedback is appreciated, hope you enjoy!! :))

In the grand scheme of federal disasters, you figured one rogue migraine wouldn’t make the top ten. but at one point, you knew you should’ve stayed home.

But it’d been an unusually busy week—departments overlapping like tangled wires, interagency pressure from Quantico’s brass, and Hotch running double-time trying to keep it all from unraveling. You weren’t BAU, not technically. But your department shared their floor, and your job—tech-assisted behavioral support, profiling-adjacent—often pulled you into the current of their chaos.

And if you weren’t drowning, you were at least treading water.

Strauss had a debrief scheduled for later. The kind where she asked sharp questions and raised one skeptical brow like she already knew your answer was going to disappoint her. Garcia was buried under system updates, Reid had sent three correction emails about phrasing in the latest psych files, and someone from the NSA had asked for a live data cross-pull by Thursday.

So no, you hadn’t slept well last night. Migraine dreams again. Your body always knew before your brain did. A low throb in your jaw. Pressure behind your right eye. Like thunder in the walls of a house you didn’t have the key to.

But you told yourself you’d be fine. You had to be.

Because he was here.

And if he could carry the weight of the whole unit on his shoulders, then the least you could do was hold up your corner.

You weren’t just doing this for yourself.

You were doing it so he wouldn’t have to worry.

You risked a glance across the bullpen. Hotch stood in front of the evidence board with that familiar coiled tension in his shoulders, suit immaculate, voice low and even as he spoke with Rossi. You’d barely seen him this week outside the office. Work had swallowed both of you whole. And it wasn’t like you could cling to him—not here.

Dating Aaron Hotchner wasn’t simple. You knew that going in.

Powerful. Respected. Constantly watched. Your relationship lived in the quiet moments between crises, in late-night car rides and blackout-curtained Sundays. He wasn’t cold, not with you—but he was careful. Bound by protocol. By guilt. By the need to protect everything at once, even at the cost of himself.

He would’ve noticed if you told him. If you so much as hinted at how off you felt this morning, he would’ve dropped everything. You didn’t want that. Didn’t want to be the reason he looked away from something more urgent.

So you hid it.

You told yourself you could push through. That you weren’t weak. That you were still useful.

You pushed through the morning meetings. Ignored how the light stabbed deeper every hour. Chased that high of being indispensable, of hearing your name mentioned in a briefing and knowing you mattered.

Even when a sharp pain lanced behind your eyes.

Even when your fingers fumbled over your keyboard.

Even when that little voice whispered in the back of your head: Don’t make him worry. Don’t be the weak link.

And then—midway between the copy room and Garcia’s office—it happened.

A scent.

Something thick and chemical—floral, artificial, sharp like citrus left out too long in a hot car. It hit the back of your throat and your stomach flipped. Your balance tilted. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder than before.

It wasn’t pressure anymore. It was pain. Immediate. Blinding. Unforgiving.

You turned sharply down the next hallway, past the break room, every step heavier than the last. Your hand fumbled for the stairwell door handle. You prayed—please, no one see me, just a minute, just let me breathe—before pushing it open.

The door clicked shut behind you with a soft snick, and the world changed. Dimmer. Quieter. Cooler air rising like mercy from below.

You didn’t even make it three steps down.

Your knees gave out all at once—puppet-quick, strings cut. Shoulder slammed the wall, then you crumpled hard to the landing. One hand slapped concrete, the other clawed at your temples as the migraine cracked behind your eyes like lightning splitting bone.

You scrambled, half-crawled, backward until your spine met the cold cinderblock wall. You slumped against it, legs sprawled out, head tipping back hard enough to sting.

Breathing was shallow. Useless.

The migraine drilled deeper with every pulse, each heartbeat making the pain bloom sharper. You pressed your palms flat to your face like you could trap the agony inside and stop it from leaking into the rest of your body.

God, you just needed ten minutes. Ten minutes in the dark. Ten minutes alone. Ten minutes before someone found you like this.

Don’t cry. Don’t throw up. Don’t let anyone see.

But then: footsteps.

Measured. Steady. Not rushed—just intentional. Like someone who’d been watching.

You didn’t need to look up to know who it was.

“Hey,” Hotch said from the landing. His voice dropped low—gentle, but grounded. “Are you alright?”

You didn’t look up. “Yeah,” you rasped. “Just—needed a minute.”

A pause. The air between you felt held. Heavy.

“You’re pale,” he said. “And sweating.”

“I’m fine,” you lied, voice thick and raw. You forced yourself upright, bracing a knuckle against your temple like you could grind the pain away, and blinked through the fluorescent burn overhead. “It’s just a headache.”

Hotch’s jaw ticked slightly. “You couldn’t even stand up straight two minutes ago.”

“I just—there’s a backlog of case data,” you mumbled, forcing the words out like each one cost a breath, “and Strauss wants that interdepartmental summary, and Garcia’s swamped—”

Hotch didn’t wait for you to finish. His hand was already at your elbow, firm but not rough, guiding you away from the stairwell like a mission in progress. You tried to resist—tried to plant your feet—but your legs were jelly beneath you, and the sudden shift in motion made your vision kaleidoscope.

“Hotch, I—” you started, breathless.

“You're not collapsing in a stairwell,” he muttered under his breath, steering you with quiet precision through the hallway.

His grip never tightened, but it never wavered either. Like he was trying not to show just how scared he was.

He nudged the door to his office open with his shoulder, the familiar scent of coffee and printer paper rushing in like something solid to lean on. Lights already dim, blinds half-closed—it felt like sanctuary.

“Sit down.” His tone didn’t rise, but there was no room for argument. He pulled the door shut behind you and turned the lock with a subtle click. Then he was at the window, closing the remaining blinds with one hand while keeping his eyes on you. “Now.”

You followed him, stubborn pride tangled in every step, but when the light hit you wrong again—when the floor seemed to tilt beneath you and a fresh wave of nausea threatened to undo you entirely—you sank into the nearest chair like your strings had been cut.

You heard him moving. Quiet. Efficient. A soft clink of plastic: water poured into a paper cup. A rustle of paper towels. And then—Hotch knelt in front of you, resting the cup beside your hand and leveling his gaze with yours.

“You should’ve told me it was this bad,” he said, voice quieter now, without judgment but full of concern. “You shouldn’t be working like this.”

“I can work,” you said. Barely audible. Barely true.

“That’s not the point.”

Your throat tightened. You dropped your gaze to your hands—trembling now, barely steady enough to pick up the cup he’d brought you. You swallowed hard. “I just…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together to keep it from splitting open completely.

“I just wanted to help. I didn’t want to… slow anyone down.”

There was silence. Not cold. Not pitying. Just… stillness. Hotch’s kind of stillness. Like the air itself was listening.

Then the chair beside you shifted. His hand reached for yours—warm, steady, gently lacing his fingers through yours like he was anchoring you back to earth.

“Hey,” he murmured, softer now. “You help us every single day. No one’s asking you to tear yourself apart just to prove it.”

Your shoulders curled in, chest folding like you could hide the wet heat creeping into your eyes. One tear slipped free before you could stop it. You turned your face away, burning with embarrassment, but he didn’t let go.

“You don’t have to earn your place here like that,” Hotch said, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. “And you sure as hell don’t have to do it alone.”

Hotch gave your hand a final squeeze. “Next time, just send me a text.”

You gave him a look. “Next time, outlaw perfume.”