Mixture of Jemily, EmilyxReader, child, unsub and such.
Some of these were written as far back as 2017, please be kind LMAO. I'm working on going through them and workshopping, improving.
New fics and improved ones are in the beginning chapters
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AN: I have gone through and edited about half the stories in here to be better because 2019-2022 me was not cooking. Get her OUT of the kitchen NOW! All of the new or improved ones have been moved to the front of the chapter list!
This is pure smut. Nothing but it.
TW: smut!
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The October air bit at Emily's cheeks as she walked, each breath forming small clouds that dissipated into the darkness. She should have driven—it was eleven at night, for god's sake, and the wind cut through her blazer like it was tissue paper. But she'd needed the time, the twenty-three minutes of brisk walking from her apartment to yours, to talk herself out of this.
It didn't work.
Dead leaves scraped across the sidewalk, and she pulled her blazer tighter, though it did nothing to help. The cold wasn't the problem. The problem was the heat beneath her skin, the burning that had been building for nine months and finally reached a flashpoint tonight when you'd smiled at her across the bullpen, tucking your hair behind your ear in that way that made her stomach flip.
Her fingers were numb by the time she reached your building, but the rest of her felt like she was on fire. She stood outside for a full minute, frost creeping into her lungs with each inhale, trying to convince herself to turn around. To walk back home. To let this terrible, dangerous want die in the cold autumn night.
Instead, she climbed the stairs.
It was a bad idea, Emily knew that. She knew that showing up outside your apartment at 11:32 pm was the worst thing she could do for herself.
From the moment she interviewed you, she'd known. You were a bad idea. Too perfect. Too capable. Too everything she should avoid. And yet, every time you brushed past her in the hallways, every time your laughter floated across the bullpen, every time your hair caught the light just right, she had to lock herself in her office.
The door swung open, and there you were: pajama shorts, tank top, no bra. Her breath hitched, sharp and involuntary, and her mouth went dry. She tried to form words, tried to warn herself, but her body betrayed her. Her hand found the center of your chest, demanding, and she pushed you gently backwards.
Your feet shuffled as you stepped back, the door closing behind you as she invaded your space, "Emily?" Her hands found your waist, both hesitant and sure that's where they belonged.
Her eyes searched yours, looking for that fire of want she's been trying to ignore for months. That tiny, reckless flame that ignited whenever you smiled at her, whenever your hand brushed hers over case files, whenever you leaned into her gaze.
You'd wanted this for nine months, every stolen glance and imagined touch boiling into the present, raw and urgent. You wanted to know the curve of her skin, the taste of her lips, the sound of her voice whispering against you.
