Oct 15 ‘Blindfold + biting/marks’ | Emily Prentiss X Fem!Reader | 3K words | My kinktober masterlist |
summary: It starts with Emily biting her lip over a book and ends with you blindfolded, begging, and being reminded—thoroughly—what that mouth of hers can do.
tags: Established Relationship, Dom!Emily, Reader is kind of a brat LOL, Biting, Scratching, Teasing, Blindfolding, No use of Y/N.
You try to care about your phone. You really do. But the room keeps rearranging itself around Emily.
She’s next to you, tucked into the corner of the couch beneath the lamp, ankles crossed, hardcover balanced in one hand. The light loves her—catches at the silver in her hair, warms the line of her mouth—and she reads the way she savors everything good: unhurried, precise, it’s like she is letting each sentence melt on her tongue before she turns the page.
And then there’s the damn lip.
Every few paragraphs her teeth find her bottom lip for a thoughtful beat—catch, consider, release—and the smallest shine is left behind. You feel each one like a pulse under your ribs. The second time, heat slips low in your belly. By the fourth, you’ve forgotten what you meant to do with your evening.
Your phone lies heavy and useless in your palm, screen dimming and waking and dimming again because you keep lifting it and setting it down without doing anything at all. Next to you, Emily sips her water without looking up, turns a page with that neat little snap of paper, and does it again: catch, release. Your thighs press together on their own. You picture that mouth on your throat, on your breast, lower—your breath stutters; you look away; you look back.
She knows. Of course she knows. She lets the chapter have her anyway, finishing the paragraph with her eyes steady, thumb lingering at the corner of the page, rereading a line that pleased her. Maybe twice. Only then does she reward you.
“You’re staring,” she says, still reading.
You arrange your face into innocence. “I’m reading.”
“Mmm.” She lets her gaze travel one more line, because she can. “Your phone… has been on the same empty email draft for the last seven minutes.”
“I’m thinking,” you say, somehow dignified.
How does she know?
A small, satisfied hum. She is finally looking at you now. Her chin tips down just enough that her eyes find you over the rim of her glasses, steady and dark and knowing. There’s the faintest curve at the corner of her mouth, polite on the surface but full of heat underneath, the kind of look that makes your pulse stutter because she knows exactly what she’s doing.
Her voice comes low and unhurried, that soft, velvety tone she uses when she’s both amused and slightly aroused.“About words,” she asks, the pause deliberate, “or my… mouth?”
Your mouth opens, then closes like a fish. “That’s entrapment.”
Her smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. “Is it?”
The older woman exhales softly through her nose, then closes the book with quiet finality. She slips off her glasses, sets both on the coffee table with that neat, absent precision that’s so her, and reaches for her water again. A slow sip. The glass clinks gently back against the wood.
“Come here.”
Your phone is on the floor before you realize you’ve let it go; a blink later, you’re settled over her thighs. Oversized shirt, bare legs straddling her lap in a way that was not an accident. Her hands go under your shirt almost immediately—warm palms, and a deliberate drag of her fingertips up your ribs. There are ragged edges to some of those nails; she’s a nervous picker, a biter, and you love the way the imperfect edges catch on your skin, scratching just enough to make you arch.
“You’re distracted,” she murmurs, amused, thumbs brushing the sides of your breasts.“Apparently you can’t focus with me in the room.”
“Allegedly.” You press into her hands as she teases, breathing going unsteady when her rough nail skims a nipple. “Your lip is a menace.”
Her smile is small and wicked. “I’ll put it to good use later.”
She lets her palms slide higher, thumbs brushing slow circles that make you forget what you were saying. You lean forward, chasing her mouth; she catches your chin instead, holding you just shy of a kiss. Her eyes are calm, amused, the kind of quiet confidence that makes your pulse trip.
“You’ve been staring at me all night,” she says softly. “You could’ve just asked.”
“For what?” you ask, pretending innocence even as you grind once against her thigh.
“That,” she murmurs, the word half a laugh. Her fingers tighten at your chin, keeping you exactly where she wants you, not too close, not too far. “You’re already worked up.”
“You started it,” you whisper. “With your lip. With that little sound you make when you like a sentence you’re reading.”
“Did I?” she asks, feigning thought, though the corner of her mouth betrays her deliciously. She lets go of your chin, her hand sliding down the side of your neck instead, fingertips tracing the edge of your pulse before she leans in. She kisses the spot beneath your ear, then another just below your jaw. “I suppose I could make it up to you.”
Her tone drops, velvet and certain. “How intense do you want it… exactly, darling?”
You pause, dizzy from the nearness, and swallow a laugh that comes out as a sigh. “Medium,” you say, voice rougher than you mean it to be. “I want to feel it tomorrow, but not, you know… end up limping through work.”
Emily hums approval, low and knowing. “Reasonable. Wait here.”
She lifts you off her lap with gentle hands and stands. You watch her go down the hall and try, futilely, not to squirm.
When she returns, your brain short-circuits. Silky maroon robe, loosely tied—no bra underneath, you can tell by the way fabric brushes and the soft, mouthwatering, sway beneath. Her hair is more mussed now, a deliberate ruin. Her hands are behind her back.
She stops in front of you, that sensual, private smile you know too well, and shows you what she’s holding: a length of dark silk.
“Emily…” Heat hits all at once, low and greedy. “That’s—”
“Mine,” she says, gently pleased. “And I plan on using it.”
You swallow. “Okay.”
“Are you okay with that?” She waits, steady. Warm eyes, complete patience.
“Yes.” You can hear your own heartbeat. “Yes.”
She sits beside you and turns, knee to knee. You mirror her, a little smile tugging at your mouth because this is already intimate. “Shirt off,” she says softly.
You peel it over your head. The air kisses your skin; her gaze does worse. She lifts the silk so it grazes your cheek first—cool, soft, a preview—and then leans forward and ties it around your eyes, slow and careful, knot secure. The world goes warm and dark, edged in her breathing.
“Lean back for me,” she murmurs.
You do, head finding the armrest as she slides with you, long body settling horizontal along the couch so you’re a line of heat from knee to shoulder. She kisses your mouth once—unhurried, present—before she begins the long, teasing descent: your throat, your clavicle, the hollow above your heart. Her tongue is a warm swipe; her mouth is a patient claim. When she reaches your breasts, her breath ghosts over skin that still tingles with the light scratches from her earlier touch.
Then she bites you.
You gasp, half-shock, half-need. “Did you just… bite me?!”
“I sure did,” she says, perfectly mild, and does it again at the soft edge where your breast lifts—firm, careful, just enough to put a bright little sting under your skin. She follows it immediately with a quick, gentle lick and a soft seal of her mouth, sucking just enough to smooth the ache before she takes your nipple in— a slow roll of tongue that lifts your spine off the cushions. Her other hand teases the twin, another jagged nail skimming, and it’s exactly the push-pull you ache for: her elegant mouth paired with that small, imperfect edge
“Still okay?” she checks, warm against your skin.
“Ruin me, woman.” You’re already wrecked.
“Good.” She licks lower, nips your sternum, mouths a slow path across your stomach, teasing the dip of your navel, your hipbone, the top seam of your panties. “As much fun as using up the couch would be,” she says, amused, “I need more room to move.”
“Then—bedroom,” you offer, dazed.
You reach for the blindfold on reflex and she tsks, light but definite. “Ah-ah. I’ll guide.”
You nod and let her pull you up. Her arm comes around your waist; she walks you down the hall with a steadying hand on your lower belly and an unhurried confidence that makes your knees sillier than they already were.
The bed takes you in a soft fall. Emily eases you back, smooths your hair off your cheek, and adjusts the pillow under your shoulders. She kneels in front of you, warm hands sliding to your knees to guide them open. Then she leans in—kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, slow and deliberate—before settling her forearms along your hips to keep you steady.
She catches your wrist and brings it down with her, guiding your palm to the crown of her head. “Here,” she says, low. “Hold me.”
Your fingers slide into her salt & pepper hair; she presses into your hand, a quiet, pleased sound against your skin, and you tighten your grip just enough to make her hum.
She stays there for a beat, her breath warm against the inside of your thigh, almost touching, almost merciful. “You’re trembling,” she murmurs. “And I haven’t even—” her lips curve “—started.”
You try for a retort and manage only a breath that’s half-word, half-plea.
Emily chuckles softly, tracing a lazy fingertip along the edge of your underwear. “These should be a crime,” she says, voice low. “Look how they hide you.”
“I would, but I can’t see, remember?”
“That is what makes this fun,” she whispered softly. The fabric slides down, unhurried, the feeling of it soft against your skin. She breathes in like she’s been waiting for this, then plants a kiss at your knee as she draws the last inch free and throws them aside.
“Leg,” she murmurs, guiding one over her shoulder. The other she taps, and you fold it out and up, opening for her as she settles in close.
“Stay just like that,” she tells you, tone calm but sure. “I want to take my time.”
“You’re talking too much,” you manage.
A low laugh. “Am I now?” She leans closer; her breath brushes where you’re most sensitive. “Tell me if you still think so in a minute.”
She uses both her index and middle finger to spread your folds wider, then wets the fingertips of the other hand with her mouth. She lazily spreads out the saliva over your throbbing cunt.
With that devilish grin on her face—that you really wish you could see right now—she blows some air directly onto your swollen clit.
“You’re evil,” you breathe.
“Mmh.” She noses in closer, but not where you want—her mouth lands to the side, warm and deliberate. “You’re adorable when you try to boss me around.”
The first lick is slow and lazy, tasting more than claiming. The second is narrower, deliberately missing your clit so you chase. The third lands you—sealed, warm, the exact pressure—and the little sound you make is obscene. She laughs, soft and pleased, and does it again, settling into a rhythm that’s all patience: long, savoring strokes, the occasional spiral, her mouth opening to pull, then going light again so you mutter a complaint you won’t remember later.
You don’t know how long she keeps you there. Time goes weird when she gets like this—sensual, methodical, teeth just a threat. When you buck, she slides a hand to your lower belly and presses down, firm and grounding, keeping you open under her mouth. The weight pins the range of your movement perfectly; the message is gentle and clear: I have you. Stay.
“Emily,” you breathe, helpless. “Please.”
“Medium intense,” she reminds you, amused, and shifts from languid to focused in the space of one breath. Her tongue narrows, flicking where you’re soft and desperate; she seals her mouth around you and sucks, slow to deep and back again until speech is just a texture.
“Still good?” she asks into you.
“Fuck,” you gasp. “God—yes.”
“Language,” she says, and you whimper, because her dry humor goes straight to your nerves.
She eats you like she loves you and like she’s starving, alternating tease and intent until your thighs shake. You try to be good. You are also bad at being good when she’s like this.
“Can I—Emily, can I please see you?”
There’s a pause, a kiss against your thigh that feels like yes. Fingers lift the knot; silk loosens; the world blooms back in warm light. She’s between your legs, hair ruined and gorgeous, mouth wet, eyes soft and intent like you’re her favorite meal and her favorite person at once. She looks up through dark lashes; your heart drops right through the mattress.
“Hi,” she says, sweetly wicked.
“Hi,” you manage, and tug her up your body with greedy hands. The maroon robe ties give up with a sigh. She shrugs it off and you help, palms mapping shoulders, collarbones, the slope of her breasts. She presses her knee between your legs again and the blunt, deliberate pressure makes you yelp quietly. You mouth at her, kiss her, lick into the taste of yourself on her tongue, and roll a perfect nipple between your fingers until her exhale goes ragged.
“Not done with you,” she says against your mouth, smiling into your kiss. “Lie back.”
You do. She slides down again with that unhurried surety and sets herself to you like a discipline. This time there’s no warm-up: she closes around your clit and sucks while her tongue flicks, unerringly, and her spare hand slips down and disappears between her own thighs. The tiny hitch in her breath wrecks you.
“Emily,” you say, wrecked and adoring. Your fingers slip back into her hair and you give a careful pull at the nape; she makes a noise you feel all the way through your spine and presses closer, the bridge of her distinctive nose grinding where you’re soaked. It’s filthy, perfect, reverent. Her hand on herself stutters, picks up, syncs, and somehow that makes her mouth meaner.
“You taste so good,” she manages, still moving.
“Prentiss.” It’s a prayer. “Please.”
She answers by flattening her tongue and dragging up through you, then sealing again and pulling, the pressure building like a fuse running. You clutch the sheets, then her hair, then her shoulder, and she lets you keep both because you’re asking nice and because she likes when you hold her there.
It tips fast. She feels it and pins your belly again to keep you from launching, mouth never leaving you, the rhythm turning ruthless. You fall apart on a gasp that turns into her name, shuddering, held open by her hand and her mouth and the terrible kindness of her steadiness.
When you come back down, blinking, she’s still there, mouth softened into lazy licks, hand between her own thighs moving with intent now, eyes half-lidded and dark.
You prop yourself on your elbows and watch, greedy. She doesn’t look away.
“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me like I’m some porno,” she asks, dry and breathless, “or are you going to help me?”
It’s not even a question. “Oh, I’m going to help. Definitely.”
She eases onto her back, spreading for you with a gracious sort of surrender that makes your mouth water. You settle between her thighs, palms on her knees, and take one long second to look: the gorgeous grey at her hairline, the flushed skin, the steady rise and fall of her chest, the way her pupils blow when your breath hits her.
“Touch me,” she says, voice warm and low, and you do—thumbs sliding to open her wider, your mouth lowering to taste her like she taught you: slow first, then focused, listening for each hitch, mapping the pathway to that caught breath and back again. She’s slick and salt and familiar, and when you drag your tongue just so she makes a sound that will live in your bones forever.
“Good,” she says, and it shivers through you. “Just like that.”
You work her with your mouth and your hand, fingers circling where she’s swollen, drawing lazy patterns you tighten when her thighs flex. When you look up, her head is tipped back, throat offered, that sensual, private smile ghosting her mouth. You slide two fingers lower, gather, and bring them to her clit, working in time with your mouth until her hips try to chase and she grips the sheets hard enough to crumple them.
“Okay?” you ask, because she always asks you.
“More than,” she says, and then, amused even now, “don’t you dare stop.”
You don’t. You add a little pressure, a little speed, and when her hand finds your hair you press into it, let her guide the angle. She comes sharp, precise, a gasp that dissolves into a laugh, hand tightening and then loosening in your hair as the waves taper.
You kiss the inside of her thigh, the edge of her hip. Her palm slides to your cheek, warm and steady, pulling you up. You sprawl over her, both of you boneless and grinning.
“Medium intense was an excellent choice,” she says, dry and affectionate, thumb stroking your jaw.
“Practical,” you echo, smug and dizzy. “Also: your lip is still a menace.”
She leans in and takes it between her teeth again, play-bite gentle. “I’ll keep weaponizing it responsibly.”
“You’re very responsible.” You nuzzle under her jaw, happy. “Also, never stop biting your nails.”
She huffs a laugh against your hair. “I’ll tell my therapist you said that.”
Both of you laugh; who is she kidding here? Everyone knows Emily Prentiss doesn’t do therapy.
You breathe with her for a while—slow, sated, the blindfold now a cool ribbon under your palm. After a bit she shifts, kisses your temple. “Shower, then tv?”
“Mm.” You bite her shoulder, soft and smug. “And maybe I write one email draft that actually has words in it.”
“About my mouth,” she suggests, deadpan.
“Purely academic,” you say, and when she laughs you decide you could live inside the sound forever.
If you enjoyed this story, please reblog <3 My recent works have been kind of flopping and it makes me a little unmotivated and insecure oops :( or maybe I just suck LOL anyways, thank you for reading XOXO
ੈ✩‧₊˚ For @cargopantsprentiss’s jemtober prompt 5. ‘Lipstick’ | 3K words |
summary: JJ helps Emily get through an embassy dinner hosted by Elizabeth by playing the “very good friend”—right up until a quick escape to the ladies’ room leaves evidence they miss and Elizabeth doesn’t.
tags: Earlier seasons, Established relationship, Secret dating (sort of), Soft but there’s some light angst, Hurt/comfort, Mother-daughter conflict, Fancy dresses, Domestic jemily <333
Emily is on her third attempt at eyeliner when JJ gently wrestles the pencil from her hand.
“I’m filing charges,” JJ says, amused and soft. “Assault on a perfectly good eyelid.”
Emily’s answering sigh fogs the mirror. “I can negotiate with serial killers in four different languages, but apparently not with winged liner.”
“You don’t need a wing,” JJ murmurs, tipping Emily’s chin toward the glow of the vanity. “You need to breathe.”
JJ has been ready for twenty minutes—hair in glossy waves, gown mysteriously black that somehow turns her eyes an even deeper blue, makeup so careful it looks effortless. Emily, in contrast, has applied foundation and then scrubbed it off twice, tried a smoky shadow that made her look like she’d lost a fistfight with a chimney, and is now hovering somewhere between panic and stubbornness. The dress she chose (Maroon, classy, the fabric skimming rather than clinging) fits like it was made just for her.
“I’m fine,” Emily lies.
JJ kisses the lie away from the corner of her mouth. “I know you hate politics,” she says, voice low and warm. “But the makeup—or your face, isn’t the enemy.”
“It’s not the makeup,” Emily admits. “It’s… everything.” The venue. The donors. The photographs. The inevitable small talk about legacy and duty and who, exactly, she brought. And mother.
That last word, even in her own head, sharpens her shoulders.
JJ sees the shift and slides in closer. “Let me do it?” she asks, as if offering a blanket.
Emily huffs a laugh and surrenders the chair, knees bumping JJ’s. “I’m going to owe you so many favors.”
“Oh, you will,” JJ says, lightly, and begins.
She starts with fingers instead of brushes—cool touch to warm skin. She smooths the faint red where Emily had scrubbed too hard, thumbs careful around the stubborn set of her jaw. “You have ridiculous cheekbones,” JJ says, clinically admiring. “We could file paperwork under them.”
“Tell the Bureau,” Emily says. “Maybe they’ll give me a raise.”
JJ grins. “Doubtful. Tilt your head.” She blends, dabs, blurs edges until the mirror stops reflecting Emily-vs.-Cosmetics and starts reflecting Emily. The woman JJ has been falling for in small, steady ways: the one whose dimples arrive like mercy, whose laugh lands low, who picks at her thumb when the world feels like it’s demanding a performance.
“Hey.” JJ catches that hand where the thumbnail is already raw at the edge, kisses the knuckle. “Not that,” she says softly.
The brunette nods, eyes tipping down with gratitude she doesn’t yet know how to voice. “You’re good at this.”
“At you,” JJ corrects, so tender Emily feels it more than hears it.
Mascara. A sweep of sparkly shadow. A whisper of bronzer that ought to be illegal. JJ never rushes; she moves like the seconds are theirs to command. When she reaches for the lipstick tubes, she hesitates just long enough to look at Emily’s mouth and forget how to be a person.
“What?” Emily asks, small smile like bait.
“You know what.” JJ uncaps the red—Emily’s red, deep and certain as a decision. “Try not to distract the artist.”
“Impossible.” Emily’s grin slips dimples into place, and JJ, undone, braces a hand at Emily’s jaw.
“Part your lips,” JJ says, and Emily does, obedient only for JJ. The red goes on with a patience JJ didn’t know she had. Cupid’s bow. Lower lip. Blot. JJ’s thumb hovers to clean a line she doesn’t actually need to fix because it’s perfect, because Emily is perfect.
“You’re staring,” Emily says, pleased and dooming them both.
JJ puts the cap back on. “Occupational hazard.”
“Of being—?”
“In love with trouble.” Then JJ, losing the last inch of restraint, kisses her.
It’s supposed to be brief. It fails. The first press is worship; the second is a laugh that opens into something warm and hungry. Emily tastes like mint and nerves and home. When JJ finally pulls away, her own mouth is a crime scene: red and nude tangled, a telltale sunset.
“Oops,” Emily says, smug and a little breathless.
“Oops,” JJ echoes, equal parts apology and delight.
They laugh, rush, reapply—JJ’s rosy nude back to soft, Emily’s red back to brave. JJ steadies Emily’s hand as she blots. Somewhere between funny and tender, JJ says, “About tonight… I know you don’t want to hide us. I don’t either. But if calling me a very good friend for a few hours makes the politics the only thing you have to battle—maybe we do that. Just for tonight.”
Emily meets her eyes in the mirror, steady. “It won’t be because I’m ashamed.”
“I know.” JJ leans in, presses a clean kiss to Emily’s temple. “I’m the one suggesting it, remember?”
“Very good friend,” Emily repeats, the phrase tasting like a compromise she can survive. “Temporarily.”
“Temporarily,” JJ promises. She slides her hand down Emily’s arm, laces their fingers. “And after, you can cash in those favors.”
“Oh, I definitely intend to.”
—
The hotel ballroom is all crystal hum and old money, light glancing off wineglasses like camera flashes. The floral arrangements are taller than some of the interns. Laughter slicks across conversation like oil. Emily’s spine betrays her by straightening at the threshold; she knows these rooms the way soldiers know terrain.
“Little Emily?” someone croons, pinning thirty years of history to a single syllable.
“Ambassador Roulade,” Emily answers, smile weaponized and distant, his name remembered because her brain is a Rolodex she never asked for. “You look well.”
“And you’ve brought—”
“My very good friend,” Emily says before he can fill the blank with a guess that would sour his mouth. “Jennifer Jareau.”
“JJ,” JJ says, warm, offering a hand because she was raised to be polite. “It’s nice to meet you.”
The man blinks, recalibrates; JJ has that disarming effect. He drifts away when he spots someone richer.
They weave through introductions like a tide: donors who smell like cologne and influence, staffers whose smiles are too tight, an old colleague of Elizabeth’s who remembers Emily as a teenager and insists she loved chess back then (she didn’t; she loved beating men at their own game).
Her mother appears like a weather front.
“Mother,” Emily says, pulse a thread she holds between two fingers.
Elizabeth Prentiss is knives in silk. She brings a gentleman in her wake and an assessment in her eyes. “Emily,” she says the way other people usually say “actually.”
“You came.” Her glance skims to JJ and pauses—cataloguing, calculating. “I’d thought you might bring a man.”
JJ feels Emily’s hand tense, a tiny flinch only she would notice. She squeezes back.
“It was my fault,” JJ says before the air can frost. She puts a touch of small-town sheepish in her voice, something that translates in any embassy. “Emily mentioned the dinner, and I said I’d always wanted an excuse to wear a real gown. I—um—I never went to prom. Life got in the way. So she offered to take me so I could feel like a princess for a night.”
There’s a beat. Elizabeth’s eyes do that minute, surgical squint that would be funny if it hadn’t once made a little girl feel two inches tall.
“Very well then,” Elizabeth says, verdict crisp. “Emily, is there a man in your life at present?”
“No,” Emily says, and doesn’t look at JJ, because the truth sits like heat in her chest and she wants to keep it there, private and whole. “Work is… demanding.”
“Nonsense.” Elizabeth dismisses the Bureau with a flick of the wrist. “Come along, I’ve someone you simply must meet.” It sets the pattern of the night: one widowed banker with a laugh like a car alarm, one diplomat’s son who speaks three languages and none of them to JJ, one man who assumes the BAU is “like CSI, right?” Emily smiles until the expression feels like a bruise; she picks at her thumb until the cuticle stings.
Introductions and small talk stack until JJ’s pinned in place by a man with a yacht and a story about Italy. Over his shoulder she watches Emily straighten, swallow, and leave the circle without a sound. JJ lets the monologue die on its own and follows.
—
The ladies’ room is all marble and echo. JJ’s heels click toward the stalls. “Em?”
A lock slides. Emily opens the second stall like she’s bracing for a reprimand and gets JJ instead.
“Hi.” JJ slips inside, closes them into their own little square of privacy, and sets both hands on Emily’s waist. “Breathe with me.”
They do. In for four. Hold for four. Out for six. Emily’s heartbeat stops being a small animal. JJ reaches down and gently pries at her thumb, the one she’s been worrying until it stings.
“You’re bleeding,” she says, the smallest frown. She kisses the sore spot as if that could undo it.
“Sorry.” Emily grimaces. “Old habit.”
“Understandable one.” JJ rests their foreheads together. “We can leave.”
“Not yet.” Emily swallows. “I just—she’s been trying to marry me off since I was fourteen. Summer in Geneva, some ambassador’s son with hair like seaweed. And the girls… when she caught me—” Emily laughs without humor. “She sent the girl home and booked me an etiquette class.”
JJ’s mouth softens around anger. “You don’t owe her a performance. Not anymore.”
“I know.” Emily looks at her like the truth. “What I want is you.”
JJ smiles, helpless and proud. “Good,” she says. “Because you have me.”
It flips a switch in Emily; you can almost see it. Her shoulders lower. The brittle layer cracks. “Tell me again about tonight’s post-game plan.”
JJ’s smirk blooms. “When we get home, we are going to have fantastic, mind-blowing sex, Ms. Prentiss,” she says, formal title like a dare.
Emily arches a brow. “Is that so, Ms. Jareau?”
“Mmhm. You in that dress and those heels is not a situation I’m designed to tolerate.”
Emily laughs—real, uncoiled. She lifts JJ’s chin with two fingers and kisses her, slow at first, then grateful. JJ presses back, hand splayed at the small of Emily’s back, the other threading into dark hair. It feels like choosing. It feels like coming up for air and deciding to stay on the surface.
They come apart, breath settling. JJ keeps her hands at Emily’s waist for one last grounding second.
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave right now?” JJ murmurs.
“Tempting,” Emily says, a small smile returning. “But it’s almost over. I can handle the last stretch. Very good friend, for now.”
“I’m right beside you,” JJ says.
Emily nods; the latch clicks, and they slip out together without lingering, shoulders squared as they move straight down the corridor and back into the hum of crystal and conversation.
They return to the ballroom. Two minutes later, Elizabeth locates them with a man in tow.
“Emily,” she says, “Mr. Cartwright oversees—” She breaks off, eyes narrowing to a laser. “Your lipstick is smudged.”
Emily feels the old reflex—a flinch, a sorry—but it dies on impact. JJ’s hand finds hers, squeezes once.
“Unladylike,” Elizabeth adds, tone arctic, gaze flicking to JJ—and catching. There, plain as evidence, JJ’s mouth wears a faint bruised red over her soft nude, a tell she hadn’t thought of to hide. Elizabeth’s eyes jump between their faces. Algebra done.
“Mr. Cartwright,” Elizabeth says without looking at the man, “give us a moment.”
He retreats.
Elizabeth inhales, sets the line of her shoulders. “You will have a very good explanation,” she says, voice even enough to make the words worse.
“It’s not what it looks—” JJ begins, reflexively protective.
“I asked my daughter,” Elizabeth cuts, sharp.
“Don’t talk to her like that.” Emily is surprised by how steady she sounds. The look her mother gives her is the look that used to curdle summer: disapproval as posture, disappointment as weather. It lands, and it fails to freeze.
Emily lets go of JJ’s hand only so she can set it at her own side, grounded. “Mother, I don’t want a rich man who will treat me like a chess piece you moved into his path. I never have.”
“Don’t say foolish things,” Elizabeth says, low. “Keep your voice down. You’re embarrassing—”
“No.” Emily hears the word and feels it root. “No, Mother, I won’t. I am a grown woman. I know exactly who I want.” She tips her chin toward JJ. “My lipstick is on her mouth because we kissed. We kiss all the time, because it makes me happy to do so, because she is my girlfriend.” The blonde finds Emily’s hand again and gives it another squeeze, once, the smallest yes.
For a moment, Elizabeth’s face is unreadable marble. Then the fissures show. “You are still making the same mistakes you made as a girl,” she says, quiet with the weight of theater.
“How would you know?” Emily asks, not cruel, just done. “You were busy being an ambassador. Someone had to be my mother, so the nannies took the job.” It’s harder than she meant it to be. It’s also true. The truth echoes. “Coming here was a mistake,” Emily adds, softer and certain. “If you don’t want to see your daughter happy, that’s on you. I’ll be fine without this. I always have been.”
Elizabeth’s mouth parts, a retort on deck, but Emily doesn’t wait to be cut apart and then rebuilt to someone else’s scale. She threads her fingers with JJ’s and turns for the door. The room registers the disturbance like a shift in air pressure; old money is excellent at pretending it didn’t hear a thing.
They make it out of the lobby before JJ stops. “Hey.” She tugs until Emily faces her. Outside, valet lights halo the night. “I’m so proud of you.”
“I feel like I just learned how to breathe.” Emily laughs, watery, dizzy. “God, that look. It used to terrify me.”
“You were a kid then,” JJ says. “You’re not anymore.”
“Right.” Emily exhales. “Let’s go home. Let’s—”
“Emily!”
They both freeze. It’s not the name; it’s the volume. Elizabeth does not raise her voice, never. She advances, wind in a dress, the door swinging shut behind her. For a second all Emily’s old instincts line up like soldiers. Then Elizabeth stops an arm’s length away and does something stranger than yelling: she hesitates.
“I was… wrong,” Elizabeth says.
Emily blinks. The word lands like a misprint.
“I mean,” Elizabeth amends, slower, as if relearning vocabulary, “I was wrong.” She studies Emily’s face like it’s a briefing she cannot afford to misread. “I have been—bad at mothering. You deserved better, I understand that now. I can’t rewrite your childhood and I can’t—pretend to be a different woman tomorrow morning. But.” Her gaze skims, catches on JJ, returns. “It is clear you find comfort with… Ms…”
“Jareau,” JJ supplies, gentle. “JJ.”
“Ms. Jareau.” Elizabeth nods once, tucks the name into the right drawer. “And I don’t want us to fight. I admit I had a picture of your future that did not include this.” A flick of eyes toward their linked hands and the faintly incriminating mouths. “I may never be elegant about changing pictures. But I don’t want you to be miserable the way I have been.” The honesty there is a bead of rain on a windowsill—unlikely, fragile. “If she makes you happy… then I am—” She forces it out, the hardest word in her lexicon. “—okay with it.”
JJ hears her own heart in her throat. Emily, for once, has no script.
Elizabeth inhales as if the night is cold. “Back inside, you said I don’t want to see you happy. That is where you’re wrong. What’s true is that I haven’t known how to recognize your happiness unless it looked like mine—appointments, promotions, the right rooms with the right men. I pushed you toward that picture. Too hard. You were right about that.” She looks tired in a way she would never permit inside the ballroom. “I wanted success for you because it was the only language I knew for love. But it isn’t yours. I am… learning.”
Emily looks at Elizabeth like she sees water burn.
“I want the time we have left to be peaceful. Perhaps we could… meet. Lunch, coffee. Talk.” A faint, wry twitch. “Properly.”
Emily stands very still. The apology is a bird too rare to startle. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Then don’t.” Elizabeth’s chin lifts, but not in challenge. “Think it over.” She glances, at last, at JJ with something approaching humanity. “Welcome to the family, Ms. Jareau. If that is what you want.” It lands less like a decree and more like an attempt.
JJ musters a small, sincere smile. “It is.”
Elizabeth’s eyes tip down to their mouths, helplessly, habit warring with truce. “And do—” she clears her throat “—clean up your lips.” Old reflexes, stubborn to the end. She turns, reenters the weather of her party.
Emily watches the door swing shut, then lets out a breath that hitches into a laugh. “She told us to fix our lipstick,” she murmurs, leaning into JJ’s shoulder. “Of course she did.”
“Some things are eternal,” JJ says, fishing a folded cocktail napkin from her clutch. She lifts it to Emily’s mouth, gentle. “Blot.” Emily does; JJ turns the napkin, blots her own, then uses a thumb to tidy the edge of Emily’s upper lip. It’s quick, practiced, intimate as a secret in plain sight. “Good enough.”
“Good enough,” Emily echoes. They lace fingers and head for the valet.
In the car, the quiet hits. JJ exhales a disbelieving little laugh. “Okay—so that just happened?”
“It’s a lot,” Emily says, eyes on the windshield, then on JJ. “I don’t know where it came from. It’ll take time. But she seemed… genuine?”
“She did,” JJ says. “And I’m proud of you.” She squeezes Emily’s hand. “For all of it.”
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten about all the ‘fun’ you promised once we get home,” Emily adds, mouth curving.
JJ’s grin tips wicked. “Excellent. I fully intend to ruin that lipstick again.”
“Likewise,” Emily says, dimples out, armor lighter than it’s felt in years.
“Home?” JJ asks, easing the car into the night.
“Home,” Emily answers, the napkin with both shades tucked away like proof that the evening ended on their terms.
ੈ✩‧₊˚ Oct 9th ‘student X teacher’ | Emily Prentiss X (fem) Reader | kinktober masterlist | 3.4K words | AO3 🔗 |
summary: Locked in a storage room with your hot lit professor, weeks of flirting snap on a dusty couch...
tags/warnings: Smut, Professor!Prentiss, Power imbalance, Age gap, Reader is a consenting adult, (Soft-ish) Dom!Emily, aftercare, no use of Y/N.
If this is not your thing, no hard feelings! just skip this one. If you enjoyed it, please reblog for visibility <3
It had started as nothing: you staying behind to help ferry the battered class set of novels back to the storage room because you were headed that way anyway; Emily—Professor Prentiss—saying “Thank you, darling,” afterwards with that small, sideways warmth that made your stomach tilt.
Then it became a habit. Two afternoons a week, sometimes three. You’d gather the novels into two stacks, she’d take the heavier one without comment, and you’d walk the quiet corridor together past corkboards and map prints until the lock on the storage door clicked and the smell of dust and paper breathed out.
She never asked you to. She never had to. It just kept happening.
You weren’t subtle—at least, not anymore. You started dressing like you had somewhere to be after lecture: skirts that remembered your legs, fitted tops that clung, or a cropped tee with tight jeans that made your ass look unfair. You always sat in the front row, always answered her questions a beat too fast.
She noticed—of course she did. Emily had a talent for seeing without confessing to it. Her own wardrobe, however, told on her in return: cotton became silk; heels a touch higher; one extra button left open, with the faintest suggestion of lace beneath. When she bent to your desk, her glasses slid down and she looked over them in a way that should’ve been illegal. She never named it; you didn’t either. But the air changed—bright and tight—as if you were both standing too close to a dimmer switch you couldn’t stop brushing.
Today was like any other day, until it wasn’t.
Class ends. You stack books. She does the same. The department’s new “no losses” policy means every set gets logged—title, count, date returned—because the school hates paying for missing copies. Emily rolls her eyes about it and still follows it to the letter. Of course she does. She’s the kind of teacher who is precise when no one’s watching.
“Storage?” she asks, casual, like this is still a coincidence and not a routine you both now anticipate.
“Storage,” you echo, and your gaze snags on her mouth for one beat longer than polite.
You shoulder the door to the storage room while she backs in with the second crate. The room is the same as always: metal shelves, the hum of an old fluorescent, a sad couch that used to live in the faculty lounge and now gathers dust in the back corner. The smell is paper and dry glue and old carpet. A clipboard hangs from a nail by the door, pen attached with string. She quickly signed: Prentiss / Intro to Lit / 48 copies returned.
She thumbs the latch; the door sticks; she tries again, harder. “Hm.”
“Problem?” you ask, already knowing.
The latch gives half an inch and jams. She tests the knob. The old building answers with stubborn silence.
“Of course,” she says, wry, tilting her head at the ceiling like it offended her. “This door.”
You shoulder in beside her. Two tries, three. Nothing. You both step back.
“Well,” you say. “Could be worse.”
She wipes dust from her palm with her thumb. “How?”
“I could have been stuck with Mr. Becket from Economics. The one who always smells like the inside of a mop bucket and still lives with his mother at forty-six, and not because she needs it, but because he just never left.”
Emily’s laugh is low and surprised and a little wicked. “God, yes.” She looks you up and down, unapologetically slow. “There are… worse people to be trapped with.”
Heat lights up your face. You flop onto the sagging couch, dust leaping. Emily eyes it, then sits beside you, careful not to lean back all the way. There’s a beat of silence where you both pretend to troubleshoot.
“I can call Security,” she offers, thumb hovering over her phone. “Someone will come jiggle it and feel heroic.”
Your mouth runs before your good sense. “What if… I want to be stuck with you a little longer?”
She turns her head. There’s the softest intake of breath, like you surprised her and she liked it. “You’re cute. But whhat you’re insinuating is highly inappropriate,” she says, perfectly dry, which somehow makes your stomach flip twice.
“It was worth a shot.”
A smile ghosts her mouth. “I appreciate the commitment. I can’t say I’m not flattered, ” She puts the phone face-down on the armrest like it burned. Her gaze drops to your knees—the skirt you chose this morning because you wanted to be a problem—and then returns to your face, sharper. “You’re aware that isn’t exactly the handbook’s idea of campus attire, mm?”
You laugh. “Don’t act like you mind it.”
Her eyes flash, quick and sharp. “I never said I did,” she admits. Then, quieter: “But I do have a reputation to uphold.”
You both laugh. The sound lands warmer than it should.
She turns a fraction on the couch so her knee faces yours. Close is suddenly close. Her perfume is warm and faint and expensive; the silver at her temple is unfair up close. She studies your mouth like a sentence that will say itself if she waits.
“I could still call,” she murmurs, like she needs one last exit.
“You absolutely could, but... will you?”
That gets you the slowest, deadliest smile. “You’re very cute when you’re dangerous, darling.” Her hand comes up—hesitates—then tips your chin with two fingers so gently you almost ache. “Actually, I think,” she adds, honesty sotto voce, “that I wouldn’t mind being stuck with you a little longer, either.”
You grin like an idiot. She shakes her head at you like you’re trouble she can’t bring herself to avoid.
“Come here,” she says softly.
And of course you did—you did not have to be told twice. The first brush of her mouth is cautious enough to be deniable; the second? isn’t. She kisses like she lectures—clean, measured, devastating—opening you in stages until your breath stumbles and you make a tiny sound you’ve never let out in your life.
She pulls back a centimeter, eyes blown, composure completely cracked. “I have officially lost my damn mind.”
“You still look hot, though,” you breathe, absolutely dazed.
Her smile goes bright and mean in the most loving way. “Shut up,” she says, and kisses you again.
This time she doesn’t stop.
You again, make a noise you’ve never heard coming from your own mouth before—and she answers with a pleased hum, angling your jaw to open you more, her tongue tasting, teasing, taking. When your hand lifts toward her, she catches your wrist and sets it gently on the couch cushion and murmurs against your lips. “Let me.”
“Yes,” you breathe, because your first language is please.
She shifts closer, knee bracketing your thigh. Her palm slides up your bare leg—warm, patient—like she has all the time in the world to learn the map that is your body. The skirt obliges her hand. Her mouth leaves yours to follow your jaw, your throat; she finds the place under your ear where your pulse trips and smiles against it.
“Do you have any idea what you do to me,” she says softly, “walking into my classroom dressed like this?” Her mfingers skim the hem, then higher. “Sitting first row like a menace?”
Your laugh is a gasp. “Maybe.”
“Maybe,” she mimics, amused. “Eyes on me.”
You do.
She glances at the concrete, then the sad couch, and huffs a tiny laugh. “My knees are going to hate me,” she mutters, already sliding off the cushion, “but you’re worth the bruises.” Then she kneels on the floor between your thighs—right where she’s been trying not to be for weeks.
She drags her knuckles up the back of your thigh, catches the hem of your skirt, and pushes it higher—slow, deliberate—until cool air finds skin. Her gaze lingers on your panties, a pleased little curve at the corner of her mouth as her thumb strokes over the damp patch like she’s confirming what she already knows.
“Look at you,” she says, low and thrilled. “So wet for your teacher already…”
Her thumb starts to circle—lazy, off-center, maddening—until your hips tip for her. She watches every flinch, every gasp, then hooks two fingers into the waistband and tugs your panties down your thighs. The elastic snaps at your calves; you shiver.
“Spread a little,” she murmurs, charming like a secret. “Let me have you.”
You open up for her. She thinks about it for a second—the view, the power of it, the way your breath shakes.
The first lick is reverent: slow and flat from slit to clit, tasting, learning. The second is not; she seals her mouth around you and sucks, gentle at first, then firmer when one of your hands fists in her shoulder. You feel the groan she lets out before you hear it—vibration against your clit that makes your thighs twitch around her face.
“God, you taste so good, darling,” she breathes into you, voice wrecked, already a little gone. “I’ve been fantasizing about this more than I’d ever admit.”
Your laugh breaks on a gasp. She smiles against you, then gets serious—tongue stroking and circling with obscene precision, mouth dragging pleasure out of you one greedy pull at a time. When you tip your hips to chase her, she hums her approval and settles deeper, the bridge of her nose—that perfect nose—pressing where you’re slick, the angle of her jaw perfect.
You glance down and nearly lose it: Emily on her knees between your thighs, hair loosened and wild, one hand spreading you open—and the other sliding between her own legs. She presses her palm hard against the front of her slacks, eyes fluttering as she rubs herself in time with what she’s doing to you. The sight makes your stomach drop.
“Can’t help it,” she says, catching your stare, shameless. “You’re making me wet.” She groans as she pushes, fingers finding a rhythm against herself, then returns her mouth to you like she’s been starved.
She eats like a woman who knows exactly what’s hers: unhurried when she wants to tease, ruthless when she wants you breathless. Each time your breath starts to climb, she shifts—tongue flattening, then pointed, then a soft scrape of teeth that makes your spine flash white. She pulls back long enough to lick her fingers, then sinks them into you—one, then two, slow enough to feel every inch, deep enough to steal a curse out of your throat.
“Fuuuck!”
“That’s it,” she praises, fucking you with her fingers while her mouth kisses and sucks, the heel of her hand catching your clit on every deliberate pass. “Sweet thing. Take what I give you.”
You do. You can’t not. Your hands clutch for her—shoulders, hair, the edge of the couch—and she lets you hold on, lets you pull, lets you say her name like it’s the only word you own. She’s moaning now, messy and honest, mouth working you open while her other hand slides inside her waistband to rub properly. The sound of both of you—wet, breathy, obscene—fills the concrete room.
“Ms. Prentiss,” you manage, helpless, “I—please—”
“Mmm, there you are.” She lifts her head just enough to talk against your skin, breath hot. “You ask so nicely.” A filthy little kiss to your throbbing cunt. “Come on, darling. Give it to me. I want to feel you shake for me.”
She deepens. Fingers curl and stroke exactly where you clench around them; her mouth seals and pulls, steady and sure, and the climb turns from ache to inevitability. When it breaks, it’s not quick—it lasts—your body bowing like a string, thighs quivering around her face while she moans through it, eating every twitch like dessert. She keeps going just enough to stretch the finish out, not letting you run from it until you’re gasping her name and grabbing at her wrist.
“Good,” she whispers, easing only then, kissing the soft inside of your thigh like she’s proud of herself. “So good for me.”
You’re still shaking when she slides her hand from her waistband, breath hitching, pupils blown. She licks her lips—your taste, her taste—and grins, wrecked and smug.
“Perfect,” she says, voice honey-slick. “I want your mouth.”
You’re still shaking when you hook your fingers in her blouse and tug. “Up,” you breathe.
She pushes off the concrete with a soft groan and a laugh. “My joints are filing a grievance,” she mutters—then, warmer: “Worth it, though.”
“Then lie down.” You guide her back until her calves hit the couch and press her horizontal. Shoulders sink into tired cushions, her head tips to the armrest, hair now a gorgeous silver mess.
She eyes the upholstery. “You’re lucky I’m fond of you. I wouldn’t touch this thing otherwise.”
“You can roast Facilities later,” you whisper, already at her buttons. “Blouse.”
One brow arches. “Bossy.”
“Please,” slips out, wrecked.
That earns you the smallest, wicked curve of her mouth. She unbuttons—unhurried, watching your face while the silk parts. Black lace, minimal and expensive, frames the soft weight of her breasts. You go reverent: kiss the slope of one, the notch of her sternum, the edge where lace gives to skin. She inhales and cups the back of your head like she’s been wanting to.
“Good,” she says, voice lower. “Now take care of your professor.”
You nose the lace down, free her, and breathe against her nipple until it tightens. A slow circle of tongue, then a careful pull—just enough to make her gasp. Her fingers flex in your hair; the other hand slides to the other breast, thumb rolling the peak you left wet.
“Jesus,” she laughs, already a little gone, “that mouth. You’re going to ruin me.”
You switch sides, palm cupping the first, tongue teasing the second until she’s shifting under you, blouse open, chest rising into your mouth. She bites her own lip when you graze teeth. “Mm—yes. That.”
You kiss down her torso, tasting salt and heat and something distinctively hers, then find the precise line of her slacks. Button. Zipper. She lifts her hips to help—still elegant, maddeningly composed. Lace again, warm at the center. You glance up; she’s watching you like a secret she’s ready to take to the grave.
“Here,” you murmur, tugging the lace aside. The scent of her hits and your brain goes quiet. You fold onto your knees on the couch—body angled between her thighs, back arched so your mouth can reach—and she opens for you, one heel braced, the other dragging a slow line against the cushion.
The first lick is reverent and slow. Her head thumps the armrest. “Fuck,” she exhales, too loud, and bites the base of her own thumb to chase it down—laughing breathlessly at herself.
You do it again, a little firmer. She groans outright this time, one hand in your hair—not pushing, just there—while the other returns to her breast, palm cupping, thumb circling where your mouth left her aching.
“Right there,” she manages, voice wrecked and fond at once. “Whatever you’re doing—don’t get clever. Keep it.”
You keep it. You seal your mouth and pull, patient and greedy. When you slide two fingers between her thighs and into your mouth, wetting them while she watches, her pupils blow. You sink them into her—shallow first, then deeper—feeling the flutter grab at your knuckles. She swears softly, bites her own hand again, and you feel her belly tremble under your forearm.
“God, yes,” she says into her wrist, the sound thick. “You feel—” Her head tilts back. “You feel perfect.”
You curl and stroke where her body begs for it, your mouth working her clit with obscene care. She’s not quiet anymore; she tries and fails, little noises escaping despite the bite to her hand. Heels scrape the couch; her hips chase your face. She catches your glance up and smiles like it hurts. “Look at you,” she breathes. “So good for me.”
You speed up and deepen. Fingers pressing a fraction harder on the stroke, your tongue settling into a steady rhythm she can ride. She groans, loud; the bitten hand falls to the cushion uselessly, and with the other, dragging her knuckles down your cheek, tender even now.
“Don’t stop,” she says, sharp—pleading and certain all at once. “Just like that. Please.”
You don’t stop. You keep pressure and pace exact while heat climbs through her, slow to inevitable, until her thighs clamp against your shoulders and her stomach tightens under your arm. She bites down on a gasp, misses, and lets out a sound you’ll hear in your bones for a week. You hold her there, mouth steady, easing only when the shiver turns to flinches; then you soften, kiss the tender crease of her thigh, and slip your fingers free—slick, unhurried.
“Don’t move,” she murmurs, wrecked and pleased. “Stay there. I want to feel your breath on me.” Her palm settles warm at the back of your neck and you keep your mouth on her, open and wet against her, breathing her in while her pulse steadies under your lips. The old couch creaks; she strokes your hair, letting the quiet stretch.
Then she curls two fingers under your chin and draws you up until you spill over her—chest to chest, your skirt still rucked high, her blouse open and her nipples still slightly damp where your mouth had left them. She kisses you, slow and grateful, one hand splayed low on your back to keep you there. When she breaks it she’s smiling, a little stunned. “Christ. Do you have any idea how much trouble you are?”
“A little,” you manage, dizzy.
You stay draped over her for a few breaths, sharing air, listening to the quick thud of her heart under your cheek. Dust hangs in the fluorescent slant; somewhere down the hall a cart squeaks and fades. You lift your head. “Hi,” you say, stupid with bliss.
She laughs into your shoulder “Hi.”
Reluctantly, you both start to move. She sits up, gathers the halves of her blouse, and you fish out her bra from where it tangled in the silk; she slips it on with practiced ease—cups settling, hooks catching. “Front hooks are for cowards,” she mutters, amused, then smooths the blouse like it remembers its job. “Up,” she says, standing with you. She finds your panties puddled by your ankle, shakes them out, and draws them up your legs—knuckles grazing, thumbs settling the waistband—then tugs your skirt down, palms skimming the backs of your thighs. She wipes the corner of your mouth with her thumb, satisfied, then, “Turn around.” You face away and she gathers your hair, finger-combing it into place, smoothing the flyaways the storage room invented. “Back to me,” she adds, and when you turn she centers your necklace with two careful fingers. “There. Presentable.”
“Barely,” you say.
“Barely is charming.”
She crosses to a metal cabinet, emerges with a box of tissues that looks ancient, and hands you a couple with prim practicality that makes you kiss her again. She lets you, then dabs the faint crescent on her own hand and grins unholy at the bite mark.
“Are we going to pretend that didn’t happen?” you ask once your pulse is a sensible number.
“In public?” She smooths your hem like she owns it. “Yes.” A beat; her eyes simmer. “Privately?” She shakes her head, amused and sure. “Absolutely not.”
“Good,” you say, grinning like a problem she enjoys.
She rolls her sleeves with unbothered elegance, gathers the clipboard, and strolls to the door as if nothing in the world could rattle her. The knob resists; she sets her shoulder and the latch surrenders like it knew better than to argue.
“Told you,” you say, nodding at the rebellious wood. “Stupid.”
“Old buildings,” she says. “Poor maintenance.” She pauses at the threshold, looks back, voice dropping just for you. “Front row tomorrow. Try to pay attention.”
“Make me,” you say before your courage thinks better of it.
Her smile is all charm sharpened to a point. “I fully intend to.”
Two students clatter past; she slips the mask back on without a seam. “Thank you for your help,” she says, professor-smooth.
“Of course, Ms. Prentiss,” you answer innocently enough, like your fingers weren’t knuckle-deep inside of her just fifteen minutes ago.
You part in the ordinary brightness of the corridor, the world pretending nothing happened while your skin insists otherwise.
Later that night:
From: e.prentiss@faculty
Subject: to be discussed
I need to see you after tomorrow’s lecture. Please stay behind. —E
"emily prentiss is a lesbian.” i say into the mic. the crowd boos. i begin to walk off in shame. a voice breaks through. "no she's right" i turn around and there she is. paget brewster herself.
jj's reaction to emily casually saying tara had a girlfriend being "did you just say... GIRLfriend...?" was insane. that woman stopped working for 15 seconds at the realization that women can have romantic relationships with other women
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