"My lady," Marlowe announces, opening the car door for you with an exaggerated bow. You resist the urge to roll your eyes at her antics, knowing that Marlowe is milking every second of this, fully aware of the effect she's having on the rest of the team—especially Emily, who seems two seconds away from lunging at her.
The police SUV, generously loaned to get the team to the airport, feels unusually cramped despite its size. Emily, JJ, and Garcia settle into the back, and although you'd intended to join them, Marlowe has her own ideas. She holds the passenger door open, clearly determined to secure you up front with her.
"I can get my own door, thanks," you mutter, though Marlowe's smirk doesn't falter.
"Ah, but that limp," she says, her grin widening as she catches your gaze. "Must have pulled a muscle last night."
A stifled laugh escapes Garcia in the backseat, loud enough to make you tense. "Oh yeah," she says, not even trying to hold back her mirth, "from what we could hear through the wall, there wasn't much sleeping going on."
Your face heats instantly. "Please tell me you're joking," you whisper, your head eyes darting to the backseat to Emily and JJ, whose expressions range from barely concealed irritation to tense amusement.
"Nope," Marlowe says, entirely too pleased with herself as she slides into the driver's seat. "You scream beautifully, by the way." She glances back at Emily and JJ with a grin that could only be called provocative. "Honestly thought you'd be done after that first little nap—unless that wasn't a nap but some sort of daisy chain munchfest that kept that one quiet?"
The nausea twists sharply in your stomach, making you wish you could vanish into the upholstery. The rearview mirror reflects everything—the tension simmering in Emily's glare, the storm gathering in JJ's eyes, and Garcia's bubbling mischief as she watches the whole scene unfold.
"Oh, I'm sure we'd all prefer to keep private matters… private," Emily's tone is cutting, but her eyes glint with a warning. A silent dare to Marlowe to cross one more line.
Marlowe lets out a gasp that's anything but genuine, her gaze fixed on the road but her smirk plainly directed at the tense, awkward discomfort she's stirring up in the car. "Private?" she teases, her voice layered with mock innocence. "I'd call it more… public, when 'Take it, slut,' and 'Be a good girl for daddy' drowns out Five Nights at Freddy's. Honestly, it almost felt like you wanted us -namely me- to know someone was claimed and off-limits."
Your hand reaches for the door handle, and for a second, the idea of hitting the pavement at this speed actually doesn't sound that bad. Anything to escape the oppressive weight of Marlowe's needling comments. In the mirror, you notice JJ's hand resting firmly on Emily's thigh, likely the only thing keeping her from reaching over and silencing the deputy herself.
"Not off-limits," you murmur, almost as if to yourself, a subconscious admission slipping out before you can stop it. You weren't theirs, not technically. Only on work trips, and your work trip was almost over. Back to the real world where you would do everything in your power to avoid Miss J and Mistress. No club for you, at least not on the days they went.
"What was that?" Marlowe's grin barely falters, her eyebrows raised as she waits, clearly aware of the words that left your lips.
You clear your throat, regretting that you'd said anything at all. You consider lying, but your brain doesn't quite work fast enough on little to no sleep. "I mean… we're not exclusive."
"Wait, what?!" Garcia's cries, her hand darting out to swat JJ and Emily's shoulders as she gawks at them, her face a mixture of confusion and friendly reprimand. "You guys didn't talk?"
"We did talk," Emily responds, her tone clipped and guarded. For someone who usually loved to boast about her conquests with a casual confidence, she's suddenly reserved, her words carefully measured. Her gaze flicks to Marlowe, and you recognize the reason for her uncharacteristic restraint—it's because Marlowe is here, watching, listening, eager for any morsel she can use to stir the pot.
The whole exchange makes you uncomfortable, and a thought flickers through your mind: will they tell Garcia all about last night? Maybe you should bring up a hard limit—no discussing your scenes with others, even friends. But that seems daunting. The submissive part of you resists, wanting to surrender those decisions, craving simplicity over speaking up for yourself.
JJ clears her throat, offering a glance at Marlowe that's sharp and defensive. "We're semi-exclusive," she explains, each word measured. "Only when we're…" She hesitates, as if reluctant to reveal too much, "...trying to blow off steam from a case."
You feel good hearing her acknowledge that. You know deep down you want more, but that is the dangerous part of you. The part of yourself that makes things messy. That is a part of yourself you will never listen to again.
"And the case is over," Marlowe pipes up, her grin back in full force as she turns her eyes to you. "Guess that means I have time to take you on a coffee date. Promise I'll crack the windows for the three in the back."
The reactions in the backseat come in a rapid-fire chorus:
"No."
"Absolutely not."
"Oh, coffee!"
Marlowe lets out a rich, hearty laugh, finally pulling off the highway onto the road that leads to the airstrip. The twenty-minute drive has somehow felt like a lifetime, each second stretched thin with tension. You're sure you'll find a grey hair or two after this ride, no matter how young you are.
"Sorry, Doc," Marlowe drawls, casting a smirk your way. "Guess you'll just have to wait until I'm in DC for that date."
Emily's hand slaps down on the console between you, her body leaning forward in the seat as the seatbelt strains to contain her. There's a look of barely suppressed irritation on her face, one that JJ's hand on her arm isn't quite enough to soothe.
"What?" she practically snarls.
Finally, Marlowe's got exactly what she wanted. She beams like a kid in a candy store. "Well, you're only semi-exclusive, right?"
The rest of the drive passes in simmering silence, and when you finally board the plane, Emily hasn't quite let go of whatever Marlowe stirred up in her. She's been throwing glances your way for the past hour, her jaw tight, her eyes narrowed, but she hasn't said a word. It's as if she's waiting, gathering her thoughts, weighing her options. But there's a storm brewing in her gaze, and it's only a matter of time before it breaks.
Halfway through the flight, you decide to head to the bathroom to wash your hands before digging into the Cheetos JJ offered you. You're expecting Emily's words will come eventually—just not here, not like this.
So when the door clicks open behind you without so much as a knock, you're not entirely surprised to see her step inside, slipping in before you can lock it. The cramped space forces her right up against you, between the vanity and the toilet. She's silent, her gaze steady and intense, and she reaches back, locking the door behind her.
"Something I can help you with?" You're tired, the weight of the day finally hitting you. Sleep sounds great, but being near the team has left you so on edge that closing your eyes feels impossible.
Emily's hand lands on your hip, pushing you gently but firmly back against the wall. "Color?"
"What? Here? You can't be serious, Emily."
"Color?" she repeats, her tone unyielding, her eyes locking with yours. There's no hesitation in her; she's giving you the chance to stop her, to say no, but you can already feel the heat pooling low in your belly. Resisting her would hurt you more than it would help.
"Green," you whisper, barely managing to get the word out before her mouth claims yours, her kiss so fierce it feels like it could pull you under. Your knees nearly buckle as you lean into her, craving more, desperate to surrender to her control.
Her voice drops into a low, commanding growl that sends a shiver down your spine. "My name isn't Emily to you. It's Mistress while we're in here. Understood?"
"Yes, Mistress," you murmur, the words tumbling out, breathless. Her hand slips into your pants, not bothering with formalities, her fingers curling against you at an awkward angle that only intensifies your arousal. She knows every inch of you, every vulnerable spot to exploit, and even without much room, she somehow manages to work you right to the edge.
"You're already soaked," she murmurs, her tone dark and laced with satisfaction. "Tell me, is this for me? Or was it the deputy?"
She says "deputy" with disdain, the word heavy with distaste. It's clear Marlowe's bold flirting hasn't sat well with her.
You gasp, gripping the edge of the vanity for support as her fingers slip in an inconsistent rhythm over your wet clit. "Only you, Mistress," you manage to stammer, your voice trembling with need.
Her eyes narrow, the challenge still glinting in her gaze. "See, I don't believe you," she whispers, her breath hot against your neck. The sensation alone sends another ripple of heat down your spine. "I think you wanted us to invite her in last night. I think you wanted her to see exactly who you belong to."
"No," you breathe, your denial soft but fervent. Deputy Marlowe might have her appeal, but last night had been about them—your Mistress and Miss J, and the intensity they alone could draw from you. You crave them, their familiarity, the way they know precisely how to bring you to the brink. Nothing, and no one, could match that knowledge and connection.
"Tell me you're mine," Emily growls, her hand pressing harder as her free hand goes to the button of your pants, flicking it open with a practiced touch. The release of pressure lets her hand slide lower, her fingers slipping easily into you.
"Tell me you're mine," Emily growls, her hand pressing harder as her free hand goes to the button of your pants, flicking it open with a practiced touch. The release of pressure lets her hand slide lower, her fingers slipping easily into you.
You moan, biting your lip to keep from making too much noise, feeling her fingers fill you as her thumb brushes your clit with the kind of firm, demanding pressure that makes your entire body tremble. Her fingers pump into you with hard but slow, exploring your depth and hitting that one spot that makes you see stars.
"I'm yours, Mistress," you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath, and as you say it, you realize how much you mean it. It's not just a phrase or part of the scene. There's truth in it, raw and undeniable. As much as you don't want it to be true. As much as you can't let it be true because of the messiness. You are in over your head.
A flicker of satisfaction dances in Emily's eyes as she watches you surrender completely. "Good girl," she murmurs, her voice both praise and promise. Her fingers quicken, the friction and depth hitting that perfect spot inside you, each stroke igniting a spark that brings you closer and closer to the edge. Her thumb circles your clit, relentless, each motion a promise of release, her eyes locked on you with a hunger that leaves you breathless.
"You're going to come for me, aren't you?" she murmurs, her voice softer now, a hint of warmth threading through the command. It's not a request; it's an inevitability.
"Yes, Mistress," you gasp, barely able to hold back any longer. The words are both a plea and a surrender, and with one final thrust of her fingers, she pushes you over the edge.
Pleasure rips through you, intense and blinding, your body shuddering as waves of release crash over you, the sensation overwhelming, grounding, everything you needed. You bury your face in her shoulder, muffling the soft moans that escape you as your body pulses around her fingers, riding out every last tremor.
As the aftershocks settle, Emily's touch softens, her fingers slowing, drawing out each final shiver with care. She presses a gentle kiss to your temple, her breath warm against your skin. "Good girl," she whispers, the praise laced with affection now. Her thumb traces light circles on your hip, grounding you, letting you come back down slowly. "You did so well for me."
She helps you steady yourself, a quiet moment passing between you as she removes her hand, her touch lingering on your hip for a second before she steps back, giving you space. There's a flicker of tenderness in her gaze, a warmth you rarely see outside these private moments, and it makes you feel seen, safe.
ou turn to the mirror, the cold water splashing over your face offering a brief, grounding relief. You watch as your reflection, flushed cheeks and all, slowly returns to a semblance of composure. The thrum of satisfaction lingers in your veins, like a faint hum, steadying you even as your mind buzzes with the recent intensity of the moment.
When you step back into the aisle, Emily is already seated across from JJ, having left the spot beside her open for you. JJ pats the seat next to her, her gaze soft and inviting, and you feel a pull to accept, even as your nerves flutter. You glance around the plane, hesitating for a second. After all, you're returning from the bathroom together, and with the BAU's best profilers around, discretion is an illusion.
Garcia's faint smirk catches your eye; she's trying—unsuccessfully—to hide her amusement, her eyes gleaming with barely-contained mischief as she looks back down at her tablet. The sidelong glances and sly grin reveal exactly how much she's noticed, and your face warms under the weight of her knowing look. If Garcia noticed, the others likely did too, even if Hotch is immersed in his book, Morgan is fixated on his phone, and Rossi appears to be napping. They're all highly trained to read the smallest cues, but thankfully, none of them are giving you a second glance.
"I…uh…don't think…" you begin, hesitant as you linger beside JJ, but she reaches up, gently pulling you down beside her. The touch is casual, almost friendly—yet it's the familiarity in her grasp that makes your cheeks burn, a reminder that this is anything but ordinary.
"Don't think so much," JJ murmurs, leaning in close enough that only you can hear. "Emily and I have had enough 'bathroom chats' that no one bats an eye. And if you're worried about what the others think, trust me—the BAU has always had real one-on-one chats back there. There's no better place for it."
Her words ease the tension a little, and she smiles wider, clearly reading the relief on your face. It feels like a gesture of solidarity, a small reassurance that, in this close-knit world of shared trauma and hidden glances, you're safe with them.
JJ's smile turns slightly mischievous as she hands you some Cheetos, a knowing glint in her eye. Her voice is still so low that only you can hear her. "Are you sure you don't want to come to the club with us tomorrow?"
You shake your head, feeling the familiar hesitance creep back in. The idea stirs something within you, that messy part of yourself you're trying so hard to keep buried. But you won't let it out. Not now. Not ever.
"No, but…have fun," you say, lowering your voice further as you speak another submissive's scene name, "I think Babygirl mentioned wanting to play with you before."
JJ's lips twitch in amusement, though her eyes betray a flicker of disappointment. "We'll see…" she says, casually, before adding, "Not all of our tastes overlap."
She hands you more Cheetos, and you take a handful, grateful for the distraction. Breakfast hadn't been an option earlier, and the hunger gnaws at you now, even as you focus on keeping your expression neutral.
"And who will you see?" JJ's tone is light, but the hint of curiosity makes your heart skip a beat. "Or is Marlowe coming to visit you that soon?"
You shake your head, catching her gaze, echoing the same words back to her. "We'll see…"