Too Swanky for the Lesbians? They/Them

Baran had loved this museum since she was roughly fourteen years old and miserable on her middle school trip to D.C. She had gone to a nice enough school that they could afford to do an afternoon stop in Pittsburgh on the way home, and Baran had wandered into the museum half-asleep and walked back out feeling rearranged. There were many things about Pittsburgh that, now 40, she tolerated rather than loved. But this place had stayed in her bones.

Kaveh, unfortunately, was seven. He was usually a fantastic sport, but there were only so many oil paintings a child could stare at before he felt he'd seen them all.

Still, every Saturday Baran asked, “Do you want to come with me today, joonam?”

And every Saturday her sweet boy said yes.

She always let Kaveh lead when they visited the museum because there wan’t a single exhibit she didn’t enjoy and she had learned really quickly that if he felt he had control over what they were seeing, the longer he was able to last. 

Usually, this meant they ended up in the sculpture hall. Kaveh adored the tall, skinny statues there with his entire little heart.

“They look silly,” he would whisper loudly, staring up at the long bronze limbs and dramatic poses with complete delight.

And every single visit, without fail, he would eventually turn to Baran with barely-contained excitement and say, “Māmān, take a picture.”

Then he’d plant himself beside the statues and imitate them as seriously as possible, long face, arms thrown awkwardly into the air, knees bent at impossible angles as Baran gleefully snapped his photo.

Kaveh was bounding back to her side and standing up on his tip-toes to see the fruit of his photo shoot. She was showing him the latest one, his nose wrinkling with pleasure at his own performance, when his head snapped to the side with the speed of a small animal catching a scent.

Baran had about half a second of confusion before he pulled in a breath and used every bit of it:

“DOCTOR Y/N!!!”

Baran jolted so hard she nearly dropped her phone.

“Kaveh—”

Too late.

Across the gallery, you turned around and Baran’s heart sunk through every floor of the museum. It seemed like an awful collision of her two worlds that she very carefully kept separate.

She knew you in fragments that didn’t belong in a place like this, your scrubs and tired eyes after a long shift that always softened when you saw her, you padding through her kitchen at night, stealing water from the fridge like you lived there too, you half-asleep against her shoulder, breath warm.

She also knew how your voice sounded when it went all high-pitched and breathy, whimpering pleas of her name in her ear as your hands scraped down her back, her kissing your neck—

And now there you were. Dark jeans, a soft cream sweater with the sleeves pushed up to your elbows, a tote bag from a college Baran had never heard you mention, rings stacked on your fingers that caught the gallery light. Your hair was different than she'd ever seen it. You looked soft.

She watched your expression move through confusion and arrive at something warm and surprised and delighted.

"Hi, Kaveh," you called across the gallery.

Kaveh was already moving. He crossed the room at a pace that was technically not running because his feet were not fully leaving the floor at the same time, but was in every other sense running. You crouched down to meet him and he wrapped his arms around your neck without preamble, without hesitation, the way children do when they've decided about a person.

"You're here!” he beamed.

"I am here," you laughed, settling back on your heels with your arms resting on your knees, completely unbothered by the contact with the museum floor. "What are you doing here, little dude? Are you an art guy?"

Kaveh pulled back and shrugged. "Sometimes," he said. "Māmān likes it a lot more than me though. But she says it's good for my brain."

"Smart woman, your mama."

Baran had crossed the gallery at a more appropriate pace and arrived to find you already looking up at her, easy and warm, not making anything of it.

"Dr. Al-Hashimi."

"Dr. Y/L/N." She heard how formal it sounded and internally winced. She cleared her throat and softened her tone. "Small world. I'm sorry about the ambush."

"Please don't be," you beamed, standing. "This is the best thing that's happened to me all morning."

You had met Kaveh twice before and Baran had kind of freaked out both times (you knew good and well she didn’t really want you two interacting, didn’t want to blend whatever fuck-buddy situation you had going on with the version of her life she was presenting to her son) but both interactions had been really, really lovely. You’re not sure what you did to earn Kaveh’s adoration, but you were glad you had it as the adorable little boy beamed up at you, staring at you like you hung the stars.

Baran, standing slightly to the side, was also looking at your face. For completely different reasons. She took in the different style of your hair, the jewelry she hadn’t seen because it was kind of a pain to wear rings at work, the tote bag with your college insignia — a school Baran had not known you attended, had never heard you talk about, another piece of the woman she hadn’t had yet.

There were so many pieces.

“Are you here alone?” Baran heard herself ask.

You smiled. “I am, embarrassingly enough. I just like it here.” You paused. “Mom-son date?”

“We come most Saturdays,” Baran said. “When Kaveh is persuadable.”

“It’s an awesome hangout spot,” you nodded warmly, trying to will your heart to stop fluttering. Baran looked so… touchable? Something about her was calmer, more settled, and you wanted to soak it in like a sapling begging for just a drop of water to sustain it, but she was here with her son. And you were just a friend. Barely even that.

“Well, it was lovely to see you both,” you started to turn, “I hope you—”

Kaveh latched onto your arm, eyes going big with sudden sadness. “Wait, are you going?”

You froze, mouth falling open a bit, and your eyes shot to Baran. Sure, you liked her company and loved her son, but you knew this woman had boundaries and you never took that personally. 

“Um, well, Kaveh—”

"Don’t go yet because we are looking at statues and you can join us," Kaveh said excitedly. "Do you want to see?"

You blinked. Your eyes still searching Baran's face. 

It was sweet, Baran realized. She allowed her head to tilt, a warm smile to come across her face.

"Yes," she said warmly. "Join us. We could use the company."

Huh. You shook of your shock and replaced it with an eager nod of your head.

"I'd love to," you replied, a similar smile pulling at your lips. "Show me."

—

You fell into step beside her at an easy distance, and Baran noticed that too — the careful inch of space you maintained, not crowding her nor presuming that the invite meant she, all of the sudden, wanted you on top of her.

You talked to Kaveh mostly, crouching when he pointed at things, asking him questions that took his opinions seriously, which made him stand a little taller each time.

"That one is super sad," Kaveh pointed at a bronze figure with its head bowed.

"Hm," you studied it. "What do you think he's sad about?"

Kaveh thought about this. "Maybe he lost something."

“Lost something?” Baran prompted.

“‘Cause his head is down, Māmān,” Kaveh replied. “He’s lookin’ for it.”

It surprised a laugh out of you — real and unguarded, bubbling up from your chest and floating out into the high-ceilinged room — and Baran's eyes went straight to your face.

She'd heard you laugh before. But not like that. Not with nothing behind it but the simple fact that something delighted you.

She looked away before you could catch her looking.

She was noticing things she had no particular right to notice. The way you paused longest in front of the landscapes. The small private smile when something caught you, unannounced and unperformed. The fact that you knew which paintings were which without looking at the placards.

Initially she had been bracing herself for some level of awkwardness bred from the reminder that you existed in a different compartment of her life, one that didn't belong here under the high windows with her son. But you hadn't made it awkward. You just looked very content not to be alone on a Saturday, and it made her heart twist.

She felt herself begin to unknot.

"You come here often?" she nudged you with her hip as you walked again, and didn’t miss the way your eyes twinkled at the contact.

"Most weekends I'm not working," you tilted your head at the room around you. "There's a painting in the next gallery I've been coming back to for about a year."

"Which one?"

You smiled a little. "I'll show you when we get there."

In the decorative arts wing Kaveh grabbed your hand to drag you toward a suit of armor, and you let him, and Baran watched your face when he pressed his small nose against the visor to peer inside. The expression you wore was so soft, so unself-conscious, that it caught her off guard.

She had long wondered what you were like when you weren't managing anything at all, be it your poise at work or your manners in her apartment or your ecstasy in her bed. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was exactly what you looked like laid bare. 

—

They reached the end of the last gallery with the slow inevitability of a good afternoon running out. Kaveh had gone boneless against Baran's side around the second hour mark, dragging his feet and clinging to her arm, suddenly non-verbal.

You crouched down to him. "It was very good to see you, Kaveh. Thank you for the statue tour."

"You can come next Saturday," Kaveh offered, hand reaching out to fiddle with the neckline of your shirt.

Baran watched your face. She saw you almost smile  and then she watched you catch it and smooth it over.

"That's a very kind invitation," you said carefully, to Kaveh, but you were still looking at her.

The restraint of it was so practiced and so deliberate that it nearly hurt. She had put you here  in this careful, curtailed space  and you had stayed in it without a word of complaint, because she'd asked you to a few months ago. Please don’t ask about my ex-husband, please don’t ask about my son. You had nodded and respected it ever since, because that was the kind of person you were.

She had an empty afternoon ahead of her, but you were full of so many little pieces that had started to crack away from your skin and fall into her palm just over the course of an hour. She wanted more. She wanted every shard until she could build your full mosaic.

"We were going to get lunch," Baran said. "There's a place around the corner Kaveh likes."

She paused, small and deliberate.

"I would like it if you came."

Baran watched the surprise dance across your eyes even though you tried to remain nonchalant. You were a very smart girl and she knew you understood exactly what she was actually saying. This was very different from when you would brush shoulders in the hospital, or when your phone would buzz with a "Are you free tonight?"

"Are you sure?" you asked softly.

"Very sure," she said, then raised her brow with a smirk. “Do I have to say please?”

You looked at her for a beat longer, something soft and open moving through your expression, and then you smiled so large it changed your whole face.

"Okay," you said. "I'd like that."

Kaveh grabbed both your hands at once, one each, and lurched forward without ceremony.

Baran let him pull her out into the light.

—

Three months in and you were finally starting to get used to being woken up in the middle of the night for a case. Well, sorta. At least this time you’re pulling into the BAU at 5:43am and not 4am.

You don’t have to be here, you know you don’t— Emily has told you countless times that she doesn’t expect you to come in so early when the team gets called in for a case, especially considering you’re just her assistant. And yet you do anyway.

You know the rest of the team will be trickling in soon, giving you just enough time to set everything up in the briefing room, open some blinds (again, all things you really don’t have to do), and most importantly, make Emily a cup of coffee. In the few short months as her assistant, you’ve taken notice of Emily's coffee habits— it was sort of your job to notice these things you told yourself. She has at least two cups a day, one when she first gets in and then another once the afternoon slump hits, always black with Splenda. Though lately, she’s been verging on the edge of a borderline coffee obsession and you’re pretty sure she had had at least three cups by 10am yesterday morning. It was concerning to say the least.

Emily walks in just before six, heading to her office to set her things down first before making her way over to the briefing room. You meet her just outside the door with a soft smile. “Morning, boss,” you murmur, pushing a travel mug into her hands.

Emily rewards your efforts with an absentminded “Good morning,” as she lifts the mug to her lips, immensely grateful for the caffeine at this early hour.

She can’t put her finger on when exactly this had started—when you had started showing up with a cup of coffee for her whenever the team got called in for a case, like a personal barista—but boy was she grateful. Beyond grateful really.

She had started looking forward to these mornings, to these quiet little moments with you before she was forced to brave the horrors the next few days would bring. She also couldn’t help the giddy little feeling she got every time, knowing that you only ever brought a cup for her—maybe because she’s your boss and you feel that it’s part of your job, or maybe because… Nope, she can’t let her mind wander there.

She takes a big sip from the mug, in desperate need to rid herself of the lingering sleep and heaviness in her limbs, but when the warm liquid hits her tongue it isn’t anything like the dark roast she’s used to. No, this isn’t dark at all. It’s light, a little floral, with a hint of…lemon?

She swallows her sip before looking down at the mug, brows already pulling down into a hint of a frown. “This isn’t coffee,” she mumbles contemplatively, looking up to find your lips twitching up into a victorious little smile, clearly pleased with yourself.

You shake your head. “It’s not. It’s tea.” The words leave your mouth with a casual shrug of your shoulders. Huh. Emily is suddenly very grateful you’re not a mind reader, because her brain is frantically rewiring itself at the thought of you bringing her tea. Tea. Warm, comforting tea. And for some reason, that simple gesture was doing things to her insides.

“Tea?” she echoes, the word coming out just above a whisper.

You nod. “Mhm. Tea. Lemon, chamomile, and lavender,” you explain simply, “Good for relaxing and relieving stress. It’s one of my favourites.”

Her lips pull into a small pout and there’s a slight furrow between her brows. You force yourself to keep your hands at bay and not reach out to smooth it over.

“I’m not stressed,” she defends, though it’s a futile attempt.

Anyone around here with eyes could see she had been under a significant amount of stress recently. With constant budget meetings, never-ending paperwork, and the director breathing down her neck, it was hard not to be. She had been so unbelievably stressed, and you noticed. Everyone else noticed too, but you noticed, and suddenly her insides were doing an embarrassing little flip.

She watches you huff out a little breath and raise a brow—it was clear you didn’t believe her.

“Yes, you are. Don’t even try to deny it. I know you love your coffee, but your caffeine habits have been bordering on obsessive lately, so I figured this would be a nice change. A needed change.”

And you were right, of course you were right. You always seemed to be right when it came to these things, these little ways she should be caring for herself better—like actually eating lunch, and leaving the office before 11pm, and not sneaking up onto the roof to have a cigarette every few hours days.

She wants to say something. A sarcastic quip or dry one-liner in true Emily Prentiss fashion about how she can take care of herself, but by now the rest of the team had filed into the briefing room and were waiting to get started. She settles on an appreciative nod with a quiet, "Thank you," before stepping into the briefing room, unit chief mask slipping back on.

Emily does her best to stay focused on the briefing. She really does. But it’s hard when every time she takes a sip from her mug her tastebuds are hit with the sweetness of lemon, lavender, and honey; and every time her mind then drifts over to you, and every time her mind drifts, her heart does weird things. She should get that checked out.

She'll be the first to admit she wasn't too thrilled about having an assistant in the beginning. She's the unit chief; she doesn't need help. She doesn't need someone running around fetching her coffee, bugging her when she's busy, answering 'Yes, ma'am,' 'No, ma'am,' like some lapdog, but you were...none of those things.

You were attentive, sweetly so. You actually took notice of her— of what she liked, of when not to bother her, of how she took her coffee and when to bring her a fresh cup, of when she needed a lunch break, and you showed up with Chinese. She hated admitting it to herself, but it was nice, you were nice, and she couldn’t help but start paying attention to you too.

And you were good with the team too, always feeding into Penelope's newest obsession, asking JJ about Will and the kids, checking in on Tara and Luke and Rossi. You were kind and always so willing to help; it was hard to wrap her head around sometimes.

After concluding the briefing, she heads back to her office to grab the last few things she needs, with you following her diligently. “Is there anything you need me to do while you’re out?”

Your eyes sweep over her desk and land on a small stack of papers in the corner. You jerk your chin towards them. “Anything I can help with?”

Emily follows your gaze and waves her hand dismissively when she spots the stack. “Oh, that’s nothing. Just budget reports and leave requests I need to sort through. I’ll finish it up when I get back.”

“I can do them,” the words leave your mouth so quickly they surprise even you. You don’t give Emily the chance to protest, already reaching over and gathering the stack in your arms with a shrug.

Emily huffs out a laugh and shakes her head, but you’re already halfway out the door. “You know, most assistants don’t practically beg to do paperwork.”

Her tone turns teasing, and you don’t even have to look back to know that little dimple is making its way to her cheek as a smirk tugs at her lips.

She watches you glance over your shoulder, an amused glint in your eyes, “I’m not most people,” you murmur, and then you’re gone.

Season 2/early season 3

As I said, she looks like a softie but 1. if she has her eyes on you she IS gonna get you home, full stop and 2. she starts to realize just how much she likes to see a woman at her mercy. There's something about being the one to reduce someone to a certain state that strokes her ego like never before and it gives her such a high that at first she doesn't even realize her demeaning remarks and reactions, but once she registers not only her behavior but also the reaction it gets from the other person she can't get enough of it. She's such a fucking mean dom like I know she'd make me cry and laugh at me because of it ugh.

Later season 3/season 4

COCKYYY omg she's so fucking cocky!! Like in a frat boy, borderline offensive way and the fact that she has a constant line of girls waiting and begging for a chance only makes her ego grow. She definitely likes to take control but more so because she likes knowing that these women are so into her and worship the ground she walks on that they're willing to let her do anything she wants to them.

Now if she seriously falls for a woman, though, she becomes the dumbest, most pathetic service top ever and her only mission becomes to satisfy any wish of her woman.

Season 5

Daddy?? Ahem sorry. After the pussydrunk phase she comes back to her senses and tames her ego a bit. She's definitely very dominant but in a more "subtle" way. She doesn't need to be all cocky and over the top to have a woman submit to her, one look is more than enough to get what she wants. The fact that she's a little different doesn't mean that she's gonna be softer, though, in fact she's probably shifted a little bit more to the hard dom side. She's not snarky or mean, though, and she probably starts giving praises more than she's ever done. She's a little surprised at how many more women she can have by not trying to pursue them in a more pushy way like before (season 3/4) but of course is not mad about it.

Season 6

Ok now that's daddy ugh!!!!! Sorry sorry. At this point she doesn't even try to find women, they just come to her like to a magnet, could it be the lack of interest she shows like she has previously noticed? Probably, and the "gloomy", mysterious look she has about her definitely helps attract attention. She's the biggest hard dom and has found a sweet spot of a subtly degrading language mixed with just the right amount of praise that melts on the spot the women she chooses. Oh and yes she's officially over the "taking home as many women as she can" mentality and would rather see someone she really likes for a while, even if not for a relationship and just for sex.

the keys turning overlaps the typing on your laptop.

“hey,” you utter, a barely-there smile from the older woman greeting you. she’s as gorgeous as she left the house, a boatnecked light ivory silk dress with a simple ivory slingback, hair pulled back in a messy bun, loose strands curtaining her face . the only difference is the frown it leaves you, taking in her stance; slightly uncoordinated balance, drooping shoulders, unpleasant in her updo. “hey, oh hey, you okay?” you shut your laptop and shove it in your tote. “you look…”

the thin curve of her lips turn into a big pout, brown doe eyes blinking at you expectantly.

“...exhausted,” you say, and as if on cue, baran lets out a loud sigh, collapsing against the doorframe. she puts her purse against her face and groans loudly.

“...and clearly frustrated.”

she mumbles something in farsi and kicks off her heels, “these stupid heels!”, watching the disorder and immediately placing them in the shoe rack by the door.

“they’re gorgeous, baran,” you insist, observing her next outburst. the older woman tends to let out her frustrations one at a time, mulling over her emotions and how best to express them. you believe her reluctance is in consideration of your well-being, preventing you from being a vessel of release from her troubles whether it be by work or life or something else. 

the doctor gives you a quick look of irritation before charging onto the wine cabinet, barefoot with heavy footfalls. the hem glides along the flooring like a current.

she whips out a cabernet sauvignon and two wine glasses, setting them on top of the furniture, arranging them in a line. she quickly works through the bottle with a corkscrew, expertly twisting and turning. you’re completely immersed in the movement, her muscles flexing as she bites her lip in concentration, leaving a space of frustration in between furrowed brows. 

you jump when it pops, the sound soothing the older woman to smile.  

baran, ebbing from her flow, tilts her head to you with a slow eye flutter, “how is he? asleep?”

it takes you a second to respond, “yes, completely tucked in in his new sheets,” zeroing in on baran’s tight grip on the bottle, resulting in the flex of her biceps. you clear your throat, “he didn’t finish the pizza so you have six slices waiting for you in the fridge,” a grin blossoming in your face at the memory, snapping you back to sanity. 

baran curves ones side of her lips upwards then pokes the inside of her cheeks. biting her lip yet again as she continues to stare, setting the bottle down in defeat. she groans, as if something is actively trying to take control over her. 

“i don’t have the appetite after tonight,” she admits, “tomorrow for breakfast,” she promises, dejectedly bringing the cure to her problems towards you. 

baran gracefully treads in your proximity, the flow of the fabric levitating her off the earth, gravity controlled like no other. the shade enhances the glow in her clear, olive skin, embracing her figure in the right places. the gears in your head turn a shade greener, noting how it clings to her like a second skin, putting all socialites to shame. jealousy is one of your strongest suits. 

baran’s dress is backless, the light playing with the seduction of every depression and elevation of her back, her muscles toned but softened by the smooth skin. your tongue glides in the backs of your upper teeth as the dip on the low end gapes at you. 

the hairs in your spine shoot up when her knuckles touch your palm, handing you a glass, resistance getting harder by the minute. her scent engulfs your senses, blurring your judgment, leaving you with less control. you can’t want this and so you want more.

you chuckle, “trouble in paradise?” assimilating in baran’s new emotion, never mind the ones she’s causing you. 

she sighs, “far from paradise,” closing her eyes in disbelief.  “it’s been literal hell since the other attending i substituted came back. you know, the one i told you about,” she conceded, taking a swig to her situation, forehead wrinkled in prolonged annoyance and misery. 

“ah,” you utter, partially distracted. 

scanning the movement of her throat as it bobs to the array of baby hairs on her temple where your desire begins and ends—wishing you could place a finger there, feel the pulse. prove it skips a beat when she looks at you. 

baran stares, doe-eyed and all, in a way that almost answers your question. 

you look away, flummoxed, heat pooling in your cheeks. 

the older woman brings her glass forward and you follow, the clink appeasing the former, grinning at the progress of the night. it’s quite monumental to turn baran’s rotten night to almost rotten, but it overpowers the silent prayer you’ve sent out to sustain your bessotted state, distrusting your autonomy with a woman as beautiful as baran. 

you feel your teeth grind as baran envelops her lips around the rim, stain leaving a mark, mixing in the maroon liquid. you’re not the classy type, at least, you’ve never tried to be, so this demonstration is a rare learning opportunity. that’s why you don’t blink, not wanting to miss a second of how much liquid the doctor takes in her mouth, when she swallows, and when she should want more. you’re too focused on baran to notice her eyes lingering on your thighs, watching intently as you squeeze them at her every move. 

she hums, “you like it?” lowering her voice, waiting for your tics to open up to her. 

this is a treacherous indulgence, but the pull is stronger than your agency, finding yourself batting your eyes at her, slowly nodding your head. she takes another sip to hide her smirk. the older woman grimaces, fingers massaging her left calf. as expected, you act on cue, obediently falling into the routine you and the doctor have fostered the past few months. 

baran gingerly places a hand on your thigh, gripping it loosely. you stare at her hand and not her eyes. 

“not today,” she says, coddling your name like a lullaby. you hesitate, unsure what else you’d be useful for. as if baran can read your mind, she licks her lips, blinking her eyes, “it’s okay, you don’t have to. you can just…just stay up here with me…”

she relaxes when you do, keeping an eye for a sudden shift in action. you tend to end up committing to your own whim, and she preferred to be in on it. despite the uncertainty, baran focuses on reassuring you, rubbing your upper back and giving you a soft smile. 

settling into the couch, she sighs, “you don’t know how grateful i am for you to be here…” crossing her legs, the sound of silk giving you butterflies in the stomach. she nudges at your wine glass. you take a sip, afraid, interested, reluctant. nights with the al-hashimis typically end in massages or past midnight conversations about diego and work. you’ve refused a sleepover multiple times even with the insistence on your safety, baran’s concern and doting eyes almost deciding against your boundaries. you hate the idea of giving her more things to worry about; accommodation, extra pay, and a shoulder to cry on.  

“likewise. it’s the highlight of my day,” you half-tease, a brow lift tilting your axis like never before. smug, she asks, “not my son?”

“oh he’s brilliant, of course, but he wouldn’t be a happy child without his amazing mother and…”

this should be like one of those days, but baran is staring at you differently, as if she’s stripping you away from the title, as if she’s scanning what else lies beneath there. 

baran finishes her portion and takes the entire bottle, drinking from the source, her eyes never leaving yours. 

she swipes a speck of red at the side of her mouth then sucks on her thumb. 

you gulp a load of saliva down your throat. 

“be careful now, we wouldn’t want your other clients hearing the best babysitter in town has a preference,”

baran’s lipstick has stained the glass that’s now on the table, transferring the color there, leaving her lips a little less flashy, a little more domestic. subdued. delectable. irresistible. 

she licks her lips and a few of her saliva stays at the flesh, catching the light, illuminating the plumpness. 

“they’ve got to deal with it,” you start, swirling the red in the glass, catching the one second bite of her lower lip, “you’re my favorite.”

it comes out the way you didn’t intend to, shifting the atmosphere completely, the momentum causing you to squirm in the feeling of intimacy, the lines tangling without end. 

baran chuckles, the sound sending a shot of electricity down the middle of your thighs. 

she shakes her head, slurring, “khoda rahmat koneh,” racking her brown doe eyes all over your face, amusement and esteem glowing off of her. 

“what did you just say?”

“chi? ah, i can’t believe you’re in my life right now,” baran acknowledges, dribbling over at her words, giggling as she takes another sip. her eyes dilate.

“is that so?”

“no, not really,” she admits, teasing with her gorgeous smile, doctor doe eyes bright and big as ever. 

you shake your head. 

“you know, if i had you there by my side, i sure wouldn’t be as grumpy as i was the moment the other attending–robinavitch—greeted me at the door–”

“the one you told me about?” 

the doctor groans and puts a hand on her forehead. “yes,” she exasperated. 

“that bad?” you gasp, seeing her pout for a second. “i’m sorry you didn’t invite me,” you chaff, receiving another doe-eyed look you can’t pronounce. baran’s eyes are completely dilated, examining your every move, like you were a set of organs for her to operate on. 

“i would know what to do next time,” she settles. 

baran shifts her attention to your barely-drank red wine. she purses her lips, waiting for your next move. when you don’t—helplessly staring at her—she places the bottle at the coffee table, occupying her hand with yours. she decides then, to help you out, generously drinks half of the liquid, flickering her eyes between your hands and your thighs, lightly quivering. 

you poor thing. 

the older woman shifts closer to you, swirls the red in its carrier, and places her thumb on your chin. she rotates the glass, presses your lips against the stain of her lipstick, red liquid dripping into it. 

fuck. 

you can barely breathe.

“wouldn’t want it going to waste,” she croons. 

fuck. 

“y-yeah, right, of course, i-i’m–”

“you don’t have to apologize,” she counseled, shaking her head.

you feel faint.

you’d be the first to stutter while humming, your body in an extreme fight-or-flight mode response that brainlessly grabs your tote, a chant of a final goodbye about to roll out of your tongue. you could barely register the fact you’ve buried yourself six feet deep the moment you started dreaming about the older woman, forgetting to realize that the only way to make it out alive is whether or not baran wants to provide a helping hand.

baran catches your wrist the moment you stood up, looking up at you like she knew all along an escape route brewed the moment she walked through the door. she tilts her head, “come here,” uncrossing her lap, coaxing you to sit.

you obey instantly, farewell out the door, leaving without you, shaking in its boots.

baran tugs your wrists and you find yourself spreading your legs, bearing your entire weight into her lap. your feel your clitoris pulse at the contact. 

you’re staring at the contrast, silk and cotton-polyester in contact, wondering if it’ll ever get to grinding. if it’ll remain a divide between you and your desires.

baran’s amused to say the least, knowing you’d hide in your shell, timidly casting your head down, waiting until you’re brave enough to face her. she knows you won’t, putting a hand on your shoulder and running it through your arm. you shiver, meeting her brown orbs when she tilts your chin upwards.

“you want this?” she asks, eyes glazed over, holding onto her final restraint, squeezing your hand in the process.

you nod your head. 

she sighs in relief, nudging her nose with your own, breath ghosting over your lips. you could almost feel her, you’re so close. you feel her grin, bowing her head to catch your lips, pressing a kiss on your bottom cusp.

she’s soft, warm, heady with a mix of red wine. 

baran pulls away to see how you are, glee spreading throughout her body as she watches you with eyes closed, going back in for a peck, and then another. and then some more, gliding her tongue inside your mouth with a moan.

you grind into her lap when the noise breaks out, a smile and a sigh between kisses. snaking her hands around your waist as you place yours on her cheeks, clipping the loose strands of hair behind her ear.

baran’s cheeks have blossomed out in a feverish blush, panting as she pulls away, scanning your disheveled state. she gives you a peck before she grabs the wine bottle in her hand, rubbing your thigh. she takes a sip and dives back into your kiss, pulling you closer into her, passing the wine into your mouth, draining it with vigor.

you whine, feeling the liquid in your mouth, tartly sweet and something else that’s just baran.

and then you’re both just hungry. 

you pounce onto her, grabbing the nape of her neck and completely pressing yourself against her, kissing her ferociously, lapping at her mouth with no abandon. baran tightens the grip on your hips and guides them, humping her thigh at a steady pace. she latches onto your tongue and begins to suck it, her vice-grip and the squelch getting you wetter and needier. 

you whine when she pulls away, sending sloppy kisses down your neck, nipping at the flesh, grazing her tongue ‘til she reaches the side just below your jaw. she hums before she sucks at your pulse point, causing your eyes to roll back, your body tingling at the pleasure. 

a long moan draws out of you. 

“that’s it,” baran sighs, your lower lip in between her teeth. 

your sweatpants come off, lifting your hips to be manhandled, knees wobbly, trembling at the idea of being completely undressed by the older woman. she looks absolutely stunning in the disheveled dress you desperately want to take off.

you find her mouth again, hot and heavy, completely mixed with hers and your saliva. you think there’s nothing hotter than that until baran’s rubbing you through soaked panties, moaning as she pushes them to the side. 

“i-i-i can’t w-“

she slips a finger in. 

her slender middle finger, finding the warmth inside your pussy, impatiently needy for your reaction.

“ah!” you yelp, gripping on her shoulders. she brings you closer with a hand on your hip. 

“that’s it,” she says between gritted teeth. 

it’s slow, experimental, precisely stretching you open with one, gauging your tolerance. 

“is this okay?” she asks, putting her forehead against yours, her breath deepening as they mingle with yours. you nod your head with a huff.

baran pushes another finger in. you whine, rolling your hips into her digits, her fingers filling you. 

“let it out. good girl, good girl,” she whispers with a slight growl, clenching her thighs at the image of her fingers disappearing completely in your pussy, rolling out coated with a white string of your cum.

baran chuckles with a moan, licks a stripe of your neck, then murmurs, “you feel so good…”

“…you feel so good,” you pant in return.

she grabs your jaw, causing your eyes to flutter open, dense and glazed over. her breath shatters at the state she’s put you in, drunk and needy with arousal. she swallows your moans with her mouth, shoving her tongue inside, whimpering as you flick around the muscle.

“i’ve waited so long for this. you’re exactly as i imagined you would be,” she confesses in your mouth, can’t get enough. 

“w-what is that?” you cry in between moans, close to the edge. the older woman tightens her grip in your hips, no longer guiding them, allowing them to move at their own accord, feral and wanton to climax. 

“a good, obedient girl.”

your back arches at the title.

“a loud, responsive little thing…”

cries when she flicks a thumb against your clit. 

“…all because of me.”

baran beholds the sight of you: mouth open with a string of moans, eyes clamped shut as the aftershock leaves your body with your cum. she kisses your cheek and whispers praises you could barely make out due to the intensity of the orgasm, her entire palm open onto your back, supporting you.

you slump against her body, responding with an embrace that makes you warm.

you take baran’s face in both hands and kiss her with gratitude, passion, and a request for more.

you tug at her dress, giving her a look of need.

the older woman’s lips curl into a smirk.

“you think i’m done with you?”

baran leads you to the bedroom.

it’s surreal to be finger-fucked by the doctor, but here you are, being dragged with an impatient hand to her sanctuary for more. the place you refused to bring arash to despite protest, aware you’re not worthy enough to step foot inside. it changes tonight. 

baran couldn’t wait to land you on the bed, all over your body once more, sandwiched against the door. breathing you in like she’s in her natural habitat, wet, open-mouthed kisses, ravishing you completely into submission. 

she inhales in the crook of your neck, sighing, “you smell so good,” placing her thigh in between your legs and pushing your pelvis down against it. she pulls your tee off, grunting as your lace bra takes her away her inhibition and restraint. 

she’s starving, this woman, kissing the valley of your breasts, nipping and licking at the exposed skin. you sigh, scratching her crown, her messy bun undone, the ponytail hanging on for dear life. pulling the pad down your breast, baran licks her way down toward the tissue right next to your bud, cooing as you whimper. “you want more, huh?”

you nod your head. 

“what do you want?” she challenges, swiping a finger against your nipple, chuckling in amusement at your obvious shudder. exposed under her gaze, you whine, gripping on her neck. 

“what do you want?”

“your mouth sucking on my—mhm!”

there she goes, burying her face in your tits, bent down at an angle to give you what you need, sucking your nipple as she fondles with your other breast, rolling the bud in between fingers, staring up at you with a content smile. 

her eyes twinkle at the beautiful sight. 

baran detaches her mouth away from your nipple, a string of saliva connecting them. 

“i need more of you. get on the bed,” she orders, raking her eyes at you from head to toe. “walk backwards. slowly. don’t look away from me,” giving you an appreciative nod as you follow her exact order. 

her gaze latches onto you like a leech, calculating every movement, “stop-!”

your ass lands on the mattress, the backs of your knees sending you there. “i’m sorry–“ you start, about to stand up until baran holds a hand. she shakes her head. 

“it’s okay, stay put,” she says, drawing closer to you. 

“take off your dress, baran. i want to see you too,” you plead. 

the older woman sniggers, giving you a look as if she can’t believe you’re exchanging orders, bossing her around without consequence. you tense as she floats closer, still fully clothed, holding all the power. your head buzzes at the sight, at her command, and the aftershocks from the orgasm of her doing. 

“i sag larzan,” she coos, lips pouting in adoration. 

she’s in front of you now, tall and gorgeous, scanning your frame like a predator. dragging her tongue across her bottom lip, smirking at you, ready to pounce. she hums, neatly tucking loose hair behind your ears, tilting your chin up. 

baran unclasps the hook of her dress, the fabric opening down at her torso. she drags it slowly, keeping her eyes on you and your reaction, letting out a silent hum when your mouth opens in admiration. she kicks the discarded dress to the side, leaving only her undergarment, top completely bare. you begin to drool. 

baran’s confidence is inspiring, straightening her posture, slightly pushing out her chest towards you. 

“my eyes are up here,” she husks, her deeper tone snapping your attention back to her face, the one that makes you soak her pristine sheets. 

“i’m sorry,” you whisper, automatically peaking at her hard-rock nipples, stiff and awaiting your mouth. 

“shma npastid? are you?” 

the older woman raises a brow, taking your chin in between index and middle, pressing on the crease, causing your mouth to open. you could only nod your head. 

baran lowers her neck, mouth only a few centimeters separating you. her doe eyes, oh-so-black in dilation, glinting as she weighs her choices, checking in with you silently. you tremble under the intensity of her gaze. piercing through your soul and your bundle of nerves. she makes up her mind in the end, 

pulling spit from her mouth to yours, the action causing you to grind against the mattress, your moan covered by her mouth. pushing her spit deeper, mixing your own saliva with hers. she slowly lays you down the bed, pressing herself on top of you, her biceps propping her up. 

the older woman bats her doe eyes at you, staring at you with such care, “are you still with me on this?” making sure you’re both still on the same page. you nod, speechless. her face softens with concern, almost maternal. “i’m okay. are you okay?”

she furrows her brows, caressing your cheek with a thumb, pressing a kiss on your temple.

she hums in acknowledgment. 

“yes, yes,” she mumbles in your mouth, kissing you softly, languidly caressing your tongue with her own, getting lost in the warmth of your mouth. 

she kisses down your body, gently, as if she’s finally realizing the weight and fragility of it. it makes you weak in the knees because not only is it baran with you, the woman that somehow invaded your dreams every night, but it has been so long since you've kissed someone passionately, with a promise.  

baran pays attention to your other breast this time, flicking your nipple with a loose tongue, tweaking the other, humming when you hit a moan, making a mental note of your tics. 

she nips and sucks a trail at the plane of your torso, caressing your sides with a featherlight touch, sucking the rim of your navel. she grins as you shift at the action, sticking and flicking a tongue in your navel. she’s the first to give this to you it seemed. she grazes her teeth down to the band of your soaked panties. 

the older woman lifts her head up, humming in content. “you’re beautiful,” she sighs and you melt. 

baran grazes her nose along the fabric of your underwear, mouthing at your labia. she huffs, rolling her eyes back as she inhales your scent, tongue swiping at your clothed pussy in the process. you whine, hips bucking, pulling away as to not aggravate you as much, although knowing you’d react this way. 

she presses a kiss at the wet spot. 

“spread your legs,” she exhales, excitedly abiding her wish. 

“good girl,” she moans, licking and sucking at your inner thighs, just relishing in the heat you’re radiating. she tugs your waistband and you lift your hips, the last piece of garment fulfilling your nudity.  

“pashman,” baran exasperates and moans your name, gritting her teeth, holding back from outright devouring you. 

she wants this to last. she wants this imprinted on her mind for months to no end, erasing the ones before you, reshaping her into a better woman. she wants this to be as sacred as yours. she wants this for the both of you. 

baran presses a kiss on your folds, separating them with a swipe of her tongue, the tip landing against your clitoris. you arch your back, gripping the sheets. she flicks it a few times, brown eyes looking up at you, intertwining her fingers with yours. your legs tremble at the stimulation, unable to wrap your head around the fact that she’s in between your legs, fully focused on your pleasure. your blinding, hot, pleasure. 

she nuzzles her mouth against your clit, dragging her tongue across your hole, probing it, letting out a strangled moan as you grip her head with your thighs, sighing in pleasure. you’re so wet, cum dripping down your thighs, mixing the previous orgasm and the cum she’s slurping out of you. 

“you taste so good,” baran mumbles, mouth full of your pussy. you sob, closing in on your climax already, meeting her lips and tongue with the drive of your hips. she moans and it vibrates through your bundle of nerves, setting you off deeper. “baran…” you whimper, grabbing a few locks of hair. 

she grunts and rolls her head back, lapping up at your wet folds, grabbing your thighs and spreading them even more. she pulls away for a second to get a better view of your reactions, slamming two fingers inside your stretched hole. 

“yes?”

you cuss, holding onto her wrist and then back at the sheets, panting out her name. 

“baran, baran, baran..!”

it gets you closer, hips coming off the mattress, just rolling and rocking, the squelch of your juices resounding throughout her bedroom. “you’re close, aren’t you? you need me right now, don’t you?”

you nod your head, an inaudible plea coming out of your mouth, full of saliva and the older woman’s name. baran lets out a strangled moan and dives back into you, “come for me, please, please come in my mouth,” losing herself in your pussy, grinding her core against the mattress. it feels so good, grabbing onto her for dear life, scraping her scalp and hearing her name fall from your lips as you fall apart for her yet again. 

panting through your orgasm, the older woman flattens her tongue and cleans you up, sucking in the remaining juices she has yet to devour. she’s a neat freak, so it only makes sense she keeps your pussy clean as well. 

baran kisses your inner thighs, breathing you in, making her way up your chest and neck, peppering wet kisses and leaving words of praise. “you did so good for me,” she coos, pecking your lips before covering them with a swipe of her tongue, capturing your whimper in her mouth. 

her eyes are twinkling at you. she grins, mouth swollen and wet.

“you made me so wet, did you know that?”

you shake your head, blissed out. “i did?”

“no? you were too drunk with pleasure, weren’t you?”

after nodding your head, she giggles, shifting away, taking off her lace panties. 

“can i use your mouth?” she asks, so cute and so breathless. 

“yes, of course, please-“ you respond, getting up, but baran just pushes you back down. 

“i want to ride your face ‘til i come, koodak,” she purrs, batting her eyes at you. 

“fuck,”

she chuckles. 

“will you give it to me?”

so demanding, so bossy. 

“anything you want,” is your only response. 

she moans and kisses you, before rearranging your position, making sure you’re comfortable in the pillow, gracefully placing herself on top of you, hands grabbing the headboard, tilting her neck downwards to situate herself on your face. 

“okay down there?”

you hum in acknowledgment, grabbing the backs of her thighs, pulling her down. she hisses as her slit gets in contact with your lips, beginning it with a peck. 

the sight of her pussy makes you drool, drenched and ready for the taking. the older woman didn’t lie. she needs this as much as you do. you part her folds with your lips, burying your tongue inside, finding her clit and giving it a good suck. 

“oh fuck,” baran moans, long and drawn out, thighs quivering. you hear the creak of the headboard and know it’s about to be obnoxiously loud. your head roils in complete bliss, mouth drenched in baran’s cum, the consistency thick and intoxicating. “like that?”

baran hums, the dirty talk causing her hips to jerk, sudden and then steady, finding herself a rhythm. she pulls back, sets both palms against the mattress, bearing her weight completely at an angle. she grins when you come up for air, overcome with the urge to give her what she needs. 

it’s electric, giving her what she needs, the older woman’s face constricted in pleasure, sweat building on her forehead, brown hair frizzled out by her need to please as well. baran has a few moles littered across her body, her chest clear of them, bouncing and jiggling at her thrusts against your mouth. 

you slither a hand through her torso, grabbing a tit. she pushed her core harder against your mouth, convulsing at the action, arching her head back as you pinch her nipple and suck on her clit at the same time, examining her every move. she grabs your hand and places it back on her thighs, replacing it with her own, moaning your name as she stares deep into your eyes. 

you moan, the vibration causing her hips to stutter, toppling over back against the headboard, unable to prop herself in the position she was in, about to spill. baran mumbles a few words in farsi, inaudible, only for her own pleasure, placing one hand against your crown, sweat dripping down her forehead. 

you groan, nudging your nose against her clit before pulling it in your mouth, giving it a hard suck, the movement setting her over the edge. 

you keep lapping at her pussy, head constricted in between baran’s trembling thighs, a keen cry releasing from the coiling tension in her abdomen. caressing her skin into the aftermath of her orgasm, your mouth latching onto her until she lets go. 

it takes baran a minute to ride it out, her breathing beginning to even out, halting her movements completely, unlatching herself from your mouth. you swipe the cum off your face with your tongue, a loud hitch of inhale coming from the older woman, whose eyes were on you the entire time. you grin, sheepish, “can’t help it,” honest with a hoarse voice. 

“i’m sure,” she responds sarcastically, situating herself in between your thighs, nuzzling her face in your neck. “are you tired, are you okay?”

you tilt your head to the side so you can see her face. you give her an incredulous look, teasing. 

“my, my. do you want to go again? and here i thought i couldn’t have enough,” 

she grins, eyes wide and adoring. she pinches your cheek. “that’s why i’m offering, because i know you want more!”

“look at you! who doesn’t!” you kiss her cheek. baran tilts her head away and flutters her eyes, cheekbones pointed out of skittishness. she buries her face in your neck again, finding solitude there. 

“okay, but we need a water break,” she settles, mumbling in your neck. 

“i’m sorry, what was that? i couldn’t hear you,” you rib, placing a hand on the back of her head. your laughter fades into a moan as baran licks your earlobe. “you were saying?”

“you’re insufferable,” you settle, watching her face appear in front of you. she’s glowing, mouth swollen by your deeds, baby hairs moist in perspiration. she looks so comfortable, so at home in your arms. 

Emily is obsessed with touching you any chance she gets.

It's surprising, really, the way she starts clinging to you when she finally feels like she's allowed to. When you're at hers, she keeps a hand on your hip while you cook dinner, she likes laying on the couch with you on top of her as you watch some random reality show. Emily keeps her face pressed into your neck, breathing you in, whenever she can.

And it's good. God, it's great. You want it all the time, you love how much she enjoys it, how close she keeps you. There's only one problem.

You want her. Constantly. And it seems like every time you try to move on to something more, she retreats. She kisses your cheek, your forehead, ending the makeout session as soon as it starts.

You don't push, you haven't been going out that long, anyway, and maybe she's still uncomfortable. Maybe you thought she’d be fine with it earlier because you were friends before, yet that might be the reason she's still uncertain, you're not sure. Although trying not to take it to heart is hard, especially when it seems like she doesn't want you as much as you want her, and you don't know if that's because she doesn't see you as her equal.

Being younger than her never really mattered to you. Ever since you started at the BAU you thought she was beautiful, attractive, sure, but she treated you like a colleague worthy of respect, even as her subordinate. Emily never made you feel like you were less than her or your teammates, which is why you never really thought about her age or yours as anything of a problem.

Perhaps you were wrong and she sees yours as a problem.

But there are moments in which you can't believe these conclusions. There are moments, when you're having dinner or just talking on a rare free night, that she looks at you and you can swear she wants you, too. At this point, anything could be true. You enjoy spending time with her, you care about her, and this one thing won't put you off a relationship that you believe can be really good, for the both of you. But this liminal stage ends up confusing you anyway.

Sometimes, your frustration gets the best of you.

You're on her couch, after dinner on a night when you're mercifully still in town. Emily never kisses like she doesn't mean it. She grips your hair and holds your jaw with her other hand, she tilts your chin slightly lower so she can get her tongue into your mouth. Emily sucks on your bottom lip like she's starved for it, then dives back in, leisurely feeling as you open up for her.

Scratching the back of your neck, she lets out a surprised sound when you pull her closer by the cheeks. When you get a leg thrown over her lap, though, she lays a hand on it softly, touching your thigh as if she's afraid you might break. Emily slows the kiss, kisses your chin, then your cheek, and still, with her lips swollen and cheeks red from effort, she smiles like nothing's happened.

“We should watch a movie,” she says, reaching over for the remote. You grip her arm, not letting her get away that easily.

“You're kidding me, right?”

Emily frowns, seemingly genuinely confused — if you weren't so frustrated you might've even found it cute. “I don't know what you mean.”

You chuckle humorlessly, resigned. This is fine. It's just something you'll have to get over. “Never mind,” you say, bringing your leg back from where it still rested over her, almost managing to stand up before she touches your hand.

“What's happening?” She asks, so lost that you actually feel bad. Seriously, what is she doing to you? “Did I do something?”

“No,” you sigh, “it's me. Pick a movie, I'll be right back.”

Emily's still frowning, but you get up, turning away from those sorry eyes. You can't help but feel bad that you put that look on her face when she hasn't done anything to earn it.

In the bathroom, you throw some water on your face. Chuckling ironically at yourself because the feel of the lace lingerie you have on is starting to annoy you. Lately, you've been choosing aesthetics over practicality with your underwear, just in case. Apparently, it was futile.

Reaching under your shirt, you remove your bra, tired of the uncomfortableness it brings. In a t-shirt of Emily's, you can barely tell you're not wearing it, anyway. Since you came straight from work, all you have is your laptop bag, not even pajamas in it, so she's lended you some. You figured you'd keep the lingerie on, again, just in case. Deciding it doesn't really matter, now, you get out of the bathroom and throw it in your bag, cursing the fact that you can't do the same with the bottom piece currently digging into your hips.

Back in the living room, Emily is sitting in silence. She's got a silk set on, some button-up shirt and pants that feel as soft as they look. You like seeing her this casual, comfortable at home, with you. Knowing you should focus on that, you smile at her when you sit back on the couch, your arms touching so she knows you're not upset.

“I couldn't choose,” she says in a low voice, sounding oh-so-dejected, pointing at the television.

Okay, does she have to make it this hard?

“I’m sorry, Em, I was just… upset about something else.” You try, touching her shoulder, letting her silver hair slip through your fingers. “I didn't mean to take it out on you.”

Emily shakes her head, a soft, yet genuine, smile on her face. “Don't worry about it.”

Biting your lip, you nod, still unsure but deciding to take her word for it. “There's a new thriller I thought you might like,” you change the subject, taking the remote from her hand and delighting in the fact that she snuggles up against you, her head on your shoulder, one of her arms around yours.

This is fine. This can be enough.

In bed, Emily has a terrible habit of scrolling through her work e-mails before you turn the lights off.

It usually ends in her getting annoyed at something or someone. She sighs, mutters about how she needs to stop looking at her phone before bed, then does it again then next night.

Tonight's no different. The only different thing is you're sitting next to her, leaning back against the headboard and reading a book, one you've read a thousand times. More passing your eyes over the words than actually absorbing them.

Emily huffs, takes off her glasses, places her phone on the nightstand, screen turned down. She turns on her side, still half propped up by pillows, and scoots closer. Her arm finds your waist, her head leaves the pillow to rest on your shoulder.

“Read it out loud?” She asks, her voice muffled against your skin.

You don't add anything, only start reading to her from the top of the page. You know she's not asking to know the story, she just wants to hear your voice.

“As the king made no answer, the little prince hesitated a moment. Then, with a sigh, he took his leave. // ‘I make you my Ambassador,’ the king called out, hastily. // He had a magnificent air of authority…”

The cold tip of Emily's nose touches your skin where your shirt’s moved a little. She presses it closer, breathes you in. Leaves a featherlight kiss on your shoulder.

You close the book harshly in the middle of a sentence.

“You must be tired,” you say, placing Le Petit Prince on the nightstand. “We should get some sleep.”

Emily frowns, “you're acting weird.”

You look away to turn off the lamp. She catches your hand.

“Talk to me.” She asks, her voice so syrupy as it usually is this time of night. “Please?”

Taking a deep breath, you buy some time. Not nearly enough.

“Did I do something?” She asks again, crestfallen now. Your chest physically hurts.

“No, you didn't do anything.” Taking her hand, you lace your fingers together. “I mean it, Emily. This is my issue, I'll get over it soon.”

Frowning, “I’d like to help.”

You shake your head, kiss her cheek. “I think,” you whisper, “no, I know, you're the best thing that's happened to me in a long time.”

Emily only looks at you, eyes big and searching. Her profiler skills working at full speed and, still, she can't figure you out.

“I don't want to ruin it,” you finish. Squeeze her hand for good measure, to let her know you're there.

“I'm so confused,” Emily says, sitting up properly. “Why won't you tell me what's wrong?!”

“Why won't you have sex with me?!”

Alright, blurting it out was not how you wanted to do this.

You close your eyes, cheeks flaming. “Forget I just said that.”

When you look up, Emily looks… stunned. Her lips are softly parted and her eyes are wider than usual. Too bad you really want to kiss her.

“Let's go to sleep.” Imploring now, you try to pull your hand away. She doesn't let you.

“I'm sorry-” She starts, but you interrupt her.

“No! I'm sorry. I didn't mean to say it like that, I was-”

Emily shuts you up with a kiss. Pressing your lips together, she holds your face in place as she kisses you. She doesn't deepen it, but she lingers, then softens.

“Stop talking,” she murmurs against your lips. “Please.”

You nod, pressing your lips together.

“I'm sorry. I didn't realize this was weighing on you.” Her voice is collected, like she sounds in the conference room. You want to shake her, tell her to yell or show that this is affecting her, too. “I never wanted to make you feel unwanted.”

“I don't-” You interrupt yourself before she can because, really, what can you say to that?

“I do want to have sex with you,” she says, calmly, but there's a light rubor to her cheeks, like it's hard for her to say it.

“Then- Why? Do you think it's too early? We've known each other for over a year.”

Emily nods, moving the hands that were resting on your shoulders to grip your own hands. “I don't think it's too early, I…” She shakes her head. “I don't know how to explain it.”

“Emily,” you say, finding that you really want to get that disheartened look off her face more than you want an explanation. Trying to convey in your tone what you feel about her. “You don't have to explain anything. We’ll do it when you're ready. If you're never ready, we'll never do it.”

“Simple as that?” She asks, slightly incredulously.

You shrug, “simple as that. I just wanted to know why, but that doesn't matter.”

Emily smiles, a small thing that you might've missed if you weren't paying attention. “You're so young,” she starts, confusing you again. It must show on your face because she quickly continues. “I'm not. And I don't look like I did at thirty anymore, or even forty. And maybe you should be with someone like that.”

Scoffing, you can't believe what she's saying. “You think I want to be with anyone else? I've been crawling up the walls because you won't touch me!”

Emily shakes her head negatively, “I believe you. When you say you want me, I can trust it. But I don't think you should.”

You cross your arms, dislodging her hands from yours. “That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing really comes out.

“I don't care that you don't look like a wax figure. Do you care that my stomach isn't perfectly toned? Or that I have acne scars on my back? Cellulite?!”

“Of course not, but-”

“Emily!” You interrupt her. “I love you. God, why is that so hard for you to understand?”

She blinks. Silence engulfs the room.

“I was gonna wait, because we've only been together a month or whatever… But we've been friends for so long, and fuck it, it's out there now.” Holding her face between your hands, you bring it close to yours. “I love you. And I want you like I've never wanted anyone in my life.”

“I love you,” she whispers back. But you don't have time to react before Emily kisses you, holding you in place by the shoulders, forcefully pressing your lips together like a woman starved.

Moving a hand over her side, she grips it before you can leave it there, holding it in her lap and pulling back from the kiss. Emily touches her forehead to yours, breathing hard with her eyes closed.

“Sorry, I-” She gasps out. “I didn't think it'd be this hard.”

You nod, placing a comforting kiss to the side of her mouth. Pushing her softly against the pillows, you lean over her a little, but not enough to completely cover her body. Trying your best not to be overwhelming, you look all over her face, taking note of her breath coming in hard pants and her hands clenched in the fabric of your shirt.

“Emily.”

She opens her eyes, not realizing she'd even closed them in the first place. They're wide, searching your expression.

“Take a deep breath,” you suggest, touching your cheek to hers when she does so. “Again.” Matching her breaths, you keep her under you for a moment, hoping she can finally relax. “I'm going to tell you exactly what I'm going to do, and if you need me to stop, tell me, alright?”

Lifting your head, you lock eyes. Emily nods, pressing her lips together and managing to keep her breathing normally paced.

“I'm going to kiss you, now.”

And you do exactly that.

At least this is familiar territory. Emily quickly melts into you, her mouth welcoming your tongue in a practised move. You don't touch her anywhere else, only keep one of her hands in yours, the other resting by her head on the mattress. She lets out a small sound of approval, her neck lifting to get closer, head tilting for the best fit.

When she comes up for air, you lower your face into her neck. “Here,” you whisper. “Okay?”

Emily hums a consent. You kiss below her ear, slow and wet, enjoying the taste of her skin in the way she hadn't let you before. You've been dreaming about this for weeks, months, and the reality of it is better than you expected.

Placing kisses down her neck, you reach the base of it, right where it meets the skin of her shoulder. A particularly hard kiss there leaves a slightly red flush in the shape of your mouth. Emily gasps above you, her free hand moving to grip your shoulder. You let her hold onto you, let her feel the assurance of your body over hers.

You take your time exploring her skin. The exposed area of her chest glistens and flushes where you've kept your lips on it, enjoying the taste and the way she shudders, her back unclenching, lowering back onto her soft sheets.

“Can I take your shirt off?”

Not even having dared to undo a button, you wait for her approval. Emily looks up at you, an ethereal vision with her cheeks red and her lip swollen where she bit it to contain her own whimpers. She doesn't say anything, so you move your hands to your (her) own shirt, slowly lifting it off yourself. For a second, you'd forgotten you'd taken your bra off in the bathroom, but the chill in the room quickly reminds you of it.

Emily looks at you intently, her eyes mapping every bit of exposed skin. She licks her lips, placing her hands on your waist and squeezing softly. You nod at her encouragingly.

Dragging her hands up, she keeps her palms under your chest, not going further. You feel your skin heat up at the attention, but don't move to cover yourself, letting her look as much as she wants to.

Emily looks into your eyes again, "take it off.”

You don't waste any time. Swiftly opening the buttons on her silk shirt, you lower your head to breathe in every amount of skin that is gradually shown. When it's completely open, you kiss her sternum, the valley between her breasts, her stomach, but you don't move to push it off her body. Slowly, you taste every bit that's uncovered, feeling as Emily's hips move on their own accord, lifting up from the bed ever so slightly, a sight that you'll soon learn means she's aroused.

Getting your arms under her back, you pull her up, touching your uncovered chest to hers. “I'm going to take it off, now.”

Everything is said in your lowest tone, as if you're trying not to spook a scared stray. When Emily nods, you finally rid her of her shirt, throwing it somewhere on the floor and not caring to look. There is a much more interesting view right in front of you.

She lies back down, her eyes locked on yours, her hands gripping you at the height of your ribs. You move down with her, trying to stifle a smile but losing the battle, kissing her chest so she can't feel embarrassed.

“You're perfect,” you murmur against her skin, causing her to shiver at the warmth in your voice. Keeping your promise, you continue, “I'm going to taste you, now.”

Taking a nipple into your mouth, you smile around it when she whines. Sucking slightly, the sounds she lets out spur you on. This is so, so much better than you could've imagined. Emily moans when you move to her other breast, the cool air causing even stronger shivers on her wet skin.

After a while, when Emily's breathing is labored for an entirely different reason, you bring your face up to meet hers. You can never get enough of the way she kisses, so you ask for it again. A thumb on her chin, pressing it down to guide her jaw, loving the way she relinquishes her body to yours. Your tongues meet heatedly, and you moan at how she tastes, yet again. She groans in the back of her throat, gripping your hair strands and keeping you exactly where she wants you.

You touch her chest, taking care of it with your hands this time as she kisses you oh-so-sweetly, in that way only she can.

Coming up for air, you smile at the expression on her face, dazed and relaxed, at last. Surprisingly, Emily smiles back, a small tilt of her lips but a smile nonetheless.

“Can I take your pants off?”

She nods, running fingers through your hair to move it away from your face. Twisting it onto a low ponytail to keep it there, she runs her hands down your bare back, then your chest, mapping your body with her fingertips as best as she can reach.

You remove her pajama pants, leaving her underwear on for now. Closing your eyes, you try to center yourself. She's everything and she really has no idea.

“I really didn't plan for this,” Emily murmurs, pulling you back to the moment. She's gesturing at her underwear, you notice, a simple, black cotton pair.

“It's perfect.”

Standing up, you take off your, also borrowed, sleep shorts. Emily lifts her eyebrows at the sight of your lace bottoms.

You smile, “just in case.”

Emily, mercifully, laughs. A loud, free thing that settles your worry.

“You can stop narrating now,” she says, pulling on your hand so you straddle her hips.

“You sure?”

She nods, pulling on the back of your neck to kiss you.

As you kiss, you feel her hips bucking up into yours. Your hands find her body again, relearning every curve that you, for a while, thought you'd never get to see. Finding the edge of her underwear, you only look at her, waiting for a sign of discouragement. Emily only nods.

“Fucking hell,” you whisper unconsciously after finally, finally, getting her naked. “I've been wanting to do this for months.”

Emily lifts an eyebrow, “months?”

You hum in agreement, growing more speechless by the second. Kneeling between her thighs, you stare at her unabashedly, earning an impatient look from Emily, who clears her throat. “Sorry,” you grin up at her, delicately lifting one of her legs onto your shoulder. Emily closes her eyes as her cheeks heat up.

“You're perfect.” It feels like you can't say anything else. You desperately want her to understand that you've never meant anything more than this. “Fuck, Emily, you're stunning.”

She opens her eyes, looking away quickly when she notes the flame in yours, her face turned to the ceiling. You let her have it, not wanting her to be uncomfortable, and start kissing the inside of her thigh where it's resting near your face.

Her skin erupts in goosebumps. You can smell her so strongly from where you lay, your mouth starts salivating almost immediately.

In the end, you don't know if you taste her more for her pleasure or yours. Every minute that passes with your head between Emily's thighs, you feel yourself get more and more aroused. You know you're just about to become addicted to her, you'll want to do this every hour or every day and it's gonna be so hard to not jump her every morning in the office.

The sounds she lets out are a spectacle apart. Her throat raw from moaning, the whimpers and gasps that she produces every time you find just the right spot. Every time that deliciously raspy voice hits your ears it spurs you on, when she calls please! into the ceiling, when she keens as you slip a finger into her.

Two fingers pulling forward, your mouth sucking precisely on her clit — you learn that's the perfect recipe. Emily cries out, telling you not to stop, telling you it's exactly right, and just like that, don't stop, fuck.

There's barely a breathy, broken, “baby, I'm so close” before she comes into your mouth. Her thighs shake and her hips try shooting up as you hold her down, keeping her close and still with your tongue on her, tasting as she comes down. Her back arches in the most stunning arch and you want to do it all over again, keep doing it, all night, all week, if she'll let you.

When she pulls your face away, gripping your hair strands and trying to stop you, you whine at the separation.

Once you're face to face again, you pout jokingly at her. “I was enjoying that.”

Emily smiles, “yes, well, I need a minute.”

She brings you in for a kiss, groaning as she tastes herself on your tongue. You feel the wetness on your chin passing onto her face, your kiss messy in the best way possible. Emily nips on your bottom lip, then beams at you.

“I don't know why I was so worried.”

You shrug, “I don't know, either.” But your eyes soften in understanding. A kiss on her cheek to tell her you've got her.

“Your turn?” She asks, grabbing your hips with her hands already under the waistband of the lace. Emily keeps them there, giving you the same time you gave her. It's sweet, even if you've told her you were crawling up the walls, and that she can probably feel the damp spot on her thigh from where you straddle her.

“I'm not done yet.”

Getting up again, you remove your underwear, then sit down next to her and pat your lap playfully. Emily rolls her eyes, but complies, straddling your own legs this time.

Gently moving her legs where you want them, you get one thigh over hers, the other under, and she swiftly adjusts herself when she gets your intention. She keeps herself lifted, not resting her weight onto you yet, leaning down to touch her forehead to yours, more easily as you're slightly propped up against the headboard.

You hold her hips firmly, guiding her down to bring your centers together. Emily closes her eyes, shivering.

Kissing below her ear, you whisper, “ride me?”

Emily sighs next to your face, hiding hers in your neck. “I'm not twenty anymore.”

“That doesn't mean anything,” you say, taking her earlobe between your teeth and enjoying the way she shudders. “I'll guide you, hm?”

She doesn't say anything, but she nods, and her hips give a slight, barely there, thrust forward. You both moan in unison.

Keeping a tight grip on her hips, you encourage her to move.

It's dramatic, sure, but you feel like you've died and gone to heaven in the span of a few seconds.

Murmuring in her ear about how good she looks, how well she rides you, you delight in her needy whimpers. Emily lets out these enticing little gasps where she hides her face in your neck.

Still guiding her movements with a hand, you take another to touch her back softly, caressing the skin and feeling as beads of sweat start to form from the exertion. You don't stop praising her out loud, the vibration of your voice emboldening the undulation of her hips, and Emily grips the hand that's resting right there, a bruising hold that keeps you anchored.

It takes a little trial and error, but you find the perfect rhythm together. She lifts her head when she's getting close. Her neck strains as she approaches orgasm, you've noticed, her entire body tensing in expectation.

As her breathing gets more labored, her brows furrowing from the effort, you think you've never seen someone this beautiful, and you tell her just so. Her cheeks flame, still so unused to praise, but it still spurs her own, her thighs burning now from the merciless pace she sets. With a particular twist of her hips, she slightly moves off where you need her the most, but she looks so ruined, so gorgeous, almost reaching her peak, that you don't say anything. You have time. Now, you only grip her harder, letting her take what she needs from you.

Telling her how good she rides you, how perfect she looks above you, you watch in ecstasy as her back arches and she comes again, an almost sob of relief leaving her lips.

When she falls forward, spent, you wrap your arms around her and kiss her temple, then wherever you can reach. You whisper that you love her, she answers with a squeeze of your arm, still catching her breath.

“You've ruined me,” she says when she finally finds her voice again.

“I did no such thing.”

Turning her face to look at you, your noses brush together. “You probably fixed me.”

“Don't be silly,” you joke, nipping at her nose. “There was nothing to fix.”

“Huh,” she considers, pressing your lips together sweetly, like she can't get enough. “Somehow, I almost believe that.”

You beam. That was all you really wanted.

Which is exactly why it’s frustrating that your focus begins slipping long before Hotch even starts talking.

The door opens behind you with a soft metallic click that barely registers at first, just another late arrival trying to squeeze into a room already overflowing with bodies, but then a familiar presence settles directly at your back and your entire body reacts before your brain has the chance to catch up.

Emily.

You don’t need to turn around to know it’s her. Somehow, you always know. Maybe it’s the subtle confidence in the way she carries herself or the quiet steadiness of her presence, but the awareness of her arrives instantly, sharp enough that your shoulders tense on instinct while your grip tightens fractionally around the papers in your hands.

And of all the places she could have stood, she chooses here.

Not near Rossi, where there’s still enough room to lean comfortably against the wall, and not beside Hotch near the front where several agents are already shifting to make space for late arrivals. No, Emily slips into the narrow gap directly behind you instead, close enough that the warmth radiating from her seems to settle against your spine through the thin fabric of your shirt, close enough that every slight movement she makes immediately pulls at your attention whether you want it to or not.

You shift your weight subtly, attempting to convince yourself that the sudden tension curling low in your stomach has more to do with the overcrowded room than with Emily Prentiss standing inches away from you, but the moment you move, she adjusts too, and somehow the distance between you never widens quite enough to make breathing feel easy again.

It’s ridiculous, really.

The room is packed. People are brushing shoulders constantly. Rationally, this shouldn’t mean anything at all. Emily has always been tactile, naturally flirtatious in that effortless way that makes it impossible to tell where casual charm ends and something more dangerous begins, and yet the longer she remains standing there behind you, the more impossible it becomes to convince yourself that this is entirely accidental.

Or maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe part of you desperately wants it not to be accidental, and that thought alone is enough to send warmth creeping uncomfortably up the back of your neck.

Hotch finally begins the briefing, his calm, measured voice cutting cleanly through the noise of the room as conversations slowly fade into silence around him, and you latch onto it immediately, grateful for something structured enough to anchor yourself to before your thoughts drift any further out of reach. Victimology. Escalation patterns. Behavioral consistency. Things that make sense. Things that don’t smile at you with dark, knowing eyes and leave you overanalyzing every interaction for the next six hours afterward.

You focus on the facts instead, tracing familiar details through your mind while Hotch lays out the profile, and for a moment it almost works. Almost.

Then Emily shifts behind you, barely enough movement for anyone else to notice, and the faint brush of her shoulder against yours sends your concentration unraveling all over again.

This time, though, the contact doesn’t disappear immediately.

Emily’s hand settles briefly against the small of your back as another agent squeezes past the two of you, her fingers warm even through the fabric of your shirt while she guides herself around you with an ease that feels entirely too natural.

The contact is fleeting, probably unavoidable in a room this crowded, but your body reacts immediately anyway, heat rushing through your chest so fast it feels embarrassing while your fingers tighten around your notes hard enough to crease the paper. You stare stubbornly ahead, jaw tightening slightly as you force yourself not to react outwardly, because the last thing you need is for Emily to realize how painfully aware you are of her.

Except when her hand slips away again, she doesn’t move back.

If anything, she leans in slightly closer, and suddenly you can feel the warmth of her beside your shoulder, close enough that the next words she speaks barely travel further than your ear.

“You okay there?” she murmurs quietly, amusement threading softly beneath the question.

Your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts. Although, if you’re being honest with yourself, she probably already knows.

Emily notices things. Tiny things. The shifts in expression other people miss entirely, the moments where your voice changes by half a tone, the subtle tension in your shoulders whenever she steps too close or lets her hand linger just a second longer than necessary. And the terrifying part is not just that she notices, it’s that sometimes it genuinely feels like she enjoys it.

“…and based on the escalation pattern—” Hotch pauses briefly, glancing toward you. “Go ahead.”

Your pulse stumbles immediately. Right. Your part.

You inhale slowly, already reaching for the opening sentence you had mentally rehearsed earlier, the carefully structured explanation sitting so familiarly in your mind that under normal circumstances you could probably recite it without thinking, but the second you open your mouth, the words catch somewhere between your brain and your tongue.

“The unsub is likely…”

The hesitation barely lasts a second, and still it feels catastrophic.

Heat floods your face instantly as awareness crashes over you in one humiliating wave, because there’s an empty space where the rest of your sentence should be and all you can think about is the fact that Emily is standing directly behind you close enough to hear every tiny fracture in your composure.

And worse, you can practically feel her smiling.

“…operating within a controlled environment,” you finish eventually, even though it isn’t the phrasing you intended at all.

You force yourself to continue before the silence stretches any further. “Someone who relies heavily on routine and predictability. The victim selection suggests…”

A soft exhale brushes against the back of your shoulder. Your thoughts disappear completely for half a second.

God.

It’s probably unconscious, probably meaningless, and yet your entire body reacts to it anyway, your heartbeat turning uneven while warmth spreads viciously through your chest at the realization that you can actually feel her breathing this close to you.

Then, impossibly, Emily shifts again, just enough that her arm brushes against yours this time, slow enough that it almost feels intentional.

Like she’s testing how much more of this you can take before you completely fall apart in front of her.

Don’t react. Just finish talking.

“—suggests familiarity with the locations,” you manage finally, recovering just enough to push through the remainder of the profile on pure instinct alone, although by the time Hotch nods and smoothly continues the briefing, you barely remember half of what you just said.

All you really remember is Emily standing behind you, silent and steady and entirely too close, somehow managing to distract you more thoroughly without touching you at all than anyone else ever could with both hands on your body.

And maybe that’s what unsettles you most about all of this. The fact that if she were openly flirting, if she were obvious about it, then at least you would know where you stand. But Emily exists almost entirely in half-smiles and lingering glances and quiet comments layered with meanings you can never fully untangle, leaving you trapped in this unbearable space between certainty and wishful thinking.

By the time the briefing finally ends and agents begin filtering back into the hallway, relief settles through you so quickly it almost makes your knees feel weak. You move with the crowd immediately, desperate for distance and fresh air and enough space to think clearly again before Emily notices just how badly she affected you.

Which, realistically, is already too late.

“You hesitated.” Emily’s voice appears beside you almost instantly once the two of you step into the hallway, warm amusement curling beneath the words, and when you glance toward her despite yourself, she’s already watching you with that same unreadable expression that always feels like she knows far more than she’s saying aloud.

“You threw me off,” you mutter, quieter than intended.

Emily hums softly, clearly entertained.

Then her fingers catch briefly around your wrist before you can move any further ahead with the crowd, the touch light but firm enough to stop you for half a second. Your pulse stumbles immediately.

“Really?” she asks, tilting her head slightly while her thumb brushes once against the inside of your wrist, dangerously close to your pulse. “I didn’t think I distracted you that easily.”

The contact disappears almost as quickly as it came, but warmth still lingers against your skin afterward, sharp enough that your thoughts immediately begin unraveling all over again.

“There was space up front,” you say after a moment, because focusing on literally anything else suddenly feels safer than acknowledging the fact that Emily Prentiss just touched you like that in the middle of the bullpen hallway. “You didn’t have to stand behind me.”

“No,” Emily agrees easily. Instead of stepping away, though, she shifts slightly closer again, close enough that the faint scent of her perfume slips warm and distracting into your space all over again. “But you looked cute trying not to react.”

Your stomach drops so fast it almost hurts. Heat floods your face, which only makes the amused curve of Emily’s mouth deepen slightly, like she’s just been handed confirmation of something she already suspected.

“You were watching me,” you accuse as the two of you continue walking through the bullpen doors together.

Emily glances toward you slowly then, openly studying your face instead of even pretending not to, and the second her eyes catch the lingering flush still warming your cheeks, something pleased flickers across her expression.

Like finding exactly what she’d been looking for.

“Was I?” she asks lightly.

Her shoulder brushes yours a second later, subtle enough to pass as accidental to anyone else, but Emily doesn’t move away afterward.

You nearly laugh at that, mostly because the alternative would involve admitting how painfully aware you were of her the entire time. “You know you were.”

For a second, neither of you says anything. Emily simply studies you with a kind of quiet attentiveness that makes it impossible to look away, and suddenly you feel unbearably exposed beneath her gaze, as though she can see every frantic thought currently tangling itself apart inside your head.

“Interesting,” she murmurs eventually.

You narrow your eyes immediately. “That’s not about the briefing.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

The response settles low in your chest and stays there, heavy and warm and dangerous all at once. Your breathing catches slightly before you can stop it, and the worst part is knowing Emily notices that too. Of course she does.

“You did that on purpose,” you say quietly, because pretending otherwise suddenly feels impossible.

“Did what?” she asks, far too innocent to be believable. The corner of her mouth twitches upward, like she can barely keep herself from laughing at you.

You stop walking then, turning fully toward her because if she keeps looking at you like this while pretending not to understand what she’s doing, you genuinely might lose your mind a little.

“You know exactly what.”

For a moment, Emily just watches you, her expression softening almost imperceptibly around the edges as though she’s carefully considering how honest she wants to be with you. Then finally, after a beat long enough to make your pulse throb painfully in your throat, she smiles.

“Last time we talked, you looked very confident when you said I don’t distract you.” Her gaze drifts slowly down your face then, lingering for half a second too long before lifting back to your eyes again. “I had to test the theory.”

Heat crashes through you so fast it feels unbearable. “That was not—”

“An accurate statement?” Emily finishes smoothly, obvious amusement flickering through her voice now.

You glare at her, which only makes her smile widen slightly, softer this time, almost fond beneath the teasing.

“I was curious,” she says with a small shrug, as though that somehow explains why she spent an entire briefing dismantling your ability to think coherently.

Maybe it does.

You look at her carefully. “So none of that was random.”

“No,” Emily answers immediately.

Then, before you can prepare yourself for it, her fingers brush lightly against your sleeve again, smoothing over the fabric in one absent little motion that feels far too intimate for how casual she makes it look.

“No,” she repeats more quietly, her eyes holding yours steadily now. “Neither was your reaction.”

The quiet certainty in her voice tightens something painfully in your chest because suddenly this feels less like harmless flirting and more like Emily deliberately reaching for every reaction you try so hard to hide from her. And the truly dangerous part is realizing she seems almost fascinated each time she finds one.

Emily holds your gaze for another long second before finally stepping back slightly, giving you enough space to breathe again even though your heartbeat still feels hopelessly uneven.

“I just picked a spot,” she says lightly, as though both of you can still pretend that’s all this was.

You stare at her, waiting for the joke, the backtracking, something to make this feel less terrifyingly sincere than it suddenly does.

Instead, Emily lets the silence stretch between you for just a second too long, long enough that it begins to settle beneath your skin like an answer in itself while her expression shifts almost imperceptibly into something smaller, more controlled, a smile that feels strangely private, as though she’s holding onto a thought she has no intention of sharing with you yet.

Then she winks.

Not exaggerated or playful enough to let you dismiss it as harmless teasing, but subtle, deliberate, devastatingly confident in a way that makes warmth rush violently through your chest all over again.

And before you can even think of something coherent to say back, she’s already turning away, effortlessly slipping back into step with Hotch and the others as though she hasn’t just spent the last several minutes deliberately ruining your ability to function properly.

You remain standing there for a moment longer than necessary, pulse still uneven beneath your ribs, staring after her with the deeply uncomfortable realization that absolutely none of that interaction had been accidental.

Worse still, some part of you suspects Emily knew from the beginning exactly how you were going to react to her standing that close.

And somehow, despite recognizing every warning sign in real time, you still let her pull you apart piece by piece exactly the way she wanted to.

Later, back in the bullpen, the familiar rhythm of work should have grounded you by now. Usually it does. The constant ringing of phones, the low chatter drifting between desks, Garcia’s music playing faintly from her office while keyboards clatter steadily throughout the room, it’s all so normal, so routine, that most days the familiarity settles around you like muscle memory.

Tonight, though, none of it helps. Because every attempt at focusing eventually circles back to Emily. To the warmth of her standing behind you. To the quiet amusement in her voice when she pointed out your hesitation. To the way she looked at you afterward, calm and knowing and entirely too aware of what she was doing to you.

And maybe that’s the worst part of all.

Not that Emily flustered you, she’s always been capable of that but the terrifying suspicion that she enjoyed it. That she noticed every fractured breath and every stumble in your composure and chose to push anyway, just to see how far she could get before you completely unraveled beneath her attention.

Your thoughts are spiraling badly enough by the time you reach Garcia’s office that you don’t even realize you’ve stopped in the doorway until her attention snaps immediately toward you.

She’s surrounded, as always, by organized chaos, bright screens glowing in every direction, colorful pens scattered across her desk beside an alarming amount of candy wrappers but the second she catches sight of your expression, her eyes narrow with instant curiosity.

“Okay,” she says slowly, leaning back in her chair just enough to study you properly, “that face means something happened.”

You hesitate. Which, unfortunately, is answer enough.

Garcia’s eyebrows lift immediately. “Oh my God,” she breathes, already delighted. “It was Emily, wasn’t it?”

You glance instinctively over your shoulder before stepping fully into the office, lowering your voice despite the fact that Emily is nowhere nearby. The habit alone feels incriminating.

“I don’t know if I’m overthinking this,” you begin carefully, although the uncertainty in your voice already undermines the statement, “but during the briefing she stood right behind me. Like… really close. And she didn’t have to. There was space literally everywhere else.”

Garcia’s entire face lights up with the kind of excitement that instantly tells you this conversation is about to become deeply unhelpful.

“Oh, honey,” she says immediately, sounding almost offended on your behalf that you’re even questioning it, “she absolutely did that on purpose.”

Relief and frustration crash together in your chest so quickly you almost laugh. “That’s what I thought,” you admit, “but afterward she pointed out that I hesitated during the profile, and the way she said it…”

You trail off briefly, trying and failing to put the feeling into words.

“It wasn’t just that she noticed,” you continue more quietly. “It felt like she knew why I hesitated.”

Garcia’s expression softens, the teasing melting into something more understanding as she watches you carefully for a moment. “And now you don’t know how to read that,” she says gently.

“I don’t know how she means it,” you correct quickly, because somehow that distinction feels important. Maybe painfully important.

Garcia hums thoughtfully, although the expression on her face suggests she has already reached her conclusion several steps ago. “Sweetie,” she says after approximately half a second of consideration, “there is really only one way to mean that.”

You frown immediately. “That’s not helpful.”

“It is,” she insists softly, tilting her head at you. “You just don’t like the answer very much.”

The frustrating part is that she’s probably right.

You look away, exhaling slowly through your nose while your thoughts tangle themselves apart all over again, because acknowledging what this might mean also means acknowledging how badly you want it to mean something at all, and that realization feels far more dangerous than you’re prepared to unpack right now.

“I just…” You hesitate again before finally admitting, quieter this time, “I don’t understand what she wants from that.”

Garcia’s smile turns unexpectedly fond at the edges. “Maybe she doesn’t want anything,” she says gently. “Maybe she just likes seeing you react.”

The words settle heavily in your chest because the awful thing is that you can suddenly picture it perfectly. Emily noticing every tiny shift in your expression, every stumble in your voice, every flustered attempt to regain control of yourself, and finding all of it endlessly entertaining.

Not cruelly. Not carelessly. Almost affectionately, somehow.

And that possibility feels close to the truth in a way that makes your stomach twist. Because if Garcia is right, then Emily already knows exactly what she does to you.

And instead of pulling away from it, she keeps stepping closer.

✮ The first time you almost kiss, you’re getting drinks after work with some of your coworkers. 

You giggled slightly from the alcohol coursing through your body as you lean against the bar. Yolanda smiled at you, her fingers dancing along the rim of her glass as she watched you sway to the music. The two of you have found yourselves away from everyone else, much preferring the company of each other. 

“Are you having fun, Yoyo?” you smiled, eyes a little hazy. 

Yolanda nodded with a small laugh, enjoying this version of you. The two of you have been dancing around your feelings for each other for a few weeks. Neither of you knew the best way to bring it up without ruining your friendship. 

You slid closer to the surgeon, biting your bottom lip as you got closer. Yolanda stayed still, letting you dictate what happens next. You were in her personal space and she could smell the alcohol you’d been drinking. Before you could lean in further, the song in the bar changed, catching your attention. 

“I love this song!” you grinned before pulling away and making your way on the dance floor. 

Yolanda watched with a slightly shocked expression. Part of her wished she’d given in and closed the gap as she watched you walk away. 

✮ The second time you almost kiss, it's been a few weeks since the bar and you’ve just worked a shift from hell.

You’d found Yolanda sitting on a bench outside the hospital near the employee parking lot. Wordlessly, you dropped to the metal bench beside her, letting your body drift toward her. Neither of you spoke for a moment, too distracted from all you had to deal with today.

Yolanda turned her head slightly to look at you, noting the worn out expression you were wearing. “Are you okay?” her voice was softer than usual, careful not to alarm you. 

“I will be,” you mumbled back as you fiddled with your jacket. 

You turned to face her, swallowing slightly when you realized how close you were. You watched as Yolanda’s eyes dropped to your lips. You hadn’t spoken about the night at the bar, too worried it might have just been the alcohol you both consumed. You leaned in ever so slightly but was halted when Yolanda’s phone rang. 

You both pulled away as she reached for her phone to answer it. You stayed another minute while she talked to whoever had called her before the exhaustion started to seep in. You stood from the bench, giving her a small wave as you headed for your car, wishing you’d leaned in more before her phone rang.

✮ The third almost kiss happens two days later when you get into an argument. 

“Why would you at least consider it?” you huffed, arms crossed as you leaned against the stairs.

You had pulled Yolanda into the stairwell after a disagreement over the best treatment for a patient. She had barely even considered your suggestion before shutting it down, overwriting it with her own.

“It wouldn’t have worked,” she groaned, jaw tight. 

You let out a scoff mixed with a laugh as you shook your head. “Did you even think it through before you said no?” 

“Of course,” she snapped back. 

She’d taken a few steps closer to you to keep her voice down so people wouldn’t be able to hear your conversation from the ER. You two were practically pressed against each other, heavy breathing as the tension between you grew thicker. Your eyes dropped to her lips, watching as her lips morphed from a scowl to a smirk. 

You didn’t get the chance to do anything before Samira pushed open the door to the stairwell. “Incoming trauma,” she informed, not staying a moment longer to notice how close you two were. 

You sighed as you pushed yourself off the wall and headed back into the ER. You didn’t bother giving Yolanda a second glance as you walked away, too irritated to think about the fact you were close to kissing her again. 

✮ The fourth time it almost happens, you’re having lunch together on a slow day at the hospital. 

You laughed at the story Yolanda told, eyes bright as you listened to what she was saying. You let out a small noise before taking another bite of your food, too engrossed in the story to notice there was a small crumb on your lip. 

Yolanda went quiet for a moment as you giggled, her eyes lingering on your lips. She fought with herself about how to tell you or if she should remove it herself. There was a pull, forcing her to lean in slightly as she thought about kissing it away.

“What are you staring at?” you asked, smiling. 

Yolanda didn’t say anything as she reached up a hand, using her thumb to softly rub at your bottom lip. You sucked in a breath at the feeling of her finger on your lip, your chest heaving slightly. 

“Crumb,” she mumbled as she pulled her hand away and turned back to her food. 

Neither of you spoke about it the rest of lunch, but the air was thick with tension. You mentally added it to the tally of times you were close to finally kissing. 

✮ The fifth almost kiss came a week after lunch when you two were leaving work at the same time. 

You and Yolanda headed outside to the parking lot, your hand brushing hers as you walked next to her. Since lunch a week ago, you two have been avoiding talking about it and all the other times you almost kissed. Something in you wanted to believe it was because she felt the same way but there was a small part that said it was just the moment. 

You came to a stop beside your car, Yolanda staying with you despite already passing her car. The moonlight mixed with the few streetlights gave you ample lighting to see how Yolanda was staring at you. She took a step closer to you, entering your personal space much like you did a month ago at the bar. 

“Goodnight,” she mumbled before leaning in. 

You thought this was it, this was the moment you finally kissed. But then her lips hit your cheek, just close enough to the corner of your mouth. She pulled back, her eyes darker than they were as she let the silence linger. 

You exhaled slowly as you leaned in to do the same, pressing your lips to her cheek. You pulled back slowly, noting how her eyes had closed for a brief moment. “Goodnight,” you whispered before opening your car door. 

Yolanda gulped slightly before nodding and took a step back. You watched as she turned around to head back to her car and part of you wanted to call out to her, to ask if she wanted to come home with you. But you didn’t, instead you got into your car and pulled out of your parking space to head home alone.

✮ When it finally happened, you were having dinner and watching a movie at her place. 

Your eyes were locked on the TV screen in front of you as the movie Yolanda had picked out played. You were sitting shoulder to shoulder with the surgeon, you could feel the heat radiating off her body. 

Yolanda had seen the movie before, it was merely meant as an excuse to have you come over since she knew you hadn’t seen it before. She turned her head slightly to stare at your side profile, her eyes dropping to your lips. 

“You’re missing the movie,” you mumbled, feeling her eyes on your face. 

“Oh well,” she sighed, her voice slightly raspy. 

You turned your head to face her, inhaling at how close you were. Neither of you pulled away, instead you were the one to finally lean in all the way. Your lips met hers in a hesitant kiss, your nose bumping hers slightly. Yolanda pushed back harder, moving a hand to cradle the back of your head as she held you still. 

Your lips moved against hers as you got more comfortable, your hand moving up to cup her jaw. You both pulled away a few moments later, panting as you stayed close to her. 

“About time,” she laughed.