Hi everyone! I just wanted to make a quick post to clarify something important regarding my blog and the content I create.
Please remember that minors should not interact with any NSFW content on this blog. Going forward, I will be paying closer attention to this and will start blocking accounts that appear to be run by minors. This includes accounts with no stated age, blank blogs, or blogs that state anywhere that the user is under 18—even if that information might be outdated. I’m not going to dig through entire blogs to verify ages; I’ll simply be doing a quick check, and if there’s any indication that the account belongs to a minor, I will block to be safe.
I want to be very clear that this is not meant to be harsh or unfriendly. My goal is simply to keep my blog a safe and responsible space for everyone. Even if your legal guardian allows you to consume NSFW content, I personally do not feel comfortable knowingly creating or sharing that type of content with minors. Because of that, I need to set this boundary for my own comfort and for the safety of the community around my work.
If your blog does not list your age or has no clear information, there is a possibility you may be blocked as well. This isn’t personal—it’s simply the easiest way for me to make sure I’m following my own boundaries and keeping things appropriate.
If you are 18+, please consider adding something like “18+”, “adult”, or your age range somewhere on your blog so creators like me can easily tell. It really helps and avoids misunderstandings.
I know I haven’t been as strict about this in the past, but I’m trying to do better and be more mindful moving forward. Thank you all for understanding and respecting these boundaries. I truly appreciate everyone who supports my writing and helps keep this space comfortable and safe for everyone involved.
All my NSFW content will have warnings at the top so everyone is aware what they are reading. 💖
i'll take off mine too, when you take off all your cool- hqtchniss
tell me what's on your wishlist, i wanna make it come true- hqtchniss
all our fears become our hopes- hqtchniss
you could be my everything i'm needing- hqtchniss
headfirst, i dive, won't wait for time- hqtchniss
a gentle thing- emilys-bangs
those hands pulled me from the earth- emily-bangs
hopelessly and completely- temilyrights
only fools rush in- pagetsfishpurse
strip it- pagetsfishpurse
sight for sore eyes- sweetlyliums
crash day- moons-and-mobility-aids
a good day, and what it costs- moons-and-mobility-aids
four walls and a flickering light- moons-and-mobility-aids
"tea"- whatif-ialreadydid
terrifying- criminalmindswhore
a little push- wlwoceaneyes
tactical moves- wlwoceaneyes
at the edge- wlwoceaneyes
paws and proximity- spencersfavouritewriter
the stories we carry- spencersfavouritewriter
blurb| emily prentiss x reader- probablydoingyourmom1
forbidden? i've never been forbidden before- third-of-prentaway
Angst/Hurt, (with and without comfort)
break the mould- temilyrights
anything- whatif-ialreadydid
you are enough- pagetsfishpurse
cougar- pagetsfishpurse
the wake up call she needed- maximoffwitch
what do you need?- wlwoceaneyes
lost love | emily prentiss x reader- probablydoingmom1
different distance- criminalmindswhore
anchored- moons-and-mobility-aids
guilty as sin- sweetlyliums
evermore (part 1)- propertyofemilyprentiss
evermore (part 2)- propertyofemilyprentiss
home- propertyofemilyprentiss
Age-gap, Slowbburn
off-limits- wlwoceaneyes
the weight of wanting- criminalmindswhore
under her hands | part 1- prentissmultiverse
under her hands | part 2- prentissmultiverse
Momily
dawn is having you by my side- hqtchniss
give me more than just some butterflies- hqtchniss
you had to go and break into my head- hqtchniss
something so rare in your veins- hqtchniss
just between us, do you remember it? -hqtchniss
a mean kid- emilyprentissmylove
social construct- emilyprentissmylove
back home- emilyprentissmylove
emily as a mom: headcannons- undercoverscrabbler
cupid's schemes- emilys-bangs
my baby, here on earth- emilys-bangs
baby, it's cold outside- emilys-bangs
juno- emilys-bangs
off-kilter- emilys-bangs
second hello's - emilys-bangs
birthday- olixant
your little hand's wrapped around my finger- propertyofemilyprentiss
moonlight hush- propertyofemilyprentiss
corner of the night- totallyprentiss
oh, darling, don't you ever grow up- amwritesitall
Smut
how you’re looking at me, and i know what that means- hqtchniss
you're putting stars in my eyes like no one else can- hqtchniss
older!emily guiding you through your first time with her- yourmomssidepiece
older!emily helping forcing you take her strap for the first time- yourmomssidepiece
pov: phone sex with emily- yourmomssidepiece
after hours- danagasm
SSA Aaron Hotchner leads one of the FBI's most elite profiling teams, facing the country's worst criminals with precision and control. But his toughest role isn't at the BAU - it's being a single father to five-year-old Brooke, a bright, stubborn child left in his arms after her mother walked away without warning.
Years later, Aaron has built a life for them - steady, guarded, functional. And then came Haley. Compassionate, grounded, and unexpectedly brave, she steps into the role of Brooke's stepmother with quiet strength, slowly helping stitch together what Brooke's biological mother shattered.
But no amount of love can keep the outside world from seeping in.
As Brooke begins to ask questions about the woman who left her - and the job that takes her father away far too often - Aaron is forced to reconcile the life he chose with the family he's trying to hold together. And when a case hits too close to home, the balance he's fought so hard for begins to unravel.
Still Standing - The Fight To Be Believed
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
Spin off to 'Beneath The Silence'
Can also be read on it's own
Aaron Hotchner's 13 year old daughter Brooke Hotchner has recently started experiencing unexplainable symptoms that came on suddenly with no explanation.
Chest pain, dizziness, fatigue and so much more.
As the months progress the worser the symptoms get and the more she declines but what makes it worse is fighting to be believed as everyone is telling her it's in her head.
This spin off will cover topics and conversations that aren't included in the original book and focus on Brooke and her daily struggles as well as the fight to be heard.
Edge Of Eighteen And Beyond
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
Sequel to 'Beneath The Silence.'
At 18 years old, Brooke Hotchner has just walked across the graduation stage-but instead of heading off to college like most of her classmates, she's chosen a different path. The daughter of BAU Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner, Brooke has never lived a normal life. Between losing her mother young, battling chronic illness, and surviving more trauma than most adults, Brooke has learned that healing doesn't follow a schedule-and neither does life.
While her friends scatter across the country for dorms and degrees, Brooke stays behind in D.C., navigating the uncertainty of what comes next. She takes time to breathe, to rest, and to figure out who she is outside of trauma and expectations. As she explores jobs, passion projects, and therapy, Brooke begins to rediscover her strength-on her own terms. With the support of her fiercely protective father, her BAU family, and a few unexpected new friendships, Brooke learns that choosing not to go to college isn't giving up-it's choosing to live.
This is a story about second chances, slow healing, and the courage it takes to write your own future.
The Quiet Between Storms - Grey’s Anatomy x Criminal Minds
Ao3 link
Wattpad link
FBI profiler Harper Sloan is used to chasing darkness - long hours, brutal cases, and the constant weight of knowing the minds of monsters better than her own. But when a series of violent crimes unexpectedly end up Seattle at the same time she's visiting her brother, Harper finds herself forced to walk the line between the horrors she hunts and the family she's nearly lost to time.
Her older brother, Mark Sloan - renowned plastic surgeon, legendary flirt, and fiercely protective big brother - isn't thrilled to see his sister tangled in another high-risk investigation. Especially not when it's happening right in the city he calls home. Alongside former childhood friend and neurosurgeon Derek Shepherd, Mark is determined to give Harper something she's never had: space to rest, people to lean on, and a reason to stay.
As Harper balances high-stakes BAU cases with the chaotic rhythm of life inside Seattle Grace Mercy West, she begins to rediscover what it means to be more than a profiler - to be a sister, a friend, and maybe even something more. But the closer her work gets to Seattle's heart, the more the lines blur between healing wounds and confronting old ones.
Hotchniss x daughter oneshots:
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
Her Name Was Amy Ryland: Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss daughter was involved in a undercover case seven years ago. A BAU case has caused the past she spent years to erased and forget to be revealed.
The Life We Built: The wedding day of Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss has arrived
I Hate Vegas: Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss' daughter has an idea that she knows will make them age 10 years in one weekend. Going to Vegas alone with her friends unsupervised.
This House Is A Warehouse: Brooke Hotchner has got her first job and that has also come with an online shopping addiction that is taking over the Hotchner home.
The Attitude Problem: Aaron Hotchner was, in many ways, a seasoned veteran of chaos. He had negotiated with serial killers. Talked people off ledges. Interrogated psychopaths in dimly lit rooms with a calm voice and an unshakable expression. None of that had prepared him for living with a 14-year-old girl. Especially his 14-year-old girl.
Tanned And Mildly Sunburned: The Hotchner family take a well deserved family vacation.
Too Close To Home: A case hits too close to home for the entire team but even closer for Aaron and Emily's liking.
The Hardest Hour: While Aaron and Emily are away on a case, Brooke tries not to give into the temptation that is overwhelming her.
Bandaids And Bench Swings: What was supposed to be a quiet day at the park ends up being a day spent in urgent care.
Minimal Loss: It was any other Thursday for Brooke Hotchner when it wasn't
Tiny Tyrant Mouth: Brooke Hotchner spends one day with Derek Morgan and it shows when she starts proudly saying the new words she learnt.
Champagne Coast Solo: Aaron and Emily come home one night and find their daughter feeling the freest she's felt in a very long time.
The Pain We Almost Missed: In which Brooke Hotchner gets appendicitis and Aaron and Emily try to hold it together
Italian Blasphemy: Brooke Hotchner does the one thing you should never do in front of David Rossi and that's break the pasta
Sugar, Spice And Way Too High: Inspired by Grey's Anatomy 14x20. What If Brooke Hothner ate the famous weed cookies?
Just The Three Of Us: Aaron and Emily have a rare day off with no cases so take full of advantage of it by spending quality time with their daughter
Watch Me: Aaron's and Emily's daughter decides she wants to try and give them a heart attack with a homemade ramp, a bike and a pool
What Would You Do If I Did?: "I'd have every bureau in the country looking for you in less than 3 minutes"
Hotchner Rage In Spanish: "Being Emily's daughter meant easily being able to switch between the two languages with ease."
The Party: Brooke Hotchner's masterplan couldn't of gone any worse if she tried
I Wish You Could See Yourself Through My Eyes: When Brooke's mind spirals to a dark place she's all too familiar with she can always count on her parents to pull her back
One Step Closer: Brooke takes her first steps
We'll Get Through This: In the midst of a pregnancy scare, Brooke turns to the one person she knows will never judge her.
Tequila Sunrise: What started out as a joke between four best friends about going to Mexico actually became a reality
Five Finger Discount: Aaron and Emily's daughter gets caught shoplifting
Edges Of A Map: The Hotchner family battle through one of their toughest battles yet
It Looks Like A Bomb Hit In Here: Brooke Hotchner is left home alone by herself for the weekend. What could possibly go wrong?
The Sound Of Silence: What If Aaron Hotchner's daughter is attacked on the way to the BAU from school?
Tethered: An unsub strikes too close to home for anyone's liking
Like Family: How the Hotchner family navigate life with their people
What Are You Doing?: Brooke gets into trouble at school
A Hotchner Sized Attitude: There's no mistaking Brooke is Aaron's daughter as they share the exact same stubbornness
Sunscreen And Suitcases: The Hotchner family survive humid Florida with their daughter
Operation Baby Shower (AKA: What Could Possibly Go Wrong?): Brooke and her best friends plan JJ's baby shower. What could possibly go wrong?
Barbados Betrayal: Inspired by Criminal Minds episode season 10 ep 19
The BAU are called to a case in Barbados. Aaron and Emily have to tell their daughter that she has to stay behind.
Back To The Roots: Brooke decides to go back to her natural roots
When The Light Leaves: When the seasons start to change, it affects Brooke more than she likes to admit
Slowing Down: Brooke's chronic illness flares up leaving her with the reminder that she sometimes needs to slow down
Exhibit A: The Hotchner family take a trip down memory lane
Broken Mugs: "I hope you didn't want any coffee, because I broke all the mugs."
Perspective: Brooke’s anger, intelligence, and refusal to accept “neutral” answers prove that she is exactly the kind of person the world needs—even if the system isn’t ready for her yet.
Brake Brooke Brake: Brooke learns to drive with the help of her parents and David Rossi
The Streak Lives On: Brooke Hotchner is a financially reckless 19 year old girl with a concert streak
The Desert And The Beard: Hotch returns home after being in Pakistan for six months and Brooke has some opinions about the beard he has grown
Chronically Late: Brooke has developed a tendency to being late to school and her parents don't know until now.
Valentine’s Day Violations: Brooke sees more than she bargained for before 8am
Real Life Superhero: Brooke Hotchner shows her mom exactly how much she admires her.
Proof Of Life: Brooke takes after her mom and can't cook. So when she is left home alone, she relies on food deliveries.
Aaron Hotchner x daughter oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
About Time: After finally confronting their feelings for years, they feel like this might be their biggest challenge yet. Telling Aaron Hotchner's daughter
Boxes And Goodbyes: The day for Aaron's Hotchner daughter to leave home has finally arrived.
Ten Years: It's been ten years since Haley was murdered and Brooke is struggling. Mainly Aaron and Brooke with a hint of Emily
Running For More Than Just Fun: Brooke convinces Aaron to run in the parent races at school
I'm Worried About You: What if Brooke's biological mom abandoned her as a baby and how does Aaron adjust to life a single dad
Stay: With both Brooke and Aaron both sick and Emily away in LA on a case, Aaron calls the one other person he knows he can trust - A sickfic.
Emily Prentiss x daughter oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
A Day Out: Emily and Brooke spend the day together just the two of them
Brooke Hotchner x The Team oneshots
(All oneshots are unrelated to my 'Beneath The Silence' Fic and Brooke Hotchner series)
Little Sister: Brooke is the little sister Derek didn't know he needed
What if Brooke ate the famous weed cookies and has to face the BAU.
Masterlist
----------
The day had started off completely ordinary — which, in Hotchner household terms, meant Brooke had nearly set off the smoke alarm trying to toast a croissant upside down in the oven and left the house with her purse still on the counter. She was running late for her Saturday shift at the café and decided not to go back for it, figuring she’d swing by the BAU later to grab it after her shift.
After all, it wasn’t like she needed it. She wasn’t planning on buying anything… unless someone brought snacks to Writers Group.
Which, as it turned out, they did.
She arrived a few minutes late to the circle of mostly twenty-somethings and elderly retirees gathered in the community library’s upstairs meeting room. A woman named Trixie — who wore purple sunglasses indoors and wrote a lot of vampire erotica — had brought cookies. “My cousin made them,” she announced proudly. “They’re extra special.”
Brooke, who hadn’t eaten lunch and was currently riding the wave of post-caffeine jitters from the café, happily took three. One after another. She barely even tasted the first two.
By the time the third hit her tongue, she was already giggling at the phrase “cursed toaster oven” in someone’s poetry reading and questioning the entire narrative arc of her short story about a haunted laundromat.
Ten minutes later, she blinked at the ceiling and realized she was floating. No, wait — sitting. Still on the chair. Her limbs just… weren’t attached.
“Is it hot in here?” she asked no one in particular. “Or is the air judging me?”
Trixie clapped her hands and shrieked, “Someone finally felt it!”
Brooke’s eyes went wide. “Felt what?”
“The cookies,” said Trixie, way too cheerfully. “They’re weed cookies.”
Brooke’s mouth dropped open. “I ate three.”
“Damn,” said someone from across the room.
“My mom's gonna murder me,” Brooke muttered. Then her eyes went wider. “Wait. my dad is so gonna murder me. And then the entire FBI is gonna arrest me.”
Twenty minutes later, Brooke shuffled into the elevator at Quantico, talking quietly to herself and holding onto the handrail like it might fly away. “You’re fine. Totally normal. Casual visit. Just grab your purse and run.”
But her coordination was off. She bumped into the glass on the way out of the elevator, then forgot why she was there in the first place when she passed Penelope’s office and saw “a WALL of PINK.”
She knocked and stumbled in. “Hi,” she said in a drawn-out singsong voice. “I came for… a purse. But now I forgot everything I’ve ever known.”
Penelope blinked. “Brooke?”
“Shhh,” she whispered. “I’m having an existential crisis.”
Penelope stood. “Are you okay?”
“I’m high as hell,” Brooke said cheerfully, then slapped both hands over her mouth. “Wait. Don’t tell anyone. Especially not my mom. Or my dad. Or Uncle Dave. Or God.”
Before Penelope could respond, Emily stepped into the room, looking for her daughter’s missing bag — only to stop short when she spotted Brooke swaying like a palm tree mid-earthquake.
“Brooke?” Emily said, voice dropping.
“Mom,” Brooke gasped dramatically. “Your hair is radiating wisdom.”
Penelope slowly walked around the desk and whispered, “She ate weed cookies. Accidentally. Three of them.”
Emily blinked. “Three?”
Brooke squinted at her mother. “You’re judging me. I can feel it.”
“I’m… concerned,” Emily said, stepping forward.
“Same thing,” Brooke sniffed. “Judgment with eyebrows.”
Emily quickly grabbed Aaron from the conference room — where he’d been reviewing case notes with Dave, JJ, Spencer, and Derek — and motioned him down the hall with a serious look.
“She’s in Garcia’s office. Don’t freak out.”
“What happened?”
“She accidentally ate… a lot of weed.”
Aaron blinked. “A lot of what now?”
The moment he stepped into Garcia’s office, Brooke leapt to her feet like she was being hunted. “Dad!”
“You’re high.”
“Allegedly.”
“You’re swaying.”
“So are you,” she replied, pointing at him like she was discovering a great truth. “But like, in your soul.”
Aaron stared. “How many cookies?”
“Three,” Emily answered, pinching the bridge of her nose.
“Three!” Brooke yelped. “And they were huge! Like, hockey puck-sized. And Trixie said they were ‘extra special’ and I just thought she meant with sprinkles.”
Aaron turned to Emily with dead eyes. “I thought we agreed no more writers group.”
Emily muttered, “She’s an adult. Technically. Even if she doesn't act like it sometimes.”
Brooke plopped down on the floor, cross-legged. “The floor understands me. You don’t.”
“Okay, time to go home,” Emily said, crouching down.
“Nooo,” Brooke whined. “You guys are the FBI! That’s so cool! Why are your badges so shiny? Is that standard issue or—hey! No! Don’t pick me up—I’m very fragile right now.”
Aaron tried to reason. “You’re going to feel worse before you feel better. We need to get you on the couch with water.”
“But you’re here,” Brooke said with exaggerated awe. “You work here. My parents work for the FBI. I could be a spy right now. I’m, like, infiltrating.”
Emily grabbed her by the hand. “Let’s infiltrate the car.”
Brooke dramatically threw herself backward onto the carpet. “I’m going to die here. Tell Dave I loved him.”
As if summoned, Rossi poked his head into the office and immediately burst out laughing. “What the hell happened?”
“She’s stoned,” Aaron deadpanned.
“I noticed.”
Brooke pointed. “You’re my grandpa!”
Rossi smirked. “One of my better titles.”
“I feel like a pancake,” Brooke muttered, eyes closing. “But my brain is syrup.”
JJ and Spencer showed up next, alerted by the commotion.
“Oh my god,” JJ whispered, biting her lip. “She’s gone.”
“She had three weed cookies,” Penelope explained.
“She what?” Spencer gawked.
Brooke opened one eye. “I don’t like your tone, Uncle Spencer.”
He blinked. “I didn’t say anything.”
“Exactly,” she said. “Suspicious.”
Aaron and Emily finally managed to coax Brooke out of the office by luring her with the promise of “taco-shaped pillows” at home — which may or may not have existed.
Halfway down the hallway, Brooke gasped. “I forgot my purse!”
“We have your purse,” Emily said gently.
“Oh good,” Brooke said, sagging with relief. “Because it owes me money.”
“You mean it has your money.”
“No, it owes me. For emotional damages.”
Derek, who was trailing behind, turned to Dave. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
Brooke spun around. “Do you have snacks?”
“You just had three cookies.”
“Three is not a meal!” she shouted. “I’m starving. Starving. I need… fries. Or noodles. Or a bagel the size of a wheel.”
“We’re almost to the car,” Aaron said.
“You’re always almost to the car,” Brooke huffed. “You never let me live.”
Emily muttered, “We definitely let you live. That’s the problem.”
They finally got her into the car, though she refused to wear her seatbelt unless Emily promised to sing “Take On Me” in falsetto — which she did, because motherhood demanded sacrifices.
At home, Brooke curled up on the couch like a drunk kitten and stared at the ceiling fan.
“What does it want from me?” she asked.
“Sleep,” Aaron said.
“I don’t know her.”
“Drink water,” Emily said, handing her a glass.
Brooke sniffed it suspiciously. “Is this a trick?”
“Drink it.”
She did — then immediately yelled, “It betrayed me! Water’s cold!”
“That’s the point,” Aaron said, deadpan.
“I think I’m dying again,” she muttered. “Tell Uncle Derek I forgive him for teaching me to swear when I was six.”
Aaron smirked. “He didn’t.”
Brooke gasped. “Then who did!?”
“Dave,” Emily answered.
Brooke nodded solemnly. “Makes sense. He has the face of a rebel.”
Hours later, Brooke finally fell asleep on the couch, wrapped in three blankets, clutching a bottle of Gatorade and mumbling about how she was a “sentient marshmallow.”
Aaron leaned against the doorframe and sighed.
Emily came up beside him, arms folded. “I told you letting her join a group run by someone named Trixie was a bad idea.”
“She’s twenty,” Aaron said. “We don’t get to vet her hobbies anymore.”
“We’re definitely vetting snacks from now on,” Emily muttered.
Aaron rubbed his face. “She’s going to be so embarrassed tomorrow.”
Emily smiled. “She didn’t even curse once. She just… spiralled into philosophical snack theories.”
“Hotchner logic,” he said, shaking his head.
Emily kissed his shoulder. “She’ll be fine.”
From the couch, a sleepy voice mumbled, “I still want the taco pillow.”
Tags: vampire!emily, fem!reader, au, vampirism, blood (obvi), mean emily but also pathetic emily, petnames, reader is lowkey a freak, blood sucking as a metaphor for sex etc etc I really have nothing to say for myself
Summary: Emily has always been strange. You’ve always struggled with putting your finger on it. But when you realize she’s hungry—and not for food—you do the only reasonable thing that comes to mind: offer yourself up. You know. Like any good friend would do.
Word count: 4.9k
You frown down at the crossword in your lap, tapping the edge of your pencil to the infuriatingly blank spot drawing attention to itself. Eight letters. Three-hulled sailing boat. What the hell do you know about sailing boats? Nothing, is the answer. It's the last empty slot, eight letters away from satisfaction, the target of a frustrated growl that slips from between your teeth.
Three-hulled sailing boat?
"Trimaran."
You startle, jerking your head back to see Emily peering over your shoulder.
"Jesus!" You yelp, clutching your chest. Your heart takes up a frantic pace as you swivel in your chair and swat the crossword against her thigh. "I told you to stop doing that!"
"I was being loud," she says defensively. "You were just distracted. Again."
Distracted. Sure. But that's not all of it.
Emily Prentiss is strange. Not strange in a way you can fully put your finger on, no. It's something finer than the harsh label, slippery and almost a figment of your imagination, something you could maybe blink away or put down to exhaustion. But even then the word lingers in your head—unusual. She talks fine, jokes and teases and converses easy as a fish in water, blends in seamlessly and yet stands out as an integral part of your team, the beating heart of the BAU. She's fiery and warm and smart as a whip, and inexplicably strange.
It's all in her body: the way she moves, the animal-like grace that ripples through her every action. Her feet—encased in heeled boots—are silent wherever she steps. She has these big, owlish eyes, some days impossibly dark, and skin so pale you'd think the sun never touched it if you haven't been with her through countless hours in the field.
And that smile. Teeth razor sharp, bright and glinting, tips so pointy they could cut through your flesh like butter. Sometimes she laughs, a rich sound that has your skin crawling, and you glimpse her canines and think they could be a cat's.
It's a weird thing, to fixate on someone's teeth. Sometimes she makes you feel like you're going insane.
You roll your eyes and turn back to the crossword. In the wake of your scare, you'd forgotten what she said. You purse your lips.
"Trimaran." She repeats delicately, sitting herself on the edge of your desk. Fake sounding word. Your eyes narrow in skepticism, but you pencil in the letters anyway.
Exactly eight. You flip to the answer sheet, and find TRIMARAN staring right back at you.
Emily is smiling when you look up, a bright, smug thing pitting against your mistrust. Her dimples flash.
You glare.
"How the hell do you know that?"
"Oh, you know," she drawls, "been on a couple."
She's using that tone of voice, the one that makes it impossible know if she's teasing, feeding you a sugared lie, or if she is actually telling the truth. This one isn't outside of the realm of possibility, though. You accept it and set aside the crossword, not giving in to the urge to dig more.
You already spend more time thinking about her than you should.
Her long legs are crossed at the ankles in front of her. You eye the heels on her boots.
"Lunch?" She suggests.
Before you can agree, Hotch blows your plans to dust.
-
Louisiana is sticky, hot, and unforgiving, and yet when Emily hands you a bottle of water her fingers brush ice over your skin.
"Are you cold?" You ask, though she's stripped down to a tank top same as you. Her skin doesn't bear the same sheen of sweat that soaks your collar; she's, remarkably, perfectly dry, her hair smoothed flat and frizz-free where it's tied in a low pony.
Emily frowns, then notes your eyes on her hand. "Hold that," she points her chin to the bottle she just handed you. Another one is in her hands; she rolls it between her palms, then lightly presses it to her neck. "Delays certain death."
You follow suit, but it doesn't work as well on you as it does on her.
-
"I swear the thermostats are broken here," you mutter to her at the motel's meager breakfast bar. Half your night was spent tossing and turning, stripping off more and more of your clothes until you were just in underwear with the sheets kicked off to the end of the bed.
It seems it got to Emily, too. Her impenetrable bubble from yesterday has popped; there are shadows under her eyes, half moons pressed to her pale skin.
She bops her head, nodding. "Hellish." She mutters.
"I barely slept," you yawn, grabbing a dry looking croissant. "Could you?"
"Hm?" She blinks at you.
"Sleep," you repeat, though it's obvious she probably got none.
"Oh," Emily says. "No, not at all."
She dumps three packs of sugar in her coffee.
-
The crime scene is a blood-soaked mess. A man slashed from throat to navel, his insides peeking out, dirt darkened in a ring around him. You've trained yourself not to react, but this one is particularly brutal.
Next to you, Emily's hands are balled into fists. Her jaw is tight, eyes wild and restless, impossibly dark. She's a silent, furious shadow at your side as you mutter out observations and scope out the scene, offering nothing but short nods and clipped, one-word responses to your promptings.
You don't prod much. Her hands don't unfurl until you're several miles away, buried deep in the heart of the city.
-
At dinner, she's spacey. Snappish. Reid asks her something and she retorts too sharply and he dies down, leaving her alone. The exchange steals everyone's attention for a second, but it's brushed away, conversation humming back around Emily's still form as she shovels food in her mouth in relative silence.
You wonder if that's all they've noticed. It's not something huge after all, just a few minuscule shifts in her gears—the way she stares off sometimes, past the files and whiteboard; her slower than usual movements. Just tired, you tell yourself.
But the thing is, this has become a pattern. You've tracked it across states: New York and Montana and Oregon and Pennsylvania and Texas and Georgia. At first you thought it was some kind of homesickness, but now you're lumping it in with everything that's unusual about Emily.
And when you do that, the pieces click together, coaxed into an explanation by months upon months of suspicion. It's a flimsy, ridiculous thing, but the most solid theory you've got. And you have a solution.
You knock on her door after dinner, harder than necessary. She opens it, frowning, dark circles under her eyes and a spaghetti-strapped tank ridden just over her waistline.
"Hey."
You step in and close the door behind you. Her confusion deepens.
You take a good look at her, here. The pallor of her skin—off-colored, sickly. The deep darkness of her eyes, fully black now, pupils eating away at irises. They glint flatly, huge. Questioning. Not a hint of brown left.
"Y/N?" She shifts, trying to shake off your gaze. She's bare-faced, makeup wiped off. Her mouth is leeched of its usual red.
You can't even think to mince your words. "You're hungry, aren't you?" You ask outright, ripping a bandaid off. "Is that it? You haven't fed in days."
Emily laughs, a touch too late. "What?"
"Don't make me say it, because we both know it'll sound ridiculous. I'm not gonna give you the whole Twilight monologue."
You're silently astonished at how steady your voice is. How calm you are, neatly delivering yourself into the arms of an apex predator.
Your insides tremble at that word. Predator.
She's just Emily. And you want to help her.
She stares.
You surge forward and grab her wrist, curling your fingers around the cold stretch of skin where her pulse should lie. Unnatural. Just the feel of it, frigid as if she'd just come in from a cold night. You dig your thumb in.
Silence. For so many of your own trembling heartbeats, Emily's heart lies still. Your eyes snap to hers, your breath hitching.
Then, it brushes against your thumb. One singular beat, a slow, sluggish thump, before her skin goes quiet again. Five seconds. Ten.
Your fingers tighten around her wrist, victory.
Impossibility.
Her eyes darken, the corner of her mouth ghosting upward.
"Took you longer than I thought it would." She murmurs, low and gravelly. Each word drags over your skin, trailing, bumping. You squeeze your shoulders against the shiver that waits at the top of your spine.
She meets your gaze head on, even, unflinching. Tired.
You swallow, your voice coming out breathless. "Does anyone else know?"
She shakes her head, peeling her wrist from your grip. "They're not as smart as you, are they? They don't watch me nearly as much."
Your cheeks flush with heat. Emily's eyes stray there as if she can see the blood pooling under your skin. Faster than you can blink, she's turning on her heel. As you're breathing out a gasp, she spreads herself along the length of her bed, eyes closing, arms stretched and crossed over her head.
At first glance, the action seems lazy, indulgent. A closer one has you noticing the tension along her sleek lines.
You involuntarily step forward. The edge of the bed hits your thighs, pressing against your urge to lean in close, examine her under the new light of your revelation. Even ragged, worn, she glows.
Your hands twitch at your sides.
"Go on," she drawls, eyes still closed. "I know you have questions."
"Can you read my mind?" You blurt out, then cringe.
She chuckles dryly. "No." Then, she turns teasing, a bite to it that nips at your composure. "Been thinking about me?"
Yes. An ungodly amount.
You don't voice it, though you guess the skip in your pulse gives you away. You clear your dry throat.
"When did you last—" you hesitate, swallowing. "Eat?"
That's probably not the correct terminology.
Her eyes blink open.
"An hour ago," she says, her voice deceptively even. You can see the taut cords in her neck as she swallows. "You can't have forgotten already."
"You know what I mean. When did you last…feed?"
The corner of her mouth ticks up. "You don't have to be so gnarly." She murmurs.
"Well, you didn't answer me straight." You snap.
Emily inhales a deep breath. You see her chest rise with it and wonder if she even has to breathe, or if she does it just for show. To blend in. It sounds so exhausting—reminding yourself to act human.
"Eight days ago." She says, a faint rasp in her voice.
You frown, gnawing on your lip. "How long do you usually go without?"
"Less."
You glare again. Emily stares back, obstinate.
You crumble before she does. Restlessness beats inside you as you edge her closer to where you're trying to get her. You're overly hot, your blood humming. Your hands are clammy. A fine sweat slicks the back of your neck; your shirt, though light, is nearly unbearable on your skin.
Emily is still watching you. She can hold herself so incredibly still. Nothing moves, not even her eyes.
Predator, you think again.
You wet your lips.
"You can't do it on cases, can you?"
A breath sighs out of her. "No." She closes her eyes, shifts soundlessly on the bed. "Not usually."
You sit on the edge of the bed, a whisper away from her arm. The mattress dips, and she still doesn't move. This close, you can see the shadows of her lashes on her cheeks, pulled long and pointy. Her brows are gathered, a small slope carved between them. She looks so normal. So elegant. But when you look closer, she starts to feel eerily perfect. The straight line of her nose. The plush, heart-shaped pillow of her mouth. Her bone structure, strong and delicate, carved out of marble with a precise hand.
You want to pull back her lips, run your fingers along the points of her teeth. Just let your skin split open, watch the frown disappear from her face, relief taking its place. A little, involuntary sigh as you catch her off guard. Her hand around yours, her tongue around your fingers—then, a bigger itch taking over, your wrist tugged to her mouth, her teeth closing in—
"What happens when you go this long?"
"Nothing," she says. "Won't kill me."
"But it's uncomfortable."
She hums.
You shift next to her. Your pulse spikes as you roll over the wording in your head, lining your offering up carefully on your tongue.
Emily's eyes fly open. They're dark as coals, pitch black, just as searing hot.
Your stomach drops.
"No." She says flatly.
You give her a bewildered look, heart tripping. "I didn't say anything."
She sits up so fast you jerk back. "No, I won't feed from you." She snarls.
"Well why not!" You press. "Just take a little, it won't kill me."
Won't it? you think too late.
Emily glowers, her jaw clenched tight. "Oh, you think it's that easy, do you?" She spits out. You've never seen her this angry before, buzzing with it. "You think I can pace myself? You think I can stop once I've had a taste?" Her voice is thick with revulsion, eyes burning black. "I'll bleed you dry."
"You won't," you insist. "I know you won't." The words do nothing to soften her, but you don't care. You're not going to run off and she's not going to hurt you. "We've only been here two fucking days, Emily! Who knows how much longer we'll be staying? And—let's face it, you're not at your best right now. We need you." You inhale, wetting your lips, "And if you'd just let me help—"
She gives you a look so withering you pause, the words dying in your throat.
"Get out."
"No." You affirm. She makes a frustrated sound, deep in her chest; you ignore it and shift closer, climbing further onto the bed, letting your knee nudge her thigh. You're not scared of her. No matter how fast your heart beats.
"Emily," you say, nearly sighing it out. "Come on. Why won't you let me do it?"
Her hands are two pale fists curled into the sheets.
"I'll kill you. How else do you want me to get it through your head?" She swallows thickly. Her voice drops, quietens. "I'll kill you."
You shake your head. "I trust you."
She laughs bitterly. "You don't even know me."
A frustrated sound lodges in your own chest. You're moving before you can think the better of it—sitting yourself right in her lap, your thighs hugged around her waist, those dark eyes closer than you've ever seen them.
Emily's breath hitches.
"Don't you get tired of lying to yourself?" You murmur. "I know you want this. I know you'll be careful. You've never hurt me. You couldn't."
You run your hands up her arms—freezing, lean muscle. Solid under your fingertips, not an inch of her soft. "Jesus Christ." You breathe. "Look at you. You could crush me at any moment." So simply, so easily—in a myriad of ways. She could crush your windpipe or tear your throat out or bash your head in. You skim along the firm slopes of her shoulders, bring your hands up and down, pushing against her chest, the full force of your palms against her torso.
"Y/N—"
"You could kill me a hundred ways." You meet the bottomless depths of her eyes. She has freckles. Soft, like cinnamon, dusted over the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. "Have you?" You whisper.
"It's not the same." She bites out. She's trembling under you. Still trembling when you kiss her.
She gasps into your mouth, cold against your lip, hot against your tongue. Soft. For a second she holds herself still. Then, you coax with your mouth and she wilts, responding, a hungry, pained sound humming through your lip.
Her heart gives a single thump under your fingertips. Your undead heart beats much faster.
"Liar," you breathe against her mouth. She's so stubborn. So headstrong. You cradle her jaw, sift your fingers through her inky hair. "Come on, baby. I'll make you feel so good, just take it."
She burns colder against you. Her hands spread wide on your hips, fingers digging in; she squeezes so tight you're sure she'll leave bruises. Fuck, you want her to.
"Why?" She whispers. "Why do you want to do this?"
A sigh stirs in your chest. Your voice is full with it, airy and soft as you meet her eyes. "C'mon. Look at you, Emily. You're in pain."
She shakes her head, but it's an absent movement. Her eyes are dark, wide. Hungry. "It won't kill me." She repeats hoarsely.
"It's killing me." You admit, leaning your cheek against hers, your fingers tightening in her hair. "Seeing you like this. I can help, let me help. Don't be so fucking stubborn." You plead.
You close your eyes and realize another impossibility: you're sitting, on her lap, the cold of her skin spread across your cheek and your mouth still buzzing with the weight of hers on it. Often you've had dreams of you doing this exact thing, dreams where you're braver, louder, bolder, dreams that had you waking up sticky and wanting.
You've gone possessed in your desperation. Everything feels hazy, like you've stepped into a parallel universe, a bubble suspended above time and reason. And still, you can't bring yourself to feel bad about any of it.
She's still unmoving, save for an exhale that sweeps against your neck. Vampires shouldn't have this much control, you think. But before she's any creature she's Emily, and Emily does have this much control. Impenetrable.
Unnecessary.
You shift on top of her, adjusting your thighs around her waist, setting yourself more squarely on her lap. If she really wanted you out, she'd have tossed you out the door with no trouble. Emily can never be the one to ask, the one to take. You have to offer. And you'll keep doing it until she gives in to the yawning ache.
"You do so much, for everyone," you murmur. "For me. And you never let us do anything back. It's not fair."
She's deathlike under you. Only her hands, twitching on your hips, stir any movement.
Fuck it.
You lean back and reach for the top button of your shirt. Your fingers shake as you thumb it open, then reach for the one below it, and the other one, Emily's eyes following the path of skin that parts open. A faint sheen of perspiration makes you glow.
She inhales, sharply. The last button pops free, and you slide your shoulder out, breathless.
"Let go," you coax. "I want you to."
A low sound pulls out of her, thick and growling. Inhuman. Your stomach drops, heat spreading.
Fuck. Jesus, fuck.
"Put it back on," she says weakly. "Get the fuck out, Y/N. Please." She breathes, begging. Her hands are balled into fists, the sheets splitting open under her grip.
"Shh, it's okay," you murmur, pulling your other shoulder out and tossing the shirt somewhere on the bed. You don't know where it lands. You can't look away from her.
"It's okay," you say again, cupping the back of her neck, coaxing her to yours. She fights you halfheartedly. "Come on, sweetness. I want you to."
You see her eyes flutter closed. She makes another sound, reluctant, close-mouthed. Then, so softly—her lips brush your neck.
"You don't."
Your pulse jumps.
She circles it with her mouth, exhales. Your skin fogs with heat. You shiver, gripping her shoulders. "You don't want this," she repeats.
You dig your fingers in. "I do—"
"You're a masochist." She breathes. "Insane. What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Her nose skims up the column of your throat—shy, teasing. The touch skips here and there, light as butterfly wings. It dizzies you.
"Just wanna help," you manage.
"This isn't helping. God—do you have any idea—" Her voice breaks, going ragged. "Do you have any idea how good you smell? Jesus fucking Christ," she breathes. It pulses between your legs. "So sweet."
You tremble, swallowing against the brush of her lips.
Her hands trail up. One holds your hip down firm, the other planting low on your back. Keeping you down. Holding you still. She's freezing against your bare, feverish skin.
Your pulse surges. A rumble seeps through her chest, into yours. The vibrations press into your skin, melding with her soft groan, breathed into your neck.
"The first time I saw you, I almost blacked out. Sweetest thing I've ever smelled." She whispers. You wait for the pierce of fangs, their points over your pulse, but she only laves kisses with her mouth, mapping out the expanse of your throat. "God, I could almost taste you. You know what that's like? Like you drowned yourself in perfume, and every time I breathed—every time I opened my mouth—you were there. Always on my tongue. You were overwhelming," she rasps, rambling now, the words all tumbling out one after the other. Then, quieter: "You still are."
"You waited so long." You croak, your nails digging into the slopes of her shoulders. Every inch of you is strung tight. "Come on. Tell me how I taste."
Emily makes a low sound, something like a hum but thicker. Purring—a growl pulled long and deep, reverberating through your bones. Her lips part. Twin blades ghost over your skin.
You jerk, gasping.
"Still want me to tell you?"
"Yes." You gasp. "Yes, Emily—"
The touch makes you go quiet. Soft, closed-mouthed, a kiss brushed to the hollow of your throat. Then, as your knees tremble, two needle points sinking into your flesh.
You cry out, grabbing her hair in a fist. The sting burns behind your eyes, two throbbing slits that makes them flood with heat.
It quickly fades. Wetness smears on your collarbone, her mouth or your blood you don't know. You just know the sting, the skip in your pulse like your heart knows it's being taken from, and Emily's wrecked pleasure.
Behind your closed eyes, all you can hear is something wet: the lap of her tongue, the rush of your blood. Then, under—low, breathless groans, punched out between faint mutters. Fuck and so sweet and angel angel angel. Her voice is barely decipherable; it's simmered down to something primal, gnashes of teeth and the choked growls between them as she eats.
And, everywhere, there's heat. Between your lashes, pooled into your underwear, pulsing, pulsing, at your throat. Even her hands are now scorching. They climb up your ribs, thumb under the cups of your bra, tease the wet hollow that's neither here nor there but you don't think she notices. Her fingers slip on sweat, losing purchase when she tries to dig them in.
Your spine goes weak. You blink your eyes open, forcing a breath in. It goes tightly, quickly sucked away.
"Emily," you gasp. You don't know what you want. You press yourself harder to her waist, searching for pressure. "Emily—" You tug on her hair, your inhale becoming hers, from your mouth to your throat to her lips.
Your vision goes hazy.
In an instant, her hands are on your hips, lifting you up. Suddenly your back is pushing into the mattress, her thigh between yours. You glimpse the bloodied tip of a fang, the webbing of red spread across her cheeks, before her tongue is pressed flat to your neck, heat on heat, pouring a violent shiver down your spine.
-
If Emily could still cry, she would.
"Angel," she rasps. "Fuck, you're an angel." Heaven-sent.
Her hips roll down against your thigh, heat seeping through her jeans. Friction teases, shooting like a bolt when it hits right. She presses down harder, hears both of you gasp, feels your blood sweeten impossibly on her tongue.
She almost blacks out then.
It takes everything in her not to suck. Your blood oozes down your neck, steady and sweet, and she laps at it, gathers it all on her tongue drop by drop. She itches to widen her jaw around your throat, suck straight from your jugular, but—you've never hurt me, you couldn't.
She couldn't.
So she limits herself to this, and still feels her eyes roll back.
She hasn't had human blood in so long. Decades. She drowns in it, loses herself. You're hot and syrupy, her teeth aching at the silky slip of your sweetness. She's slick at the mouth, between her spread thighs.
Not all blood tastes the same. There's always that metallic undertone, thick iron, but that's where the similarities end. Some people taste sour, like curdled milk. Some have a tang of salt. Some are just the metal, plain. Doesn't matter how any of it tastes; the effect is the same for Emily—strength returning to her bones, a sharpness clearing out the fog in her head, and that's all she cares for. She's not doing it for pleasure.
But you. God, the taste of you. She's drunk from sweet-blooded humans before, ones who tasted like sugar, ones who dripped into her mouth like molasses. None of them come close to you. Nothing so saccharine.
Greedily, she lets your blood drip down even after she's had her necessary fill. Her body's sharp, her head clear. The thirst is quenched, dryness wetted at the back of her throat.
But. She just wants a little bit more. Just to keep the taste in her mouth a little while longer.
And you—poor, oblivious, helpless you—you just take it. You jut lie there and let her drain you, your nails sunk into her flesh, the occasional gasp sputtering from your lips. You're so patient; you don't rush her or tell her to stop. You let her drink and drink and drink.
Emily has long since stopped believing in god. But you, you're heaven-sent.
And she's not going to suck you dry.
When she finally manages to lick your wounds shut, she looks up and finds you dazed. You've lost your usual color, your eyes not entirely focused.
"Done?" You ask. The words are a little thick in your mouth, just the slightest bit clumsy.
"Done," she promises, reaching for your discarded shirt. It's crumpled and creased; Emily guides your arms through the sleeves, watching you closely—the twitch in your mouth, your slow hum, blown pupils. The lace on your chest, delicate and oh so pretty. Her knuckles graze it as she does up the buttons of your shirt. A shudder rolls through you.
"This is pretty," she murmurs idly, half to keep your eyes from fluttering shut. Half because she likes it. "You got all dolled up, put on a fancy bra for me?" Her lips turn up. "I know you don't wear these every day."
Warmth returns to your cheeks. You nip at your lip, shy.
"X-ray vision?"
She shakes her head. "Lace chafes."
It's torture, hearing it under your clothes on the rare occasion. Every time, it had her wondering: what color it'd be, why you're wearing it, if there's someone you're wearing it for. She barely sleeps anyway, but when she hears it under your clothes, she knows she won't have a moment's peace until you take it off.
She fastens the button that lands between the valley of your breasts. Before she can stop herself, she leans down, presses a kiss there, wet and bloody.
Your breath hitches.
"Thank you, Y/N."
-
"You did so good for me." She whispers. "Sweet girl. You're perfect."
You shiver, from the praise or the silken cadence of her voice or the blood loss, you don't know. You're a strange mix of hot and cold.
Emily's eyes are soft. "Here." She helps you sit upright, an arm around your back, pressing something into your hand. "Drink."
You blink down at the juice box in your hand, cold from a fridge. You don't know where she got it from or when she got up. Doesn't matter. She guides your hand up until the straw is between your teeth, sweet apple hitting your tongue. It's so artificially sugary you nearly spit it right out.
Your fingers squish the juice box. Emily comes into clearer focus, sitting in front of you, stroking your arm. The dark circles are gone from under her eyes. Her touch is cold again.
The sweetness of the juice forces a rasp in your voice. "Feel good, Emily?" You murmur.
She smiles, blindingly beautiful.
"Never better, baby."
You flush with heat. Draining the juice, you crush the box between your fingers.
"How did I taste?"
Emily's eyes gleam. They're back to their usual glittering brown, chocolatey and deep. Her lips press against your forehead, leaving a small smear of something wet on your skin.
I was doing some research for a fic because I couldn’t remember where Emily went to university or what her degree was in and found out so much about her. She’s genuinely so smart.
Not only does she have a B.A. in Criminal Justice with a minor in linguistics but also a masters degree from Yale in forensic psychology with a concentration on child advocacy.
On top of all that she gets into the FBI at 24 (!!), got perfect scores on her profiling exams and then got scouted by the CIA at 28.
Just when I think I can’t love this woman anymore I learn more about her and fall even deeper.
All she wants to do, and has done, is protect people. She’s proven herself time and time again. That’s my girl.
Fanfic: The Fling Ch 23, Madam Secretary | FanFiction
[2014 – McCord Residence]
Elizabeth walks over to the chaise and sits down, pulling the album into her lap and sitting cross-legged with the book over her legs. She leans back into the chaise's cushion and reaches for the glasses on top of her head, pulling them down and blinking so she can see the pictures inside the book.
She takes a shaky breath as she turns to the first page, knowing she's about to get emotional, knowing she's about to be crushed by the weight of time.
The shower running in the background soothes her, though, and she knows Henry is only a few steps away. Stevie, on the other hand, is still barely talking to her—still much too annoyed at Elizabeth about the college situation, even though Henry had talked to her and explained that she needed to go back.
Her finger runs over the first picture—the day that she and Henry had gotten the camera all set up. It was a gift from a college friend that Elaine had managed to invite to her baby shower, and Henry was testing it out on Elizabeth first a few weeks after the shower.
She smiles a little, getting an ache in her lower back while looking at the photo of her at twenty-one years old, holding her back with her hands in a candid Polaroid shot that Henry had accidentally taken. Somehow it ended up in this book along with Stevie's baby pictures.
Her hand runs down the smooth, glossy front and to the next picture below, and she shakes her head a little as she studies her young face. "God, we were kids." She whispers, looking now at Henry on the next page. He was holding a screwdriver up while sitting on the floor of Stevie's nursery, a big, fake smile gracing his face. She can tell because almost all his teeth are showing—something he never did. But she also remembers that exact moment and how frustrated he'd gotten just moments before.
