[thoughtcascades]

sometimes it feels less like “living” and more like “continuing”

[the-wolf-and-moon]

Jupiter Ascending

[theofficialastronomy101]

[zoe-darleen]

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.

Hard.

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?"

"You heard 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.

"I think I know you."

Emily froze at that.

And there it was.

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.

Then another.

"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.

But then you did.

Hand on her wrist. Just that. Gentle. But claiming.

Emily’s lip trembled.

You tilted your head. "You’re shaking."

"Fuck you," she whispered.

"You wish."

That did it.

She shoved you.

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.

"You’re caving."

And god — she was.

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.

"Say it," you said.

"What?"

"That you want me to take control."

Emily bit her lip. And nodded.

It didn’t stop with the kiss.

Not even close.

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.

"You want me to stop?"

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.

She blinked. "What?"

"Turn around, Emily."

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.

"I know."

Your hands slipped lower, framing her hips.

"Then why are you still here?" she asked.

"Because you didn’t ask me to leave."

Silence.

Then:

"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.

You made her want to.

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.

Again.

And again.

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.

And it was enough.

[zoe-darleen]

Behind Closed Doors

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

you didn’t mean to stay late. emily didn’t mean to snap. but when sharp words turn into sharper truths, neither of you can keep pretending. one jealous outburst. one kiss that changes everything. and maybe… maybe something more.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimer and possible tw: anger

It started like it always did — too late, too quiet, too much tension strung across the fluorescent hum of Emily Prentiss’s office.

You hadn’t meant to linger. The rest of the BAU had already peeled off hours ago, swallowed by the promise of sleep or whiskey or both. But Emily had stayed. And you’d stayed because she did. Which might’ve been a mistake.

Now you were sitting on the edge of her desk, flipping through a half-empty case file just to have something to do with your hands. Emily was behind her desk, posture too perfect, jaw too tight, like she was barely holding something back. The room wasn’t cold, but you felt like you were freezing under her silence.

"I didn’t ask you to stay," she said finally, without looking up.

You closed the file, slowly. "Didn’t say you did."

Emily’s eyes lifted to yours — dark, unreadable.

That was when it started.

"Then why are you still here?" she asked, her tone already on edge, like every word was a lit match.

You blinked. "You okay?"

That was apparently the wrong thing to say.

"Do I look okay?" she snapped.

You straightened a little. "You look like someone who’s about five seconds away from kicking me out."

"Maybe I should."

You raised an eyebrow. "Then say it."

Emily stood suddenly — chair pushing back with a groan against the floor. She leaned forward, hands planted on the desk, eyes sharp. "God, do you ever stop—"

You tilted your head. "What, existing near you?"

She flinched. Just barely. But it was enough.

"I don’t need you hovering every time I work late," she said tightly.

"And yet here we are."

"Because you don’t know when to back off."

You stood now too. "Maybe I’d back off if I knew what I was walking into."

Emily rounded the desk fast. The distance between you evaporated like breath on glass.

"I don’t need you waiting for me like some—some eager little—"

You stared at her. "Some what?"

Her mouth opened — then closed.

You waited.

She swallowed hard. "Like someone who doesn’t know when I’ve already made myself clear."

"You haven’t said anything."

"I’ve said enough."

"No," you said. "You haven’t said anything real."

She looked like she wanted to scream. Or kiss you. Maybe both.

And then—

"Do you want to know why I’m like this?" she snapped, voice shaking. "Why I keep snapping? Why I can’t stand you hovering?"

You didn’t breathe.

"It’s because I can’t focus when you’re around," she said. "Because you walk in here all—careless and kind and warm and I—"

She stopped. A beat passed.

Her voice dropped.

"Because I like you," she said. "And it’s fucking with my head."

Silence collapsed between you.

Your breath caught. Hers did too.

"I shouldn’t," she added. "You’re under my command, we work together, I should know better—"

"You like me?" you said, almost too soft to hear.

Emily scoffed, eyes glittering. "God, don’t make me say it again."

"Why not?"

"Because I’m barely keeping myself from doing something stupid."

You stepped closer. "Like what?"

Emily’s jaw clenched. Her hands curled into fists. "Like touching you."

Your chest ached.

"I’m not going anywhere," you said.

She exhaled hard — ragged.

And then—

"Fuck it," she whispered.

She grabbed your wrist and pulled.

Your back hit the wall before you could blink. Emily’s hand was braced beside your head, her breath hot on your cheek, her other hand gripping your hip like it anchored her to the moment.

Her lips hovered over yours.

"Tell me to stop," she whispered. "Because I won’t if you don’t."

You shook your head.

Her mouth found yours.

And it was not gentle.

Emily kissed like she was drowning — like you were the first breath she’d had in weeks. Her mouth was hot, insistent, her fingers curling around the back of your neck to pull you in deeper, tighter, until your knees almost buckled.

You gasped against her. "Em—"

She didn’t stop. Her hand slid up your side, under your shirt, trailing heat in her wake.

"Still want me to stop?" she whispered.

"No," you breathed.

"Good."

You were dizzy. Her control wasn’t rough — it was decisive. Grounded. Like she’d been holding herself back for so long, and now that she wasn’t, it all came flooding out in waves.

"You have no idea," she said into your skin, "how long I’ve wanted this."

You clung to her. "Then show me."

She did.

Her mouth traced your throat, teeth scraping your pulse point. Her hands explored with purpose — never greedy, never lost. Just claiming. Just certain.

And when you moaned — broken and breathless — Emily pulled back just enough to look at you.

Her eyes were soft now. Softer than they’d ever been.

"I didn’t want to feel this way," she admitted. "But you’ve made it impossible not to."

You reached up, fingers sliding into her hair. "You don’t have to pretend anymore."

Her mouth met yours again — slower now. Less fire. More ache.

When she finally guided you to the couch, it wasn’t to undress you. It was to sit. To hold. To breathe.

Emily sank down beside you, tugged you into her lap, arms wrapped around your waist like she couldn’t bear to let go.

Your head rested on her shoulder.

"I’m sorry I yelled," she murmured.

"You didn’t mean it."

"I meant all of it," she whispered. "That’s the problem."

You smiled into her collarbone. "Then we’ve got the same problem."

Her laugh was quiet. Tired. Real.

She kissed your temple.

And for once — in the mess of files, and rules, and everything unsaid — something made sense.

Her hand found yours. Laced fingers. A silent promise.

You stayed like that for a long time.

Wrapped in low lamplight, and warm breathing, and something brand new — but already felt like home.

a/n i feel like i’m about to run out of ideas !:,) any requests?

[zoe-darleen]

The Night Didn’t End, It Just Got Quieter

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x jennifer jareau / jj

jj texts her late. emily shows up anyway. the rain gets louder. so do the things they don’t say. wine, blankets, almosts. they wake up with coffee and something real.

⋆˚࿔ a/n: they are SO cute

The storm started around nine.

It was just a whisper at first—air thickening, clouds rolling in like an uninvited thought. But by the time Emily pulled up to JJ's place, the sky had cracked open like something furious, and rain hit the windshield in heavy, uneven sheets.

She didn't bring an umbrella. She also didn't turn the car off right away.

The dashboard glowed. The engine hummed. She sat there, staring at JJ's porch light through the blur of water, wondering if she was being stupid. This wasn't planned. JJ had texted her earlier with something like, "Weird night. You up?" and Emily hadn't thought twice before answering "Always."

Which wasn't true.

But she came anyway.

—

JJ opened the door in a hoodie and leggings, barefoot, blonde hair pulled back in a loose bun. She looked like someone trying to appear fine.

"You always knock like that?" she asked.

Emily looked down. Her knuckles were wet.

"I thought I was going to drown on your porch."

JJ stepped aside. "You could've texted."

"You said you were up."

"I didn't say I'd open the door for drowned rats."

Emily cracked a smile. "Too late now."

JJ's place was warm—small, lived-in. Blankets thrown across the couch, lights dim, candles burning low like the power might go out. The thunder rolled again, soft this time, but close. JJ flinched just a little. Barely noticeable.

Emily noticed.

—

JJ handed her a towel.

"You okay?" Emily asked, casually, like the question didn't mean anything.

JJ shrugged. "Storm just makes the house feel louder."

Emily didn't push it.

JJ disappeared into the kitchen, muttering something about wine. Emily shed her jacket, toed off her boots, and stood in the living room like she'd never been here before—even though she had.

Once.

Last fall. After a case that hit too hard. They hadn't even spoken much then. Just a movie, blankets, Emily falling asleep with JJ's shoulder against her own.

She remembered the exact shape of that silence.

JJ returned with two glasses and a bottle that didn't bother with labels.

"Red or... red?"

Emily took a glass. "Living dangerously."

JJ raised hers in mock salute. "Welcome to the danger zone."

They clinked.

—

It was easy at first.

They curled up on the couch like it was instinct—Emily's legs tucked under her, JJ wrapped in that god-awful plaid throw she refused to get rid of. They didn't talk about work. They didn't talk about Doyle. They didn't talk about the things Emily still dreamed about.

They talked about Garcia's new glasses, about Rossi dating someone with a yacht, about Henry's obsession with dinosaurs.

Every now and then, thunder cracked again, and JJ would stiffen just slightly, fingers tightening around her glass.

Emily pretended not to notice. Until she didn't.

"You alright?"

JJ tried to brush it off with a smile. "It's stupid."

"Try me."

JJ looked at her glass. "I've hated storms since I was a kid."

Emily nodded. "Not stupid."

"I know it's not real danger. It just... feels like it."

Emily didn't say anything. She just moved her hand—casual, quiet—and let her fingers brush against JJ's knee where the blanket had slipped. Just enough pressure to say I'm here. Nothing more.

JJ didn't pull away.

—

By the second glass of wine, the tension had changed.

It wasn't gone. It was just... different. Heavier. Quieter. The kind that sits under your ribs and makes you breathe differently.

Emily's arm was still pressed to JJ's. Their legs touched now—bare skin brushing every time someone shifted. No one moved too far. The wine bottle sat between them like a loaded question.

"You know," JJ said, voice lower, "you don't have to come running every time I text."

Emily didn't answer right away. She looked over. JJ's face was soft in the stormlight—shadowed, backlit by candles. Her expression unreadable.

"I don't mind running," Emily said.

JJ let out a breath that sounded more like a laugh.

"I just mean—" she started, but didn't finish.

Emily raised an eyebrow. "What?"

JJ shook her head. "You're hard to talk to sometimes."

Emily tilted her head. "That's rich coming from you."

JJ gave her a look—half annoyed, half amused—and pushed at her shoulder. Just a playful little nudge.

But her hand stayed there.

Resting on Emily's upper arm.

Neither of them commented on it.

—

Another thunderclap hit, louder this time. JJ visibly flinched.

Emily shifted. "Here," she said, already moving before she thought too hard about it.

She pulled JJ in gently, letting her lean against her chest, arm wrapped around her shoulders. It wasn't planned. It just was.

JJ didn't resist.

In fact—she melted into it.

Emily could feel her heartbeat, fast and real under the sweatshirt. Could smell her shampoo. Could feel JJ's breath where it hit her collarbone. JJ was curled into her like this had happened a hundred times before. But it hadn't.

Not once.

"You okay?" Emily murmured.

JJ nodded against her. "You're warm."

Emily smiled into her hair. "Don't tell anyone."

JJ didn't move. "I won't if you don't."

And then she laughed—quiet, soft, a little shaky.

Emily felt her chest twist.

She didn't say anything else.

But she didn't let go either.

—

They stayed like that for longer than either of them realized.

Maybe it was the wine. Maybe it was the storm. Maybe it was years of almosts finally pushing forward like the rain pressing against the windows.

But then Emily shifted again. Not away—toward. Just slightly. Just enough.

Her hand brushed along JJ's side, fingers slipping under the hem of the sweatshirt without really meaning to. Warm skin. A breath caught.

JJ looked up.

And for the first time all night, the silence between them wasn't soft. It was charged.

Emily blinked, caught mid-movement.

"Sorry," she said, barely audible.

JJ didn't say anything. Just held her gaze.

Then she whispered, "You don't have to be."

Emily didn't move—not yet. The moment hung there, like a single held note. JJ was so close. Her breath was warm. Her mouth was parted just slightly. All it would take was one more inch. One choice.

But then JJ's phone buzzed.

Loud. Shrill. Ugly against the quiet of the moment.

She jumped, startled, pulling back just a fraction as thunder cracked again outside.

Emily exhaled, slow.

JJ fumbled for her phone and blinked down at the screen. "It's Garcia."

Emily didn't say anything. She just leaned back on the couch, hands falling into her lap like she needed somewhere to put the tension.

JJ answered with a voice that was far too casual. "Hey, Pen."

On speaker.

"Jayje," Garcia chirped. "Hi. Okay, sorry, I know it's late—but are you alive? You sent me one weird text earlier and then fell off the map. I was about two minutes from hacking a security cam."

"I'm fine. Just... home."

"Alone?"

JJ glanced at Emily, whose mouth quirked just slightly.

"Yes."

Garcia paused. "Are you lying?"

Emily grabbed her wine glass. JJ kicked her shin under the blanket.

"I'm fine, Penelope."

"Okay, okay. Just checking. But if you are doing anything fun, please, I beg you—hydrate. Stretch. Pace yourselves."

JJ groaned. "Goodnight, Garcia."

"Nighty-night, my suspiciously cagey blonde."

The call ended.

Silence again.

Emily raised her glass. "That was subtle."

JJ laughed, still flushed. "She knows everything."

Emily smiled, but her eyes didn't leave her. "Does she know you flinch every time it thunders?"

JJ looked away, just for a second. "Maybe."

Emily stood up slowly, stretching. Her shirt rode up just slightly, and JJ definitely looked. She tried not to.

"You want something warm?" Emily asked. "Tea?"

JJ blinked. "You make tea?"

"No. But I know where you keep it."

JJ followed her to the kitchen.

⸻

The kitchen was narrow and dimly lit, soft yellow light under the cabinets glowing like something from a dream. The storm still rumbled low outside, but here—everything felt like it had stilled.

JJ leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching Emily fumble through a cupboard.

"You've been here once and you still know where everything is?"

Emily glanced over her shoulder. "I remember things."

JJ smiled. "So do I."

That made Emily turn.

The tea forgotten.

JJ didn't move. She was still leaning against the counter, eyes unreadable but bright. Her voice was quieter now.

"You were going to kiss me earlier."

Emily stepped forward, slowly.

JJ's arms dropped to her sides.

"I still could," Emily said, voice low.

JJ's breath caught. "Yeah?"

Emily nodded once.

And this time—this time JJ met her halfway.

The kiss wasn't tentative. It wasn't soft.

It was everything they'd been trying not to say.

JJ's hands found Emily's waist. Emily pushed her gently back into the counter, her palms bracing against it on either side of JJ's hips. Their mouths moved in tandem—hungry, slow, real. JJ gasped when Emily tilted her head and deepened the kiss, her fingers digging into Emily's shirt like she was afraid she might disappear.

They kissed like people who knew each other too well.

Who had waited too long.

Emily pulled back for half a second just to look at her—eyes half-lidded, lips pink and parted, breathing uneven.

JJ whispered, "Don't stop."

Emily kissed her again.

They shifted—sideways, laughing into each other's mouths when JJ bumped the drawer handle with her hip. JJ tugged Emily closer, wrapping an arm around her neck, her other hand sliding up into her hair. The kiss turned messier, deeper, edged with all the wanting they hadn't named.

Emily pressed her hand to JJ's side—just under the hem of the sweatshirt again—and this time, JJ didn't flinch. She arched into it.

Thunder cracked. JJ stilled for a second.

Emily pulled back just enough to murmur, "I'm here."

JJ nodded. Her voice broke when she whispered, "I know."

Emily kissed her cheek. Her jaw. Her mouth again.

And this time, JJ didn't hold anything back.

They stayed like that for what felt like forever—pressed together in the glow of a too-small kitchen, mouths finding each other again and again like they were afraid to stop.

And maybe they were.

—

Eventually, Emily rested her forehead against JJ's, both of them flushed and breathless and still holding on.

"I don't want this to be a one-night thing," Emily said quietly.

JJ's eyes flickered open. "It's not."

Emily smiled. "Okay."

JJ smiled back, fingers still tangled in her shirt. "You're still making tea, though."

Emily laughed. "I forgot the kettle."

"You were distracted."

"Yeah," Emily said. "I was."

And then, because she couldn't help herself—she kissed her one more time.

Slower now.

Surer.

Because now, finally... they both knew.

—

The storm was gone by morning.

Not all the way—just faded. Like a voice in the next room. The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving everything damp and quiet, the kind of soft grey light that made the world feel slower.

Emily woke up to the smell of coffee.

She was alone on the couch. Barely. Her sweatshirt was rumpled. The blanket that had been draped over JJ's shoulders last night was now half on the floor, half wrapped around her legs. Her neck ached in the good kind of way.

Voices in her head murmured things like What did we just do?

But louder than that was: Thank god we finally did.

She sat up, ran a hand through her hair, and stood. Her socks slipped on the hardwood a little, and when she padded into the kitchen, JJ was there—back to her, hair wet, a different hoodie now, humming softly as she poured two mugs.

Emily leaned against the doorframe.

"You always make coffee like this for your guests?"

JJ glanced over her shoulder, startled—then smirked. "Only the ones who sleep on my couch after making out with me in the kitchen."

Emily grinned, stepping in closer. "Good to know."

JJ slid her a mug. "Still warm."

Emily took it, their fingers brushing. Too long to be accidental.

JJ didn't pull away.

Neither did Emily.

For a minute, they stood like that—mugs in hand, barely touching, soft light painting shadows over everything. Neither of them was fully awake. But it didn't matter.

"You okay?" JJ asked eventually, her voice lower now.

Emily looked at her over the rim of her mug. "Better than okay."

JJ gave her a small smile. "Me too."

A pause.

"You stayed," JJ added.

"You didn't ask me to leave."

"I didn't want to."

Emily nodded once. "Then I won't."

They sat at the table, legs brushing. Quiet filled the space between their words, but it was the good kind now. Full of possibility.

"I'm scared," JJ said after a while.

Emily looked up. "Of this?"

"No. Of me. Of what I do when I'm scared."

Emily reached across the table, covered her hand. "Then we take it slow. Okay?"

JJ met her eyes.

"Okay."

They both smiled.

And just like that—it wasn't a maybe anymore.

It was something.

And it had already started.

[zoe-darleen]

All Night to Fall

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x jennifer jareau / jj

they weren’t supposed to end up on jj’s living room floor at 4am, tangled in silence and tequila. but maybe this night—club lights, soft confessions, the space between almosts—was always meant to happen. emily kisses her first. jj kisses her back harder. some things take time. this one takes all night.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimer and possible tw: mention of alcohol and intimacy

The bass hit like a heartbeat.

It pulsed through the floor, through the soles of Emily's boots, up her spine and into her chest like it belonged there. The club was packed, smoke and glitter moving in tandem with the rhythm. Bodies pressed close. Lights swung low. And in the middle of it all was JJ, laughing.

Garcia had picked the place—something retro and chaotic, half-rainbow half-industrial—and of course she'd dragged Morgan with her. JJ had been an easy yes. Emily... not so much. But there she was, standing at the edge of their booth, her drink sweating in her hand and her eyes trailing too often to blonde hair and denim and that smile JJ got when she was two drinks in and just starting to sway with the music.

"What's that look for?" Garcia asked, appearing like a glitter-drenched ghost at Emily's elbow. Her curls bounced like confetti. She was halfway through a neon cocktail and fully invested in everyone's secrets.

Emily didn't look away. "No look."

"Right." Garcia grinned. "You forget who you're talking to, sweet thing?"

"Pretty sure that's my nickname," Morgan said, slipping in with tequila shots balanced like promises on a tray. "Drink up, Prentiss. You're still too sober."

Garcia took a shot. "She's not sober. She's pining."

Emily rolled her eyes but smiled. It was easier than admitting anything.

JJ turned just then, her eyes catching Emily's over the lip of her glass, and she smiled. Not wide. Not for show. Just soft. Familiar. Like they were the only two people in the room who got the same joke. It hit Emily right behind the ribs.

She looked away too slow to be casual.

—

The first dance didn't mean anything. That's what Emily told herself.

Garcia had insisted on getting everyone up—dragged JJ by the wrist, grabbed Morgan's tie, winked at Emily—and they all found themselves in the neon haze, hips moving, arms raised. JJ laughed as Morgan spun her, the tips of her hair brushing Emily's shoulder when she stumbled back.

"I hate you for how good you look doing this," JJ shouted over the music.

Emily smiled crookedly. "You should see me with backup dancers."

And then JJ was dancing with her.

It wasn't planned. Maybe that was the problem. She just turned, grinned, stepped into Emily's space and never left it again. Hands grazing arms. Shoulders brushing. Their drinks long forgotten somewhere in the dark.

"You smell like my perfume," JJ murmured at one point, too close to Emily's ear.

Emily blinked. "What?"

JJ just laughed. "Nothing. Just... déjà vu."

Emily's heart kicked.

—

They staggered back to the booth with another round and a plate of fries someone definitely didn't order. Garcia was in Morgan's lap, stealing the food. JJ dropped down beside Emily, leg pressed to hers. Close. Closer than before.

"Are you having fun?" JJ asked, eyes glassy with alcohol and joy.

"I am now."

JJ smiled again. It was dangerous. The kind that said I know you and I see you, and maybe even I want you too, but Emily didn't trust herself to believe it.

"Why do you look like you're thinking too hard?" JJ teased.

"Why do you look like you're not thinking at all?"

JJ leaned in. "Because for once... I'm trying not to."

Her breath smelled like lime and salt. Her gaze dropped to Emily's mouth for half a second—long enough to be real—and then Garcia launched into a story about someone at Quantico mislabeling evidence boxes and the moment shattered like a disco ball dropped on tile.

But Emily didn't move. Neither did JJ. They just sat there, thigh to thigh, quiet amid the chaos. Letting the beat smooth over everything unspoken.

—

Sometime after two, the booth emptied.

Morgan left with a girl whose name he didn't quite remember. Garcia got a call from her cab and took three fries for the road. That left JJ and Emily, still there, drinks abandoned, shoulders pressed.

JJ rested her chin on her hand and looked sideways at her. "You could stay."

Emily's brows rose. "At the bar?"

"At my place."

The air shifted. Not sharp. Just... deeper.

"I mean," JJ added, "you've had a few. And it's closer. And we haven't done this in forever."

Emily tilted her head. "You and me, drunk at your place?"

JJ smirked. "Come on. I make a mean grilled cheese."

Emily's lips twitched. "That all you make when you invite girls over?"

JJ paused, then laughed—light, reckless, maybe a little daring. "You'll just have to find out."

—

"Come on," JJ said, dragging her jacket off one arm and fishing in her bag for keys. "You look like you're two shots away from philosophizing about how fluorescent lighting represents the collapse of society. Let's go."

Emily snorted. "It does. But fine."

Outside, the street was quiet in the way cities only get after 2AM—hushed but alive, glowing from streetlamps and the last heartbeat of nightlife. JJ's car wasn't far. She tossed her bag into the back, turned up a song Emily half-recognized, and leaned her elbow on the center console like she owned the night.

"You good?" JJ asked.

Emily nodded, still watching her. "Are you good?"

JJ smiled with just one corner of her mouth. "I'm tipsy, I'm off duty, and I'm taking home one of the most terrifyingly composed women in the FBI. So yeah. I'm doing alright."

Emily blinked. "Terrifyingly composed?"

"You carry three knives, Emily."

"Only two on weekends."

JJ laughed, turned the music up, and pulled into the street.

—

JJ's apartment was quiet, cozy, and full of half-forgotten warmth—throw blankets, candles with wax melted down the sides, and a dying bouquet in a chipped vase. She kicked off her shoes by the door and tossed her keys in a little ceramic dish shaped like a cat. Emily followed with slightly more caution, the tequila still humming in her blood.

JJ turned around. "Okay. House rules."

Emily raised an eyebrow. "You have rules?"

"Just one," JJ said. "No weird FBI talk. This place is a crime-free zone tonight."

Emily smirked. "Noted. What's the punishment?"

JJ walked toward the kitchen, her voice floating over her shoulder. "You'll find out."

That shouldn't have made Emily's stomach flip, but it did.

—

They ended up on the floor.

Not in a tragic, passed-out way, but on the soft living room rug with two mismatched mugs and a bottle of something JJ had found in the back of her freezer. The music was low now—an old playlist of Garcia's, all synths and soul. JJ sat cross-legged, her knees brushing Emily's. The buzz between them hadn't faded. If anything, it had settled in—quieter, steadier. Like the room had made space for it.

JJ poured a little more into each cup. "Drinking game?"

Emily tilted her head. "What are we, sixteen?"

JJ shrugged. "No, but I feel like asking you normal questions is too boring. I want the truth. And I want to see if you can handle it."

Emily narrowed her eyes playfully. "Truth or drink?"

"Exactly."

She leaned forward, blond hair slipping loose from behind her ears, and looked Emily right in the eye. "Okay. First question. Have you ever kissed someone at Quantico?"

Emily blinked. "That's the first question?"

JJ grinned. "You could drink."

Emily narrowed her eyes, then reached for her mug.

JJ gasped. "You have."

Emily took a slow sip. "You didn't say I had to answer."

JJ laughed, loud and delighted. "Oh this is gonna be fun."

—

They played for hours.

JJ asked if Emily had ever slept with someone twice her age. Emily asked if JJ had ever gotten flustered on purpose to manipulate someone. JJ blushed. Emily raised an eyebrow.

They both drank when the questions got too close.

"You're very hard to read, you know that?" JJ said at one point, her head tilted back against the couch, one leg stretched toward Emily's. Her foot bumped against Emily's ankle and didn't move.

Emily shrugged. "I don't like being obvious."

"Shame," JJ murmured. "I think I'd like it."

That made the silence shift.

Emily didn't answer. She just took another drink.

JJ noticed.

—

Somewhere around 4AM, the bottle was nearly empty. JJ had migrated onto her side, lying on the rug like she lived there, cheek against her folded arm. Emily sat beside her, cross-legged, her thigh warm against JJ's hip.

"Okay," JJ mumbled. "Last one."

Emily looked down at her. "Yeah?"

JJ reached up and flicked Emily's knee with one finger. "You have to answer this one."

"Or?"

JJ yawned. "Or I tell Garcia you cried watching The Notebook."

Emily leaned down, nose almost brushing JJ's. "That's not true."

"I said what I said." JJ grinned, too lazy to sit up.

Emily's voice dropped. "What's the question?"

JJ blinked slowly. "Have you ever wanted something... you shouldn't?"

That landed.

Harder than either of them expected.

The air pulled taut, like something might snap.

Emily didn't speak for a long moment. The clock ticked. The city buzzed beyond the windows. JJ watched her, half-lidded and very still.

Then Emily said, quietly, "Yes."

JJ's eyes softened. "Are you gonna tell me what it was?"

Emily met her gaze, no smile now. Just honest.

"Still deciding."

—

Neither of them moved.

Not even when the song shifted. Not when the fridge hummed to life. They just sat like that—Emily upright, JJ curled next to her, both still and waiting.

It would've been so easy to lean down. Just a few inches. Emily could feel JJ's breath on her knee. She could taste the tension. And still—she didn't move.

JJ blinked slowly. "You're thinking too hard again."

Emily smirked, just barely. "That obvious?"

JJ sat up, slowly, her face inches from Emily's now. Her hand brushed Emily's wrist—barely there, but enough.

"You don't always have to think," she whispered.

Emily looked at her, and for one dangerous second, she almost leaned in. Almost. But she stopped, because if she kissed her now, it would mean something. Something big. Something real.

And that... that deserved a little more time.

—

The lights were dim in JJ's kitchen. Just the warm underglow from the cabinets and the open fridge casting a low, blue wash across the room. Emily leaned against the counter, still half-smiling at nothing, the edge of a mug clutched in her hands like it was a lifeline.

JJ padded in barefoot, oversized tee hanging off one shoulder, holding two very tragic grilled cheeses on a chipped plate.

"This is a disaster," she muttered.

Emily looked up. "You made them with love."

"I made them with tequila."

"Same difference."

JJ laughed, set the plate down, and took the stool across from her. She sat with one knee up, hair falling forward, and picked at the crust like it might tell her something. Emily watched her for a long second—so long that JJ felt it.

"What?" she asked, soft.

"You're not what people think."

JJ raised an eyebrow, suspicious but amused. "What do people think?"

Emily took a sip of her water—stalling. "That you've got it all figured out."

JJ smiled without joy. "I've heard that before."

"And?"

"And it's bullshit."

She bit into the sandwich, chewed, swallowed, then added: "You don't have to have it figured out. You just have to make sure no one sees the cracks."

Emily hummed. "That's what you do."

JJ looked up, something flickering in her expression. "Not with you."

That made Emily go still.

"Not always, anyway," JJ said, quieter now. "You kind of... see through it. Even when I don't want you to."

Emily didn't answer right away. She looked down at her cup, then at JJ, and her voice was lower when she said, "You do the same to me."

JJ's gaze flicked to her lips and back.

"I notice things," she said.

"Like what?"

"Like the way your voice drops when you're uncomfortable. Or how you always stand with your back to the wall when we're out. Like you don't want anyone behind you."

Emily swallowed. "It's a habit."

"I know," JJ said. "I still notice."

The silence wrapped around them again. Thick. Charged. But neither of them ran from it now.

—

They ended up back in the living room, lights still low, the night stretching long and slow around them.

JJ sat with her back against the couch this time, her hands around her knees, head tilted. Emily lay on her side across the rug, fingers playing with the edge of a throw pillow. The bottle was forgotten now. It wasn't that kind of buzz anymore.

"I didn't plan on this," JJ said after a long quiet.

Emily blinked. "Plan on what?"

"This night. You staying. Us talking like this. Feeling like this."

Emily looked at her. Really looked.

"Is that a bad thing?"

JJ shook her head. "No. Just unexpected."

A pause.

"And kind of terrifying."

Emily propped herself up on one elbow. "Because?"

"Because it feels like I've been waiting for this and I didn't even know it."

Emily's breath caught. JJ saw it.

—

"I keep thinking," JJ said, "about the first time we met. That first week you joined the team."

Emily smiled. "When Hotch made me sit in that freezing cold conference room for hours because the printer jammed?"

JJ laughed. "No. After that. That night we all went out and you pretended you didn't like beer."

Emily smirked. "I don't like beer."

"You drank mine anyway."

"You dared me."

JJ tilted her head. "You still took the dare."

Emily looked at her for a beat too long. "You were hard to say no to."

JJ went still.

The moment held. Then Emily sat up, slowly, legs crossed like before, facing JJ full on now.

"Can I tell you something?" she asked.

JJ nodded.

Emily took a breath. "Sometimes I stop myself from looking at you."

JJ's eyes flickered.

"Because if I let myself really look," Emily said, "I think it'd be too obvious."

A breath. A beat. A shared stillness.

And then JJ whispered, "Look now."

Emily's stomach twisted—tight, electric—but she did.

She looked.

She let her eyes wander from JJ's hair, slightly tangled from the couch, to the bare curve of her shoulder where the shirt had slipped, to the little crease between her brows she only got when she was thinking too hard. And then to her eyes. Bright. Blue. Open.

It was too much. And not enough.

"I don't want to ruin anything," Emily said, voice barely above a whisper.

JJ smiled. "Then don't ruin it. Just... be here."

Emily reached out, fingertips grazing JJ's wrist. JJ didn't flinch. She leaned in.

For a second—just one—Emily thought this is it.

But then JJ said, voice breathy and almost afraid, "Can I ask you something now?"

Emily nodded.

"Did you ever think," JJ said, "that maybe we were just waiting for the right night?"

Emily didn't answer with words.

She didn't need to.

Because the answer was yes.

Because this was the night.

The one with the low lights, the too-loud thoughts, the slow confessions. The night that could've been any other—except it wasn't.

It was the one.

And maybe Emily didn't even realize she was leaning in until JJ turned her face—just slightly, just enough—and their noses brushed.

It was soft. Accidental, almost.

But JJ didn't pull away.

Neither did Emily.

They just stayed there, breathing in the same space, eyes flickering between each other's mouths and the question neither of them dared say out loud. Emily's heart thudded so loud it drowned out the hum of the fridge. JJ blinked up at her, eyes wide, lips parted just slightly—and that was it.

That was all Emily needed.

She kissed her.

Gently at first. Like she was afraid JJ might change her mind, might pull back, might shatter the fragile thing they'd built between confessions and silence.

But JJ didn't move.

She leaned in.

She kissed back.

And that—that was when it changed.

Because the kiss deepened without them meaning to. JJ made a quiet sound, one Emily wanted to memorize. Their hands moved at the same time—JJ's sliding to Emily's jaw, Emily's wrapping around JJ's waist, pulling her closer until there was no air left between them. The room spun, but only slightly, like the world was shifting to make space for this.

JJ tasted like whatever they'd been drinking and something sweet Emily couldn't name—something she'd been craving for months without knowing it.

They broke apart just barely, just for breath, foreheads pressed, noses brushing, both of them grinning like they couldn't help it.

JJ whispered, "That took you long enough."

Emily laughed softly. "You could've kissed me first."

JJ shook her head, breath warm against her cheek. "No way. I needed to know it was real."

Emily kissed her again.

This time slower. This time deeper. JJ sighed into it, one hand fisting in the front of Emily's shirt, like she needed to feel every part of her.

They didn't make it to the couch. Or even upright.

They half-fell, half-sank into the rug, laughing through their kisses like they were getting drunk on each other now instead. Emily rolled to her back, pulled JJ on top of her, hands tangled in her hair.

JJ kissed like she meant it. Like she'd waited long enough.

Like she wasn't scared anymore.

Emily kissed her like she'd just found something she didn't know she'd been missing.

Their legs tangled. Their hands roamed. The city buzzed just beyond the windows, but here in the soft dark, everything slowed down.

They broke apart again eventually, barely. JJ rested her forehead against Emily's, both of them flushed and breathless, mouths swollen and hearts racing like sirens in their chests.

Emily whispered, "This doesn't feel like a mistake."

JJ looked at her, serious now. "It's not."

Emily nodded, threading her fingers through JJ's. "Okay."

And JJ smiled—soft and real and all-in—and kissed her again.

Slower.

Deeper.

Like they had all the time in the world now.

But then JJ shifted—just slightly, just enough to slide her thigh between Emily's legs—and the kiss changed again.

Emily gasped into her mouth. JJ swallowed it.

Their hands stopped being gentle. JJ gripped Emily's shoulder, her nails dragging just enough to make Emily exhale sharply. Emily's fingers slid up the back of JJ's shirt, finding warm skin, pressing her closer. Their legs tangled tighter. JJ moaned—quiet, broken—and kissed her harder.

They were all teeth now, and breath, and the sound of the rug creasing under them.

Emily let her head fall back just enough for JJ's mouth to chase her jaw, her throat, the corner of her smile. JJ was everywhere, all at once—touching, tasting, laughing breathlessly against her skin like she couldn't believe this was finally real.

Emily tugged her back up for another kiss, and JJ went willingly, crashing into her like she'd been holding this in for years. Maybe she had.

Her hands were in Emily's hair now, pulling just enough to make her gasp again. Emily grabbed her hips and pulled her flush against her body, kissing her like she was never going to stop.

They broke apart for just a second—panting, flushed, wild-eyed—and JJ grinned, dizzy and dazed and so, so beautiful.

"Fuck," she whispered. "This is insane."

Emily laughed, breathless. "Don't stop."

"Wasn't planning to."

And then she kissed her again—messier than before, deeper, like they were trying to erase all the nights they hadn't done this sooner.

And neither of them wanted to come up for air.

Not yet.

[zoe-darleen]

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

[zoe-darleen]

Only If You Say So

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

emily invites you over on a quiet night. there’s wine, unspoken tension, and a soft confession: “tell me to stop and we stop.” what follows is slow, emotional, and intimate—she takes her time, worships you with care. it’s not just that, it’s everything they’ve both been afraid to say. and she stays.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimer and possible tw: mature content

⋆˚࿔ a/n thank you so so much for all the love on my oneshot sin to win 🫂

It started with the kind of silence you didn't know what to do with.

Not an awkward one. Not hostile. Just quiet — heavy in a way that made you aware of your own breathing.

The kind of silence that made everything feel like it meant more than it did. The kind that curled around your limbs and pressed at your ribs like you were supposed to say something — but couldn't.

Emily's apartment was dim, wrapped in gold light from the kitchen lamp over the stove. Outside, the city murmured: a car in the distance, the hush of tires on wet pavement, someone walking a dog three stories down. But in here, it was just the two of you.

And the quiet.

You hadn't planned on staying long. You'd come over to return something — a file she'd forgotten on her desk, some excuse you couldn't even remember anymore. She'd poured a glass of wine. Then another. And now...

Now she sat across from you on the couch, one knee up, her other foot tucked under the hem of her sweatpants. She looked at home. But not relaxed.

There was something wound in her shoulders. Something unreadable in the tilt of her mouth.

You'd never seen her like this.

She hadn't said much since you arrived. Just poured the drinks and sat beside you, one hand loosely cradling the stem of her glass, the other resting on the cushion between you like she didn't know where else to put it.

You didn't know what to do with that. You weren't used to Emily being unsure of anything.

She was always so composed. Controlled. Her silences usually cut sharper than anyone else's words — but this one just felt... hesitant.

Like she was building up to something.

You weren't sure if you wanted her to.

"You're quiet tonight," she said finally, and her voice broke the air like something sacred.

You glanced over. She didn't look at you. Just stared at the wine in her glass, thumb tracing the edge like it might ground her.

"Just thinking," you said.

"About?"

You swallowed. "You."

That earned you a look. Slow. Steady. Her eyes dragging to yours like gravity itself.

"Oh?"

You didn't speak.

Emily leaned a little closer. Not much. Just enough to be felt.

"What about me?"

You hesitated — and then said the truth:

"You scare me."

Her brows lifted, but there was no mockery in her face. No surprise.

"Why?"

"Because I want you," you said. "And I don't know how to... not."

The moment cracked open — quiet and sharp like breaking porcelain.

Emily set her glass down carefully.

"You know I'd never hurt you," she said. "Right?"

You nodded. "That's what scares me more."

That made her pause. Her lips parted, but she didn't speak right away. Instead, she shifted — closer now. Close enough for your knees to touch fully.

"You're allowed to want me," she said.

Your breath hitched.

"You're allowed to not want me, too," she added. "You're allowed to be confused. To change your mind. To feel safe one second and terrified the next."

You stared at her.

"Emily—"

She reached up, brushing a hand gently along your cheek. Her fingers were warm.

"Tell me to stop and we stop," she said, quiet but steady. "I don't care what's happening. All I care about is you."

Your eyes stung.

Because she meant it.

And you hadn't realized how much you needed to hear it said out loud.

"I don't know what I want," you admitted.

She nodded. "Then let's just sit here. No pressure."

You blinked at her.

"But I want something," you whispered.

"Then we figure it out."

She leaned in, kissed your cheek. Light. Barely there.

"I'm not going anywhere," she murmured. "Not unless you ask me to."

You didn't. You wouldn't.

You reached for her, hesitant. Hands finding her waist. Her body was warm. Solid. Real.

Emily didn't move until you did. And when you leaned in — finally — she met you halfway.

Her lips were soft. Patient. Her hand slid up your arm, over your shoulder, to rest behind your neck — cradling you as she kissed you like she had all the time in the world.

You melted. Slowly. Like thawing ice. Like surrender.

And then—

She deepened it.

Her tongue brushed yours. Her breath caught in your mouth. Her body pressed just a little closer, and you felt it in your spine.

You gasped.

Emily pulled back slightly, just enough to murmur against your lips:

"Still okay?"

You nodded. Too quickly.

Her smile ghosted over you.

"Slower," she said. "Let me take care of you."

Her voice lingered against your lips like the start of a spell.

The words alone made your throat tighten — not with fear, not with lust, not entirely — but with something gentler. Something that asked to be held before it burned.

You nodded, breathless.

Emily kissed you again, slower this time, with more intention. She moved like she already knew your rhythm — not claiming, not rushing. Just there. Her hand skimmed up your back, fingers splaying against your spine as she gently urged you to lie down on the couch cushions.

"Here?" you whispered.

She smiled against your jaw. "I want you relaxed."

She guided you down like something precious. You sank into the fabric, the scent of her apartment around you — cedarwood, old paper, the faint hint of her perfume.

Emily knelt beside you, fingers trailing along your arm. "Tell me how you like to be touched," she murmured.

You swallowed. "I don't know."

"That's okay," she said, tracing her lips along your wrist. "We'll find out."

Her words weren't empty. She watched you like she was cataloging every breath, every shiver, every shift in your body. Her touch was exploratory — a slow caress up your ribs, a pause to read your reaction. Her palm rested just beneath your chest, not pushing, not groping — just grounding.

You arched slightly into her. "There."

Her mouth followed your voice.

She kissed the skin between your breasts. Lightly. Reverently. Then she slid her hands under your shirt and eased it upward, waiting for your nod before pulling it over your head.

The room wasn't cold, but goosebumps lifted on your arms anyway.

"You're beautiful," Emily said simply. Not trying to make you blush. Just stating a fact.

You cupped her jaw. "So are you."

She kissed you again. Deeper. One hand braced on the back of the couch, the other slipping to your hip. Her fingers flexed there, gentle and firm, like she could anchor you with just her grip.

"Still okay?" she asked between kisses.

"Yes."

She pulled back just enough to look at you. "I need to hear it."

You blinked. "Yes. Emily, yes."

That made her exhale. A slow, low sound from her chest. She kissed your collarbone, your shoulder, the place just below your ear that made you shiver.

Then her hands returned to your waistband.

She waited.

You lifted your hips for her.

She slid your clothes off piece by piece, taking her time like unwrapping something sacred. She didn't tease — didn't drag it out to torment — but moved slowly enough to show you she wasn't in a rush. That she was here with you.

When you were bare beneath her, she didn't dive in. She just looked.

"You're perfect like this," she murmured.

Then she laid beside you, warm and solid, her thigh sliding between yours. She kissed you again, hands finding every place you wanted to be touched. One slipped between your legs — not rough, not hesitant. Just right.

You gasped into her mouth as her fingers circled slow, gentle patterns.

"Is this okay?" she whispered.

"God, yes—"

Her lips curved into a smile against your skin. "Good."

She worked you open so slowly, like she was learning you in real time — the pace that made you whimper, the angle that made your thighs shake. Her forehead pressed against yours as she moved, eyes searching yours with every breath.

"I've thought about this," she admitted, breath warm on your cheek. "Not like this exactly. Not here. But... you. Wanting you."

Your hips stuttered. "I want you too."

She slipped two fingers inside, careful, steady. Her other hand caressed your cheek as you cried out softly — not from pain, but from how much you wanted her. How deep it already was.

She kissed your forehead. Your jaw. Your mouth.

"I've got you," she said.

And she did.

Her hand moved slowly, steadily, curling just right. She built you up with patience — not to make you beg, but to make it mean something. You felt it in your belly, in your spine, in the space between your ribs where her name already lived.

"Emily—" you gasped.

She kissed your temple. "I know. Let go, baby. I've got you."

And when you came, you felt like you broke open — like every wall inside you melted. You clung to her as your body pulsed, your chest rising in ragged waves.

She held you through it. Didn't pull away. Just kissed your skin, soft and slow, until you trembled back to stillness.

When you opened your eyes, she was already watching you.

"You okay?" she asked.

You nodded.

Then, quieter: "No one's ever looked at me like you do."

Her mouth twitched. "No one's ever made me want to."

You pulled her down into your arms, shifting until she lay fully on top of you — warm, solid, hers.

"Stay," you whispered.

She kissed your shoulder.

"I wasn't planning on leaving."

You lay there like that for a long time, heartbeats slowing, skin flushed, her hand lazily tracing lines on your stomach.

And when you finally drifted into sleep, it was with her breath at your ear, whispering,

"Only if you say so."

[zoe-darleen]

The Space between Streetlights

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

emily prentiss asks you to take a quiet walk after dark. what starts in silence unravels into something fragile and true — soft confessions, buried fears, and the kind of tension that never needed a name. no kisses. just closeness, aching honesty, and the possibility of more.

⋆˚࿔ a/n cried while proofreading

"Walk with me?"

You almost didn't hear her. The night had wrapped itself around Quantico like a blanket—low clouds, the heavy hush of after-hours air. Emily stood by the glass doors of the BAU, one hand still on the handle, the other tucked into the pocket of her coat.

You blinked at her. "Now?"

She nodded. "Just for a bit."

There was something in her voice—soft, too careful. You didn't ask why. You just followed.

The air was cool, not cold. The kind of night where your breath barely shows and the streetlights paint gold along the sidewalk. You didn't say anything at first. Neither did she. Your steps fell into rhythm, your shoulders just brushing when you turned corners.

She kept her hands in her pockets. You kept yours swinging by your side, fingertips grazing hers on accident. Or maybe not.

You weren't sure how long you walked before she finally spoke.

"Do you ever feel like the silence is safer than talking?"

You turned your head slightly. She didn't look at you. Just ahead, at the sidewalk, at the trees swaying in the dark.

"Sometimes," you said. "It feels easier. Cleaner."

Emily nodded once. "Exactly."

You passed a mailbox. A flickering porch light. A half-lit window with the TV still on inside.

"You okay?" you asked, finally.

She gave a quiet laugh, dry and worn. "I'm fine."

You stopped walking.

So did she.

"Emily," you said gently. "I don't believe you."

Her jaw flexed just a little. She turned to you now, her face partially shadowed under the streetlamp. "You don't have to."

You waited. Let her have that silence she said she needed.

Then, softly, "Do you want me to stop asking?"

Her eyes met yours.

"No," she said. "I want you to keep asking. I just don't always know how to answer."

There it was again—that low hum beneath her words. The tension that had been there for weeks. Months. In the way her glances lingered too long, in the way her voice softened when she said your name.

You took a step closer. Not enough to break anything. Just enough for her to notice.

"You always keep things quiet," you said. "Even the parts that want to be loud."

Emily's breath caught.

"I'm good at hiding," she said, voice low.

You gave her a half-smile. "I know."

Another silence.

But this one felt warmer. Like maybe it didn't need to be filled.

"Some nights," Emily said, "I wish I wasn't."

You waited, your breath soft and still, letting the silence open wide enough for her to fall into if she needed to.

Emily looked up, eyes scanning the sidewalk ahead, but her gaze felt far away. "I've spent most of my life keeping people at arm's length. Sometimes on purpose. Sometimes without meaning to. But either way, it's lonely."

Your chest ached.

She laughed quietly, but it didn't sound amused. "I don't know how to... be with someone. Not without waiting for them to disappear. Or run. Or find out too much."

You stepped a little closer, not to touch her — just so she'd feel you near.

She noticed.

"I'm not good at naming things," she said. "Especially not feelings. Especially not... this."

You didn't look away.

"It's okay," you said. "You don't have to call it anything."

Emily was quiet for a long moment.

Then, finally, she asked, "But it is something... isn't it?"

The way she said it — so tentative, like she was scared to break it by speaking too loud — made you want to grab her and never let go.

You nodded. "Yeah. It is."

She exhaled, like she'd been holding that breath all night.

"I think about you more than I want to," she admitted. "I notice when you're in the room. I notice when you're not. I look for you without meaning to."

A small pause.

"And I don't know what that means. I don't know if I want to be with you or if I just don't want to be without you."

That confession hit harder than anything else might have.

You stepped beside her, shoulder brushing hers. "I feel it too. Whatever it is."

Emily looked at you then — really looked. Something fragile flickered in her eyes. Something unguarded.

"I'm scared I'll mess this up," she whispered.

"You're allowed to be scared."

Her jaw tensed.

But she didn't step back.

You didn't move, either.

You just stood together under the dim wash of the streetlamp, hands not quite touching, hearts just barely exposed — letting the moment breathe.

Letting each other stay.

[zoe-darleen]

Sin to Win

⋆˚࿔ emily prentiss x female reader

you run into emily prentiss in atlantic city. she looks like sin and drinks like she invented the word “trouble.” as you follow her to her suite she pins you to the wall, kisses you breathless, ruins you slowly. she tells you to be good. you are. she wins.

⋆˚࿔ disclaimers: mature content, dominant behaviour

You were two drinks past good decisions when you saw her.

Atlantic City had a way of dulling your instincts—flashing lights, too much noise, skin and silk and lies all poured into one long blur of weekend chaos. But nothing, nothing, dulled the shock of seeing Emily Prentiss slouched in a private booth in a bar off the boardwalk, legs crossed, whiskey in hand, and hair loose around her shoulders like she hadn't even tried to look this good.

You blinked.

She looked up.

You froze.

And then she smiled—slow, sharp, and dangerous.

"Well," she said, tipping her glass slightly, "look what sin dragged in."

You should've turned around. You should've laughed, waved, said something coy and walked off.

Instead, you slid into the booth across from her like your body had already decided what your brain was too overwhelmed to process.

"You're not here for a case," you said.

Emily's eyebrow arched. "What gave it away?"

"You're not armed."

Her grin widened. "Wanna check?"

You looked her up and down. Black top under that suit, hair longer than the last time you saw her, silver threaded through it like something earned. Her lipstick was subtle. Her smirk wasn't.

"Jesus, Prentiss."

"You've been drinking," she said, ignoring the compliment.

You sipped your own cocktail like it could hide your pulse. "Not enough to make you up."

She leaned in a little, resting her elbow on the table. "So what brings you to Atlantic City?"

"Sin," you said. "And the need to win."

Her laugh was low and real. "What are you winning at?"

You looked her in the eye. "Hopefully, this conversation."

Emily tilted her glass toward you. "Bold."

"I learned from the best."

That made her pause.

The music pulsed around you, slow and sticky, some bass-heavy remix that didn't match the elegance of her wrist wrapped around the glass. You stared too long. She noticed.

"You're staring."

"You're letting me."

She smiled behind the rim of her drink. "You always had a mouth on you."

"And you always liked it."

A beat.

Emily set her glass down.

"Come with me."

You blinked. "Excuse me?"

She slid out of the booth and straightened to full height, jacket clinging to her like it had memorized her silhouette. "You heard me."

"Where?"

Emily smirked. "Atlantic City isn't the kind of place where you ask that."

You hesitated for half a breath.

Then followed her.

Of course you did.

⸻

The elevator ride up to her suite was quiet. You both knew better than to fill it with words that didn't matter. There was electricity in the silence—boardwalk heat clinging to your skin, to your throat, to the tension building in the air like static.

When the doors opened, you were the first to move.

She unlocked the room with a swipe and stepped inside, tossing her jacket over a chair with deliberate ease. She walked like the room belonged to her. Maybe it did.

The lights were low, golden. The view behind her was floor-to-ceiling city chaos—neon and motion and everything you weren't looking at.

She poured another drink.

You leaned against the doorway.

"Don't you ever rest?"

Emily turned slowly, glass in hand. "You think this is me resting?"

"This looks like trouble."

Emily took a sip, then set the glass down. She stepped toward you, closing the space with calculated slowness. "This is trouble."

You opened your mouth to speak.

She didn't let you.

She stepped right into your space, slid a hand into your hair, and tilted your chin up—firm but smooth.

"Tell me something true," she said.

The air between you pulsed. Her voice wasn't loud, but it landed.

Your breath hitched, chest rising faster. Her hand stayed gentle at your neck, thumb tracing a slow line beneath your jaw. Her eyes held yours like a promise already made.

"I've wanted you for a long time," you said.

Emily's expression didn't shift. Not at first. But her lips parted—just barely—and something tensed in the way she held you.

"How long?" she murmured.

"Since D.C.," you whispered. "Since you looked at me like you weren't supposed to."

Her fingers flexed slightly at your throat.

Then she leaned in.

And kissed you.

You melted. Instantly.

Her mouth claimed yours, slow but certain, like she was done waiting. She kissed like she knew what she was doing to you—like every tilt of her head, every brush of her tongue, had been rehearsed in dreams you weren't invited to.

You gasped as she pressed you back against the wall—hot, solid, impatient.

Her hands were already moving. One gripped your hip tightly, the other buried in your hair, tugging until your head tilted just enough for her to deepen the kiss.

And God, she did.

You moaned, caught off guard by how thorough she was—licking into your mouth, biting your bottom lip, swallowing the noise you made with a low sound of her own.

"You're mine tonight," she breathed against your lips.

You nodded, dazed.

She didn't wait.

She spun you, walking you backwards into the hotel room. You bumped into a chair, a low table. Neither of you cared. She kissed you through it all—harder each time, more frantic, more possessive.

You tugged at her jacket.

She pulled back, panting slightly. "You want this off?"

You nodded again.

"Then say it."

You swallowed. "Take it off."

Emily grinned—dark, knowing—and slid out of the suede like a dare fulfilled. The black top underneath clung to her like a second skin. Her lipstick was smudged. Her hair wild.

She looked like sin itself.

"Your turn," she said.

You peeled off your shirt in one breathless movement.

She stepped in again, pressing you to the window now, hands flat on the glass on either side of your head.

"You have no idea how long I've imagined this," she murmured, trailing her mouth down your jaw to your collarbone. "You were always just out of reach."

"Not anymore," you whispered.

She paused.

Smiled.

"Exactly."

She kissed you again—and this time, you let go. You let her press into you, roll her hips against yours, slide a thigh between your legs. Your moan was involuntary.

"You're so fucking responsive," she muttered against your throat.

Then, suddenly—Emily stepped back.

You blinked, dazed. "What—?"

Her eyes dropped to your jeans.

"Take them off."

You hesitated, just half a beat.

"Now."

You obeyed.

And before your pants even hit the floor, she had her hands on your hips again, guiding you backward until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

"Lie down."

You did.

Emily stood over you for a moment—just looking. And then, she stripped. Not slowly. Not for show. Just a quiet, confident undoing. Her shirt hit the floor. Her bra followed. Her eyes never left you.

When she crawled over you, her mouth returned to yours—slower now, but no less hungry.

"You're not going to forget this," she whispered.

And then she kissed her way down your chest.

Lower.

Lower still.

She bit at the inside of your thigh, and your whole body jolted.

"God, you're sensitive."

She licked once—deliberate and slow.

You cried out.

"Good," she said.

And then she made you beg.

Her tongue dragged through you again, this time firmer, flatter — like she already knew what you needed.

And you did. God, you did.

You gasped her name, a cracked whisper of breath.

Emily smiled against your skin.

"Already?" she said, mock-gentle. "I've barely touched you."

You squirmed beneath her, hips twitching, legs trembling, but her hands pinned your thighs open like it was nothing.

Then she really started.

Long, languid strokes. Her mouth precise, her tongue relentless. She kept her eyes on you the whole time — dark and focused, watching the way your body arched, the way your fingers fisted the sheets, the way your breath broke apart with every roll of her tongue.

You moaned her name again — louder now.

She hummed.

That vibration—

You cried out.

But just when you started to tip over the edge, just when your legs began to quake—

She pulled back.

You almost sobbed.

"Why?" you whimpered, desperate and breathless.

Emily wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and crawled up your body, settling over you like a queen on her throne.

She smirked down at you. "Because I said so."

You couldn't even pretend to be mad.

Her hand slid between your legs again — fingers this time, slow and torturous, dipping into you just enough to make your thighs tremble.

"You're soaked," she murmured. "You'd let me do anything to you right now, wouldn't you?"

You nodded, breath hitching. "Anything."

Emily leaned in, kissed you slow and filthy, letting you taste yourself on her tongue.

"Then be good for me," she whispered.

And she wrecked you.

Two fingers, deep and steady. Her palm grinding into your clit with every thrust. Her mouth on your neck, your jaw, your lips. Her voice in your ear — low, quiet, coaxing.

"That's it."

"Just like that."

"Let go for me."

And you did.

You came with a cry that echoed off the walls, your back arching into her, hips bucking, thighs clamping around her hand — but she didn't stop. Not until you begged. Not until you couldn't breathe.

When she finally pulled her hand away, your body was spent, your chest rising in shallow waves.

Emily lay beside you, pulling you gently onto her chest. Her fingers traced lazy shapes on your back as your breathing slowly calmed.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Then she kissed your temple and whispered, almost smugly,

"So. Sin to win, huh?"

You let out a breathless laugh. "You definitely won."

She chuckled, warm and quiet. "Good. Now get some sleep."

You blinked up at her. "What if I want to win tomorrow?"

Emily smirked. "Then try and top that."

And God help you, you were already planning to.

[zoe-darleen]

Not That We're Dating || Emily Prentiss x Reader

Oneshot

You weren't dating Emily Prentiss.

You'd said it enough times, you could probably put it on a t-shirt and hand it out at every BAU briefing. We're not dating. Said with a laugh. An eye-roll. A snort. Sometimes a lingering glance that completely undermined the statement.

Everyone thought you were, though. Morgan swore you were sneaking around. JJ raised her eyebrows every time you and Emily walked into a room together. Garcia didn't even pretend to hide her theories.

But you weren't.

Really.

You just flirted. A lot. It started off as a joke—sharp little barbs exchanged over coffee, sarcastic comments in the middle of late-night case reviews—but somewhere along the way, the banter softened. The smiles lingered longer. The laughs felt warmer. You still weren't dating, but it had gotten... complicated.

Emily called you "trouble" in that teasing voice that made your stomach flutter.

You called her "boss," just to watch the corner of her mouth twitch like she didn't hate the sound of it.

It was harmless. Mostly.

Until the rumors started.

⸻

"Are you sure you're not together?" Garcia asked one morning, practically vibrating with nosiness. She'd cornered you in the break room, coffee in one hand, a sparkly pink mug in the other.

You raised an eyebrow. "Is this about yesterday's debrief or my love life?"

"I don't separate the two anymore," she said with a grin. "You brought her coffee. She smiled like she'd just watched a puppy walk into her office. Then you leaned in and whispered something, and she blushed, Y/N. Blushed."

You snorted. "That was about the case."

"She laughed like you told her a dirty joke."

"Maybe I did."

Garcia gasped dramatically. "So you admit it!"

"I admit nothing," you said, sipping your coffee. "Except that you need a hobby."

"Oh, honey. You are my hobby."

⸻

Emily wasn't helping.

She always had something to say when you passed her in the hallway. A comment about your outfit. A low murmur of "Good morning, trouble," said too close to your ear.

At first, you played it cool.

Now? You were counting the times she looked at your mouth instead of your eyes.

It was a game. One you weren't sure you were winning.

One you weren't sure you wanted to stop playing.

⸻

"Can I borrow you?" Emily asked one night, leaning into your doorway.

It was late. The bullpen was mostly empty. The case files were piling up, and your eyes were beginning to sting from staring at your monitor too long.

You looked up. "Sure. You want to talk about the Philadelphia case or my undying love for you?"

Emily blinked. Then smirked. "Let's go with Philadelphia, for now."

"Boring."

But you followed her anyway.

Her office was warm, the overhead lights dimmed. A file was open on her desk, red tabs sticking out like petals.

You dropped into the chair across from her, stretching your arms overhead with a quiet groan.

"You work too much," you said.

Emily arched a brow. "You work the exact same hours."

"Yeah, but I don't look as good doing it."

That earned you a soft laugh.

You leaned back, watching her. The way her fingers moved across the folder. The way she bit her bottom lip while she read. She was tired, clearly. But still sharp. Still stunning.

The silence settled between you like a well-worn blanket.

After a few moments, she glanced up.

"What?" she asked.

"Nothing," you said, trying not to smile. "Just wondering if you're gonna finally cave and admit we're dating."

Emily rolled her eyes. "We're not."

"Right," you said, tapping the armrest. "But if we were, this would be the part where you take me to dinner after this whole 'drowning in paperwork' vibe."

She tilted her head. "What would you order?"

You blinked. "What?"

"If we were on a date," she said, tone casual, "what would you order?"

You narrowed your eyes. "Are you flirting with me, Prentiss?"

"I'm asking you a question."

"Mmm. Let's see. Probably pasta. Something messy. With too much garlic."

"Interesting strategy."

"Well, I wouldn't be trying to impress you," you said. "You'd already be in love with me, remember?"

Emily smiled again. But this one felt different. Like it reached somewhere deeper.

The air thickened.

You looked at her hands. She looked at your mouth.

You cleared your throat and leaned forward, breaking the tension. "Okay. Tell me why you dragged me in here."

She didn't answer right away. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, arms folded, studying you.

"I like working with you," she said, finally.

You blinked. "That's not really a reason to keep me after hours."

"You're good at catching things others miss."

"So this is about work."

"It's always about work."

The way she said it made you pause.

You nodded slowly, letting the moment settle. Then you reached across the desk and plucked the file from her fingers.

"All right, boss. Let's find your missing link."

And just like that, the spell was broken.

But it didn't go away.

It never really did.

⸻

Hours passed.

You were both knee-deep in timelines and crime scene photos when Emily rubbed her eyes and let out a quiet groan.

"God, I hate this part," she muttered.

"What, the part where we stare at the same files hoping they magically change?"

"No," she said, "the part where I start thinking the UNSUB is smarter than me."

You frowned. "He's not."

She looked up.

You added, softer, "You're brilliant, Emily."

She smiled tiredly. "Thanks."

You hesitated. Then said, "Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

"Do you ever wish things were... easier?"

Emily leaned back, head resting against the chair.

"You mean work?"

"Work. Life. Us."

She glanced at you. "There's no us."

You smiled faintly. "Exactly."

She was quiet for a moment.

Then: "Sometimes I wonder if we keep pretending there's no us because we're scared what happens if there is."

That landed like a punch to the chest.

You stared at her.

"Scared?" you repeated.

Emily shrugged one shoulder. "We're good at this dance. Teasing. Laughing. It's safe. It doesn't mean anything. Until it does."

You exhaled slowly. "Maybe it already does."

The room went still.

Outside, the building hummed with fluorescent silence. Somewhere down the hall, a printer beeped.

Inside the office, the only sound was your breathing and hers.

"You're not just fun to flirt with," you said.

Emily's eyes found yours again. "You're not just fun to work with."

It wasn't a confession. Not really. But it was close.

You stood and walked around the desk, leaning your hip against it beside her. She didn't look away.

"I'm not asking for everything," you said. "Not now. Not tonight."

She nodded once.

"But maybe..." you added, voice lower, "we stop pretending."

Emily's fingers brushed yours. Lightly. A test.

You didn't pull away.

Neither did she.

"Okay," she said.

Just one word. But it cracked the air open like lightning.

You weren't dating.

Not yet.

But maybe, finally, you could.

⸻

You weren't dating Emily Prentiss.

But after that night—after that moment in her office—you were starting to wonder if denying it had become a crutch.

The next few days passed like a dream you couldn't fully wake up from. Nothing dramatic changed. You still teased her. She still stole glances when she thought you weren't looking. But the space between you had cracked open, like a seam in fabric stretched too long.

Now, when you passed her in the hallway, your shoulders brushed and neither of you apologized.

Now, when she said "good morning, trouble," it felt less like a joke and more like a ritual. Familiar. Needed.

And if the team noticed how different things had gotten, no one said a word.

Except Garcia.

Garcia always said words.

⸻

"Alright, spill," she said one afternoon, cornering you near the coffee machine like a detective on a high school drama.

You didn't even try to play dumb. "Spill what?"

She raised an eyebrow. "You've been walking around here like someone rewrote your DNA. Do not think I didn't notice the extended eye contact you and Prentiss shared at lunch. It lasted six seconds, Y/N. Six."

"You counted?"

"Don't deflect."

You turned back to the machine, pressing the button for espresso. "We're not dating."

Garcia crossed her arms. "Then what are you doing?"

You didn't answer right away. Instead, you stirred your drink slowly and said, "Something quiet."

She blinked. "...Okay, wow. That was suspiciously poetic."

You smiled faintly. "It's not something I can explain."

"Let me guess," she said, her voice softening. "You don't want to jinx it."

You met her eyes. "Exactly."

Garcia placed a hand over her heart and sighed dramatically. "Okay. Fine. I will contain myself. For now."

She left you there with your coffee and your thoughts and a heart that wouldn't stop thudding.

⸻

Emily didn't mention the conversation from her office. Not directly.

But she didn't need to.

The next evening, she passed you a case file and her fingers lingered on yours. Just enough for you to notice. Just enough for you to wonder if she had any intention of letting go.

That same night, she sent you a text:

[EMILY]: you still awake?

[YOU]: always. what's up?

[EMILY]: nothing. just couldn't sleep. wanted to say goodnight.

[YOU]: goodnight, emily.

[EMILY]: you're in my head.

You didn't sleep for hours after that.

⸻

You started sitting beside her more often. In meetings. On the jet. During briefings. It didn't go unnoticed.

Rossi gave you one of his smug "I've seen everything" looks.

JJ smirked but said nothing.

Morgan made a show of pretending not to notice, and Reid asked if you'd rearranged seats for "efficiency."

The thing was: it was efficient.

You worked better next to Emily. You listened more closely. You thought faster. You challenged each other.

And beneath it all was that thread of tension. The unspoken question.

What happens when we finally stop pretending?

⸻

The turning point came in Chicago.

The case was grim—serial abductions, women disappearing without a trace. You worked forty hours straight on almost no sleep. By the time the case broke open, you were held together by caffeine and adrenaline and a sense of desperation.

And through it all, Emily was there.

Always there.

She was the one who kept you grounded when the evidence got overwhelming. She was the one who stayed late to cross-reference timelines with you. She was the one who, when you fell asleep with your head on the table, draped her jacket over your shoulders like it meant nothing.

It didn't mean nothing.

You woke up to the smell of her perfume and the echo of her voice in the hallway, and for a moment, you thought: This is what it would be like.

Coming home to her.

Being hers.

Letting go of the walls you'd both built just to feel a little safer.

The moment didn't last. It couldn't.

But the thought stayed with you.

Even after the case ended. Even after the jet carried you home through a quiet, silver dawn.

⸻

You didn't talk about it.

But neither of you pulled away.

Instead, something new began. A careful routine. Late nights together in the office became normal. You started sharing playlists. Coffee orders. Private smiles that no one else could decode.

Once, after a long debrief, she reached out and brushed a strand of hair from your face without thinking.

Your heart did something dangerous in your chest.

Still—no kiss.

Still—no words.

And maybe that was the problem.

You were orbiting something too big to name. And sooner or later, one of you would have to be the gravity.

⸻

That Friday night, it was you.

You stayed behind in the bullpen after everyone else had gone. The case notes from Chicago still littered your desk. Your head was pounding from a day of statistics and psychological profiling.

You weren't expecting Emily to come back.

But she did.

She appeared in your doorway, holding two paper cups and a tired smile.

"Thought you might still be here," she said.

You looked up. "Can't sleep either?"

"Didn't try."

She handed you the coffee, and you sipped it gratefully.

"What is this?" you asked.

"Something overpriced and soothing."

You laughed quietly. "That's you in a nutshell."

She leaned against the doorframe. "Is it?"

"Beautiful. Complex. A little bitter."

Emily rolled her eyes, but she was smiling.

You gestured to the chair beside you. "Sit with me?"

She did.

For a long moment, you just drank your coffee in silence.

Then she said, "We can't keep doing this."

You didn't pretend to misunderstand. "No."

Her voice was quiet. "I don't want to lose what we have. But I don't want to keep faking that it's not more."

You looked at her. "Then let's not."

Emily tilted her head. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying maybe it's okay to want more. And maybe it's okay to admit that we already have it."

She didn't speak.

So you did.

"I care about you," you said. "Not just the way people flirt at work to pass time. Not just because we're good partners. I care about you. I think about you when I go home. I check your desk before I even check my own. I want to know how you take your coffee before the words are even out of your mouth. And I think I've been terrified of what it means, but—Emily, I don't want to run from it anymore."

Silence.

Then she said, "That's the most terrifyingly beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me."

Your heart was thudding.

But you smiled. "So what do we do?"

Emily set her cup down. "We stop pretending."

A beat.

She stood, walked around to your side of the desk.

And just as her hand brushed yours—

You stepped forward, heart full, steady now.

And kissed her.

Finally.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't desperate. It was inevitable.

Her lips were soft but certain, one hand curling around the side of your face like she had always meant to hold you like this. Everything unspoken between you dissolved, sealed with the quietest hum in her throat and the sure press of her body into yours.

She smiled against your mouth.

And that's when the door opened.

"Hey, Emily, have you—" JJ's voice died midsentence.

You didn't stop kissing her.

In fact, she pulled you closer.

Gasps. A loud, triumphant "HA!" from Garcia. The unmistakable snort of Rossi. Reid's horrified whisper: "Is this allowed in the workplace?"

Morgan: "Called it."

You finally broke apart, blinking at the crowd of shocked agents in the doorway.

Emily, cheeks flushed but unapologetic, murmured under her breath, "Well. That happened."

You laughed.

And held her hand.

For once, you weren't pretending.

And everyone finally knew it.

[zoe-darleen]

What Comes After Wine || Part 1 || Emily Prentiss x JJ

Oneshot (1/2) Mature Content

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦ ๋ ࣭ ⭑

Rain slammed the windows with rhythmic fury, wind pushing against the glass like it wanted in. Thunder echoed down the street like a warning, but inside Emily's apartment everything was warm, wine-soaked, and just this side of dangerous.

Emily padded barefoot into the living room with another bottle tucked under her arm and a fresh smirk on her face. Her grey shirt hung off one shoulder, her sports bra visible beneath it. JJ was curled on the couch in sweatpants and mismatched socks, her wine glass nearly empty, cheeks already a little too pink.

"I don't think I should let you top off," Emily said, unscrewing the cap.

"You already did. Twice."

"I'm enabling you."

"You are," JJ agreed, holding out her glass anyway.

Emily filled it to the rim.

JJ raised her brows. "So you are trying to get me drunk."

Emily collapsed onto the couch beside her. "Not drunk. Just... loose enough to admit something embarrassing."

JJ narrowed her eyes. "You first."

Emily didn't blink. "You smell like my shampoo."

JJ blinked.

Emily looked proud. "You showered here once. I bought the same one after. Took me three weeks to admit I missed the scent."

JJ opened her mouth. Then closed it.

"Wow," she said.

Emily took a sip of her wine. "Your turn."

JJ leaned back, stretching her legs across Emily's lap like she'd done it a hundred times. "I already know I'll regret this."

"Oh, definitely."

JJ sighed. "Okay. You know that time in Tampa? The hotel room mix-up?"

Emily smiled. "You mean when they gave us a king bed and one key card?"

"Yeah. I didn't complain... because I kind of hoped you'd fall asleep next to me."

Emily looked at her.

JJ didn't back down. "Not even in a sexy way. Just... you."

That shut Emily up for a full ten seconds.

Then she said, voice low: "I stayed awake the whole night."

JJ's eyes flicked to hers.

"You could've said something," she whispered.

"You could've kissed me."

JJ didn't move for a long time.

Then: "Would now be too late?"

Emily's smile faltered. Her glass clinked against the table as she set it down slowly, fingers trembling just enough to be noticed. JJ leaned forward, her hand brushing Emily's knee.

They were close now. The kind of close that doesn't come from inches but from months. Years.

JJ tilted her head. "You're staring."

Emily didn't look away. "You're beautiful."

JJ blinked once.

And kissed her.

Just like that.

It wasn't planned. Wasn't perfect. Their noses bumped, and Emily's mouth was still red from the wine, but it didn't matter. It was soft, clumsy, and full of breath they didn't know they'd been holding.

Emily's hand slid up JJ's arm, then stilled, her fingers curled in the sleeve of her sweatshirt. JJ deepened the kiss, just slightly, just enough to make her own pulse spike.

But Emily pulled back.

JJ's eyes opened, startled, breath shaky. "Too fast?"

Emily was watching her like a warning.

"No," she said. "Just—"

She leaned in again, close enough to feel the words this time.

"I needed to look at you."

And then she kissed her again.

Rougher. Realer.

JJ made a noise in her throat, something surprised, something half-laugh, half-moan. Her hand curled into Emily's hair and she kissed back harder than she meant to, like the storm outside had gotten in somehow.

They kissed like people who had almost kissed too many times before.

But still—

It was just kissing.

And it was everything.

JJ broke for air, lips swollen, eyes glassy.

"Woah..."

Emily breathed hard. "Yeah?"

JJ grinned, dazed. "You kiss like you hate me."

Emily laughed, forehead pressing to JJ's. "I might."

JJ whispered, "Promise?"

Another kiss. Slower.

Quieter.

Deeper.

Outside, the thunder cracked again—but they didn't hear it.

Not anymore.

[zoe-darleen]

Fault Lines || Emily Prentiss x Reader

Oneshot

꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ⭑꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶ ๋ ࣭ ꒷꒦꒷꒦︶꒷꒦︶

You didn't want to believe that. But when you finally met her, you understood. There was something about Emily that clashed against your skin like sandpaper. She walked into rooms like she already owned them, and when she looked at you, it wasn't with curiosity. It was with a distant, almost annoyed interest, like she was cataloguing a threat she wasn't quite ready to confront.

And from the very beginning, you clashed.

It started small. A look. A correction. A disagreement in the middle of a briefing over a suspect's psychological profile.

"Your theory is a little... optimistic," she'd said once, while Hotch looked on with tired neutrality.

"And yours is bordering on cynical," you replied, trying not to let your voice bite the way you wanted it to.

You had expected a raised brow, maybe a flicker of amusement. But instead, she just stared. Cool and unreadable.

"Realistic," she said. "That's the word you're looking for."

From then on, it was war.

Not the kind with slammed doors or raised voices. You weren't that immature, and neither was she. No, this was colder. Sharper. Like two swords meeting in silence, over and over again, every time you were forced into the same room.

The worst part? She was brilliant. You couldn't deny it. She saw patterns in ways you didn't. She picked up on behaviors you missed. And when she called you out, it wasn't petty—it was always right. And that made it worse. Because even when you hated her, you couldn't stop... admiring her.

And maybe that was the most infuriating part of all.

⸻

It was during the Boston case that everything shifted.

A string of disappearances. All young women, all gone without a trace. By the time you were flown in, the team was already fraying at the edges—too many variables, not enough patterns. The local PD wasn't cooperating. Hotch was tense. And you? You'd barely had three hours of sleep in the past two days.

"Maybe if we focused on the locations, not the victims," you argued, standing by the whiteboard, red circles drawn around each abduction point.

"We've been over the locations," Emily said without looking at you, flipping through a file. "There's no pattern there."

"You said that three days ago. But what if you were wrong?"

Her head snapped up.

Rossi muttered something under his breath and stepped out for coffee.

"I'm sorry," you added quickly. "I just mean... things change. And maybe we missed something."

Emily walked toward you slowly. Not threatening. But not relaxed either. Like she was measuring you.

"You think I missed something?" she asked.

You hesitated. "I think we all could've."

A pause. And then, softer: "Show me."

That surprised you.

You walked her through your theory. Slowly. Carefully. You expected her to interrupt—she usually did. But this time she just stood there, one arm folded across her chest, the other holding her chin. Her eyes tracked everything you said. She asked questions. Pushed back once or twice. But mostly... she listened.

And at the end of it, she said, "You might be onto something."

You stared at her.

She gave you a half-smile. "Don't look so shocked."

And just like that, something cracked. Something subtle. But it was there.

⸻

The truce didn't last long.

By the next morning, you were back at it again—arguing over the suspect's psychological profile. But it was different now. Not quite hostile. Competitive, maybe. Like something in both of you had woken up and was now testing the air.

Then came the motel.

You were sitting on the edge of the lumpy bed, files spread out like fallen leaves. Emily leaned against the dresser, her arms crossed. You were both exhausted, both frustrated.

"He's escalating," you said. "The last victim was left in a public space. He's not hiding anymore."

Emily didn't answer right away. She looked at you, eyes narrowing slightly.

"You know, I used to think you were just defensive for the sake of it," she said. "But you're just... stubborn."

You looked up. "That's rich, coming from you."

Her lips twitched. "Maybe we're both stubborn."

You looked at each other for a beat too long.

And then she said, "You have a good instinct for this. Even when you're wrong, it's not because you didn't think it through."

You didn't know what surprised you more—the compliment or the fact that it felt sincere.

"Thanks," you said, too quickly.

Silence. You felt it settle between you, thick and strange. Your heart was beating too fast for no reason at all.

"Don't let it go to your head," she added.

There it was. The familiar edge. But now it was laced with something else.

⸻

The shift was slow. Painfully slow.

You started noticing the little things. How Emily always brought you the stronger coffee when you looked like death. How she'd glance at you when the suspect started talking, like she was waiting to see your reaction. How she'd challenge you, yes, but never cruelly. Never to humiliate.

You caught her watching you once, in the middle of a late-night debrief. The others were talking, exhausted, their voices blurred. But her eyes were locked on you, sharp and quiet and thoughtful.

When you looked back, she didn't look away.

You didn't either.

⸻

It was storming the night you cracked the pattern.

The air outside was thick with rain, thunder rolling in the distance. You were sitting on the motel floor, laptop on your knees, the others half-asleep or checking out.

Emily was in the corner, flipping through case files. The only light came from a desk lamp, the glow soft and warm.

"Emily," you said, suddenly. "Come here."

She looked up, slightly irritated, but stood anyway.

You walked her through your findings. One of the abduction sites had been overlooked—a small alley between two storefronts, off the main grid. There were surveillance cams. A timestamp. A man in a red hoodie.

Emily's face changed as she processed it.

And then she smiled.

"Nice catch."

You didn't smile back. Not yet. The moment was too heavy for that.

She sat beside you, cross-legged on the floor, her shoulder brushing yours.

It felt like fire.

You didn't move away.

Neither did she.

⸻

You didn't talk about it.

You didn't talk about the late nights spent reading files inches apart. The growing electricity between every glance, every too-long silence. The way your arguments were starting to feel like foreplay, like you were both pushing and testing and daring the other to break first.

No, you didn't talk about it. But it was there. In every word you didn't say.

And when she brushed past you at the precinct and her hand grazed your back, you didn't imagine the way your skin burned after.

And you didn't imagine the way her fingers lingered just a second too long.

⸻

It came to a head the night they found the body.

She was young. Blonde. Folded neatly in a construction site just outside city limits. It was raining again. Always raining.

You stood beside Emily in the field, both of you soaked to the bone. The others were behind you, murmuring, documenting. But you two were quiet.

"She's the last one," Emily said. "I can feel it."

You nodded, teeth clenched. The cold was biting, but it wasn't just that. It was the sight. The brokenness of the girl. The way her limbs had been posed like a doll. You felt your throat tighten.

And then Emily touched your arm. Barely. Just a gentle brush of her hand over your sleeve.

You didn't look at her.

But you didn't pull away.

⸻

Later that night, back at the motel, you couldn't sleep.

You sat in the lobby, alone, a coffee in your hand and the storm still raging outside.

Emily found you there.

She didn't say anything at first. Just sat down beside you, her coat draped over her arm, her hair damp.

"Can't sleep either?" you asked.

She shook her head. "Too much noise."

You weren't sure if she meant the storm or the thoughts in her head.

Silence stretched between you again. But this one wasn't awkward. It was full. Heavy.

"I was wrong about you," she said quietly.

You turned. "About what?"

Emily looked straight ahead. "About thinking you didn't belong here. You do."

The words hit you like a breath you didn't know you'd been holding.

You swallowed hard. "Thanks."

"And I was wrong about thinking I didn't want you on this case," she added. "You've been... good."

You smiled faintly. "That's as close to a compliment as I'm gonna get, huh?"

She looked at you then. Eyes dark and unreadable.

"No," she said. "It's not."

Her hand brushed yours on the table.

You froze.

But you didn't move away.

The moment passed.

Or maybe it stretched. Maybe it tangled itself into the air around you, twisting and catching on your breath. Emily didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But her hand remained close. Too close. You could feel the heat of her knuckles like they were pressed against your own.

You wanted to say something—anything. To crack a joke. To ask her why she'd suddenly shifted so far from distant and cold to... this. But your throat had gone dry.

And then her phone buzzed.

She looked at it, and the spell broke.

"They found a print match," she said. "Let's go."

⸻

The suspect's name was David Callan. Mid-thirties. Lived alone. Previous assault charge buried in a sealed juvenile file. The match came from a partial print found on one of the victims' shoelaces—faint, but there.

You and Emily took the lead on the arrest, riding in silence through Boston's soaked streets, the sirens distant behind you.

When you arrived, the house was dark. Too quiet.

Your heart was racing, but you focused. Emily was already in motion, gun drawn, stance solid.

You followed her in.

The house smelled like mildew and something metallic. Old blood, maybe. Your flashlight cut through the darkness. Each step echoed.

"He's not here," you whispered.

"Basement," she said, her voice barely audible. "There's always a basement."

You didn't ask how she knew. You just followed.

The stairs creaked under your weight. Every sound felt louder in the dark. At the bottom: rows of boxes. A stained mattress. A workbench with zip ties. Photos pinned to the wall—each victim, labeled and catalogued.

He'd been watching them.

He was meticulous.

You felt bile rise in your throat.

Emily moved toward the photos, her hand brushing one of the pins.

That's when the trap sprang.

You didn't see him at first—he was hidden behind the shelves. A blur. Then he was on her.

You heard the struggle before you saw it—Emily's grunted curse, the crash of a shelf tipping over.

"Emily!"

She was on the ground, fighting him off. His arm was around her throat, his knee on her ribs.

You aimed your weapon but couldn't get a clear shot.

Emily twisted beneath him, trying to grab the pepper spray from her belt. He slammed her head against the floor. Once. Twice.

You didn't think. You dropped your gun and lunged.

The tackle was messy. You grabbed his collar and yanked him off her, throwing your weight backward. You hit the floor hard. He scrambled up, but you were faster. You drove your elbow into his ribs, felt the crunch of bone or cartilage.

He swung a fist, caught your cheek. Your vision blurred.

You kicked him—hard—straight in the knee.

He fell.

And Emily was on him in an instant, dazed but fueled by something furious and sharp. She wrestled the cuffs from her belt and pinned him, panting, blood dripping from her mouth.

Silence followed.

Then her voice, ragged:

"Don't ever touch me again."

⸻

They took him away.

And you took Emily to the ER.

She protested the whole time, of course. But her ribs were bruised, her lip split, and you'd seen the blood in her hair.

"Concussion," the doctor confirmed. "Not too severe. But she'll need rest."

You sat in the waiting room while they bandaged her up, adrenaline slowly draining from your limbs.

Your hands were still shaking.

When she emerged—tired, pale, hair pulled back into a loose ponytail—you stood.

"You saved my life," she said.

You blinked. "You would've done the same."

"Maybe," she murmured. "But you didn't hesitate. You didn't even think."

You smiled faintly. "Guess I'm not that cynical after all."

Emily stepped closer. Her eyes searched yours.

"You scared me."

"You?" you teased, trying to lighten the mood. "You don't scare easy."

"I'm not talking about the fight," she said.

And suddenly the air was thick again.

She was close. Closer than she needed to be.

You felt her breath against your cheek.

"You came for me," she whispered.

And then she kissed you.

It wasn't desperate. It wasn't soft, either. It was precise. Confident. Like a line being drawn—this was happening, and you both knew it.

You responded instantly.

All the tension, the arguments, the friction—it spilled out in that kiss. The fire of months of biting remarks and narrow glances. Her hands in your hair. Yours on her hips. She pulled you closer like she'd wanted to do it for weeks.

And maybe she had.

When you pulled back, both breathless, she didn't smile. She looked serious. Flushed. Alive.

"I don't know what this is," she said.

"Neither do I," you replied. "But I don't want it to stop."

She looked at you like she was trying to memorize something. Like she was seeing you, not just studying you.

And then she said, "Me neither."

⸻

Back at Quantico, things didn't change immediately.

You didn't hold hands in the bullpen. You didn't show up to work together. You didn't even text that much.

But things had shifted.

Your arguments were softer. Your glances lingered. Your silences said more than your words.

Garcia noticed first.

"You two have a weird energy," she said one day. "Like, enemies who got stuck in an elevator and had to reevaluate their entire dynamic. Did that happen? Because I feel like that happened."

You didn't answer.

She gasped. "It did happen. Oh my god."

"No elevator," you muttered. "Just... Boston."

Garcia looked between you and Emily and made the world's most dramatic exit.

You and Emily laughed about it later. Together. On your couch. Her hair was wet from your shower, her legs tucked under yours.

"I used to hate you," she murmured.

You smiled against her shoulder. "I know."

She looked at you. "Do you still?"

You kissed the corner of her mouth.

"No."

A beat.

"Me neither."

⸻

It wasn't perfect.

You still fought. Still clashed in meetings. Still got under each other's skin.

But now there was something else. Something quieter. A balance.

She brought you coffee with just enough sugar. You kept Advil in your desk for her migraines. She read your reports first, always, and gave feedback no one else would.

You stopped seeing her as an enemy.

You started seeing her as the only person who ever really kept up with you.

And maybe that was what you'd both been waiting for all along.

⸻

One night, weeks later, she asked:

"Did you know?"

"Know what?"

"That this would happen. That we'd end up here."

You looked at her, the way her hair curled around her jaw, the way her shirt was rumpled from sleep.

"No," you said honestly. "But I think I hoped."

Emily smiled. The kind of smile she didn't give to just anyone.

"Well," she said, crawling into your arms, "you were right about something, then."

You kissed her slowly. Deliberately.

"I'm right about a lot of things," you whispered against her skin.

She laughed softly.

"God help me."

And you held her close, the way you'd wanted to from the very beginning—long before either of you had the words for it.

Even now, you didn't need them.

She was here.

You were home.

And the fault lines between you had finally settled into something whole.

[zoe-darleen]

wenn die geschichte sich zu wiederholen droht

die luft ist schwer, und es fühlt sich an, als würde etwas Dunkles näher rücken, langsam, aber unaufhaltsam. die stimmung verändert sich, ein flüstern wird zu einem schrei, und plötzlich steht da etwas im raum, das nicht mehr ignoriert werden kann. es sind worte, die früher unvorstellbar waren, die jetzt wie banner getragen werden, immer lauter, immer präsenter.

es ist die angst vor einem morgen, das nicht mehr sicher ist. ein morgen, in dem grenzen enger werden, in dem menschen nicht mehr als menschen gesehen, sondern in schubladen gesteckt werden. es ist die sorge, dass wir plötzlich in einer welt aufwachen, die kälter ist, härter, gnadenloser.

die geschichte hat uns gelehrt, wie schnell alles kippen kann – wie schnell worte zu taten werden, wenn niemand widerspricht. und doch stehen wir hier, sehen zu, wie alte fehler sich neu verkleiden. die frage bleibt: wer hält uns auf, wenn wir uns selbst nicht aufhalten?