syena-journals

[syena-journals]

hi hi hi ✨

pls, pls give us a protective hotch, as if the mere fact that they breathed too loudly near the reader would put him on alert🙏🏻

and one day there comes a point where his instinct is not wrong and you hear someone speak so badly of the reader and he gets furious because the reader is always the sweetest to everyone and always gives more than he receives, that's why he gets so mad and when the reader finds out, she is all soft and grateful for not allowing bad talk in her absence.😭😭💞💞

pls take this only if you are comfortable, much love to you!🫂

Mine

Summary: You are a light in the dark world of the BAU — all kindness, empathy, and gentle thoughtfulness. When a condescending agent questions your sincerity behind closed doors, Hotch overhears — and unleashes hell with the calm fury only Aaron Hotchner can wield. You don’t find out until later, and when you do, it leads to a moment of raw honesty, gratitude, and something that’s been building for a long time. What starts as quiet protection becomes open devotion — and finally, something much more intimate. Tone: Soft and fierce | Protective, reverent |Slow-burn with a sharp emotional payoff | That very specific flavor of “you’re good, and I will ruin anyone who forgets it” Warning: Emotional confrontation | Verbal belittling (not from main characters) | Protective/possessive behavior (non-toxic) |Mild sexual content (consensual, romantic) | Canon-typical workplace tension Word count: 1.3k A/N: Hi anon! I loved this request so much, thank you for asking. p.s: this fic may have gotten out of hand a bit ( a lil smutty towards the end- I doubt you're complaining though lol) Sorry for the late post, I've been busy with my last final before Fall Sem! I hope you enjoy reading this!!

You were the kind of person who brought an extra umbrella just in case someone else forgot theirs. The kind of person who remembered everyone’s birthdays and their favorite kind of cake. You once gave Morgan a stress ball shaped like a dumbbell and told him it was “for emergencies.”

You were good. Gentle. A rare light in a job that didn’t always deserve it.

So when Hotch heard the words spill out of Agent Wilcox’s mouth like poison, his blood went cold.

“She’s just—too much. Always fluttering around, trying to please everyone. It’s exhausting. You’d think she was faking it just to get ahead.”

Hotch had just walked into the bullpen when he heard it. He stopped mid-step.

Morgan froze. Prentiss raised her brows. Even Reid blinked too fast.

And Hotch?

Hotch turned.

"Wilcox." His voice was sharp. Cutting. That voice that made entire courtrooms fall silent.

Wilcox chuckled awkwardly. "Sir—oh. I didn’t mean anything by it, I just—"

Hotch took a step forward. Just one. But it was enough.

"Say it again."

The tone was calm. But Morgan muttered, “Aw, hell,” under his breath and backed up half a step.

Wilcox fumbled. “I—it’s not that serious, I was just joking. She’s just so… you know. Overly nice. It gets old.”

Hotch’s jaw tightened.

“You think kindness is a performance?” he asked, voice low. “You think empathy is weakness?”

“N-no, sir—”

“She is more professional, more prepared, and more valuable to this team than you have been in your entire probation period,” Hotch snapped. “And if I ever hear you speak about her—or any member of this team—that way again, you won’t have to worry about being ‘exhausted.’ You’ll be too unemployed for it to matter.”

The silence was deafening.

Wilcox turned pale and mumbled something before retreating like a kicked dog.

Hotch exhaled slowly.

Morgan clapped him on the shoulder. “Damn. Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

“You already have,” Hotch muttered. “But you bounce back.”

You didn’t hear about it until later.

You walked into the bullpen like always, smile in place, iced coffees in hand for the team because “you seemed tired yesterday, so I thought this would help.” You handed one to Hotch last, a tiny heart doodled in sharpie on the lid. “And yours is decaf because I know you won’t sleep otherwise.”

Hotch just stared at you a second longer than usual.

You tilted your head. “Everything okay?”

“…Yeah,” he said. “Everything’s fine.”

But he didn’t stop looking at you—not that watchful, subtle kind of glance he usually gave you, the soft, protective awareness. No. This was something else. Like he was angry on your behalf, but too composed to say it.

You didn’t press.

At least not until two days later, when Garcia (who had no intention of keeping the drama to herself) blurted it out:

“Did you hear how Hotch absolutely destroyed Wilcox for saying something nasty about you?!”

Your coffee nearly slipped from your hands. “Wait—what?”

She looked stricken. “Oh my God. You didn’t know. Should I not have said that? Do you want me to rewind time?”

“No—no, it’s okay,” you breathed. “What… did he say?”

She told you, with her usual flair. The mocking tone. The implication that your kindness was fake. The comment about “trying too hard.” And Hotch’s reaction.

You went quiet.

Not hurt. Not angry.

Just quiet.

“Sweetheart,” Garcia said gently, “are you okay?”

You nodded slowly. Then stood.

“I need to see Hotch for a minute.”

He was alone in his office, working late.

He looked up when you knocked on the glass. "Come in."

You closed the door behind you. Your expression was unreadable.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hotch looked tired, and a little wary. “I didn’t think you needed to be upset by it.”

You stepped closer, voice soft. “So you just carried it yourself instead?”

He didn’t answer right away.

“I won’t let anyone speak about you that way,” he said finally, setting his pen down. “You are—”

You blinked, eyes glassy. “You’re always looking out for me.”

Hotch stood, tension shifting into something more open.

“I didn’t do it for thanks.”

“I know,” you whispered. “That’s why it means so much.” Your back hit the bedroom door with a soft click, and the world narrowed to the man in front of you.

Aaron looked at you like he’d been holding back for days — weeks, maybe. Like something primal had cracked open inside him the moment you called yourself his. Not just affection. Not just love.

Belonging.

He cupped your face in both hands, brushing his thumbs over your cheeks, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. You couldn’t even pretend to be shy — not after what he’d done. Not after the way he defended you like your name lived on his bones.

“You don’t know what it does to me,” he murmured, “hearing someone speak badly about you like that. About my girl.” His voice dropped, low and rough. “You’re the kindest soul I’ve ever known.”

You swallowed, voice trembling. “You make me feel safe, Aaron.”

He kissed you for that. Deeply. Slowly. Not rushed, not greedy — like he had all the time in the world to prove it to you.

His hands roamed, reverent and firm. He didn’t grab or grope. He touched. The pads of his fingers brushed your skin like he was learning it all over again — the slope of your back, the curve of your hip, the warm flutter of your pulse under his palm.

“You give so much of yourself,” he whispered, kissing down your neck, “to everyone. All the time. Let me take care of you tonight.”

You nodded, breathless.

He peeled your clothes off slowly, step by step, kissing every inch of newly revealed skin. Your shoulders. Your ribs. Your stomach. He wasn’t trying to seduce — he was honoring. There was nothing rushed about it. You were being worshipped.

When he finally lowered you onto the bed, he knelt at the edge, hands sliding up your thighs with quiet focus. His eyes never left yours.

“Let me taste you, sweetheart.”

The words shouldn’t have made you whimper. But you did. Soft and desperate.

He smiled, just barely — then lowered his head between your thighs.

His mouth was everything — warm, slow, steady. He licked and kissed and sucked with such unhurried devotion that your back arched off the bed within minutes. He didn’t tease. He didn’t toy.

He loved.

And every time you moaned his name, every time your fingers tugged at his hair or your thighs trembled under his hands, he hummed like he couldn’t get enough.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against you. “Every sound. Every breath. All mine.”

When he pulled himself up over you — hard, slow-breathing, eyes dark with restraint — he paused to press his forehead to yours.

“Still okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, smiling, dazed. “Never been better.”

He kissed you again — softer this time, like you’d shattered something inside him with how beautiful you looked undone beneath him.

When he finally slid inside you, your bodies fit like they always had — familiar, but never boring. Hotch moved slowly. Carefully. Like the entire world had narrowed to the rhythm of your heartbeat against his chest.

His thrusts were deep and unhurried, every inch of him saying you’re mine. I’ve got you. I’ll always protect you. His hands never stopped moving — one on your hip, the other laced with yours, grounding you in the way only he could.

“Come for me,” he murmured against your skin. “I’ve got you, sweetheart. I’m not going anywhere.”

You did — and he held you through it like a vow.

Later, when you were curled up against his chest, breathing steady and legs tangled beneath the sheets, you whispered:

“You really would’ve ended that guy’s career for me, huh?”

Hotch chuckled softly, hand stroking your back. “No. I would’ve ended it for me. For thinking he had the right to speak about what’s mine like that.”

You looked up at him. “So I’m yours now?”

He kissed your temple, fingers tightening slightly on your waist.

“You’ve always been.”

[syena-journals]

PLEASE WRITE AN ANGST FIC WITH HOTCH BUTTTT NO HAPPY ENDING FOR HOTCH GIVE THE READER A HAPPY ENDING MAKE THE TEAM HAVE A SHITTY LIFE

There is too many angst fics and the reader is giving in too quickly I just want one where the reader is happy in the end and they get what they deserve 💀 and that you don’t have to forgive and forget and can move on from people who hurt you. I believe u have the powers to do this thank u

Ur writing eats btw

No Return

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x Reader Summary: In a world where trust is currency, she was nothing more than a pawn to him. Used for her connections, discarded for his doubts. But when betrayal burns the brightest, she rises stronger—building her own empire far from the shadows of the BAU. Now, with power in her hands and no reason to look back, the past haunts only those who let her go. Sometimes, the best revenge is moving on. Tone: Angst | Betrayal | Healing | No Reconciliation Theme: Institutional betrayal, toxic leadership, reader power arc, emotional closure Warnings: Emotional neglect, toxic relationship themes, mentions of betrayal, grief, and guilt Word count: 1.8k A/N: Tysm for your request <3 I enjoyed writing this, hopefully you enjoy reading this!!

You’d never liked the sound of fluorescent lights, but the ones in the BAU bullpen buzzed louder than usual today. Or maybe it just felt that way—like the walls had shifted slightly, like something in the air had turned.

Like you were being watched. Or weighed. Or... dismissed.

Again.

Your ID badge bounced lightly against your chest as you crossed the bullpen, ignored by people who used to greet you with familiarity. Reid didn’t look up from his notes. JJ smiled—barely. Garcia was nowhere to be seen. Emily and Morgan were deep in conversation at the kitchenette, eyes flicking your way for a moment too long.

It hadn’t always been like this.

There was a time, not so long ago, when this place felt like home.

Back when Aaron Hotchner looked at you like you were more than just a name.

Back when you let yourself believe it.

You reached your desk, stacked neatly with paperwork you hadn’t asked for. Case files. Prep briefs. Administrative garbage. Tasks meant to keep you occupied—not involved.

You didn’t sit down. Instead, you turned and headed straight for his office.

Hotch didn’t glance up when you knocked. “Come in.”

You stepped inside and shut the door behind you. The sound clicked like a vault locking tight.

He finally looked up, face unreadable.

“I’m off the McKinley case,” you said.

“That’s correct.”

“No explanation. Just reassigned. Again.”

His hands folded neatly on the desk. “You’re too close to the families involved.”

You stared at him. “My father played golf with one of the congressmen twenty years ago. That’s the extent of it.”

“That’s enough for a conflict of interest.”

You blinked. A laugh slipped out before you could stop it—sharp and bitter. “You realize that’s exactly why I should be involved, right? I know how to navigate that world.”

“We don’t need politics,” he said coolly. “We need clarity.”

“And you don’t think I have any?”

Hotch’s eyes met yours then, dark and steady. “I think sometimes personal history clouds judgment.”

There it was.

The final wedge.

You nodded slowly. The room felt cold despite the sunlight behind him.

“Is that why I wasn’t credited on the Mitchell case either?” you asked, voice quiet. “Because my ‘clouded judgment’ made it too risky to acknowledge I solved the damn thing?”

Hotch didn’t answer.

Because you both knew the truth.

You sat alone in the briefing room after hours, the soft hum of the projector fan your only company. Your hands were clenched on the table in front of you, still staring at the screen—static now, the map of victim locations long gone.

You remembered that night. The night you got the call from your father’s aide. The night Hotch had walked into your office and said, “Use the connection.”

He hadn’t said please. Hadn’t asked if it would be difficult.

He’d just expected it.

You made the call. Got access the BAU couldn’t. And then you were benched.

Not out of caution.

Out of convenience.

They didn’t want you involved.

They just wanted your last name.

The next week, Garcia stopped sending you little jokes during debriefings. Reid fumbled through shared tasks without meeting your eyes. JJ grew polite, sterile. The warmth of the bullpen shifted subtly, replaced with cold distance that wrapped around your shoulders like frost.

And Hotch?

He was always the same.

Steady. Measured. Detached.

You couldn’t even be angry at him—not the way you wanted. Because part of you still wanted him. Still hoped there was some reason. Some hidden logic that made it okay.

But there wasn’t.

There was only the truth.

He never trusted you.

Not like he trusted them.

The case you were benched on closed without you.

You didn’t even get a call to let you know.

You found out in a memo circulated to all units.

No acknowledgment. No reference to your profile work. Nothing.

You stared at the screen in your apartment that night, numb.

And then you opened a new document.

To: Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner Subject: Resignation

You didn’t write a long letter. Just the truth:

I didn’t come here to be used. I won’t stay where I’m not trusted. SSA Y/N Y/L/N

You left it on his desk the next morning. Packed your desk in silence. Walked out of the building with no escort, no send-off, no words.

They let you go without a sound.

And that silence said everything.

Two weeks later, the Bureau called.

Not the BAU.

Another unit—FBI Division Five, focused on complex criminal networks and politically sensitive cases. A team in shambles. A command post without a leader.

“We’ve seen your work,” they said. “We want you.”

You hesitated. “You know I just left the BAU.”

“We also know why.”

That made the decision easier.

You started as Supervisory Agent. Six months in, they gave you Acting Chief. By the end of year one, the promotion was official.

Unit Chief Y/N Y/L/N.

No one there cared about your name.

Only what you did with it.

And you did everything they said you couldn’t.

Three years later, your team was a machine.

Tight. Efficient. Respected.

No loose ends. No chaos. Just clean takedowns and sharp minds.

You were prepping for a panel on ethical profiling in DC when you saw him again.

Hotch.

He looked older. A little thinner. Suit too stiff on his frame. You hadn’t seen him in person since the day you walked out.

He stepped into your line of vision, uncertain.

“Y/N.”

You turned, slow and calm.

“Aaron.”

A beat of silence. The sound of traffic beyond the hotel lobby filled the space between you.

“I was hoping I’d see you here,” he said.

You raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“I wanted to say…” He looked down, then back up. “I’m sorry. For what I did. For how I treated you. I should’ve trusted you. You didn’t deserve any of it.”

You watched him. Studied him like a crime scene.

And then, you smiled.

And laughed.

Not cruel.

Not angry.

Just clean. Detached.

“You think I need that now?”

His mouth opened, but nothing came out.

“I’m not angry, Aaron,” you said. “I’m not anything.”

A pause.

“I got everything I wanted. Without you.”

You turned your back on him.

And this time, you knew—

He would never catch up.

Quantico smelled like burnt coffee and fluorescent regret.

Reid sat alone in the conference room, his fingers tapping absentmindedly at the edge of his mug. The whiteboard beside him was half-scribbled—ideas from a case that had stalled mid-week. It had been stalling more and more lately.

They were all slower now.

Disconnected.

Falling apart in small, quiet ways.

JJ was tense. Guarded. Her family life had bled into her work so heavily that it was hard to tell where the line was anymore. Emily had become weary, always stepping into leadership in Hotch’s absence, only to feel him pull it back the second she found footing. Garcia rarely left her tech cave anymore. And Reid… Reid was quieter than ever.

Morgan was gone.

And so were you.

It started showing up in the stats first. Cases dragging longer. Debriefings more tense. Trust in the field fraying under pressure.

Hotch didn’t talk about it. Not to them. Maybe not even to himself.

But everyone felt the vacuum you left behind.

You had been the buffer. The one who handled the victims when JJ couldn’t. Who challenged Reid’s theories with tact. Who made Emily laugh in the dark hours after a long case. Who called Garcia just to check in—not just when something was needed. And Morgan? He’d trusted you like he did few others.

And Hotch?

Hotch had let you go without a fight.

They all remembered that now.

Too late.

Reid brought the magazine into the bullpen one morning, face unreadable.

He dropped it on the center table with a soft thud.

Emily glanced at the cover.

There you were.

Unit Chief Y/N Y/L/N: Leading a New Generation of Profilers with Compassion and Clarity.

She picked it up, flipping through. Full-page spread. Interview. Photos. Quotes.

“I had to leave to find out what trust really looked like.”

That line sat alone on the page, italicized, just below your photo.

JJ sat down beside them and said nothing for a long while.

Hotch didn’t enter the room for over an hour.

But when he did, he looked at the table, paused—

And walked right past.

You never reached out. Not once.

Not even when the Bureau reshuffled its power structure and Unit Five was bumped to Tier One task priority. Not when the Director began forwarding inter-agency cooperation requests directly to you.

You never sent a “how’s everyone doing?” message.

You never checked in on Garcia.

You didn’t even send a thank-you when Reid emailed you a research article you’d contributed to, saying only: You were right about the stressor-to-pattern ratio. Good work.

You left him on read.

He never emailed again.

It had to happen eventually.

A serial arsonist targeting prominent politicians across state lines. Five confirmed victims. A sixth nearly died.

BAU and Division Five both assigned.

A joint case.

Mandatory collaboration.

You arrived in Chicago with your team in tow. Jordan. Hallie. Mike. Analysts who trusted you. Agents who admired you. People who didn’t flinch when you walked into a room. People who didn’t need to be reminded who was in charge.

The BAU was already there. Slower. Tired. Tense.

You met Hotch’s eyes across the command tent.

And looked away.

You didn’t speak to them beyond case logistics. You didn’t ask about anyone’s lives. You didn’t soften your tone. You didn’t apologize for being sharp, direct, decisive.

You gave orders.

You ran your side.

And when the arsonist was caught—through intel your team traced—Hotch offered a nod of acknowledgment across the table.

You blinked slowly.

And turned back to your team.

Later that night, after the arrest, Garcia caught you in the hallway of the temporary field office. She looked tired, like the glitter had been scrubbed out of her bones.

“I miss you,” she said.

You looked at her for a long moment. Let the silence sit between you like glass.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she added softly. “You look… peaceful.”

You nodded once. “I am.”

Garcia hesitated. “Do you—ever think about coming back?”

You didn’t flinch.

“No.”

And before she could ask why, you gave her a smile. Warm, but final.

“Because this is what it looks like when you go somewhere you’re valued.”

She didn’t try to stop you when you walked away.

Hotch sat at his desk late that night.

The case report from the arson investigation sat unfinished beside him. He’d watched you walk out of the command tent, flanked by your team, laughing at something one of them said. Confident. In control.

Unaffected.

Untouchable.

There had been a time, years ago, when you had waited for him to trust you. When he could’ve chosen differently.

But he didn’t.

And now he saw the outcome of that choice in every headline. Every internal commendation with your name on it. Every joint report where you were listed as “Primary Lead.”

You weren’t angry.

You didn’t look at him with hate.

You didn’t look at him at all.

And that, somehow, was worse.

[syena-journals]

omg!!🥹🥹💗💗💗

i just saw that u have ur request open and i really really couldn't pass up this opportunity, u have the most beautiful writing about hotch that i've ever read, although the one where penelope is a bit snooper made me mad at her and it's weird because i love my colorful girl so much🥲i love what u write and i'm excited to read u every time.💞💞💞👀👀

btw, i wanted to see if u could write a jealous hotch but being the sweetest, u know, they have a relationship and someone flirts with the reader and says 'well... let's see if he knows how you like him coffee in the morning.' or something like that about the daily life of a couple who is the most jealous but the sweetest🥹🥹💗💗💗

i hope this was understandable and please write this only if u like and feel comfortable, i send u all my love and a kiss on both cheeks!🥰🥰

Just How You Like it

Summary: After a long case, all you want is a cup of coffee and a moment to breathe. But when a flirty detective decides to test his luck, Hotch reminds him—gently, but unmistakably—that no one knows you like he does. Especially when it comes to how you take your coffee in the morning. Tone: Romantic • Domestic • Softly Possessive • Low-Angst Comfort Word count: 970 Warnings: Mild jealousy / possessiveness (non-toxic), brief flirting from a third party, suggestive but SFW language, fluff, mentions of caffeine addiction 😂 A/N: Thank you for you sweet request- I cried reading it! I'm so glad you love my writing!! I really wanted to capture that softness in how he protects you without making a scene. Also... let’s be honest, Hotch absolutely knows your coffee order down to the swirl. 🤎 Thank you for reading, and I hope this leaves your heart as warm as your mug. ☕💗

The case had finally wrapped around midnight—after a tense takedown, two interviews, and more coffee than sleep. By the time you made it back to the hotel, you were on autopilot, drifting toward the lobby coffee bar with Garcia practically propping you up with her chatter.

“Tell me why,” she said dramatically, “the men who flirt with me at crime scenes always end up having commitment issues or a body count?”

You snorted softly, grabbing two cups. “Maybe you need to try safer hobbies.”

“I am the hobby, sweetheart.”

You loved her. Truly. But it wasn’t until she stepped aside to take a call that you realized someone else had moved into her spot beside you.

“Late night for a pretty face like yours,” said a voice that was too smug to be casual. You glanced up to see one of the local detectives from the case—the one who’d been a little too eager to linger at the BAU briefing table.

You offered a polite smile. “It’s always late nights in this job.”

He leaned an elbow on the counter, eyes scanning you with practiced ease. “Well, in that case… how do you take your coffee? I’ve got a talent for guessing. Let’s see if he knows how you like it in the morning.”

Your stomach sank.

You knew exactly what he meant.

You also knew exactly who was walking up behind you.

Before you could respond, another voice slid between you and the tension like a scalpel—sharp in what it didn’t say.

“Half a sugar,” Hotch said. “Stirred twice clockwise, once counter. No cream. They like the bitterness.”

The local blinked.

You turned.

Aaron was standing beside you in his dark suit, tie loosened, hair slightly tousled from the long day. He looked calm. Unbothered. But his hand settled on the curve of your lower back with a warmth that was unmistakable—and deliberate.

You didn’t have to say anything. You could see it in the detective’s face—the moment he realized this wasn’t just a casual flirtation he’d interrupted.

Hotch didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just looked down at the empty cup in your hands, took it gently, and filled it himself.

“I make their coffee every morning,” he said. “Since the second week we got together. I’ve gotten pretty good at it.”

The other man cleared his throat, murmured something about needing to grab a call, and backed off.

You were quiet for a second.

Aaron handed you the coffee, just the way you liked it. Stirred exactly the way he said.

You glanced up at him, trying not to smile. “Did you really need to do all that?”

He was watching you, gaze steady and soft. “I didn’t like the way he looked at you.”

“He was just being—”

“Inappropriate,” Aaron finished. “And presumptuous. And not very good at coffee.”

That made you laugh, which made him smile.

He leaned down, brushing his lips to your temple as he handed you a sugar packet—out of habit, just in case.

“You know I’m not the jealous type,” he murmured, “but I am a very, very in love type. There’s a difference.”

You reached for his hand without thinking. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded, sipping your coffee. “You should get jealous more often.”

He gave you a sideways glance, that rare half-smile curving at the edge of his mouth. “Don’t tempt me.”

You woke to the quiet hiss of hotel-room light peeking through the curtains and the faint clink of ceramic on ceramic.

The bed was still warm beside you. You blinked sleep from your eyes, stretching gently beneath the sheets before sitting up.

Aaron was already dressed—though his tie was still slung loose around his neck, and the top button of his shirt undone. He was standing by the desk, back turned, carefully pouring two cups from a takeaway tray. A small smile tugged at your lips.

“Coffee’s at seven, huh?” you murmured.

He turned at your voice, that softened morning look on his face, the one he only gave you. “Six fifty-eight,” he said. “I was early.”

You slid out of bed and padded across the floor, accepting the cup from his hands. It was hot. Strong. Stirred perfectly, just how you liked it.

“You’re ridiculous,” you said, but your tone betrayed you. You kissed his cheek anyway. “Thank you.”

“I take my title seriously,” he said, sipping his own. “Boyfriend of the year.”

You smiled into your cup. “Boyfriend for life, you mean.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Careful. I might hold you to that.”

You hoped he would.

(Later that Morning, at the BAU Jet)

The team had already boarded the plane by the time you and Hotch arrived. Garcia waved from her seat beside JJ, while Morgan offered a low whistle.

“Look at you two,” he said, watching as Hotch set your bag in the overhead. “Matching mugs, synchronized arrivals, Hotch looking like he’s ten seconds away from laying claim to a kingdom.”

JJ laughed softly behind her hand. “Yeah, what was that at the hotel last night? You practically growled at that detective.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. “He was inappropriate.”

Morgan grinned. “Man was a little bold, but damn. I didn’t know you had it in you.”

You settled into your seat with a smile and let your hand brush Aaron’s as he sat beside you.

“He wasn’t jealous,” you said calmly. “Just… observant.”

Rossi looked over the top of his newspaper, smirking. “There’s a fine line between the two.”

Garcia fanned herself dramatically. “I, for one, support Hotch's soft possessive era. Can we get more of that in the office?”

Hotch didn’t answer. He simply reached over, took your hand, and linked your fingers with his. No words. No grand gestures.

Just that same quiet certainty.

Yours. Always.

[syena-journals]

This Love

Summary: Hotch makes you realize you’re worth more than someone’s maybe Tone: soft, possessive Warnings: mentions of neglect, self-worth Word count: 0.3k

I never had an accurate role model for what love truly is.

I took scraps and called it home. I learned to tiptoe so the glass wouldn’t break. I learned to talk myself out of my emotions for the sake of keeping peace.

I always imagined life would be quiet — filled with silence, quick flower runs, and softness. But instead, I grew used to the thorns in my throat at night when I couldn’t sleep. I grew used to the emptiness that came from unanswered texts, from days of wondering if I was too much or not enough. I grew used to the routine: you’ll get an answer when I answer.

I was five when I started imagining my wedding. Twelve when I started worrying what if the person I married hurt me. Seventeen when I started doubting if I’d want to get married at all.

And now, at twenty-three, I stand hand in hand, clad in white and sparkling in pearls.

Hand in hand with him.

Aaron Hotchner.

The man who stole me away from my darkness, who looked at my stitched-together version of love and tore it apart, telling me I didn’t have to live like that. That I deserved more. That I deserved him.

I feel my grip tighten around his hand. I’m afraid if I let go, I’ll wake up and find this was another daydream I built for myself to survive.

His thumb brushes the back of my hand, firm and grounding, like he knows exactly what’s running through my head. Like he can hear the old ghosts screaming that I don’t belong here.

“Don’t,” he says softly, leaning down so only I can hear him. His voice is steady, unshakable. “You’re mine. You’re safe because you’re mine.”

It’s not a plea. It’s not even a reassurance. It’s a fact.

And for the first time in my life, I don’t feel like I’m clinging to scraps.

For the first time, I believe him.

[syena-journals]

Unspoken Between Us

Summary: In the cold light of an interrogation room, two strangers find a fragile connection neither expected — a pull so quiet it almost goes unnoticed, but powerful enough to change everything. Tone: Soft, poetic, quietly possessive, romantic with an undercurrent of tension and vulnerability. Word count: ~694 words

Hotch’s POV:

I never knew love could find me again — I never let it find my address on purpose. It certainly wasn’t supposed to find me in an interrogation room. The cold light against your warm features made the scene feel almost indecent, like beauty had wandered into a place built for fear and sweat. Vanilla and rose. That’s what you smelled like. Out of place, uninvited, but so present I couldn’t ignore it.

I told myself to focus on the case. I was supposed to catalog your answers, your tics, every betraying shift in your posture. Not your freshly done roots. Not the way your off-shoulder sweater made you look like you didn’t belong to the world that had hurt you. Not the way your scent made me feel something feral and shameful.

Jack would like you, an errant thought intruded — and I hated myself for it. This wasn’t the place for thoughts like that. Not the time, not the person.

I tried to look away, to reestablish the steel in my spine. But it didn’t come. Instead, I wondered who else had noticed that scent, if it clung to you when you walked by, if anyone else had been close enough to breathe it in. The idea made something inside me bristle — a quiet, unfamiliar anger that you could be witnessed like this by anyone but me.

It was absurd. Irrational. I knew that.

But suddenly, the questions I’d been sent here to ask didn’t matter half as much as the answers I wanted for myself: Who are you when you’re not sitting across from me? What does your life look like when it isn’t bent under the weight of the world?

And why does it feel like I’ve known you longer than the handful of minutes you’ve been mine in this room?

Your POV:

The room was too bright, too cold, and yet I couldn’t stop feeling the heat of his gaze. I’d been in rooms like this before — the kind built to strip you down, make you small, pull the truth out of you — but never like this.

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched me. It should’ve felt invasive, but it didn’t. It felt… deliberate. Like I wasn’t just another name in a file or another witness to wring dry. Like I was something to be studied, understood, maybe even protected.

I told myself to keep my voice steady. To keep my answers clean, rehearsed. But every time his eyes caught mine, the words tangled on my tongue. I wanted to tell him more than I should — things that had nothing to do with why I was here. My favorite coffee order. How I can’t fall asleep without the sound of rain. How much I hated the way my life had been reduced to this room, this table, these questions.

And then there was the way he looked at me — as if I was more than my worst day. I shouldn’t have noticed that. I shouldn’t have noticed the quiet sadness behind his eyes, the kind that made me want to stay just to see if I could ease it.

I shouldn’t have wondered what his laugh sounded like, or whether it came easily or only after years of coaxing. I shouldn’t have wanted to know what his life looked like outside of these walls, in a world where people weren’t interrogated but cared for.

And I definitely shouldn’t have been thinking about how safe I felt with him — even here, even now, under his scrutiny.

But I was.

—

But neither spoke the words hanging quietly in the air.

The room remained still, bathed in the soft glow of the overhead light, as if holding its breath alongside them. In that silence, a fragile understanding blossomed—an unspoken connection weaving itself between two souls who hadn’t yet dared to name it.

He told himself it was nothing. She told herself the same.

Yet deep down, both felt the undeniable truth settling softly between them: something had begun, delicate and unexpected, in the stillness of that room.

And neither would ever forget.

[syena-journals]

im glad u liked my angsty hotch x teacher reader request so im coming in with a new request but for luke this time🎀 luke x lets say police officer reader meeting for the first time at a crime scene where both of them think the other is the unsub and its love at first sight ( and first bullet ) 🫣 maybe with a tinge of enemies to lovers. ty🙂‍↕️

Love at First Bullet

Pairing: Luke Alvez x NYPD!Reader Summary:You're clearing a building on a tip about a fleeing suspect when someone corners you—tall, armed, intense, and very, very wrong. He thinks you're the unsub. You think he's the idiot who just got lucky. Neither of you expects the way it ends… or how you can’t stop thinking about it afterward. Tone: Banter-heavy | Enemies to attraction | Sharp tension with soft undercurrents Warnings: Canon-typical action (guns drawn), tense misidentification, physical takedown (you elbow Luke!), mutual thirst denial Word Count:~896 A/N: Welcome back Anon! Here's your request, Happy Reading <3

You hear him before you see him — steady boots across the floor above, careful and fast. Not running. Not panicked. Whoever’s still in this building knows what they’re doing.

You round the corner with your weapon raised and immediately meet a mirror: tall man, tactical stance, eyes hard, gun trained straight at you.

“Don’t move,” he barks, like he hasn’t already made a mistake.

You narrow your eyes. “You first.”

There’s a beat of silence, thick and tense. His gaze flicks over you — your weapon, your stance, the lack of a visible badge — and you can see it: the math he’s doing, the profile forming in his head.

You can also see how badly he’s getting it wrong.

He moves first.

Quick. Trained. He presses you back against the wall in a blur, forearm braced against your shoulder, gun still raised. Too close. You can feel the heat of him, the tension thrumming in every muscle like a live wire.

But he hesitates. Just for a breath.

Because he’s looking at you now.

And something changes.

Maybe it's the way your expression doesn’t shift. Maybe it’s the way you don’t flinch. Or maybe he’s just realizing he’s got you wrong — and still can’t quite bring himself to let go.

You don’t give him the chance.

Your elbow lands hard against his side, just under the ribs. He stumbles back, off balance but still standing. By the time he blinks, your badge is in your hand and your gun is holstered.

“Detective,” you say, flat. “NYPD.”

He’s staring at you from the floor, eyes wide like he’s seeing you for the first time.

“...Not the unsub,” he mutters.

You lift an eyebrow. “Glad you figured that out before the handcuffs came out.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, almost dazed. “Me too.”

You don’t plan on working with him again. Honestly, you don’t plan on seeing him again. But after the team regroups outside and he radios the suspect’s escape, you're stuck in the same debrief tent, standing a few feet apart like awkward coworkers who once tried to kill each other.

Well, he tried. You simply won.

“Alvez,” he says after a minute. “FBI.”

You glance over. “Y/N. Still NYPD.”

He rubs at his side. “You kick like a mule.”

“You pin like a rookie.”

He huffs a laugh — soft, but real.

The second you walk away, he’s swarmed by his team.

You don’t hear most of it, but one of them — the tall blonde woman — tilts her head toward you and whispers, “Is that her?”

He groans. You smile to yourself.

You don’t expect to see him again.

So when you walk into the next case briefing two days later and see him standing there — arms crossed, leaning casually, but with his eyes pinned right to you — you stop just short of the doorway.

“Really?” you say.

Luke straightens. “Surprised?”

“I figured you’d be benched after that tackle attempt.”

He grins. “You’re not that scary.”

“You’re not that smooth.”

You get paired together. Of course.

This time it’s a safehouse sweep. No unsubs hiding in closets, just the two of you moving through tight spaces and trading quiet comments.

He’s quieter now. More careful. He gives you the lead. You hate how much you notice that. Hate even more that it earns him points.

“Nice and quiet,” you say, sweeping the last hallway.

“You sound disappointed,” he answers.

“I was hoping you’d try something dumb again. I brought extra paperwork.”

Luke glances over at you with a full smile, the kind that’s way too easy to look at.

“You want me to be reckless just so you can write me up?”

“Something like that.”

“Dangerous.”

“You have no idea.”

Afterward, you’re standing by your car, flipping through your notes, and you hear his footsteps again.

Different this time. Slower. Like he’s unsure. You turn before he can start the small talk.

“You’re following me.”

“I’m walking to my car,” he says. “Yours just happens to be in the way.”

“Right.”

He shifts his weight, mouth pulling sideways. “So… listen. This might be a bad idea.”

“Great opener.”

“But would it be totally out of line to ask you to dinner sometime?”

You blink. Once. Slowly.

“Seriously?”

He shrugs. “You already knocked me down once. What’s the worst that happens?”

You cross your arms, pretending to consider it. “You usually ask people out after misidentifying them as murderers?”

“Only when they’re as good as you.”

You roll your eyes — but it’s not really annoyance.

“Fine. Dinner. But somewhere public.”

Luke straightens. “Of course.”

“And I’m picking the place.”

“Obviously.”

“And if you try to tackle me again, I’m pressing charges.”

He smiles. “Fair enough.”

When he rejoins his team, he’s doing a poor job of looking casual.

JJ doesn’t even wait for him to sit down.

“Well?”

Luke drops into his chair, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Thursday,” he says. “Dinner.”

Emily lets out a low whistle. “And that’s how you flirt, huh? Full takedown, then charm.”

“Worked, didn’t it?”

Reid tilts his head. “Technically, she disarmed and threatened you first.”

Luke grins. “Exactly.”

And back in the parking lot, alone again, you check your phone.

Thursday, 7pm. Dress code: “Please don’t wear that FBI jacket.”

He replies two seconds later.

Noted. I’ll leave the tackling to you.

[syena-journals]

now hear me out... hotch x kindergarten teacher reader but make it angsty? theres an unsub who is keeping hostages at school including yn and jack. its ok if u wanna skip and dont write it just wanted to drop the idea just in case 🎀 hope u have a nice day

Hostage Heart

Pairing: Protective!Aaron Hotchner x Hostage Kindergarten Teacher!Reader Tone: Slow-burn mild intimacy, restrained softness, hidden love, looming danger Word Count: 4.2k A/N: I LOVED THIS REQUEST SO MUCH!!! Thank you for your request! I love getting your requests, you can drop any ideas you have <3

The faint smell of cinnamon oatmeal clings to your sweater, mixed with the lingering scent of finger paint and the subtle, earthy fragrance of crayons crushed beneath tiny sneakers. The classroom hums with the gentle chaos of twenty-five six-year-olds, each voice weaving a tapestry of laughter, questions, and the occasional plaintive whimper over forgotten snacks or misplaced backpacks. You breathe it in—the sweet exhaustion of a day spent navigating their small worlds, helping them discover the magic in letters and numbers, guiding hands through glue and paper. It’s a quiet kind of tired that sinks into your bones, earned in sticky-fingered victories and whispered “thank yous” from the littlest hearts. And somewhere beneath it all, a dull pulse beats behind your temples—a headache you welcome, the background noise to this perfect storm of innocence.

Jack’s laughter cuts through the din. His untucked shirt is the color of ripe cherries, his hair a wild halo of curls perpetually disheveled by the energetic little tornado he’s always been. He’s curled beneath the reading nook, clutching a tattered stack of Captain Underpants books like treasures he’s sworn to protect, the corners frayed from countless flips and reruns of his favorite stories. Glitter flecks the cuffs of your cardigan, stubborn remnants of an art project gone awry, and the faint sting of glue residue lingers on your fingertips—a badge of a day spent coaxing young hands to create something beautiful, messy, real.

Jack ambles over to your desk, his small hand thrusting a folded piece of construction paper toward you with the solemnity of a diplomat delivering a treaty. His grin is a thousand watts bright, lighting up his freckled face and the dark pools of mischief in his eyes. “Hi Dad I love you. Miss Y/N says hi too,” he announces, his voice a mixture of pride and mischief, as if he’s revealing a secret too precious to keep.

You lower your gaze to the crayon-scrawled note, the shaky, uneven letters telling stories of a six-year-old’s boundless love. Then, looking up, you press your lips to the crown of his head, breathing in the warmth of shampoo and boyhood. “I told you none of that,” you whisper, voice thick with emotion you dare not name.

He beams, utterly undeterred. “I added it anyway.”

You chuckle softly, the sound a balm in the midst of chaos. “You little politician,” you murmur, feeling your heart swell in a way that’s both frightening and exhilarating.

Your phone vibrates quietly on the edge of your desk, a small island of technology in this sea of crayons and construction paper. You glance down, blinking away a tired sigh. The message is from an unknown number—you never saved it, the name replaced by digits and silence—but you recognize the cadence, the subtle pulse beneath the words. “Conference cleared early. Will be in the city by six. Want me to bring dinner?” Your fingers fly across the screen before another hand shoots up from a pleading child, eyes wide and hopeful. “If you bring pizza, I’ll forgive you for not replying to my 4 a.m. glitter glue emergency.” The reply is almost immediate. “Was it code for ‘send help’ or ‘kill me’? It wasn’t clear.” “Both. Always both.” No emojis, no fluff—just the bare bones of humor and familiarity. You can almost see him now, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, the faint crease of a small smile just beneath his stern eyes.

The hours stretch on like a fragile thread, taut and trembling with the weight of quiet joy. You met Jack before Aaron, or rather, Jack collided with your knees in a burst of tears and frustration one late September afternoon. His sobs about a dropped cookie and a mean fourth grader drew you in, and you offered him refuge in the corner of your classroom until dismissal. By the time Aaron arrived to pick him up, Jack had declared you his “backup parent,” a title that earned you a rare, reluctant smile from the man who’d silently entered your life like a shadow—steady, watchful, and quietly broken.

Aaron Hotchner was a man carved from grief and restraint, every line of his face telling a story he never spoke aloud. You never pressed him to share his burdens, not out loud, not ever. You learned the language of his silences, the way his gaze darkened when he thought no one watched, the way he carried a world of loss beneath his calm exterior. Still, each time he appeared at your door—wet from rain or weighed down by groceries—you saw the man yearning for a place to rest, a sanctuary where the ghosts could pause for breath.

Your relationship unfolded like mist creeping over a morning field—slow, inevitable, impossible to resist. Parent-teacher meetings turned into coffee dates, then dinners. Laughter laced with whispered confessions. A hand brushed yours once, twice, lingering like a secret neither dared to claim. Nights on the porch where proximity felt like a promise, the space between you charged and electric. He never spoke of his work; you never asked. You both understood the necessity of silence. The BAU didn’t know you existed—it was safer that way.

Monday morning at Quantico was a familiar blend of controlled chaos and dry humor. Morgan lounged in his chair, exuding a careless confidence as he waved a file like a trophy. “I cracked the last case faster than Reid’s math brain could analyze the data.”

JJ rolled her eyes but smiled, replying, “You’re just lucky the unsub left you enough clues to follow.”

Prentiss poured coffee with practiced efficiency, catching Hotch’s gaze briefly. The faintest flicker of concern passed between them, a silent exchange as unspoken as the lines on Hotch’s stern face.

Garcia, vibrant and electric in her corner, buzzed with the latest tech update. “Guys, the new forensic software is a game changer. It’s like magic.”

Morgan smirked. “You’re such a tech goddess.”

Garcia puffed up her chest. “I am a tech goddess.”

Even Hotch’s stoic exterior softened for a moment, his lips twitching upward in a nearly imperceptible smile as he glanced once more at his phone. The quiet, stolen photo of your classroom, the scribbled “Good Morning” on the whiteboard—it was his tether, his anchor to something normal.

The atmosphere shifted abruptly as Garcia’s eyes widened. Her voice, usually so buoyant, dropped to a tight whisper. “Guys… I just got an emergency call. Bradbury Elementary.”

Morgan’s smile died instantly. “That’s Jack’s school.”

Hotch’s breath caught in his throat, his world tilting on its axis. The weight of a thousand silent prayers pressed against his ribs.

Garcia pulled up live footage—the stark, grainy images of a school in lockdown. Children cowering beneath desks, teachers herding frightened faces into corners. And there you were—calm but fierce—shielding Jack with your body as a shadowy figure approached. Your hand flared with fresh blood, a wound from pushing back the unsub. Your voice, firm and protective, cut through the fear.

“No,” Hotch whispered, the sound raw and desperate. “Y/N.”

Morgan leaned forward, concern knitting his brow. “Hotch?”

His jaw clenched as he swallowed the surge of rage and helplessness choking him. “She’s more than just his teacher.”

Suddenly, the BAU wasn’t chasing an unsub—they were fighting to save a family Hotch had tried to keep hidden from the world.

The conference room, once a place of routine debriefs and calm strategy, had transformed into a war room charged with electric tension. The sterile hum of the fluorescent lights overhead no longer felt neutral—it buzzed like a siren, each flicker syncing with Hotch’s racing heartbeat. Garcia’s frantic footsteps reverberated down the hallway, the sharp, urgent call of “Bradbury Elementary!” a jagged crack slicing through the morning’s calm.

Hotch barely registered the rising murmurs around him as he rose from his chair, eyes glued to the live feed blinking onto the screen. The camera angles wavered between tight shots of small, trembling hands clutching desks, to wider views that revealed the grim tableau of children pressed into corners, surrounded by armed men whose faces were masked but whose menace was unmistakable.

There, standing in the center of the chaos like a lone island, was you. Pale but unwavering, your eyes scanning every child, every shadow. A tight knot of determination pulled at your brow as your hand rested protectively on Jack’s small frame, your fingers trembling ever so slightly but never letting go.

Hotch felt his throat tighten painfully. His mind screamed with fragmented thoughts—Stay calm, control the situation, trust the team. But what if they don’t get there in time? Every heartbeat thudded like a countdown, every second stretching into unbearable eternity.

Morgan’s voice snapped through the silence, rough and commanding: “Multiple hostages. Armed unsub inside. No safe entry yet.”

Hotch’s knuckles whitened as he grasped the edge of the table, the room narrowing to that grainy image of you and Jack. “Garcia,” he said, voice tight, “I need every feed, all the building layouts, anything that helps us find a way in.”

Garcia’s fingers flew, pulling up maps and patching camera feeds. “I’ve got the blueprints. The gym, cafeteria, main hallways. Cameras are spotty, but I’m weaving them together.”

Prentiss leaned forward, voice precise, “We need to isolate the unsub, negotiate if possible, keep the kids calm.”

Hotch’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. “There’s no time for negotiation. Y/N’s in there with Jack. They’re counting on us.”

The room fell into a hush heavier than silence. Hotch’s admission wasn’t just protocol—it was a confession, a fracture in his usually impenetrable armor. The team exchanged quick, surprised glances. Reid’s youthful voice broke the tension with a question laced with concern, “Y/N is... more than his son’s teacher?”

A flicker of hesitation passed over Hotch’s face. “She’s someone I care about. She’s inside with the hostages.”

Morgan’s eyes darkened with resolve. “We’ll get her out.”

And with that, the BAU’s mission sharpened. No longer a cold case file, this was personal—a race to pull your fractured family from the jaws of unimaginable terror.

The feed flickered again, zooming in on the gymnasium where children clustered close like frightened birds. Your figure moved with fierce grace—whispering reassurances, kneeling beside a crying child, your voice a balm against the mounting dread. Jack pressed his face into your side, trusting, desperate for the safety your presence promised.

Hotch’s breath caught when the screen captured the unsub advancing towards Jack with a knife glinting cold and cruel. Without hesitation, you shoved the attacker away, your hand flashing out to block him—then a sudden spray of red blossomed across your sleeve. You’d been slashed, blood dark and stark against your pale skin.

“No,” Hotch’s voice cracked, a guttural sound torn from the depths of his soul. His body trembled violently as if his entire being tried to physically breach the screen and reach you. “Y/N.”

Morgan stepped beside him, steady and firm. “We’re not letting go. We’re coming.”

The room pulsed with shared desperation. Garcia’s voice trembled as she relayed new updates: “The unsub’s growing agitated. Negotiations are falling apart. The kids are terrified.”

Reid’s fingers danced over his laptop, trying to decode the unsub’s unraveling mind. “He’s unstable—he’s unpredictable. This could end badly if we don’t act fast.”

Hotch closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, willing his body to calm while his mind burned with fury and fear. The thought of you bleeding for his son—the sheer impossibility of losing you both—was a torment unlike any he’d ever faced.

He shook off the paralysis, forcing himself back into command mode. “We’ll breach soon. Morgan, Prentiss, coordinate the teams. Garcia, keep eyes on every feed. Reid, help track the unsub’s movements.”

But every decision, every plan was laced with personal stakes, a delicate balance between professional protocol and a father’s desperation. Hotch’s mind flickered to quieter moments—your laugh in the kitchen, Jack’s sleepy smile in the morning light, the way your hand fit perfectly in his own.

The feed shifted again. You knelt beside a small boy, brushing his tear-streaked face with a trembling hand. Jack gripped your side tighter, courage drawn from your strength even as fear threatened to overwhelm him.

The unsub’s shadow loomed again, closer, more menacing. You didn’t flinch. Instead, you planted yourself firmly between Jack and danger, your body a living shield. The camera caught the tension in your jaw, the fire in your eyes—a silent vow that you would not let harm come to these children.

Hotch felt tears sting his eyes but refused to let them fall. The room around him faded until only your image remained—a beacon in the storm. The battle wasn’t just on the screens; it raged inside him, tearing him apart with every heartbeat.

Minutes blurred into agonizing hours. The BAU moved like clockwork—tactical teams ready, negotiators speaking in calm measured tones, Garcia’s eyes glued to multiple screens, every piece of intel scrutinized with razor focus.

But nothing could mask the raw ache that throbbed in Hotch’s chest. This wasn’t just a case anymore. It was everything.

He whispered to himself in the silence, “Hold on, Y/N. Hold on for Jack. Hold on for us.”

The kindergarten classroom was a place built for innocence, a sanctuary of bright colors and tiny chairs, walls plastered with smiling suns and stick-figure families. It was a place where scraped knees were soothed with kisses, where crayons and laughter were the weapons of the day. And yet now, it had become a battlefield, a cage where hope flickered faintly beneath the shadow of fear.

You stood amid the chaos, your body a living shield between the children and the unsub’s threatening presence. The sharp sting from your bleeding forearm was a dull roar in the background compared to the pounding rush of adrenaline coursing through your veins. Jack clung to you, his small fingers wrapped around your sleeve, wide eyes searching your face for reassurance that he didn’t dare hope to find.

Around you, the other children were a frightened cluster of warmth—little bodies pressed close, tiny voices reduced to trembling whispers, clutching whatever comfort they could find. Their faces, usually bright and curious, were pale and wide with terror. The fluorescent lights above hummed with unnatural intensity, spotlighting the stark contrast between the innocent decor and the dark reality.

The unsub paced, his movements sharp, his voice a low, threatening growl. Every now and then, he jabbed a finger toward the group or brandished his knife, reminding everyone that the power in this room had been stolen and replaced with menace. The metallic scent of his blade mixed with the faint, lingering sweetness of crayons and glue, an acrid reminder of how much innocence was at stake.

You crouched beside a trembling little girl, her eyes squeezed shut as if that might make the nightmare vanish. Your hands, warm and steady despite the blood dripping onto your shirt, brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. “It’s okay,” you whispered, voice steady but soft, a lifeline cast into the dark. “I’m here. We’re going to get through this.”

Jack’s head rested against your side, his breaths shallow but steady. He trusted you without question—the one certainty in a world that had been shattered.

Back in the BAU command room, Hotch’s jaw clenched as he stared at the grainy live feed. The screen flickered with images of the classroom, the confined space framed by the cold edges of the camera’s view. His heart hammered so hard he was certain the others could hear it. He saw you—bruised, bloodied, but unbreakable, weaving through the cluster of terrified children with a fierce protectiveness that shattered his calm façade.

He could almost feel the weight of the world pressing down on your shoulders—the impossible burden of keeping so many small lives safe with nothing but courage and will. His throat tightened painfully as the reality crashed in. This was no longer a routine tactical situation. This was his family.

Morgan’s voice cut through the haze. “Teams are in position. Ready when you are.”

Prentiss’s gaze was razor sharp, her voice calm but urgent. “The unsub is growing desperate. He’s pacing, shouting. The tension is about to snap.”

Garcia’s rapid updates crackled over the comms, her fingers flying as she tapped into every surveillance camera, every sensor in the school. “Heart rates are spiking. The kids are terrified. We have to move fast.”

Hotch inhaled, trying to marshal the storm raging inside him. “On my command. Breach. Now.”

The door to the classroom was shattered in an explosion of noise and light—the sharp flash of grenades sent searing bursts of brightness into every corner, and the children’s screams pierced the air. The unsub snarled, lunging toward Jack with a blade raised.

Without hesitation, you threw yourself between the attacker and your son, your body absorbing the brutal slash. Pain exploded through your forearm, red blossoming like fire, but you stood firm, your voice fierce and unwavering as you pushed the attacker back.

“No,” Hotch’s voice broke over the radio, raw and desperate. “Y/N!”

For a moment, the whole world seemed to freeze. The BAU watched, breath held, as you fought with a ferocity that none of them had expected—fierce, loving, broken, unstoppable.

Morgan’s hand gripped Hotch’s shoulder, grounding him. “She’s strong. Like you.”

The room was a blur of controlled chaos—the tactical teams moved with practiced precision, herding the unsub into the narrow hallway just beyond the classroom where they could contain him without endangering the children. Prentiss’s voice was a calm anchor as she coordinated the assault, while Reid’s rapid-fire calculations predicted every move the unsub might make in his desperation.

Inside, you swayed under the weight of exhaustion and pain, catching yourself on a desk. Jack scrambled to your side, clutching your hand with the fragile hope only a child could hold. The sight ripped Hotch’s heart apart, a brutal reminder of everything he was fighting for.

The unsub went down with a final thud, handcuffs snapping shut, the fight draining out of him like a dark tide receding.

Silence fell heavy over the room. The children began to sob quietly, confusion and relief mingling in the aftermath. Hotch was the first through the door, dropping to his knees beside you, trembling hands pressing gently to your wounds. “You’re safe,” he murmured, voice thick with emotion. “You’re both safe.”

Jack buried his face in Hotch’s jacket, shuddering, his small body seeking shelter in the arms of the man who had fought for this moment as fiercely as you had. Hotch pulled you close, whispering promises and apologies he barely knew how to voice—words meant to mend the fractures in their hearts.

Garcia’s voice crackled softly through the radio, lighter now. “Got a perfect shot of you three. Family.”

Hotch closed his eyes, letting the fragile warmth of the moment hold him. But beneath the relief simmered a storm—how to keep you safe when the darkness had come so close? How to protect what he couldn’t lose?

The classroom’s walls still echoed with the silent screams of fear, the faintest traces of tears on small cheeks, but in the middle of it all stood a fragile hope—a family, battered but unbroken.

The air in the hallway outside the classroom was thick with tension, the cold sterile walls closing in as the unsub’s muffled curses echoed faintly behind the locked door. The BAU had done everything by the book: tactical teams in position, backup on standby, every inch of the school monitored with precision. But inside, time was a cruel enemy, ticking down with every heartbeat of the children still trapped in that nightmare.

Hotch’s breath came in ragged pulls as he stared at the door, his fists clenched so tightly his knuckles whitened. Watching you on the screen — bleeding, defiant, fighting for every child — shredded the calm he worked so hard to maintain. This wasn’t some distant case anymore. This was his world, his family, his heart on the line.

When the door finally burst open, and the unsub staggered out, hands raised, eyes wild, Hotch’s control snapped like a brittle twig.

He lunged forward before anyone could react, grabbing the man with a fury born of raw fear and rage. The world narrowed down to nothing but the sound of his fists hitting flesh, the unsub’s desperate gasps, and the hot, overwhelming surge of fury that consumed him. Protocol, procedure—everything he was trained to uphold—fell away in the face of the nightmare he had just lived through.

“You don’t hurt them,” Hotch hissed, voice low and deadly, his grip unrelenting. “You don’t hurt my family.”

He slammed the unsub against the wall, breath ragged, his hands a vice crushing not just the man’s body but the evil he represented. The unsub’s muffled pleas and curses were lost beneath the storm of Hotch’s wrath. It wasn’t justice. It wasn’t law. It was raw, primal protection—and Hotch didn’t care if it crossed every line.

Garcia’s voice buzzed urgently through the radio, “Hotch! Step back! You’re compromising the scene!”

But he barely heard her. His eyes never left the unsub’s bloodied face as he dragged the man’s body to the floor and delivered a final, brutal blow that left the man unconscious, barely breathing.

Only then did Hotch stagger back, chest heaving, mind reeling from the violent release of all the terror and helplessness he’d bottled up. He wiped a trembling hand over his face, trying to find the pieces of the man he needed to be—agent, father, partner.

And then he turned, gaze sweeping the chaotic classroom. You were there, sitting on the floor, holding Jack close to your chest, his small fingers gripping your shirt like a lifeline. Your arm was bandaged hastily, but the bruises and blood were still stark reminders of the fight you’d just endured.

Hotch knelt beside you both, pulling you into a tight embrace so fierce it was almost desperate. His lips brushed your hair as he whispered, voice thick with emotion, “You’re safe. We’re safe. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Jack peeked out from between you, eyes wide but trusting as he slid closer, pressing into the warmth and protection only Hotch could provide. The three of you huddled together, a fragile fortress amid the wreckage of the day.

Garcia’s voice crackled back, lighter this time. “Got a great shot of you guys, you know. Family goals, right?”

Hotch smiled—a brief, shaky thing—and kissed your forehead. “Family.”

In that moment, beneath the flashing lights and the frantic urgency of the BAU team rushing to secure the rest of the building, there was a stillness, a heartbeat of quiet in the storm. They were battered, bruised, but unbroken. Together.

The BAU headquarters was a world apart from the sterile chaos of the school, yet even here, the echoes of what had happened clung like a shadow. The fluorescent lights of the bullpen buzzed quietly as the team gathered, the hum of computers and whispered conversations filling the space. But beneath the normalcy, a current of anticipation thrummed — the moment Hotch had quietly dreaded and secretly hoped for had arrived.

You stood just inside the glass-walled conference room, arms folded tightly over your chest, exhaustion painted in the sharp lines beneath your eyes. Jack was nestled beside you, clutching a small stuffed animal you had brought with you, his innocent eyes wide as he took in the new surroundings. The BAU agents circled around, curious and smiling, their usual teasing already bubbling beneath the surface.

Hotch entered the room, the weight of the day still heavy on his broad shoulders, but his expression softened the moment his gaze met yours. His hand reached out, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear, a quiet gesture that spoke volumes.

“Everyone,” he began, voice steady but tinged with something rare — vulnerability. “This is Y/N. Jack’s teacher. And... someone very important to me.”

The room’s energy shifted instantly. Rossi smirked knowingly, while Morgan’s grin stretched wide. Prentiss exchanged a glance with Garcia, who was already pulling out her phone, fingers itching to capture the moment.

“Wait, Hotch,” Derek said, stepping forward. “So… you’re not just the stern boss, you’re also this guy with a secret family life?” His voice was teasing but warm.

Hotch rolled his eyes, a ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Yes, I’m a man of many secrets.”

The team crowded closer, the teasing beginning in earnest. “So, you’re the softie behind the cold exterior,” Rossi said with a chuckle.

“Finally, we get to see the real Hotch,” Morgan added, nudging the team leader playfully.

Despite the ribbing, the welcome was genuine. The room filled with laughter and warmth as everyone took turns greeting Jack and you, their earlier intensity softened by relief and camaraderie.

Hotch stayed close, protective but proud, watching as you settled in beside the team, the invisible walls between his worlds crumbling.

Later, when the bustle had quieted and Jack was asleep in your arms, Hotch’s fingers traced gentle patterns along your back. His voice was low, thick with emotion. “You were incredible today. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.”

You looked up, meeting his eyes, and for a moment, the weight of the day fell away, leaving only the fragile, fierce connection that had carried you through. “We did it. Together.”

He kissed your forehead, a silent promise echoing between them. “Together.”

And in that quiet room, surrounded by the soft hum of life going on, you both knew—no matter what came next, you’d face it as one.

[syena-journals]

Not for You

Pairings: Elias Voit x Reader

Summary: You walk in on Elias during a work call — and see a side of him that wasn’t meant for you. Warnings: Implied threats, quiet menace, psychological tension. Word Count: ~620

You’re halfway through the doorway when you realize he hasn’t heard you.

Elias is at his desk, back to you, phone pressed to his ear. His voice is low, calm — the kind of calm that makes your skin prickle.

“No,” he says evenly. “That’s not how this is going to work.”

It isn’t loud. It isn’t raised. But there’s an edge underneath, sharp enough to cut.

You freeze, hand still on the frame. You’ve heard Elias talk to people before — clients, colleagues, the occasional ex-wife call that left him terse and clipped. This isn’t that. This is something else entirely.

The other voice on the line says something you can’t make out. Elias exhales slowly, like he’s counting his patience in heartbeats.

“Listen to me,” he says, and it’s terrifying how gentle it sounds. “If you ever try to undermine me again, I’ll make sure you don’t get another chance. Are we clear?”

It’s the softness that gets you — the careful, deliberate way he delivers the words. No yelling. No bluster. Just an unshakable promise wrapped in velvet.

He waits for an answer. You hear a muffled agreement on the other end.

“That’s what I thought,” Elias murmurs. And then, like a switch flipping, his tone shifts. “Now. We can move forward — if you don’t waste my time again.”

The call ends.

For a moment, you consider backing out quietly, pretending you hadn’t seen him like this. But you’re still rooted in place when he turns, catching your reflection in the glass of his office window before his eyes find yours.

“Something you need?” he asks, voice perfectly neutral.

Neutral — but you can still feel the residual charge in the air, like static after lightning.

You step inside carefully. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

His expression softens, but only slightly. “You didn’t.”

You can’t help it. “Who was that?”

“No one you need to worry about.” He gestures for you to come closer, and when you hesitate, his mouth curves — not quite a smile, but something near it. “You’re safe. It wasn’t for you.”

That last part hangs between you. Not for you. As if the threat — the coldness you just witnessed — is a side of him reserved for everyone else.

You cross the room slowly, watching him watch you. His composure is unnerving in its own way. Whatever anger or menace he just wielded is gone, tucked neatly away like it was never there at all.

“You sounded… different,” you admit, testing the words.

His brow lifts, almost amused. “Did I?”

“Different from how you talk to me.”

Elias leans back in his chair, studying you with that unblinking focus that always makes you feel dissected. “That’s because you’re not like them.”

You swallow. “Them?”

“The people who need to be reminded where they stand.” He says it casually, as if it’s the most ordinary thing in the world.

“And where do I stand?” The question slips out before you can stop it.

He doesn’t answer right away. He just tilts his head, considering you, letting the silence stretch until you can feel it in your chest.

Finally, he says, “Close enough that you don’t need reminding.”

It’s the kind of statement that should scare you. Maybe it does. But it also warms something deep in your chest you don’t want to examine too closely.

You should leave it there. But instead, you ask softly, “Would you talk to me like that? If I crossed some line?”

His smile is small and sharp, a secret meant only for you. “No,” he says simply. “You’re not someone I want to scare.”

You don’t know if that’s comforting or its own kind of warning.

[syena-journals]

Everything I Didn't Say

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x Former BAU!Reader Summary:She was used and left behind. Now, head of London’s BAU, she’s unstoppable. When Hotch calls her back, he’s hit with what he lost—and what he might never get again. Jealousy, regret, and slow-burn love ignite in this story of second chances. Word Count: 2.8k Tone: Angsty → Slow Burn → Fluff

You remember the exact moment the glass shattered.

It wasn’t during a case. It wasn’t when blood stained your shirt, or when a child died in your arms, or even when Hotch barked an order without sparing you a glance. No. The glass didn’t shatter in the chaos. It shattered in the quiet.

The moment he looked at you—eyes so dark, so serious—and said, “You know I care about you. I’ve always cared,” while your heart bloomed and bloomed in your chest like it had just been given sunlight for the first time. You had smiled through your tears. Said you’d do anything to help. And he’d nodded, hand brushing yours like it meant something.

Except it didn’t.

Because hours later, after the unsub was cuffed and crying, Morgan had told you.

“That line about loving someone in the team? That was part of the trap.”

And it hit you like a bullet to the ribs. You weren’t the bait.

You were the lie.

The next morning, you walked up to his office with your heart in your hands, stupidly hopeful. You still remember your voice—it was light. Warm. Vulnerable. “Was any of it true? What you said last night?”

Hotch didn’t even look up from his file.

“You’re a good agent,” he said. “Don’t get too involved next time.”

That was it. No explanation. No apology. Just a door slammed in the shape of a man you used to love.

You didn’t cry.

You packed your desk that night, left a note for Garcia, and took the transfer to London without saying goodbye.

And somehow, that was the best decision you ever made.

FOUR YEARS LATER.

Hotch isn’t prepared for you.

He’s read your file. Knows you lead the London office now. High-clearance, higher-profile, and, according to Strauss, “unflinchingly efficient.” The photo attached to the case file doesn’t do you justice.

But when you walk into the BAU conference room again, it’s like every oxygen molecule in the room bends toward you.

Your hair’s longer. Or maybe just styled differently. Your walk is slower now—controlled, regal almost. You’re wearing heels you wouldn’t have worn before. Red lips. Black turtleneck. Blazer cinched at the waist.

JJ nearly cries seeing you. Emily practically tackles you. Morgan lets out the kind of whistle that would’ve earned him a slap four years ago.

Hotch watches from the corner, silent, still. You don’t look at him.

Not once.

Not even a polite nod.

And it guts him.

The moment you enters the briefing room, time stutters.

Hotch is already standing at the head of the table, file in hand, trying to look composed—but it’s as if someone just yanked all the gravity out of the room.

You doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause. You just walks in like you own the floor. And maybe you does. You're no longer the junior profiler with too-big eyes and an open heart. This version of you? She’s a storm wrapped in tailored wool. Commanding. Cold. Unreachable.

“Pleasure to see you all again,” your voice is warm, diplomatic, but there’s a clipped edge to it. Like your kindness has conditions now.

Garcia’s already bouncing on her heels, nearly crying as she hugs you. “You look like a Bond villain and an angel had a baby.”

Hotch doesn’t speak.

Because he can’t.

Because you’re standing ten feet away and he’s already spent.

He swallows hard as you turn slightly to face the team, pulling up the case files like it’s second nature. You’re not just beautiful, you’re lethal with it now. Sleek. Focused.

“Three victims, all male, mid-30s, DC metro area,” you begin. “Stab wounds to the abdomen, eyes gouged post-mortem. Signs of restraint but no sexual assault. Whoever he is—he’s targeting these men for symbolic reasons.”

Morgan nods. “Any link between the vics?”

You spin the screen to show a map and timeline, the click of your Louboutin heels a punctuation mark. “They all attended the same group therapy center ten years ago, court-mandated for domestic abusers. That center was shut down after a whistleblower leaked audio of a counselor laughing with one of the abusers about their victim’s injuries.”

Rossi exhales low. “So, a vigilante with personal stakes.”

“Very personal,” you say. “Which is why we need to profile him as someone whose trauma was minimized—someone who has been waiting years for justice.”

Hotch watches you dissect the profile like you’re carving meat. He watches the way your fingers tap once, twice, before a breakthrough. How your lips purse when someone’s too slow. How your eyes no longer scan for his approval.

God, you used to light up when he nodded at you.

Now you don’t even look at him.

Later, in the field, you stand over the latest crime scene—a small apartment with a faint smell of bleach and desperation. You tug on latex gloves, crouching to study the drag marks on the floor.

“Unsub’s right-handed,” you murmur. “He moved the body post-kill, probably struggled with the dead weight. Look at that angle—he hesitated before the final wound. Not rage. Ritual. Maybe even remorse.”

Hotch is next to you, watching you work. He’s trying not to stare.

Trying. And failing.

You glance up at the victim, then—unprompted—stand and face him.

“You have the rest of his file?” you ask curtly, like you’d ask any other agent. No softness. No bitterness. Just clean indifference.

He nods, but he’s a second too slow handing it over.

Your fingers brush. You don’t flinch.

He does.

Back at the BAU

“She’s different,” JJ whispers to Morgan. “You see it too, right?”

“She’s hot,” Morgan says without shame. “But it’s more than that. She’s… something else now. Unshakable.”

Hotch listens from the hallway. Pretends he doesn’t care. But he does. He’s noticing things no one else is.

How you laugh easier with everyone else but not him.

How you wear your hair up now, like it’s armor.

How Spencer tries to impress you with stats and you smile gently, like an older sister.

How you spoke to the Deputy Director without even blinking.

You’ve outgrown him.

And he’s drowning in regret.

In the Interrogation Room

You sit across from the unsub’s sister, expression calm. Empathetic, but unreadable. Your voice is slow and steady.

“You lost your parents young. You raised your brother. But even you knew something was wrong with him.”

Hotch watches from the glass window. Watches the way you lean forward just enough to earn trust, but not enough to seem invested. You’ve perfected the distance. You’re no longer the girl who cried after cases ended.

“You didn’t come here to protect him,” you whisper. “You came here to give him up.”

The sister breaks. Sobs. Gives a name.

Hotch stares at the curve of your cheek, the steel in your posture, and he wants to bang his fist against the wall because you’re better than ever and he let you go.

That night, he knocks on your hotel room door.

You open it.

No makeup. Just a simple tee and silk shorts. You look tired. Gorgeous.

“What do you want, Hotchner?”

Not Aaron.

He swallows.

“You were remarkable today.”

You sigh. “Is that all?”

“No.” He hesitates. Then: “I think about that day a lot.”

You don’t say anything. Your eyes are like locked vaults.

“I was wrong,” he adds. “I used your heart. I knew how you felt and I used it. Not because I didn’t feel the same, but because I was afraid I did.”

And there it is.

Finally.

The truth.

You stare at him for a long, long time.

“I’m not that girl anymore,” you say quietly. “You don’t get to make this right just because I turned into something you want now.”

He nods. Accepts it.

But still doesn’t leave.

“I know,” he says. “I don’t want her back. I want you. Now. The version of you that terrifies everyone and still somehow makes me feel safe.”

Your breath hitches.

He steps closer, lowering his voice like a vow:

“I want to start over. I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll wait. I’ll work. I’ll prove it.”

You don’t kiss him.

But you don’t close the door, either.

And for now—that’s enough.

The next morning, you walk into the bullpen in a navy sheath dress and sharp heels. Sleek. Clean. All business.

Hotch is already there, sipping coffee, jaw tight. He didn’t sleep. You can tell. His shirt’s slightly wrinkled. Tie crooked.

He’s been thinking.

About you.

About last night.

About what he said—and how you didn’t slam the door in his face, but didn’t open it either.

And he was clinging to that silence like a lifeline.

Until you walked in… with him.

Agent Christophe Dufour. Interpol liaison. Half-French, half-dangerous. All charm.

And far too comfortable with you.

You’re barely two steps in when Christophe slides beside you with a grin, dropping an arm around the back of your chair like it’s natural. “Ma reine,” he teases. “You always make the American field offices feel like luxury hotels.”

You smirk without looking up. “Don’t flatter me before I’ve had my coffee.”

Christophe turns to the team. “She acts cold, but once in Paris, I saw her talk a suspect into confessing and giving her his coat. She could run MI6 if she wanted.”

“Christophe,” you say dryly. “You’re oversharing again.”

“No,” he replies with a wink. “Just showing reverence where it’s due.”

JJ shoots you a look. Emily raises her brows. Even Morgan mutters, “Damn, is that guy real?”

But it’s Hotch who cracks.

Barely.

Internally.

Outwardly, his fingers grip the file so tight it crumples slightly. His jaw pulses once. Twice. His eyes don’t leave the way Christophe leans in, whispering something that makes you roll your eyes—but smile.

You smiled.

At him.

And that’s when Hotch snaps.

“Agent Dufour,” he says flatly. “If you’re finished flirting, we have a case.”

The room stills.

You look up slowly.

Christophe lifts a brow. “Apologies. Didn’t realize we were on such a tight leash.”

Hotch’s voice sharpens. “I expect focus, not theatrics.”

“I am focused,” Christophe replies, his accent thickening just enough to seem like a challenge. “Just happens I can multitask.”

You shift in your seat. “Let’s move on.”

But Hotch? He’s not done.

Because all through the meeting, Christophe steals glances at you. Small, harmless things—offering you a pen, brushing your arm when you both reach for a document, whispering low to make you laugh.

Hotch sees every. Single. One.

And by the time the meeting ends, he’s vibrating.

Later, at the elevator

You and Christophe are waiting side by side, mid-conversation.

“You could come to Paris again,” he says. “I still owe you dinner for that bank job in Marseille.”

“Christophe.”

“I meant it professionally,” he says with a smirk. “Unless you want it to mean more.”

You roll your eyes—but Hotch appears right then.

Like a damn wraith. Silent. Menacing.

“You got a second?” he says to you. No hello. No smile.

Christophe gives a low whistle. “Boss man’s timing is impeccable.”

You barely hide your sigh. “Make it quick.”

In the conference room — door closed.

“You need something?” you ask coolly.

Hotch doesn’t answer right away. He’s staring at you like you’re a riddle he’s dying to solve but too proud to ask for help.

“You’re humoring him,” he says finally.

“Christophe?” You tilt your head. “He’s charming.”

“Manipulative.”

“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Hotchner.”

His eyes flash. “I’m not jealous.”

You smirk. “Then why are we here?”

Silence.

And then, slowly, he steps closer. Not in a threatening way. In a territorial way.

The kind that makes air feel thick.

“He gets to flirt with you because I didn’t,” he says quietly. “Because I pushed you away. Because I told myself I couldn’t want you and lead this team.”

His voice drops.

“I was wrong.”

You blink.

“Now you’re here,” he says, “and all I can think about is how I threw you away like you didn’t mean everything.”

The air crackles.

You shift slightly, trying to breathe, but he’s right there.

“He touches you,” he murmurs, “and I want to break his hand.”

Your breath hitches.

He leans just a little closer.

“But I won’t. Not unless you ask me to.”

You stare at him.

Silent.

But not unmoved.

Finally, you speak—quiet and sharp:

“You don’t get to dictate who makes me laugh anymore.”

His jaw clenches. He nods.

“But if I did,” he says, voice like gravel, “it would only ever be me.”

And he walks out before you can respond—leaving you with your pulse thrumming and your mind spinning.

The case is solved. Christophe’s gone.

You’re still here.

But not for long.

Your flight back to London leaves tomorrow morning. 8:20 AM. First class. Already packed. Already said your goodbyes to the others—long hugs from JJ, a quiet kiss on the cheek from Spencer, and a wistful “don’t be a stranger” from Morgan. You even promised Garcia she could visit and stay in your guest flat with the purple walls and overpriced throw pillows.

Everyone had their moment.

Except him.

You expected him to let it go.

But when the knock comes—midnight, soft, apologetic—you know it’s him before you even open the door.

Aaron.

Wearing a black sweater you’ve never seen. Holding two paper cups of tea like an idiot who didn’t know what else to bring.

“I didn’t know what you drank in London,” he says quietly. “But I figured—”

“Tea was a safe bet,” you finish, letting him in.

You take one of the cups and sit on the edge of the hotel bed. He stays standing, hands clenched, like he’s in court waiting for the verdict.

You sip.

Silence.

And then—

“I was afraid of how much I needed you,” he says suddenly.

You look up.

“I told myself that what I said was for the case,” he continues. “That the lie was necessary. But the part I didn’t plan for—the part that wasn’t in the trap—was how easy it was to say it. Because I already felt it.”

You say nothing.

So he keeps going.

“I didn’t just cross a line, I drew a new one. One where you were never allowed to matter. One where needing you made me weak.”

You watch his throat tighten.

“And then you left. And I realized I was already weak. Because I hadn’t just lost a brilliant agent—I’d lost the only person I couldn’t stop thinking about.”

There it is.

All of it.

Raw. Undressed. Humble.

“You didn’t even say goodbye,” he says softer.

“Would it have changed anything?” you ask.

“No,” he admits. “But maybe I would’ve chased you.”

You blink. “Would you have caught me?”

He walks closer, kneels in front of you slowly.

“I’m trying now.”

You stare at him. Your hand trembles slightly around the cup.

“I don’t want a moment,” you whisper. “I don’t want to be some crisis of yours. Or something you remember fondly between flights and late case files.”

“You’re not,” he breathes. “You’re it. I want all of it. The hard parts. The distance. The fight. The way you take over every room. I want to be worthy of standing next to you again.”

You stare.

And it’s there—finally—the weight in your chest cracking open.

You place the tea down, slowly.

Then raise your hand.

And trace the edge of his jaw, soft and reverent. He leans into it like he’s been starving for years.

“You don’t deserve it,” you say.

“I know.”

“But you’ll work for it.”

He nods. “Every day.”

You look down at him. This man who was once untouchable. Who made you feel like nothing. Now kneeling at your feet like you hung the moon and the damn sun.

“I loved you once,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes.

You lean forward, brushing your lips against his temple.

“And if you’re lucky,” you murmur, “I might fall again.”

He exhales a laugh. Broken. Beautiful.

And then he kisses you.

Not a claim.

Not a prize.

Just two people who survived their own ruin—and chose to rebuild.

Together.

EPILOGUE – 3 MONTHS LATER

You’re back in D.C.

Not permanently. Just for another joint case.

But when Hotch picks you up at the airport, he’s holding a travel mug with your name on it and a small bouquet of violets—your favorite.

And when he walks with you through the bullpen, his hand is on your lower back the entire time, like a quiet vow:

I won’t lose you again.

Garcia calls you “Mom & Dad” now.

Rossi just grins knowingly.

You catch Christophe texting sometimes—still harmlessly flirty—and Hotch only ever smirks now, slipping an arm around your waist in full view, whispering, “He had his chance.”

And maybe it wasn’t fate.

Maybe it was timing. Patience. Growth.

But mostly?

It was you.

Choosing yourself first.

So someone worthy could finally follow.

And this time?

He does.

Every step.

—

💌 fin.

[syena-journals]

Morning Like This

Pairings: Elias Voit x Reader Summary: A rare slow morning with Elias. He doesn’t let moments like this happen often — and you’re starting to understand why. Warnings: Subtle possessiveness, psychological undertones, domestic intimacy. Word Count: ~372

You wake to quiet.

Not the kind of quiet that comes with emptiness — Elias’s house never feels empty — but the weighted, purposeful silence of a man who operates best when he’s three steps ahead of the room. You find him in the kitchen, already dressed, already moving, already in control of the day.

“Good morning.” His voice is even, like he’s been waiting for you to join him.

You hum in reply, taking in the sight of him: sleeves rolled up, forearms tensed as he stirs something on the stove. He looks comfortable here, but not casual. Elias never does anything casually.

“You didn’t have to cook,” you say, moving closer, testing the waters of his space.

He glances over his shoulder, eyes flicking over you with that sharp, unblinking focus. “I know.”

It’s not an apology. It’s an explanation.

The smell of coffee lingers between you, bitter and grounding, as you pour yourself a cup and settle at the table. He serves you without asking what you want — as if he already knows. Maybe he does.

You take a bite. “This is good.”

“I don’t do things halfway,” he replies, sitting across from you. His tone is flat, but his eyes stay on you, gauging your reaction like this simple act of breakfast is some unspoken negotiation.

There’s something unnerving about how easily he folds you into his routine. Or maybe it’s how easily you let him.

“Do you do this often?” you ask, voice soft but laced with curiosity.

Elias sets down his fork, leaning back slightly in his chair. “No.”

“Then why me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just studies you, the corners of his mouth barely twitching — a near-smile, but not quite.

Finally: “Because you don’t run.”

You blink at that. “Run?”

“Most people do,” he says simply. “Eventually.”

You can’t tell if that’s a warning or an observation, but it lingers between you, heavy and unspoken.

The rest of breakfast passes in comfortable quiet. Still, you can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just about eggs and coffee. This is Elias staking something out, even if he won’t say it. You don’t know if you should be wary or flattered.

Maybe both.

[syena-journals]

Good Listener 🌷͙֒✧

Pairings: [Elias Voit x Reader] AU: Social Media Manager x Elias Voit, Slow Burn Lovers Summary: One late night of quiet intimacy with Elias turns into something more—touches that linger, words that mean too much, and an unspoken understanding that you’re no longer just his employee. In the days that follow, Elias learns to lean on you—but not without that subtle edge of possession that makes it clear: he doesn’t want to share you with anyone. Tone: Slow-burn, intimate, psychologically layered, soothingly possessive Warnings: Emotional vulnerability, blurred boundaries, jealousy, soft physical intimacy (kisses, touching, sharing a bed), possessive undertones Word Count: ~1.5k

You weren’t sure when you started staying later.

At first, it was work. Elias hired you to manage his presence online—crafting a brand from the ground up, scheduling posts, coaching him on how to seem approachable when every instinct told him to stay behind his walls. You told yourself the late nights were part of the job. And maybe they were. But lately, it felt like you weren’t leaving because he wasn’t ready for you to.

That night, you almost made it out the door. Your bag was over your shoulder, goodbyes exchanged, shoes on—until you saw him.

Elias sat at his kitchen table, the lamplight overhead casting harsh lines across his face. His laptop was closed. His hands lay flat against the wood like he didn’t know what to do with them.

“Still working?” you asked, though you already knew the answer.

His gaze lifted, slow and heavy. “Not really,” he said. His voice was quieter than usual, like the words had to fight their way out. “Just…sitting here.”

That wasn’t the Elias you’d come to know.

You paused by the door, one hand on the knob. “Do you want me to go?”

It was an easy out. For both of you.

But he didn’t take it.

“No,” he said, and that one syllable had enough weight to make you drop your bag and turn back.

You crossed to the counter, leaning against it instead of sitting. Giving him space. “Rough day?”

His laugh was humorless. “That’s one way to put it.”

You didn’t press. You’d learned with Elias that silence wasn’t a void; it was a container. If you gave him enough of it, he’d eventually fill it.

It took a while. Finally, he said, “The divorce was finalized today.”

Ah.

You didn’t offer the shallow comfort most people did. No I’m sorry. No You’ll get through this. You just nodded. “That…must feel heavier than you wanted it to.”

His eyes narrowed slightly, like he hadn’t expected you to name it so cleanly. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Heavier. And emptier, somehow.”

“Emptier?” you echoed, gently.

Elias leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling like the words were easier to say if they weren’t directed at you. “You spend years building a life with someone, and when it ends, you think it’ll hurt. But this isn’t just hurt. It’s…hollow. Like I’m walking into a house that doesn’t even feel like mine anymore. Like the silence is pressing down on me.”

The ache in your chest wasn’t entirely yours.

“You don’t have to sit with that alone,” you said softly.

That made him look at you again—sharp, searching. “Who else would sit with me?”

“I would.”

It came out without hesitation.

He stilled. The air between you stretched thin, vibrating with something unspoken.

“You’d sign up for that?” he asked. His voice was flat, but his eyes were alive.

“I already did,” you said, matching his quiet intensity. “Not officially, maybe. But you’ve let me in, Elias. And I’m not going anywhere.”

You weren’t sure who moved first. Suddenly you were sitting beside him at the table, close enough to see the exhaustion around his mouth, the faint tremor in his fingers. The distance wasn’t just small. It was intimate.

He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath. “You make it sound so simple.”

“Sometimes it is.”

Elias studied you for a long moment, like he was trying to decide if you really meant it.

“Can I tell you something without you trying to fix it?” he asked.

“Always.”

And so he did.

He told you how everything had been over long before the paperwork. How he’d stayed out of duty, inertia, fear. How the finality of it still felt unreal—like losing something he wasn’t even sure he wanted anymore, but it had been his, and now it wasn’t.

He didn’t cry. Elias didn’t strike you as someone who cried often. But his voice cracked, once, when he said, “I don’t know how to be me without being someone’s husband. And I’m not sure I want to learn.”

You reached for his hand. He didn’t pull away.

“You don’t have to figure that out tonight,” you said.

He stared at your joined hands. Then: “You’re good at this.”

“At what?”

“Being here.”

“I’ve been told I’m a good listener,” you offered, smiling faintly.

His fingers shifted, turning under yours until his palm pressed to yours. A small adjustment. Deliberate.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “You are.”

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy. It was charged.

When he leaned in, you didn’t stop him.

The kiss was tentative, almost questioning. His lips soft but unsure, like he didn’t know what he was allowed to take. You answered by kissing him back, steady and certain. His hand came up to cup your jaw, fingers trembling just enough for you to feel it.

When you broke apart, you stayed close, foreheads brushing.

“I shouldn’t—” he started.

“Then don’t finish that sentence,” you whispered.

He let out something between a laugh and a sigh and kissed you again.

The days that followed didn’t return to normal. Instead, they unfolded slowly, like the soft dawn creeping in through drawn curtains.

Monday morning arrived with an unusual calm. Elias was already waiting when you arrived, not in the usual distracted way but with an expectant look, as if he'd been waiting for you. You settled at the kitchen table, the proximity of your chairs shrinking the space between you more than work required. His fingers brushed against yours when you reached for your laptop, a contact that lingered longer than necessary, silent but insistent.

“You’re quieter than usual,” you teased, watching his half-smile.

“I think better when you’re here,” he said softly.

The casualness in his tone betrayed nothing, but you felt the weight of those words settle in the pit of your stomach. You caught yourself wondering if he meant only your presence or something deeper you hadn’t yet dared to name.

As the week progressed, moments like this multiplied. Shared lunches where the conversation dipped into the personal—small confessions wrapped in humor or vulnerability. Elias asking questions about your life with a curiosity that seemed less about interest and more about holding you close. He’d find reasons to have you stay late—requesting help on trivial tasks, needing opinions on details he’d usually dismiss.

And each time, you felt the subtle tether grow tighter, a bond wrapped in a quiet possessiveness that was new but not unwelcome.

One evening, while arranging photos for an upcoming post, you caught Elias watching you with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You laughed nervously, breaking his gaze.

“Something on your mind?” you asked.

He hesitated, then shrugged with a sly smile. “Just making sure you’re still here.”

The simple words held an unspoken promise.

Later that week, the veil slipped more noticeably. You were chatting about plans with a friend over the phone when Elias's expression darkened just enough to catch your attention. When you mentioned a casual dinner with someone you’d known for years, his jaw clenched imperceptibly.

After you hung up, he said quietly, “I don’t like that you have other people.”

The sentence hung in the air, heavy and vulnerable.

You reached for his hand, anchoring him with a reassuring squeeze. “You’re the one I want.”

His eyes searched yours, fierce and protective. “Good,” he murmured, voice low. “Because I don’t plan on sharing you.”

His confession wasn’t possessive in a harsh way but wrapped in a need so raw it left you breathless.

Physical closeness became the language you both spoke without words—lingering touches on your back, fingers tracing idle patterns on your wrist, the brush of his lips against your temple when you were near. He found excuses to pull you closer, to keep you within reach, as if proximity alone could anchor the storm inside him.

By the weekend, his need was unmistakable. He was there when you arrived, waiting with a quiet smile that melted into a deeper intensity as you stepped inside. When you tried to leave late one night, his hand caught yours, fingers curling gently but firmly around your wrist.

“You’re not going to disappear on me, are you?” he asked, eyes searching.

You shook your head, heart pounding. “I’m not going anywhere.”

He released you but didn’t let the gaze go, memorizing every inch as if to hold you in his mind.

That night, you stayed. On his couch, half-watching a movie, knees brushing, breaths syncing. He spoke softly, voice thick with a confession. “I don’t share well.”

“Share?” you echoed, heart quickening.

“People. Attention. Things that matter to me.”

You swallowed. “Am I one of those things?”

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking lightly. “The only thing that has been for a while.”

He kissed you then—not tentative this time but deliberate, a silent claim that settled over you like a warm blanket. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“Stay,” he murmured.

You exhaled, fingers threading in his hair. “Okay.”

That night, you shared his bed—not crossing lines, but making it clear you belonged. His arm circled you, steady and possessive in a way that spoke of shelter and unspoken promises.

“Don’t make me regret letting you in,” he said softly.

“Then don’t push me away,” you whispered back.

“I won’t,” he promised.

And for the first time, you believed him completely.

[syena-journals]

Finger Paint & Coffee

Pairings: Aaron Hotchner x KindergartenTeacher!Reader Summary: Jack’s “meet the teacher day” goes differently than Aaron expected — mostly because of you. Word count:~ 422 Warnings: Fluff, mild teasing, Aaron in a shock (!!)

Jack had been excited for “meet the teacher day” all week, and Aaron had expected it to be quick. In, out, and back to the office — maybe a polite handshake with the teacher. He wasn’t planning on staying.

But then he saw you.

You were crouched by a table, patiently tying a little girl’s shoe while balancing a stack of construction paper on your knee. Your hair was slightly mussed in that “I’ve been wrangling twenty five-year-olds” kind of way, and your smile — wide and genuinely warm — made Aaron forget, for just a second, that he was supposed to be somewhere else.

Jack was already tugging on his hand. “Dad, that’s her!” He said it with the kind of excitement Aaron rarely heard from him at school. “That’s my teacher!”

You stood when you noticed them, brushing your hands on your skirt before walking over. “Mr. Hotchner, right? And Jack! I’m so glad you came.”

“Hotch,” he corrected automatically, then hesitated. “But… Aaron is fine.”

Your laugh was light, the kind that warmed a room. “Good to know.” You crouched again to meet Jack’s eyes. “I was just about to get everyone started on a finger painting project. You want to help me convince your dad to join us?”

Aaron blinked. “Finger painting?”

“Come on, Dad,” Jack said, already tugging him toward the low tables covered in paper and little pots of bright paint.

“I’m in a suit,” Aaron pointed out, though his protests were half-hearted.

You tilted your head with a teasing grin. “I can get you a smock. Or,” you leaned in conspiratorially, “you could live a little.”

Jack giggled. Aaron sighed, but his lips twitched despite himself. “You’re very persuasive, Ms…?”

“Y/N,” you supplied. “Just Y/N works.”

And that was how SSA Aaron Hotchner — Unit Chief of the BAU, master of intimidation in the field — found himself in a too-small chair with a smock over his suit, letting his son show him how to make “handprint turkeys” on a Tuesday morning.

You watched from across the table, chin propped on your hand, as Jack covered Aaron’s palm in blue paint and pressed it to the page. “See? That wasn’t so bad,” you teased.

Aaron met your gaze, and for a moment, the noise of the classroom seemed to fade. “No,” he admitted softly. “It really wasn’t.”

And just like that, you weren’t just Jack’s teacher. You were someone Aaron couldn’t stop thinking about — someone who made the world feel just a little brighter.

[syena-journals]

The Things We Keep Quiet

Aaron Hotchner x Reader Summary: Hotch gets a surprise visit from his questionably young girlfriend. He doesn’t know about her expunged criminal record—until Garcia does some unasked digging. Word count: 2.5k Warnings: MDNI, mentions of attempted SA (in past context), implied smut, emotional vulnerability, age-gap undertones. Tone: Soft, dreamy, with an undercurrent of psychological tension. A/N: This one’s been sitting in my head for weeks. I wanted to explore that space between comfort and possession—Hotch trying to protect someone who’s been through hell while also wrestling with how much he wants her in his world. Soft, slow, a little unsettling.

It was early, that sweet, hollow sort of early that still felt like night. The world outside Quantico’s glass doors was fog-streaked and gray, the sun not yet brave enough to announce itself, but there she was—standing there with a cardboard drink carrier and that unshakable air of ease that somehow always belonged to her, even in places that didn’t deserve her softness.

Hotch saw her before anyone else did. Of course he did. He caught her through the reflection first—her in that delicate sweater she liked, one sleeve sliding just off her shoulder as if even fabric had to fight for the privilege of clinging to her, hair slightly damp from the morning mist. She wasn’t supposed to be here. She hadn’t told him she was coming. He thought of his schedule, of all the reasons this might be bad, but then she smiled—sleepy, sheepish, the kind of smile that felt like it had been made just for him—and those reasons melted away before they could finish forming.

“Hi,” she said softly, like it wasn’t a shock, like she wasn’t a small, beautiful bomb detonating in the middle of his workday.

“Hi,” he returned, voice low, the single word catching in his throat.

And then the rest of them noticed.

It started with a small sound from JJ—an almost imperceptible, oh—before the others caught on. Morgan’s eyebrows shot up like they’d been pulled by strings. Rossi was smirking like Christmas had come early. Even Tara had abandoned the safety of her coffee cup to take in the scene. Garcia, of course, didn’t do subtle.

“Well, hello mystery girl,” she sang out, sweeping in like she’d been waiting all her life for this reveal. “And who might you be?”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard, before extending one of the cups toward Hotch. “Just bringing him his coffee,” she said, voice light, breezy, though the faint pink creeping across her cheeks betrayed her.

Morgan let out a low whistle. “Just bringing him coffee, huh?”

“Derek,” JJ warned, though her tone had more amusement than reprimand.

Rossi leaned back in his chair, arms folded like he was watching his favorite soap opera. “You’ve been holding out on us, Aaron.”

“She’s—” Morgan started, then stopped, looking her over again like he couldn’t decide how far to push it. “She’s… not your usual type.”

Hotch didn’t rise to the bait. He never did. But they all knew what Morgan meant. She was young. Not just “a little younger than him,” but young enough that the gap became its own unspoken conversation in the room.

Hotch felt it—the scrutiny, the questions rattling around behind their polite smiles. What was a woman like her doing with him? Why did she look so at ease beside a man whose life was built from discipline and grief?

He simply placed his hand at the small of her back—steady, grounding, a quiet declaration that she belonged here because he said she did—and guided her toward his office.

The room buzzed after they disappeared.

“Is it just me,” Morgan said, leaning across the table, “or is she—”

“A bombshell?” Rossi finished for him.

Garcia clasped her hands dramatically. “Oh, she’s not just a bombshell. She’s like… a devastating, world-altering explosion in kitten heels. Where did you even find her?!”

JJ gave them both a look but couldn’t help her small laugh. “She’s definitely… young.”

“Questionably young,” Rossi corrected with a smirk.

The word hung there, heavy.

It wasn’t said with malice—nothing Rossi said ever really was—but Hotch felt it land anyway. The unspoken: What is she doing with him?

He’d heard it before, in glances and half-smiles, in the quiet hum of conversations that stopped when he walked into a room. He knew the math. The gulf between their ages wasn’t small. Morgan’s low whistle. JJ’s soft “She’s… young.” Rossi’s amused, probing look. Even Tara, silent but curious, watching like she wanted to read the story between their bodies. Hotch caught it all. He always did.

And for a split second, he thought about what they might really be wondering. Was she a phase? Was this his midlife crisis wrapped in soft hair and a delicate frame? Was she with him for stability, or—worse—did they think he’d taken advantage of her need for it?

He’d thought those things himself, once. In quieter moments, when she was asleep and he was left staring at the ceiling, aware of every scar on his soul, aware of what it meant for a man like him to hold a girl like her.

But then she’d look at him—like she had this morning, with that sleepy, made-just-for-him smile—and all of it quieted.

She wanted him. Chose him. Came here for him.

So Hotch didn’t flinch. Didn’t rise to it.

He simply placed his hand at the small of her back—steady, grounding, a quiet declaration that she belonged here because he said she did—and guided her toward his office.

Penelope Garcia prided herself on knowing everything about everyone she loved. And she loved Aaron Hotchner—platonically, of course, but fiercely—like one of her own. Which was exactly why, when the coffee-bearing enigma floated out of the bullpen like a fever dream and left the team buzzing like a nest of hornets, Garcia found herself retreating to her sanctuary.

Her fingers were already flying over the keyboard before she’d even fully justified it to herself.

It wasn’t about prying. It was about protecting.

Hotch was serious in ways the rest of them weren’t, careful to the point of isolation, but he was still a man—a man who had endured too much. And she… well, she was so young. And beautiful. And very clearly smitten.

It was too easy to worry about the story behind a girl like that walking into their fortress of steel and rules with that soft smile and those bare, unguarded edges.

The screen filled with results, and Garcia let out a soft, triumphant hum—until her eyes caught a flagged file.

Expunged record.

Her heart skipped.

She hesitated—long enough to know she should probably stop—before pulling it anyway.

The case details were sealed. But it was there.

Juvenile. Seventeen. One word: homicide.

Penelope froze.

By the time she returned to the round table, they were still at it.

JJ leaned back in her chair, arms folded. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

“Not if they’re happy,” Tara replied evenly, though her expression still carried the weight of unasked questions.

Morgan smirked. “Weird? It’s Hotch. Everything about Hotch is weird. But her? That’s… a new kind of weird.”

“I’m just saying,” Rossi said, tone amused, “it’s one thing for him to date. It’s another thing for him to date… her.”

“Questionably young,” Morgan echoed, like it had become a running joke now.

Hotch wasn’t there to hear it this time, but if he had been, he would’ve felt that sting again.

And then Garcia burst in, clutching her tablet like it might burn her if she let go.

“I may have… done a little digging,” she announced breathlessly.

“Penelope,” JJ warned, but Garcia barreled forward anyway.

“Did you guys know,” she continued, voice too high with the thrill of the reveal, “that your mysterious, gorgeous girlfriend has a criminal record?”

The room went silent.

Morgan blinked. “What?”

Even Rossi’s smirk faltered. “What kind of record?”

Garcia opened the file. She hadn’t read it in full—hadn’t been ready—but now the words burned on the screen.

“Murder,” she said, then faltered. “But—wait—this can’t be right.”

Tara’s brows knit. “Murder?”

“Self-defense,” Garcia rushed out, as if that made it better. “She was seventeen. A man followed her home at night. Tried to…” She trailed off, eyes darting to JJ. “It was an attempted assault. She fought back. He didn’t survive.”

The words landed like stones.

And then a low voice cut through the air.

“You overstepped.”

They all turned.

Hotch stood in the doorway, unreadable but vibrating with a restrained, quiet fury.

The silence that followed wasn’t the quiet of peace. It was the quiet of an entire room holding its breath, waiting for something to shatter or soothe or explode.

Garcia shuffled awkwardly, her fingers nervously twisting the corner of her tablet. “Okay, okay, maybe I didn’t think this all the way through,” she admitted, cheeks coloring a shade of rose that almost matched her glittery glasses. “But I was just trying to look out for Hotch. You know? Like a big sister.”

Morgan raised a brow. “Big sister who pulls up criminal records without asking?”

“Protective sister,” Garcia corrected, flipping a hand dramatically. “Okay, maybe overprotective sister.”

JJ pinched the bridge of her nose but smiled anyway. “Penelope, you have to ask before you snoop. This isn’t a soap opera.”

“Or at least wait until you know the full story before dropping a bomb at the round table,” Rossi added with a smirk.

Garcia’s smile was sheepish but genuine. “Lesson learned. I swear.”

From the doorway, Hotch’s steady gaze didn’t waver. The heat behind his calm eyes said more than words could. And despite Garcia’s awkward humor, the weight in the room thickened—because some secrets weren’t meant to be unearthed like forgotten relics.

Hotch didn’t say anything else to them. He didn’t need to. One sharp look, one clipped breath through his nose, and the room understood that there would be no follow-up questions—not now, maybe not ever.

Y/N was in his office, curled on the small sofa in the corner like she was trying to take up as little space as possible. She’d taken her shoes off, legs drawn up beneath her, scrolling absently on her phone like she hadn’t felt the tremor that had just rolled through the bullpen. But when the door opened and she saw his face, she sat up, her brows knitting with worry.

“Aaron?” Her voice was soft, tentative. She always called him that when she sensed he wasn’t just her Hotch—the man she kissed across kitchen counters and whispered to in bed—but the Hotch the Bureau saw.

He closed the door behind him, leaning against it for a moment as if gathering himself. “We need to talk.”

Her phone was already forgotten. “About what?”

He crossed the room in slow, deliberate steps, crouching in front of her so he could meet her at eye level. She looked so young like this—barefoot, knees tucked to her chest, hair still mussed from the morning. Too young for the things she’d had to survive. Too young for the weight he saw in her eyes.

“Garcia,” he said carefully, as though the name itself was fragile, “did some digging.”

Her breath caught. She didn’t ask what he meant. She didn’t need to.

“They know,” he continued, his voice quieter now, meant only for her. “About what happened. About the record.”

For a moment, she said nothing. Her gaze flickered away, to the floor, to the edge of the coffee table, anywhere but his face. He reached for her hand, warm and small in his, but she didn’t grip back.

“I didn’t want them to know,” she whispered, her voice fraying at the edges.

“I know,” he said.

“I didn’t even want you to know.” Her laugh was bitter, hollow. “That’s not who I am anymore.”

Hotch didn’t flinch. “That’s not who you were, even then. You were a child. You did what you had to do to survive.”

Her chin trembled, the first crack in the mask she always wore so well. “You don’t get it.”

“I do.” His hand tightened around hers. “You don’t have to defend yourself to me. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for surviving.”

She blinked quickly, as though forcing the tears back into her eyes by sheer will. “They’re going to think I’m—”

“They can think whatever they want,” he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. “It doesn’t change anything.”

That quiet declaration hung between them, heavier than any argument, heavier than her shame or his anger or the unspoken questions clawing at the edges of their world. For a moment, she let herself lean into him, forehead pressing to his shoulder, the faint scent of his cologne grounding her.

“You don’t look at me any different?” she asked, so softly he almost didn’t hear it.

Hotch drew in a slow breath, pulling her into his arms fully, tucking her against his chest like he could shield her from everything—her past, their judgment, the world itself. “I look at you,” he murmured, his lips near her hairline, “and I see someone who’s mine. That’s all.”

She stayed curled against his chest for a long time, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart, letting it drown out the voices in her head. She hated this—being seen like this, fragile and exposed—but with him, it felt different. Safer. His hand traced slow, deliberate patterns along her spine, neither pushing nor letting go, just holding her in that way he always did: like he had no intention of ever letting her go.

“You don’t have to carry this alone anymore,” he said finally, his voice a low murmur against her hair.

She swallowed hard. “I didn’t want you to see me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Weak. Messed up. Broken.”

He leaned back just enough to meet her eyes, his hands firm at her waist so she couldn’t slip away from the weight of his gaze. “You are none of those things,” he said, deliberate and unyielding. “You’re mine. You’re alive. That’s not weakness.”

Her throat tightened, the words unspooling something in her. “Sometimes I don’t even feel like I’m here. Like I left that night and never came back.”

He didn’t try to tell her she was wrong. He just drew her closer, pressing his forehead to hers, grounding her in the heat of his breath and the solidity of his body. “You’re here,” he whispered, “with me. And you’re not going anywhere.”

The words settled over her like a blanket, heavier than comfort but warmer, too. She didn’t realize she was crying until his thumb brushed a tear from her cheek. He kissed her then—not hungry, not rushed, but slow, deliberate, claiming her without urgency. A tether.

When his lips left hers, he didn’t move far, his mouth tracing a path along her jaw to the sensitive spot beneath her ear. “No one will ever hurt you again,” he murmured, each word soft but laced with steel. “No one will ever touch you again. Not while you’re mine.”

It wasn’t just a promise. It sounded like a vow.

She exhaled shakily, leaning into the weight of him, the scent of him, the quiet, unrelenting safety he embodied. When his hand slid up her thigh, it wasn’t about taking—it was about anchoring her in the present, in his touch, in the truth that she had survived and still belonged here.

“Let me take care of you,” he said, so quiet it almost wasn’t a question at all.

And she nodded, because there was no part of her that wanted to be anywhere but here, in the hands of the one person who could make the past loosen its grip, even for a little while.

[syena-journals]

I have an Elias Voit request for you.

What if Reader was his first love when he was Lee Duval? She haunts his life as a hallucination after his uncle kills her before he finds out when she tried escaping, but she was never found by the authorities. So he found a substitute in Sydney and pretends she’s Reader with the girls as theirs. Keeping little mementos of her in a small box in the garage.

Until after he gets arrested with Sydney finding out the reason he’d married her, Elias hears from the BAU Reader was never dead and just escaped to live another life with another identity while avoiding his existence.

Ghost in the Garage

📝 Summary: Before Elias Voit became Sicarius, there was you. You were the only person who saw through him and didn’t flinch. But when you disappeared, he broke. Years later, he lives in a performance with Sydney and their daughters — keeping your memory alive in a box in the garage. When he’s finally arrested, your name slips in front of the wrong agent, and he realizes you’re still alive. That changes everything. 🧠 Word Count: ~1.2k 🕯 Tone: psychological horror dressed as devotion, soft-spoken obsession, haunted romance, quiet madness, slow-burn unraveling ⚠ Warnings: obsession, hallucinations, emotional manipulation, delusion, unreality, gaslighting, dissociation, psychological collapse, subtle post-Sicarius references, Elias being terrifyingly gentle A/N: Thank you for your unique request! I enjoyed writing this. Hopefully you enjoy reading this!

The garage was never supposed to matter. It was just part of the house — four walls, cold concrete, tools he rarely used. But it became a sanctuary because it was the only place in the house where no one pretended. Not Sydney with her sugar-thin smiles, not the girls with their cartoons and forced bedtime routines. In the garage, the performance peeled away, and the truth emerged in its place.

That’s where you lived.

Not your body. Not your voice. Just your shadow. A memory so tangible it settled into the corners like dust. You came when it was quiet — not silent, but quiet. He liked the hum of the washing machine in the background, the buzz of the hallway light, the soft click of the girls moving through the house like little ghosts of the future he was faking.

You waited by the wall, arms crossed. Your expression never changed. Calm. Unreadable. Sometimes he knelt in front of the small box beneath his bench — wrapped in the sweatshirt you used to steal on cold mornings — and opened it like a ritual. Inside was all he had left: a photo of you looking away from the lens, your handwriting on the back of a crumpled receipt, a ring that never fit your finger properly, and the dried remains of a pressed wildflower he once tucked behind your ear.

He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried in years. You’d always hated that. Said it made him less human, and he told you that being human had never been the goal. When he touched the ring, your ghost stepped closer. Not in forgiveness. Not in anger.

Just to watch.

“Elias?” Sydney’s voice called from inside the house. “Can you come help with the dishes?”

He didn’t answer. You were looking at him. He could feel your stare threading through his ribs, cold and certain.

“She can try,” he murmured, eyes still on you. “But she’s not you.”

Inside the house, things moved without meaning. Dinner was made, toys scattered, school forms signed with automatic precision. Sydney moved around him with the rhythm of someone who thought marriage was a series of domestic tasks. She told stories about the girls’ grades. About the annoying mom in the PTA. She smiled through it all, but her eyes flicked to him like she was still searching for proof that she hadn’t married a stranger.

She had. She just didn’t know it yet.

He kissed her when he had to. Brushed her hand when she reached for his. When she leaned in, he allowed it. He always allowed it. The girls didn’t know the difference. They thought a father was someone who showed up at breakfast and nodded when they spoke. That was enough for them. Sydney needed more, and that was where the cracks formed.

“You’re distracted lately,” she said one night, folding laundry on the bed. “You don’t talk to me anymore.”

He didn’t look up from the paper he was pretending to read. “I’m tired.”

“Tired of me?”

He turned to her slowly, the corners of his mouth curling up. It wasn’t a smile. Not really. “Does that answer matter?”

Sydney went quiet. Not out of fear — out of recognition. She was beginning to understand that some things can’t be fixed. That love, once forced, begins to rot.

She found him staring at her hand one morning. The ring she wore caught the light just right — the glare hitting his eyes in a way that made his stomach twist. Not from pain. From memory. Your ring had been thinner. Subtle. Worn on your middle finger like a challenge. He remembered the way you’d twist it absently while reading. You always said you weren’t wearing it for anyone but yourself.

“You okay?” she asked.

He blinked once. “What?”

“My hand. You were staring.”

“I thought I saw something.” He turned away. “Must’ve been nothing.”

But it wasn’t. It never was.

When the BAU finally came, it wasn’t subtle. They moved like a SWAT team. Luke cuffed him with too much force. Tyler Green was there — shaking, red-faced. Sydney screamed. The girls cried. It was loud, messy, theatrical.

You were standing on the sidewalk. Barefoot, arms crossed, just like always. You didn’t flinch when he was shoved into the car. You didn’t speak. But your eyes followed him, and that was enough.

In the cell, the world shrank. No house. No girls. No Sydney. Just fluorescent lights and recycled air. The guards spoke to him like he was half-asleep. He answered when he felt like it. Time didn’t move here — it just pressed down.

You started showing up more often. Not just in the garage. In the corner of the room. In the mirror when he shaved. In the flicker of a guard’s posture as they walked away.

You didn’t judge him. You just stayed.

JJ tried to reason with him. Garcia tried to humanize him. Luke tried to scare him. Nothing worked.

And then Rossi made a mistake.

“We thought she was dead. Honestly? It would’ve been better for her. Better than ending up with you.”

Everything stopped.

You looked up from your seat in the corner — eyes wide, like even you didn’t expect that.

Elias stood slowly. Deliberately. The chair behind him tipped over and clattered to the ground.

“You don’t get to say that,” he said, voice level. “You don’t even get to think her name.”

“Touched a nerve?” Rossi’s smirk faded. “What, you still think she’d love you after everything?”

Elias’s jaw clicked as he inhaled. “She wouldn’t love you. That’s for certain.”

There was silence. Thick and vibrating.

“You still see her, don’t you?” Rossi pressed. “Still talk to her?”

“She never left,” Elias said simply.

That was the moment the BAU realized the weight of what they were dealing with.

He hadn’t replaced you.

He hadn’t mourned you.

He had built his entire life around your absence — like a cathedral to grief and delusion.

They gave him a deal. Turn over the remaining names, the locations, the patterns only he understood. He agreed. On one condition: he wanted access. Not to you. Just to the truth. A redacted name on a misfiled witness relocation document. A town.

They thought they were buying his cooperation.

What they gave him was direction.

Sydney visited him once after the sentencing. She didn’t wear her ring. Her eyeliner was smudged. Her shoulders curled inward like someone who had finally accepted the worst.

“You used me,” she said quietly.

“You volunteered,” he replied.

“What about the girls?”

“They were yours. You always knew that.”

“She doesn’t want you,” Sydney added, almost like a plea. “She ran. You think she’s waiting?”

Elias looked past her, to the hallway beyond the glass. “She’s watching.”

When they finally released him on conditional monitoring — handler, surveillance, ankle bracelet, the whole circus — he didn’t look back. They thought he was rehabilitated. Humbled. Tamed.

But wolves don’t forget the scent of blood in the air.

In a motel two states away, he opened the box again. The picture on top hadn’t faded. You were still looking off to the side, still caught in a moment he could never quite recreate.

He touched your face gently with his thumb.

“I’m close now,” he whispered.

Across the country, you stood on your porch.

The sky was heavy. The woods nearby too still. You hadn’t checked the news in a week. You never trusted what it would say.

Your phone buzzed once — an unknown number. You let it ring.

The wind shifted. You stepped back into the house, slow, careful, alert. But not afraid.

You knew this day was coming.

And somewhere nearby, he was already breathing the same air.

[syena-journals]

im a sucker for smuts that have soft loving sex in front of the fireplace 😩😩😩 aaron hotchner x reader and a weekend cabin getaway maybe?

Firelight

MDNI- 18+ Word count: 4.04k Summary: You and Aaron Hotchner escape to a remote cabin for a weekend getaway, but the snowstorm trapping you inside sparks more than just warmth from the fire. Behind closed doors, restraint melts away, revealing a deep, tender desire—soft, slow, and all-consuming. This is a story of gentle possession, whispered confessions, and the kind of love that burns steady like the flame between you. Tone: Slow-burn, sensual, emotionally intimate, tender possessiveness, soft loving sex. Warnings: Explicit smut, unprotected sex, oral (female receiving), praise kink, possessive but gentle dom, emotional intimacy, reader as second-person POV. A/N: Thank you for this request! I enjoyed writing it, hopefully you enjoy reading it <3

The storm presses against the cabin windows with relentless fury, swirling snow piling thick in waves that blur the world beyond into a ghostly white silence. Inside, the cabin breathes with a warm, quiet glow. The fire crackles low, amber light flickering against the rough-hewn walls and the soft rug beneath you. You nestle against Aaron Hotchner’s side, his arm curling around your waist with a steadiness that grounds you in this isolated moment. His fingers trace slow, languid circles along your bare skin just above your hip, light enough to make your breath hitch but firm enough to tether your heart to his steady presence. The scent of burning pine mingles with the clean earthiness of his cologne—a fragrance so familiar, so comforting, it wraps around you like a protective cloak. Your cheek rests against the warm column of his neck, pulse steady beneath your palm. The firelight dances in his dark eyes, reflecting a hunger he’s held back, now breaking free in small, devastating ways. When his hand slides upward to cup your jaw, thumb brushing softly over your lips, your skin ignites under his touch. His voice breaks the silence, low and rough, “Stay.” It is not a request but a command, wrapped in tenderness that makes your chest swell with need. You nod wordlessly, fingers intertwining with his in a silent promise.

His lips find yours in a kiss slow and reverent, savoring the taste, the softness, the fragile vulnerability only yours to give. The firelight casts shadows over his face, highlighting the sharp planes of his jaw and the darkening hunger in his eyes. You arch instinctively toward him, heat pooling low and fierce in response to his hands sliding beneath your sweater, palms warm against your ribs, thumbs stroking feather-light circles that send shivers cascading down your spine. His lips trail down your neck, teeth grazing the tender hollow beneath your ear as he murmurs, “You’re so beautiful,” voice thick with awe and desire. The ache pooling between your thighs becomes impossible to ignore when his fingers slip beneath the waistband of your pants, sliding with deliberate care to reveal the flushed skin of your thighs to the firelight and his hungry gaze. His touch is worshipful, tracing lazy, feather-soft paths over your hips and thighs, coaxing soft gasps from your lips as you arch into him, desperate for more. His mouth follows, lips pressing soft kisses along your inner thigh, slow and teasing, building exquisite tension until his tongue flicks out in worship, tasting and coaxing shivers rippling through your body. His hands settle firmly on your hips, anchoring you even as waves of pleasure roll and build beneath his ministrations. Your fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for the slow, sacred rhythm that makes your breath catch in ragged bursts.

His eyes lock with yours, dark and reverent, a storm of fierce need and delicate worship that makes you melt entirely. When he slips a finger inside you, slow and sure, you cry out softly, a delicious mixture of surprise and want filling the quiet cabin with heat. Every flick, every curl of his finger is a question and a vow, a patient learning of your body’s language as he draws you higher, closer to the edge with tender insistence. You drown in sensation, breath ragged, heart pounding wildly, until with a soft growl, he pulls you over the edge, your cries muffled against his mouth as waves of pleasure ripple through you, leaving you trembling and undone in his arms. His lips capture yours again, soft and grounding, as his hands roam upward, palms warm as they cup your breasts, thumbs teasing your nipples until a needy moan escapes you. You tug at his hair, pulling him closer, needing more of this slow, sacred worship that sets your skin tingling and your heart racing. He trails kisses down your collarbone and across your stomach, every touch a silent promise as his hands spread your legs again, exposing you fully to his intense gaze.

His tongue traces slow, languid lines over your folds, tasting and coaxing your pleasure with patient skill, every flick drawing soft moans and shivers that fill the room with music. His fingers slip inside you again, moving with worshipful patience, curling just right to make you arch and gasp beneath him, breath coming in ragged gasps as you lose yourself completely in the exquisite sensation of being seen and adored. You tremble, body alive with pleasure, when he finally rises to meet you, sliding inside slow and sure, every movement deliberate and tender, like a prayer spoken only for you. His hands hold you close, fingers splayed over your back, grounding you even as waves of pleasure build and break over you in endless tide. His voice is rough with need as he whispers your name, each syllable a vow, every touch a confession of devotion. You come undone again beneath him, crying out softly, heart pounding wildly as he moves in rhythm with your body, perfect and steady.

When he finally collapses beside you, pulling you into the sanctuary of his arms, the fire’s glow softens around you both, shadows flickering gently over your flushed skin as the storm outside fades into nothing more than a distant murmur. You are his. And he is yours. Forever.

The quiet that settles between you both is soft, thick with the residue of everything shared in the last moments—the slow unraveling of restraint, the sacred tenderness in every touch, every breath. Outside, the storm still howls, but inside the cabin, time seems to fold inward, shrinking the world to just the two of you, tangled together on the rug warmed by firelight. You feel the steady beat of Aaron’s heart beneath your cheek as his hands move with a possessive gentleness, fingers tracing the curve of your spine in a slow, worshipful rhythm that makes your skin flush anew. His lips brush against your temple, then down to your jaw, each kiss a promise, a vow without words. You tilt your head toward him, lips parting, breathing him in, feeling the delicious pull of his nearness, the steady weight of his body pressing you closer.

His hands travel lower, cupping the swell of your hips, thumbs stroking slow, intimate circles that stoke a fire in your belly. You close your eyes as his lips descend once more to your collarbone, lips and tongue tracing the delicate skin with reverence, coaxing soft moans that vibrate through the quiet cabin. His fingers find the hem of your sweater, tugging it upward with slow care until the fabric slips over your head, falling away like a gentle surrender. The cool air kisses your skin, but the warmth of his gaze and touch quickly overtakes any chill, leaving you flushed and vulnerable beneath his steady watch.

Aaron’s hands explore the bare skin of your back and shoulders, mapping every curve with reverent attention. When his palms rest on the swell of your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples with soft insistence, you arch instinctively, the sharp inhale of breath that escapes you a sweet admission. His mouth follows his hands, lips kissing, nipping, worshipping the tender peaks as your fingers thread through his hair, pulling him closer with need you barely understand but trust completely. The firelight flickers over his face, shadows deepening the hunger in his eyes, and you feel yourself melting, caught between longing and surrender.

Slowly, deliberately, he lowers you back onto the rug, his body pressing over yours in a way that is both possessive and gentle. His hands spread your legs wider, firm yet tender, until there is nothing left between you but the heat of skin and breath and want. His lips trail a path from your collarbone to your stomach, kisses soft and slow, setting every nerve on fire as he moves lower, eyes never leaving yours. When his mouth closes over your navel, the sensation is exquisite, and you arch, a soft gasp escaping your lips as his tongue flicks and swirls, teasing the sensitive skin.

His hands roam lower still, fingertips tracing the bare skin of your thighs, coaxing you open with patient devotion. When his tongue parts your folds, tasting you with gentle worship, you feel yourself dissolve beneath him. The slow, teasing strokes of his tongue are a promise made flesh, coaxing shivers and gasps from the depths of your pleasure. His fingers slip inside you again, curling and stroking in perfect harmony with his mouth, driving you higher and higher on waves of soft, mounting ecstasy. You clutch at the firewood stacked nearby, knuckles white with need as your body trembles with the delicious torment of his ministrations.

He looks up at you through thick lashes, eyes dark with awe and reverence, and you know you are his—completely, utterly his. His lips find yours in a fierce, hungry kiss, tongues dancing in a slow, relentless rhythm that mirrors the rising heat inside you. When he slides inside you, slow and sure, every movement is a prayer, a worshipful offering that leaves you breathless and aching. His hands hold you close, fingers pressing into your back as he moves with steady, deliberate strokes, each one drawing a soft cry from your lips. The rhythm between you builds, slow and sweet, until the world narrows to nothing but the firelight flickering over your flushed skin and the fierce, tender love burning between you.

His voice breaks through the haze, rough with need as he murmurs your name again and again, a litany that grounds you even as waves of pleasure crash through your body in endless tide. You come undone beneath him, trembling and shining, your cries muffled against his mouth as he holds you close, moving through the storm of release with patient, steady devotion. When he finally collapses beside you, arms wrapping around your shivering frame, the fire’s glow softens into a gentle warmth, the storm outside fading into nothing more than a distant murmur.

You lie tangled in each other’s arms, breath mingling in the quiet sanctuary of the cabin, knowing in the deepest parts of yourself that this—this fierce, unspoken claim—is forever. You are his. He is yours.

And no snowstorm or wild wind could ever change that.

The quiet that follows is thick with the weight of everything that’s been shared, the slow burn of need turned into something soft and sacred between you. Outside, the snowstorm continues its relentless assault on the world, but inside the cabin, time has folded inward, leaving only the two of you wrapped together in the warm glow of the firelight. His arms hold you close, steady and sure, as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever known. You feel the rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, the steady drum of his heartbeat syncing with your own, a rhythm so grounding that you forget everything but the fierce tenderness of this moment.

His fingers roam across your back in gentle, worshipful patterns, memorizing every curve, every inch of skin he can reach. When his hands come to rest on your hips again, thumbs stroking slow circles, a familiar ache blooms deep in your belly, and you instinctively press closer, seeking more of his touch, more of the heat that radiates from him. His lips follow a path down your neck, kisses soft and lingering, teeth grazing the delicate skin just beneath your ear, sending delicious shivers cascading through you. “You’re mine,” he whispers, voice low and thick with promise, and you smile against his skin, heart swelling with the undeniable truth of it.

With deliberate care, his hands slide beneath your sweater once more, peeling it up and over your head until the soft fabric slips away, leaving your bare skin exposed to the flickering firelight and his unwavering gaze. The cool air brushes over your skin, but it only heightens your awareness of his warmth, the way his eyes drink you in with reverence and desire. His hands trace slow, lazy paths along your bare back, and when they settle on your breasts, palms cupping and thumbs circling your hardened nipples, you arch into him, breath catching in a soft moan. His mouth follows, lips and tongue worshipping the peaks with gentle insistence, coaxing gasps and whimpers that fill the quiet room.

You tug at his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for the sacred intensity of his touch, the way he makes you feel seen, cherished, utterly adored. His mouth trails down your body, kissing the curve of your collarbone, the swell of your breasts, the hollow of your stomach with reverence and care. When his lips close over your navel, the sensation is electric, and you shiver with pleasure, arching your back as his tongue flicks and swirls in worship.

His hands roam lower, spreading your legs with tender strength until your bare skin meets the firelight, warm and inviting. His tongue traces languid lines over your folds, tasting you slowly, patiently, eliciting soft moans that fill the space between you. His fingers slip inside you again, curling just so, moving with a worshipful rhythm that leaves you breathless and trembling. Every flick of his tongue, every stroke of his fingers, is a promise—a confession—a silent prayer offered only for you.

You clutch the soft rug beneath you, knuckles white, as waves of pleasure rise and swell, building higher and higher until your body shakes with release. His name falls from your lips in a broken whisper as you come undone beneath him, trembling and shining in the afterglow of your surrender.

When he rises to meet you again, sliding inside you slow and sure, every movement tender and deliberate, the world narrows to the feel of his skin against yours, the steady rhythm of his thrusts matching the pounding of your heart. His hands hold you close, pressing into your back, grounding you as you lose yourself in the exquisite intimacy of the moment. His voice breaks the haze, rough with need as he murmurs your name, each syllable a vow, every touch a sacred declaration.

You cry out softly as you reach your peak once more, waves of pleasure crashing over you as he holds you steady, never rushing, never faltering. When he finally collapses beside you, pulling you into the sanctuary of his arms, the firelight softens around you both, the storm outside fading into a distant murmur.

In the quiet that follows, wrapped in his warmth and the glow of the fire, you know this is home. You are his. And he is yours. Forever.

The morning light filters softly through frost-kissed windows, dusting the cabin with a pale, gentle glow. Outside, the storm has softened, but the world remains hushed, wrapped in layers of untouched snow. Inside, the warmth from last night lingers, a tender residue that clings to your skin and breathes through your bones. You awake curled against Aaron, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your palm a comforting rhythm that slows the pounding in your heart. His fingers are threaded through your hair, holding you close, and as you blink awake, his eyes flutter open, dark and deep pools of calm and something fiercer beneath.

He smiles—soft, almost shy—and the weight of that small gesture sends a quiet thrill through you. “Morning,” he murmurs, voice rough but tender, and you reply with a breathless smile, pressing your lips to the curve of his collarbone where his pulse beats slow and sure. The world outside fades further into nothingness as your fingers trace lazy circles on his bare skin, marveling at the warmth, the solidity, the way he fits so perfectly against you. For a moment, there’s nothing but the two of you suspended in time—safe, cherished, utterly connected.

His hands come to your waist, sliding down with reverent care as his mouth finds the sensitive hollow just beneath your ear, lips pressing soft kisses that make your breath hitch. “You’re still mine,” he says, low and sure, as if afraid the world might forget. You smile against his skin, whispering back, “Always.”

The slow exploration begins anew, hands and lips wandering with patient reverence, every touch a sacred offering. The fire’s last embers have cooled, but the heat between you burns brighter—soft and steady, a gentle blaze that promises to consume everything but tenderness. Aaron’s fingers trace the curve of your ribs, lips kissing your collarbone and down to your breasts, where his hands cup and tease with worshipful care. You arch into him, breath hitching as his mouth closes over your nipple, sucking softly, coaxing low moans that ripple through you like warm waves.

Your hands clutch the sheets as his mouth moves lower, lips and tongue tracing paths of fire down your stomach and across your hips, leaving trails of soft heat in their wake. His fingers spread your legs wider, steady and sure, and when his tongue brushes your folds, slow and patient, every nerve in your body comes alive. You arch and sigh, surrendering to the slow, intoxicating worship of his mouth and hands as he builds you up again—careful, tender, utterly devoted.

His eyes lift to meet yours, dark and shining with awe, and you feel the depth of his love in every flick of his tongue, every press of his fingers. When he slips a finger inside you, curling it with gentle insistence, your breath catches, heart pounding as waves of pleasure wash through you. The rhythm he finds is perfect—steady and patient, coaxing you higher and higher until your cries fill the cabin, muffled only by the press of his mouth against your skin.

When you finally come undone again, trembling and glowing, Aaron pulls you into his arms, lips brushing your temple as he murmurs promises you can feel in your bones. “You’re mine,” he says again, fierce and soft all at once, and you know it’s forever.

The slow crawl toward deeper intimacy continues as his hands explore your body with worshipful care, every touch a question, every kiss a vow. His mouth traces the curve of your jaw, the swell of your neck, the soft planes of your shoulder, memorizing the skin he’s claimed as his own. You cling to him, feeling the steady heat of his body against yours, the quiet strength that anchors you when the world feels uncertain.

When he finally enters you, slow and sure, it’s like coming home—every movement deliberate, every stroke a prayer. You move together in a rhythm as old as time, the firelight casting shadows over your joined bodies as pleasure rises and falls in endless waves. His voice, rough and low, whispers your name with devotion, each syllable a promise sealed with every touch.

Your bodies speak a language all their own—a sacred dialogue of love and desire and possession that leaves you breathless and shining, wrapped in the fierce tenderness of a man who knows exactly what you mean to him. When the waves of release crash over you again, it’s with a desperate, aching sweetness that leaves you trembling in his arms.

The fire burns low, casting a gentle glow as you lie tangled in each other’s embrace, the storm outside fading into a distant memory. Here, in the quiet sanctuary of his arms, you find your forever.

The morning stretches on softly, each quiet moment deepening the intimacy between you. Aaron’s hands are never still, tracing gentle paths over your skin with a reverence that makes you tremble—not just from desire, but from the overwhelming sense of being truly seen and treasured. His fingertips explore the curve of your neck, the swell of your shoulders, the delicate line where your collarbone meets the hollow of your throat, each touch a silent love letter written just for you. You feel the heat in his gaze, heavy and possessive, yet tender beyond words, like he’s holding you in a world that only the two of you exist in.

Your breaths mingle as his mouth finds yours in slow, lingering kisses that pull you even closer, binding you tighter in the sanctuary of this shared space. There’s a softness to him now—unlike the quiet strength he wears for the world—revealing a side reserved for these stolen moments. You trace the lines of his face, memorizing the way his jaw tenses when his desire deepens, the slight crease between his brows when he focuses entirely on you. It’s in these quiet, vulnerable moments that the fierce man you know becomes something even more breathtaking: a lover who worships every part of you with gentle devotion.

His hands move lower, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt with slow, deliberate care until your bare skin is exposed to the flickering firelight. The cool air brushing your stomach makes you shiver, but the warmth of his touch quickly follows, a steady, grounding heat that melts any lingering chill. His palms cup your ribs, thumbs tracing lazy circles that make your breath hitch, and when his mouth lowers to kiss the swell of your breasts, it’s a moment suspended in time—soft, sacred, filled with promise.

You arch into his touch, lips parting to release a low, breathy moan as his tongue circles your nipple, suckling with gentle insistence. His hands roam, exploring the planes of your body as if committing each curve to memory, every sigh and gasp etched into the quiet room. You tug at the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, desperate for the slow, worshipful rhythm of his mouth and hands.

The fire flickers, shadows dancing over your entwined bodies as his lips travel lower, tracing a path of kisses along your stomach and hips. When his mouth closes over your navel, the sensation is exquisite, and you shiver with pleasure, arching your back as his tongue flicks and swirls in soft worship. His hands spread your legs, steady and sure, revealing you fully to his hungry gaze. His tongue returns to your folds, tasting you with reverence, coaxing slow, delicious waves of shivers and moans that fill the air between you.

His fingers slip inside you again, curling and stroking in perfect harmony with the movements of his tongue. Your breath catches, heart racing as pleasure builds steadily, rising higher and higher until you’re trembling with need. You clutch at the soft rug beneath you, knuckles white, as the delicious torment of his ministrations consumes you. His eyes meet yours, dark and shimmering with awe and desire, and you feel the depth of his love in every flick of his tongue, every gentle stroke.

When he finally lifts his head to kiss you, his mouth is warm and hungry, tongues dancing in a slow, relentless rhythm that mirrors the rising heat inside you. His hands grip your hips as he rises, positioning himself between your thighs. The first inch of him sliding inside is slow, deliberate, an offering, a promise. You gasp softly, arching to take him fully, your bodies fitting together as though shaped for this moment alone.

His hands press into your back, holding you close as he moves, each thrust measured and tender, building a rhythm that matches the pounding of your heart. Your breaths mingle, ragged and desperate, as waves of pleasure rise and fall in endless tide. His voice breaks through the haze, rough and low as he murmurs your name with fierce devotion, each syllable a vow. You respond with soft cries, lost in the exquisite intimacy, the sacred possession of this union.

Pleasure builds, coils tighter with every movement until you’re gasping, trembling, coming undone beneath him in waves of bliss. He holds you steady, never rushing, every touch a careful caress, every whisper a sacred promise. When you collapse against each other, sweat-slick and spent, the firelight casting a gentle glow over your flushed skin, the storm outside feels distant, irrelevant. Here, wrapped in his arms, you are home.

You drift into a quiet sleep tangled in his embrace, your heart full, your soul calm. And when dawn comes, painting the sky with soft pink and gold, you wake knowing that this—this fierce, tender love—is forever.

[syena-journals]

Falling for a Killer

(a romantic horror drabble — obsessive, slow, soft)

🕯️ Word Count: ~1.3k 🕷️ Tone: Dark psychology, obsessive romance, slow-burn horror 🖤 Summary: Your boyfriend is a killer—but he’s charming enough to convince you to stay. ☠️ Warnings: Possessive behavior, blood, implied murder, emotional manipulation, stalking, domestic horror, romanticized obsession 👁️‍🗨️ Format: 2nd person POV | Fem-coded reader | One-shot

The blood was still wet on his collar when he kissed me goodnight. I should’ve pulled away—should’ve screamed, run, done something. But instead, I cupped his jaw like I always did, felt the warmth of him beneath my fingers, and told him to wash up before bed. He smiled like I’d just made his day. I stopped asking questions about his work a long time ago. “You wouldn’t understand,” he’d say whenever I got too close to the truth. And maybe he was right. Maybe I didn’t want to. From the moment I met him, something was off. That stare—unusual, unblinking—like he already owned me before he even asked my name. The way his hand rested at the small of my back—not just guiding me, but claiming me. I always felt safe with him. There was nothing to fear; he handled everything for me. Like that barista who used to flirt with me every morning—until one day, he was gone. Vanished. The next morning, a Nespresso machine appeared on my counter, already set up. “You shouldn’t have to go out for coffee,” Elias said, brushing a kiss against my temple. “I’ll bring the world to your feet, if you let me, darling.”

I began to notice the pattern. People disappeared after I mentioned them—usually someone who had flirted, stared, or lingered too long. One man catcalled me on the street, right in front of Elias. He didn’t say a word, just tightened his grip around my wrist, hard enough to bruise. Like he needed me to feel it—to understand that no one looked at what was his. Not long after, a co-worker asked me out. I never mentioned it. I didn’t have to. A week later, my job transitioned to remote. The email was clean and professional, but it reeked of Elias—like he’d written it himself. His fingerprints were everywhere, invisible and cold.

There was a break-in once, just a few streets over. The next day, a surveillance camera appeared in my living room, panning slowly to follow wherever I moved. “I can’t let anything happen to you while I’m away, baby,” he cooed, wrapping himself around me like a blanket I hadn’t asked for. “I just want to know you’re safe.” That’s what he always said—even when I caught him tracking my location in real time. Even when I woke to find a second phone on my nightstand—the one he insisted I use instead of mine. Eventually, I told him I needed space. Just for a few days. I said I wasn’t sleeping well. He kissed my forehead and told me he understood. That night, someone tried to break into my apartment. Or at least, that’s what it looked like—doorframe splintered, lock snapped, nothing stolen. When I called him sobbing, he showed up in minutes. “You see now?” he whispered, pulling me into his arms. “I’m the only one who can keep you safe.”

I told him I had a headache. That I needed to rest, alone, for a little while. He didn’t argue—he never does when he’s already planned around me. His kiss was soft as he tucked the blanket around my shoulders. “Sleep tight, darling. I’ll be back soon.” I waited until I heard the door click shut behind him, then slipped out of bed. I left his phone—the one he insists I carry—right where he’d expect it. My old one, the hidden one, was already in my coat pocket. I didn’t go far. Just to the café I used to love before he made it obsolete. I ordered tea and sat by the window, watching people who weren’t afraid of being seen. For a moment, I let myself believe I’d gotten away with it.

Then I saw his car across the street, parked beneath the same oak it always was when he “happened” to be nearby. I barely had time to react before he was sliding into the seat across from me, like he belonged there. He took my hand in his, warm and steady. “Why’d you leave your phone behind, sweetheart?” he asked, his voice too calm. I told him I just needed air. He smiled, but his grip didn’t loosen. “You could’ve told me,” he murmured, brushing his thumb across my wrist, right over the spot he knew would still ache.

That’s when the glass shattered. A man outside grabbed a woman’s purse and bolted toward the café. I didn’t have time to move before Elias stood—fast, decisive—and stepped between me and the door. The thief collided with him and went down hard. People screamed. Someone called the police. Elias didn’t look at the man on the pavement. He only turned to me. Blood streaked his knuckles as he cupped my cheek like I was something precious. “You see now?” he whispered. “I’ll always be right where you need me.”

Everyone adored Elias. Neighbors greeted him warmly. The barista always saved his usual without asking. Coworkers called him a gentleman, the kind of man anyone would be lucky to have. Even the mailman had stopped by once just to say Elias had helped an elderly neighbor carry her groceries. Whenever I voiced doubts, friends brushed them off. “He’s so caring,” they said. “You’re lucky to have someone like him.” Their unwavering admiration made me question myself, made the bruises feel like figments of my own paranoia. Maybe I was deluded. Maybe I was the only one who saw the cracks in his perfect smile.

Later that night, I cleaned the blood from his knuckles. I didn’t ask what he’d done. I already knew. The cloth was warm, and though he barely spoke, he watched me with that same unreadable gaze—quiet, almost reverent. I cleaned beneath his nails, careful not to hurt him, even when the skin was raw. It felt sacred, this ritual. I should’ve run. Should’ve been sick with fear. But instead, I folded myself beside him and tended to him like it was love. Maybe it was. Maybe that’s why I stayed—because no one else saw the man beneath the violence, the aching thing inside all his brutality. Somewhere between the bruises and the broken things, he had become mine. And in some twisted, impossible way, I had become his.

Sometimes, in the stillness of evening, after the blood was gone and his shirt had been changed, Elias would cradle me like I was something fragile—delicate in a way only he understood. He’d whisper into my hair like it was prayer. “You make me good,” he’d murmur, again and again, like if he said it enough, it might become true. And maybe for a while, I believed him. Believed that if I just loved him hard enough, I could sand down the violence that lived in his bones. He told me I was his anchor, his salvation. “You’re all I have,” he’d say—first like a confession, later like a command. The words curled around me like a lullaby, until one day they stopped soothing and started to suffocate. I began to notice the pattern—how he only said them after I pulled away, after I looked too long at the world beyond him. His love came in refrains, repeated until I couldn’t tell if they meant devotion or possession.

Then, one night, as I sat across from him in the half-light of the kitchen, fingers wrapped around a mug I wasn’t drinking from, he said it: “If you really want to go,” his voice low, heartbreakingly kind, “you can.” My bag was already by the door—packed with things I hadn’t touched in months. The car keys sat beside it like an offering. The apartment was too quiet. No music. No TV. Just the hum of the fridge and his steady breathing, watching me like he was waiting to see what I’d do with the freedom he had prepackaged for me. Everything was in place for an escape I hadn’t planned—and that’s what made it feel wrong. Too smooth. Too easy. Like he’d orchestrated the illusion of choice just to see if I’d betray him. I looked at him, and he smiled. Not the kind of smile that begged me to stay—but the kind that already knew I would. In that moment, I realized: this wasn’t love. It was a test. And I wasn’t free. I never had been.

[syena-journals]

Drop some requests to help me out of my writers block!

Please be as descriptive as you can get (MDNI prompts are welcome)

I write for:

01) Aaron Hotchner

02) Elias Voit

03) Luke Alvez