d33pd3sire-blog

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Mom Emily headcannons

Everyone seems to be on a momily kick, and I'm eating it up (maybe I'm imagining it because I'm on a momily kick). So here's my contribution! No rhyme or reason to these, just some thoughts I've had!! Enjoy :)

She’s such a pushover, even if she swears up and down that she’s not. Never with anything important, but her kid asks for ice cream? Absolutely. They want to stay up and watch another episode of a cartoon before bed? Just this once (She’ll say yes next time). When you finally get her to admit it, she confesses that she worries about missing out on important moments, and if those extra memories do anything to combat it, it’s worth giving in occasionally

She’s obsessed with making sure they have plenty of toys, clothes, and anything else they could want. She’s constantly researching the best developmentally appropriate toys for their age. She knows all about what skills they should be learning, and they’re only receiving the very best to get there. 

She’s guilty of a late night online shopping order full of new clothes for them. When the box shows up, she claims that she was just replacing what they’ve grown out of. If it’s all the same size as what’s already in the closet, that’s her business only. 

One time, one of those late night shopping trips results in a very long photo shoot of the baby and Sergio, who are wearing newly purchased matching outfits. She laughs so hard and loves the photos so much that she has them printed out and framed. 

Anytime there’s a hard case, she comes home and NEEDS to be close to her kids. A couple of times, you wake up to her sneaking in late, kid(s) in arm because she can’t stand the idea of sleeping away from them for this one night. 

Later, when they’re older and she doesn’t want to mess up their sleep, she holds back, compromising with tucking them in and a kiss on the forehead. But she’s waking up early and making them breakfast so she can see them as soon as possible in the morning. 

She absolutely sobs on the first day of kindergarten. She knows they’ll be fine, but something about seeing her kid in a backpack that’s bigger than them walking away from her into school just gets her. She ends up late to work because she has to drive back home due to her ruined makeup and red, puffy face. 

She’s planning and doing every possible activity she can.  She’s asking every parent she meets or knows about what she can take them to do. The zoo, museums, parks, the library, and any class she can find. They are booked and busy. She’s making sure her kids get an exciting and fulfilling childhood, something she never had. 

[d33pd3sire-blog]

random emily prentiss headcanons

ִ ࣪𖤐 She’s definitely a cover hogger. She’ll wrap herself up and get all warm and cozy; leaving you with a little corner against the world. But that just gives you an excuse to wiggle your way in, cold toes at the ready, and bury your face into her. Taking great delight in the little noises of surprise she’ll let out.

ִ ࣪𖤐 When you’re hugging and cuddling she loves to bury her face in your hair. It’s both a comfort thing and the fact she loves the smell of your shampoo. It’s just so you; so grounding to her.

ִ ࣪𖤐 She somehow knows the words to every song that comes on the radio. No matter where you are— in the car, in the grocery store, at home in the kitchen, she will always be singing along. It never fails to amaze you. She loves singing out of tune whilst you cook just to hear you laugh.

ִ ࣪𖤐 Her love language is touch. Whether it’s a quick love pat or snuggling up together as you sleep; it’s something she’ll never get tired of. She always has to have a point of contact; grounding herself and you. She feels like she can convey all the emotion she needs to with a simple gesture. She may be fluent in 7 languages but touch is the one she knows best.

ִ ࣪𖤐 She definitely runs cold. She’s always tucking her ice cubes that she calls feet under your legs whilst you’re both sat on the sofa. She’ll tuck her cold nose into your neck as you snuggle down for the night. She loves to put her cold hands under your shirt, resting them on your stomach or back to warm them up.

ִ ࣪𖤐 Definitely put up a fight at first about you trimming her fringe. Let’s face it anyone who had them as a child has the trauma of their parents cutting them; all odd lengths and angles. But now it’s become part of the routine; you sit on the bathroom counter, Emily standing between your legs as you work. She always makes fun of the fact you stick your tongue between your teeth when you concentrate. Always ends in kisses and giggles.

a/n: thank you so much for all the love on my first fic in forever🥺enjoy some more rambles <3

[d33pd3sire-blog]

how do you think emily would react to coming home to her partner and kids after something traumatic (i'm thinking like the peter lewis abduction or the s17 abduction). like i assume it'd depend on the kids' ages but i think she'd definitely be an "i'm fine" girlie until she's alone with her wife

These things never used to shake Emily up too much. At least outwardly, she'd show no emotion or sign of breaking down other than the occasional nightmare. She would just lock the whole ordeal away, compartmentalize it until she forgot about it, and go on being 'fine'. She'd been abducted far too many times for it to leave an impact (right?). What changes though, when it inevitably happens again, is that she's finally settled now. She makes up more than herself. Her thoughts are racing not only with her own survival, but with what would happen to you and the kids if she didn't somehow manage to get out of this one. The “family” that was at stake used to be the bau; now it’s you. There’s a huge, glowing target at your back that her abductors only look to exploit, using you as leverage, idly mentioning your names for a reaction, and she'd feel something crack deep inside. She breaks at their hands far easier than she used to, because she can’t bear hearing your names in their mouths for a second. Emily, once a stone wall against blackmail and torture, has become a liability. Her crippling urge to protect you runs undeniably deeper than it does for the bau. Her team could hold their own; they were aware of the danger; they knew how to defend themselves and each other. But you. Oblivious, helpless you and your children. She doesn’t stand a chance where you’re involved.

The moment she gets found by the team she's gasping your name, begging them not to send her to a hospital so she could see you first and please please let me see them first. Sometimes she’d get off the hook and go straight home; others Rossi has to force her into an ambulance, staying by her side until you show up frazzled. She’d try to hold it together sooo hard but the moment she gets her kids in her arms she’s barely stifling a sob, trying to blink the tears away because she doesn't want them to catch on or think that they're hurting her. It’s what feels like an eternity of tightly clenched hugs and kisses, but it’s not enough. The moment they leave her arms she’s empty again, aching. You’re not foolish enough to ask her if she’s okay—she says it for you, chanting I’m okay, I’m okay, I promise—but the minute the kids are in bed and it’s just the both of you, she breaks down crying. It’s not even because of her injuries or her abduction; she just simply can’t handle a threat against you of any sort. For the first time ever, she takes all of her allotted days off of work and spends each of them with you—without even you or Rossi needing to suggest it—trying to bury the feeling of putting a target on your back and exposing you to the danger she faces head on every day.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

WE KNOW

warnings: nothing too serious, fluff, light flirting

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader

a/n: tysm for the request! you can find it here.

To tell the truth, you thought you and Emily were doing a good job at hiding your relationship from a team full of profilers. Especially since you already got caught having a certain mark on your neck by Garcia. You lied and said you just hooked up with someone from the bar. Even if that isn’t something you would do, another time was your fault— Emily doesn’t often wear lipstick, and when she does, it isn’t too dark. Except that one day you had bought a new lipstick and you weren’t fully aware that it wasn’t transfer-proof. She, for some reason, couldn’t keep her hands off you that morning before work, and when you kissed her, that lipstick stained her lips. And it was a darker shade than what she normally uses. Reid picked it up after the team meeting when he saw Emily. Both of you played it off as a coincidence that you had the same lipstick as her. 

What led to the two of you actually getting caught was dinner at Rossi’s. The two of you had shown up late, first of all, which was likely due to you and Emily, but nonetheless, it was dinner at Rossi’s house. Second, you both came in the same car, which was Emily’s car. But nobody saw that till Hotch left, considering you were the latest two to show up and he was the first to go. And third. 

Who even allowed the two of you to be alone for however long you were? Emily was somewhat tipsy from the drinks she had, but you were still sober. You sat beside each other, after a few seconds, you felt a warm hand find its place on your thigh, slowly sliding down to fidget with the edge of your dress. She looked behind her before slipping her hand under the fabric. “Emily— honey, stop it.” you breathed out, you swatted her hand away. “But you look so good, babe…” 

“Emily,” you gave her a blank look. 

“Fine.” she put her hand away. 

What you hadn’t seen was Garcia hearing and seeing the last half of your conversation. The last person you’d want seeing that would be Penelope Garcia. 

When you actually went to eat dinner, you noticed her eyeing you and Emily. You didn’t think too much of it at the time—first mistake. And Emily didn’t notice a thing. It went on for almost the rest of the night. I think at some point, Penelope realized she was being excessive and stopped. 

Then that left Girl’s Night. You had just finished getting ready when you felt a pair of warm hands rest at your hips, pulling you back. “Em, baby, we have to go.” she rubbed her thumb at the edge of your hip, “not even a quick one?” 

You might have been half an hour late, and your lipstick was slightly smudged. Emily’s lipstick was completely gone, but it’s normal for her not to wear any lipstick at all. Normally, these nights are for you, Emily, Penelope, and JJ to sort of relax and have fun without any BAU work talk. But for some reason, when you showed up, Reid was there. 

“Penelope… JJ… Spencer.” you stepped in, Emily following after you. “What is this?” 

Penelope had a PowerPoint slideshow, you assumed Reid helped, which was why he was there. “We have speculated that the two of you are in a super secret relationship.” 

“Is that what you think? Are you done?” you scoffed, folding your arms over your chest. Reid went to the next slide. “Emily had on your lipstick. Prentiss doesn’t wear dark shades often.”

“Wha— okay, I wanted to be different one day, sue me.” 

“Fine, that one had a hickey, and I would know, she doesn’t do hookups, especially one-night stands, she told me.” 

“Would it be crazy if I said I tried something different, too?”

“Then how would you explain Prentiss trying to do you at Rossi’s house before dinner?”

“Yeah… you got me there.” you didn’t even comprehend that Penelope saw you two that night. Sure, the staring during dinner was weird, but after a while, you forgot about it. 

“Oh, Hotch said he only saw Emily’s car in the parking lot. Either you two came together, or Prentiss picked you up.” JJ added.

“Fuck. Okay, yeah. We are together, happy??” you waved your hands in the air, dismissing the topic.

“No, we noticed it the second we saw that humongous—” 

“Woah! What- what are you talking about, Reid?” Emily’s eyes widened before she briefly looked down at you.

“Nothing.” 

“Well! Glad we sorted that out,” you sighed, glancing at Emily and back at the apparent super spy team. “Were we actually gonna have a Girls Night, or was this just to get us here?” you questioned. “Oh! Yeah, see you guys tomorrow.” Spencer grabbed his stuff and quickly left the house. 

“I–” 

“To be fair, we were gonna tell you guys. Eventually, maybe,” you assured Penelope and JJ.

“Okay! This is awkward, babe, do you wanna go home?” 

“Hold on— you two live together??” Penelope had surprise written all over her face; this wasn’t in her presentation. “Didn’t stalk our bill payments or anything, Pen?” you chuckled. “Gosh! I forgot.” 

“How– how long have you…” 

“Oh, no clue.” you heard what Emily said and gently smacked her arm. “Uh… seven? Eight. Eight months,” she corrected herself. JJ and Penelope blinked at each other. “Reid's statistics were wrong?” 

“I guess so!” you paused, “listen, does– does Hotch know or?”

“No… doesn’t really-” “I don’t think he—” 

“Yeah, he knows.”

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Domestic life with Emily Prentiss⊹₊ ⋆

Domestic Emily Prentiss x f!reader

Warnings: Small spoilers of Lauren storyline, mentions of alcohol/wine.

A/n Happy Emily Prentiss woohoo!!

When she can't sleep, she runs her fingers through your hair and traces shapes on your body until she falls asleep.

Loves painting your nails more than painting her own because she usually ends up picking the polish off after a day.

Wraps her scarves around you when going on evening walks with Sergio. She points out rocks that she finds cool and puts them in your jacket pocket for her growing collection at home.

She's always cooking for you (We don't talk about the episode she cooks for a man and doesn't exactly cook well) drinking her red wine with her hair thrown up in a messy ponytail or a bun humming along to whatever song you put on.

"You know this song em?"

"Now I do." She spoke with a small smile, continuing her humming topping off her glass.

LOVES taking Polaroid pictures of you anywhere. If you dated before the whole Doyle Paris situation she took those pictures with her as a reminder of why she's still pushing through(#1 Doyle hater).

She uses CDs to listen to music and always wants you to go CD shopping with her.

"Hey come look!" She grabs your hand before you can reply. "They have The Rapture! I used to listen to Siouxsie and the Banshees all the time."

"Put it in the basket!" You reply before glancing down to the basket almost overflowing with CDs.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

soft emily prentiss headcanons

heyyo so i had some emily headcanons that made me basically go "oh! she's just a big softie actually" and i had to share them with you.

these are all sfw and just her being the softest baby alive.<3　

═══════════════════════════════ ︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶︶⊹︶︶⊹

⋆.𐙚 ̊ emily loves having her hair played with. she will just lay her head in your lap without a word and you'll know what she wants. she especially likes it if you play with the hair that's around her ears.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ she would never admit, but she secretly loves when you call her sweetheart. she looks away and blushes, sometimes says something sarcastic but she adores it.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ she's an atrocity in the kitchen, so she's only allowed in to sit on the counter and look pretty while you cook. the only thing she excels at is baklava which she learned when she was living in the Middle-East. (every couple of weeks you ask her to make it so she feels useful in the kitchen)

⋆.𐙚 ̊ after a hard case, she comes home letting the door slam shut behind her and her bags drop to the floor, and the first thing she does is go to you on the couch and lay her head in your lap, hugging your thighs like they're a lifeline. she whispers "i missed you" as you kiss her head.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ she's very private about her life outside the BAU, but she brings you to every dinner and hangout with the team. she also cannot take her hands off of you, always touching your hand, your waist or your thigh while having conversations.

⋆.𐙚 ̊ she's so grumpy in the morning. you wake her up with small kisses and she will groan and frown(!) in her sleep and mumble nonsense. but when you go to get up she will grab your hand and pull you back to her so she can cuddle into your chest.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

You Always Drive Like This?

𖦹 emily prentiss x female reader

it starts with a “you up?” and ends with a kiss that feels like a promise. midnight drives. street tacos. the tension so thick it could stall the engine. she didn’t say where you were going — only that she couldn’t stay away.

𖦹 a/n i want what they have

𖦹 disclaimers and possible tw: emotional tension, implied relationship imbalance

It starts with a text.

You up?

Not even a minute later:

I’m outside.

You’re not surprised.

Emily Prentiss is nothing if not dramatic at midnight.

You grab your jacket and phone and head down — no questions, no shoes even — just instinct and heart and a pull you haven’t figured out how to name yet.

She’s leaning against her car when you get there, dressed like she didn’t mean to look hot but absolutely did anyway. Black jeans, half-zipped leather jacket, hair tousled from wind or maybe from her hands.

"You always abduct your coworkers like this?" you ask.

Emily smiles like the moon’s in on it. "Only the pretty ones."

You pretend not to blush as she climbs into the driver’s seat. You slide in beside her, the passenger door slamming shut with a dull thud.

She doesn’t say where you’re going. Doesn’t even ask.

Just flicks on the headlights, turns up some old rock station, and takes off like the city’s hers to carve.

You laugh into the wind. "You always drive like this?"

She doesn’t look at you — just grins. "You always complain this much when you’re not the one in control?"

You lean your head back against the seat. "You’re lucky I like danger."

Emily shifts gears. The engine hums under her touch like it’s part of her.

"I am lucky," she says, voice low. "Aren’t I?"

The silence that follows isn’t awkward. It’s thick. Charged. Familiar in that way only people with too many unsaid things between them can manage.

You roll the window down halfway. The city is smeared in light — streetlamps and neon signs and reflections in puddles. You pass a diner that smells like grease and nostalgia. A club with a line of glittering strangers out front. A gas station blaring fluorescent into the dark.

"Hey," you say suddenly. "Pull over."

Emily glances at you. "What—why?"

"There’s a taco truck."

She sighs like she’s exasperated but her eyes are soft when she pulls into the curb. "You’re ridiculous."

"And you’re hungry," you shoot back, already unbuckling. "Don’t lie."

You both end up sitting on the hood of her car ten minutes later with tacos wrapped in greasy foil and hot sauce on your fingers. She watches you lick it off with an expression you can’t quite read.

"You do that on purpose," she says.

You raise an eyebrow. "What, eat?"

"Lick your fingers like that."

You smirk. "Maybe."

She tosses a napkin at you. You toss it back. She catches your wrist.

"You’re trouble," Emily murmurs.

"You knew that when you picked me up."

Her eyes drop to your mouth again. Just for a second. Then she releases your wrist like it burned her.

The silence this time is louder.

You hop off the hood and brush crumbs off your lap. "Ready to go?"

Emily doesn’t move. "Not quite."

The song on the radio changes. Some old bluesy track with a slow, dragging beat. You lean against the passenger door. She leans beside you, arms crossed, body close.

"Tell me why you’re really out here," you ask.

She doesn’t answer right away. Just stares at the empty street.

Finally: "Because if I stayed home, I would’ve kept thinking about you."

The city feels too quiet for a moment.

You tilt your head toward her. "And what do you think now?"

Emily looks at you, eyes darker than before. "Now I think I’m fucked."

You laugh, but it’s not mocking. It’s warm. A little breathless. "We both are."

She leans in.

So do you.

But you don’t kiss yet.

You hover.

Close enough that your breaths mingle. Close enough to feel the heat of it.

Her voice is barely a whisper. "If I kiss you right now—"

"It’s not just a kiss," you finish.

"No."

"Then maybe you shouldn’t."

She almost pulls back.

Almost.

But you grab her jacket. Just a fistful. Just enough to keep her there.

"I didn’t say I didn’t want you to."

Emily stilled.

You felt her breath catch — right there between you, in the inch of space neither of you dared close now.

But she didn’t kiss you.

Instead, she exhaled and leaned back a little, eyes scanning your face like she needed to memorize the shape of what you’d just said.

The moment held. Then passed.

And like some invisible thread had snapped, Emily sighed and muttered, "Get in."

You did. Quietly. Still pulsing from the tension.

The car doors shut in sync — one dull thunk and then another. Rain tapped steady against the roof as she pulled back onto the road, headlights cutting a thin path through the wet dark.

For a while, the only sound was the hum of the engine and the soft rattle of your heart.

Neither of you spoke.

But her hand drifted — almost absentmindedly — to the space between you, fingers brushing yours on the console like an afterthought. Not a grab. Not a demand. Just contact.

You didn’t move away.

The streets blurred by. Neon signs stretched into puddles. The city was asleep, but you weren’t. God, no. You were burning with everything you hadn’t said.

"You always do that?" you asked eventually, voice low.

"Do what?"

"Run hot and cold."

She let out a breath that might’ve been a laugh. "Only when I care."

You glanced at her profile — the sharp lines, the wet strands of hair clinging to her jaw, the way her grip tightened just slightly on the steering wheel.

"And do you?" you asked.

Emily’s tongue darted across her bottom lip. "I’m driving you through the city at one in the morning in the rain, aren’t I?"

Fair point.

Still. You wanted to hear it. From her mouth. Clear.

So you said nothing. Just turned the radio up a notch and leaned your head against the window. Let her feel the silence stretch between you again.

When she finally spoke, it was soft.

"I didn’t kiss you because I wanted to. I pulled away because I really wanted to."

That got you to look at her.

Emily glanced at you for just a second, then back at the road.

"I’m trying to be good," she said. "Trying not to fuck this up."

You swallowed. "You think kissing me would fuck it up?"

Her fingers flexed on the wheel. "I think not kissing you is starting to hurt."

There was no good response to that. Not one that didn’t involve reaching over and dragging her in by the collar while she was still going 40.

So you didn’t respond.

But when the next red light hit, and the car slowed to a stop, you leaned in slowly and said, "Then kiss me when you’re ready to stop hurting."

Emily’s hands loosened on the steering wheel.

And then she turned — not all the way, but enough to catch your mouth with hers in a kiss so soft it didn’t match the fire from earlier, and yet—

It felt like more.

It was slower now. Measured. Her thumb grazed your jaw. Her mouth lingered on yours like she didn’t want to leave it. Like this kiss wasn’t some desperate middle-of-the-night mistake, but a choice she wanted to keep making.

The light turned green.

Neither of you moved.

When she finally pulled back, you could still feel her breath on your lips.

Emily looked ahead. Shifted the car back into drive.

And whispered, "Hold on."

You grinned, half-dazed. "For what?"

Her eyes cut sideways.

"For the rest of the night."

[d33pd3sire-blog]

𐙚  𓂃   ࣪    ◌      ' two cigarettes in an ashtray '  🪽  𓉳    

 ྐ𖥨    pairing ,    𓊇 emily prentiss x bau!reader 𓊆 summary _    ͏ৌৄ়়ৗ.    based on the ending of 17x05, emily is about to lose her office at the bau. you give it a proper send off. છਊ tags!     𓊇   glasses!emily , fingering (r. receiving) , porn with feelings? 𓊆 author's note! ᭅᬻ the glasses stay on!! i am thinking about witing another chapter? please do let me know how u like this~!! <3

word count : 6,327 <3

Emily Prentiss.

BAU Unit Chief.

You read the plaque ten times over, and then some, just for safe measure.

Your hand rests, tentative, on the brass handle for what seems like hours.

You just can’t do it.

Can’t open the door, can’t see her like that again.

You’d seen her only a few minutes prior, those dark eyes portraying the heart-shattering grief of a woman losing the only job she’s ever loved, the only one she’s ever known. You would very much like to never hear that quake in her voice, to never feel the twang of pain in your chest you felt when she sulked back to her office, sunken by the knowledge that the tears were beginning to fall, that you have always been the only one who can kiss them away, but knowing that you must wait until the rest of the team has dispersed for the night for secrecy’s sake.

Her pain is entirely yours, and to see her sleep deprived features now would only come as a further confirmation of her removal from your daily schedule, perhaps the worst aspect of her restriction. It has always been your favorite part of the job, perhaps the only reason you stay employed by the bureau, that despite the gore and the terror, you get to see her during your every waking moment. From the minute you open your eyes in the morning, until the second they close come evening, it is Emily who fills them.

You curse under your breath, aimed for whichever higher level official has taken such perfect circumstances and squandered them.

The thought of returning to work tomorrow, of picking your gaze up from your desk, hoping to catch a glance of Emily sitting at her own, yet finding her office devoid of life, emotionally wrecks you.

You can’t open the door, can’t confirm this horrible thing that has happened to you.

But you can’t let her wallow in there by herself.

You push the door open ever so softly, the creak of its hinges impossibly familiar to your ears after countless mid-shift rendezvous, sleepless nights spent here, sitting with your knees draped over her desk while Emily endlessly rereads her current files.

The air is heavy with smoke, likely from her second or third cigarette of the night. You’d typically scold her, scrunch your nose up and fuss until she handed over the pack, but you know just how much she needs this tonight, won’t bother to hurt her any further.

Emily sits at her desk, hair loose, curls cascading over collarbones, cigarette in a hand which is propped against whatever book she is unsuccessfully trying to focus on. You see it in her features, brow furrowed and eyes glassy— she has been trying to fill time, just as you have, until the team has filtered out, but not one word of this book has been read.

Her glasses, though, those thick black frames that make you weak in the knees, sit so delicately against her nose, so dark against pale features and silvery hair, forcing a grin across your downturned lips.

You must be moving at a mouse’s volume, for the older woman slightly jumps when you open her window, let some of the smoke curl into the night, relieve some of the tension that’s thickening the air around you.

She sighs, eyes finding you finally, and she pulls the frames from her nose and hooks them over her shirt, slightly making the fabric sag, your mouth water.

“Emily,” you say softly, no expectations, just enjoying the way her name sounds on your tongue, letting it hang in the air, join the tobacco.

She slides a hair through the stress-dampened curls, leans back in her chair, waits patiently until you’ve settled yourself in her lap, a motion so frequent it comes to you without thinking.

You sink into her, one hand splaying against her collarbone, pinkie dancing in the silver curls, the other landing at her waist, thumb in her belt’s loop.

“I’m so sorry,” you whisper as she lifts the cigarette to her lips, releases a low stream of smoke, the smell that you once detested, yet now feel so fond of for the way it reminds you of her. The tobacco, so rich and woody and melting perfectly with her perfume, calms you even though you are not the one smoking it.

“Don’t apologize,” she hums, eyes, once distantly staring towards one of the vases at the other end of the room, now finding you, “It isn’t anyone’s fault but my own.”

You shake your head, press a warm kiss to her temple.

“Don’t do that,” you retort, hand dropping to lightly tease at the glasses at her chest, tugging on them ever so slightly so that her attention never leaves you, “Don’t blame yourself. You were just doing your job, keeping people safe.”

Emily’s hand, the movement subconscious and not at all intentional in the way it makes your skin ripple, slides beneath your skirt until it rests possessively on your thigh, revels in your warmth, as she shivers from the night’s air whistling past the cracked window.

She looks up at you with that signature Emily Prentiss skepticism, the brow raised, the lips tight in a sardonic smirk, making you ready to fall back on what you’ve just said, to change your mind, to agree with her wholly.

This matter, however, you will never agree with her on.

You won’t let her be so cruel to herself, won’t allow this hatred to direct towards anyone but the people who got her arrested in the first place.

You trace over her collarbone, allow the silence that befalls you. Your head gently dips into the space between her neck and shoulder, resting upon the curls that sit there. You are surrounded by her heartbeat, it cradles you in its soft rhythm, accompanied by the gentle rise and fall of her chest, percussed by the recurrent lift of the cigarette to her lips.

“What have you been reading?” You ask softly after several minutes, your lids heavy but your attention dancing over the ephemerae of her desk, noting the unopened bottle of whiskey that you know she had once hidden away for a special occasion, now sitting on her desk, wax seal still intact, but a glass accompanying it.

She shrugs softly, picks up the book, must lift the glasses back to her nose to read the title to you.

It is in French, appears quite old, must be something regarding politics, if you were to trust your very limited knowledge of the romantic languages.

“Boring as hell,” Emily hums, a lilt of laughter returning to her voice, as though just your very presence by her side, even though you sit in silence, has lifted her spirits substantially.

You laugh, not at all too loud, you’ve learned your lesson enough that even when you believe the building to be empty, there are frequent stragglers, who often require something of the Unit Chief before they return home. Tonight of all nights, you want so deeply to not draw attention, to stay in this little box for as long as you can, to never allow the sun to rise.

You’ve become unsettled on her lap, sit upright, nose mere inches away from hers now.

“I love them,” you purr, finger lightly flitting across the black acrylic that still perches so precariously atop the strong nose.

She rolls her eyes a bit, moves to pull the glasses away, but you place your hand over hers before she is able to move them.

“I’m serious,” you smile sweetly, voice falsely stern, only somewhat proving your conviction in the matter, “keep them on. They’re so damn sexy.”

The last bit makes the sides of Emily’s mouth twitch, her fingers shifting against your thigh.

You’ve switched something on within her, and it makes that signature Prentiss-fueled fire in your belly flicker alive.

“Really?” Her voice is flat, but dripping with that signature sarcasm that she does so well.

You nod softly, capturing your lower lip between teeth, looking up at her beneath your lashes, your touch dipping from the glasses to gently caress her cheek.

“Real-.” Your breath catches, unable to complete your last syllable, when Emily’s hand slides ever further up your skirt, finds a handful of your ass, tugs you closer to her.

She is the one that seals the space between you, and though it is more awkward than usual, glass stopping the way your lashes would typically flutter against hers, she kisses you like she’s been needing this all day, like every stress that has been stacked atop her shoulders finally tumbles down the moment she feels your touch.

Her mouth is desperate, tastes of tobacco and coffee, is warm and moves against you in her practiced rhythm, yet there’s the aftertaste of exhaustion which is so unlike her, a tiredness to her movements that you feel almost guilty over.

You pull back a bit from this guilt, readjust yourself on her lap, find her eyes which take a moment longer to open.

“Emily,” you repeat the name, those three syllables your lips’ favorite, “we don’t have to. Not here. We should go home.”

Emily sighs softly, presses her face to your chest, breathes in deeply, greedy to feel you, to absorb your scent, even though you’re coated in sweat, and your clothes are far from clean this late in the day. She does not care, pulls her hand from beneath your skirt, her movements languid and almost carrying a solemnity to them. It makes your heart ache, to see her like this, the light behind her eyes flickered out for the night. You want to sweep her home, to hold her tight until the sun rises, and never return back into this building which has so shattered her soul.

She won’t let you do that, though.

For all of the pain that the bureau has caused her heart, she will return to it every time. It is her ultimate vice, one that she will never lay down until they drag her away, screaming and kicking.

“Just,” her voice picks up, quiet and quivering and sad, “let me stay here a bit longer.”

You nod, cradle her head between your hands, smile when she begins to press kisses to your chest, something fluttering behind your ribs when she begins to pull at your buttons.

“If this is the last night I ever spend in this office, I’m going to make it a good one.” Her voice immediately loses that sadness it once dripped in, now is biting and teasing and so her, and it makes that dorky smile spread across your features all over again.

You reach down, helping her with the buttons of your blouse, once again capturing your lip between harsh teeth, nearly drawing blood, from the soft little whimpers that escape the older woman with each pop of a button. She is ultimately in complete awe of you, hands revering your every inch as she slips the silk past your shoulders, onto the sticky floor of an office that hasn’t been treated with enough respect to earn a regular cleaning.

You find yourself unappreciative of the way that she’s craning to lay small kisses to your sternum, press a hand to Emily’s collarbone until she is flat against the large leather chair, her glasses teetering at the very tip of her nose.

Her gaze is so greedy, dark eyes never wavering from you as you lift a thigh, hiking up your skirt so that you may straddle one of her own legs. Once situated, breathing shaky from the way that her muscle immediately tightens below you, you press your finger to the bridge of her glasses, settle them correctly.

The look of her below you, sleeves rolled up to her elbows, hand running through that white streak of hair to push it out of her field of vision, her legs spread to accommodate you, posture so damn unprofessional that you are the only one she’d ever slouch like this for. She looks tired, but not like she’s hurting. Domestic, off-duty, like she feels safe with you.

The room is ever so quiet, save for your shared breaths, and the distant sound of whatever cars may dare the street this late into the night. You have the floor to yourself, only the hum of dying fluorescents and a vacuum elsewhere in the building.

The quiet is nearly suffocating, but you love it, for it allows you the sound of Emily’s typically hidden moans, like the one that falls from parted lips when you readjust yourself on her thigh, let the wetness she’s caused there seep through the fabric of her striped pants.

Her hands instinctually grip at your waist, stabilizing you, making sure that you’re really there, that this isn’t some sleep deprived, anger-fueled hallucination she’s having.

You’re quite real, you remind her by pressing small kisses to her cheeks, then ever lower, chest colliding with her stomach as you smudge your lipstick across her collarbone, fingers speedily undoing her top buttons.

You’ve always loved the dynamic of it, Emily staying dressed, powerful in her ownership of the office, you dressed so dangerously little, almost praying that someone would barge into her office, see you scantily clad, see Emily’s possession of you.

Tonight certainly is not the night for that fantasy though, so you allow your fingers to trail lower, let your kisses fall until you meet the lace border of her bra, find the opening of her shirt so that you can find the constricting muscles of her stomach. Your hands are cold, make her flinch, cause her own, significantly warmer, to find your skin, sending a warmth through your body.

You kiss her so lightly, her skin so delicate and already slightly bruised from your last venture beneath her shirt, but you’re not nearly as rough with her as she is with you. You find this woman to be something to be worshipped, and as such you are always light in your touch of her.

Emily could not feel more oppositely. She worships you, of course. Loves you just the same as you love her. Would never purposefully hurt you, but she often cannot control herself, much less when it comes to you. Her grip at your thighs is rough, your fat spilling between her fingers, veins protruding at her wrists from the strength of her grasp. She has always been one to handle you like this, and you’re always more than happy to be thrown around as she pleases, but tonight there’s something different within her, a deeper anger that she’s trying to suppress, an inner turmoil that has her hands tentative, like she wants to throw everything off of her desk in a rage and fuck into you until neither of you can think straight anymore, but she isn’t allowing herself that.

Not yet, at least.

You begin to rock your hips against her, just shallowly, as her grasp stabilizes you so much that you can only move very little. Emily hides the smirk that threatens her lips, watches you with that gaze that’s only sent in your direction yet mirrors the look that she shoots suspects.

Ravenous. Dark and shark-finned and so hungry for you, but forcing herself to wait, to let the tension fill the already thick air that swirls around you, to wait until you’re both dripping in need, then she’ll make her move upon you.

She cannot help her own mouth though, never has been able to.

“Fuck, baby,” She mewls, hold onto you still impossibly tightly yet now she begins to help you grind, doing the work for you, gliding your hips across her knee.

You return with a sweet curse of your own, the words whispered into her skin, your head lazy against her chest now, only pressing soft licks to her skin when you’re not completely wrecked by your desperate need for her.

“Em— mily—” You whimper, her name interrupted when her thigh hits you in just the right place, your nails digging into the skin at her sides, your hips begin to twitch in search of more.

Emily lifts your chin, smiles to herself when she notices the way your lips are wet from your own saliva.

“Can you use your words for me, sweetheart?” She questions, voice so teasingly kind, and pushes the hair away from your face.

When your eyes meet her, shocked all over again every time you see the glasses she’s still wearing, all your throat can muster is a little ‘mmph—’ before you’re biting your own tongue, trying not to make too much noise, your hips shuddering against her.

Emily pouts, false and mocking and making your stomach flip inside out, caresses your face so sweetly that it makes you blush.

“C’mon, baby, let me hear that pretty little voice.”

You feel completely unable to speak, brain so blurred and fuzzy and empty that you find it hard to function at all, let Emily just do everything for you.

“Please,” is all you’re able to muster, breathing the word several times, looking up at Emily, seeing the stress still present deep in her eyes but you’re too far gone into her fog of lust that you’re not too sure what you can do to help.

Emily smiles up to you, helps support your head which is so heavy on your neck that you’re getting close to dropping it to her chest again, swiftly lifts you so that you are sitting atop her desk, likely wrinkling several important documents, but neither of you care one bit about work in this moment.

You whine at the total loss of contact, Emily still sitting back in her chair, as if catching her breath, as if she is assessing just what means she wants to employ to have you gasping and moaning her name into the stale air of the empty office. She chances a glance to her left, notices that the blinds are still open, returns her gaze to you.

You’re ever so antsy, reaching out for Emily yet she’s just there out of reach so your hand falls back to the mahogany of her desk, features turning downward as if in anger, so very mad at her for not giving you what you want right when you need it.

Emily is having far too much fun with this, you see it in the way her brow quirks backward, how her tongue swipes over her lips, anticipating, teasing.

You’re about to huff at her, to make matters far worse for yourself, but Emily silences you with the first of many kisses, first to the inside of your knee, the next trailing further and further up, causing your thighs to squeeze together around her head.

She laughs into your skin, continuing her short frenzy of pecks until she reaches the fabric of your skirt, must pull back in exhaustion with the garment.

“Off.” She demands, plainly and calmly, and you all but fall off of the desk as you do just as she’s told, kicking the material off onto the floor to join your top.

Emily herself is growing impatient, doesn’t even allow you to return to your position on her desk, instead pushes you against it, so that you’re only lightly perched against the desk’s lip, feet just dangling so that you toes barely touch the ground.

Before you even have a chance to get your bearings, you feel breath, hot, prickling at your skin, the soft flesh right in the inside of your thigh, the softness of her nose gently nudging you, pulling your attention.

As you let your chin fall, your chest heaves with stuttering breath, finding her there below you, on her knees, glasses thrust back onto the crown of her head so that they push the hair away from her face. Her nose is buried between your thighs, her breath heaving, slow, deliberate so that she might suffocate herself there if she so pleases.

This sight alone is enough to turn your muscles to jelly, but you don’t even get the chance to revel in this lewd image she’s drawn you, for Emily drags her tongue along your soaked-through underwear, pulls a moan from your lungs that is so loud you fear you’ve alerted the entire building to your affair.

You can feel her smile— lips parting so that teeth gently scrape against your clothed cunt, that grin that always has you weak only furthering your undoing above her.

You hold yourself against the desk as best you can, but whichever hand is closest flies from the furniture to tussle in her hair, tugging her closer, wordlessly begging her for more.

Though, you know well that she won’t take kindly to your lack of words.

Emily wants to hear you, wants this room to echo with your little whimpers and pleads and calls of her name long after the plaque outside her window no longer holds the name itself. She continues her delicate, almost featherlight licks, tongue flattening against you, pulling more of those salacious noises from your kiss-swollen lips until you cannot take this heat any longer.

“Emily, please—” you mewl, and by the time your eyes flutter open those two dark pits are already baring into you, making you swallow hard, knowing just what she wants to hear, “Please, Em… fuck me.”

The request, quite a simple one in regards to your previous sexual history with Agent Prentiss, is all it takes for the woman to drop her gaze, return her attention between your legs. She cannot help but tease, must allow herself a few more sloppy kisses against your underwear, has found herself all too obsessed with the idea of keeping you clothed, taunting you just like this for hours on end.

Perhaps she’s found kindness in staring down the barrel of an early retirement, for Emily finds your waistband with her teeth, tugs it until she cannot any more, pulls it the rest of the way down with a hooked finger so that you may step out of the underwear.

The older woman falls back against her ankles, hands gently brushing over the smooth skin of your calves as she wolfishly eyes your glistening pussy. Your hips buck on their own, as if grinding into absolutely nothing, begging her for pleasure that isn’t there because she’s taking her sweet time, taking this mental image of you quivering above her, making oh so very sure that she’s getting every little detail.

“Fucking hell,” Emily whispers, voice so low and raspy that you nearly miss it, “fuck, baby, you’re dripping.”

Once again, you can tell she’s wearing that killer smirk, it doesn’t take a glance down to tell, her voice is just coated in sugar, so sickeningly sweet, just what you’ve grown used to when you know she’s about to completely destroy you.

Emily’s mouth starts lower this time, hungrily licking at your skin, lapping up all of the arousal that pools between your thighs, once again her method languid, methodical in each little desperate cry she pulls from you. Her hands find their place on your hips, keeping you steady, not wanting you to do any of the work, not allowing it. You give yourself over to her too easily, too entirely, find yourself existing only as she tells you to. When your hand gently tugs on her hair, it is only because Emily’s tongue has found your cunt once again, because she wants you to pull her closer, to feel your small fingers burn her scalp, wants to feel the affirmation that she’s doing a good job in addition to simply hearing it.

Emily teases you first with the bridge of her nose, savoring the soft hitches of your breath that come with each of her small prods. Her kisses to your skin are sloppy, searching, seeking the place that makes you twitch the most, until she eventually finds it, presses her tongue flat against your clit, curls and licks and makes you groan in the way that only she knows how to.

You can’t help yourself from whimpering her name into the empty office, both in wanting the whole bureau to know that Emily is the one that you belong to, and in a soft demand of more, letting her know how desperate you are to feel her inside of you, how ready you are, how sick of waiting you’ve grown.

She is quite the apt listener, for it’s not many pleads of her name before the older woman has plunged two fingers into you, eliciting just the volume from you that she so craves, has your back arching, threatening to spill you back onto the desk, your arms feeling weak from the shock of pleasure that careens through you.

Your fingers grab a fistful of her hair, holding her steady as you desperately hump against her mouth, but those damn glasses are in the way, interrupting your grasp of silver, so you grab the acrylic, slam them onto the table beside you.

This earns you a squeeze to the ass, and a sloppy reprimand.

“Gentle, baby.” Emily’s voice is soft against you, dark and sultry and fucked out in her own sense, her short words sending a gentle vibration through you, making you shiver.

You ride her, the display so obscene that when you catch yourself in the reflection of the window to your right, you blush so deeply, lift a hand to your mouth in embarrassment, yet you can’t pull your gaze away. You can’t see it well, but the image of Emily, the highest level agent in your unit, the one who has everyone on their metaphorical knees at any given moment yet now sits on her knees below you, is only focused on your pleasure, her head bobbing between your legs, you couldn’t be paid to look away.

Emily’s pace is rhythmic, not painfully slow as it usually is, but just at the speed in which you can beg her to go faster and you’re sure that she will, so that is just what you do, whimpering brokenly until her fingers curl into you at a pace that has you out of breath, will surely hurt your hips in the morning.

“E— Mily, ‘m gonna—” You call, voice broken and far too loud but God, you don’t care one bit because you feel so good, she makes you feel so damn good.

Emily doesn’t speak in return, for her mouth is quite busy not so gently sucking at your clit, sending the shockwaves through your belly and making your fingers tremble. Her fingers only fuck into you rougher at your confession, curling against the tender muscle until you’re unravelling, coming on her tongue and her palm, making a complete mess of the desk beneath you, but it’s not like either of you have to worry about its cleanliness anymore.

Emily slows her pace, quiets her mouth’s movements, instead presses soft kisses to your legs, then to the sensitive strip of skin just below your stomach which always tickles you just enough that it makes you giggle.

You release her hair from your tight grasp, shaking your hand slightly to relieve the tension it has built up, offer her your hands to help her stand once again.

Her hair is disheveled, chin glistening, shirt wrinkled… all making you feel so dizzy that you have to sit on her desk once again, holding onto her for dear life. She lets you do just that, presses small kisses across your forehead, nose, and jaw, lets you catch your breath, catches her own.

“My knees ain’t what they used to be,” she jokes, lightly kicking her leg, as if to regain feeling in something that has fallen asleep.

You laugh gently, wrap both arms around her waist, press your chin to her chest, lift your eyes up to her.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have let you—”

She cuts you off with a wet kiss, sneakily unhooking your bra as she distracts you with her lips.

“Don’t you dare apologize for anything.” Emily hums, pulls back, stands to look at your entirety, her fair skin highlighted by the warm glow of the only light on in the room, a lamp at the edge of the desk.

You’re not too pleased by the way she begins to back away, so you grab the glasses that were once discarded on the table beside you, hook them on her shirt, tug her closer to you once again.

You pull her into another kiss, this one sweeter, laced by the exhaustion that clouds both of your minds, the warmth of her chest pressing against yours, until she has you pinned against the table, trapping you between her two splayed hands.

When she lifts her head, her hair cascades into a waterfall that covers you, your new angle rushing all of the blood to your head so that you feel almost tipsy, feel bold enough to reach for Emily’s belt, to whine out a beg for her to take it off.

She does just that which you want, opens the metal clasp so that you can remove the shirt that was so cleanly tucked in, force it off of her shoulders, let your nails lightly scrape her skin.

“I’ve always had this fantasy…” You begin, voice trailing off, eyes becoming entirely avoidant when you realize just how silly the request sounds.

Emily will not accept any of this sheepishness, shifts her weight onto one arm, uses the freed hand to grab your chin, force your attention back up to her.

“Go on…” She purrs, eyebrow lifting in that way.

You swallow hard, let your hands drift around until you’re toying with the necklace that dangles just above you.

“You, fucking me against that window…” you extend a finger to the one you’ve just been staring at, the one that overlooks the whole unit, the one that gives you the perfect view of Emily from your desk. The one that, had anyone else been in the building, would have given them the perfect view of you.

Your blush only flushes deeper when you notice the quizzical look across her features doesn’t leave, and you begin to backtrack.

“It’s silly, right? It’s silly…” You try to force Emily’s attention on anything else, let your fingers fall to fidget with her glasses again, until her hand lifts from your chin to find your own, settling your worried movements.

“Not silly at all, sweet girl.” Her brow has fallen, sits comfortable over the dark eyes, instead turns up in worry, worry that you just don’t know how deeply she cares for you.

Emily stands, her features straining a bit from the movement, like the weariness of the day has finally collided with her, head-on, but she won’t accept it just yet.

The older woman extends a hand, lifts you up by it, pulls you until she has you pressed against the window, the glass so cold against your back that it sends a shiver through you, one that Emily settles with the warmth of her weight pressed against you.

You lift your fingers to cup her face, pull her in for another bout of lazy kisses, the action all too practiced, all too familiar. The feeling of kissing her never gets boring, will feel new and exciting and will make your stomach flutter every time your lips connect.

Emily’s touch is wandering, exploratory and worshipping and wanting to feel every single little raised freckle and pore and protruding vein, wanting to memorize your every square inch. At the rate of your nakedness around her, it’s possible that her map is very nearly full at this point.

You curve your back, press yourself into her, let her smother you against the glass, giddy with her weight atop you, lightheaded with the way she limits the intake of breath into your lungs.

You don’t worry over things as trivial as breathing, not when Emily’s fingers dance down your chest, find your breast, tease the nipple which has already stiffened from her tickling. She lightly pinches at the pebbled flesh, kneading into your tits, groaning at your malleability beneath her.

“You’ve been such a good girl tonight,” she whispers against the shell of your ear, pressing her tongue against the lobe, kissing your jaw, “making me forget all about this stupid fucking job.” You feel her tense up, when she remembers the arrest, the piles of cases, the restriction. Her grip on you tightens, as does her jaw, when she thinks about it, and as much as you wish she’d take it out on you, just release and let her anger crash over you, she is too rigid, will keep her anger behind her ribcage, will not let you share it.

She does not let you sit in this guilt for long, as her hand is swiftly replaced by lips, so hot it feels like she’s burning your skin, pulling those soft, high-pitched, desperate moans from you that make Emily antsy, amp up her desire.

Her fingers trail down the front of your stomach, her hand splaying across its expanse, feeling your porcelain-smooth skin before continuing downward, finding the heat that has been unrelenting since the moment you stepped foot into the office.

Though she leans against you with all her might, your hips still twitch up to meet her touch, but this time she is far less teasing, gives you just what you want.

Emily’s hand slips between your legs, and she gasps softly with what she finds, when she notices just how wet you still are, just for her.

“God, you feel so good, pretty girl,” she hums into your skin, her kisses expanding from your breasts up onto your collarbone, scraping teeth against your skin while she lazily speaks into you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect.” Her voice is broken and wrecked with her own arousal over you, like feeling you tighten around her fingers is going to get her off as much as it is you. She picks up her head, like she’s greedy to lay her eyes over you. “You look so pretty like this, sweetheart. You have no idea.”

She presses her thumb against your swollen clit, making you gasp for air that has been eluding you, your stomach contracting tightly, making your muscle harden as she finally slides one finger into your throbbing pussy. Emily is slower now, gentle and tender and so caring, just the same as she always is, always sweet and delicate with you even when she’s in her foulest of moods.

The world could be crashing down around her, as it very much is just this moment, and her touch will still be the most comforting thing in your world. You only wish to give her half of that solace in return.

Your hands lift to cradle her face, to pull her in close, to kiss her messily, to moan her name into her mouth while you do so. Though she has you pinned, you find a bit of relief, are able to ride her fingers, hips undulating against glass, thudding against it every once in a while, sometimes so hard that your heart pauses because you fear you may shatter it.

Emily’s fingers are so masterful that it’s not long until you’re careening towards orgasm again, shaking beneath her, fingers darting into those white streaks at either temple, holding her against you.

“That’s it, sweet girl.” She purrs as you cry out into her office, your body so fatigued, both by your day, by the emotional stress you both share, and from the overstimulation that Emily has wrecked your body with. While you often dread the half hour drive home from the office, the faint image of your shared bed with the woman that slides her fingers into you at a dizzyingly slow pace right now makes it all feel quite worth it.

Once again, Emily slows, pulls her fingers from you, lifts them to her lips to clean them, pats them dry on her pants. You smile at the action, bring your own fingers to your mouth in your own blushing habit, feel the way your lips have swollen from her kisses.

Emily pulls you from the glass, assesses your wellbeing, makes sure your breathing has settled into its natural rhythm before she helps you get dressed, pressing more of her slow kisses to each patch of skin that is available to her.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she hums, helps you with the last of your buttons. Emily sighs as she collects her things, only the ones that she’ll find most important— her briefcase, the hair pin that was passed down her family line, and, of course, the bottle of whiskey that she’s been sitting on for at least ten years now.

You smile to her, the saccharine, knowing smile that you hope will make her feel better about turning her back on the office that she has put so much time into achieving, but you know well that you can’t do much to take the sting out of this loss. You allow her all the time she needs to collect her things, to collect herself, to take a look around the office and accept her own defeat in this matter.

You yourself have grown impossibly angry at the people in charge, will have several words with whoever it is that has done this to her— you will find out, as much as she wants to hide it from you.

You follow Emily out of the office, out of the unit, hold her hand so very tightly as if you worry she might run away.

But she doesn’t, and you climb into her car, follow the motions, begin the lengthy drive home. You know well that one night of sleep won’t fix the anguish that is wearing away at her, but you’re certain it’s the best place to start.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Quiet Thunder P2 // Unspoken Chords

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 1.5 k summary: Since that night, every moment feels like a rehearsal for something unspoken. Emily keeps her distance—until a promised guitar lesson brings her to your doorstep, and a quiet evening turns into something neither of you can ignore. tags: secret musician au, emotional tension, mutual pining, music as confession, soft queer yearning Picture from the guitar on the couch: Joey Genovese Unsplash Part 1

Every single day since your gig feels like a rehearsal. A rehearsal of your patience, a test not to read too much into every interaction. Emily hasn’t let on. She’s back to her usual self: composed, professional, almost conspicuously unaffected. No casual brushes of your hand as she passes by. No hidden smiles only you used to notice. No lingering looks suspended somewhere between boldness and meaning.

Instead, her voice is as clear and deliberate as ever, her conversations brief, focused solely on offender profiles and operational plans. It’s as if she’s trying to showcase the distance between you. And yet, you feel her.

How she sometimes looks up when you laugh. How her gaze lingers a fraction of a second too long before it falls back to the file in her hands. How she notices you, even when she pretends not to. You try not to let it get to your head. Not to give meaning to every detail. But it’s hard, especially when your heart skips a beat with every one of her footsteps. And even harder when you know exactly what it feels like to be truly seen by her.

Today is another one of those days you’re running late. The day thanks you with dragging fatigue and no fresh coffee. The others are still in the meeting, and you relish the rare quiet as you fumble with the coffee pot to get your daily dose of caffeine. You hear footsteps behind you, measured, purposeful. You already know who it is, but still, your heart stumbles when you turn around.

Emily is leaning against the doorframe, a cup in her hand, her hair loosely tied back, wearing a tight red top. Her jacket’s unzipped and though her posture appears relaxed, something about her seems more alert than usual.

You give her a slight nod, unsure how to act around her. You pour yourself some coffee and try to pass her, but her voice stops you in your tracks.

“You meant it, didn’t you? The song.”

The words hit you softer than expected. There’s no accusation in them, no irony. Just genuine curiosity, wrapping itself warmly around you.

You don’t answer right away. You don’t want to spell it out again. It was enough that she saw you on that stage—bare, like an open book, every emotion written on your face. You give a barely-there nod.

She takes a small sip from her cup, gaze dropping, her dark lashes like a fan folding shut. “You play with intention. It’s not just talent, it’s control. Discipline. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

You smile, caught off guard by the warmth in her tone. By how she says it.

Then she lifts her eyes, that intense gaze meeting yours, one corner of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. “I still want to learn.”

A beat of silence follows, in which she offers you that crooked smile, betraying just a flicker of uncertainty. “Guitar,” she adds quickly, “You promised.”

The air leaves your lungs at the honesty on her face. So you didn’t imagine what happened after the gig. She really does want to learn. Or a date—with you.

“Of course,” you reply softly. “A promise is a promise.”

And because she’s still standing there, looking at you like someone who just stepped across an invisible line, you add, “Saturday?”

“Saturday,” she repeats, and then walks away without looking back.

Saturday night arrives faster than you’d like. You can’t sit still for a second. Your place is tidy, two small lamps casting a soft glow, music humming gently in the background. Your black guitar is ready, freshly tuned. A second, simpler model leans against the couch, your old Ibanez. It’s lighter, has a shorter scale, perfect for beginners. Something tells you Emily would rather have something compact in her hands than too much weight all at once.

You made tea instead of wine. You figured wine might be too much or maybe you were just overthinking. You’ve never been this nervous before a date. Emily Prentiss in your apartment? Your body is in knots just thinking about it. You breathe in and out a few times to calm your nerves.

When the doorbell rings, your heart jumps. You smooth your shirt, check the mirror one last time, then open the door.

There she is—jeans and a t-shirt, casual, nothing like the polished version of her at work. She doesn’t seem to be wearing makeup, at least none you can tell. Her hair is down, just the way you like it. In one hand, she holds a small notebook and pen. In the other a bouquet of flowers.

“For notes,” she says with an almost shy smile, nodding toward her right hand, “And these are for you.”

Your heart does that ridiculous little leap you try to ignore.

“Come in,” you manage, knees weak as you step aside.

She kicks off her shoes, without you even asking. Her eyes roam the room, pausing on certain details. The amp in the corner, the framed concert photo, the wall of guitars. You see it in her expression, the way she’s not just observing, she’s understanding.

Her first real smile of the evening is for you, when she sits down cross-legged on the rug, your old guitar in her lap. You sit across from her, resting your own guitar casually, and watch as she holds the instrument a little too far out, her hand too stiff on the neck. But she’s ready to learn. You can see it in her eyes.

“Okay,” you begin, “First things first: ease up. The guitar neck isn’t your enemy. You don’t have to grip it just guide it.”

You show her what you mean, her eyes following every movement, making you shift a little under the weight of her focus.

“Use your fingertips, not the pads. Otherwise it’ll sound dull, and trust me, your fingertips are gonna look like a war zone soon.”

You give her an encouraging smile as she tries. She grimaces at the first off-note, and you can’t help but laugh. When she raises an eyebrow in mock offense, you wink. “Welcome to reality. Playing guitar isn’t easy.”

“How long till I stop feeling completely incompetent?” she asks, wetting her lips with the tip of her tongue.

You try not to stare at her mouth, her shiny lips, but your cheeks are already burning before you can stop them. You try to refocus on the guitar.

“Depends how often you practice. And if your teacher’s patient.”

“And… are you?” she asks gently, the flirt in her tone unmistakable.

That’s not Emily the guitar student talking anymore. That’s Emily who knows exactly what she does to you.

“For you, yes,” you say, brushing your hair over your shoulder.

You shift closer, just enough to get a better look at her hands. Your fingers move over hers, adjusting her grip. The touch is instructional, technically, but the air between you hums with tension.

“Feel that?” you ask as the chord finally rings out cleanly, and the double meaning in your question doesn’t go unnoticed.

She gives a slight nod, and you’re not sure if she means the chord… or you.

Time passes in focused silence, with occasional laughter and muttered curses when a note slips.

“Can you show me that chord again?” she asks, and when you reach for your guitar to demonstrate, she shakes her head. “I won’t get it like that.”

You swallow. There’s only one other way to show her the proper angle.

You rise slowly, move behind her, and lower yourself to the floor. Her body heat reaches you first, then the scent of her coconut shampoo and soft perfume.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m going to reach around and show you. That alright?”

You check, just to be sure she’s okay.

Emily can barely form a word. Your closeness overwhelms her, your presence buzzing under her skin. So she just nods.

You shift in, until her back rests against your chest. You lean slightly forward, strands of her hair brushing your cheek as you guide her fingers with your own.

Your breath grazes her skin, and you hear hers catch in response. You position her hand on the strings, reinforcing her grip with yours. The touch sends sparks through you, and you feel her press back into you, deepening the contact.

The silence around you smolders, neither of you moving to break it. Nobody plays the chord, nobody pulls away. All you hear is her unsteady breath.

From the corner of your eye, you see her glance at you, lifting her gaze slowly.

When she finally speaks, her voice is barely more than a whisper: “That song you wrote. Is there more of it?”

You feel the question not just in her words, but in her eyes. Like someone who already knows the answer, but needs to hear it from you.

“Yes,” you say. “But not all of them are meant for the stage.”

“Then who are they for?” She turns toward you slightly, and your free hand drifts down along her shoulder. There’s a faint hesitation in her voice, so you hold her gaze, but don’t answer.

You don’t need to. She already knows.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

I’m thirty three years old, and I’ve been gay my whole life.

Yesterday was the first time I understood the purpose of Pride.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

I’m so aggressively in love with Emily Prentiss

𝐄𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐬𝐬 + 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐤𝐞𝐭

Emily insists on waking up early for it. She claims “you’ll miss all the good stuff” if you show up at 11am, and she has her reusable canvas tote bag ready by 7:45 like a woman on a mission.

She lets you lead most of the time, trailing behind with her hand in your back pocket or resting on your lower back as you walk ahead, pointing excitedly at baskets of peaches or little jars of honey.

She buys you flowers from the first vendor she sees even though you said not to — and keeps smirking the whole time you try (and fail) to stay annoyed.

She gravitates toward the spice stall, the olive bar, and anywhere giving out free samples. She's a sucker for a weird local dip or some obscure jam combo. “Try this. You’ll hate it.” “Why do you sound excited?”

Occasionally stops mid-aisle just to kiss you, like really kiss you, hand cupping your jaw while other people awkwardly swerve around you. “What was that for?” “You look pretty when you’re holding tomatoes.”

Refuses to let you carry anything heavy — even if it’s your own stuff. “Nope. You're on fig duty only.”

Makes fun of the super overpriced organic muffins but still buys them for you “just this once.”

On the way home, the windows are down, her hand resting on your thigh as you talk about which of the veggies you’re actually going to cook and which will rot in the fridge like last time.

And later, when she’s making coffee and you’re arranging the flowers she bought you in a mason jar, she wraps her arms around you from behind, kisses your neck, and mumbles, “We’re disgustingly domestic. It’s adorable.”

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Bottom emilyyy??? Maybe after getting into a heated fight Emily cavesszs 🫣🫣🫣🫣

hey anon!! hoping this is sort of what you’ve imagined <3 if not just let me know!

Nothing Gentle About Tonight

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

you and emily prentiss have danced around the tension for months — until one brutal case cracks it wide open. a fight explodes in her apartment, sharp words and sharper truths, and before you can blink, you’re pressed against the wall with her lips on yours. she caves — not gently, but fully. not because she lost the fight. because she wanted to.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimers and possible tw: power imbalance, suggestive content, profanity, emotional argument, mentions of psychological stress

It started with the door slamming.

Hard.

Emily dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway like she was trying not to break it, jaw tight, shoulders tighter. You followed a few steps behind, silent, but the tension between you was a living thing — coiled, humming, ready to snap.

The case had been brutal. Not just because of what you saw, but because of what it dragged out of both of you. Emily had pulled rank, you’d pushed back, and somewhere between the motel and the jet, the professionalism cracked wide open.

"You didn’t have to take over like that," she said, not even looking at you as she shrugged off her coat. "In front of the whole team, no less."

"And you didn’t have to pretend like my opinion didn’t matter," you fired back, stepping into the living room.

She turned then — sharply. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me."

"God," she muttered, rubbing her temple like your presence physically ached. "You always have to have the last word, don’t you?"

You scoffed. "Only when you keep ignoring the first fifteen."

She stared at you like she was calculating something. Dangerous. Measured. But there was heat there, too — the kind that came from too many nights staying late at the office, too many shared motel rooms, too many almosts that both of you kept swallowing.

"You think you know everything," she said, stepping closer.

"I think I know you."

Emily froze at that.

And there it was.

Her silence wasn’t cold. It was rattled. Like you’d hit too close to something she didn’t have the words to defend. She looked away — just for a second — and that second told you everything.

"You don’t get to act like this is just about the job," you said, voice quieter now. "Because it’s not."

Emily’s hands were fists at her sides. "Don’t—"

"No. You don’t," you cut in. "You shut down every time it gets real. You snap, you deflect, you pull rank—"

"Because it’s the only thing I know how to do!" she shouted, and her voice cracked like glass. "Because if I don’t control this—us—then I lose everything."

Silence. Heavy. Hot. Still.

You took a step toward her.

Then another.

"You think I’m trying to take something from you?" you asked. "Emily, I’m trying to be there. With you. For you."

Her breathing was shallow. Angry. Aching.

"Don’t touch me," she said, voice shaking.

"I didn’t touch you," you replied, stepping into her space.

But then you did.

Hand on her wrist. Just that. Gentle. But claiming.

Emily’s lip trembled.

You tilted your head. "You’re shaking."

"Fuck you," she whispered.

"You wish."

That did it.

She shoved you.

You didn’t move far — just enough to make it real — and then you surged right back, grabbing her by the waist, lips crashing into hers before she could throw another word or another wall between you.

She kissed you like she hated it. Like she needed it. Like it was the last weapon left in her arsenal and she was too tired to reload.

Emily backed up until her spine hit the hallway wall, your hands pinning hers above her head, your breath ragged against her mouth.

She gasped when your thigh nudged between hers.

"You don’t get to run from this," you whispered, teeth grazing her jaw.

"I’m not running," she breathed.

"You’re caving."

And god — she was.

Her knees bent slightly under your touch. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands — once defiant — went limp in your grip.

She looked up at you, flushed, furious, undone.

"Say it," you said.

"What?"

"That you want me to take control."

Emily bit her lip. And nodded.

It didn’t stop with the kiss.

Not even close.

Emily’s hands were still clenched in your shirt like she didn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away — like the indecision itself was a kind of punishment. Her breath was ragged. Yours was worse.

The wall behind her wasn’t cold anymore. Her body warmed it — or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way she shuddered when your mouth found hers again. The way her shoulders dropped, just slightly, like she was tired of fighting.

Or like she’d finally surrendered.

You didn’t speak. Not with words. Just with touch, heat, movement.

She tugged you back in like she hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help it. Her lips parted with yours and she gasped your name — not like a plea, not like a warning, but like a confession.

You answered her with your hands.

Down her sides. Firm. Intentional. Claiming space she never gave freely. Your fingertips brushed the hem of her shirt and she stilled for a half-second. But she didn’t stop you.

She didn’t stop anything.

Her head fell back slightly, just enough to expose her throat. That was all the invitation you needed. You dragged your mouth down her jaw, across the pulse that fluttered so fast it could’ve been panic — or anticipation. Her fingers tightened in your shirt when you kissed just below her ear, and for a second, she bucked toward you.

It was a crack in the foundation. A beautiful one.

"You’re being reckless," she whispered.

"You want me to stop?"

Emily’s hands dropped. Not to push you away — but to grip the edge of the console table behind her, like she needed grounding.

"Don’t stop," she said, hoarse. "God, don’t stop."

The hem of her shirt slid up easily beneath your palms. Her stomach twitched when you pressed your thumbs along the dip of her waist. She was warm everywhere — warm and breathless and utterly undone.

You pulled her shirt off slowly.

Not teasing. Not fast. Just enough for her to feel it — the way your hands stayed on her skin like a promise.

"Turn around," you murmured.

She blinked. "What?"

"Turn around, Emily."

It wasn’t a command. But it wasn’t optional either.

She hesitated — for just a second. But then she did.

The table caught her hips. She braced her hands against it, breathing shaky. You stepped up behind her, close enough for her to feel the heat of your body but not close enough to give her relief.

"You sure about this?" you asked quietly, voice low beside her ear.

She turned her head just slightly. "Do I look like I’m second-guessing?"

"You look like you’re about to break."

Emily gave a breath of a laugh. "Maybe I already did."

You kissed the curve of her spine, just once, just below the clasp of her bra. She trembled.

Your fingers moved with care — not hesitation. You worked slowly, tracing every inch you uncovered, until her back arched and she made a sound you’d never heard from her before.

Vulnerable. Guttural. Desperate.

You pressed against her then — just enough to feel her hips shift back toward yours. She needed this. Needed you. Even if she wouldn’t say it out loud.

"You don’t get to touch me like that after saying what you did," she whispered.

"I know."

Your hands slipped lower, framing her hips.

"Then why are you still here?" she asked.

"Because you didn’t ask me to leave."

Silence.

Then:

"Touch me," she breathed. "Please."

It was the first time she’d begged.

You didn’t make her wait.

You guided her down gently — not all the way, just far enough to lay her cheek on her forearm, her eyes still open, watching you in the reflection of the glass door nearby.

Your touch was slow. Daring. Expert.

You didn’t need to rush. She gave herself to it — inch by inch, breath by breath, like the chaos had burned away everything except this: her hands clutching the table edge, her thighs trembling, her mouth parting in a moan she tried to swallow and couldn’t.

You didn’t ask her to hold still.

You made her want to.

The sounds she made — low, breathy, unwilling — made heat roll down your spine like fire. When her knees started to give, you steadied her. Whispered her name like a tether.

She didn’t say yours back. She gasped it.

Again.

And again.

Her body shook, her head dropped forward, her voice broke with the kind of sound that people only made when they finally let go.

You were still holding her when she came apart — not rough, not loud, but completely. Fully. Her back bowed. Her hands fisted the air. Her breath left her in a long, low wave that ended in your name.

You didn’t stop touching her until she stilled.

Didn’t pull back until she reached for you.

She turned in your arms and pulled you into her chest — shirtless, breathless, undone.

"I’m sorry," she murmured. "For the fight."

You kissed the hollow beneath her collarbone. "I’m not."

She huffed a laugh, quiet. Wrecked. "You’re such a menace."

Her fingers found yours and didn’t let go.

You stayed there like that, tangled in heat and quiet and the aftershock of chaos — no rules left between you, just pulse and breath and everything you hadn’t said finally spoken without words.

And it was enough.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Hi!! Love your Ace in the hole fics! I saw you said you take requests here. Id love to see more angst surrounding JJ and Emily. Maybe them almost getting hurt and Ace distancing herself because she’s scared of the heartbreak she would feel if she loses one of them, so she tries to back off to lighten the blow. Up to you if you like the concept, it was just a thought. Thanks for all you do!

It’s hard to explain.

Emily gets shot. It’s a graze on her left upper arm. She’s fine. Actually fine. She’s already making jokes about it when the team is on the plane heading back to Quantico.

That’s not the confusing part. You know how she got shot. You were all clearing the house, divided into two groups. The unsub fired off a shot when he was startled, the bullet zipped past Emily just nicking her. You fired back - kill shot. That’s also not the confusing part. You’ve been in war zones as an operative and a sniper. Shooting someone who attacks your unit or your team … that’s not going to cause you a single bit of heartache.

No, the confusing part is the feelings. Again, you’ve been in war zones and lost fellow soldiers, and you never felt this … panic. It doesn’t make sense. You’re very good, very adept, at just not feeling, not letting things affect you. You keep your head down. You don’t get involved with personal things. You do the job, and you go home. Sure, you’re not a sociopath, so you develop bonds with your unit and your team. You don’t like to see them get injured. You worry about them. But the feeling that gripped you when Emily got shot was nothing like that. It was raw, deep, and thick. That feeling lingered.

Even now it’s hanging around when you know she’s okay. You saw the injury while she was perched on the back of the ambulance, cracking jokes and being sassy while getting stitched up. JJ nudges you with her foot, a silent check in. You force a reassuring smile and intentionally mute your anxious fidgeting habits. “Coming over tonight?”

Right. You’ve never slept with anyone before and then seen them get shot, so maybe it’s that, but again it *feels* different. You glance toward Emily, her sleeve’s texture bumpy where the gauze is wrapped around her upper arm. “I… umm… I… uhh… I have plans.”

“Oh yeah,” JJ asks, feigning belief. You nod, biting your lip. If your feelings are reacting like this, after sleeping with them a handful of times, getting close with them as teammates, you should reel it back in and quickly. You don’t want to stomach the raw, intense feelings if they get hurt or when they finally decide this coworker-with-benefits arrangement has run its course. You need to retract back into your fortitude and do what you can to lessen the blow before it happens. You got too attached. Keep your head down; keep to yourself. Do your job. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” you agree, far too quickly to be truthful.

JJ hums noncommittally. She doesn’t believe you for a second. To be fair, your responses weren’t exactly confident. Oh well. Too attached. Need to pull back before you get your heart crushed. “Emily’s okay, you know?”

“Yeah, I know.” At least you can say that part honestly.

When you go your separate ways at the airfield, you sit in the parking lot for a long moment, trying to justify your bullshit. You’re waffling. Both options suck. If you keep seeing them outside of work, you’ll get closer and closer until they decide it’s over. Those aggravating, confusing feelings will get deeper; they���ll bleed over into field work like they did today, and when they do finally call it, you’ll be crushed, and you’ll have no one to blame but yourself. If you pull back now, like you know you should, you miss them, and they’ve become an equally confusing important part of your day-to-day, and that’s bound to make you feel … things. Briefly you wonder if you could convince your therapist to increase your dosage to get to some nice medium where you feel nothing and you can exist without worrying about your stupidly fragile heart behind walls and walls of inner defense strategies. They’re too smart for that, and you wouldn’t actually ask because that’s not what your meds are for. Having a conscious is stupid.

The tap on your window scares the shit out of you, and Emily waves, her keys in her hand. You roll it down and look at her expectantly. “Car okay?”

“Yeah, it’s fine,” you confirm. You haven’t turned it on yet because you were sitting moping about your stupid feelings but you won’t tell Emily that.

“Don’t you have plans to get to?”

“What?” Your brow furrows in confusion. “Oh, right. Yeah.” Lying bites you quickly in the ass as you forgot you told JJ there was a reason you couldn’t come over. “I should get going. Thanks for checking on me. I’ll… uh… I’ll see you at work tomorrow.”

Emily leans into your window, so you couldn’t drive away even if your car was on and you were ready to do that. “So what’s the real reason you’re not coming over,” she challenges. “Because we both know you don’t have plans.”

“I do,” you insist lamely. With her non-injured arm, she reaches to turn your face toward her. “I don’t like feeling things,” you admit, annoyed with the blush heating up your cheeks.

“And you felt something back in the field,” she understands. “I’m okay, love.” You know. You know that. It’s not as simple as that, which is also why it’s so fucking confusing. “Hmm,” she noises at whatever reaction she reads across your face. “Come over. We’ll have dinner. We can ignore whatever feelings you don’t want to talk about. I’m a pro at that.” The offer is stupidly appealing. Aggravatingly, confusingly so. You are too attached, too invested. These women are going to break your heart and make you feel all sorts of things you’re not ready for. But you can’t turn her down. You nod slowly. “Good. JJ’s going to ride with you, so you can’t change your mind.” Emily tips forward just a bit more to kiss your cheek. “We have feelings too,” she whispers. “It’s okay.” You’re not so sure that’s the case, but that’s a problem for Future You. For tonight, you’ll go back to their apartment, spend time with and between them, and you’ll sleep. Figuring out your feelings can be for another day.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

I’d Listen to You Forever

✮⋆˙ emily prentiss x female reader

you’re half-delirious from late-night scrolling and a brain full of trivia, and emily’s half-asleep beside you, barely clinging to consciousness as you whisper the most ridiculous facts you can find. she nods along, dead tired but listening, always listening — until she mumbles something back that’s not a fact at all, just soft and sleepy and entirely unfair to your heart.

You weren’t even tired. Your body was still wired from the case — too much caffeine, too many suppressed adrenaline crashes, too many hours pretending not to stare at Emily across the jet while pretending not to care.

So instead, you were doing what any sane person does at 2 a.m. in bed with the woman they can’t stop thinking about.

Googling random facts.

"Hey," you whispered, glancing down to make sure she was still awake. "Did you know octopuses have three hearts?"

A soft, sleepy murmur: "Mm?"

"Two pump blood to the gills, and one pumps it to the rest of the body," you explained, proudly. "But the one that pumps to the body actually stops when they swim. Isn’t that kinda sad?"

Emily didn’t even lift her head. "So they die a little every time they move?"

"Basically."

"Relatable," she mumbled, voice muffled by your shirt.

You grinned and scrolled again. "Also? They have blue blood. Copper instead of iron."

"That’s disgusting," she yawned.

You giggled. "No, that’s science."

She just groaned and pulled the blanket higher up her shoulder.

A moment passed. Then—

"Hey," you said again, a little louder.

Emily didn’t move.

"Did you know wombats poop in cubes?"

That got her.

She shifted just enough to peek up at you with one squinted eye. "You’re making that up."

"I swear to god," you said, laughing. "Perfect little cubes. Scientists think it helps keep it from rolling away. Like, territorial reasons."

"Mm," Emily hummed, settling back down. "Gotta respect that level of architectural commitment."

You scrolled again.

"Did you know bananas are technically berries?"

"Please stop."

"Or that sharks existed before trees?"

Emily groaned dramatically into your neck. "If I agree to marry you, will you shut up?"

You paused.

Looked down.

Smiled. "That a proposal?"

She just snorted, soft and sleepy. "That’s a desperate attempt to get some rest."

You turned off your phone. Set it on the nightstand. Slid your arm around her waist and pulled her a little closer.

"Okay, fine. I’m done," you said.

"…But did you know sea otters hold hands when they sleep?"

She reached up blindly and covered your mouth with her hand.

"I will sedate you."

You laughed into her palm. "Fine. Goodnight, Agent Prentiss."

Emily was already asleep again, breath evening out.

You stared at the ceiling for a moment, heart weirdly full.

Then whispered:

"Also… ducks have corkscrew dicks."

And from beneath the blanket, she kicked you.

a/n literally what was i even thinking while writing this?? yet they are SO cute i can’t

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Quiet thunder

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 1.6 k summary: You’re the quiet one on the team, private, guarded, known for showing up late and riding a motorcycle no one saw coming. But when a surprise appearance at your secret gig turns into something more, secrets unravel under stage lights and streetlamps. tags: secret musician au, emotional tension, mutual pining, music as confession, soft queer yearning Picture from the club: Chris Spalton // Unsplash ; nice to have your own guitar for a picture

“And Y/N,” Morgan grins at you broadly, kneading a small blue stress ball in his hands, “what are you doing this weekend? Or is it too mysterious to share with us?”

You know Morgan’s teasing, and yet, you feel yourself slipping into defense. You haven’t been part of the team for long, you keep your private life to yourself, guarded, withdrawn. Just last week they were all stunned when you rolled up on your motorcycle. You grin at the thought.

“There are things you don’t need to know,” Emily’s voice cuts in from behind—cool, but not unkind—as she walks past you with her third coffee of the day and returns to her desk. You throw her a glance, quick and almost guilty, silently hoping she doesn’t notice the sudden flush of red blooming across your cheeks. The one you can’t control when she’s around.

“You were hard to read in the beginning too, Prentiss,” Morgan counters, his pearly-white smile softening the tension like sunlight through cold glass. “But I cracked your shell eventually. I’ll get there with Y/N, too.”

Something loosens in you. It’s just a joke, but you’re grateful for Emily’s interruption. Even if she keeps her distance at the office—sometimes too professional—she’s had your back more than once. In the field, you work in sync, move as one. You think on the same beat, dodge in the same direction, so much so that Hotch usually sends you out together. But at the office, you’re just colleagues. And that feels kinda wrong. You can’t quite name it, can’t define what it is you’re really wishing for.

JJ, who’s been quiet until now, gives you a calming smile. She’s the one person you trust with a little more. When your eyes flit to hers, there’s only quiet understanding.

“Y/N gets to decide the timing,” Emily adds, like it’s nothing, taking a sip of what must be bitter coffee before leaning back over her case files. “Just like I did back then.”

“Fair enough.” Morgan raises his hands in apology, offering you another warm smile. “Sorry if I was too curious. Bad habit.“

“It’s fine,” you say, reaching for your bag and checking the time. You’re late, way too late. “I gotta go. See you tomorrow.”

You shrug, sling your bag over your shoulder, and march off to the elevator, where JJ is already waiting for you.

“Big night ahead, huh?” she asks as the doors slide shut, her voice carrying a spark of excitement. It doesn’t calm your nerves, just stokes them higher.

You glance back toward the bullpen and catch Emily’s gaze, following you. Her brow is slightly furrowed, questioning. Maybe surprised or maybe more. You stop yourself from reading too much into it, turn back to JJ and smile.

“Oh yeah,” you reply, your voice slightly trembling. “I’m nervous as hell.”

JJ squeezes your shoulder with quiet encouragement. “You’ve got this. You’ve worked so hard. I’m really looking forward to it.”

“You’re really coming?” you ask, genuinely surprised, maybe even a little alarmed. The idea of JJ standing among strangers, hearing songs that no one in your team has ever heard before shakes something in you. This was your private world. Unshared and untouched until now.

“I wouldn’t miss it for anything,” she says as you say your goodbyes. You watch her drive away, try to ignore the rapid thud of your heart, and swing yourself onto your motorcycle.

You’re late for soundcheck again. Because of your job at the BAU, your bandmates are used to you showing up late or not at all. The club you’re playing in is stuffy, the stage lights flicker, something’s off with the left monitor, and your bassist is irritated, still struggling with her cue in a new track. Normally, that kind of chaos grounds you but not tonight.

Lost in thought, you start practicing your new song, before the audience comes in, before you can humiliate yourself in front of JJ.

Your fingers tremble slightly as you plug in your black guitar. You’ve rehearsed, you know your part, but the sensation of being watched doesn’t leave you. Maybe it’s JJ. Maybe it’s something else. Someone else. You think of the way Emily looked at you before you left. Those deep brown eyes, brimming with curiosity, resting on you just a beat too long. You can’t shake the feeling she saw right through you, knows something you’ve tried to keep hidden.

Peeking through the curtain, you watch the club slowly fill. Time drags, your set delayed. Your bandmates are buzzing, and you feel it too. Voices rise with the music, the stage lights flicker across moving heads, the clink of glasses cuts through the hum. You still don’t know if JJ is here. Or if you’ve imagined this whole thing.

And then, just before you’re called onstage, you see her. Second row. Black leather jacket. Wind-tousled hair. It’s Emily. Not JJ.

You freeze for a second. Not visibly, but inside, your pulse trips. The bassist nudges you forward, and you’re through the curtain. Your eyes find Emily. She stands still, arms folded loosely, her gaze fixed on you, she doesn‘t look surprised. She is studying you, curiosity shining through. Her eyes burn into you, and you forget how to breathe.

The music is loud, and the bass pulses through the floor, filling your bones. People cheer, dance, scream your name. But all you see is Emily, watching only you. You look different on stage. Not transformed. Just free. You move with the rhythm, smile at your band, breathe in time. And she can’t look away. She is mesmerized.

After nearly an hour, you introduce the last song. Your voice is softer now, lower. There’s no room for shame or retreat. You’ve worked too hard, bled into every note. This song stripped you bare, you are ready. You clear your throat, draw in the room, and when you speak, your voice is like a whisper.

“This one’s new. Not quite polished, but… it had to come out.”

You don’t say who it’s for. But you look at her, and she knows.

She knows it in that breathless, breaking way, the kind that leaves no armor.

The first chords are slow, aching. Your voice trembles through the verse as you lean closer to the mic:

“You walk like quiet thunder Eyes like a storm about to break You never say too much But you never look away And I – I notice that…”

Emily doesn’t move a muscle. She hears it all, every word, every crack where your heart shines through. Things you never said at work, not even in the quiet moments between you two. They were always charged, always restrained. But now, here, you lay it bare, and it hits her square in the chest.

“You never touch me But I feel it anyway And if I burn, I burn I’d choose the fire every day…”

And now she knows. Knows it for certain, as your eyes find hers and hold.

Your hands let go of the guitar, heavy at your side. You don’t come back to yourself until the applause roars around you. But then you see her stepping back, leaving the crowd. Your eyes track her, panic flaring in your chest. It was a mistake but not one you could avoid. It had to come out.

Just when you think she’s leaving for good, she stops. Turns and catches your gaze. She nods toward the door before disappearing into the night.

Outside, the air is sharp and cold, a relief after the suffocating heat inside. The night smells of wet asphalt and smoke, like something is waiting to happen. You spot her across the street, leaning against a streetlamp, hands buried in her coat. Her posture is composed, but her eyes tell another story.

You cross the street, slow and unsure. You’re still in your band shirt, jacket thrown on but not zipped. Hair wild, cheeks still flushed from the lights and the heat inside. Maybe from the confession. You stop short as her gaze catches yours.

“Emily?” you ask, uncertain. “What are you—how did you…?”

“I wanted to see you.” Her voice is steady, honest. “And I put the pieces together. You have always ink on your fingers, marks on your hands, the magazines in your desk. The way you hum to songs on the radio. And… I asked JJ, after you two left together.”

Your heart slams in your chest. You don’t know what to do with all of this. You want to look away but she won’t let you. Not this time.

“You were incredible,” she says, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. “And that last song…”

You try to laugh it off, deflect. But suddenly she’s in front of you, close, too close. She raises a hand, eyes searching yours, and when you don’t stop her, she gently brushes a strand of hair from your face. Her touch leaves a trail of goosebumps on your skin.

“You should teach me guitar,” she murmurs. Her tone light, but something deeper humming underneath. A test. An offer.

You inhale, steady yourself. “Sounds like a date, Prentiss,” you say, your voice lower than usual.

She tilts her head slightly, black hair falling across her cheek, fingers still brushing your skin. “Depends,” she whispers. “Would you say yes?”

You laugh, breathless from the rush of it all, and nod. “Yes. I’d say yes.”

And this time, it’s you who closes the distance. Just one step but enough for your hands to touch. And somewhere under that streetlight, something new begins. Something that makes your heart flutter like the first chord of a song that’s finally being heard.

[d33pd3sire-blog]

my shattered edges glisten | e.p

Tags: uc!emily, established relationship, angst, hurt/some comfort, unstable emily, prison reid arc, momily, babygirl prentiss briefly mentioned, emily goes all edward scissorhands on herself, reader comes to the rescue, use of scissors, no use of yn

Summary: Reid gets sent to prison. Emily frantically tries to regain control and finds herself with a new haircut.

Word count: 0.8k

A/N: This was entirely inspired by the tags on this post that @mxmmyprentiss reblogged. It just sparked something, so thanks Jaye <3. I haven't watched that ep in a long time so don't quote me on what happened. Also. The amount of times I had to go through the torture of writing the word scissors....it's truly my biggest opp

Emily cuts a sharp, decisive line just above the tip of her nose, feeling the tension give at her scalp as the blade severs her hair. She breaks out in shivers but continues, pooling her focus on the loud snips of the scissors rather than the feeling of taut hair jumping loose. A few more cuts and she’s finally across, long threads of her hair curled in the sink, smaller, sharper strands nestling in her shirt and poking her through the thin material.

It’s a butcher’s job.

The bangs are hardly bangs. They’re somehow uneven despite her forcibly stiff wrist, jaggedly inclining in a crude horizontal line across her face. 

At least the length is okay. They hang ridiculously long past her eyes, obscuring her vision, but she’d learned long ago to make a wide berth for the initial cut. She hasn’t cut her hair on her own since that disastrous attempt, but she’s frazzled now, close to snapping. If she’ll cut at something, better it be her hair than anything else.

This she can control. This she can fix.

“Jesus!” Your voice startles her more than she’d like. “What on earth are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?” Emily doesn’t look away from the mirror. She parts her hair around her eyes and trims what she thinks is an inch, shortening it down to her eyeline. Through the mirror she sees your reflection getting closer, but she keeps her gaze firmly fixed on herself, prevailing when your hand closes around her wrist. 

She loses the battle when you gently tilt her toward you and worm yourself into the space between her body and the counter.

The way you look at her makes her want to crumble. She’s barely holding on as it is, but when your eyes are soft as they are now, your fingers gentle as you tug the scissors from her hand and into yours, her eyes glaze with tears. Emily fixes them down on the slope of your neck, watching bone and muscle flex as you tilt her chin and wordlessly start fixing her mess.

She hasn’t been easy on you lately, she knows. She can barely stomach herself, her sleep fitful, her appetite dissolved, prison cells and arctic courtrooms perpetually flashing behind her eyes. It’s a miracle she hasn’t snapped at Vivian yet, but even her frazzled brain recognizes that thick, crimson line.

That still doesn’t mean her six-year-old hasn’t started picking up on her venomous mood. When she’d shyly pressed herself into Emily’s side, her frown small and voice quiet as she asked, “Are you sad, Mom?” Emily had all but burst into tears.

She doesn’t know when her hands have found your waist, but she’s clutching it hard, what’s left of her nails digging in through your pajamas. Emily loosens her grip with a start. Her fingers ache. You don’t react, sifting through her—now above eye-level—bangs and sliding the scissors between her hair and her forehead, dark tufts falling down to the floor between you.

“Did Viv go down okay?” She asks, grimacing at the rasp in her throat.

“Like a light.” You murmur. You tilt your head, do something with the bangs, then bring up the scissors just above the tail of her brow. The metal is cold where it touches her skin.

Emily’s eyes brim up again. “She’s catching on. Thinks I’m sad.” Her voice cracks.

You set the scissors down with a quiet breath. “She’s a smart girl. You’re not going easy on yourself.”

She can’t. She can’t go easy on herself, she can’t pull them out of this mess, she can’t in any way predict how this will end without it all going horribly wrong. Wide-eyed Spencer, his voice quiet behind rusty bars, childishly pouted lips taking years off of his age, calls out for her to help and she can’t do shit. The only other person she could think to call is somewhere she can’t hope to find, his hands full with another goddamn serial killer hunting down his family.

All that’s left is her. And she’s entirely useless.

Emily shakes her head jerkily. Hot tears roll down her cheeks, burning a path into her skin.

“I can’t. I can’t protect him.” 

I don’t know if I can save him.

Everything breaks. You catch her in time and keep her from falling, steady arms around her neck, fingers tangled in her hair. Emily’s tears soak your neck, hot as the acidic guilt bubbling in her gut.

“I can’t.” She gasps again, louder than your shushes and futile reassurances. “They won’t—they won’t let him go.”

“They will.” You insist, gripping her tighter as if you can force her to believe it. “Emily, you’re doing everything you can. It’ll work out, it will, just—these things need time, sweetheart. But they’ll let him go, okay? I know it.” 

She wishes she shared your conviction.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina @basicallyvivi @temilyrights @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @piiinco @jareavsheavn @mourningthewicked @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @rustnroll @slutforabbyanderson @maximoffcarter @cns-mari @daddy-heather-dunbar @lcvessapphic @wlwoceaneyes @yoyo-w @upsidedowndanvers

[d33pd3sire-blog]

Sweet baby — E.prentiss

When Emily comes to you about wanting to start a family, she makes it hard to say no.

genre: smut (18+)

Warnings: no use of y/n established relationship, porn with plot, breeding kink, pet names (sweet baby, baby, and lmk if I missed others), oral(r!receiving), overstimulation, biting, a hint of exhibitionism, Hotch and jack mention, jj and will mention, pregnancy and marriage talk, and fluff

word count: unknown, I just let the wind tell me when to stop.

A/N: This is my first fic, and I plan to write more! Please tell me what I could do to be better. Enjoy! (And yes I know you cannot get pregnant by a strap it’s just my whoremoans took over)

You have had your fair share of dealing with children. You had made your way through college by babysitting, and when you joined the team, you would help Hotch out with Jack whenever his aunt couldn’t after that whole Reaper situation , and you would also watch Henry for JJ and Will when they would go on dates, so you were well educated in childcare and how to deal with children, and you can’t deny it, you do want kids; it’s just your job can’t quite give you that freedom. So you had pushed it away and lived throughout your friends, and that was fine until now you started to see how it affected Emily. You know that Emily wants kids; she just hadn’t come to you about it yet, and honestly, you were scared for her ask, not knowing if it would put a strain on your relationship or not. And again, it’s not that you don’t want kids; it’s just you don’t want to have to choose or have Emily choose between you or the job.

—

It had been a long day. You had offered a while ago that you and Emily watch Henry overnight to give JJ and Will some really needed alone time, and the whole time that Henry was there you could just feel Emily’s eyes on you. She was watching the way you interacted with him, the way you made sure he was okay when he almost fell off the swings at the park, and when you two were begging to go get ice cream all she could do was just stare at you and give in. She looked at you with a hint of sadness and hope, hope that this could someday be yours. Once you got home and tucked Henry in, you walked into the kitchen and saw Emily leaning against the counter.

“Is he asleep?” She looked over at you. “Out like a light,” you said back to her, walking over to the counter. Placing your hands on her face, you gave a soft smile when you saw her lean into your touch. “You okay?” You questioned. She gave you a small nod in response. “Just exhausted,” she smiled back at you. “Wanna go lay down?” You tilted your head. “Yeah, you go on. I have to finish something up,” she gave you a quick kiss on your forehead and then one on your lips. You hummed in response, then walked into your shared room and went off to sleep.

The morning came quickly. You and Emily had to go drop Henry off with JJ and Will after you guys got breakfast, and on the way back home, Emily hand kept stroking your thigh. She didn’t say anything and just kept touching you, and you didn’t mind it at all. Were you confused where this sudden neediness came from? Yes. Did you complain? No.

Once you got back home, you plopped down on the couch and sighed, your dress hiking up your thigh. You could hear a small groan come from Emily. You sat up slightly and furrowed your brow. “You okay?” You tilted your head, trying to read her face, but her expression was unknowingly.

“I want you to have my baby,” she bit her lip looking at you. “Em…” you managed to whisper out. “Don’t— say anything, just….wait,” she stuttered out before going into her study. You gave her a puzzled look when you saw her come out with a box. Emily came over to the couch and sat beside you. “Hear me out, please,” you sucked your bottom lip between your teeth and looked at her. She opened the box and revealed everything one by one. It started off with a dildo and a harness, the dildo being identical to her skin tone. None of that surprised you until she pulled out the liquid and control for the dildo.

You looked up at her, feeling your arousal build up. She looked at you and then back at the items on the table.

“Listen—I’ve done the research and this is completely safe. I’ve even talked to doctors,” she stammered out, rubbing small reassuring circles on your knee cap. “How…how long have you been researching this?” you sat up fully now. “Three months,” she said, a sheepish expression painted her face. You could feel your cheeks getting hot. Three whole months, maybe even longer, definitely longer than three months, but that’s not the point. Three months she’s spent thinking about filling you up, creating a life with you, and who were you to deny her that pleasure that she’s so desperately longed for? You couldn’t say no, not when she looked at you like that. You let out a soft moan when you looked back at the table then her. She looked like she was scared of what you were going to say, but her expression quickly changed when she saw you lift your hips to pull down your underwear. Her mouth went agape, letting out a soft whimper when she saw your slick, sweet arousal. You moved back more on the couch and opened your legs wider, tilting your head and biting your lip. “Don’t just stare, Emily, do something,” you smirked when you saw her scramble to get between your legs, pressing soft kisses on your inner thigh and dragging her middle finger through your folds. You silently prayed to yourself that the people in the apartment next to you weren’t home. Emily didn’t waste any time diving into you, drinking you in, and taking in your moans and praises.

And just as much as she wanted to stuff you full of her cum, she also wanted to taste you and make you feel good. Besides, pregnancies take better when the partner has an orgasm first, right? Emily gripped onto your thighs like it was the only thing that could keep her grounded to Earth. She ate you like she were a starved sinner at Communion, and you were her salvation that she didn’t know she needed. Her fingers slipped in and out of you as she sucked on your clit. You could feel your orgasm approaching you, and Emily could tell by the way your thighs started to shake and how loud your moans started to get. It’s like the whole thing felt better because you knew what was coming (pun intended). You knew you were about to be full of her, and the thought of that alone pushed you over the edge. You came with your thighs clenching around her head and with a loud, almost like out of a shitty porno, moan. But she didn’t let up there. She fingered fucked you through it until it became too much. “E-emmy—hah—it’s too—fuck,” your back arched. “Much,” you managed to whimper out. She gave a scolding tut and hummed, “I’m sorry, baby. I just wanna get this pretty pussy ready.” You clenched around her fingers from her sweet words, her voice dripping onto you like honey. She grinned when she felt you around her fingers. “You like that, huh? Me filling this pussy up with my cum.” She took her fingers out, bringing them to her mouth and sucking on them and moaning at the taste of your slick on her tongue. You leaned back on the couch to rest for a moment before your ears perked up when you heard the sound of Emily shedding her pants and replacing them with the harness. And might you say—it was the sexiest thing ever. You’ve used straps before, but you’ve never seen her put it on. You let out an involuntary moan at the sight before you. You start to think that you should probably send an edible arrangement to your neighbors as an apology for the sounds they’re about to hear, and the old couple (bless their hearts) in the apartment across the fountain for the show they’re about to see if they look up and see into your window.

Emily smirks and gets back onto the couch and hovers over you, swiping the tip through your folds.

“I’m gonna stuff this pretty pussy full,” her sultry voice going straight to your core. You bucked your hips in response. “Don’t tease, ple—hah!” You cut yourself off with a moan when you felt Emily snap her hips into you. Her head dipping into the crook of your neck, whispering dirty things in your ear. “Gonna fuck this pussy so good, baby.” “Taking me so well, ‘m gonna make you a mommy.” You moaned louder at her sweet words. “Oh? You like that, huh, my sweet baby? Likes the thought of getting filled?” She taunted, and all you could do was nod. Your incoherent words echoing off the walls along with the sounds of the wetness and skin slapping. And you’re about 99 percent sure that Emily is close to coming untouched. You can hear it in her moans and the way her hips are stuttering. You snake your hand up her shirt to rub her nipples through your fingers.

“Gonna cum,” she whimpered straight into your ear. You took your other free hand and pushed her closer into your neck. “Yeah? Wanna cum for me?” You whimpered out, locking your legs around her waist. She thrusted a few more times before her fingers scrambled to press that button that makes both of your dreams come true. You and Emily came together, and you came for the second time today with your head thrown back and back arching off the couch as you felt Emily spill inside of you. You were only given a few seconds to collect yourself before you felt Emily quickly pull out and get back on her knees to watch her “seed” spill out of you. She watched in awe, her pupils blown, and she acted as if her mind had lost all sense before plunging her digits back inside of you. She started saying soft sorrys when she saw how you hissed at the contact.

“Sorry, baby. Gotta make sure none of this goes to waste,” she layed her head on your thigh whilst pumping her fingers back inside until you were begging and squirming from overstimulation.

“Hah—Emily” you whined out her name, hips bucking involuntarily, tears starting to flow down your face. “I know, I know, just give me one more baby can you do that?” she murmured. Pleasure started to cloud your mind from the fact that her fingers were hitting that spongy spot inside. Emily placed soft kisses on your thigh then moved higher to bite you. You hissed from the contact but cut yourself off with a moan when you feel your orgasm wash over you. You shuddered from the loss of contact once she pulls her fingers out. You lean back against the couch and wait for her return.

—

You were lying on Emily’s chest in your bed. She was drawing small circles on your back, a comforting silence taking over your apartment.

“I meant what I said earlier,” Emily whispered. You raised an eyebrow and lifted your head off her chest. “What part? You said a lot.” Emily playfully sighed and propped herself up on her shoulders. “Wanting a baby with you.” You blinked and rolled off her. “We’re not even married, Emily.” You tilted your head and gave a pout. She sat up fully on the bed. “And what about our jobs? And don’t you dare say that I could quit.” You shot her a stern but somewhat playful glare. She grabbed your hands and squeezed them tightly. “I’ve already devoted three years of my life to you, and I promise to never stop. If you want a ring, we can get a ring. If you want a wedding in Rossi’s backyard, we can do it. If you want to go to the courthouse right now and get married, I’ll get our shoes and we can go—“ She looked at you, putting her hand on your cheek, brushing her thumb against your lips. “We can go right now because I want this.” She dragged you on top of her, placing her hands on your waist. “I want you, all of you. I want it now and forever.” Her face was soft. Her eyes started to get teary. You grabbed her hand and locked it with yours, starting to feel your own tears build up. You weren’t crying out of sadness. It was out of love and joy. “Yeah? You mean that? You’ll give me a ring?” Your voice was soft, almost meek. “Anything you want, it’s yours. Even if we don’t have a baby, I’m yours.” Your breath hitched. You moved her hands to your thigh and leaned down closer to her ear. “You know what I want?” Your tone switched from soft to seductive. “What?” Her hands wandered up and down your thighs.

“I think we should try again.” You grabbed her face and kissed her. It was no surprise when five weeks later the pregnancy test came out positive.