💟 i write and draw sometimes. read most of the time. think about fictional characters all the time.
💟 i don't have that many tags because i don't have time to organize shit. but if you wanna follow specific tags of mine:
#jaye rambles (me talking about whatever)
#jaye writes (fics i have written which can also be found in the masterlist below)
#jaye draws (my bad attempts in creating digital art)
#fanfic rec (fics i have read and recommend)
#answered (answered asks)
#q (queued post!)
💟 things i wrote can be found here and in AO3: MASTERLIST
💌 i'm a chronically ill minimum wage earner with a lot of responsibilities so if you wanna help me out, here's my ko-fi and paypal. any amount will help us a lot and will be greatly appreciated. ❣️
⚠️ This blog is a safe space for everyone and I do NOT tolerate any type or form of homophobia, transphobia, racism, misogyny, and everything along those lines!
i'm not cassie mckay anon but hey, do you think cassie would have played any sports when she was younger? maybe something that she eventually picks up again?
okay i imagine young cassie played mostly sports that her dad might love like basketball or baseball.
but i think she fell in love with volleyball in high school and could have gone pro if she chose it. she couldn't play like she used to in high school - she could coach young girls though - but she still kept up with the major leagues and watched the games when she sees it on TV.
wanna hang out [remembers it's rude to put expectations on people] it's cool if not [remembers people like to know they're wanted] but I'd really like it if you did [remembers selfishness is bad] we can do whatever you want though [remembers that handing someone a blank canvas isn't as effective as providing a suggestion to bounce ideas off of] like sucking each others fingers for example
every day i am thankful to ancient humans for the domestication of the cat. fucking genius idea. agriculture was a good one too btw but you really outdid yourselves with the cat thing
Tags: established relationship, fluff, unit chief emily, attempt at humor, inspired by that one post I made, this is just for shits and giggles honestly and most importantly for loserwifemily, no use of yn
Summary: Emily Prentiss may be the Unit Chief of an elite team of FBI agents, but before that, she is your wife.
Word count: 1.1k
Nobody recommends sharing the workplace with your spouse. It gets messy, it gets awkward, you're held under a bigger microscope, subjected to more scrutiny—and, all in all, it just complicates things. Better for the two worlds to stay separate.
Such is not really your case. Partially because you're not even on the same floor as Emily, and partially because she's good at upholding the boundary, especially when your paths don't cross. When they do, it's more often you willingly seeking each other out rather than a work-related issue forcing you to meet.
So you know there's not anything particularly pressing when your wife ambles into the eighth-floor kitchenette, an empty mug held loosely in her hand, her eyes sweeping, lips curling up into a faint smile when she sees you at the counter. Her shoulders are relaxed, easy. She's dressed more casually today, in no mood for the fuss—a tank top under her blazer and dark jeans—and your eyes are appreciative. She catches them as they dip down to the pale, exposed skin of her chest, her grin widening as she steps closer and innocently tilts her head.
"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.
You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.
You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.
She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.
"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."
Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."
You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.
As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.
Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.
"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."
Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.
Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.
It still hasn't stopped either of you.
"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.
"That's all?"
Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.
"No," she concedes.
In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.
She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—
"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.
Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.
"You're mean," she murmurs.
"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."
Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"
"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.
Alvez.
Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.
Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.
"What?" She demands.
"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."
"The team." Emily says flatly.
You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.
"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.
Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.
"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."
Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."
Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.
"And no detours to Penelope's."
His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.
