suckerforcate

[suckerforcate]

I'm a fire and I'll keep your brittle heart warm | e.p

Tags: established relationship, mom!emily, evolution emily, post ep 18x06 because I HAD to, pinch of angst and lots of fluff, momily comfort, lots of hugs (because she deserves them) and lots of kisses, no use of yn

Summary: Emily reunites a family and goes home to her own.

Word count: 1.5k

mom!emily masterlist

Help! Please! 

Emily cuts the engine, her breaths coming a little easier now that she can see the house lights glowing through the curtains. Faint yellow spills behind the glass, warm and inviting and beckoning her name. She can’t hear the noise yet, but she will soon, and it’ll soothe another bone-deep ache she hadn’t woken up with this morning. Another bone-deep ache that now curls up in a shadowy corner of her mind and refuses to go to sleep.

Sliding the key out of the ignition, she’s out of the car in seconds, the restlessness dialing up to something urgent now that she knows her family is just a few steps away. She skirts around Oliver’s fallen bike, her lips twitching at the traces of chalk on the driveway. A lone chip crunches under her boot. Blue chalk smears on the front step, dusting over the worn welcome mat as Emily slots her key into the lock. It glints, the same warm gold of her ring.

Mom! 

The lock gives way. Emily opens the door, steps inside, and her chest expands. The cold outside chill dissipates, her next inhale warm with the humming radiators, the scent of your cooking, the sounds of Oliver’s video game and your voice twining through your daughter’s.

Emily shuts the door quietly and leans back against it. Her eyes fall closed, her shoulders going slack as she gets swallowed into the familiar cocoon of home. She swears she can feel it—like a thick, tangible coat that settles over her shoulders, a shield between her and the rest of the world. It hadn’t been so soft, once.

The peace shatters—or amplifies—when a voice calls out, a warm body barreling into her.

“Mom!”

Emily smiles into Oliver’s hair, her fingers threading through the strands. “My boy.” She murmurs, kissing his temple. “Hi. I missed you.”

“Saw you this morning.”

“I still missed you.”

He leans back from her hug, a small frown pulling his brows together. “You’re late. It’s”—he looks down at his newly acquired wristwatch and carefully traces the face with the tip of his nail—“seven twenty…three.”

Guilt churns in Emily’s stomach, curdling along with buried coffins and packed dirt and a too-small girl yelling for help.

Mom? Help, please! 

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” she husks, drawing him back into her arms. He wriggles as she pushes his unruly hair back and kisses his forehead again. “I’m sorry, Ollie, I got caught up in the office. I didn’t notice the time.” The promise that it won’t happen again lingers on her tongue, its taste overpowering, but she knows she can’t utter it. “Did you have dinner yet?”

“Yeah. We had mac and cheese. Ellie made brownies! But she wouldn’t let me in the kitchen,” he frowns. Emily smothers a laugh, following him into the vacant living room.

“We’ll make some next time. You and me.”

“Cool.” He mumbles, picking up his controller and plopping down in front of the TV. She scrunches her nose at the bright lights flashing too close to his eyes.

“Scoot back, please.”

Oliver obeys with a grumble.

As she makes her way further into the house, stepping over school bags and wayward toys, Emily feels some of her tension uncoil. Sergio rubs against the side of her leg, your voice trails out from the kitchen; her chest warms when she walks in and sees you at the island with your daughter, school books spread out and Diana’s pencil eraser between her teeth. She catches you saying one fourth plus two thirds and accurately assumes you’re tackling math.

“But that’s a quarter.” Diana protests indignantly.

“Babe, one fourth is the same as a quarter.” You say in a way that makes her think it’s not the first time you’ve explained it. Neither you nor Diana notice her yet as she drinks in the domestic image, lets its balm soothe over the cuts and scrapes left over by the day.

Your daughter’s nose scrunches dramatically, smoothing away with your huffed laugh. “Dee. It’s just like a half. C’mon now, look at the numbers.” 

Emily glows and melts and crumbles. “Fractions?” She asks, her voice catching halfway through.

You and Diana both perk up, turning to look at her as she crosses over to the island. 

“Maman!” Diana beams, standing on the rickety chair and throwing her arms around Emily just as she catches her. Emily spins them around once with the momentum, her arms tight around her little girl’s back and shoulders as bright giggles ease the weight off her shoulders.

“Mon chou.” She sighs, inhaling the scent of home from Diana’s cheek, feeling it in her soft skin and gap-toothed smile. “Comment va ma fille, hm? Tu as passé une bonne journée à l’école?”

“Non! Nous avons appris à propos de…fractions.” She says after a thoughtful beat, her face scrunched up before her mom smooths away her frown.

“Fractions, huh?” Emily chuckles, glancing at you. “The bane of our existence, apparently.”

“Who knew a quarter could be so hellish?” You quip, looping your finger through her belt loop. Emily bends to kiss your temple, then quickly stamps her lips against yours. 

Diana is grateful for a reprieve from math. She rambles in Emily’s ear, her energetic chatter fuelled by the weekend excitement and likely a bit too many brownies. Emily doesn’t mind, though. Hearing her sweet, bright tone drowns out the sound of Ava’s voice as she cried for help, for her mom, for someone to hear her while she thrashed and screamed underground.

So she lets Diana ramble. She lets you feed her too many brownies though her stomach rumbles for real food. She lets Oliver run his video game to the ground, because one more hour of TV won’t ruin his life, won’t scar him irreversibly the way Ava was tonight. She keeps Diana secured on her lap and fusses with her every few minutes, tucking her hair behind her ears, pressing her shirt collar down flat, rubbing unnecessary warmth into her arms.

Can anybody hear me? Mom? 

You notice, she knows you do. You close up the study books and kiss Emily’s forehead and offer a cup of tea she refuses. After a while you coax Diana off of her and nudge her up to get changed, to find her last piece of comfort from the leader of the mini Prentiss clan, nearly perpetually cooped up in her room these days.

Before she does, though, you’re tugging her close, two warm palms on her cheeks in a hidden corner of the kitchen. 

“Hey,” you murmur, pushing a few silver strands back. Her head automatically dips into your touch. “That bad?”

Emily places her hands on top of yours. They’re warm, soft; the prominent half circle of your ring nudges sweetly against her skin. She turns her head, kisses the base of your thumbs, her fingers curling and squeezing around yours.

“It’s okay. Could’ve been a lot worse.”

Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes. “Want me to heat up dinner?”

It’s her turn to cup your face. She steals one, two, three soft kisses, her mouth aching for yours. “Yes, please, hon.” Another one, an elixir glossed over your lips, coating her teeth. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you say quietly, kissing the tip of her nose. Emily’s face scrunches, her smile immediate. “Just like your kids,” you laugh, a gentle hand nudging her back, “now go tear El from that damn computer of hers.”

Emily salutes and turns on her heel, a silver-streaked blur chasing her up the stairs. She gives Sergio a quick pat, smoothing his fur between his ears, before peering through Eloise’s cracked door. She’s slumped at her desk, the harsh glow of a computer screen highlighting her in white.

“Knock knock.” Emily says.

Eloise looks up. “Hi, Mom.” She twists in her seat and returns Emily’s hug tightly, hands clasped around her back, head pillowed on Emily’s stomach. Always her clingy girl. 

It’s almost like the last puzzle piece slots into place; Ava quiets and blinks out of her vision. Emily’s shoulders slump, her eyes misting over as she kisses Eloise’s head.

“Hey, sweet girl.” She smooths her hair down. “How was today?”

“Same as usual.” Eloise hums, still in her arms. “Did you kick some serial killer butt?”

Emily’s laugh tumbles with a rasp. It catches in her throat, stifling into the warm skin of her daughter’s forehead. “Yeah. I guess we did.”

Eloise tilts her head up, a glint in her brown eyes. “Ice cream? You deserve it.” She says sweetly.

“El.” Emily groans as she laughs. “I had, like, ten of those brownies you made already. Everyone’s already hopped up on the sugar. No ice cream.”

Eloise gnaws on her lip. “Did you like them?”

Emily smiles. “They were perfect.” She kisses her forehead. “Let your brother into the kitchen next time.”

“Oh, come on! He ruins everything—”

Between the sounds of her indignant protests, Emily finds peace.

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

[suckerforcate]

hello!! i saw your 800 followers special post and wanted to say congrats!!! so proud of you and your writing :) they way you write fluff is so heartwarming and literally makes me giggle and kick my feet.

i wanted to request the writing prompt 15 from Petunia! i love your medic!reader fics and the idea of (s3/4) emily being injured and having to focus on reader (and tiny details about them!) while getting through the pain. reader doesn’t have to be a medic in this one, that part is completely up to you but i’d love if you could incorporate emily subtly flirting as well!

if it’s too similar to your other fics and want to change anything about it, feel free to because honestly i’d love anything that you write. i’m also a sucker for a little argument and groveling from emily. thank you so much and congrats on 800 followers again!

Hii, you’re the absolute sweetest, thank you so much!!! I’m sososososooo happy you’re here and ty for joining the celebration!! <3 love u mwah this is the prompt ‘frozen peas pressed against a fresh bruise’, part of the 800 celebration :p

Tags: emt!reader, flirty emily, emily faints, reader flusters (the usual), no use of yn

Word count: 1.2k (got carried away a tad)

emt!reader masterlist

The haze of black lifts and pain rushes in. It pulses above her eye in a strange mix of hot and cold, her cheek frozen, her brow flamed. Emily lets out a weak groan.

She’s on a couch. Hotch’s couch—his office. Her legs are elevated; he’s holding something cold to her temple.

“Wha…?” 

“You fainted.” He says, the tone of relief obvious in his voice. “Hit your head. You’ve been out for a few minutes now. How do you feel?”

Emily blinks. Her eyes strain against the light, tongue dry in her mouth. The yawning hole in her stomach throbs dully again. 

“Okay.” She rasps. Embarrassment flares in her chest; wincing, she lowers her legs and holds the cold thing at her temple—a bag of peas?

“Don’t get up.” Hotch gently presses her shoulder down and everything blurs. Emily blinks rapidly. She notes, with another burst of shame, that he’s kneeling next to the couch.

“I’m—”

“Hotch, they’re here.” Morgan strides in. Emily catches the flash of a familiar uniform and groans again.

“You called an ambulance? What the fuck, Hotch?”

“You hit your head.” He says evenly. “Head injuries should always—”

His voice no longer registers. Emily’s eyes widen when they meet yours, her heart thumping a few erratic beats against her clammy skin. She barely holds herself back from calling your name, but the way she suddenly sits up gives her away.

A pulse beats violently in her temples. You spin a little, your frown blurring as her vision streaks.

“Lie down, please,” you say, also nudging her back and kneeling at the couch. Your tone is cool and professional, but a worried glimmer shines in your eyes. “I hear you fainted?”

“She woke up a minute ago.” Hotch says—thankfully—straightening off the ground. He crosses his arms, “She hit her head on her desk after she passed out.”

You hum in acknowledgement. The weight of your hand is still warm on her torso, spreading heat across her sticky skin though she’d long since obliged. You seem to notice at the same time as she does, clearing your throat and withdrawing your hand.

“Can you tell me your name?”

Emily’s mouth curls. “You know my name, baby.” She slurs.

You fluster in a way she’s well acquainted with, your cheek rippling as you gnaw on it. “I do. Do you?”

It’s stupid. She’s boneless and still a bit dizzy, not quite so out of it to forget her own name. But she likes obliging you.

“Emily.” She mumbles, steadfastly ignoring the shadows of her coworkers behind you. “Emily Prentiss.” 

She doesn’t know if she’s breathless because of your proximity or because of the whole dramatic ordeal of passing out.

You nod and start asking her routine questions, poking around and taking her vitals. She’s vaguely aware of you checking her breathing and pressing firm fingers to her pulse, cool skin to her damp heat. Your hand nudges hers away to lift the frozen bag of peas from her temple; you switch it out with an ice pack and instruct her to hold it.

The pounding in her head takes a backseat when you start fumbling with her belt, mumbling something about loosening clothing. It clinks, the buckle shifting. Emily’s breath catches.

“Honey,” she murmurs, her head swimming, “I’m in my boss’ office.”

You shake your head sharply. “’S’not like that. You, uh—” you loosen her boot laces, “—you shouldn’t be wearing tight clothes right now. Can we get her a water, please?” You turn to Hotch and Morgan.

“Uh—yeah. Sure.” Morgan says, his brows lifting as he walks out. Hotch watches hawk-eyed as you pull out a glucometer. Emily drinks in your visible flustering as you prick her finger and gather her blood on the stick. The sting is distant, blurring beneath the plush outline of your mouth as it purses into something faintly disapproving.

“That’s low.” You mutter, frowning down at the device. “When did you say you last ate?” 

There’s an edge to your gaze that Emily doesn’t like. She musters a weak shrug. “Dunno. Last night?”

She ignores Hotch’s exhale. Her fingertips go numb from the cold.

“Here.” You grab a rattling bottle from your kit and shake a few pills into your palm. “Glucose tablets. They’ll raise your—oh, thank you.” You take the water bottle from Morgan and extend it to her along with the tablets. “They’ll raise your blood sugar, which is probably why you fainted. Skipping meals—and low water intake, I’m guessing?” You tilt your head.

Emily’s eyes flit away as she swallows the tablets.

A faint hum announces your displeasure. “All in all, favorable factors for a fainting spell. It happens, nothing to worry about once you raise your blood sugar up and get some water in you. But I do need to take you in to get your head checked out.”

“Oh, Jesus—”

“That’ll teach you to eat a proper meal, princess.” Morgan tsks. “Jeez. You’re almost as bad as Reid these days.” His hand lands on her head, albeit gently. Emily almost shoves it off, but she pauses when she sees the worry in his eyes. She huffs instead, muttering nonsense under her breath as he takes his leave.

You rise up from your crouch and glance at Hotch. “I can’t move her until her sugar levels rise to normal again.”

He nods once. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be in the conference room if you need anything.”

“Thank you, sir.”

He leaves and shuts the door behind him. The man’s more sly than Emily gives him credit for, she thinks as he leaves you alone. She blinks at you as you bend over her and lift the ice pack, observing the hot pulsing she assumes is now blossoming into a nice bruise.

When your eyes meet hers, Emily is surprised her body doesn’t physically jolt.

“Do we always have to meet like this?” You murmur, adjusting it back in place after a quick prodding.

She smiles, too enchanted by the slant of sunlight through your eyes to care much about her leftover wooziness. “Nice seeing you again, sweetheart.” She says, pushing damp bangs back.

You shake your head. The familiar purse of your lips makes her bite back on a grin. “You’re a hazard. You should come with a warning label.”

Emily groans softly. “I swear I’m not usually like this.” She mutters, closing her eyes. With last time’s fiasco also on the table, she’s sure her words ring entirely hollow. “God, this is so embarrassing.” 

You make a low sound in your throat, clearly also remembering. “Emily, you popped your shoulder back right in front of me. On your own. I hate to say it, but I think this might be your default setting.”

“Were you impressed, though?” She peeks at you through the gaps in her fingers.

You sigh, a reluctant twitch to your lips. “It was…definitely something.” You busy yourself with packing up your kit and setting everything back to order. “Not exactly how someone imagines their first date.” You look at her through your lashes.

“I’m full of surprises.” Emily mumbles.

“That you are.”

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

[suckerforcate]

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.

[suckerforcate]

my shaylaaa’s 🫶

[suckerforcate]

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

[suckerforcate]

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

[suckerforcate]

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

[suckerforcate]

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

[suckerforcate]

Osgate Week

for july 7th-13th !!

inspired by dustbuddies week <33

Prompts

Day 1: button

Day 2: rain

Day 3: separated

Day 4: escape

Day 5: kisses

Day 6: trust

Day 7: lab coat

Alternatives: jealousy, drinks, light

Rules

No AI content

Any fancontent welcome (fics, art, edit, etc)

No hard time limit

Prompts can be done in any order

Prompts can be interpreted however you like (angst, fluff, smut, etc)

Use #Osgate7_7 when posting

Add to collection Osgate Week July 2025 (Osgate7_7) if posting on AO3 (feel free to DM to ask how)

Feel free to tag me in posts so i can read and reblog !!

Twitter post

[suckerforcate]

spoken for | e.p

Tags: shy!reader, unit chief emily, established relationship, fluff, very mildly possessive emily, luke flirts just a lil bit (not too much), fem pronouns, use of petnames

Summary: Luke assumes you're a new addition to the Bureau. No harm in being friendly, right? Only you're not just anyone, he soon realizes. Requested here.

Word count: 0.8k

Maybe, you think, lunch bag clutched in your hand, eyes darting around through the window of Emily’s clearly vacant office, visitor’s badge somewhat hidden in the folds of your clothes, you do look new. It certainly helps that there’s mysteriously no familiar faces around. Your brows had creased into a frown that still somewhat lingers, even under Luke’s bright smile and noticeably wandering eyes.

“B team?” He guesses, still not quite giving you the chance to cut in. “You’re a profiler, right? You’ve got that look about you.” His grin widens to show charming dimples, pearly white teeth splitting from under his lips. You quietly wonder what kind of look that is, because you’re decidedly not—although you’ve lived long enough to be able to glean the flirtatious edge of his mouth, his easy open posture.

Your own shrinks a little bit. The lunch bag crinkles in your hand as your fingers tighten around it, discomfort settling under your skin like pebbles as you crane your neck. 

Where the fuck is Emily? Or anyone else that knows you, for that matter?

Luke Alvez—it’s definitely him, curly hair and a slight roll to his r’s—follows your line of sight, craning his head to meet your eyes. “I could show you to Cruz’s office, if you’d like. Team’s already gone off on a case, he’ll help you get settled.” He offers politely, and then the heat in your neck triples.

“No, thank you,” you say quietly. “I don’t work here. I’m Y/N Prentiss.” Though you don’t know why you say it, because he clearly doesn’t know you. Emily’s not the most forthcoming when it comes to sharing details about you; it suits you just fine, although now you kind of hope he knew so he’d get the hint instead of the both of you having to suffer you floundering through it. “Have you seen her?” You murmur, thumbing creases into the paper bag.

Luke’s face shifts into an expressive oh. “Prentiss?” He reiterates, curiosity drawn in the raise of his brows.

“Mhm.” You hum distractedly, turning your head to the glass doors. Still no sign of raven bangs or meticulous suits.

“Huh. Any relation to our Unit Chief?”

“Yes, well, that’s why I’m looking for her—”

“Hi.” A soft touch at your lower back uncoils every muscle under your skin. You relax into Emily’s minimal touch, smiling as her hand flattens on your back, turning to catch her dark eyes and the mug of coffee held in her hand. “Is that for me?” She points to the bag.

“Mhm.” You nod, handing it over. “Forgot it on your way out.” You murmur.

Emily’s eyes gleam. You know if you were somewhere private you’d have gotten a sweet kiss for your troubles, sweeter murmurs into your mouth about how thankful she is, how you spoil her even though, really, you’re doing the bare minimum. 

You grow warm at the thought.

Her soft smile tells you she sees through to the spool of thoughts in your head, knotting into a flustered mess as her chest presses into your side.

“You know Y/N?” Luke asks, breaking your eye contact with your wife. Emily’s hand curls around to your waist; she lightly palms the clothed curve, leaning in just enough to close the distance between her front and your back.

“Of course I know Y/N,” she says dryly, “do you know Y/N? She’s my wife.”

Luke’s mouth hangs open. He stares, eyes darting between the two of you, then to Emily’s hand, searching for the lack of a ring. You know it’s strung on the chain around her neck, a gold band pressed warm against her heart.

“I was getting there.” You murmur, scratching behind your ear.

“I know you were, hon.” Emily says fondly. Her tone undeniably drips sugar, flirtation in itself.

Luke snaps back into action. It’s honestly a bit comical, the way he suddenly backs away, head dipping respectfully.

“Ma’am.”

“Please don’t try to flirt with her again.” Emily throws over her shoulder as she leads you away to her office. “You’re already on thin ice.” 

“Emily,” you admonish, fingers knotting together even as her dimple winks at you. “He wasn’t flirting. Just—uh, being friendly.”

You slip through her office door as she holds it open for you. Emily shuts it with a soft click, her brows arching. “Is that why you were looking so flustered, then?” She sets everything down on her coffee table and wraps her arms around you, still safely behind the privacy of the door. 

Your skin heats further as she smiles, her eyes knowing. Her knuckle comes up to smooth over your cheekbone; you lean into it, missing the contact. “He was being too friendly if you ask me.” She murmurs.

“Just a touch,” you agree. Her chin tilts and you meet her kiss, tasting coffee on her tongue. “But don’t tell him off.”

Emily blows a drawn out, dramatic sigh. “As you wish.” She drawls reluctantly. She kisses you again, hand slipping under your neatly pressed clothes, “I’ll just cut it from his paycheck.”

“Emily.”

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

[suckerforcate]

‘Hell is Empty’… but i’m about to fill it personally if she keeps looking like that

[suckerforcate]

courage, dear heart | e.p

Tags: established relationship (although reader isn't really in the fic), mom!emily, college graduate eloise, momily comfort, healthy dash of angst, lots of tears and lots of reassurances, no use of yn

Summary: Eloise comes back from college—adrift, spiraling, and slinking back into the safety of Emily's shadow. Emily helps her get things straight. Inspired by this ask.

Word count: 1.8k

Emily is not quite asleep when the door handle creaks. She expects the intruding figure to be Oliver, probably looking for a phone charger or a snack, but is surprised to see Eloise’s shorter silhouette against the hallway light. Emily perks up, her body half rising off the mattress on instinct.

“Sorry.” Eloise says, cringing as she shuts the door behind her. “Were you asleep? You got in not too long ago, I thought—”

“I was awake.” Her head meets the pillow again, her eyes tracking Eloise as she rounds the other side of the bed, void of your usual presence, and lifts the duvet up. “What’s up? You couldn’t sleep?”

Emily knows the restlessness that comes with moving house. Even if “moving house” is just going back from a college dorm room to the home you grew up in. Something changes, even though—in nearly every sense—nothing has. The puzzle pieces just don’t quite fit anymore; there’s a distinct discomfort lingering even when you come back to your childhood bedroom, squirming in your bed like maybe you’d outgrown it in an inch or two while you were gone. For Emily, there was never comfort at home, even before she left. Coming back after college only confirmed her need to break free, to leave the shackles of the embassy behind and go somewhere, anywhere, else. She knows that now, Eloise feels the same, a new version of her forced back into a house that’s gone virtually untouched by time.

Emily can only hope that, unlike for her, the feeling fades.

Even in the half light, Eloise’s smile is tight. “Didn’t try.” She says, sliding in and making the bed dip, her dark head nestling on your pillow. Emily waits as she situates herself, scooting closer and closer to her own pillow until the brown of Eloise’s eyes shines bitterly in the small lampshade light on her nightstand. 

It’s a color she’s not quite used to. There’s blue shadows pooling in her irises, deepening the brown to a murky black that reflects light all too easily. 

Emily hadn’t noticed it right away; it had taken time, over the course of the few days Eloise has been back, to notice the dullness that blunts her usually sharp edges. Her smile, the corners of her eyes, her wilting posture. It’s all been sanded down.

Emily is reaching for the messy hairs strewn across her face when Eloise slots her head under her jaw, arm wrapping around her, hand curling around her side.

Oh.

Eloise gets comfortable against her, lifting the duvet up to her shoulders, shifting her legs this way and that, movement rustling the bedsheets. Emily lets her wriggle. She’d never grown out of her restlessness, even while stagnant; she barely lets herself settle into a comfortable position before shifting again, curling and unfurling her limbs, turning from one side to the other. 

Finally she stills, a warm weight at Emily’s side. Emily’s lips curl as her own arm loops over to her daughter’s side, her hand smoothing down her back.

“Hey, bug.” 

Eloise huffs softly, a warm breath at Emily’s collarbone. “You used to call me that all the time,” she says, her voice small.

Emily hums, her heart glowing. “’Cause you were my cuddle bug.” She murmurs fondly, kissing Eloise’s forehead. “My cuddly girl. You hardly left me alone. Remember that?”

When she still had baby fat clinging to her limbs, when her cheeks were rounded and full and always turned to her mother’s lips for a kiss. Eloise’s home had, for a too-short while, always been in Emily’s shadow, in her arms. 

Now, back in them again, she’s quiet. Emily frowns. She’s idly playing with her daughter’s hair when she feels something hot slide across her skin. Then Eloise gasps, a choked sound, and Emily realizes they’re tears.

“Eloise,” she says, alarmed. “Honey, what—”

“I wanna go back.” Eloise cries. She fists Emily’s shirt, her sniffles muffled in the crook of her mother’s neck, “I wanna go back, Mom.”

“What, to when you’d followed me around? You can still do that, sweet girl.” It immediately feels like the wrong answer, the first one that presses itself onto her tongue. Twenty one years of parenting, and she still fumbles it sometimes. “I promise you can. Ollie does, and he’s fifteen. He wouldn’t know personal space if it was an inch from his face.” She rambles mindlessly, the words pressing up against her teeth.

Eloise doesn’t reply. Her chest heaves against Emily’s, shaking with barely suppressed sobs that echo in the quiet room, the weight of her gasps heavy in her throat. Emily automatically shushes her, dry-mouthed as she rubs between her shoulder blades.

She wants to go back. 

Go back where? College? The Europe trip she just came back from? Away from home?

Emily swallows thickly. “El, baby, talk to me. Please. What is it? Where do you want to go back to?” She coaxes her up and away from her neck, heart aching as she wipes the hot tears on her cheeks.

Eloise’s face crumples. She leans into Emily’s palm, more tears dripping off her chin before they can be dried away. “To when I didn’t have to know what to do.” Her voice cracks, splintering off in the silence. “I don’t know what to do, Mom. I don’t know what I want or what I should do with my life. I thought I knew,” she sniffles, roughly wiping at her nose, “but I don’t. I don’t know anything. I thought—I thought I’d have it figured out by now, why don’t I?”

The corner of her mouth pinches like yours does when you’re trying to stop it from trembling. Emily’s heart twists—at your absence, at your daughter’s helplessness. She knows firsthand what that helplessness tastes like, how it feels to be tethered in place, cold shackles around her wrists dragging her down.

Her hand dampens as she gently swipes it along Eloise’s cheek, drying her tears. “Baby, you just graduated.” She says quietly. “You’re not supposed to know anything.”

Eloise shakes her head. Her nose is cherry red, lashes glinting with hot salt. “Everyone else does.” She whispers. “A-All of my friends, the people in my classes. Everyone knows except me.” Her voice pitches higher again, trailing into a half sob.

“So what if they do?” Emily persists. “That’s good for them. You’re not in any rush, Eloise.”

She shakes her head again, staunchly. “Why do they know?” The question is so fragile it nearly breaks her. Her eyes are saucer-wide and suddenly she’s five years old again, wondering why it is her mom couldn’t make it to her preschool graduation. “I loved studying and going to class. My professors said”—a sad huff parts her lips and Emily already knows, her professors said she had potential—“they said I was good, Mom. Promising.” 

The word shatters, and so does she. Eloise leans back, letting Emily’s hand fall, her own fists digging into her eyes. She curls in on herself, her normally pushed back shoulders collapsing into her chest. 

“Why don’t I know and everyone else does?” She rasps, the whisper compacting into a bullet that strikes Emily’s heart front and center. It starts to bleed, dark red streams pouring outward, dripping onto her ribcage.

Eloise’s dark hair shields her face. With her head bowed, knuckles poking sharply through her skin, Emily is looking into a mirror. A mirror, thirty something years ago, cracked in all the same places.

“Because you’re like me.” She finally says. “I didn’t know, either.”

Eloise lifts her head. She blinks her bloodshot eyes, pinning some of her hair behind her ear. “Really?” She whispers.

Emily nods, a sad smile tugging at her mouth. 

“But you know everything.”

She laughs softly. “El, honey, I was a kid too, once.” And a major fuckup for that matter. “I was clueless for longer than your grandma would’ve liked. I was good at the studying, and I loved college life. My major was fun.” She shrugs one shoulder. “But the moment I got my degree in hand it’s kind of like…everything stopped. I didn’t know what then.”

Eloise swipes under her eyes. Emily hands her a tissue. “What did you do?” She asks, shuffling back to her side. Her head returns to Emily’s shoulder; the breath somewhat returns to Emily’s lungs.

“I gave myself the time I knew I needed. You can imagine that wasn’t easy.” Eloise laughs wetly. Emily’s lips twitch; she shares her impatience. “But when I did, I realized I wanted to get my masters. I know you’re looking for a straight answer here, but there just isn’t one. It’s different for everyone, and you’re in no rush to figure it out. I know,” she murmurs, leaning back to look at her, “you’re restless, like me. You don’t like to sit still. But you’re gonna have to. You have to sit still and think and try new things and open yourself up to all kinds of different opportunities. But you don’t have to figure it all out by tomorrow.” Emily cups her cheek, her thumb sweeping across tacky skin. “You have so much time, baby.”

Eloise’s lashes flutter. The glaze returns to her eyes, but it stays contained this time; the tears don’t spill out. Emily lets out a breath and brings her into her chest for a lopsided, awkward hug, surrounded by pillows and limbs and foamy mattress. She squeezes and Eloise squeezes right back, exhaling shallowly into her collarbone.

“You’re twenty one.” Emily kisses her daughter’s forehead. “You have your whole life ahead of you.”

Eloise loosens all of a sudden, tension uncoiling like a spring. Her eyes meet Emily’s, once again childlike.

“You’re not…disappointed?”

“That you don’t have your life figured out fresh out of college?” Emily strokes her hair. “No, Eloise, I’m not disappointed. Quite the opposite—I’m so proud of you.” Emotion clogs her throat, a heavy lump settling there and numbing her tongue. Emily kisses her forehead again, again, still not quite able to believe that this is the same little girl who used to never leave her side. 

“You’re just like me, El, but you’re so much better. You’re everything I did right.”

Eloise shakes her head firmly, her mouth pressed in an all too familiar line. “I’m not better than you, Mom. Don’t say that.”

Warmth swells in her chest. She’s made of salt and heat and pride, her mouth twitching equally against both tears and a smile.

“Shh.” Emily stamps a kiss on her forehead. “Don’t argue with me. Mother knows best.”

It clicks after a second and they both laugh, a little damp, a lot shaky. Eloise sniffles after their laughter dies out, her arms tight again around Emily’s back.

“I love you, Mommy.” She whispers, the words breaking cleanly in the middle.

Emily knows her voice will bear the same crack before she even responds. 

“I love you too, bug.”

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

[suckerforcate]

vertigo | e.p

Tags: established relationship, very mild hurt/comfort (it’s mostly just emily comfort), lightheadedness due to dehydration, vertigo, use of petnames, no use of yn

Summary: Emily is there before you fall. Requested here.

Word count: 1.1k

In the height of June, right before morning tipped into afternoon, was when you and Emily had decided it was time to get your errands done. Everything that had piled up over the last days turned weeks turned months; groceries, picking up your newly shined rings from the jewelers, even the salon—a quick trim for you and fresh bangs for her. Breakfast was a matter of a few slices of toast and whatever fruit hadn’t rotted in the fridge over the past weeks, chewed lazily on the couch with your legs in Emily’s lap.

It was a long morning, sure—hot, definitely—but you hadn’t really felt the exhaustion of it. It was good to be out of the house, with your wife, for matters completely not work related. You got to fall in love again as she pushed her sunglasses up her head, hair swept away from her face as she frowned at the ingredients list on too-expensive glass jars, lips pursed and entirely kissable. When she slid her brightly shining ring on her finger with a grin and a very nearly imperceptible sigh, you could’ve taken her over to a courthouse and married her all over again.

Trivial things slipped from your mind. The heat. Your water intake. The rumble of hunger in your stomach. Every once in a while the thought would stick like your sweat-slick shirt to your skin, but soon enough it’d be blown dry, scattering as you moved through the busyness of the day.

By the time you’re back home the sun hangs low in the sky, retreating from the kitchen floorboards and throwing the house in cooler shade. You’re crouched in front of the bottom cupboards, pulling groceries from the bags and stocking them on the shelves. Emily is humming as she fills the fridge, one hip propping the door open; cool air wafts over to you, caressing your exposed, too-warm skin.

Finally you plop the last can amongst the others on the shelf. You grab the empty grocery bag and straighten from your crouch, hand extended to shut the cupboard. 

Immediately, you feel yourself tilt. 

All the muscles in your legs turn to jelly. Blackness takes over, the kitchen disappearing, your body swaying. You think you mumble something like a resigned oh, because Emily is there between the webbing of black, grabbing your flailing arms.

“I got you,” she murmurs, two hands firm around your biceps as she rightens the ground beneath your feet.

This has happened enough times that she doesn’t freak out anymore. You don’t have to waste your breath mumbling reassurances. You just have to lock your arms around her neck and let your weight rest against hers. She holds you up; she always does.

She presses her body up against yours, stabilizing you and stopping the fall midway. Your pounding heart presses hard against your chest, pulse seeping through your shirt like the sweat under it.

You don’t remember when you’d closed your eyes, but forcing them open is a mistake. Everything is blurry, lines dragging and shadowy black lingering at the corners of your vision. The effect makes your head spin; you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to focus on the uniform nothingness on the back of your lids.

“Fuck, you’re warm.” Emily mutters. Her hand is starkly cool on the back of your neck, your cheek. Shivers line your skin. “You weren’t drinking while we were out. It’s probably that, huh? You sweat out everything.”

Your head droops into her. Her arms are like bands of steel around your back, chaining nearly every inch of your body to hers. You hum; the sound breaks with the pound of your heart. “Forgot.”

“I did, too.” She rakes her nails through your hair and pushes it away from your damp forehead. “I’m sorry, baby.”

“Mmn.” 

Your fingers lock around her neck. They shake as you root into her, trying to find stability though the ground is firm beneath your feet, her relentless grip keeping you upright. The room is still moving, your breaths uneven, pulse stuttering under your slick skin. Emily doesn’t let you fall, but you still feel wobbly even as your vision clears.

“Okay now?” She asks after a while. Your heart has calmed; your throat is bone dry.

“Tilting.” You mumble, closing your eyes against the haziness.

“Can you walk?”

You don’t think so, but you nod anyway. The kitchen stools are far from comfortable, and the floor isn’t too inviting. 

Emily knows. She keeps her arms tight around you as she shuffles the both of you into the living room, closer than your bedroom, and eases you on the couch. You sigh in relief at the steady weight of the cushions beneath you and immediately plop down on a pillow.

Emily crouches down in front of you. “You need to drink,” she murmurs, toeing the line between gentle and firm, a no nonsense tone and a helplessly tender gaze. She’s touching along your cheek, sweeping hair back, drying sweat. “It was hot today. We shouldn’t have gone out so early.”

Worry swims in her eyes, lining them with a sheen. You’re too boneless still to reach the pinch between her brows, so you take the hand she’s got cupped against the edge of the couch, your fingers forcing their way between hers.

“Babe, I’m fine.” You insist.

“Has the room stopped spinning yet?” She tilts her head, but it’s a genuine question, her tone soft.

You hum, deciding against moving. Emily’s lips pillow against your forehead. The salt must seep through to her tongue.

“’M thirsty.” You say quietly.

“Water,” she agrees. “And Gatorade. Think you can eat?” She nibbles on her lip, brown eyes saucer wide in her face.

The thing is, Emily doesn’t look like she’d be the type of person to fuss. She’s so regularly unruffled, it hardly seems possible she’d be so disarmed by even the smallest of injuries and ailments. 

It was strange to see at first, your eyes unused to her careful hands and imploring voice and worry weaved into every one of her lashes, but now it’s familiar. A blanket wrapped around your shoulders, even if it sometimes gets too stifling, the heat smothering.

So even though she asks, and you say in a bit, you already know she’ll be bringing you a plate of something far before she actually comes into the living room with a laden tray in her hands. You don’t protest anything; you drink the water and the Gatorade and curl up in her lap when she turns the thermostat on too high, fitting your face in the curve of her neck as she absently massages along whatever part of you she can reach, the half-packed groceries long forgotten.

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

[suckerforcate]

[suckerforcate]

know that it isn't right (but you could be my one and only) | e.p

Tags: oblivious!reader, bau!reader, pining longing yearning, emily is the majorest loser in love, a date that precariously toes the line between platonic and romantic, reader is insecure for unmentioned reasons, bar scene but it's not mentioned whether or not reader drinks, tipsy emily, miscommunication?, though emily tries reallyyy hard to get her point across, alas, to (nearly) no avail, unrequited love—or is it, gunshot wound (no detailed scene or injury), reader has a surgery and is mildly high after, use of petnames (yes, before they get together because....simp emily), the slow has burned it’s just taking a while to sink in for a certain someone

Summary: Emily is tired of being your friend. It takes more than a few attempts, endless flirting, and a minor surgery before you fully get what she means. Or, 5 times Emily tries to tell you she wants something more and the one time you finally get it.

Word count: 8.2k

1.

Emily has a problem.

It’s by no means the biggest of her problems—she’s had worse, certainly, and compared to them this is child’s play—but these past months, especially, it has been the most pressing one. It eats at her, chews on her insides and chips away bits of her composure, crumbling her metal wall that keeps her and the outside world firmly separate. 

She’s deteriorating, for lack of a better word. And you don’t seem to notice. 

It’s not willful ignorance, it’s just…actually, she doesn’t know what the hell it is. You’re not this oblivious in other aspects of your life—certainly not in your job—but when it comes to this, she could kiss you flat on the mouth and you’d somehow think she meant it platonically.

She’d been less and less subtle by the day. Showering you in honey-sweet, superfluous compliments, skimming your exposed skin with unnecessary gestures, pressing unsolicited mugs of coffee and tea into your palms, sometimes with half of a treat she’d bought for herself. 

She flirts outright. Presses too close and gushes about the durability of your perfume, the sheen of your hair and did you curl it today? Looks pretty. But heavy handed as she is, none of it seems to register through your skull. It doesn’t matter much whether her words are stumbling, starstruck or assured and smooth with confidence; you brush both off as if they were pollen dusting your skin.

The latest recurrence is still fresh in her mind: two days ago, when you walked into the bullpen in a distinctly new shirt. Emily still remembers the way her mouth had gone dry, eyes practically glued to you as you joined her in the kitchenette, buttons popped, skin gleaming, shirt teasingly skimming your collarbones—a hair’s breadth shy of sinful, toeing the line between professional and scandalous. 

Your chirp of good morning went unanswered.

“Nice shirt,” she’d rasped, hands clenched deep in her pockets to stop herself from doing something stupid. Her eyes were free to roam, though—and Christ, did they roam.

“You think?” You beamed, smoothing a hand down the material where it lay at your waist. Emily hummed thickly. “It was on sale. I wasn’t too sure about the cut but I loved the color.”

The color was nothing short of glorious. It complimented your skin, brightening the vivid hues in your eyes. As for the cut…

Emily chewed on the inside of her cheek.

“It’s beautiful.” She said honestly, magnetized. Immediately, the next part slipped out—“You are”—and Emily wasn’t even ashamed that it did.

Your laugh bent the air. “Thanks. Woke up on the right side of the bed today, huh?” You playfully patted her cheek, your hand warm. “You’re not too—oh, this is gorgeous.” You cut yourself off, and she was briefly too dizzy to notice it’s because you were thumbing at her earring. It dangled, pulling gently when you probed at it with a careful fingernail.

Have it, she almost told you. Never mind that it’s 21 carat gold, dotted with milky pearls and worth half a month’s paycheck. Each. 

“Doesn’t compare to you.” She murmured instead. Her voice dipped lower, lined with a rasp that practically gave her away.

“Tease,” you rolled your eyes, swatting at her even though she meant it. It didn’t escape her attention how both compliments rolled off your back like water. Emily choked on your perfume as she breathed out a forced, half hearted laugh, already reaching for your usual mug of choice.

“Coffee?” 

“Yes, please.”

Her memory is brimming with similar encounters. Sifting through them is what gives her the push, she thinks. JJ and Garcia are all too aware of her ever-growing crush—she’s willing to bet everyone is, except for you—and while they had both pushed and prodded for her to make a damn move, claiming that you like her back just as much, she’d refrained. 

Now her composure is crumbling.

It could also be because of your head currently cushioned on her shoulder, numbing her arm and doing strange things to her pulse. You’re not asleep, just tired of holding your head up; a game plays on your phone, lights occasionally flashing in the corner of her eye. 

When we land, Emily decides. Dinner, somewhere warm, with good hearty food. God knows you all need it.

She mulls it over as she watches the sun cast its last rays across the clouds, its warmth long gone but replaced by the weight on her shoulder. She makes a speech and promptly discards it, and by the time she stands at the junction of your desk and hers, watching you pocket something from your drawer, her head is buzzing loudly.

You throw your coat over your arm and slide your drawer shut. Her time is running out. 

Emily steps around her desk, leaning over to bump your shoulder with hers.

“Hey.” She bites her tongue before she can call you something sweet. It’s baffling—she’s never been one for pet names or anything of the like, but when it comes to you, she wants to drown you in them. 

You look up with a hum, eyes expectant.

Heaven help her.

“Do you want to go out to dinner?”

The moment the words are out of her mouth, she has to chew down on the urge to cringe. It’s all so clinical, she realizes, so wildly unromantic, but you’re chained to this place. Life hardly exists outside the BAU—at least, life with you—so she has to make do with this shitty bullpen bearing witness.

Emily braces herself for the impact.

But, miraculously, you nod, smiling like she’s offered you the world on a platter. “Oh, sure! I’ve been starving since we left the precinct. Morgan and Reid were complaining earlier, let’s tell them too.”

Emily frowns.

“What? No—”

“I’m starving,” Reid agrees. He pops up out of nowhere and sits himself on the corner of your desk, lanky figure cutting between you and her. “Morgan’s been talking about this new Mexican place nonstop—”

“Ooh, are we talking Mexican?” Morgan creeps in behind her, suddenly doubling the size of their party.

No, Emily glares at him. She knocks his shoulder with hers when he gets too close, widening her eyes to say stay the fuck away.

He raises his hands, brows furrowing.

“Butt out.” She hisses, but it all goes down the drain.

Garcia—sweet, traitorous Garcia—gambols over to them, helplessly out of the loop and always looking to fit herself in it. “Are we going to dinner?” She asks, unaware of the curdling acid in Emily’s gut.

It all slips from her hands then. You fill Garcia in, Morgan side eyes her then shrugs and launches into high praise of the restaurant, and before she knows it you’re being swept away, nestled in the midst of nosy, ironically clueless profilers.

Emily could kill them all just then.

She hangs a little behind as everyone heads to the elevator. Surely this could have been prevented, she thinks; maybe she should’ve dragged you aside somewhere, waited until it was just the both of you in the elevator. Could she have been more discreet? There was no one in the bullpen but her incessant, prying team. Maybe she should’ve been quieter.

Frustration balls up into a knot in her throat. Emily knows you need a heavy hand, a clear and unmistakable intonation of her meaning, and yet she still fumbled. The words slipped from her mouth like water, a stupid, casual, do you want to go out to dinner rather than something unmistakably amorous.

JJ pops up next to her as she wallows, grinning something more amused than she’d like. “You’ll get there one day.” She sympathetically pats her shoulder.

Emily flips her off.

2.

She’s still pissed at Reid. 

Naturally, the invitation had snowballed to include the entire team. Emily had had to spend dinner keeping her scowl to herself, seated across from you, right in the middle of Rossi and JJ as Reid rambled in your ear. You always listen to him, more interested than the rest of the team usually is, and while Emily usually loves you for it all she could think of was grabbing him by his scrawny neck and hauling him from his seat.

Any attempts at asking you again are thrown out the window; Garcia called with a case the next day, and now here she is, four days later, cross legged on a stiff motel bed with you across her knee. You left the precinct about an hour ago at Hotch’s order, the unsub in cuffs and case files boxed neatly away. The jet won’t leave until tomorrow morning—meaning, you’re stuck in nowhere city, Kansas. 

Takeout has been ordered and the money laid out; nothing occupies Emily’s thoughts other than the damp curl of your hair after your shower, the slightly jutted curve of your lips as you flip through the channels on the TV. She can smell every single one of the products you used in a heady concoction: light coconut from your shampoo; something faintly clinical from the antibacterial soap bar in the bathroom; the silky warmth of your cocoa butter lotion. It makes her relax, oddly enough, her tired muscles slumping onto the headboard next to your own.

The fact that you’re on her bed isn’t unusual. Emily draws from the comfort of your touching knees, hers bare and yours encased in cotton sweatpants.

“I’m pretty sure you’re looping back to where you started,” she drawls, though her eyes are more fixed on you than they are on the flashing TV.

You ignore her comment. It wasn’t particularly helpful, so she lets it slide, but it’s not long before her head works again. She’s desperate to talk to you; it’s an itch that can’t be scratched by your mere presence next to her. 

“Hey, how long did the restaurant say it’d take?”

Your hum is lazy, eyes narrowing at a cartoon channel. Skip. “…Twenty minutes?” You murmur. “Twenty five, maybe. Shouldn’t be long now.”

“Hm.”

You lapse into silence again, flipping through more channels. News, sitcom reruns, cooking tutorials. Her brain goes into overdrive.

The bell rings. Saved.

Food naturally opens up conversation. She lays it all out, and you find When Harry met Sally.

“Good choice. I saw it in the theater just before I left for Yale.”

A spark lights up your eyes. “Oh, so you’re old old.” You tease.

Emily bats her lashes, tongue honey-sweet. “It doesn’t show, does it, baby?”

“Now you’re just fishing.” You shove her shoulder, your laugh gracing her ears, light and easy. A smile of her own pulls at her mouth as she opens up boxes and distributes the food between you. Some part of her feels guilty for not involving JJ, but she doesn’t feel particularly forgiving after last time’s debacle.

She’s going to ask you out tonight, with no one to butt themselves in and extend the invitation.

“So,” Emily starts when you’ve both shoveled some food in your mouths, quieting the hunger in your bellies, “what’s your idea of a perfect date?”

You turn away from the movie, brows lifting slowly.

Emily rolls her eyes. “Indulge me.” She toys with her food and takes the opportunity to slide her gaze away for a moment. While used to openly flirting with you, she’s scared of you seeing the longing in her eyes—in the bow of her lips wanting to meet yours, the spaces between her fingers entirely empty without your own filling the gaps, unadulterated and all consuming.

She collects herself then looks up, a smile tugging at her mouth. Watching the thoughts race in your head delights her far more than it should. You hum through your mouthful of food, jaw sharpening as you chew, eyes darting from one spot to the other as if this shabby motel room holds the answer.

“Ice skating.” You say after a while.

“Really?”

“Yeah. I’ve never been.” You shrug. Your eyes meet, and you smile sheepishly. “Bit childish, I know.”

“No, not at all.” Emily very nearly trips over her tongue and professes her love right then, her chest warm at the uncertain tilt of your lips. But she refrains. “Would you like to go with me?” She asks instead, head on and blunt and forward and nothing you could misunderstand. Nothing you should misunderstand.

A beam lights up your face. “I’d love to!” You grin, your voice rising several octaves.

Tentative hope curls in her stomach. Emily doesn’t return your smile just yet, not joining in on your laughing at her. “No Reid or Morgan or anyone.” She stresses, almost desperately. “Just us.”

“Duh,” you roll your eyes. “It’ll be fun!”

Emily can’t explain why her heart starts to sink.

“No, listen—” She can feel you slipping through her hands. She swallows, remembers last time’s mistake, reaffirms. “A date, me and you. Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” you nod, smiling. A relieved sigh climbs up Emily’s throat, drowned out by the sound of your voice when you speak again, “We’ve never been on a gals date before, have we?”

Emily blinks. “A gals date?” She echoes back, the words clumsy in her mouth.

Maybe this one’s on her lack of experience. She’d never exactly had friends enough to go on…gals dates. 

But that’s exactly what supposed friends do, isn’t it? It was never named as such when she went out with JJ and Garcia, but that’s no doubt what it was.

She can’t seem to shake off the sticky title of friends.

The press of your gaze is still on her, heavy and shimmering, even as Emily avoids it. Static rushes in her head, desolate black and white; she doesn’t even remember what your question was.

“Y-Yeah,” she says dumbly, a faint throbbing at her temples. Should she push it, drive her point home? Maybe you’re not looking to date right now. Maybe you’re just trying to let her down easy. “Yeah, okay. Sure.”

Gals date, huh?

Somehow she doubts it’d end the way she expects.

3.

You go on the “gals date”.

It takes a while, with work stealing away the weekends, but it happens, and Emily is entirely helpless when it does. Her hand twitches at her side when she picks you up, empty of romances she wanted to shower you with. But she can’t very well buy you flowers without risking looking like a sorry idiot. She can’t take your hand and hold it in her own, slowly filling the spaces between your fingers with hers. 

But she can open the car door for you. She can sing praises about your outfit and the way your hair frames your face. However this goes, she tells herself, she’ll be spending time with you, and that’s enough no matter her unrequited, carnal desires.

It has to be.

It is and it isn’t, she eventually finds out, when your cheeks are numb with the cold and your feet have gone sore from the tightly done laces on your skates. It’s enough for you to hang on to the back of her coat with a squeak, the sound nearly drowned out by metal cutting across ice as she slowly circles the rink. It’s not enough to feel the contour of your hand in hers, your fingers tightly clenched around her knuckles as she gently glides the both of you around. Not enough to feel your hand without warming it. Enough to see the delight spark in your eyes, brighter than the winter lights strung above the rink.

She’s at war with herself, and you’re entirely the reason.

“See, you’re a natural!” The stupid grin hasn’t left her voice since she met you at your door. “Sure you’ve never been before? You’re lucky there aren’t any talent scouts watching.”

For once, her silver tongue seems to hit the mark. Your skates, gliding smoothly on the ice, twist and screech beneath your wobbly legs.

“Shut up, Emily.” You yelp, crashing into her ready arms.

“No need to be shy, beautiful.” She laughs softly, turning the tumble into a graceful spin, your clenched fists loosening in her coat. It takes all of her self control not to tilt her head and kiss your sigh from your lips.

The rink entertains you for a good while. By the time you’re taking your skates off, you no longer need to hold Emily’s hand or the railing, your smile joyful as you speed atop the ice. But both your stomachs have started rumbling. Emily has to hold herself back from grabbing your hand as you walk through the surrounding market, stalls brimmed with food, vendors moving fast to battle the long queues lined in front of them.

When you’re cold, she wraps her scarf around your neck and splits half her hot chocolate with you. Cream smears on your nose, she laughs as she wipes it off, and the sickening realization that she’s practically living a Hallmark movie date doesn’t even bother her. You loop your arm through hers and muffle a laugh into her coat; Emily knows she’s too far gone.

It’s so wonderful her chest aches. Her heart physically hurts, throbbing under her sweater, and she knows the remedy is bumping shoulders with her, right here and yet completely out of reach. 

But she lives with it. She pushes it down and pretends this is just another outing, another dinner as you sit down across from her and press your knees into hers. You could be JJ. You could be Garcia.

But Emily doesn’t feel physically sick with holding herself back from them.

Giddy and intoxicated and tortured all at once, she feels like a fumbling teenager. As you’re walking back to the car, arm in arm, Emily is cleaved with the reluctance to let go. Of your arm, of the night. Of the fleeting hope that yes, you could agree if she asked—again, properly. 

After all, surely that all wasn’t nothing. She’d seen your eyes dip down to her mouth when she talked, your own tongue dragging across your lip as you nodded in agreement. She’d seen the way you flustered the first few times she caught you on the ice, inches between your noses, the white cloud of your breath staggering as she caught on to your waist. You’d mouthed a sticky-sweet kiss to her cheek after she wiped whipped cream from the tip of your nose—surely unnecessary and not entirely meaningless, right?

Maybe one more push wouldn’t hurt.

“I love you,” Emily tries, her heart in her throat.

But you don’t even blink. “Aw, Em.” You beam star-bright, looping an arm around her shoulder and dropping yet another devastatingly careless kiss on her cheek. “I love you too. I had the best time tonight.” You murmur, heat soaking into her skin where your voice touches. “Let’s do it again, yeah?” 

Emily swallows a sigh. Her cheek burns.

“Yeah, sure.”

She can’t delude herself anymore. Emily Prentiss has been friendzoned. Brutally, undeniably friendzoned. If that’s not a hint for her to take her love and go fuck herself, she doesn’t know what is.

It’s safe to say she begins to spiral after that. All of your interactions are run under a magnifying lens, all the clues she thought you were giving her balling up into a wad of delusion. She sourly ignores any more of JJ’s advice and Garcia’s prodding. She backs off, cuts down entirely on the flirting, firmly fits herself back into the box of coworker and nothing more. Her stomach turns to acid when she hears you talking about a date the next week, your voice lazy in her ear as you ponder what to wear.

Cashmere or wool, do you think? We’ll be indoors, so maybe not something too warm.

Emily stays silent. Garcia chimes in with an outfit choice, though she’s less enthusiastic about it than she usually is about things like these, her nose scrunching the slightest bit when she hears you go on about your date. Even JJ seems confused about it, but she smiles nonetheless and wishes you a good time.

Emily can’t say she does the same. No, she’s very much wallowing the night of your dinner, sulking at home and cuddling a moodier-than-usual Sergio as she waits for her takeout. The bath she’d taken doesn’t ease you from her thoughts; every so often her eyes would dart to the clock, spinning baseless assumptions as the hands move and drag her further into the night.

7:22; you must be getting ready now. Curling your hair maybe, sorting between wool and cashmere.

7:47; has your date picked you up yet?

8:14; surely you’re at your restaurant by now. Nights like these get busy.

8:36; appetizers? Drinks? God, she needs to get a life.

8:43—

Her ringing phone shatters the silence. Emily starts, she and Sergio both jumping at the noise. But her surprise doubles when she picks up her phone, her eyes tracing the letters of your name before her brain catches up.

Trouble, she thinks immediately. No other reason you’d be calling her on your date.

She picks up before the first ring dies out.

“Y/N?” She all but demands. “What’s up?”

Your sigh may as well be a whisper. “Hey, Emily.” The wilt is obvious in your voice, drooping like warm taffy. “Listen, I’m sorry to do this, but—can you…can you come get me? My date is a no show and my phone’s about to die, I don’t wanna grab a cab in case it—”

“Text me the location.” She’s already moving, Sergio meowing low when she stands and he tumbles from her lap, her muscles already wired to action. “Stay put, alright? I’m coming.” 

“Thanks.” You mumble. The silence hardly registers when you hang up with a quiet beep, the phone pinging seconds later with a link to an Italian restaurant. Emily scrolls through the map as she absently throws her coat on, her fingers grabbing for keys, switching off lights and opening doors. She forgets being your coworker then, forgets all the distance that struggles to take up space between you.

Emily does what she always does when you need her. 

She steps up.

____

It’s easy to spot you. You sit on a bench in front of the restaurant, backlit by the glow of lights, your spine wilting into something dejected. You look beautiful, dressed to the nines, clothes neatly pressed and face drawn in self-pity. 

Emily smiles lamentingly as she approaches, though a hidden fury boils in her blood. Your lips stretch into a flat line, just pulling up at the corners.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Don’t be stupid.” She murmurs, taking a seat next to you.

You wrinkle your nose. “Yeah, I already did that once tonight, didn’t I?” A half groan leaves your lips, drawn out with self-deprecation as you pinch the bridge of your nose. “God, I don’t even know why I agreed to it.”

Because you deserve something good. Something better than her.

Emily shoves it all down—her own wretched heart, the bitter taste of anger at the asshole that left you hanging. She pushes it all away and focuses on the one thing that matters. 

She takes your arm and tugs gently. “You haven’t had dinner.” She says. “C’mon, you must be starving.”

You’re not usually the type to sulk, but your frown is firmly planted as you shake your head.

“I don’t think I have much of an appetite left, Em.”

The anger flares again. She swallows the thick heat of it in her throat, feeling it curl in her belly as you look at her dejectedly. The streetlights reflect particularly well in your eyes; her heart clenches, fury and torment waging war against each other.

Her hand slides down to yours. She chooses you. She always chooses you.

“Hey, c’mon. You can’t let an asshole like that do this to you. Look at you! You’re gorgeous. You’re smart. You’re—you’re a total catch.” Her voice goes traitorously soft. Your brows lift, a sardonic curl dragging your mouth, as if to say, really? Emily aches all over. “Don’t give me that look.” She says quietly. “I mean it. And you deserve more than that.” 

And she can give it to you. God, can she give it to you. She’d never let you sit out in the cold. She wouldn’t stand you up if the sky was collapsing in on itself. 

But you’ve made your stance clear. Romance isn’t welcome from her, so she keeps her mouth shut, love trapped sticky between her teeth, and tries to keep it spilling from everywhere else.

“You deserve more than that.” Emily says again. “That asshole doesn’t know what he’s missing out on.” Gravel seeps into the words, turning them jagged. 

Her eyes drag back up to yours again, traveling over every curve and every line, cataloguing the shadows where blues pool. In the depths of your iris, the corner of your mouth and the wrinkles between your brows. Her chest constricts, ribs pressing tight against her heart. Emily almost swears bone pierces muscle; the blood pools out and smears on her sternum, protector turned aggressor.

You smile, lovelorn and entirely unconvinced with what she’s saying. Emily’s mouth opens, but the words dissolve on her tongue when your fingers thread through hers. You squeeze and her mouth snaps shut. “Thanks, Emily.” You murmur, your chilled fingertips on her knuckles. “You’re a good friend.”

God, this could just kill her. 

But Emily just swallows and stands, your arms stretching as she tugs. “Come on, I know a place.” She forces a smile.

“As long as it’s not Italian.” You say dryly, glancing back at the glowing restaurant behind you.

“Definitely not.” Emily theatrically scrunches her nose. “What would Dave say if he knew we were eating Italian out and not at la villa di Rossi?” She lays on the accent thick and grins when it hits the mark, your chest collapsing in a laugh. It’s small and real and music to her ears, a pocket of warmth enveloping her more effectively than her coat ever could.

This time when she tugs, you follow. The tension loosens in your arms as you stand and lean in closer to her side, fingers slotting out of place and letting the frigid air take their place. Emily tries not to wallow, because your smile is more genuine now, softer at the edges. You loop your arm through hers and let her lead you back to her car.

Emily’s glad you called her, she is. But the thought lingers in the back of her head: why you called her of all people.

4.

Emily’s in a sour mood. She perched herself on a bar stool half an hour ago to block out the sight of you in yet another stranger’s arms, dancing and catching the light like a shimmering diamond in a pool of rocks. Her knuckles had almost split through her skin when you got approached by the smiling, pearly-toothed brunette with a willowy figure, all lean lines and charming one-liners. Now she sits with her back to the dance floor, glaring down at her drink as the ice in it melts and waters it down. 

She can’t make head or tail of you. It’s a weird feeling, one she decides she doesn’t like. 

She doesn’t stumble around when it comes to things like this. Well, usually there’s never anyone to chase for longer than a night. But ever since she started pulling back, you’ve been lessening the distance she’s actively trying to keep—kissing her cheeks goodbye every day, pairing up with her before anyone else gets the chance to, sweeping touches and borderline flirtations in the space between your lashes. The whole length of your thigh had been pressed to hers at the booth, warmth pooling between you before the brunette came and swept you away. 

Emily knows she’s too far gone to make any sound decisions, but all of it feels intentional. Whether you’re laughing at her or trying to tell her what she’s stopped believing a few weeks ago, she doesn’t know.

Maybe she should just go home.

“Em.” Your voice in her ear briefly makes her tense. Your warm hands find her shoulders, squeezing lightly. “You haven’t danced with me. C’mon, we always dance.”

She turns as you step next to her shoulder, her eyes dipping to the undone buttons of your shirt. Hungry, lecherous, her pupils eat away at the skin bared to her, faintly glimmering with sweat and the lights above. Electricity crackles along her spine, wild, untamable.

Emily doesn’t want to dance. She wants to get things straight with you.

“Do you like me?”

“What kind of a question is that?” You laugh.

Emily doesn’t find it funny. “Do you like me?” She presses.

“Yes.” You say, easy albeit confused.

The answer doesn’t appease her. God, this is so high school, she thinks. This floundering and flustering isn’t her, but you’re scrambling her brain. Making her lose her footing.

Emily shifts on the stool until she fully faces you, chest to chest. The bar lights kiss your skin, illuminating it with warmth. Her heart picks up its pace. 

“If I were to kiss you,” she murmurs slowly, loud enough to be heard above the music, “would you kiss me back?”

Your eyes widen.

Now you’re on the same page, she thinks grimly.

Your lovely mouth hangs open. You close it only to let your jaw drop again, a wordless stammer working the bob of your throat. In probably the nicest way, you’re a fish out of water. If Emily weren’t so nauseatingly in love with you, she’d have laughed.

“Emily.” You finally stammer out, the tone of your voice faintly chiding. “You’re drunk.”

“I want to kiss you,” she mumbles. Longing is threaded into every syllable.

You give a small shake of your head, brows furrowing above your eyes. “I don’t think you do.” Your lips press into something like a smile; the corners are tilted downward. They sink like hooks into her flesh.

“Why?” Emily breathes. “Why’s it so hard to believe?” 

Your eyes flit away from her. 

She immediately misses them. Emily stands, the space between your bodies kissed away by hers. “That wasn’t a rhetorical question. Tell me.” She tilts her head, voice velvet soft. “Why wouldn’t I want to kiss you?”

“Stop it, Emily. You’re—” you shake your head, a heaving breath inflating your chest as you press back against the bar, “you won’t want to tomorrow.”

“I will.” She insists. “Tomorrow and every tomorrow after that.”

She should back off. Instead she cradles your soft cheek in her palm, inhaling a rush of sticky air when your lashes flutter. That’s not nothing. She knows it’s not.

Emily just needs a reason. To back off, to lean in.

“Would you kiss me back?” Her voice is frayed now, desperate. It cracks with the weight of her longing—too much to bear, too heavy to keep on carrying for much longer.

She can’t read the look on your face. Your eyes are dark, your hand veering into too hot as you place it on top of hers. For a moment her breath catches, but it quickly releases in a huff as you take both hands down from your cheek and let them drop listlessly to your sides.

“How about you call it a night?” You smile, tight and strange and everything you’re usually not. 

Emily backs away. Her body flushes hot and cold all at once, wanting for your heat yet crawling at your dismissal. 

The sound that escapes the back of her throat is bitter as she reaches into an oft forgotten pocket—muscle memory—pulling out a pack of Marlboros and sticking one between her lips. It’s funny, she hadn’t carried a pack in ages; her subconscious must’ve known. Her teeth close around the dry, papery cigarette, relief just on the tip of her tongue. Emily rolls it to the side of her cheek.

“Don’t concern yourself with me, sweetheart. Your date’s waiting.” She neatly steps past you, without even a brush of your elbows, and makes her way to the door, already reaching for her lighter. It’s in the same pocket, warmed from sitting so close to her body, a familiar weight in her hand. Not even the flicker of the flame loosens her spine.

The cigarette smoke is acrid, the chill biting and vengeful when she presses her shoulders against the wall and inhales a deep, damning lungful. The nicotine doesn’t come close to warming her up the way you had. 

Emily supposes both are wearing her down similarly enough.

5. 

Emily walks into the break room and immediately pivots when she sees you, grimacing as her heels sound on the floor. As if she’s got two eyes glued to the back of her head, she can feel it when you turn, the sticky heat of your gaze latching onto her back.

“There’s coffee for two.” You say after a too-long pause, your voice quiet and a little uncertain. She tilts her head just enough to see your forced smile. “And enough Splenda to make your teeth rot.”

Emily hates this. She hates herself and, if she’s being honest with herself, she kind of hates you, too.

She still remembers the night at the bar; she wasn’t totally wasted. It’s almost worse that she wasn’t.

The sting of embarrassment, of rejection, of her own stupidity—it all stacked up to form one giant bruise, tender and spread over the entirety of her skin. Anywhere you touched hurt. The briefest thought of you is a prick through her flesh, blood pooling steadily out of her veins until she drained. She’d apologized to you the next day, stiff with formality—and, miraculously, you accepted it—but she can’t get herself to close the distance, completely swerving past any room that might hold you in it. You’re not trying to maintain it, almost forcibly undeterred as you, for some reason unbeknownst to her, bridge the gap with your usual jokes and closeness, going on as if nothing had happened.

But it had, and she can’t get over it. Last time was more bearable, an internal shame that was entirely hidden from you, but now? Now it’s written in the air between you, weaved into every stiff exchange where her eyes struggle to meet yours—Emily Prentiss wants you and made a fool of herself trying to convince herself that you’d want her back.

Your endless olive branches hurt more than reciprocal silence. Emily would just prefer it if you didn’t. She embarrassed herself, she embarrassed you, put you on the spot and ruined both your nights. But you’re still here, offering her coffee and Splenda, the edges of your smile dragging down the longer her silence stretches out.

She can never have anything without ruining it, can she? 

“Thanks,” she says crisply, her words stilted. “But I already had my cup. I shouldn’t be—”

“Prentiss, L/N.” Hotch materializes next to her. Emily has to hold herself tight against wilting in relief. “Garcia got him.”

Routine stiffens her bones. Emily is already stepping in his shadow as he turns, her forefoot to his heel, her ear cocked to the clink of your mug down on the counter. She doesn’t turn—not as you follow behind, a distinct presence at her back, and not as she trades her blazer for a bomber jacket and grabs the vest JJ is holding out for her. Emily fastens it walking, dragging velcro to velcro as she bursts through the door Hotch flings open and out into the parking lot.

Your footsteps get lost behind her. Emily climbs into the passenger seat. Reid clambers in the back, and the door shuts behind him with a distinct finality. She exhales a rickety breath, her focus narrowing down to the words Hotch is barking.

This is easy. Focusing on the unsub is easy. You’re hardly anywhere in her head as Hotch races between cars like a maniac, adrenaline pressing ruthlessly on her heart rather than your presence. When she gets out of the car, gun already sliding into her hand, impractical heels making no sound on the floor, Emily hardly thinks to look for you.

Then a shot rings, and your voice is unmistakable as you cry out.

____

Emily crumples up the cheap plastic cup in her hand. 

The worst is over now, she supposes, but the aftershocks still linger. Her hands don’t smell like your blood anymore. But her eyes are tricking her into seeing red between her fingers, slotted and cracked around her knuckles. 

It had gushed at first—a warm, metallic, dark red geyser, soaking your sleeve and her palms and dripping fast enough for you to stumble into her. The color drained from your face as she clamped pressure on your arm, shouldering your weight with Morgan and absently murmuring reassurances while everyone else apprehended the unsub. She’d been reluctant to let go when the paramedics came; Emily had sat next to you on the back of the rig, hands sticky with blood, lightheaded as if it were her own, all but holding you upright as the EMT worked on stopping the bleeding. 

Your head was heavy on her shoulder. Warm breaths fanned over her jaw, uneven with exertion. “Don’t go,” you’d murmured, your hand flexing around hers as the EMT pulled the bandage tighter. “Please.” 

Emily had swallowed. “I won’t.”

And she didn’t. When the bleeding had slowed and everyone had been checked over, she’d shared half your weight with the EMT and eased you into the ambulance, each of your ragged breaths white-hot in her chest. She was warm all over with the adrenaline, the hair escaping her ponytail curled with sweat, jacket pushed up her forearms as you sunk into her side with a grimace.

“Is it cold?” You panted, slurry and dazed. 

No, she was burning. Sweat dampened her skin and it beaded on yours. She shoved her jacket off and draped it over your own, tucking the sleeves into your sides and rubbing her palms over your back because it did jack shit. 

“A little.” Emily murmured. “Better now?”

“Mm. Y’smell good.” You mumbled, the words fading out in a hiss as the ambulance jolted. You cursed, your voice cracking, and Emily muffled frantic shushes into your hair.

Her hands are scrubbed clean now. Knuckles, nail beds—she got most of it, exempting the thin red crescents lodged too deep beneath her nails. 

There was plenty of time while she waited for you to get out of surgery; her skin reeks of cheap lemon scented soap.

She breathes in. Grabs another cup. Fills it, for you this time, alternating between cold and hot water to turn it tepid. The moment she steps into your room, the weight of your gaze settles familiarly on her shoulders.

There you are.

For the first time in weeks, Emily relishes it. 

“Hey,” she sits on the chair next to your bed, feels the sticky trail of your eyes down her face. “How are you feeling?”

She tracks the bob of your throat with your swallow. Your gaze drags up, your eyes meeting hers. Emily doesn’t shy away from them now, keenly observing the wet shine of your irises. She recognizes your sluggish haze, molasses-thick, everything sticky with morphine and anesthesia.

“I got shot.” You say slowly.

She gnaws on her lip, nodding. “Yeah. They had to take the bullet out. Are you in any pain?” You think about it for a beat then shake your head. “Want some water?” She suggests.

An owlish, faraway blink. Then you nod. Emily stands and adjusts your bed so you’re sitting up. She brings the cup to your lips, her hand settling on the nape of your neck. 

A small frown creases your forehead. Even half drugged, you recognize her hot and cold. 

“What?”

“Did I get shot in both my arms?”

Emily’s brows furrow. “...No?”

Your blink drags. “I can drink.” You mumble. “On m’own.”

Emily knows that. She knows that. She doesn’t know why she wants do to this for you. (Or, rather, she knows but can’t make herself look further into it).

“I know you can. Just,” she licks her lips, “just let me, please.”

Her pinky rests on your shoulder, just past your hospital gown. You tilt your chin after a few blinks; Emily slots the rim of the cup between your lips with an internal sigh. Something in her quiets, dies down into still placidity. The bandage wrapped all the way to your elbow is stark, but it’s better than a freely bleeding wound, blood seeping between her fingers.

You drain the cup. Emily contemplates filling it again as you wipe your mouth, lips hydrated back to their usual color. The thought doesn’t linger in her head before you chase it away.

“You look mad.” You say, voice clearer now.

Emily shakes her head, frowning. “I’m not mad.” She says softly. “I was worried.”

“’M okay, though.”

“I know you are.” That doesn’t make it any easier. “It was just…sudden. And you’re important to me.” She cups your cheek. It’s all done unthinkingly, on autopilot. Her tongue slips, her hand moves, her fingers part on your jaw. Emily is used to loving you, and used to letting it slip.

She freezes in her place a little, spine stiffening when she remembers, belatedly, that you don’t want any of that. Her hand just about drops but is held in place by your cheek; you nuzzle into her palm, lashes fluttering under the harsh light.

“You gotta stop sayin’ stuff like that,” you sigh. A pout curves your mouth, pulls it into a sulk. “’S mean.” You mumble, lips brushing the base of her thumb.

Emily’s heart is in her throat. Her fingers twitch on the shell of your ear, too scared to move. “M-Mean? How—why is it mean?” 

“’Cause.” Your brows pinch. “You sound all…sweet and romantic when you say that. Like…like you’re sayin’ like you mean it.” You say accusingly.

Emily inhales sharply, air rushing to her lungs. Your small voice stings, but not more than the disbelief that sticks to it. “Baby, I do.” She says quietly, adamantly, her thumb pressed to your jaw. “I do mean it, all of it. I’ve been trying to tell you for so long now.”

You shake your head haltingly. “You haven’t.”

“Swear I have.” She murmurs. “I—I tried to ask you out on dates. I tried to flirt with you. Fuck, honey, I told you I wanted to kiss you. I don’t—” a shaky laugh tumbles from her lips, “I don’t think you like listening to me.” 

You’re in disbelief—eyes wide, mouth parted, brown drawn. It pinches at her insides, sharp pinpricks lining her skin. Emily wants to massage away the scrunch of your frown, smooth your confusion away until what she’s saying is unmistakably clear. 

“No, but—you were drunk.” You stammer.

“I still meant it.” Her thumb smooths over your jaw. “I wasn’t wasted. I knew what I was saying.”

She just couldn’t hold it in any longer.

You look doubly dazed. “So, you…you like me?” You reaffirm quietly, your mouth barely moving around the words.

Emily nods. “I do.” She says.

“That doesn’t make sense, though. You’re you,” you stress the word like it means something, “and I’m me. It just doesn’t…We don’t fit together like that.”

Emily’s stomach turns. She leans back to put a little distance, the weight of your jaw lifting from her hand.

“Wait, what? Says who?”

“C’mon, Emily.” You mumble. You’re not looking at her anymore. “You could…y’could never like me, not like that. Our date…I haven’t been treated like that in years. Haven’t felt like that in years. But I couldn’t start to hope. You were going to break my heart if I let you.” You fiddle with the blanket at your hips, eyes shuttered away. “I couldn’t let you.” You say quietly.

Emily can’t breathe.

“Y/N—”

“I went out with that guy to make myself face reality. I couldn’t have someone like you, there was no use just wallowing over it.” You shrug.

Her mouth is dry. All at once she’s nauseous, acid churning in her gut. Surely you don’t believe that. Surely you can see, even somewhat, the way she bends to your will, kneels at your feet—even under the guise of friendship. 

Surely you don’t think that about yourself.

“You’re wrong.”

You flash her a small, bitter smile. “I never am about things like these.”

Emily shakes her head firmly. “No, you are. And I’m gonna prove it to you—I swear I will, but—” But now’s not the time. You’re hazy around the edges, and she’s not sure which words stick. She needs you totally here for this, though Emily would repeat it again and again and again until it clung and fused with your bones, as unmistakable as your heartbeat. 

You still look doubtful. But she’s gonna fix that. She’s gonna fix it. 

Emily licks her lips, “Listen, you need to rest up now, okay? But we’ll talk about this. I promise.” She hesitates for a beat, then it slips out: “I love you.”

Your lashes droop with your blink. “You’re adamant about it.” You mumble.

Emily swallows her heart, her hand twitching at her side.

“I always have been.”

+1

Emily carries groceries into your kitchen, a Pyrex of casserole in one hand and plastic bags clenched in another, striding through your apartment like she owns it. 

To be fair, she has been here a few times.

“You really didn’t have to do this.” You say again, fiddling with your sling as you follow in after her.

Emily sets the casserole down with an eye roll. “For the last time, Y/N, I wanted to. Your dominant arm is incapacitated—I can’t have you starve on my account.”

“Whether I starve or not is not really on your account,” you argue, reaching over to take some of the bags in her hand. She doesn’t let you, moving them from your reach and settling them down on the counter. You peer behind her; Emily swats at your free hand, tilting her body to shield them from you.

“Honey, get used to it. Soon enough I’m gonna be doing a lot more than just getting you groceries and casserole.”

She doesn’t exactly mean for the words to slip, but Emily is not too torn up about it either. Ever since the hospital, the two of you have been testing the stability of the line between you—toeing it, going a little past crossing it, all too aware of the gentle rounded curves of the elephant in the midst of your every conversation. The way you get her meaning now, flushing a little with a dazed look on your face when she murmurs something undeniably flirty, is a high she can’t get over.

It happens now. You briefly get this startled, deer-in-headlights look; she half expects you to point to your own chest and mouth, me? despite there being only the two of you in your kitchen. You’re getting better at composing yourself quicker, but Emily secretly relishes the tiny moments she gets to catch you off guard.

“Oh?” You clear your throat, leaning against the counter and tilting your head to better catch her eyes. “Like what?”

Emily knows you’re not thinking about the groceries now. 

“Like taking you out on a date.” She murmurs softly, voice like velvet as she straightens, turns so you’re nearly chest to chest. “Doing some…really not platonic things with you.” Her hands settle on the cool countertop behind you.

You inhale sharply, your chest briefly touching hers. Heat blooms across her skin. 

“What kind of things?” You ask. Your back presses against the granite. A small shiver goes through you; Emily doesn’t know if it’s from her or the cool tiles against your back.

“I can show you.” She says. Your pupils go wide, and she smiles against her beating heart. “It’s a bit more effective. Uh, gets my point across more…clearly.” Her fingers absently drum against the counter, itching to get closer and smooth over the soft material of your sleeve where it lays over your arm.

“Silver tongue finally failing you, Emily?” You whisper, lips dragging, your weight tentatively leaning into hers.

“No.” Emily smiles. “I just think you might like it better somewhere else.”

There it is again. Your eyes widen, a sharp breath inflating your chest. Her palm cushions the line of your jaw, fingers hooking behind your ear and tilting your dipping chin toward hers. “Can I? Can I kiss you?” Her thumb traces over your bottom lip, your exhale fogging warm on her nail, “Can I take you out?”

Her heart pounds so loud she barely hears your whisper. “Yeah.” You swallow; her eyes spy a similar pulse in your throat. “Yeah, yes. All of it.”

“Thank you.” She says politely, careful and entirely tender even as she—finally—devours you with her 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 @chestnutninny

[suckerforcate]

The Glass Stay On | e.p.

pairing: emily prentiss x afab!reader

summary: exactly what the title says… or… Emily eats pussy with her glasses ON.

tags: (18+) smut (oral!sex, vaginal!fingering), a bit of dirty!talk.

word count: 2.7k

read on ao3 | masterlist

a/n: emily prentiss wearing glasses does unspeakable things to me, so here’s something short and filthy to chew on… what happens in this fic.. i drew beforehand…

…

After finishing your evening shower and getting ready for bed, you step out of the bathroom and into the cool air of the bedroom.

You’ve constructed the perfect everyday routine: come home, relax until Emily inevitably returns from the office, scrounge up something for dinner, more relaxing but with Emily, shower, then ultimately—fall into bed with your lover.

Though that last step of your routine is shifted a bit off kilter as you look up and find your girlfriend missing from her side of the mattress.

Your brows furrow momentarily. Usually, she's long in bed by now, sitting up against the headboard in front of a stack of pillows, with a book in her lap and a steaming cup of tea on the bedside table.

Tossing your soiled clothes into the hamper, you reluctantly climb into bed alone.

You curl up in the center of the bed, running your hand over Emily's indent in the sheets, wrinkles left in the shape of her figure—a pillowcase that smells distinctly like her night cream and dry shampoo.

"Tired?" The familiar rasp of your girlfriend's voice breaks through the quiet room. You twitch in surprise, you hadn't even heard her come in.

"There you are, I was wondering where you went." You beamed at her, taking in her domestic appearance. The dull graphics on the tattered old band t-shirt she's wearing, the faded blue stripes on her sleep shorts, the soft wave of her silver hair as it cascades over her shoulders and down to the tops of her breasts.

She's effortlessly beautiful, especially with her face fully bare.

"Just making my tea, I forgot where I left my new glasses." She smiles, places her mug on the coaster, and slips beneath the comforter.

"New glasses?" You ask, a bit confused about when she even had time to get a new pair, but still curious.

"Yeess…” Emily drawls. “I had them delivered; my other pair had a scratch on the lens." She explains, shifting slightly before reaching into the small pocket of her shorts.

She pulls out a pair of sleek, square black frames, the gloss and rivets glinting in the lamplight.

Before you can say anything, she flicks the temples open and slides them onto her nose before leaning back and opening her book.

Instantly, your body reacts to the sight. A simmering heat pools in your lower belly at the sight of her new frames.

She's always been attractive with glasses, but these? These are particularly sexy.

"Those are..." you pause, trying to find a suitable word to describe them without coming off too desperate.

She looks up at you, her brow arching curiously. Her eyes flick over your face, and a devious smirk curls at the corner of her mouth.

"What? You like them?" Emily purrs, closing her book and setting it back on the nightstand. She turns slightly, her torso angled more towards you.

"I definitely like them..." You chew on your bottom lip as she watches you, and her fingers twitch where they rest atop the blanket. "Very sexy, dear."

"Oh, yeah?" She grins, scooting closer-invading your space.

"Oh, yeah." You grin in return as you meet her halfway in a gentle but firm kiss.

Her cold fingers land on your hip beneath the sheets and you suck in a sharp breath against her upper lip. She deepens the kiss straight away, her mouth opening, tongue sliding along your teeth, teasingly.

You hum into the kiss, returning the passion as you reach out for her, curling your hand around her waist and pulling her closer.

She slinks over you slowly, her mouth never detaching, while she settles herself on top. Emily's body is warm, the soft weight of her abdomen pressing between your spread thighs as she lies between them.

A quiet grumble slips from her throat as she feels you arch into her, your legs locking behind her ass and squeezing her closer.

"You're so..." she interrupts your sentence with a chaste kiss, nipping at your bottom lip. "fuck—sexy."

You whimper into her mouth as she rolls her hips forward into yours, the friction pleasurable, but not enough. But then again, you never can seem to get enough of the beautiful older woman above you.

Her arms bracket the sides of your head, hands smoothing over your hair. Her torso writhes sensually, and you can feel the weight of her breasts, her hardened nipples through the fabric of your shirt.

The kisses grow sloppy, a mess of spit, tongues, and desperate sounds of want.

You slip your hands beneath her shirt, gliding up her sides, then over the muscle of her back, roaming. Her skin is so soft, so warm—it’s addicting.

With a final rough suck on your bottom lip, Emily begins trailing lower. Her teeth graze the curve of your jaw as she moves, pressing wet kisses to your burning skin. Her hands tangle into your hair, tugging gently to urge your chin up, making room for herself in the crevice of your neck.

“Emily—” you pant, nails digging into the flesh of her hips.

The older woman groans against your skin, sucking a harsh mark into your collarbone. She sits up just enough to drag her hands down past your shoulders before landing atop your ribcage. Her fingers press into the sensitive skin, holding your body still and close as she continues her assault on your neck.

One of your hands slips from beneath her shirt and cards through the hair at the back of her head. 

Using her chin, she pulls the collar of your shirt down, peppering wet kisses to your flushed chest.

Your belly swells with an intense flood of arousal, and you try to focus on the feeling of everything she’s doing to you. Her groping hands in your abdomen—covering your breasts over the fabric of your top, the weight of her hips, rolling into your center as if she was teasing you with her cock. 

And God, sometimes you really do wish her strap could be permanently attached.

“Fuck, baby…” You whine as she lands a particularly sharp bite on your shoulder. Emily hums amusedly at your body’s reaction.

She sits up for a moment, her thighs resting against your ass. Her palms glide down your stomach, then beneath the hem of your shirt, smoothing over the soft plains of flesh.

She looks up at you then, a silent confirmation to move forward with what she’s planning. You nod eagerly, your spine curling.

She grins and pushes your shirt up, her nails raking along your skin as she goes. The rush of cool air hardens your nipples to solid peaks, standing proudly under Emily’s lustful gaze.

“So beautiful…” she murmurs, her hands cupping the underside of your breasts and squeezing. You moan at the sensation, the way she pinches your nipples subtly.

Your hands clutch at the sheets beneath you as she continues her exploration, fingertips toying with your most sensitive parts.

The sudden heat of her mouth on your sternum startles you, a gasp ripping from your throat as she laves her tongue over your sweat-dampened skin. She takes a sensitive nipple between her lips, teeth scraping slightly, and immediately, you feel the wetness gushing between your thighs.

You clutch desperately at the back of her head as she mouths at you, tiny whines and moans falling from your lips.

Her tongue swirls around your hardened bud before flicking at it quickly, giving it a final kiss before shifting and doing the same to the other side.

Her hands bury themselves between your back and the mattress, making sure you can’t wiggle too much.

Abandoning your breasts, Emily trails lower, leaving wet, open-mouthed kisses along your ribs and down the center of your stomach. She nips at your navel, seeking her tongue around the faint red mark before sucking a dark hickey into your hipbone.

Your stomach jolts at the pain, hips canting upward in attempts to find some sort of friction.

“Needy girl…” Emily growls against the skin of your belly. “Look at me.”

The gravel in her voice makes your ear perk up as you crane your neck up to meet her eyes. 

A smirk dances across her lips as she toys with the waistband of your underwear, her glasses sitting low on the bridge of her nose.

You watch with a slackened jaw as she swipes her thumb over your slit through the soaked fabric of your underwear.

“Please, Em…” you pant, your hands sliding down the sheets to grip at her knees. Emily hums, running a flattened palm over your mound, then up your abdomen.

Her eyelids are heavy and half-lidded as she trails her eyes over your semi-nude form, the darkening love bites speckling your torso, your flushed face, the mess of arousal between your legs.

She moves to take her glasses off, but you stop her before she can toss them aside, gripping her wrist.

“Keep them on…” 

“Yeah?” Emily arches a brow. “You like them that much?” She slips the frames back on, leaning forward over your body.

“Yes… you look so good.” You smile up at her dazedly, your hands reaching up to cup her face.

The older woman beams at the compliment, tilting her head and pressing a wet kiss to your palm.

Emily shifts onto all fours, her shiny silver locks tickling the skin of your stomach as she dips down and kisses your pelvis.

Your hips rock against her touches, desperately seeking her mouth. Her fingers curl into your waistband and tug the thin fabric down, discarding it somewhere across the room.

“Fuck, you’re so wet…” Emily purrs, her hands driving up your inner thighs and spreading them open.

You whine in response, shifting up onto your elbows to get a better view of her.

Emily presses her nose to the warm flesh of your inner thigh, her lips trailing wet kisses as she moves towards the apex.

You can feel yourself clenching around nothing, the closer she gets to where you need her the most. Using one hand, you sweep her hair to the side, holding it in a makeshift ponytail. 

Her nose sweeps over your mound, teasing, and she glances up at you.

“Please…” you whisper, hardly loud enough for her to hear. But she does.

Emily leans in with a proud smirk, her tongue flicking out and dragging up your sticky folds. 

The heat of her breath against your sex sends a fog to the back of her lenses as she delves in, her lips enclosing around your needy bud and suckling. You gasp at the sudden pressure, your back curling off the mattress, hips grinding against her mouth.

“Emily—fuck!” You pant, your hand tensing where it rests at the back of her head.

Her tongue laves languidly over your pussy, swirling around your clit and spreading the messy arousal.

She loops her arms under your thighs as she slips her tongue down to your entrance, holding them open wide and using her grip to build momentum as she fucks the pointed muscle into you.

Your head falls back, jaw slackened as quiet moans slip past your lips.

Emily groans against your sex, and the vibrations send a jolt throughout your entire body.

You lift your head to watch her again.

The older woman’s face holds a look of complete and utter concentration as she eats you. Her brows furrowed, eyes fluttering closed before flicking open and training on you. 

Her glasses have slipped so low that they threaten to fall completely off. You reach down unceremoniously and press them up her bridge with a shaky finger.

Emily’s blackened eyes are locked on your face over the frames. She smiles wolfishly, like a predator that’s just found its prey. You send her a lopsided smile back, your face burning with the flush of arousal.

She leans back, detaching her mouth from your pussy for a short moment. She slips one hand from beneath you leg and brings in up to your center, using the pad of her thumb to press at the topside of your clit.

She circles it slowly, her lips parted, her chin and cheeks covered in the mess of your arousal.

“So pretty…” She licks her lips slowly, pulling the bottom one between her teeth. “My girl tastes so good.”

You whine at the filthy compliment, canting your hips against the ministrations of her thumb.

“Hm, get these nice and wet for me, doll.” Emily reaches up from between your legs with the same hand that was on your clit and presses her fingers to your lips.

You open for her on command, taking the entire length of her middle and index fingers into your mouth. You hum around the digits, swirling your tongue and thoroughly coating them in saliva.

Emily pulls them from your mouth with an audible pop, her cheeks slightly flushed from just how eager you are for her.

“Good girl…” she grumbles, dipping down again to reattach her mouth to your clit. You gasp as she sucks on the bud harshly, the muscles in your abdomen twitching. 

Her wet fingers dance over your entrance, toying with your labia before her middle finger dips inside just to the first knuckle. She pulls out again, circling your slit against before pressing the entire finger inside, twisting as it sheaths and curling up into your g-spot. 

“Hm—more…” you cry, your head tilting to the side and resting on your shoulder.

Emily watches you as she slips out again, her teeth grazing your swollen clit before she presses both her middle and index finger inside. She bottoms out slowly, and a low groan rattles through your chest. 

Her long, thick fingers stretch you so deliciously, fucking into you at an angle so perfect—she has you writhing in mere seconds.

“Fuck, Emily—harder.” You pant, rutting against her thrusts.

The squelch of her fingers curling inside you is utterly lewd, and you know you’re making a mess on the sheets, but neither of you could care less.

Emily suckles on your clit tirelessly, switching between that and teasing circles with the tip of her tongue.

“Oh my god…” You gasp, your thighs beginning to tremble as you feel your orgasm building rapidly inside. “Don’t stop—fuck! I’m gonna cum, please don’t stop.” 

Emily hums around your clit in acknowledgment, eyes still locked on your face as she works you to the edge.

Staccato whimpers escape your throat with nearly each breath, your chest rising and falling rapidly, flushed and slick with sweat.

Your thighs tighten around her head as the pressure in your womb reaches its apex, before releasing. 

Emily stills her fingers inside as you clamp down on her, your body curling in on itself as your muscles tense and release with the shocks of your orgasm. Her tongue swirls around your sensitive bud slowly, easing you down as the final tremors work their way out.

With the palm of your free hand, you press her forehead back as the overstimulation becomes too much.

“Okay, okay…” You laugh breathily, letting your legs relax back down onto the bedding. “So fucking good.”

Emily hums and presses chaste kisses to your thighs and your belly as she rises, crawling her way back up your body.

You take in her appearance again—your mess spread across her face, the flush on her cheeks, the condensation beginning to fade behind her lenses.

Her body settles on top of you, the heat of her skin radiating through her clothing.

Emily leans up to kiss you with a dazed grin. She always looks so pleased with herself after she makes you cum. It’s slow, and open-mouthed, and you can taste yourself on her tongue easily. 

Smoothing your hands down her back, you wrap yourself around her, arms tight around her shoulders and legs, her hips.

You pull away with a satisfied moan, a small, tired smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

“Thank you, the glasses did their job.” You praise, stroking the sweaty strand of hair away from her brow. Emily chuckles.

“I’ll try not to damage these ones…” She leans in and presses a chaste peck to your cheek before whispering, “But since it seems I’ll be doing stuff like that more often…”

“No promises…”

…

taglist: @piiinco @xoxo-maryssa @prentissmultiverse @blackcatlesbo @prentisslvrsworld @teeshatequila @professorsapphic @decadentcatcrusade @classic-fangirl-emily-prentiss @wittygutsy @wandasdollie @maximoffcarter

[suckerforcate]

Fucking hell she's hot

Emily wearing glasses in 18x06 — Part 2 (Part 1)