she/her ⋆˚꩜｡ femme, bi, switch, brat, kinky af, aquarius, slytherin, always down for a friends with benefits, classic literature lover, pinterest hoe, existentialist, slut for a cig, film nerd... flirt.
some older women i adore ‼️
emily prentiss (ofc)
kathryn hahn/agatha harkness
miranda priestly
valentina allegra de fontaine
olivia benson
dana evans
cassie mckay
larissa weems
fandoms
criminal minds
marvel (my fave movies are agatha all along, loki, thunderbolts)
synopsis : in which the brilliant, unflappable, sharp-witted Emily Prentiss begs for your forgiveness after she forgets to fill up your tank.
The amber glow of late afternoon filtered through the lace curtains of the living room, painting warm, honeycomb streaks across the hardwood floor. Outside, the world was slowing down, but inside, the quiet was thick with a deliberate, performative tension.
You sat on the plush sofa, legs tucked beneath you, staring intently at the TV screen with your arms tightly crossed. You weren't actually watching the broadcast; your entire being was attuned to the sound of socks soft-stepping across the rug.
"Sweetheart?"
Emily’s voice was velvet-smooth, rich with that low, fond cadence reserved strictly for the sanctuary of your shared home. Gone was the crisp BAU blazer, replaced by an oversized, heather-grey sweater with sleeves pushing past her knuckles.
She hovered at the edge of the couch, holding two steaming mugs of chamomile tea, her dark eyes swimming with pure, unadulterated penitence.
"I brought peace offerings," she murmured, carefully setting the mugs on the coffee table before sinking onto the cushion beside you. She shifted closer, the subtle scent of black tea, cedarwood, and rain-washed air drifting off her skin. "I am deeply, irredeemably sorry."
You kept your chin tucked, fighting the traitorous pull of your own lips. "Hopes and dreams, Emily. I rolled into the Shell station on literal atmospheric pressure."
"I know, I know," she coaxed, her voice dipping into a soft, pathetic whine that would shock anyone who’d ever seen her stare down an international criminal. The formidable Agent Prentiss was nowhere to be found; in her place was a helpless lover girl terrified of staying in the doghouse. "I got the call from Hotch, and my brain just scrambled. I was going to stop on my way back, but I was just so tired & I forgot ."
"I asked you specifically. You looked me right in the eye and said, 'Of course, sweetheart.'"
"And I meant it! My heart was in the right place, even if my head was in Quantico." Emily shifted onto her knees, settling on the rug right between your legs. She rested her folded arms on your lap, looking up at you through a dark fan of eyelashes, her expression entirely crumpled with devotion. "Will you ever forgive me? Or am I doomed to sleep on the rug with the ghost of my forgotten errands?"
"You're very dramatic when you're guilty," you noted, maintaining your best stern frown, though the warmth of her chest pressing against your knees was rapidly melting your resolve. Truthfully, you hadn't been angry after the initial sputter of your low-fuel indicator. But seeing Emily Prentiss—brilliant, unflappable, sharp-witted Emily—reduced to begging for grace over a quarter-tank of unleaded was a rare, delicious treat.
"I'm desperate, there's a difference," she whispered softly.
Slowly, tenderly, she reached up. Her cool, ringed fingers brushed over your cheekbone, tucking a stray lock of hair behind your ear. Her touch lingering, thumb stroking the soft skin of your jawline. She leaned up, pressing a feather-light kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"Please?" Kiss.
"I love you so much." Kiss.
"I'll buy you a whole tank tomorrow. Two tanks. I'll buy the gas station." Another lingering, velvet press of her lips against yours, slower this time, tasting like honey and desperate affection. She leaned her forehead against yours, her warm breath fanning across your lips as her fingers gently hooked into the hem of your shirt, anchoring herself to you. "Don't be mad at me, my sweet girl. It breaks my heart."
You let out a soft sigh, the faux-anger evaporating into the warm ambient light of the room. Your hands finally betrayed your chest, rising to thread through her thick, midnight-dark hair, cradling the back of her head.
"You're lucky you're pretty," you murmured, tilting your head to catch her mouth in a real, languid kiss that made her hum in relieved satisfaction.
Emily melted instantly, shifting up onto the sofa to pull you flush against her chest, wrapping her arms around you like a shield against the rest of the world. "I am the luckiest," she agreed against your neck, her voice thick with soft, domestic worship. "Now drink your tea before I have to beg you to forgive me for letting it get cold."
