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Tags: established relationship, fluff, unit chief emily, attempt at humor, inspired by that one post I made, this is just for shits and giggles honestly and most importantly for loserwifemily, no use of yn
Summary: Emily Prentiss may be the Unit Chief of an elite team of FBI agents, but before that, she is your wife.
Word count: 1.1k
Nobody recommends sharing the workplace with your spouse. It gets messy, it gets awkward, you're held under a bigger microscope, subjected to more scrutiny—and, all in all, it just complicates things. Better for the two worlds to stay separate.
Such is not really your case. Partially because you're not even on the same floor as Emily, and partially because she's good at upholding the boundary, especially when your paths don't cross. When they do, it's more often you willingly seeking each other out rather than a work-related issue forcing you to meet.
So you know there's not anything particularly pressing when your wife ambles into the eighth-floor kitchenette, an empty mug held loosely in her hand, her eyes sweeping, lips curling up into a faint smile when she sees you at the counter. Her shoulders are relaxed, easy. She's dressed more casually today, in no mood for the fuss—a tank top under her blazer and dark jeans—and your eyes are appreciative. She catches them as they dip down to the pale, exposed skin of her chest, her grin widening as she steps closer and innocently tilts her head.
"I don't suppose your Splenda's run out?" She says without preamble, shooting for nonchalance.
You raise your brows and pick up the kettle as it goes off. Her charade is worn and tried: there's a whole box of the stuff squirreled away in her office, sequestered in the third drawer of her desk. This is also a familiar game, but, this time, you don't play your usual part.
You let her question hang as you pour the water into your mug, steam fogging your skin. She leans against the counter and crowds your peripheral vision, a blur of dark hues and the rich, familiar scent of her perfume. You see her arms fold.
She waits, silent, the heat of her gaze burning holes into your face as you set the kettle back down and grab your tea bag, bobbing it in the hot water.
"You know," you muse, still watching your tea deepen, "if you wanted to see me, you could've just said so."
Her heat presses an inch closer. "That wouldn't be too unit-chiefly of me."
You laugh, lifting the tea bag out and tossing it in the trash. As if no one knows of these little visits she takes up, the five to ten minutes of indulgence, a little break where she's no one but yours.
As if you don't enjoy them enough to have the gall to tease.
Emily makes a low, displeased sound in the back of her throat. You bite down on your smile, leisurely reaching for the sugar, spooning it in, and stirring it through your tea. Only after you toss the spoon in the sink do you look back up at her, your amusement poorly hidden, voice low enough to stay trapped just between the two of you.
"What do you want, chief?" You coax, tilting your head. "Tell me."
Emily's eyes go dark, glimmering. She glances about the room—steady and thorough, scanning the open, exposed doorway—a faint flush staining her skin.
Your smile breaks free when she turns her gaze back to you. There's a particular kind of delight you feel when you toy with her like this—especially when she gives in, settles so neatly into the palm of your hand. She knows it, of course.
It still hasn't stopped either of you.
"I wanted to see you," she says lowly.
"That's all?"
Her eyes drop to your mouth. It's a pleasant, tingling heat, blooming under your skin.
"No," she concedes.
In the solace of your home, maybe, you'd have dragged it out. But you're not at home and she's looking too unfairly good and—your last straw—she wets her lip with the tip of her tongue, sends fresh color blooming, and, really, truly, you're not thinking as you hook your fingers into her lanyard, wrap it around your fist, and use it to tug her into you.
She makes a little sound, surprised and gasping against your mouth. The heat of it burns in your blood. You feel her neck tilt to follow the lanyard in your grip and you have to break the kiss sooner than you'd have liked, before the awareness that you're at work completely fizzles out and you get lost in the haze, taking her bottom lip between your teeth, nipping at it to pull another sound from her—
"You have to ask for what you want, Emily." Your voice is only slightly strained, pitched low for her ears.
Her cheeks are awash with a blush. She blinks, but you can still see the slight, dazed look in her eyes.
"You're mean," she murmurs.
"I don't think I am." You thumb at the smooth slip of the lanyard still wound around your fist. "See, you didn't even have to ask."
Emily's hand finds the counter behind you, her arm slinging around your side and encircling you in her warmth. "So this is what I get for wanting a—"
"Hey there, lovebirds." A voice greets cheerily.
Alvez.
Emily whips around, her arm dropping to her side, your fingers letting loose the smooth fabric. You needlessly pick up your mug of tea, pressing its hot edge to your mouth.
Luke's eyes dip to the crinkled edges of Emily's lanyard.
"What?" She demands.
"Oh, nothing." He says in that exaggerated way of his, drawling the words out and making a big show of looking down at his watch. "It's just—well, you've been missing for a while and the team was getting jittery."
"The team." Emily says flatly.
You hide your laugh in a stinging sip of tea.
"You're not often missing, is all," he explains, his tone grave, a bold-faced lie. It clashes entirely with the boyish gleam in his eyes, the little twitch in his mouth.
Emily rolls her own eyes and turns back around. "A person can't even pee anymore." She mutters, grabbing her mug.
"I mean, you don't usually pee on the eighth floor, is all I'm saying."
Emily's eyes shut closed, the skin of her cheeks still dusted pink. "Alvez," she says without turning back around, "if that's all you have to say, I suggest you go back to your desk, quietly, and find something more useful to do. I can list out everything in your backlog if you'd like."
Luke begins to say something, but Emily quickly shuts him down.
"And no detours to Penelope's."
His mouth snaps shut. He dips his head, his sheepish, smiling eyes sliding over to you.
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There's something so hot about the way someone says "god you're cute" when you do something silly and it's with the intention to completely ruin you. 😳
yeah I luv crybaby emma and faux sympathy dana. so yummy. dana crooning awww, baby, I know, it's so much, huh? you poor little thing, mommy's so mean, making you all achy right here, hmm? and petting at emma's cunt, exactly how she's been working her girl up for the past hour.
just keeping emma in her lap, a warm palm cupping her clothed cunt, sometimes still, sometimes rubbing and petting, firm or gentle. sometimes her thumb will press on emma's puffy little clit through the fabric, making the poor girl yelp, squirm helplessly into the touch. dana only shushes her gently, shh, it's okay, it's alright... mommy's just needs to feel her girl, okay? yeahh, good girl, just lemme feel you, kiddo...
emma who get so desperate, so needy so easily, all sniffly and hiccupy in dana's arms, under her constant petting. she's soaking through her underwear, heartbeat pulsing between her legs, making her dizzy, so so ready to cum. dana loves when her pretty girl cries, but oh, she's not cruel. slides her fingers past fabric to find emma's poor, dripping cunt, nestling two fingers up inside that greedy little hole.
emma slumping back into dana, panting and whimpering weakly, hips rocking up lightly into the touch. not as squirmy now that she's filled— always needs to be full to cum, always needs her mommy as close as possible. dana chuckles, pressing a kiss to her girl's head as she pets her velvety wet walls, bringing her over the edge as she shudders and sobs. ohh, thereeee we go, that's all you needed, huh, baby? what a sweetheart, just needin' mommy's fingers in this little pussy. shh, shh, did so good... soo good, oh, I know. poor babyy. <3
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before we start posting that july is gay wrath month let’s consider that july is disability pride month first and foremost. the “be gay do crimes” memes can wait
before this post breaches containment and people start going “why not both hehehe” i want you to seriously consider the very long history of disabled people’s existence being pushed aside and/or seen as secondary. i promise you it’s not going to hurt to hold onto the memes and give disabled people space for visibility and celebration.
i say this as a disabled trans person whose trans identity is made front-and-center to the (mainly cis) people who know i’m trans but my identity as a disabled person is brushed off by the very same people.
✧ Writing fantasy that actually feels real isn’t about how many mountains your magic can shatter; it’s about making the world feel like it’s been there long before your characters ever showed up. Even if your creatures can breathe lightning, you’ve got to give your magic some grounded logic. You don’t need a massive, ten-page manual, but you do need rules that make sense. Think of magic like the weather—it’s predictable in the big picture but totally chaotic when you get down to the details. Ask yourself what’s fueling it, whether it’s blood, belief, or just pure conviction, and what it actually costs the person using it.
Look at Fullmetal Alchemist and its rule of "Equivalent Exchange"—you can’t just make something out of nothing, and that boundary is exactly what makes the stakes feel so high. When fire magic is powered by a character’s will, a weak flame suddenly tells the reader everything they need to know about that person’s mental state.
✧ Your creatures should feel like they have lives of their own, too. Dragons shouldn't just be cool props that show up for a fight; they should behave like actual animals with instincts, territories, and even their own cultures.
Think about the dragons in How to Train Your Dragon or the Temeraire series—they have migration patterns, nesting habits, and emotional triggers that make them feel like a natural part of the ecosystem. Maybe a lightning dragon sparks when it’s startled, or a fire dragon runs hot when it’s angry. Even if you don't explain every detail to the reader, knowing the "why" behind their behavior makes the world feel way more lived-in.
✧ You can add a lot of depth by making your world’s history feel a bit messy. Real myths aren't perfectly preserved; they’re full of half-remembered songs, crumbling scriptures, and stories that contradict each other. Readers love piecing things together, like realizing a village’s innocent winter hymn is actually an ancient warning about a monster sleeping under the mountain.
It’s that Dark Souls or Lord of the Rings vibe where the ruins and legends tell a story that’s much bigger than what’s happening right now. Build your cultures around the small stuff, like how people eat, how they swear, or how they bury their dead. In The Stormlight Archive, even the way characters use "storm" as a curse word tells you everything about how the environment has shaped their entire worldview.
✧ Geography should have consequences, too. People don't live on floating islands just because it looks cool; they live there because the ground is poisoned or because it’s the only way to stay safe from whatever is hunting in the valleys. When your locations have a reason for existing, the world feels intentional. You can even tie everything together with recurring symbols—like fire representing both renewal and fury, or stone standing for steadfast oaths. If your dragons, religions, and architecture all echo these same themes, the whole world starts to feel like one cohesive, ancient place that’s just waiting to be explored.
✧ One of the best things you can do for your story is to keep some of the mystery alive. You don’t have to explain every single detail just because you’re worried a reader might miss it—people actually love the feeling of discovering things for themselves.
Think about the way Studio Ghibli movies or the Dark Souls series handle their worlds; they don’t give you a textbook on how everything works, but the world feels solid because the tone and the internal rules are always consistent. If a dragon disappears, it shouldn't just be for "plot reasons," which feels cheap. But if it disappears because a massive storm has disrupted its migration pattern, that feels like a world with its own living, breathing logic.
✧ Magic really becomes compelling when it’s tied directly to the emotional core of your characters. Instead of just being a tool, let it reflect what’s going on inside them. Imagine a hero whose powers only flare up when they’re terrified, or a mage whose spells start to frost over whenever she thinks about someone she’s lost.
In Howl’s Moving Castle, Howl’s magic is deeply tied to his vanity and his fears, making the fantastical elements reveal something real about the people within them. That’s what makes it powerful—it’s not just about what the magic can do, but what it says about the person using it.
✧ You can also make your world feel way more authentic by letting your characters get things wrong. In real life, people have superstitions, they misquote old stories, and they argue over where things came from. Let the locals have their own weird theories about the dragons, or have a priest totally misinterpret an ancient scripture.
✧ When you finally reveal the actual truth later on, it hits so much harder because the reader has been living with the characters' misconceptions.
✧ Above all, just focus on consistency. You don't need to explain exactly how a dragon can fly with wings that look too small, as long as the world accepts it and the rules don't suddenly change when it's convenient for the plot. Whether your gods are everywhere or nowhere at all, their influence should be felt in a way that feels believable to the people living in that world.
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“From his chair” because yeah Robby would have a big ass old man chair that only he sits in. Reader can sit in his lap ofc but I feel like nobody actually uses it but him, and if they did it would take one look to send Frank or the reader scrambling. Also it’s frustratingly perfect for being put over his knee…or the arm of it if he’s extra mad lol 🤭 Robby’s oldman-isms are unfortunately so hot
18+ mdni EEEEK YES YES!!! his oldman-isms….. im picturing just the most old guy nice leather recliner UGHHH… thinking about him coming home to frank fucking you in it and snapping his fingers— “hey! hey! not in the fucking chair!” but it’s too late, you’ve already left a pool of slick on the leather <3
and and he gets home from work one day and you’re sitting in his chair and he doesnt say a thing when he first walks in… but then he comes back from the kitchen with a beer and you havent moved and he shoots you a look and it makes you get up in a heartbeat
and yes its sooo perfect for spanking you ugh… he’ll do it so casually… you’ll be giving him lip from across the room, trying to fight him on something, and with no real warning he’ll be beckoning uou over with two fingers. “C’mere.”
n you shift on your feet nervously, murmur “daddy,” in a softened tone but he just shakes his head and beckons again.
“now.”
n once you step close enough he pulls you over his lap and spanks you silly <3
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