[probablydoingyourmom1]

*cue effie tinket voice* welcome, welcome!

you can find fic recommendations here: [fic recommendations]

i do also write sometimes: [masterlist]

[dykeforhire]

Prentiss doodle of the day.

[geodeprentixx]

Emily who is a subtle control freak who hates letting other people drive no matter how qualified they are. She’s the first to grab the keys and if anyone beats her she calls shotgun, her back straight as a board, feet subconsciously pressing the break around every turn, her hands ready grab the wheel just in case.

It’s something she’s learned to hide over the decades so the rest of the team doesn’t even notice… until a dinner out where she volunteers to sit in the passenger seat of your car. Slouching slightly and talking to Penelope in back her eyes anywhere but the road. She doesn’t even draw attention when one of your hands leaves the wheel to migrate over to her side she just simply intertwines your fingers

[finnjareau-prentiss]

I love how so many movie characters take off their glasses during their "glow up" meanwhile emily prentiss put on her glasses and everyone has lost their clothes over it

[strawberrygirlthings]

emily prentiss is really so caring. sweet girl is the newest to the team but still was the only one to actually try and help/call out spencer during his addiction and to be with hotch all through when foyet attacked him. picking him up for work and dropping him home and staying with him at the hospital. my baby :((

[mortalscience]

[moons-and-mobility-aids]

Where the Silence Lives

Pairing: Emily Prentiss x Depressed!Reader Summary: Emily finds you after days spent unable to get out of bed, and she stays with you through the quiet. Tags: depressed!reader, no use of y/n, severe depressive episode, executive dysfunction, days in bed, numbness instead of sadness, breakdown-but-quiet, emily prentiss being gentle, soft touch, hurt/comfort, she reads to you, no pressure to talk, quiet companionship, she gets in bed with you, grounding touch, breathing together, safe presence, recovery is not linear, you don't have to get better yet, just existing together is enough Word Count: 3.2k words

You haven't left the bed in over twenty-four hours. Maybe more. Time is nothing but vapour—slipping through your fingers, ungraspable, untethered. It no longer moves forward in a straight line, but folds over itself, blurring days into each other until even the notion of before and after feels foreign. Minutes stretch into centuries; whole hours vanish in a blink. All you know is the bed, and your body in it. You feel like something sinking slowly into the earth, being swallowed inch by inch by the mattress beneath you. Your body is a monument to inertia, a sculpture shaped by silence and the weight of days unchanging. You've spent so long in stillness that you've started to feel more like an object than a person—just another piece of furniture, soft-edged and sunken in.

Your limbs are leaden, heavy in the way that suggests something unnatural, like the blood in your veins has turned to mud. Even breathing feels like effort. Each inhale is thick, syrupy. Each exhale too shallow. Your chest rises only because it must, not because you want it to. Your body has become a battleground of stillness and subtle pain, your muscles aching with disuse. There's no injury, no fever, no wound. And yet you feel ill in every way that counts. There's a dull pulse at the base of your skull, a tightness behind your eyes, a stiffness in your neck like your spine is locking into place from the inside out. You shift only to relieve the worst of the aches, and even that feels like an ordeal—your joints grinding with protest.

The blinds are still drawn from yesterday. Or was it the day before? You can't say for certain. The room is dim, cloaked in shades of blue-grey twilight no matter the hour. Dust clings to the air, spinning lazy pirouettes through weak bands of light. You watch them for long stretches of time, letting them become something to fixate on. They're silent, like everything else in here. The kind of silence that feels loud in your chest, pressing and endless. The walls don't echo—they absorb. Everything in the room feels muffled. Even your thoughts. They come like whispers now, static-heavy and incomplete. Fragments of memories, old regrets, things you forgot to do and no longer have the will to finish. Sometimes you try to remember what the sky looked like last time you saw it. Blue? Cloudless? You're not sure. Your memories don't play back like they used to—they're warped, stretched thin, brittle like old cassette tape.

You lie curled on your side, a blanket half-draped across your legs, tangled and too warm in some places and not warm enough in others. You haven't moved in hours. Your skin is starting to feel alien, like it doesn't quite fit right over your bones. There's a stale, sourness to the air now. It should bother you. It doesn't. You can smell yourself—skin oil and something faintly metallic—but it's distant, like everything else. Your body is a container. You live somewhere beneath it, somewhere quieter. Somewhere that doesn't have to be responsible for upkeep. Somewhere that just… waits.

Your mouth is dry. You think you drank water last night. Or maybe the night before. You imagine standing up, walking to the kitchen, opening the fridge. But the thought is enough to exhaust you. It's like imagining scaling a cliff face with your hands tied. Everything is too much. The idea of moving, of changing even the smallest part of your environment, is inconceivable. The thought of showering, of turning on a tap, of lifting a glass to your lips—it all feels impossibly foreign. Like the kind of thing a different version of you used to do. A version you can't imagine returning to. You know what you should do, and the word should clings to you like smoke, staining everything. You should eat. You should clean. You should try. But those thoughts drift through you like fog—no traction, no grip.

Your phone buzzed twice. It barely even startled you. Just a dull hum against the wooden floor. The first time, you ignored it out of instinct. The second time, you knew—Emily. Somehow, you always know when it's her. Maybe your body recognises her before your mind does. But you didn't check. Couldn't. The thought of holding the phone, reading her name, deciding what to do with it... impossible. You're not ready for the weight of someone else's care, even if it's gentle. Even if it's hers. Especially if it's hers. Her name would be a mirror, and you don't want to see yourself reflected in it right now. You don't want to imagine the concern in her voice, the softness you haven't earned.

You aren't crying. Haven't for days. Maybe weeks. There's nothing dramatic in this. No storm of emotion or explosion of grief. Just quiet. The kind that dulls the edges of everything until you feel like a pencil sketch that's been smudged too many times. Not erased, exactly. Just faded. You are a shell with the echo of yourself inside it. You aren't afraid. You aren't angry. You aren't anything. There's a peace to it, almost, but not a kind you'd wish for. A flatline. A still pond with nothing left to disturb its surface. No wind, no ripples. Just the illusion of stillness over depthless dark.

And yet—

The lock clicks.

Not loud. Not hurried. Not the sound of someone invading. It's precise, almost reverent. You hear it in the stillness and know, without question, that it's her. Emily. There's no panic in you. No surprise. You must've known, somewhere deep in that molasses-thick corner of your brain, that she would come. You left her the spare key. Maybe on purpose. Maybe subconsciously. Maybe just because you were too tired to remember where you put it. Maybe you hoped she'd come. Maybe you knew you wouldn't reach for help, so you planted a seed and waited. Or maybe you stopped waiting entirely, and this is coincidence. Either way, she's here.

She doesn't call your name. Doesn't announce herself. Doesn't ask if you're okay. Emily never plays at normal when things aren't. That's one of the reasons you trust her. One of the reasons you let her see you like this. She doesn't make a performance of compassion. She doesn't treat your silence like a puzzle to solve. She just steps inside, like she's coming home to a place she's missed. She moves with familiarity, like she's done this before. Like she knows exactly how long the hallway is, how many steps it takes to reach your door.

Her footsteps are soft against the hardwood. There's a rhythm to them—measured, unfaltering. A quiet confidence that seeps into the space ahead of her, like her presence precedes her physically. The slight creak in her left boot tells you exactly which pair she's wearing. The same boots she wore that time in Boston, when you stood beside her in the rain under the flicker of motel neon. You remember that detail, even though you can't remember the last time you brushed your teeth. You can't explain how you know it's her before she speaks. You just do. She carries a kind of gravity that rearranges the molecules in the air. Being near her is like standing close to a low-burning star.

Then she's in the doorway. Then she's here.

The mattress dips, but not abruptly. Her weight settles into the edge of the bed like it's been waiting for her. Like it knows the shape of her already. You feel it, even though you haven't moved. That slight shift of gravity when she sits. The air in the room changes. Not brighter. Not louder. Just different. More real. More present. Like someone turned up the saturation just slightly on the colours around you. Like her presence redefines the perimeter of the room.

She doesn't speak right away.

Her hand reaches for your hair, and the contact is feather-light, reverent. Like she's touching a bruise. Like she's checking if you'll flinch. She brushes strands away from your forehead slowly, fingers lingering just long enough to remind you that she's there. Her thumb trails the edge of your temple. Warmth blossoms there, faint but immediate. Her hand doesn't tremble. It doesn't hesitate. It simply exists. Soft. Certain. You didn't realise how long it's been since someone touched you like this—with no expectation, no goal. Just contact.

You don't open your eyes.

"Hi," she says, voice low and even.

It's not a greeting. It's an offering. An anchor.

You want to respond. Want to tell her that you heard her. That you're glad she's here. But the words are somewhere far off, buried under layers of fog and cotton. You couldn't reach them if you tried. And still, she waits. Not for a reply. Not for proof. Just with you. With the quiet. She fits into the silence like it's her language too.

She doesn't need them. She leans down until her forehead touches yours. Her breath fans across your cheek—coffee, and that familiar hint of jasmine from the shampoo she still pretends not to steal when she stays the night. Her presence is warmth without pressure. Weight without demand. And something more. A tether. A lifeline made of skin and breath and presence. She breathes with you, slow and steady, like she's lending you her rhythm.

She stays there, silent, letting the moment stretch. Her hand doesn't move from your hair. Her thumb begins tracing slow, deliberate circles against your scalp again, like a lullaby written in skin. Each pass of her hand is a silent affirmation. You are here. I am here. That's enough. Her knees press gently against the side of the mattress. Her other hand settles beside your pillow, grounding her to the bed, to you.

"You don't have to say anything," she murmurs. Her voice is barely more than breath. "I've got you."

That breaks something. Not in a dramatic, cinematic way. No tears. No gasp. Just a crack somewhere in the frozen part of you, where the numbness lives. A tiny fracture that lets in the faintest sliver of warmth. Her words wrap around that space, soft and strong and certain. They hold you where you are, not trying to drag you out. Just staying with you in the dark.

After a moment, Emily's fingers pause in your hair. There's a brief stillness between you, a pocket of quiet where she simply breathes with you, matching the rhythm of your inhale and exhale like it's instinct. Her touch lingers in your hair, fingers brushing once more over your temple with the gentlest pressure, as if to say she's still here without using words. Then, with a quiet sigh, she reaches for the worn paperback on your nightstand. She doesn't need to ask if it's okay. She already knows. There's an intimacy in that certainty, a soft kind of trust that doesn't need to be spoken aloud.

You know the book she picks up—creased spine, corners curled from years of use, pages soft and slightly yellowed from the press of thumbs and the passage of time. It's the one you always call your favourite, even when you can't quite remember why. The one you've carried through moves, through semesters and seasons, through heartbreaks and migraines. The one you've loved even when your brain won't let you feel love for anything else. Emily's seen it tucked under your arm at airports, splayed on your chest during sleepless nights, folded open on café tables while you stared past it into nothing. She knows what it means to you. She's even read parts of it before, quietly to herself when you were asleep beside her on the couch, the television muted and forgotten in the background.

She shifts slightly to get comfortable, adjusting her posture so she can hold the book open without disturbing the delicate stillness in the room. When she begins to read, her voice doesn't rise or push. There's no dramatics, no inflection meant to draw attention. Just the steady, soothing cadence of her speaking aloud—like a tide coming in and out, unchanging. Each sentence falls into the room like soft rain on glass, quiet but present. She reads slowly, letting the words breathe, letting the space between them fill with warmth rather than expectation. The story becomes background noise—not a demand for attention, but a presence that reminds you you're not lost to silence. It wraps itself around the room like a shawl, delicate and woven through with care.

You don't follow the plot. Not entirely. The sentences drift through you like music in a language you half-remember, familiar yet slippery. Some words catch and stick. Others fade before they land. But her voice—you cling to that. The melody of it. The unbroken thread. It reaches into the edges of your mind, weaving through the fog with gentle insistence. You start to listen, not to the content, but to the rhythm. It becomes your new heartbeat. It becomes the only thing that feels real.

She pauses every now and then—not just at the end of paragraphs, but mid-sentence sometimes, like she's gauging whether the room still wants the sound of her voice. It always does. There's a steadiness in her presence that holds you where you are without pulling. Like she's anchoring you to the moment without ever demanding you stay. And when she gently closes the book, smoothing her palm over the cover like it's something alive, it doesn't feel like an ending. Just another way she's showing up for you. Another way she's telling you: I'm still here.

"You don't have to talk," she says, her voice soft but sure. "You don't have to look at me or move or even try to feel better. I'm not here to fix anything. I just want to be here, if you'll let me."

Her thumb traces along the edge of the duvet now, absentminded, her eyes watching the small motion as if grounding herself in it. "You don't need to perform, or pretend. Not with me. You're allowed to just be." She exhales slowly, like she's letting go of something she's been holding, too. "I know this isn't something that lifts because someone else says the right thing. But I'm not leaving you to carry it alone."

She looks at you then—not expectantly, not for a response, but as if memorising the shape of your stillness. Like she's cataloguing your quiet, making space for it, honouring it. Then the bed shifts again as she stands up briefly. You hear the gentle creak of the floorboard beneath her foot, the soft rustle of the duvet as she lifts it. Then, with quiet deliberation, she slides under the covers next to you. She moves slowly, easing her body close without crowding yours, adjusting the blankets to drape over both of you with practiced gentleness. She nestles into the space behind you like she's done it a thousand times before, even if she never has. Her movements are deliberate, careful, as though she's entering a sacred space.

When her arm wraps around your waist, it's not possessive or heavy. It's an offering. A reminder. She rests her palm flat against your side, grounding you both. You don't move, but you don't tense. You allow it, and that permission—unspoken, barely conscious—means something. It says, I know you're not ready, and that's okay. It says, I'm here for as long as you need.

Her chest presses lightly to your back, her knees tucked behind yours, fitting around the shape of you like a puzzle piece. There's no urgency in her touch. Just quiet presence. Just warmth. Her body radiates against yours, not heat exactly, but steadiness. The kind of warmth that says: stay. The kind that doesn't chase anything away, but waits with you in the dark. She hums softly under her breath—nothing with a melody, just a subconscious sound, like her body can't help but fill the quiet with something human. It's not meant to soothe you. It simply exists, a testament to her being here with you.

Time becomes soft around the edges. Minutes stretch and fold. You feel her breathing, the slow expansion of her ribs, the gentle release as she exhales. It doesn't take long before your own breath begins to match hers. First by accident. Then by instinct. Her rhythm becomes your rhythm. Her steadiness becomes your anchor. Her fingers splay slightly where they rest against your stomach, not pushing, not pulling—just a contact point, like she's reminding you that you are here, and she is too. She's a lighthouse in the fog, not demanding you find your way—just shining.

"You don't have to come out of this yet," she whispers, her lips near your ear but her voice barely above a hum. "There's no timer. No deadline. No one's standing on the other side of this waiting for you with a clipboard, asking why you haven't smiled today."

She shifts slightly, her hand curling more securely around your waist. "You don't owe anyone an explanation. Not even yourself. You're not failing. You're not broken. You're surviving. And I'm proud of you for that, even if you can't be."

Her voice wavers just slightly, but she steadies it. "You don't have to do anything right now. Not eat, not shower, not talk. You don't have to be okay. You don't even have to move. Just let me stay here. That's all I want."

The words are soft, but they settle deep. They don't bounce off the fog inside you—they move through it. Like sunlight diffusing through morning mist, not breaking it apart, but making it bearable. She doesn't press you to speak. She doesn't ask for your hand or your tears or even your attention. She asks only to stay. And she means it. Every syllable a promise.

She shifts her position just slightly, enough to rest her forehead against the back of your neck. Her breath is warm against your skin, each exhale slow and deliberate. She murmurs again, not for your ears exactly, but maybe for herself too. "You're not alone. Not now. Not ever. Even when it feels like no one sees you—I do."

You don't say anything. You don't shift or reply. But your body, worn and slow as it is, begins to lean the smallest fraction into her warmth. Just a tilt. Just enough to notice. And when she feels it, she presses the lightest kiss to your shoulder—barely there, reverent.

The quiet that follows is full. Not of tension or expectation, but of presence. Of knowing. Of breathing. Her fingers trace small, idle patterns on your side, not to coax a reaction but simply because she's there, and you're real, and this moment is shared. She closes her eyes behind you and lets the stillness become part of her too.

And in that stillness, her breath stays steady. Her touch remains. The fog inside your chest doesn't vanish, but it lifts, just a little. Enough to breathe. Enough to imagine tomorrow without flinching. Enough to remember that your body is still yours. That you are still here.

[jennywtheglock]

"I wouldn't want that for anyone." EMILY PRENTISS season 6 -> 19

[probablydoingyourmom1]

her going after Doyle knowing she was going to die and being okay with it because it meant keeping her family safe?? I’M SICK

[lotties-ashwagandha]

ONE KNEE ON THE BATHROOM FLOOR

baran al-hashimi x fem!reader, 2.4k words.

inspired by this request. it’s been a rough day for both of you. a quiet night in isn’t quite all you need to decompress. NSFW! mdni. oral (sex) boral uncle boris boral oral b (best toothbrush brand dentist recommended guess what color mine is).

You are always the first one home. Your work ends two hours before Baran gets off at seven, and you’re usually at home a good hour and a half before her car pulls into the driveway. 

You like to have dinner started by the time she gets home. You think it’s a nice gesture, and you’d do anything to see Baran’s face light up the way it does when she comes into the kitchen to find you plating her favorite meals. 

Today, you walk in the door and go immediately to the couch. You kick off your shoes and put down your bag on the way, leaving it all strung across the floor, and let yourself slump down into the cushions. 

“Fuck,” you sigh, closing your eyes. You curl up on the couch and reach for the blanket on the back cushion, pulling it over you. 

It’s been a hard day. Work was rough, you forgot your lunch at home, your phone died halfway through the day, and a thousand other things went wrong that you somehow found yourself right at the center of every time. 

At least you had a phone charger in your car. Your phone is at a measly seven percent now, but it’s enough. At least you were able to text Baran that you got home safely. 

You keep your eyes closed, releasing another sigh. You feel so heavy, and with each passing moment you find yourself being pulled further towards sleep. 

You try not to let yourself succumb to it. You need to get up and cook dinner, change clothes, put your shit back where it needs to be so that it’s not strung all over the house when Baran comes home. But you feel so tired, this couch is so nice, and soon enough you’re out. 

— 

What wakes you up is the way the cushion dips by your head when Baran sits down next to you. It jostles you just enough, and you blink against the warm light of the living room lamps. 

“Sorry,” Baran says softly, “I didn’t mean to wake you.” 

You sit up a little, rubbing your eyes. You give her a dazed look, check your phone for the time, and then sit up the rest of the way. “It’s already seven-fifteen?” 

“How long have you been asleep?” 

You shake your head, pushing away the blanket. “Dont worry about that,” you say, offering her a smile. “Fuck, I’m glad you’re home.” 

Baran leans in, tipping your head up with a hand on your chin and leading you into a kiss. Her lips meet yours gently, tiredly, as if she’s the one who just woke up from a nap instead of you. 

“I missed you,” you say once you part. 

“I missed you too,” she replies. She smiles, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “How was work?” 

You shake your head. “It was shit. How was yours?” 

She leans back against the couch cushions. “The same.” 

You move closer to her, enough that she can wrap her arms around you and pull you into her side. You press a kiss to the side of her jaw, then just below her ear, breathing in the soft lavender scent of her perfume. 

Then you remember that you were supposed to be making dinner. Your heart drops and you tense, sitting up again. 

“What’s wrong?” Baran asks. She runs a hand up and down your shoulder. “Talk to me, love.” 

“I forgot about dinner. I fell asleep. Fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t think to set an alarm!” 

“It’s fine,” she says. “We can make something together.” 

“But I wanted to have it ready for you. I always do.” 

“And I appreciate it,” she tells you, sitting up. She shrugs off her purple jacket as she speaks, laying it gently over the armrest of the couch. “I’ve never asked that of you though, have I?” 

You frown. “No.” 

She stands up, holding out a hand for you to take. “Come on. Team effort.” 

“Baran…” 

“Am I that bad of a cook?” she jokes, and pulls you to your feet. “It’s fine if I am, you can tell me.” 

“You’re not a bad cook.” 

“Then let’s go.” 

— 

You wrap your arms around her waist, stepping forward to rest your chin on her shoulder. 

“It smells good,” you murmur, and press a kiss to the bare skin of her shoulder beside the black strap of her tank top. 

“It’s just pasta.” 

“Don’t do that.” 

“Do what?” 

“Sell yourself short,” you say. “Dont do that.” 

She rests a hand over yours across her middle, turns her head and kisses you. “Thank you,” she whispers eventually, “for reminding me.” 

You pull her closer, listening to the sizzling and boiling of the contents on the stove, and you think that if you closed your eyes then you might be able to fall asleep again. 

“Go set out some plates for us,” she tells you. “It’ll be ready soon.” 

— 

“We need to get that dishwasher fixed,” you say, walking into the bathroom and hoisting yourself up onto the edge of the sink counter while Baran does her nightly routine. “It rumbles and starts and then stops and then starts again. I don’t know what’s wrong with it.” 

“We can have someone look at it this weekend,” she says. “I’ll call in the morning.” 

“Thank you.” 

She grabs her moisturizer bottle. She starts twisting the lid, but it’s stuck, and she works at it for a few more moments before setting it down harshly on the counter. 

“Are you okay?” 

She nods. “Fine.” 

“Do you need some help?” 

Baran looks at you, looks down at the bottle of moisturizer, and then relents. She hands it to you and watches as you try to wrench the lid off. 

“Here,” you say, popping it open and handing it back to her. “Are you sure you’re okay?” 

“I’m tired,” she says, and it sounds so raw and honest that you don’t think it’s an excuse. “Today was just… endless.” 

“I know. I get it.” 

She squeezes some moisturizer into her hands and rubs it into her face, meeting her own gaze in the mirror. “I know you do.” 

“Is there anything I can do?” 

She wipes her hands on the sink towel, then steps between your legs and places her hands on top of your thighs. “Just be here with me. That’s all I need.” 

You nod. You slide forward a little, meeting her in a kiss that is tired and familiar and feels like home. 

Baran’s hands slide up your thighs to your hips and she deepens the kiss, pulling you against her. It emboldens her when your legs spread a little wider and your hands find hers, pulling them just beneath your shirt. 

“This helps too,” she murmurs against your lips, then kisses you again and swipes her tongue into your mouth. 

You feel her hands growing more anxious beneath your shirt. They slide up your sides and palm over the fabric of your bra, and yours come up to guide them under it. 

“Is this okay?” she asks quietly, as if she doesn’t already know the answer by the way you’re arching into her touch. 

“More than okay,” you say, and pull your shirt off along with your bra. 

Baran leans in and presses a kiss to your neck, just beneath your jaw, and peppers more down the column of your throat to your collarbones. She nips at the skin in a way that makes you gasp, and when she leans down to wrap her lips around a nipple, it elicits a sound from you more desperate than you’d like her to think you are already. 

“Bedroom,” you tell her, pushing her away so you can hop down onto your feet. “Please, I need this.” 

Baran leads you toward the connected bedroom, stopping in the doorway to pull you to her and kiss you, pressing you back against the doorframe. It’s rough against your back and compresses your spine in a way that’s terribly uncomfortable, but you can’t bring yourself to push her away — it feels too good to have her in front of you, pressing into you from the front. 

Baran gets down on her knees. One rests on the bathroom tile and the other on the dark wooden floor of your bedroom. She looks up at you with pupils wide and hands expectant. 

“Here?” you ask hesitantly. 

“Here.” 

Before you can overthink it any further, Baran leans forward and licks a trail up your thigh, making you gasp. She reaches up for the band of your shorts, meeting your eyes as she pulls them down with your underwear and helps with gentle hands on your calves as you step out of them. 

“Whenever work is shit,” she says, “I imagine us right here, just like this. I imagine having this perfect fucking view of you.” 

A familiar warmth spreads through your body, gathering low in your belly and down to live between your thighs. Your breathing gets heavier, you spread your legs a little wider without thinking about it, and you bite down hard on your bottom lip when Baran kisses higher up your thighs. 

You can feel her breath fanning against your center and she looks up at you, hoisting one of your legs over her shoulder so she can have better access to you. 

“Tell me what you want,” Baran orders, as if she doesn’t already know. Her hand on your hip presses you harder against the doorframe — it’s a precarious position, not the most stable, but she’ll take care of you. You know she will. 

“You,” you plead, bucking your hips forward only for them to be pressed back again. “Your tongue, your fingers, whatever you want. I need to feel you.” 

“You need to?” 

You nod, suppressing a low moan that threatens to escape from deep in your chest. “Please.” 

She gives in, leaning in and licking through your wet folds, humming contentedly at the taste of you. She feels your thighs tense and she presses you back hard against the doorframe until they relax, using it as a warning and reward system without hardly meaning to. 

You weave a hand into her hair, guiding her closer. You sigh when she runs her tongue over your clit, and she uses enough pressure to make your hips jump. 

“Be patient,” she warns, but she can’t say she’s following her own rules. Already she’s wrapping her lips around your clit and sucking gently, fishing for a reaction from you, relishing the low groan you give her. “Good girl.” 

She shifts a little in the way she’s kneeling, the hard floors beginning to make her knees ache. But when she has you above her like this, lost in the feeling of her tongue on you and looking at last so relaxed and relieved, the last thing she wants to do is move. 

You raise a hand to your own chest, squeezing and palming at your breast, running your thumb over your hardened nipple. You crave release, and while it’s hardly ever a race to the finish line when the two of you have sex, tonight feels different. It’s the exception. 

“Keep doing that,” she says, voice a little shaky. “You look so fucking beautiful like this.” 

You feel her tongue going lower, dipping into your entrance before moving to focus on your clit again. It throws you off — your legs begin to shake and you place in Baran’s hands an unfair amount of responsibility to keep you standing. 

Baran can feel you getting close already. She keeps going, sucking your clit into her mouth and then releasing it to run her tongue over it, gripping so hard with her hands that you’re both sure little indents will be left in your skin from her nails. 

Your grip tightens in her hair. Your hips buck into her and she follows the movement, hardly giving you any room to escape the intensity of her mouth against you, and release rushes over you in a sudden flash that has your back arching against the doorframe and a sharp cry falling from your lips. 

Baran helps you down from it, working you through the aftershocks and cleaning your release from your thighs with her tongue until you push her head away. She releases your leg from her shoulder, waiting for a second with her hands on your legs until she knows you’re okay to stand securely on your own two feet. 

“Come up here,” you say breathlessly, reaching down for her. “I want to kiss you.” 

She smiles, nodding, but then she pauses. Her knees ache terribly and even the slightest movement makes her wince. Sometimes she forgets that she’s forty years old, but her body always reminds her. 

“Baran?” 

“Give me a second,” she says, the warmth of embarrassment spreading across her cheeks as she shifts over to sit down and stretches her legs out in front of her. “Oh, fuck…” 

One of her knees pops in a way that makes you wince. 

“It’s fine,” she assures you, seeing your expression. “It does that sometimes.” 

With wobbly legs, you step in front of her and hold both hands out for her to take. “Come on,” you say. “Up you go.” 

“Do I have to?” 

“Baran, seriously.” 

She relents, grabbing your hands and letting you pull her up. 

Once she’s on her feet, she leans in and kisses you. You can taste yourself on her tongue and it sparks another wave of heat to rush through you. 

“Come here,” you say, pulling her into the bedroom the rest of the way and guiding her to sit down on the edge of the bed. 

“You don’t have to,” she tells you. 

“I know. I want to.” 

She softens. She likes hearing that. “Okay.” 

You climb into bed after her, maneuvering Baran so that she’s lying down and you’re hovering above her, taking off her clothes piece by piece and worshipping every new inch of skin revealed to you. 

Today was hard. It’s undeniable, and there is no changing it. There will be more days like this that will spring upon you without warning and do their damage. 

But this makes it better: to know that you are cherished, that you can spread that feeling to someone else, that even the worst of days can have desirable ends. 

Baran’s other knee pops and you jump. 

“The woes of middle age,” you tease. “You’re going to have metal knees by the time you’re fifty.” 

“That’s not how it works. We don’t call them metal knees.” 

“Yeah, well. Just so you know, I’m happy to drive you home post-op.” 

“Put that mouth to better use, will you?” 

[emilys-bangs]

𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐥𝐲𝐬-𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝟐𝐤 𝐭𝐞𝐚 𝐬𝐡𝐨𝐩 𑣲

Hi! Thank you so much for being here! If you’ve ever liked, reblogged, commented, or sent me a kind message, I appreciate you beyond words. This event is just a small way for me to give back to you, so feel totally free to send in as many requests as you want!! (But please only choose one category at a time and have a look at my request guidelines first). You're more than welcome to specify the scenario you want for a more accurate fic! I'll begin posting a week from now :)

Open from July 16th to July 31st.

Place your order!

𓇢𓆸 Spiced chai — choose a character + a prompt from this list, this list, or this list—or send me a prompt of your own (fluff, hurt/comfort, angst)—and I'll write a small drabble, 1k words or less.

𓇢𓆸 Taro bubble tea — send me a kidfic prompt + a character and I'll write a small drabble, 1k words or less.

𓇢𓆸 Wild berry infusion — choose any two characters + a prompt and I'll write a poly drabble, 1k words or less.

𓇢𓆸 London fog — send me a scenario or a trope + a character and I'll give you my headcanons for it, or send me a headcanon of yours and I'll give you my thoughts.

𓇢𓆸 Moroccan mint tea — send me a character + an au, aesthetic, trope, or concept and I'll make you a moodboard.

𓇢𓆸 Custom blend — tell me a little bit about yourself and I'll ship you with a character (and, if it applies, a season-specific version of them! Ex: season 4 Emily Prentiss).

Feel free to specify a character era (London Emily, unit chief Emily, etc.) or a certain reader archetype (ex!reader with Baran, assistant!reader with Emily, etc.)!! AUs are more than welcome! You can also add in dialogue of your own or any more details you have in mind to make your request more specific :) thank you again!! I hope you'll have as much fun with this as I know I will, and as always please nothing nsfw <3

[insideininsideout]

[berryblondd]

her and these bougie ass sunglasses

[wlwoceaneyes]

The shape of almost P8 // In your arms

word count: 2.5 k Summary: After the FBI brings the situation under control, Claire and you reunite with Emily outside. For the first time since everything happened, you finally allow yourself to let go and fall apart in the safety of her presence. tags: tw!gun violence, tw!active shooter, tw!gunshots, college!reader, fem!reader, emily prentiss unit chief, mutual pining, age gap, quiet tension, things left unsaid, unspoken connection, slow burn

Masterlist • Taglist• Series masterlist • AO3

After the shot, you can hear your own heartbeat pounding in your ears as silence settles over the restaurant. Heads crane toward the sound, finding the man with the gun, and you watch the panic reach out and sink its claws into them. You can feel it happening to yourself just the same.

Guests who had been crouching behind overturned chairs or pressed against the walls suddenly move all at once. Someone cries out. A waiter grabs the arm of an elderly couple and pulls them toward the kitchen while others drop lower behind the counter, too frightened to trust that the shooting is really over.

Your attention never leaves the glass. Barely twenty meters away, the shooter is still standing in the middle of the mall.

His weapon remains raised as fragments of shattered glass continue to rain from the ceiling around him, sparkling in the light before crashing onto the floor below. People who hadn’t reached cover in time shield their heads as they stumble toward the nearest stores, desperate to get out of the open.

Another shot cracks through the air, again into the ceiling.

The sound reverberates through the restaurant, rattling the windows in front of you. Without thinking, you press yourself closer against Claire. Her fingers are wrapped so tightly around your wrist that they’re beginning to hurt, but neither of you notices.

Then movement catches your eye.

Dark tactical vests appear from both sides of the lower level, spreading through the corridor with practiced precision. White letters flash across their backs as they move.

FBI.

Several agents close in at once, weapons raised, their voices carrying even through the glass.

“FBI! Drop the weapon!”

The man turns sharply at the command. For a moment, it almost looks as though he’s going to raise the gun again. But instead, he only smirks and bolts.

He disappears into one of the side corridors, knocking over a display stand as he runs. The agents are after him instantly, vanishing around the corner only seconds later until nothing remains but the echo of hurried footsteps somewhere deeper inside the mall.

The restaurant falls strangely quiet. Nobody moves, and nobody seems willing to believe it’s over.

Then, somewhere beyond the corridor where the agents disappeared, another shot rings out. Every head jerks toward the sound.

A few seconds later, the speakers crackle overhead.

“Evacuation routes are active. Follow staff direction. Keep moving toward exits.” The unfamiliar voice booms over your head, shattering the tense chaos of the mall and the calm that had crept in over the last few minutes.

The people around you look around frantically, searching for someone who can show them the way out. You find yourself doing the same. More than anything, you just want to get out of here.

Rising onto your tiptoes, you try to see over the crowd, your fingers digging into Claire’s shoulder as she follows your gaze. A blonde woman wearing an FBI vest stands by the railing on the lower level, one arm extended as she directs people to the left while her eyes constantly sweep the floors above. People hurry past her, stumbling over one another in their rush before disappearing around the corner she keeps pointing toward.

“Come on,” you murmur, turning back to Claire.

Her breathing is loud and uneven now, every inhale catching before it fully reaches her lungs. You can feel the panic taking hold of her more with every passing second, and you make yourself a silent promise to stay calm, even if your own heart feels like it’s trying to break free from your chest.

You take hold of her hand and gently pull her after you. She follows without hesitation. You realize she’s no longer making decisions of her own. She’s simply following your lead, too overwhelmed by fear to think beyond the next step. Only minutes ago, she had been the one guiding both of you through the maze of corridors. Now, without either of you acknowledging it, the roles have quietly reversed.

You turn left and finally reach the corridor where the crowd has disappeared.

The corridor is packed with people. They are no longer running, but they still stumble forward with lingering uncertainty. The panic hasn’t completely faded, but relief hangs in the air now—the growing belief that they are finally safe. You rise onto your toes, trying to see how much farther it is to the exit.

“They shot him,” a man to your left says.

“No, I saw them arrest him,” a woman farther back insists.

No one seems to know for certain, but hope is beginning to push back the fear. You cling to it, too. The crowd around you slows even more, people falling into a single line, employees from the surrounding stores stand along the walls and in open doorways, calmly directing people forward with quiet gestures and reassuring voices. They continue pointing toward the back of the corridor until you finally spot the glass doors leading to the west entrance.

Your eyes wander across the scene, still searching without really knowing what for, until they settle on a dark-haired man wearing an FBI vest.

Like the blonde woman by the railing, he seems completely unaffected by the chaos around him. He issues short, precise instructions, barely raising his voice, yet people obey him immediately. There is something about him that radiates certainty, the kind that makes others believe everything is under control.

You wonder if he’s part of Emily’s team.

As you and Claire draw closer, his eyes meet yours. He gives a single nod, then gestures toward the exit. “This way,” he says. “Stay with the line. Don’t stop.”

You feel Claire hesitate at his words. Right now, she seems to distrust everyone and everything. Her hand tightens around yours, and for a moment, she refuses to move. “Who are you?” she asks, her eyes wide as she looks at the man.

You try to pull her along.

“Luke,” he answers without slowing down. “FBI coordination on site. Please. Keep moving.”

When Claire still makes no move to follow the crowd, Luke stops. His expression softens, if only for a moment. “Everything’s okay. You’re safe,” he reassures her. “Just follow the crowd outside.”

You nod gratefully, and Claire seems satisfied with the answer as well. Her whole body relaxes almost instantly.

Luke is already turning away before you can hold onto anything else he says. He speaks into the radio clipped to his vest, his attention already shifting somewhere else.

A loud noise erupts somewhere behind you. You know immediately that it isn’t another gunshot, and yet your blood turns to ice all the same. You don’t know what caused it, but the panic on the faces around you tells you you’re not the only one who’s terrified. Whatever it was, it scares you.

It scares all of you.

“Come on,” Claire urges, sounding more determined again. “I have to get out of here.”

The exit is right in front of you now.

Bright daylight pours through the doors into the corridor, forming a stark contrast to the dim light inside the mall. The people ahead of you squeeze through the heavy metal doors, some moving far too quickly, others much more slowly. But all of them have only one goal in mind: To get out.

When you finally step through the doors, the cold air hits you all at once. You draw in a desperate breath, feeling your chest rise and fall far too quickly, as though it has developed a mind of its own and decided you need more air. The cold fills your lungs, and for a moment, you feel almost light-headed.

Your breathing remains uneven, your whole body trembling as the tension slowly begins to drain away. You’re safe. Whatever that means now.

You stumble after Claire, who moves aimlessly from left to right. She breaks away from the flow of people, and you have no idea where she is actually trying to go. But you don’t care. At least she is moving away from the mall. Her fingers are still wrapped tightly around your hand, and you haven’t loosened your grip either. It is the only anchor keeping you from falling apart.

Your eyes scan the scene in front of you frantically. So many people. So many screams, voices, so many tears. Tents have been set up across the parking lot, blue lights flashing everywhere. Police officers, paramedics, reporters, and FBI agents move between them, rushing from one place to another. You hear people ahead of you being guided toward one of the tents, led by someone wearing a dark vest. FBI.

Your thoughts drift for a moment, and you catch yourself stretching your neck, searching the crowd for gray hair.

Claire’s steps slow until they stop completely, and the two of you remain standing in the middle of the stream of people. She is pale, her lips cracked from biting them so much, every muscle in her body drawn tight. Something in her posture changes, and when you notice her focus shifting, you follow her gaze. Claire’s fingers slowly loosen around yours, and you could have blamed your reaction on that, but you know exactly why you suddenly stop breathing.

Emily is stepping out of the building in full tactical gear, her vest secured, her weapon resting in its holster, gray hair pulled into a tight, controlled bun that makes her look even more composed than the chaos she is walking out of. Her steps are hesitant, reminding you of the agents inside the mall, as if part of her is still there and not outside in safety yet. Her shoulders are tense, her gaze searching, and yet she carries herself like someone who has everything under control. Seeing her like this, seeing her in this mode as the head of the BAU, does something to you.

The moment she sees you and Claire, something in her control shifts. Claire moves forward before you can even catch your breath again. Step by step, she gets faster until she throws herself into Emily’s arms with full force. Emily catches her, holding her close and giving her the safety and comfort she needs.

And just like that, Claire stops holding herself together.

Her shoulders begin to shake visibly, and you see how tightly her chest contracts with every breath. She lets herself be consumed by Emily’s embrace, collapsing into her arms. Her control is finally gone, replaced by the pure realization of what just happened to both of you.

“I saw him,” Claire manages, but the words break apart as they leave her mouth. “I thought— I didn’t—”

Emily’s hand stays on her back, steadying her in small, repeated motions that do not hurry anything, do not force anything forward, while her other arm holds Claire close.

“You’re safe now,” she says quietly.

You are still standing frozen in place, a few steps away, too overwhelmed by the emotions that have taken hold of you. You can’t do anything but stare at Emily, wishing that she would catch you too.

And then Emily looks at you. Her gaze finds you in the middle of all the chaos, and something inside you reacts without your permission. Your breath stumbles, something in you tenses and then releases again. This feeling has nothing to do with your fear, but with standing in front of Emily. With being seen by her. Her gaze burning into yours, and the fact that she is genuinely worried.

Your body moves before you can think about it, and suddenly you are stepping toward her, into the space she opens for you without hesitation, without even the smallest delay, as if there was never any other possible direction your movement could have taken.

Emily catches you the same way she held Claire, her arm closing around you with the same certainty, and the moment you reach her, something in you breaks in a way that does not hurt as much as it should, because it finally has somewhere to go.

Her scent reaches you first, somehow familiar, even though you don’t want to think too much about why it feels that way. Like coming home. You push the thought away, and you become painfully aware of Emily’s fingers moving slowly over your shoulder blades.

Your fingers curl into her jacket, holding on as if letting go would undo something essential, and the sound that leaves you is not something you can control. Emily’s grip tightens slightly, and for the first time since everything began, there is nothing about her that feels distant. Her voice lowers against your hair, quiet and certain, carrying through you rather than around you. For a brief second, you wonder if those were her lips you felt against your hair, or if your mind is creating something it desperately wants to believe in.

“I’ve got you,” she murmurs.

Your breath stutters against her shoulder, catching and breaking, and she exhales once, her forehead lowering just slightly as if she is grounding herself in the same contact that is keeping you upright.

“You’re safe,” she repeats, slower now, as if the words themselves need to settle properly this time.

Emily doesn’t let go of you, and you don’t even think about pulling away from her embrace. Your body is still trembling in her arms, and right now, she is the only thing keeping you standing. Claire is still pressed against Emily’s other side, her face buried into her shoulder, while Emily’s hand continues to move soothingly along her back.

After what feels like an eternity, Emily shifts her position, but she neither loosens her hold nor makes any attempt to let go of either of you. She only adjusts herself, finding a way to keep both of you safely held in her arms. As if she could protect you from what just happened. As if she could keep the outside world away from you for just a little longer.

Emily’s hand moves from your shoulder blade to your shoulder, and she gives it one firm squeeze until you slowly pull away from her. Claire follows your movement, stepping back, mascara running down her cheeks.

“Both of you are going to be okay,” she repeats, her voice gentle but certain.

Claire lets out a quiet sniffle as she takes another step back. Only now do you realize that you are still standing far too close to Emily, but neither of you takes the first step to fully break the connection.

It is only when a gust of wind carries the sound of approaching sirens toward you that Emily finally steps back and looks over your heads toward the parking lot.

“I need to go over there for a moment,” she explains, looking at both of you apologetically. “Let the paramedics check you out.”

And with those words, she hurries toward the black SUV that pulls onto the gravel parking lot with screeching tires, flashing lights, and several people moving around it.

She has barely taken a few steps before you already miss the feeling of having her close.

Taglist: @imightbethewriter @frazzled-fairy @daddy-heather-dunbar @heartoreadallthequeerthingz @francimood @taz--y @daffodil-heart @shygirl1645 @holystrangersalad @probablydoingyourmom1 @kenna-prentiss @hqtchniss @pagetsfishpurse @scorpsik @langeskovstg1 @midnightprentiss @zeyz444 @mimzamo @wittygutsy @g59mads @sadg1l @noprophet @sevi-kas01 @tayaelise @slutforabbyanderson @21cannibal @berryblondd

[maximoffwitch]

congratulations on 3000 followers!! you’re amazing!!

for your celebration, could i please request: 🪐 + dana evans

CIRCLE YOU

thank you so so much mwah <3333 wrote this with the balance universe in mind so ig you can read it as part of that or as just a standalone universe lol. and yes this is inspired by orbiter by noah kahan :') & part of my 3k celebration

tags: hurt/comfort; brief mention of workplace violence; established relationship; post s1

word count: 719

“Kid, you’re hovering.”

Dana’s voice causes you to stop typing, and you look around, only to realize she’s talking to you.

“What?” You return your attention to the chart on your screen, trying to act nonchalant.

“You’ve been following me around for the past two hours.” She raises her brow when you finally meet her attention. “Hovering.”

“No, I’m not,” you insist with a frown.

Dana gives you a pointed look, and you sigh. You always were a terrible liar. When you still don’t say anything, she softens. Setting her tablet down, she takes two steps closer to you and sifts half on the edge of the desk you’d chosen as a prime location to monitor the charge nurse.

“I’m fine, okay?” Dana says it so softly that you almost don’t hear it.

You look up at her, ignoring the way your throat tightens. Your eyes flit over the bandage taped to her temple, and the sight of her on the floor, an angry patient hovering over her, flashes in your mind.

Dana can see the worry written in the lines between your brows, and she subtly places her hand on yours.

“It’s only a scratch.” She rubs your knuckles soothingly before repeating, “I’m fine.”

You hate how those words sound coming out of her mouth, how many times she’d had to repeat them even when they’re not true, how people have come to believe her. But not you.

“You have five stitches,” you manage to say, only it’s weaker than you want.

“Precaution. You know how head lacs are.” Dana tries to play it off with a faint smirk, but you’re not so easily persuaded.

“You are not fine, and it shouldn’t have happened—” you angrily wipe away a tear that snuck down your cheek before— “again.”

You whisper the last word just under your breath, and Dana completely melts, as she realizes the true cause of your turmoil.

“You’re right,” she says, giving your hand a squeeze. You can tell she’s itching to take you in her arms or even just cup your cheek, but you know now is not the time nor the place. “It shouldn’t have happened again.”

You nod and take a deep breath, feeling slightly comforted by her agreement.

“And I’m not fine,” Dana admits, and you feel the burning behind your eyes return. “But I will be, you hear me?”

“I know,” you answer, because it’s true. You know Dana can handle herself, that she backs back quicker and better than anybody you know, but that doesn’t stop you from worrying. If anything, it only makes it worse.

Sometimes, you see how blinded she is by her own strength that she doesn’t give herself grace to rest; how she’s holding it together by a thread but has no time to fall apart.

And you know that’s just how she is, and when she falls and breaks, you can only hope she’ll let you be there to catch her and help put her back together.

“Okay,” Dana says with a small but triumphant smile. She can tell by the way your knee is bouncing that there is more to this conversation, but that will have to wait until later. “So you gonna keep orbiting me for the rest of the shift, or do I have to assign you to triage?”

“You don’t give me my assignments,” you sass, causing her to raise a brow as if daring you to test her.

“Fine,” you relent. “I’ll stop hovering.”

“Thank you,” she sighs, leans forward and presses her lips to your forehead. You close your eyes and revel in the brief contact of her skin against yours, before she’s pushing herself off the desk and returning to the central station.

You turn your attention back to the screen in front of you, doing your best not to turn and follow her every movement. And for a few minutes, you succeed, your focus entirely on your work as you keep your promise.

But when someone shouts a code blue and Dana is on her feet running over to her patient’s room, you can’t help but stand up. You know she just told she’ll be okay, that she doesn’t want you monitoring her every move, but you can’t fight instinct.

You’re an astronaut, and she’s the Moon.

[butchfromthepyre]

isa briones deserved an emmy for the scene stood over the suture drawer alone. like the minute movements of her face muscles as you can see her internal dilemma are insane. you're telling me six of the seven supporting guest actors nominated in a show with a diverse case are white by coincidence huh. thank god sepideh got one.

[emilys-bangs]

kisses, kisses, kisses | e.p

Tags: established relationship, pure fluff, mom!emily, no use of yn, use of petnames

Summary: Your daughter doesn't believe Emily kisses her goodbye before work. Emily finds a way to convince her.

Word count: 1.3k

mom!emily masterlist

Emily is sitting at her desk, frowning at her computer when the sound of her phone ringing pulls her out of her misery. She grabs it, the scrunch between her brows loosening when she finds your name at the top of the screen, a picture of you and Eloise smiling up at her and causing her to smile in turn as she accepts the call.

“Hi honey—”

“Mommy!” 

Emily brightens, instinctively lowering the volume on her phone. “Hi Eloise,” she laughs, her eyes dropping to the time on her laptop. 9:43. “Good morning. Did you sleep well?”

“No.” Her daughter says.

“No?” Emily’s brows furrow. Her heart sinks, her brain already working in overtime to find a way to fix whatever it is that needs fixing. “Why not, chérie? Did you have a bad—”

“Mommy didn’t kiss me goodbye.” Eloise interrupts again, the sulk audible in her voice. Emily can almost imagine her pouted lips, the downward slope of her lashes. In the background, she hears your quiet laugh.

The tightness in her chest eases, and she takes in a quick, relived breath. “I kissed you goodbye, honey, you just didn’t feel it ’cause you were asleep.” Emily placates, her frown overtaken by a soft smile.

“If I didn’t feel it, means you didn’t do it.” Eloise says stubbornly. She’s every inch her mother, even at four and a half.

“Bug, Mommy always kisses you goodbye. I kissed you this morning, cross my heart.” She promises to the silence on the other end of the phone. Eloise stays quiet, her disbelief palpable even from a distance. Emily gently nudges further. “Did you know that if I don’t kiss you goodbye, I have a bad day?”

“But…but didn’t feel it.” She whines. Her voice is dejected, and Emily almost sees the shine to her sad puppy dog eyes.

“It’s because you were tired, honey,” Emily hears you soothe from the other end, your voice distant and soft. “Mommy was being careful not to wake you up.”

“Yeah,” Emily confirms. “Sergio can vouch for me, Eloise.” She says, ignoring the dumbfounded look Morgan throws her way.

“Wha’s that mean?” Eloise grumbles.

Emily chews on her lip to stifle a laugh. It gets trapped in her chest; by the time she gets it under control the silence has stretched on too long, and you answer in her stead. 

“It means he can tell you he saw Mommy giving you a kiss.”

Eloise huffs frustratedly. “Sergio can’t talk,” she mumbles.

“I can,” you say, a cheerful tone to your voice as you try to convince your daughter. “I personally saw Mommy kiss you goodbye. She kissed both your little cheeks,”—a giggle sounds through the phone, likely as you pinch said little cheeks—“and your cute forehead.”

“That’s true, Eloise. And you know we don’t lie, right?” Emily says, jiggling her mouse in a zigzag to stop her computer screen from darkening to black. It’s 9:58 now, and she furtively tosses a glance to Hotch’s office window.

The blinds are closed. Good news for her, right?

A low sigh reaches her through the phone. Emily also hears some secretive whispering, the creak of Eloise’s bedsprings and the soft call of Sergio’s attention-seeking meow. Then, “Can I have a kiss now, Mommy?”

The hopefulness in her voice breaks Emily’s heart. She winces, briefly closing her eyes and wishing she was back home with the two of you, instead of in the cold confines of the bullpen.

Nevertheless, she opens her eyes before the silence stretches on, ignoring her teammates as she gives her daughter a kiss through the phone and promises her a real one when she gets home.

___

“Sure you’re going to the BAU, not the club?” You tease as you watch Emily layer on her lipstick. She rolls her eyes and continues to trace it on her lips, careful but firm.

“I’ll wipe some of it off,” she says, capping the lipstick when she’s satisfied. 

“Just don’t kiss me with that clown mouth,” you grin as you follow her out of your bedroom and into Eloise’s, the sound of her heels muffled on the carpeted floor.

“I’m only kissing one person right now,” she whispers, not sparing you a glance as she carefully crouches down next to Eloise’s bed, “and it’s not you.” Emily smiles as she brushes away some of Eloise’s bed head away from her forehead, the bangs she’d insisted on getting to match with hers hanging above her eyes. She gently exposes the soft skin of her daughter’s forehead and leans over to kiss it.

Eloise doesn’t stir, even when Emily’s hair falls against her shoulder. She carries on sleeping, her stuffed teddy clutched in her arm as Emily presses another small kiss to her cheek. The faint imprint of her lips is left behind on Eloise’s skin, physical evidence of Emily’s love. She can’t help herself but lean over to kiss the other cheek too, quietly breathing in her daughter for precious few seconds before she stands up.

The sight of Eloise’s small face covered in kisses makes her crack a grin. “Don’t think she can accuse me of anything now, do you?” She asks quietly as she turns to you. Your arms are crossed over your chest, lips pressed together to hide the smile that wants to escape.

You shake your head, pulling her in by her belt loops and steadying her with an arm around her waist when she stumbles.

Emily’s eyes gleam. “Thought you didn’t want to kiss me,” she whispers, a skip in her pulse when your eyes drop to her lips, “with—what did you call it? My clown mouth.”

“Never believe anything I say at 8 in the morning.” You say just as quietly, giving her a peck before you drag her out of Eloise’s bedroom.

___

This time, when her phone rings around the same time as yesterday, Emily anticipates the caller on the other end of the line.

“Hi Mommy!” Eloise chirps when she accepts the call.

“Hi, baby.” The smile is already there across her lips, matching dimples on mother and daughter cheeks that they don’t try to hold back.

“Saw your kisses,” she giggles.

“Did you like them? I told you I never leave without kissing you goodbye.”

“So y’not gonna have a bad day today.” 

Emily smiles. “I won’t,” she says, and it sounds like a vow. “Now you’ve seen them, you gotta wipe them off before you go to preschool, alright?”

“Nope!” Eloise says. “I’ll keep ’em.”

“Eloise—”

“Well, that didn’t go as expected,” your voice comes through, amused and clear in Emily’s ear.

She pinches the bridge of her nose, her eyes screwing shut. “Please wipe them off.” She pleads.

“I’ll try. She is your daughter, after all, and we know she didn’t get her stubbornness from me.”

“I’m going with Mommy’s kisses!” Eloise chirps.

“She’s going with Mommy’s kisses,” you repeat solemnly.

“She’s not,” Emily says, but even as she protests, her heart slowly starts to grow warm at the thought of her daughter wanting to keep the proof of her love on her skin. Wanting to keep her with her, in any small way she can. “Promise me, babe.” 

Finally, she gets both you and Eloise to promise to wipe the lipstick off—in exchange for more kisses after work. Emily’s shoulders are light as she hangs up the phone, her wide smile growing wider when a message notification pings and she opens up her messages to find a picture of Eloise, happily posing with an impressive bed head, rumpled pajamas, and pink kisses dotting her face.

taglist: @suckerforcate @sickoherd @lextism @catssluvr @i-lovefandom @haiklya @justhereforthosefics @storiesofsvu @ashluvscaterina

[emilys-bangs]

emily’s kid (like 2 or so) who just started rly talking calling Penelope “babi gawl” because they hear Morgan calling her that & think that’s her real legal name .

send blr.

SEND BLR!!!