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ideal living situation is what i call the 'sitcom special' : having all your closest friends live in the same apartment building or neighborhood where you each have your own space but can wander in and out of eachothers homes at will, seemingly always welcome and never at bad times. and also all of you only have jobs when its important to the plot.

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Laura Bailey: Live show bbs. Getting excited for our Indy show this weekend!!

Thank you @photoshyhanna for the fabulous 📷

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Emily Prentiss in 12x08 ‘Scarecrow’

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At least I'll always have my fictional women

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emily in paris // cm + the devil wears prada

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“is it weird to do this alone?” “is it pathetic to do that alone?” every day I pray you guys realize that sometimes doing things alone is the best way to do them

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I am a huge fan of retiring to my quarters

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being so staunchly anti generative ai while everyone around you is "i used chatgpt" and "i asked grok" and google search is useless and every company is implementing ai and every single celeb is taking ai money and partnering with ai is like... it's so jarring. why can't you see the harm like i can? why are you so lazy? why are we making society this stupid? can we please stop? it's killing people does that not matter to you?

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Maybe every song ever is about The Character. Maybe music itself is just about The Character. Are those rhythmic and repetitive sounds I am hearing that create some sort of melody? Surely you must be referencing the beloved Character

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The X-FIles 11.03 "Plus One"

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some people just need a little love

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it’s crazy how much you can read if you read

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brb, filling my home with cottagecore tiles

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my summer plans consist of unclenching my jaw + forgiving myself

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say it with your hands | e.p

Tags: established relationship, emily wears rings, around 1k of rambling purely about her hands, reader lowkey has a hand kink, suggestive, no use of yn

Summary: Emily indulges in a new type of jewelry. You promptly lose your mind. Requested here.

Word count: 1.5k

The rumbling kettle doesn’t drown out the low whisper of Emily’s socks against the kitchen floor. You’re anticipating her even before she makes contact, the brief satisfaction of being right settling in your smile as she presses her front to your back, her fingers lacing together over your shirt.

“You’re taking too long,” she complains, lips to your ear, thumb tracing circles on your stomach. You like the slight whine in her voice more than you care to admit, chest swelling and puffing at the wanting she doesn’t care to hide in moments like these. Wanting for you. For your company.

Sometimes you doubt she’s real.

Then her hands dip, nudging past the hem of your shirt, and the press of metal makes all the breath rush out of your chest in an exhale. Her hands are warm, rings skimming your skin with the barest whisper—far too insubstantial for the tight spring that coils in your gut. A light drag of her nails follows, absent and entirely harmless.

“You filled the kettle to the max again.” You say, swallowing the thick desire in your throat, aware that it has nothing to do with her warm exhales on the shell of your ear, “I told you to stop doing that. Takes ages to warm up.”

Emily grumbles something unintelligible. With a final trail along your sides, a squeeze of your waist and a don’t take too long kissed to your cheek, she’s padding out of the kitchen. Your body sags against the counter, an active beehive pressing under every inch of your skin.

You’re going insane. 

It’s a slow, excruciatingly painful descent into madness. You’re shoved in deeper every time Emily continues to mess with you, toys with you like you’re a puppet on strings, wrapped around her pale, slender fingers.

Whether she’s doing it on purpose or not, you have no clue. She doesn’t seem to have picked up on anything so far, but you find the idea improbable; the woman decodes body language for a living, peering into the unspoken and breaking it down to pieces in front of her eyes. You think it’s far more likely that she’s aware and knowing, hiding her satisfaction behind coal-dark eyes and carefully smoothed lips. She can be like that, mean and teasing at times, but this is borderline cruel. Unjust.

You’ve seen her in flowing dresses; in dark, form fitting suits; in soft loungewear that exposes her thighs and shoulders and the teasing skin at her navel. Hell, you’d witnessed your fair share of her jewelry—slim watches and necklaces that kissed her throat and thin bands hugging the shell of her ear. You thought you’d seen it all.

You were wrong. You were totally, woefully unprepared to see her fingers adorned with rings, shining at her knuckles and messing with your pulse. Thick, thin, engraved, set with shimmering stones; they came up out of nowhere and spun your head in circles.

At first they just made an appearance on date nights and the occasional event the ambassador hosted. Then Emily started wearing them more often: in the days between work, on trips to the grocery store or a casual lunch, an extension of her daily jewelry that usually gleamed around her ears and neck. You weren’t affected by those, not in the slightest. 

But there’s something different about the rings. You’re already obsessed with her hands, frequently freezing and oh so skillful, strength hiding in her long fingers, woven between tendons and joints and muscle. There’s precision in those hands, and undeniable, hot affection. It’s safe to say you’d been enamored with them long before she started pressing them under your clothes, trailing them along hemlines before dipping them down to your slick skin. 

Emily knows you harbor no small appreciation for her hands. But this—seeing rings fitted on her fingers—simply messes with your wiring, tunes the obsession up to fixation, reverence. You’re dizzy each time she takes your hand, each time you feel the cool press of a ring against your cheek or the dip of your waist.

She doesn’t wear them on all fingers; no, she alternates. Two on one hand, three, maybe four on the other, consecutive fingers adorned with rings. Sometimes she’ll stack two on one finger, and you’ll feel the warmth of her skin through the gap of cold metal, the contrast coaxing shivers down the ridges of your spine. (More often, she’ll slide two on her left ring finger, a simpler ring at her knuckle pressed in by a flashier piece. Your heart had stumbled the first time you spotted them, the weight of her implication pressing down on your lungs, choking you in the sweetest way. You’d picked up her hand, deliberately brushed your lips against the warm stretch of skin. That was your most telling reaction ever since she started wearing them.)

Maybe you would’ve been better off if she didn’t play with them constantly. You can’t help but notice the way she twirls them around her fingers, spins to exercise the restless energy constantly wound up inside her. Her nails bear the benefit, healthy and smooth, surrounded by the plump, shining skin of her cuticles. The only problem is—your eyes follow the sight of silver glinting at her knuckles, catching the light and drawing attention to her hands, to the long length of her slim fingers as she thumbs through a book. Laces her fingers through yours. Rests her hand on her thigh while she drives, runs her fingers through her hair, cradles your cheek or cups your waist. It’s everywhere; always silver.

It’s driving you insane.

Emily finally notices as you’re both lounging on the couch, the lazy weight of a weekend draped over your shoulders. She’s been reading for hours and you’ve been watching her for hours, eyes following the length of her fingers, the lazy turn of her wrist as she flips a page. Sergio snores into the side of your thigh; you absently comb through his fur, trying to pull your eyes back to the glowing TV. 

Neither of you have spoken in some time. It’s quiet and easy and what would be peaceful if you weren’t so turned on you could die.

Emily has a blanket draped over her legs; you’re far too warm to stomach anything heavier than the clothes on you. Heat pools stickily under your knees, between your thighs, along the length of your neck. Each one of your muscles seems pulled tight, thrumming under your skin despite your forcibly lax slouch. Your eyes strain from the glow of the TV.

Emily eventually yawns and stretches, arms locked behind her head, silver gleaming gold, a sliver of her soft stomach flashing under her shirt. She flips her book closed and you feel her attention slide to you, warm kisses trailing lazily down the side of your face. You turn in time to see her searching arms loop around your neck. She shuffles into your lap, curling her knees into your chest and pressing a kiss to your jaw as Sergio vacates his spot with a rumble.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” You slide one arm around her hip, the other behind her bent knees. Your hands clasp together. “Good reading?”

Emily hums. She murmurs something but you can’t listen, your attention scattering when she absently cups the curve of your neck, always handsy, always restless. The warm metal presses against your skin; you shiver, acutely aware of the weight carved into your flesh. 

You want them in your mouth. Under your tongue. Clattering around your teeth, then grazing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, before teasingly inching up.

Emily’s staring at you. The silence tells you you’ve missed a question.

“What?” 

“You okay?” Her brows pull together. “You’ve been acting strange lately.” 

You’re already breathless. Still, you feign ignorance, tilting your head. “Strange how?”

“I don’t know.” Her eyes narrow. “You’re…skittish. Flustered.” She muses, the words stretching with a lazy drawl. Her finger skims up your neck and traces your jaw. The edge of a ring presses against your jawbone, lightly trailing over the skin that pulls taut as you swallow and—damn her.

A small gasp leaves her lips, a warm, delighted rush of air. Emily’s eyes light up, kindling with an equal parts playful and scorching fire. She’s not a profiler for nothing.

“Is it these?” Her voice immediately turns honeyed as she twists a ring around her finger. Your eyes follow the movement, heat flaring as Emily’s brows lift, the corner of her mouth curling into a satisfied smirk. “You like them?” She murmurs, somehow both carelessly airy and dark with intent.

You shake your head, groaning softly. “You’re such a tease.”

“And you’re so easy.” She lets out a breathy laugh as she shifts on your lap to fully face you, drinking in your humiliation with wide, dilated pupils. “Aw, baby. How long have you been like this? I can’t even remember when I started wearing them.” She trails off absently as she focuses all her attention on toying with you, cupping your jaw, intently watching the inevitable shiver roll through you.

It’s not long before there’s a ringed finger against your mouth. Pressing against your frantic pulse. Teasing the hem of your shirt, five warm fingers pressed warm and flat against your fluttering stomach. You’re dizzy far before Emily’s hand dips past your navel, metal skimming your hipbone and traveling deeper into the wanting heat carving a hole inside you.

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