bisexual? (refuses to admit she’s a girl kisser irl)
writing blog is @mariahillsgirl
interests:
marvel fan - specially for the pretty girls like maria hill, carol danvers, valkyrie ;)
also into rhea ripley + emily prentiss
being whimsical
🎧: billie eilish, harry styles, arctic monkeys, paramore, conan gray, girl in red, the smiths, tv girl, taylor swift, liana flores, clairo, beabadoobee, the strokes, i'm open to basically anything and get influenced easily :P
like space, books, stars, myths and it's an ever changing list of interests
intp
i'm too socially anxious to socialise so feel free to say hi first 🫣
SUMMARY: As you try to distract Carol from her insecurities, your own seem to bombard you in one horrible sweep. You confess to Carol that you worry you’re not enough for her when she has the whole universe in her grasp, and she is there to ensure you that to her, you are that universe.
NOTES: Hurt/comfort, major insecurity from Carol and reader, many tears, guilt/grief surrounding Hala stuff, writer doesn’t wholly remember the movies but she’s trying her best, established relationship.
REQUESTED BY: Anonymous.
NAVIGATION | MCU MASTERLIST | KO-FI
The first time Carol calls herself ‘the Annihilator’ in front of you, she says it like it’s a joke.
You are both standing in the kitchen at nearly one in the morning, the lights dimmed, the windows dripping with rain. She has one hip pressed against the counter while she waits for the kettle to boil, shoulders slumped with the sort of exhaustion that settles into bone instead of muscle.
Her suit is gone, replaced by one of your old hoodies and a pair of joggers that hang a little too short on her legs. There is a bruise blooming dark along the side of her jaw that she has not bothered healing yet.
You hate the bruise. You hate every mark she carries back from space like she thinks her body is just another thing to spend.
“You should’ve seen their faces,” she says quietly, staring into the steam beginning to rise from the kettle. “Turns out people get a bit nervous when the Annihilator walks into the room.”
The smile she gives afterwards is thin and strange. Wrong around the edges. Something twists in your chest.
You know the stories. You know what happened on Hala. You know she blames herself in ways nobody else possibly could. There are entire planets that still speak her name with fear threaded through it. Civilisations rebuilding after damage she never meant to cause. Billions of lives tangled up in decisions she made while trying to save everyone.
The awful thing is that she still tries. Every single day.
You move closer carefully, like she is something skittish despite the fact she could split the atmosphere apart with her bare hands if she wanted to. “Carol.”
“It’s fine.” She shrugs one shoulder. “I’m kidding.”
“You’re not.”
Her jaw tightens for half a second. The kettle clicks off. Neither of you move to pour it. Rain taps softly against the windows. Carol looks tired in a way you do not know how to fix. Not sleepy-tired. Soul-tired. The type of tired that settles behind someone’s eyes and changes the shape of them.
“I thought I was helping,” she says eventually, voice rough around the edges. “That’s the worst bit.”
You do not answer immediately. She rarely talks about this. Usually she keeps everything packed away so tightly you only notice the strain when she thinks you are asleep beside her.
“I know.”
“I really thought I was doing the right thing.” Her laugh is quiet and humourless. “Turns out wrecking an empire leaves a mess behind. Who knew.”
You step between her and the counter before you can think too hard about it, hands finding the sleeves of her hoodie. She looks down at you automatically, expression already apologetic, which somehow makes it hurt more.
“You are allowed to regret things,” you murmur. “That doesn’t make you a monster.”
Carol looks away first. The fact she can fly through warzones without flinching but struggles to hold eye contact when someone is gentle with her always gets you.
You smooth your thumbs over the fabric gathered around her wrists. “You spend every second trying to protect people.”
“Maybe I’m just trying to make up for what happened.”
“So what if you are?”
Her throat moves around a swallow. The silence stretches. Warm and aching. You wish, not for the first time, that you knew how to carry some of this for her. That love worked like division instead of addition. Carol holds guilt like gravity. Dense and crushing and impossible to escape once it catches hold.
“You know the worst part?” she says quietly. “People still look at me like I’m some kind of hero.”
You frown. “You are.”
“No.” The answer comes instantly. Sharply. “I’m really not.”
There it is. The thing underneath all of it. Not guilt. Not shame. Fear. You know suddenly, with awful clarity, that Carol thinks love is conditional. That one day you will wake up and realise she is too much damage wrapped in glowing skin to keep holding onto. Your chest aches.
“You saved the Skrulls,” you say softly. “You saved Earth more times than I can count. You help people every single day, Carol.”
“Doesn’t erase everything else.”
“Nothing could erase everything. That isn’t how being a person works.”
“You make it sound simple.”
“It isn’t simple.” Your voice catches slightly. “It’s just you.”
Carol finally looks at you properly then, eyes painfully blue even in the dim kitchen light. You can practically see the exhaustion sitting inside them.
You wonder if she knows how carefully you watch her. How every time she leaves Earth you spend days carrying around this low, sick fear that she will realise there are brighter things in the universe than your tiny little life here.
The thought slips in before you can stop it. Tiny little life. You suddenly feel ridiculous standing here trying to comfort someone who has held galaxies together with bleeding hands. Someone extraordinary enough for entire planets to know her name.
What exactly do you offer her? Tea in the middle of the night. Folded laundry. A warm bed. Small things. Human things. Nothing compared to her.
Carol notices the shift in your expression immediately. Of course she does. “What?” she asks softly.
“Nothing.”
“You made that face.”
You huff out a weak laugh despite yourself. “What face?”
“The sad one.” She nudges your ankle gently with hers. “C’mon. Talk to me.”
You should not. The conversation is supposed to be about her. She came home carrying enough pain already. Still, the words press painfully against your ribs.
“I just…” You stare down at the floorboards. “Sometimes I don’t understand why you stay.”
Carol goes completely still. “What?”
“You could be anywhere.” The admission comes out embarrassingly quiet. “With anyone.”
“That’s not—”
“You’re Captain Marvel, Carol.” Your laugh sounds awful to your own ears. Thin and frayed. “You save worlds. Half the universe probably wants to kiss you.”
“I don’t care about half the universe.”
“You say that now.”
Her expression shifts slowly from confusion into something almost wounded. You immediately regret speaking.
“I know it’s stupid,” you say quickly. “Forget it.”
“No, absolutely not.” She reaches for you then, warm hands settling carefully on your waist. “Where is this coming from?”
You shrug helplessly, unable to meet her eyes anymore. “I don’t know. You disappear for weeks sometimes and come back talking about wars and planets and all these massive things and then there’s just… me.”
“Just you?”
The way she says it makes heat crawl unpleasantly up your neck. “You know what I mean.”
“I really don’t.”
“You have bigger things to worry about than whether I remembered to go out and buy milk.”
A startled laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
You glare weakly. “See?”
“No, sweetheart, I’m laughing because that is genuinely the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
You try to pull away out of sheer embarrassment, but Carol’s hands tighten instinctively on your waist before you can get far.
“Nope,” she says softly. “You’re staying right here.”
“Carol.”
“Absolutely not.” Her thumbs stroke once against your sides through your shirt. Gentle and careful. “You cannot just say something like that and then pretend you didn’t.”
Your stomach twists painfully. The worst part is knowing none of this is rational. You know she loves you. Carol tells you constantly in little ways that matter more than grand declarations ever could. She reaches for your hand without thinking. Falls asleep draped half on top of you whenever she is actually home long enough to rest properly. Looks at you like something in her chest eases every time you walk into a room.
Still, insecurity does not care about any of that. It creeps in quietly during the long stretches she spends off-world. It settles beside you when another emergency pulls her away halfway through dinner. It whispers ugly little things while you stare at news footage of her glowing above entire fleets like a living star.
You are only human. Painfully, terribly human.
“I know it sounds pathetic,” you mutter.
Carol’s face softens so completely it nearly undoes you. “Oh, honey.”
That almost makes it worse. Your eyes sting immediately. You shake your head once, frustrated with yourself. “You shouldn’t have to reassure me all the time.”
“I don’t have to.” Her voice stays steady and warm. “I want to.”
A silence settles between you. The rain outside grows heavier. Carol studies you for a long moment before lifting one hand from your waist to cup your jaw instead. Her palm is warm. Calloused slightly. Familiar enough to make your chest ache.
“You think I stay with you despite you being ordinary,” she says quietly.
Heat floods your face. “When you say it out loud it sounds awful.”
“It sounds sad.” Her thumb brushes beneath your eye. “Mostly because you have no idea what you look like to me.”
You laugh weakly. “Probably tiny.”
“Definitely tiny.”
A reluctant smile tugs briefly at your mouth before fading again. Carol steps closer.
“You know what my life is like out there?” she murmurs. “It’s loud all the time. Every planet needs something. Every crisis matters. Every person expects me to fix things and half the time I can’t.”
The last part comes out quieter. You feel something in your chest crack slightly around the edges.
“When I’m flying around space,” she continues, “I don’t sleep properly. I forget to eat. Sometimes days blur together so badly I genuinely can’t remember where I am when I wake up.”
Her forehead rests lightly against yours then. “And then I come home,” she says softly, “and you ask if I want tea before you ask anything else.”
Your throat tightens.
“You sit with me when my head’s a mess and never push when I can’t talk yet. You remember every stupid thing I mention in passing. You make our bed feel like somewhere safe instead of somewhere temporary.” Her mouth twitches faintly. “You buy the weird cereal I like even though you think it tastes like cardboard.”
“It does taste like cardboard.”
“You still buy it.”
You finally look up at her properly. Carol’s expression is unbearably earnest. Open in a way she rarely lets herself be.
“You are the only place in the universe where I don’t feel like I have to be Captain Marvel first,” she whispers. “Do you understand that?”
Emotion swells so suddenly in your chest it almost hurts. “You could still have that with someone better.”
Carol actually frowns. “Someone better than you?”
You shrug helplessly. She stares at you for a second like she genuinely cannot process what you are saying.
Then, very quietly, she says, “I think you have this idea that I’m choosing between you and the universe.”
“Aren’t you?”
“No.” Her hand slides down to squeeze yours tightly. “I’m choosing you over and over while dealing with the universe.”
That lands somewhere deep enough to make your eyes burn. Carol notices immediately.
“Oh, sweetheart.”
You hate how emotional you get sometimes. Hate the embarrassing pressure building behind your ribs now, the awful vulnerability of standing in your kitchen trying not to cry because the woman you love is being kind to you.
“I just don’t want you waking up one day and realising you settled,” you admit shakily.
Her entire expression breaks. Not angry. Not frustrated. Heartbroken.
“Oh, baby.”
The endearment comes out so soft it nearly ruins you. Carol pulls you into her properly then, arms wrapping around you with firm certainty until your face presses against the warm fabric of her hoodie. You go without resistance, breath leaving you in a shaky rush the second she holds you close.
“There is not a single person in this universe I could want more than you,” she murmurs into your hair. “Not one.”
Your hands fist weakly in the back of her hoodie.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I do actually, since apparently my partner’s been sitting around thinking I’m one bad day away from running off with an alien supermodel.”
A startled laugh escapes you through the thickness in your throat. “There are probably loads of alien supermodels.”
“Yeah, and they’re all exhausting.” She presses a kiss against the top of your head. “Most of them don’t even make me tea.”
You laugh again, wetter this time. Carol holds you tighter the second she hears it. Not enough to hurt. Just enough to say I’ve got you.
“You know what I think?” she says quietly after a moment.
“What?”
“I think you spend so much time seeing me as this massive thing that you forget I’m just a person when I’m here with you.”
You close your eyes.
Maybe she is right.
Sometimes it is difficult reconciling the woman who curls herself around you in bed with the one who tears through warships in the upper atmosphere. Difficult understanding how both versions can exist inside the same person.
“You’re still extraordinary,” you mumble.
Carol sighs softly. “Sweetheart, I spend half my time at home looking for my own socks.”
“That doesn’t count.”
“It counts.”
You can feel the steady beat of her heart beneath your cheek. Strong and human and real. Not Captain Marvel. Just Carol.
“I don’t need extraordinary all the time,” she whispers after a while. “I need this.” Her hand rubs slowly up and down your back. “This is the bit that matters to me.”
You stay like that for a long time. The kitchen light hums softly overhead. Rain drums against the windows hard enough now that the world outside feels very far away, blurred into streaks of gold and grey. Carol’s warmth surrounds you completely. Familiar in a way nothing else has ever managed to be.
Eventually she shifts just enough to press another kiss into your hair. “You know,” she murmurs, “this conversation started with me having a crisis.”
A laugh slips out of you before you can stop it. “Sorry for getting in the way of your emotional breakdown.”
“It’s alright. We can schedule mine for tomorrow.”
You pull back enough to look at her properly then, and the fond little smile waiting on her face nearly knocks the breath out of you. Not some untouchable cosmic force, but just Carol, standing barefoot in your kitchen at one in the morning with a creased hoodie and tired eyes and too much love tucked carefully into the corners of her mouth.
You reach up without thinking and smooth your fingers lightly along her jaw, careful around the bruise there. Her eyes soften instantly.
“You should let me patch that up,” you mumble.
“I kinda like when you fuss over me.”
“I always fuss over you.”
“Exactly.”
You shake your head, smiling despite yourself.
Carol leans into your touch for a second before catching your wrist gently and pressing a kiss against the inside of it. The gesture is so absent-mindedly affectionate it makes your chest ache all over again.
“You alright now?” she asks quietly.
You consider lying for half a second out of habit. Then you look at her, really look at her. At the openness sitting plainly across her face. The patience. The absolute certainty. You find that something inside you unclenches.
“Yeah,” you admit softly. “Mostly.”
“Mostly?”
“The insecurity’s still there a bit.” Your mouth twists sheepishly. “Think it’s probably difficult to fix years of emotional issues in one kitchen conversation.”
“I could punch the insecurity for you.”
“I don’t know if I’d be into that.”
“I’ll do it gently.”
You snort. Carol grins faintly, clearly pleased with herself for getting another laugh out of you. The kettle still sits untouched behind her.
“You never made your tea,” you realise.
“Got distracted.”
“By your deeply emotional and insecure partner?”
“By the love of my life,” she corrects immediately.
Your face heats embarrassingly fast. Carol’s smile widens at the reaction. “There you are.”
“Don’t start.”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered.”
“You fight aliens.”
“And yet this remains my favourite thing.”
You groan softly and hide your face against her shoulder again while she laughs quietly above you. The sound settles somewhere warm inside your ribs. You think maybe that is what safety actually feels like. Not the absence of fear, but the presence of someone who stays gentle with it.
Carol rubs your back slowly. “C’mere.”
“I am here.”
“More here.”
Before you can ask what that means, she hooks an arm beneath your knees and lifts you clean off the floor. You yelp in surprise, clutching automatically at her shoulders while she carries you out of the kitchen.
“Carol!”
“What?”
“You can’t just pick me up without warning.”
“Says who?”
“Says me.”
She only laughs again, brighter this time, and your chest feels painfully full hearing it. There have been weeks lately where every smile from her seemed strained thin with exhaustion. Seeing this version of her now, soft and teasing and warm around the edges, makes relief hit you so hard you almost feel dizzy with it.
You realise suddenly how frightened you have been too. Not just of losing her. Of losing this. The quiet little life you have built together between disasters.
Carol carries you into the living room and drops onto the sofa with you still in her lap, one arm wrapped securely around your waist to stop you escaping when you squirm half-heartedly.
“You are impossible,” you inform her.
“Mm. You’re obsessed with me though.”
“Unfortunately.”
She presses an exaggerated kiss against your cheek. “Devastating news, I know.”
You try to glare at her and fail miserably once she starts smiling properly. You love the unbearable brightness of her. The awful stupid selflessness. The way she pretends she carries everything easily when she is actually held together by stubbornness and caffeine and blind hope half the time.
You love her enough that it scares you sometimes. Carol notices you staring.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That’s the same answer you gave before the crisis started.”
You huff softly. “I just love you.”
The words come out easier than they used to. Still terrifying. Always terrifying. Love feels like handing someone every soft part of yourself and hoping they will be careful.
Carol’s entire expression melts anyway. “Oh,” she says quietly.
You smile a little at her reaction. “Yeah. Oh.”
She looks at you like she still hasn’t quite adjusted to being loved outright. Like every confession catches her off guard no matter how many times you give it. Then she tucks you impossibly closer against her chest and buries her face against the side of your neck for a second.
“I love you too,” she murmurs. “So much it’s actually embarrassing.”
“It should be embarrassing. You’re obsessed with me.”
“Mm, yeah. Hopelessly.”
Warmth spreads through you slowly. Deeply. Easing into places that had been aching for far too long.
The rain continues outside. The flat smells faintly of tea and fabric softener and Carol’s shampoo. Somewhere in the kitchen, the kettle has probably gone cold by now. None of it feels small anymore.
Not the flat. Not the softness of the sofa beneath you. Not the way Carol absent-mindedly traces patterns against your side while holding you close enough that every breath syncs together.
Human things. Important things.
“You know,” Carol says eventually, voice sleepy now around the edges, “I really don’t think you understand how much I need you.”
Emotion catches painfully in your throat again. You press a slow kiss against her temple.
“Maybe,” you whisper. “You can keep reminding me.”
Carol tilts her head back just enough to look at you.
Hi! I have a request! I don’t know if you’re into age regression, if not just skip this one.
My request is Maria and little reader- is an enhanced reader. So she has a lot of problems with ptsd which is why she regress… but her first time was with maria! You can write from there…
Have a good day! :)
Baby
Maria Hill x Little!Fem!Reader
TW's: Child abuse - not described in graphic detail
[A/N] Happy Monday everyone! We are back with a Maria fic 😘 Hope you enjoy this one sweetie, have a good day too! ❤️
Maria had been itching for a new challenge so when Fury announced he was going undercover on a solo mission for a while, she agreed to stay behind at the Avengers Compound. There were a handful of new recruits that Steve needed to train, and he’d enlisted Maria’s help for one recruit in particular. “She’s really shy,” Steve had explained. “And I just feel like she’ll do better with a woman.”
“What makes you say that?”
“The way she looks at me and the other male recruits… Well, the way she tries her best not to look at us would be a better way to describe it.” Steve had shrugged and smiled. “She’s sweet but struggling to open up. Maybe you’ll have better luck with her.”
You were one of the few recruits who hadn’t particularly wanted to be an Avenger. Where the others were enthusiastic, you were reluctant, and seemed far more timid. Too timid for a job like this. There hadn’t been much choice but to recruit you after the government had found out you were enhanced. You had the power of telekinesis, a power you sometimes struggled to control. Scared that the government were going to make you ‘disappear’ so they could study you, you’d agreed to be released into the custody of the Avengers. Now you were being trained to work alongside them – something that terrified you.
Maria warmed to you immediately though training you was proving difficult. You were open to training with your powers, desperate to get them under control, but you were clearly struggling with hand-to-hand combat. Maria had tried to make it as easy for you as possible, letting you train with just her until you got used to the basics but it was no use. Every time she threw a punch towards you, your instinct was to flinch away and your reflexes were slow. Any punch that you threw first was feeble. Given that you hadn’t wanted to be an Avenger in the first place, Maria is finding it difficult to motivate you.
One day she sees you getting upset and she holds her hands up, “Okay, let’s forget about this right now. Why don’t we go back to power training? If you could look at-”
Maria pauses when she sees the expression on your face. There’s something about it that makes her pause. You look worried, like a kid who’s been caught doing something that they shouldn’t have. Maria reaches out, putting her hand on your shoulder. Over the past few months you’d built up a rapport with Maria, and she was the only one whose touch that you didn’t shy away from. “Y/N? Is everything okay?”
You look at her, your eyes wide as you mumble, “I’m a little thirsty…”
Maria frowns as she hears your voice. You don’t sound like you at all and she puts her hand to your forehead, wondering if you’re not feeling well. “Yeah? Do you want me to get you some water?”
“Can I… Can I have a juice box please?”
Maria hesitates, looking at the wide-eyed, hopeful look on your face and realisation dawns on her. Age regression isn’t something that she knows much about but she figures that’s what must’ve happened. There’s something about your expression and your mannerisms – you almost even look physically smaller. You definitely don’t look like yourself so Maria takes your hand, deciding the best thing to do for now is to keep you calm. “Yeah. Yeah, of course. Let’s go find you one, huh?”
Maria’s tasks change significantly for the day as you remain in your little headspace. Instead of training and hand-to-hand combat, she sits at the table watching you do a colouring book and then helps you with a jigsaw puzzle. It’s strange, but in a lot of ways Maria finds it comforting. You don’t seem to fully grasp who she is but you clearly trust her which warms Maria’s heart immensely. Towards the end of the day you’re starting to look a little sleepy so Maria suggest a movie, going through all the streaming services until you settle on ‘The Little Mermaid’. As she hits play, you crawl into her lap, leaning your head on her shoulder. She smiles, leaning her head against yours. You try and keep yourself awake before falling asleep right there on her lap.
The next morning you’re back to your usual self and Maria decides to broach the subject, “Hey… Have you ever done that before?”
“Done what?”
“Regress. I think that’s what you were doing yesterday, right?”
You avoid her eye, turning your gaze to the ground as you feel your cheeks burn, “I kind of remember it but it’s like… I didn’t really have any control over it. No, I- I’ve not done it before. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable-”
“You didn’t,” Maria says quickly. “It was… It was sweet. It just caught me off guard, that’s all.”
Maria had done some research about it online after you’d fallen asleep, and had decided it was harmless. If you found comfort in regressing then she couldn’t see anything wrong with it. She just wanted to be prepared for the next time you regressed, if there even was a next time.
As it turned out, there was. And another time after that. You didn’t regress every day, usually twice a week, sometimes more if you were feeling stressed or worried about something. Maria was very protective of you when you regressed, nearly knocking Tony flat on his ass when he dared try to tease you about it once. It wasn’t weird, it was just something you did when you needed a bit of comfort and Maria was happy to oblige. Cuddles, cookies, chocolate milk and colouring become a new part of Maria’s routine.
Maria had even bought you clothes to change into so you felt even safer when you were regressed. Right now you’re wearing a Bluey onesie as you sit on the floor, looking through a picture book. You seem content enough and Maria smiles as she watches you. After a moment you pick up another book, holding it up to her and she nods, taking it out of your hands, “Come on then Princess, come sit with me.”
You pull yourself onto her lap, looking at the book as she begins reading to you in a soft voice. She smiles every time you point at one of the bright pictures in the book. Just as she’s reaching the end of the story, your small voice pipes up, “Will my Daddy come visit?”
Maria pauses, running one hand up and down your back as she thinks about your question. Truthfully, she doesn’t really know anything about your parents or your home life or your childhood. “I don’t know,” Maria eventually says. “Do you want him to visit?”
A vase on the TV stand suddenly goes flying across the room, smashing against the wall and making Maria jump. You look worried, “I’m sorry…”
“It’s okay, it wasn’t your fault.” Maria’s found that you lose control of your powers more when you’re regressed. Quite a few things have ended up broken but Maria never tells you off. It’s not like you can help it. “Anyway… Do you… Do you want Daddy to come and visit you?”
You quickly shake your head, “No.”
“It’s okay, I don’t think Daddy knows you live here. I’m sure he won’t turn up.” Maria can’t help herself and she presses a light kiss to your forehead. “Is there a reason you don’t want to see him?” You don’t answer, putting your thumb in your mouth which Maria gently pulls out. “Don’t do that Sweetheart. Can you tell me why you don’t wanna see your Daddy?”
You hesitate, moving to put your sleeve in your mouth and pouting when Maria pulls that away from your mouth as well. “I don’t like when he shouts.”
“Ah, I see,” Maria says, gently bouncing you on her lap which seems to cheer you up a little. “Does he shout at you a lot?”
“He doesn’t like when I… When I move things.”
Her eye-brows furrow before she realises you must be referencing your power, “Oh, he doesn’t like your telekinesis? I see. Does it scare him?”
“He shouts and then he uses his belt and it really, really hurts.”
Maria holds you tighter, her blood running cold at the implication of your words. Her head leans against yours and she presses another kiss to the top of your head. It’s true that Maria had wondered if there was a reason you were so timid, why you seemed to shy away from all the men in the compound. Now it makes sense. It’s probably the reason you regress.
“It’s okay Sweetheart, he’s not here,” Maria reassures you. “I won’t let him near you, okay? You’re safe with me.”
“Safe with Maria,” You repeat quietly.
Maria smiles, pressing another kiss to your forehead. “Good girl. Do you wanna play with your stuffies?”
“Stay with you.”
“Yeah, I’m right here, don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.”
Reassured, you slide off her lap and look through the toy box that Maria had filled for you. She smiles as she watches you pulling out the different toys, exclaiming with excitement at each one. As she watches you, she makes a mental note to find out everything she can about your Dad. If he’s still alive, she’s going to make sure that he can’t find you. If he ever does turn up here, Maria will be the first in line to kick his ass.
You squeal with excitement at a particular toy, causing your powers to surge and Maria’s glass of water goes flying, smashing against the wall. You look at her, your eyes wide and worried, and Maria quickly smiles reassuringly, “It doesn’t matter baby girl. I’m glad you found a toy you like.”
Maria watches you turn your attention back to your toys now you’re sure she’s not mad at you. She can’t tell you while you’re regressed like this but she’s fallen for you. Over the last few months you’ve worked so closely together and you’re such a sweet girl that she couldn’t help it. Especially with your regressing, it’s been so easy to feel close to you. Whilst you’re like this, her only job is to protect you and make you feel safe. She can have that conversation with you when you’re not regressing.
You climb back into her lap and Maria holds you close, kissing the top of your head. God, you’re cute. Maria could hold you all day. She peppers your face with little kisses, smiling when you giggle uncontrollably. She loves you like this. In fact, she’s starting to love absolutely everything about you. Soon, she’ll tell you. But for now, she’s happy to just hold you as you giggle happily. Safe and sound in her arms, where you belong.
Endless list of favorite MCU characters | Maria Hill
Played by Cobie Smulders
“Three minutes and twenty seconds, really? If you were my agents, it wouldn’t be for long.”
word count: 5.2 k
Summary: At a work event, you find yourself focused on Emily while she moves through a world of conversations and politics. Until you’re cold, her attention suddenly becomes entirely yours.
tags: kind of shy!reader, Unit Chief Prentiss, age gap, slow burn, alcohol consumption, no mention of y/n, mutual pining, emotional tension, very mild angst (if you squint)
Masterlist
It takes you a second to find her. Not because she is hidden, but because the room refuses to stay still in your attention. Voices overlap, glasses touch, conversations rise and fall in careful rhythm. The Bureau has clearly made an effort with this evening, the event is less about celebration and more about presentation, about reminding everyone present that beneath every cleanly closed case file there is still an architecture of politics and perception that has to be maintained.
And then, finally, she is there. Emily.
Your pulse picks up slightly, subtle but immediate, as if your body betrays you a fraction of a second before your mind catches up. The air feels no different, and yet it does. For a moment, everything else falls away in pieces. Voices become distant, movement blurs at the edges. There is only the pull toward her direction, steady and uninvited.
When you finally look at her, really look at her, it doesn’t feel like discovery. It feels like catching up to something you were already halfway into. Her gray hair is slightly more defined than earlier, dark lipstick shaping her expression in a way that makes you more aware of her than you want to be. The white shirt, the neckline you definitely didn’t register this morning, the blazer still in place like it always is. Of course it is.
She is not alone, but that detail barely lands at first. Your attention doesn’t take in the group so much as it gets caught in her orbit. Men in suits, controlled voices, practiced gestures; faces you should probably recognize by reputation, but right now they are just shapes around her. Bailey is there too, glass in hand, attentive in that quiet, measured way of his. They are speaking with her, listening to her, and yet none of it feels like a group conversation in the usual sense. It feels like she is holding it together without effort, setting a rhythm others naturally fall into.
And you don’t realize you’ve stopped fully listening to anything else until Juliet’s voice cuts through.
She is standing right beside you, your best friend from before your time at the BAU, one of the few people here who exists outside of this system. Even now, working in the FBI’s orbit as an external consultant in art and cultural property investigations, she still feels like someone who hasn’t fully been absorbed by it. She’s here tonight as a guest, not part of the structure, not part of the hierarchy.
“Do you know what you want?”
It takes you a moment too long to answer.
“What you’re having,” you say, the words happen on their own, while your attention is already somewhere else again.
Because Emily is still there. And now that you’ve properly registered it, it becomes harder not to notice the way the room seems to shift around her.
Juliet follows your silence for a second.
“You’re not even looking at me,” she remarks, more amused than accusing.
“I am,” you lie automatically, though you know the truth.
You finally tear your eyes away from Emily and look to the left, your attention catching on JJ as she stands with Agent Simmons, laughing at something he’s just said.
A little further away, Tara is deep in conversation with Rossi, listening with focused attention, her expression steady in a way that suggests she is already analyzing whatever is being said even as she hears it. And then there’s Penelope, gesturing animatedly as she tells a story that is clearly nothing work-related.
The others seem to fit in here much more naturally, laughing and moving through the room with an ease that feels effortless, while you still feel slightly out of place, even though this isn’t the first event like this you’ve attended. It’s only your second year with the BAU, and while you’ve long since grown used to the rhythm of cases, briefings, and crime scenes, this kind of setting still feels like unfamiliar ground.
You exhale quietly, shifting slightly as you drift back behind Juliet, almost instinctively using her presence as something like cover.
“Is that her?” she asks after a moment, her tone light but observant, having clearly followed the direction of your gaze even if you had tried not to make it obvious.
“Yes,” you admit, and swallow once before looking away again.
Juliet’s expression changes immediately, something amused flickering across her face as she registers what she has just confirmed for herself.
“What?” you ask, sharper than you intend, smoothing your hands over the fabric of your dress in a motion that is more about grounding yourself than appearance. You don’t usually wear dresses like this. Not at work, rarely even outside of it. This one feels unfamiliar in a way that is almost too revealing, too short, too aware of itself in a room like this, and yet you liked it when you put it on. You still do, technically.
It just feels different now because your Unit Chief will see you like this.
“She’s not just a little older, right?” Juliet tilts her head slightly, her tone still teasing but not unkind, and you are grateful for that.
“Define ‘a little older.’ You never asked,” you simply reply, looking up as two glasses of an unidentifiable cocktail are set down in front of you. “Cocktails? We haven’t had anything like that since we were teenagers.”
“I didn’t, that’s true. I guess I just didn’t think the age gap was actually bigger than I assumed,” Juliet says, her eyes practically lighting up now as she holds one of the glasses out to you. “Have a drink, relax. She hasn’t noticed you yet. Let’s toast to old times.”
You’re not sure if that’s true. Whether she really means old times, or if she’s just trying to make the moment easier for you.
You take your first sip, making no effort to hide your reaction as the sweetness hits you a little too sharply, you let your gaze drift back to Emily. She seems relaxed, you can tell by her shoulders, by the way her features aren’t as rigid as they are in the office. One hand loosely holds her glass of wine, while the other is tucked into the pocket of her slacks.
Bailey says something beside her, and she responds with a small smile, not too warm, not too distant, perfectly calibrated in a way that never seems rehearsed even though you know it has to be.
You force your attention back to Juliet, trying to stay present with her. On her voice, on the way she’s watching you like she already knows you’re not really here. When she finally lets out a quiet sigh, that exaggerated, almost theatrical sound she always makes when you’re drifting away, she nudges you with her elbow to get your attention.
“If you stare any more obviously, I might as well just go over there and bring her to us,” she whispers. “You could introduce her to me.”
You roll your eyes, reaching for your glass even though you don’t really want it anymore, and shake your head in annoyance. You make an effort to keep your voice steady as you reply, “I’m not staring, and no, absolutely not.”
“No, of course not,” she shoots back dryly, leaning in closer until your shoulders touch. “At this point she has to have noticed you. You’ve been practically burning a hole into her.”
You press your lips together, a reflex that hopefully buys you a little time, and take a far too large sip just to avoid having to answer. But Juliet doesn’t let you get away with it, she never does when she thinks you’re putting something off.
“You never told me it was this bad,” she continues, her voice a little quieter now. “I thought it was just… a bit of a crush, a little complicated, but this is—”
She leaves the sentence unfinished, but you know exactly what she means. This is more than just a small crush. You’ve started to realize that for yourself. For a moment, you consider brushing it off, downplaying it the way you have for the past few weeks, but your gaze gives you away, slipping from Juliet and finding its way back to her as if it had a will of its own.
“I don’t know what this is. I might just… like her a little more than I’ve been willing to admit,” you finally manage, a hint of frustration creeping into your voice. “It doesn’t matter anyway. She’s my Unit Chief. That’s enough distance on its own.”
Juliet’s eyes rest on you, and it almost feels like she’s trying to look straight through you, hoping to find something there that you haven’t even fully admitted to yourself yet.
“You like her a little more than you’re saying,” she concludes after a moment, noticing the faint flush in your cheeks. The nervous way you keep playing with the straw in your glass doesn’t go unnoticed either, nor the subtle tension in your posture that you haven’t quite managed to hide.
“I don’t know,” you mumble, slightly embarrassed.
For a second, she looks like she wants to say something else. Something more certain. Instead, she lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, but not quite. “This is getting kind of serious,” she says lightly, as if she’s letting the thought go as soon as she’s voiced it. “Or I’m just being dramatic.”
Something in you stumbles at her words before you can stop it. Your fingers tighten around the glass.
“I’m not—” you start automatically, then stop yourself before it turns into something defensively pointless.
Because there is nothing to argue against without making it worse, so you don’t finish the sentence. You take another sip instead, slow and controlled, like it gives you something to do with your mouth that isn’t speaking.
Before Juliet can dig any deeper, something at the edge of the bar pulls your attention.
A blonde woman steps into your line of sight, slipping in between you and Emily, too close, too familiar. Her hand rests on Emily’s forearm as if it belongs there, while she leans in to say something. You don’t know her, and even though there’s nothing unusual about the situation, something unsettles inside you. Emily fades into the background, and all you can see is the hand resting on her arm.
“I think you already know. Deep down,” Juliet says, having watched the interaction as well, and of course she hasn’t missed your reaction. “Because if it were just a small crush, you wouldn’t be reacting like this. Nothing serious would get under your skin this much.”
The words sit with you longer than you want them to. So you don’t respond, staying quiet as your attention remains fixed on what’s unfolding in front of you. Even you can’t fully pin down what exactly unsettles you. Whether it’s the closeness, the ease with which the woman approached her, or simply the fact that Emily doesn’t step away. She stays, listens, tilts her head slightly, that same subtle gesture she always uses when she gives someone her attention.
You drag your focus away with effort, turning back toward Juliet. She’s still there beside you, but her expression has shifted slightly. More observant now, more careful, as if she’s measuring how much further she can push.
“Don’t say anything,” you murmur before she can even ask.
“I was just going to ask if I should accidentally spill a drink in her face,” she says, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she raises her hands in mock surrender when you shoot her a warning look.
A brief, genuine smile flickers across your face, more relief than amusement, and you shake your head slightly. “Please don’t. I’d rather not have a termination notice waiting for me.”
“So you are a little afraid of the consequences,” Juliet notes, leaning back against the bar. “Good to know.”
Before you can even react, the bartender approaches, and you’re grateful for the interruption, for something that forces you back into the present.
“This is for you,” he says shortly, sliding the glass toward you.
“I didn’t order anything,” you reply, puzzled.
He simply nods toward the other side of the room. “It’s from Unit Chief Prentiss. She ordered it and said you should try the wine. It’s not as sweet as the cocktail you had.”
You follow his gesture, and when your eyes meet Emily’s, everything else seems to fall away for a brief moment. There is something in the way she holds your attention, steady and unflinching, that makes it feel almost too direct. You don’t manage to hold her gaze for long; it catches on you, and just as quickly you look away again, suddenly too aware of yourself, of your own face, your hands, the glass in front of you.
Your attention slips rather than moves, unsure where to land. You focus on the counter, on anything that isn’t her, but it doesn’t fully help.
You can’t help but wonder what exactly she’s drawing on. If she remembers that conversation from a while ago, when you talked about your drink preferences. Or the countless girls’ nights, those easy, unguarded evenings where things felt different between you, lighter somehow, where you always reached for a dry wine without even thinking about it.
The thought lingers, because it wasn’t really about the wine. It was the way those moments had felt. The way she had been with you then.
Or maybe she doesn’t remember at all. Maybe it was nothing to her, just another detail filed away without weight. More likely, she simply noticed the way your face twisted slightly after the first sip, and nothing more than that.
From the edge of your vision, you register that the woman is still standing with her, still talking, but at least her hand is no longer on Emily’s arm, even if the closeness remains. And yet you can tell Emily is only half listening now. Her focus is on you, subtle but unmistakable. At least, that’s how it feels to you.
The glass in Emily’s hand lifts slightly, a small movement that would be easy to miss in the noise and light around you, and yet it feels deliberate, timed perfectly to this moment. Her gaze drops to your glass, still untouched on the counter.
“What is going on here?” you hear your best friend ask, eyeing the wine with curiosity.
You turn her question over in your mind, but you can’t come up with a plausible answer. The gesture is subtle and intentional at the same time, not loud enough to draw attention, and certainly not direct enough to cross any boundaries, yet still personal enough to change something.
“I don’t know,” you admit quietly, more to yourself than to her, shoulders lifting in a small, uncertain shrug.
“Go on, try it. It smells amazing, I think the woman has taste. In more ways than one.”
“Juliet,” you mumble, your voice turning into a slight whine as she adds a wink.
You reach for the new glass, leaving the cocktail behind, and even that small movement feels like a decision you can’t quite explain. The wine is dry. Not bright and sweet, but quiet and heavy. If you had to name it, to describe it, you would say it tastes like Emily Prentiss. Every note of it seems to carry something of her.
You close your eyes briefly, letting the smooth texture settle on your tongue, replaying the moment in your mind. When you gather yourself again, you raise your glass in silent thanks.
For a beat, nothing happens. At first, it feels intentional, like she simply hasn’t seen it yet. But then the moment stretches a little longer than you expect. Her attention doesn’t shift. The woman beside her says something else, laughs softly, and Emily responds, polite and controlled. And suddenly there is a flicker of doubt you didn’t invite in.
Maybe you misread it. Maybe it wasn’t meant as anything directed at you at all. Your grip tightens slightly around the glass, the thought landing uncomfortably before you can stop it. Then she tilts her head slightly upward and lifts her glass again, this time just for you.
The evening doesn’t lose any of its noise or its weight, but something shifts in your perception all the same, because you know she saw you. And somehow, it feels different than before.
Juliet keeps talking, pulling you back into conversations about recent exhibitions, museum openings, and a curator she once worked with in New York. She moves easily through stories about art, cultural projects, and industry events, asking you questions you answer almost automatically, laughing at the right moments, and yet your attention keeps drifting back to Emily. Finding her, losing her, finding her again, until you can no longer tell whether you are searching for her or whether she keeps finding you.
It is the cold that eventually breaks you out of that cycle. It creeps in slowly at first, settling lightly on your skin, a barely noticeable chill you try to ignore. The room is crowded, constantly in motion, warmth coming from every direction, briefly pushing the cold back. But it changes the moment you stand still, when the conversations around you fade and you step out of the flow of people.
The air conditioning is running too strongly, constantly roaring above your heads, pushing cold air down that settles over you like a heavy coat. Juliet’s choice of outfit is clearly more fortunate, her dress covers her shoulders and arms, while yours leaves you exposed.
Without noticing, you pull your shoulders up slightly, rubbing your upper arms in a small motion. You don’t think much of until it repeats itself and you realize the cold isn’t just going away.
“You’re cold,” Juliet observes, her attention catching the movement immediately.
“I’m fine,” you say, though the slight tremor in your hands gives you away.
“I’ve got a jacket in the car—I can go get it,” Juliet offers.
You gently shake your head. “Thanks, I’m okay,” you say, taking a sip of your drink.
Juliet doesn’t seem fully convinced, but before she can respond, someone approaches from the side, close enough that his presence immediately cuts through your previous conversation.
“Excuse me,” a man begins, polite but firm enough not to be ignored. “I hope I’m not interrupting, but I couldn’t help overhearing you talking about a current exhibition in New York. I’m actually quite interested in contemporary art myself, and I thought I’d take my chances introducing myself.”
Juliet blinks, briefly taken aback by the directness, straightens slightly, and studies him with a hint of skepticism. You already feel her attention shifting, her body subtly angling away from you.
“That’s what I call direct,” she replies with a grin, her tone carrying that familiar warmth, that easeful playfulness she never fully commits to but never quite avoids either.
The man lets out a soft laugh, introduces himself to both of you, and adds that he works with a small gallery network in New York, always looking for people who actually enjoy talking about art instead of just standing in front of it. There’s an easy confidence to him, the kind that doesn’t push but still opens doors.
Juliet engages almost immediately, not fully pulled away from you, but clearly drawn into the conversation beside you. She keeps you included at first, glancing back at you when she reacts, lightly looping you into her responses, but gradually the exchange finds its own rhythm, one that doesn’t require you to steer it.
She throws you a brief glance, a flicker of hesitation, as if checking whether it’s okay to drift a little further into it. You offer her a small smile, a quiet gesture that takes the decision out of her hands.
“I’ll be right back.” She turns toward him then, letting herself be pulled away from you.
And suddenly, you’re on your own. You’re glad for Juliet. You really are. And still, something feels… off. Like something that had been there so easily is suddenly just gone.
Of course, you are not truly alone. Your colleagues are still around you, moving through the room, voices echoing through the hall, glasses clinking together. And yet you are without the buffer Juliet had provided just moments ago, without the distraction that kept you from getting completely lost in your Unit Chief.
You take another sip of wine and turn the glass between your fingers, trying to focus on the motion, trying not to look for her again. For a moment, even the cold fades into the background, but the longer you stay in place, the colder it becomes.
The air conditioning continues its relentless work, a steady, almost indifferent hum above your heads that you had barely noticed before, now filling every gap between the music. The cold spreads over your shoulders, creeping under the thin white fabric of your dress, which offers no protection, no barrier, no warmth in return. A shiver runs through your body, and absentmindedly you rub your upper arm again, hoping to bring some warmth back.
While you try to shake off the cold, you can’t quite get rid of the feeling that you are being watched. You are certain of it. There is a familiarity to it, this kind of attention, from her. It settles under your skin before you can even look up, a faint prickle across your arms, a subtle pull somewhere low in your stomach.
Emily is still there, surrounded by voices that rise and fall around her, her attention moving between them with the same ease as before but something about her feels different now. Not louder, not more obvious, just directed, as if a fraction more of her is no longer fully with them.
It doesn’t show in what she says or how she stands. It’s smaller than that, almost nothing, and still you feel it before you can explain why. Her attention doesn’t leave the group, but it isn’t held there in quite the same way anymore. It shifts slightly toward you, as if something in her has quietly registered you that hadn’t been there a moment ago.
You are certain she is no longer fully in it. Not visibly detached, not openly elsewhere but already not entirely inside the conversation anymore, as if she is quietly stepping back from it while still standing in it.
The moment she leaves the exchange is almost unremarkable. A slight pause, a final nod, a small smile that lands exactly where it needs to, nothing excessive, nothing unfinished. And then she moves.
Her path doesn’t lead to the bar, and it doesn’t lead to the others. It leads directly to you.
You only realize you have been holding your breath when she is already halfway across the space, and you release it slowly, almost cautiously, as if not to disturb the moment. The closer she gets, the more aware you become of yourself again; the chill on your skin, the faint goosebumps along your arms that you only notice now that she is near.
Her eyes drop briefly to them as she approaches, just for a second longer than casual observation would require.
“Quite chilly in here,” she says, almost casually, as if it were nothing more than a passing remark.
You nod, too aware of yourself to trust your voice immediately. “Yeah.”
Her attention lingers on you a moment longer. It moves across your face, then down, resting briefly at your neck, your collarbone, the line of fabric that doesn’t really hide anything. Not intrusive, not unkind but enough to make you suddenly aware of skin you hadn’t been thinking about a second ago.
There is no judgment in it. If anything, it feels more like quiet notice; measured, controlled, almost absentminded in its precision. And still it unsettles you in a way you can’t immediately place, as if you’ve become aware of yourself through her attention rather than your own.
For a second, your thoughts slip away from her entirely. You look past her instead, toward JJ, Tara, Penelope and the others scattered through the room. You are not the only one wearing a dress. You are not out of place. And yet—
Something about the way she had looked at you still sits under your skin differently than it should. Before you can do anything about it, before you can even decide whether you should straighten yourself, smooth the fabric of your dress, or simply stop thinking about it altogether. Emily lets out a soft, almost imperceptible exhale, a quiet breath edged with the faintest hint of amusement, as if she has already realized what is going through your mind.
And then she moves.
It doesn’t feel like a new action so much as the continuation of something already in motion between you. Her posture shifts first, small and controlled, and the blazer follows as it slips from her shoulders. She offers you that small smile again, the one that leaves a faint dimple in her cheek, and only then does the movement fully resolve into clarity.
At first, your mind doesn’t quite keep up. You register the movement in fragments, her hands, the line of her arms, the quiet release of fabric, but not its meaning yet. It only clicks when she is suddenly within your space, so near it subtly changes how the air feels around you.
It doesn’t feel rushed, it feels certain. Controlled in the way she is controlled about most things, as if this is simply what follows from noticing you standing there like this. She closes the distance between you slowly, and you can feel her warmth cutting through the cold air around you, a quiet contrast to what had settled on your skin moments before.
Her tongue briefly wets her lips as she lifts the blazer and drapes it over your shoulders. Her fingers are careful when she adjusts it, brushing lightly over your shoulder blades as she makes sure it sits properly.
You want to say something. You really do. A thank you, maybe something lighter, something that would make this feel less like a moment you don’t know how to stand in, but the words don’t form properly. They stall somewhere behind your teeth, caught between thought and voice, refusing to turn into sound. Your breath tightens instead.
Your attention drifts without permission to her defined, muscular arms, shaped by disciplined firearms training, and you catch yourself lingering there longer than you should. There are freckles at the base of her neck you hadn’t noticed before, revealed where the white of her shirt parts slightly.
You shake your head slightly, a small, almost futile attempt to pull yourself out of it, just enough to break the moment before it crosses into something you can’t casually explain away.
You know she noticed. Not because she reacts to it, but because she doesn’t need to. Emily reads a room and you, in ways that make pretending useless. Whatever just flickered across your face, whatever direction your attention went, it wasn’t subtle enough to hide from her.
And yet she gives you something you don’t immediately question: space. No comment, no shift that draws attention to you. She simply lets it pass. Relief settles in quietly, only then do you become properly aware of what she has done.
Her blazer settles around you like a cocoon, cutting through the cold that had been clinging to your skin. The fabric lies smooth against your arms and shoulders, slightly cool at first, until it warms against you within seconds, as if it still carries the heat of the body it just left. Instinct takes over before anything else can interfere, and your hands move slightly, pulling it closer around yourself without thinking, feeling the way it fits too well, too deliberately on you to feel entirely neutral.
You catch the faint trace of her scent, clean, subtle, unmistakably hers. It is no longer just in the air; it is woven into the fabric now, trapped in the folds of the blazer that rests against your skin. When you inhale without thinking, it feels closer than it should, as if it moves with you instead of simply around you. A quiet heat spreads through you before you can stop it, not from the room or the fabric alone, but from the realization of how briefly she had been there, right in front of you.
The coldness has vanished, but what takes its place is less a sense of relief than an awareness of what has just happened between you.
“Thank you,” you manage to say with difficulty, trying to get your body under control.
She doesn’t respond right away, but she doesn’t look away either. Her expression softens at the edges in a way you almost miss if you’re not already paying too much attention. She is openly taking in the sight in front of her, how you’re wrapped in her blazer, the fabric slightly too large on you, almost swallowing your frame. Something about it seems to hold her attention longer than necessary.
“No problem. I think this is better, hm?”
Her words are carefully chosen, and she knows exactly how they land with you, even if she doesn’t elaborate.
Just as you’re about to respond and ask if she isn’t cold, she gets there before you do. “Don’t worry about the blazer. I’m not cold. Just bring it back to the office tomorrow.”
For a moment, it seems as if she wants to add something else, something that has nothing to do with this event or any kind of superficial small talk. But then a slight shift runs through her body, and her expression changes.
“They’ll probably be looking for me again soon,” she adds, almost neutrally, with a pause that lingers half a beat too long before she continues. “Unfortunately, for me these events always mean being on display.”
You nod in understanding, you know her obligations, but still, you would have liked to talk to her a little longer. To be alone with her. You know it isn’t possible; after all, she is the Unit Chief. She has to return to the others, maintain connections, lead conversations, handle discussions. And yet you can’t shake the feeling that she would have liked to stay as well. Her dark eyes remain on you, on your face, on the blazer that rests around your shoulders. Eventually, she gives a soft nod and walks away, her steps quick and deliberate.
And you stay where you are, wrapped in her blazer, in her scent, held by a warmth that doesn’t come from the room anymore but from somewhere inside you. Your thoughts race, trying to make sense of what just happened, unable to settle on anything concrete. Your heartbeat stumbles, unsteady and too aware of itself, and somewhere in that chaos comes the quiet realization you can’t quite push away anymore: Juliet might have been right.
Taglist: @imightbethewriter@frazzled-fairy@daddy-heather-dunbar@heartoreadallthequeerthingz@francimood@taz--y@daffodil-heart@shygirl1645@holystrangersalad@probablydoingyourmom1
You want to be added to my taglist? You can join here :)
Tags: established relationship, uc!emily, shy!reader, fluff, age gap but no ages mentioned, soft emily, clingy emily #hellyeah, reader wears one of those cutesy cotton pajama sets but nothing else mentioned!, no use of yn
Summary: Emily comes back home, drained, but she can always find remedy in you.
Word count: 1.2k
It doesn't affect the fic but I had this reader in mind!
Emily is perhaps overly fond of your dainty pajamas.
They're soft things, clingy and loose in equal measure, stretchy, breathable cotton crushed in her fists. You feel the fabric tug, whispering against your skin as she pulls it closer and breathes out a low hum against your mouth. It zaps down your spine, makes you tilt your face away for a rush of breath. Emily lays a kiss on your cheekbone.
Your hands are curled around the armrests for support; even with your feet planted on the ground, you're wilting above her, gravity calling you closer and closer. She certainly doesn't push you away, either. Your chests are millimeters apart—if one of you breathes too deeply, they touch.
The pattern of blush colored roses against her rumpled button-down has you strangely heated. Nevermind her handsiness.
God, the way she is. You don't think you'll ever get used to it.
The dim light of your bedroom is kind to her, but you can still see the wear and tear, damage from being gone for a week. The skin under her eyes is tinted dark, her hair messier than usual. She wears exhaustion like a coat on her shoulders. Half sunken into the armchair, she has her blazer crumpled beside her and the sleeves of her blouse shoved up her elbows.
It swells three sizes too big, that heart of yours. So much it's almost painful. You straighten, itching to undo the long trail of buttons cutting down her chest, to wipe away the dried specks of makeup from her face, loosen the watch around her wrist, pull her belt from its buckle—but Emily's not willing to let you go. Her hand trails down your thigh, hot, lightly calloused. She makes a sort of noise in her throat and her grip tightens, everywhere, hands cupping your hip and the top of your thigh as she secures her hold and tugs, coaxing you into her lap.
You go with little resistance.
She welcomes you like she's been starving. It's quiet, but you hear it, even through the too-loud rush in your ears.
Her movements are not harsh—neither are her hands. Still, there's a sticky urgency to them. Here: your knee around her waist; your hip to her hip; your hand, lightly braced against her thigh, hi, god, thank you for doing it when I couldn't, I love—
You fold into her like the space has been carved for you. Emily wraps her arms around you and lets out a long, steady breath. You deflate in turn.
Desperation, you think. Desperation for this. You don't have to wonder if it shows as clearly on you as it does on her.
You didn't really know how to deal with this, at first. It was unfathomable—still is, sometimes—how you could be the object of such affection. No, that's not the word. Devotion. Reverence. Her hands hot, her smile soft, all, overwhelmingly, for you. And what had you done to receive it?
You still haven't found the answer.
Emily's breath skips along your bare shoulder. With each one, you feel her loosen, sink back down into the armchair. You savor the slow trail of her fingers as they trace over your skin, the bit high on your thigh. As you shift, reach an arm up around her neck, mold your cheek to hers, the question filters in—don't you want to get changed, hop in the shower, maybe? Or I could run you a bath. We still have a bit of those scented salts—but you should probably eat first. You didn't, did you? Of course not. Why do you always have to do this? Goddamn, I love you—
"I told you not to wait up," she murmurs into your hair. Her voice is warm gravel, serrated at the edges, but there's no disapproval.
"I didn't."
"It's nearly twelve."
"I was up." You say, and you were. You had to fight off sleep for a bit, but you were up. "How was it?"
"Long," she says quietly. She always answers like this: vaguely, concisely, all washed up and clean.
This time the word drags. You frown a little. "Tired?"
Her nose skims from your cheek, to the underside of your jaw. She inhales, deep, lets it out slow. "Hmm."
You move to get up. "C'mon, then, you should—"
"No." Emily holds you in place. "Just stay here, will you, sweetness?"
Her eyes beg, molten in the low light. What little existed of your composure dwindles down to nothing. You sigh and curl up deeper into her arms. She makes another sound, short, close-lipped, pleased.
"Thank you."
"I don't want you falling asleep here." You mumble into her shoulder.
"I won't." She reassures.
You close your eyes into her warmth. Her perfume still clings to her, faint, but still there. It filters into your lungs.
Silence descends over you. You would think she has fallen asleep if not for the slow sweep of her fingers over your side. Back, forth, back, forth. Her arm is heavy around your back, the band of her watch digging into your skin.
You feel ridiculously safe, tucked up into her chest, held close beneath her arms. She's all softness and all warmth and all—all yours, and you're all hers, and god, you think this could kill you.
How? You, her, this? How did you end up here? Utterly loved, wholly, unmistakably adored—and before her, you'd barely even been kissed. Her lips find your temple now, the softest press. It could make you cry. She's dead on her feet, exhausted, worn thin, and she still doesn't want to let you go.
You love her. The words are there on your lips, close to tipping over, but they stick.
You swallow, her heartbeat against your arm. You know she loves you. Sure, you're no expert in relationships, but Emily doesn't hide it. She asked you to move in; she stayed glued to your side as you fought off a fever and she sits with you, in the silence, when you don't have anything to say and she says things like I want to take care of you and angel girl, let me do it, which really only translate to love.
You know it.
Shifting, you take her face in your hands and kiss her. She tastes like burnt coffee. Her lips, faintly chapped, tip up into a smile. It's still there when you sit back, her eyes soft with a warm glow, two dimples pressed into her cheeks.
Overcome, you lean in to kiss one. Emily retaliates.
Your face, in her hands. Lips here and there, like feathers. They find your mouth again as her hand dips back down, smoothing over your side.
Her fingers bunch in your thin top.
"These are cute." She murmurs, one kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Are they new?"
"Not really. You like them?"
She hums, nods. "Soft."
Her fingers slip under, pressing flat against your ribs.
"So soft."
You kiss the hard edge of her jaw and make a note to buy more of them. Many, many more.
Tags: fem!reader, amnesia, established relationship but also not really starting to be really!, forced proximity, lots of comfort, veeery light angst, fluff!, there is light at the end of the tunnel, soft emily, soft reader, tree decorating, christmas vibes but nothing religious, resilience is rooted in love frfr, no use of yn
Summary: You and Emily patch up the cracks.
Word count: 4k
A/N: it's been a hot minute since these two, sorry about that!!! I don't have the rest of the chapters planned so I can't honestly say it won't happen again but I can say I'm still not done with them yet :p they're my babeys. Thank you for sticking with me, hope you like it!! (Unrelated but I have to be up in four hours....rip)
Series masterlist
"What do you think of this one?"
You blink out of your stupor to look at the tree Emily's pointing at.
You've never really been picky about them. A tree's a tree. You took what was easy to clean up, anything that wouldn't be too much of a hassle to lug all the way home. You never had much space for something 15-odd feet tall, thick and lush with foliage, the kind that dominates whole floors of department stores.
This tree, though, is far nicer than anything you've ever taken home. It rises several feet above your head; you'd need, at the very least, a chair to reach the top.
"It's nice," you say, hearing the words fall flat. "I mean—yeah, I like it. I don't really have much of a preference." You turn to her. "Do you?"
Emily tilts her head, her eyes dragging from the top of the tree to the bottom. "No, nothing too particular, I guess." But her gaze is critical. She looks it over, her chin dipping in a nod, a brief seriousness to her that seems disproportionate. "This one looks nice and full," she murmurs. "It's a good shape. Not too tall for the ceiling."
You note the hefty price tag. Emily doesn't so much as glance at it.
"That sounds good, then, doesn't it?"
You're reminded of the last time you'd gone out with her, the bright lights overhead not too dissimilar to the ones at the grocery store. Only two days ago. She'd been so much warmer then. So much easier.
You bite your lip as Emily nods in agreement. It's not unkind, nothing about her ever is. Still, you're queasy, an unbearable tenderness to your stomach that lingered all throughout yesterday and into this morning.
She's quieter today, almost…subdued. She's never pressed, never pushed, but now there's an entirely new hesitance to her. You can see it in the hunch of her shoulders, her carefully even tone, as if she's trying not to spook you. Like if she moved too fast, spoke too loud, you might decide to cut everything loose and run at a moment's notice, leave her with a child to raise on her own and a house too big for one.
You swallow hard at the needless reminder, her tears stuck in your head, her voice ringing, lingering—I'm just a stranger you live with.
Really, arguably, it's not exactly far from the truth. And yet.
Your fingers curl around the ultrasound in your pocket. Your thumb skims along the smooth ink, the edges of the paper damp where they've absorbed your sweat. You keep touching it, as if you might forget again. As if keeping it in your pocket changes anything at all.
You're going to be a parent.
Emily steps closer to the displayed tree, peering at what, you don't know. You take the same steps until the branches hover an inch from your face, her warmth at your side. You don't know what to look for. Your eyes see through an empty space between the green.
Part of you marvels at the fact that you're still standing at all—bones heavy, head sluggish, still standing. But if you sat down and wallowed, you know you'd never get back up. The weight of it all would drag you under, and you have to be standing, you have to pull yourself into some semblance of a human for her to lean her weight on.
Pregnant. Jesus.
And besides, the house needs a tree. It's your first Christmas in it—an old tree wouldn't do, it has to be for this house. Your new life.
Emily's voice murmurs beside you as she says something low under her breath. It's like a hook, rooted in your chest; she tugs you out of your head, pulling your gaze to where she stands next to you. She gives the tree a final once-over and nods definitively.
The sight makes you want to laugh.
Look at you both, trying to pretend that everything's normal. You're buying a Christmas tree four days before Christmas, and it's going fine. There's only two left, but it's fine. She grabs one and puts it in the cart.
You shuffle in silently beside her, following with half an eye. The store is busy with people; your hand is hooked into her coat pocket for a while before you realize, too late, at the checkout. Emily doesn't mention it, of course, doesn't react. She wheels the cart over and greets the cashier with a quiet, polite hello.
You warm as if she's speaking to you.
__
The bright sunlight feels, almost, like a slap in the face. The whole week had been dreary and gray, snow and sleet and the threat of rain; today, the sun throws yolk-yellow rays on everything, cheerily coating the day in warmth. You tip your head up to frown at it, and it glares back.
Emily notices you staring.
"It's supposed to snow again in a few hours." She says, then pauses. "Should be all week, actually. This is the warmest it's supposed to get."
Another pause. She lets it stretch, wide and tepid.
You gnaw on your lip, pinching it to pain. Your fingers are needlessly curled around the cart, pulling it to the trunk of the car.
"Isn't there a park nearby?" You blurt out.
Emily blinks. Nods. She fishes the keys out of her pocket, and you reach for the trunk just as she gets it unlocked, your fingers slippery. You ignore her displeased sound behind you.
"We could soak up the weather."
She's there when you turn, easing the tree into the car with far too much grace. Her brows tick up at the suggestion—just a few millimeters, inching closer to her hairline—then fall back with her smile. More of a thing to appease.
"Sure," she says.
__
It's not the most comfortable thing, wearing your sling with your coat, but you bear it.
Stray bits of snow crunch under your boots. The cold bites and pinches, gathers heavily onto the tip of your nose and fingers, turns your breath cloudy. You slip your hands into the pocket of your hoodie, twisting the fabric around as you sit with the quiet familiarity of the park.
It's nothing special, really, something for the neighborhood with few frills and sprawling space. This bit is tucked away from the play set; you look at the slices of path peeking out from under the snow, past kids darting between trees, and you're almost entirely sure that if you'd walk around the bend, take a left at the split and continue on for a little bit, you'll find the creak of swings, small bodies dangling from monkey bars. You're almost sure, but not quite. It lingers in the back of your head like fog.
It doesn't escape your notice how you can remember that, even barely, and yet you forgot her. All her loveliness, all the warmth of her voice and her gentle hands and her bottomless eyes, the baby growing inside her. Yours. Hers.
The thought makes your cheeks pucker, a sourness spilling onto your tongue.
Not your fault, she had murmured into your skin, so close you felt it. It's not your fault. Ad infinitum.
You blink against the cold. Beside you, she's almost perfectly still. Your arms touch through your coats, connected for a short stretch before they part, yours laid on the frigid wood of the bench and hers gathered neatly into herself. Her eyes are turned down to her lap, where her hands are folded, pale and lean.
She's strikingly well suited for the landscape, you think. The cold has nipped at her cheeks, flushing them pink.
You don't know if the familiarity you feel is because you're remembering, or because you see her face everywhere you turn. Her beautiful, somber face. In the midst of sprawling white and more people than you've seen in a week, you still can't look away.
She feels your eyes on her, you know. It doesn't deter you, though you distantly expect it should, maybe. You trace from the tail end of her brow to her temple, the curve of her cheekbone—across, to the straight line of her nose, leading into her Cupid's bow. Her teeth graze her lip. You see the hesitation working in her jaw long before she speaks.
"I don't…" She starts then falls silent, exhaling a rickety stream of white. Your bones stand at attention and Emily wets her lips, still staring down at her hands. She frowns at them. Picks at the ragged skin on her thumb, her voice coming out low. "I don't know how to make any of this okay."
You stare hard at the tense line of her mouth, your chest ballooning with an exhale. She always thinks it's up to her. She carries so much, heaves it all up on her shoulders and forgets not everything is hers to fix.
You take one of her hands in yours. The skin around her thumb is agitated, picked red and uneven.
Your own breath clouds in front of you.
"Stop trying to fix everything, Emily." You gingerly trace over her thumb. There's nothing to fix. Just to live with. "It's not on you to make it okay. Just—" You can't swallow it back, the plea, "just be with me. That's all."
Her fingers curl around yours. They squeeze, and she meets your eyes now, her gaze soft.
"I am with you." She whispers. "I am." This look falls over her face, almost like she wants to cry. "I think—" She cuts herself off, inhaling. "I think you really are some kind of angel."
You don't expect it. Neither do you expect the laugh that huffs from your chest, barely even audible to your own ears. "That's dramatic. I just love you."
Another thing you don't expect.
"I love you, too."
You wait for the heat to hit and spread, stretch itself under your skin, but it doesn't.
"You give me too much credit."
"I don't think I give you enough."
You know responsibility. You know seeing things through to the end, even though there isn't really an end to this sort of thing, the growing mass under her skin. You would be offended if you hadn't gotten used to her guilt by now. It spills, from all of her, concurrent with the love.
You shake your head, weaving your fingers through hers, squeezing back. "Save some for yourself."
Your palms meet, cold on cold. Emily's eyes suck you in as she looks at you for one, two, three seconds, then gives, her mouth twitching just the slightest bit. It tugs at the barest hint of a dimple, and you're not sure how it happens, really, if it's her or you or the both of you, but suddenly you're leaning into her, as if pulled with a string until your chin settles on her shoulder. Her arm rises around your side, your hands still linked on her lap, and you close your eyes into the solidness of her.
The stone dissolves in your gut as you let yourself breathe.
It's this, more than anything, that makes you feel right. Like in her arms, you belong. Everything seems to fit. Your body doesn't struggle against hers; it knows where to go, familiar with her outline and how it molds into yours.
Emily relaxes in turn. Beneath you, her chest dips as she exhales, the warmth of it blowing through your hair.
It's how she speaks best, with these little touches. There's no guilt here. It's just her, her beating heart, the warmth shared between you. Her mouth finds your temple, and it's as natural a move as your linked hands on her knee, a second of plush heat before it dips away.
Around you, kids are on their backs, on their knees, swallowed up by white. Dogs nose around in the snow. You watch a snowball fly and hit its target, crumbling against a gray jacket.
The question slips quietly.
"When are you due?"
Twin inhales, yours, hers.
"Early July," Emily answers. She pauses, tenderness weaving through her voice. "Twelfth."
Your heart gives a jolt. It's an entirely different season, and you know full well that due dates are unreliable, but you still feel your mouth turn up.
"Twelfth." You echo. It flutters, warm in your chest. "That'd be nice."
Emily gives your hand a squeeze. You feel her smile, stretched small, pressed to the side of your face.
__
"Now, this I was not looking forward to." She mutters, taking out the clump of tangled lights from the box of decorations. You wince, though she doesn't look particularly annoyed.
"Sorry."
Her eyes slide up to yours. Her brows lift, head cocking, deliberately, like a cat's.
You flush a little. "Oh—I'm sorry. I mean—no, not sorry—it's just that—oh you know what I mean—"
Emily's laugh is like silk, whispering low. It adds to the heat spreading through you, an unneeded catalyst as she sets the lights down and pushes the box closer to you. "I've got it, honey, it's okay. You just unpack these."
Even as she says it, she takes out the boxes of ornaments and lays them out on the coffee table, next to your mugs of nearly-drained cocoa. You wave out your hand to stop her and she steps back dutifully, catching the glow of the fire behind you.
She's softer, in the warm light of the living room, a too-big sweatshirt on her shoulders and her hair held up in a messy twist, loose bangs wilting out to frame her face. You wonder what it would be like to kiss her, like this, then bench the thought as she sidesteps you and makes for the couch, where the lights are waiting. They're in a dreadful tangle, two separate bunches corded around one another—a perfectly preserved relic from last Christmas.
Sweet, you think, as she traps her bottom lip between her teeth. She'd taste sweet. Like the cocoa she'd made, the faintest hint of chocolate…
…cinnamon tucked into the corner of her mouth, her hands splayed on your hips, voice murmuring into your skin, "You're tangling them all over again."
"Am not," you deny, shoving the lights off her lap. Emily laughs, warm and everywhere, her fingers ghosting along the bare skin along your waistline. "They were already tangled."
"Right," she drawls.
Your eyes narrow. "Oh, well, let me just get out of your hair, then—"
Her hands tighten on your waist, holding you in place. "No"—and she silences your laugh, lips soft as pillows, sweeter than Hershey's Kisses—
You blink at her as she carefully guides the wires out of their knots, her brows pinched, hands moving steady.
Heat buzzes under your skin, warming your cheeks as you turn away and absently start picking the ornaments from their boxes. Your eyes see past them and into something else: Emily, in nearly the same position, on a different couch, another ball of lights in her lap. You're next to her, blowing raspberries in frustration. A separate tangle is between your own hands. You remember you complaining and her laughing; her working the knots free; her taking the whole mess off your hands and coaxing the tangles out.
She's always the one untangling the knots in your jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets; her nails are always short, and yet she manages it better than you ever have. Her fingers are deft, careful. Always careful.
An ornament hits the table too hard, your fingers losing their grip and finding it again after a floundering second. It's a half-melted snowman sitting in a puddle of itself, arms spread as if they're flailing.
Yeah, I get you, buddy.
The rush continues pumping through your veins. It's thrilling, seeing her in your memories, knowing she exists there, firmly. You've never once thought her a liar, but now you have proof, proof that doesn't come from a picture or someone's mouth, proof that's fully your own.
Your Emily. From your memories.
This isn't the first one you've had; they started yesterday, as flimsy as thin clouds spread across the sky, but still there. Her face, her voice. It had made your breath shorten in your lungs.
You wanted to tell her. You still want to tell her—I remember you. Some of you, the shape of your laugh up close, the warmth of your mouth. Fragments, pieces, nowhere near enough but undeniably you.
Your mouth opens of its own accord and stays open. You itch for something to say, but the words fail you.
You close your mouth and busy yourself with pulling out the rest of the ornaments from the boxes. Painstakingly, one by one, you lay them out on the coffee table. Here's Sergio, ceramic and glossy. Here's a glittering snowflake; here's two fingerprints stamped into a heart, your initials carved next to Emily's. It's a modest spread, the beginnings of your joint life. From Christmas tree ornaments to a baby in her belly.
There'll be at least one more addition to the collection, you think, by the time next Christmas rolls around. Something with an initial, maybe, or a tiny handprint. There's too much sentiment between the both of you.
Does she have any names picked out?
You've had yours for years, carefully curated, stored for later—the right person, the right time. You still know them: Katie for a girl, Alice, Sophie, Rory, Diana or Diane. Boys names are always harder, but you still had some. James. Elliot. Secretly, indulgently, Laurie. You wonder if you've shared any of them with her.
You're so lost in your head you only look up at the scrape of chair legs on the floor, the sound cutting through the stillness. Emily situates the chair in front of the tree and steps on, lights in hand, shuffling closer to the edge to reach the top.
"Careful," you say.
You can hear the smile in her voice. "I got it."
Right. Field agent.
Still. You abandon your nearly-done task and take your perch at the chair's back, your hand needlessly wrapped around it as Emily steps up on her tiptoes. It's poor support, but it eases your mind. She wraps the lights around the top of the tree, hooking them into branches and crevices. You help her move them round when the tree grows too wide.
It goes on quietly, seamlessly. You continue when it's too far out of her reach, guiding the wire around the branches until it feeds into her hand, then taking it again when she passes it to you. It's not really a two person job, but you split it anyway.
See, you can do things with her, easy as cake. Your eyes dart to the flat plane of her stomach hidden under her sweatshirt, barely lingering before you look away again. It still feels wrong to look. Intrusive.
You ask her about the felt ornaments as you're hanging them on. Her smile spreads, a tad shy as she nestles a candy cane between two baubles.
"It was Garcia's idea. She brought us together for a kind of crafty girl's night—horrible idea, by the way. She brought wine." Emily deadpans. You bite down on your lip, searching for a spot to hang the gingerbread house. "And I'd obviously never touched a needle before," she shrugs, her nose scrunching, "stabbed half my blood volume out."
"No," you say sympathetically.
"At least I didn't bleed on them," she murmurs, a faint blush on her cheeks. She grabs an ornament from the pile and lightly nudges your good shoulder. "You did okay, though."
You don't remember, so you take her word for it. There is one blue star with neater edges than the rest. It dangles close to the Christmas-tree-cat.
Beside you, Emily pushes back a bauble that hangs too close to the edge. You don't remember a whole lot of Penelope, but you are sure of one thing.
"But doesn't she have a sewing machine?"
Emily's lips quirk. "She wanted it to be authentic."
You laugh. There's something particularly heady about the look she'd given you, a kind of exasperated fondness, like you were both in on something together. The rush of it lingers even after you lapse into silence again, working in tandem. It's not uncomfortable. The space is filled with quiet noise, the hush of your socked feet on the floor, the gentle tinkle of ornaments, the dry brush of branches, Emily's breathing and yours. The snow has started up, racing past the windows and floating down onto the street.
You taste the cinnamon again, between your teeth.
Emily clears her throat a while later. "There's, um. There's this Christmas party at Rossi's. Dave, he's my coworker. More like family, really—all of them are—"
"I know who Dave is."
As you're saying it, you realize it's true. The specifics are blurry—his exact features—but you know the tone of his voice, how deep his love for Emily goes. "I know him."
Emily's face softens further. "Right. Well—uh, I don't know if you remember, but it's nothing special. It's just us. My team. Party is pretty formal for it, really, it's just dinner and hanging out. I…" Her nose scrunches the slightest bit, and fondness pinches your chest. "I accidentally promised someone we were going, but we don't have to—"
"No, it's okay." You interrupt. "I'd like to go."
She pauses. "Really?"
You nod. "Yeah, of course. They're your family."
"You're my family. You come first, no matter what."
Your face goes hot. She says it so unwaveringly, like nothing could ever change her mind. The firmness of it curls you in its embrace.
Family. My family.
"Who did you promise?" You murmur, fiddling with the ribbon of the ornament strung on your fingers. "Accidentally."
Emily breathes out a sound. It's half fond, half peeved. "Jack," she says.
Your brows pinch.
"Hotch's kid," she continues. "He's sweet." The softness of her tone makes you look back at her. She's all sincerity, eyes honeyed in the amber light, her touch a quick brush on your elbow. "It's not for a few days, so. Plenty of time to change your mind."
You shake your head.
"I won't."
__
It takes more time than you expected it would. You're slow, and Emily doesn't try to outpace you. At some point you stop for a break, and she makes sandwiches—actually eats with you this time. You get back to work with Home Alone splayed on the TV.
The sun is low in the sky by the time you're done, the house dark enough that the tree glows. It's not extravagantly decorated, but it's not empty, either. It's homey, a warmth to it that curls in your chest and stays there.
Emily flicks on the lights. She'd let her hair down and now rakes a hand through it, pushing back her bangs as she crosses the floor back to your side.
"What do you think?"
There's the strangest pressure on your throat, like your voice will break if you speak.
To your relief, it doesn't.
"It's beautiful," you say honestly.
Ours. Mine and yours.
Emily's smile is soft. "Sure is an upgrade from that awful prickly thing you had up, isn't it?"
"Hey." You feel yourself frown. "It did its job. Just because it wasn't seven feet tall—"
"Kidding, kidding," she murmurs, taking the last few steps, closing the distance, both hands cupped to your cheeks.
Air thins. Your breath fogs against her palm, a startled, sharp inhale. Emily's thumb sweeps over your cheekbone, gentle pressure, trailing heat. She lifts it away and you catch the sparkle of glitter on her skin, golden yellow.
Your eyes meet. She dusts it off, then goes back in for more. With her knuckle this time, a featherlight trace, your lashes fluttering in the same quick pace of your heart.
Her wrist is under your fingers. Her pulse is trapped under your thumb, the band of her ring fitted snugly at her knuckle. You swallow. Your lips brush the inside of her hand, thumb trailing higher.
just started special ops: lioness on the plane (only the first episode cause that's the only one that downloaded) and had to pause and rewind everytime bobby showed up.
