wlwoceaneyes

[wlwoceaneyes]

Still a mystery P2

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 1.2 k summary: When Emily returns, you stop hiding behind latte art and take a chance. She doesn’t just accept it, she lets you in, a little more than before. tags: shy!reader, barista!reader, not so clueless anymore, flirty!Emily, light slow burn, emotional tension, strangers to something more, fluff, awkward but cute Part one

It’s been five days, not that you’re counting.

Okay, maybe you are. You’ve replayed your last interaction with her in your head a dozen times: her hand around yours, her name whispered like a secret, the way she’d said “favorite barista” like it meant something. And then she was gone. You tried not to hope. She probably had cases, travels, important FBI things to do.

The morning drags on slowly, the kind where the espresso machine hums louder than the conversation, and you catch yourself watching the door more often than necessary. The bell over it jingles a dozen times, and each time your heart stutters, only to settle again with a sigh when it’s not her.

You’re not obsessing. Definitely not. You’re just… observant, highly attuned to your environment. Your hands move automatically, pouring milk, pressing buttons, sketching a tiny sleeping fox on someone’s lid. You haven’t drawn a cat in three days. Not since Emily last walked through that door.

You’re not sulking, either. You’re just, you know, quietly existing with a mild-to-moderate crush on an FBI agent who may or may not be flirting with you. Okay. Definitely may. The bell chimes again, and you don’t even bother to look up this time. The disappointments have started to sting, and you don’t want to fuel your little crush more than absolutely necessary.

“You stopped drawing cats,” says a familiar voice, and you almost drop the cup you’re holding. Almost. Because fate is cruel, but it’s not that cruel.

You look up, and there she is. Emily. Looking annoyingly perfect in a dark blazer, red top and boots that make a soft, confident sound against the tile floor.

“Did I do something wrong?” she adds, tilting her head.

You blink, then realize you’re staring. “Oh. No. I mean cats are great. I like cats. I was just… trying out foxes.”

Brilliant. Well done. Perhaps tomorrow you can recite your coffee order backwards just to complete the humiliation.

Emily’s mouth twitches like she’s fighting back a smile. “Foxes are cute.”

You nod, entirely too fast. “Thank you, I drew one earlier. Not for you, I mean—ugh.”

She sets her hands lightly on the counter, leaning in just enough that your brain hits the emergency shutdown button. Her sleeves are rolled back just enough to reveal a faint bruise on her forearm, the kind you don’t ask about.

“Can I get my usual?” she asks, with a glint in her eyes that makes it suddenly very hard to think clearly.

You nod again, this time with purpose, and get to work. Your hands thankfully know what they’re doing, even if your thoughts keep drifting back to her.

She watches you the entire time, which is deeply unfair. You’re certain you’ve never felt so scrutinized while steaming milk.

“So,” she says casually, “no doodle today?”

You freeze mid-sip lid application. Right. The cup. You glance at the marker in your apron pocket. You could draw a cat or a fox. Or a cat dressed as a fox. But maybe today… Maybe today you do something different.

Your hand shakes only a little as you uncap the marker. And then, with your heart thudding in your throat, you write something else. Something bolder.

You write your name and number in neat, slightly nervous script across the side of the cup. Then, underneath, two words: For surprises.

No drawings, no distractions. Just a small risk.

You cap the cup, fingers hovering. Should you do it? Is this a mistake? What if she thinks it’s weird? What if she laughs? What if she doesn’t laugh and just—

“Everything alright?”

You jolt and look up at her. Emily is already watching you, amused, but patient. You slide the cup across to her like it’s not a tiny, potential emotional catastrophe in to-go form. She hasn’t noticed your doodle yet; she’s too busy watching your face.

“I figured…” you say carefully, “maybe it’s your turn to surprise me.”

That gets her attention. She blinks, then lifts the cup slowly, eyes scanning the ink. You see it happen, the moment she reads it. Her lips twitch first, and then her eyes lift back to yours, warm and just the slightest bit amused.

“Well,” she murmurs, turning the cup in her hands, “you’re full of surprises today.”

You open your mouth, probably to say something ridiculous, but she beats you to it. “You know I’m going to use this, right?”

Your breath catches. “I was hoping you would.”

Emily leans forward, voice low. “Good.” The kind of good that makes your knees a little less reliable.

You fidget. “I—I wasn’t sure if I should, but then I thought—maybe I should. So I did. But if that’s weird, I can—next time I’ll just draw a cat again.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Emily chuckles. A real, low, warm laugh that makes you want to melt right into the pastry case.

“I like this even better,” she says. Her thumb taps gently against the number. “Surprising me and letting me decide how to use it? Very bold.”

You blink. “It… wasn’t not bold.”

Her smile softens, eyes crinkling at the corners. “I’ll try not to disappoint.”

Before you can respond or combust, she tucks the cup carefully into her hand, turns, and walks toward the door. You stare after her like an idiot. At the door, she pauses, looks back over her shoulder.

“I’ll call,” she says, then adds, with a smirk, “unless I decide to surprise you instead.”

She turns, then pauses again, as if debating something.

“Also, you should know, if a cat yowls in the background when I call, that’s Sergio. He has no sense of boundaries.”

You grin. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

“He’ll probably want to say hi.”

She gives you one last look, half promise, half mischief, then finally steps outside, cup in hand, and disappears into the street.

You stand there for a second longer than necessary, smile tugging at your lips, already imagining what kind of cat Sergio might be. Something regal, probably. Demanding. Definitely spoiled. Her cat. You didn’t even know she had one, and now it feels like knowing a secret. A real one.

Then it hits you. She told you, she’s going to call. She has your number and this is definetly happening.

Then she’s gone and you’re left standing there, red-faced, breathless, and 85% sure you’re going to have to sit down before you fall over.

From the kitchen, your coworker leans out. “Did that just happen?”

You nod, slowly. Stunned by your own boldness and her reaction. Never in a million years did you think Emily actually liked you. Like, really, truly liked you.

They grin. “Told you she was into you.”

You flash back to that conversation from last week, standing behind the bar, latte art in hand, and your coworker nudging you with an elbow.

“She always comes to your register.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,“ you say, a blush creeping up your cheeks.

“Y/N, she literally winked at you.”

“Maybe she had something in her eye?”

Your coworker had just laughed. “You’ll see.”

You pick up a fresh cup and begin to draw a cat, give it tiny sunglasses and a cocktail in its paw. Because somehow, the world feels different today. Better. Lighter. You’re still smiling when the next customer steps up. Let’s just say: foxes are out. Cats are back in.

taglist: @imightbethewriter @frazzled-fairy @daddy-heather-dunbar @heartoreadallthequeerthingz

[wlwoceaneyes]

emily prentiss + outfits (season 5, part 1)

[wlwoceaneyes]

Writing is basically falling in love with an idea,

then immediately doubting if you're good enough for it.

Love at first sight quickly turns into anxiety at first paragraph.

[wlwoceaneyes]

Reminders for fanfic writers who think it “doesn’t count”

✦ Your writing counts. like, a lot. If someone felt something because of what you wrote, then it matters. That scene you almost didn’t post? Yeah. Believe me, someone out there bookmarked it for a reason.

✦ Writing existing characters doesn’t make it “less than.” You’re building arcs, crafting dialogue, emotion, pacing. You’re studying character psychology like a scientist. That’s not “just fanfic,” that’s storytelling.

✦ “but it’s just fanfic” ...no. STOP, it’s craft. It’s understanding tone. It’s hitting emotional beats. It’s layering theme and backstory and prose into something people feel. You’re doing the work, you just don’t get graded on it. (Which, honestly is a blessing.)

✦ Writing fanfic means you love stories enough to live inside them. You care, deeply. You care enough to reimagine, to explore, to add something of yourself to a world you didn’t create and somehow still make it feel brand new.

✦ Someone out there rereads your fic like it’s their favorite book. Maybe they’ve saved a line to their notes app,or they quote it to a friend. Maybe they just think about it when they’re having a bad day. That little fic you almost deleted, it’s comfort now.

✦ Your comments section is real. Every “I needed this” and “this made me cry in a good way” is proof, you don’t need a book deal to matter. You don’t need a publisher to have an impact, because you already do.

FANFIC IS WRITING! Fanfic is yours.

You’re not “just” anything. You’re a writer, own it. Be proud of that.

[wlwoceaneyes]

EMILY PRENTISS

Criminal Minds - 06x14 | Sense Memory

[wlwoceaneyes]

I love you shy!reader fics so much!! And I kinda have a request? It's alright if you don't like it. But I was thinking about a shy buff reader that wears loose clothes and suits that dont really show much, until one day they have an emergency and r bursts into the office wearing a tank top and shorts. And obviously, Emily can't stop staring and when they get alone she comes to r saying she'd always imagined what was like under all those clothes, all flirty and feeling r's bicep, While r is almost combusting.

You can do wtv you want with this !! I just couldn't get it out of my head

Thank you for the request 🤭, I hope you like the way it turned out.

That's what I thought

Word count: 1.9 k Tags: buff!reader, shy!reader, flirty!Emily

You’ve always hated tight clothes. Not because you were ashamed of your body, at least, not exactly, but because attention made you uneasy. There’s a kind of safety in soft fabric, in the looseness of suits and sweaters that hide what’s underneath. People see what they expect to see: the quiet one, the assistant who keeps to herself, the analyst who doesn’t talk much unless she’s asked. And that’s fine, you never wanted more than that. Until today.

You were in the middle of making a highly needed coffee when the call came in, an emergency override code from the FBI’s internal systems, something rare enough to make your heart jump before your brain even caught up. You work in Cyber Operations, low visibility by design, but always on call, especially when the network starts to burn. Five minutes, that’s all you had. Five minutes to throw on whatever was clean, shove your badge into the side pocket of your small bag, and race across Quantico under the suffocating heat of summer that seemed determined to cling to every inch of exposed skin. You’d just finished your morning run, still warm from the rhythm of motion, your breathing not yet fully returned to baseline. The clothes you’d thrown on were far from the usual work attire, but there had been no time to change, no time for anything except getting there.

Now you’re standing in the middle of your division’s floor, pulse still high, breath unsteady, dressed in black running shorts and a gray tank top that leaves nothing to the imagination, and everything open to scrutiny. You’re explaining the nature of the breach to your supervisor, trying to sound like the professional you are, while silently willing the weight of a hundred glances to disappear. Not all glances. Her glance. Emily Prentiss.

She doesn’t work directly with you, to be exact not in your department, but you’ve had enough contact over the past months to know her presence before you even turn your head. She’s a senior agent, composed, intuitive, always five steps ahead of the room. And though she’s never unkind, there’s a gravity in the way she looks at people, like she’s reading the parts of them they didn’t mean to show. You’ve spent enough late nights untangling system logs to know what it looks like when someone reads between the lines, and she? She makes a profession of it. She’s a profiler. And everything you’ve ever heard about her? She wears it like a second skin. She doesn’t miss much and she’s more than earned that reputation.

You’ve been trying not to think about her too much. About the way her voice wraps around your name like she’s not even aware she’s saying it softer than the others. About the way your skin tightens when she enters the room, even if it’s only for a briefing or a glance over your shoulder at a screen. A quiet, persistent ache you’ve buried under layers of fabric and unspoken hope.

And now she’s staring. In her defense, she doesn’t look rudely or intrusively. She looks with interest. With a kind of quiet, analytical wonder, as if a long-held question has just been answered, and the answer is far more intriguing than expected.

You finish your explanation, voice clipped at the edges despite your best efforts, and mutter a soft, “Sorry,” as you shift your weight and cross your arms in front of your chest, an instinctive motion that has nothing to do with modesty and everything to do with the sudden rawness of being seen. The AC hums, ineffective against the heat, but you still feel cold. There’s something about her attention that makes your skin feel peeled back, not exposed, exactly, but held, like she’s reached out and touched something she shouldn’t have known how to find.

Your supervisor waves you off with a distracted nod, too preoccupied with the data unfolding across his tablet to notice the tension crackling just beneath your skin. You glance back just once, against your better judgment, and she’s still watching. Still wearing that almost-smile, the kind that’s invisible to anyone not already looking too closely.

You leave. Not because you’re supposed to, not because your part is over, but because staying would mean unraveling, and you’re not sure how much more of yourself you can afford to show. You retreat into motion, burrow into the pulse of your work, into the logic and code and protocol of failure recovery. You don’t stop until the system stabilizes, until the panic recedes into manageable dullness and someone in admin offers you a hoodie two sizes too big and doesn’t ask questions.

By then, it’s too late. The image has already lived its life. Your phone vibrates with a message from a colleague you barely speak to: Did Prentiss just STARE at you for two whole minutes or am I losing my mind?

You don’t respond. Not because the message doesn’t matter, it does, more than it should, but because words feel too sharp, too definite, and you’re not ready for any of them. So instead, you sit. Tucked into the hallway just outside the server room, one leg drawn up to your chest, the back of your head resting against the wall’s cool surface. The coffee in your hand is long since cold, and your heart refuses to be reasoned with.

“Hey.”

You hear her before you see her, though the voice has lived in your head for days now, no weeks, if you’re honest, and it still manages to draw your breath inward like a secret.

You look up slowly, careful. She’s standing a few feet away, suit jacket gone, her sleeves rolled to the elbows, the sharp lines of her shirt catching just enough of the light to make her look taller, calmer, a little more human than usual. Her hair is tied back. She’s holding a water bottle she doesn’t seem to need, her posture relaxed in a way that feels rehearsed.

“I figured I’d find you here,” she says, her words wrapped in something gentler than amusement. “You slip out when the spotlight hits.”

Like instinct. Like self-defense. Like muscle memory you never meant to train. A breath escapes you, half a laugh, half a confession. “Is that what I do?”

“It’s not a bad thing,” she replies quickly, like she’s afraid of saying too much. “Just something I’ve… noticed.”

Her gaze moves to the hoodie, lingers there. “You changed.”

You nod. “It felt… weird.”

“Why?” She tilts her head, just slightly, and takes a step closer. “You looked good.”

Your pulse stumbles so hard it hurts. “I—uh… thanks.”

She doesn’t say anything right away. She just sits down beside you, close enough to warm the space between your shoulders but not so close that you feel cornered. The silence stretches, slow and heavy, but not uncomfortable.

“I have to admit,” she says after a pause, tone dipping into something almost teasing, “I’ve been curious.”

Your chest tightens. “About what?”

Her lips curve barely, like the shadow of a thought, and she looks at you sideways, eyes dark and unreadable. “What’s under all those suits.”

You blink, too stunned to respond, but she doesn’t seem surprised by your silence. Maybe it’s because this moment has been building, not in words, but in everything else. In all the times she’s lingered by your desk longer than necessary. In the questions she’s asked that didn’t quite belong in a case file. In the small, careful glances that always seemed like accidents until now. It’s not the words, not exactly. It’s the way she says them. Soft. Honest. Dangerous in its quiet intimacy.

You want to sink into the fabric around you, the wall behind you, the floor beneath your feet. Anything to escape the sudden, impossible lightness in your chest. She notices.

“I’m not trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“I know,” you whisper, not looking at her. “It’s not that.”

“Then what is it?”

You stare down at your hands. At the calluses that never quite fade. At the strength you don’t show, the discipline you don’t speak of. You wonder if she’s seen any of it, really seen it, or if it only became real to her today.

“It’s just… you’re Emily Prentiss.”

There’s a quiet laugh, soft and whole and without mockery. “And?”

“And I’m me.”

She leans her head back against the wall, eyes closing for a moment. When she opens them again, she looks at you with something warmer than understanding.

“The quiet, brilliant, unexpectedly ripped analyst,” she murmurs, “who somehow thinks I haven’t been trying to flirt with her for a month.”

You turn to her, stunned. “You what?”

She meets your gaze directly, and for a long, suspended second, nothing moves. Then her hand lifts slowly, with the kind of deliberate patience that undoes you, and trails along your arm, her fingers brushing the curve of your bicep like she’s confirming a theory she’s carried in silence.

“Yeah,” she says, voice dipped in velvet. “That’s what I thought.”

You can’t move, can’t breathe. Your thoughts scatter like leaves caught in sudden wind, chaotic and weightless, all logic pulled from under you like a thread yanked too fast from a seam.

“I—” It’s barely a sound, more breath than word, and it dies the moment it leaves your mouth.

She doesn’t press, and doesn’t ask. She only watches you for a moment longer, her gaze steady but unbearably gentle, like she’s cataloging every fragment of your reaction, the twitch in your fingers, the way your shoulders tense under the weight of her nearness, the way your eyes can’t decide whether to meet hers or flee. Then she smiles. Not for show, not for power, but with the kind of quiet certainty that makes your stomach fold in on itself.

“I’ll let you catch your breath,” she murmurs, her voice so close to tender it almost breaks you. She leans in, not much, just enough that her presence brushes against yours, barely a whisper of distance between you, and you catch it, that flicker of mischief tucked beneath her control, as if she’s enjoying the way you unravel.

“But just so you know…” Her hand lifts again, fingers ghosting along your forearm with maddening softness, trailing heat in their wake. “You’re not as invisible as you think.”

Your breath stutters at her words, and you have no idea what you’re supposed to do with your hands, your eyes, or your heart. The moment hangs, too full, too close. Heat lingers where her fingers touched, where her voice folded between syllables like a secret not meant to be heard. It shouldn’t matter, it’s just a sentence, a glance. But it does.

She straightens slowly, her movements as fluid as ever, not rushed, not dramatic, just measured, like she knows exactly how to leave a room and make it feel like the air followed her out. And then she’s gone. No grand exit. No footsteps echoing. Just the fading hum of presence and the quiet burn of where she touched you.

The borrowed hoodie is too warm now, clinging to you like it knows what just happened, and your body feels too small to hold the way your heart is hammering beneath your ribs.

You don’t know what terrifies you more: That she saw right through you or that some part of you wanted her to.

taglist: @imightbethewriter @frazzled-fairy @daddy-heather-dunbar

[wlwoceaneyes]

Name a better feeling than getting the first comment on a fic you were uncertain about and knowing that at least one person liked the tiny piece of your brain that you put on the internet

[wlwoceaneyes]

Emily Prentiss x non BAU girlfriend so when her girlfriend asks what “SSA Prentiss” stands for, Emily smirks and casually says “It means super sexy agent Prentiss”

[wlwoceaneyes]

The hair and that vest🫣😩

[wlwoceaneyes]

EMILY PRENTISS in Criminal Minds 13x09 'False Flag'

[wlwoceaneyes]

EMILY PRENTISS and JENNIFER JAREAU 

CRIMINAL MINDS 17.04 // 3.04

[wlwoceaneyes]

i love reblogging things i've already reblogged like. y'all are going to see this again

[wlwoceaneyes]

Guess what? Part 2 is done and coming your way this week 🥳

Still a mystery

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader word count: 2.2 k summary: You work at a café near the FBI building, where she comes in almost every morning. She never tells you her name, only says “Surprise me” when you ask. But something about her draws you in: the quiet glances, the knowing smile, the spark in her eyes. You fall a little harder with every coffee you serve. And just when you think you’ll never know her name, she leans in and whispers it like a secret meant only for you: Emily Prentiss. tags: shy and clueless reader, barista!reader, shy!reader, flirty!Emily, light slow burn, emotional tension, strangers to something more, fluff, awkward but cute

“One oat milk cappuccino, please,” says a man in a dark t-shirt and with a bit of stubble. He’s been here often, definitely one of the regulars at the café you’ve been working at for the past few months. He leans on the counter with his muscular arms, exuding the kind of casual charm that tells you he’s used to women smiling back. His smile is cocky, confident, and his eyes scan the room with the ease of someone who assumes he’ll always be the center of attention.

You’ve seen it before, this exact brand of effortless charisma, it’s not unkind, just a little loud for this early in the morning. And still, you smile politely, nod and reach for the cup. Because that’s the job. Smiling, nodding, pretending the chatter doesn’t rattle you even on the worst days.

It’s not ideal. Not what you pictured yourself doing after finishing your degree in Applied Linguistics. But it’s the only thing paying your bills at the moment. Your boss is nice and pays you well, but the job just isn’t for you. When you started, you could barely string two words together, and your coworkers were quickly running out of patience. You’d probably be better off working in a warehouse, no customer interaction, no pressure to talk to people.

The only thing that’s kept you from being let go early is your ability to create tiny works of art in milk foam and on coffee cups.

“That’ll be 4.20,” you say, tapping the screen and turning the card reader toward him. “Derek, right?”

Derek gives you a crooked grin as he pulls out his phone to pay.

“Don’t you think it’s a little unfair that you know my name, but I don’t know yours?”

“It’s my job,” you reply dryly, but you wink at him. You’ve shared a few light-hearted conversations with him by now. “Besides…” you gesture to your name tag. “Technically, you do know my name.”

“Ouch.” He clutches his chest dramatically, flashing you a pearly smile.

“And you call yourself a profiler,” cuts in the dark-haired woman beside him, she’s also been in a few times, but you’ve never managed to catch her name. She’s breathtaking with her long black hair, impeccable posture, a coat that fits like it was tailored for her, and sharp eyes that miss nothing. There’s something about her confidence that ties your tongue in knots the moment she walks in.

Whenever you ask for her name, which is already hard enough with the way she carries herself and the way your heart beats faster just watching her walk in, she just says: “Surprise me.” You still cringe remembering the first time you’d asked for her name. Your voice had cracked halfway through, and you were sure your cheeks were still red an hour later.

So you draw something on her coffee cup every time she is here. Hoping to get a smile out of her. You even looked up inspiration a few days ago, images, symbols, little doodles you thought might suit her. At least you know this much: both of them work for the FBI. The main building is right next door, and most of your customers are agency employees.

Derek steps aside to make room for the woman. She glances at the board behind you, then at you, then back up again. You tilt your head with a grin. You’ve seen this tactic before, even if you haven’t quite figured out why she’s stalling.

“The usual?” you ask gently, and her eyes flick to yours.

“Let me think,” she murmurs, brushing a strand of dark hair behind her ear.

You’re already reaching for a cup, waiting patiently for her order. She’s one of the few people who doesn’t make you restless when they take their time.

“The usual,” she nods, suppressing a knowing smile as she pulls out her phone to pay. Dimples appear on her cheeks, and your knees go a little weak.

You don’t bother asking for her name, you just enter her order into the system so she can pay.

“You really remembered,” she notes, and you feel heat rushing to your cheeks.

You want to brush it off, say it’s just a good memory. But with her? You can’t lie. Something about her eyes strips you of anything but the truth. She has this uncanny ability to read people, to see straight through them with just one glance, like she’s flipping through your thoughts the way others might read a menu.

“Maybe,” you say, tugging your sleeve a little. “Or I just got lucky.”

“Lucky, huh?” she raises her shoulders slightly like she’s about to laugh, but her expression stays serious, though her eyes sparkle mischievously. She’s enjoying this. Watching you squirm under her gaze, nearly disappear into the floor from sheer embarrassment. Still, you’d bet your life she doesn’t mean it unkindly. At least, you hope not.

“Since you won’t tell me your name, I remembered your order instead,” you admit, just before the next customer steps up, waving their phone impatiently in front of your face. He doesn’t even glance at her, instead nudges slightly past her shoulder to get your attention.

“Some of us have to get to work,” he snaps. He’s in a rumpled grey suit, bluetooth headset still blinking, his whole demeanor screaming impatience.

The woman raises an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by his tone. She straightens subtly, her posture crisp, and turns her head just enough to give him a pointed look.

“And this is her work,” she replies, calm but firm. “She’s doing her job and she asked for my order.”

A shiver runs down your spine at her voice, low and protective. You bite back a sound. Something between a squeak and a sigh. Something that would definitely make you want to disappear into the floor. If she or anyone had heard it, it would’ve confirmed every single thing you’ve tried to hide.

You can’t deny it anymore: you’ve developed a small, but intense crush on this woman you don’t even know by name. Your friends tease you about it, laugh at the fact that you don’t even know what she’s called, and still don’t have the guts to properly talk to her. Your shyness stands in the way. Again. And you curse it more than ever. You used to hope that with your degree, you’d land somewhere in a quiet back office, analyzing syntax or structure not front and center with customers and their impatient moods.

“Whatever,” the man mutters, shooting her a glare before turning back to you. “Double espresso. With honey.”

You don’t even blink, but your stomach turns. You’ll never understand some people’s taste in coffee. You’ve seen it all by now: oat milk with five pumps of hazelnut, americanos with lemon, cold brew mixed with orange juice. But this? This one always gets you.

As you reach for a cup, you feel her eyes on you. Stronger than usual, like she’s reading you, studying every flicker of your reaction. Does she know what you’re thinking? Does she feel how off-balance she makes you?

You fumble. Just a second of distraction and your fingers knock the milk pitcher off the edge. A loud clang interrupts the mostly silent café and hot milk spills across the counter, splashes to the floor, sprays your bare legs.

“Shit,” you hiss, reaching for a cold towel and rubbing at your burned skin.

“Are you okay?” you hear her voice, suddenly so much closer than seconds before.

She’s beside you in a flash, reaching for your hand. Her fingers curl gently around yours, steady, warm. Your first instinct is to pull away, to disappear, to pretend the milk incident never happened. But her hand stays there, thumb brushing over your knuckles like she’s grounding you. Like she knows your nerves are about to riot.

“It’s not too hot, is it?” she asks softly, looking down at your legs, then back up at you. Her brow is slightly furrowed, but her voice has that same calm, low tone that always makes you forget how to breathe.

You manage a tiny nod.

“I—I think I’m okay. Just startled,” you mumble, eyes fixed on where your hands touch. “I’ll go clean up…”

You start to pull away, but she doesn’t let go right away. Instead, she holds on just long enough for you to glance up at her, and when your eyes meet, her lips curl into the faintest, warmest smile.

She holds your gaze, her voice quieter now. “Good. I’d hate for anything to happen to my favorite barista.”

The words catch you off guard, the kind of phrase that would sound cheesy from anyone else but from her, it lands like a velvet arrow, knocking the breath right out of you. That sentence alone nearly short-circuits your brain. Favorite? Her favorite??

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out, just a tiny, confused huff that makes her eyes light up with amusement.

“You okay?” she teases gently, clearly enjoying your reaction.

You nod again, maybe a little too fast. She finally releases your hand, and the spot where her fingers touched yours tingles. You turn quickly, grabbing a fresh towel to clean the mess, only to give yourself a second to breathe, to recover. You wipe the floor quickly, then the counter, then the milk machine that doesn’t even need cleaning, anything to keep your hands busy.

You feel her eyes still on you, and for a moment, the café noise blurs into the background. When you finally dare to look back at her, she’s standing patiently off to the side, one hand on the counter, the other casually tucking her phone into her coat pocket. It’s like she was never behind the counter, like she hadn’t just touched your hand and made your heart forget its rhythm.

She notices your glance and tilts her head. “You sure everything is alright?” she asks with a glint in her eyes.

You offer a tiny, shaky smile instead, cheeks burning. The heat creeps up from your neck to your ears, impossible to hide. Surely she can feel it. Her cup rests lightly in your hand now. Without thinking, you begin to draw something you decided days ago would be perfect for her. Once it’s finished, you set it aside with care, letting your fingers linger just a moment longer than necessary. Then you reach for another cup. It’s for the rude customer. Kyle, if you remember correctly.

“Still not going to ask for my name?” she ventures, leaning casually on the counter now, a lopsided smile forming on her lips.

You blink. That’s new. Your usual reply catches in your throat. Usually she dances around it, dodges the question. Tells you to surprise her. But now… she’s offering.

You reach slowly for her to-go cup, ignoring how your fingers still tremble a little. You lift a pen and after a heartbeat of hesitation you write: “Still a mystery…”

You show her the cup with a shy, crooked smile.

She lets out a low chuckle, then shakes her head slightly, amused. “Alright. You win.”

You nod, your fingers still nervously fidgeting with the pen. “Kind of. You’ve known mine this whole time.”

She grins, taking the cup from your hand, nodding towards your name on the badge pinned to your shirt. “Well, I had an unfair advantage.”

She leans in just a touch, and your mind blanks entirely. “It’s Emily,” she says quietly, like it’s a secret, like it’s meant only for you.

You stare, stunned for half a second. Finally. A name. The name settles into your chest like it was always meant to be there. You feel your mouth curve into something softer than a smile, a quiet awe.

Your voice barely above a whisper, you respond, “Emily…”

You test the name like it’s a word in a language you’ve always wanted to learn.

She watches you, eyes gleaming. “Now we’re even.”

Her attention drops to the doodle you’ve drawn. This time, a little black cat with green eyes curled inside a coffee cup. Her brows lift, amused. “You know, I’ve been looking forward to these little drawings more than the caffeine,” she says, tapping her nail gently against the cup.

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly dry. Then she leans just a little closer, lowering her voice. “They’re always different. Always something clever. Cute, too.”

Her smile is knowing now, a little warmer, more direct. “I like surprises.”

You blink, unsure whether to laugh or hide under the counter. As she turns to go, she pauses at the door, one hand on the handle. Derek’s already outside, but she doesn’t look at him, her eyes are still on you. “Thanks for the coffee. And for the art.”

“I…uh…”

But before anything remotely coherent comes out, she’s already smiling again, that same flirtatious edge to her voice as she adds: “I’ll see you tomorrow, Y/N.”

Outside, you catch a glimpse of Derek raising an eyebrow at Emily, giving her a look that says, "Really? Her?" but she just shrugs, like the answer is obvious. It makes your chest flutter.

And then, softer, just before the door swings shut, “Maybe next time, I’ll draw something for you.”

You’re left standing behind the counter, heart hammering, cheeks burning, and one name echoing in your mind like a quiet, perfect secret: Emily.

taglist: @imightbethewriter @frazzled-fairy @daddy-heather-dunbar

[wlwoceaneyes]

emily prentiss + sitting like this

CRIMINAL MINDS 3.18 // 7.21 // 17.02

[wlwoceaneyes]

half return

emily prentiss x gn!reader

summary: things haven't been the same since emily's return: fragile & delicate. you won't allow your friendship to fall apart, not when you finally have her back in your life.

word count: 1.9k

disclaimers: set in season seven. emily is emotionally repressed and deflecting (naturally). case mentioned. kinda character study (i know its canon that emily rushed to repair her relationships after her return in s7 but i wanted to explore what it might look like with a reader where their relationship was deep. you know? someone emily had previously opened up too. because i think that could look very different - i could talk about this for hours. i may have to make a post).

You actually quite enjoyed research. There was something rather ritualistic about sifting through old records, jotting down notes in the process, and slowly trying to peace together a profile. It was slower, and the looming pressure of new victims didn't cease, but still it felt good to pause for a second in the otherwise constant chaos that was working at the BAU.

The mountains of boxes and loose paper currently spewed across Baltimore's stuffy filing room did however momentarily make you regret all your prior comments. As the towers threatened to topple over, crushing you under their inhumane heights.

Morgan had taken one look, muttered “Oh, hell no,” and legged it out the door and honestly you couldn’t blame him. Even you had winced.

Still, you weren't one to back down from a challenge. You squared your shoulders and with help from Spencer and Emily, slowly started to make progress. However, two hours in Hotch decided he needed Spencer back on the geographical profile and couldn't afford to send anyone else to assist you. Spencer apologetically waved his goodbyes, and you watched him go with only slight desperation.

Just you and Emily left.

Which was fine.

Good.

Normal.

You eye her over the police file. Things have been… not awkward exactly since her return, just delicate, maybe? Fragile. Like you were both waiting for the moment a mild gust of wind came and blew away the tattered remains of your friendship.

It still felt so surreal seeing her. The woman you'd spent seven months grieving was now sitting in front of you, brows furrowed as she tiredly flicked through a file, the biro in her hand tapping absentmindedly on her notepad beside her, ready to add to her collection of scrawled ideas and half-formed thoughts. Her hair slips into her eyes and she tucks it behind her ear as she turns a page in the file.

She often had her raven hair tucked back behind her ear now. You've always loved her full bangs, but the side part felt like a gift; revealing more of her face to you and allowing you to silently marvel in her beauty.

"Did you always imagine yourself doing this?" You ask as you grab the next report. Aiming for casual, but unsure if you succeed as your heart beats rapidly. Your fingers restlessly drum against the file, a nervous habit you've never been able to kick.

You feel sixteen again, like she's the popular girl in school you're desperately trying to impress, apart from this time it's worse. Your emotions are all caught up in the mess and you're hopelessly wanting for any sort of connection or normality.

There hadn't been this much of chasm between you in years and you don't know what to do with it. You weren't even sure why it was there. Everyone else seemed to be finding their rhythm with Emily again, and yet you kept missing your step, your heart reaching your throat each time.

She looks up, her brows rising and lips spreading into a smirk, “Sitting surrounded by hundreds of mind-numbing police records trying to track down what happened to our victims when they were teenagers in the off chance it's connected to the case? Oh yeah, that’s what I dreamed about every night as a kid, didn’t you?”

You roll your eyes, your lips twitching. At least some things stayed the same. “I more meant working at the BAU, or even the FBI. Is it what you always wanted to do?”

She bites her lips, her gaze rolling around the room playfully as she hums. A bid for time while she decides whether to answer truthfully or not.

Because while the chasm exists, like this, you're pretty sure you can still read her.

You try not to shift in your seat, hoping for just one small disclosure. Something new, something real.

“I had no idea. Not until college.” She admits, shaking her head, her lips pressed together. “Not until the world felt a bit more open.” Her mouth twitches, a hint of a self deprecating smile appearing, before she pulls it back, hidden.

You nod, lips tilting up just slightly. “You studied Criminal Justice, right?”

“Yes, which as you can imagine, my mother loved." She laughs wryly, her eyes meeting yours from across the table. You hold her gaze knowingly, a part of you wishing you could take her hand and soothe away the hurt. This wasn't the first time in the years you’ve known her that the Ambassador had come up.

"I used to think maybe if I'd gone into law she’d have been happy but I think she just likes to criticise my every choice.” She huffs and discards the file into the growing pile before selecting a new one, her lips twisting in silent displeasure before she can shrug away the sensation.

She looks at you as she opens it, her eyes curious. “What’s with the twenty questions?”

You shrug, “Making conversation I guess.”

Emily hums, her eyes continuing to watch you for a moment before she accepts the answer with a nod and returns to the report in front of her.

You can't do anything to stop the pleased smile on your lips as you look back to the report spread out in front of you.

June 2000. Elderly woman was car jacked.

Definitely nothing to do with the case. You throw the file easily onto the corresponding pile and select a new one. The silence feels lighter, warding off the stuffy air of the room which moments before had been clogging up your throat and making it difficult to breathe. Now, you feel settled, a warmth encompassing you and your confidence building.

Emily's watchful eyes land on you more than once. You can hear the cogs spinning in her head, but you let the silence stretch and give her the space to come to you. Eventually she turns the page of her report, eyes still trapped on the words below her as she murmurs, "What about you then? Was this the dream?”

You squish your lips together to hide the pleased smile threatening to take over your face, but when you look up and notice Emily's expression flicker you're certain she caught you anyway.

"Uh," You push forward, shrugging. There's curiosity in her gaze, but behind that you can see the assumptions beginning to form, the profiler at play.

“I think I just wanted to help people. Whatever form that took.” You admit with another shrug, feeling exposed as you bite your lip and duck your head just slightly.

Her gaze softens, a hint of a smile lingering on her face as she shakes her head in disbelief. "Of course you did. You’re good.”

You choke on your tongue, her sincerity flooring you. "What?"

"Oh, come on." She scoffs, "I'm not saying it again. You heard me and you know it's true."

"Emily," You shake your head, mouth opening and closing as you try to find the words to explain how she'd just split your chest open.

"I—" You blink. "Thank you."

She ducks her head, eyes scanning back to the file. "Have you found anything related to our victims?" She asks, the crease between her brows the only indication that your conversation has left an impact.

You know the case is important, but you hate when she does this: hides behind professionalism. It's not new, it's always, for as long as you've known her, been one of her go to tools when someone gets too close. But her tolerance for vulnerability seems to have weakened. It's like the second you try to inquire past the surface her walls slap you in the face.

It's the reason for the chasm. It must be.

Emily's never been an open book but there used to be some understanding between you both. On her bad days she would come to you, and although she'd rarely find the words, she'd sometimes let you see the tears, let you sit beside her until the world felt a little more steady. But since her return that trust had not been restored. She was going at it all alone.

And you just couldn't have that.

You sigh, eyes kind but knowing she's going to hate every word. "It's okay, you know. To stay in this moment. You don't have to always hide behind work."

She snorts, defensive. "Yeah, how much did you pay for a therapist to tell you that?"

You roll your eyes, sharper this time, but breathing through the hit. "Does it make it any less true? I feel like we hardly talk anymore."

That makes her blink, the file finally dropping. "We talk all the time."

"It's not the same. You must feel the distance."

She stares at you, mind spinning. Words forming and dying in her throat before she dares to voice them... And then, finally, a quiet, almost broken. "I'm trying."

You shake your head, heart aching. "No, Em. That's not what I'm—" You stand up and quickly round the table, file discarded carelessly in the process. You perch on the table beside her. Her gaze is fixated on the wall, distant and forlorn, and you carefully reach out and touch her arm, caressing the soft cotton of her t-shirt.

Her eyes rise to meet yours, guarded but powerful. She's never been weak, not even now when you've touched a part of her she's terrified of. She holds your gaze ready to take whatever blow comes. It makes you nauseous.

"You're not alone anymore." You promise. "I'm here. You can come to me with anything."

She looks away, her creased brows a dead give away to her pain even if she tries to deflect with a flimsy laugh. "Yeah, alright."

"Emily, listen to my words." Your hand slides up, caressing her face and delicately cupping her jaw, bringing her eyes back to yours. "I've already lost you once. I'm not doing it again."

She stares at you. Dark brown eyes, vulnerable and with a spark of something that might just be hope.

"It's dark in there." She croaks, voice choked with emotion and barely louder than a whisper.

"That's okay. Let's handle it together."

She stares at you for a long time. And you hold her, steady and purposefully. Trying to reassure her in the silence that you would not leave. Even as tears ghost her eyes, you stay; your fingers stroking the line of her jaw soothingly.

And eventually… one singular nod.

You smile.

You should pull away, you know. But you haven't been this close to her in forever so you linger. It's too intimate to be anything casual, but you can pretend, can eat up the moment greedily while she allows it. She closes her eyes, leaning into the pressure of your hand, just slightly, for only a moment. So short you think you might have imagined it.

And then she pulls away, humour dancing in her dark irises. The intensity of the moment fading away. "See, told you. You're too good."

You tut and close the distance again to place a careless kiss on her forehead. Neither of you are ready right now for more, you're too scared she'll disappear and she's too uncertain in her safety. But it's enough for now just to kiss her forehead and pull back. To smile at each other and feel the ghost of her hand, a silent squeezing thank you, almost like a promise, like you're both saying some day.

Considering five months ago you still moved through your days with the grief of her death weighing heavily on your shoulders.

Some day felt like a dream.

[wlwoceaneyes]

went looking for a creation myth (ended up with a pair of cracked lips) | e.p

Tags: assistant!reader, unit chief emily, reader has a shit date, kinda plotless except for the pathetic amount of yearning, fluff, emily's not an asshole yay, I love writing these guys so much they literally possessed me to fully write two fics in two days

Summary: You find Emily waiting when you come back from your disaster of a date. She apologizes, and takes you for ice cream. Requested here.

Word count: 1.4k

Part one

The date is a sham. 

He offers you half the bill, ducks out halfway to bum a cigarette, and claims your house is far too much out of his way home—despite the fact that he picked you up, the fucker. It should have been apparent, when he’d honked to let you know he arrived and kept consistently cutting off the waiter to layer his own words on top. 

Stupid. You never should’ve let Penelope talk you into this. 

You grab an uber home and try not to sulk at a perfectly good Friday night otherwise wasted on some undeserving asshat in fakely woven Louis Vuitton and a too-loose Rolex. At least you look good, you think dully as the car pulls up at your apartment. You pay the driver and get out, heaving a breath as you make your way to the door. Your heels make the only sound on the street, until another car door slams and footsteps sound behind you, a velvet voice making you startle.

“Y/N.”

“Jesus!” You whirl around, nearly toppling. Emily stares as your chest heaves, her bitterly dark eyes sweeping from the top of your head to the shiny heels on your feet. She’d shed her blazer and stiff posture along the way; swallowed by the night, she looks far smaller than she does in the office, far softer. 

You feel your shoulders shrink, a weird, hot humiliation curling in your gut. She doesn’t know, you tell yourself.

But…

“What are you doing here? Have you been…waiting for me?” That’s not right. Emily Prentiss doesn’t wait around for anyone. But her chin dips just slightly, the smallest fraction of acknowledgement. Your mouth drops wider. “How long have you been here?”

“Not long. I—” she inhales a deep breath, “I wanted to apologize.”

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry. For the way I acted. It wasn’t fair to you, and there’s no excuse.”

It’s kind of cute that she thinks you haven’t handled enough of her sharp remarks to let them roll off your back. You’ve gotten used to it. She’s bitchy sometimes, no time or headspace for manners, but she always softens right after. It’s not that you accept it, you tell yourself. You don’t. You just know she’s always stretched thin and two pascals of pressure away from snapping in half. 

I don’t need you rushes back in loud and clear. But she didn’t mean it like that. Right? She just didn’t need you then.

Or so you tell yourself.

God, this woman.

“Don’t sweat it, honey.” You wave a flippant hand, your spine crumbling. “You weren’t any worse than my date.”

She winces. “How’d it go?”

“Shittily.” You sniff. “I’m never calling him again. Waste of a perfectly good weeknight.” You cross your arms over your chest, sulking. You’re not even sufficiently drunk.

You’re close to it, though, a low buzz in your bones at her close proximity. She’s an arm’s length away, haloed by light as if in a dream, her face smoothed from the stress lines of work.

“Night’s not over yet.” Emily says softly. “Can I…can I make it up to you? Do you wanna get ice cream, maybe?”

You do have a sweet tooth.

____

Of course her car smells nice. It’s clean and sleek, the faint, familiar scent she carries around clinging to the stitches in the leather. Her perfume is woven into your soul now; it’s caramelly and smooth, something you’d bet is golden, bitter where it rests on the jut of her collarbone. 

You shake your head just barely, forcing the thoughts to disperse. Your eyes leave the road and naturally latch on to Emily’s side of the car, following the pale ridges of her knuckles on the wheel. She holds it firmly, her other hand lying on her thigh, slender fingers ghostly on top of her dark slacks, the dark shadows pouring into the car. You trace the straight line of her nose from light years away.

Her voice comes low and sudden, startling you though she doesn’t even turn an inch your way.

“What?”

Shit.

“Nothing.” 

She gives you a sidelong glance. 

“It’s just—you’re out of the office.” You blurt.

“Well, I don’t actually live there.” Emily says dryly, “Contrary to popular belief.” She flicks the signal on and makes a turn. Streetlights illuminate her for a split second, pouring gold over black.

“Was it too boring without me?”

You earn the slightest twitch of her lips. “Something like that.” She murmurs. Silence reigns for a beat, then, “Not nearly as motivating.”

A grin splits your face. From Emily, that’s practically a love confession. 

“Aw, boss. Maybe next time I offer to stay you should just let me.”

Her eyes flick over to you, her brow arching. “Careful now. Don’t let it get to your head.”

The thing is, just this is getting wonderfully, ridiculously to your head. Her silky, warning voice; the intoxicating smell of her car; the feeling of, briefly, being on even footing with her. You physically have to press your legs down to keep them from kicking, pursing your lips to stop the smile from tearing your face down the middle. Goddamn your perpetual need for approval. Goddamn Emily fucking Prentiss.

She buys you ice cream, insists on it being her treat, and catches the glow of lights like some absurdly alluring mythical creature. The shock of cold ice cream on your teeth is the only thing that distracts from the long tilt of her lashes, the effortless elegance to her gait, the way her lipstick begins to blur, bit by bit at the edges, smudged by ice cream and her tongue. She’s otherworldly beautiful. You already know that, god do you know it, but here, half shrouded in shadow and half in syrupy light, she’s entirely unreal. 

Staring at her feels hedonistic.

“Sorry about your date.” She says as you’re walking along the storefronts, her eyes skipping over cracks in the empty sidewalk.

You chance a glance at your watch. It feels like forever ago.

“Would it be shallow of me to say I forgot it already?”

Emily smiles softly. “No. That was kinda the point.”

“Not because you had to grovel?”

“I don’t grovel.” She frowns.

“Maybe a little bit.” You grin. “You did come all this way.”

“And I think I’ll be going back now.”

“No, no!” You laugh, tugging on her arm to bring her back. She doesn’t stumble, exactly, but she does shift too close, leaning a little too hard into your clasped fingers. It brings you face to face, her ridiculously long, ink-black spidery lashes close enough to count.

Her eyes really are a world of their own.

Emily blinks, and the illusion shatters.

“I really do have to get going, though.” She says quietly. You have to pretend you don’t feel her sweetened breath across your skin, sugary with two pounds of whipped cream and an ocean of chocolate fudge. 

You want to taste it. Lip to lip, mouth to mouth, you want to drag your tongue over the gentle, heart-shaped bow of her upper lip, want to taste chocolate and coffee and collapsed clouds of cream from her teeth. As if she’d ever let you. You know that now, she’d taste sweet, ounces and ounces of sugar crystalizing along her molars, coating her tongue though it’d never coat her words. 

Something about it makes you feel dizzy. This sharp-eyed, tightly wound Unit Chief of the BAU, whipsmart and waiting for someone to doubt it, her mouth the sweetest part of her and her tongue the sharpest. It would nick yours, undoubtedly, and you feel insane for wanting the blood to pour from your tongue and onto hers.

Your limbs feel thick as molasses.

“I’ll drop you off.” She says, as if there’s any other option. But you know that with her, there’s not. She wouldn’t leave you on the street. She wouldn’t let you catch a cab or an uber or a helicopter ride back to your apartment. No, she feels a measure of responsibility for you; she brought you here, and she’d take you back.

You can’t manage anything but a jerky nod, your eyes dropping to the melting river of ice cream in your cup. Every single bone in your body is attuned to hers.

Emily Prentiss takes a step back, your pulse leaping with the distance, and you know you’re terribly 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@pastesfactory @whoreforolderfictionalwomen

[wlwoceaneyes]

EMILY PRENTISS + PLANNING | 15.10 “AND IN THE END…”