witch, please
pairing: emily prentiss x reader
word count: 2.5k
summary: the team gathers for Garcia’s halloween party, where she's planned a game of truth or dare for everyone.
includes: no use of y/n, halloween party, reader in costume (fairy), emily in costume (witch), alcohol, teasing, truth or dare, ouija board shenanigans, ghosts with gossip, tension and banter, slow burn payoff, first kiss, workplace crush, mutual pining, friends-to-something-more, found family energy, soft laughter, emotional whiplash (the good kind), garcia-fueled chaos, subtle feelings, ghosts as wingmen
based off this request
halloween 2025
Garcia’s apartment looks like it’s been possessed by the spirit of Halloween itself–and the ghost clearly had no chill. Orange string lights pulse along the ceiling. Fake cobwebs cling to every bookshelf. The smell of cinnamon and caramel wafts through the air like a spell. A fog machine puffs mist from the corner, curling around the furniture in ghostly tendrils.
The door swings open before you can even knock twice.
“Welcome, woodland enchantress!” Garcia declares, sweeping you into a dramatic hug before you can catch your balance. Her fortune-teller bangles jingle against your back, and her eyes are lined in gold glitter. “Your fairy wings look divine, darling. Ten out of ten. Pinterest could never.”
“Thanks,” you laugh, adjusting the flower crown perched in your hair.
“Come in, come in! We’re about to begin the most diabolical Halloween game night in BAU history.”
“You said that last year,” you laugh, stepping inside and immediately being handed a plastic cup filled with something neon-orange and suspiciously strong.
“And I meant it last year,” she says, waggling her eyebrows, “but this year? This year, my little pumpkin… we’re leveling up.”
You step further in, your heels clicking against hardwood now half-covered in fake gravestones and glow-in-the-dark skeleton hands. There’s Spencer near the window, dramatically holding up a magnifying glass to a candy wrapper and narrating deductions no one asked for.
“Did you know the first depiction of Sherlock Holmes wearing this hat was actually an illustrator’s choice?” he says to no one in particular. “Conan Doyle never–”
“Spencer,” Rossi interrupts, holding up a whiskey glass, “no one cares.”
“Classic Holmes,” JJ teases from the couch.
And then your gaze catches on the kitchen doorway–and that’s where you find her.
Emily’s leaning against the kitchen counter, one boot crossed over the other, wearing black jeans, a leather jacket, and a pointed witch hat perched just crooked enough to look intentional. A T-shirt beneath the jacket reads “Hex and the City.”
It’s simple. Effortless. Very her.
And, somehow, it makes your stomach swoop harder than any elaborate costume could.
She looks up mid-sip of her drink, and when she sees you, a slow grin spreads across her face. “Well, well,” she drawls, pushing off the counter. “Look who floated in on a gust of enchanted wind.”
“Didn’t realize the bad witches were allowed at FBI parties,” you tease, nodding at her hat.
“Hey,” she says, hand over her heart in mock offense, “I worked hard on this. Took me minutes.”
“Clearly. The shirt really ties it all together.”
“Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Tinkerbell.”
Before you can think of something clever enough to top that, Garcia claps her hands and the room collectively groans — which can only mean one thing.
“Costumes? Perfect. Snacks? Devoured. Drinks? Dangerous,” she announces, producing a small plastic cauldron from somewhere under her sequined shawl. “And now… it’s time for the main event.”
“Oh god,” Emily mutters, but she’s smiling.
“I present to you…” Garcia pauses for dramatic effect. “Halloween Truth or Dare.”
There’s a collective mixture of groans, sighs, and stifled laughter from the rest of the team — the kind that says we’ve done this before and we’ll complain about it every single time but we’re still going to play. Garcia is already ushering everyone into the living room, herding you toward the circle forming on the floor like an overexcited game-show host.
“Sit, sit, sit! Spirits don’t summon themselves,” she insists, waiving the cauldron around.
JJ flops onto a throw pillow with a dramatic sigh. “Last time we did this I had to prank-call Strauss.”
“And you’re still alive to tell the tale,” Garcia says, dropping cross-legged into the circle’s center. “So clearly, my games only make us stronger.”
Rossi snorts, nursing his whiskey as he settles in. “Or drunker.”
“Both!” she chirps.
The first few rounds are harmless chaos — the kind of ridiculousness that only gets funnier with sugar and alcohol humming in everyone’s blood. Spencer picks truth and ends up explaining, in way too much detail, how he once tried to join a séance at sixteen because he wanted to prove ghosts weren’t real. JJ gets dared to bob for candy corn in the punch bowl. Rossi is forced to recite The Raven in a dramatic Italian accent (and honestly? He commits).
By the time it’s Hotch’s turn, even he’s got a faint smile tugging at his mouth — though he firmly chooses truth and promptly refuses to answer Garcia’s nosy question about his “celebrity crush.”
“Coward,” she declares, refilling her glass.
The dares escalate in absurdity as the night wears on.
When the cauldron lands on JJ, she looks around at everyone before settling her eyes on you. Her grin turns sly — the kind of grin that says she knows something you don’t want her to.
“So,” she says, stretching out the word like taffy, “truth or dare?”
You hesitate. “...Truth.”
“Perfect.” She leans forward, chin in her hand, eyes glinting. “Who do you have a crush on?”
The room collectively oohs.
Your brain short-circuits. The punch in your hand suddenly tastes way too strong, and you nearly choke on a laugh. “Wow, going straight for the jugular,” you manage, your voice much higher than usual.
She just smirks. “Answer the question.”
You wave her off with a flutter of your glitter-dusted hand. “Please. I don’t have a crush. I’m an adult. Adults don’t have crushes — we have taxes, emotional repression, and lower back pain.”
That earns a ripple of laughter around the circle, but Spencer, of course, scoffs. “Right,” he says sarcastically. “Nothing says maturity quite like this.”
You roll your eyes, but it doesn’t help the fact that your cheeks are on fire. It doesn’t help that when you glance up — trying to redirect the conversation with a well-timed smirk — you find Emily looking at you.
Her expression isn’t teasing, exactly. There’s a flicker of amusement there, sure, the ghost of a smile playing on her lips — but her eyes are dark, unreadable, curious in a way that makes your heart skip an entire measure.
And that look — that quiet, steady look — makes your throat close up.
You can’t tell if she’s amused by your answer or dissecting it like a riddle, but either way, your pulse is suddenly far too loud in your ears.
You clear your throat, forcing a laugh that feels half a second too late. “Anyway! Moving on before I’m peer-pressured into therapy.”
Leaning forward, you grab the edge of the little plastic cauldron in the center of the circle and give it a dramatic spin.
Everyone watches as the cauldron spins, slower, slower, until finally it clatters to a stop — its crooked handle pointing to Morgan.
There’s already a wicked gleam in his eye. “All right, genius,” he says, leaning back against the couch, “truth or dare?”
“Dare,” Spencer replies immediately, chin tilting up a little. He’s nothing if not confident.
Morgan’s grin widens. “I dare you to summon a ghost.”
Spencer blinks. “I’m sorry… what?”
“You heard the man,” JJ says, already grinning. “Let’s see if we can get a real Halloween show going.”
Spencer sighs, long-suffering. “There’s no scientific basis—”
“—for fun, we know,” Garcia cuts in, producing a dusty-looking Ouija board from under the coffee table with an almost suspicious level of readiness. “Lucky for you, Doctor Doom-and-Gloom, we’re about to fix that.”
Within minutes, the coffee table is cleared, the board is set, and the lights are dimmed just enough to make the flickering candles feel dramatic. The entire team — minus Hotch, who’s standing back with his arms folded and the exact expression of a man trying not to roll his eyes — crouches around the board.
“Everyone on the planchette,” Garcia instructs, clapping her hands. “The more souls, the stronger the signal!”
JJ and Rossi exchange a look but comply. Spencer hesitates, muttering about ideomotor responses and subconscious micro-movements, but eventually sets his fingertips down too. Emily slides in beside you, her shoulder brushing yours as she reaches forward. Hotch shakes his head, but he's smiling even as he sits out.
“Okay,” Garcia whispers, voice dipped in theatrics. “Spirits of the great beyond… if you can hear us… give us a sign.”
Nothing happens. A few seconds pass. Rossi snorts. “Guess they’re busy.”
“Shhh,” JJ hisses. “You’re gonna scare them off.”
“Scare them off?” Rossi raises an eyebrow. “They’re dead.”
“Focus,” Garcia says dramatically. “We call upon you, oh spirits. Speak!”
And then — the tiniest twitch.
It’s barely there, just a small tremor under all your fingers, but it’s enough to make JJ gasp and Spencer freeze mid-breath.
“Who did that?” he demands, eyes darting around.
“No one,” JJ says, too quickly.
“Not me,” Morgan insists.
You hold up your free hand. “I swear.”
Emily’s fingers stay where they are, warm against the wood. “Maybe the dead are just fans of our work,” she murmurs.
“Absolutely not,” Spencer says. “The ideomotor effect is well-documented and any movement of the planchette is simply subconscious movement caused by motor neurons reacting without intentional input—”
Spencer’s monologue cuts off mid-sentence as the planchette jerks sharply to the left. Every pair of eyes follows it as it glides across the board with unnerving purpose, stopping dead beneath a single letter.
W.
“Who moved it?” he demands, scanning the circle.
No one answers.
The planchette twitches again.
I.
“Someone’s pushing it,” Spencer insists, though his voice has lost some of its usual certainty.
T.
C.
H.
“W-I-T-C-H,” JJ reads, grinning. “Witch.”
All eyes swing — almost comically in sync — toward Emily. She’s sitting cross-legged beside you, witch hat still perched proudly on her head, one eyebrow raised.
“Oh, very funny,” she says dryly. “Ghosts with a sense of humor. That’s new.”
“Maybe they’re just observant,” Morgan teases. “Clearly they’re talking about you.”
Emily flicks the brim of her hat with mock offense. “I’ll have you know this was a last-minute accessory.”
“Sure, sure,” Rossi smirks. “The spirits see everything, Prentiss.”
Spencer frowns, unconvinced. “It’s obviously a coincidence. Someone intentionally steered it toward that word.”
Garcia, positively glowing with glee, leans forward until her bangles clink. “Well then, if the spirits aren’t messing with us, maybe they have more to say. Ask what they mean, Spence.”
“No.”
“Yes,” the entire room echoes.
Spencer exhales a long, tortured sigh — the kind that says he’s already regretting every life choice that led him here. “Fine.” He leans a little closer to the board. “What did you mean by ‘witch’?”
The planchette sits still for a breath. Then—
C.
R.
“Coincidence,” Spencer mutters. “Totally random.”
U.
“Sure it is,” Morgan says, grinning. “Keep spelling, Casper.”
S.
H.
“Crush?” JJ reads, her grin stretching wide enough to show teeth. “Oh, this ghost came for the gossip.”
The room dissolves into chaos — laughter, teasing, half-shocked oh-my-gods. Even Rossi chuckles, shaking his head.
“Looks like the afterlife’s a fan of drama,” he says.
Emily exhales through her nose, trying and failing to hide a smile. “Of course,” she deadpans, lifting her glass. “Haunted by middle school energy. Just my luck.”
“Don’t look so calm, witchy,” Morgan teases. “Maybe the spirit’s outing you.”
“Please,” Emily says, rolling her eyes — but there’s a faint, unmistakable pink creeping into her cheeks.
Garcia gasps like she’s witnessing a soap opera twist. “Oh my god, are you blushing?”
“Absolutely not.”
“You totally are!”
“I’m absolutely not,” Emily repeats, but her grin betrays her. She shakes her head, turning toward the Ouija board with mock solemnity. “All right, spirit, you’ve had your fun. Go bother someone else.”
Garcia leans dramatically over the board, moving the planchette toward Goodbye with a flourish. “Farewell, mysterious matchmaker. May your eternal rest be as spicy as your gossip.”
You’re still laughing when she straightens and points a glitter-painted fingernail toward Spencer. “All right, Dr. Skeptic, since the dead clearly love your company, it’s your turn. Spin the cauldron.”
Spencer groans but obeys, giving the tiny orange cauldron a resigned spin. It rattles over the table, scattering a few candy wrappers before clattering to a stop—its crooked handle pointing straight at Garcia.
The group erupts into a collective “ooooh,” like an audience sensing blood in the water.
Garcia clasps her hands together and bats her lashes innocently. “Well, what can I say? The spirits choose their favorite vessel.”
“Which means trouble,” Rossi mutters.
“Always,” JJ agrees.
You can practically feel Emily tense beside you — the same subtle shift you always notice before a big reveal, before a Garcia-style bomb drops into the conversation.
Because when Penelope Garcia smiles like that—
you know chaos is coming.
Garcia leans forward, elbows on her knees, grinning like she’s about to reveal state secrets. “All right, my dark queen,” she says, “truth or dare?”
Emily smirks, one brow arched. “Dare. Obviously.”
“Excellent,” Garcia purrs. “Because the spirits just told us you have a crush—” she gestures grandly toward the abandoned Ouija board “—and I, as their mortal mouthpiece, must demand satisfaction.”
Rossi groans. “Garcia…”
“Oh, hush,” she waves him off, eyes glittering with glee. “My dare, dear Emily, is this: kiss your crush. Right here. Right now. In the name of the restless dead and good entertainment.”
You laugh, half-expecting Emily to roll her eyes, make some witty quip about workplace harassment, and redirect the joke like you did earlier.
But she doesn’t.
She just… pauses. Head tilted slightly, that confident little smirk fading into something quieter.
For a heartbeat, you think she’s stalling—buying time for a clever retort. Then she turns.
Toward you.
The laughter around you fades to a low hum, like someone’s turned down the world’s volume. Emily’s gaze meets yours, steady and unreadable at first, then softening—warm, careful, a little nervous beneath the confidence she wears so well.
“Oh,” you breathe, before you can stop yourself.
Emily shifts closer, one hand bracing on the floor beside you, the other hovering for a moment—giving you every chance to pull away. When you don’t, she leans in.
The kiss isn’t loud or dramatic. It’s soft. Warm. Gentle enough to make your pulse stutter. There’s laughter still in it, a hint of mischief at the corners, but beneath it—something real.
When she finally pulls back, the room erupts in cheers and wolf-whistles, but Emily just keeps her gaze on you. There’s color in her cheeks now, and the smallest, smug smile tugging at her mouth.
“Guess the ghosts were right,” she murmurs.
Garcia fans herself with a napkin. “Ladies and gentlemen, the undead have spoken!”
You’re too busy trying to remember how breathing works to reply, though your grin probably gives you away.
Emily leans back, composure slipping into something softer. “You okay?” she asks quietly, so only you can hear.
“Yeah,” you whisper, still dazed. “Just… haunted, apparently.”
Her laugh is low, warm, and completely unfair. “Good.”
