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: Iâve been sitting on this prompt I like how it turned out. Itâs a short little fluff piece with windows of smut lol inspired by âTalking Bodiesâ 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 itâs an ear worm 10 years later
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 isnât 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.
Youâd be lying if you didnât 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 wasnât 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.
âMmm, MelissaâŚwhat are you doing?âGetting lost in the feeling of her proximity.
âTurning my brain off.â
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 sheâs 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 sheâs 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.
Youâve 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 timeâŚjust 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.
Youâre now hovering over her and sheâs 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. âThat wasnât me, I swear.â And she laughs at that.
âI know, hon. Just ignore it.â
âHow romantic.â
âJust kiss me again, y/n.â
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.
âCan you at least put some music on or even better take this damned plastic off?â
Her eyes are trained on your lips, youâre not even sure she hears you.
âMelissa?â And sheâs too busy kissing your neck and you moan as your hips press against her stomach.
âFuck.â 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. âHey Alexa!â
âExcuse me?!â She pulls back and your eyes twinkling with mirth. You know sheâs thinking you just called out somebody elseâs 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. âHey Alexa, play my Italian Enchantress playlist.â
âShuffling songs from Italian Enchantress playlist.â
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.
âYou have a playlist.â
âMmhmmâ you moan into the kiss before. Nibbling on her ear you whisper, voice low and gravely. âIâve thought about this.â You lick the shell of her ear. âAbout you.â
Her breathing is noticeably shallow. Sheâs 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.
âWhat were you doing when you were thinkingâŚabout me?â
You bite your lip only slightly nervous but you want to tell her. âAt first I would daydream.â You stroke your thumb along her lip. âThe thought of your lips on my skinâŚon my lips. My hands would start to wander.â 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. âThe thought of your body pressing into mine and fitting perfectly.â
âYou created a playlist about me?â
You bite your lip again, nodding. Only mildly embarrassed.
âHey.â She tilts your head up to look at her. Her other hand is pulling you closer by the front of your sweats. âIâve thought about you, too.â
She kisses the center of your chest before biting your shirt to pull you into her. Kissing her way up your jaw. âSo. Many. Times.â
âAfter movie nights. In the mornings when youâd stay the night. OnceâŚin the shower. You were downstairs making coffee.â
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.
âDonât you dare put me on that twat blocking plastic.â
âTwat blocking?!â 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.
âYou heard me.â You stretch your legs down til you feet are on the cold surface. âKitchen or bedroom?â
âBedroom. I wanna take my time with ya.â She saunters in front of you and you smack her ass in passing.
***
The next morning you wake up in Melissaâs 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. Youâve been dancing this dance with her for months and the thought of how your relationship has blossomed to new territories doesnât scare you. Youâre right where you belonged.
âYouâre thinking again.â She mumbles into your shoulder. âAll good things I hope.â
You kiss her hair again. She stretched to kiss your lips before settling against you again. âFor the most part, yeah. Really good things.â
âUgh fine.â She pinched your side. âIâll remove the plastic today. But not yet. Right now, I just wanna stay like this.â
âThen itâs all good things.â
You both burst into laughter and all though things have changedâŚnothing has really changed. And itâs perfect.
â â đđĄđ đŹđđ¨đŤđ˛ .
â â 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.
â â đđĄđ đ°đđŤđ§đ˘đ§đ đŹ .
â â 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 isnât anything fancy, which is why you donât bother trying too hard. Itâs 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 motherâs 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 donât care.
You shouldnât care. Itâs dinner in your momâs kitchen, not a date, not a trap, not an excuse to stare across the table at a woman whoâs 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 âmomâ 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. âNeed help, mom?â 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 itâs cute. Emily doesnât 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 momâs. Her ring glinting whenever she reaches for your motherâs hand. Calling her âmomâ 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 doesnât 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 isnât 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 canât take back, the low rasp of her voice in the mornings, the way she takes her glasses off when sheâs tired, the grey in her hair making her look sharper and colder and even more untouchable.
You start thinking about the word when youâre alone. Mom. Not because she is, but because she isnât, 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 youâd gone to bed early because sitting across from Emily had made your skin feel too tight.
Youâd heard her voice through the floorboards, low and controlled, the kind of voice that always sounds like she knows more than sheâs saying. Youâd 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 momâs 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 wasnât 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 youâd 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, âIs this what you do when your motherâs downstairs?â and the thought alone made you come so hard you had to bite your pillow to stay quiet.
The shame didnât 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 havenât been ruined by thoughts of her for weeks. Your mom is plating food, humming softly, completely unaware of the way Emilyâs 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 Emilyâs mouth curves like she caught you doing exactly what she expected. âHey, mom,â you say, too sweet, too casual, pretending your pulse isnât already climbing.
Your actual mom turns around with a warm smile. âYouâre in a mood.â You shrug, sliding into your chair like the leggings donât feel too tight against your skin already. âIâm always in a mood.â Emily sets her glass down with a soft click.
âThatâs true.â 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 sheâs innocent. Sheâs not.
You know sheâs not because when she passes behind your chair to get the salad bowl, her fingers brush the back of your hoodie. Itâs 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 youâve 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 youâre alone.
âYeah?â you ask, forcing yourself to look up. Emily tilts her head slightly, grey hair shifting against her cheek. âYouâre quiet tonight.â Your mom smiles, oblivious. âEnjoy it while it lasts.â
You laugh because youâre supposed to, but Emily doesnât laugh. She watches you over her glass, and her thumb slowly turns the wedding ring around her finger. Itâs 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 sheâs 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 donât. You lean against the doorway in your hoodie and leggings, watching her hands like theyâre doing something obscene instead of washing dishes. âYouâre doing it again,â Emily says without looking at you.
Your stomach drops. âDoing what?â She shuts the tap off, slowly dries her hands, then turns around with a look that makes your mouth go dry. âLooking at my ring like itâs something you want in your mouth.â
The words are so sudden and filthy that you forget how to breathe. Emily doesnât move closer yet. She just stands there, calm and elegant and devastating, your momâs wife with grey in her hair and your name sitting like a secret behind her teeth.
âThatâs not true,â you say, but your voice betrays you immediately. Emilyâs eyes drop to your thighs when you shift. âNo?â she asks. âThen why do you keep squeezing your legs together every time I touch it?â Your face burns, but the embarrassment only makes your body hotter.
She notices that too. Her smile fades into something darker. âYou started calling me mom to be cruel,â she says quietly. âNow you say it because you like what it does to you.â
You swallow hard, fingers curling into your hoodie sleeves. âYou donât know that.â Emily steps closer. âI know exactly that.â Her voice drops, smooth and certain, and suddenly thereâs nowhere to put your hands, nowhere to look except her face, her mouth, her ring.
âYou like pretending itâs spite,â she says. âYou like acting like youâre only trying to get under my skin.â She stops in front of you, close enough that you can smell wine and soap and her perfume. âBut you and I both know better.â Her left hand lifts, and the ring glints right before her fingers touch your jaw. âDonât we?â
You could still walk away. Thatâs the last sane thought you have before Emilyâs thumb drags over your lower lip. Instead, you tilt your face into her hand like youâve been waiting for permission. Her eyes darken, and for one second, her control visibly shifts. Not gone, never gone, but strained.
âSay it,â she murmurs. Your throat tightens. âEmily.â 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. âThatâs not what you called me earlier.â
Your whole body jolts with want so sharp it almost hurts. âDonât,â you whisper, but it doesnât sound like a refusal. It sounds like begging. Emilyâs hand tightens slightly around your throat, careful and firm, and the ring presses against your pulse.
âDonât what?â she asks. âDonât make you admit it?â Her other hand finds your waist through the oversized hoodie, fingers pressing in like she wants to feel how badly youâre shaking.
âDonât make you say youâve been thinking about your motherâs wife with your hand between your legs?â The sound you make is broken and humiliating. Emilyâs eyes flare. âOh, sweetheart.â
The kiss happens fast after that, but it doesnât feel impulsive. It feels inevitable. Emilyâs 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. âYouâre trouble,â she breathes against your mouth.
âYouâve been trouble since the wedding.â You whimper when her knee presses between your thighs. Emilyâs laugh is quiet and cruel. âThere it is.â
âYouâre married to my mom,â 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.
âI know.â Her fingers tighten on your waist. âThat shouldâve made me stop looking.â Your eyes flutter shut when her knee presses harder between your thighs. âIt didnât.â
She kisses you again, slower this time, like she wants you to feel every bad choice. âAnd now youâre standing here wet through your leggings because I put my hand around your throat.â
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.
âCareful,â she warns. âYouâre getting bold.â You look at her through your lashes, breath shaking, and say the one word you know will ruin her composure. âMom.â
Emilyâs face goes still. For a second, thereâs only the distant sound of your motherâs voice upstairs and the thunder of your own pulse. Then Emily says, very softly, âSay it like that again and Iâll make sure you canât sit through dessert.â
Your legs nearly give out. Emily catches you easily, her mouth curving as if the weakness pleases her. âThatâs what I thought,â 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. âAll casual for dinner,â she says,
fingertips slipping under your waistband just enough to make you stop breathing. âLeggings, hoodie, acting innocent.â Her ring presses against your throat again. âNothing innocent about you, is there?â
Your answer is a shaky little no. Emily smiles. âGood.â 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 Emilyâs expression shifts into something hungrier, rougher, almost disbelieving.
âFuck,â she whispers. âYou really have been sitting at that table like this.â 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 canât see much with your leggings still in the way. âAll that because of my ring?â Her thumb presses lightly against your clit, and your knees buckle. âOr because you like calling me something you shouldnât?â
âEmily,â you gasp. She doesnât let you get away with it. Her hand at your throat tightens just enough to make your eyes snap back to hers. âTry again.â
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. âMom.â
Emilyâs eyes darken so sharply it feels like being touched all over. Her fingers circle your clit with slow, cruel precision. âFilthy girl,â she murmurs. âYouâre gonna look me in the eye while I make you cum for your mom.â
Emilyâs 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 sheâs pulled you so close to the edge you can barely think.
Emilyâs 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 momâs voice faintly drifting down the stairs as she finishes her call.
Emilyâs 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, âNot a sound.â
You nod too fast, lips parted, chest rising hard under the oversized hoodie. Emilyâs fingers slide once more through your wetness, slow and deliberate, like she canât 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. âGreedy,â 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.
Emilyâs gaze snaps to your mouth, warning and satisfaction mixed together. âCareful,â she breathes, âunless you want her to ask why youâre shaking.â
Your momâs steps get closer, each one landing like a countdown. Emily doesnât rush, which is somehow worse than if she did. She eases your hoodie back down over your waist, smooths the fabric like sheâs just fixing your clothes, like she hasnât 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. âFix your face,â 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 Emilyâs eyes darken as if the sound almost tempts her into ruining both of you.
âEmily,â 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. âNo,â she says.
âYou donât get to sound like that when sheâs ten feet away.â Your thighs press together on instinct, and her gaze drops for half a second. âGod,â she mutters under her breath, âyouâre impossible.â
Then she steps away from you like nothing happened. One second sheâs close enough that you can feel her breath, her perfume, the heat of her body, and the next sheâs across the kitchen doorway, picking up a dish towel with infuriating ease.
Youâre left against the wall, legs unsteady, leggings damp, cheek still marked by the slick from her fingers. Your pulse hammers so hard youâre 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 didnât wash them.
The knowledge makes your stomach twist and your pussy clench again, because sheâs walking back into the role of your momâs wife while still wearing you on her skin. She glances at you once, quick and sharp, and mouths, âBreathe.â
You try. It doesnât work very well. Your mom appears in the doorway a second later, phone still in hand, smiling like she hasnât just walked into the aftershock of something that could destroy the entire house.
âSorry,â she says, looking between you and Emily without suspicion. âThat took longer than I thought.â Emily turns toward her with that smooth, practiced warmth, dish towel draped over one hand.
âEverything okay?â 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 momâs shoulder.
That glance nearly ruins you. Itâs brief, private, and filthy, a reminder that she knows exactly how wet you still are under your leggings while your mom stands right there.
âYou okay?â your mom asks, turning toward you with a little frown. âYou look flushed.â Your mouth goes dry so fast it almost hurts. Emilyâs brow lifts slightly behind her, not helping at all.
âYeah,â you say, voice rougher than it should be, âjust warm.â Your mom hums sympathetically, completely convinced. Emily sets the towel down and says, âShe did say she was in a mood.â
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 canât answer because Emily is standing behind her, looking at you like she knows exactly what you still want in your mouth.
âSure,â you manage finally, gripping the counter behind you. Emily smiles faintly, slow and cruel around the edges. âGood girl,â she says, soft enough that only you understand what it means.
The three of you move back to the table like nothing happened. Thatâs 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 nothingâs wrong. Thatâs 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 isnât aware of the way your eyes keep dropping to her fingers.
Your mom nudges Emilyâs 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 thatâll save you from wanting your momâs wife at the dinner table.
You donât notice her foot at first. It starts subtle, almost innocent, the edge of Emilyâs shoe brushing your ankle beneath the table. You freeze with your spoon halfway to your mouth, heart stuttering hard enough that youâre sure your mom must hear it.
Emily doesnât 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 isnât going to stop there.
The toe of her shoe reaches the inside of your knee, and you almost choke on your next breath. Emilyâs face stays calm, but her eyes flick to yours for one sharp second when your legs part without permission. Itâs barely anything, just a small shift, but itâs 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 youâve forgotten where you are. Emilyâs mouth curves faintly as she takes another bite of dessert.
âEverything okay?â your mom asks, glancing at you when you go too still. You nod too quickly, forcing your shoulders to relax. âYeah,â you say, voice thin. âJust hot.â Your mom hums, unconcerned, and scoops up another spoonful of ice cream.
Emilyâs 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 sheâs doing it while your mom sits inches away. Your breath stutters, and Emily glances at you over her spoon like sheâs 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 youâre 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.
Emilyâs eyes darken, but she doesnât pull away. Instead, she presses harder, making you feel the shape of her foot grinding against your swollen pussy through your leggings.
âYouâre quiet tonight,â your mom says, smiling like sheâs teasing. âUsually I canât get you to shut up.â 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. âJust tired,â you manage. Emily hums softly, like she believes you.
âLong day?â 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 youâre still sensitive from earlier. Youâre 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. Sheâs not even pretending itâs 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. Youâre 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 doesnât help. The chocolate smears into the vanilla, soft and messy, and your mind flashes back to
Emilyâs 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.
Emilyâs 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. Youâre grinding back against Emilyâs shoe because the pressure feels too good to ignore.
âPass me the napkins?â your mom asks suddenly. You jerk like youâve been caught. Emily doesnât 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.
âThanks,â 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 sheâs testing exactly how much you can take before you make a sound.
Youâre embarrassingly close. Your body never really came down from the kitchen, and now every slow grind of Emilyâs 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 isnât steady enough. Emily sees it and smiles into her next bite of brownie.
âYou donât like it?â she asks your mom, nodding toward your bowl. Your mom turns to you. âIs the brownie too rich?â You shake your head quickly, cheeks burning. âNo, itâs good,â you say, and Emilyâs 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 doesnât let up. She rubs you slower now, cruelly slow, the toe of her shoe circling against your clit through the wet fabric like sheâs got all the time in the world.
The pressure isnât enough to make you come yet, but itâs 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. âYouâre fidgeting,â she says softly.
Your mom laughs. âShe always does that.â Emilyâs eyes stay on you. âIâve noticed.â 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. âYou sure youâre okay?â your mom asks. Emilyâs foot grinds harder before you can answer.
âYeah,â you say quickly, too quickly. âIâm fine.â Emilyâs 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.
âEyes up,â Emily says softly. Itâs quiet enough that your mom doesnât 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.
Emilyâs eyes darken. âGood,â she murmurs. Your mom looks between you both, smiling faintly. âWhat?â she asks. Emily doesnât miss a beat. âJust making sure sheâs still awake.â
Your mom laughs, but you can barely hear it over the rush of blood in your ears. Emilyâs foot keeps rubbing you, slow and methodical, every stroke pushing pleasure tighter in your lower stomach. Youâre 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 sheâs won.
Youâre right on the edge again. Itâs 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 youâre one careless movement away from coming at the table. Emilyâs gaze holds yours, calm and cruel. Her foot presses up one more time, grinding slow and hard against your clit. âCareful,â she whispers, so softly only you hear it, âor dessertâs going to get very interesting.â
The pressure gets too much too fast, and you know youâre going to break if you sit there another minute. Emilyâs 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 sheâs 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 youâre 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 doesnât.
Every swallow feels too thick, every breath feels too loud, every shift of Emilyâs 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 youâre 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
Emilyâs 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. âYou okay?â she asks, brows knitting softly.
Emilyâs foot stills beneath the table, but she doesnât 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. âYeah,â you say, voice tight, âwent down wrong.â
Your momâs face softens. âSlow down, sweetheart. Itâs not going anywhere.â Emilyâs 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 nothingâs wrong.
âMaybe sheâs just tired,â 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. Emilyâs smile stays polite.
You shove the last bite of brownie into your mouth because itâs 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 Emilyâs shoe.
You can still feel where her fingers had been earlier, the ghost of them under your waistband, the way sheâd 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 sheâs filing that reaction away for later.
You set your spoon down too carefully. âI think Iâm gonna head upstairs,â you say, trying to sound casual even though your voice comes out rough around the edges. Your mom looks up immediately.
âAlready?â Thereâs 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.
âYeah, Iâm just really tired.â Emilyâs gaze drops to your legs as you stand, quick and private, and you know sheâs 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 doesnât notice anything except your flushed face.
Your mom sets her spoon down. âAre you sure youâre okay?â she asks, softer this time. âYouâve been quiet all evening.â You force a small laugh, but it sounds thin even to you. âIâm fine, promise. Just warm and tired.â
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.
âShe did say itâs hot in here,â Emily says, and the sound of her voice makes your pussy pulse all over again. Your mom nods slowly, still not fully convinced. âDo you want me to bring you some water?â
âNo, Iâve got some upstairs.â The answer comes too fast, and you soften it with another weak smile. âReally, Iâm okay.â 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.
âText me if you need anything, okay?â she says. You squeeze her hand, guilt burning under your ribs. âI will.â Across the table, Emily watches the exchange with an expression you canât read, except for the tiny movement of her thumb turning her wedding ring around her finger.
You donât 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.
âGoodnight,â 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. âNight,â you say, still not looking at her. Emily waits half a beat, then adds, âSleep well.â
The words slide under your skin. You know she knows you wonât. You know she knows exactly where your hand is going the second you get behind a locked door, knows youâre 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 doesnât 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 Emilyâs shoe against your cunt like she never stopped touching you.
You barely make it to your room before your body gives up on pretending itâs 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 canât 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. âFuck,â you whisper, staring at the ceiling like it might save you from yourself.
It doesnât. 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.
Youâre soaked, slick and swollen from being teased too long, your pussy sensitive from Emilyâs 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 youâve been waiting for permission.
You think about Emily saying, âEyes up,â 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.
âMom,â you whisper, and the word makes your stomach twist. Not real, not like that, never like that, but filthy because she isnât, because Emily is your motherâs 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 youâre alone.
âMom.â 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. Itâs 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 Emilyâs watching even though she isnât.
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. Youâre 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 doesnât. It makes your fingers slip lower, teasing your entrance with a shaky little whimper because youâre 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 isnât enough because it isnât 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. Sheâd 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.
âEmily,â you breathe, then correct yourself on a shuddering exhale. âMom.â 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, âThere it is,â like she knew youâd 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. âPlease, please, Emily, fuck.â 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.
âMom,â 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, âGood girl,â and the aftershock makes you jerk all over again.
When it finally fades, youâre 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 doesnât feel strong enough to beat the satisfaction. Not yet. Not when you can still feel the ghost of Emilyâs foot against your pussy and the imagined weight of her ring at your throat.
Then thereâs a soft sound downstairs. A laugh, maybe your momâs, followed by Emilyâs 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 Emilyâs 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 hadnât taken a single sip from, because her attention had stayed fixed on the staircase since youâd 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 youâd squeezed your thighs around her foot under the table.
It shouldâve made her ashamed enough to stop. Instead, it had left a low, persistent ache between her own thighs, one sheâd been ignoring with the same discipline she used for everything else. Finally, she exhaled through her nose and typed, Still awake?
Your reply didnât come instantly, but the typing indicator did, appearing and disappearing twice before the message landed. you know i am. Emilyâs 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 hadnât gone upstairs to sleep, not after the way youâd looked at her across the table like sheâd 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 didnât 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 youâd choose. i lied. A quiet, humourless laugh threatened to slip out of her, but she swallowed it down just as your mother looked over.
âWhatâs funny?â 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.
âNothing,â 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, Iâm shocked. Youâve never lied to me before.
Your response came fast this time, sharp enough that Emily could almost feel the bratty tilt of your mouth. donât 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 youâd 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 sheâd 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 sheâd done and hadnât finished. She wondered if youâd 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 motherâs kitchen like a decent wife.
Emilyâs hand flexed once against the table, ring tapping softly against the wood. She opened her eyes and typed with cruel restraint, Youâre not nearly as funny as you think you are.
Your next message arrived like youâd 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 shouldâve stopped the second she sent the first message, shouldâve left you upstairs to your restless little fantasy and gone to bed beside the woman sheâd married six months ago.
Instead, she was sitting there, turned on and irritated and far too aware of how easily youâd gotten under her skin. Your mother walked over then, drying her hands on a towel before leaning down to press a kiss to Emilyâs temple.
âDonât stay up too late,â she said, gentle and trusting. Emily looked up at her, smiled like she hadnât been imagining your slick thighs around her foot, and said,
âI wonât.â 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? Emilyâs stomach tightened, and the arousal sheâd been trying to smother turned hotter because you knew exactly what you were doing. You werenât 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. thatâs 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 youâd already won. She typed, Goodnight.
For a moment, she thought that would be the end of it. Then your final message appeared. goodnight, mom. Emilyâs 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 youâd sharpened into something obscene just by knowing how badly sheâd 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 wasnât sure sheâd stay downstairs.
Emily didnât 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 didnât. 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 sheâd 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 sheâd 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 shouldâve 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 didnât matter and facts did. She read the same paragraph three times before realizing she hadnât 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 youâd 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 sheâd 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. âGet it together,â 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 wouldnât, lying with the same ease sheâd used all evening.
Hours passed in fragments, measured by the microwave clock and the cooling coffee she never drank. She shouldâve 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 sheâd been holding the folder upside down for several seconds, which wouldâve been funny if it hadnât 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 hadnât 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 youâd 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 shouldâve 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 Emilyâs chest like guilt, heavy and blunt.
She shouldâve gone in. She shouldâve 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 sheâd married six months ago and feeling the full ugliness of what sheâd allowed herself to want. Her wife trusted her. The house trusted her. Everyone trusted her to be controlled, responsible, safe.
Emilyâs 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 sheâd 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 shouldnât 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 hadnât yet opened.
Youâre 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 youâd 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 youâd 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 itâs 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 donât breathe. Then Emily steps inside and closes the door behind her with a soft click.
âYouâre awake,â 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 youâve been caught doing exactly what you were doing. It doesnât work.
Emilyâs 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 doesnât miss the phone in your hand either. She doesnât miss anything. âCouldnât sleep,â you say, and your voice sounds rough even to you. Emilyâs mouth barely moves, but something in her expression says she expected that answer. âNo,â she murmurs. âI didnât think you could.â
You swallow hard. âWhy are you here?â
That makes her pause. Her hand stays on the door for a moment longer before she lets go and steps farther into the room. âThatâs a good question.â It should sound like a joke, but it doesnât. It sounds like sheâs 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, theyâre darker than before. âDonât do that,â she says quietly.
Your breath catches. âDo what?â
âAct like I didnât see.â
Heat floods your face so fast it almost hurts. You sit up slowly, blanket slipping to your lap, hoodie bunching high on your thighs. Emilyâs 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. âToo late for modesty,â she says. The words hit low in your stomach. Your fingers curl into the blanket. âI didnât know you were coming in.â
âNo,â Emily says. âYou just hoped I would.â
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 shouldnât be here, but you can see the tension under it now. The tightness in her jaw. The way her breathing isnât quite even. The way her ringed hand flexes once at her side. âDid you touch yourself?â she asks.
Your whole body goes still.
Emily doesnât soften the question. She doesnât look embarrassed by it. She just watches you from the foot of your bed, her voice low and steady, like sheâs asking something she already knows. Your pulse starts pounding.
âEmily,â you whisper, because saying anything else feels impossible. Her brows lift slightly. âThatâs not an answer.â You look away, but only for a second before her voice cuts through the dark again. âLook at me.â
You do.
Her expression changes when she sees your face properly, sees the guilt and arousal tangled there so badly you canât hide either one. âYou did,â she says, and it isnât a question anymore.
Your thighs press tighter under the blanket, the ache returning immediately, humiliating and hot. Emilyâs eyes lower again, following the movement. âWas it enough?â she asks. The room feels too warm. Your answer is barely a breath. âNo.â
Emily closes her eyes for half a second. When she opens them again, something has shifted. âYou shouldnât say things like that to me.â Her voice is rougher now, less controlled around the edges. âYou know that, donât you?â
You nod, though the motion feels weak and useless. âThen why do you keep doing it?â she asks. You donât know if she means the texts, the staring, the word, the way youâre looking at her now. Maybe all of it. Maybe she wants you to admit every part.
âBecause you keep coming back,â you whisper.
Emilyâs jaw tightens.
For one second, neither of you moves. Then she laughs under her breath, not amused, not really, more like youâve found the ugliest truth in the room and said it before she could stop you.
âYouâre getting very brave for someone who couldnât even sit through dessert.â 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.
âDid you think about it?â she asks. âMy foot between your legs while your mother asked if you were okay?â Your breath breaks. Emily watches the reaction with dark satisfaction. âOf course you did.â
You whisper, âDonât say it like that.â
âWhy?â Her hand reaches down, fingers brushing the edge of the blanket near your knee. âBecause it makes you wet again?â She doesnât 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. âStill looking at it.â Her hand slides higher over the blanket, stopping just above your thigh. âEven after you came thinking about it.â
Your face burns. âHow do you know?â
âBecause I know you.â Her voice drops. âAnd because youâre not nearly as quiet as you think you are.â
The words punch the air out of your lungs. Your eyes go wide, and
Emilyâs expression turns almost cruel in its restraint. âRelax,â she says softly. âShe didnât hear you.â You donât know whether thatâs 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. âBut I did,â she says.
You can barely speak. âYou heard?â
âEnough.â
Your lips part, but no sound comes out. Emilyâs eyes lower to your mouth, then back to your face. âMy name,â she says. âThen the other one.â Her ringed hand lifts, and two fingers catch beneath your chin, tilting your face up.
âYou said it so sweetly when you thought no one could hear.â Your breath shakes. Emily leans closer, her perfume filling your head. âSay it again.â
You shake your head automatically, but the denial is weak. âEmilyâŚâ
Her thumb strokes your chin. âThatâs not what I asked.â
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, âMom.â
Emilyâs eyes go dark.
For a second, she doesnât 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.
âThatâs what I thought,â she murmurs. âYou ran upstairs, touched this pretty pussy, and said that while you came?â Your hips jerk under the blanket at the phrase. Emilyâs grip tightens just enough to make you still. âAnswer me.â
âYes,â you breathe.
Emily closes her eyes again, slower this time, like sheâs trying to survive the answer. âYouâre going to ruin me,â she says quietly. It doesnât sound like an accusation. It sounds like a fact. Then her eyes open, and the control is back, darker now. âShow me.â
Your stomach flips. âWhat?â 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. âShow me what you did.â
Emily doesnât look away when you reach for the hem of your hoodie. Thatâs the first thing that ruins you. Thereâs no polite glance toward the wall, no shameful turn of her head, no last-second attempt to pretend this isnât 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 sheâd been wearing downstairs.
âGo on,â she says quietly. âShow me.â Your fingers shake around the fabric, and Emilyâs eyes follow the movement like sheâs already imagining whatâs 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 sheâs forgotten sheâs supposed to feel guilty.
Her eyes lower to your chest, and the sharp breath she takes is so quiet you almost miss it. Almost. âFuck,â 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. âDonât hide now.â
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 doesnât soften. If anything, it gets hungrier. âYou were brave enough to touch yourself thinking about me,â she says, voice low and smooth. âYou can be brave enough to take those off.â
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.
Emilyâs gaze drops between your legs the second youâre bare. The silence that follows feels louder than anything she couldâve said. Youâre so wet itâs impossible to hide, slick shining against your folds, your lips swollen and parted from how long youâve 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 youâd 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. Emilyâs jaw tightens. Her ringed hand flexes once against her thigh. For the first time all night, she doesnât look composed at all.
You expect her to say something cruel. Something controlled. Something that makes this feel like sheâs 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.
Thereâs guilt somewhere in her face, but itâs buried deep under hunger now, too weak to win. âYouâre beautiful,â she says, and the roughness in her voice almost makes you whimper.
Then her eyes darken further. âAnd soaked.â Your breath catches. Emily leans forward slightly, elbows near her knees, gaze fixed between your legs like she has no intention of pretending she isnât looking. âAll that from my foot under the table?â
You swallow hard, nodding because your voice doesnât work yet. Emilyâs eyebrow lifts. âWords.â The command hits you low, familiar and devastating. âYes,â you whisper. Your thighs try to close again, but Emilyâs 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. âNo,â she says softly. âYou wanted me to see what I did to you.â She pushes your knee outward with steady pressure. âSo let me see.â
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 youâre closer to the pillows. Emily doesnât 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 sheâs trying to keep whatever control she has left. It doesnât look like much.
âJesus,â 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.
Itâs subtle, but itâs 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 canât stop the soft sound that slips out of you.
Emily hears it, and her mouth curves. âThat sound,â she says, voice dropping into something darker. âYou made that when you came earlier, didnât you?â Your face goes hot, but you nod.
âI heard enough to know,â 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. âYou said my name first.â
Her fingers pause higher, close enough that your hips tilt toward her on instinct. âThen you said the other one.â Your nipples tighten even more at the memory, and Emilyâs eyes flick to your chest. âYou like being looked at like this, donât you?â
âBy you,â 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 doesnât 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.
âYouâre making it very hard to remember why I shouldnât touch you,â she murmurs. Your breath breaks when her thumb grazes the underside of your breast. âMaybe I donât want you to remember.â
Emilyâs 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.
âLook at you,â she whispers. âSpread out for me, wet enough to ruin the sheets, nipples hard because you like knowing Iâm staring.â Her thumb pinches lightly, and your hips jerk. âFilthy girl.â
âEmily,â you gasp. Her eyes narrow. âWrong name.â 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.
âSay it,â 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, âMom.â Emily closes her eyes for half a second, and when she opens them, theyâre completely dark.
Your fingers hover for a second before they move, trembling slightly in the space between your thighs. Emily doesnât touch you yet, doesnât rush you, doesnât give you any mercy, only sits there on your bed with one knee pressed into the mattress and watches like sheâs waiting to see how badly youâll 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 youâve even made contact.
âGo on,â she murmurs, voice rough and quiet. âYou wanted me to see.â Your pussy clenches at the sound of her voice, slick gathering hotter between your folds. Emilyâs mouth curves when she notices. âSo show me exactly how you touched yourself thinking about me.â
The first touch makes your whole body jerk. Your fingertips slide over your clit, swollen and oversensitive from everything sheâs done to you already, and a thin, broken sound escapes before you can stop it. Emilyâs 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.
Thereâs 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. âThatâs it,â she says softly. âSlow.â
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 Emilyâs eyes narrow. âI said slow.â
Her voice doesnât rise, but the command lands hard enough to make you freeze. Your hand stills against your pussy, fingertips wet and trembling.
Emilyâs gaze drags up your body, over your stomach, your chest, your hardened nipples, then back to your face. âYouâre not in charge just because itâs your hand.â Heat rushes through you so fast your thighs shake.
âSorry,â you whisper.
Emily tilts her head. âTry again.â
Your throat works around the word before you can stop it. âSorry, mom.â
Her expression changes. Itâs 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 isnât real. Emilyâs wedding ring flashes as her hand settles beside your hip, close but not touching. âBetter,â she murmurs. âNow keep going.â
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.
Emilyâs breathing changes before her face does. Itâs 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. Sheâs trying to control it, trying to keep herself still, but her eyes betray her every time your fingers brush your entrance. âDonât look so pleased with yourself,â she says, though her voice is rougher than before. âYouâre the one spread open for me.â
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. Emilyâs gaze sharpens.
Her ringed hand flexes against the sheets, knuckles tightening like sheâs fighting the urge to replace your hand with hers. You curl your finger inside yourself, trying to find the angle sheâd found so easily earlier, but it isnât the same.
Itâs 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. âNot as good when itâs you, is it?â
You shake your head, cheeks burning. âNo.â
âNo what?â
You know sheâs 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.
âNo, mom,â you breathe. Emily inhales through her nose, gaze locked on the place where your hand disappears between your thighs. âGod,â she mutters, almost too quietly. âYouâre a problem.â
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 Emilyâs eyes flick up to watch your face.
âSensitive?â she asks. You nod, rubbing your clit faster despite trying to listen. âWords.â âYes,â you gasp. âIâm sensitive.â Emilyâs mouth curves. âI can see that.â Her gaze drops to your chest again, watching your nipple tighten between your fingers. âYou get like this when you know Iâm looking?â
You nod again before remembering her rule. âYes, mom.â
The praise is quiet when it comes. âGood girl.â 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. âNo hiding,â she says. âYou donât get to spread yourself out for me and then get shy when I actually watch.â
âI canât,â you whimper, even though you keep going.
âYou can.â Emilyâs thumb strokes the inside of your thigh, dangerously close to your slick folds but still withholding. âYou already did once tonight.â Her eyes meet yours, dark and knowing. âTell me what you thought about.â Your hand falters.
âEmilyâŚâ Her fingers tighten lightly on your thigh. âTell me.â Your breath shakes as your thumb circles your clit, pleasure winding tighter, hotter. âYour ring,â you admit, voice barely there. âYour hand. Your foot under the table.â
Emilyâs gaze goes almost black. âAnd?â
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. âYou hearing me,â you whisper.
âYou coming upstairs.â Emilyâs lips part, and for once, she doesnât have a quick response ready. The sight makes your pussy clench hard around your finger. âYou making me say it.â
Her hand slides higher on your thigh, stopping just short of touching your pussy. âSay it now.â
You shake your head, overwhelmed, but your body betrays you again, hips lifting toward her hand. Emily doesnât give in. She just keeps you open, watching your own fingers stretch and rub and fail to satisfy you the way hers would. âSay it,â she repeats, softer. âThe way you said it when you thought I couldnât hear.â
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. âMom.â
Emilyâs 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 isnât control. âAgain,â she says.
âMom,â 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. âThatâs it,â she murmurs. âMake yourself cum like you did before.â Her voice drops lower, rough with her own arousal. âLet me watch what that word does to you.â
You add a second finger with a broken moan, stretching yourself, trying to take more because sheâs looking at you like she wants to ruin you properly. Itâs messy, slick, almost too much, your pussy swallowing your fingers while your thumb works your clit in frantic little circles.
Emilyâs hand stays on your thigh, holding you open, her wedding ring cold against your skin. âPretty,â she says, almost under her breath. âSo fucking pretty like this.â
Youâre shaking now, too close to be embarrassed by the sounds youâre making. Your fingers move faster, wet and clumsy, your thighs trembling around Emilyâs hand as she watches without blinking.
The room feels airless, every little noise too loud, the slick movement of your hand, your broken breathing, Emilyâs rough inhale when you moan that word again. âPlease,â you whimper, though you donât know what youâre asking for.
Emilyâs thumb presses into your thigh. âDonât ask me for permission if youâre going to use your own hand.â Her mouth hovers near your jaw. âEarn it.â
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. âThere you go,â she murmurs, voice rough enough to make you shake harder. âThatâs it.â
Your hips keep twitching, pleasure rolling through you in hot waves while slick smears over your fingers and inner thighs. Emilyâs 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 doesnât move for a long second.
She just looks at you, chest rising unevenly, grey hair falling forward, expression dark with want sheâs stopped pretending not to feel. Then her gaze lifts to your face. âYouâre impossible,â she says quietly.
You laugh once, breathless and shaky. âYou came in.â Emilyâs mouth tightens, but she doesnât deny it. Her ringed fingers slide slowly from your thigh to your wrist, lifting your slick hand between you. âAnd youâre going to clean up the mess you made before I decide what happens next.â
Emilyâs fingers close around your wrist before you can lower your hand. For one second, you think sheâs 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 doesnât 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 sheâs making a point of every second.
You go still beneath her. Too still, maybe, except for the trembling you canât 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. âThere,â she murmurs, voice rough. âClean.â
You donât know who moves first. Maybe you do. Maybe you lean up because you canât stand the distance anymore, or maybe Emily decides sheâs 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. Thereâs lust there, unmistakable now, shameless in a way she hadnât allowed herself before. But thereâs control too. Brutal, deliberate control. âBut not tonight,â she says.
The words land like denial and command at once. Your face crumples before you can stop it, lips parting around a whine youâre too exhausted and turned on to swallow.
âMom,â you whisper, still clutching at her shirt. Her expression tightens at the sound of her name, but she doesnât give in. Her hand closes over yours and carefully peels your fingers from the fabric.
âNo,â she says softly. âNot tonight.â 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.
âI need to get back to my wife,â she says.
Itâs cruel because itâs 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 hasnât 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. âStill?â she asks softly.
You donât answer. You canât. 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.
âSleep,â she says. The word should be simple. It isnât. Not in her voice. Not with her mouth still damp from your fingers and her eyes still black with everything sheâs refusing to do. You swallow hard, staring up at her from the bed. âAre you really leaving?â
Emilyâs smirk returns slowly, meaner this time, threaded with something almost fond. âYes.â 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. âBecause if I stay,â she murmurs, âyou wonât sleep at all.â Your eyes flutter at the touch, and she laughs quietly under her breath. âAnd neither will I.â
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 sheâs 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.
âSweet dreams,â 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 sheâd sucked your fingers clean. Her smirk sharpens.
âDaughter.â
Then sheâs 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.
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
Itâs not that Amelia dislikes you, sheâs just⌠wary.
As Emily told you, itâs only been the two of them for a very long time. Itâs 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 â 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, â-you looking for anything specific at the mall?â
âNot really,â she says, looking out the window.
âI have the whole day, so don't hold back. We can go to any store you want.â
âOkay,â 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. âThere's a new cafe, so I actually wanted to try their iced matcha.â
Surprised she's even sharing her plans, you smile, âokay! I love iced coffee, even if your mother can't stand it.â
Amy actually chuckles, âshe's so affronted by it, it's kinda ridiculous.â
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, âdo you like this?â
They're just jeans, you guess, but this is a moment. âUm, yeah. I like the slightly flared legs.â
She nods absentmindedly, looking down at the hanger in her hand, âI was wondering if it's too flared.â
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.
âThanks for coming with me,â she says, her voice low and sort of shy, much like Emily's when she's uncomfortable talking about feelings. âMom said it's your day off work so you could be doing anything else.â
âOh,â you want her to reassure her, but not embarrass her, and, God, is it a hard line to toe. âI wasn't doing anything.â
âStill,â she insists after a bite of her chicken wrap, âyou didn't have to come. So, thank you, I'm having a good time.â
You smile, your voice softening unconsciously, âof course, Amy.â
After pondering something, you decide to explain your reticence in coming.
âI knew you'd be upset your mom couldn't come, so I didn't want to intrude even more on your day,â you say, biting your lip with uncertainty. âI just wanted to lift your mood a little, and I'm having a good time, too.â
Amelia, almost, sort of smiles. âYou did.â
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 â 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.
âHey, is everything okay?â You ask in an even voice, not wanting to alarm Amy, who's still happily eating on the other side of the table.
âIt's Emily,â she says, and your heart practically drops into your stomach. âShe's fine, conscious, don't worry.â
âHm?â You only hum, a little nervous at her tone, but still trying to keep it from reaching Amy.
âShe got into an altercation with an UnSub, hit her head a little, but they said she doesn't seem to be concussed.â JJ continues, and you can tell she's distressed, even if she's trying to reassure you. âThe guy had a knife, hit her arm, but they've stopped the bleeding and she's all bandaged up now.â
âJesus,â you mumble despite yourself. âI'm with Amelia now. We're gonna go over there. Can you text me the address?â
âOf 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.â
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.
âEverything okay?â She asks carefully, having picked up on the conversation when you mentioned her name.
âYeah, everything's fine,â you start, taking your time and knowing you shouldn't. âYour mom got a bit hurt on the case,â taking note of Amy's worried eyes, you are quick to continue, âshe'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.â
âOf course!â 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, âI'm fine, I'm totally fine.â 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.
âWhat happened?â Amy asks, exasperated.
Emily places a hand on her daughter's cheek, caressing her soft skin with her thumb. âIâm okay, baby. The guy just surprised me, is all.â 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.
âYou really need to stop scaring me like this,â Amy complains, hiding her face in her mom's neck. Pulling back indignantly, she continues, âI'm only sixteen and I already have stress induced gray hairs because of you.â
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.
âDon't be dramatic, Amy,â Emily says good-naturedly. She kisses her daughter's cheek. âYou didn't have to cut your day short because of me.â
You let out a laugh at her words, âafter you scared us half to death there was no more shopping to be done.â
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.
âAmy, come show me what's in your bags, I think I'm gonna be here a while.â
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, âI really was worried sick.â
Emily grimaces guiltily, âI'm sorry, I didn't even want JJ to call you.â
âAre you insane?â You ask, incredulously. âI 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.â
She bites her lip, âI just- didn't want you to be worried. Or Amy.â
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. âYou don't have to apologize, Em. But I'm always gonna worry, no matter if it's a concussion or a paper cut.â
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, âhow was Amy at the mall?â
Smiling, you think back on your day. âActually, she was very sweet. Maybe we made some progress today, I don't know.â 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 â hell, you were one yourself some time ago. âBut I'll tell you later. Now, I'm gonna tell you about how I'm gonna spoil you rotten for the next few days.â
âOh, babe,â she smiles, âyou're so good to me.â
âAfter you get better, though, I'm ripping you a new one for scaring both me and your daughter.â
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.
âHi, honey,â Emily says. You get up, placing a kiss on her temple and moving back to your spot on the hospital chair.
âI brought hot chocolates. Nurse said you could have one.â She hands Emily one of the cups, and surprising nearly everyone in the room, gives you the other. âUncle Rossi talked to the doctor and he said it'll only be a couple of hours âtil they discharge you.â
âYou two should go home,â Emily starts, already getting indignant looks in response. âI'm okay, you can wait for me at home and Dave will drive me.â
Amelia, looking every bit like her mother, stubbornly sits on Emily's bed, crossing her arms. âGood luck getting me out of here.â
Emily rolls her eyes, then winces at the remnants of her headache.
âI've never heard anything more appalling,â you say, rolling your own eyes at Emily. âWe're taking you home, Emily, don't fight it.â
Emily sighs, âmaybe I liked it better when you two didn't get along.â
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.
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 â 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 â 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. âMy baby!â 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.
âWhat are you doing here?â She asks, still beaming as you close her office door behind you.
âWe've come to sneak you away for lunch, if you can spare the time.â
âOf course,â 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. âDo I get a kiss or just Ella?â
Emily turns to you with a smile, âsorry, baby.â Kissing you softly, but lingering, she only pulls back when your daughter places a hand on her cheek, calling for her attention. âYou look beautiful,â she says, looking at you with those adoring eyes you could never get enough of. âAnd so do you, princess.â Turning to Ella, she kisses your baby's cheeks in rapid succession, getting a belly laugh in return.
âI was thinking we could eat at the park,â you start, pulling Ella's hat from her bag, âI brought her hat.â Then, you place it over her head, adjusting it and smiling at her cuteness. Emily does the same.
âAw,â she coos uncharacteristically. âYou look so cute, bug.â Bouncing her legs a little, she gets more giggles out of Ella. âWhat do you say, you wanna go to the park?â 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.
âI made your favorite,â 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.
âYou're a godsend,â she exhales, standing up with Ella in her arms and adjusting the girl on her hip. âMy meeting this morning was so long.â
âMaybe we could get some cinnamon rolls at that corner bakery before coming back.â Smiling, you both make your way out of Emily's office. âNothing like a sweet treat to get your energy up.â
âI'd like that,â 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, youâre glad she fell into the role so seamlessly. The moment she laid eyes on Ella, she was gone.
Sometimes you canât 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.
break down these walls and come on in
emily prentiss x f!reader
tags: fluff, established relationship, attempt at humor, amelia prentiss, fiancĂŠes!!!, 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 ârelationshipâ 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.
âAbsolutely not,â Emily says, once again.
âWhy?!â Amelia exclaims, her face indignant, just like Emily's. âWhat difference does it make if he sleeps over or not?â
Her mother sighs. You stay very, very quiet.
âThe difference is I don't want him to.â
âOh, great argument, mom.â Amelia scoffs, âvery convincing.â
Emily stands up, moving away from the couch to pace away her stress. âI'm your mother, I don't need to convince you of anything.â
Amy presses her lips together for a second. Then, in an honestly shocking action, calls your name. You look up at her, confused.
âTell her she's being unreasonable.â
Widening your eyes, you notice Emily is also looking at you and waiting for an answer. Her eyebrow raised in a challenge.
âOh,â you chuckle forcedly, âI'm not getting in the middle of that.â
âWhy not?!â Amelia asks, waving her arms around indignantly. âYou're getting married,â she gestures at the ring on your left hand, still recent and shocking to you when you look down at it. âYou're like, practically, my mom too, right? You should have a say in this.â
Lips parted in surprise, you look over at Emily, whose shoulders have dropped ever so slightly. She nods, âtell us what you think.â
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.
âUm, I don't see much of a difference if he's coming over, anyway,â 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. âBut, you said you'd just be sleeping, right? So, no harm in keeping the door open through the night.â
Amy scoffs, âthat's ridiculous.â
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.
âHe can come over for dinner, and then he can stay over. Door open, that's it.â
You both look at Emily, bracing for her reaction. She keeps her arms crossed, lips pursed, but relents. âFine. No closing the door and for one night. I need to meet him.â
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.
âCompromises,â you say, trying to get her to understand.
âI guess,â she shrugs. Her lips are still in the cutest pout, though you'd never tell her that.
âWouldn't you rather they sleep here instead of somewhere you don't know?â
âI'd rather they not sleep together at all,â she says indignantly.
You bite your lip to contain a smile, knowing it'll just add to her distress. âShe'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,â you say carefully. âYou remember what being a teenager was like.â
Emily nods, âthat's what worries me.â
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 thereâs 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 youâre 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.
âI'm guessing there's no hope in asking you to keep this quiet?â She asks, yet she's already dejected, a self deprecating little smile on her lips.
You stay silent, raising your eyebrows.
âWe weren't even doing anything,â she tries. âWe were studying and got distracted.â
âOkayâŚâ You nod, willing to hear her out. âAnd why aren't you at school?â
Amy shifts from one foot to the other, looking down at the floor. âWe 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-â
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.
âHi, Nicholas,â you say, enjoying the way he folds in on himself â it's funny, okay? You're still human, after all. âI think you should go home.â
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.
âAmy,â 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. âI'm hoping you're going to be responsible enough to tell Emily about this yourself.â
Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but you silence her with a look.
âI'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-â You ignore her scoff, taking a sip of your water before setting the glass down. âBut 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.â
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.
âWhen you tell her about it, you should ask her why sheâs so against you having a boyfriend. I'm sure she'll explain it to you.â
Crossing her arms, Amy looks up, âshe's trying to ruin my social life.â
You smile despite yourself at her stubbornness, âask her and you'll understand.â
She stays quiet, most definitely thinking about how her parents are the worst. Well, we've all been there.
âI thought you'd be the cool mom,â 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, youâre 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, âyou okay?â
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. âI have to tell you something.â
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.
âHey, Hon.â 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.
âHi, mom,â she says, looking at you and nodding. You nod back, proud she's seemed to take your advice.
âMaybe we should move to the couch,â 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.
âYou did what?â 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. âI'm sorry, okay? I am. And I won't do it again.â
âOf course you won't,â Emily says, way too calmly for you to trust it. âYou're not going to see Nick again.â
Amelia jumps up, âmom! That's so ridiculous.â
Emily sits up, moving to the edge of the couch. Your hand on her thigh keeps her from standing up. âNo⌠What's ridiculous is you making terrible decisions after starting to date this boy.â
âYou said she'd understand!â 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. âI said you had to ask her, and that she'd explain it to you,â you say it slowly, not wanting to oxygenate the flame even further.
Amy takes a deep breath, sitting on the loveseat this time, a little further away from you both. âWhy you hate that I have a boyfriend.â
Your fiancĂŠe scoffs, âhavenât you given me enough reason? You skipped school, Amy! You defied a rule I specifically set.â
She shakes her head, âyou never liked it, even before that.â
âI told you, I don't have to explain anything to you, Amelia. I'm your mother.â Emily grabs her wine glass, taking a long sip. âFuck, now you've made me sound like my mother.â
You touch her arm, earning her attention. You find it sweet how her eyes immediately soften. âI think she might understand it better if you tell her about when you were a teenager.â Watching as realization dawns in her eyes, you quickly squeeze her hand. âOnly if you want to.â
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 âabortionâ.
âI've always done everything I can to ensure this didn't happen to you,â she explains. âNot 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.â 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. âI 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.â
Amy shakes her head incredulously, âyou are.â
Emily smiles at her, âsomething 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.â She wipes away a single tear that had escaped, âwhich 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.â She sighs, âI know you're a smart girl. But this decision you made was very stupid.â
Amelia bites her lip, embarrassed. She looks down at her hand that's still clasped with her mother's.
âI want you to date, to have fun. But I don't want you making stupid decisions, Amy, youâre my daughter and you know better than that.â
She nods, her eyes moving to you for a second, then back to Emily. âI'm sorry. And I'm sorry, too,â she looks back at you, âthat I said you weren't the cool mom. You definitely are.â
You let out a surprised laugh. Amy smiles back and even Emily, with her tense shoulders, shakes her head with a small grin.
âI'm gonna pretend I didn't hear that so you don't get an extra week without your phone.â
Amelia opens her mouth to protest, but is silenced with a single brow raise. She deflates, leaning against the cushions, defeated. Looking up shyly, âcan I still see Nick? Mom, I swear we never did anything more, I would've told you, I promise.â
Emily looks at you with an indignant look, âthat's what she's worried about?â
You shrug, âshe's in loove,â you sing-song, delighting in Amy's blush.
âFine, you can see him.â Before Amelia jumps up, Emily continues, âonly at school, or here, with supervision. It'll be a while before he can go up to your room again.â
Amy nods, smiling softly. âThanks, moms.â She hugs you both quickly, leaving her phone on the coffee table and swiftly leaving the room, her footsteps fast on the stairs.
âShe called you her mom,â Emily beams, kissing your chin.
âHuh,â you jokingly consider, âI thought having a teenager would be harder.â
Emily stares at you, attempting a glare, âI almost had a stroke!â
âYou should've seen my face when I caught them,â you shake your head, sipping on what's left of your wine. âOr Nick's.â
She, finally, guffaws, finding humor in the situation. âFuck, honey, I'm gonna need a lot more wine to get through the night.â
You nod, grabbing her empty glass and starting towards the kitchen. âWhatever my lady wishes,â you call back with a chuckle.
The air inside the bar suddenly felt suffocating. The noises seemed too loud, the lights too many, and the temperature too hot.
âI need to get some airâ, you said.Â
Scrambling out of the booth, and almost tripping over your own feet in the haste, you could feel the teamâs confused glances at your sudden mood change. Fighting your way through the crowd that had formed on the dance floor, you didnât 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.
âWoah, hey! Itâs okay, itâs just me⌠itâs just me.â Her dark eyes that were always so fierce and full of determination were now filled with worry.
âIâm sorry⌠You donât have to be out here. Iâm fine. Just go back to the others,â your words come out barely louder than a whisper.
âAbsolutely not. You just practically ran out of there, and now youâre standing here in the cold, white as a ghost and crying. There is no way I am leaving!â
âPlease Emily, Iâm sorry for making such a fuss, I-â you try to muffle a sob that escapes your lips with your hand. âPlease just go back inside.â
She shifts beside you, but instead of turning back to the entrance the brunette moves directly in front of you. âHoneyâ, she whispers, her hands now faintly touching your arms just above your elbows. âI am not leaving you.â That last statement sends a new wave of sobs through your body, which youâunsuccessfully, judging by Emilyâs tightening grip on your armsâtry to repress.
âI need you to try and breathe with me, okay?â Without looking up, you nod. Itâs 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 Emilyâs 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.Â
âTake itâ, she demands as she dangles the leather jacket between the two of you.
âDamn it Emily, Iâm fine. Iâm not taking your jacket.â
âYou are literally shivering, now put the jacket on before I have to force you into it.â Her gaze is stern. The type that lets you know that there is no use in arguing with her right now.
âYou are insaneâ, 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.
âIâm a gentlemanâ, she retorted, a smug grin now settling on her face. After a short period of comfortable silence, her facial expressions shift ever so slightly. âAre you ready to tell me what happened in there earlier?â 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 youâre out with a group of FBI profilers. They would have spotted a lie from a mile away. âNo boyfriendâ, 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 â and also suddenly painfully aware of Emilyâs thigh touching yours.Â
The faint touch of a hand on your shoulder made you snap out of the memory: âHey, come on. Talk to me.â
âHow did you know you like girls?â, you blurt out, not daring to look into the older Agentâs eyes.
âIs that what this is about?â 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. âI suppose Iâve 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 donât know how much youâve heard of my mom, but sheâs more the⌠traditionalâŚtype. I had had a couple of boyfriends, nothing really serious butâŚyou know how it is. A little later, I had my first girlfriend. My mother caught us kissing in my bedroom and freaked out. I didnât care, somehow. Because I had never felt more alive. Thatâs when I knew that boys were just not going to happen for me again.â She hesitates for a short moment, trying to see some sort of reaction from you. âHoney, why are you asking this now?â
âI- ⌠I donât know, Em. Iâm just so confusedâŚI donât know whatâs happening. It just feels like Iâm drowning in all these different emotions and realizations I canât quite process â I have no idea what the fuck is wrong with me!â Thatâs 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 doesnât push you to continue, but instead she patiently waits, her touch grounding you.
âYou know Iâve never been in a relationship? Heck, I havenât 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??â You donât notice Emily tense at your harsh words, too focused on avoiding her gaze.Â
âI 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 didnât. I didnât choose this. But now Iâm 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?â
Emily let out a deep breath before shifting her gaze from your clasped hands up to your eyes. âSo, 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?â
It is only when you work up the courage to really look at her that you notice the slight glossiness of her eyes. âWell, if you put it like that it sounds patheticâŚâ
âWould you stop with that word?â, she hisses. âYou are not pathetic, there is nothing wrong with how you feel, and I-â, this time it is her voice that quivers. âIâm just so sorry that thought you couldnât trust us with this. Couldât trust me with this.âÂ
âYou canât 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 â literally with your lives. I just get too much into my head sometimes and⌠well Iâm sorry for not giving you the same trust that you gave me.â
You couldât quite place the other Agentâs facial expression, but something between concerned and analytical seemed the most fitting.Â
âYou know, you tend to do that a lotâ, Emily stated. âFinding ways to put the blame on yourself, I meanâŚâ
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: âYou ready to head back inside?â
âActually, I think Iâm calling it a night⌠Thank you. For staying with me I mean. And for listeningâ, you reach for the phone in your pocket.
âWhat do you think your doing?â
âCalling a Taxi?â
âAbsolutely not, Iâm driving you home!â
âEmily, no! You should go back to the others. Iâm not ruining your night even more.â
âFirst of all: you didnât ruin my night. Second of all: I would have left soon one way or another. And third of all: youâre apartment is literally on the way. So stop trying to argue with me.â
So you did. Because if there was one thing everyone knew about Emily Prentiss, itâs 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.
âWait here, Iâm just gonna go and get my bagâ, she hesitates for a second, looking you up and down. âAnd you jacketâŚIâll be right back.â
Itâs only then that you realize that youâre still wearing the leather jacket that smelled so much like its owner.Â
Who had not stopped holding your hand until just mere seconds ago.Â
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 sleeveâdark silk, unforgivingâand 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?"
Emilyâs 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 throatâjust once, deliberatelyâand 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. "Weâve worked together before." The lie tasted stale.
JJ hummed, taking a sip. "Uh-huh. And the way she looks at you when youâre arguing? Thatâs 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. "Emilyâs thorough," you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to defensive. "She pays attention to details. Thatâs her job."
JJâs smirk deepened. "Right. And the way you two leaned into each other during the recess huddle? Thatâs 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 Garciaâs head popped out, her curls bouncing. "Five-minute warning, lovebirdsâ" 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 âoh my godâ at JJ behind Emilyâs back.
The afternoon session bled into evening, the fluorescent lights overhead humming like a jury of bees. Youâd just torn apart the prosecutionâs star witness,some forensic accountant whoâd 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, Iâve seen Emily bluff her way through interrogations with serial killers," he said, thumb brushing the fabric of your sleeve, "but Iâve never seen her blush until today."
You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "Mustâve been the coffee," you lied, nodding toward the courthouse vending machine. "Itâs brutal."
Rossi chuckled, low and knowing. "Kid, Iâve been married three times. I know what it looks like when someoneâs trying not to stare at their wifeâs 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 youâhalf warning, half hungerâsent a shiver down your spine.
The bailiffâs voice cut through the tension. "Courtâs 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 Emilyâs fingers drumming against her thigh. Three taps, then a pause. Three taps again. Your secret rhythm, the one sheâd used that morning when she slid your coffee across the kitchen counter, her wedding ring glinting in the sunlight. Three taps: I love you.
Morganâs elbow nudged Emilyâs ribs, and her hand stilled. She didnât 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.
"Youâre killing them," Reid whispered suddenly from the defense table, his voice low with something like awe.
You blinked. "What?"
"The way youâre dismantling their case. ItâsâŚ" He hesitated, eyes darting to where Cat Adams was scowling at her desk. "Itâs almost beautiful."
The judge called for a fifteen-minute recess after the prosecutionâs forensic accountant stumbled through his testimony, his credibility in tatters. You gathered your files with deliberate slowness, avoiding the weight of Emilyâs 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 youâre 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 youâreâ"
"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 donât 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 poolâs already atâ"
Emilyâs glare couldâve 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.
"Youâre 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? Youâre 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 bailiffâs station. His laughter carried across the emptying courtroom, rich and knowing, and when he clapped her on the shoulder, Emilyâs 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 shouldâ"
"Save it," JJ interrupted, appearing at your elbow with Garcia in tow. "Weâre all going to OâMalleyâs. 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 prosecutionâs abandoned table, straightened abruptly as if sheâd 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 acquittalâ" Reid winced at the word acquittalâ "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. âI love you.â
Rossi took a deliberate sip of his scotch. "Iâll put fifty on Vegas," he said, like he was discussing the weather. "Eloped after that case in â13, 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 heâd 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 theâ"
"Oh my god," Garcia interrupted, slamming her hands on the table. "You have a house together, donât you? With like, shared towels and a coffee maker that says âhersâ and âhersââ"
You snorted into your drink. "It says âyoursâ and âalso yoursâ because Emily broke the first one trying to reprogram it in Spanish."
Emily kicked you under the tableânot hard, just enough to make you smirkâbut Garcia was already gasping like sheâd been personally handed a conspiracy theory. "You live together?!"
âWe're married,â Emily said in exasperation.
The table erupted into overlapping questions,Garcia demanding to know why she hadnât been invited to the wedding, Morgan ribbing Emily about her taste in rings, Rossi already flagging down the bartender for celebratory shots but Emilyâs gaze never left yours. Her foot pressed against yours under the table, a silent anchor in the storm of their excitement. "Told you we shouldâve gone with separate cars," she muttered, just loud enough for you to hear over Garciaâs dramatics.
You grinned, swirling your whiskey. "And miss this? I live for the theatrics."
thinking about emily prentiss getting caught staring at your chest mid-conversation :: 3.4k
â â 18+ . mdni . emily prentiss is down bad . chest staring . boobs . hard nipples . wet pussy mentions . dirty talk . praise kink . âgood girlâ . 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, sheâs 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 theyâre 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, sheâs 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 sheâs losing a fight with herself.
you donât catch it immediately, mostly because sheâs still doing all the right things at first. she nods when you pause, hums softly like sheâs 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.
itâs 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 isnât as subtle as she thinks she is, and thereâs something almost delicious about watching someone so composed get ruined by the shape of your boobs beneath fabric.
your shirt doesnât hide enough, not really. it stretches softly across your chest, the fabric resting over the swell of your boobs and shifting whenever you breathe. youâre not sure whether itâs the cold kitchen air or emilyâs 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.
âwhat?â she asks, and it would almost be convincing if her voice didnât 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, âwere you even listening to me?â
emilyâs mouth curves into that smooth, dangerous smile, the one she uses when she knows sheâs been caught but hasnât decided whether she wants to admit it yet.
âof course i was,â 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, thereâs no saving it, and the faintest flush rises across her cheekbones. you laugh, quiet and disbelieving, and emily exhales through her nose like sheâs irritated with herself more than with you.
âdonât start,â she says, but thereâs no bite in it, no real warning, just that low velvet tone that makes your thighs press together.
âyouâre staring,â 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 sheâs making a choice. âi know,â 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 doesnât 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 canât help yourself, because thereâs something addictive about watching emilyâs 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.
âyou wore that on purpose,â she says quietly, and it sounds less like an accusation than a confession of weakness. you tell her you didnât, but your voice is already thinner than it should be, already giving too much away. emilyâs smile turns knowing, almost cruel in how soft it is.
âmaybe not consciously,â 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 wonât. she touches your waist first, fingertips light through your shirt, dragging up your side in a patient line that makes your stomach tighten.
sheâs 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.
âemily,â you warn, but it comes out more like a plea. she hums, innocent and unbearable, letting her thumb skim a little higher until sheâs 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.
âwhat?â she asks, like she didnât 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, itâs 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 sheâs 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 sheâs 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.
âi was trying to be respectful,â she says against your lips. you laugh breathlessly, tilting your head back as her mouth drags to your jaw. âyou failed.â
âmiserably,â 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 thereâs barely any space left between you.
sheâs still composed in pieces, still careful, still attentive, but thereâs hunger underneath it now, dark and obvious and impossible to ignore. every touch feels deliberate, like sheâs 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 emilyâs mouth curves against your skin.
âthat sensitive?â 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.
âyou have no idea how distracting you are,â she says, her eyes dropping again, shameless now. âstanding there, talking to me like iâm supposed to focus, wearing this little thing like iâm not only human.â 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 sheâs touching you. emilyâs fingers hook under the hem of your shirt, slow enough to make anticipation crawl over your skin.
âi was trying to behave,â she says, and thereâs a smile in her voice now. âclearly, that was a mistake.â 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 thereâs 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 sheâs 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 sheâs 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.
âpretty,â she says, almost under her breath. then, rougher, like the word isnât enough, âfuck, youâre so pretty.â 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 sheâs 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 sheâs doing, and worse, sheâs 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 youâre 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. thereâs 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.
âthis is why i wasnât listening,â she says against your skin, lips brushing damply over your boob as she speaks. âyou were talking, and all i could think about was this.â her hand slides down your stomach as she says it, fingers spreading over the soft, warm skin there before dipping lower.
she doesnât 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. âthere it is,â she whispers, like sheâs 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. itâs maddening. itâs perfect.
youâre 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.
âyouâre soaked, arenât you?â 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. âall because i got caught staring?â she continues, her voice warm with amusement. âor because you wanted me to?â you say her name, half warning and half surrender, and emilyâs smile turns downright wicked.
she kisses your nipple once more, slow and open-mouthed, then lifts her head to look at you properly. âtell me to stop,â 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, sheâs 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. âdonât stop.â emilyâs expression changes at that, something hot and tender flickering across her face before she kisses you again.
this time, thereâs no pretending either of you are going back to the conversation. she kisses you like sheâs 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 youâre 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.
âgood girl,â 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. âoh,â she says softly. âyou liked that.â
you donât 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 canât stay away from it now that sheâs 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, emilyâs 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. ânext time you want my attention,â she whispers, her hand squeezing your boob again while her thigh presses between yours, âjust wear this.â
your laugh breaks into a moan when she moves against you, slow and deliberate. âor donât,â she adds, voice dipping darker. âi seem to get distracted either way.â
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 donât call her out. you just pull her closer, soaked and trembling, and let her stare.
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 sheâs been a shit to you)
- You visit her at home while sheâs 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; didnât spill a drop.
âJesus! Melissa, are you okay?!â You rush to her side to help her up.
âOh dear!â Barb exclaims.
âYup. Iâm fine.â 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.
âHas she always walked with a limp?â
âNope.â
She disappears to her classroom without a word and everyone looks after in concern but hesitant to approach in fear of her bite. Sheâs not just all bark.
You donât fear her per se. Intimidated maybe but itâs kind of a turn on for you. You know she would never intentionally hurt any of you. At least not physically. Psychologically, maybeâŚif warranted.
You leave the break room with enough time before class to bring Melissa her morning coffee refill and some ibuprofen. âHey, Mel. Thought you could use this.â
She looks up and you can tell the fall had put her in a foul mood for the day. âI told youse, I was fine, Y/n.â
âWhatever, itâs there if you want it. But donât act like we pushed you. Weâre your friends. If one of us fell, you'd be taking care of us.â You didnât give her room to snap back at you before heading back to greet your kids.
You notice that Melissa hadnât 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. âAlright, Ms. Schemmentiâs class, pair up with someone from mine. By the time we get to the cafeteria I want you to tell me your partnerâs favorite color AND favorite animal.â
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 roomâŚbarely. âMelissa, dear. You need to get that checked out. At least go to the nurse.â
âI said I was fine, Barb.â
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 donât 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. âOh my god! Melissa! That does not look fine.â
âSweet baby Jesus and the grown one too! Melissa, you are going to the nurse right now. Come on.â
âUh uh-â
âIt wasnât a question. Either let me help you or Iâll have Gregory and Y/n, carry you against your will.â At that you stand with your arms crossed daring her to argue. Meanwhile, Gregory looked scared at getting roped in.
âWhateverâs. Youse all are overreacting.â She mutters as she limps out the door with Barbara trailing behind ready to help her if she needs to lean on her.
âWeâll get your students from lunch.â Janine offers, looking at you for confirmation.
On your way, you drop Melissaâs lunch off with the nurse knowing sheâd refuse it if you gave it to her directly.
You scratched your lesson plans for the day bringing Melissaâs 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 youâd be able to drive her since Gerald is picking her up until she can renew her license. âYeah, Iâve got her. Donât worry about it Barb, enjoy your weekend.â You grab your bag and lock up your classroom before doing the same with Melissaâs.
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 didnât 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 nurseâs office and take a deep breath. âYour chariot awaits.â
âJust great.â She rolls her eyes when she sees you.
âWasnât exactly my first choice to start the weekend off either but youâre stuck with me. Pout about it but I donât care.â
âI donât need to go the hospital, theyâre just gonna tell me the same thing she told me and then send an invoice with too many zeros that our salary wonât compensateâ
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. âI canât believe Iâm saying this but youâre driving my car. Iâm not leaving mine here and I doubt anyone wants to steal yours.â She says as she hands you her keys.
âGo ahead. Take it out on me. I can take it.â You help her into the passenger seat. Not thinking, you lean over to help fasten her seatbelt and your faces are inches apart. Youâre both holding your breath when the masks slip for a millisecond. âRight. You can do this part.â 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.
âTake me home. And Iâll get you an uber.â
âI thought I was taking you to the hospital.â
âYou thought wrong. Now drive.â
âCut the crap, Melissa. Youâre not fine. And itâs just gonna get worse if you donât take care of it.â
âWhatever. Nurse Makaiyah said itâs just a slight sprain. I need to rest, ice, compress, and elevate. I donât need a hospital bill to do that.â
âThen Iâll make a deal with you seeing as Iâm driving and I have the keys.â She raises an eyebrow, not liking that you have the upper hand. âEither we go to the hospital⌠Or you let me help you follow Nurse Makaiyahâs orders and you only get to throw two more insults at me. Those are your only options.â
She huffs and rolls her eyes and you canât help but to think how adorable she is throwing her little tantrum. âFine. But Iâm not cooking for you. Your mediocre pallet isnât worthy of good cooking.â
âThatâs one. Only one insult left, Melissa.â
âUgh.â
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.
âHere, take that to help with the swelling.â You sit down and motion for her injured leg closest to you. âCome on. We had a deal.â
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 itâs 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 donât make a comment. âThis is gonna be cold at first.â You place the ice on her ankle and she jumps slightly at first before relaxing against the arm of the couch.
âIf you tell anybody about this, you're dead meat. And thatâs a threat not an insult.â
âWhatever. Just put something on the tv.â
After about 15 minutes into âThe Real Housewives,â you remove the ice pack so you donât freeze her skin, you hope itâs numb enough and start to massage her foot.
âWhat are you doing?â She panics and for a second you have half a mind to be worried but she doesnât pull her leg away so you continue.
Pressing your fingers into the arch of her foot and rubbing up towards her toes. âMassaging. It helps with circulation and blood flow.â
Melissa scowls but doesnât protest. She turns attention back to the screen and so do you. You donât 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. âDoes this feel okay?â You ask. You heard it but maybe it was in pain rather than comfort.
âItâs fine, I guess.â
âOkay.â
A sigh escapes her once more as she wiggles her toes. She adjusts to get more comfortable and sheâs fully laying on the couch now and you pull her other foot into your lap.
âYou know you donât have to stay. I can take care of myself.â
âI want to. I know you can take care of yourself, Melissa. You take care of everyoneâŚin your own way, albeit slightly hostile, but nonetheless. But contrary to what you want to believe, I do like you. Weâre more than just coworkers. Some might even say friends. And friends help each other so just take it and stop fighting it.â
She doesnât say anything but instead just stared at you. You look back at her and sheâs 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 itâs unmistakeable.
âThat actually feels really good, hon.â Itâs not the first time sheâs used that term with you but definitely the first youâve been in an intimate setting when she used it.
âYeah?â You canât help the smile that threats to split your face from getting her approval.
âDonât get too cocky.â She rolls her eyes but thereâs a hint of smile emerging to the surface.
âWouldnât dream of it.â 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. âI wonder what else those hands can doâŚâ itâs barely a whisper but still, you heard it and you forgot how to breathe.
You stare back wide eyed but you wonât 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 donât 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.
âSorry. I-â
She just stares back at you and her green irises are swallowed by her dilated pupils. Sheâs 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.
âShould I stop?â You breathe against her lips. Unsure of whatâs happening. She doesnât look mad, instead sheâs biting her lip asking a million questions. âMelissa?â
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. Youâre 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.
âWait.â You pull back
âNo, itâs fine.â She attempts to pull you back in but you squeeze her knee to stop her.
âThe deal was that you were gonna let me take care of you.â
âUgh.â She plops back down, clearly frustrated.
âDonât pout, Mel. I didnât say to stop. I just said to wait.â 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. âDoes this hurt?â 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.
Melissaâs 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. Sheâs pulling your shirt up but itâs trapped between your bodies. âTake this off.â She demands.
You ignore her as you move to kiss her neck and nibble on the flesh there. Youâd love nothing more than to feel her, skin to skin, without any barriers. But with everything you want to do, you know tonightâs not the night with making her ankle worse.
Just then you hear a faint knock and you sigh into her neck. âSaved by the bellâŚor the knockâŚor whatever.â
âIgnore it. Iâm not expecting anyone, theyâll go away.â She whispers before crashing your lips together. You kiss her back before biting her lip as you pull back.
âYou arenât, but I am.â
âYouâre leaving?â She actually looked disappointed, hurt even.
âNo I meant it when I wanted to be here. I ordered some things for your ankle.â
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.
âI know but please just humor me.â She rolls her eyes in defiance but agrees anyways. âScootch.â
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. âSo sexy.â She snaps.
âYou make anything look sexy.â You admit before moving back to her head and sliding under to hold her head in your lap.
âYou really think so?â
âWell it is a compression sock.â You laugh. âBut yes, why do you think I put up with all your insults?â You lean down to kiss her again, âthere will be time for what I want to do to you another time. But first, we take care of your ankle.â
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, Melissaâs 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. âYouâre trouble.â
âI think you like it.â And you laugh again, rolling your eyes. But you look back down and run your thumb along her bottom lip.
Summary: After dropping out of your doctorate under difficult circumstances, your younger brother Billy gets you a job babysitting his boss, Professor Harknessâ 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: Iâm back on the Adventures in Babysitting grind! Iâve had some big writers block and anxiety but Iâve started to really get momentum with this series x and obviously if thereâs anything you want to see in any of my other things let me know! Iâm sure Iâll have loads of Maya content when season 2 comes out đ Xx
Itâs 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.
âWow,â you deadpan, dropping your bag onto the side table. âNot exactly the reaction I was hoping for.â
Billy clutches his chest, glaring at you through wide eyes. âJesus Christ, you nearly killed me!â
Your mom swats his arm, though sheâs still catching her breath too. âDonât sneak in like that!â
âI walked through the front door,â you point out, chuckling as you peel off your damp coat.
âLike a ghost,â Billy mutters, pulling the blanket tighter around himself. âAll silent and creepy.â
You roll your eyes, but the warmth and normalcy untangles something in your chest thatâs been knotted all night.
Your mom pats the space between them. âCome sit, sweetheart. Weâll protect you from the scary bits.â
Billy snorts. âWeâll protect her? Youâre the one who screamed loudest.â
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. âDidnât expect you to come in tonight,â he says, grin tugging at his mouth. âThought youâd be⌠busy.â
Your mom shoots him a look, then turns her attention to you, brows raised expectantly.
You tug the blanket tighter around your shoulders. âHer son was really sick. She needed to focus on him, so I came home.â
âHer son,â your mom repeats slowly, like sheâs trying the words on for size. Her eyes narrow a little. âWait. Are you telling me⌠are youâre dating the woman you babysit for?â
Your heart lurches into your throat. âI uhâŚâ you glance at Billy, who is already grinning like the Cheshire Cat, clearly enjoying every second.
âMom,â you start carefully, âplease donât freak outâŚâ
âOh my god.â She presses a hand to her chest, eyes wide. âI cannot believe you didnât tell me.â
Billy laughs. âI told you she had a girlfriend.â
âBilly!â you hiss, heat rushing up your neck.
Your mom leans forward, still staring at you in disbelief. âSo youâre really with her? Billyâs boss? The professor?â
You nod, cheeks flaming, wishing you could sink into the armchair and disappear. âYeah. I am.â
Your mom leans forward, pausing the movie entirely now, her eyes fixed on you with that maternal mix of worry and curiosity.
âSheâs a bit old for you, isnât she?â she says gently, but firmly. âAnd sweetheart, being a stepmother, even unofficially, thatâs a big responsibility. Are you sure this is a good idea?â
The words hit hard, right in the soft spot where your insecurities live. Your cheeks heat, your chest tightening. âMomâŚâ
Billy groans, tossing his head back against the sofa. âHere we go.â
âNo, Iâm being serious,â she insists, folding her hands in her lap. âYouâre still so young. Youâve been through a lot, and I donât want you getting hurt because youâve taken on more than you can handle.â
You swallow, staring down at your hands twisted in the blanket. âI⌠I know it sounds complicated. And yeah, sheâs older. A lot older.â Your voice drops, softer. âBut I⌠care about her. And I care about Nicky. Itâs not⌠itâs not something I fell into by accident.â
Your mom studies you, her expression unreadable for a moment. Then she sighs, reaching across to squeeze your hand. âIâm not trying to scare you off. I just want to make sure youâre thinking it through. You deserve to be happy, not overwhelmed.â
You nod, throat tight, managing a small smile. âI am thinking it through.â
Billy smirks, breaking the tension. âBesides, youâve already survived me. Youâre basically qualified for stepmom status.â
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. âWell Iâll need to meet her.â
Your head snaps up. âMom, no. Please, no.â
âYes,â she says firmly, crossing her arms. âIf youâre serious about this woman, and it sounds like you are, then I need to meet her. Thatâs non-negotiable.â
You groan, dragging the blanket over your face. âYouâll scare her off.â
Billy chuckles, tossing popcorn into his mouth. âTrust me, Agatha Harkness isnât scared of anything. Except maybe imminent death.â
You peek out from under the blanket just enough to glare at him. âNot helping.â
Your mom shakes her head, smiling faintly but with a stubborn glint in her eyes. âSweetheart, if sheâs good enough for you, then sheâs good enough for me. And if sheâs serious about you, she wonât mind meeting your mother.â
âShe will mind,â you mutter.
âThen sheâs not as serious as you think.â
That lands like a stone in your stomach. You sink deeper into the chair, groaning, while Billy smirks at the whole scene.
âMom,â you mumble, âplease donât make this a thing.â
âItâs already a thing,â she says simply. âAnd I expect to meet her. Soon.â
~
The living room is a mess of crayons, construction paper, and little cut out leaves Nicky insisted on bringing home from preschool. Youâre on the rug with him, knees tucked under you, while he twirls in a circle with his stuffed goat clutched in one hand.
âAutumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down,â he sings, his little voice high and proud, bouncing more than dancing.
You chime in with exaggerated gusto, clapping along in time. âRed and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!â
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. âThat was so good, professor,â you tell him, using his goatâs honorary title. âTen out of ten.â
âAgain!â 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. âReady? One, twoâŚâ
âThree!â he shouts, spinning wildly as you both launch into the song again, your voices overlapping.
Itâs 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. Youâre 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. âMama! Look!â He rushes over, tugging at her hand. âWeâre singing my show song! Y/N knows it too!â
Agathaâs gaze flicks from her sonâs 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 sheâs been hit. âOh, you got your show song today?â
Nicky bounces on his toes, nodding so hard his curls flop. âYes! Yes! Wanna hear it?!â
Agatha gasps, playing along, eyes wide. âDo I ever!â She drops into the armchair like itâs the front row of Carnegie Hall. âGive us a performance, darling boy.â
Nicky scrambles back to the middle of the rug, shoving his goat into the âaudienceâ too, then throws his arms wide. âOne, two, three!â 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 wouldnât 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, âall around the town!â he bows so low he nearly tips over.
You and Agatha clap wildly, cheering like lunatics. âBravo!â Agatha cries, whistling through her fingers. âEncore, encore!â
You laugh, clapping until your palms sting. âTen out of ten, Professor Goatly agrees!â 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. Nickyâs 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. âWell,â you murmur, eyes glinting, âI hope youâre prepared to hear that song every day, about a hundred times, from now until the show.â
Agatha groans, throwing her head back dramatically. âGod help me.â
You smirk, clearing your throat with theatrical gusto. âAutumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling down!â
Before you can get to orange and brown, she leans over and captures your mouth in a kiss, effectively cutting you off. Itâs 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. âThatâs the only acceptable way to shut you up,â she murmurs.
âMm,â you hum, still smiling, âguess Iâll have to sing it more often.â
Her hand squeezes your thigh, her brow arched. âCareful, babygirl. Iâll find other ways to make you quiet.â
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 youâre 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. âThere,â she murmurs. âMuch better than singing that damn song.â
You giggle, pressing your forehead to hers. âYou didnât even let me get to the second verse.â
âExactly,â she says, smirking, and kisses you firmer this time, until youâre clutching her blouse tighter, your heart racing.
By the time she eases back, youâre 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, itâs just her arms, her lips, the steady thrum of her heartbeat under your ear.
Youâre still curled against her, her hand stroking slow lines down your back, when you mumble into the fabric of her blouse, âMy momâs been talking again about meeting you.â
Agatha hums low in her chest, fingers pausing for just a second. âWould you like me to meet her?â
You groan, tilting your head back enough to look at her. âHonestly? No. Sheâs insufferable. But sheâs important. And she wonât let up.â You chew your lip, hesitating before adding, âSo⌠maybe for my birthday. You could come out to dinner with us?â
Her whole body stiffens beneath you. She pulls back, her brows lifting high. âExcuse me, your birthday?â
You blink at her, suddenly sheepish. ââŚYeah?â
Her eyes narrow, a flicker of guilt and annoyance cutting through her expression. âAnd you were going to tell me this when exactly? After the fact? Over cake crumbs?â
You flush, pulling the blanket higher over your lap like itâs a shield. âItâs not a big deal.â
âNot a big-âŚâ she cuts herself off, shaking her head, her tone sharp with disbelief. âSweetheart, your birthday is a very big deal to me. Youâre my girl.â She cups your jaw, forcing you to meet her eyes. âI shouldâve known.â
Your stomach twists, a mix of guilt and nerves under her gaze. âI just⌠I donât like making it a thing.â
âWell, itâs a thing now.â She kisses you once, quick but fierce, before pulling back with a sigh. âI hate that you didnât feel like you could tell me.â
You lean into her touch anyway, your voice small. âYou know now.â
Her expression softens, but thereâs 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. âSo youâll come? Itâs nothing huge. We always go to this Thai place Billy loves the day before my birthday.â
Agathaâs brows knit. âThe day before?â
You nod, smiling a little shyly. âYeah. Because⌠my birthdayâs on Halloween. So we celebrate the day before.â
Her mouth falls open, eyes narrowing like she thinks youâre joking. âYouâre serious. Halloween?â
You grin, unable to help it. âYeah. Iâm a Samhain baby.â
Thereâs a beat of silence before she tips her head back, laughing. âThat makes so much sense.â
You giggle, hiding your face in her blouse. âDonât make fun of me.â
âIâm not,â she insists, still laughing, pressing a kiss into your hair. âOf course you were born on Halloween. That explains everything. My little witch.â
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. âAlright, Samhain baby,â she teases, âso what do you usually do on the actual day? Your spooky little Halloween birthday?â
You shrug, cheeks heating. âHonestly? Horror movies in bed. Thatâs kind of it.â
Her brows rise, lips curving slow and sly. âSo⌠no real plans.â
You shake your head, tugging the blanket tighter around yourself. âNot really.â
âGood.â She leans in, her voice dropping low against your ear. âBecause that means youâre all mine.â
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.
âOhhh,â she purrs, clearly enjoying the way your composure crumbles, âlook at that blush.â
âAgatha,â you whine, but you canât stop smiling.
Her grin widens, wicked and affectionate all at once. âDonât worry, babygirl. Iâll plan something worthy of a Samhain birthday. You wonât lift a finger, except maybe to unwrap presents.â
You bite your lip, heart hammering. âYouâre really going to plan my birthday?â
âAlready am,â she murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth. âYouâre mine that day. No arguments.â
Your cheeks flame hotter, but your grin gives you away.
Her mouth hovers at the corner of yours, her grin sly. âSo what does my little Samhain baby want for her birthday? A cauldron? A broomstick? A sĂŠance in the living room?â
You swat weakly at her shoulder, giggling. âShut up.â
âOh, she giggles.â She leans in, brushing her lips against yours. âCute.â
âAgathaâŚâ 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, âAll mine. Gonna spoil you rotten, babygirl.â
You whimper, caught between laughter and want, and she grins against your mouth, tugging you into her lap like itâs nothing. The blanket slips to the floor, forgotten, as her hands spread warm over your back.
âMm,â she hums, lips trailing down your jaw, âmaybe Iâll start planning tonight.â
âYouâre ridiculous,â you giggle, tilting your head back to let her mouth find your throat.
âAnd you love it.â 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.
Agathaâs 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. âGod, babygirl⌠youâre killing me.â
You whimper as her teeth catch your lower lip, her tongue soothing the sting before diving back in, kissing you like sheâs 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, âBed. Now.â
Your cheeks flame, your body already thrumming, and you nod quickly.
âGood girl,â 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.
âAgatha!â You giggle, your arms looping around her neck, âyou donât have to carry me!â
âOh, but I want to,â 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. âBeen thinking about this since the car ride home,â 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.
âMine,â she growls against your mouth, pinning you beneath her. âAll mine.â
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.
âAgatha,â you breathe against her lips, your voice breaking with need. âI love you.â
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.
âOh, my baby,â she whispers, voice rough. Her hand cups your cheek, her thumb brushing away the tear you didnât realise had slipped free. âYou undo me every damn time.â
Her mouth crashes back onto yours, her tongue sliding against yours, her sighs mingling with your gasps. She kisses you like sheâs trying to breathe you in, like sheâs 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. âSo beautiful⌠my perfect girl⌠mine.â
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.
âJesus, baby,â she groans, forehead dropping to yours. âSo fucking tight for me, you were made to take me.â
Your whimper makes her kiss you again, swallowing the sound, her hips rolling until sheâs fully seated inside you. She doesnât move right away, just holds you there, both of you trembling.
Her hand cups your face, thumb brushing your swollen lower lip. âGod, Iâll never get over this. Being inside you⌠itâs like nothing else.â
When she starts moving, itâs 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 sheâs losing her mind.
âThatâs it,â she pants, kissing the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat. âCling to me, baby. Let me feel you. Youâre so good, fuck, youâre perfect.â
You whimper, burying your face against her neck. âAgathaâŚâ
She stills, just for a heartbeat, forcing you to look at her. Her eyes are dark, glassy with want, but underneath itâs awe. âTell me you love me baby,â she whispers, voice breaking.
âI love you,â you breathe, shaky, desperate.
Her lips crash onto yours, the kiss hot and wet and claiming. âMy baby,â she moans against your mouth. âYou undo me, you fucking undo me.â
Her pace builds, not rushed but more insistent, each thrust deeper and harder like sheâs trying to carve herself into you. Her hand slips between you to circle your clit, drawing sharp cries from your throat.
âTake it, babygirl,â she growls, her voice low and rough. âTake all of me. Youâre mine. Always mine.â
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: âSo beautiful⌠so good for me⌠fuck, the way you squeeze me baby, I never want to leave you.â
The intensity builds until youâre trembling, every nerve ending on fire, every thrust making you see stars. And sheâs right there with you, her own breath ragged, her moans spilling into your ear.
âCome for me,â she begs, almost broken with it. âLet me feel you, baby, give it to me.â
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 youâs and mineâs until all thatâs left is the sound of your breaths, tangled and shaking, pressed so close youâre 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, doesnât even notice herself mouthing âred and yellow, orange and brownâ as she paces the kitchen with her laptop open.
You groan every time you hear it, because itâs everywhere.
Even Nickyâs stuffed goat has been enlisted. Last night heâd made you hold Professor Goatly and make him âsing alongâ while Nicky spun in circles until he fell into a heap of giggles.
Itâs in your head when you wake up, when you shower, when youâre trying to fall asleep. Youâve 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 downâŚ
You throw an arm over your face and groan. âIâm being haunted.â
From the bathroom, Agatha calls back dryly, âWelcome to parenthood, darling. Death by nursery rhyme.â
And then you hear her voice, smooth and rich, sliding into the next line without missing a beat, âred and yellow, orange and brownâŚâ
âAgatha!â you shriek, throwing a pillow toward the bathroom door. âDonât encourage it!â
She peeks her head out, towel in hand, grinning like a fiend. âToo late, babygirl. Itâs already in my bones.â
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 itâs quiet, just the occasional car passing outside.
And then, before you can stop yourself, you murmur, âParenthood, huh?â
Her body goes still behind you. You can feel her stiffen just slightly, like youâve touched a nerve.
You turn your head, peeking up at her, your voice softer now. âWas that a joke, orâŚ?â
Agatha clears her throat, the sound low, almost sheepish which is rare for her. âWell I did mean it when I said I intend to keep you round forever, baby.â Her thumb rubs an absent line over your hip, grounding herself. âAnd forever, for me⌠means my son, too.â
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 sheâs bracing herself.
âSoâŚâ you whisper, barely more than a breath, âdoes that mean Iâd be like⌠a stepmom, or something?â
There it is, the question youâve been carrying in your chest for weeks, finally out loud.
Her gaze flickers over your face, searching. âIf that scares you, tell me now,â she says quietly. âBecause Nicky isnât going anywhere. Heâs my whole life. Youâd be stepping into something⌠permanent.â
Your throat tightens, but you force yourself not to look away. âIt doesnât scare me. I justâŚâ Your hands twist in the sheets. âI donât want to be⌠not enough. For him or for you.â
Agatha exhales, something breaking in her expression, half stern, half unbearably soft. She shifts closer, one hand coming up to cradle your cheek. âSweetheart,â she says, her voice low but steady, âyou are already enough. He adores you. And as for me,â her mouth trembles into the faintest smile, âI donât think Iâve ever loved anyone like this.â
You blink fast, your chest tight with something thatâs part fear, part relief. âYou really think I could be good at it? At being that kind of part of his life?â
âI donât think,â she corrects, leaning in until her forehead presses to yours. âI 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. Thatâs what matters. Not perfection or some fantasy. Just love.â
Tears prick hot at your eyes, your voice cracking. âI donât want to mess it up.â
Her thumb swipes under your eye before a tear can fall. âThen donât walk away, and you wonât. Weâll figure it out. Together.â
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, âForever sounds really good.â
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.
âThen forever it is,â 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.
âSo,â you mumble, voice muffled against her blouse, âwhatâs the show gonna be like?â
She chuckles, low in her throat, her hand tracing the curve of your shoulder. âChaos. 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 performanceâŚâ She tips her head so her mouth brushes your hair. âAnd itâll be the most important show Iâve ever been to.â
You smile, even though your chest pinches. âWish I could come.â
Her hand pauses, then resumes its soothing stroke. âTwo tickets per child, baby. You know Iâd have you there if I could. But itâs just me and Rio.â She sighs softly. âNot exactly my dream pairing.â
You hum, tucking yourself closer. âGuess Iâll just have to make do with the dress rehearsal.â
She laughs, kissing your temple. âWhich Iâm sure heâll put you through a dozen more times before Friday.â
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.
âSleep, my little Samhain baby,â she murmurs. âYouâll hear the song again soon enough.â
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, youâre 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 Nickyâs tiny button-up shirt. He squirms on the chair, cheeks puffed out in protest.
âMama, itâs itchy,â he whines, tugging at the collar.
Agatha sighs, half exasperated, half amused. âOf course itâs itchy, darling boy, itâs new. Just let me do the last button and then you can show everyone how handsome you are.â
He grumbles but lifts his chin, letting her fasten the top button. The moment sheâs done, he hops down and spins dramatically. âDo I look like a big boy?â
Agatha presses a hand to her chest, feigning shock. âLike a very big boy. Practically a man.â
He giggles, then blurts, âCan we sing it one more time?â
Her mouth curves into a smile despite herself. âOne more time,â she agrees, crouching down so theyâre 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.
âAutumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling downâŚâ
Agatha joins in, ââŚred and yellow, orange and brown, all around the townâŚâ
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.
âYouâre going to be brilliant,â she murmurs, her hand smoothing down his back. âThe brightest leaf of all.â
He giggles into her shoulder, but when she sets him down again his little hands twist in the hem of his shirt. âWhat if I forget?â he asks her nervously. âWhat if I mess up?â
Agatha kneels, cupping his face gently. âThen youâll keep going. Everyone messes up sometimes, darling boy. What matters is that you sing with your whole heart.â
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, âGod help me if he starts crying on stage Iâll be up there singing it with him.â
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.
âYouâll be there, Mama?â he asks suddenly, his voice serious.
Agatha catches his gaze in the rear-view mirror, her expression softening. âOf course Iâll be there, darling boy. Right in the front row.â
He nods, reassured, then adds quickly, âAnd Mama Rio too?â
âYes, baby,â Agatha says with certainty. âSheâll be there too. Both of us, cheering you on.â
Nicky lets out a relieved little sigh, hugging the goat tighter. âCan you bring Professor Goatly? He makes me brave.â
Agatha smiles, her heart squeezing. âWeâll tuck him in my bag. Heâll be clapping louder than anyone.â
That wins a giggle out of him, but after a beat, he asks in a smaller voice, âwill Y/N be there?â
Agatha keeps her eyes on the road, her voice gentle but firm. âNot this time, love. The school only gives two tickets. Just me and Mama Rio today.â
His shoulders slump, the smile sliding right off. âBut I want her there.â
Agatha reaches back at the red light, her hand brushing over his knee. âI know, darling. She wants to be there too but sheâll be waiting to hear all about it when we get home and you can sing the song just for her.â
Nicky clutches the goat close, his little mouth set in a pout. âItâs not fair.â
Agatha sighs, her thumb stroking his knee, steady and reassuring. âIt isnât. But youâll still have us there, and weâll be so proud of you.â
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 theyâre eye to eye, brushing a curl back from his forehead. âAlright, darling boy. Youâre going to go in with your class, and then this afternoon youâll get to show us your big performance. Sound good?â
Nicky chews on his lip, shifting from foot to foot. âYouâll be there?â
She nods, steady, certain. âFront row, I promise. Me and Mama Rio.â
âAnd Professor Goatly?â
Her mouth curves despite herself. âProfessor Goatly wouldnât miss it for the world.â
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.
âYouâll be brilliant,â 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. âSee you later, my leaf.â
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. Sheâd cleared her whole day for this, every email bounced back with a crisp âout of office,â every meeting pushed to tomorrow. Today was for Nicky.
Sheâs halfway through making tea when her phone buzzes across the counter. Rio.
With a sigh, she picks up. âWhat?â
âAgatha.â Rioâs voice is clipped and hurried with the cadence of someone already halfway into an excuse. âIâve got a huge meeting this afternoon. It just came up and I canât get out of it.â
Agatha goes still, the kettle starting to hiss behind her. âWhat do you mean you canât get out of it?â
âI mean exactly that. The client flew in early, and the entire board is expecting me. Itâs not optional.â
âYouâre telling me youâre going to miss his show for a client meeting?â Agathaâs voice sharpens, low and dangerous.
âDonât make it sound like that,â Rio snaps back. âYou know how my job works. This is one of those times.â
Agatha presses her palm flat to the counter, nails biting into her skin. âNo. No, this is his time. Heâs been talking about this show for weeks. He asked me this morning if youâd be there. I promised him. And now youâre bailing?â
Silence hums on the line, heavy. Then Rio sighs, softer but no less infuriating. âYouâll be there. Heâll still have a parent in the audience. He wonât even notice.â
Agathaâs laugh is sharp, humorless. âYou really believe that? You think he wonât notice the empty seat? He notices everything, Rio. Everything.â
Thereâs a pause, long enough that Agatha can hear her own pulse hammering in her ears.
âIâm sorry,â Rio says finally. âBut I canât be in two places at once. Youâll just have to handle it.â
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 doesnât 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 doesnât feel quiet. It feels heavy.
She paces the length of the tiles, phone still in her hand, thumb pressing into the glass so hard sheâs surprised it doesnât crack. Her mind runs circles around itself.
She canât call the school to warn him. Heâll be lined up with the other kids, scanning the crowd for her face, for both their faces. Heâll spot her easily, and then heâll keep looking. And looking. And when he realises Rio isnât thereâŚ
Agatha exhales sharply, dragging both hands through her hair until itâs wild around her face.
âDamn it, Rio.â
Thereâs 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 theyâd 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 heâll see is the empty seat beside her.
She straightens, jaw locking. Sheâll have to make up for it somehow. She doesnât know how yet, but she will.
Her thumb hovers over your name in her contacts, the one she always presses when sheâs unraveling, when she doesnât know what to do.
Her first thought is to call you. She pictures your voice, steady even when youâre unsure, the way youâd talk her down and remind her to breathe. The way youâd probably say that he wonât be alone, Agatha. He has you. Thatâs enough.
Her thumb twitches, ready to tap.
But then she remembers you told her this morning that you have therapy at noon. Youâd 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 mindâs eye, knees tucked up in that chair, fidgeting with your sleeves, trying to peel your chest open in front of a stranger. She canât interrupt that, canât 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 couldnât control, desperate to reach for you but refusing to rob you of the one thing youâre 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. âBaby?â
âHey,â your voice comes, soft but steady. âI know the showâs about to start. I just wanted to say good luck. Tell him Iâm cheering for him.â
Agatha swallows hard, the words spilling before she can stop them. âRioâs not coming. She called with some bullshit excuse about meeting she âcouldnât miss.ââ Her knuckles whiten on the steering wheel. âHeâs going to look for her, and she wonât be there. Heâll see that empty chair andâŚâ
Her voice breaks, raw. âI donât know how Iâm supposed to explain it to him.â
Thereâs a beat of silence, and then your tone sharpens. âHow long do I have?â
Agatha blinks, thrown. âWhat?â
âHow long until showtime?â
She glances at the dashboard clock. âTen minutes, maybe less. Why?â
âOkay, gotta go,â 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 doesnât see an empty chair, itâs you.
The corridors smell faintly of glue sticks and floor polish, childrenâs 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. âName?â
âAgatha Harkness. For Nicholas Harkness Vidal.â
The woman checks her list and smiles. âTwo tickets. Is your guest with you?â
Agatha forces a calm nod, adjusting the strap of her bag. âSheâs running a little late, but sheâll be here. Please just let her through when she arrives.â
âOf course,â 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 âWelcome Fall!â 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 itâs just another parent, another sibling, another stroller rolling in. Not you. Not yet.
Her fingers tap against her knee, restless. She can already picture Nickyâs face peeking from behind the curtain, scanning the crowd. If you donât get here in timeâŚ
She presses a hand over her heart, swallowing hard. She told the clipboard woman youâd be here. She told herself youâd be here. And now, all she can do is sit in the small chair, surrounded by smiling parents, and pray youâll make it before her son steps out and sees an empty space where his family should be.
Youâre 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 youâre 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 teacherâs voice herding kids into line. Your heart slams harder. Donât miss it. Donât 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.
âAgatha Harknessâ guest,â you gasp, already reaching for your ID.
She checks the list, then waves you through with a smile. âGo, go! Theyâre about to start.â
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, Agathaâs eyes snap toward it, the way they have every single time someoneâs walked in. But this time itâs you.
Breathless, cheeks flushed, hair wild from the sprint, eyes wild with determination as you hurry down the aisle. You donât even glance around at the rows of parents craning to see whoâs rushing in so late, your gaze is locked on hers, like you knew exactly where sheâd 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 wonât 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. âYou came.â
You manage a breathless grin. âI wasnât about to let him look out and see an empty chair.â
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 werenât in a room full of preschool parents, she thinks sheâd kiss you until she cried.
Instead, she whispers, âGod, I love you,â 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 Agathaâs bag, rummaging till you grab Professor Goatly. You pull the plush goat out and set him carefully on your lap, arranging him so heâs 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. âI want to tell him.â
You turn your head, blinking. âTell him what?â
Her hand finds yours under the cover of the goat, her thumb stroking over your knuckles. âThat youâre not just his babysitter.â She swallows, her eyes glinting in the stage lights. âThat youâre Mommyâs partner. That youâre ours.â
Your breath catches. The noise of parents settling in, the scrape of chairs, the rustle of costumes behind the curtain, all of it fades. Itâs 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. âYou mean that?â
Her grip tightens, her forehead brushing yours for the barest moment. âIâve never meant anything more.â
You sniffle, trying to blink the tears away before the curtain goes up, before Nicky can see. But you canât hide the way your smile trembles as you whisper back, âI want that too.â
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. âOur youngest class has been working very hard on their autumn song. Please welcome them!â
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 heâs 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 heâs ever seen it.
And then on you sitting right beside her, the goat propped up proudly on your knees.
Nicky freezes, blinking like he canât 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. âLook at him.â
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.
âAutumn leaves are falling down, falling down, falling downâŚâ
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.
âRed and yellow, orange and brown, all around the town!â
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. Agathaâs 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 sheâs 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 heâs putting every ounce of bravery he has into each line. His eyes flicker to you both constantly, like heâs drawing strength from the fact youâre there, his family in the front row.
âAll around the towwwwnnnn!â
The kids hold the final note far too long, their voices cracking with the effort. The teacher claps her hands together, beaming. âTake a bow!â
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. âMy brave boy,â 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 kidsâ names.
Agatha rises, her hand slipping from yours only because sheâs 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.
âMama!â 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.
âMama! Y/N!â
He collides into Agathaâs legs first, wrapping his little arms around her waist. She scoops him up without hesitation, kissing his curls, her own eyes suspiciously bright. âDarling boy, you were wonderful.â
âI did it!â he beams, breathless from the run, curls sticking to his forehead. âI wasnât even scared!â
You hold up the goat, and he squeals, reaching from Agathaâs arms to grab both you and the plush at once. âProfessor Goatly saw me! You saw me too!â
You nod, grinning, your eyes stinging. âI saw everything. You were amazing.â
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. âBest show ever!â
Agatha meets your eyes over his curls, her smile breaking into something raw and full. She mouths, âthank youâ, even as she kisses the top of Nickyâs head again and again.
âWell, superstar,â she says, brushing a stray curl off his forehead, âI think a performance that brilliant deserves a celebration.â
His eyes go wide, glittering. âCelebrate?!â
âYes honey.â She taps his nose, grinning. âWhat do you think? Pizza?â
âPizza!â 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. âPizza sounds perfect.â
Nicky hugs the goat tight against his chest, practically vibrating with excitement. âBest show ever, best pizza ever!â
Agatha stands, slipping one hand around your waist while she reaches for Nickyâs little hand with the other. âThen itâs settled. Letâs get our superstar fed.â
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 youâve ever felt trained on you.
And for the first time, it really feels like youâre a family walking out of that school together.
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, donât 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.