Summary: Alphas Emily and JJ try a new bakery end up meeting the owner, an omega named y/n
(Note: Also posted on AO3 under Lizisqueeraf)
Chapter 1: Meet the Chef
You lean against the table in the kitchen as you wait for a batch of nutella croissants to be done. A mug of coffee steams in your hands as you take in the quiet. You have a love/hate relationship with waking up before the rest of the city. The quiet peace of early morning baking is in stark contrast to the hustle and bustle that will soon fill the space as people get their early morning coffee and pastries. You hear a knock on the door and make your way to the front of the bakery. You smile and greet two of your staff members as you unlock the door for them. They smile back as they make their way into the breakroom to put their things away.
âJackson, I was going to have you do coffee today, how does that sound?â You ask the beta. He smiles and nods.
âAngela, how do you feel about running the register today? I would be in the kitchen if you need anything, and Jackson will be nearby.â You asked your newest employee. The omega smiled nervously.
âSounds good y/n.â
âGreat! We have 35 minutes until opening so letâs get set up!â
Emily stands in the long line, holding JJâs hand as the blonde Alpha grumbles about it being too early. The brunette Alpha fiddles with her wallet in her other hand as she glances at her mate with an amused smile. âOh hush, this place has fantastic reviews and I thought it would be nice to surprise the team. The owner studied in Paris but has put her own spin on these pastries. The magazine said she brings new flavors mixed with traditional French techniques!â she exclaims. The corner of JJâs lip quirks up as she listens to her partnerâs excitement.
The line moves surprisingly quickly as the two employees at the counter work in tandem. Soon the two alphas are almost to the front of the line. Emily and JJ are looking at the pastries, discussing what to get when a commotion at the front draws their attention. A young omega who looks to be in college is trying to calm an agitated male alpha.
âWhat do you mean you donât have the blood orange cinnamon rolls?! You always have them!â
âIâm s-sorry sir my boss said our shipment is delayed so we wonât have any oranges âtil wednesday.â
âItâs my wifeâs birthday today! What am I supposed to do now?â The alpha growls as he releases angry pheromones.
The omega at the register takes a hurried step back from the counter, the beta barista steps closer to his coworker. Emily is about to step in when the door to the kitchen swings open and an older omega with brown hair and red streaks hustles out. The older omega doesnât even flinch as she steps up to the counter, slightly shielding the younger female omega. She crosses her arms and releases comforting pheromones to calm the younger beta and omega. Emily nearly drops her wallet as the scent of Cedar and Orange washes over her, JJ is more subtle as she closes her eyes and squeezes Emilyâs hand.
âWhat seems to be the problem here sir?â The omega asks kindly, though thereâs tension in her shoulders. JJ almost melts at the melodic voice. The man at the front scoffs.
âIâm done talking to omegas, whereâs the owner!?â The omega stiffens slightly as her lips tug into a frown.
âI am the owner. Now is there something I can help you with? Youâre holding up the line.â The omega says firmly as she meets the manâs gaze.
Emily is impressed at the way the pastry chef doesnât waver. The man grumbles to himself before rattling off an order. The chef grabs the pastries he orders, carefully loading them into a box. He pays and as the rude man goes to take the box from her she holds on tighter.
âJust so weâre clear, if you ever try to intimidate my staff again you wonât be welcome in my shop. Have a nice day.â
The man shuffles out of the store looking thoroughly scolded. The chef turns to her staff, placing a hand on the young omegaâs shoulder. The three speak softly to each other before the younger omega disappears into the kitchen, and the beta moves back to his spot at the coffee machines. The chef takes her apron off, storing it behind the counter, then calls the next customer forward.
Emily and JJ get to the front of the line and the owner of the bakery gives them a smile that makes both their heartbeats pick up.
âHi! Thanks for waiting, what can I get you today?â Emily meets green eyes and all her dialogue options cease to exist.
JJ eyes flicker towards Emily in amusement before she politely orders a fuck ton of pastries and a coffee for each team members. Emily is silent as her eyes flicker from pierced ears to the omegaâs tatted forearms.
An elbow to the gut gets her attention and JJ whispers âYouâve got to pay, you useless lesbian.â
Emily blushes and takes her card out of her wallet. Luckily the ownerâs busy grabbing all the food JJ ordered and doesnât seem to notice the brunetteâs struggle.
âWeâre excited to try everything, this oneâs been rambling about the article she read about your shop. She spent some time in France as a child.â the blonde says smiling kindly.
âOh really? Itâs a lovely place, I miss it. Thereâs nothing like a fresh croissant and coffee in Paris. I do my best to emulate it hereâ the omega says wistfully.
âI-yesâ Is the only thing Emily says before blushing scarlet. The omega looks a little confused but is still smiling.
âIâm JJ and this is Emily, thanks so much for the goodiesâ the blonde cuts in quickly, trying to put her mate out of her misery.
âIâm y/n! I hope you enjoy everything!â The omega beams as JJ grabs Emilyâs hand and drags her towards the other end of the counter to wait for the coffees.
Once theyâre out of earshot JJ turns to her mate with barely contained glee.
âI yes? Really Em?â JJ giggles.
âItâs not my fault. Did you see her?â Emily whines.
âI did baby, sheâs gorgeous. But one of us had to keep it togetherâ JJ snickers. âOh I canât wait to tell Garcia about this.â Emily grumbles as she grabs the drink carriers of coffee and follows her giddy mate out of the bakery.
End of Chapter 1
(Lmk what you think! Also if you read my other stories I will try to update them itâs been so long I have to brainstorm)
word count: 2.2 k
Summary: Emilyâs care begins to speak louder than words, and the unspoken closeness between you grows. Requested here.
tags: Clumsy!reader, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, Subtle Romance, Emotional Intimacy, Competent in the Field, Hurt/Comfort
Part 1
Masterlist
The archive room smells faintly of dust and paper that has absorbed too many years of fluorescent light. You are standing on your toes, fingertips barely grazing the edge of a storage box someone decided belonged on the highest shelf imaginable. Of course it does. You refuse to call for help. It is not heavy, so it is not impossible. It is just slightly out of reach.
You stretch farther and the box shifts. There is that small, traitorous second where your brain registers the imbalance, but your body is already committed. Your heel slips against the smooth floor and the cardboard tilts forward, its weight dragging you with it as gravity asserts itself with humiliating certainty.
And then her hand is there, closing around your waist with firm, unhesitating precision, steady and grounded rather than frantic, the kind of touch that assumes control without ever feeling rough.
Your back meets a solid chest before you fully fall, the impact softer than it should be because Emily absorbs most of it. The box slides from your hands but never hits the ground. Her other arm reaches past you with effortless coordination, catching it midair before it can spill its contents.
For a heartbeat, you are suspended between shelf and floor, held securely against her.
âI really had that,â you murmur under your breath, a quiet attempt to defend your decision to skip the ladder and stretch for the box on your own, the way you always do, stubbornly insisting on handling it yourself.
Her grip tightens just a fraction, steadying you before she eases you upright. She sets the box down beside you without breaking contact.
âYou were about to take a very unpleasant fall,â she replies evenly.
You turn your head to look at her and immediately regret it because she is too close. Your faces are aligned in that narrow, impossible space where the air feels warmer, thinner. Her hand remains at your waist, fingers splayed as if she is still calculating your balance.
âI had it,â you insist softly.
âNo.â There is no teasing in this one word, only quiet conviction. Her gaze lingers on your face longer than necessary. Not assessing. Not profiling. Simply looking.
âYou did good work today,â she adds after a moment, her voice lowering slightly.
You recognize the deliberate shift; she knows you do not want to dissect your clumsiness again, knows how you retreat when praise turns into scrutiny, so she gently redirects instead of pressing. âDonât undo it by breaking your neck over a box.â
The praise hits harder than the reprimand. You look down first, suddenly shy under her attention. Your shoulder brushes her chest when you shift, and neither of you moves away.
âYou donât have to hover,â you whisper.
Her thumb presses lightly against your side, grounding. âIâm not hovering.â
It is almost the same tone she used days ago. Almost.
âThen what are you doing?â you ask, not quite meeting her eyes.
There is a pause.
She tilts her head slightly, dark eyes steady on yours, something warm flickering there beneath her usual composure; the faintest hint of a dimple appears when her mouth curves, not into a smile exactly, but into something softer, more deliberate. Up close you can see the depth of her gaze, almost black in the low light, intent and unwavering, and the barely-there crease in her cheek that only shows when she lets her guard slip the smallest fraction.
âIâm adjusting.â
Your pulse stutters at her words, her proximity. She withdraws as quickly and efficiently as she stepped in, the contact disappearing with controlled restraint, leaving you standing there with the ghost of her touch still imprinted against your skin.
You remain where you are for a moment too long, warmth blooming low in your chest in a way that feels unfamiliar and quietly unsettling. Her words echo back to you, that quiet promise that she should take a little better care of you outside of a case, and you realize you have not imagined the pattern. In the BAU kitchen when you nearly knocked a mug off the counter with your elbow while reaching for the coffee pot, her hand had intercepted it midair without a word. On the jet after the last case, when exhaustion made you careless and you stumbled over JJâs foot, Emily had steadied you before anyone else even reacted. Each time subtle. Each time immediate. Each time her.
You turn back to the files eventually, forcing your focus onto timelines and statements, but your thoughts keep drifting back to the warmth of her palm at your waist, to the way her voice lowers only for you, to the careful restraint she wraps around everything she feels. It is distracting in a way that has nothing to do with the case and everything to do with the slow, dawning realization that you think about Emily far more than is professionally advisable.
That evening, the team insists on going out. The case closed cleanly, no casualties, no loose ends. You had built the profile thread by thread, noticing the inconsistency in the timeline that cracked the suspectâs alibi wide open, and even Hotch had given you one of those rare nods of approval that linger longer than words. Relief hums beneath the conversation at the bar, warm and almost celebratory.
The shift from fluorescent lights and paperwork to dim gold lighting and music feels abrupt, like stepping out of one version of yourself and into another. The competent profiler dissolving into something softer, less certain, far more aware of who is standing beside you.
You are not good at crowded spaces. You are not good at carrying two wine glasses through a maze of chairs and uneven floorboards.
You manage both anyway. Almost.
As you weave your way back toward the table, laughter rising from your team in overlapping waves, someone shifts their chair without looking and your hip clips the edge of the table, the sudden jolt tilting one glass precariously so that dark red wine sways toward the rim in a slow, dreadful arc, threatening to spill over and stain everything within reach.
You feel it again, that horrible, familiar loss of balance, which is enough to draw attention in the worst way possible. It always seems to happen in front of the team, and you feel the subtle shift in the energy around the table, conversations pausing just slightly, eyes flicking toward you, the anticipation of impact hanging in the air.
Before the glass can slip from your fingers, before the inevitable spill, Emily is there.
Her hand covers yours around the stem, steadying it with controlled pressure. Her other arm slides around your waist, drawing you back a step, anchoring you against her.
The motion is smooth enough that most people barely notice.
âYouâre impossible,â she grumbles near your ear, and this time the words are threaded with warmth.
âAnd yet,â you reply quietly, heat rising to your face, âyou keep catching me.â
Her breath brushes the curve of your cheek.
She takes one of the glasses from your unsteady hand and sets it safely on the nearest table before turning back to you. Her other hand does not immediately leave your waist.
The bar is dimly lit, golden light catching in her dark hair, music pulsing low enough to vibrate through your ribs, conversations blurring into background noise. Around you, your team resumes their laughter, oblivious or politely inattentive, giving you the fragile privacy of not looking too closely. But you are no longer aware of them at all, your focus narrows until there is only Emily, only the steady warmth of her body at your back, only the quiet certainty in her touch.
Her gaze moves over your face, searching, softer than it ever is in the field.
âI told you,â Emily murmurs, voice low enough that it barely carries beyond the space between you, âI should take a little better care of you outside of a case.â
The words settle differently here, beneath dim lights and the muted gold of the bar. It is more intimate now; the seriousness beneath her tone reaches you in a way it did not before, and you can feel the honesty in it, steady and deliberate, not playful, not casual.
Your hand is still braced lightly against her forearm where she steadies you, fingers curling slightly into the fabric of her sleeve without you realizing it, as though confirming she is real and solid and here.
âAnd is this,â you ask carefully, âpart of that plan?â
A small exhale leaves her, almost a laugh.
âThis,â she says, her thumb drawing a slow, deliberate line against your side, âis me keeping my word.â
Your heart is beating too fast. You are acutely aware of the line of her body against yours, of how easily she fits there, how natural it feels.
âI donât need saving.â There is a faint, self-aware smile tugging at your mouth because you know you are clumsy, know you have a talent for colliding with furniture and gravity alike, and yet you refuse to be reduced to something fragile, even if part of you appreciates that she never treats you that way.
âI know,â she replies immediately. Her hand slides from your waist to your elbow, the touch lighter now but still intentional. âI just donât mind being the one who steadies you.â
There is something unguarded beneath the composure in her dark eyes now, something careful but undeniably present, as though she is allowing you a glimpse past the disciplined exterior she carries so effortlessly. You meet her gaze fully this time, no longer looking away, and the world seems to narrow to the space between you, to the quiet current running beneath her restraint.
âCareful,â you whisper, though the word lacks any real warning and sounds more like a fragile attempt to steady yourself than her.
âWith what?â Her voice is lower now, the teasing edge from earlier replaced by something steadier, something that feels dangerously close to sincerity.
Your fingers are still lightly curled against her forearm, your body still aligned with hers, and you can feel the warmth of her through the thin layers of fabric, the quiet solidity of her presence grounding you in a way that has nothing to do with balance.
âIf you keep catching me like that,â the admission forming before you can stop it, âI might stop pretending I donât like it.â
The words are not bold, not reckless. They are simply true, a quiet admission of something youâve felt longer than you realized, something youâve never dared to voice aloud until now.
For a moment she doesnât move, and the stillness between you feels charged, fragile in a way that makes your pulse stumble. Her dark eyes search yours as though she is recalibrating, as though this version of you, open and unguarded, requires a different kind of response than the careful restraint she usually wears like armor.
âYou donât have to pretend.â
You realize, there is no trace of humor in her words, only a quiet steadiness that settles somewhere deep in your chest. Her thumb, which had begun to withdraw from your side, pauses and then resumes its place with deliberate softness, not holding you in place, not restraining you, simply choosing not to let go yet.
âIâm not fragile,â you add, your voice gentler now, not defensive, not pushing her away, just wanting her to understand that your clumsiness is not weakness, that you are more than the moments gravity betrays you.
âI know.â Her hand shifts from your elbow back to your waist, slower this time, as if aware of every inch of distance it closes. âThatâs not what this is.â
Her gaze does not waver from yours, and for once she does not look like she is calculating outcomes or reading tells or preparing for impact; she just looks at you.
âI just like being close enough to catch you,â Emily admits.
The music in the bar pulses somewhere beyond you, glasses clink, laughter rises from your teamâs table, but it feels distant, muted, as if the world has softened around the edges, narrowing until there is only the warmth of her hand at your waist and the steady rhythm of her breathing against yours.
You understand then that this was never about saving or hovering. It has been about proximity. About attention. About the quiet, persistent way she keeps choosing to be the one within reach.
Your fingers loosen slightly against the fabric of her sleeve, not from a need for distance, but because you no longer need proof that she is here. When she finally releases your waist, you do not fall. But for the first time, you find yourself wondering if you would even mind if you did.
Tags: fem!reader, amnesia, car accident (no graphic detail), hospitals, established relationship but also not really, forced proximity, mild angst, injuries, soft sad emily :(
Summary: You find yourself in a hospital, with a stranger claiming to be your wife and no choice but to believe her.
Word count: 4.2k
Series masterlist
Emily blinks up at you, hugging a pillow to her chest, curling in on herself like a cat left out in the cold. She has her knees tucked into her stomach, her nose buried in the slope of her arm. Even in the warm lamplight of your bedroom, her skin looks pallid. The bruised hues under her eyes don't help, neither does the tired, wilting line of her mouth. She looks exhausted.
Guilt pinches tightly between your ribs. You stuff your keys and phone into your pockets, grab the sweater at the edge of the bed and put it on, ignoring the howl of the wind outside.
"You don't have to go." She says, with not much conviction.
"I won't be long." You lean down to kiss her forehead, feeling her overheated skin under your lips. You stamp one, two kisses, brushing your thumb over the thin skin next to her eye. "Text me if you need anything else, okay? Anything."
She grabs your hand before you straighten. "I love you." Before you can respond, her fingers tighten around your wrist. "I can come with you."
"Emily, no." You murmur. "I'll be fine. You just try to rest until I come back, okay?"
She gnaws on her lip, still holding your hand to her chest. "Be careful."
If it were under any other circumstance, you'd have poked fun at her a little. But it's not, and her voice is hoarse with fatigue, the late hour stripping you both of any harshness.
"I will."
And you are. The roads are still damp with earlier rain. It's a ten minute drive to the grocery store, and though there's an itch to press on the gas and get home to your wife as soon as possible, you keep the speed low, treading carefully. This store is a little bit past another one you could've gone to, but it's connected to a pharmacy, so you brave the small distance.
Mint, ginger ale, green tea. The chocolate biscuits she likes. Plain crackers. You stock up on rubbing alcohol pads and, on a whim, grab a heated blanket. Her sweaters and hoodies won't be of much use soon enough.
You text her as you're checking out.
Want anything else?
The message pings a second later.
My wife back.
You smile down at your phone.
T-minus ten minutes.
The cold blasts as you walk back into the night. You shiver, cranking up the heat the minute you get into the car, numbed fingers fastening your belt. As you're pulling out of the lot, you catch the time on the dashboard.
10:53.
You press a little harder on the gas. Streetlights blur past, illuminating your way home. It's just you and the road, the wheels of your car rolling by until, suddenly, they slip, losing traction. You gasp as the car picks up speed, veering out of control.
"Shit." You hiss, your pulse spiking. You let go of the gas and start pumping on the brakes. But it's already too late, and you're hurtling too fast. The sidewalk rises up on your left, a glowing lamplight looming over you.
A breath hitches in your chest.
"Shit."
-
Everything hurts. You're aware of the pain before anything else, beating in time with your pulse. Your whole skull throbs, a persistent hammering that echoes in your ears and reaches down between your eyes. When you shift, your shoulder screams, chafing against stiff fabric. Your arm, you realize, is bent.
It takes multiple tries to peel your eyes open. The lights make you flinch, fluorescent and ugly, all too telling of where you are. If the clinical scent hadn't clued you in, you wouldn't have had much trouble figuring it out from the papery gown that scratches your skin.
You hate hospitals.
ButâŠwhy are you even in one?
It takes too many blinks and throbs of your head before your eyes are strong enough to stay open, though they're still watery, your vision blurred. The heat in your shoulders tells you you shouldn't try rubbing at them.
Eventually, even that clears. You blink and find a woman sitting in the chair next to your bed. Her knee bounces erratically. She's bent forward, elbows on her thighs, picking at her nails with an agitated restlessness. You barely get a good look at her before she looks up at you and jumps up, the chair scraping behind her as she leans over your bed.
"You're awake." She breathes. "Oh my god." Her voice cracks. "Oh my god, are youâgod I'm so sorry. Fuck, I'm so sorry. You had me worried sick." She croaks, all in one breath. You blink when she takes your cheek in a soft, cold hand, her wide eyes scanning every inch of your face. "Does it hurt anywhere? How do you feel, are you in pain? Should I call the doctorâ"
She suddenly goes quiet. The silence rings in the absence of her voice. Her eyes are intense, boring into you with the force of two black holes. Overwhelmed, you tilt your chin away from her hand, feeling your brows knot together.
Who is she?
"Sorry," she clears her throat, quieter now, "sorry, that's a lot. Um, how are you feeling?" Her hands curl around the railings of your bed. She gnaws on her bottom lip, holding your gaze for longer than you hold hers. Braving the lights is easier than looking into her eyes.
A slow, heavy stone sinks in your gut.
You should know her. It's obvious you should.
"Honey." She breathes. "Talk to me, please."
Everything spins. You close your eyes to stop it, and the pain somehow mounts. From the hammering in your head to the sharp sting in your shoulder and a faint discomfort in your hips. You swallow, finding your throat thick, so dry your tongue sticks to the roof of your mouth. When you shift your free arm, a burn tugs in your chest.
What the hell happened to you?
"Y/N?"
You start at the hand on top of your head, opening your eyes again to look up at her. The sharp lights prickle, stinging. Through them you can see the worry in her face. She bites her lip raw, flushing it to a nearly vicious shade of red.
"Hurts." You croak.
Her face crumples, just for a second. A quick crinkle of her brows, a tremble to her mouth, before it all smooths over. "I'll call a nurse." She says, clearing her throat.
You close your eyes, expecting her to leave. Not expecting the two hands cupped to your face, her mouth pressed desperately to your brow bone. Your inhale pauses in your chest. She lets out a breath, warm and fogging on your temple. It sounds like a sob.
Then she leaves.
You're left dazed, spinning. The stone in your gut grows heavier, and you get the horrifying feeling that though it shouldn't be able to sink any lower, it can. It will.
Honey, she said. Girlfriend, surely. ButâŠyou haven't been dating. You've never seen her before. You know you'd remember eyes like hers, brown swallowing black, spread wide as saucers.
You would remember her. You would. Surely you would.
But she comes back with the nurse in tow, and you know her about as well as you know the uniformed woman fiddling with your IV, asking you questions that take a beat too long for you to answer while she checks your vitals. She peels circular pads from your chest. The beeping goes quiet, a sharp silence in its place that sets your teeth on edge. You'll be good to go soon, she says.
"GoâŠwhere?" You stutter, your throat closing up. "Why am I even here? Whatâwhat happened?"
The woman clears her throat, her hands flexing on the railing of your bed. Two rings shine on her ring finger, catching the dull light.
"You got into an accident." She says hoarsely. "YouâŠyour car slipped on a patch of ice. You hit your head. Can youâŠ" Her voice wavers. She clears her throat, her nail catching on a patch of skin on her thumb. "Can you remember any of that?"
You shake your head.
Her skin goes paler, if possible, the color sucking out of her face. She inhales a deep breath. Steeling herself. Setting her eyes squarely on yours.
"Can you remember me?"
You feel the need to apologize.
"I'm sorry."
-
Retrograde amnesia.
Just hearing it makes your head throb harder, as if it's trying to fill the gaps you've been told are there.
You had laughed. A startled, breathless thing that quickly got sucked back into your lungs at the pitying look on the doctor's face. You know it's true, but you can't shake off the disbelief. You remember the day you lost your first tooth. The fluorescent lights of your high-school classrooms. Your mother's face.
You don't remember the woman standing in front of you. You don't remember marrying herâcan hardly even fathom the thought, because you'd never been able to imagine yourself married, can't conjure it up even after the fact.
You're supposed to go home with her.
Home. Wherever that is, now.
Your chest clamps down at the reminder. The ruthless bones of your ribcage start caving inwards, clawing at soft flesh. Your breaths go shallow, sweat lining your palms.
How can you go home with a complete stranger?
"Y/N, hey. Look at me, please." She says hoarsely, pulling your gaze up. You feel the tears pooling in your eyes, hot, blurring her out. "Can IâŠ" She clears her throat, "Can I touch you?"
You really nearly laugh. It bubbles up in your throat, thick as a sob, but you shove it down. Nod.
Emily's hand lands hesitantly on your arm, her fingertips digging in the slightest bit as if she can't help them.
"It's okay." She tells you. "I know it's scary. I can'tâgod, I can't imagine how you must be feeling right now." Her voice wavers, trembling, but she steels it to a soothing tone, velvet against your frazzled nerves. "But I'm with you, okay? Every step of the way. I'll take care of you."
You almost ask why, but you stop yourself.
Because that's what married people do. She loves you, you realize, near hysterically. She loves you.
And you don't even know her.
The tears tip over. You duck your head, pressing your cheek to your good shoulder. Your papery gown soaks through, and Emily's fingers twitch on your arm. Her grip slackens then tightens, faltering, unsure. Ultimately she ghosts her hand down, hovering above your elbow like a shadow.
"You're safe with me." She whispers. Her eyes are damp, shot through with red. "I promise you are."
Your heart spasms, rising to your throat. You feel yourself nod, chin bopping up and down.
"Can I have my clothes?" You ask hoarsely.
"Yeah." She mutters, nodding, stepping back, reaching under the chair for a black duffel bag. You look away as she swipes her fingers under her eyes, instead fixing your attention on the bag she places next to you.
"They're, um. They're mine, so they're not the best fit, but your clothes gotâŠ" she swallows, looking away, "I figured you wouldn't want to wear them again but I didn't think to grab you any when I got here, soâ"
"It's okay."
"We don't live far." She says, apologetically.
There's that thickness in your throat again, pushing up against the joint we you're technically a part of, but not really. Not in any way that counts.
You swallow and busy your shaking hands with opening up the bag and grabbing the first thing you find. A thick sweaterâblack, plain, unbearably soft. Beside it is a pair of sweatpants. You pile the clothes onto your lap.
Emily pulls out a ball of socks. She unrolls it, separating the two, and hooks her fingers into the hem of one as if to pull it over your feet. You feel yourself staring. Her eyes flick up to you, study you for a split second, before she stills.
You swallow as she sets the socks down, uncomfortably aware of your arm resting in your sling.
"I'll wait for you outside." She says quietly. Your heart kicks in relief, jolting in your chest. "Unless you want me toâ"
"No, no, I'm fine." You rush out.
She nods once. Tries at something like a smile, but it falls through. "Yell if you need me."
You tell yourself you won't, even though you nod.
It takes some maneuvering, and you're dizzy by the time you stand, clutching the rails of your bed, but you manage to get yourself into the sweatpants. They're warm on your chilled legs. Every part of you is cold, you realize. Goosebumps litter your arms, chafing against the thin gown.
You get the socks on with more trouble than they deserve. The moment you undo your sling, your arm screams. The faint throb sharpens to a white-hot stab, so suddenly you gasp, letting your shoulder slump back onto it. You screw your eyes shut and swallow down bile, trying to ignore the frantic pulse beating into your socket.
The doctor already discharged you. The nurse had scurried away with her, leaving a prescription in Emily's hand. You open your eyes and search futilely for a call button, chewing down on your lip when you find nothing.
She's your wife, right? This wouldn't be strange. She's probably, definitely, seen all there is to see.
You feel your arm curl tighter around your middle. Swallowing, you wet your dry lips.
"Emily." You call weakly.
Your voice carries through the curtains. She pushes them back immediately, her eyes wide as she steps through, faltering for a moment before she edges closer to your bed and picks up the sweater at your side. She doesn't mention the tears in your eyes. She doesn't mention your sweat-slick skin or the stark bandage sitting on your chest, angled between your collarbones. She just guides your arm through the sleeve, her touch light and quick, fingertips barely lingering, as if you'll break beneath them.
-
You expect it to stir some feeling inside you. The neat lawn, the quaint porch, the living room scattered with blankets and coffee mugs and general, ordered chaos. You can't stamp down on the disappointment when it doesn't.
"Give it time."
And that's another thing. It's unnerving, how well she reads you. Like she has free access to your head, hearing you even when you're silent.
You try to force a full breath into your lungs.
"Doc said you have to eat." Emily says, her hands careful as she peels your coat off of one shoulder. "Are you hungry?"
You shake your head.
"Tired."
She shows you to her bedroom. Yours too, you remind yourself. It's nothing like you were expecting, though you had nothing in mind. The bedsheets are rumpled, the lamps still on, curtains drawn tight. You take the neater side of the bed, kicking your shoes off and easing yourself back onto the cold sheets.
Emily switches off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. She says nothing as she leaves. You just hear the tread of her footsteps, faint and dragging, the last of the light leaving the room as she closes the door behind her.
You maneuver yourself under the covers, close your eyes, and feel the tears slip out from beneath them.
-
It's pitch black when you wake up. The scent of something warm hangs in the air, pulling you up out of bed, calling to the wide, yawning pit in your stomach. Your body briefly flashes white as you dig your hand into the mattress and shove yourself up, the pain returning all at once, no more dulled by your heavy sleep.
The pounding in your head has calmed to a faint patter. It's a small relief, one you quickly forget as you fumble for toilet paper and have to bite down on a whimper when you stretch your arm too far back. Washing your hand is no easier of a task; you forgo the liquid soap after two tries at the dispenser, picking up the bar instead and trying to work a lather between five fingers. By the time you're clutching at the railing, socked feet soundless on the stairs, the front of your sweater is soaked, your face and sleeves dripping cold water.
The smell is dizzying now, stronger. You take the stairs slowly, closing your eyes against the bout of nausea that sweeps through your body. You pause to wait it out, tightly clenching the rails, and hear Emily's voice, low and drifting.
"You didn't have to do that, Pen."
You go still, tensing as you wait for another voice to respond. But it's quiet, Emily continuing on with a one-sided conversation. You feel yourself relax.
"I don'tâŠI don't know about that." She says after a pause, audibly weary. "I'm not sure if she can handle so much all at once. Maybe give it a few days, till she can adjust. Doctor said to take it easy. Can'tâŠcan't overwhelm her."
Your fingers curl tighter, cramping. It's easier to hear now, the gravel in her voice, the heartbreak. She doesn't speak above a whisper, but it's raw, ringing with a small tremble that makes your lungs double down.
There's another long pause. A quick, sharp inhale.
"Nothing." She whispers.
The word cracks. You don't feel it grow louder, can't move when you see her shadow cross the base of the stairs. She sees you, pauses mid-sentence. You can see the shine in her eyes from three steps up.
Emily's hand tightens around her phone. "Um, listen, I'll call you back." She says, ending the call before you're sure the person responds and dropping it into the depths of her sweatpants pocket. Her fingers tangle in a knot below her ribs.
"Hey."
"Hey." You mumble, your voice raspy with disuse. You inhale a long breath and pool your focus on taking the last few steps down onto the landing. Emily holds her hand out as you reach the last stair; you take it before she drops it down to her sideâalready pulling back, forcing a reflex down.
Her skin is cold. Her smile is miles warmer, though it barely stretches her lips into a thin line.
"How's the pain?"
You make a strangled sound in your throat.
Immediately, her eyes go round. "Why don't you sit down? I made you some soup." She says, her hand sliding up to your elbow. "Thought it'd go down easy. Or if you want I can make you something elseâ"
You shake your head. "No, that'sâthank you." You rasp. "You didn't have to."
Another flash of a smile, her hand squeezing gently. "Go ahead, I'll just heat it up."
You at least manage to make it to the living room without passing out. You collapse onto the couch, wincing when it jostles your arm, the pain throbbing like a pulse. You stifle a whine as your head tips back, your eyes falling closed against the soothing glow of the room.
It's almost entirely silent. The kind of quiet that makes you want to open your eyes to check that there really is someone with you, inhabiting the same space, edging far enough away to not let you feel it. But you don't. You keep them closed, listening as your body painstakingly calms itself down from the exertion of walking down a flight of stairs.
It's warmer here than in the room. The couch cushions are soothing against your chilled skin, stealing away the ice in your fingertips. As you're blindly feeling around, working up friction, you find the fuzzy edge of a blanket. You tug it into your lap.
At the sound of faint rattling, you open your eyes and find Emily setting down a tray on the coffee table. You take the bowl she hands you, full to the brim with soup, scorching hot through the ceramic.
"Thank you." You mumble.
Her eyes go soft. Softer. "You're welcome. There's more if you want, I made enough for a few days." She clears her throat. "You cold? Orâwarm, thirsty, anything?"
"Really, I'm okay." You insist. "Thank you."
You think you might have to stop saying that. It sounds like an apology.
Emily nods and settles down on the opposite end of the couch. You slowly stir your soup, dispelling steam. It rises up in waves, fogging the air with the sweet smell of potatoes. You bring a steaming spoonful to your mouth. It burns as it goes down, but the taste makes up for it, the growling in your stomach soothed by the promise of more. You singe off half your tastebuds in your haste, too impatient to let it cool down properly.
The throb in your head eases. You drain half the bowl before you can speak.
"This is good." You say quietly.
Emily smiles, the most genuine one you've seen all day. It pulls at dimples and draws a flutter in your chest. You look down, shove another spoonful into your mouth. The bowl is almost clear, your spoon grazing the bottom.
"You cook a lot?" You blurt out.
"Not really." She scratches behind her ear. "But I can get us by just fine."
You tilt your bowl. "This is more than just fine."
Her mouth opens again, but you're distracted from her by a black form that slinks onto the couch next to you. You startle, relaxing back when you meet the cat's bright green eyes. "Oh." You say, feeling yourself smile. "Hi." You mumble, setting the bowl in your lap and lifting a hand up to its face. It foregoes a sniff, instead bumping its nose into your palm, butting against your fingers. You laugh. The cat quickly makes itself comfortable in your lap, uncaring of the bowl balanced on your thighs.
You lift it, lean it against your side. Having only one free hand sucks further when there's a boneless cat in your lap. You smile down at him, mentally combing through the dark fur between his ears.
"What's his name?"
There's a vague shape in your head. Something you can almost taste, the amount of syllables, a dragged O at the end. You frown, feeling your face scrunch.
Something ending with an O.
"Sergio." Emily says, watching you closely.
"Right."
He stars purring up a storm in your lap. Emily stands and rifles through your pharmacy bag, pulling out two boxes of tablets. She pops out the dosage and hands you a glass of water. You down them both.
"Want more?" She asks when you're done, reaching for your bowl.
"Oh. Uh." Your stomach still feels too empty. Not like it'll collapse in on itself, but still hollow.
Emily takes the bowl with a gentle smile. You feel yourself flush, turning away from the tenderness in her eyes. It stifles, suddenly, with its intensity, rushing down on you all at once. You busy yourself with burying your fingers in Sergio's fur.
The next helping of soup makes you drowsy. You start feeling heavy, sinking down onto the cushions behind you as much as you can without disturbing your arm. Sergio makes it hard to get up. Your eyes drift beneath his purring, your guard going down in a house you briefly forget isn't your own.
"Hey." A low voice says.
You open your eyes to a shadowy darkness, barely able to pick out the form hovering above you. Emily's hand is warm on your arm, her fingers gently kneading. "Hey, c'mon. Let's get you to bed."
Sergio is gone from your lap. You blink, finding your hand on her shoulder as she leans down and wraps her arm around your side, carefully tugging you up. You grunt when her fingers press on a sore spot. She whispers a sorry, her grip easing, falling away entirely when you're upright. It shifts to a light hand on the small of your back, guiding you through the shadows. The living room is dim, but your steps don't falter.
You blink more awake when she follows you into the room, her hand falling away as she makes for the opposite side of the bed you'd slept on. Your spine stiffens. You hover back, pulse heavy, but she just gathers up her pillows and the alarm clock on the nightstand.
"Where are you going?"
Emily gives you a half smile. "I'll stay in the guest room." She says, stepping away from the bed. The sparse light you'd turned on earlier catches in her face, running along tired lines.
"No." You blurt out, the two letters catching on your teeth. "No, you don't have to. It's your room."
She looks at you in a way that makes a distant crack resonate in your chest. "It's yours, too." She says softly. Her mouth opens then closes again, wavering. She presses it to the edge of a pillow. Swallows. Looks away, then back. "I'll be just down the hall if you need me. You can come in anytime, for anything. I sleep light."
Your own mouth opens, something on the tip of your tongueânot fully protest, half apology, half guilt, half stupid, damning relief. It all chokes you. She nudges the door wider to make room for herself and you still haven't said anything, still as stone, just as silent.
Emily smiles, her eyes warm and shiny, brown soaked in grief.
SUMMARY: In a world devoid of omegas, Agatha Harkness becomes fixated on her beta neighbor, willing to do whatever it takes to claim her.
WARNING(s): Omegaverse, Dub-con, Obsession, Cheating, Forced Transformation and other Dark Themes.
A/N: Two fics in one day? I'm on a roll, lol! Time for some Alpha Agatha to claim me... I meant you... or us?
The night was moonless, the perfect backdrop to Agatha Harknessâs restless prowling. Salem was quiet these days, much quieter than Agatha preferred. The world had changed; omegas, once sought after and cherished, were no more. The natural order had shifted, leaving only alphas and betas to navigate the complexities of their desires.
Agatha wanted moreâneeded more. For centuries, she had used her power to survive and thrive, but loneliness gnawed at her now. She longed for the soft yielding nature of an omega, for the irresistible pull of a bond. No beta could match the primal fire in her, no matter how desperately they tried. Then, fate intervened.
When the moving truck pulled up next door, Agatha leaned against her window, watching with detached interest. A couple, newly married from the looks of it, stepped out, smiling and holding hands. Two betas, utterly unremarkable. Her gaze lingered, however, as the wifeâs laugh carried through the air, melodic and warm, laced with something that sent a spark down Agathaâs spine.
Interesting.
Her new neighborâyouâwas the epitome of charm. Your kind smile and bright eyes captured the attention of everyone who came to welcome you to the neighborhood, but it was the way you walked, moved, and carried yourself that made Agathaâs heart twist. There was something beneath your beta exterior, something she couldnât quite place. It wasnât long before her curiosity became obsession.
Over the weeks, Agatha ingratiated herself into your life. Sheâd drop by with welcome gifts, offer to help with the garden, and invite you over for tea when your husband was at work. You couldnât understand why you were drawn to her company so fiercely, but there was a magnetic quality to her presence that you couldnât resist.
âDo you ever feel like youâre meant for something⊠different?â Agatha asked one evening as the two of you sat by her fire. Her voice was low and smooth, curling around your thoughts like a whisper of temptation.
âI donât know,â you answered honestly, staring into the flames. âSometimes I feel out of place. Like Iâm missing something, but I donât know what.â
Agatha smiled, the kind of smile that would have warned anyone wiser to tread carefully. âPerhaps you just havenât discovered who you truly are.â
It wasnât coincidence that you began feeling odd a few days later. Your emotions grew unpredictable, your body feverish, and your senses heightened in ways youâd never experienced. Agatha, always conveniently close, reassured you.
âYour husbandâs not a doctor,â she chided when you insisted you were fine. âLet me take care of you. Trust me.â
You did.
She concocted teas with herbs youâd never heard of and whispered strange words into the air when you were too tired to question. She stayed close, too close perhaps, but you were too distracted by your own turmoil to see her true intentions.
Her plan was working.
She had found an ancient spell buried in forbidden texts, a ritual designed to awaken dormant omega traits in betas. It wasnât supposed to exist in this world, but Agatha was nothing if not resourceful. You, her beautiful and unsuspecting neighbor, would be her masterpiece.
The night you fell into Agathaâs grasp felt like falling into a stormâa force far greater than yourself, impossible to fight. It started as a faint haze of discomfort in your veins, a whisper in your body that turned into a scream. You couldnât control it, couldnât understand it, but Agatha⊠oh, she understood it perfectly.
Her knocking on your door that evening was no coincidence. You had spent the entire day spiraling, feverish and restless, aching in ways that frightened you. Your husband had tried to comfort you, his hands fumbling as he touched your sweat-slick skin, his concern obvious, but his presence was unbearable. He smelled wrong, his voice grated against your senses, and the thought of him even looking at you during your vulnerability made your stomach churn.
Agatha had known. She always knew.
âDarling,â she cooed as you opened the door, her violet eyes sharp with concernâand something darker. Her touch, deceptively light, found your trembling hand, grounding you instantly. Her scent was intoxicating, calming the chaos inside you just enough to make you forget the warning alarm in your brain. âYou look terrible. Let me help you.â
You hesitated, clinging to a last shred of caution. "I... I donât understand whatâs happening. I feel like Iâm losing my mind.â
Agatha stepped closer, her voice soft, hypnotic. "Itâs nothing to be afraid of, sweetheart. Your body is finally awakening to its true nature. Let me take care of you. I can make this better."
Desperation clouded your judgment, and before you knew it, you were in her home, her hands guiding you to a comfortable chair by the fire. Her touch was everywhereâgentle on your shoulders, soothing on your back, each caress unraveling your defenses. She offered you tea laced with faintly glowing herbs that smelled of earth and magic. When you drank, the liquid burned in your veins, igniting something so primal you gasped.
Agathaâs smile widened as she crouched before you, one hand resting on your knee, the other cradling your chin. "Feel that?" she whispered, her voice dripping with satisfaction. "Thatâs you transforming. Your body knows exactly what it needs now."
Your skin burned under her touch, your pulse roaring in your ears. Something about her proximity set your senses ablaze. Her scent filled every breath you tookâlavender, dark spices, and something raw, something Alpha.
"I needâ" you started to say, but your words faltered, your voice caught between a whimper and a growl.
Agatha tilted her head, feigning innocence though her eyes betrayed her cunning. "Need what, darling? Tell me."
You couldnât. You didnât know how. Your instincts were at war with logic, and the only thing grounding you was Agatha. Her smirk deepened as she leaned closer, her lips brushing the shell of your ear. "Say it," she purred, her voice molten and commanding. "Say what you need."
You shuddered, torn apart by the intensity of her presence. Every rational thought drowned in the tidal wave of heat coursing through you. Her touch dragged you down further, and then she whispered the word that sealed your fate.
"Me."
You trembled under Agatha's intense gaze, her words echoing in your mind like a siren's call. Me. The thought both terrified and thrilled you. Your body cried out for her touch, for her dominance, and the force of that need scared you. You weren't supposed to want thisâwant herâlike this.
Agatha seemed to sense your hesitation, and she pulled back slightly, her hand still resting on your knee. "It's alright," she murmured, her voice soothing even as her eyes glittered with dark promise. "You don't have to be afraid. I can help you through this."
Help. The word was a lifeline in the storm of your new sensations. You needed help, needed something to ground you in the chaos of your awakening omega instincts. And Agatha offered that, along with the temptation of her touch, her scent, the magnetic pull of her alpha energy.
Slowly, you nodded, surrendering to the inevitable. Agatha's smile widened, victorious and hungry. She leaned in closer, her hand sliding from your knee to your thigh, her touch burning through the fabric of your pants.
"Good girl," she purred, her breath ghosting over your lips. "Now, let's get you out of these clothes. We need to see what's happening to you."
Your breath hitched as Agatha stood, her hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. You watched, mesmerized, as she pushed the fabric off your shoulders, exposing the smooth expanse of your skin to the warmth of the fire. Her eyes raked over you, filled with approval and something elseâsomething dark and possessive.
"Beautiful," she breathed, her fingers trailing down your collarbone, over the swell of your breasts. "So perfect."
You shivered at her touch, your nipples hardening under the fabric of your bra. Agatha's lips curved into a wicked smile as she leaned down, her mouth hovering just above the valley between your breasts.
"Can you feel it, darling?" she whispered, her breath hot against your skin. "The heat in your blood, the ache between your legs? That's your omega nature rising to the surface."
You could feel itâthe raw, primal need that pulsed through your veins, demanding attention. Your body felt like a livewire, every nerve ending screaming for stimulation. And Agatha seemed to know exactly how to touch you, how to stoke the fire within you.
She straightened up, her hands sliding down to the waistband of your pants. "Let's get these off you," she murmured, her voice low and husky. "I want to see all of you."
With a quick movement, she tugged your pants down your legs, leaving you bare before her except for your bra and panties. The cool air of the room hit your skin, making you gasp, but Agatha's eyes were like a physical caress, warm and approving.
"Look at you," she breathed, circling you slowly, drinking in every inch of your exposed flesh. "So beautiful, so ripe with potential. You're going to be a stunning omega."
The word sounded foreign on her lips, but somehow right. Omega. It explained the ache in your body, the restlessness in your soul. It explained the inexplicable draw you felt towards Agatha, the alpha who stood before you now, her eyes dark with desire.
Agatha stepped closer, her hands cupping your face, tilting your head up to meet her gaze. "I'm going to take care of you," she promised, her voice low and firm. "I'm going to show you what it means to be an omega, to submit to your alpha. And you're going to love every second of it."
Her words sent a shiver down your spine, a thrill of anticipation mixed with a hint of fear. You knew you should be scared, should fight against the pull of her dominance. But your body craved her touch, craved the relief only she could provide.
As if reading your thoughts, Agatha's hands slid down your body, one cupping your breast through your bra, the other dipping between your legs, pressing against your aching core through the damp fabric of your panties.
"Can you feel how wet you are?" she murmured, her fingers rubbing slow circles over your clothed sex. "That's your omega essence, darling. It's nature's way of preparing you for mating."
The word made your head spin, but it was the pressure of Agatha's fingers that made you gasp, made your hips buck forward involuntarily. Agatha chuckled darkly, her fingers slipping beneath the hem of your panties, caressing your slick folds directly.
"So responsive," she purred, her touch gentle but firm. "I can't wait to break you in properly."
Break you in. The words should have terrified you, but they only served to heighten your arousal. Your body craved submission, craved the dominant touch of an alpha. And Agatha was more than willing to provide that.
She continued her slow exploration of your body, her fingers gliding over your sensitive flesh, teasing your nipples through the fabric of your bra, dipping between your legs to gather your slick essence. All the while, she whispered words of praise and possession, telling you how beautiful you were, how perfect, how utterly hers.
You could feel yourself losing control, your omega instincts taking over as the alpha's touch consumed you. Your hands clutched at Agatha's shoulders, nails digging into the fabric of her shirt as she brought you closer and closer to the edge.
"Please," you whimpered, unable to hold back any longer. "Please, Agatha..."
She smiled against your skin, her teeth grazing your collarbone. "Please what, darling?" she asked, her voice a seductive purr. "Tell me what you need."
You hesitated for a moment, unsure if you could voice your deepest desires. But the fire in your veins demanded satisfaction, demanded release.
"I... I need you," you gasped out finally, the words raw and honest. "I need you to make me yours."
Agatha's eyes flashed with triumph and hunger. "Oh, I will," she promised darkly. "I'm going to claim you in every way imaginable. I'm going to fill you with my seed and make you scream my name until everyone knows you belong to me."
The dirty words sent a shiver of excitement through you, even as a small part of you knew this was wrong, knew you were betraying your husband. But your body didn't care about right or wrongâit only cared about the alpha who held it in her thrall.
With a low growl, Agatha captured your lips in a searing kiss, her tongue delving into your mouth to claim every inch of you. At the same time, her fingers found your aching clit, rubbing hard and fast until you were writhing against her, desperate for more.
"Come for me," she commanded against your lips, her fingers never ceasing their relentless pace. "Show me how much you need this."
Her words pushed you over the edge, and with a cry of release, you came hard, your body convulsing as pleasure crashed through you. Agatha held you through it all, her touch steady and dominant, guiding you through the waves of ecstasy until you collapsed against her, boneless and sated.
But even as you caught your breath, you could feel the need building again, could feel the omega inside you demanding more than just a quick orgasm. She demanded completion, demanded an alpha's knot and seed.
As if sensing your thoughts, Agatha picked you up easily, cradling you in her strong arms as she carried you towards the bedroom. "Don't worry, darling," she murmured, her voice low and reassuring. "I'm going to give you everything you need."
And as she laid you down on the soft bed, her body covering yours, you knew she was right. This was only the beginning.
Agatha hovered above you, her eyes dark with desire as she gazed down at your naked form. She took a moment to drink in the sight of you, laid out before her like a feast. Her hands trailed over your skin, cupping your breasts, teasing your nipples until they hardened under her touch. You gasped at the sensation, arching into her hands, craving more.
With a wicked smile, Agatha leaned down, her tongue swirling around one hardened peak. Electricity shot through you at the contact, your back arching off the bed as you cried out in pleasure. Agatha chuckled against your skin, the vibrations sending another wave of sensation through you.
"Your body is so responsive," she purred, her fingers continuing their exploration of your curves. "I can't wait to feel it spasming around my knot as I fill you with my seed."
The dirty words made your core clench, your arousal growing with each passing second. You could feel your omega nature taking over, your instincts screaming at you to submit, to let the alpha claim you completely.
Agatha seemed to sense your desperation, and she moved down your body with purpose, her hands and mouth leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When she reached the apex of your thighs, she paused, her breath hot against your slick folds.
"Look at you," she murmured, her fingers brushing against your entrance. "So wet and ready for me already. You were made for this, weren't you? Made to be an alpha's mate."
She didn't give you a chance to respond, her mouth latching onto your clit instead. The sensation was overwhelming, and you cried out, your hands fisting in the sheets beneath you. Agatha's tongue worked magic on you, flicking and circling and sucking until you were writhing against her face, your hips bucking shamelessly as you sought more of that exquisite pleasure.
But Agatha controlled the pace, her hands holding your hips down as she lapped at your essence, savoring every drop of your arousal. She brought you to the edge again and again, only to pull back at the last second, leaving you gasping and aching for release.
"Please," you whimpered, desperation clawing at your throat. "Please, Agatha, I needâ"
She cut off your plea with another swipe of her tongue, her fingers dipping inside you as she finally allowed you to find your climax. You shattered with a scream of her name, your body convulsing as ecstasy tore through you.
But even as the waves of pleasure crested and began to ebb, you could feel the need building again, stronger than before. Your omega instincts demanded satisfaction, demanded an alpha's knot stretching you open and filling you up.
As if reading your thoughts, Agatha moved up your body, her clothed form pressing against your naked skin. You could feel the hard ridge of her arousal through her pants, and it made your mouth water with desire.
"Can you feel what you do to me?" Agatha murmured, her hips grinding against yours in a slow, sensual motion. "Can you feel how hard I am for you? How much I need to be inside you?"
You nodded frantically, your hands reaching for the buttons of her shirt. You needed to feel her skin against yours, needed to explore the curves of her body just as she had explored yours.
Agatha allowed you to undress her, watching with a satisfied smirk as you marveled at the sight of her. She was lean and toned, her breasts full and her abs defined. And between her legs, her cock stood at attention, thick and heavy and glistening at the tip.
"Such a beautiful sight," Agatha purred, her eyes devouring you as you gazed at her in awe. "I'm going to enjoy wrecking this pretty little body of yours."
She didn't give you a chance to respond, capturing your lips in a searing kiss as she settled between your thighs. You could feel the heat of her cock pressing against your slick folds, teasing you with the promise of what was to come.
"Tell me you want this," Agatha demanded, her voice low and commanding against your lips. "Tell me you want me to claim you, to make you mine."
"I want it," you gasped out, unable to deny the need coursing through your veins. "Please, Agatha. I need you to fill me up. I need your knot."
Her eyes flashed with primal hunger at your words, and with a growl of satisfaction, she thrust into you in one smooth motion. The sensation of being stretched and filled was overwhelming, your inner walls clenching around her thick length as she bottomed out inside you.
"Fuck," Agatha hissed, her hips stilling for a moment as she savored the feeling of being inside you. "You're so tight. So perfect."
She didn't give you time to adjust, pulling out slowly before slamming back into you, setting a hard and fast pace that had you crying out in ecstasy. Each thrust sent sparks of pleasure through you, the head of her cock hitting that sweet spot inside you that made stars explode behind your eyelids.
You clung to Agatha's shoulders, your nails digging into her skin as she pounded into you relentlessly. The sound of skin slapping against skin filled the room, mingling with your cries of pleasure and Agatha's grunts of exertion.
"Mine," she growled, one hand fisting in your hair as she angled your head back, exposing your neck to her teeth. "You're mine now, little omega. I'm going to mark you, claim you, fill you with my seed until everyone knows you belong to me."
The words sent a shiver down your spine, your omega nature rejoicing at the thought of being claimed so thoroughly by an alpha. You felt wild, free, as if all the constraints of your old life had fallen away and all that mattered was this moment, this primal act of mating.
"Please," you whimpered, your hips meeting Agatha's thrusts eagerly. "Please, mark me. Claim me. I'm yours."
Your words seemed to spur Agatha on, and she picked up the pace, fucking into you with a ferocity that bordered on violence. The bed creaked beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall as she took you harder and faster than you ever thought possible.
And then, without warning, she was there, her knot swelling inside you, locking her in place as she finally found his release. You felt her cock pulsing inside you, felt the warm rush of her seed filling you up as she came with a roar of triumph.
The sensation of being claimed so completely sent you over the edge, and you came with a scream of ecstasy, your body milking Agatha's cock for every last drop of her essence.
You collapsed together in a tangle of limbs, both of you panting and sated as the aftershocks of pleasure slowly faded. Agatha stayed buried inside you, her knot keeping her in place as she nuzzled into your neck, inhaling your scent with a contented sigh.
"That was incredible," she murmured, her lips brushing against your skin. "But don't think we're done yet, my little omega. I've got a lot more to show you."
A thrill of anticipation shot through you at her words, even as exhaustion tugged at your limbs. You knew this was just the beginning, knew that Agatha would demand your submission over and over again until you were thoroughly claimed and mated.
But for now, all you could do was bask in the afterglow of your first true mating, knowing that your life would never be the same again.
From that night, your transformation was complete, irreversible. You woke in Agatha's arms, marked in ways you couldn't yet understand. The ache that had consumed you was gone, replaced by something deeperâa connection that bound you to her. You were hers, every part of you attuned to the alpha who had made you this way.
Your husband came looking for you days later, frantic and confused. Agatha welcomed him with a cool smile, standing tall and unyielding at her doorway as she blocked his frantic attempts to push past her.
âShe doesnât belong to you anymore,â she said, her voice smooth, her words cutting like a blade. âYou couldnât handle what sheâs become. Let her go.â
The scent of your omega status wafted through the air, reaching him like a slap to the face. His eyes filled with despair as realization struck. He couldnât argue. There was no fighting the primal laws of biology.
From the shadows, you watched, torn between guilt and the overwhelming relief of having Agathaâs arms around you. She caught your gaze over her shoulder, her smirk cold, victorious.
âDonât worry, darling,â she murmured, shutting the door in your husbandâs face with a finality that sent shivers down your spine. âIâll take care of you now. No one else ever could.â
Agatha didnât just claim you; she consumed you. Every part of your life, every piece of who you had been, was now wrapped around her. And as much as a part of you still resisted, another partâdarker, hungrierâcraved her attention, her dominance, her endless power.
She molded you into her perfect vision of an omega, lavishing you with touches and whispers that lingered long after they ended. Your world shrank to her presence, her approval, her praise. Each moment of submission felt intoxicating, as though her dominance filled an empty space youâd never known existed.
And though her methods were dark, her spell forbidden, Agatha would argue it was a fair exchange.
After all, wasnât it her right, as an Alpha, to finally have what she deserved?
_-_-_
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Summary: Natasha has crush on Y/N, but doesn't think Y/N likes her back. Until a game of Truth or Dare reveals that Y/N was flirting with her the whole time.
Genre: fluff
Word Count: 1400+
AN: I am still new to writing and i am not really happy with this one but still decided to post it.
Today was game night in the compound, which means alcohol and games, but mostly alcohol. The Avengers were gathered around the table in the living room. Tony, Natasha and Steve were sitting on the couch, Bucky as always was sitting on the ground, but this time Y/N was sitting next to him, Wanda was on one of the armchairs and Thor was on the other one. Â
The two youngest and newest additions to the group, Peter and Kate, were sleeping soundly on the ground. They were allowed only one shot of alcohol, but Thor must have given them Asgardian one, because they were out in no time. The only missing person was Clint, who probably was somewhere in the vents. Â
âToday is my turn to choose a game so I am choosingâ Tony imitated playing drums with his hand, âTruth or Dare,â and everyone frowned and sighed, when they heard the game.Â
âCome on, Stark! Thatâs game for kids and they are sleeping right now,â Y/N said and pointed with her hand the two sleeping on the ground.Â
âItâs not normal Truth or Dare, there are two rules,â everyone looked at him waiting to hear what they are, âFirst, you canât choose the same option more than twice in a roll. And second, if you refuse to tell the truth you drink a shot, and if you refuse a dare, you drink two.âÂ
After hearing the rules, everyone was more excited to play the game. As always Tony had to be first, because... well because it was Tony.Â
âOkay, letâs start with Cap. Truth or Dare, Frosty?â Â
âTruth, I guess,â and everyone booed him.Â
âSuch a lame start, Steve,â Natasha teased him.Â
âCome on! Itâs called Truth or Dare for a reason,â he grumped.Â
âCalm down, Frosty. Donât show your claws from the beginning,â Tony joked, âWho did you have a crush on back in the day?â he asked.Â
âI...,â Steve was embarrassed to answer, but didnât want to be called lame again for taking a shot, so he answered without making any eye contact, âThere was this one teacher in high school...â he couldnât even finish his sentence before the room exploded with wows and disbelieve.Â
âA teacher, really, Steve? I thought you were a good boy,â Y/N teased him, and Steve blushed.Â
âHey, donât discourage him before we got more juicy information,â Tony said.Â
At the corner of the couch Natasha was looking at Y/N bickering with Tony. She would lie if she said, she didnât have a little crush on her. No one knew, except for Wanda, who found out because Natashaâs thoughts were so loud when they were about Y/N. Â
After that the game continued, with each Avenger taking their turn. Tony was dared to make Bucky laugh within a minute, but had to drink two shots at the end; Bucky was asked if he had slept on a bed since before the war, which he denied; Thor was dared to sing an âEarth pop songâ, but was stopped after a minute because he was too into it; Wanda was asked if she ever returned Natashaâs jacked, that was given to her by Steve; and Natasha was dared to do an impression of Tony giving a pep talk.Â
It was Y/N turn, and she chose truth. And tony being himself couldnât miss the opportunity.Â
âWho from the guys in the room would you sleep with, if you had a chance?â he asked mischievously. Everyone was excited to hear the answer, except for Natasha.Â
âAs much as I like you all guys, you know I am not straight, right?â and there was no sound in the room for a moment. Natasha tried hide her smile at her words.Â
âWait,â Bucky was first to speak, âWerenât you seeing Charlie from Security and Sam from downtown?â he asked confused.Â
âI was. And these are women. I thought you had unisex names back in the day, Buck?â Y/N teased him.Â
âI mean, there were, but... Forget it,â he decided no end the topic.Â
Y/N took her glass to drink and looked at Natasha, who was already looking at her. Y/N winked at her and laughed, when the Widow chocked on air.Â
After that the game continued, round after round, shot after shot â everyone was getting drunk and half of the team already left. Thor had decided that he was bored of the game and flew to some bar to party; Wanda decided to call it a night and took Peter and Kate to their respective room with her magic, and after that she went to her own; Y/N had texted Pepper at some point, to come and get her drunk man; and Clint probably still in the vents, no one knows. Â
Now still playing were only Steve, Bucky, Natasha and Y/n. Now without Tony or Thor, the game was more chill, and they were playing mostly Truth without the Dare or the rules. It was Y/Nâs turn again. Â
âWhat are you go-to moves when flirting with someone?â Steve asked her. When Natasha heard the question, she shot her head up so fast that she thought she heard her neck breaking. She looked around to see if someone noticed. The guys were looking at Y/N and didnât saw anything. But Y/N was looking at her with a little smirk.Â
If you ask Y/N, she will say that her crush on the Black Widow was obvious, she was trying to flirt with her for the past weeks. But if you ask Natasha, she will say that she would never have a chance with her, and that Y/N was just being a good friend, which coming from someone who was trained to read people as a spy, not catching the signs felt almost like a joke or a hidden camera. Â
âHonestly, I am trying to be subtle, so I donât scare them away,â Y/N answered, and Natasha thought who in their right mind would be scared of you, âI like making them coffee in the morning, baking them their favorite sweets, help them when they need help, asking them how their morning was. Stuff like these.âÂ
Y/N was looking at Natasha the whole time speaking, and you could see the small blush at the Widowâs cheeks, because her mind finally caught up with everything.Â
Natasha finally saw that Y/N wasn't just a good friend, when every morning she had coffee ready for her, when she made sure that her favorite homemade muffins never ran out, when Y/N always knew when Natasha needed help with something and she was always there to help, all the small questions like âHow was your morning?â, âHow did the mission went?â, âDid you hurt yourself?â and many other. Natasha cursed herself for not seeing the obvious. Â
Y/N saw the gears in her mind working in real time. She only smirked and drank the last of her drink and stood up.Â
âAlright guys, itâs pretty late and I had one to many drinks, so I am heading to my room,â she announced, telling them goodnight and leaving the living room.Â
Natashaâs mind tried to keep up with everything happening, stood up and ran after Y/N without a word, leaving already sleeping Bucky and Steve. Â
Natasha ran down the hallway, scanning for Y/N, and saw her just as she was entering her room.Â
âWAIT!â Natasha screamed.Â
Y/N stopped just before crossing the door to her room. Natasha ran to her, stopping when she reached the room. She looked Y/N in the eyes and for a moment forgot how to speak.Â
âDo you have something to say, Romanoff?â Y/N said trying not to laugh at Natashaâs state.Â
âDo y-you want, maybe, if you are free, to go out with me? On a date I mean.â Natasha asked, but when she didnât get an answer so added, âSorry... I thought, maybe... because of the things you said in the game that... You know what? Nevermind. Good night.âÂ
Y/N was trying not burst out laughing. She took Natashaâs arm, turned her around and kissed her on the lips.Â
âNot so fast, Romanoff,â Y/N teased, âI thought you would never ask. Pick me up tomorrow at 7,â and she left Natasha in the hallway alone, as she closed the door.Â
âFinally! I was getting tired of you two,â said Clint from the vents.Â
âSHUT UP, CLINT!â Natasha and Y/N screamed from both sides of the door. Â
Summary: Wanda's not so happy when she finds out your colleague calls you her "work wife"
A/N: Happy bday, @a-cat-on-titan! Thank you for being such a cool, amazing friend and for always giving me great fic ideas <3
PS - whoever guesses the reference on the title gets a cookie ;)
Wandaâs used to getting what she wants.
From her time as a junior editor and all the way to releasing her own fashion line, sheâs had her charm and wit to help.
You were the exception, only at first.
It was supposed to be a sales meeting, to pitch and close the biggest deal of your entire career. Wanda, on the other hand, had decided the minute she laid eyes on you that she was going to make you hers.
Flattery and charm couldnât win you over, not when she had all the money in the world to date whoever she wanted. You assumed it was just a game to her, to see how much she could string you along before breaking your heart and leaving your quarterly commission dangerously low.
If she insisted on reviewing the financial proposal face to face, you went to work and kept it professional. Even when she smiled at you, and tried to steer the conversation away from work and on to more personal topics.
Especifically, your dating life.
âI donât mix business and pleasure, Miss Maximoffâ you had said once.
It only made her want you more.
And truth be told? During all those conversations, the back and forth, negotiating and preparing a contract to sign, you had fallen for her.
When she asked you to come over after hours to approve the final offer, you pretended it was totally normal.
You sat in front of her, and watched as she signed with a smile.
âNow, can I take you out on a proper date?â she said.
âWellâŠâ
âWhat is it?â she tilted her head. She had seen the way you acted around her, and Wanda knew you felt something too.
âIf people think I slept with you to get this deal⊠my career is overâ
âBut you didnâtâ
âMiss Maximoffâ you walked around her desk, leaning against the edge. Your skirt hiked up only a little, but it was enough to distract Wanda. âItâs not about what happened. Itâs about what people will believeâ
âOk, so consider it gone. I will rip this apart. Youâre doneâ she took the contract, ready to set it on fire or throw it out the window.
âHey, thatâs a big commissionâ you smiled, taking it away from her before she backed out of the deal. âLike any great salesperson, I happen to have a counteroffer. And I think youâll want to hear itâ
âFine. But you have five minutesâ she finally stood up, standing between your legs. It was driving her crazy, having you so close, both physically and metaphorically; because this was the final stretch and she was expecting a big reward in the end.
Wanda wanted all of you.
âI close this dealâ you started to say, sighing when you felt lips on your jaw. Your hand wrapped around her wrist, squeezing as she bit the spot behind your ear. âI cash my commission. And then I quitâ
âYou quit? Want to be my sugar baby?â she asked, hands pushing your skirt up.
âNo. I already have another job. Better salary, manager position. I thought this through, Wanda. Thatâs why I was taking as long as I didâ you wrapped your legs around her middle, pulling her closer. âSo, how does my offer sound?â
âYouâre taking a two week break between jobs. And youâre going to Paris with meâ she said, holding your chin in place.
âI can work with that. Handshake on it?â you offered your hand, and Wanda chuckled, inching closer to you.
âI have other ideas to seal the deal, detkaâ
And you did. Right on her desk until your legs gave out.
â
It was everything Wanda had dreamed of, and even more.
Now, a year and a half later, you were newlyweds, living in a beautiful house outside of the bustling city.
It is the perfect escape from work, responsibilities, and the constant harrassment from the press, wanting to know the details of Wandaâs private life. Turns out, if you dress celebrities, youâre bound to become one.
Aside from a few sightings here and there, your relationship and marriage had been kept as a secret and you were more than happy to stay that way.
Wanda thought she was happy with that too.
And then she noticed her.
It all started one afternoon, as you were busy making dinner and she reviewed some designs. Once she was done with work (or too tired to keep it up) she went to find you in the kitchen, cornering you between her body and the counter.
âFoodâs almost readyâ you say, hands going to her shoulders, rubbing the tension away. Sheâs always slouching.
âHow long? We can pass time in some other waysâ her hands move to cup your ass, and you let out a breathless laugh, though it turns into a moan when you feel her lips against that spot behind your ear that always makes you weak.
It could have been the perfect rendevousz, right in the middle of your new kitchen, but your phone keeps buzzing.
âWorkâ you mutter between breaths, forgetting about it when Wanda kneels, pulling your denim shorts and underwear down, your arousal exposed.
Too busy with her head between your legs, you barely register the constant buzzing, throwing the phone across the room.
This is your day off, and you are determined to come in Wandaâs mouth. Which happens not long after, your chest heaving and her face glistening as she climbs back to let you have a taste from her lips.
It could have been fine, but right in the middle of dinner, the phone buzzes again.
âWork?â Wanda says as you scroll through your texts. Which was weird, because you emailed or Slacked everyone.
âYeah. Sorryâ you set it down again, resumig the episode of I love Lucy Wanda had chosen for the night.
It bothers your wife, but she tries to keep it to herself. The company you currently work for grew massively in the last few months, which meant more people to manage, more work and more headaches. Even if your career wasnât as glamorous as Wandaâs, it was important to you, and she supported that.
As much as sheâd like to support you in other ways (namely, financially) so she could have you all to herself 24/7.
But then again, your phone buzzes as you get ready for bed. Wandaâs already done with her routine, and she canât help but look at your screen.
Sasha: Anything for my work wife, LOL!
Sasha: Sweet dreams ;)
Wanda was expecting you to notice as soon as you settle in bed, but her poker face must have been better than she thought. Because you just kiss her cheek, say goodnight and turn off your side of the lights.
But Wanda doesnât move, so you turn back around and give her a look.
âBaby?â
âWho is Sasha?â
âDarlingâ you sigh, kissing your early night goodbye.
âWork wife? Really?â she snaps. Now she does look pissed, but the thing is, you never take it seriously. Because you know sheâs not mad at you. Sheâs mad at whoever dares to think they have a chance with you.
âLook, sheâs new. From marketing, you know how it is between our departments. I honestly donât like the whole work wife things because, boundaries. But sheâs new and I guess just trying to fit in?â
âI will kill herâ
âNow that would be really inconvenient because weâre in the middle of Q3 and that would set me back big timeâ you straddle her lap, smiling when she frowns. Nothing will ease her mind except one thing.
And honestly? Youâre fine with that.
âI am yours, Wanda Maximoff. No one elseâs. Ok?â
âPromise?â
âSwear. NowâŠâ you take your shirt off, and finally, the puppy eyes stop, her gaze clouded by lust. âWhy donât you show me how much you own me, baby?â
â
âHey, wifeyâ
Your coworker greets you, and you have to control your stupid smile from remembering how Wanda had her way with you this morning.
You really donât want to talk to HR.
âHeyaâ you say, straightening up in your chair. âWhatâs up?â
âWell, I was wondering ifâŠâ
âHey, these are for youâ Leroy, the guy at the front desk suddenly knocks on your office door. Heâs having trouble with the huge flower arrangement, and you stand up quickly, helping him. âSorry, thereâs more. Tulips⊠and daisiesâ
By the time heâs done, your desk and couch are overflowing with flowers.
Sasha interrupts the moment a second later, sneezing loudly.
âSorry, allergiesâ she says. âI better go before all this pollen kills meâ
âYeah, if you need anything, I guess you can Slack me!â you say, hoping her allergies are nothing serious.
And of course, you know whoâs behind this.
âHello, moyĂĄ lyubĂłv'â Wanda says, sounding a lot happier than she did last night.
âI got the flowers and I love them, thank you. If it makes you happy, sheâs allergic to them so I wonât have anyone calling me work wife around for the dayâ
âReally? Well, good to know. Iâm sending flowers to you every week, thenâ
âWandaâ you laugh, knowing sheâll do it.
âI love youâ
âI love you too, even when you act crazyâ
â
Crazy was just the start. The sound of a text coming through set off a Pavlovian response for Wanda. She practically pounced on you everytime you got a message, as if it was a button to jump start her jealous streak.
âBaby, this isnât even her, itâs a scam messageâ you moaned against her lips one morning, her fingers sinking in your cunt until you forgot your own name.
But now, sheâs on a work trip. Itâs only two days, that you canât afford to take because itâs the last week of the month, and the last chance to close out all the deals left.
You werenât surprised when Leroy dropped another flower arrangement in your desk.
âYou dating a florist?â Sasha jokes, not daring to come in.
âWell, she does like colors and styleâ you reply.
Only a handful of people in the office know you are married, though the identity of your spouse is a mystery. The only lead they could work on was the picture you kept in your desk, but Wanda was wearing sunglasses and not facing the camera, kissing your cheek as you laughed.
âWhen we close this deal, we should go out and celebrateâ Sasha says.
âYeah, might be good for team moraleâ
âOh, I meantâŠâ
Thankfully, your potential customers finally join the call. And of course, Sasha has to take it in her own office, as your space is a hazzard for her. Youâre the first to present, knowing your way around the sales pitch and the conditions of the contract.
You finish your presentation, handing it over to Sasha. She thanks you with a big smile and a lot more excitement than necessary for a sales meeting.
And then, your phone pings. It seems like Wandaâs not the only one conditioned to get horny off a notification.
You hold on tighter to the pen in your hand, knowing whoâs messaging you.
Wands: Iâm coming back tonight. Got you a little surprise ;)
Y/N: more flowers?
Youâre aware that youâre smiling while Sasha speaks, and you hope to god she doesnât think itâs because of her.
And then, your actual wife sends you the last thing youâre expecting. A picture in front of the mirror, Wanda naked except for the harness and a crystal strap hanging sensually from her hips.
The cherry on top? Thereâs a fucking flower pattern in the dildo.
You let out a laugh, but disguise it as a cough, legs squeezing together at the anticipation of whatâs to come.
Y/N: Killer cock, darling
â
A few weeks went by, and things started to settle again. Wanda was busy with work, which gave her little time to worry over your self proclaimed work spouse.
It took one text to change everything.
Sasha: All ready. You should wear that white top for preso. You look stunning in it <3
Wanda knew which top she meant. It was the one you rarely wore, because one tricky movement and part of your cleavage was on full display.
Thatâs fine. Wanda can give this slut something to oggle at, other than your breasts.
Youâre not even out of the shower when Wandaâs discarding your towel, hands on your breasts, pinching your nipples.
âBaby?â you say, and youâre not sure what is it youâre asking. All you know is Wandaâs pushing you against the bed, head between your legs and licking your cunt like thereâs no tomorrow.
Her movements are slow, and you know what that means. Wanda wants to edge you until youâre begging.
Which happens pretty quickly, after she leaves you hanging two times, teeth scrapping against your clit.
âPlease, Wanda. Baby, just make me come, ok? Iâll do anythingâ you almost cry. Itâs too early, you havenât had your coffee and your hot, possessive wife is denying you the release you desperately need.
âAnything?â she tilts her head, in that way that tells you sheâs up to no good. But youâre too desperate, so you nod frantically, promising that yes, youâll do anything as long as she lets you come.
Instead of returning between your legs, she goes on top of you, her arms caging you in while her leg rubs against your center.
âYouâre so fucking desperate, hump my leg and do it yourselfâ
She knows exactly which buttons to push, because the words only turn you on more, and you do as she says. As your movements become more frantic, Wanda sinks her teeth in the flesh of your breasts, marking you everywhere she can.
Pain and pleasure mix as you finally come, letting out a strangled moan against her shoulder. She doesnât stop marking you, even after you slump in bed, too tired to move.
âI have a presentation todayâ you say, out of breath.
âI knowâ Wanda nods, smiling.
âYou left me looking like a vampire attacked meâ you accuse, not needing to look in the mirror to imagine what you look like.
Fuck, itâs going to take extra time to cover the hickeys.
Once you find the will to move, Wanda follows you close behind, pulling out the cause of all this mess from your closet.
âWandaâ
âYou said youâd do anything if I let you comeâ she reminds you. âWear this. And your engagement ringâ
âBabyâ you say, but stop the minute she gives you an icy look.
Youâre pretty sure everyone in the office is staring, even if you tried your best to cover the hickeys. Or, it might be the giant engagement ring that Wanda got you, the diamond so big you swear it makes your hand heavier.
Honestly, you consider it a success when you only stutter once during your presentation, but then you lean forward to pass a file towards Sasha, and you know sheâs not only getting a good look at your boobs, but also at all the marks your wife left on you.
âShitâ she drops the file and youâre quicker than her, left hand going to pick it up. âThatâs⊠a huge ringâ
âUh, yeahâŠâ
What else is there to say?
Yeah, if you keep calling me work wife Iâm pretty sure my actual wife will get here and fuck me in front of the entire office.
But again, you really donât want to talk to HR.
Thankfully, the meeting ends, and you go back to your office, locking the door for good measure.
Itâs going to be a long day.
â
âAll packed?â Wanda says, and you nod. âOk, Iâll leave you at your office and then pick you up after lunchâ
âYes, darlingâ
Finally, after an exhausting month, you get to take a few days off. Wanda was more than happy to plan a mini holiday, and all you had to do was swear that your phone would be off for the entire time.
Though, considering how she gets when you get a text⊠youâre thinking about using it to spur her on.
âAlright, see you laterâ you smile, but look confused when Wanda gets out of the car, walking with you. âBaby?â
âCome on, Iâll walk you to the officeâ
âWandaâ you begin to say, but then her lips are on yours, tongue pushing until you submit to her, allowing her to explore your mouth.
âItâs fine. What do you think Iâll do? Slap her?â
âMaybe, yeahâ
âI just want to walk with you, detkaâ she says, but you know itâs a lie. Still, you walk into the elevator, pressing the button to the fourth floor.
âAfter youâ she gestures to the door.
âYou gonna walk me all the way to my office?â
âMaybeâ she smiles and you roll your eyes, knowing itâs no use to argue with her.
âThere, Iâm all setâ you say, opening your laptop and kissing Wandaâs cheek. âSee you in a bitâ
âOk, my loveâ she nods, but makes no effort to move.
And you know that look.
Itâs trouble.
For you, and for anyone who dares walk into your office. Because before you know it, Wandaâs pushing you against your desk, hands cupping your ass as you sink your nails in her arms.
âIâm so getting firedâ you sigh, fearing someone will see you.
âAfraid youâll have to find a new work wife?â
âWandaâ you scoff, but she bits down your lip. Hard.
âSay my name, darling. Remember who owns you, yes?â
âYesâ you sigh against her mouth.
You swear to God, if it wasnât for Sasha, youâd be bent over the fucking desk, Wanda pounding into you until your legs gave out.
But she does walk in, blushing madly, as you break apart. Wanda glares at her for a second, before changing her entire demeanor to a charming smile.
âWell, my darling wife. Iâll pick you up in a bitâ
âYes, babyâ
âOop, your lipstickâs all smudgedâ she laughs.
You wanna remind her it's her fault, but you know better.
If you want to spend the entire holiday getting fucked in the best way possible, you have to be a nice girl for Wanda.
With a final kiss, she walks past your coworker, who youâre sure will never EVER call you âwork wifeâ again.
âWas that⊠Wanda Maximoff?â she says, jaw on the floor. âYouâre married to Wanda Maximoff?â
âYeap. The one and onlyâ
âWhat is it like? I mean, isnât she super rich?â the woman is still in shock. You just snort out a laugh.
âYeah, she is. I guess that makes me super rich too. And what is she like? Well, Sasha. She doesnât like to share. At allâ
In case you didnât make it clear that day, Wanda sends you back from your holiday with a new set of hickeys.
pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader
word count: 3.4 k
tags: shy and clueless reader, logistics!reader, flirty!Emily
Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3
Youâre halfway through closing the Jacobs file when an email pings in your inbox. The message is short and precise, professional, but unmistakably her.
From: E. Prentiss
Hey. Can you please bring me the updated Jacobs file?
Your heart skips a beat at her words. Itâs not the first message sheâs sent since the date, but somehow this one feels different. You havenât seen her since that night. Just short texts, a meme she sent that made you laugh too hard in the middle of a staff meeting. An emoji you agonized over for fifteen minutes before sending back. Nothing substantial. Nothing you could hold onto.
But this? This is movement, a step forward. It means you hadnât scared her away with your awkwardness. You grab the file before you can overthink it. Of course you go. How could you not? Your pulse thrums as you hit the elevator button with slightly clammy fingers, the file tucked against your chest like it might keep your heart from jumping out.
After an almost too-short ride, youâre standing in front of her office. You knock twice, pausing in the doorway. âHey. Here is the file for you.â
She looks up from her monitor, eyes finding yours instantly. That subtle shift in her expression, soft but unreadable, sends a pulse of heat through your chest.
âThanks,â she replies, a glint in her gaze you havenât seen since the date. She takes the folder from your hand, fingers brushing yours briefly in the exchange. Itâs only a second, but it leaves warmth behind, like a mark only you can feel.
And just like that, something stirs in your chest again. That weightless moment where it feels like you and her might actually be something. You think you might say something, anything to stretch the moment, but the door creaks open behind you.
âPrentiss,â a manâs voice says.
You turn slightly, instinctively stepping to the side. Agent Derek Morgan stands in the doorway, casual confidence etched into his frame. Youâve seen him in passing, maybe twice. His reputation precedes him, but youâve never exchanged more than a polite nod. You recognize others from her team in the hall sometimes, Jareau, Reid, Rossi, but youâve always felt like a visitor orbiting a universe that already spins without you.
Morganâs gaze skims over you, curious but not impolite.
âDonât think weâve met. You part of BAU?â he asks, with a light edge of playful charm.
You shake your head. âNo. Logistics. I just brought up the file.â
He grins, easy and teasing. âAh. So youâre the reason this place still runs.â
You huff a short breath of surprise, somewhere between a laugh and a flustered inhale. Your fingers curl around the cuff of your sleeve.
Heâs being kind, nevertheless thereâs something in the way his eyes narrow, not suspicious, but⊠thoughtful. Like heâs filing away a detail. Like heâs seen this kind of moment before and recognizes whatâs underneath.
Your stomach knots, not because youâve done anything wrong, but because thereâs a fragile, unspoken thread between you and Emily. A truth youâre afraid the world might name before youâre ready to hear it out loud. Did he notice how close you stood? The way Emily looked at you? The silence between words?
You donât know why youâre blushing. Embarrassment? Maybe. Or maybe itâs fear, the kind that creeps in when something you care about suddenly feels visible to someone else. Exposed before itâs fully real. Youâre still trying to make sense of whatâs happening with her. Still trying to believe youâre allowed to want this and now someone else might have seen it too.
Behind you, something shifts in Emilyâs posture, subtle, but unmistakable. A straightening. You donât turn, but you feel her eyes on you. Sheâs watching you or perhaps watching Morgan, watching you. The air sharpens and you wonder if she caught the way your breath hitched. If she read the pink in your cheeks not as flustered, but as fear. Not fear of her, but of what it might mean, for both of you, if someone like Morgan decided this was a thing worth noticing. You hate how exposed you feel all of a sudden. Like a spotlight is creeping over you, uncovering something that hasnât even had a chance to grow in the dark yet.
âSheâs not new,â Emily says, her voice calm, but with just enough weight to tether the moment. âShe just doesnât usually work from this floor.â
Morgan looks between the two of you. His smile doesnât fade, but his eyes sharpen for a beat, just long enough for a quiet understanding to pass between him and Emily. You canât tell what it is, because you donât know how they are, when they work together. Youâve only ever seen them from the outside, never close enough to decode the shorthand glances, the silences that seem to carry weight. But whatever this is, whatever just passed between them, it leaves something humming under your skin. Like he saw you not just as a logistics staffer, but as something else. As someone who matters to Emily. And that thought, sharp and sudden, sends a ripple of fear down your spine.
Then, he nods. âGot it,â he says, easy again. âGood to see you around.â
The door clicks shut behind him. You linger in place, pulse ticking behind your ears, the air still tinged with the awkward echo of your own overthinking.
Unsure about yourself, you shift your weight from one leg to the other. Your eyes drop briefly to the edge of her desk, then back to hers. âWas I⊠weird?â
The question leaves your mouth quieter than intended, like itâs wearing your hesitation. But you need to know. Because even with everything that passed between you, doubt still knows where to find you. You tug at your sleeve again, the motion more habit than intention.
Emily tilts her head, amusement glinting beneath the surface of her expression. âNo. You were clearly very logistics.â
You blink, caught off guard. âWhat does that even mean?â
âSmart. Composed. Mildly allergic to small talk.â Her smile quirks at the corner, her eyes softening with it.
You sigh, but the tension in your shoulders eases. âThanks. I think.â
And for a moment, the tension loosens its grip. But your mind is still churning with the weight of all the things you didnât say out loud. You didnât tell her that Morganâs look shook something loose in you. That part of you is scared, because if someone else saw it, if itâs real enough to be seen, then it can be judged. And youâre not sure youâre ready for that. But sheâs standing here, she didnât back away, she stepped in. Maybe thatâs enough, for now.
Emily rises from her chair, rounds the desk, and leans back against it so sheâs closer to your eye level. âYouâre thinking too loud again,â she says.
Your eyes widen slightly. âWhat?â
She shrugs, and itâs that signature Prentiss shrug, casual, but never careless. âI can hear it. That little panic spiral youâre doing inside your head.â
Itâs unnerving how accurately she reads you, yet somehow comforting, as though being seen might not be dangerous after all, not when itâs her.
âI just donât want to make things⊠harder for you,â you admit finally. âI know how this place works. Iâm the outsider. Youâre⊠you.â
Emily doesnât flinch. She studies you, then pushes off from the desk slowly. She takes a single step closer, leaving just enough space between you for the silence to carry a quiet kind of care.
âYouâre not making anything harder,â she assures you. âYouâre just making it real.â
The word lands heavier than you expect. Real. You didnât even realize you were waiting to hear it until she gave it to you.
âYou really donât care if people know?â you ask, though your voice betrays more vulnerability than intended.
âI care if youâre not ready,â she tells you quietly. âBut me? No. Iâve lived enough years hiding things I donât need to anymore.â
You wish you were that brave, but youâre still learning what it means to be known. To be chosen. Not for how quietly you do your job, or how invisible you make yourself, but for the things youâve never said aloud. And Emily somehow keeps hearing them anyway.
Her voice softens. âHey.â
You look up, eyes searching hers for something steady, something anchoring in your uncertainty. She gives you that same look she gave you after the first date. Right before she kissed your cheek and sent you back into the world with your heart still humming like it wasnât entirely your own anymore.
âYou donât have to prove anything,â she reminds you. âTo anyone. Especially not to Morgan.â
You nod, blinking fast. âOkay. But if he starts calling me âlogistics girlâ in the elevator, Iâm blaming you.â
Emily grins. âFair.â
Then, gently, she reaches for your hand. Not with a sweeping gesture, but with the quiet certainty of simply being there. And somehow, despite all the fear, all the what-ifs still clinging to your ribs, you let her.
**** Flashback: the date ****
Youâre tucked into a little table in a warm, wood-paneled restaurant behind a bookstore, the kind of place that smells like roasted garlic, red wine, and lemon zest. Itâs Italian, it was her idea, and you had agreed before even looking at the menu.
The space is cozy and cluttered in a charming way. Mismatched chairs, framed travel posters on the walls, fairy lights strung along the windows like stars that chose not to belong to the sky. Emily is wearing black slacks, ankle boots, and a fitted button-up with the sleeves casually rolled past her elbows. No jewelry but the glint of a watch peeking out from under her sleeve, worn with the dial facing downwards. She looked like someone who knew who she was and didnât need to say it out loud.
You, on the other hand, had stood frozen in front of your closet for what felt like forever. Tried three shirts, ditched the fourth because it felt too âinterview.â You changed your lipstick twice, then took it off altogether. Eventually, you left the apartment feeling vaguely unfinished, heart thudding like it knew how rare this was. But once you sat down, she smiled and everything inside you started to loosen.
You laughed more than you expected to. Her stories, her deadpan timing, the way she interrupted herself mid-sentence just to tell the waiter, âSheâll have the ravioli. Trust me.â And she was right.
You shared dessert, tiramisu you didnât need, and lingered over coffee. Stretching the moment not because you were still hungry, but because neither of you wanted the evening to end. Your hand rested on the table beside hers, close but not quite touching, and the warm light from the window caught in her hair, softening the sharp lines of her profile.
And then, quietly, you said: âWould you be mad if I said this is the first real date Iâve been on in⊠kind of ever?â
Emily looked up slowly, her expression softening. âWould you be mad if I said I already guessed?â
You didnât feel embarrassed. Not with her. She had a way of turning vulnerability into something dignified. Like it mattered. Like you mattered.
**** Present ****
Emily sets the file down, her fingers brushing the edge like sheâs grounding herself.
âBy the way,â she begins, her gaze lifting to yours with careful intent, âIâve been thinking about that thing you said. About the restaurant.â
Your stomach flutters. âWhich thing?â
âWhere you asked if we could go back sometime. Just the two of us. No departments. No case talk.â
You swallow, while you flush furiously. She remembered your question. The exact words youâd murmured half into your glass of wine, like maybe if you said it quietly, you wouldnât regret it.
âThatâs what you got out of that?â
She stands up, sliding off the edge of her desk. The click of her boots is the only sound until sheâs standing just in front of you.
âI got more,â her voice low and sure, âbut thatâs the part I wanted to answer.â
You draw in a shallow breath, chest tight. Her tone isnât teasing, not playful, but focused and intentional.
âYes,â she continues, warmth threading through her words. âWe absolutely can. Iâd love to see you again, somewhere that isnât here.â She sweeps her hand slowly through the air, taking in the room around you both.
Your throat goes dry, and you fumble for something that sounds casual. Try to say something clever, but fail. âOkay. Cool.â
She arches a brow, smirking like sheâs holding back something too sharp to be called a smile. âCool.â
You bite your lip, unable to help the grin that tugs at your mouth.
She leans in slightly, giving you space, but also an opening. Her voice dips.
âYou know Morganâs harmless, right?â
You blink, surprised by the sudden change of topic. âWhat?â
âYou looked⊠rattled.â Thereâs a subtle crease between her brows, not concern exactly, but something more observant. Her gaze lingers on you with a softness that doesnât let you hide.
You hesitate. Maybe you had. Something about the way Morgan had looked at you, like he was calculating something you hadnât yet admitted to yourself, had thrown you off. Not in a bad way. Just⊠exposed.
âYou were⊠protective?â Your voice barely makes it out, more breath than question. You donât mean to sound unsure, but you do. Because in the end you are.
âHe flirts with everyone,â Emily answers with a nonchalant shrug, but her tone is anything but casual. Then she adds, quieter, âBut youâre not everyone. So I had to be clear.â
And just like that, your brain short-circuits at her words. At her revelation.
**** Later that week ****
You find her days later by accident. Youâre only up here to drop off a file for Peters. He had flagged a discrepancy in one of the logistics reports, and you figured itâd be quicker to deliver the revised copy in person. Itâs after hours, most of the office dim, your steps carrying you toward the stairwell when something draws your attention through the bullpen glass.
Sheâs there, still at her desk, glasses perched low on her nose, hair falling loose around her shoulders, brows drawn in focus. The glow of the desk lamp pools around her, stopping you cold, youâve never seen her like this before. She looks beautiful, at ease.
You knock gently, bracing yourself for the impact she always has on you, but it doesnât make it any easier. Startled, she looks up. Then, in a single breath, her face softens, her shoulders lower, and her mouth eases into something almost private. You open the door, your heart thudding in your chest.
âDidnât mean to interrupt. I was walking by and saw you sitting here in the almost empty bullpen.â You wince at how that sounds, but her expression doesnât change.
âCome in,â she replies, setting a folder aside. âYouâre never interrupting.â
You sit across from her, feeling both completely at ease and wildly out of place.
She studies you for a moment. âDid you want to ask something? Or are you just here to stare at me again like you did over tiramisu?â
Your steps falter, embarrassment prickling at your neck. âI did not stare.â
âOh, you absolutely did.â She grins, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.
âYou had chocolate on your lip. I was being observant.â
Emily smiles, slow and warm. âRight. Logistics instincts.â
You groan, dropping your face into your hands. âPlease stop calling me logistics like itâs a personality type.â
She laughs at your shyness, the sound soft and delighted. âI kind of love that you hate it.â
You peek at her between your fingers. âWhy are you like this?â
âBecause youâre fun to unravel.â
She says it with that signature glint in her eyes, dark, knowing, edged with dry amusement. Her lips curve into a smirk thatâs all control and absolutely no malice, like sheâs enjoying a secret you havenât quite caught up to yet. Her head tilts slightly, one brow lifting in that precise, elegant arc that somehow says âIâm jokingâ and âI mean every wordâ at the same time. Itâs disarming and deliberate, a Prentiss specialty.
And even though your stomach flips and your brain momentarily shorts out, thereâs something in her tone, low and velvety, that makes you feel less like prey and more like someone worth knowing.
You try to play it cool, but your face burns instantly, and your mouth opens, then closes again, betraying you completely. Your fingers twitch like they donât know where to go, eventually landing on the edge of your chair as if gripping reality itself.
âYou canât just say things like that,â you mumble, voice barely above a whisper.
Emily just smiles wider, entirely unbothered. âApparently, I can.â
And then she stands, takes a small step forward, almost imperceptible, like gravity itself pulled her closer. Her gaze dips, not away, but lower, toward your mouth, just for the barest second then lifts again, calm and unreadable. Sheâs composed, like she always is, but thereâs something in her stillness that feels like anticipation, like sheâs waiting to see what youâll do next. Her fingers tap once against the edge of her desk.
The silence that follows isnât awkward. Itâs something else, charged, suspended. It hums between you like a held breath. Your eyes drop to her hands. Thereâs no new ring, no change. But you remember exactly how it felt when her fingers laced through yours. The way her thumb traced yours like a promise.
You clear your throat. âSoo⊠how about another date?â
Emily tilts her head, amused. âYou asking?â
âTrying to. Before I die of awkwardness.â You grin at your own nerves, and she seems to fall a little more into that smile.
Emily finally rounds the desk, and offers you her hand. âCome on,â she murmurs. âLetâs get you out of the fluorescent lights.â
Your palm fits into hers, warm and perfect. Everything clicks back into place. Emilyâs gaze lingers a beat too long, long enough to trip your thoughts. Her knee brushes yours, so close that you feel her warmth seep into your skin.
Then, slowly, she lifts her hand and lets her knuckles graze your cheek.
âCareful. Youâre going to overheat that pretty brain,â she teases, her smile tilting knowingly. âI said it a few days ago, I want to see you again.â
You donât answer. You canât. Because she leans in, and presses a kiss to your cheek, right beside your mouth. Itâs not teasing, but like a quiet promise: This is real.
Thatâs the second time sheâs done it. The first was after the date, when she insisted on driving you home instead of letting you walk or wait for the Metro. Sheâd walked you all the way to your door, hands in the pockets of her coat, voice low in the quiet of your street. And right before youâd reached for your keys, sheâd leaned in and kissed your cheek. You hadnât slept right for two days after.
When she pulls back, her voice is soft. âYouâre really not imagining this, Y/N. Just so weâre clear.â
Your arms move before you can think, wrapping around her in a clumsy, honest embrace.
She doesnât hesitate, wrapping her arms around you in return, not like sheâs done it a hundred times, but like she never needed to learn how. She holds you there, the world narrowing down to the space between your ribs and hers. Her hand glides slowly up your back, anchoring you.
You donât know whatâs coming next. But for the first time, the not-knowing doesnât scare you because youâre here, and so is she. The uncertainty still tugs at you, a quiet thrum beneath your ribs, but you draw from somewhere steady and lean in, pressing a soft kiss to her cheek.
She stills. You hear the sharp inhale she doesnât quite catch in time, feel the air shift, lighter, tighter, like itâs holding its breath for both of you. And when she turns back to you, thereâs something in her eyes that makes you feel brave all over again.
pairing: emily prentiss x fem!reader
word count: 3.8 k
summary: Emily catches you at work to see you again at last. You hadnât expected it and still suppress the thought that she might really be interested in you. But Emily gently looks past your walls, eases your fear, and finally, you overcome your hesitation and ask her out on a date.
tags: shy and clueless reader, logistics!reader, flirty!Emily, no mention of yn
Part 1
Part 2
You didnât expect to see her again so soon. Not here on your floor, the one place that still feels quiet and tucked away from the rush of the Bureau, and especially not now. Your hair is a mess, pulled back too quickly to be called neat, and your eyes carry the kind of shadows that no concealer could erase. Itâs the fifth day in a row youâve stayed late, and the case files clutched to your chest feel heavier than they should, as if the ink has soaked into your bones.
Youâre balancing a folder and the mental weight of too many unread emails when you turn the corner and nearly walk straight into her. Emily Prentiss.
She looks beautiful as ever, like no case or sleepless night could leave a mark on her. Her hair is tied back in a smooth, no-nonsense ponytail, dark strands gleaming where they catch the light from the overhead lights. Sheâs dressed sharply, her blazer fitted just enough to look intentional, understated in the way only someone truly confident can pull off. She doesnât move when you stumble to a halt; she only watches you with that measured calm youâve come to associate with her a steadiness that makes your thoughts scatter like dry leaves in wind.
âOhâsorry,â you breathe, taking a step back, half-flustered, half-annoyed at yourself for the way your pulse trips just from the proximity. Your hands tighten reflexively around the folder, suddenly too aware of your posture, your expression, the way your breath seems too loud in your own ears.
Her mouth curves slightly. âNo need to apologize. I was hoping Iâd run into you.â
You blink surprised. âIn this exact hallway?â
A small pause follows, like sheâs letting the moment stretch just enough to land right where she wants it. âRoughly.â
It takes a second too long to click, and when it does, your brain stutters. Sheâs not here by accident. She came here for you. You try to play it cool, try to act like your stomach didnât just perform a full, ungraceful somersault.
âDidnât peg you for the lurking type,â you murmur, adjusting the folder in your arms, your fingers fumbling with the edge as if rearranging paper might somehow rearrange your nerves. You force yourself to meet her eyes, but the contact is brief, like looking at something too bright.
Emilyâs brow lifts, amused. The corners of her eyes crinkle just slightly, and her stance shifts, still casual, but thereâs something in her expression that suggests sheâs already seen through your attempt at nonchalance. âI wasnât lurking. I was⊠timing.â
âTiming?â you echo, but your voice comes out softer than you intended, half-wrapped in disbelief. You feel suddenly very warm in your sleeves.
She tilts her head slightly, and the faintest trace of mischief flashes across her face. âWord around the bullpen is you always leave for lunch two minutes early when the weatherâs good.â
You stare at her and blink. Youâre not sure which surprises you more, that she remembered, or that she cared enough to.
She shrugs, unbothered by the transparency, as if thereâs nothing particularly strange about memorizing your routines. âIâm observant.â
âThat sounds dangerously close to stalking, Chief Prentiss.â It comes out quicker than expected, a small burst of boldness that catches even you off guard. But your voice still wavers at the end, and you immediately look down, your thumb brushing the edge of the folder, as if the weight of her attention has made it suddenly impossible to stand still.
Emilyâs laugh is honey warm. âMaybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see you.â
She says it like itâs simple, like it shouldnât knock the wind from your chest. She steps closer, close enough that her voice drops half a register. âAnd for the record. Itâs only stalking, if you didnât want to be found.â
You open your mouth and then close it again, because what are you supposed to say to that?
âI figured,â she adds lightly, âyou might be too polite to say no to coffee if itâs in your hand already.â
You glance down at her hands, holding two cups. One is unmistakably for you, the one she knows you take, dark roast, no sugar, a dash of milk, just enough to take the edge off. And something in you stirs at the smallness of it, the quiet care. You try to slow your pulse, but the truth is already blooming somewhere in your chest.
âYou planned this,â you murmur, cheeks warming with the slow spread of a flush you donât bother hiding.
She smiles professional one youâve seen her wear in meetings, not the teasing glint sheâs flashed across the briefing table. No, this one is the kind that happens when someone means it. A smile that shows all her teeth and still feels kind. Dimples deepen. Her eyes light with something that could easily be mistaken for delight if it werenât laced with a deeper pull. Something almost reverent. âYouâre catching on.â
And just like that, the quiet game you thought you were playing, admiring from afar, stealing glances when you thought it was safe, pretending like maybe it was all in your head, shifts. The rules bend. The truth spills through the seams.
You reach out and take the cup from her hand, and your fingers brush hers, cold against warm, skin meeting skin for the first time all day. She doesnât pull away, doesnât even flinch. She just watches you, like sheâs been waiting for this moment, as if she knew it would come.
âThanks,â you say softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, not because itâs in the way but because you need something to do with your hands. Anything to anchor yourself under the weight of her dark gaze.
âI owed you one.â
âFor what?â you ask, puzzled, your brows pulling together as you study her posture.
She leans back against the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, perfectly at ease in a space you always felt small inside. Her blazer catches the light in clean lines, dark against the off-white of the corridor. Thereâs a casual confidence in the way she stands. Itâs the kind of stillness youâve never managed, not around her.
âFor staying. For letting me see you.â
The words settle in your chest like a stone dropped gently in water, they echo in your heart. You think you know what she means, even if she doesnât say it outright. The way you donât try to be noticed, the way you stay late, finish reports no one sees, the way you look at her when you think she wonât notice, and never ask for anything in return.
Maybe she means: for not hiding, even when it wouldâve been easier.
Thereâs too much unsaid in the space between you. But maybe, finally, it doesnât need to be rushed. Perhaps thatâs what this is: something slow and unfolding, like the edge of spring when the mornings are still cold but the light has started to linger.
You take a sip of the coffee, letting the warmth settle you. Itâs good not just warm but familiar, like she remembered, she really paid attention. A small smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you can stop it, and when you glance up again, Emilyâs already watching. Of course she is.
âYou always come this prepared?â you ask, lifting the cup slightly, somehow trying to balance the mood, even though your voice is still quiet.
âOnly when it matters.â Her gaze holds yours for a second longer, then she adds, lips quirking faintly, âAnd Iâm not usually one for office romance.â
You blink, caught off guard by the sudden turn. âOh?â
âI mean it.â She grins, but itâs wry, self-aware. âIâm not someone who flirts around desks or lingers in copy rooms. Never have been.â
You tilt your head. âBut?â
Emily shrugs, eyes still on yours. âYou made it difficult. The cluelessness wasââ she pauses, smile sharpening just slightly, ââdisarming.â
That pulls a small, genuine laugh from you. And maybe itâs the warmth of her tone, or the way sheâs looking at you now, less guarded, more there, but your fingers brush lightly against hers in a gesture more instinct than plan. Playful, sure. But not careless.
âItâs nice out,â you say then, nodding toward the windows at the end of the hall, âThereâs a bench out back, near the side garden. Itâs⊠quiet.â
Emily follows your line of sight, and when she looks back at you, thereâs something unreadable in her eyes. âI like quiet,â she admits, voice dipping just enough to be intentional âEspecially with you.â
Something in your chest stirs. A slow bloom. Something unsaid crackles quietly beneath her words, something tentative but steady.
âItâs not far,â you add, your voice lower now too, almost matching hers. âWe wouldnât be gone long.â
That earns the ghost of a smirk. âAre you asking me to sneak out with you during work hours?â
You huff a quiet breath, glancing at your watch more out of habit than necessity. âTechnically,â you answer, âitâs lunch.â
Emilyâs eyes twinkle, a soft laugh escaping her. âWell, in that caseâŠâ Her voice carries a hint of playfulness, âLead the way.â
You manage to juggle the coffee, your badge, and a half-stack of folders as you make your way toward your desk, trying not to spill anything or drop the very detailed quarterly report that took far too many evenings to compile. You fumble with the file drawer, then pause, shoot Emily a sheepish look.
âGive me two seconds. Maybe three.â
She doesnât move from where she leans, hip perched against the edge of your desk like sheâs claimed the space without asking. Her arms are crossed, a half-smile playing on her lips, but her eyes never leave you. Thereâs a softness there, the kind that makes you hyperaware of the way your hands shake just slightly as you organize the chaos.
âTake your time,â her voice smooth and teasing. âIâm enjoying the show.â
You flash her a dry look, lips twitching upward despite yourself. âYou mean my breakdown?â
âDonât be dramatic,â she replies. âYouâre endearingly flustered. Thatâs very different.â
You finally shove the last folder into its spot, close the drawer with a triumphant click, and straighten your spine like nothing happened. âOkay. Ready.â
Her attention rests on you for a moment longer than expected before she nods, and falls into step beside you again. Her shoulder brushes yours as you leave the bullpen, and even that light contact feels like an exhale, the beginning of something youâre not sure how to name yet but you want to.
The corridor is sunlit, lined with old framed photos of Bureau history youâve never really taken the time to look at. You wonder briefly if anyone ever stops to study them, or if theyâve all just become wallpaper over the years.
You donât look at the photos now, either. You look at her. At the way she walks beside you, relaxed, hands around her coffee cup, her head tilted just slightly as she listens to the click of your shoes on the linoleum. The space between your bodies isnât much, but it hums with awareness. Your skin remembers the press of her fingers from only minutes ago.
Outside, the city hums in its usual ways, but back here itâs almost peaceful. A line of low hedges shields a narrow stone path that leads to a weathered wooden bench beneath a wide-branched tree.
Emily exhales slowly beside you, coffee cradled in her palms. Her thigh is close enough to yours that you feel the shared warmth between you, even through layers of fabric. And for once, you donât pull away. You donât shift. You let the nearness settle over you like sunlight.
âI never sit out here,â you murmur, more to yourself than to her. Thereâs a faint note of surprise in your voice, like youâre only just realizing it.
Itâs not that you didnât notice the space before. You did. But it always felt too exposed. Too still. The kind of quiet that made you restless, like you didnât know how to exist inside it.
Maybe thatâs what youâre trying to explain now, in this quiet moment beside her. That youâve spent so long in motion, in noise, in rooms where silence meant danger or disappointment. You never really let yourself stay in places like this where nothing is asked of you but to breathe. And yet here you are. With her.
âBut you brought me here,â Emily comments gently.
âI know. I guess I just never saw the point before. But today felt different,â you say, kinda exposed, fiddling nervously with one of the silver rings on your finger.
She studies you for a moment, then smiles a little. âItâs a shame, then,â she admits, glancing around, âItâs quiet here, I like it. No screaming profiles. No static. No flickering fluorescent lights in the conference room ceiling.â
You nod, fingers curling around your own cup. âNoticed that about you.â
She raises an eyebrow, a small flick of interest dancing across her features. But instead of answering right away, she studies you, not the way people stare, but the way profilers do. Looking for patterns, for truth beneath deflection. The arch of her brow is subtle, her mouth parted just a little like sheâs considering saying something and weighing the risk in real time.
Then, with a smile tugging at one corner of her mouth, she says: âOh? Care to explain that?â
âYou like quiet. But not silence. Thereâs a difference.â You say it before you can talk yourself out of it, the words tumbling into the open air with a kind of fragile courage. You donât look at her when you say it, not fully. You let your eyes drift somewhere safer, toward the way her blazer folds gently at the elbow, or the edge of her knee where her leg leans slightly toward yours.
âYouâre getting better at reading me.â
A little caught, you press your teeth to your lower lip. âIâve had practice.â
She turns back to you then and her eyes land on you, thereâs nothing playful in it now. No games. Just the full weight of her attention settling on you like a question you already know the answer to. âThen read this.â
Her hand comes to rest on the bench between you. Sheâs not grabbing your hand or insisting on doing so, just arriving. Her fingers brush yours; the contact is brief, featherlight, as if asking permission. Then she lets it stay, still and patient, an invitation waiting without pressure. You could pull away, but you donât.
Instead, you turn your hand a fraction, slowly enough to feel the moment stretch between you. Your pinky nudges hers, barely anything, skin against skin, so slight you might have imagined it. But you didnât, itâs real.
Emily glances down at the contact, then meets your eyes again. What you find there isnât pressure or expectation just something open and steady. A quiet kind of hope that doesnât push, only waits.
âI wasnât sure,â you admit silently, almost like youâre still testing the shape of the thought. âIf this⊠whatever this is⊠was just in my head.â
âItâs not,â she murmurs, her fingers shift again, barely, closing that last sliver of space between you. âI mean, I didnât just appear outside your office. I waited.â
You breathe out, and this time it sounds almost like a laugh, relief curling into the corners of it, soft and breathless. âYou really waited for me?â
Her shoulders relax, barely perceptible unless youâre watching closely which, of course, you are. That sharp, commanding presence she wears like a uniform softens by degrees, and when she exhales next, itâs less precise. Not because sheâs unsure. Because she doesnât need to perform right now. âYou were taking forever,â she admits. âI had to help fate along.â
You feel your smile before youâre aware of it, and you swallow against the rush of nerves tightening your chest. Then, before the doubt can take hold, you lift your eyes to hers and speak. âSo⊠how about we stop circling around it?â
Itâs not a grand declaration, itâs not even steady. But itâs yours. A truth pulled from somewhere deep and private, made real by the way your voice trembles just slightly when you say it. This time, you hold yourself open to her, and she meets you fully, taking in every fragment of what youâve just shared.
And Emily? Emily doesnât move too fast. She doesnât joke to deflect, or soften the moment to spare you the weight of it. She sees you, really sees you, and answers with the quiet kind of certainty that youâve come to recognize in her.
Her voice is steady when she speaks. âI was wondering when youâd get there.â
Thereâs no I told you so, no clever remark, no teasing smirk. Only the warmth of her presence beside you and the quiet reassurance of her pinky finger brushing yours, tentative and fleeting, like a question she doesnât say aloud. You donât stop her. Let the moment settle. Her thumb grazes the side of your finger in a rhythm so soft and absent it feels like thought rather than touch. Your body leans toward the contact without even meaning to, pulled by the steadiness of it. The way it grounds you. Calms something inside that had been bracing for rejection, still wound too tightly around an old kind of fear.
Itâs not a bold touch. It lingers not in force, but in meaning. And you memorize it instantly, imprinting the sensation as something you already know youâll want to revisit, something that might matter tomorrow. Something that already does.
âIâve been thinkingâŠâ you start, and your voice sounds too careful, even to your own ears.
âMaybe we couldâsometimeâget a drink. Or dinner. Something that doesnât involve case files or fluorescent lights.â
Emily shifts next to you, and leans in a little. Not so much to close the distance, but as if sheâs drawing herself more fully into the moment. Her voice, when it comes, is low but clear, calm but weighted, and her gaze stays tethered to yours, like itâs offering something instead of asking.
âAre you actually asking me on a date, Agent?â
You swallow, nerves twisting into something warmer. Braver. âI am,â you say, voice soft but steady. Then, with a small breath of a laugh: âI mean⊠if you want to.â
Something flickers over her face, recognition, yes, but also a kind of quiet pride. Not amusement or surprise. She seems as if she already knew you would. Her jaw relaxes, and her expression shifts into something gentler. âI really do.â
Emilys eyes stay on yours, holding them with something that feels more like affirmation than inquiry, like an answer to a question you hadnât quite dared to voice. Her tone lifts with a touch of dry irony.
âTo be clear?â Her smile curves wry and real. âI donât flirt at work. I donât blur lines. I donât linger in corridors pretending to check my phone. And I definitely donât sit on park benches like this, in full view of the Bureau, not talking about Bureau things.â
You blink, caught between self-consciousness and apology. âOh. Sorry, I didnât mean toââ
She cuts you off gently. âNo. Iâm saying I broke all my own rules. For you.â
The words donât feel dramatic. They feel honest, like a conclusion sheâs come to after giving herself every opportunity not to. âBecause apparently your world-class cluelessness wore me down.â
You laugh, heat rising to your cheeks. âThatâs⊠honestly fair.â
She smiles again, this time slower, and something warmer sits behind it. âAnd because you finally asked. You were brave enough.â
Your heart stumbles, but not from fear. More from how easy she makes it to feel seen, how she says brave like she means worthy, not reckless. Itâs been in you all along. And this time, you believe her.
You shift your hand on the bench, turning it palm-up in the narrow space between you. The gesture is small, but itâs deliberate. A silent offering, one youâre no longer afraid to make. And when Emily slips her hand into yours, she does it without pause, without calculation. Her fingers fit easily between yours, her grip warm and anchoring. The contact is gentle, but it feels absolutely right.
Her thumb gently traces the silver ring on your finger, a soft, intimate motion that feels more like understanding than curiosity. Itâs as if sheâs reaching not just for your hand, but for the person youâve been quietly keeping behind every careful look and polite conversation. So you let her, because something in that touch tells you itâs safe to.
For the first time in a long while, you donât feel like youâre performing. You just feel present. âYou know⊠I donât usually do this either.â
She lifts a brow, curious. âNo?â
âNo.â Your finger brushes slowly over her knuckle. âBut maybe you make me want to start. Want to be a little braver.â
âYou already are,â she points out, âJust⊠maybe donât make me stalk you in hallways next time.â
You grin. âIâll do my best.â
âIâll pick the place,â she says, giving your hand a squeeze. âBut youâre paying.â
You huff a laugh, tilting your head. âOh, am I?â
âMhm.â She shoots you a sideways glance, smug but fond. âConsider it interest. You took forever.â
You canât argue with that. âFair. But only because you waited.â
Emily exhales slowly, her frame relaxing in a way you hadnât noticed sheâd been holding. Her voice, when it comes, is more thoughtful than before. âYou know⊠this might be the best part of my day.â
âMine too,â you admit, pressing your body a little closer against hers.
You let your eyes wander for a moment, across the stone path, the tangled hedges, the golden specks of dust that catch in the soft breeze. The air smells faintly of summer grass and coffee. Itâs quiet here. Removed from the usual noise and motion.
âI wasnât sure youâd ever say it,â she murmurs, âBut Iâm glad you did.â
âYou made it easier. I think I just⊠needed a reason.â
Her eyes flick toward you, then soften again. âSometimes a reason looks a lot like a coffee cup and a bench no one ever uses.â
âIâll remember that.â
In the hush that follows, nothing feels missing, not anymore. You sit together, side by side, held by something unspoken and quietly unfolding. It feels impossibly simple, considering everything that came before: the late hallway glances, shared elevators, a too-fast heartbeat after that annual marathon when she said your name like it meant something more.
Youâre not circling anything now, youâre finally in it. It feels like the beginning of something you donât have to guess at anymore.
summary: you want to find out if your crush likes you back. who better to help you than your four-year-old daughter?
word count: 2.4k
tags: momily!, pure fluff
The bullpen was unusually quiet, the team busy with the more mundane tasks the job requiredâfilling out paperwork, clicking through online trainings sent by cybersecurity, answering miscellaneous phone calls.
You were bored out of your mind, the words on your computer screen starting blur together. Glancing over at your daughterâwho joined you at work today due to a lice outbreak at her preschoolâyou saw she was deeply concentrated on the coloring book in front of her, her tongue just barely sticking out between her lips as she did her best to color between the lines. You knew, at this point, there was no saving your attention span if a four-year-old was more focused than you.
As your eyes looked around for a distraction, scanning over the objects on your deskâthe framed photo of you and your wife, the half-empty mug of coffee Penelope dropped off earlier this morning, the miniature Doctor Who phone booth figurine Spencer gave you before he leftâa stack of bright pink sticky notes caught your eye, and an idea popped into your head.
After quickly scribbling a few words onto the Post-It, you softly got your daughterâs attention. âHey, munchkin.â
âYeah?â Frannie looked up, the marker stilling in her hand.
âCan you do me a favor and bring this to mommy?â You held up the folded piece of paper for her to see. âItâs very important.â
âWhat is it?â Her nose scrunched as she squinted at the doodled âEâ that adorned the outside of your note, and you knew she could tell it was nothing work related. Sometimes she was too smart for her own good.
âItâs a question,â you explained, lowering your voice. âItâs a secret, but do you want to see?â
âYes!â She exclaimed excitedly and bounced off her seat.
Unfolding the sticky note, you leaned down to show your daughter the writing.
âWhatâs it say?â Frannie frowned, her excitement dimming just slightly as she remembered she couldnât yet read.
âIt says, âI like you. Do you like me? Yes or no?ââ you read as let her take the note and examine it. âMommy will then check one of those boxes, and weâll find out if she likes me back.â
âYou have a crush on mommy?â She looked up at you with awe like sheâd just been let in on the biggest secret in the world.
âShhhh.â You put your fingers to your lips, causing Frannie to do the same. âItâs a secret.â
âSorry, mama,â she whispered as she moved closer so she was standing in between your knees. âI wonât tell. I promise.â
âI know you wonât, sweet girl.â
âMommy definitely likes you back.â Frannie covered her mouth slightly to ensure no one could hear her or even read her lips. She was in a room full of FBI agents after all.
âYou think?â You bit your lip, pretending to be nervous but actually biting back a smile.
She nodded emphatically, her loosely tied pigtails bobbing up and down. Carefully, Frannie refolded the note and tucked it in her pocket. âWhereâs mommy?â
âSheâs in her office, upstairs.â You pointed towards your wifeâs office, where the door was shut but the blinds were open, and you could see her typing away on her laptop. Knowing her like you did, you knew she could use a break right about now. âDo you want me to come with you?â
âNo, mama, Iâm a big girl,â she replied before quickly turning on her heals and scampering away from you.
âWalk please,â you called after her, causing her to slow her footsteps. As you turned your attention back to your computer, you watched out of the corner of your eye as Frannie crawled up the stairs, her tiny legs too small for the steps in a federal building, and you stifled a giggle.
âHi, sweetie.â You heard JJâs soft voice address your daughter. âAre you going to find your mommy?â
âAuntie JJ!â Frannie paused her climb and threw herself into the blondeâs arm. Luckily, JJ was prepared for the toddler and caught her with ease. âI go find mommy!â
âYou are?â JJ hoisted your daughter onto her hip and walked up the remaining few stairs. âDo you need help finding her?â
You saw Frannie pause, looking over her shoulder back at you, as if asking for help was against your rules. Continuing to type away, you kept your eyes trained on the screen in front of you, knowing the idea of peripheral vision was too complicated for a four-year-old.
âYes please, JJ,â she admitted quietly, burying her face into JJâs neck. âCan you help?â
âOf course, honey.â JJ gave your daughter an encouraging smile as she carried the young girl over to her motherâs office.
âKnock, knock.â She tapped her knuckles against the unit chiefâs door, doing the best she could with a toddler on her hip and a handful of paperwork in between her fingers. âYou have a visitor.â
âHi mommy!â Frannie squirmed in JJâs arms, causing the blonde to set her down. As soon as she was free, she ran over to her mom.
âHi, baby!â Emily greeted, matching her daughterâs enthusiasm as she immediately shut her laptop and lifted the young girl by the armpits and into her lap. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI have something for you.â
âYou do?â Emily gasped before sparing a questioning glance over to JJ, who remained in the doorway and could only shrug with amusement and ignorance.
âMhmm,â Frannie hummed as she leaned closer to her mother. âBut itâs a secret.â She peeked over at JJ, not wanting to share your secret in front of her.
Knowing the language of toddlers all too well, the blonde chuckled and pushed herself off the doorframe. âIâll leave you two to it. Bye, Frannie.â
âBye bye, JJ.â
âCan you say thank you to Auntie JJ for bringing you here?â Emily encouraged quietly, her question more of a suggestion.
âThank you, JJ!â Frannie called out, waving her small hand goodbye.
âYouâre welcome, sweetie,â JJ said with a grin before closing the office door halfway behind her.
âSoââ Emily slightly shifted her daughter in her lapâ âwhat did you bring me?â
As an answer, Frannie reached into her pocket and pulled out the pink sticky note, which was still folded up but not without a few crumples in it. âItâs from mama,â she said as she held it out for Emily to take.
Emily raised a brow, amused and also curious, and accepted the piece of paper. Despite knowing what it said, Frannie maneuvered herself around so she could see the message as it was unfolded.
Reading your neat but loopy writing, Emily chuckled, her eyes rolling fondly, which was missed by the four-year-old in her lap, who was taking her task quite seriously.
âMama asked you to give me this?â
âYes.â Frannie leaned her head back so she could look up at her mother. Her little body was vibrating with a mix of anticipation and excitement. âYou like her too, right?â
âWell.â Emily, always one for dramatics, kept her daughter hanging and reached over to grab a pen. Frannie followed her momâs movements with her doe-eyes, which widened in horror as Emily checked the âNoâ box.
âMommy!â She cried as she tried to grab the pen. âWrong! You do like mama!â
âFrannie, we donât grab things from people.â Emily craned her neck so she could make eye contact with the miniature version of herself. âI wasnât done writing with my pen. If you want to use it, you can ask nicely.â
âIâm sorry, mommy,â Frannie said, pouting, her eyes glossy.
âApology accepted.â Emily gently wiped a stray tear from her daughterâs cheek and pecked a kiss to her temple. âNow, do you want to see what I was going to write?â
âYes, please.â
Emily did her best to fit her reply on what little room was left on the Post-It, but your note was clearly not meant for an open-ended response. Setting the pen down, she held up the piece of paper so Frannie could grab a hold of it.
âWhatâd you write, mommy?â
âI wrote, âI love you.ââ
âLove?â Frannie gasped, her eyes lighting back up with excitement. âYou love mama?â
Emilyâs heart melted at the innocent eagerness radiating off of her daughter. Oh, to view love through rose-colored lenses.
âI do,â she said softly.
Frannie grinned, exposing her mosaic of baby teeth, and clutched the note to her chest like it was her most prized possession.
âI have to tell mama!â She squealed as she tried to slide off of Emilyâs lap.
âHold on, munchkin,â Emily laughed, tightening her hold playfully. âWhat happened to keeping secrets, hm?â
Frannie stilled, her tiny hands curling in the fabric of Emilyâs blouse. âBut itâs a good secret,â she reasoned. âAnd mama will be so happy!â
Trotting towards the door, pink sticky note in hand, Frannie waved over her shoulder. âBye mommy!â
âBye baby,â Emily called after her, the corner of her mouth quirking up as she watched her daughter march off with pure determination.
As soon as the toddler was out of the room, Emily swiveled in her chair to face the bullpen. Her eyes scanned past the rows of agents until they landed on you, still pretending to work, though she could tell from the not-so-hidden grin twitching at your lips that youâd been watching everything.
Resting her chin on her hand, she gave you a knowing smirk accompanied by a wink. You caught her gaze and lifted a single brow, a gesture half way between challenging and smug.
Emily chuckled under her breath. How you had roped your daughter into your playful antics, she didnât know, but nonetheless, she was absolutely charmed.
As Frannie approached your desk, you quickly minimized the window on your screen, images too graphic for a toddler to see.
âI did it,â she whispered as you lifted her into your lap. âShe wrote back.â
âShe did?â You took the note with a mask gasp, like you werenât watching the whole interaction from your desk. âWhatâd she say?â
âRead it,â Frannie insisted, tugging on the sleeve of your cardigan as you unfolded the sticky note.
As your eyes landed on the page, your chest tightened at the three words written in all-caps your wife had squeezed beneath the check boxes: I LOVE YOU.
No matter how many times Emily had saidâor writtenâthose words to you, they never failed to make your heart flutter. Biting your lip, you tried to suppress the stupid smile threatening to overtake your whole face. Frannie, meanwhile, looked absolutely thrilled.
âShe loves you,â she repeated emphatically, as if you hadnât just been swooning over those three words. âThatâs even better than âyes.ââ
Wrapping your arm around her, you pulled her tightly into your side. âYouâre right, sweet girl. It is.â
âDoes that mean youâre gonna kiss?â
You choked on a laugh. âExcuse me?â
âIf you love each other,â she said slowly, like she was the one explaining something to a toddler, âthen youâre supposed to kiss. Thatâs what happens in Tangled and Frozen and the one where the dogs eat spaghetti.â
âLady and the Tramp?â You provided, thoroughly amused.
Frannie nodded with grave sincerity. âSo, are you gonna kiss mommy?â
You stole a glance up towards your wifeâs office, and sure enough, Emily was still watching, her signature Prentiss smirk dancing on her lips. You knew all too well that she could hear your conversation with your daughter, and your suspicions were confirmed when she lifted her brows just enough to say: âWell?â
âMaybe,â you whispered conspiratorially as you tucked the note into the top drawer of your desk for safe keeping. âBut you didnât hear that from me.â
âI wonât tell anyone,â Frannie agreed, then tapped her finger against her lips.
âThatâs my girl.â You nuzzled your nose against hers playfully before lowering her down onto the ground so she could go back to her coloring book.
Just then, your phone pinged with a text message from your wife.
Do you want to kiss me? Yes or no?
Your cheeks warmed, and you felt like a teenager all over again. Immediately, you typed out a response: Yes. Always a yes.
As soon as the message delivered, you heard the telltale sound of Emilyâs boots clicking against the linoleum floor as they descended the stairs. You watched as Emily approached your desk, her expression composed and professional, but you could see the smugness shining in her eyes.
âMommy?â Frannie looked up from her coloring page, her head tilted slightly.
âHi, sweetheart.â Emily crouched beside her. âCan you cover your eyes for a second?â
Frannie gasped and dropped her purple marker, not even bothering to put the cap on. âAre you gonna kiss mama?â
Emily lifted her gaze to meet yours, playful and daring. âThat okay with you?â
You could only nod, any words you could say lost in your throat. Standing up from her squat, Emily leaned over your desk and kissed you. The kiss was slow and soft, both of you still aware you were at work and your daughter was sitting a mere two feet away.
When she pulled back, you wore matching grins, and you were sure you looked like a love-struck idiot.
Frannie peeked between her fingers. âEwww, gross!â
âGross?â You laughed at how quickly a four-year-old could change her mind.
âKisses are yucky!â
âYucky?â Emily gasped as she pushed herself off your desk and kneeled back down in front of your daughter. âMy kisses are yucky?â
Frannie nodded, scrunching her nose.
âAre they yucky now?â
Before Frannie could respond, Emilyâs lips were everywhere, soft little pecks on your daughterâs cheeks, her forehead, the tip of her nose. Frannie squealed with delight, wiggling every which way, trying to escape the tickling but clearly loving every second.
âMommy! Stop!â She giggled, her laughter echoing through the bullpen.
Emily relented, pressing one last kiss under Frannieâs chin. âNever. Youâre my little choupinette.â
âAlright, munchkin.â She stood back up, brushing a stray strand of hair from Frannieâs face. âTime to get back to your coloring before Mama and I get in trouble for playing too much at work.â
As if she wasnât the boss.
Frannie nodded, still glowing, Emilyâs lip gloss decorating her face. Catching your wifeâs gaze one last time, you smiled softly and pulled open your drawer, glancing down at her handwriting on the sticky note one last time.
It was safe to say she liked you back.
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