Dana who puts her fingers in your mouth or Dana who spits in your mouth I’m a firm believer this woman is a late in life lesbian who’s a FREAKKK thank youu
FUCK YEAHHHH give me divorced, newly-out-lesbian dana who's actually filthy and discovering what she wants during sex omg | 18+ this is filth
dana was an absolute freak in the bedroom. she hadn't always been, or maybe she had and just never had the opportunity to showcase it. not with the string of boyfriends back in her teens followed by one long thirty year marriage. either way, divorce gave dana a fresh perspective on life.
she managed to get to the cusp of sixty before realising she liked women. her first ever experience actually being on her 58th birthday with some stranger taking her home after too many gin and tonics. it awoke something in dana. the discovery that sex could be dirty without shame, that multiple orgasms were not in fact a myth and eating pussy isn't a chore but a privilege.
she never saw that woman again but if she did, she'd thank her.
because it was that awakening that landed you in her bed. back arched, tits glistening in a sheen of sweat, writhing beneath her touch. you were desperate for her, wet from the second you caught eye contact through the haze of a dance floor. she'd been out celebrating a friends birthday when you walked in. all pretty n dolled up.
it was dana that struck up conversation and bought the first drink. it was her hand that made its way onto your thigh as you sat snugly in a booth beside the bar. but it was you that asked if she lived nearby and offered to walk her home.
that only led to the two of you being pressed up against a stone wall, engaging in a make out session not fit for public viewing.
"come inside?" she'd panted against your mouth, lips wet and pink.
you'd accepted way too quickly. completely caught up in a dana-drunk haze, you don't remember walking into her house or removing your shoes nor do you remember being dragged up the stairs and stripped naked. but it was the moment she sunk two nimble fingers into your dripping cunt that stuck with you. how her face mirrored yours, mouth falling into an 'o' on the first curl of her knuckles.
"god, you're something else baby" she mumbled against your neck when you'd cried out her name, pussy clenching around her digits. she fucked you so hard, your mind went blank, fuzzy and white, a sky of little stars behind your eyes. "so fuckin wet oh my god" she whined, pulling out her cum covered fingers and inspecting the glisten coating her nails.
"want you to taste it"
"dana- fuck" at this point you were sure she could dirty talk you straight through another orgasm. again and again. words dripping from her lips in that thick accent, making every statement feel like an order.
she danced her wet finger tips along your bottom lip, coating the skin with your own arousal. you opened at her touch, tongue coming out to lick them clean as she worked her fingers against the flat of your tongue. as soon as she curled two inside, you started to suck, taking her all the way to the knuckle until she was practically fucking your mouth.
you moaned sloppily, saliva pooling at the corners and dripping to collect at your chin. you could tell this was working for her by the way she was rolling against your thigh all of a sudden, hips loose and desperate.
"christ thats good" she breathed. "doin so good f'me" your thighs clenched at the praise as her fingers worked your mouth all hot and messy.
"wanna taste me now?"
you mumbled something, sound garbled against her fingers.
"yeah?"
you nodded, pulling her out of you with a pop and gasp for air, begging a "please"
she pushed you til you were flush against the mattress, hovering above with hands either side of your head.
"open"
you repeated your actions earlier, mouth opening and tongue lying flat as she leant over you. she pursed her lips, hollowed her cheeks out and let a bead of spit fall directly into your mouth.
god, the taste of her.
your eyes nearly rolled into the back of your head as you lapped it over your tongue, savouring it, losing her completely inside you.
she could tell you wanted more.
"yeah, you like that?" she smirked when you nodded, eagerly. "you want it on that pretty pussy?"
you said yes by moaning all too loudly, biting down on your lip as she teased a trail down your thighs, feather light touch of fingertips and lips. then she got between your legs, the ghost of breath hot against your cunt. this time she didn't treat it like your mouth, pulling your legs apart with conviction and spitting harshly on your slit. her thumb came to rub it into your folds until your clit was glistening and you were coming with her name on your lips.
she made you cum five times that evening and you drew three hard ones from her.
synopsis: in which emily tries (& fails) to cook for you.
The rain is a steady, rhythmic drumming against the windowpanes, blurring the city lights into soft, amber smudges. Inside the apartment, the world is narrowed down to the amber glow of the lamps, the hum of the refrigerator, and the rich, complex aroma of something burning.
Well, not quite burning, but definitely defying the laws of culinary nature.
You lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, a soft knit blanket draped over your shoulders like a cape against the faux-chill of a rainy evening. Emily stands at the stove, a smudge of tomato paste high on her cheekbone and her dark hair pulled up into a messy, structural hazard of a bun. She looks entirely in her element and completely out of her depth all at once.
"Emily," you say, your voice a low, amused purr that cuts through the sizzle of the pan. "What, exactly, is happening in here?"
She doesn’t look up immediately, her focus intensely fixed on a bubbling pot of what was supposed to be David Rossi’s legendary, generational Sunday gravy. She wields a wooden spoon like a weapon, stirring with a fierce, stubborn determination.
"It’s Rossi’s authentic Neapolitan ragù," she declares, though there’s a slight, telltale twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Or, at least, it’s a Prentiss-modified, urban-survivalist adaptation of it."
You step closer, the hardwood floor cool beneath your bare feet, and peer over her shoulder. The sauce is a deep, slightly concerning shade of maroon. It smells heavily of oregano—and something distinctly sweet.
"An adaptation?" You slide your arms around her waist, chin resting lightly on her shoulder. The familiar, comforting scent of her—expensive cedarwood perfume mingled with garlic and fresh rain—wraps around you, warmer than the blanket. "Did you lose the recipe?"
"I have the recipe right here," she insists, nodding toward the tablet propped up against a flour canister, the screen splattered with red droplets. "What I didn’t have was a gourmet Italian market within a five-mile radius that was open after a twelve-hour shift."
She turns her head to kiss your temple, a lingering, soft press of lips that makes you close your eyes for a second.
"Rossi’s recipe calls for San Marzano tomatoes, Pancetta, and a very specific, aged red wine from a vineyard only he and three Monks in Tuscany know about," Emily explains, her tone shifting into that dry, rhythmic cadence you adore. "But the corner bodega had generic crushed tomatoes, maple bacon, and a bottle of Cabernet that was wearing dust like a coat."
You wince slightly, but keep your smile tucked into the crook of her neck. "Maple bacon? In a ragù?"
"It’s pork!" she defends, though a laugh bubbles up in her throat, vibrating against your chest. "And for the heavy cream, I might have used a splash of the vanilla oat milk we had left. It’s all about chemistry, sweetheart. Fat, acid, heat. We’re adapting."
"You’re a profiler, Prentiss, not an alchemist," you tease, squeezing her waist before stepping back. "Let me taste the experiment."
Emily presentation is flawless. She ladles a small spoonful of the sauce, blowing on it gently before offering it to you like a prize. Her dark eyes gleam with a mixture of hope and impending cinematic disaster.
You take the bite.
For a fraction of a second, your brain tries to process the sensory whiplash. The acidity of the cheap tomatoes hits first, followed immediately by a jarring, aggressively sweet wave of artificial maple and vanilla. It tastes like a pancake fell into a marinara trench. It is, without a doubt, the most spectacular, culinary tragedy you have ever encountered.
Your expression freezes. You try, you truly try, to keep your face neutral, but the sheer chaos of the flavor profile forces a slow, horrified blink from your eyes.
Emily watches you, her eyebrows slowly rising. "That bad?"
"Emily," you squeak, your throat tightening as you swallow the evidence. "I love you. I love your mind, I love your heart, I love your hands." You reach out, taking the wooden spoon from her fingers and setting it safely on the counter. "But David Rossi would have you arrested for war crimes if he tasted this."
She stares at the pot, then back at you, and then she breaks.
The laugh starts deep in her chest—a rich, breathless sound that fills the kitchen and chases away any lingering fatigue from the work week. She leans against the counter, covering her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking.
"It’s that bad?" she asks through her fingers.
"It tastes like a breakfast buffet collided with a pizza parlor at ninety miles an hour," you confess, laughing now too, wrapping your arms back around her to pull her against you.
Emily sighs, a beautiful, defeated sound, and rests her forehead against yours. The warmth of her skin, the crinkle of the lines around her eyes, the sheer ease of being held by her in the quiet sanctuary of your shared home—it washes over you like a wave.
"I just wanted to make you something nice," she murmurs, her voice softening into something tender, the playful armor dropping away. "A real, comforting dinner. We’ve both been running on fumes lately."
"Hey," you say gently, tilting her chin up with a finger so she has to look into your eyes. "This is nice. The burning, maple-scented catastrophe is perfect. Because you’re here, and we’re off the clock."
She smiles, the genuine, soft expression she only saves for the quiet hours with you. "So, no turning this into a pizza night?"
"Absolutely not. We are ordering Thai," you decree, reaching into your pocket for your phone. "And we are never speaking of the vanilla-oat-milk ragù again."
"Agreed," Emily laughs, already reaching up to pull the pins from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble down around her shoulders.
An hour later, the kitchen is dark, the offending pot soaking in the sink to be dealt with tomorrow. The living room is a sanctuary of cushions and shadows. You are curled into Emily’s side on the couch, the television playing an old movie on a low murmur, the blue light washing over the room.
The cardboard takeout containers sit empty on the coffee table—pad thai and spring rolls, a far cry from Tuscany, but exactly what was needed.
Emily’s arm is wrapped securely around your shoulders, her fingers idly tracing patterns on your bare arm, a slow, soothing rhythm that matches the rain outside. You rest your head against her chest, listening to the steady, comforting thud of her heartbeat.
She shifts slightly, kissing the crown of your head, her breath warm against your hair.
"Next time," Emily whispers into the dim light, her voice laced with sleep and contentment, "I’m just making grilled cheese."
You smile into the soft cotton of her shirt, closing your eyes as you pull the blanket higher up over both of you. "I’d love that. Just leave the maple bacon in the fridge."
you keep finding excuses to hang out with dana under the guise of just being polite. or that's what your dad thinks anyway...
from this ask | f!reader x dana evans, abbot!daughter!reader, 18+, secret dating, brief smut, timelapse, age gap
✮
there’s nothing remarkable about the first time dana meets jack abbot’s daughter. you.
it’s just after seven in the evening, the ED settling into the familiar blur of shift change. day staff handing over to nights, charts changing hands, coffee cups being abandoned wherever there’s a free surface. dana is already halfway out the door, bag slung over one shoulder, when she walks past you and jack in the ambulance bay.
"forget something again?" she smiles between the two of you, mouth open chewing a piece of gum.
"his dinner" you role your eyes mockingly and she laughs.
"ah, getting old abbot"
jack goes to protest then realises there's no point, exhaling.
“this is my daughter. not sure you've met"
you stand beside him with a paper bag tucked beneath your arm and your car keys looped around your finger.
“dana" she greets you. "nice to finally meet you. feel like i already know you, doll"
you raise an eyebrow. "that’s concerning"
“he talks about you. a lot"
“only the embarrassing stories" jack mutters.
“mostly" there's a playful glint in her eye as you laugh. that lingers with her long after she leaves.
--
after that, your visits to the ED become more regular. nobody bats an eyelid. sometimes you drop off his wallet, a phone charger, his phone itself.
once, after jack’s truck refuses to start, you’re there just before seven driving him in.
dana always seems to be leaving as you’re arriving. it becomes routine.
“morning"
“evening"
“busy shift?”
“god don’t ask"
one morning jack gets held up with a patient while dana smokes outside before heading to the subway.
you lower the passenger window.
“need a lift?”
she waves you off.
“m good, your dad'll be out soon"
“he's caught up. and you'll be waiting ages"
“i don’t mind"
“i do"
she hesitates just long enough to lose the argument. something dana evans wasn't familiar with.
“well… thank you, hon"
it’s only a fifteen minute drive and she expects awkward silence. instead, the conversation never seems to stop.
you ask about nursing whilst she asks about your work.
you tell her about the city, about moving back home after a promotion that finally let you work remotely.
she tells you she’s forgotten what eight hours of uninterrupted sleep feels like. you laugh.
“i think my dad says the same thing"
“that’s because he’s dramatic"
“i’ll be telling him you said that"
“oh he already knows"
when she gets out, she catches herself smiling, waving back at you through the passenger window.
--
the lifts become frequent. jack never questions them. he assumes you’re simply being thoughtful. and you are. you drop your dad off, pick dana up. it's simple. he hardly ever drives anymore.
“you’re a lifesaver" dana says one evening as she climbs into your car in the pouring rain, shielding her hair with a jean jacket.
“that’s your job"
“okay, okay, touché"
there were a few occasions you'd pick dana up from her house, taking her to work in time to collect your dad. some mornings you'd arrive with coffee. two cups.
“you didn’t have to"
“i know"
she takes it anyway. never questions if you're okay going out of your way at 6:30am just to give her a ride. mainly when the weathers bad.
one morning, as she climbs out of your car, you call after her.
“can i…”
she bends down through the open door.
“…get your number?”
she smiles.
"you know, if i'm ever running late or..." your thought trails off. you know that's not why you're asking but it'd make sense to have each others number right?
her eyes narrow, something you'd call wicked behind them if you didn't know better. she pulls out a piece of paper and pen from her scrub pocket, scribbles down the digits and leans into the car to hand it over.
"see you later doll"
suddenly there's a warmth in your stomach.
--
you exchange practical messages, like you said.
running 5 minutes behind
your dads stuck with a patient
hope you got home okay!
the shift was small. but noticeable.
hope the ED goes easy on you today...
saw this and thought of you [1 image]
omg you'd die for this cafe, we should go sometime!
dana found herself smiling every time your name appeared on her lock screen. sometimes she caught herself, thinking it's all too ridiculous, shaking her head as she's sat waiting for your texts. yet she still finds herself looking forward to 7pm.
--
a storm hit pittsburgh one weekend.
the rains torrential. dana in your passenger seat, parked outside her house, not ready to take the leap and run through the monsoon up to her driveway.
the engines off. just the sound of heavy rain patting against the windscreen, streetlights turning to blurry streaks above as you tap the steering wheel idly.
"you're quiet today"
"am i?" she looks ahead out of the window. a second of silence. "just thinking"
"careful" you make the joke and she swats you playfully. the silence comes again, it's comfortable but loaded. something unsaid hanging between the two of you. this has been going on a while now, the hospital visits, lifts, texts.
another minute goes by when you attempt to break it but then—
"you keep finding reasons to drive me home"
your gaze meets hers.
"maybe i like driving you home" you shrug.
she hums. "you're looking at me different"
"am i?"
"yeah"
"how?"
she swallows. courage mounting by the second. "like you want to kiss me or somethin"
you don't deny it. "maybe i do"
there's something unreadable on her face. you've bared all, cards on the table, and she's looking at you like she doesn't know her next move.
"you shouldn't"
"why's that?" you paused. "because i'm younger than you? because you work with my dad?"
"to name a few" she almost scoffs.
"doesn't have to be complicated" you turn a little in your seat. "do you want to kiss me?"
you undo your seatbelt when her gaze flickers to your lips for a split second.
"you make it sound so easy"
"because it is"
you reach across the centre console, slowly enough that she has every opportunity to stop you. she doesn’t.
the kiss is gentle and a little hesitant. over almost as soon as it begins.
when you pull away, dana covers her face with one hand.
“god"
you smile. "that bad?”
she lets out another laugh. "the opposite, doll"
--
it gets to after eleven when your phone lights up.
dana:
i shouldn't have done that
you stare at the screen before replying.
you:
did you want to?
dana:
yes
you:
then i'm glad you did
a few minutes pass and you thought she'd fallen asleep for the night, ready to put your phone down.
dana:
why do you like me?
it didn't take much thought to reply. you had a whole catalogue of reasons you'd collected over the last month or so and it kinda made you said she had to ask.
you:
you're kind
you make me laugh
i think you care about me as much as i care about you
and i haven't stopped thinking about kissing you today
the dots appeared and disappeared for a few minutes before her reply finally came through.
dana:
i'm nearly 30 years older than you
you:
i'm aware
dana:
doesn't that bother you?
you:
no
does it bother you?
ten minutes go by before she answers.
dana:
i don't want it to
but i'm old enough to be your mom
you:
i don't care
--
it spiralled quickly after that. you found yourself at danas place, seeing her house for the first time. the framed pictures of her daughters, endless books and cds filling the living room shelves, a wine fridge stocked to the brim that you just had to make a joke about.
then you found yourself in her bed. floral sheets, dark wood headboard, a slit of light peeking through the half closed curtain as evening settles in. everything smelling of her. it felt addictive.
"fuck fuck fuck, right there-" she'd pant, one hand clutching onto a fistful of your hair as your tongue lapped along her cunt with intent, the other gripping the sheets with whitened knuckles.
it was even better in the shower. when she had you flush against the cold white tile, knuckle deep in your pussy as she fucked you from behind. "jesus dana 'm gonna-" then you'd come with a strangled cry as she kissed your neck.
sometimes on your couch, she'd ride your fingers while your dad was at work for the night. against the kitchen counter when you'd attempt to make dinner for the two of you until distractions won and she was moaning against your skin, telling you to fuck her harder, deeper.
it was weeks full of secret nights and stolen moments. kisses in the parking lot, hidden touches out in the ambulance bay after you'd dropped your dads lunch off yet again.
it was kept quiet. not because either of you were ashamed, but because explaining it felt impossible.
how you and dana were grabbing dinner after almost all her shifts now. sometimes a walk through the park, the late-night phone calls.
dana starts laughing more.
you're finding excuses to visit the hospital even when jack isn't working.
the emergency department notices before jack ever does.
nobody says a word.
--
it happens on one of jack’s rare nights off.
he and half the day shift gathered at the bar a couple blocks from the ED. course he told you to swing by, he didn't know dana had already invited you.
you’re already there when he arrives.
“look who remembered she has a father"
“i’m here, aren’t i?” you kiss his cheek before disappearing to the bar.
when you return, you set a gin and tonic in front of dana without asking. she smiles.
“thank you"
“you’re welcome"
jack notices. not much but just enough to think you’re being polite.
throughout the evening, though…
you slide her another napkin before she asks. she steals a french fry from your plate.
your hand settles briefly against the small of her back as you squeeze behind her chair.
she doesn’t even flinch.
it all feels… natural. like you’ve been doing it forever.
jack frowns. there’s something oddly familiar about it all and he can’t quite place why.
then he sees the faint smear of lipstick just beside the corner of your mouth. before you can notice it yourself, dana reaches over. her thumb brushes gently across your skin.
“there"
you smile up at her. "thanks"
without thinking, you lean into her touch for the briefest second.
the room suddenly feels very quiet.
jack lowers his beer.
looks at you. looks at dana. then back again.
“…you"
both of you still.
he points between the two of you.
“…are dating my daughter?”
dana blinks.
for perhaps the first time in thirty years of nursing, she has absolutely no idea what to say.
from this ask | tags: 18+, top!jealous!dana, f!reader, finger fucking, dirty talk, reader is bottoming like her life depends k on it, someone say mommy?
˙⋆✮⋆˚࿔
you and dana had always had something.
it was never named, never acknowledged, and nothing had ever actually happened.
she’d taken you under her wing on your first day as a nurse, watching your quiet uncertainty slowly grow into confidence over the years. she’d always insisted you’d make a hell of a charge nurse one day, slipping pet names into conversation like they were second nature.
kid. babe. doll.
that last one was your favourite. it always came with that crooked smile of hers, gum tucked into one cheek as she looked at you like she knew something you didn’t.
she was old enough to be your mom.
that had never stopped either of you flirting across the hub.
never enough for anyone else to notice, just passing comments, lingering looks and the occasional brush of hands at the exchanging of charts. you'd always thought maybe dana didn’t even realise she was doing it.
except the way her fingers were currently digging into your arm suggested otherwise.
you’d both reluctantly agreed to attend the hospital gala, neither of you knowing the other had already said yes. after twenty minutes of staring into your wardrobe you’d settled on the only dress you owned that qualified as formal: tight on your ass but still professional, a sleek spaghetti strap and hem that grazed the shins. dana had walked in wearing black trousers, a tight white shirt and heels you never saw her in. her hair was down skimming her shoulders and her lips wore a darker shade than usual.
she looked unfairly good.
you hadnt had time to dwell on it when matt walked over. he was a younger resident from new york. you'd seen him at one of these things before, only briefly and enough to know his name and job title. this time he'd rescued you from an agonising conversation about fundraising targets and departmental statistics. you’d gladly let him. he was funny enough, or at least enthusiastic enough that you found yourself laughing anyway, grateful for an excuse to avoid another conversation about budgets.
you were too busy listening to him to notice dana watching from the other side of the room. too busy rolling your eyes at one of his stories to realise she’d started walking over. too busy touching his arm as you laughed to hear the sharp click of her heels across the polished floor.
the first thing you noticed was her hand.
fingers curling firmly around your bicep as she stepped neatly between the two of you, her touch possessive enough to make your breath catch.
"hope i'm not interrupting anything"
the smile on her face was all charm. the tone underneath it wasn’t.
you frowned up at her.
“uh… no, we were just-" matt started.
“great" she didn’t even look at him. “mind if i borrow her for a minute?”
she wasn’t asking.
her hand slipped from your arm to the small of your back, steering you away before either of you had the chance to object.
“dana…”
nothing. she simply smiled politely at the people you passed, nodding greetings like she wasn’t practically escorting you out of the ballroom against your will.
the music faded behind you with every step.
“dana" you tried again, a little firmer this time. not firm enough to stop her. “what are you doing?”
still nothing. not until she pushed open the heavy fire door leading into an empty stairwell.
the quiet was heavy, the cool concrete and dim lighting. the muffled thump of music somewhere several halls away.
before you’d even gathered your bearings, your back met the wall with a soft thud, the air forced from your chest.
“dana, what-"
she stepped into your space.
close enough that all you could smell was peppermint gum and the faint trace cigarette smoke and perfume covering it.
her eyes didn’t leave yours.
“you done flirting with him now?”
fuck. straight between your legs. her eyes were dark, something behind them you hadn't seen before and she smiled. a devilish smile.
her hand snaked up to your neck, fingertips tracing your skin with a featherlight touch and all you could think of was that you wanted it harder. wanted the point of her nails to dig into your flesh, to press on your pulse point as if she were establishing ownership.
"were you doing it on purpose doll? hm?" her voice was low, deep, her accent thick and accentuated on that pet name you loved so much. "teasing me like that?"
your words wouldn't come. not when her lips brushed against your jaw, only light but enough to make your nipples hard beneath silk. she pulled up your dress ever so slightly, a noise escaped you when her thigh came to sit between your legs.
"dana-"
"shhh" she cooed. "be a good girl and shut up f'me okay?"
you bit your lip hard, the pressure from her thigh hit your clit with intent and you couldn't help the involuntary grind against her. she didn't let you do it for long, your dress rouched at the hips and her hand snaked into the waistband of your panties. it somehow felt both rough and soft at the same time, not enough to hurt but enough to establish who was in charge.
your cunt gave you away when her fingers dipped into the slick mess between your legs. dana's mouth fell open at the state of you, as if every stroke of your folds made her feel just as good.
"this f'me or him?" her voice was firm, serious. and then you got it. "hm? me or him?"
"y-you" your voice strained under the swipe of her finger against your clit. "just you"
and it was. you'd somehow got wetter in the minutes of her dragging you to this stairwell than you had for any guy.
dana's lips curled at the corner on your admission. she sank two fingers into your sopping hole without warning and your primal cry echoed through the empty stairwell.
"good girl" she pumped her fingers hard. "making me jealous like that" harder. "that what you wanted?" again. "hm? t'make me mad enough to fuck you out here?"
her fingers were slamming into you so good and hard, the wet sounds of your pussy almost louder than the whiny moans rolling from your throat.
"fuck dana feels- mmph, ffeels so good"
"yeah? making you feel fuckin good huh?"
her thumb found your clit to rub in unison with the fingers fucking you, you could feel the tightness in your belly, the pressure in your cunt that felt like you were about to drench her hand.
"m gonna cum, m gonna-"
it was about to be the most intense orgasm of your life until she pulled out from you completely, a wicked grin playing on her lips.
"wwhat, what are you-" you tried between breaths.
"what's the matter baby?" she matched her slow words with slow, mean circles on your clit, rubbing ever so lightly, your hips chasing the pressure to cum like you deserved. "tell me what's the matter"
"wanna cum" you whined like a brat, rolling your hips, fingers digging into danas shoulders in an attempt to coerce her into giving you what you want, clearly over the confusion of the situation and just giving in entirely.
"you can cum" she sped up a little but not enough. "just tell me how bad you want it" a little more. "how good i make you feel"
"mmm my god"
"tell. me."
"so good, feels so-" you tried to catch your breath as her two middle fingers reunited with your hole, plunging in to ride against spongy walls. "-so good"
with that, she sped her motions and fucked you hard enough to make you choke. her forehead fell against yours, one hand working ferociously between your legs as the other gripped firm at your jaw.
"don't think he could make you feel like this baby, this is all me" her mouth crashed against yours, swallowing your guttoral moans as she fucked into you. "no one will fuck you like this okay?" you moaned again. "okay?"
when you nodded against her, she mumbled a low okay under her breath before putting all her efforts into that pretty pussy of yours. it only took one curl of her finger pads deep against your g spot and you were dripping down your thighs, mouth open, head back, dana's cheek against your throat as you came hard around her hand. whispers of that's it, good girl, mm so good against your skin.
you'd soaked her good and proper. your cunt clamped down on her hand so tight, a wet pop sounded as she pulled herself from your grip. you'd be embarrassed if your pussy hadn't just twitched at the knowing smile on her lips and you'd ask for her fingers again if you weren't so thoroughly fucked out.
dana adjusted your dress, smoothing over the creases at your hips then inspecting you, head to toe.
"cant go back in there now" you panted, adjusting your dress further. suddenly feeling a little self conscious and exposed.
she scoffed. stepping back from you to open the door.
Tags: established relationship, fluff, unit chief emily, attempt at humor, inspired by that one post I made, this is just for shits and giggles honestly and most importantly for loserwifemily, no use of yn
Summary: Emily Prentiss may be the Unit Chief of an elite team of FBI agents, but before that, she is your wife.
Word count: 1.1k
Nobody recommends sharing the workplace with your spouse. It gets messy, it gets awkward, you're held under a bigger microscope, subjected to more scrutiny—and, all in all, it just complicates things. Better for the two worlds to stay separate.
Such is not really your case. Partially because you're not even on the same floor as Emily, and partially because she's good at upholding the boundary, especially when your paths don't cross. When they do, it's more often you willingly seeking each other out rather than a work-related issue forcing you to meet.
So you know there's not anything particularly pressing when your wife ambles into the eighth-floor kitchenette, an empty mug held loosely in her hand, her eyes sweeping, lips curling up into a faint smile when she sees you at the counter. Her shoulders are relaxed, easy. She's dressed more casually today, in no mood for the fuss—a tank top under her blazer and dark jeans—and your eyes are appreciative. She catches them as they dip down to the pale, exposed skin of her chest, her grin widening as she steps closer and innocently tilts her head.
"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.
You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.
You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.
She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.
"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."
Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."
You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.
As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.
Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.
"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."
Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.
Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.
It still hasn't stopped either of you.
"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.
"That's all?"
Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.
"No," she concedes.
In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.
She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—
"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.
Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.
"You're mean," she murmurs.
"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."
Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"
"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.
Alvez.
Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.
Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.
"What?" She demands.
"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."
"The team." Emily says flatly.
You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.
"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.
Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.
"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."
Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."
Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.
"And no detours to Penelope's."
His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.
she throws them every now and again, when people need them most. there's booze and food and her house is so open and spacious, like it was made to host.
it's 1am and you're in the bathroom. with her. knees pressed into the cold tile, dana's leg over your shoulder as you ravage her pussy with your tongue, lapping circles messily around her swollen clit, fingertips digging into the swell of her thighs. she's basically fucking your face at this point, hand grasping a fistful of hair as she rubs her cunt against your lips, just begging for you inside. you drive two fingers in hard, deep. she lets out a loud oh at the sudden fullness and it's a good job there's musics outside. you gotta stay quiet for me ok? she nods down at you, trying to regain some composure.
then you give it to her. pumping your fingers, curling them up to hit that sweet spot that makes her pussy drench your hand. she rolls her hips against your hand, god yeah- oh fuck, pulling at your hair when your tongue joins the party. her body jolts at the overwhelming sensation on her clit. you're gonna make me cum doll, her voice is deep and hoarse, christ- so hot and the idea of making dana evans cum? fuck, you need a hot minute.
then—
d, you in there? a knock. her eyes widen and you still for a second. dana? she mouths fuck down at you, panic spreading, benji is right outside and your face is dripping with his wife's cum. i mean what did you expect? this is her house. unfortunately for dana, you're too horny to stop any of this, too turned on at the idea of fucking her through a conversation with her husband. you move your fingers again, slow this time but so fucking deep and she m o a n s, god her moans make your cunt throb. her hand slaps against her mouth in an attempt to muffle the sounds you're drawing from her. uh yeah- i'm just- your thumb strokes over her clit once, and you look up to catch her eye as she's mouthing profanities at you, like she can't believe you're doing this.
your fingers work faster and you wonder if benji can hear how wet his wife is. everything ok in there? she nods like he can see her, eyes screwed shut as you come to your feet, finger fucking her with urgency now, she's so wet, pussy completely soaked, inner thighs glistening. it turns you on so much, you whisper against the shell of her ear. tell him you're fine...
mmh ffuck, she whispers, all g-good- i'll be out in a minute hon- oh my god, her hips are rolling again, faster and desperate. you're kissing down her neck, nipping at the skin, panting against her pulse point where she can hear and he can't. he doesn't deserve this pussy, another circle of her clit, want you to cum with him there ok? she nods, her tongue between her lips like she's concentrating so hard, completely in another world as she rides you, wanting so bad to cum because you told her to.
you can tell she's close by the way her hand finds your wrist, not stopping you, not guiding you. just holding, nails digging in. come on baby show him what you can do, she comes soooo hard, your fingers practically trapped in her pussy with the way she's clenched around you. she's looking at you like she can't believe it, like she's never been fingered like that in a bathroom before... pussy left hot and pulsing.
you wouldn't admit it but it's so hot when she's straightening herself out, pushing hair behind her ears, finger tip wiping at the edge of her smudged lip in the mirror, sorting herself out to go find her husband. then she picks up her panties from the floor, the ones you ripped off of her six minutes ago and shoves them into your pocket, a keepsake, she mutters.
then she slips out of the door, opening it just enough to get out, not enough for anyone to see you. you can hear her through the threshold. with him. i'm fine babe, get me a drink? like it never happened.
maybe i should be ashamed to admit that i think about dana with her bloody nose and blood dripping from her chin every free second i have and i desperately wanna have the sloppiest filthiest make out session with her in that moment 🙂↕️
Tags: established relationship, fluff, sleepy emily, reader is jelly, just silliness! losers, no use of yn
Summary: A four am wake-up call isn’t anything for you to be jealous of. Right? Well, it is when your wife sounds like that. Requested here!
Word count: 0.8k
The first thing you're aware of is the cold. The second is Emily's voice, rough with sleep, a little mumbled as she says, "Huh?"
Your eyes are heavy as you blink awake, the disappointment quick to catch up with your body. It's still dark out. The weight of her is so solid at your back—already fleeting.
You lift your head to glimpse the clock. It reads a fuzzy 4:38, the numbers glaring in the dark. They twist around the sinking stone in your gut. She'd just gotten home, hardly a day ago, worn thin from a case that dragged on too long but still trying to hide it.
You hate the BAU.
Groaning, you shift onto your other side, turning to worm your way into Emily's arms. Your head drops on her shoulder, arm curling tight around her waist, pressing you both closer like it'll stop her from leaving. She gracelessly rubs the back of your head, yawning.
"Alaska?" She slurs into the phone. "Y'sure you got that right?"
Despite everything, her soft drawl makes you smile into her collarbone. You go all warm inside when she sounds like this—a gravelly rasp in her throat, her words pulled long and sticky, rounded with the softness of her mouth. Her voice roughens, yet her pronunciation crumbles; it's like she gets sanded down, all the sharpness melted away, purely for you to hear when she's heavy with sleep or—
Your eyes snap open at the sound of Garcia's voice, tinny but clear through the phone, reminding you of the fact that you're very much not the only witness to your wife's less inhibited state.
"Yes, I've got that right. The deputy mentioned it, like, ten times—"
"Lemme guess, salmon city, Alaska." Emily yawns again, letting her forehead loll down and press against yours.
"So close, it's Fairbanks."
She makes a grumbling sound under her breath, the vibrations seeping into your skin. You go hot knowing the sound carries, the speakers picking up what's yours, delivering it to Garcia's ears.
Sleep leaves your body very quickly.
Garcia tuts. "Up you get, cupcake. It's a ten hour flight. Pack warm."
"No," Emily rasps.
"Jet leaves at six."
"I'm resigning."
"Can't relay the news!" Garcia chirps. "Sorry, hon, in-person resignations only. Don't be late."
She hangs up with a beep and Emily throws the phone somewhere on the bed, groaning again as she curls around you—smothers you, really. You're still stewing as the tip of her nose nudges your cheek, her mussed bangs tickling you all over.
It's just Garcia. One-of-your-favorite-people-on-this-planet Garcia. Emily's-best-friend Garcia.
You're being ridiculous. It's fine. She's seen her drunk off her mind, looped up on pain meds. They spend an abnormal amount of time together, and this isn't the first time this has happened. Hell, it'll hardly be the last.
Had she ever answered JJ like this? Hotch?
Your fingers curl into the cotton of Emily's tank top. She exhales, the warmth of it hitting your cheek, and shifts around to rest her forehead on your shoulder.
"I should quit."
"Yeah, you should." You shoot back too fast, your own voice gravely with exhaustion.
"Wow, really?" Emily mumbles. "That was a lil' too enthusiastic."
You search for her hand amidst the covers. It's cold, limp until you thread your fingers through hers and give a halfhearted squeeze. "You just came back, Emily." You say. You can't really make out her features in the dark, only feel her, hear her. "You're exhausted. It's not fair."
She hums thickly, her lips soft on your cheek. "Don't worry your pretty little head about me."
"I can't not. Besides," your voice goes a little petulant as you twist in her arms, huddling close enough to see the faint sheen of her eyes, "no one else should get to hear you like this." You mumble.
Emily's brows furrow. "Like what?" She asks, perplexed.
"This," you whisper, tracing her plush bottom lip. "Mine."
"I'm yours all the time." She whispers back. It's so earnest, so sweetly clueless. Heat crawls up your skin again, this time from your own absurdity.
Sighing, you press a small kiss to her mouth. Emily cups your cheek, a frown still creasing her forehead. "Baby, what're you talkin' about?"
"Nothing," you mumble, muffled into her hand. "I hate the BAU."
She pets your cheek, strokes clumsily next to your eye. You savor the kiss she drops there, a small bit of lingering warmth to chase away the cold when she slips out of bed.
