maximoffwitch

[maximoffwitch]

shoot your shot | e. prentiss

summary: you enlist tara to teach you how to shoot a gun, not thinking your girlfriend would ever find out. but of course, she does.

word count: 2.4k

tags: guns, suggestive at the end, protective (and lowkey possessive) emily, also smug emily lol

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

You fired off three shots, flinching at the recoil of the Glock in your hand. As you lowered the weapon, you sighed, frustration and disappointment practically radiating off of you. Out of the three shots you’d fired, only one of them had actually hit the paper target—the hole in the bottom corner taunting you. 

“How do you guys shoot these things and actually hit what you want to hit?” You groaned, clicking on the safety before pulling the earmuffs off your head so they hung around your neck. 

“Practice,” Tara chuckled, also removing her ear protection. “Lots of practice.”

“Great,” you huffed. 

Being a kindergarten teacher, you had absolutely no use or affection for guns, or any sort of weapon for that matter. You always made your girlfriend lock away her weapons when she entered the apartment, and, knowing your disdain, she made it a habit to never carry around you. 

Sure, you knew about Emily’s job and the potential danger in put you in, and she had told you about the horror stories of the team’s loved ones being targeted. But never in your wildest dreams did you think you would hold a gun, let alone have a need to.

It wasn’t until your apartment—the one that you shared with Emily in every way but on the lease—got broken into – the unsub clearly hoping you were there – that you decided to take it into your own hands to bolster your self-defense skills.

Emily was of course worried, nearly scared to death when she found out what had happened, and made you move to a different apartment, one in a much more suburban neighborhood, albeit further away from your work. However, despite her worry and fear, the thought of arming you with anything but a first-class alarm system never crossed her mind. 

It did cross yours though, which is how you found yourself in your current situation—firing round after round in the FBI shooting range with Tara Lewis.

You knew you could have—and probably should have—asked your girlfriend, who was a skilled markswoman, but you also knew she would have shut your idea down immediately. The thought of you being anywhere near her dangerous world of violence and heinous crimes, when your days were filled with shining innocence and crayons, shook Emily to the core. She didn’t want that for you, or for herself. 

Hearing Emily’s imploring refusal in your mind, you figured having her teammate, who had boastfully bragged about being a perfect shot one too many times at team dinners, teach you was a suitable next option.

“You’re getting there,” Tara encouraged with a nod and a small smile. You responded with a quiet snort and an eye roll. Teaching five-year-olds for a living, you had come to master the sugar-coated encouragement and could spot it a mile away.

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I”m not,” she insisted firmly. “Here, keep the safety on but act like you’re going to shoot.”

Following her instructions, you picked up the gun and aimed it at the target. 

“Okay, first,” Tara stepped forward so she could critique your positioning better, “you want your arms slightly bent, not completely locked.”

You let your arms relax a little bit but kept them flexed in preparation for the kickback. 

“And you want a wider stance, keeping your shoulders square and knees engaged.” She used her foot to gently kick your feet out.

“There.” Tara backed up, scanning your form with an approving look. “Doesn’t that feel stronger already?”

Nodding, you had to admit that the slightest adjustments in your positioning did make you feel more comfortable. 

“Good,” she said as she moved to put her muffs back on. “Now give it another shot.” 

You rolled your eyes at her pun but complied nonetheless, putting your earmuffs over your head. However, before you could even switch off the safety—

“What the hell is going on here?”

 You froze.

Emily’s voice sliced through the air, sharper than any gunshot. You turned your head, dropping the gun on the small counter in front of you, and immediately locked eyes with Emily, who was standing just inside the doorway of the shooting range, her arms crossed and jaw clenched so tightly you could practically hear her teeth grinding.

“Em,” you started, your voice filled with an odd mixture of panic and warning. “I–”

“Don’t ‘Em’ me,” she snapped, walking briskly towards you, her boots echoing loudly against the concrete floor. “A gun? What are you thinking?”

You flinched, guilt settling in your stomach, but you didn’t back down. “I’m thinking,” you huffed, “that I need to be able to protect myself.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me you were doing this?” She waved her hands, motioning to the industrial walls of the federal shooting range. 

“Because I knew you’d react like this,” you argued back, your voice quieter than hers but no less firm. 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Emily scoffed, sarcasm dripping from her words. “Am I supposed to be happy to find out my girlfriend is sneaking behind my back, shooting guns – with a member of my team, no less.”

“It’s not like I had much of a choice, Em,” you exclaimed, running your hands through your hair. “You scoffed at the idea of me bringing pepper spray to work. 

“But I need this, okay?” Your voice quieted as you started the conversation you’d been putting off having with her for weeks. “Ever since the break in, I’ve been feeling powerless. And I know”— you cleared your throat, swallowing the knot that was beginning to form—“I know you want to protect me and can protect me, but I need to do this for myself.”

Hearing the vulnerability in your words, Emily softened, the creases on her forehead soothing themselves. “Tara–” she turned to the other agent, addressing her for the first time since storming in– “can you give us a sec?”

Tara nodded, handing her earmuffs to her unit chief. “I should get back to my files anyways.” She gave you an encouraging look before slipping out of the range, leaving you alone with your girlfriend.

A silence hung over you, and you were suddenly aware of how large and empty the room was. 

“You should’ve–” Emily started, her frustration boiling to the top, before biting her lip and taking a deep breath. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Her question was understanding this time, not as accusatory as it had been a few minutes ago, and you knew she was referring to more than just the shooting lessons with Tara. 

“I didn’t want to worry you,” you admitted, tugging at the sleeves of your sweater. 

Emily sighed and let the hardness in her expression completely fade as she bridged the gap between you. Her hands gently cupped your face, forcing you to meet her deep brown eyes. “I’m your girlfriend,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “I’m always going to worry about you.”  

You felt your chest tighten—anxiety and security fighting for grasps on your heart—as Emily’s thumb brushed over your cheek, her touch grounding you.

“I know,” you whispered. “I just don’t want to burden you anymore than I already do.”

“Burden?” Emily frowned, the crease between her brows reappearing as she furrowed them. “Honey, you could never burden me. You hear me?”

You hummed noncommittally, your eyes looking anywhere but hers.

“Hey, look at me,” she directed, her tone not leaving much room for argument. Unwillingly, you met her gaze, a fierce determination reflecting back at you. “You are not a burden.”

The weight of her words sank deep into your chest, easing the tension that had started to build. 

You nodded, your eyes still locked with hers so she knew you believed her. “I’m sorry,” you said. “I should’ve told you how I was feeling.”

Emily gave you a soft and understanding smile, her hands dropping to rest on your shoulders. 

“And, I’m sorry about the gun thing,” you mumbled reluctantly as you felt a flush of shame creep up your neck. “I just thought if I’d asked, you would say no.”

Biting her lip, Emily brushed a hair behind your ear. “You’re right,” she mused. “I would’ve said no.”

You waited for her to continue, trying to ignore the growing pit in your stomach.

“I hate the idea of you need to use one,” she continued softly. “The idea of you being put in a situation where this–” she motioned to the Glock still resting on the counter behind you– “is the only way for you to defend yourself terrifies me.”

“I don’t want to need one either, Em. Trust me,” you added, a small smile threatening to tug at the corner of your mouth.

“I just needed to regain control, give myself a peace of mind that I could protect myself,” you asserted, your voice finding its strength again. “I saw this as a good option, and it’s not like you guys are lacking resources around here.” You tried to inject some humor into the air, earning a fond roll of the eyes from the other woman.

Another moment passed between you where no words were spoken, but you could see the wheels inside Emily’s head turning as she observed you and contemplated her options.

“If you want to learn to shoot a gun,” she said finally, “I’ll teach you.”

Your eyes widened, blinking slowly. “You will?”

Emily hummed as she completely invaded your space, her warm body brushing against yours, and reached behind you to grab the gun. “Tara may be a good shot–” she handled the weapon with such ease, you were torn between swooning at its attractiveness and crying at the familiarity she had with the killing machine – “but I’m better.”

She punctuated her words with a wink, a wide grin appearing on her face. You could only shake your head at her cockiness, trying not to show how much it affected you—it would only inflate her ego even more.

“You’re unbelievable that’s what you are,” you muttered under your breath as you unsuccessfully hid the amused grin tugging at your lips.

“You love me,” she quipped, stepping even closer to you, leaving you no option but to turn around to face the target. As her body pressed up against yours, her bergamot, citrus perfume invading your senses, she placed the gun in your hands.

“First lesson,” Emily murmured, her breath tickling your ear as her hands slid over yours, adjusting your grip and flipping off the safety with a careful but confident touch. “Don’t fight the recoil. Let your body move with it and absorb it. You’ll feel steadier.”

You swallowed hard, doing your best to focus on the feeling of cool metal against your fingertips instead of the heat of Emily’s against your back. “You know you’re quite distracting,” you mumbled, your body betraying you as you leant into her touch.

Emily gently moved you back into an upright stance and chuckled lowly, the sound causing your stomach to flutter. “Am I distracting you, or are you just looking for an excuse in case you miss the target again?” 

Scoffing, you glanced over your shoulder. “You’re distracting,” you deadpanned. 

Emily’s smirk deepened as she pressed a ghost of a kiss to the shell of your ear. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said. “You ready to give it a shot?”

You nodded, as a warmth flooded your entire body, and you momentarily closed your eyes, letting the distraction of your girlfriend run its course. 

“Focus, sweetheart.” Emily brought you back to the task at hand as she moved her hands down to your hips, giving them a small but firm squeeze. 

With a deep breath, you pushed everything else out of your mind except for the lethal weapon in your hand and the target in front of you. 

“Still distracted?” She whispered, her lips so close that you felt the words as much as you heard them.

You fired the gun with a loud bang, mostly wanting to quiet her teasing.   

The shot rang out, echoing through the empty range. You flinched slightly at the kickback, but Emily’s hands on your hips kept you steady. Lowering the gun, you squinted at the paper. 

Bullseye.

There was a moment of silence, you too shocked to speak and Emily quietly amused. 

“A bullseye, huh?” Her voice low and warm with pride, and you could practically feel her grin against your skin. “Not bad.”

You stared at the neat hole in the center of the target, still blinking in surprise. “I can’t believe I actually hit it,” you laughed, the adrenaline catching up with you. 

“Guess you just needed the right teacher.”

“Oh,” you drawled as you clicked off the safety, dropped the gun, and turned around to face your girlfriend. “So Tara was the problem all along?” 

As soon as an inch of space separated you, Emily closed the distance, her hands still on your hips as she gently pressed you against the counter.

“Sweetheart, Tara’s good,” Emily countered with a smug smirk before her voice lowered. “But I know exactly how to handle you.”

“Do you now?” You played along, toying with the collar of her shirt. 

Emily’s smirk didn’t falter for a second as her fingers traced small patterns on the skin of your hips, her touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. 

“I do,” she said, her words dripping with confidence.

You raised a brow, trying to hide the arousal that pulsed through you. “And what makes you so sure?”

“Because you just proved it, sweetheart.” Her lips now barely brush over your own.

Swallowing hard, you felt every ounce of your composure threatening to crumble under her.

“I hit the bullseye,” you purred, your eyes drifting down to Emily’s lips. “Don’t you think I deserve a reward?”

“A reward?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, fingers curling in the front of her shirt, drawing her impossibly closer.

Emily’s breath hitched, her eyes darkening as she kissed the corner of your mouth, not quite giving what you desired.

“I think you’ve earned a few,” she agreed with a hum before closing the last fraction of space between your lips. 

The kiss was soft at first—teasing and gentle—but quickly deepened as Emily’s tongue swiped your bottom lip before entering your mouth. Her hands slid from your hips to cup your face, her touch setting you on fire, and you melted against her, the cold edge of gun and shooting range fading away until the only thing you felt was Emily. 

When air became a necessity, you broke apart, resting your forehead against hers. Emily’s thumb grazed over your bottom lip, which was now red and slightly swollen, her dark eyes shimmering with mischief. 

“We should get out of here,” she said. “It’s my turn to hit a bullseye.”

[maximoffwitch]

since emily was (canonically) a basketball all star player in highschool, i like to headcanon that she once did a winning shot that made her team win the championships and instead of celebrating with the team, she ran to the sideline and kissed her girlfriend as if the win was made possible because of her.

[maximoffwitch]

anybody have a picture of that scene of emily shooting at the gun range?? 🤲🏼🤲🏼

[maximoffwitch]

so so so so adorable and soft 🥹🥹🥹🥰🥰

we're always here | e. prentiss

summary: When Rowan wakes up from a nightmare and she can't find you and Emily, she enlists the help of her Auntie Pen. Requested here!

word count: 1.6k

tags: fluff, hurt/comfort, momily, fem!reader

Rowan woke up with a gasp, like the air had been stolen out of her lungs. Her room was too dark, even with the little blue nightlight glowing faintly in the corner, and her bed felt wrong, too cold on one side where she must’ve rolled over in her sleep. She blinked at the ceiling, heart beating way too fast, and clutched Bunbun the bunny tighter against her chest.

She didn’t remember the dream exactly, just the feeling. That heavy, twisty kind of scared, like something was chasing her and no one was coming to help. That she was alone. Lost or maybe forgotten. She stayed really still for a moment, trying to hear the usual sounds, but the hallway was quiet. No soft footsteps. No low voices. No light from under the bedroom door across the hall.

“Mama?” she called out, just above a whisper. Nothing. She sat up a little straighter. “Mommy?” she tried again. Still no answer.

Rowan rubbed at one eye with the heel of her hand, sniffled once, and pushed the covers off her legs. Her pajama pants were twisted around her knees from all the tossing and turning, and the floor felt cold when her toes touched it.

She slid off the bed, dragging Bunbun along by one arm. The nightlight didn’t help much. It made weird shadows on the walls and didn’t light up the hallway at all. Still, she padded out into the dark, trying not to cry yet.

The big bedroom door was open. Empty. No one in the big bed, no clothes on the floor, no sleepy mommies. The bathroom light was off, too. 

Rowan checked the living room next, peeking over the arm of the couch like she always did when she was playing hide-and-seek. Nobody there.

The kitchen was the scariest. The moon made strange patterns on the tile, and the fridge made its low humming noise like it always did, but everything else was still. Too still.

And that’s when she started crying. Quiet at first, just little hiccups and big gulps of air, but it felt big. Like the dream had snuck out of her brain and was hiding in the corners of the house. She turned in a slow circle, her voice finally cracking.

“Mama?” she called again, louder this time. “Mommy?” No one answered. She hugged Bunbun close and whispered, “I think they got took.” Her eyes burned. Rowan wiped her nose with Bunbun’s ear.

She didn’t like feeling like this—small and way too full of scared feelings. Her cheeks were hot and her hands were cold, and even though she was standing in the middle of her own kitchen, it didn’t feel safe without her moms there.

That’s when she remembered Auntie Pen always said Rowan could call her any time. Even if it was late. Even if it was silly. Even if she was scared.

Rowan climbed up carefully onto the couch, one knee at a time, and stretched out across the cushions until her fingers touched the tablet on the side table. It was a little heavy, and the screen was dark, but she knew how to turn it on. Her moms had shown her lots of times.

It lit up in her lap, and she tapped the pink heart with Auntie Pen’s picture like she’d been told. It rang once. Twice.

Then Penelope’s face filled the screen, her hair piled on top of her head in a messy pink scrunchie, glasses slipping a little down her nose. The background behind her was softly lit. “Rowan?” she said instantly, her voice going all warm and gentle. “Pumpkin, what’s going on, sweetheart?”

Rowan’s bottom lip wobbled. “I waked up and they’re gone,” she said, voice breaking. “Mama and Mommy are gone and I looked in all the places and I think they got taken or lost or maybe they forgot—”

“Oh baby girl, no no no,” Penelope said, cutting in fast but soft. “Shhh, I’ve got you. I promise, no one forgot you.”

Rowan sniffled hard. “I looked in the bed and the couch and the kitchen. They’re not there.”

“Okay, okay. That was very smart of you,” Penelope said, nodding encouragingly. “You did all the right things. That’s a very big girl move, calling me.”

Rowan curled in a little tighter on the couch, still clutching her bunny. Her tears were quieter now, but her breathing still came in hiccups.

“Did you check the office?” Penelope asked gently.

Rowan blinked at the hallway. “The door is closed.”

Penelope smiled kindly. “Mmhmm. That sounds like a Mommy and Mama hideout to me. You think maybe they’re in there with the door closed so they didn’t wake you up?”

“I don’t know…” Rowan said, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Do you want to check?” Penelope tilted her head. “I’ll stay right here. Promise.” Rowan was quiet for a second. Then she nodded. “Okay, Roro. Take me with you.”

She climbed off the couch carefully, still holding the tablet and padded back down the hall, slower this time. The office door was just a little bit open at the bottom. She hadn’t noticed that before.

She stood in front of it for a second, breathing slow, like her mommies always taught her to do when she felt scared. Then she pushed the door open. It creaked just a little as she pushed it.

Inside, papers were spread across the floor like a game, and Emily was sitting cross-legged in the middle of them, glasses on, pen in her mouth. You were curled up on the little loveseat, blanket over your legs, a mug in your hand. You both looked up at the exact same time.

Emily’s pen dropped to the floor. “Roro?”

And just like that, everything cracked open. Rowan let out a big, gasping sob and ran forward, tablet still clutched in one hand and Bunbun in the other. Emily was already on her knees with her arms wide open by the time Rowan crashed into her, wrapping both arms around her mama’s neck like she’d never let go again.

“Baby,” Emily whispered, hugging her tight. “Oh, baby, what happened?”

Rowan buried her face in Emily’s shoulder and cried harder. “I thought you were gone!”

You were beside them in an instant, hands smoothing Rowan’s hair, kisses pressed on the top of her head. “Oh, sweet girl,” you murmured. “We’re so sorry. We didn’t know you woke up.”

“I checked all the places,” Rowan hiccuped. “The kitchen and the couch and the bed. The door was closed.” Her voice cracked again on the last word.

Emily pulled back just enough to cup Rowan’s face. “We were trying not to wake you,” she said softly. “We didn’t mean to scare you, lovebug.”

“We’re always here,” her other mom said, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Even if a door’s closed.”

Rowan nodded miserably, then looked down at the tablet still glowing faintly in her hand. “I called Auntie Pen,” she mumbled. “She said to check the office.”

Emily smiled, a little wet around the eyes now. “Smart girl. Can I see?”

Rowan turned the screen so they could both see Penelope’s face, still on the call, still watching with shiny eyes.

“Hi, sugarplum,” she said, voice thick with emotion. “I told you they were just a door away.”

Emily leaned in so Penelope could see her too. “Thanks for being there, Pen.”

“Always,” Penelope said. “Now go get that baby wrapped up in a blanket and smothered in love, please. I’ll sleep better knowing she’s warm and snuggled.”

“You heard her,” you said, already reaching for Rowan. “Come here, baby. You need some cocoa and couch cuddles.”

Rowan sniffled, her face already calming, and let herself be scooped up again. She still held Bunbun in one hand and clutched your shirt in the other, finally starting to feel like the nightmare was gone for good.

“We’ll leave the door open next time,” Emily whispered to her.

“And I’ll knock next time,” Rowan whispered back.

Emily smiled. “Deal.”

—

Five minutes later, Rowan sat snug between her moms, wrapped in her favorite fuzzy blanket. Her arm was looped around Emily’s waist, and her cheek rested against the soft cotton of your sweatshirt.

Emily held a small mug of warm cocoa with both hands and helped Rowan guide it to her lips. “Tiny sips,” she whispered.

Rowan sipped. It was sweet and milky and made her tummy feel warm all the way down. Her eyes were heavy now. The kind of heavy that came after crying, after being held close, after hearing again and again that she was safe.

“I thought the dream was real,” she mumbled, half-asleep already.

“I know,” her you said, brushing a thumb over her cheek. “Dreams can feel really real, but no matter what happens in them, we’re always right here.”

Emily moved to tuck Rowan’s hair behind her ear. “Even when the doors are closed.”

“Even if it’s late,” you added. “Even if we’re quiet. We’re never far away.”

Rowan nodded a little. Her eyes fluttered closed, then opened again just enough to say, “I think I was brave.”

“The bravest,” Emily said without hesitation.

“The absolute bravest,” you echoed, smiling.

Rowan yawned so big her whole face scrunched up and sighed as she curled tighter against you and Emily. Then she slept, safe between the people who would always find her, even in the middle of a bad dream.

[maximoffwitch]

IS that seat taken??? bc it’s mine now 🧎🏻‍♀️🧎🏻‍♀️ the way i love everything about this, especially the ending. like can i be kissed by her while sitting in her lap 🥹🥹

Hydrangea Number 20) “you should come out with us more often.”, Section Chief Emily Prentiss who works so much she rarely goes out with the team. Reader has a crush, maybe they're dating? Not sure, you can think of something fitting <3

Thank you for participating!! Someone recently sent me an ask about younger flirty reader and shyer evolution Emily so it was on the brain while I wrote this…I think I’m obsessed lol <3 part of the 800 celebration :p

Tags: evolution emily, they’re in a bar and there’s a drink mentioned but its not specified if it’s alcoholic or not, flirty reader, lap sitting (yay!), the oldest pickup line in the book, no use of yn

Word count: 0.9k

It’s her fault. Totally, completely, her fault. Sitting at the table with her arm slung over the back of the booth, boredom drawn in the slouch of her shoulders, eyes wandering and mouth plumped in a pretty sulk, she’s practically a siren’s call. Her finger traces idle circles on the rim of her glass; the metal strap of her watch catches the light, glinting on her wrist like the streaks of silver in her hair. She’s busy watching the froth of dancers on the floor. Your eyes are drawn to the wide spread of her legs, her jean-clad thighs comfortably taking their space across the length of the booth.

To anyone else, her lazy sprawl screams stay the fuck away. To you it’s nothing but a magnetic pull.

You had once known an Emily Prentiss who wasn’t quite so gun-shy. Who had perpetually been in the center of the crowd, her smile bright enough to dazzle whoever she had her arm around, a poor thing falling victim to her twin pairs of dimples. She used to be the first to suggest drinks, not the first to refuse them and call for a rain check in favor of locking herself up in her office all night. 

Maybe that’s where you get your burst of confidence from. You’ve known her for so long, loved her for an eternity and then some. You’d never have imagined seeing the day when she’d be willingly sat on the sidelines, watching lazily as people danced and writhed and threw back shots around her.

Before you can even think, you’re moving. Crossing over to the empty table, dodging dancers and waitresses until her gaze slowly flicks over to you.

“Is this seat taken?”

Emily’s brow arches. Her mouth curls, a dimple flickering in and out of existence.

“That’s my lap.”

“Doesn’t answer my question.”

You expect a slow appraisal. A bewildered look. Neither come; a glint shines in her eyes, dark onyx gleaming under the tilt of her lashes. She laughs dryly and shrugs a shoulder, spreading her thigh wider for you to reach. “All yours, sweetheart.”

You shamelessly take a seat. Ass on one thigh, you sit sideways on her lap and slot both your legs neatly between hers. 

Emily’s hand curls down from the back of the booth. Her fingers lightly dig into your lower back, a circle of heat radiating through the material of your shirt.

She tilts her head. “Couldn’t find any other seats?” She drawls, her thumb idly tracing up and down.

You shrug, grinning. “None seemed quite this comfortable.”

You’re used to flirting with Emily. A woman like her, it’s hard to hold back—especially when, recently, she’s started to become far more self-deprecating. Making jabs about her hair, her age, her…“lacking performance”. You fight her on it every time. She gives in and indulges your back and forth, but you can tell it never really reaches deeper than surface level.

You want to change that.

Heat radiates from the cushion of her thigh. You press yourself closer, the length of your side to her chest, easily lifting your arm and perching it on her shoulder. “You really are awfully comfortable, Chief.” You murmur, toying with a button on her shirt. “You’ve been holding out on me.”

Emily inhales sharply. “I’m flattered.” She murmurs, her hand flexing on your waist. Those dark eyes lock on yours, pupil swallowing iris whole. “Stay as long as you like.”

With the rumble of her voice vibrating through your chest, her perfume clouding on your tongue, her arm curled comfortably around your waist, it’s hard not to take her up on her offer. You laugh into the hollow of her jaw, feeling the shiver she fights to suppress. 

You situate yourself on her lap like your heart isn’t pounding, shifting your weight and grabbing a lock of her hair and twirling it around your finger, some boldness inside you giving you the boost to act as comfortable as a girlfriend. You’ve never been subtle, but you’ve never been this, either.

Emily, for the most part, doesn’t outwardly seem to mind it. Her fingers continue wandering, toying, dipping just under your shirt and skimming your skin, nails dragging just above the hem of your jeans. All things considered, it’s surprisingly…easy lounging in your boss’ lap, sharing sips of her drink and slowly getting drunk on the way she touches you with the barest tips of her fingers.

“You know,” you eventually muse, a silver lock of hair still twined around your finger, “you should come out with us more often. We miss you.” Emily softens, wrinkles creasing the corners of her eyes, and you get the courage. “I do.”

Her smile is small, more genuine than anything you’ve seen cross her face in ages. She squeezes your waist, her voice warm velvet across your chin.

“I’m here, sweetheart.”

You shake your head, shifting so you’re nearly straddling her thigh. “You’re not. Not like you used to be. And I know it’s not really your fault, but—” you gnaw on your lip, your heart working up a steady pound. One of Emily’s hands shifts to your face. She listens intently, one firm hand along your lower back to keep you from slipping. “I want…” you swallow. “I want you to come back to me.”

Rather greedy of you, considering she was never yours. But Emily doesn’t think so. She stays silent for a bit, turning it over, then she thumbs at your jaw. Tilts your head, murmurs an apology. Seals it with a kiss.

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 @wittygutsy@emilyprentissmylove

[maximoffwitch]

Late Night Cravings

pairing: emily prentiss x reader

warnings: description of r with female body parts, pregnancy

summary: Emily is at your beck and call, especially when you’re pregnant.

word count: 1.1k

a/n: i saw @emilys-bangs and @third-of-hotchniss talking about emily as an "anything you want, sweetheart" and “yes, ma’am” wife and that inspired this. also,,, i personally do like mac and cheese and ketchup lol 🫢

•••••••

It was nearly midnight, and you felt like crying.

Your breasts were sore, your ankles were swollen, and most of all, you were all alone. Your wife – who you undoubtedly loved with all your heart but were cursing right now – was still at work, pouring over a difficult and time-sensitive case. While you understood the importance of her job, it didn’t make it any easier being alone at home while eight weeks pregnant.

Your hormones clouding any sense of rational judgement, you let out a huff of frustration and mumbled, “Screw it,” before dialing your wife’s number.

•••••••

Meanwhile, Emily Prentiss was pouring over crime scene photos and paper trails. An unhinged unsub had been kidnapping young women across the DC area, and the BAU was currently stumped. Nothing was adding up – the victimology inconsistent; the motive unclear; and the profile shaky.

“He seems like he’s trying to send a message,” Rossi stated, exhaustion evident in his voice as he stared at the bulletin board. “Look at the streets.” He moved over to the map that was decorated with red pins. “They’re all leading to the–“ 

Before he could reveal his breakthrough, a distinct ringtone blared out. All eyes turned towards Emily, who, on any other day, would look slightly embarrassed, but with the amount of sleep was running on, barely flinched from the stares.

Knowing immediately who was calling her, the notes of her phone especially set for your contact, Emily mumbled a quick, “Excuse me,” before slipping out of the room.

While the BAU team barely flinched, recognizing your ringtone and knowing you were now two, the deputy directory wore a visible frown.

“Where’s she going?” Bailey rolled his eyes, clearly annoyed. “She is literally the unit chief. Who’s calling her that could be more important than solving this case?”

JJ and Rossi, the two people on the team who knew Emily—and you—the best, shared a glance, silently fighting over who should tell Bailey what was going on.

“That was (Y/N) calling,” JJ revealed, her voice steady, almost on the edge of cold. “She’s pregnant.”

“Who’s (Y/N)?” 

“Her wife,” Rossi deadpanned before getting back to his findings. 

•••••••

In the privacy of her own office, Emily answered the phone. “Hey, baby, is everything okay?”

She would be lying if her heart hadn’t jumped into her throat at the sound of your ringtone calling her when it was nearly midnight and you were home alone. Was the baby okay? Were you okay?

“I need mac and cheese.” 

“What?” Emily frowned, confused if she had misheard you. “Honey, I’m in the middle of an important–”

“I know that, Emily,” you snapped, taking a deep breath to calm yourself before the tears could start again. “But I– we are also important. And you left your pregnant wife home alone for dinner and now it’s almost midnight and you’re still not home, and all I want to do is go to sleep, cuddled up to you, but I can’t because you’re not here, and now I’m craving some cheesy Mac and cheese, but apparently even that is too much to ask for.”

By now, you had run out of breath and had given up on your attempts to stop the tears because they were now staining your cheeks with frustration. 

“(Y/N/N),” Emily sighed, her own heart aching at hearing the pain in your voice. She knew you were understanding of her job, but she also knew even you had limits. 

“Don’t (Y/N/N) me,” you warned with a sniffle. You knew you were being unfair, but you were too tired to care. “Either bring me some Mac and cheese with ketchup or don’t bother coming home at all.”

Before Emily could even agree, you abruptly ended the call. She sighed, dropping the phone onto her desk as she hung her head and rubbed her temples frustratedly. Did you just say ketchup?

“Sorry about that.” Emily popped back into the conference room, purposefully avoiding Bailey’s disapproving glare. “I have to go pick up something for (Y/N),” she said as she gathered her purse along with some papers. “Keep me updated and let me know where you end up in an hour, if there’s a breakthrough.”

“You’re just gonna leave in the middle of a case?” The deputy director sputtered. 

“Happy wife, happy life,” Emily shot back with a sarcastic smile. “Maybe you should take notes, Doug.”

Rossi barely contained a grin. “Go to (Y/N),” he said, giving his unit chief a nod. Emily returned the nod—a silent thank you—before rushing out the door.

•••••••

About forty-five minutes later, at nearly one in the morning, you were half asleep on the couch, but the growl of your stomach prevented you from falling into any sort of comfortable slumber. 

The sound of heels clicking against the hardwood floor—along with the delicious smell of Mac and cheese wafting in the air—immediately woke you up. Your wife was home. Finally.

“Hi, baby,” Emily greeted with a soft smile, as she squatted down to your eye level, placing the bag of food on the coffee table before brushing a loose hair out of your face.

“Hey,” you rasped, slowly opening your eyes as you basked in the other woman’s touch.

“Did someone order Mac and cheese?” She teased, her fingers still gently combing through your hair.

“With ketchup?” You grinned cheekily as you finally opened your eyes, your favorite sight in front of you.

“I spoil you.” Emily gave you a kiss on your temple before standing up. Sitting up, you admired your wife as she moved around the kitchen. You didn’t know how you’d gotten so lucky.

As she returned to the living room, a plate and fork in hand, you looked up to her and smiled. “I love you.”

Emily mirrored your warm expression and sat down right beside you, her thigh brushing against yours. “I love you too,” she replied easily, squeezing your knee before adding, “Even if you like ketchup with your Mac and cheese.”

You gasped, “I am pregnant, you know!” Emily just chuckled and unwrapped the bag of takeout for you.

“Just for that, you’re eating yours with ketchup too,” you insisted with a laugh before sobering. “You are staying, right? At least to eat?”

Emily sensed your shift in demeanor—vulnerability and doubt seeming into your voice—and turned to fully face you. Cupping your face, she kissed you tenderly, putting all the affirmations she couldn’t put into words into the kiss. 

You melted into her touch, the warmth of her lips chasing away the loneliness of your night. When she pulled back, her forehead rested against yours, her eyes staring deeply into yours.

“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

[maximoffwitch]

MY HEART JUST BURST 🥹😭 I ADORE GRANDMOMILY

she keeps on growing | e.p

Tags: established relationship, mom!emily, grandma emily!!, mom!eloise, momily comfort, fluff, tiny bit of angst, use of petnames, no use of yn

Summary: Eloise struggles with settling her baby. Emily comes to the rescue—even a mom needs her mom sometimes. Inspired by this ask.

Word count: 1.2k

mom!emily masterlist

Emily hasn’t been called in in years. Still, she immediately wakes when the phone rings, her hand darting out to her nightstand as the frothy dark of your bedroom presses down on her eyes. Half out of sleep, half out of instinct, she brings the phone to her ear and croaks out a gruff, “Prentiss.”

The sound of the wailing baby wakes her before Eloise’s teary voice fills the speaker.

“Mom,” she cries, the word cracking, “I’m sorry, I know you have work tomorrow but she won’t—she won’t sleep. I don’t know what to do.” Sophia’s crying gets louder and Eloise sniffles, sounding near hysterical. “She’s been like this for—god, I don’t even know how long—”

“Hey, hey, it’s okay.” Emily rasps, wide awake. She sits up and throws the covers back. “I’ll be right there, just give me a second.”

“God, don’t, Mom, just tell me what—”

“I’m coming over.” She rubs her eye. “Won’t take long. Hang tight, El.”

The soft sniffles on the other end of the line tells her Eloise has succumbed to her exhaustion. Emily doesn’t wait for an answer, ending the call and pocketing her phone as you begin to stir.

“Baby,” she murmurs, mouthing a kiss to your warm cheek as you hum thickly. “El’s having trouble putting Sophia down, I’m going over.” 

You curl into her chest. “Time’s it?”

The clock reads 2:43. Emily’s brows shoot up. 

“Nearly three.” She kisses your brow. “Poor girl’s exhausted, she needs the help.”

You finally crack your eyes open. Emily sweeps the mussed hair away from your face. “That’s late.” You slur, dragging yourself up. “I’ll come with you—”

“No.” Emily stamps a short kiss on your lips. “You’re tired, love. It’s been a hell of a week. I’ll go. You sleep.”

You frown. “But—”

“No buts. God, you’re as stubborn as your daughter, you know that?”

You roll your eyes. “It’s a Prentiss trait. I had nothing to do with it.”

“Well, technically,” Emily smiles, her mouth finding yours once more, “you’re also a Prentiss. So, really, you had everything to do with it.”

____

Eloise opens the door, glassy eyed, her pajamas rumpled, dark hair wilting from its ponytail, and Emily is looking into a mirror thirty years prior. Exhaustion wears down her shoulders, her eyes lined with the insomnia that clings to motherhood with an ironclad grip.

“Oh, baby,” she murmurs when Eloise rushes into her, her soft cries muffled into Emily’s hoodie. “My baby. Shh, it’s okay. I’ve got it handled, okay?” Her lips find her daughter’s warm forehead, fingers threading into her knotted hair.

“T-Thanks for coming.” Eloise sniffles.

“Don’t be stupid.” Emily hugs her tight, squeezing and dropping another kiss on her temple. “Where’s Soph?”

“In the nursery.” Eloise wipes under her eyes, shutting the door as Emily toes off her shoes. “She stopped crying, but she’s still awake. I tried everything.” Her voice cracks. “Nappy, milk, her binky—hell, I even sung those lullabies you used to sing us. I think she just hates sleep.” Eloise rubs her face roughly, brightening the flush on her cheeks. “Or she hates me.”

Her voice is small and weak enough that Emily knows, at this time, she believes it.

“I thought you hated me.” She returns, gently knocking their shoulders. “But I think you like me well enough, don’t you?”

Eloise huffs out a wet laugh, rolling her eyes. Just as they step onto the landing, Sophia’s cries rise up again, slipping through the open door of the nursery. Emily hurries in and picks up the fussy baby, settling her against her shoulder.

“Aw, honey, why so sad? You’re tired, I know.” She coos, wiping Sophia’s tears. They stream hot and fast, raining down on Emily’s hoodie. The weight of a baby in her arms unlocks deeply hidden instincts, dusty from disuse but still steady. Emily’s hand starts rubbing wide circles, her mouth moving in nonsensical ramblings; in the midst of her absent murmurs, she turns and finds her daughter still hovering like a dull-eyed crow. 

“Go to bed, Eloise.”

She looks on the verge of protesting. Emily sighs, rocking Sophia when she chokes on a cry. “C’mon, baby, you’re dead on your feet. When did you last sleep?”

Her eyes go distant. She nibbles on her lip, brows furrowing, then shrugs.

Emily’s heart gives a dull pang. 

“Well, I’ve got this sweet girl covered here, okay? Your turn’s done. Go.”

Eloise exhales after a few seconds, nodding. She hugs Emily again, careful not to crush the infant between them. Their cheeks press, her skin tacky with dried tears. “I love you, Mommy.” She croaks.

“Love you, bug.” Emily murmurs, swallowing down the lump in her throat. She wraps her arm around Eloise’s shoulders, tucking her head in under her chin. “You’re my girl. And this little one’s my girl’s girl, so she’s also my girl.” She kisses her hair. “I’m always here for my girls. Go, please. I don’t want to see you here.”

Eloise kisses Emily’s cheek, then the top of Sophia’s head. She finally leaves with a hoarse goodnight, her heavy footsteps sinking into the floor. When she’s gone, Emily turns her attention back to the fussy baby, rocking her through her whimpers. After a check of all the usual boxes, Emily comes up with a plan.

“Okay, sweet girl.” She pushes her glasses up her nose. “What do you say to a warm bath?”

____

Sophia’s eyes droop as Emily dresses her in a soft onesie. Emily smiles, working quickly and settling her back in her arms again. The bath had settled her right down, her tear filled eyes drying as Emily poured warm water on her little body. Her back and knees ache from kneeling on the floor, water drying on the cuffs of her hoodie, but Sophia is well on her way to sleep, and she’s nothing but fond as she swipes the dampened ends of her hair away from her face.

“You’re just like your uncle, Soph.” Emily murmurs, rubbing her palm over Sophia’s back. “He was a terrible sleeper too. What will we ever do with you guys, hm?” She kisses her forehead, walking over to her crib. With practiced ease, she sets the baby down and lulls her to sleep with a million too many kisses and bits of French lullabies. It’s 4:30 by the time she gently shuts the door of the nursery and tiptoes over to Eloise’s room in the dim light.

Emily climbs into bed next to her. Eloise stirs, her eyes fluttering open. Even in the dark, Emily can tell they’re bloodshot.

“She sleep?” She mumbles thickly.

“Yeah, honey.” Emily strokes her hair, pushing the tangled strands back. “Go back to sleep now. She’s okay.”

Eloise shuffles closer. Emily gathers her into her arms, kissing her forehead. Her chest rises and falls with slow, heavy breaths, her arm curling around Emily’s side. She thinks she’s asleep, until she murmurs a few minutes later, “Was I that bad of a sleeper too?”

“Oh, no.” Emily smiles. “You were an easy baby. Total angel.” She idly trails her hand up and down her back. “Ollie gave us grief.”

“Mm, sounds like him.”

“Hey now.” She chides gently. Eloise laughs against her, the sound muffled and low. Emily huffs, too, her eyes growing heavy. She takes off her glasses and slips them between the pillows. “Bonne nuit, mon chou.”

“Bonne nuit, Maman.”

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 @wittygutsy@emilyprentissmylove

[maximoffwitch]

so adorable ☺️ i love the awkwardness bc relatable. who wouldn’t have a crush on emily?? can penelope set me up on a date with her? 🤭

Let Me Write the Book

Summary: Penelope talks you into going on a blind date, conveniently leaving out that it's with Emily.

Tags: blind date, first kiss, that's it

Word count: 1.8k

named after most wanted man by lucy dacus because I unintentionally quoted the song <3

The warm, dim lights above feel like they’re mocking you. The restaurant is fancy. It’s not stuffy or overwhelming, feels like you can’t breathe fancy, but just fancy enough that you can feel the nerves settle over your skin.  

You regret saying yes to this in the first place. 

When Penelope had pulled you away from your desk with the suggestion of a blind date, faux spontaneity lacing her words, you had said no. It was an easy, quick instinct. So quick that Penelope’s eyes widened a bit in surprise. But she was Penelope Garcia, and you should have known she wasn’t going to give up easily. So when the promise that it would be good, that you were perfect for each other, was polished off with a “don’t you trust me?” you found yourself relenting. 

Maybe there was a part of you that believed her, or maybe there was a tiny voice in your head saying that you don’t want to be single forever. A voice, your mother’s probably, reminding you that you’ll never find someone if you don’t put yourself out there. Or maybe you just weren’t sure Penelope would let you leave without saying yes. 

You had thought about canceling while getting ready. Then again, when gathering your stuff. And again, as you walked to your car. The lie had formed itself in your head. You were sick. A migraine, probably. Penelope wouldn’t have believed it, but she wouldn’t be too mad. But you couldn’t go through with it, no matter how enticing Penelope’s contact looked as your finger hovered over your phone.

You still thought this was going to be a disaster. No matter how deep your trust for the blonde ran, this was a blind date, and you’re pretty sure blind dates come from the deepest pits of hell. Despite it all, you had promised Penelope, and that was enough to make you suffer through whatever nightmare was going to walk through the door. And you were certain it would be a nightmare. You’ve been eyeing the entrance since you were seated. You aren’t sure who you’re looking for; you had asked, begged even, for any information on your date, but Penelope wouldn’t relent. The table gives you a clear view of the tall glass door, and you try, but you can’t seem to focus your eyes anywhere else. It’s because of that that you see her so quickly. 

Emily Prentiss. 

Oh, god. You do not need someone else at work to know about this date, too. 

For a minute, you hope she’s picking up food, but the soft curl in her hair and the perfect shade of red on her lips catch your eye. You can’t see what she’s wearing, but you’re sure it’s nothing short of incredible. There is no chance she’s leaving. 

Maybe, you think, she won’t see you. There are plenty of tables out of sight. Or maybe she’ll take pity on you once you divulge that Penelope had roped you into a blind date. You watch from your seat as she exchanges words with the host, who gestures for her to follow, and starts to lead her in your-

Oh. Oh no. 

You manage to fully put together what’s happening by the time they make it to your table. It seems to dawn on Emily, too. You watch her face go from recognition to confusion, to understanding at the sight of you. 

Penelope was going to be getting a very angry call tonight. 

She lets out a chuckle as if she should have expected this, slipping into the chair across from you. “Well, it seems we have both fallen victim to the one and only Penelope Garcia.” 

“I can’t believe she did this.” 

“Really? Because this seems right up her alley to me. I should have known she was up to something when she offered to pay for dinner.” “Oh, that was actually because I refused to go unless she paid.” You shrug, a little proud of your words. 

“Okay, I’m actually only mad I didn’t think of that.” 

An uncomfortable silence drifts between the two of you. It’s unusual to feel so uneasy around Emily. You’re friends, good friends at that, and this should be funny, but it’s Emily. She makes you nervous on a good day, and that’s at work, not when she’s sitting across from you on what is supposed to be a date, looking like that. 

“Look, we-”

“I can-’ You speak at the same time, both laughing awkwardly.  “You first.” She says with a softness in her tone.

“We can just go home and act like this never happened if you want.”

“We don’t have to.” She says quickly, and the surprise must be written on your face because she adds, “I mean we can have dinner, it’s not anything we haven’t done before, and if Penelope’s paying…” she trails off. 

You try to remember to breathe at the thought of you two on a date. “Yeah, let’s do dinner,” you say against your better judgment, pushing the feeling in your stomach at the way she looks at you, or the way she looks in that dress. 

“You’re sure? You can leave if you want, it’s not a big deal.” There’s a softness to her eyes as she asks. 

“Of course,” because you could never say no to her. 

“Good, because I’ve been wanting to eat here forever.” She snaps back into herself, “Oh! And Pen told me I had to order this wine. Apparently, it’s super romantic.” She wiggles her eyebrows at the end, and you can tell by the twinkle in her eye that she’s trying to ease your nerves. 

The two of you fall into your normal rhythm after that. You eat, and she’s telling you about things you’ve never talked about before, and the words are flowing so perfectly between you that you have to keep reminding yourself that this isn’t a real date. 

“So…” Emily starts after a quiet, comfortable lull in conversation. Her eyes drift toward the table, a soft, awkward laugh shooting out of her mouth in between words, “Why do you think she did this?”

“Oh. Uh, that might be my fault, actually.” Heat moves over your cheeks, and you threaten a glance toward the brunette, “I sort of had a little bit of a crush on you when you first started.” 

“You did?” She sounds surprised, but you used what little confidence you had left to say it, so you can’t look at her to be sure. 

“Okay, you don’t have to do that.” 

“Do what?” “Act like you didn’t know about it.” “Wha- I didn’t!” 

“Oh, come on! Of course, you did.” You practically roll your eyes, “ I was making a fool out of myself every time we spoke. I blushed just from you looking at me. I could barely get a sentence out without stuttering. I cou-”

“Okay, okay! I get it, but no. I really didn’t notice.” She gives you a look that you can’t quite place. As if she’s trying to figure something out, but before you can ask, the waiter is walking up with the check. 

It’s a beautiful night when you leave the restaurant. The air is cool across your skin, but a new, awkward feeling is settling over you both.

“Penelope told me that the park is beautiful to walk through at night,” she trails off, the suggestion clear in her tone. 

“Okay, let’s go.” You smile at her and as she beams at you, you realize you really want her to look at you like that again. It is beautiful, Penelope was right. The trees on either side of you have lights twinkling in their leaves. There’s water to your right that sparkles lightly from the moon. It’s quiet as you walk, no one else is in the park this late at night. Your hands brush lightly every few steps. 

You laugh suddenly, breaking the silence as it hits you. Emily’s eyes shoot towards you, a little shocked at the noise. “She was really trying to get you laid.”

“What?!” She freezes, but you keep walking.  A smile on your face as you glance back at her “Emily,” you say, as she catches up again “you think Penelope orchestrated a fake blind date and then told you to take me on a walk through the park… in the direction of your apartment, out of the kindness of her heart? Not to mention the wine that you had to order because it was ‘super romantic’”

“It’s not in the direction of-“ she looks forward and then back at you, the realization hitting her, “Oh my god. Oh my god. That is so embarrassing.” You can just make out the reddening in her cheeks under the low light, but she laughs and you see her smile. The kind of smile that makes your stomach flutter. 

Maybe the revelation should make you both stop walking and go your separate ways, but neither of you makes the move to leave. There’s a silence that follows. It’s light and comfortable as the two of you continue to walk, your steps in sync. 

It’s Emily who breaks it, her words hesitant and slow as she asks, “Did you actually have a crush on me?” 

In a moment of bravery, you glance at her, but her eyes are glued to her feet. You can see her picking at the skin on her finger subconsciously. “Maybe a little.” 

“I wish I had known.” 

You let out a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh, “and I’m so glad you didn’t. God, it was so embarrassing. I probably looked like a lost puppy following you around.” 

“No! I could’ve- I would’ve- I don’t know, but I would’ve done something.”

“I mean, it would’ve sucked but it probably would’ve been good for me to hear to get over myself, to be honest.” You let out a self deprecating laugh, but she stops and turns to you with a look in her eye that has your breath catching. “Do you still?” is all she says, and you try to speak, but the words won’t find you. It can’t be your fault, you think, not when she’s looking at you like this. You’ve never seen her look at you like this, you never thought she would look at you like this– like you’re the only person in the world. 

Emily’s hand moves to your jaw at your silence. Her eyes never leave yours as she pauses, giving you the chance to pull away, but you could never pull away from her. You aren’t sure who leans in the rest of the way, but your lips are meeting. You practically melt into her, as her arm wraps around your waist, pulling you closer. 

Time seems to warp around you as she kisses you, slow but so sure. It feels so perfectly like Emily. It’s only when she’s pulling away, her forehead resting against yours lightly, that you remember where you are. Her arm stays around your waist, fingers rubbing slow circles on your hip. 

“So, um-” you start as your mind starts to catch up to you again. You pull away slightly to look at her, “We’re never letting Penelope know this worked right?”

“Oh, absolutely not.” 

[maximoffwitch]

🍓: 7 and 71 with wanda and pronouns she/her!

Not Alone Anymore

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

warnings: some swear words and mentions of violence & injuries

summary: You think you have to do it all, but Wanda's there to remind you that you're not alone, not anymore.

word count: 1k

a/n: thank you for requesting this!! i hope you like it :) the prompts requested are in bold!

The sound of shuffling feet and the door locking shut caused Wanda to stir from her sleep. She had tried to stay awake and wait for you to come back from your mission, but as the hours went by, sleep eventually won out.

“(Y/N/N)?” she croaked, her eyes opening slightly, straining to find your figure in the darkness.

“Wands?” you looked up from undressing, realizing you had woken up your girlfriend. “Go back to sleep,” you carefully leaned down chastely kiss her forehead, “I’m just gonna go clean up and I’ll be in in a sec.”

Wanda could only hum, too tired to protest. Making your way to the bathroom, you watched with a small as your girlfriend peacefully fell back asleep, her eyes already fluttering shut. 

The next time Wanda woke up was much less pleasant than the first, as a crashing sound echoed from the bathroom. 

“(Y/N)!” she bolted upright. Disoriented, Wanda frowned at the clock blaring 4 AM. She’d been asleep for nearly an hour and your side of the bed was still empty. Slipping out of bed, she padded towards the bathroom, where a sliver of light was shining from under the door.

“(Y/N/N), baby,” Wanda leaned her ear against the door, “are you alright?”

“I’m fine, Wands,” you assured through a grimace, one so harsh you were sure the witch could hear it.

“Are you sure? You’ve been in there for almost an hour.”

When she was met with silence, Wanda reached for the door knob.

“I’m gonna come in, (Y/N/N). Is that alright?”

You grumbled something under your breath, but when she didn’t hear a strong protest, Wanda took that as her invitation.

As she swung open the door, the sight she was greeted with was not one she prepared for, especially this early, or late depending on how you looked at it.

You were sitting on the bathroom floor, your shirt discarded off to the side, leaving you in a sports bra. Scraps of bloody bandages were scattered around you, as you clutched your side, your hands, along with the white rug Wanda had recently purchased, were stained red. 

Too shocked to formulate a coherent thought, all Wanda could say was, “(Y/N), what the fuck happened?”

Wincing, from both the pain and from Wanda’s use of the F word, one she rarely used, you met your girlfriend’s eyes and explained, “Just got a little scratch as we were escaping the base. It’s not too bad. Babe, just go back to sleep.”

If Wanda was upset before, she was now furious, your nonchalance and dismissal of your safety infuriating her. 

“Not bad?” she shrieked, moving to kneel beside you, as she shuffled through the first-aid kit. “You’re damn near bleeding out on our bathroom floor next to what looks like the knife that stabbed you, and you have the audacity to say ‘it’s not too bad’?!”

Wanda firmly pushed into your wound with some new gauze, causing you to groan. 

“I’ve dealt with worse,” you gasped, the blood loss starting to hit you.

“Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better,” she grumbled under her breath. “Why the hell aren’t you in medical right now?”

“I missed you,” you mumbled, the words sounding lame to your own ears. 

“I missed you too,” Wanda responded, relaxing for a brief moment before her eyebrows furrowed once more. “But it really should be Helen or Bruce taking care of you right now and not me.”

“But I missed you,” you repeated weakly.

“You’re too damn stubborn for your own good, (Y/N) (Y/L/N),” she muttered. “Why do you make loving you so damn hard?”

“I love you too,” you smiled cheekily, before sighing, “Besides, Cho and Bruce needed to focus on Nat.”

“What?” Wanda snapped her head up at that, the annoyance in her eyes replaced by concern for her mentor. “What happened to Nat?”

“She got shot,” you revealed, as you closed your eyes, the scene of the older woman collapsing in your arms flashing before you. “Twice. But she was stable by the time we got her to Helen.”

You did your best to reassure Wanda, but you could tell she wouldn’t rest until she saw Natasha with her own eyes. 

“You’re gonna need stitches,” Wanda said after a few moments of silence, her face scarily void of any emotion. 

“I’ll just go to Bruce in the morning,” you sighed.

“No,” she glared at you. “You’re getting stitched up now.”

“But—,”

“I said no! You’re hurt, just for ONCE do what I ask,” Wanda bursted, the fear, frustration, and exhaustion bubbling over, as tears brimmed her eyes

Your mouth snapped shut, and you felt an overwhelming ache take over your chest. The anguish written across Wanda’s face reflected your own physical pain, making you remember just how much she loved and cared for you.

“I’m sorry,” you mumbled sincerely, your own eyes welling up with tears. “I’m so used to taking care of myself, and I didn’t want to worry you or be a burden.”

Wanda visibly softened, as she gently cupped your cheeks in her hands.

“(Y/N), listen to me,” she used the pad of her thumb to wipe away a stray tear, “you will never be a burden to me, okay?”

You nodded, nuzzling your face against her warm hand. 

“And as for me worrying? I will always worry about you, so there’s no point in trying to prevent that,” the two of you shared a wet chuckle, as she leaned her forehead against yours. “You’re not alone anymore. You don’t have to take care of yourself. I’m here, and I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

“I love you,” you whispered before leaning forward to capture her lips for a passionate kiss.

“I love you too,” she breathed as she pulled apart. “Now, let’s get you stitched up so we can get some much needed rest.”

Wanda pressed one last kiss to the corner of your pouting mouth before getting up to grab the bigger med kit from the cabinet. 

As Wanda delicately patched up your wound, her stitch work rivaling Helen’s, you watched your girlfriend in awe. How you had gotten so lucky to have her by your side, you didn’t know but you were grateful nonetheless. 

-----

taglist: @alexmxff @likefirenrain @amasimpformilfs @crescent-witch @iliketozoneout @fxckmiup @inluvwithfictionalwomen @chelleztjs18 @mediocre-writerr @milfloverslut @fayhar @kermy48 @nataliasknife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @when-wolves-howl @findingmaximoff @kacka84 @carnagewidow @bentleywolf29 @wandaromanoffsblog @noaaas-world @luvwanda

[maximoffwitch]

this is my new favorite thing ever 🤭 emily is a major simp and i will stand by that. momily simp being cockblocked by her own children is just superior form of simp emily 🤪🥰

can i request momily and f!reader trying to have a moment for themselves but their babies keep interrupting😭 like they're making out and then one of the kids starts crying bc their sibling won't give their toy back or something 😭😭😭😭😭

I'm screaming I love this heheee :3 thank you for requesting! part of the 800 celebration <3

Tags: momily, established relationship, mildly suggestive (there's a twice-interrupted couch make-out sesh)

Word count: 1k (I loved this a little too much)

mom!emily masterlist

Maybe leaving two five-year-olds unattended was on her. Maybe it was, though she tried to be responsible about it, leaving their playroom door wide open, the TV volume down so low it’s nearly muted. 

Sure, it’s Emily’s fault. But she wanted a moment with you, is that so bad? One singular, blissful moment to taste the day from your lips, to press her chest to yours and feel how it rises and falls with each of your increasingly ragged breaths. It’s been far too long since she’s tasted them in her mouth.

Her hand slides under your shirt. She blazes with heat.

“Em,” you murmur, still desperately trying to hang on to the thread of responsibility.

It’s very quickly fraying.

“They’re upstairs,” she says, squeezing your hips, your waist, trailing her lips over your swollen ones. “It’s fine. Just—just let me have this. God, how long has it been—?”

Her question is lost in your mouth. You grip her hips with two firm hands, drag them snugly over yours, and her groan spills onto your tongue, far more wanton than this impromptu couch makeout session deserves. It’s greedy, she knows; if she had an inch of shame left in her it would have swallowed her whole.

“Mommy, Mommy!” 

You both freeze.

Emily huffs and finds herself pushed back against the cushions, your hands shoving her away and darting to your hair. She blinks and tries to spark her brain back online. You’re far more adept at regaining your competence, composing yourself while she stares blankly at your grinning son.

“Sergio wants his snack.” James declares proudly, Sergio half spilling out of his arms. 

Emily regains consciousness. “James, put him down.” 

“But he wants his treat.” He frowns. “Mommy said I can give him his treat next time.”

Did she? It’s hard to focus on much right now. Emily rubs at her lips, feeling the burn of them, the swell beneath her fingers as you get up and take James to the kitchen on the condition that he sets Sergio down. She digs her palms into her eyes with a muffled groan, restlessness humming under her skin. She’s hot, too hot, dampened curls sticking to her neck and the taste of your sighs thick on her tongue.

She needs a vacation. A very child-free vacation. Preferably on another planet.

Her eyes flutter open when the couch dips again, your knees creeping on either side of her waist. Emily grabs the undersides of your thighs and pulls you snug on her lap, uncaring of the heat simmering in her blood. She’s a touch surprised, given your earlier reservations, but a glance at your blown pupils and dark gaze tells her maybe she shouldn’t be.

“That cat is nicer to your kids than he ever was to me.” You complain, your breath hot on her cheek.

Emily hums as she tilts your chin. “Who needs a cat when you have me?” She murmurs, nuzzling kisses under your jaw. “I can be plenty nice.”

She feels the vibrations as you say something, but all noise is lost in her ears. Your pulse speeds under her lips; she can feel your thighs tensing, pressure increasing around her waist as she lavishes you with attention. You arch ever so slightly into her chest and she preens, hiding a smirk in your neck, sly as she slips her hand just under your sweatpants. She doesn’t go so far as teasing her fingers under the band of your underwear, but god she wants to.

“Emily.” You warn breathlessly.

“No, I know. I know.” She groans, her head falling back against the couch. Your chests brush with each heaving inhale—it’s possible she might go insane. “Christ.” She licks her lips, drawing in a shuddering breath. Equal desperation is drawn on your face—a restless frown pulling your brows, your teeth dragging across your bottom lip. 

Maybe you really do need a vacation.

“Listen, what if we get away for a few days? Go somewhere close—hell, just spend a night or two in a hotel or something—”

A thump, and then a wail.

Emily rubs between her brows. You scramble off her lap but she nudges you back down on the couch, taking this turn. She hurries up the stairs when she hears James and Theo bickering, Theo’s usually low tone rising to a distressed whine.

“Hey, hey.” She says as she walks into their playroom, perhaps a touch more impatient than she should be, “What’s going on here?”

The two boys are on the ground, toys haphazardly sprawled around them. None of them seem particularly interesting at the moment. Emily spies the DS in James’ hand and immediately knows.

Theo scowls, glaring at his brother. “He won’t give my Nintendo back.”

“You played for a long time!”

“Because it’s mine!”

“It’s both of yours.” Emily cuts in, bending down to kneel on the floor. James is clutching the device to his chest as if it might be ripped away from him. His mouth is curved into a pout, identical to his brother’s.

“Theo, honey, you’ve had your turn with that. It’s James’ turn now.” She brushes his hair away from his frown, pointedly ignoring James’ gleeful told you behind her.

“He takes forever.” Theo huffs, crossing his arms against his chest.

“You both get equal time.” Emily says evenly, fighting against a smile when he groans dramatically. He’s so like her, in all the subtle ways usually outshined by his brother. “What do you say,” she murmurs, the sound of a video game starting up behind her as James helps himself to the DS, “you and I go make some of that mango ice cream you like?”

Theo tilts his head. “With whipped cream?”

“Duh.”

He considers this. The pinch between his brows deepens in concentration, his thumb pressing thoughtfully against his lip in a way that makes Emily smile. He’s all in all an easy child, not too fond of the fuss; even as his eyes dart behind her she knows he’ll give in.

Finally he nods, solemn and firm.

“It’s too hot today.”

The lingering heat of your body is still clinging to hers. Emily catches the gloss of your lip balm in the corner of her mouth, cocoa blooming on her tongue as her shirt soaks up the dampness on her skin.

“You’re so right, buddy.”

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 @wittygutsy@emilyprentissmylove

[maximoffwitch]

Hey! I hope you’re well!

For milf Wanda, I’m always a sucker for Wanda comforting reader because she has that motherly nature about her.

Perhaps, reader meets Wanda at a bar when they’ve been stood up for a date and Wanda helps them feel better

Just How Fast the Night Changes

pairing: wanda maximoff x reader

warnings: only slightly suggestive, hint at an age gap

summary: Your date doesn’t show, but luckily Wanda is there to save the day.

word count: 1.2k

a/n: i hope i captured milf!wanda in this 😭😭 tbh idk but i like their interaction…enjoy! i feel like there’s a potential for a part two here 😳

Glancing down at your watch, you let out a heavy sigh. Your date was supposed to meet you here an hour and a half ago. Seeing as it was almost 9 o’clock, you figured she wasn’t going to show.

“I’ll have another one.” You motioned to the bartender, raising your wine glass that was now empty.

“Put it on my tab,” a melodic voice said as a stunning woman dressed in a well-tailored suit slid into the stool next to you.

“Oh no, you don’t have to do that,” you tried to politely decline, waving the bartender to come back.

“Please.” The woman gently put her hand on your bare shoulder, her touch eliciting goosebumps, “I insist.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, as you feel her emerald eyes following your every movement, her gaze burning you alive.

As the bartender approached with your glass, you quietly thanked him with a smile before taking a sip of your wine.

“So, tell me,” she started also sipping her drink before swiveling in her seat so she was leaning against the bar and facing you, her knee barely grazing yours in the process. “What is a beautiful woman like you doing sitting at a bar alone on a Friday night?”

You felt your cheeks warm from her complement – the way her leg kept brushing yours didn’t help either.

“I–” You cleared your throat, a whole new warmth flushing your face – this time out of embarrassment. “I was supposed to be meeting someone here, but they didn’t show.”

“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Her expression softened, a small pout forming on her lips (not that you were looking or anything).

“It’s fine,” you told her, swirling the wine in your drink distractedly. “She was just some mutual friend my coworker set me up with.”

“Still.” The woman knitted her brows and placed a g hand on your knee. “No one should get stood up, especially not someone like you.”

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh. “With all due respect, you don’t even know who someone like me is. For all you know, I could be a stalker serial killer.”

“You’re right,” she agreed with a chuckle. “Though, I would like to get to know you.”

You stared at her for a brief moment, contemplating your next move. There was no doubt that the woman sitting before you was stunning – probably way out of your league to begin with – but flirting with strangers was not something you were totally familiar with. Screw it.

“I’m (Y/N).” You held out your hand for her to shake, which she gladly accepted.

“Wanda.”

You let your hand linger in hers for a moment, her soft touch warming your body.

“So, Wanda,” you began with a slight smirk, “what’s a beautiful woman like you doing at a bar alone on a Friday night?”

“Touché.” Wanda grinned, tipping her glass to you before downing the rest of her drink. “I had a rough week at work, and my ex-husband has my twins this weekend so I figured I come drown my stress.”

“Work sucks,” you agreed, trying to hide the shock hearing that she had kids. You recovered smoothly with the help of your wine. “I’m sorry about your week.”

“Don’t be. It happens,” she said. “Luckily, it just got a lot better.”

You rolled your eyes at her flirting, but you couldn’t stop the blush creeping up your neck.

“What do you do?”

“I’m a lawyer,” Wanda replied.

“Wow.” Your eyes widened. “Very impressive.”

Wanda grinned bashfully, her cheeks tinted with a blush of her own. “What about you?”

“A surgeon.”

“So you’re gorgeous and smart?” She grinned, clearly enjoying the effect her flirting had on you.

“I guess if the shoe fits,” you chuckled, the alcohol giving you a boost of confidence. “You wanna know what else I’m good at?” You lowered your voice with a suggestive smirk.

Wanda’s eyes visibly darkened, and she licked her lips.

“Honey,” she started with a slight rasp in her voice, scooting forward so her knee made its way between your legs, “the things I–“

The buzzing of your cellphone on the counter rudely interrupted her. Briefly glancing down at the screen, you winced.

“I am so sorry,” you apologized with a frown. “I have to take this. I’m on call.”

“Of course, of course.” Though Wanda understood all too well the inconvenient phone calls at annoying hours, she still bit back the disappointment that this particular call was ending the night earlier than she would’ve liked.

As you listened to your attending brief you on the situation, you dug through your purse, trying to fish out your wallet.

“I’m so sorry,” you repeated to Wanda after hanging up, still trying to fumble through your bag. “They need me down at the hospital.”

“No worries,” she shot you an understanding smile and placed her hands on yours to stop your movement. “It’s on my tab remember?”

“Wanda,” you trailed off, shaking your head.

“(Y/N).” She stared at you, as she gave you a look that you imagined she often gave her kids when they decided to talk back.

“I can’t let you do that,” you tried, though you knew you were fighting a losing battle.

“Yes, I can,” Wanda insisted, slyly zipping your purse shut.

“Fine,” you huffed and slid out of your stool. “I’m buying next time then.”

“Next time?” She smirked at your presumptuousness despite also wanting to see you again.

“Unless you don’t wanna see me again,” you rambled, your nerves bubbling inside of you. “Which I totally get and I understand, I just thought–“

“(Y/N),” Wanda interrupted softly, putting you out of your misery. “I would love to see you again.”

“Okay.” All you could do was nod, as you bit back a smile.

“Okay,” she said, mirroring your expression as she took your phone out of your hand and began typing. “Here’s my number. I expect a call.”

“Yes ma’am,” you hummed, missing the way Wanda’s eyes darkened at your words. After you took your phone from her and putting it back in your pocket, you stared at her for a moment.

Instinctively, you leaned forward and placed a lingering kiss on her cheek. “Thank you,” you breathed, “for saving my night.”

“Pleasure’s all mine,” Wanda whispered, struck by your proximity and the feeling of your lips on her skin.

“Now, I really have to go.” You glanced at your watch and reluctantly retreated from her.

“Well, I hate to see you go, but I’ll happily watch you leave,” she playfully slapped the side of your waist, not quite your ass but having the same effect.

As you made your way towards the exit, you swayed your hips a little extra, knowing Wanda’s eyes were still on you. The brisk night air cooled your adrenaline rush, and you took a deep breath, a grin forming on your face. To think your started your night alone after being stood up and yet you somehow ended up leaving with the promise of a date with a beautiful woman.

How quickly a night can change.

———

wanda taglist: @alexmxff @likefirenrain @amasimpformilfs @crescent-witch @iliketozoneout @fxckmiup @inluvwithfictionalwomen @chelleztjs18 @mediocre-writerr @milfloverslut @fayhar @kermy48 @nataliasknife @xxxtwilightaxelxxx @when-wolves-howl @findingmaximoff @kacka84 @carnagewidow @bentleywolf29 @wandaromanoffsblog @noaaas-world @luvwanda @togrowoldinv @sadpiscesheart​ @jujuu23​ @beenicejoy @an-evergreen-rose

[maximoffwitch]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

author's note ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[maximoffwitch]

the prettiest girl in the world

[maximoffwitch]

oh to be flirted with by emily prentiss 🥹

Third time’s the charm

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 2 k summary: Emily Prentiss really tried to flirt with you — you just never let yourself believe it. Emily, the Unit Chief of the BAU, interested in you? That couldn’t possibly be real. Not until she cornered you after the FBI’s annual marathon and left no room for doubt. tags: shy and clueless reader, logistics!reader, flirty Emily, marathon, no mention of yn, making my dream come true (kinda :D )

The sun is merciless by midday. It burns down over Quantico like it holds a grudge, turning the blacktop into a simmering griddle and the air into something you have to wade through. You’ve been here since early morning, setting up tables, hauling cases of water, stringing up banners with zip ties that sliced into your fingers. No one notices the volunteers unless something goes wrong. And you like it that way. Quiet edges. Peripheral.

Sweat clings beneath your collar, the back of your shirt already damp where it sticks to your spine. You’re stationed near the finish line, behind a folding table that quivers if you lean too hard on it, water bottles lined up in neat rows like soldiers waiting for orders.

You didn’t sign up for the run. You signed up to hand out drinks and fold chairs and not sweat through your clothes. And yet here you are. Skin flushed, water bottles chilling your palms, watching a parade of agents cross the finish line in various states of victory, legs wobbly, chests heaving. Some laugh, some collapse theatrically into the grass. A few don’t even look winded.

You’re not FBI, not really. Contracted logistics. Mostly inside work. Digital inventory systems, procurement, the kind of thing no one thinks about unless the coffee shipment is delayed. You work down the hall from people who carry guns and flash credentials, and you’ve learned, over time, how to make yourself invisible in a building full of people trained to notice.

And then there’s her. Emily Prentiss. You know her name, of course. Everyone does. Not just because she’s the Unit Chief of the BAU, but because she carries the kind of presence that doesn’t require introduction. You’ve seen her twice before in the building.

You remember the first time you saw Emily Prentiss, not here, but in the cafeteria. You’d been waiting for your coffee, head buried in your phone, when a voice cut through the hum of the morning rush.

“Those boots? They’re not for everyone. You’ve got good taste.”

You’d looked up, surprised to find her watching you with a small, knowing smile, like she was letting you in on a secret.

“Not that I mention it often, but today? You nailed it.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “Thanks. I just got them.” Your voice was softer than you wanted.

She leaned casually on the counter, eyes sparkling. “Then you should wear them more. They suit you.”

You’d laughed nervously, unsure if it was a compliment or a tease, and taken your coffee, walking away feeling like you’d just missed something important. Or maybe you hadn’t.

The second time was in the elevator. You were lost in thought, pressing the button for the second floor, when her teasing voice broke through.

“Hey, nice scarf. Matches your serious face.”

You glanced up to see her smirking like she knew exactly what she was doing.

“Uh, thanks,” you mumbled, cheeks heating.

She laughed softly. “Not many people can pull off serious and good looking. Maybe you should try to lighten up.”

Before you could answer, the elevator dinged and she stepped out, shooting you a look that said this wasn’t over.

You hadn’t known what to do either time. So you’d smiled, nodded, and tucked it away like a secret. Not because you were playing hard to get. But because, if you were being honest you didn’t think someone like her could possibly mean someone like you. You really thought it was just politeness. A passing kindness. Something practiced and habitual, not personal. Not real.

But now she’s here.

Crossing the line like she’s done it a hundred times. She’s in running gear: a black tank top, deep red compression shorts that stop mid-thigh, and a pair of worn gray sneakers that look like they’ve seen real use. Her legs are strong, defined, the kind of toned that says she doesn’t skip workouts or let herself off easy. There’s a sheen of sweat on her skin, glinting at her collarbones and along the curve of her shoulders, and her dark hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail that still somehow looks intentional. You shouldn’t be staring but here you are. Because she looks powerful. Effortless. And you’re not ready. It’s not the kind of moment you know how to stand still in, not when she looks like that and like she already knows what it’s doing to you.

Your heart rate spikes as you hold out the bottle to her, your hand steady but your breath shaky. She takes it from your hand without hesitation, fingers brushing yours, her gaze never wavering. Not even for a second. Like you’re the thing she came here for. You should look away. Say something. Do anything to break the static in the air but your feet stay rooted, your mouth forgets what language is. And all you can think is: This isn’t politeness. Not this time.

You can’t even manage to meet her eyes, not fully. Not for more than a second. Not those dark brown eyes that seem to see right through all the things you haven’t said. Not back then, not now. And definitely not while you’re still trying to convince yourself that this isn’t real.

“Third time’s the charm,” she says, unscrewing the cap with one flick of her wrist. Her voice is smooth, still shaped by the gravel of effort, but low. Too low to just be friendly. “You always look this serious when you’re saving lives with hydration?”

You open your mouth to respond but nothing comes out. So you exhale through your nose and give her a half-smile. Polite. Neutral. And most of all safe.

She tilts her head, amused by your reaction. She drinks slowly, deliberately and you realize too late that she’s still watching you. “I didn’t take you for the shy type,” she says, setting the bottle down. Her voice is quieter now. “But maybe I misjudged.”

You flinch. Not physically, not in a way she’d register unless she was looking for it — which you’re starting to realize she is. But it lands. A direct hit. Too accurate to be casual.

“I’m not shy,” you say. Except it comes out defensive which is even worse.

Emily quirks an eyebrow. It’s the kind of expression that says she knows exactly how rattled you are, and exactly how much you don’t want her to know.

“No?” she says. She steps closer, just half a pace. Enough to fold the space between you a little tighter. Enough to make your pulse trip over itself.

“I just don’t—” You fumble. “You’re… intense.”

You realize too late that it’s the wrong word. Too revealing. Too honest.

But to your relief, she laughs freely.

“Is that what I am?” she murmurs with a twinkle in her eyes. “Intense?”

You swallow hard. Her shirt’s damp. Her collar clings to her skin. There’s a bruise forming on her forearm, a line of sweat tracing the angle of her jaw. And somehow, she looks like she’s exactly where she wants to be.

You, on the other hand, feel like you’re standing too close to a bonfire.

“I meant you have a presence,” you clarify weakly. “People notice you.”

Emily grins. “You noticed. That’s all that matters.”

You don’t answer. Not because you disagree, but because you did. You do. Constantly.

There’s a sudden burst of cheers from the side. Another runner stumbles across the finish line, half-laughing, half-gasping for air. The brief commotion gives you just enough of a reason to glance away. Not because the moment called for it, but because her words hit somewhere too deep, too direct. Like she’d cracked something open you weren’t ready to show.

You fix your gaze on the runner, on the noise, on anything that isn’t her. You need a second to breathe.

The table behind you wobbles slightly as the runner grabs a water bottle without slowing down, and you seize the moment like a lifeline. You turn, pretending to adjust the bottles, pretending that the heat on your cheeks is just from the sun.

But your fingers are trembling when you restock the bottles. You pray she doesn’t see.

She stays quiet for a moment. Too quiet. And that’s what gives her away. Emily Prentiss doesn’t do quiet unless it’s intentional. Unless she’s waiting and watching you.

She noticed… of course she noticed. The way you flinched, the way you can’t hold her gaze for more than a second. And now she’s reading you like she reads crime scenes. Not out of cruelty, but curiosity.

What is she thinking? That you’re overwhelmed? That you’re scared? That she pushed too far, too fast? Or maybe she’s just confirming what she already suspected: that you’re not as indifferent as you pretend to be.

“You didn’t notice I was flirting the first two times,” she says softly.

You stop moving, water bottles long forgotten. Your breath catches the way it does when someone says your name in the dark.

She said it out loud, with no room for interpretation. And somehow, that’s scarier than anything.

“I thought…” you start, and then trail off, because there’s no way to finish that sentence without sounding absurd. I thought you were just being nice. I thought maybe I imagined it. I thought someone like you wouldn’t bother.

“I know,” she says gently. Like she’s used to people underestimating themselves. “That’s why I’m being obvious.”

You risk a glance at her. Her face holds nothing but honesty. Her words aren’t smug. She’s not teasing you. She’s waiting. Not for an answer. For a shift. For you.

And you wish you were better at this. At whatever this is. You wish you could match her stride for stride, flirt for flirt. You wish you didn’t want to disappear and stay all at once.

“I’m not good at this,” you admit quietly. “Not in public. Not… when someone’s watching.”

Emily hums. “Then we’ll find somewhere no one is.”

Simple. Like it’s not a big deal. Like she’s not reaching into your ribs and rearranging the way you breathe.

She caps the bottle. Tosses it in the bin behind her with one clean flick of her wrist.

“I’m grabbing lunch,” she says. “There’s a food truck in the lot. Not exactly candlelight, but the tacos are decent. You should come.”

It’s not the kind of thing you can talk yourself out of later. It’s not a maybe. It’s now.

And you know with a kind of dizzy certainty that if you say no, she won’t push. She won’t chase, but she would give you time.

You’ll just go back to the quiet places, to the edges, to the distance. But if you say yes…You don’t know what comes after that. And maybe that’s the point.

So you nod. Just once. It’s small, barely perceptible, but it’s enough.

Emily smiles like she’s won a game you didn’t know you were playing. It’s soft and warm, making your heart rate crease up.

She doesn’t say anything else. Just turns and walks toward the parking lot, slow, loose-limbed, in command of her space. A few steps in, she pauses. She turns slightly, just enough to glance back over her shoulder, her eyes catching yours with that same quiet pull that has followed you since the elevator.

The look is steady, intentional, and this time a little softer, like something patient, waiting to be met halfway. Then she keeps walking, without breaking stride.

You watch her go and something inside you stumbles, like your lungs forgot what to do without her standing in front of you. The air feels thinner now, heavier somehow. Your palms are damp, and there’s a tingling beneath your skin, like your nerves are catching up to what just happened. You don’t fully understand what shifted, but you know something did.

And for once, it doesn’t scare you. Not entirely.

You turn back to the table, taking a deep breath as you restock the bottles. You press your hand against your chest because everything feels too fast and too loud and too new. You have to remind yourself: it’s not a date. Not yet.

But it could be. And that’s enough to make your knees a little weak.

Taglist: @imightbethewriter

[maximoffwitch]

i loveeeeee forward emily 🙂‍↕️ and yes emily has big bambi eyes 🥺

tying you to me | e.p

Tags: emt!reader, flirty emily, fluff, mentions of needles and blood (emily donates blood), no use of yn

Summary: For the second time, you and Emily Prentiss cross paths. Can you fend off her flirtations when she's fully lucid?

Word count: 1.7k

Part one | emt!reader masterlist

It takes a second for you to recognize the woman in the chair. 

Her posture is relaxed and easy, dark hair pulled away from her face, giving you a clear view of her straight nose and plush mouth as she types away on her phone. Something vaguely itches at the corners of your memory, but you can’t properly grab on to anything. You don’t fixate on it as you make a beeline for her; working with as many people as you do, it’s not unusual for a face to pop up more than once. 

You place your kit on the table at her elbow and she looks up, fingers stilling on her phone. 

Immediately you know. It’s her eyes that send you tumbling back to a frigid winter night, thick lashes and rich, dark irises so brown they’re almost black.

She’s the one from the crash. The flirty brunette and her boss, who called her…

“Emily.” She says with a grin, clearly remembering you. Her phone screen promptly goes black as you steal her attention, her now undoubtedly sharper gaze swallowing you whole from head to toe. It’s hardly a quick scan; she takes her time with you, unabashed as her eyes rove, pockets of heat bursting where she lingers too long. “Fancy seeing you here.” She tilts her head, doe-like and coy.

“I work here, Agent Prentiss.” The name comes like a flash, surprising you as it spills out.

Her eyes shimmer. The same charming dimples press into her cheeks, bright white teeth flashing under the clinical light.

“You remember. I’m flattered.”

She’s a magnetic pole, all clean and washed of blood, hair shiny, words steady without the slippery coating of a pain-hazed slur. Her mouth curves with genuine delight and you feel yourself slipping, falling yet again into her honeyed trap.

God. You’ve always been weak when it comes to pretty flirts.

You clear your throat and sit yourself on the short stool next to her chair. “First time donating?”

“No, sweetheart. First time having such a pretty EMT do it, though.” Her eyes burn holes into your face as you snap your gloves on, the sting on your wrists doing nothing to distract you from the way you flush under your uniform. “I didn’t know you guys did that.”

You busy yourself with grabbing a tourniquet and tying it around her arm. “Not all of us do.”

“Just the smart ones?”

Your mouth twitches.

Emily chuckles to herself, soft and low. A nervous swirl rushes through your lower belly, absolutely nothing to do with the needle at your side and everything to do with the smooth curve of her bicep. 

Focus. You aren’t just patching her up like last time. You’re poking a needle into her pale, soft skin—and, with the places your head is going, more than likely to nick a vein or tear her arteries to shreds.

Your spine stiffens even as you feel her looking, your shoulders setting back. “Is that painful?” You nod at the tourniquet. “Too tight?”

“No.” Emily hums. “You’re attentive.”

Too attentive. For, right now, all the wrong reasons. It’s impossible to ignore the way her white muscle tank hugs her torso, clinging to curves you hadn’t seen before. In an attempt to escape her eyes, you latch on to the jut of a collarbone, the dusting of freckles, swells of toned muscle and raven hair curling along her shoulder, her loose ponytail swaying with each turn of her head.

At least she got that one right.

You pointedly ignore her comment and search the crook of her elbow for a vein, gently prodding with your finger until you find it. Here Emily stays silent, though the heft of her gaze doesn’t lessen as you rip open an alcohol wipe and sterilize her skin.

Throwing the pad away, you assemble your needle as the alcohol dries. “Any allergies or phobias? Have you ever fainted during previous injections or blood draws?”

A small groove digs between her brows. “Once, but it was a long time ago. I hadn’t eaten properly.”

“And you have now?”

Her smile returns, strangely soft. “Yes.” She murmurs.

Needle in your palm, you gently tilt her elbow toward you. You look up in time to find a quick breath inflating her chest, gone by the time you blink.

“Nervous, queasy?” You ask, thumb pressing into her elbow.

She shakes her head once. “I’m in good hands.” Those dark eyes bore into yours, unflinching.

“You are. Take a deep breath for me.” You murmur, taking a shallow one of your own before inserting the needle in. “Make a fist and hold it.”

Emily follows your instructions. Her blood flows dark and steady into a tube, pooling in the container as your heart drums a quick beat of relief. It doesn’t matter that your hands are steady, your knowledge sound; the doubt always lingers, only dissipating from the back of your mind when the wine-dark stream pools into a tube. 

When it fills up, you shake it and switch it for the second one, then the third, then fix the bag in place. Most patients, queasy, close their eyes. Emily doesn’t. You know through the heat on your neck and a few too-quick glances back up at her face. She may be feeling it, though, because she’s momentarily quiet, head tilted back.

Cutting off strips of tape with your teeth, you secure the needle to her arm and tell her not to move it.

“Okay,” she drawls, unbothered by the drip of her blood into the rapidly filling bag, “what time do you get off?”

You blink. The echo of her voice immediately plays in your head, coyly asking for your number, pupils blown and hair bloody. A slickness coats your hands, sending you back to the ambulance though your feet are firmly planted on the floor.

“Late.” You blurt out, nothing else.

Emily’s teeth dig into her lower lip, a dimple curving as you release her tourniquet. You don’t know what flusters you more, the velvet shade of her mouth or the shadowy half moon in her cheek.

“I mean—six.” You fidget with the rubber. “My shift’s over at six.”

Why’d you repeat that? You barely smother a cringe and stand, chin ducking toward the table at your side.

“I came looking for you.” She says. She shifts in her chair, tilting her head to meet your eyes. “They said you were gone.”

She came looking.

Jesus.

“We got a call.” You pack up your kit, disposing of the spare wrappers and plastics. “It’s, uh—it gets busy a lot. ER, you know. How were you, by the way?” You suddenly blurt out, remembering. “How was your concussion?

“It was hardly that.” Emily smiles. “Just a little knock, I was fine. My wrist was sprained, though.” She idly waves it, then tucks her long bangs behind her ear. They brush her earlobes, charmingly mussed against her near picturesque pony.

You glance down at the nearly full bag. “You got lucky,” you say, “it could’ve been a lot worse. Was your boss okay?”

“Hotch?” She grins. The breath is stolen from your lungs. “Oh, you don’t need to worry about him, you could lob a grenade at him and he’d somehow still turn out okay. Intense work ethic, that guy.” Another soft laugh, this one taking no care to be gentle with your heart. You swallow down the rise in your pulse, eyes dipping down again to the bag.

Full. Thank god.

You gently peel off the tape and take the needle out. Emily is putting pressure on the gauze before you tell her to, her fingers briefly pressing down on yours. At the touch, your eyes flick up.

“What about you?” She asks quietly.

Your brows tick upward. “What about me?”

“Are you particularly…moral when it comes to certain workplace rules?” You chew on the inside of your cheek as you dispose of your tools and strip off your gloves. “Say, would you be opposed to taking my number?”

You have to give it to her, she’s bold. Bold and beautiful and a distraction you don’t need right now. Simply looking at her drains too much of your time, seconds stacking into minutes as her honeyed voice slips past your ears and curls there, a memory you know you’ll revisit over and over again like you have before.

But she’s here a second time and, really, what are the odds? You don’t like the word fate, and although Emily Prentiss seems to be the type to wring the universe into doing her bidding, you doubt she tracked you down somehow and conveniently managed to show up right at your shift. It was a long shot last time, but now it seems different to your delusion addled brain.

You don’t need distractions, you tell yourself.

But it’s been too long since you’ve let yourself give in to the temptation.

You lift the gauze, your bare skin grazing hers, a touch of cold seeping into your fingertips. “You want me to that bad?” You say softly, replacing it and securing it with tape, your eyes locking on hers when you’re done. 

They really are marvelous eyes. Nothing like you’ve ever seen before, bitter darkness honeyed by the sweetness of her gaze. Bambi, you think to yourself, barely even ashamed because it fits.

Emily swallows. “If you don’t mind it,” she says, all blatant flirtation suddenly gone. “I’d like to get to know you.” She’s self assured, her confidence quiet even in the face of your less than promising reaction. She’ll probably leave without a fuss if you said no, her dignity and her smile intact, yours just unraveling on the floor at the swish of her ponytail.

But you don’t want to say no.

“I don’t mind it,” you say finally, ignoring the distant ringing of alarm bells as you grab the bag holding her blood. Her eyes brighten but you notice, as you move back, she’s paler than she was. You hold out a hand. “Why don’t you sit in the observation area, I’ll get you a snack and we can talk about it.”

Cold hand in yours, heat flaring under your skin at her smile, you take her to the couches and know you’re fucked.

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 @wittygutsy @emilyprentissmylove

[maximoffwitch]

oh my goshhh I loveee this Spotify wrapped idea!! Please could I request no.27 with JJ x fem reader

Call Your Mom

pairing: jennifer jareau x reader

warnings: mention of death, grief

summary: You’re there for Henry when he’s having a particularly hard night after his dad’s passing, but you also remind him his mom is there too.

word count: 2.1k

a/n: WAY more than a drabble. also pls ignore how im still working on this 2024 wrapped requests lol😀 not rlyyyy sure what the relationship is but it’s not established and idk if i would even consider it romantic. r would never make a move when jj is grieving. i think it’s about being there for the people in your life that mean the most and also hope that love persists and can exist even after grief. lowkey giving r has had unrequited feelings for jj for YEARS but never made a move and is more than content being best friends

#27 on my wrapped was call your mom by noah kahan (ft. lizzy mcalpine)

It was raining again. 

The soft patter against the window had been a constant for the past couple of days. At first you thought it was nature’s sick joke of mirroring the somber times. Yet, you surprisingly found the grey skies and steady drops therapeutic. 

Tonight, like every other night this past month, you were staying over at the Jareau house watching the boys. Despite her own raging grief and the violating attacks at her work, JJ kept insisting she could handle it all, that your help was too much. You knew her too well though.

You saw through her stony mask and through ever “I’m fine” she uttered between gritted teeth. You knew she was on the brink of cracking. So ignoring her insisting, you picked up what you could – getting the boys off to school, helping Henry with his homework, making dinner. You knew JJ would never outwardly admit to needing help, but you also knew she was grateful to be carrying a lighter load.

As you were finishing emptying the dishwasher and tidying up the kitchen, you barely heard a sock-cladded footsteps against the tile entering the room. Looking up, you saw a tired Henry, the young boy you’d known his whole life, who had somehow become a young man right before your eyes. Despite his recent growth spurt, he looked smaller than he had in years. 

“Hey, kiddo,” you said with a soft smile. 

He didn’t say anything, just nodded as he leaned against the island counter.

Closing the dishwasher, you turned around and leaned back against the sink. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Didn’t try.” He shrugged, fidgeting with the sleeves of his hoodie. “Didn’t want to.”

You nodded, not wanting to push. The silence stretched, comfortable but heavy.

“She cries herself to sleep,” Henry said suddenly, his voice cracking along with your heart.

You didn’t need to ask who. You knew.

“She thinks I don’t hear, but her room is next to mine and sometimes she even falls asleep on the couch…” He trailed off, leaving the “not wanting to sleep without him” unsaid. 

You looked at him, taking in his appearance – his eyes rimmed red, hair messy, sweatshirt just a little too baggy. 

“She’s trying to hold everything together,” you said gently. “Just like you are.”

“She has to work and take care of me and Michael. She thinks she has to be strong for us, for everyone.” He swallowed hard. “I don’t want to add to her list of worries. It’s not fair.”

“Henry.” You pushed yourself off the counter and walked over to him, taking his hand in yours. “That is not true.”

“She already lost him. I don’t want to make it worse.”

“You’re not making anything worse.” Your throat tightened, but you kept your voice steady. “You’re what keeps her going, you and Mike.”

His gaze remained focused on your touch. “She loved him so much,” he mumbled.

“She still does,” you affirmed, squeezing his hands. “She also love you, more than anything, Henry.”

He blinked hard, his lashes wet. “But what if that’s not enough?” 

The question hit you like a deep bruise — not from the doubt of JJ’s love, which stung, but from the quiet ache in his voice. You could see the fear hiding behind the grief in his eyes, the lofty expectation of bravery he shouldn’t have to meet.

You didn’t answer right away, your own mind clouding with emotions. Then you spoke, choosing your words precisely.

“Then we hold her up, too.”

Henry finally looked up at you, his blue eyes meeting yours. It was scary how much he looked like his mother — the same clarity, the same storm behind calm. A fierce gentleness. 

“I miss him,” he whispered. “I’m scared I’ll forget him, but I’m also scare to talk about him.”

You nodded, slow and careful, as if the moment might break if you moved too fast. 

“I know,” you agreed. “That’s grief’s worst trick, I think. It makes you feel like remembering will break you and forgetting would crush you.”

Henry blinked, letting a tear escape down his cheek. Without saying a word, he removed his hands from your grasp before wrapping his arms around you. He leaned into your embrace, slowly, testing to see if the ground would hold. You wrapped your arms around him and let his tears stain your shirt.

A beat passed. Then two. 

“When we were little, he used to dance in the kitchen to old music, like a weirdo,” Henry said, lifting his head up as a shaky laugh escaped him. “Mom always said she hated it, but I think she was lying.”

“You’re right,” you chuckled. “She loved it.”

The two of you shared a fond smile, as memories of Will flooded the moment.

Then Henry looked at you tentatively. “Do you–“ he cleared his throat. “Do you think we could do it? Just for a minute?”

“Do what?” You tilted your head, a confused smile tugging at your lips. 

“Dance.” He shrugged sheepishly. “Like he did.”

Your heart pulled tight in your chest. It felt like a different kind of ache than before, not a painful one but a reminder that you were alive.

“I’d be honored.” You dragged him over to the living room so you were both standing in the open space between the couch and the coffee table. 

“I, um, don’t have a song,” he muttered, scratching the back of his neck. 

“It’s okay.” You smiled. “I remember.”

Pulling out your phone, you scrolled for a moment and tapped play when you found the one.

A soft crackle of vinyl came from the speaker of your phone as you set it down on the table, then the unmistakable notes of “This Magic Moment” by The Drifters filled the room, masking the sounds of rain from outside.

Henry huffed a small laugh. “This one?”

“Yup.” You popped your lips, taking your hand in his and resting your other on his shoulder. “Your dad always said it made any moment magical. Your mom called him dramatic.”

“He was.” Henry rolled his eyes as he placed a trembling hand against your waist. 

The two of you slowly began to sway, you assuming the lead. At first, he was stiff, his head ducked, eyes on the floor like he was afraid to see too much, remember too much. But then you did exactly what you’d seen Will do a million times – you spun him, suddenly and a little clumsy. 

Henry let out a full laugh, one from the chest that you hadn’t heard in weeks, as he stumbled back into your arms.

“That was terrible.” He grinned.

“I’m just trying to keep the tradition alive,” you chuckled, shaking your head.

He looked up at you with glossy eyes, but they were brighter now. “Thanks for doing this.”

“Thanks for asking.”

You danced like that for the rest of the song — nowhere near perfect, not even close, but it didn’t matter.

As the last notes faded out, you pulled him in for one more hug. 

“Next time you’re spiraling again–“ you said gently, wiping a stray tear from his face– “don’t let this darkness fool you.”

Henry pulled back slightly.

“Call your mom, okay?”

“Okay,” he nodded.

“Good.” You stepped back slightly to ruffle his hair, a task that had become exceedingly difficult with his new buzz cut. “Now go up to bed. Your mom will actually kill me if she found out how late I let you stay up on a school night.”

Henry rolled his eyes fondly, thanking you one last time before making his way back to his bedroom. 

You stood there for a moment after he disappeared up the stairs, letting the rainy night embrace you along with your own grief. 

Turning back towards the kitchen, you reopened the dishwasher to retrieve the few dishes you missed earlier. Then quiet clink of ceramic against ceramic was the only sound, save for the steady rhythm of rain against the windows.

You didn’t hear her footsteps, but you felt her presence — soft and unmistakeable. 

JJ leaned against the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her chest. Her eyes were a little red around the edges, a look you’d unfortunately come to recognize on her, and she looked at you like she was she still catching her breath from whatever feelings she hadn’t wanted her son to see. 

“Hey,” you said, unsure of how much she’d heard or saw. 

“Hey,” she echoed as her hand came up to fidget with her necklace.

“Sorry for keeping him up so late.” You gave a soft smile, not wanting to push the envelope.

“Don’t.” JJ shook her head and took a deep breath. “I was going to come in earlier, but you had him. And he needed you.”

You didn’t move towards her yet, giving her the space she needed. “He needed someone,” you replied gently, placing the last dish in the cabinet. “Someone who understands but isn’t drowning in the same grief.”

“That was probably the most I’ve seen him smile in weeks.” JJ stepped into the room, her bare feet silent against the tile. 

“I just listened.” 

“That wasn’t just anything,” she insisted as she moved closer, her fingers brushing the back of the kitchen stool, unsure whether she wanted to sit or stand. Her eyes met yours and you were greeted with the same calm storm you’d seen in Henry–the same one she always wore when she was trying to stay afloat.

“I know,” you agreed, drying your hands on the towel. “It’s just what he needed.”

You paused for a moment, scared to say the wrong thing. “He’s scared,” you said as you gauged her reaction. “He thinks he’d burden you, so he’s holding it in.”

JJ sighed, rubbing her temples. “I know,” she admitted frustratedly. “I’m trying to keep it together for him and for Michael, but I’m scared too.”

Setting the towel down, you moved around the kitchen island so you were leaning against the counter beside her. “You don’t have to have it together all the time.” You reached out, your fingers ghosting over hers. She looked down at your hand for a moment, the wheels in her brain visibly turning, before she slid your hand into hers. “You’re allowed to fall apart, and you’re allowed to be scared.”

“I’m scared of forgetting how to be okay,” she murmured. “Of moving on too soon; of not moving at all.” 

You didn’t say anything, letting her voice all the emotions she’d kept bottled up the past month. 

“I’m scared of doing this without him,” JJ whispered, closing her eyes, scared as she’d just reveled her own secret to herself. 

You let the weight of her revelation hang between you before replying, “You don’t have to. You’re not alone.”

She opened her eyes again, meeting your warm gaze. You didn’t need to say anything. She knew how you’d been there for her and the boys the day it had happened so suddenly, how many nights you’d stayed to make sure she didn’t forget to eat, how many times you’d picked up the pieces that fell through the cracks as she tried to keep it all together.

“I’m here,” you said, knowing sometimes people need to hear it even if they already know.

JJ stepped forward slightly and rested her forehead against yours. The closeness wasn’t romantic but intimate, the kind of intimacy paved only by grief and stitched together with devotion. 

“I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for what you’ve done for us,” she murmured, her voice hoarse.

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

You gave her fingers a small squeeze. “Then just let me keep being here.”

She let out a choked laugh, like it hurt and healed at the same time. “You’re not going anywhere, are you?” she asked, her blue eyes piercing yours with a fierce sincerity that masked a nervousness.

Pressing a kiss to her forehead, you pulled her into a tighter embrace. “Not a chance.”

For the first time in weeks, maybe longer, JJ let herself lean–not into her job or her grief–but into comfort, into you.

By now, the rain had quieted outside, failing to wash any of the grief away. It hadn’t cleansed or absolved anything within you or her or the boys. But still, something had softened.

“I’m tired,” JJ mumbled into the fabric of your shirt. You knew she was beyond any kind of tired a few hours of sleep could relieve, but you saw her eyes drooping nevertheless.

“Let’s go to bed.” You squeezed her shoulders before taking her hand to guide her upstairs.

Wordlessly, and gratefully, JJ let herself be led by you up towards her bed. 

She knew, when she woke up the next morning, her grief would still be there. But she knew that so would you.

[maximoffwitch]

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