‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿

[madxmeschemmenti]

Very simple one: "Can we put some music on? All I can hear is the plastic of your fucking couch while we make out."

Sound Effects

Melissa Schemmenti X Reader

A/n: I’ve been sitting on this prompt I like how it turned out. It’s a short little fluff piece with windows of smut lol inspired by ‘Talking Bodies’ by Tove Lo I swear this song was on loop when I spent sophomore year of college spring break in Vegas. I heard it everywhere and now it’s an ear worm 10 years later

Warnings: fluff, kisses, light smut

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You and Melissa became something entirely new outside of the walls of Abbott. Over the last couple months you found a comfortability around each other.

It started with sharing rides together after group hangs. Or carpooling to school. Watching a new movie together when it came out.

Then became the soft touches in passing. The lingering looks when the other isn’t looking. Occasional handholding while driving. The physical contact became more constant without either of you noticing.

Which is where you found yourself tonight. Cuddled up with Melissa on her protected couch watching an old rerun. There was no real reason for this invite besides wanting each others company after an exhausting week of testing.

Melissa curled up into your side and she burrows deeper into your arm as hers is draped crossed your midsection stroking patterns one the thinly exposed skin there.

You’d be lying if you didn’t feel the butterflies start to stir every time she did this. You thought she was falling asleep as she got more comfortable against you when her face buried into the crook of your neck. But then you felt her lips press a delicate kiss against your throat. At first you stiffened at the new contact before relaxing back into the couch.

She attempted again, this time more sure. The first one wasn’t an accident. She wants you to feel her. With more intention she nuzzles her nose in your hair discreetly making room for a new target. She presses another kiss behind your ear.

“Mmm, Melissa…what are you doing?”Getting lost in the feeling of her proximity.

“Turning my brain off.”

You stretch your neck, giving her more room. Sighing in content to let her continue. She looks up at the notion and smiles with the new consent for more.placing deliberate kisses up your neck, to your jaw.

When she’s craned her neck as much as possible you turn to look at her. First gazing into her dazed eyes. Not full blown with lust but on their way. No, it was a more safe and unguarded look she gave back.

Glancing down to her lips m, you know she’s waiting for you to make the next move. So you do.

You reach up to caress her jaw pulling her the rest of the way to kiss her softly, gently. She whimpers into your mouth and everything falls into slow motion.

You’ve wanted this for so long but never one to make the first move. Always doubting the mutual attraction. Thinking it was one sided this entire time. The lingering, the touches, and quality time…just her being friendly.

The arm across your waist is pulling you closer, wanting more. Your hand on her jaw, thumb stroking her cheeks as you savor this kiss tilts her head up to deepen the kiss.

You’re now hovering over her and she’s still pulling you closer. You adjust to to throw a leg over her lap and sit on her thighs. The kiss was so slow, so soft and the only thing to break it was the squeak of plastic as it contorts under your knees in this new position.

Your lips part with a reluctant smack as you find a comfortable position. With a slight giggle as the plastic makes a mimic fart noise under your knee. “That wasn’t me, I swear.” And she laughs at that.

“I know, hon. Just ignore it.”

“How romantic.”

“Just kiss me again, y/n.”

And you do. She meets you half way and this kiss is heavier than the last. Weighted with longing. She pushes into you adjusting her seat beneath you. Rocking you back and holding you with one hand on you hips and the other splayed on your back.

You hear the plastic rip from the skin of her thighs as she sits up straighter. And you laugh against her teeth as she smiles at your amusement.

“Can you at least put some music on or even better take this damned plastic off?”

Her eyes are trained on your lips, you’re not even sure she hears you.

“Melissa?” And she’s too busy kissing your neck and you moan as your hips press against her stomach.

“Fuck.” You rock again and you have one hand on the back of her neck and the other clinging to the back of the couch to keep you both from toppling onto the coffee table. “Hey Alexa!”

“Excuse me?!” She pulls back and your eyes twinkling with mirth. You know she’s thinking you just called out somebody else’s name while her lips were igniting a fire in your core.

You chuckle while cupping your palm over her mouth to silence her. Knowing your phone was already synced since she usually let you pick the music for cooking lessons or game nights. “Hey Alexa, play my Italian Enchantress playlist.”

“Shuffling songs from Italian Enchantress playlist.”

You recognize the first song playing and you lean back in to kiss her soundly before she can comment on the name. Your hands slide down from her neck to her shoulders, until you are cupping her breast and she arches into you.

“You have a playlist.”

“Mmhmm” you moan into the kiss before. Nibbling on her ear you whisper, voice low and gravely. “I’ve thought about this.” You lick the shell of her ear. “About you.”

Her breathing is noticeably shallow. She’s taking in your words, your voice, your kisses, your breath on her skin creating goosebumps all over. Her hand wrapping your hair in her fist and pulling you back gently to look at you and her face is flushed.

“What were you doing when you were thinking…about me?”

You bite your lip only slightly nervous but you want to tell her. “At first I would daydream.” You stroke your thumb along her lip. “The thought of your lips on my skin…on my lips. My hands would start to wander.” You grabbed her hands and placed them on your stomach under your shirt. You started pushing up and you let her explore on her own.

Pulling the front of her down with a single finger. “The thought of your body pressing into mine and fitting perfectly.”

“You created a playlist about me?”

You bite your lip again, nodding. Only mildly embarrassed.

“Hey.” She tilts your head up to look at her. Her other hand is pulling you closer by the front of your sweats. “I’ve thought about you, too.”

She kisses the center of your chest before biting your shirt to pull you into her. Kissing her way up your jaw. “So. Many. Times.”

“After movie nights. In the mornings when you’d stay the night. Once…in the shower. You were downstairs making coffee.”

You grab the hand on your breast and pull it down. Slipping it inside your sweats. She moans against your ear. You pull her hand out and suck her fingers past your lips and her eyes fully evolve to pure lust.

You release them with a pop and she wraps her hands around your waist. With impossible strength she lifts you up, standing to deposit you on your back on the couch but you grip her shoulders.

“Don’t you dare put me on that twat blocking plastic.”

“Twat blocking?!” She laughs hysterically as she stands up fully now adjusting you on her hips. You're pretty sure where her shirt has risen, she could feel your wetness through your pants.

“You heard me.” You stretch your legs down til you feet are on the cold surface. “Kitchen or bedroom?”

“Bedroom. I wanna take my time with ya.” She saunters in front of you and you smack her ass in passing.

***

The next morning you wake up in Melissa’s bed. Not the first time. But it is the first time where there were no barriers of clothes between you. The scarlet enchantress was splayed across your side. Her soft breaths tickle the baby hairs at your neck.

Running your fingers up her spine you notice the love bites that live there. You look down and see the marks she sprinkled across your chest.

Kissing her hair, you smile content as you sink back into the pillows. You’ve been dancing this dance with her for months and the thought of how your relationship has blossomed to new territories doesn’t scare you. You’re right where you belonged.

“You’re thinking again.” She mumbles into your shoulder. “All good things I hope.”

You kiss her hair again. She stretched to kiss your lips before settling against you again. “For the most part, yeah. Really good things.”

“Ugh fine.” She pinched your side. “I’ll remove the plastic today. But not yet. Right now, I just wanna stay like this.”

“Then it’s all good things.”

You both burst into laughter and all though things have changed…nothing has really changed. And it’s perfect.

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Taglist 👉 @horrorharbour @thinkiwasbornblue @nrmmmnleemhs @noprophet

[barqns]

— 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫

⠀⠀𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 . ⠀⠀six months after emily marries your mother, a joke that should've stayed harmless turns into something neither of you can ignore. one stolen look becomes another. one text becomes a late-night visit. and after a dinner filled with tension, temptation, and boundaries already hanging by a thread, emily finds herself standing in your bedroom doorway long after everyone else has gone to sleep.

⠀⠀𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 . ⠀⠀18+ . age gap dynamics . fauxcest . forbidden attraction . emotional infidelity undertones . married!emily . possessive behaviour . manipulation . power imbalance . dirty talk . mommy kink . throat holding . praise kink . voyeuristic elements . masturbation . edging . sexual tension . guilt and moral conflict . obsessive attraction . mutual pining gone wrong . late-night texting . kissing . dead dove adjacent themes . mdni

navigation :: ko-fi

You tell yourself dinner isn’t anything fancy, which is why you don’t bother trying too hard. It’s just your mom, Emily, and you, the same little family dinner your mom keeps insisting should feel normal by now.

Six months since the wedding, six months since Emily Prentiss became your mother’s wife, six months since the house started smelling faintly like her perfume whenever she stayed over. You stand in front of your mirror in black leggings and an oversized hoodie, hair pulled back messily, looking casual enough to pretend you don’t care.

You shouldn’t care. It’s dinner in your mom’s kitchen, not a date, not a trap, not an excuse to stare across the table at a woman who’s supposed to be off-limits in every possible way. But your stomach still feels tight while you tug the hoodie sleeves over your hands. You already know Emily will notice.

Calling her “mom” starts as a joke. Not even a joke, really, more like spite dressed up in sweetness. The first time you say it, Emily is standing in the kitchen with a glass of wine in one hand and her wedding ring flashing on the other, grey streaks in her dark hair catching under the warm lights.

Your actual mom is at the stove, too busy fussing over dinner to catch the bite in your voice. “Need help, mom?” you ask Emily, syrupy and mean, just to watch her face change. It does, but only barely.

One eyebrow lifts, her eyes cutting to yours with that calm, terrifying patience she brings into every room. Your mom laughs like it’s cute. Emily doesn’t laugh at all.

At first, you only do it because you want to make her uncomfortable. Emily married your mom, moved into the family like she had a right to be there, started touching things that used to feel unchanged and safe. Her coat on the hook by the door.

Her coffee mug beside your mom’s. Her ring glinting whenever she reaches for your mother’s hand. Calling her “mom” feels like a small, petty weapon, something sharp enough to remind her that this whole arrangement is strange whether anyone wants to admit it or not.

But the problem is that Emily never flinches the way you want her to. She absorbs it, watches you, lets the word hang between you like smoke. Then one night, when you say it too softly, too close to her ear while passing behind her in the kitchen, you realize the word doesn’t just make her uncomfortable. It makes you wet.

You hate that realization for about five seconds before your body gives up pretending. The taboo of it starts crawling under your skin after that, ugly and addictive. Emily isn’t your mother, not really, not in any way that matters except the ring on her finger and the place she holds beside your mom at dinner.

That should make it easier to ignore. Instead, it makes everything worse. You start noticing her in ways you can’t take back, the low rasp of her voice in the mornings, the way she takes her glasses off when she’s tired, the grey in her hair making her look sharper and colder and even more untouchable.

You start thinking about the word when you’re alone. Mom. Not because she is, but because she isn’t, because calling her that turns every glance into something filthy.

The first time you touch yourself thinking about her, you try to blame it on wine. Your mom and Emily had hosted people downstairs, all quiet laughter and expensive conversation, and you’d gone to bed early because sitting across from Emily had made your skin feel too tight.

You’d heard her voice through the floorboards, low and controlled, the kind of voice that always sounds like she knows more than she’s saying. You’d buried your face into your pillow, leggings shoved down your thighs, fingers slipping between your legs before you could talk yourself out of it.

You pictured her wedding ring first, because apparently your body was that predictable. Her hand around her glass. Her hand on your mom’s lower back. Her hand around your throat instead, ring cold against your pulse while she told you how wrong you were for wanting her.

After that, the fantasy got worse. It wasn’t gentle, never gentle, not in your head. You imagined Emily finding you like that, door cracked open, your fingers wet and your face burning because you’d been stupid enough to whisper her name.

You imagined her standing in the doorway in one of those dark blouses, grey hair loose around her face, expression unreadable except for the hunger in her eyes. You imagined her saying, “Is this what you do when your mother’s downstairs?” and the thought alone made you come so hard you had to bite your pillow to stay quiet.

The shame didn’t stop you. It never did. If anything, it made you reach for the fantasy again the next night, and the next, until Emily became the thing you thought about whenever your hand slipped beneath your waistband.

Tonight, you walk downstairs in your oversized hoodie like you haven’t been ruined by thoughts of her for weeks. Your mom is plating food, humming softly, completely unaware of the way Emily’s eyes lift the second you enter the room.

Emily is leaning against the counter, wineglass in hand, wearing a charcoal button-up with the sleeves rolled to her forearms. Her hair is darker near the ends, silver at the roots and temples, and it makes her look almost severe in the soft kitchen light. The wedding ring is there, of course. It always is.

You look at it before you look at her face, and Emily’s mouth curves like she caught you doing exactly what she expected. “Hey, mom,” you say, too sweet, too casual, pretending your pulse isn’t already climbing.

Your actual mom turns around with a warm smile. “You’re in a mood.” You shrug, sliding into your chair like the leggings don’t feel too tight against your skin already. “I’m always in a mood.” Emily sets her glass down with a soft click.

“That’s true.” Her voice is mild, but her eyes are on you, steady and dark, and you feel the words settle low in your stomach. Your mom tells Emily not to encourage you, and Emily looks away first, smiling faintly like she’s innocent. She’s not.

You know she’s not because when she passes behind your chair to get the salad bowl, her fingers brush the back of your hoodie. It’s nothing, barely a touch, but it makes your thighs press together under the table.

Dinner feels normal enough to be cruel. Your mom talks about work, Emily answers with that polished warmth she gives people when she wants them comfortable, and you sit there trying not to stare at her hands. The ring keeps catching the light.

Every time she lifts her fork, every time she reaches for her wine, every time her knuckles flex around the glass, you feel it like pressure against your throat. You wonder if your mom notices how quiet you’ve gotten.

You wonder if Emily notices the way your breathing changes. Of course she does. Emily Prentiss has built an entire life out of noticing what people try to hide. When your eyes drop to her ring again, she lets them stay there for a second before softly saying your name.

It hits you harder than it should. Your name in her mouth sounds too intimate in front of your mother, too knowing, too close to the things you imagine when you’re alone.

“Yeah?” you ask, forcing yourself to look up. Emily tilts her head slightly, grey hair shifting against her cheek. “You’re quiet tonight.” Your mom smiles, oblivious. “Enjoy it while it lasts.”

You laugh because you’re supposed to, but Emily doesn’t laugh. She watches you over her glass, and her thumb slowly turns the wedding ring around her finger. It’s deliberate. It has to be deliberate. Heat spreads low and sharp between your thighs.

After dinner, your mom leaves the room to take a call, still talking over her shoulder about dessert like she trusts both of you completely. The second she’s gone, the kitchen feels smaller. Emily stays at the counter, rinsing plates with her sleeves still rolled up, her ring flashing under the running water.

You should leave. You don’t. You lean against the doorway in your hoodie and leggings, watching her hands like they’re doing something obscene instead of washing dishes. “You’re doing it again,” Emily says without looking at you.

Your stomach drops. “Doing what?” She shuts the tap off, slowly dries her hands, then turns around with a look that makes your mouth go dry. “Looking at my ring like it’s something you want in your mouth.”

The words are so sudden and filthy that you forget how to breathe. Emily doesn’t move closer yet. She just stands there, calm and elegant and devastating, your mom’s wife with grey in her hair and your name sitting like a secret behind her teeth.

“That’s not true,” you say, but your voice betrays you immediately. Emily’s eyes drop to your thighs when you shift. “No?” she asks. “Then why do you keep squeezing your legs together every time I touch it?” Your face burns, but the embarrassment only makes your body hotter.

She notices that too. Her smile fades into something darker. “You started calling me mom to be cruel,” she says quietly. “Now you say it because you like what it does to you.”

You swallow hard, fingers curling into your hoodie sleeves. “You don’t know that.” Emily steps closer. “I know exactly that.” Her voice drops, smooth and certain, and suddenly there’s nowhere to put your hands, nowhere to look except her face, her mouth, her ring.

“You like pretending it’s spite,” she says. “You like acting like you’re only trying to get under my skin.” She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell wine and soap and her perfume. “But you and I both know better.” Her left hand lifts, and the ring glints right before her fingers touch your jaw. “Don’t we?”

You could still walk away. That’s the last sane thought you have before Emily’s thumb drags over your lower lip. Instead, you tilt your face into her hand like you’ve been waiting for permission. Her eyes darken, and for one second, her control visibly shifts. Not gone, never gone, but strained.

“Say it,” she murmurs. Your throat tightens. “Emily.” Her fingers slide from your jaw to your throat, not squeezing yet, just resting there with that wedding ring cold against your skin. Her mouth hovers close to yours. “That’s not what you called me earlier.”

Your whole body jolts with want so sharp it almost hurts. “Don’t,” you whisper, but it doesn’t sound like a refusal. It sounds like begging. Emily’s hand tightens slightly around your throat, careful and firm, and the ring presses against your pulse.

“Don’t what?” she asks. “Don’t make you admit it?” Her other hand finds your waist through the oversized hoodie, fingers pressing in like she wants to feel how badly you’re shaking.

“Don’t make you say you’ve been thinking about your mother’s wife with your hand between your legs?” The sound you make is broken and humiliating. Emily’s eyes flare. “Oh, sweetheart.”

The kiss happens fast after that, but it doesn’t feel impulsive. It feels inevitable. Emily’s mouth takes yours with a restraint that lasts maybe three seconds before it turns rougher, deeper, angrier. You grab at her shirt, fingers twisting in the fabric, and she backs you into the wall hard enough to make you gasp.

Her hand stays at your throat, ring cold, palm warm, thumb stroking once like she knows exactly how much that contrast ruins you. “You’re trouble,” she breathes against your mouth.

“You’ve been trouble since the wedding.” You whimper when her knee presses between your thighs. Emily’s laugh is quiet and cruel. “There it is.”

“You’re married to my mom,” you whisper, because the words feel necessary, because the ugliness of them makes you ache. Emily freezes for half a second. Then her mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your lips.

“I know.” Her fingers tighten on your waist. “That should’ve made me stop looking.” Your eyes flutter shut when her knee presses harder between your thighs. “It didn’t.”

She kisses you again, slower this time, like she wants you to feel every bad choice. “And now you’re standing here wet through your leggings because I put my hand around your throat.”

You hate how right she is. Your hips move before you can stop them, grinding down against her thigh with one needy little roll that makes Emily inhale sharply. The sound almost makes you proud until her hand closes a little firmer around your throat.

“Careful,” she warns. “You’re getting bold.” You look at her through your lashes, breath shaking, and say the one word you know will ruin her composure. “Mom.”

Emily’s face goes still. For a second, there’s only the distant sound of your mother’s voice upstairs and the thunder of your own pulse. Then Emily says, very softly, “Say it like that again and I’ll make sure you can’t sit through dessert.”

Your legs nearly give out. Emily catches you easily, her mouth curving as if the weakness pleases her. “That’s what I thought,” she murmurs. Her hand slides lower, pushing beneath the hem of your oversized hoodie, finding bare skin above your leggings. The touch is warm, controlled, possessive.

You arch into it without meaning to. Emily watches your face the whole time, like every reaction tells her something she already knew. “All casual for dinner,” she says,

fingertips slipping under your waistband just enough to make you stop breathing. “Leggings, hoodie, acting innocent.” Her ring presses against your throat again. “Nothing innocent about you, is there?”

Your answer is a shaky little no. Emily smiles. “Good.” Then her fingers dip lower, sliding beneath the tight fabric of your leggings, and the first touch against your wetness makes both of you go still. Your face burns hot, but Emily’s expression shifts into something hungrier, rougher, almost disbelieving.

“Fuck,” she whispers. “You really have been sitting at that table like this.” You grip her wrist, not stopping her, just holding on as her fingers drag slowly through you.

She looks down between your bodies even though she can’t see much with your leggings still in the way. “All that because of my ring?” Her thumb presses lightly against your clit, and your knees buckle. “Or because you like calling me something you shouldn’t?”

“Emily,” you gasp. She doesn’t let you get away with it. Her hand at your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes snap back to hers. “Try again.”

You know what she wants. Worse, you know you want to give it to her. Your lips part, and the word comes out soft, ruined, soaked in shame and lust. “Mom.”

Emily’s eyes darken so sharply it feels like being touched all over. Her fingers circle your clit with slow, cruel precision. “Filthy girl,” she murmurs. “You’re gonna look me in the eye while I make you cum for your mom.”

Emily’s fingers are still moving when you hear it, the soft creak of the upstairs floorboard that makes both of you freeze. Your whole body locks against the wall, breath caught halfway out of your throat, pussy still pulsing around nothing because she’s pulled you so close to the edge you can barely think.

Emily’s eyes lift from your face toward the ceiling, sharp and alert in a way that reminds you exactly who she is beneath all that hunger. The sound comes again, footsteps crossing the landing, then your mom’s voice faintly drifting down the stairs as she finishes her call.

Emily’s hand stills inside your leggings, fingers slick and warm against you, and for one sick, thrilling second neither of you moves. Your eyes go wide, panic and arousal twisting together so tightly your knees almost buckle. Emily looks back at you, calm enough to be cruel, and whispers, “Not a sound.”

You nod too fast, lips parted, chest rising hard under the oversized hoodie. Emily’s fingers slide once more through your wetness, slow and deliberate, like she can’t resist reminding you what she was doing before she stops.

Your hips twitch into her hand before you can help it, and her mouth curves faintly, dark amusement flickering across her face. “Greedy,” she murmurs, barely loud enough for you to hear.

Then she removes her hand from your leggings, and the loss makes you whimper so softly you barely recognize yourself.

Emily’s gaze snaps to your mouth, warning and satisfaction mixed together. “Careful,” she breathes, “unless you want her to ask why you’re shaking.”

Your mom’s steps get closer, each one landing like a countdown. Emily doesn’t rush, which is somehow worse than if she did. She eases your hoodie back down over your waist, smooths the fabric like she’s just fixing your clothes, like she hasn’t had her fingers buried against your slick heat seconds ago.

Her wedding ring catches the kitchen light from down the hall, still sitting pretty on the same hand that just made you forget how to breathe. You stare at it, dazed, wanting, furious with yourself for wanting.

Emily notices because Emily always notices. She lifts that hand between you, fingers wet with you, and taps your cheek twice with them, light and humiliatingly intimate. “Fix your face,” she says softly.

The touch leaves warmth and slick on your skin, a filthy little secret pressed right there where anyone could look and not understand. You inhale sharply, and Emily’s eyes darken as if the sound almost tempts her into ruining both of you.

“Emily,” you whisper, but it comes out broken, too needy to be useful. She tilts her head, grey-streaked hair brushing her cheek, expression composed again except for the heat still sitting low in her eyes. “No,” she says.

“You don’t get to sound like that when she’s ten feet away.” Your thighs press together on instinct, and her gaze drops for half a second. “God,” she mutters under her breath, “you’re impossible.”

Then she steps away from you like nothing happened. One second she’s close enough that you can feel her breath, her perfume, the heat of her body, and the next she’s across the kitchen doorway, picking up a dish towel with infuriating ease.

You’re left against the wall, legs unsteady, leggings damp, cheek still marked by the slick from her fingers. Your pulse hammers so hard you’re sure your mom will hear it before she even reaches the bottom step. Emily dries her hands with the towel, slow and casual, but you know she didn’t wash them.

The knowledge makes your stomach twist and your pussy clench again, because she’s walking back into the role of your mom’s wife while still wearing you on her skin. She glances at you once, quick and sharp, and mouths, “Breathe.”

You try. It doesn’t work very well. Your mom appears in the doorway a second later, phone still in hand, smiling like she hasn’t just walked into the aftershock of something that could destroy the entire house.

“Sorry,” she says, looking between you and Emily without suspicion. “That took longer than I thought.” Emily turns toward her with that smooth, practiced warmth, dish towel draped over one hand.

“Everything okay?” she asks, voice perfectly level, perfectly wife-like, perfectly obscene after what she just did to you.

Your mom nods and crosses the room to kiss her cheek. You look away too late, catching the sight of Emily accepting it calmly while her eyes flick to you over your mom’s shoulder.

That glance nearly ruins you. It’s brief, private, and filthy, a reminder that she knows exactly how wet you still are under your leggings while your mom stands right there.

“You okay?” your mom asks, turning toward you with a little frown. “You look flushed.” Your mouth goes dry so fast it almost hurts. Emily’s brow lifts slightly behind her, not helping at all.

“Yeah,” you say, voice rougher than it should be, “just warm.” Your mom hums sympathetically, completely convinced. Emily sets the towel down and says, “She did say she was in a mood.”

You want to hate her for how easily she says it. You want to hate the calm little smile she gives your mom, the controlled way she moves around the kitchen, the ring still glinting as she reaches for the dessert plates.

Instead, all you can think about is her fingers sliding under your waistband and her voice telling you to look her in the eye. Your cheek still tingles where she tapped you, and the thought makes your stomach dip with shameful heat.

Your mom asks if you want dessert, and for a second you can’t answer because Emily is standing behind her, looking at you like she knows exactly what you still want in your mouth.

“Sure,” you manage finally, gripping the counter behind you. Emily smiles faintly, slow and cruel around the edges. “Good girl,” she says, soft enough that only you understand what it means.

The three of you move back to the table like nothing happened. That’s the worst part, really, how normal it all looks from the outside. Your mom sets down bowls of warm brownies and melting vanilla ice cream, smiling like this is just another quiet dinner at home.

Emily pulls your chair out for you like she always does, one hand brushing your shoulder in a way that looks completely innocent if no one knows where that hand had just been. You sit down with your legs pressed tight together, oversized hoodie bunched around your hips, leggings still damp and clinging between your thighs.

Your mom starts talking about the call she took upstairs, something about work, something normal and dull, but the words blur before they can settle.

All you can feel is the leftover ache between your legs. All you can see is Emily sitting across from you, perfectly composed, wedding ring glinting while your slick is still drying on your cheek where she tapped you.

She eats like nothing’s wrong. That’s what makes it unbearable. One hand rests on the table, elegant and steady, wedding ring catching the warm kitchen light every time she lifts her spoon. The other stays low, relaxed near her lap, like she isn’t aware of the way your eyes keep dropping to her fingers.

Your mom nudges Emily’s ankle under the table while telling a story, laughing softly, and Emily smiles at her with that polished wife warmth that makes your stomach twist. Then her gaze flicks to you.

Just for a second. Long enough to make your breath catch and your pussy clench helplessly under your leggings. You look down at your brownie and ice cream like that’ll save you from wanting your mom’s wife at the dinner table.

You don’t notice her foot at first. It starts subtle, almost innocent, the edge of Emily’s shoe brushing your ankle beneath the table. You freeze with your spoon halfway to your mouth, heart stuttering hard enough that you’re sure your mom must hear it.

Emily doesn’t look at you. She keeps her attention on your mom, nodding along, answering calmly, completely present in the conversation above the table. Under it, her foot moves again.

This time, it slides slowly up your calf, dragging over the thin fabric of your leggings in a deliberate line. Your stomach drops. Your thighs tense because you already know she isn’t going to stop there.

The toe of her shoe reaches the inside of your knee, and you almost choke on your next breath. Emily’s face stays calm, but her eyes flick to yours for one sharp second when your legs part without permission. It’s barely anything, just a small shift, but it’s enough to let her in.

Her foot slips higher, slow and controlled, pressing between your thighs with a precision that makes your fingers tighten around your spoon. The first real brush against your pussy is light, just the toe of her shoe rubbing over the damp seam of your leggings.

You have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. Your body reacts instantly, hips twitching toward the pressure like you’ve forgotten where you are. Emily’s mouth curves faintly as she takes another bite of dessert.

“Everything okay?” your mom asks, glancing at you when you go too still. You nod too quickly, forcing your shoulders to relax. “Yeah,” you say, voice thin. “Just hot.” Your mom hums, unconcerned, and scoops up another spoonful of ice cream.

Emily’s foot presses harder between your thighs, the sole of her shoe grinding slowly against your clothed cunt. The pressure catches right over your clit through the leggings, dull but firm,

filthy because she’s doing it while your mom sits inches away. Your breath stutters, and Emily glances at you over her spoon like she’s daring you to embarrass yourself.

She starts rubbing you in slow, shallow strokes. Up, then down, pressing the toe of her shoe against the wet fabric until it drags right where you’re most sensitive. Your leggings are thin enough that you feel every shift, every point of pressure, every cruel little adjustment she makes under the table.

The fabric sticks to you now, damp with arousal, and the friction turns slicker every time she rubs against you. You squeeze your thighs around her foot before you can stop yourself, trapping her there.

Emily’s eyes darken, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she presses harder, making you feel the shape of her foot grinding against your swollen pussy through your leggings.

“You’re quiet tonight,” your mom says, smiling like she’s teasing. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up.” You force a laugh, but it comes out weak, almost breathless, because Emily chooses that exact second to drag her foot up against your clit again.

The pressure makes your hips jerk forward, small but unmistakable, and your hand flies to your glass just to give yourself something to hold. “Just tired,” you manage. Emily hums softly, like she believes you.

“Long day?” she asks, voice smooth and innocent. Her foot rubs another slow circle over your pussy beneath the table. You stare at her, furious and turned on and already too close to falling apart.

The friction builds fast because you’re still sensitive from earlier. You’re wet enough that every press of her shoe against your leggings feels obscene, the fabric dragging over your clit in a steady rhythm that makes your thighs tremble.

Emily keeps one hand on the table, ring visible, wife visible, respectable and calm while her foot works between your legs. She’s not even pretending it’s accidental anymore. Her shoe nudges your thighs wider, then presses firmly into the centre of you, grinding upward until your breath catches in your throat.

Your mom keeps talking, completely unaware, spoon clinking softly against her bowl. The normal sound of it makes everything feel worse. You’re getting rubbed off at the family dinner table by the woman your mom married six months ago, and Emily looks like she could keep doing it all night.

You lower your gaze to your dessert, trying to ground yourself in the melting ice cream and warm brownie. It doesn’t help. The chocolate smears into the vanilla, soft and messy, and your mind flashes back to

Emily’s slick fingers, the wet sound they made when she pulled them from your leggings, the way she tapped your cheek like a warning. Her foot drags up again, pressing directly against your clit through the damp fabric, and your thighs clamp down around her ankle.

Emily’s brow lifts slightly. Your mom reaches for a napkin, still talking, still blind to the way your hips have started moving in tiny desperate shifts. You hate yourself for it. You’re grinding back against Emily’s shoe because the pressure feels too good to ignore.

“Pass me the napkins?” your mom asks suddenly. You jerk like you’ve been caught. Emily doesn’t move her foot. If anything, she presses more firmly into you, toe grinding right into the slick, swollen heat between your thighs while you reach across the table with shaking hands. You slide the napkins over, trying to keep your face normal.

“Thanks,” your mom says, already distracted again. Emily watches your hands tremble, then looks back at your face. Under the table, she starts rubbing you in a steady rhythm, dragging the sole of her shoe up and down over your pussy like she’s testing exactly how much you can take before you make a sound.

You’re embarrassingly close. Your body never really came down from the kitchen, and now every slow grind of Emily’s foot against your clit pushes you closer to the edge.

You try to keep eating, try to lift the spoon to your mouth, but your hand isn’t steady enough. Emily sees it and smiles into her next bite of brownie.

“You don’t like it?” she asks your mom, nodding toward your bowl. Your mom turns to you. “Is the brownie too rich?” You shake your head quickly, cheeks burning. “No, it’s good,” you say, and Emily’s foot presses so hard into your pussy on the word good that your voice nearly cracks.

Your mom accepts the answer and keeps eating. Emily doesn’t let up. She rubs you slower now, cruelly slow, the toe of her shoe circling against your clit through the wet fabric like she’s got all the time in the world.

The pressure isn’t enough to make you come yet, but it’s enough to keep you trembling. Enough to make your pussy throb. Enough to make your hips chase her foot whenever she eases back. You stare at her across the table, breathing shallowly,

and she looks at you like she knows exactly how ruined you are under that oversized hoodie. Her wedding ring flashes as she rests her chin lightly on her hand. “You’re fidgeting,” she says softly.

Your mom laughs. “She always does that.” Emily’s eyes stay on you. “I’ve noticed.” Her foot slides lower for a second, teasing away from where you need her, and the loss makes you nearly whine out loud. You catch it just in time, turning it into a shaky breath, but Emily hears the difference.

Her expression shifts, satisfaction settling into the corners of her mouth. Then she rubs back up, pressing against your clit again with enough force to make your eyes flutter. “You sure you’re okay?” your mom asks. Emily’s foot grinds harder before you can answer.

“Yeah,” you say quickly, too quickly. “I’m fine.” Emily’s shoe moves in tight, slow circles over your pussy, the friction dragging through your leggings and making the wet fabric stick to you even worse. Your body is hot all over now, sweat prickling under your hoodie, thighs tense around her foot.

You can feel yourself getting wetter, slick soaking through the crotch of your leggings, making every rub louder in your own head even if no one else can hear it.

Emily tilts her head, watching your face with terrifying focus. Your mom takes another bite of dessert, oblivious. You grip the edge of your chair beneath the table to stop yourself from rolling your hips too obviously.

“Eyes up,” Emily says softly. It’s quiet enough that your mom doesn’t register the command, but you do. Your gaze snaps from her ring to her face. Her foot presses harder, toe dragging right over your clit again, and your lips part around a silent gasp.

Emily’s eyes darken. “Good,” she murmurs. Your mom looks between you both, smiling faintly. “What?” she asks. Emily doesn’t miss a beat. “Just making sure she’s still awake.”

Your mom laughs, but you can barely hear it over the rush of blood in your ears. Emily’s foot keeps rubbing you, slow and methodical, every stroke pushing pleasure tighter in your lower stomach. You’re trying so hard not to move, but your hips keep making these tiny helpless rolls, chasing her shoe under the table.

She lets you do it. Worse, she adjusts her ankle to make it easier for you, pressing the firm ridge of her shoe exactly where your swollen clit needs it.

Your thighs shake so badly you have to plant both feet flat on the floor. The ice cream melts untouched in your bowl. Emily watches the spoon slip from your hand into the dish and smiles like she’s won.

You’re right on the edge again. It’s humiliating how fast it happens, how little she has to do, how just the pressure of her foot against your clothed pussy has you blinking back tears. Emily knows. You can see it in the way she slows down just as your breathing starts to break, dragging the pleasure out instead of giving you enough.

Your mom is still there, still talking, still completely unaware that you’re one careless movement away from coming at the table. Emily’s gaze holds yours, calm and cruel. Her foot presses up one more time, grinding slow and hard against your clit. “Careful,” she whispers, so softly only you hear it, “or dessert’s going to get very interesting.”

The pressure gets too much too fast, and you know you’re going to break if you sit there another minute. Emily’s foot is still pressed between your thighs, rubbing slow enough to be cruel, the toe of her shoe dragging over your clit through your damp leggings like she’s got every right to take you apart under the table.

Your mom is still talking, spoon clinking gently against her bowl, completely unaware of the way you’re gripping the edge of your chair so hard your fingers ache.

You force yourself to pick up your spoon again, hand trembling as you scoop up melting ice cream and brownie like the sweetness might distract you from the wet heat throbbing between your legs. It doesn’t.

Every swallow feels too thick, every breath feels too loud, every shift of Emily’s foot makes your pussy clench helplessly. Emily watches you across the table, calm and elegant, her wedding ring catching the light as she brings another bite to her mouth. She knows you’re trying to run.

You eat too quickly, barely tasting any of it, just desperate to have a reason to leave before she pushes you over the edge right there. Warm chocolate, cold vanilla, your own panic, it all turns blurry in your mouth while

Emily’s shoe grinds once more against the swollen seam of your leggings. Your breath catches, and you cover it with a cough, reaching for your water so fast your mom glances over. “You okay?” she asks, brows knitting softly.

Emily’s foot stills beneath the table, but she doesn’t pull away. That almost makes it worse, the firm pressure just sitting there against your pussy while your mom looks at you with honest concern. “Yeah,” you say, voice tight, “went down wrong.”

Your mom’s face softens. “Slow down, sweetheart. It’s not going anywhere.” Emily’s eyes flick up at that, something wicked moving behind them because of course she hears the irony.

You hate her for it. You hate the way her mouth barely curves, the way she can sit there with her foot between your legs while your mom fusses over you like nothing’s wrong.

“Maybe she’s just tired,” Emily says, voice smooth, helpful, perfectly composed. Her foot shifts slightly when she says it, the toe of her shoe nudging your clit in one last little rub that makes your thighs twitch. You nearly drop your spoon. Emily’s smile stays polite.

You shove the last bite of brownie into your mouth because it’s the only thing you can do without making a sound. Your body is screaming for relief, slick soaking into the fabric of your leggings, clit aching from every slow drag of Emily’s shoe.

You can still feel where her fingers had been earlier, the ghost of them under your waistband, the way she’d tapped your cheek with your own wetness before stepping away. It all stacks up inside you, too hot, too filthy, too close to spilling over.

Emily finally pulls her foot back beneath her own chair, and the sudden loss makes you almost whine. You clamp your mouth shut, swallowing hard around the dessert instead. Emily sees it, and her eyes darken like she’s filing that reaction away for later.

You set your spoon down too carefully. “I think I’m gonna head upstairs,” you say, trying to sound casual even though your voice comes out rough around the edges. Your mom looks up immediately.

“Already?” There’s no suspicion in her tone, only concern, and it makes guilt twist sharp through the arousal still burning under your skin. You nod, pushing your chair back slowly because standing too fast feels dangerous.

“Yeah, I’m just really tired.” Emily’s gaze drops to your legs as you stand, quick and private, and you know she’s thinking about the mess she left there. Your leggings cling between your thighs, damp and obscene under the oversized hoodie, and you pray your mom doesn’t notice anything except your flushed face.

Your mom sets her spoon down. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks, softer this time. “You’ve been quiet all evening.” You force a small laugh, but it sounds thin even to you. “I’m fine, promise. Just warm and tired.”

She studies you for a second, maternal worry all over her face, and it nearly makes you crack. Emily leans back in her chair, calm as anything, one hand resting near her wineglass.

“She did say it’s hot in here,” Emily says, and the sound of her voice makes your pussy pulse all over again. Your mom nods slowly, still not fully convinced. “Do you want me to bring you some water?”

“No, I’ve got some upstairs.” The answer comes too fast, and you soften it with another weak smile. “Really, I’m okay.” Your mom reaches out as you pass her chair, catching your hand for a second. Her thumb brushes your knuckles, gentle and familiar, and it makes the whole thing feel uglier.

“Text me if you need anything, okay?” she says. You squeeze her hand, guilt burning under your ribs. “I will.” Across the table, Emily watches the exchange with an expression you can’t read, except for the tiny movement of her thumb turning her wedding ring around her finger.

You don’t look at Emily when you step away, because you know if you do, your face will give you away. You make it three steps before her voice stops you anyway.

“Goodnight,” she says. It sounds innocent. Your mom hears good manners. You hear a command wrapped in silk, hear the memory of her voice telling you to keep your eyes up while her shoe rubbed your pussy under the table.

You pause in the doorway, hand curling into the sleeve of your hoodie. “Night,” you say, still not looking at her. Emily waits half a beat, then adds, “Sleep well.”

The words slide under your skin. You know she knows you won’t. You know she knows exactly where your hand is going the second you get behind a locked door, knows you’re going to peel your damp leggings down with shaking fingers and think about her foot, her ring, her mouth saying good girl like a secret. Your mom smiles at you one last time, accepting your excuse.

Emily doesn’t smile at all now. She just watches you leave, grey-streaked hair soft around her face, wedding ring gleaming on the same hand that had been around your throat.

You climb the stairs carefully, legs unsteady, heat throbbing between your thighs with every step. By the time you reach the hallway, you can still feel the shape of Emily’s shoe against your cunt like she never stopped touching you.

You barely make it to your room before your body gives up on pretending it’s fine. The door shuts behind you with a quiet click, and the second the lock turns, you throw yourself onto the bed like your legs can’t hold you for another second.

Your face hits the pillow first, a breathless, shaky sigh spilling out of you before you can stop it. Everything still feels too hot. Your hoodie is too heavy. Your leggings are too tight.

The damp fabric between your thighs clings to you with every tiny movement, a humiliating reminder of exactly what Emily did under the table while your mom sat there eating dessert. You press your thighs together and immediately regret it, because the pressure sends a sharp little pulse through your pussy that makes you whimper into the sheets.

You can still feel her foot there. The slow drag of her shoe over your clit. The way she rubbed your pussy through your leggings like she had all the time in the world, calm and composed above the table while you were falling apart beneath it.

You can still see her face, too, that controlled little smile, that grey-streaked hair framing her cheek, that wedding ring catching the light every time she lifted her spoon.

The ring is what makes you roll onto your back with a broken groan, one hand dragging over your stomach. Your fingers catch on the hem of your hoodie, bunching it up without meaning to.

You think about her hand around your throat, the cold press of gold against your skin, and your hips lift off the mattress before you even touch yourself properly. “Fuck,” you whisper, staring at the ceiling like it might save you from yourself.

It doesn’t. Nothing does. Your hand slips beneath the waistband of your leggings, and the first brush of your fingers against yourself makes your mouth fall open.

You’re soaked, slick and swollen from being teased too long, your pussy sensitive from Emily’s fingers earlier and the cruel pressure of her foot under the dinner table. Your lips feel puffy and hot beneath your touch, folds slippery when your fingertips part them, arousal gathered wet and messy between them.

Your clit is swollen too, aching from the friction Emily gave you and then took away, so sensitive that even grazing it makes your thighs twitch. Your fingertips slide through the wetness, and your whole body jolts like you’ve been waiting for permission.

You think about Emily saying, “Eyes up,” while rubbing you right there in front of your mom. You think about the way she knew exactly how wet you were without even needing to see it. You think about her saying good girl so softly only you understood. Your fingers circle your clit, slow at first, and your breath breaks into a needy little sound.

“Mom,” you whisper, and the word makes your stomach twist. Not real, not like that, never like that, but filthy because she isn’t, because Emily is your mother’s wife and the title only exists to make everything feel worse. You say it again, quieter this time, almost testing how it feels in your mouth when you’re alone.

“Mom.” Your pussy clenches at the sound, your slick entrance fluttering around nothing, and shame rolls through you hot enough to make your fingers press harder. It’s a kink, a horrible little secret, a word you started using to spite her and somehow turned into the thing that makes you drip through your leggings at dinner.

You imagine Emily hearing you say it like this, breathy and desperate, with your fingers sliding over your swollen clit. You imagine her standing in your doorway with that unreadable look, grey hair loose, ring gleaming, asking if this is what you ran upstairs to do.

Your fingers move faster. You push your leggings lower with your free hand, impatient and clumsy, just enough to free the wet heat between your thighs. Cool air hits your pussy, and you shudder, knees falling apart on the bed like Emily’s watching even though she isn’t.

You glance down for half a second and immediately feel your face burn at the sight of yourself, open and glossy, lips spread by your own hand, slick catching in the low light from your bedside lamp. You’re visibly turned on, embarrassingly wet, your folds shiny and swollen from how long Emily kept you on edge.

You drag two fingers through yourself, spreading the slick up to your clit before rubbing tight, desperate circles. The relief is almost too much after being denied so long. Your back arches, hoodie riding up over your stomach, breath hitching in your throat.

All you can see is Emily across the table, perfectly calm while her foot rubbed your cunt through damp fabric. All you can hear is her voice, smooth and cruel, telling you to be careful or dessert would get interesting.

You bite your lip hard, trying to stay quiet, but the first moan slips out anyway. The house is too quiet around you now, every little sound feeling dangerous.

Your mom is still downstairs with Emily, probably cleaning up, probably laughing softly at something Emily says. The thought should cool you down. It doesn’t. It makes your fingers slip lower, teasing your entrance with a shaky little whimper because you’re imagining Emily doing it instead.

Your pussy looks ruined already, slick pooling at your entrance, lips swollen and parted, clit throbbing under the wet glide of your thumb. Her hand, her ring, her controlled voice, her body leaning into yours while she tells you how wrong you are for wanting her. You push two fingers inside yourself and gasp, hips rolling up to meet your own hand.

It isn’t enough because it isn’t her. That thought makes you whine, frustrated and needy, your fingers curling inside you as you try to mimic the way Emily had touched you in the kitchen. She’d been so precise, so calm, like she could take you apart without even trying.

You fuck yourself slowly at first, slick sounds filling the quiet room, thumb rubbing your clit while your fingers press deeper. The wetness is obscene, coating your fingers every time you pull back, your entrance clenching around them greedily as if your body is begging for Emily instead.

“Emily,” you breathe, then correct yourself on a shuddering exhale. “Mom.” The word hits harder this time. Your eyes squeeze shut, and your hips grind into your hand as if you can chase the fantasy into something real. You imagine her laughing softly, saying, “There it is,” like she knew you’d end up like this.

Your pillow muffles the next moan when you turn your face into it. Your body is already close, embarrassingly close, because Emily kept you right on the edge downstairs and sent you away shaking. Every circle of your thumb over your clit makes the pressure coil tighter.

Every curl of your fingers makes your thighs twitch wider, your pussy swallowing them with wet, needy little clenches. You think about her tapping your cheek with slick fingers and telling you to fix your face. You think about her watching your hands shake over dessert.

You think about her foot pressing harder between your legs while your mom asked if you were okay. The memory is so dirty, so impossible, that your whole body tightens around your fingers.

You start babbling into the pillow, barely words, barely sound. “Please, please, Emily, fuck.” Your fingers move faster, messy now, chasing what she refused to give you at the table. Your clit throbs under your thumb, oversensitive and slick, and the pleasure starts rushing up too fast to control.

“Mom,” you whimper again, your thighs shake, your hips buck into your hand, and your pussy squeezes tight around your fingers, hot and wet and desperate. Your mouth opens around a silent, desperate cry.

You come thinking about her ring. Not her mouth first, not even her fingers, but that gold band on her hand while she touched you like she had every right. Your orgasm hits hard, sharp enough to make your back arch off the bed, fingers buried inside yourself while your thumb keeps rubbing through it.

You bite the pillow to keep quiet, but a broken moan still slips out, muffled and pathetic. Pleasure rolls through you in hot waves, your pussy pulsing around your fingers while slick smears across your palm and inner thighs.

Your folds feel swollen beneath your hand, clit twitching with every aftershock, your whole cunt sensitive and messy from how badly you needed it.

You imagine Emily watching, calm and hungry, telling you to look at her while you fall apart. You imagine her calling you filthy. You imagine her saying, “Good girl,” and the aftershock makes you jerk all over again.

When it finally fades, you’re left sprawled on the bed, leggings shoved down your thighs, hoodie twisted around your waist, breathless and ruined. Your hand is still between your legs, fingers wet, body twitching with every tiny leftover pulse.

The room feels too warm. Too quiet. Too full of her. You glance down again, dazed, seeing the slick shine still clinging to your pussy, your lips parted and flushed, your thighs damp where you made a mess of yourself thinking about Emily.

Shame starts creeping in at the edges, but it doesn’t feel strong enough to beat the satisfaction. Not yet. Not when you can still feel the ghost of Emily’s foot against your pussy and the imagined weight of her ring at your throat.

Then there’s a soft sound downstairs. A laugh, maybe your mom’s, followed by Emily’s lower voice, too faint to make out but familiar enough to make your stomach flip. You freeze, fingers still slick against your thigh. The distance between you and them feels impossibly thin, like the whole house knows what you just did.

You pull your leggings back up slowly, wincing at the damp fabric dragging over your overstimulated clit, and roll onto your side with your heart still racing. Your phone lights up on the nightstand. For one second, you think it might be your mom checking on you. Then you see Emily’s name.

Still awake?

Emily stared at her phone for a long moment before sending the message, her thumb hovering over the screen like it had more sense than the rest of her. The kitchen was quiet now, softened by the low hum of the dishwasher and the faint clink of your mother stacking dessert plates by the sink.

Emily sat at the table with one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee she hadn’t taken a single sip from, because her attention had stayed fixed on the staircase since you’d gone up.

She could still see the flush on your face, the way your legs had looked unsteady when you excused yourself, the damp, ruined tension in your body that no oversized hoodie could hide from her.

Worse, she could still feel the ghost of you on her skin, the slick warmth of you on her fingers, the way you’d squeezed your thighs around her foot under the table.

It should’ve made her ashamed enough to stop. Instead, it had left a low, persistent ache between her own thighs, one she’d been ignoring with the same discipline she used for everything else. Finally, she exhaled through her nose and typed, Still awake?

Your reply didn’t come instantly, but the typing indicator did, appearing and disappearing twice before the message landed. you know i am. Emily’s jaw tightened at the casual arrogance of it, at the way she could hear your voice in every lowercase letter.

Of course you were awake. Of course you hadn’t gone upstairs to sleep, not after the way you’d looked at her across the table like she’d left you starving.

Emily glanced toward your mother, who was rinsing a spoon at the sink and humming softly, completely unaware of the tension coiled under her own roof. The guilt came, sharp and familiar, but it didn’t come alone.

Beneath it was heat, filthy and unwelcome, a memory of your breath catching when her shoe pressed right against your pussy through your leggings. Emily shifted in her chair, thighs pressing together once before she forced herself still, and typed, You said you were tired.

The three dots appeared again, vanished, then came back like you were deciding whether to behave or make it worse. Emily already knew which one you’d choose. i lied. A quiet, humourless laugh threatened to slip out of her, but she swallowed it down just as your mother looked over.

“What’s funny?” your mother asked, smiling at her like Emily was only reading some harmless message from work. Emily locked her face into something warm and easy before the lie even reached her tongue.

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, lifting the cold mug to her mouth so she had something to do with her hands. Your mother accepted it without hesitation and turned back to the sink. Emily looked down again, pulse kicking harder than it should, and wrote, I’m shocked. You’ve never lied to me before.

Your response came fast this time, sharp enough that Emily could almost feel the bratty tilt of your mouth. don’t start. Emily leaned back slowly, her ringed hand resting near the phone, the gold band catching the kitchen light as if it wanted to remind her exactly what she was risking.

She thought of you saying that word downstairs, soft and wrong and deliberate, calling her mom like it was a dare you’d learned how to load properly. It had started as spite, she knew that much, but it had stopped being only spite weeks ago.

Emily had watched the change happen in real time, watched your eyes linger longer, watched your voice drop around the word, watched your body answer before your pride could catch up. The knowledge made her mouth go dry. It made the ache between her legs pulse again,

slow and inconvenient, because she’d felt how wet you were while your actual mother sat across the table talking about dessert. Emily typed, Go to sleep.

For a few seconds, nothing happened, and Emily told herself that was good. Then the screen lit again. make me. Emily closed her eyes, and this time the breath she took was far less steady.

The words hit somewhere low, dragging a vivid image into her head before she could stop it, you sprawled upstairs on your bed, hoodie pushed up, leggings shoved down, still sensitive and wet from everything she’d done and hadn’t finished. She wondered if you’d touched yourself already.

The thought was a mistake, because her body reacted hard, a deep throb settling between her thighs while she sat there in your mother’s kitchen like a decent wife.

Emily’s hand flexed once against the table, ring tapping softly against the wood. She opened her eyes and typed with cruel restraint, You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.

Your next message arrived like you’d been waiting with your thumb over the screen. you keep texting back though. Emily stared at it for longer than she needed to, because unfortunately, you were right.

She should’ve stopped the second she sent the first message, should’ve left you upstairs to your restless little fantasy and gone to bed beside the woman she’d married six months ago.

Instead, she was sitting there, turned on and irritated and far too aware of how easily you’d gotten under her skin. Your mother walked over then, drying her hands on a towel before leaning down to press a kiss to Emily’s temple.

“Don’t stay up too late,” she said, gentle and trusting. Emily looked up at her, smiled like she hadn’t been imagining your slick thighs around her foot, and said,

“I won’t.” Your mother touched her shoulder once before heading for the stairs, and Emily waited until she was gone before looking back at the phone.

Another message was already waiting for her. she gone? Emily’s stomach tightened, and the arousal she’d been trying to smother turned hotter because you knew exactly what you were doing. You weren’t just asking if your mother had left the room, you were asking if Emily was alone enough to answer you badly.

She rubbed her thumb over the edge of her wedding ring, slow and distracted, trying not to think about that same ring pressed against your throat, your eyes wide, your voice breaking around the word mom. You should be asleep, she typed, because it was safer than the truth.

Your reply came with no hesitation. that’s not what i asked. Emily let out a slow breath, jaw tight, gaze flicking once toward the dark staircase. Somewhere above her, you were awake, needy, probably smiling at your phone like you’d already won. She typed, Goodnight.

For a moment, she thought that would be the end of it. Then your final message appeared. goodnight, mom. Emily’s thumb froze above the screen, and every disciplined thought in her head went quiet. There it was again, the word that had no right to make heat slide through her body the way it did, the word you’d sharpened into something obscene just by knowing how badly she’d react.

She stared at it until the letters blurred slightly, breathing slower than she felt, thighs pressed together beneath the table because ignoring her own arousal was getting harder by the second. She imagined going upstairs, imagined opening your door, imagined asking if you were proud of yourself for using that word while your mother slept down the hall.

The thought made her body clench with want so fierce she had to lock her phone immediately. Emily placed it face down on the table like that could undo the damage. Because if she replied to that one, she wasn’t sure she’d stay downstairs.

Emily didn’t pick her phone back up after that final message. She placed it face down on the kitchen table like the simple act of hiding the screen could make the words stop existing. It didn’t. Goodnight, mom stayed behind her eyes anyway, sharp and soft and wrong in exactly the way you knew would get under her skin.

She sat there for a long moment, listening to your mother move around upstairs, forcing herself to breathe slowly until the heat in her body became something she could at least pretend to ignore. Then she stood, went to the work bag she’d left by the hall table, and unzipped it with more force than necessary.

Case files came out first, then her notebook, then a stack of printed reports she’d meant to finish days ago. She carried them back to the kitchen table and spread them out like work could save her from herself. It had before, after all.

The familiar routine should’ve helped. Emily lined up the folders by priority, uncapped a pen, pulled the cold coffee closer, and forced her eyes onto the first report. Victimology, timeline, witness statements, geographical notes.

Solid things. Work things. Things that belonged to the life she understood, where wanting didn’t matter and facts did. She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadn’t absorbed a single word.

Her gaze kept sliding toward the staircase, then snapping back down to the page like she could catch herself before the thought finished forming. It was pathetic, and she knew it. Worse, it was dangerous.

She tried making notes. That usually sharpened her focus, gave her hands something useful to do, forced her mind into order. Instead, the pen hovered uselessly over the paper while her thumb rubbed once over her wedding ring.

The movement stopped her cold. She looked down at her own hand and remembered your eyes on it at dinner, remembered the way you’d stared like the gold band itself had been touching you.

She remembered your thighs tightening around her foot under the table, the little hitch in your breath when she’d pressed harder, the way your voice had thinned when your mother asked if you were okay.

Her body responded before she could stop it, a low, unwelcome pulse of arousal settling between her thighs. Emily leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes. “Get it together,” she muttered to herself.

For a while, she almost managed it. She reviewed half a page of notes, corrected two dates, underlined something important enough to matter tomorrow. The dishwasher hummed through its cycle beside her, steady and domestic, while the rest of the house settled into quiet.

Your mother had gone upstairs a while ago, calling softly down for Emily not to stay up too late. Emily had answered that she wouldn’t, lying with the same ease she’d used all evening.

Hours passed in fragments, measured by the microwave clock and the cooling coffee she never drank. She should’ve felt tired by then. Instead, she felt wired, tense, too aware of the closed doors above her. Every small creak from the house made her look up.

The files became useless after midnight. Emily turned a page and realized she’d been holding the folder upside down for several seconds, which would’ve been funny if it hadn’t made her so angry with herself. She exhaled sharply, set the folder down, and rubbed both hands over her face.

The grey in her hair fell loose near her temples, and she smoothed it back with a frustrated motion that did nothing to settle her. Her phone remained face down beside her notebook. She hadn’t touched it again, but she kept feeling its presence like a dare.

Somewhere upstairs, you were behind your bedroom door, and she hated how vividly her mind filled in the rest. Your hoodie twisted up. Your leggings pulled down. Your hand between your thighs while that word sat in your mouth like a secret you’d learned how to weaponize.

Eventually, Emily closed the final folder. Not because she was finished, but because pretending had become more insulting than helpful. She stacked the case files carefully, aligning every corner with unnecessary precision, then slid them back into the leather work bag.

Her movements were controlled, almost too controlled, the kind of calm that came from forcing every impulse into a box and holding the lid down with both hands. The kitchen looked normal when she stood, which made the whole night feel even stranger.

Dessert bowls had been rinsed and stacked. The chairs were pushed in. The lamp above the counter threw a soft amber glow over everything, warm and harmless. Emily turned it off and stood in the dark for one second longer than she needed to.

She climbed the stairs quietly, one hand trailing along the banister. Each step felt louder than it should’ve in the sleeping house. At the top, she paused, listening.

No movement. No voices. Just the faint settling of old wood and the low hush of nighttime air through the vents. Her bedroom door stood slightly open, a narrow bar of darkness beyond it. Emily pushed it wider with careful fingers and looked inside.

Your mother was asleep, curled under the blankets, one arm tucked beneath her pillow, face peaceful in the dim light from the window. The sight landed in Emily’s chest like guilt, heavy and blunt.

She should’ve gone in. She should’ve changed, climbed into bed, let the night end there, and decided tomorrow that distance was the only sane option.

Instead, she stayed in the doorway, looking at the woman she’d married six months ago and feeling the full ugliness of what she’d allowed herself to want. Her wife trusted her. The house trusted her. Everyone trusted her to be controlled, responsible, safe.

Emily’s jaw tightened as she eased the door nearly shut again, leaving it open just enough not to make a sound. Then she looked down the hallway toward your room. The rational part of her mind gave her every reason to walk away. She ignored all of them before she even took the first step.

The hallway seemed longer than usual. Emily moved slowly, barefoot now, because at some point she’d slipped off her shoes without remembering doing it. Your door was closed, a thin line of darkness beneath it. She stopped outside it with her hand resting lightly against the frame, pulse far too loud in her ears.

She knew she shouldn’t be there. She knew coming this far already said too much. Still, she leaned closer, just enough to listen, just enough to see if there was any sound from the other side. Nothing at first.

Then maybe the soft shift of sheets, maybe a breath, maybe her own imagination punishing her. Emily closed her eyes for one second, opened them again, and stayed there in the dark, caught between the last good decision she could still make and the door she hadn’t yet opened.

You’re still awake when the door opens.

Not sleeping, not even close, just lying on your side with your phone clutched too tightly in one hand and your body still humming from everything you’d done to yourself. Your leggings are pulled back up, but they feel wrong now, damp and uncomfortable between your thighs, clinging to you in a way that makes you hyperaware of every twitch of your hips.

Your hoodie is still twisted around you, sleeves covering your hands, collar slipping off one shoulder from how much you’d moved. The room is dark except for the weak glow of your bedside lamp

and the pale stripe of hallway light that cuts across the floor when Emily pushes the door open. You freeze before you even see her properly. You know it’s her. Your body knows it before your brain catches up.

Emily stands in the doorway without speaking. The sight of her there, silent and grey-haired and still in that charcoal button-up, makes your stomach drop so hard it almost feels like fear. Not fear like you want her gone.

Fear like she actually came. Her face is shadowed, but you can still make out the line of her jaw, the loose strands of silver at her temples, the controlled stillness of her body as she looks at you on the bed.

One hand rests on the doorknob. The other hangs at her side, wedding ring catching the dim light like a confession neither of you can stop staring at. For a second, you don’t breathe. Then Emily steps inside and closes the door behind her with a soft click.

“You’re awake,” she says.

Her voice is quiet enough to make the room feel smaller. You shift under the covers, trying to sit up without looking like you’ve been caught doing exactly what you were doing. It doesn’t work.

Emily’s eyes move over you once, slow and precise, taking in the flushed skin, the messy hoodie, the way your thighs are pressed together under the blanket.

She doesn’t miss the phone in your hand either. She doesn’t miss anything. “Couldn’t sleep,” you say, and your voice sounds rough even to you. Emily’s mouth barely moves, but something in her expression says she expected that answer. “No,” she murmurs. “I didn’t think you could.”

You swallow hard. “Why are you here?”

That makes her pause. Her hand stays on the door for a moment longer before she lets go and steps farther into the room. “That’s a good question.” It should sound like a joke, but it doesn’t. It sounds like she’s angry with herself for not having a better answer.

She looks toward the floor, then back at you, and the weight of her gaze makes your thighs squeeze together again. Emily notices. Of course she notices. Her eyes drop briefly, and when they come back to your face, they’re darker than before. “Don’t do that,” she says quietly.

Your breath catches. “Do what?”

“Act like I didn’t see.”

Heat floods your face so fast it almost hurts. You sit up slowly, blanket slipping to your lap, hoodie bunching high on your thighs. Emily’s gaze flickers there, sharp as a blade, and you know she can see the way the leggings cling to you.

You tug the hoodie down instinctively, and her eyes lift back to yours. “Too late for modesty,” she says. The words hit low in your stomach. Your fingers curl into the blanket. “I didn’t know you were coming in.”

“No,” Emily says. “You just hoped I would.”

The silence after that feels electric. Your mouth opens, closes, then opens again around nothing. Emily takes another step closer, slow enough that you feel every inch of distance disappear.

She looks too composed for someone who shouldn’t be here, but you can see the tension under it now. The tightness in her jaw. The way her breathing isn’t quite even. The way her ringed hand flexes once at her side. “Did you touch yourself?” she asks.

Your whole body goes still.

Emily doesn’t soften the question. She doesn’t look embarrassed by it. She just watches you from the foot of your bed, her voice low and steady, like she’s asking something she already knows. Your pulse starts pounding.

“Emily,” you whisper, because saying anything else feels impossible. Her brows lift slightly. “That’s not an answer.” You look away, but only for a second before her voice cuts through the dark again. “Look at me.”

You do.

Her expression changes when she sees your face properly, sees the guilt and arousal tangled there so badly you can’t hide either one. “You did,” she says, and it isn’t a question anymore.

Your thighs press tighter under the blanket, the ache returning immediately, humiliating and hot. Emily’s eyes lower again, following the movement. “Was it enough?” she asks. The room feels too warm. Your answer is barely a breath. “No.”

Emily closes her eyes for half a second. When she opens them again, something has shifted. “You shouldn’t say things like that to me.” Her voice is rougher now, less controlled around the edges. “You know that, don’t you?”

You nod, though the motion feels weak and useless. “Then why do you keep doing it?” she asks. You don’t know if she means the texts, the staring, the word, the way you’re looking at her now. Maybe all of it. Maybe she wants you to admit every part.

“Because you keep coming back,” you whisper.

Emily’s jaw tightens.

For one second, neither of you moves. Then she laughs under her breath, not amused, not really, more like you’ve found the ugliest truth in the room and said it before she could stop you.

“You’re getting very brave for someone who couldn’t even sit through dessert.” She steps closer to the side of your bed, close enough now that you can see the faint flush at her throat, the loosened top button of her shirt, the silver in her hair catching the bedside light.

“Did you think about it?” she asks. “My foot between your legs while your mother asked if you were okay?” Your breath breaks. Emily watches the reaction with dark satisfaction. “Of course you did.”

You whisper, “Don’t say it like that.”

“Why?” Her hand reaches down, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket near your knee. “Because it makes you wet again?” She doesn’t touch you yet, not really, just lets her ringed fingers rest there, close enough to make your whole body strain toward her.

Your eyes drop to the ring before you can stop them. Emily sees it, and her mouth curves. “Still looking at it.” Her hand slides higher over the blanket, stopping just above your thigh. “Even after you came thinking about it.”

Your face burns. “How do you know?”

“Because I know you.” Her voice drops. “And because you’re not nearly as quiet as you think you are.”

The words punch the air out of your lungs. Your eyes go wide, and

Emily’s expression turns almost cruel in its restraint. “Relax,” she says softly. “She didn’t hear you.” You don’t know whether that’s a relief or a worse kind of humiliation. Your fingers tighten in the blanket, and your pulse pounds between your thighs.

Emily sits on the edge of the bed, close but not touching enough, her hip near your knee, her body angled toward you. The mattress dips under her weight, and that tiny shift makes your stomach twist. “But I did,” she says.

You can barely speak. “You heard?”

“Enough.”

Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Emily’s eyes lower to your mouth, then back to your face. “My name,” she says. “Then the other one.” Her ringed hand lifts, and two fingers catch beneath your chin, tilting your face up.

“You said it so sweetly when you thought no one could hear.” Your breath shakes. Emily leans closer, her perfume filling your head. “Say it again.”

You shake your head automatically, but the denial is weak. “Emily…”

Her thumb strokes your chin. “That’s not what I asked.”

Your chest rises too quickly. The room feels airless. Your mother is asleep down the hall, Emily is sitting on your bed, and your own body is betraying you with every pulse of heat between your legs.

You stare at the ring on her hand, then at her mouth, then at the grey in her hair. The word sits on your tongue, wrong and wanted. Not real. Never real. Just a kink sharpened by how forbidden she is. You whisper, “Mom.”

Emily’s eyes go dark.

For a second, she doesn’t move. Then her hand slides from your chin to your throat, fingers wrapping there with careful pressure, wedding ring cool against your skin. Your eyes flutter, and she inhales through her nose like the reaction hits her somewhere low.

“That’s what I thought,” she murmurs. “You ran upstairs, touched this pretty pussy, and said that while you came?” Your hips jerk under the blanket at the phrase. Emily’s grip tightens just enough to make you still. “Answer me.”

“Yes,” you breathe.

Emily closes her eyes again, slower this time, like she’s trying to survive the answer. “You’re going to ruin me,” she says quietly. It doesn’t sound like an accusation. It sounds like a fact. Then her eyes open, and the control is back, darker now. “Show me.”

Your stomach flips. “What?” Her hand leaves your throat and moves to the blanket. She pulls it back slowly, exposing your thighs, your leggings, the damp, clinging fabric between them. Her gaze drops, and her voice turns rough. “Show me what you did.”

Emily doesn’t look away when you reach for the hem of your hoodie. That’s the first thing that ruins you. There’s no polite glance toward the wall, no shameful turn of her head, no last-second attempt to pretend this isn’t happening.

She stays right there on the edge of your bed, grey-streaked hair falling loose around her face, wedding ring glinting on the hand resting against her thigh. Her gaze is dark and steady, stripped of every careful lie she’d been wearing downstairs.

“Go on,” she says quietly. “Show me.” Your fingers shake around the fabric, and Emily’s eyes follow the movement like she’s already imagining what’s underneath.

You pull the hoodie up slowly, suddenly too aware of every inch of skin being revealed. It drags over your stomach first, then your ribs, then catches briefly at your chest before you tug it over your head and drop it beside you on the bed.

The cool air hits your bare skin and makes you shiver. Your nipples are already hard, tight little peaks from the nerves, the cold, and the way Emily is looking at you like she’s forgotten she’s supposed to feel guilty.

Her eyes lower to your chest, and the sharp breath she takes is so quiet you almost miss it. Almost. “Fuck,” she murmurs, more to herself than to you, and the sound makes your thighs squeeze together before you can stop it. Emily notices that too, and her mouth curves. “Don’t hide now.”

Your hands move to your leggings next. The fabric feels obscene against you now, damp and sticky between your thighs from how wet you are, clinging to the shape of your pussy like proof. You hook your thumbs under the waistband and pause, suddenly overwhelmed by the reality of Emily sitting there watching.

Her expression doesn’t soften. If anything, it gets hungrier. “You were brave enough to touch yourself thinking about me,” she says, voice low and smooth. “You can be brave enough to take those off.”

Your face burns, but your body obeys before your pride can argue. You push the leggings down your hips, thighs, knees, then kick them off the edge of the bed with a shaky breath.

Emily’s gaze drops between your legs the second you’re bare. The silence that follows feels louder than anything she could’ve said. You’re so wet it’s impossible to hide, slick shining against your folds, your lips swollen and parted from how long you’ve been teased, touched, denied, and left alone with the thought of her.

A thin smear of arousal glistens along your inner thighs, messy from where you’d rubbed yourself earlier and then dragged the damp leggings back up like that would erase it.

Your clit is still swollen, sensitive enough that just the air against you makes your hips twitch. Emily’s jaw tightens. Her ringed hand flexes once against her thigh. For the first time all night, she doesn’t look composed at all.

You expect her to say something cruel. Something controlled. Something that makes this feel like she’s still holding the reins. Instead, she just stares at you with open, shameless lust, eyes dragging from your hardened nipples to the wet, exposed heat between your thighs and back again.

There’s guilt somewhere in her face, but it’s buried deep under hunger now, too weak to win. “You’re beautiful,” she says, and the roughness in her voice almost makes you whimper.

Then her eyes darken further. “And soaked.” Your breath catches. Emily leans forward slightly, elbows near her knees, gaze fixed between your legs like she has no intention of pretending she isn’t looking. “All that from my foot under the table?”

You swallow hard, nodding because your voice doesn’t work yet. Emily’s eyebrow lifts. “Words.” The command hits you low, familiar and devastating. “Yes,” you whisper. Your thighs try to close again, but Emily’s hand shoots out and catches your knee before you can hide.

Her fingers are warm against your skin, her wedding ring cool where it presses near the inside of your thigh. “No,” she says softly. “You wanted me to see what I did to you.” She pushes your knee outward with steady pressure. “So let me see.”

Your whole body trembles as you climb back onto the bed properly. The mattress dips beneath you, sheets wrinkling under your palms as you move backward until you’re closer to the pillows. Emily doesn’t move from the edge, but her gaze follows every shift of your body with terrifying focus.

You sit back slowly, then spread your legs like she told you to without her having to say it again. The position makes you feel exposed in a way that burns through your chest and settles hot between your thighs.

Your pussy opens under her gaze, slick and swollen, folds glistening in the low light, your entrance wet enough that you feel yourself clench around nothing. Emily exhales slowly, like she’s trying to keep whatever control she has left. It doesn’t look like much.

“Jesus,” she says under her breath. The word sounds almost reverent. Her eyes lift to your face, then drop again, unable to stay away for long. You can see the exact moment she stops pretending to be ashamed of wanting you.

It’s subtle, but it’s there, in the way her shoulders loosen, the way her mouth parts, the way her thighs press together for one brief second before she catches herself. Your stomach flips when you notice it. Emily is turned on.

Not just tempted, not just watching because you pushed her too far, but aroused, visibly affected, drawn in by the sight of you spread open on your bed. The realization makes your pussy throb so hard you can’t stop the soft sound that slips out of you.

Emily hears it, and her mouth curves. “That sound,” she says, voice dropping into something darker. “You made that when you came earlier, didn’t you?” Your face goes hot, but you nod.

“I heard enough to know,” she continues, and her ringed hand slides slowly up your thigh. Not to your pussy yet, not even close enough, just a slow, deliberate touch along your skin that makes you tremble harder. “You said my name first.”

Her fingers pause higher, close enough that your hips tilt toward her on instinct. “Then you said the other one.” Your nipples tighten even more at the memory, and Emily’s eyes flick to your chest. “You like being looked at like this, don’t you?”

“By you,” you whisper before you can stop yourself. That gets her. You see it in her face, a flicker of something hot and possessive that burns right through whatever restraint she had left. Emily moves onto the bed then, slow and deliberate, one knee pressing into the mattress between your spread legs.

She doesn’t touch your pussy yet. She braces one hand beside your hip and uses the other to trace up your stomach, over your ribs, stopping just beneath your chest. Her ring brushes your skin with every movement, cold and sinful.

“You’re making it very hard to remember why I shouldn’t touch you,” she murmurs. Your breath breaks when her thumb grazes the underside of your breast. “Maybe I don’t want you to remember.”

Emily’s gaze snaps to yours. For a second, the room is too quiet, too intimate, too full of all the lines already crossed. Then her hand slides higher, cupping your breast with a slow, possessive pressure that makes your back arch.

Her thumb rolls over your hardened nipple, and you gasp, thighs spreading wider without conscious thought. Emily watches the reaction with shameless hunger, the last of her restraint thinning into something meaner.

“Look at you,” she whispers. “Spread out for me, wet enough to ruin the sheets, nipples hard because you like knowing I’m staring.” Her thumb pinches lightly, and your hips jerk. “Filthy girl.”

“Emily,” you gasp. Her eyes narrow. “Wrong name.” Your stomach twists, pleasure and shame and want all tangling together until you can barely breathe.

Her hand leaves your breast and slides down your stomach, slow enough to make you ache for every inch. She stops just above your pussy, fingers hovering over the slick shine of you while you shake beneath her.

“Say it,” she murmurs. You stare at her, at the grey in her hair, at the wedding ring on the hand about to touch you. Then you whisper, “Mom.” Emily closes her eyes for half a second, and when she opens them, they’re completely dark.

Your fingers hover for a second before they move, trembling slightly in the space between your thighs. Emily doesn’t touch you yet, doesn’t rush you, doesn’t give you any mercy, only sits there on your bed with one knee pressed into the mattress and watches like she’s waiting to see how badly you’ll embarrass yourself for her.

The low light catches in the grey threaded through her hair, softening nothing about her expression. Her eyes stay fixed on your hand, on the way your fingertips lower slowly toward your own wetness. Your breath comes out shaky before you’ve even made contact.

“Go on,” she murmurs, voice rough and quiet. “You wanted me to see.” Your pussy clenches at the sound of her voice, slick gathering hotter between your folds. Emily’s mouth curves when she notices. “So show me exactly how you touched yourself thinking about me.”

The first touch makes your whole body jerk. Your fingertips slide over your clit, swollen and oversensitive from everything she’s done to you already, and a thin, broken sound escapes before you can stop it. Emily’s gaze lifts to your face for half a second, taking in your parted lips and wide eyes, then drops right back down.

She watches your fingers move through the slick shine of your pussy, watches the way your folds part under your own touch, watches how wet you are before you even start properly.

There’s no shame on her face now. None. She looks hungry, absorbed, openly turned on by the sight of you spread out and touching yourself for her. “That’s it,” she says softly. “Slow.”

You try to obey, but your body wants more immediately. You circle your clit with two fingers, slick enough that the glide is easy, messy, almost too sensitive. Your hips lift into your hand, and Emily’s eyes narrow. “I said slow.”

Her voice doesn’t rise, but the command lands hard enough to make you freeze. Your hand stills against your pussy, fingertips wet and trembling.

Emily’s gaze drags up your body, over your stomach, your chest, your hardened nipples, then back to your face. “You’re not in charge just because it’s your hand.” Heat rushes through you so fast your thighs shake.

“Sorry,” you whisper.

Emily tilts her head. “Try again.”

Your throat works around the word before you can stop it. “Sorry, mom.”

Her expression changes. It’s small, just the faintest tightening in her jaw and the slow drag of her eyes back down between your thighs, but you feel it everywhere.

The word sits in the room like something lit from underneath, wrong and filthy and powerful only because both of you know it isn’t real. Emily’s wedding ring flashes as her hand settles beside your hip, close but not touching. “Better,” she murmurs. “Now keep going.”

You let out a shaky breath and start moving again, slower this time, rubbing your clit in careful circles while she watches every twitch of your body. The obedience makes you wetter, makes the slick sound of your fingers louder in the quiet room.

Emily’s breathing changes before her face does. It’s subtle, but you catch it, the way her chest rises a little faster, the way her lips part when your fingers dip lower and slide through your folds. Her thighs press together once where she sits, a brief, involuntary movement that makes something hot and proud bloom inside you.

She wants this. She wants you. She’s trying to control it, trying to keep herself still, but her eyes betray her every time your fingers brush your entrance. “Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” she says, though her voice is rougher than before. “You’re the one spread open for me.”

The words make you whimper, and your fingers slip inside yourself before you really decide to do it. Only one at first, slow and shallow, your body so wet it takes you easily. Emily’s gaze sharpens.

Her ringed hand flexes against the sheets, knuckles tightening like she’s fighting the urge to replace your hand with hers. You curl your finger inside yourself, trying to find the angle she’d found so easily earlier, but it isn’t the same.

It’s not deep enough, not firm enough, not her. Your frustration spills out as a needy little sound. Emily hears it and smiles, slow and cruel. “Not as good when it’s you, is it?”

You shake your head, cheeks burning. “No.”

“No what?”

You know she’s doing it on purpose. You know she wants the word again, wants you to make it worse because she likes how badly it affects both of you. Your finger moves inside you, slick and slow, thumb finding your clit again as your eyes flutter.

“No, mom,” you breathe. Emily inhales through her nose, gaze locked on the place where your hand disappears between your thighs. “God,” she mutters, almost too quietly. “You’re a problem.”

Your other hand drifts up to your chest, fingers brushing over your own nipple because you need more sensation, more pressure, more of anything while she keeps staring at you like that. The second you pinch it, your pussy clenches around your finger, and Emily’s eyes flick up to watch your face.

“Sensitive?” she asks. You nod, rubbing your clit faster despite trying to listen. “Words.” “Yes,” you gasp. “I’m sensitive.” Emily’s mouth curves. “I can see that.” Her gaze drops to your chest again, watching your nipple tighten between your fingers. “You get like this when you know I’m looking?”

You nod again before remembering her rule. “Yes, mom.”

The praise is quiet when it comes. “Good girl.” It wrecks you instantly. Your hips roll into your hand, finger sliding deeper, thumb pressing harder against your clit while your back arches off the mattress. Emily moves closer then, not enough to touch where you need her, but enough that her presence becomes overwhelming.

Her hand settles on your inner thigh, ring cool against your heated skin, holding you open when your legs try to close. “No hiding,” she says. “You don’t get to spread yourself out for me and then get shy when I actually watch.”

“I can’t,” you whimper, even though you keep going.

“You can.” Emily’s thumb strokes the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your slick folds but still withholding. “You already did once tonight.” Her eyes meet yours, dark and knowing. “Tell me what you thought about.” Your hand falters.

“Emily…” Her fingers tighten lightly on your thigh. “Tell me.” Your breath shakes as your thumb circles your clit, pleasure winding tighter, hotter. “Your ring,” you admit, voice barely there. “Your hand. Your foot under the table.”

Emily’s gaze goes almost black. “And?”

You whine because you know what she wants. She knows you know. She waits, patient and ruthless, while your own fingers keep moving in wet, desperate little strokes. Your body is too far gone to lie well. “You hearing me,” you whisper.

“You coming upstairs.” Emily’s lips part, and for once, she doesn’t have a quick response ready. The sight makes your pussy clench hard around your finger. “You making me say it.”

Her hand slides higher on your thigh, stopping just short of touching your pussy. “Say it now.”

You shake your head, overwhelmed, but your body betrays you again, hips lifting toward her hand. Emily doesn’t give in. She just keeps you open, watching your own fingers stretch and rub and fail to satisfy you the way hers would. “Say it,” she repeats, softer. “The way you said it when you thought I couldn’t hear.”

Your eyes burn, your breath breaking into something pathetic. Your thumb circles faster, your finger curling inside yourself, and the word comes out on a whimper. “Mom.”

Emily’s expression cracks. Not fully, but enough. Enough that you see the want slam into her, see her swallow, see her ringed hand grip your thigh harder as if she needs to hold onto something that isn’t control. “Again,” she says.

“Mom,” you gasp, louder this time, and the sound pushes you closer to the edge so fast your whole body tightens.

Emily leans in, her mouth close to your ear now, her hair brushing your cheek. “That’s it,” she murmurs. “Make yourself cum like you did before.” Her voice drops lower, rough with her own arousal. “Let me watch what that word does to you.”

You add a second finger with a broken moan, stretching yourself, trying to take more because she’s looking at you like she wants to ruin you properly. It’s messy, slick, almost too much, your pussy swallowing your fingers while your thumb works your clit in frantic little circles.

Emily’s hand stays on your thigh, holding you open, her wedding ring cold against your skin. “Pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. “So fucking pretty like this.”

You’re shaking now, too close to be embarrassed by the sounds you’re making. Your fingers move faster, wet and clumsy, your thighs trembling around Emily’s hand as she watches without blinking.

The room feels airless, every little noise too loud, the slick movement of your hand, your broken breathing, Emily’s rough inhale when you moan that word again. “Please,” you whimper, though you don’t know what you’re asking for.

Emily’s thumb presses into your thigh. “Don’t ask me for permission if you’re going to use your own hand.” Her mouth hovers near your jaw. “Earn it.”

That sends you over the edge. Your orgasm builds from deep in your stomach and snaps through you hard, your back arching, fingers buried inside yourself, thumb rubbing desperately over your clit as you come. You say the word again when it hits, broken and breathless and filthy, your pussy clenching around your fingers in wet pulses.

Emily watches the whole thing with open hunger, her hand tightening on your thigh, her breath catching against your cheek. “There you go,” she murmurs, voice rough enough to make you shake harder. “That’s it.”

Your hips keep twitching, pleasure rolling through you in hot waves while slick smears over your fingers and inner thighs. Emily’s eyes stay fixed between your legs until the last aftershock leaves you trembling.

When you finally go limp against the pillows, your hand still rests between your thighs, fingers wet and useless. Emily doesn’t move for a long second.

She just looks at you, chest rising unevenly, grey hair falling forward, expression dark with want she’s stopped pretending not to feel. Then her gaze lifts to your face. “You’re impossible,” she says quietly.

You laugh once, breathless and shaky. “You came in.” Emily’s mouth tightens, but she doesn’t deny it. Her ringed fingers slide slowly from your thigh to your wrist, lifting your slick hand between you. “And you’re going to clean up the mess you made before I decide what happens next.”

Emily’s fingers close around your wrist before you can lower your hand. For one second, you think she’s going to guide it to your own mouth, make you taste yourself while she watches with that dark, unreadable patience. Instead, she lifts your slick fingers to her lips. Your breath catches so hard it almost hurts.

Emily doesn’t look away from you as her mouth closes around them, warm and deliberate, her eyes staying fixed on yours while she sucks them clean. The sight steals whatever air you had left. Her wedding ring presses against your wrist, cool and polished, while her tongue moves slowly over your skin like she’s making a point of every second.

You go still beneath her. Too still, maybe, except for the trembling you can’t quite control. Emily hums softly around your fingers, and the sound slides through your body like another touch, low and obscene and far too pleased. She takes her time, dragging her mouth off them slowly, lips wet, gaze heavy.

Your own taste is on her tongue now. Your own mess is on her mouth. She looks composed and ruined at the same time, grey hair loose around her face, blouse slightly rumpled, cheeks faintly flushed from watching you fall apart for her. “There,” she murmurs, voice rough. “Clean.”

You don’t know who moves first. Maybe you do. Maybe you lean up because you can’t stand the distance anymore, or maybe Emily decides she’s denied herself enough for one night. Either way, her mouth is on yours a second later, deep and hard and devastatingly controlled. You taste yourself on her immediately, slick and intimate, and a broken noise escapes into the kiss.

Emily swallows it. Her hand slides to the back of your neck, holding you there, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw. The kiss turns slower after the first hungry rush, but not softer. It feels like a warning. Like a promise she has no intention of keeping tonight but every intention of remembering.

You reach for her without thinking, hands catching in the front of her shirt, trying to pull her closer onto the bed. Emily lets you for half a second. Just long enough for your body to mistake it for permission. Then she pulls back, breathing unevenly, her mouth hovering close enough that you chase it with a needy little sound.

Her eyes flick down to your lips, then back up. There’s lust there, unmistakable now, shameless in a way she hadn’t allowed herself before. But there’s control too. Brutal, deliberate control. “But not tonight,” she says.

The words land like denial and command at once. Your face crumples before you can stop it, lips parting around a whine you’re too exhausted and turned on to swallow.

“Mom,” you whisper, still clutching at her shirt. Her expression tightens at the sound of her name, but she doesn’t give in. Her hand closes over yours and carefully peels your fingers from the fabric.

“No,” she says softly. “Not tonight.” She sits back from you slowly, and the absence of her heat feels cruel after everything. Your thighs twitch together, your body still wanting, still aching, still stupid enough to hope.

Emily notices that too. Of course she does. Her gaze drops between your legs, lingering on the slick shine still visible against your skin, the flushed softness of your thighs, the mess you made of yourself because of her. Her jaw flexes once.

For a second, you think she might break anyway. You think she might crawl back over you, put her mouth where her eyes are fixed, make you come again until you forget how to speak. Instead, she exhales and stands. The bed shifts when her weight leaves it, and you hate how empty the mattress feels.

“I need to get back to my wife,” she says.

It’s cruel because it’s true. Crueller because she says it while looking at you like she wants to crawl back into bed with you and ruin every careful line she just drew. You stare at her, chest rising too fast, your body bare and open and still trembling under the covers she hasn’t bothered to pull over you.

Emily smooths her shirt with one hand, then pushes her grey-streaked hair back from her face. Her wedding ring catches the bedside light as she does it, and your eyes follow the movement immediately. She sees. Her mouth curves. “Still?” she asks softly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Emily steps closer again, just enough to make your breath hitch, then reaches down and pulls the blanket over your hips with a tenderness so sharp it almost hurts. Her fingertips brush your thigh before she lets go.

“Sleep,” she says. The word should be simple. It isn’t. Not in her voice. Not with her mouth still damp from your fingers and her eyes still black with everything she’s refusing to do. You swallow hard, staring up at her from the bed. “Are you really leaving?”

Emily’s smirk returns slowly, meaner this time, threaded with something almost fond. “Yes.” She leans down, close enough that her perfume fills your head again.

Her hand settles briefly at your throat, thumb brushing the place where her ring had pressed earlier. “Because if I stay,” she murmurs, “you won’t sleep at all.” Your eyes flutter at the touch, and she laughs quietly under her breath. “And neither will I.”

She straightens before you can reach for her again. At the door, she pauses with one hand on the knob, looking back at you sprawled beneath the blanket, flushed and dazed and still breathing like she’s touching you.

For a moment, all the sharpness leaves her face. Then she puts it back on like a mask. The wife. The profiler. The woman who can walk out of your room and into another bed without showing the war under her skin. Her thumb turns her wedding ring once. Twice. Then she smiles.

“Sweet dreams,” Emily says, voice low enough to make your stomach twist.

She opens the door just a crack, letting the hallway darkness spill in around her. Before she steps out, she glances back one last time, eyes dragging over your face, your swollen mouth, the hand still curled in the sheets where she’d sucked your fingers clean. Her smirk sharpens.

“Daughter.”

Then she’s gone, closing the door softly behind her, leaving you alone in the dark with your body still shaking and that word burning worse than any touch.

tags: @kenna-prentiss @probablydoingyourmom1

[hqtchniss]

something so rare in your veins emily prentiss x f!reader

tags: established relationship, hurt/comfort, momily, emily's teenage daughter, emily gets a little injured (very little), no use of y/n, use of petnames

warnings: r refers to herself as a girl once

summary: it's not that emily's daughter doesn't like you, she's just... wary.

word count: 2.8k

masterlist more amelia

a/n: tell me emily wouldnt be the best mom to a teenage girl i dare u

It’s not that Amelia dislikes you, she’s just… wary.

As Emily told you, it’s only been the two of them for a very long time. It’s understandable that the sixteen year old would be guarded with anyone entering their lives.

Still, it stings a little how cold she is. You can't hold it against her, she's just a kid and you're supposed to be the responsible adult. Except, Amy is just as good at the cold stare as her mother, making you feel like a teenager again, shy and uncomfortable around the mean girls at school.

You try to toe the line between making an effort and not trying too hard. You come over for dinners, but not always, sometimes explaining to Emily that you want to give Amelia a little space, before kissing her pout away. You ask her about school, but don't push when she looks at you with that face, Emily's face, except with much less delight and a lot more disgust.

Emily says give it time, she'll come around. But you hate imposing, you hate that your presence makes Amelia uncomfortable in her own home. She's never been outrightly rude to you, never disrespectful, she's just uninterested, and you don't want to force anything, don't want to take away the time she could be having with her mother. You know she's a classic teenager, of course, she still argues with Emily and tells her she's embarrassing, but you know she loves to spend time with her mom at home. She loves cuddling on the couch to watch a movie, or making dinner and talking about her friends at school. You could never fault her for that, and would never take it away from her.

When Emily calls once in the middle of the day, you're surprised. She knows it's your day off, but you're immediately worried something is wrong, since she's usually so busy she can't even reply to texts. Especially today, that she was going to spend it entirely with Amelia.

Turns out, she's being called in on a situation. It's local, so, thankfully, they don't have to travel, but she needs to go to the FBI immediately. Having promised Amy a shopping spree, she calls you in the hopes you can take her daughter to the mall. You have to confirm with her at least five times that Amelia is actually okay with it, and not just agreeing to appease her mother.

Of course you say yes. You'd love to spend time with her, but you're a little scared. Since Emily's being called away, breaking a promise she probably made a while ago, you're certain Amelia must be in a sour mood. Not being her favorite person on a good day, you're afraid of ruining the girl's day even more by being there. Nevertheless, Emily assures you she wants to go, and that everything will be fine. She trusts you — she doesn't say it outright, but it's heavily implied, and you don't want to let her down.

Emily's already driving to work, so you drive over to their house to pick Amelia up. Your heart squeezes when you take in her outfit, clearly planned for a day out with her mother. You usually see Amy in sweatpants and hoodies, since she's a girl who opts for comfort most of the time. She's always in a different variation of the same outfit, complete with colorful socks when you're spending time at home. Today, she has on a plaid skirt, a shirt you can't catch the reference of, and a bomber jacket you're pretty sure belongs to Emily. Her hair is in two cute braids, and she has a light shimmer of makeup on, just some blush and mascara, but it shows she put effort into it. You wish she was having her mother-daughter shopping spree, but you're determined to give her a good day either way.

She gets in the passenger seat, throwing a tote bag near her feet. A greeting is mumbled, but you don't push for more, already driving towards her favorite mall.

After a while, you take a chance, “-you looking for anything specific at the mall?”

“Not really,” she says, looking out the window.

“I have the whole day, so don't hold back. We can go to any store you want.”

“Okay,” Amelia mutters, but not unkindly. You can tell she's upset, but she's also trying to be nice in between all of her emotions, so you have to give her some credit. “There's a new cafe, so I actually wanted to try their iced matcha.”

Surprised she's even sharing her plans, you smile, “okay! I love iced coffee, even if your mother can't stand it.”

Amy actually chuckles, “she's so affronted by it, it's kinda ridiculous.”

Deciding not to insist, you stay silent the rest of the drive, but can hear Amy softly singing along to whatever is on the radio.

The mall isn't too full for a Saturday. Before anything else, you get Amelia her matcha and yourself an iced latte. She grins when the barista hands her her drink, pointing at the strawberry foam on top she says she can't find anywhere else. Your drink is simple, but nice to have on this hot day, and their coffee is pretty good.

She's still quiet, but her face isn't as closed off as before. You know Emily handed Amy her credit card, so you don't worry too much about it, aware your girlfriend is desperately trying to make it up to her daughter for missing this. You walk around for a little bit before Amelia decides to go into any store. When she finally does, it's a Sephora, and you're immediately hit with all the perfume scents they're selling.

Wandering aimlessly, you let Amy walk a little in front of you, giving her space to peruse without it seeming like you're rushing her. You look at some stuff for yourself, but neither of you end up getting anything, and continue on your way to a clothing store.

For a while, it's much of the same. Amy walking in front, looking at everything, and you mostly observing her, attempting to not be overbearing. You don't really take note of what stores you're going inside of, and when you realize, Amelia's already got two paper bags from different clothing stores.

In an Urban Outfitters, though, there's a small shift. She turns to you, holding jeans up to her waist, “do you like this?”

They're just jeans, you guess, but this is a moment. “Um, yeah. I like the slightly flared legs.”

She nods absentmindedly, looking down at the hanger in her hand, “I was wondering if it's too flared.”

You go back and forth for a little bit, her picking up other styles of pants and you giving simple comments on it. In the end, of course, it's her decision, but you're sort of proud she took your opinions into consideration. She ends up leaving with two different pairs of jeans and a vest top.

It was already after lunch when you arrived, but after walking around for a while, Amelia says she's hungry, and asks if you like Arab food. After your confirmation, she mentions a place with, according to her, the best shawarma she's ever had. Happy to get some food, you walk over, glad Amy seems to have opened up a little bit, and actually seems to be enjoying her day as much as possible.

Once you're finally sitting down and eating, all of Amelia's bags at your feet, she looks like she wants to say something. You don't ask, letting her have her time. After a bit, she speaks.

“Thanks for coming with me,” she says, her voice low and sort of shy, much like Emily's when she's uncomfortable talking about feelings. “Mom said it's your day off work so you could be doing anything else.”

“Oh,” you want her to reassure her, but not embarrass her, and, God, is it a hard line to toe. “I wasn't doing anything.”

“Still,” she insists after a bite of her chicken wrap, “you didn't have to come. So, thank you, I'm having a good time.”

You smile, your voice softening unconsciously, “of course, Amy.”

After pondering something, you decide to explain your reticence in coming.

“I knew you'd be upset your mom couldn't come, so I didn't want to intrude even more on your day,” you say, biting your lip with uncertainty. “I just wanted to lift your mood a little, and I'm having a good time, too.”

Amelia, almost, sort of smiles. “You did.”

Leaving it at that, you smile at her and continue to eat, only stopping when your phone rings. You're sure you put it on Do Not Disturb, so it has to be Emily or your mother, the only people allowed through — there's also Amelia, in case of emergencies, but she's sitting right there, so not her.

Picking up, your eyes widen with surprise. It's not Emily's voice on the other side, but JJ's.

“Hey, is everything okay?” You ask in an even voice, not wanting to alarm Amy, who's still happily eating on the other side of the table.

“It's Emily,” she says, and your heart practically drops into your stomach. “She's fine, conscious, don't worry.”

“Hm?” You only hum, a little nervous at her tone, but still trying to keep it from reaching Amy.

“She got into an altercation with an UnSub, hit her head a little, but they said she doesn't seem to be concussed.” JJ continues, and you can tell she's distressed, even if she's trying to reassure you. “The guy had a knife, hit her arm, but they've stopped the bleeding and she's all bandaged up now.”

“Jesus,” you mumble despite yourself. “I'm with Amelia now. We're gonna go over there. Can you text me the address?”

“Of course. They're keeping her in for a while for observation, because of the hit to her head, but don't worry, she's fine and telling everyone off for trying to coddle her.”

You huff out an incredulous laugh. That's Emily.

After hanging up, you wipe your mouth with a napkin, wondering how to tell Amelia about this.

“Everything okay?” She asks carefully, having picked up on the conversation when you mentioned her name.

“Yeah, everything's fine,” you start, taking your time and knowing you shouldn't. “Your mom got a bit hurt on the case,” taking note of Amy's worried eyes, you are quick to continue, “she's fine! JJ said she's already complaining about being in the hospital, but I think it'd be best if we went over there.”

“Of course!” She exclaims, already gathering her stuff and leaving a third of a shawarma on her plate. You feel your chest constrict at her nervousness, knowing she might've gone through this many times in her life, but it never gets easier. You're also worried sick, even with JJ's reassurances, but it hurts your heart to see Amy so agitated.

Not wanting to make her even more anxious, you keep up with her pace as you both leave the mall, each one with their minds on Emily in their own ways.

At the hospital, it doesn't take long to be let through. When they're given the all clear, a nurse walks them to a curtained off area of the ER. You'd already talked to JJ at the waiting area, so now you were both eager to see that Emily was fine with your own eyes.

When Amy pulls the curtain open, Emily's already speaking, “I'm fine, I'm totally fine.” But Amelia is having none of it, walking over fast and hugging her mother around the neck.

Standing back, glad to see that Emily does look okay, you let them have their moment. There will be time for you later. Still, she looks at you over Amy's shoulder and smiles, which makes you release a deep breath.

“What happened?” Amy asks, exasperated.

Emily places a hand on her daughter's cheek, caressing her soft skin with her thumb. “I’m okay, baby. The guy just surprised me, is all.” You had explained to Amelia what JJ had said about her mom's injuries, but since you were also not very sure of anything, couldn't tell her much.

“You really need to stop scaring me like this,” Amy complains, hiding her face in her mom's neck. Pulling back indignantly, she continues, “I'm only sixteen and I already have stress induced gray hairs because of you.”

You chuckle, finally sitting down on a chair near the bed. It's not so close that you can touch Emily, but still good in the small space. From here, you can see both Prentiss girls much better.

“Don't be dramatic, Amy,” Emily says good-naturedly. She kisses her daughter's cheek. “You didn't have to cut your day short because of me.”

You let out a laugh at her words, “after you scared us half to death there was no more shopping to be done.”

Emily shakes her head. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, but there's a slight indent where her hair tie probably was. There's some color to her face, which you're glad to see, but she's not wearing her own shirt, which was probably dirty with blood. Someone has given her scrubs, but she's still in her work pants, stubborn as ever.

“Amy, come show me what's in your bags, I think I'm gonna be here a while.”

Later, after Rossi offers to take Amelia to the cafeteria, despite her arguing that she's not hungry, you finally get a moment alone with Emily.

She's looking at you guardedly, probably worried about your reaction. You told her to be careful, after all.

You sit next to her thigh on the hospital bed, taking one of her hands in both of yours. Letting out a sigh, you finally speak, “I really was worried sick.”

Emily grimaces guiltily, “I'm sorry, I didn't even want JJ to call you.”

“Are you insane?” You ask, incredulously. “I have to know these things, Emily. It's not because you're not on your deathbed that I don't deserve to know what happened to you.”

She bites her lip, “I just- didn't want you to be worried. Or Amy.”

Deflating, you pull her head closer with a hand on the back of her neck and kiss her forehead, lingering for a little bit and smelling the coconut scent of her shampoo. “You don't have to apologize, Em. But I'm always gonna worry, no matter if it's a concussion or a paper cut.”

Emily lifts her head, asking for a kiss with the tiniest pout. You comply, sighing into it and finally relaxing after some stressful couple of hours.

Pulling back, she still has her eyes closed when she asks, “how was Amy at the mall?”

Smiling, you think back on your day. “Actually, she was very sweet. Maybe we made some progress today, I don't know.” Shrugging, you don't want to get ahead of yourself. You're grateful for your nice day out, glad that Amelia seems to have warmed up a little bit, but you know how teenage girls are — hell, you were one yourself some time ago. “But I'll tell you later. Now, I'm gonna tell you about how I'm gonna spoil you rotten for the next few days.”

“Oh, babe,” she smiles, “you're so good to me.”

“After you get better, though, I'm ripping you a new one for scaring both me and your daughter.”

Emily is still smiling when you hear a throat being cleared by the makeshift doorway. Amelia stands there, holding two paper cups, and you're not sure of how long she's been listening in. There's no disgust in her eyes at seeing you and Emily together, only curiosity and something like understanding.

“Hi, honey,” Emily says. You get up, placing a kiss on her temple and moving back to your spot on the hospital chair.

“I brought hot chocolates. Nurse said you could have one.” She hands Emily one of the cups, and surprising nearly everyone in the room, gives you the other. “Uncle Rossi talked to the doctor and he said it'll only be a couple of hours ‘til they discharge you.”

“You two should go home,” Emily starts, already getting indignant looks in response. “I'm okay, you can wait for me at home and Dave will drive me.”

Amelia, looking every bit like her mother, stubbornly sits on Emily's bed, crossing her arms. “Good luck getting me out of here.”

Emily rolls her eyes, then winces at the remnants of her headache.

“I've never heard anything more appalling,” you say, rolling your own eyes at Emily. “We're taking you home, Emily, don't fight it.”

Emily sighs, “maybe I liked it better when you two didn't get along.”

You both laugh, and when you look at Amelia she's looking back with a small smile on her face. There'll be time for talking later. For now, you just soak up time with your girlfriend and her daughter after a scary bout of time. Amelia blows a raspberry at her mother, childishly indignant in her own way.

[hqtchniss]

dawn is having you by my side emily prentiss x reader

tags: established relationship, fluff, use of pet names, no use of y/n, nonbau!reader, momily

warnings: none

summary: you and your daughter visit emily at the FBI on a hot summer day.

word count: 1.1k

masterlist

a/n: gray haired emily with a baby? sign me up!!!

The air conditioning in the FBI building is a welcomed relief. It's been uncomfortable outside, hot and humid, and just the quick walk from your car to the front doors left you kind of sweaty. In your arms, your fourteen month old daughter babbles away, a small frown on her face, as if she's considering life's greatest questions — you can't help but see a lot of Emily in her.

Recently, Emily's been getting home earlier, spending less time at the office, and the reason for it is Ella. Since being born, she's had both you and your wife wrapped around her finger, and Emily decreasing her workload is only one of her indirect doings.

After a long case that spanned over a week, today is a Friday of only paperwork and the lone meeting for the BAU's Unit Chief, so you seize the opportunity to bring your daughter along for a surprise lunch. You've got a packed bag and, hopefully, you and Ella will be able to convince Emily to eat at the park. If not, you'll just have lunch in her office like you've done many times before.

Arriving at your destination, you hear a gasp and quick, heeled steps coming in your direction from an overexcited Penelope. Ella finally stops babbling, smiling widely at one of her aunties as she approaches. Your friend is cooing over the little girl's outfit, her gingham patterned shorts and light blue bucket hat to protect her skin from the sun.

Laughing, you remove Ella's hat, freeing her pigtails — if they can be called that. Her short, fine hair is clumped into two tiny sections, which hopefully will get easier to do as her hair grows. For now, they look like two little tufts. Still, you enjoy styling it when she lets you, spending one on one time with your baby girl.

After greeting everyone and letting them fawn over Ella, you finally make your way to Emily's office. Knocking softly, you open it when you hear her "come in", standing in the doorway for a second. She's looking down, her glasses on and a frown not too dissimilar from Ella's earlier, scribbling something on a case file. When you stay silent, she looks up, already opening her mouth to ask what it is before seeing you both standing there.

The effect is immediate. Her forehead smooths, her eyes light up and her lips open in a delighted gasp. “My baby!” She exclaims, standing up and quickly walking in your direction, arms already outstretched for her daughter.

Ella practically dives into Emily's arms, calling Mama over and over with a huge grin. She inhales your daughter's baby scent, closing her eyes and squeezing the little girl to her heart's content.

“What are you doing here?” She asks, still beaming as you close her office door behind you.

“We've come to sneak you away for lunch, if you can spare the time.”

“Of course,” she replies, sitting down on her office couch. Ella, on her lap, is turned toward her mother, looking up and babbling her own made up words.

You move to sit next to Emily, setting down all of your bags. “Do I get a kiss or just Ella?”

Emily turns to you with a smile, “sorry, baby.” Kissing you softly, but lingering, she only pulls back when your daughter places a hand on her cheek, calling for her attention. “You look beautiful,” she says, looking at you with those adoring eyes you could never get enough of. “And so do you, princess.” Turning to Ella, she kisses your baby's cheeks in rapid succession, getting a belly laugh in return.

“I was thinking we could eat at the park,” you start, pulling Ella's hat from her bag, “I brought her hat.” Then, you place it over her head, adjusting it and smiling at her cuteness. Emily does the same.

“Aw,” she coos uncharacteristically. “You look so cute, bug.” Bouncing her legs a little, she gets more giggles out of Ella. “What do you say, you wanna go to the park?” She asks in a soft, but serious voice.

Emily was the kind of mom who didn't want anyone speaking with her kid in a baby voice. She'd argue it would impair her speech development. And yet, she never spoke in an overly severe tone, even being caught softening her voice when Ella was about to fall asleep on her chest or shoulder, her favorite places.

“I made your favorite,” you say, getting up and grabbing bags. Since this was supposed to be a quick visit, you decided getting Ella's stroller would be too much trouble, and Emily would always want to carry her everywhere, anyway.

“You're a godsend,” she exhales, standing up with Ella in her arms and adjusting the girl on her hip. “My meeting this morning was so long.”

“Maybe we could get some cinnamon rolls at that corner bakery before coming back.” Smiling, you both make your way out of Emily's office. “Nothing like a sweet treat to get your energy up.”

“I'd like that,” she grins, then looks down to speak with Ella again. She spends almost the entire way to the park conversing with your little girl, sometimes getting babbles in response, other times some broken up words or just giggles.

Your daughter really, really adores her mother. You could tell from the joy on her face whenever Emily spoke to her, or from the way she always opened her arms, asking for Emily to hold her, no matter whose lap she was in before. Of course, you know your wife is just as enamored with your baby as she is with her. She's been obsessed with tracing every little feature on Ella's face ever since she was born, memorizing every line and wrinkle that has smoothed as the months passed.

Being able to witness Emily care for Ella has been your greatest joy. There's no happiness like the one on Emily's face whenever she's holding your baby, no other elation compares to the one she has as she gets another giggle or snuggle. She's so patient with her, knowing just how to soothe her tantrums and how to coax her into doing what's needed. You didn't expect otherwise, but Emily is a natural. After almost ten months of her worrying about her abilities as a mother, especially because of her strained relationship with her own, you’re glad she fell into the role so seamlessly. The moment she laid eyes on Ella, she was gone.

Sometimes you can’t believe you get to have this. However, as you look at Emily, sitting on a park bench and tickling your daughter to make her laugh, you know you would never want to be anywhere else but here.

[hqtchniss]

break down these walls and come on in emily prentiss x f!reader

tags: fluff, established relationship, attempt at humor, amelia prentiss, fiancées!!!, teenage relationships, momily, sweeeeet emily, down bad!emily

warnings: mentions of emily's arc in demonology (abortion and related themes) very briefly, mentions of underage sex (discussed only)

summary: amelia has a boyfriend. emily is not pleased.

word count: 3.6k

request: from @its--a--lonely--road -> I have an Amelia request / Amelia and Emily have a fight (probably Emily being over protective) and Amelia asks Reader's input as she's kind of a parental figure in her life now. (...)

more amelia 300 masterlist masterlist

a/n: ohhh boy this one is FUN! i hope you like it as much as i did, and that you have fun reading it. i tried to make it a little funny, don't know if i succeeded lol

Amelia has a boyfriend. Which is, you know, fine. Normal, even, for a seventeen year old.

Except when that seventeen year old is the daughter of one Emily Prentiss.

Emily doesn't like the idea. Hadn't, even when Amelia was 13 and had a “relationship” in middle school. Of course, you hadn't been there for that, but Amelia used it as an argument in many discussions with her mother, especially when annoyed about Emily's overprotection.

Alright, you remember what being a teenage girl was like. Your parents were constantly out to get you, even if they weren't, even if they really were worried about drugs, predators or something worse. You know that Amy will see it soon, she'll understand Emily's view on it when she's older, when she's not infatuated. You're sure of it.

That doesn't mean she understands it now.

In the living room, you've been witness to a few arguments. From the day Amelia sat Emily down and said she had a boyfriend, until today, when she sat her mom down, again, to ask if said boyfriend can sleep over.

“Absolutely not,” Emily says, once again.

“Why?!” Amelia exclaims, her face indignant, just like Emily's. “What difference does it make if he sleeps over or not?”

Her mother sighs. You stay very, very quiet.

“The difference is I don't want him to.”

“Oh, great argument, mom.” Amelia scoffs, “very convincing.”

Emily stands up, moving away from the couch to pace away her stress. “I'm your mother, I don't need to convince you of anything.”

Amy presses her lips together for a second. Then, in an honestly shocking action, calls your name. You look up at her, confused.

“Tell her she's being unreasonable.”

Widening your eyes, you notice Emily is also looking at you and waiting for an answer. Her eyebrow raised in a challenge.

“Oh,” you chuckle forcedly, “I'm not getting in the middle of that.”

“Why not?!” Amelia asks, waving her arms around indignantly. “You're getting married,” she gestures at the ring on your left hand, still recent and shocking to you when you look down at it. “You're like, practically, my mom too, right? You should have a say in this.”

Lips parted in surprise, you look over at Emily, whose shoulders have dropped ever so slightly. She nods, “tell us what you think.”

Clearing your throat, you look between them for a moment. God, it's annoying how much they can't see that they're exactly the same.

“Um, I don't see much of a difference if he's coming over, anyway,” you say, finally, and Amelia looks at you triumphantly. She points, making a face at her mother that says see?

In a second, you lift up a hand to stop her. “But, you said you'd just be sleeping, right? So, no harm in keeping the door open through the night.”

Amy scoffs, “that's ridiculous.”

Well, you don't really believe that. You're trying to be diplomatic, whatever, sue you. Of course, it doesn't make a difference if the door is open or not. If Amelia wants to have sex, she'll find a way to do it, at home or somewhere else. You'd much rather it be at home, safely, and you just want some time to discuss it, properly, with Emily before she has a stress induced stroke.

You look at Amy, begging her to understand that you need time to help Emily get used to the idea. She seems to get the hint.

“He can come over for dinner, and then he can stay over. Door open, that's it.”

You both look at Emily, bracing for her reaction. She keeps her arms crossed, lips pursed, but relents. “Fine. No closing the door and for one night. I need to meet him.”

Amelia looks at you gratefully, then thanks her mom, quickly darting away to her room with the excuse of telling Nick the good news. You take a deep breath, turning to Emily, who's still fuming, by the looks of it.

You walk towards her slowly, then softly uncross her arms for her, wrapping them around yourself. Resting your hands on her shoulders, you lock eyes, waiting. Emily sighs, again, like she has the weight of the world on her back.

“Compromises,” you say, trying to get her to understand.

“I guess,” she shrugs. Her lips are still in the cutest pout, though you'd never tell her that.

“Wouldn't you rather they sleep here instead of somewhere you don't know?”

“I'd rather they not sleep together at all,” she says indignantly.

You bite your lip to contain a smile, knowing it'll just add to her distress. “She'll be fine, she's a smart girl. Besides, if she wants to do something more, she'll find the time, even if it is in the middle of the day,” you say carefully. “You remember what being a teenager was like.”

Emily nods, “that's what worries me.”

In the end, dinner comes and goes easily. Nick sleeps over, they keep the door open, and Emily doesn't end up having a stroke. She even likes him, as much as she can. He seems like a good kid, and after dinner they even studied together in the den, so you're guessing this is as good as it'll get when considering 17 year olds.

Emily was touched that Amelia asked for your opinion. She'd smiled about it and kissed your cheek, and you told her she was allowed to say I told you so if she wanted to. She did tell you Amy would come around, and she had, a while ago as well. Now, though, after you got engaged, it seemed she was even more welcoming of your place in her life.

After a half day of work, your boss ends up letting you go home to finish everything remotely. It's a slow day, so there’s no need for you to be at the office, and you'll take any opportunity you can to work from home. As you drive, you call Emily to let her know about your change in plans and ask what she wants for dinner, figuring you'll whip something up in case she gets home late.

At the house, which you, sometimes, still can't believe you can call yours, you finally sigh after getting in, tired from the drive back. It's eerily quiet, which is to be expected. In the middle of the day, on a Friday, Emily at work and Amelia at school, you hope the silence doesn't lull you to sleep over your laptop and you actually manage to get some work done. Deciding you'll grab a coffee to keep you company, you leave your stuff in Emily's office, since you're both still working on redecorating the spare room as an office for you, and start towards the kitchen. You greet Leo in the hallway, scratching between his ears and letting him go when he quickly skips away.

On the way there, though, you hear a noise from the second floor. Immediately startled, you try to rationalize that it must be the wind, or one of the windows moving with the force of it. A beat later, though, you hear it again.

Reaching the second floor, you realize the sounds are coming from Amelia's room. The door is closed, so you guess she must've forgotten the window open, as usual, and there's a branch or something hitting the glass. Hoping there isn't actually an intruder, and praying to whoever is listening that if there is one, they haven't been able to get into Emily's gun safe, or you're about to be in big trouble.

Telling yourself you're being paranoid, you slowly open the door to Amelia's room, bracing yourself for someone to come swinging or pointing a gun at your face.

What greets you isn't that, but something much worse.

Sure, that's really dramatic, though the thought of explaining this to Emily brings immediate nausea, and your eyes widen in shock as you take in the scene.

Amelia yelps, hiding herself under the comforter, as you finally get control of your body back, slamming the door and walking quickly down the stairs. Defeated, you already know you won't be getting any work done today.

Because Amelia is home when she should've been at school. And Emily hadn't said anything, which indicated she was skipping class, a whole other can of worms that you don't want to unpack right now. And Amelia is home with her boyfriend, door closed, when they both should've been at school.

If you’re trying to grasp at silver linings, at least they were both clothed.

Although they were, most definitely, making out on Amy's bed. With the door closed. Skipping school. While Emily was at work, completely oblivious.

And, shit, you're going to have to tell Emily about this.

No matter what Amelia sees you as, no matter that you're finally growing into a proper role in her life. Emily has to know. And, fuck, you were the one who encouraged her to be fine with this relationship, you said Amelia was smart, you said she knew what she was doing,

And now Amelia is skipping school to make out or do God knows what with her boyfriend.

Oh, Emily's never gonna let you make a decision about this ever again.

It takes a few minutes for Amy to come find you, but she does, eventually.

You're sat at the dining table, staring at your laptop screen, pretending to work and not managing to convince even yourself. You see her in the reflection before she makes herself known.

Amelia clears her throat. As you turn, you notice her flushed cheeks, the way she's wringing her fingers together like her mother does when she's uncomfortable. You wait.

“I'm guessing there's no hope in asking you to keep this quiet?” She asks, yet she's already dejected, a self deprecating little smile on her lips.

You stay silent, raising your eyebrows.

“We weren't even doing anything,” she tries. “We were studying and got distracted.”

“Okay…” You nod, willing to hear her out. “And why aren't you at school?”

Amy shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. “We had a free period, then only an English class after, but there's this test next week and I was worried, so Nick was helping me study-”

At the perfect moment, of course, Nick comes down the stairs, his backpack in hand and looking redder than a tomato. It's an admittedly amusing sight, though you keep your laughter in. Leo skips down the stairs right behind him, probably infatuated with his new friend.

“Hi, Nicholas,” you say, enjoying the way he folds in on himself — it's funny, okay? You're still human, after all. “I think you should go home.”

He nods, quickly kisses Amy's cheek and makes his way out. She doesn't even look up at him, but you're guessing they're okay from her little wave.

“Amy,” you stand up, closing your laptop and walking around the island, moving to grab a glass of water just to have something to do with your hands. “I'm hoping you're going to be responsible enough to tell Emily about this yourself.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but you silence her with a look.

“I'm not going to berate you for having a boyfriend, or wanting to spend time with him. I know your mom gets a little protective sometimes-” You ignore her scoff, taking a sip of your water before setting the glass down. “But she's still your mom, and she has rules for a reason. You skipped school, sneaked in here and did exactly what Emily was afraid you'd do.”

She sits heavily on the couch, keeping her eyes down, biting her lip in an effort to keep her emotions in check. It's cute to see how much she and Emily have in common, even in a situation like this.

“When you tell her about it, you should ask her why she’s so against you having a boyfriend. I'm sure she'll explain it to you.”

Crossing her arms, Amy looks up, “she's trying to ruin my social life.”

You smile despite yourself at her stubbornness, “ask her and you'll understand.”

She stays quiet, most definitely thinking about how her parents are the worst. Well, we've all been there.

“I thought you'd be the cool mom,” she rolls her eyes, leaving the den swiftly, and still slamming her door for good measure.

After a beat, she yells out Sorry! I didn't mean to slam it.

At least there's that.

Emily arrives silently, like always. She takes off her boots by the door, leaves her coat hanging, drops her bag on the couch.

She finds you in the kitchen, after following the smell of dinner, which is waiting for her on the stove. She grins.

God, you’re about to ruin her day.

Emily greets you in that low, raspy voice after an entire day of using it. Her tone would normally have your knees buckling. This time, your shoulders tense. She notices, of course, yet doesn't say anything.

She kisses your cheek, the side of your mouth, taking note of the two glasses of wine on the island. Wraps her arms around you from behind, then murmurs, “you okay?”

You hum in response, pushing the glass towards her softly. Tilting your head, you wordlessly ask for a kiss, to which she complies happily. Sighing into her mouth, you pull back slightly. “I have to tell you something.”

Emily nods, waiting. Before you can say anything, though, you both hear Amelia's footsteps behind you. Turning, Emily smiles at her, heart warming at the sight of her daughter, wearing pajamas with her dark hair in a braid.

“Hey, Hon.” She calls, hand still resting on your shoulder, like she's making sure you won't leave. There's nowhere else you'd want to go.

“Hi, mom,” she says, looking at you and nodding. You nod back, proud she's seemed to take your advice.

“Maybe we should move to the couch,” you suggest, causing Emily to frown immediately and look at the two of you, one at a time, cataloguing expressions and narrowing her eyes, trying to catch whatever it is by reading the faces of the two most important women in her life.

She doesn't say anything, again, and you know that's just her own style of profiling. Quietly assessing before she can get to a conclusion. Still, she lets herself be guided to the living room, sits down without prompting and accepts the glass you bring her. Amelia stands near the couch, shifting on her feet, as usual.

Emily frowns, and, finally, Amy starts talking.

If you weren't so tense, you'd laugh at the rollercoaster of emotions on Emily's face. Confusion, anger, then a shock so genuine you could kiss her, declare how much you love her and how adorable she looks when she's just, absolutely, lost. You don't do any of that, naturally, falling back into your role of spectator and waiting to see if you might need to be the extinguisher for Emily's fire.

For a moment, everything stills. Emily doesn't say a word.

For all her fame at the FBI, for how intimidating she looks, you know she's nothing like that in her personal life. At work, she needs to put up that front to earn people's respect, which is upsetting, but not unreal. At home, she's a loving, caring, understanding mother, even when Amelia tests her patience, even when the cat breaks one of her favorite picture frames.

At home, she prioritizes conversations instead of hard glares, she squeezes your hip when you look upset but won't tell her why, she plays with Amelia's hair when she needs comfort but won't ask for it.

The Emily you know is warm and sweet, truly comparable to marshmallow on the inside when it comes to you or Amelia. The Emily you know looks nothing like the woman next to you right now, who you're pretty sure just gained another gray hair in a span of thirty seconds.

“You did what?” She asks in an almost whisper, her jaw locked, eyes boring into Amelia's own, a mirror to hers.

Amy presses her lips together, then drops herself on the wooden coffee table, immediately placing her hands on her mother's thighs. “I'm sorry, okay? I am. And I won't do it again.”

“Of course you won't,” Emily says, way too calmly for you to trust it. “You're not going to see Nick again.”

Amelia jumps up, “mom! That's so ridiculous.”

Emily sits up, moving to the edge of the couch. Your hand on her thigh keeps her from standing up. “No… What's ridiculous is you making terrible decisions after starting to date this boy.”

“You said she'd understand!” She almost yells, looking at you. A fire behind her eyes that you've only seen before in Emily's.

Lifting a hand to placate her, and keep Emily from saying whatever it is you can see from the corner of your eye that she's about to. “I said you had to ask her, and that she'd explain it to you,” you say it slowly, not wanting to oxygenate the flame even further.

“Explain what?!” Emily finally asks, arms crossed.

Amy takes a deep breath, sitting on the loveseat this time, a little further away from you both. “Why you hate that I have a boyfriend.”

Your fiancée scoffs, “haven’t you given me enough reason? You skipped school, Amy! You defied a rule I specifically set.”

She shakes her head, “you never liked it, even before that.”

“I told you, I don't have to explain anything to you, Amelia. I'm your mother.” Emily grabs her wine glass, taking a long sip. “Fuck, now you've made me sound like my mother.”

You touch her arm, earning her attention. You find it sweet how her eyes immediately soften. “I think she might understand it better if you tell her about when you were a teenager.” Watching as realization dawns in her eyes, you quickly squeeze her hand. “Only if you want to.”

Emily thinks about it for a moment. Amelia taps her foot impatiently. You figure she's glad the attention is not on her for a brief moment.

Seeming to make a decision, Emily turns to her daughter, leaving her glass on the coffee table, but her other hand still in yours. Then, she tells her.

Emily tells her about Rome, and John, and Matthew. She tells her about the priest, the clinic, like it's a story she only heard of. Her voice never wavers, her resolve never falters, though her hand squeezes yours when she says the word ‘abortion’.

“I've always done everything I can to ensure this didn't happen to you,” she explains. “Not because I don't trust you, or because I wouldn't help you do whatever you wanted in that situation because, believe me, Amelia, I would.” Emily reaches a hand in front of her, waiting for Amy to hold it. She does, of course, not even taking time to think about it. “I would move heaven and earth to make it your decision, and I always wanted to be a mother to whom you could come to if anything like that ever happened, unlike the one I had.”

Amy shakes her head incredulously, “you are.”

Emily smiles at her, “something like that changes you, Amy. I know I did what was right for me at the time, and I don't regret it, but it's something that weighs on you. I didn't want you to have to make that decision.” She wipes away a single tear that had escaped, “which is why I always worry when you mention a boy, and why I gave you the talk when you had your first period, even if your grandmother judged it way too early.” She sighs, “I know you're a smart girl. But this decision you made was very stupid.”

Amelia bites her lip, embarrassed. She looks down at her hand that's still clasped with her mother's.

“I want you to date, to have fun. But I don't want you making stupid decisions, Amy, you’re my daughter and you know better than that.”

She nods, her eyes moving to you for a second, then back to Emily. “I'm sorry. And I'm sorry, too,” she looks back at you, “that I said you weren't the cool mom. You definitely are.”

You let out a surprised laugh. Amy smiles back and even Emily, with her tense shoulders, shakes her head with a small grin.

“I'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that so you don't get an extra week without your phone.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but is silenced with a single brow raise. She deflates, leaning against the cushions, defeated. Looking up shyly, “can I still see Nick? Mom, I swear we never did anything more, I would've told you, I promise.”

Emily looks at you with an indignant look, “that's what she's worried about?”

You shrug, “she's in loove,” you sing-song, delighting in Amy's blush.

“Fine, you can see him.” Before Amelia jumps up, Emily continues, “only at school, or here, with supervision. It'll be a while before he can go up to your room again.”

Amy nods, smiling softly. “Thanks, moms.” She hugs you both quickly, leaving her phone on the coffee table and swiftly leaving the room, her footsteps fast on the stairs.

“She called you her mom,” Emily beams, kissing your chin.

“Huh,” you jokingly consider, “I thought having a teenager would be harder.”

Emily stares at you, attempting a glare, “I almost had a stroke!”

“You should've seen my face when I caught them,” you shake your head, sipping on what's left of your wine. “Or Nick's.”

She, finally, guffaws, finding humor in the situation. “Fuck, honey, I'm gonna need a lot more wine to get through the night.”

You nod, grabbing her empty glass and starting towards the kitchen. “Whatever my lady wishes,” you call back with a chuckle.

taglist: @emilyprentissmylove @zeyz444 @shygirl1645 @probablydoingyourmom1 @criminally-chill @whittakermultiverse @italianaidiota @emilys-bangs @decadentcatcrusade @midnightprentiss @cmmndr-widw @sevi-kas01 @mimzamo ⭐︎

[dragonbinx]

"A long time ago, I loved someone. And I had to do something I did not want to do, even though it was my job, and it hurt them. She is my scar."

Day four ship one is Agatha Harkness and Rio Vidal, aka, AgathaRio! 🧡🤍🩷🩷🤍🩷

[crusty3writes]

𝑨 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝑶𝒖𝒕

Emily Prentiss x Reader

word count: 1.9k

𝙨𝙪𝙢𝙢𝙖𝙧𝙮: 𝘼 𝙨𝙞𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚 𝙜𝙖𝙢𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙏𝙧𝙪𝙩𝙝 𝙤𝙧 𝘿𝙖𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙞𝙩𝙝 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙩𝙚𝙖𝙢 𝙨𝙚𝙣𝙙𝙨 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙞𝙣𝙩𝙤 𝙖 𝙨𝙥𝙞𝙧𝙖𝙡. 𝙒𝙝𝙤 𝙗𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙩𝙤 𝙜𝙚𝙩 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙤𝙪𝙩 𝙤𝙛 𝙞𝙩 𝙩𝙝𝙖𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝘽𝘼𝙐'𝙨 𝙛𝙖𝙫𝙤𝙧𝙞𝙩𝙚 𝙗𝙧𝙪𝙣𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚?

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘱𝘰𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦, 𝘌𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘩 𝘪𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘮𝘺 𝘧𝘪𝘳𝘴𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘶𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘐 𝘢𝘮 𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘧𝘪𝘦𝘥. 𝘐 𝘩𝘰𝘱𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺 :)

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The air inside the bar suddenly felt suffocating. The noises seemed too loud, the lights too many, and the temperature too hot.

“I need to get some air”, you said. 

Scrambling out of the booth, and almost tripping over your own feet in the haste, you could feel the team’s confused glances at your sudden mood change. Fighting your way through the crowd that had formed on the dance floor, you didn’t even register the annoyed huffs of the people you bumped into. Your gaze remained set onto the door that seemed too far away, your thoughts racing through your brain at a million miles an hour.

When you finally stumbled out of the bar, your heart was racing. The tears that had started to form sometime on the way out now silently fell down your cheeks in a continuous stream.

You tried to somehow regain your composure. Leaning your head against the wall, eyes closed, you were focused on breathing. Breathe In. Hold. Breathe Out. Repeat.

A soft touch on the back of your hand suddenly startled you, making you jump slightly.

“Woah, hey! It’s okay, it’s just me… it’s just me.” Her dark eyes that were always so fierce and full of determination were now filled with worry.

“I’m sorry… You don’t have to be out here. I’m fine. Just go back to the others,” your words come out barely louder than a whisper.

“Absolutely not. You just practically ran out of there, and now you’re standing here in the cold, white as a ghost and crying. There is no way I am leaving!”

“Please Emily, I’m sorry for making such a fuss, I-” you try to muffle a sob that escapes your lips with your hand. “Please just go back inside.”

She shifts beside you, but instead of turning back to the entrance the brunette moves directly in front of you. “Honey”, she whispers, her hands now faintly touching your arms just above your elbows. “I am not leaving you.” That last statement sends a new wave of sobs through your body, which you—unsuccessfully, judging by Emily’s tightening grip on your arms—try to repress.

“I need you to try and breathe with me, okay?” Without looking up, you nod. It’s subtle, but Emily still notices. She always does.

Seconds, and then minutes, go by. A quiet understanding between the two of you. Words unspoken hang in the air, supported by the small circles Emily’s thumbs traced on your arms. It is only when your breathing finally returns to normal, and the tears stop falling, that you notice how cold it is outside. A small gush of wind sends shivers down your spine, leading Emily to immediately take off her jacket. 

“Take it”, she demands as she dangles the leather jacket between the two of you.

“Damn it Emily, I’m fine. I’m not taking your jacket.”

“You are literally shivering, now put the jacket on before I have to force you into it.” Her gaze is stern. The type that lets you know that there is no use in arguing with her right now.

“You are insane”, you muffle under your breath. On another day you might have argued with her, but even if you did not want to admit it: You were freezing. And exhausted.

“I’m a gentleman”, she retorted, a smug grin now settling on her face. After a short period of comfortable silence, her facial expressions shift ever so slightly. “Are you ready to tell me what happened in there earlier?” She does not force an answer out of you. Instead, the question is laced with understanding. And concern.

You tense. What had happened earlier? The team had went out for drinks after they had solved their latest case. Garcia even managed to force Hotch to come with for at least one beer. The evening was filled with light banter, Reid rambling on about the daily average amount of alcohol consumption in D.C., and the occasional flirting between Morgan and Garcia. Everything was great until JJ came up with the brilliant idea of a game of truth or dare. Since you had just joined the team a couple of months ago, and since then also had successfully avoided most of the after-work party escapades, it really came to no surprise.

Honestly, it all went pretty well at first. Most of the others had chosen dares, which lead to some very funny (and sometimes slightly awkward) encounters with other guests at the bar, but it all went sideways when it was your turn. Morgan had asked the one question you had dreaded forever: Well, Hot Stuff? There must be a boyfriend you have been keeping from us! Or at least a crush we need to know about? Spill the tea. Now, in no way was that question inherently bad, and in any other situation you could have easily made up a little white lie to make the situation less awkward. But things are different when you’re out with a group of FBI profilers. They would have spotted a lie from a mile away. “No boyfriend”, you had claimed. Not a lie, but also far from the whole truth. Naturally, the team had continued plastering you with questions of potential crushes, even going as far as searching for potential suitors for you in the crowd, while you had started to feel more and more uneasy — and also suddenly painfully aware of Emily’s thigh touching yours. 

The faint touch of a hand on your shoulder made you snap out of the memory: “Hey, come on. Talk to me.”

“How did you know you like girls?”, you blurt out, not daring to look into the older Agent’s eyes.

“Is that what this is about?” You could here the hesitation in her question. Like she had to really process what you had just said. When you did not answer, she continued. “I suppose I’ve always kind of liked women, I just did not realize that they were crushes until I was in my teens. Honestly, I could only ever really imagine myself with another girl. When I was old enough, I kind of tested the waters. I don’t know how much you’ve heard of my mom, but she’s more the… traditional…type. I had had a couple of boyfriends, nothing really serious but…you know how it is. A little later, I had my first girlfriend.  My mother caught us kissing in my bedroom and freaked out. I didn’t care, somehow. Because I had never felt more alive. That’s when I knew that boys were just not going to happen for me again.” She hesitates for a short moment, trying to see some sort of reaction from you. “Honey, why are you asking this now?”

“I- … I don’t know, Em. I’m just so confused…I don’t know what’s happening. It just feels like I’m drowning in all these different emotions and realizations I can’t quite process — I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me!” That’s when the tears start to fall for the second time that evening. You slide to the ground, your back still against the wall, hands now in front of your face.

In less than a second, Emily is sat right next to you, and your breath hitches when she gently pulls your ice-cold hands from your face, firmly holding them in her own. She doesn’t push you to continue, but instead she patiently waits, her touch grounding you.

“You know I’ve never been in a relationship? Heck, I haven’t even kissed anyone. You know how pathetic you must be to not be able to make somebody like you enough to be more than friends just once??” You don’t notice Emily tense at your harsh words, too focused on avoiding her gaze. 

“I have always been told that the right guy will come at the right time, but after a while I just stopped getting my hopes up. For years I have been telling everyone that I simply choose not to be in a relationship right now. That I am somehow choosing myself. But the truth is: I didn’t. I didn’t choose this. But now I’m suddenly considering that maybe I did subconsciously choose not to try dating men because I actually liked women all along, which is fucking terrifying to think about. But like, how would I even know?”

Emily let out a deep breath before shifting her gaze from your clasped hands up to your eyes. “So, the thought of us finding out that you have never been in a relation ship, and the possibility of you being gay scared you so much that you had a literal panic attack?”

It is only when you work up the courage to really look at her that you notice the slight glossiness of her eyes. “Well, if you put it like that it sounds pathetic…”

“Would you stop with that word?”, she hisses. “You are not pathetic, there is nothing wrong with how you feel, and I-“, this time it is her voice that quivers. “I’m just so sorry that thought you couldn’t trust us with this. Could’t trust me with this.” 

“You can’t blame yourself for that, Em. Please. You and the rest of the team have been nothing but welcoming and supportive ever since I have joined the BAU. And I know how much of a privilege it is to have all of you trust me — literally with your lives. I just get too much into my head sometimes and… well I’m sorry for not giving you the same trust that you gave me.”

You could’t quite place the other Agent’s facial expression, but something between concerned and analytical seemed the most fitting. 

“You know, you tend to do that a lot”, Emily stated. “Finding ways to put the blame on yourself, I mean…”

You shrug. Then both of you let out a deep breath, the air heavy with words spoken and unspoken.

Once again, it is Emily that breaks the silence that seemed to linger between the two of you: “You ready to head back inside?”

“Actually, I think I’m calling it a night… Thank you. For staying with me I mean. And for listening”, you reach for the phone in your pocket.

“What do you think your doing?”

“Calling a Taxi?”

“Absolutely not, I’m driving you home!”

“Emily, no! You should go back to the others. I’m not ruining your night even more.”

“First of all: you didn’t ruin my night. Second of all: I would have left soon one way or another. And third of all: you’re apartment is literally on the way. So stop trying to argue with me.”

So you did. Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Emily Prentiss, it’s that there is absolutely no use in arguing with her if she has already made up her mind about something.

Still trying to find a way to somehow make her stay, you are suddenly pulled back onto your feet by the brunette.

“Wait here, I’m just gonna go and get my bag”, she hesitates for a second, looking you up and down. “And you jacket…I’ll be right back.”

It’s only then that you realize that you’re still wearing the leather jacket that smelled so much like its owner. 

Who had not stopped holding your hand until just mere seconds ago. 

And who you now wished had never let go.

———————————————————————————————————

𝘢/𝘯: 𝘔𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯… 𝘐𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴: 𝘞𝘩𝘺? 𝘈𝘭𝘴𝘰: 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘰 𝘮𝘶𝘤𝘩! 𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘭𝘦𝘵 𝘮𝘦 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘴/𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴/𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺. (𝘜𝘯𝘭𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘩𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘪𝘵, 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘨𝘰 𝘰𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘥𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘐 (𝘶𝘯𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘯𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘭𝘺) 𝘞𝘐𝘓𝘓 𝘤𝘳𝘺…)

[quakeismyhero]

HOLY FUCK

(image isn’t mine, credits to owner)

[glassesprentiss]

pretty girl is home <3

[agathaspett]

gorgeous girl how i adore you

[agathaspett]

kathryn hahn you are so loved by the queer community

[pagetsfishpurse]

legally binding| emily prentiss x fem reader

warnings: cat adams case but also not really

summary: instead of calling fiona duncan to represent reid in his case emily calls you, her hot shot lawyer wife. who also just so happens to be her best kept secret based on this request!!

word count: 2.2k

The courthouse bathroom smelled like antiseptic and cheap floral air freshener, the kind that never quite masked the underlying staleness. You adjusted the knot of your tie in the smudged mirror, pressing your lips together to smooth out the faded lipstick. A drop of water from the tap had splashed onto your sleeve—dark silk, unforgiving—and you dabbed at it with a scratchy paper towel, cursing under your breath. First day of the Reid trial, and you were already fighting a losing battle against your own nerves.

Outside, the hallway buzzed with lawyers, reporters, and the occasional FBI agent weaving through the crowd. You spotted her immediately,Emily Prentiss, all sharp angles and coiled energy, leaning against a pillar with a case file tucked under one arm. She was scanning the room with that practiced, detached look, the one that made witnesses squirm and suspects overthink. But when her gaze landed on you, it flickered, just for a heartbeat. A tiny, dangerous crack in the facade.

"Counselor," she said as you approached, voice low and even. Professional. Too professional. The way she said it made your stomach twist.

"Agent Prentiss," you replied, matching her tone, though your fingers twitched at your side. You wanted to reach out, to brush the invisible lint off her blazer, to let your knuckles graze hers in the pretrial huddle just to feel the spark of contact. Instead, you clenched your hand into a fist. "You ready for this?"

Emily’s mouth quirked. "Born ready." The corner of her lip twitched like she was fighting a smirk, and you knew exactly what she was thinking,last night, her knee between yours, her teeth at your collar, muttering the same words against your skin.

The courtroom doors swung open with a weighty groan, and the bailiff's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "All rise." You didn't miss the way Emily's shoulder brushed yours as you both stood,too close for colleagues, not close enough for what you really were. The judge's bench loomed like a guillotine, and you forced your gaze away from Emily's profile, focusing instead on the empty witness stand. Reid was already seated at the defense table, his fingers drumming a nervous staccato against the wood. Cat Adams, smug in her prison jumpsuit, smirked from the prosecution's side like she'd already won.

Opening statements were a blur. You spoke crisply, methodically dismantling the prosecution's argument point by point, but your pulse roared in your ears every time Emily shifted in her seat behind you. You could feel her eyes on the back of your neck, tracking the way your fingers tightened around your pen when the DA implied Reid had a history of instability. A muscle in your jaw twitched. Emily cleared her throat—just once, deliberately—and you exhaled, loosening your grip.

During recess, JJ cornered you near the vending machines, her smile knowing. "You and Emily seem... in sync," she said, popping the tab on a Diet Coke. The can hissed like an accusation.

You shrugged, buying time by feeding dollar bills into the machine. "We’ve worked together before." The lie tasted stale.

JJ hummed, taking a sip. "Uh-huh. And the way she looks at you when you’re arguing? That’s just professional respect?"

The vending machine spat out a bottle of water with a thud. You caught it mid-air, gripping the plastic tighter than necessary. "Emily’s thorough," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive. "She pays attention to details. That’s her job."

JJ’s smirk deepened. "Right. And the way you two leaned into each other during the recess huddle? That’s just… strategizing?"

A laugh escaped you,nervous, too sharp. You twisted the cap off your water, buying time. The courtroom doors swung open again, and Garcia’s head popped out, her curls bouncing. "Five-minute warning, lovebirds—" She froze, eyes widening behind her glasses. "I mean. Colleagues. Professional associates. Completely platonic coworkers."

Emily appeared behind her, stepping smoothly into the hallway. Her expression was unreadable, but the way her fingers flexed at her sides gave her away. "We should head back in," she said, voice even.

Garcia mouthed ‘oh my god’ at JJ behind Emily’s back.

The afternoon session bled into evening, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like a jury of bees. You’d just torn apart the prosecution’s star witness,some forensic accountant who’d flinched when you leaned into his personal space,when Rossi caught your elbow in the hallway. His grip was firm, his voice a conspiratorial murmur. "You know, I’ve seen Emily bluff her way through interrogations with serial killers," he said, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve, "but I’ve never seen her blush until today."

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Must’ve been the coffee," you lied, nodding toward the courthouse vending machine. "It’s brutal."

Rossi chuckled, low and knowing. "Kid, I’ve been married three times. I know what it looks like when someone’s trying not to stare at their wife’s ass in a courtroom."

Across the hall, Emily was hunched over a case file with Morgan, her brow furrowed in a way that usually meant she was two steps ahead of everyone else. But when Morgan nudged her and nodded toward you, her pen stilled mid-sentence. The look she gave you—half warning, half hunger—sent a shiver down your spine.

The bailiff’s voice cut through the tension. "Court’s reconvening."

The gavel cracked like a gunshot, jolting you back to the present. The judge was speaking,something about inadmissible evidence,but your attention snagged on Emily’s fingers drumming against her thigh. Three taps, then a pause. Three taps again. Your secret rhythm, the one she’d used that morning when she slid your coffee across the kitchen counter, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. Three taps: I love you.

Morgan’s elbow nudged Emily’s ribs, and her hand stilled. She didn’t glance at you, but her shoulders tensed, the line of her jaw tightening like she was biting back a smile,or a curse. You focused on the legal pad in front of you, scribbling nonsense to steady yourself. The pen left angry indents in the paper.

"You’re killing them," Reid whispered suddenly from the defense table, his voice low with something like awe.

You blinked. "What?"

"The way you’re dismantling their case. It’s…" He hesitated, eyes darting to where Cat Adams was scowling at her desk. "It’s almost beautiful."

The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess after the prosecution’s forensic accountant stumbled through his testimony, his credibility in tatters. You gathered your files with deliberate slowness, avoiding the weight of Emily’s gaze burning a hole through the back of your suit jacket. The air in the courtroom was thick with tension,legal, personal, the kind that made your pulse thrum just beneath your skin.

You barely made it to the hallway before Morgan materialized at your elbow, his grin all teeth. "Counselor," he drawled, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. "You ever consider a career in the BAU? We could use someone who eviscerates people that gracefully."

"Stick to recruiting actual FBI agents, Morgan," you muttered, but the corner of your mouth twitched.

Behind him, Garcia appeared like a hurricane in heels, clutching a tablet to her chest. "Oh, please, please tell me you’re as good at cross-examination in your personal life," she stage-whispered. "Because if so, Emily never stood a chance."

You choked on nothing. "I have no idea what you’re—"

"Garcia," Emily's voice cut through the hallway like a blade, smooth but edged with warning. She appeared behind Garcia, her posture impeccable, but her fingers flexed at her sides in that telltale way you knew meant she was two seconds from dragging you both out of here. Garcia squeaked and spun around, nearly dropping her tablet. "Why don’t you go check on Reid? He looked like he needed a caffeine boost."

Garcia saluted, her eyes dancing with mischief. "On it, boss. But just so you know, the betting pool’s already at—"

Emily’s glare could’ve melted steel. Garcia vanished before she could finish the sentence, Morgan following with a laugh and a knowing glance over his shoulder. The moment they were out of earshot, Emily exhaled sharply, rolling her shoulders like she was shaking off the weight of the day.

"You’re not subtle," she muttered, stepping closer, her voice low enough that only you could hear.

You raised an eyebrow, fighting the urge to reach for her. "Me? You’re the one who blushed when Rossi called you out."

The courthouse steps were slick with rain by the time the judge finally adjourned for the day, the neon glow of downtown D.C. reflecting in the puddles like scattered puzzle pieces. You lingered by the defense table, shuffling papers with deliberate slowness, watching from the corner of your eye as Emily exchanged hushed words with Morgan near the bailiff’s station. His laughter carried across the emptying courtroom, rich and knowing, and when he clapped her on the shoulder, Emily’s mouth twitched not quite a smile, but close enough to make your pulse skip.

"You coming?" Reid asked, shrugging into his coat with a tentative glance at Cat Adams being led out in cuffs. Her smirk had long since soured.

You hesitated, fingers drumming against your briefcase. "I should—"

"Save it," JJ interrupted, appearing at your elbow with Garcia in tow. "We’re all going to O’Malley’s. Even Hotch used to crack a smile there after a tough case." She paused, her gaze flicking to Emily, then back to you. "And before you argue, Emily already said yes."

Emily, now standing at the prosecution’s abandoned table, straightened abruptly as if she’d heard her name. Her eyebrows lifted in silent question, and you bit back a smile. So much for discretion.

The bar was dimly lit, the kind of place where the whiskey glasses left sticky rings on the wood and the jukebox played nothing newer than 1998. You slid into the booth beside Reid, who was already nursing a beer with the focus of a man trying to forget he'd spent the day being accused of murder. Emily sat across from you, her elbows propped on the table, fingers laced together like she was praying for patience. Morgan dropped into the seat next to her with a grin, nudging her shoulder. "Relax, Prentiss. We won."

"Not yet," Emily muttered, but her eyes flicked to yours, warm and private despite the crowded booth.

Garcia clapped her hands together, leaning forward. "Okay, but before we toast to Reid's impending acquittal—" Reid winced at the word acquittal— "we need to address the elephant in the room. Or should I say, the ring on someone's left hand?"

The table went silent. Emily froze, her thumb which had been absently tracing the edge of her wedding band still mid-motion. You exhaled slowly, pressing your knee against hers under the table. Three taps. ‘I love you.’

Rossi took a deliberate sip of his scotch. "I’ll put fifty on Vegas," he said, like he was discussing the weather. "Eloped after that case in ’13, am I right?"

Emily's fingers twitched, her wedding ring catching the dim bar light as she slowly lowered her hands to the table. The silence stretched like a live wire,Morgan grinning into his beer, Garcia practically vibrating with anticipation, JJ's knowing smirk widening,until Emily exhaled sharply through her nose. "Fine," she said, voice dry as parchment. "Vegas. 2014. Two AM after the Mendoza cartel sting."

Garcia shrieked so loudly the bartender dropped a glass.

You hid your smile behind your whiskey as Morgan choked on his drink. "Wait,you proposed?" he wheezed, pounding his chest.

Emily's smirk was all teeth. "She cried during the Elvis impersonator's vows."

The bar erupted in chaos,Morgan nearly upended the table lunging to clap Emily on the back, Garcia was halfway out of her seat squealing something about wedding photos, and Rossi just nodded sagely like he’d known all along (which, given the smug tilt of his eyebrows, he probably had). Reid blinked owlishly between you and Emily, his beer forgotten. "Huh," he said finally, pushing his glasses up his nose. "That explains why you quoted Marriage Story during the Rodriguez deposition."

Emily's cheeks flushed the faintest pink, but she held her ground, fingers tightening around her whiskey glass. "It was relevant to the—"

"Oh my god," Garcia interrupted, slamming her hands on the table. "You have a house together, don’t you? With like, shared towels and a coffee maker that says ‘hers’ and ‘hers’—"

You snorted into your drink. "It says ‘yours’ and ‘also yours’ because Emily broke the first one trying to reprogram it in Spanish."

Emily kicked you under the table—not hard, just enough to make you smirk—but Garcia was already gasping like she’d been personally handed a conspiracy theory. "You live together?!"

“We're married,” Emily said in exasperation.

The table erupted into overlapping questions,Garcia demanding to know why she hadn’t been invited to the wedding, Morgan ribbing Emily about her taste in rings, Rossi already flagging down the bartender for celebratory shots but Emily’s gaze never left yours. Her foot pressed against yours under the table, a silent anchor in the storm of their excitement. "Told you we should’ve gone with separate cars," she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear over Garcia’s dramatics.

You grinned, swirling your whiskey. "And miss this? I live for the theatrics."

taglist: @spideystoe @emilyprentissmylove

[barqns]

thinking about emily prentiss getting caught staring at your chest mid-conversation :: 3.4k

⠀⠀18+ . mdni . emily prentiss is down bad . chest staring . boobs . hard nipples . wet pussy mentions . dirty talk . praise kink . “good girl” . mouth on boobs . nipple sucking . clothed grinding . thigh pressure . soft possessiveness . teasing . sapphic smut . consent included .

navigation :: ko-fi - for my fave @kenna-prentiss

and the thing is, she’s usually so damn good at hiding herself. emily can sit across from murderers, liars, politicians, and grieving families without giving away more than she wants to.

she knows how to keep her face smooth, how to make her voice even, how to make her eyes stay exactly where they’re supposed to. that control follows her home too, wrapped around her like a second skin, elegant and infuriating and almost impossible to crack.

except tonight, she’s standing in your kitchen with a glass of wine in one hand, pretending to listen to you talk, and failing worse with every second that passes. because your shirt is thin, soft, clinging over the full curve of your boobs just enough to make her attention keep slipping lower, and emily prentiss, for once, looks like she’s losing a fight with herself.

you don’t catch it immediately, mostly because she’s still doing all the right things at first. she nods when you pause, hums softly like she’s following every word, even tilts her head in that thoughtful way she does when she wants you to know you have her full attention. but then her gaze drops.

it’s quick the first time, just a flicker, barely anything, the kind of glance she could probably deny if she really wanted to. then it happens again, slower, her eyes lingering near your chest before lifting back to your face like nothing happened.

by the third time, she isn’t as subtle as she thinks she is, and there’s something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.

your shirt doesn’t hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. you’re not sure whether it’s the cold kitchen air or emily’s attention that makes your nipples tighten, but either way, the reaction is obvious enough that her eyes catch on it instantly.

she sees the little peaks pressing against your shirt. she sees the way your chest rises a little harder when you notice her looking. she sees the way your body gives you away before you can decide whether you want to tease her for it.

and the longer she stares, the more aware you become of every inch of yourself, your boobs feeling warm and sensitive beneath the thin fabric, your pussy already starting to feel wet between your thighs.

you stop mid-sentence, letting the silence settle between you with purpose, and emily only realizes something is wrong when your voice cuts off completely. her eyes snap back up too fast, sharp and guilty despite the calm expression she tries to arrange over her face.

“what?” she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didn’t come out lower than before, rougher at the edges, like she had been thinking about something entirely different from what you were saying.

you raise an eyebrow, staring at her while she holds your gaze with the stubbornness of a woman who refuses to confess without being cornered. the pause stretches.

her thumb strokes once along the stem of her wine glass, a tiny little tell that makes heat curl low in your stomach. then you ask, “were you even listening to me?”

emily’s mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows she’s been caught but hasn’t decided whether she wants to admit it yet.

“of course i was,” she says, far too easily. you stare at her. she stares back. then, like her body betrays her before her pride can stop it, her gaze drops again, dragging right back to your chest for one brief, shameless second.

when she looks up this time, there’s no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like she’s irritated with herself more than with you.

“don’t start,” she says, but there’s no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.

“you’re staring,” you say, and the words come out softer than you meant them to. emily sets her wine glass down with a quiet click, slow and deliberate, like she’s making a choice. “i know,” she says. not defensive. not embarrassed. just honest enough to make your breath catch.

the simple admission changes the air between you completely, taking the conversation from playful to charged so fast it leaves you warm all over. she doesn’t move toward you yet, which somehow makes it worse. she just stands there, eyes darker now, letting herself look at you openly, and the weight of her attention feels almost physical, like her hands are already on your skin.

you step closer because you can’t help yourself, because there’s something addictive about watching emily’s composure fray in real time. her gaze dips again, slower now that the pretense is gone, and her lips part just slightly when your chest rises with your breath.

she notices everything. the way your boobs shift beneath your shirt, soft and full enough to pull her attention down again. the way your nipples are hard now, straining against the fabric like your body is begging for her mouth before you even say a word.

the way your thighs press together because your pussy feels slick already, warm and wet and aching from nothing more than being watched by her.

“you wore that on purpose,” she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didn’t, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emily’s smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.

“maybe not consciously,” she says, and her eyes drop again, taking in the way the shirt clings to the rounded weight of your boobs. her attention makes your skin prickle.

it makes your nipples tighten further, your stomach flutter, your pussy throb with that slow, needy pulse of arousal. the dampness between your thighs is impossible to ignore now, your underwear clinging wetly against you every time you shift.

her hand lifts slowly, giving you every chance to pull away even though both of you know you won’t. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.

she’s watching your face now, because emily likes proof. she likes seeing the way your lips part, the way your breath catches, the way your eyes flutter when her thumb brushes just beneath the curve of your boob.

the contact is barely anything, just the edge of a touch, but it makes your whole body feel too warm. your boobs feel heavy and sensitive under her attention, your nipples aching for more pressure, and your pussy gives another wet little pulse like it knows exactly where this is going.

“emily,” you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until she’s brushing over you through the thin fabric.

the pressure makes your breath hitch, especially when her thumb grazes the hardened peak of your nipple. your body reacts instantly, your back arching just enough to press more of your chest into her hand.

emily sees it. of course she sees it. her eyes darken like the sight of you getting needy from one touch is almost enough to ruin her by itself.

“what?” she asks, like she didn’t just spend an entire conversation staring at you. you open your mouth to answer, but she kisses you before you can say a damn thing.

at first, it’s controlled, warm, almost teasing, her lips moving against yours with the kind of patience that makes you ache. then your fingers curl into the front of her blouse, pulling her closer, and something in her restraint gives.

the kiss turns deeper fast, her body pressing yours back against the counter until the edge digs into your lower back. her hands slide to your waist, then up, slow and deliberate, as if she’s giving herself permission inch by inch. when she finally cups your chest over your shirt, her palm warm and firm around your boob, you gasp against her mouth.

the sound does something to her. you feel it in the way she groans softly, in the way her fingers tighten, in the way her kiss gets rougher for one messy second before she reins herself in again. her hand fits over you like she’s been thinking about it for ages, squeezing gently at first, then with more confidence when your body melts into the touch.

your boob feels soft and full in her palm, your nipple hard against the fabric, every slow press of her fingers sending sparks down your stomach. your pussy feels wetter by the second, slick gathering between your folds, warm enough that you can feel it soaking into your underwear.

“i was trying to be respectful,” she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. “you failed.”

“miserably,” she says, and then she kisses down your neck like she wants to prove it. her mouth is hot and slow, lips dragging over your pulse, teeth grazing just enough to make your hips push forward without thinking.

one hand stays on your chest, kneading through the fabric, while the other settles at your lower back and pulls you closer until there’s barely any space left between you.

she’s still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but there’s hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like she’s been thinking about your boobs under her hands for longer than she wants to admit.

when her thumb rubs over your nipple through your shirt, your knees nearly weaken, and emily’s mouth curves against your skin.

“that sensitive?” she asks, voice low enough to make you shiver. you try to answer, but she does it again, firmer this time, rolling your nipple beneath her thumb until a soft, broken sound slips out of you.

the pleasure goes straight between your thighs, making your pussy clench around nothing. you can feel how wet you are now, how slick and swollen everything feels, how badly your body wants more pressure.

emily pulls back just enough to look at you, and the expression on her face is devastating. smug, affectionate, starving. like she wants to tease you for falling apart so quickly and kiss you for it at the same time.

“you have no idea how distracting you are,” she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. “standing there, talking to me like i’m supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like i’m not only human.” heat rushes through you so fast it leaves you dizzy.

you tell her she should have said something, but the words barely survive the way she’s touching you. emily’s fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.

“i was trying to behave,” she says, and there’s a smile in her voice now. “clearly, that was a mistake.” then she lifts your shirt, waiting just long enough for your nod before pulling it up and off you completely.

the fabric drops somewhere near your feet, forgotten immediately, because emily is staring again. only this time there’s nothing between her eyes and your bare skin, nothing to soften the way her composure cracks wide open.

your boobs are exposed to her completely now, warm and soft, rising with your uneven breaths. your nipples are hard from the cool air and from the way she’s looking at you, tight little peaks that make her eyes go darker the longer she stares.

the silence that follows feels filthy in itself. emily looks at your chest like she’s been handed something sacred and obscene, her eyes moving over the fullness of you slowly, taking in the curve, the softness, the way your body is already reacting for her.

her hands settle on you carefully at first, palms sliding over your ribs before she cups both of your boobs with a reverence that makes your throat tighten. then her thumbs brush over your nipples, and the soft moan that leaves you makes her inhale sharply.

your boobs feel almost too sensitive beneath her hands, heavy and warm and aching as she squeezes them with slow, possessive pressure. she watches the way they fit in her palms, the way your nipples stiffen under her thumbs, the way your whole body arches when she touches you just right.

“pretty,” she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isn’t enough, “fuck, you’re so pretty.” and before you can even process the way her voice has changed, she lowers her mouth to you.

the first touch of her lips against your boob is slow enough to be cruel. she kisses around your nipple first, soft open-mouthed presses that leave damp warmth behind, while her hand kneads the other boob with steady, possessive pressure.

you can feel how badly she wants to rush, how much effort it takes for her to take her time, and somehow that makes it worse. when her tongue finally flicks over your nipple, your back arches off the counter, and emily makes a quiet sound like she’s pleased with herself.

she does it again, dragging her tongue over the sensitive peak before closing her lips around it. the suction is gentle at first, teasing, but when your fingers slide into her hair and pull, she groans against you and sucks harder.

your whole body reacts to her mouth. heat pools between your legs, slick and insistent, every slow pull of her lips sending another pulse of want through you.

your pussy feels soaked now, wet enough that your underwear clings uncomfortably to you, every shift making the damp fabric rub against your swollen clit. emily knows exactly what she’s doing, and worse, she’s paying attention to every single reaction. when you gasp,

she repeats the motion. when your hips twitch, her hand tightens at your waist. when your fingers tug at her hair, she looks up at you with your nipple still in her mouth, eyes dark and smug and completely ruinous.

the eye contact makes you throb. it makes you feel exposed in the best way, like she can tell exactly how wet you’re getting without needing to touch you there yet. your boobs rise and fall beneath her mouth, one wet from her tongue, the other held firmly in her hand while she rolls your nipple between her fingers.

you feel warm everywhere, flushed and sensitive, your pussy pulsing with every drag of her mouth. there’s a slick ache between your thighs now, needy and impossible to ignore, and the worst part is that emily can tell.

she can tell from your breathing. from the way your thighs keep squeezing together. from the way your hips keep shifting like your body is trying to find friction all on its own.

“this is why i wasn’t listening,” she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. “you were talking, and all i could think about was this.” her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.

she doesn’t rush, because emily is a menace when she knows you want something. she kisses across your chest, giving the other boob the same slow attention, tongue circling before she sucks your nipple into her mouth.

your thighs press together, desperate for friction, and she notices immediately. of course she notices. emily prentiss notices everything.

her hand slips between your thighs over your clothes, pressing just enough to make your breath break. “there it is,” she whispers, like she’s found the answer to a question she already knew. your hips roll into her touch, needy and automatic, and she smiles against your chest before kissing lower, then back up again.

she keeps one hand on your boob while the other rubs slow, firm pressure between your legs, not enough to give you what you need, just enough to make you ache for more. it’s maddening. it’s perfect.

you’re hot everywhere, trembling against the counter while emily takes you apart with her mouth, her hands, and that steady, devastating focus she usually saves for interrogations.

“you’re soaked, aren’t you?” she asks softly, and the way she says it makes your stomach flip. not mocking exactly, but pleased. deeply pleased. your pussy throbs at the words, wet and swollen beneath your underwear, and you hate that she can feel how hard you react through the layers between her hand and your body.

you try to glare at her, but it falls apart the second she presses her palm against you again, firmer this time. “all because i got caught staring?” she continues, her voice warm with amusement. “or because you wanted me to?” you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emily’s smile turns downright wicked.

she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. “tell me to stop,” she says, and the softness of it hits just as hard as the hunger.

because beneath all the teasing, beneath the dark eyes and the greedy hands, she’s still emily. still careful with you. still waiting for you to choose her back.

you shake your head, already breathless, already ruined enough that pride feels pointless. “don’t stop.” emily’s expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.

this time, there’s no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like she’s done being patient, mouth deep and hungry while her hands move over you with more confidence. she palms your chest, thumbs circling your nipples until you’re making soft, helpless noises into her mouth.

every sound seems to pull her further under, making her touch rougher, her breathing heavier, her body press harder against yours. she slips one thigh between yours and lets you grind against her, just once, just enough to make you shudder.

the pressure against your soaked pussy makes you gasp into her mouth, your wet underwear dragging over your clit in a way that sends a sharp pulse of pleasure through you.

“good girl,” she whispers against your mouth, and the praise goes straight through you. she feels the way you react, feels the tiny jerk of your hips, and her smile is slow and knowing. “oh,” she says softly. “you liked that.”

you don’t answer, because answering would mean admitting how badly those two words affected you, and emily already knows anyway. she kisses down your throat again, her mouth returning to your chest like she can’t stay away from it now that she’s allowed to touch. her tongue traces over your nipple before she sucks it back into her mouth, her hand sliding lower to keep pressure between your legs.

the combination makes you dizzy. your boobs feel swollen and sensitive under her mouth and hands, your nipples slick from her tongue, your skin hot everywhere she touches.

your pussy feels even wetter now, slick spreading messily into your underwear, your clit aching from the pressure of her thigh and the teasing rub of her palm. every time you grind down, the damp fabric drags against you, and every time you make a sound, emily’s mouth gets greedier.

your fingers tighten in her hair, your head tipping back, your body trapped between the counter and the warm, relentless weight of her attention. emily looks completely gone now, composed mask finally cracked, replaced by something hungry and intimate and almost reverent.

and the worst part is, she still manages to sound controlled when she leans in close, lips brushing your ear. “next time you want my attention,” she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, “just wear this.”

your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. “or don’t,” she adds, voice dipping darker. “i seem to get distracted either way.”

then she kisses you again, messy and deep, stealing the smart response right out of your mouth. and this time, when her eyes drop to your chest, you don’t call her out. you just pull her closer, soaked and trembling, and let her stare.

[madxmeschemmenti]

This might be too similar to 800 other stories but had this thought today:

- Melissa sprains her ankle and you come to her rescue (even though she’s been a shit to you)

- You visit her at home while she’s resting off her feet and help her stretch her ankle out & rub her foot and she audibly reacts in a way that turns you both on, whoops

Just Take It

Part 1, Part 2

Melissa Schemmenti X Reader

A/n: another fun prompt! I tried to keep it short but let me know if I should do a smutty part 2

Warnings: enemies to lovers, first kiss, fluff, comfort

**************************************************

You and the gang are walking in when out of nowhere a flurry of red hair is launched into the ground. The only thing that kept her from completely faceplanting is her instinct to to save her coffee; didn’t spill a drop.

“Jesus! Melissa, are you okay?!” You rush to her side to help her up.

“Oh dear!” Barb exclaims.

“Yup. I’m fine.” She grunts as she peels herself off the sidewalk and hobbles up the stairs with no complaints saved for stifled grunts as she ascends each step.

“Has she always walked with a limp?”

“Nope.”

She disappears to her classroom without a word and everyone looks after in concern but hesitant to approach in fear of her bite. She’s not just all bark.

You don’t fear her per se. Intimidated maybe but it’s kind of a turn on for you. You know she would never intentionally hurt any of you. At least not physically. Psychologically, maybe…if warranted.

You leave the break room with enough time before class to bring Melissa her morning coffee refill and some ibuprofen. “Hey, Mel. Thought you could use this.”

She looks up and you can tell the fall had put her in a foul mood for the day. “I told youse, I was fine, Y/n.”

“Whatever, it’s there if you want it. But don’t act like we pushed you. We’re your friends. If one of us fell, you'd be taking care of us.” You didn’t give her room to snap back at you before heading back to greet your kids.

You notice that Melissa hadn’t made it to her door to welcome her little eagles, and you made a mental note. You braved a glance through her doorframe across from yours and saw that she was taking the meds. At least that will help with the inflammation and pain since you doubt she is gonna ice or elevate during school.

Before lunch you see Melissa bracing herself on the door as her kids line up for lunch. “Alright, Ms. Schemmenti’s class, pair up with someone from mine. By the time we get to the cafeteria I want you to tell me your partner’s favorite color AND favorite animal.”

She goes to protest and you just shake your head, cutting her off and turning on your heel to lead them away.

By lunch she made it to the break room…barely. “Melissa, dear. You need to get that checked out. At least go to the nurse.”

“I said I was fine, Barb.”

She attempts to grab a new mug from the cupboard since you brought hers to her earlier. You got up to top your cup off and nonchalantly set the pot down next to her. As you doctored your cup you continued to set the fixings where she can reach it without it being too obvious.

You made eye contact with Mrs. Howard and you know she caught on to what you were doing as she nodded her head in thank you for her best friend.

You slowly put the coffee pot, sugar, and cream back and make your way over to the sofa and scroll on your phone. You can feel Melissa burning holes into the side of your face once she realizes what you did. But still, you don’t look her way.

She sits and crosses her legs under the table and Janine is the first to shriek in horror when her pant leg rises enough to show the discoloration of her ankle. “Oh my god! Melissa! That does not look fine.”

“Sweet baby Jesus and the grown one too! Melissa, you are going to the nurse right now. Come on.”

“Uh uh-“

“It wasn’t a question. Either let me help you or I’ll have Gregory and Y/n, carry you against your will.” At that you stand with your arms crossed daring her to argue. Meanwhile, Gregory looked scared at getting roped in.

“Whatever’s. Youse all are overreacting.” She mutters as she limps out the door with Barbara trailing behind ready to help her if she needs to lean on her.

“We’ll get your students from lunch.” Janine offers, looking at you for confirmation.

On your way, you drop Melissa’s lunch off with the nurse knowing she’d refuse it if you gave it to her directly.

You scratched your lesson plans for the day bringing Melissa’s class in with yours for a movie. It took a few minutes explaining to her students where their teacher went. They were definitely concerned, having noticed her limp and sitting for most of the morning lessons. But you took this as an example that even adults need help. Just like last month when your period cramp hit you like a truck and she took your kids so you can take a nap and sleep it off.

You shot her a text to update her and tell her not to rush. After dismissal, Barb pulled you aside to let you know that the nurse is insisting she goes to the hospital but advised her against driving herself.

Barb asked if you’d be able to drive her since Gerald is picking her up until she can renew her license. “Yeah, I’ve got her. Don’t worry about it Barb, enjoy your weekend.” You grab your bag and lock up your classroom before doing the same with Melissa’s.

You and Melissa were friends to a degree. Never really hung out outside of the school and definitely not one on one. But you also were the only one besides her best friend that didn’t cower to her. You dished it right back whenever she snarked at you. There was always a glint in her eyes that would flash when you did before she slipped her mask back on.

Turning the corner you come up to the nurse’s office and take a deep breath. “Your chariot awaits.”

“Just great.” She rolls her eyes when she sees you.

“Wasn’t exactly my first choice to start the weekend off either but you’re stuck with me. Pout about it but I don’t care.”

“I don’t need to go the hospital, they’re just gonna tell me the same thing she told me and then send an invoice with too many zeros that our salary won’t compensate”

She argues but you can see the pain taking its toll as she begrudgingly lets you assist her off the table and head out to the parking lot. “I can’t believe I’m saying this but you’re driving my car. I’m not leaving mine here and I doubt anyone wants to steal yours.” She says as she hands you her keys.

“Go ahead. Take it out on me. I can take it.” You help her into the passenger seat. Not thinking, you lean over to help fasten her seatbelt and your faces are inches apart. You’re both holding your breath when the masks slip for a millisecond. “Right. You can do this part.” And you shut her door and take your time rounding the car.

She watches you the entire time as she fights to appear indifferent when you open the driver's door.

“Take me home. And I’ll get you an uber.”

“I thought I was taking you to the hospital.”

“You thought wrong. Now drive.”

“Cut the crap, Melissa. You’re not fine. And it’s just gonna get worse if you don’t take care of it.”

“Whatever. Nurse Makaiyah said it’s just a slight sprain. I need to rest, ice, compress, and elevate. I don’t need a hospital bill to do that.”

“Then I’ll make a deal with you seeing as I’m driving and I have the keys.” She raises an eyebrow, not liking that you have the upper hand. “Either we go to the hospital… Or you let me help you follow Nurse Makaiyah’s orders and you only get to throw two more insults at me. Those are your only options.”

She huffs and rolls her eyes and you can’t help but to think how adorable she is throwing her little tantrum. “Fine. But I’m not cooking for you. Your mediocre pallet isn’t worthy of good cooking.”

“That’s one. Only one insult left, Melissa.”

“Ugh.”

You drive to her house following her directions and her head is tilted back as she winces on the turns from the minimal gravity shifting her ankle.

You pull up to her house, grabbing your bag and hers you move to her side of the car. She scoffs at your hand but reaches for it nonetheless.

Once inside you help her to the couch. You pull more ibuprofen out of your purse before navigating your way through to the kitchen. Returning moments later you hand her the glass of water in one hand and hold the gelatin ice pack in the other.

“Here, take that to help with the swelling.” You sit down and motion for her injured leg closest to you. “Come on. We had a deal.”

She scoffs and regretfully lifts her leg. You help remove her docs as carefully as possible. She squeezes her eyes shut at the movement but sighs in relief once it’s off. You place a throw pillow underneath her foot before rolling her pant leg up. Seeing the color you wince with empathy but otherwise you don’t make a comment. “This is gonna be cold at first.” You place the ice on her ankle and she jumps slightly at first before relaxing against the arm of the couch.

“If you tell anybody about this, you're dead meat. And that’s a threat not an insult.”

“Whatever. Just put something on the tv.”

After about 15 minutes into ‘The Real Housewives,’ you remove the ice pack so you don’t freeze her skin, you hope it’s numb enough and start to massage her foot.

“What are you doing?” She panics and for a second you have half a mind to be worried but she doesn’t pull her leg away so you continue.

Pressing your fingers into the arch of her foot and rubbing up towards her toes. “Massaging. It helps with circulation and blood flow.”

Melissa scowls but doesn’t protest. She turns attention back to the screen and so do you. You don’t see her watching you out of her peripheral wondering why you stayed. Why are you spending your Friday evening with her; taking care of her.

A cross between a moan and a whimper falls from her lips and she immediately clears her throat to cover it up. “Does this feel okay?” You ask. You heard it but maybe it was in pain rather than comfort.

“It’s fine, I guess.”

“Okay.”

A sigh escapes her once more as she wiggles her toes. She adjusts to get more comfortable and she’s fully laying on the couch now and you pull her other foot into your lap.

“You know you don’t have to stay. I can take care of myself.”

“I want to. I know you can take care of yourself, Melissa. You take care of everyone…in your own way, albeit slightly hostile, but nonetheless. But contrary to what you want to believe, I do like you. We’re more than just coworkers. Some might even say friends. And friends help each other so just take it and stop fighting it.”

She doesn’t say anything but instead just stared at you. You look back at her and she’s got a far off look on her face as she tilts her head to the side. Her expression is unreadable, at least one that is new to you.

You put the still semi cold ice pack back on her ankle and move to rub her other foot. With that one you absently start massaging her ankle and rubbing up her calf. This time she moans and it’s unmistakeable.

“That actually feels really good, hon.” It’s not the first time she’s used that term with you but definitely the first you’ve been in an intimate setting when she used it.

“Yeah?” You can’t help the smile that threats to split your face from getting her approval.

“Don’t get too cocky.” She rolls her eyes but there’s a hint of smile emerging to the surface.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” You continue to work the muscle of her calf and her eyes close as she squeezes her thighs together.

Your hands are disappearing just a little underneath the hem of her pant leg and you blush at how soft her skin feels beneath your fingers.

She looks at you from beneath her lashes and contemplates how far she can push you. “I wonder what else those hands can do…” it’s barely a whisper but still, you heard it and you forgot how to breathe.

You stare back wide eyed but you won’t back down from the challenge. You move your hands up further under her flared pants. Thankful she was wearing her form fitting yet elastic pants versus her denim. You can pretty much reach as far as her knee.

Another moan.

Her head falls back against the arm rest as you massage the spot there. You don’t take your eyes off of her face as she gets caught up in the feeling of your hands on her.

Your fingers curl around and hit a sensitive spot behind her knee and her hand jumps out to grab yours.

“Sorry. I-“

She just stares back at you and her green irises are swallowed by her dilated pupils. She’s still holding your hand through her pants but not removing it from her skin. She uses you as an anchor to pull herself up bending her knees over your lap to come face to face with you.

“Should I stop?” You breathe against her lips. Unsure of what’s happening. She doesn’t look mad, instead she’s biting her lip asking a million questions. “Melissa?”

Her eyes drop to your lips and you feel the familiar tingle low in your belly as you hold your breath. She leans in slightly and her eyes flicker back up to yours giving you time to pull back. You close yours meeting her halfway and your cheeks heat up on contact.

Her hand slides up her arm and into your hair to deepen the kiss. You’re a whimpering mess when her tongue sneaks past your lips. When she attempts to get closer she sucks in a deep breath when she accidentally puts weight on her ankle.

“Wait.” You pull back

“No, it’s fine.” She attempts to pull you back in but you squeeze her knee to stop her.

“The deal was that you were gonna let me take care of you.”

“Ugh.” She plops back down, clearly frustrated.

“Don’t pout, Mel. I didn’t say to stop. I just said to wait.” You lift her legs off of you and place the sprained ankle back on the pillow before straddling her leg and pressing your pelvic bone into hers. “Does this hurt?” You asked, peering down as you hover over her lips.

She just looks up at you with doe eyes and shakes her head. Her uninjured leg is planted on the ground at first when you lean in to press your lips to hers again.

Melissa’s hips thrust up into your thigh and you can feel the heat radiating from her core. You grab her thigh to hook her knee over your hip as you settle your weight along her body.

Her hand is back in your hair and the other is underneath your shirt digging her nails into your back.

You lost track of time getting hypnotized by her hands roaming your body. She’s pulling your shirt up but it’s trapped between your bodies. “Take this off.” She demands.

You ignore her as you move to kiss her neck and nibble on the flesh there. You’d love nothing more than to feel her, skin to skin, without any barriers. But with everything you want to do, you know tonight’s not the night with making her ankle worse.

Just then you hear a faint knock and you sigh into her neck. “Saved by the bell…or the knock…or whatever.”

“Ignore it. I’m not expecting anyone, they’ll go away.” She whispers before crashing your lips together. You kiss her back before biting her lip as you pull back.

“You aren’t, but I am.”

“You’re leaving?” She actually looked disappointed, hurt even.

“No I meant it when I wanted to be here. I ordered some things for your ankle.”

You subconsciously grind down against her before regretfully peeling yourself off of her to grab the bag from the porch.

You come back pulling the compression sock from the bag and she groans.

“I know but please just humor me.” She rolls her eyes in defiance but agrees anyways. “Scootch.”

You get her to scoot till she is able to rest her foot on the other arm rest. You, as gently as possible, put it on her sprained ankle. “So sexy.” She snaps.

“You make anything look sexy.” You admit before moving back to her head and sliding under to hold her head in your lap.

“You really think so?”

“Well it is a compression sock.” You laugh. “But yes, why do you think I put up with all your insults?” You lean down to kiss her again, “there will be time for what I want to do to you another time. But first, we take care of your ankle.”

You run your fingers through her hair and massage her scalp while the other reaches for her hand. She plays with your fingers, which are inadvertently atop her breast and you try your best to keep your thoughts innocent.

You try to focus on the tv to distract yourself. Meanwhile, Melissa’s focus is still on you. She brings your hand to her face and kisses the tip of your thumb. She smiles when she gets your attention and you laugh, shaking your head. “You’re trouble.”

“I think you like it.” And you laugh again, rolling your eyes. But you look back down and run your thumb along her bottom lip.

[harknesslovebot]

happy pride month! 🌈

[theballadofharkness]

Adventures in Babysitting ~ Part 8

Adventures in Babysitting Masterlist

Pairing: Agatha Harkness x fem!reader

Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harkness’ 4 year old Nicky. Little did you know that this part time job to get you out of the house would lead to so much more.

Word Count: 9.2K

Warnings: smut warning for this one so as always MDNI xo

A/N: I’m back on the Adventures in Babysitting grind! I’ve had some big writers block and anxiety but I’ve started to really get momentum with this series x and obviously if there’s anything you want to see in any of my other things let me know! I’m sure I’ll have loads of Maya content when season 2 comes out 💜 Xx

It’s late by the time you ease your own front door open, the rain still dripping from your hair and coat. You slip your boots off quietly, trying not to wake the house, but the flicker of light from the living room gives them away.

Your mom and Billy are curled on the sofa, a blanket tossed over their legs, eyes glued to the TV. The shrill strings of some old horror film fill the room, shadows dancing across their faces.

You step into the doorway just as something jumps on screen, a ghoul lunging. They both scream, at full volume and ridiculous.

“Wow,” you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. “Not exactly the reaction I was hoping for.”

Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. “Jesus Christ, you nearly killed me!”

Your mom swats his arm, though she’s still catching her breath too. “Don’t sneak in like that!”

“I walked through the front door,” you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.

“Like a ghost,” Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. “All silent and creepy.”

You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest that’s been knotted all night.

Your mom pats the space between them. “Come sit, sweetheart. We’ll protect you from the scary bits.”

Billy snorts. “We’ll protect her? You’re the one who screamed loudest.”

You laugh, shaking your head, and sink down onto the armchair instead, curling up and letting their bickering fill the room.

Billy mutes the TV with a dramatic flourish of the remote once the commercials come on, eyes squinting at you. “Didn’t expect you to come in tonight,” he says, grin tugging at his mouth. “Thought you’d be… busy.”

Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.

You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. “Her son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.”

“Her son,” your mom repeats slowly, like she’s trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. “Wait. Are you telling me… are you’re dating the woman you babysit for?”

Your heart lurches into your throat. “I uh…” you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.

“Mom,” you start carefully, “please don’t freak out…”

“Oh my god.” She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. “I cannot believe you didn’t tell me.”

Billy laughs. “I told you she had a girlfriend.”

“Billy!” you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.

Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. “So you’re really with her? Billy’s boss? The professor?”

You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. “Yeah. I am.”

Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.

“She’s a bit old for you, isn’t she?” she says gently, but firmly. “And sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, that’s a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?”

The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. “Mom…”

Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. “Here we go.”

“No, I’m being serious,” she insists, folding her hands in her lap. “You’re still so young. You’ve been through a lot, and I don’t want you getting hurt because you’ve taken on more than you can handle.”

You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. “I… I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, she’s older. A lot older.” Your voice drops, softer. “But I… care about her. And I care about Nicky. It’s not… it’s not something I fell into by accident.”

Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. “I’m not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure you’re thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.”

You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. “I am thinking it through.”

Billy smirks, breaking the tension. “Besides, you’ve already survived me. You’re basically qualified for stepmom status.”

You throw a cushion at him, rolling your eyes, but the knot in your chest loosens a little.

Your mom squeezes your hand once more, then leans back against the sofa with a decisive nod. “Well I’ll need to meet her.”

Your head snaps up. “Mom, no. Please, no.”

“Yes,” she says firmly, crossing her arms. “If you’re serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. That’s non-negotiable.”

You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. “You’ll scare her off.”

Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. “Trust me, Agatha Harkness isn’t scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.”

You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. “Not helping.”

Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. “Sweetheart, if she’s good enough for you, then she’s good enough for me. And if she’s serious about you, she won’t mind meeting your mother.”

“She will mind,” you mutter.

“Then she’s not as serious as you think.”

That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.

“Mom,” you mumble, “please don’t make this a thing.”

“It’s already a thing,” she says simply. “And I expect to meet her. Soon.”

~

The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. You’re on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,” he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.

You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. “Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

He collapses into giggles, clapping his hands and throwing himself into your lap. You catch him, pressing a noisy kiss into his curls before sitting him upright again. “That was so good, professor,” you tell him, using his goat’s honorary title. “Ten out of ten.”

“Again!” Nicky cheers, already springing back up, his little feet stomping against the rug.

You take a deep breath, lifting your arms dramatically like a conductor. “Ready? One, two…”

“Three!” he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.

It’s in the middle of the second round that the front door opens. Agatha steps inside, still in her work clothes, hair a little mussed from the wind. She stops short in the doorway, her briefcase slipping from her fingers with a soft thunk.

On the rug, Nicky is twirling like a leaf himself, his cheeks flushed, his laugh bubbling high and bright. You’re on your knees, arms waving with theatrical drama, singing loudly and off key just to make him laugh harder.

For a moment, Agatha just watches, something soft breaking open in her chest.

When Nicky spots her, he squeals. “Mama! Look!” He rushes over, tugging at her hand. “We’re singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!”

Agatha’s gaze flicks from her son’s shining face to yours, your cheeks pink, still catching your breath from all the singing. Her lips curve, slow and warm, into the kind of smile she almost never shows anyone.

Agatha sets her briefcase down with a soft thud, hand to her chest like she’s been hit. “Oh, you got your show song today?”

Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. “Yes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!”

Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. “Do I ever!” She drops into the armchair like it’s the front row of Carnegie Hall. “Give us a performance, darling boy.”

Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the “audience” too, then throws his arms wide. “One, two, three!” he counts off, launching into the little song with all the power in his tiny lungs.

You pad over and sink onto the armrest beside Agatha. Her hand immediately finds your knee, giving it a squeeze, her eyes fixed on Nicky like the world could fall down around her and she wouldn’t notice.

He twirls, stomps, half forgets the words halfway through and makes up the rest, but his grin never wavers. When he belts the final line, “all around the town!” he bows so low he nearly tips over.

You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. “Bravo!” Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. “Encore, encore!”

You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. “Ten out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!” You lift the stuffed goat in mock solemnity, making Nicky dissolve into shrieks of giggles.

Agatha glances sideways at you, her smirk softened into something gentler. Her thumb strokes over your knee, an unspoken thank you, as Nicky starts gearing up for another round, eyes bright and cheeks flushed.

Later, after dinner and the small storm of bedtime negotiations of one more story, one more sip of water, one more kiss, the house finally quiets. Nicky’s door clicks shut, and Agatha pads into the living room, her blouse a little rumpled, her hair falling loose around her face. She drops onto the sofa beside you with a sigh.

You curl sideways to look at her, chin propped on your hand. “Well,” you murmur, eyes glinting, “I hope you’re prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.”

Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. “God help me.”

You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. “Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!”

Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. It’s slow at first, deliberate, her hand cupping your cheek.

You grin against her lips, the song dissolving into a muffled laugh as you kiss her back.

When she finally pulls away, her eyes are half lidded, her smirk wicked. “That’s the only acceptable way to shut you up,” she murmurs.

“Mm,” you hum, still smiling, “guess I’ll have to sing it more often.”

Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. “Careful, babygirl. I’ll find other ways to make you quiet.”

You start to laugh again, but it dies on your lips as she leans back in, kissing you slower this time. Her hand slides from your thigh to your waist, tugging you closer until you’re curled against her side. The silk of her blouse is cool under your fingertips as you fist the fabric, melting into her warmth.

She tilts her head, deepening the kiss, her thumb stroking along your jaw in a way that makes your chest ache. You sigh into her mouth, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace.

When she finally breaks away, her lips hover against yours, her breath warm. “There,” she murmurs. “Much better than singing that damn song.”

You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. “You didn’t even let me get to the second verse.”

“Exactly,” she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until you’re clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.

By the time she eases back, you’re curled fully into her, your head tucked under her chin, her arm wrapped tight around you. She presses a kiss into your hair, sighing as her other hand rubs slow, soothing circles over your back.

You breathe her in, the faint trace of her perfume mingling with the warmth of home, and let yourself sink into her hold. The world outside, with all its sharp edges and questions, feels far away. Here, it’s just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.

You’re still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, “My mom’s been talking again about meeting you.”

Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. “Would you like me to meet her?”

You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. “Honestly? No. She’s insufferable. But she’s important. And she won’t let up.” You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, “So… maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?”

Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. “Excuse me, your birthday?”

You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. “…Yeah?”

Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. “And you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?”

You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like it’s a shield. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Not a big-…” she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. “Sweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. You’re my girl.” She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. “I should’ve known.”

Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. “I just… I don’t like making it a thing.”

“Well, it’s a thing now.” She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. “I hate that you didn’t feel like you could tell me.”

You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. “You know now.”

Her expression softens, but there’s still that glint of frustration in her eyes, not at you, but at herself for missing it. She presses her lips to your temple, her arm wrapping tightly around you again.

You tilt your face back toward her, biting your lip. “So you’ll come? It’s nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.”

Agatha’s brows knit. “The day before?”

You nod, smiling a little shyly. “Yeah. Because… my birthday’s on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.”

Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks you’re joking. “You’re serious. Halloween?”

You grin, unable to help it. “Yeah. I’m a Samhain baby.”

There’s a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. “That makes so much sense.”

You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. “Of course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.”

You laugh with her this time, the sound warm and tangled, the tension between you dissolving into something softer.

Agatha is still chuckling, her thumb brushing the line of your jaw. “Alright, Samhain baby,” she teases, “so what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?”

You shrug, cheeks heating. “Honestly? Horror movies in bed. That’s kind of it.”

Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. “So… no real plans.”

You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. “Not really.”

“Good.” She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. “Because that means you’re all mine.”

The words make your stomach flip, your whole body going hot at once. You duck your head, blushing furiously, but she catches your chin with her fingers, forcing your gaze back to hers.

“Ohhh,” she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, “look at that blush.”

“Agatha,” you whine, but you can’t stop smiling.

Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. “Don’t worry, babygirl. I’ll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You won’t lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.”

You bite your lip, heart hammering. “You’re really going to plan my birthday?”

“Already am,” she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. “You’re mine that day. No arguments.”

Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.

Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. “So what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A séance in the living room?”

You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. “Shut up.”

“Oh, she giggles.” She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. “Cute.”

“Agatha…” you start, but the rest is swallowed when she kisses you properly, her hand sliding into your hair to keep you exactly where she wants you.

You melt, sighing into her mouth, your fingers clutching at her blouse. She chuckles softly against your lips, clearly pleased with how easily you crumble for her, and deepens the kiss.

Your blush only worsens when she murmurs between kisses, “All mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.”

You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like it’s nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.

“Mm,” she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, “maybe I’ll start planning tonight.”

“You’re ridiculous,” you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.

“And you love it.” Her teeth graze your skin, just enough to make you squirm, before she pulls back to kiss you again, like she could happily make out on the sofa with you all night.

The TV flickers silently in the background, the whole house hushed, just the sound of your breathless laughter and her low, pleased sighs filling the room.

Agatha’s kisses turn greedier, her hands sliding from your back to grip your hips tight, tugging you closer against her. You gasp into her mouth, the shift in her energy making your stomach flip.

She growls softly, low in her throat. “God, babygirl… you’re killing me.”

You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like she’s starving. The blanket on the floor is long forgotten, all you can think about is the way her fingers dig into you, pulling you exactly where she wants you.

She pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, breath hot and uneven, “Bed. Now.”

Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.

“Good girl,” she praises, standing smoothly and hauling you with her. One arm stays locked around your waist as she guides you down the hall. You stumble once, breathless with laughter, but she just scoops you up, carrying you the last few steps of the way.

“Agatha!” You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, “you don’t have to carry me!”

“Oh, but I want to,” she purrs, kissing your cheek as she pushes the bedroom door open with her hip.

She sets you down on the bed, eyes dark and hungry now, already tugging her blouse loose. “Been thinking about this since the car ride home,” she admits, crawling over you, her mouth claiming yours again before you can answer.

Your hands clutch at her shoulders, your body arching up into hers, the heat between you snapping fast from playful to desperate.

“Mine,” she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. “All mine.”

Her hands are frantic, pulling off your panties, tugging at your dress, sliding up under the fabric to touch as much skin as she can. You arch into her, whimpering, your fingers tangled in her hair.

“Agatha,” you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. “I love you.”

She freezes for just a second, pulling back enough to look at you. Her pupils are blown wide, her lips swollen, but the expression on her face is pure awe.

“Oh, my baby,” she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didn’t realise had slipped free. “You undo me every damn time.”

Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like she’s trying to breathe you in, like she’s terrified of ever letting go.

Her hands skim down your body, every touch deliberate. She takes her time undressing you, murmuring soft praises between kisses. “So beautiful… my perfect girl… mine.”

She parts your thighs wider as she presses into you, letting you feel every inch of her cock inside of you, her breath shuddering against your mouth. You gasp, your nails biting into her shoulders as your body stretches around her, clenching tight.

“Jesus, baby,” she groans, forehead dropping to yours. “So fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.”

Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until she’s fully seated inside you. She doesn’t move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.

Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. “God, I’ll never get over this. Being inside you… it’s like nothing else.”

When she starts moving, it’s with deep, unhurried strokes that make your toes curl and your back arch. Every thrust drags a desperate sound from your throat, and every sound makes her groan like she’s losing her mind.

“That’s it,” she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. “Cling to me, baby. Let me feel you. You’re so good, fuck, you’re perfect.”

You whimper, burying your face against her neck. “Agatha…”

She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath it’s awe. “Tell me you love me baby,” she whispers, voice breaking.

“I love you,” you breathe, shaky, desperate.

Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. “My baby,” she moans against your mouth. “You undo me, you fucking undo me.”

Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like she’s trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.

“Take it, babygirl,” she growls, her voice low and rough. “Take all of me. You’re mine. Always mine.”

You cling tighter, keening under her, your body a mess of heat and want. She kisses you through every sound, her words tumbling fast and needy between kisses: “So beautiful… so good for me… fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.”

The intensity builds until you’re trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And she’s right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.

“Come for me,” she begs, almost broken with it. “Let me feel you, baby, give it to me.”

And when you shatter, sobbing her name, she follows with a guttural groan, burying herself deep, spilling inside you with a kind of ferocity that makes her whole body shake.

She holds you through it, kissing your hair, your face, anywhere she can reach, murmuring ragged I love you’s and mine’s until all that’s left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close you’re not sure where you end and she begins.

~

By the week of the show, that damn song has invaded every corner of your world.

Your mom hums it absentmindedly as she stirs a pot of soup, tapping the spoon against the rim in time with the melody. Billy whistles it while brushing his teeth. Agatha, caught on a work call, doesn’t even notice herself mouthing “red and yellow, orange and brown” as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.

You groan every time you hear it, because it’s everywhere.

Even Nicky’s stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night he’d made you hold Professor Goatly and make him “sing along” while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.

It’s in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when you’re trying to fall asleep. You’ve caught yourself humming it under your breath while waiting for the kettle to boil, and immediately wanted to throw yourself out the window.

Lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the lines repeat in an endless loop. Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…

You throw an arm over your face and groan. “I’m being haunted.”

From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, “Welcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.”

And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, “red and yellow, orange and brown…”

“Agatha!” you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. “Don’t encourage it!”

She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. “Too late, babygirl. It’s already in my bones.”

She slides in beside you a minute later, her damp hair brushing your shoulder, the faint scent of her shampoo clinging to your sheets.

She pulls you close automatically, her arm heavy and solid over your waist, her breath brushing your temple as you settle into the curve of her body. For a moment it’s quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, “Parenthood, huh?”

Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like you’ve touched a nerve.

You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. “Was that a joke, or…?”

Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. “Well I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.” Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. “And forever, for me… means my son, too.”

Your heart gives a nervous kick. You roll onto your side so you can see her face, her eyes dark in the low light, her brows drawn just faintly as if she’s bracing herself.

“So…” you whisper, barely more than a breath, “does that mean I’d be like… a stepmom, or something?”

There it is, the question you’ve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.

Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. “If that scares you, tell me now,” she says quietly. “Because Nicky isn’t going anywhere. He’s my whole life. You’d be stepping into something… permanent.”

Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. “It doesn’t scare me. I just…” Your hands twist in the sheets. “I don’t want to be… not enough. For him or for you.”

Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. “Sweetheart,” she says, her voice low but steady, “you are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,” her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, “I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone like this.”

You blink fast, your chest tight with something that’s part fear, part relief. “You really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?”

“I don’t think,” she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. “I know. I watch you with him. I see the way he lights up for you, the way you meet him where he is, the way you give him your whole attention. That’s what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.”

Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. “I don’t want to mess it up.”

Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. “Then don’t walk away, and you won’t. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

For a long moment, you just breathe together, her forehead pressed to yours, her hand warm against your cheek, your own heart pounding out its uneven rhythm.

Finally, you whisper, “Forever sounds really good.”

Her lips brush yours, the kiss slow and deliberate, carrying more weight than any words could. When she pulls back, her eyes are shiny, her smile small but certain.

“Then forever it is,” she murmurs.

You sink back into her arms, your chest loosening for the first time all night, the ridiculous little autumn song still rattling around your brain but quieter now, drowned out by the steady thrum of her heartbeat.

Agatha settles onto her back and tugs you with her until your cheek is pillowed against her chest, her fingers stroking lazily up and down your spine. The room feels smaller like this, tucked away from the world. Her heartbeat is steady under your ear, grounding you.

“So,” you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, “what’s the show gonna be like?”

She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. “Chaos. Delightful chaos. The youngest class always sings something, the teachers line them up, half of them forget the words, two start crying, one picks his nose through the entire performance…” She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. “And it’ll be the most important show I’ve ever been to.”

You smile, even though your chest pinches. “Wish I could come.”

Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. “Two tickets per child, baby. You know I’d have you there if I could. But it’s just me and Rio.” She sighs softly. “Not exactly my dream pairing.”

You hum, tucking yourself closer. “Guess I’ll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.”

She laughs, kissing your temple. “Which I’m sure he’ll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.”

You grin against her chest, eyes fluttering shut as the steady motion of her hand and the warmth of her voice start to lull you. She notices, her fingers drifting up into your hair, her voice softening.

“Sleep, my little Samhain baby,” she murmurs. “You’ll hear the song again soon enough.”

You snort, too drowsy to answer properly, but your arm tightens around her waist. The song plays faintly in your head still, but softer now, muffled under the rhythm of her heartbeat.

And before long, you’re asleep in her arms.

~

The morning of the show, the whole house feels a little different, brighter and buzzing like even the sunlight is in on the excitement.

Agatha is already in the kitchen, hair swept into a loose twist, sleeves pushed up as she wrestles with Nicky’s tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.

“Mama, it’s itchy,” he whines, tugging at the collar.

Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. “Of course it’s itchy, darling boy, it’s new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.”

He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment she’s done, he hops down and spins dramatically. “Do I look like a big boy?”

Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. “Like a very big boy. Practically a man.”

He giggles, then blurts, “Can we sing it one more time?”

Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. “One more time,” she agrees, crouching down so they’re eye to eye.

He claps his hands together, takes a deep breath, and launches into the song, his little voice clear and wobbly at the same time.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Agatha joins in, “…red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town…”

Nicky grins, twirling so fast his shirt comes half untucked. When he stumbles, she catches him, pulling him into her arms and pressing a kiss into his curls.

“You’re going to be brilliant,” she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. “The brightest leaf of all.”

He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. “What if I forget?” he asks her nervously. “What if I mess up?”

Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. “Then you’ll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.”

He nods, comforted, though his grip on her hand lingers as she straightens up.

She brushes his curls back, sighs, and mutters half to herself, “God help me if he starts crying on stage I’ll be up there singing it with him.”

Agatha buckles him into his car seat, tugging the strap snug across his chest before leaning in to kiss his forehead. He smells faintly of the apple shampoo you helped him pick out, his curls still damp.

The morning rush fades into the quiet hum of the car. Nicky hums under his breath in the backseat, his little legs swinging, and Professor Goatly clutched tight against his chest.

“You’ll be there, Mama?” he asks suddenly, his voice serious.

Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. “Of course I’ll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.”

He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, “And Mama Rio too?”

“Yes, baby,” Agatha says with certainty. “She’ll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.”

Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. “Can you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.”

Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. “We’ll tuck him in my bag. He’ll be clapping louder than anyone.”

That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, “will Y/N be there?”

Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. “Not this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.”

His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. “But I want her there.”

Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. “I know, darling. She wants to be there too but she’ll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.”

Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. “It’s not fair.”

Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. “It isn’t. But you’ll still have us there, and we’ll be so proud of you.”

His lip wobbles, but he nods, leaning into the goat like it can hold the rest of his nerves.

The school car park is crowded, parents and little ones spilling across the pavement in a noisy tide of coats and backpacks. Agatha slips the car into a space, glancing back to where Nicky sits clutching Professor Goatly, his face pinched with nerves.

She opens his door, unbuckles the seatbelt, and helps him hop down. His hand finds hers right away, small and clammy, his eyes fixed on the swarm of children heading inside.

Agatha crouches so they’re eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. “Alright, darling boy. You’re going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon you’ll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?”

Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. “You’ll be there?”

She nods, steady, certain. “Front row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.”

“And Professor Goatly?”

Her mouth curves despite herself. “Professor Goatly wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

He huffs out a little laugh, then throws his arms around her neck. She holds him tight, breathing in the warm, apple scented tangle of his curls, before setting him back down and nudging him toward the door.

“You’ll be brilliant,” she says firmly, squeezing his hand one last time before a teacher waves him over.

Nicky looks back once, eyes wide and anxious. Agatha smiles, blowing him a kiss. “See you later, my leaf.”

That wins the smallest grin out of him before he toddles toward his classmate.

Agatha watches until he disappears inside, her chest tight, before straightening her coat and heading back to the car.

Once Agatha gets home she drops her keys into the bowl by the door and kicks her heels off. She’d cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp ‘out of office,’ every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.

She’s halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.

With a sigh, she picks up. “What?”

“Agatha.” Rio’s voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. “I’ve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I can’t get out of it.”

Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. “What do you mean you can’t get out of it?”

“I mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. It’s not optional.”

“You’re telling me you’re going to miss his show for a client meeting?” Agatha’s voice sharpens, low and dangerous.

“Don’t make it sound like that,” Rio snaps back. “You know how my job works. This is one of those times.”

Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. “No. No, this is his time. He’s been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if you’d be there. I promised him. And now you’re bailing?”

Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. “You’ll be there. He’ll still have a parent in the audience. He won’t even notice.”

Agatha’s laugh is sharp, humorless. “You really believe that? You think he won’t notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.”

There’s a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.

“I’m sorry,” Rio says finally. “But I can’t be in two places at once. You’ll just have to handle it.”

The line clicks dead before Agatha can bite back.

She slams the phone down onto the counter, the sound echoing in the quiet kitchen. The kettle shrieks behind her, but she doesn’t move, her chest heaving, jaw clenched so tight it aches.

Agatha eventually kills the kettle with a sharp flick, the whistle cutting off mid shriek. The kitchen falls back into silence, but it doesn’t feel quiet. It feels heavy.

She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard she’s surprised it doesn’t crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.

She can’t call the school to warn him. He’ll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. He’ll spot her easily, and then he’ll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isn’t there…

Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until it’s wild around her face.

“Damn it, Rio.”

There’s nothing she can do. No way to soften it. No way to prepare him. She imagines the wobble in his bottom lip, the panic in his eyes, and her stomach twists until she feels sick.

She had promised that they’d both be there. His small hand had been so tight around hers, his voice so hopeful.

Agatha presses her palms into the counter, bowing her head. For all her careful planning, the cleared calendar, the pressed blouse, the camera already charged to film him, none of it matters. Because all he’ll see is the empty seat beside her.

She straightens, jaw locking. She’ll have to make up for it somehow. She doesn’t know how yet, but she will.

Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when she’s unraveling, when she doesn’t know what to do.

Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when you’re unsure, the way you’d talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way you’d probably say that he won’t be alone, Agatha. He has you. That’s enough.

Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.

But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. You’d made that brave little smile as you said it, like you were trying to be casual when she knew it still terrifies you.

And now, as the clock blinks 12:14 from the oven display, she can see you in her mind’s eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She can’t interrupt that, can’t drag you out of your own fight just to soothe hers.

Agatha sets the phone down with a sharp clatter, bracing her palms on the counter. Her jaw tightens until her teeth ache. All she wants is your voice. But for now, she has to sit with the silence.

The thought of Nicky seeing that empty seat makes her stomach twist again. She paces, furious with Rio, furious with herself for promising something she couldn’t control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing you’re doing for yourself.

~

Traffic crawls outside the school, minivans and SUVs jostling for the drop off lane. Agatha grips the wheel tighter, her pulse hammering as she imagines the gymnasium filling up, the folding chairs in neat rows, one of them already destined to stay heartbreakingly empty.

Her phone buzzes in the cupholder. Your name.

She snatches it up, fumbling to put it on speaker. “Baby?”

“Hey,” your voice comes, soft but steady. “I know the show’s about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him I’m cheering for him.”

Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. “Rio’s not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she ‘couldn’t miss.’” Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. “He’s going to look for her, and she won’t be there. He’ll see that empty chair and…”

Her voice breaks, raw. “I don’t know how I’m supposed to explain it to him.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. “How long do I have?”

Agatha blinks, thrown. “What?”

“How long until showtime?”

She glances at the dashboard clock. “Ten minutes, maybe less. Why?”

“Okay, gotta go,” you cut in, and the line goes dead.

Agatha stares at the phone, stunned, then back to the traffic outside the school.

And for the first time all day, a flicker of hope pushes through the dread because if anyone could make sure her son doesn’t see an empty chair, it’s you.

The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, children’s artwork taped in uneven rows along the walls. Agatha makes her way toward the gym, heels clicking against the linoleum, her bag heavy with Professor Goatly tucked inside.

At the entrance, a cheerful woman with a clipboard greets her. “Name?”

“Agatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.”

The woman checks her list and smiles. “Two tickets. Is your guest with you?”

Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. “She’s running a little late, but she’ll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.”

“Of course,” the woman says, waving her inside.

The gym is already buzzing with rows of metal chairs filled with parents, the makeshift stage lined with autumn decorations of paper leaves, construction paper pumpkins, and a painted banner that says ‘Welcome Fall!’ in uneven letters. The teachers hustle small children behind the curtain, voices hushed but urgent.

Agatha takes her seat in the front row, the little folding chair creaking under her as she sits. It feels too small for her, but she barely notices.

Her eyes keep darting to the door. Every time it opens, her breath catches, but it’s just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.

Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nicky’s face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you don’t get here in time…

She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman you’d be here. She told herself you’d be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray you’ll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.

You’re not even sure how fast you drove, only that you threw the car into the first open space you saw, half crooked across the line, and bolted.

Now you’re sprinting across the school parking lot, bag thumping against your hip, lungs burning with the chill of late October air. Parents are strolling casually toward the doors, chatting, clutching travel mugs, and you weave between them, muttering frantic apologies as you go.

Inside, the halls are a blur of posters and backpacks. You catch the faint sound of a piano warming up from the gym, a teacher’s voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Don’t miss it. Don’t let him see that empty chair.

Your boots squeak against the polished floor as you skid around the corner. The clipboard woman at the door startles when you appear, breathless.

“Agatha Harkness’ guest,” you gasp, already reaching for your ID.

She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. “Go, go! They’re about to start.”

You dart inside, the gym already packed, rows of parents filling the folding chairs. The paper pumpkins and tissue paper leaves strung across the stage blur past as your eyes lock on the front row.

The moment the door swings open, Agatha’s eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someone’s walked in. But this time it’s you.

Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You don’t even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see who’s rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where she’d be.

Her chest seizes. Relief crashes over her so hard she almost sags in her chair.

You, her messy, shy, stubborn, beautiful girl, you showed up. Not for her but for him.

She knew she loved you before, of course she did, but this is another level entirely. A raw, bone deep love, sharpened into something fierce by the sight of you gasping for air in a school gym just to make sure her little boy won’t see an empty chair.

You drop into the seat beside her, still panting, and without thinking she reaches for you, her hand clamping onto your knee. Your hand covers hers, warm and steady despite your racing pulse, and Agatha has to bite down on the inside of her cheek to keep her composure.

She leans closer, her voice a rasp only you can hear. “You came.”

You manage a breathless grin. “I wasn’t about to let him look out and see an empty chair.”

Her throat tightens. She swallows hard, blinking back the sudden sting in her eyes, and squeezes your knee so hard you almost wince. If you weren’t in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks she’d kiss you until she cried.

Instead, she whispers, “God, I love you,” and turns back toward the stage just as the curtain begins to twitch.

The curtain ripples as the teachers shuffle the kids into place. Your hand slips quietly into Agatha’s bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so he’s sitting tall, facing the stage.

Agatha sees it and her composure cracks, the corner of her mouth tugging up into a grin so tender it makes your chest ache. She leans sideways, pressing a quick kiss into your hair, her lips lingering for a second longer than they should in public.

Her voice is a whisper, warm against your ear. “I want to tell him.”

You turn your head, blinking. “Tell him what?”

Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. “That you’re not just his babysitter.” She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. “That you’re Mommy’s partner. That you’re ours.”

Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. It’s just her, her hand squeezing yours, the weight of those words hanging heavy and bright between you.

Tears sting hot in your eyes before you can stop them. “You mean that?”

Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. “I’ve never meant anything more.”

You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you can’t hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, “I want that too.”

Professor Goatly sits proudly in your lap, a silent witness, as the first notes of the piano strike up.

The curtain shuffles open, revealing a row of tiny four year olds in paper leaf crowns, each one fidgeting in place, eyes scanning the crowd.

The teacher steps forward with a big smile. “Our youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!”

The room erupts into applause and camera flashes.

And there he is. Nicky. His curls bouncing under his crown, his little shirt tucked neatly into his trousers, Professor Goatly nowhere in sight because he’s safely on your lap.

His eyes dart nervously across the crowd, wide and searching. Then they land on the front row. On Agatha first, her hand raised in a steady wave, her smile as bright as he’s ever seen it.

And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.

Nicky freezes, blinking like he can’t believe it. Then his whole face lights up. He beams so hard his crown slips sideways, and he waves with both hands, bouncing on his toes.

You and Agatha both wave back, grinning like fools. She leans into you, her voice barely a whisper. “Look at him.”

The music cues again, and Nicky straightens with the other kids. He takes a deep breath, clutches the edge of his shirt, and sings at the top of his little lungs.

“Autumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down…”

Some of the kids sing at the top of their lungs, others mumble shyly into their collars. One little boy in the middle stares at the ceiling like the words might be written there, while another girl next to him is already chewing on her paper crown.

Nicky belts it. His voice wobbles on the high notes, but he sings directly toward the front row, his eyes darting between Agatha, you, and the goat on your lap. Each time he catches sight of all three, he grins wider, his crown slipping further over his curls.

“Red and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!”

Half the class comes in too early on orange and brown, dissolving into giggles that make the teacher clap frantically to bring them back together. Agatha’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter beside you, her hand covering yours tightly.

They launch into the second verse, even less in sync than the first, but no one in the audience cares. Parents beam, phones held high. A mom in the second row dabs at her eyes like she’s watching the Royal Opera instead of a preschool show.

One little girl forgets the words entirely and just twirls in a circle until she falls over. The boy next to her bursts into tears, tugging at his crown. But the rest keep going, the song chugging along through every wobble and mistake.

And through it all, Nicky keeps singing, cheeks flushed, his little fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he’s putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like he’s drawing strength from the fact you’re there, his family in the front row.

“All around the towwwwnnnn!”

The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. “Take a bow!”

They do, half tripping over each other, crowns tumbling, paper leaves scattering across the stage.

The audience erupts in applause, cheers echoing through the little gym. Cameras flash, parents whistle.

Nicky bows so low he nearly topples over, then pops back up, grinning so wide his face could split. The second his eyes find you and Agatha again, he waves with both arms, practically vibrating with pride.

Agatha squeezes your hand hard, her throat working. “My brave boy,” she whispers, voice thick.

The applause still thunders through the little gymnasium as the children are shepherded off the stage, paper crowns crooked, some of them already yawning from the excitement. Parents begin to shuffle, standing to get a better view, calling their kids’ names.

Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because she’s craning her neck to what door Nicky will come out of. You clutch Professor Goatly against your chest, your stomach already tight with anticipation.

And then there he is.

Nicky barrels out from the side of the stage with the other children, his crown now fully askew, his face flushed and glowing. He scans the crowd wildly, eyes wide.

“Mama!” he yells, spotting Agatha first. Then, a beat later, his gaze lands on you and the goat in your arms. His whole face lights up, brighter than the stage lights, and he bolts.

“Mama! Y/N!”

He collides into Agatha’s legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. “Darling boy, you were wonderful.”

“I did it!” he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. “I wasn’t even scared!”

You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agatha’s arms to grab both you and the plush at once. “Professor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!”

You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. “I saw everything. You were amazing.”

He wriggles until Agatha crouches down to set him between you both, his little arms looping around your necks, pulling you close in a clumsy, tight hug. “Best show ever!”

Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, ‘thank you’, even as she kisses the top of Nicky’s head again and again.

“Well, superstar,” she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, “I think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.”

His eyes go wide, glittering. “Celebrate?!”

“Yes honey.” She taps his nose, grinning. “What do you think? Pizza?”

“Pizza!” he squeals, throwing his arms up so enthusiastically his crown finally slips all the way off and clatters to the gym floor.

You bend to pick it up, laughing as you hand it back to him. “Pizza sounds perfect.”

Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. “Best show ever, best pizza ever!”

Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nicky’s little hand with the other. “Then it’s settled. Let’s get our superstar fed.”

You glance at her as the three of you head toward the exit together, her eyes catching yours with that same look from before, full of love, relief, and something deeper and fiercer than you’ve ever felt trained on you.

And for the first time, it really feels like you’re a family walking out of that school together.

[screaminglygay]

The Love Initiative (10 minutes)

pairing: agatha harkness x reader

summary: you get ten minutes with each of the girls, third is the nonchalant agatha harkness.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: bad flirting and pick-up lines as always

an: to the anon who requested agatha, don’t worry she is here!!:)

Natasha Romanoff has just looked directly into your sould, compared you to art and then walked away like she didn´t leave absolute chaos in your head. You stare at the ceiling, "what the hell was that?" You let out a big exhale.

You hear some muffle sounds from outside and the door slides open again, but it´s not another lady, it´s Sam this time. "Having fun?"

"I am," it sounds a little bit sarcastic, but Sam just smirks.

"Excellent," he winks at the camera.

"Natasha is very dangerous." Sam nods immediately.

"Oh, incredibly."

"Why would you let someone like that on this show?"

"We invited ten of them." Before you can recover from that statement, Sam walks back to the lineup of the ladies, waiting to capture your heart. And once again you feel the nerves coming.

"Alright," Sam chooses once again and his eyebrows shoot up. His eyes glances toward the girls, "I like this one. Agatha Harkness you´re next."

Agatha looks up and with a smirk, she says, "See?" She looks at others, "the universe knows quality."

Yelena groans, while Rio simply rolls her eyes, but Agatha ignores them all. With the confidence of someone who has never once second guessed a terrible idea, she starts walking toward the door, towards you.

When you meet her eyes, you can´t help but check her out once again. Rolled sleeves. Hands shoved casually into her pockets. The boots. The smirk... god she isn´t trying to impress you anymore, because she assumes she already has.

She stops in front of you. Looks you up and down, then smiles.

"Well," you immediately become suspicious.

"Well what?"

Agatha tilts her head, "I was worried Romanoff would´ve ruined my chances." Your face heats up and of course Agatha notices. Why are you so easy to read. God.

"That is very interesting."

"What is?" you blink.

"Nothing." Agatha sits down and you follow her. When you sit down, you notice that Agatha is relaxed, while having everything under control. Her hand is thrown over the backrest and one ankle resting on the opposite knee. You make a reasonable distance, but Agatha looks down, glancing at the gap, then at you and then back at the gap. You sigh and scoot slightly closer.

"There we go," you laugh at her words.

"You always get what you want, huh?" Agatha just smirks proudly and nods.

"That frequently?"

"When it comes to women? Absolutely." A grin tugs at your mouth, which makes her smile too, then she leans back. "So..."

You brace yourself, "so..."

"What do you think of me?"

You blink, "that is your opening question?"

She nods completly serious, watching you like a hawk.

"Oh my god, you´re actually waiting."

"Of course I´m waiting," she shrugs.

"Like 1-10 or you prefer different rating?"

"Whatever you prefer."

"That´s insane, you´re human being, not a product..." you slightly throw your hands.

"It´s television."

Okay, that is fair point.

You shake your head, "you´re confident..."

"I am."

"Very bold."

"Hm."

"A little dramatic."

Agatha presses a hand against her chest, "a little?" You laugh and she points triumphantly, "see? chemistry is already there."

"Me laughing doesn´t mean chemistry."

"It definetly is from my perspective." The conversation somehow spirals from there. Agatha tells stories, not all the way through, just halfway. Then gets distracted, then circles back. Then somehow lands the joke anyway. She talks a lot with her atractive hands. Every story sounds like she´s either about to solve a crime or start one. And the weirdest thing? You´re having a blast. A big one, actually.

Because beneath all the sarcasm and swagger, Agatha feels incredibly soft. At one point movie topic comes up and you share what your favorite movie is and of course Agatha judges you, affectionately.

Then you ask what she does when she´s not working, she shrugs. "Read."

"Really?"

"I know. Shocking," she rolls her eyes.

"I wasn´t going to say shocking."

"You were thinking it."

You were, to be honest.

"Maybe..." after a few seconds you smile, "do you have any cute reading glasses?"

"Just because my hair is a bit gray, you think I have reading glasses?"

"No... but if you read you do give a vibe of having the most cutesy reading glasses."

"Cutesy?"

"Yeah, cute ones, special ones, like not many people can see."

"You want to see my reading glasses?" Agatha tilts her head.

"I do. Because I know not many people have seen them."

And this time, it´s you, who got her, "they are red... with white dots." Before you can tease her more, she adds, "they are comfortable."

"Cute. But I still want to see them." You slightly lean into her hand on the back of the couch.

"Got it, anything else for you?" She smirks, playing this game with you.

"Uh huh, will I be the first to see them?" Agatha shakes her head.

"So Rio saw them?" The room goes silent, immediately.

"(Y/N)..." she starts.

Uh oh.

You want to apologize right away, maybe this was not the topic for a playful banter.

"You want to spend our precious ten minutes discussing another woman?"

"I-"

"Ouch."

"Agatha-"

"Ouch."

"Sorry, I was curious..."

"Devastating," she looks towards the ceiling, "I finally get alone time with a beautiful woman and she´s asking about Rio Vidal."

You laugh, not really defending your curiosity anymore. Agatha points at you, "this is emotional violence."

"Okay, I sincerily apologize, but you´re being too dramatic now."

"Correct," she doesn´t even deny it.

You stare at her, how her smile spreads across her face and suddenly you underestand why people keep getting pulled into her orbit. "You don´t have to answer, I was just... I heard the girls talk."

Agatha hums, "we dated."

"That´s it?"

"No."

You narrow your eyes and Agatha smirks, "we got history." The asnwer is simple, yet it´s enough. The moment passes, "enough about Rio..."

"Jealous?" Back into the playfull banter.

"Very," she says with a straight face, she scoots little closer, as she does, 10 minutes are over. "You´ve got to be kidding me..."

You both groan at the exact same time, that suprises both of you. And it also makes both of you laugh. Agatha rises from the couch, slowly, "well..."

"Well..."

She looks down at you for a second, little softer now than when she entered, less performace and more real. "You know," she says, shoving her hands into her pockets, "I was having a great time. But... you´ve got a terrible habit, you know that?"

"Oh?"

"You´re making people want another ten minutes with you." Your stomach immediately betrays you. Then Agatha leans slightly closer, "luckily for me, I´m very persistent."

And with that she opens the door and leaves. Agatha leaves ou smiling so hard your cheeks hurt.

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