Locked Evidence
⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader
you were supposed to file reports, not fall apart in her hands.
locked in an evidence room after hours, the line between professional restraint and months of unspoken desire finally snaps. sharp looks turn into sharper touches. emily presses, you break. it’s messy, controlled, real. and when it’s over, neither of you can pretend it didn’t mean something.
⋆˚࿔ disclaimer and possible tw: mature content
You didn’t plan on ending up here.
You were supposed to be wrapping up a late consult at the local precinct — something routine, something dry. But now you were standing in the small, locked evidence room on the third floor, fluorescent lights overhead, a file clutched in your hand that definitely didn't need this much attention. And Emily Prentiss was across from you, far too close for comfort.
Or maybe... just close enough.
The tension in the room had been building all week. Quiet looks over case files. Accidental brushes of fingers. A low laugh shared too long after a joke ended. It wasn't new. But tonight it had teeth. A pulse. A direction.
And now there was nowhere to go.
Emily leaned back against the counter, one hand braced beside a cardboard box labeled Property of Forensics. Her blouse sleeves were rolled to the elbows. Her hair was slightly undone from the long day. There was a faint smear of ink on her thumb. She didn't seem to notice you staring.
But she did.
She always noticed.
"So," she said, voice low, too calm. "What are we doing here, really?"
You blinked. "Looking at evidence."
She gave a dry smile. "That what we're calling it?"
You didn't answer.
She pushed off the counter slowly. Stepped toward you. Each movement felt like it took hours. Your breath caught in your throat — not fear. Anticipation. Electricity.
Her eyes flicked down to your hand. "You've been holding that same file for ten minutes."
"Maybe I'm being thorough."
"Maybe you're avoiding something."
You laughed, too sharp. "Like what?"
Emily tilted her head. "You tell me."
The air between you was humid with tension. So thick you could profile it. That heady, suffocating kind that clung to your skin. The kind that didn't need touching to feel intimate.
"I think," she said quietly, "we're both too smart to pretend this isn't happening."
You swallowed. "This?"
"The staring. The silence. The way you always stand just a little too close when we brief."
Your throat was dry. "You never say anything."
Emily's mouth curved slightly. "Would you prefer I had?"
You didn't know. You weren't sure.
"I think about it," she said.
That made you look up. Directly. No place to hide.
Emily's voice stayed low, private. "Sometimes in the field. Sometimes at night. I think about what it would feel like if you finally stopped holding back."
You stepped back instinctively — and hit the locked door.
Her gaze didn't waver.
"Is that what this is?" you asked. "Some game?"
She was in front of you now, barely inches away. Her hand rose — not to touch — just to hover, deliberately, beside your shoulder. A warning. A test.
"This isn't a game," she said. "But I'm tired of pretending."
Your pulse thudded in your neck. You didn't move.
"You say stop," Emily murmured, "and I'll walk out right now. But if you don't..."
You didn't.
She kissed you.
God, she kissed you like she'd been waiting for months — slow and hot and devastatingly careful, her hand bracing the door beside your head. Her body didn't press into you, not yet. She kept space, even as her mouth made promises her hands hadn't yet touched.
You groaned into her. Soft. Stunned.
She pulled back half an inch. Her eyes searched yours.
"Still want me to stop?"
You didn't speak. You grabbed her by the collar instead and pulled her back in.
That was all it took.
Emily's hands found your waist, urgent now, fingers sliding under your blazer and gripping the fabric beneath. She kissed like she fought — strategic, sharp, effective. Her mouth moved over yours like she'd mapped it, knew where to go and how long to stay. She made you feel devoured without ever being rough.
Your back hit the door again.
She bit your lip.
You gasped.
"God, you're responsive," she breathed. "You've wanted this."
You didn't deny it.
"I've seen it in the way you look at me. The way you never step back." Her hand skimmed your hip. "You've been aching for this."
She wasn't wrong.
Emily's thigh nudged between your legs and you shuddered. Your hands gripped her shoulders. You kissed her back now, harder, messier with your restraint finally cracking like thin ice.
She chuckled low in your throat. "There you are."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
So you did.
You kissed her like the last word didn't matter — like winning had always meant surrendering. Your hands slid up under her shirt, fingers brushing skin. She was warm, firm, real.
"Fuck," you whispered.
Emily spun you suddenly, crowding you into the wall beside the evidence shelves. Her mouth moved to your neck, her voice all gravel and heat. "You think this is bad now?"
She bit the underside of your jaw.
You nearly collapsed.
Her hand found your belt.
Then paused.
Emily leaned in again, her lips just at your ear.
"Say it," she whispered. "Say you want me."
You gasped, half-breathless. "I want you."
She grinned.
"Good."
She didn't wait after that.
Emily's mouth was on yours again, hotter now, fuller, hungry. Her hands didn't shake, but they trembled with intent. You could feel it in the way her fingers unfastened your belt, in the low hum of her breath when you gasped against her lips.
She was in control.
But not careless.
Every touch was a question.
Every kiss was an answer.
"You want this," she said again, but not like she needed confirmation—like she just wanted you to hear it out loud.
You nodded, dazed. "Yes. Fuck. Yes."
Your pants hit the floor. Hers followed. Shirts tangled between you. Somewhere in the room, your ID badge clattered onto the tile. You barely noticed.
Emily pushed you gently back into the wall, one hand sliding behind your thigh to hitch it around her hip. The motion sent heat ripping through your body like a fuse. Her other hand stayed between you, palming your center through your underwear, slow and deliberate.
You moaned.
She smiled.
"God, you're soaked already."
"Emily—"
She slid your underwear down with a precision that bordered on reverent. Her fingers traced your skin as she did, as if memorizing every new inch. When her hand returned to your thigh, she lifted you just enough to grind her hips into yours.
It wasn't fast.
It wasn't slow.
It was maddening.
"You think the others ever noticed?" she asked into your neck. "How badly I watched you?"
You shuddered. "I noticed."
"Did you like it?"
You didn't answer.
Emily's fingers slipped between your legs.
You gasped.
"Answer me."
"Yes," you choked. "God, yes."
She kissed your shoulder. Then your collarbone. Then lower, pressing her mouth over the place where your pulse beat furiously against your skin.
"I thought about you," she said, each word sinking like a stone. "During stakeouts. On long flights. I imagined this."
Her fingers circled your clit—soft, slow, unbearable. Your hands clenched in her hair.
"Did you ever think about me?"
Your breath broke. "All the time."
She didn't speak after that.
She let her hand do the talking.
Two fingers slid inside you, curling just right, drawing sounds from your throat you didn't know you could make. Her mouth moved against your neck, your jaw, your cheek—kissing you through every stutter of breath, every buck of your hips.
You gripped her tight. She moved tighter.
There was nothing polite about it anymore.
You were moaning into her mouth, your back arched off the wall, your body begging for more without needing to speak.
And Emily… Emily was relentless.
She whispered things you couldn't process.
Called you beautiful.
Said your name like it was prayer and profanity in one breath.
You came with a broken sob into her shoulder, thighs trembling, face buried in her neck. She held you through it, didn't stop, didn't pull away—not until your body stilled and your heart thudded in the silence.
Then she kissed you.
Soft.
Gentle.
Long.
And you kissed her back like you were never going to stop.
—
Minutes later, you sat tangled on the cold tile, still half-dressed, the lock on the door mocking you quietly from across the room.
Emily leaned back against the wall, brushing sweat-stuck hair from her temple. She was flushed. Glowing.
You looked at her.
She looked back.
Neither of you spoke.
Until:
"Well," she said, lips curving lazily. "That was... professional."
You laughed. Broken. Breathless. "Yeah. Real textbook."
Emily reached over, fingers grazing your wrist. "We should probably... you know. Go."
You nodded. But you didn't move.
She didn't either.
A beat passed.
Then her voice, quiet again: "That wasn't just a one-time thing for me."
You blinked.
"I don't know what it is yet," she said. "But it's something."
You nodded slowly. "Yeah. It is."
She leaned in, pressed one last kiss to the corner of your mouth.
"You're gonna ruin me," she murmured.
You smiled.
"Right back at you."
a/n: probably should try sleeping instead of writing, i‘m kind of embarrassed