Bottom emilyyy??? Maybe after getting into a heated fight Emily cavesszs 🫣🫣🫣🫣
hey anon!! hoping this is sort of what you’ve imagined <3 if not just let me know!
Nothing Gentle About Tonight
⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader
you and emily prentiss have danced around the tension for months — until one brutal case cracks it wide open. a fight explodes in her apartment, sharp words and sharper truths, and before you can blink, you’re pressed against the wall with her lips on yours. she caves — not gently, but fully. not because she lost the fight. because she wanted to.
⋆˚࿔ disclaimers and possible tw: power imbalance, suggestive content, profanity, emotional argument, mentions of psychological stress
It started with the door slamming.
Emily dropped her keys into the ceramic bowl by the entryway like she was trying not to break it, jaw tight, shoulders tighter. You followed a few steps behind, silent, but the tension between you was a living thing — coiled, humming, ready to snap.
The case had been brutal. Not just because of what you saw, but because of what it dragged out of both of you. Emily had pulled rank, you’d pushed back, and somewhere between the motel and the jet, the professionalism cracked wide open.
"You didn’t have to take over like that," she said, not even looking at you as she shrugged off her coat. "In front of the whole team, no less."
"And you didn’t have to pretend like my opinion didn’t matter," you fired back, stepping into the living room.
She turned then — sharply. "Excuse me?"
"God," she muttered, rubbing her temple like your presence physically ached. "You always have to have the last word, don’t you?"
You scoffed. "Only when you keep ignoring the first fifteen."
She stared at you like she was calculating something. Dangerous. Measured. But there was heat there, too — the kind that came from too many nights staying late at the office, too many shared motel rooms, too many almosts that both of you kept swallowing.
"You think you know everything," she said, stepping closer.
Her silence wasn’t cold. It was rattled. Like you’d hit too close to something she didn’t have the words to defend. She looked away — just for a second — and that second told you everything.
"You don’t get to act like this is just about the job," you said, voice quieter now. "Because it’s not."
Emily’s hands were fists at her sides. "Don’t—"
"No. You don’t," you cut in. "You shut down every time it gets real. You snap, you deflect, you pull rank—"
"Because it’s the only thing I know how to do!" she shouted, and her voice cracked like glass. "Because if I don’t control this—us—then I lose everything."
Silence. Heavy. Hot. Still.
You took a step toward her.
"You think I’m trying to take something from you?" you asked. "Emily, I’m trying to be there. With you. For you."
Her breathing was shallow. Angry. Aching.
"Don’t touch me," she said, voice shaking.
"I didn’t touch you," you replied, stepping into her space.
Hand on her wrist. Just that. Gentle. But claiming.
You tilted your head. "You’re shaking."
"Fuck you," she whispered.
You didn’t move far — just enough to make it real — and then you surged right back, grabbing her by the waist, lips crashing into hers before she could throw another word or another wall between you.
She kissed you like she hated it. Like she needed it. Like it was the last weapon left in her arsenal and she was too tired to reload.
Emily backed up until her spine hit the hallway wall, your hands pinning hers above her head, your breath ragged against her mouth.
She gasped when your thigh nudged between hers.
"You don’t get to run from this," you whispered, teeth grazing her jaw.
"I’m not running," she breathed.
Her knees bent slightly under your touch. Her eyes fluttered shut. Her hands — once defiant — went limp in your grip.
She looked up at you, flushed, furious, undone.
"That you want me to take control."
Emily bit her lip. And nodded.
It didn’t stop with the kiss.
Emily’s hands were still clenched in your shirt like she didn’t know whether to pull you closer or push you away — like the indecision itself was a kind of punishment. Her breath was ragged. Yours was worse.
The wall behind her wasn’t cold anymore. Her body warmed it — or maybe you did. It didn’t matter. What mattered was the way she shuddered when your mouth found hers again. The way her shoulders dropped, just slightly, like she was tired of fighting.
Or like she’d finally surrendered.
You didn’t speak. Not with words. Just with touch, heat, movement.
She tugged you back in like she hadn’t meant to but couldn’t help it. Her lips parted with yours and she gasped your name — not like a plea, not like a warning, but like a confession.
You answered her with your hands.
Down her sides. Firm. Intentional. Claiming space she never gave freely. Your fingertips brushed the hem of her shirt and she stilled for a half-second. But she didn’t stop you.
She didn’t stop anything.
Her head fell back slightly, just enough to expose her throat. That was all the invitation you needed. You dragged your mouth down her jaw, across the pulse that fluttered so fast it could’ve been panic — or anticipation. Her fingers tightened in your shirt when you kissed just below her ear, and for a second, she bucked toward you.
It was a crack in the foundation. A beautiful one.
"You’re being reckless," she whispered.
Emily’s hands dropped. Not to push you away — but to grip the edge of the console table behind her, like she needed grounding.
"Don’t stop," she said, hoarse. "God, don’t stop."
The hem of her shirt slid up easily beneath your palms. Her stomach twitched when you pressed your thumbs along the dip of her waist. She was warm everywhere — warm and breathless and utterly undone.
You pulled her shirt off slowly.
Not teasing. Not fast. Just enough for her to feel it — the way your hands stayed on her skin like a promise.
"Turn around," you murmured.
It wasn’t a command. But it wasn’t optional either.
She hesitated — for just a second. But then she did.
The table caught her hips. She braced her hands against it, breathing shaky. You stepped up behind her, close enough for her to feel the heat of your body but not close enough to give her relief.
"You sure about this?" you asked quietly, voice low beside her ear.
She turned her head just slightly. "Do I look like I’m second-guessing?"
"You look like you’re about to break."
Emily gave a breath of a laugh. "Maybe I already did."
You kissed the curve of her spine, just once, just below the clasp of her bra. She trembled.
Your fingers moved with care — not hesitation. You worked slowly, tracing every inch you uncovered, until her back arched and she made a sound you’d never heard from her before.
Vulnerable. Guttural. Desperate.
You pressed against her then — just enough to feel her hips shift back toward yours. She needed this. Needed you. Even if she wouldn’t say it out loud.
"You don’t get to touch me like that after saying what you did," she whispered.
Your hands slipped lower, framing her hips.
"Then why are you still here?" she asked.
"Because you didn’t ask me to leave."
"Touch me," she breathed. "Please."
It was the first time she’d begged.
You didn’t make her wait.
You guided her down gently — not all the way, just far enough to lay her cheek on her forearm, her eyes still open, watching you in the reflection of the glass door nearby.
Your touch was slow. Daring. Expert.
You didn’t need to rush. She gave herself to it — inch by inch, breath by breath, like the chaos had burned away everything except this: her hands clutching the table edge, her thighs trembling, her mouth parting in a moan she tried to swallow and couldn’t.
You didn’t ask her to hold still.
The sounds she made — low, breathy, unwilling — made heat roll down your spine like fire. When her knees started to give, you steadied her. Whispered her name like a tether.
She didn’t say yours back. She gasped it.
Her body shook, her head dropped forward, her voice broke with the kind of sound that people only made when they finally let go.
You were still holding her when she came apart — not rough, not loud, but completely. Fully. Her back bowed. Her hands fisted the air. Her breath left her in a long, low wave that ended in your name.
You didn’t stop touching her until she stilled.
Didn’t pull back until she reached for you.
She turned in your arms and pulled you into her chest — shirtless, breathless, undone.
"I’m sorry," she murmured. "For the fight."
You kissed the hollow beneath her collarbone. "I’m not."
She huffed a laugh, quiet. Wrecked. "You’re such a menace."
Her fingers found yours and didn’t let go.
You stayed there like that, tangled in heat and quiet and the aftershock of chaos — no rules left between you, just pulse and breath and everything you hadn’t said finally spoken without words.
