Pretty Bunny

Pretty bunny

PART 1 OF KINKTOBER | MAIN MASTERLIST

Sub!Spencer x Playboy Bunny!Reader Spencer doesn’t know what to do when he recognizes you from his favorite adult magazine.

Content: (18+) 3k, boobjob, male oral, public space, and Spencer being insecure of his size but we love him just the way he is, right? a/n: "WE LOVE PRINCE CHARMING REID!" We say in unison while we hold hands and continue to chant over and over again

Issue number: 662. Date: June 2009. Centerfold, pages 36 through 42, draped in nothing but the iconic bunny ears.

Spencer shook his head. No. There was no way it could be you. There was no way the same Playboy bunny he had masturbated to was casually picking up a book in this quiet library. But there was something unmistakable about you. The familiar curve of your back, the subtle sway of your hips, the way your ass rounded perfectly as you reached further down the bottom shelf.

His pants tightened uncomfortably.

It really was you.

Dear god, what were the chances? Spencer had only come to this library on a whim. It was supposed to be a simple day—run a few errands on his free day, pick up groceries, maybe find a new book to keep himself occupied. But what he didn’t expect was to come face-to-face with the very woman he had spent far too many nights thinking about. The same woman whose body he knew too well, even if you didn’t know him at all.

He shifted nervously, trying to focus on anything else—the books, the shelves, the smell of old pages—but his eyes drifted back to you. His gaze lingered on the neckline of your blouse dipping low as you bent further, revealing the soft curve of your breasts.

His tongue swiped over his bottom lip.

“Can I help you?”

Spencer’s heart nearly stopped when he noticed you staring at him.

“No,” he rushed out, the word falling through his lips like autopilot. "I was, uh, looking for a book."

Your brow raised slightly. “I didn’t know I was part of the collection.”

He could feel the heat creeping up his neck, and he looked away, trying to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like an idiot.

“No, no, that’s not—of course you’re not… I—” He stopped, realizing he was only digging himself into a deeper hole. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

You straightened up, and he took in a sharp breath when your hips shifted slightly, brushing against the shelf as you moved.

“I wouldn’t say uncomfortable. Curious, maybe.” You crossed your arms. “You don’t seem like the kind of guy who goes around staring at women in libraries.”

“I don’t,” he blurted out, his voice coming out a little higher than he intended. The way your crossed arms subtly pushed up your breasts only made it harder for him not to gawk at your chest. His gaze briefly flickered downward before snapping back to your face.

“I don’t,” he repeated in a voice he hoped sounded more confident than he felt. “You look… familiar.”

“Familiar? Have we met before?”

Of course not. Well, to you at least. He, on the other hand, had seen you more times than he could count. In photos, in dreams, in moments he’d rather not admit. “I… might have seen you in passing.” It was the truth. Sort of. “I didn’t expect to see you in a library.”

You let out a soft laugh. “I guess I don’t seem like the reading type to you, do I?”

He quickly shook his head. “No, it’s not that. I just didn’t expect to run into someone like you here.”

“Someone like me?”

"You know, someone who’s, uh, famous.”

He instantly winced when the words tumbled out, regretting how awkward and clumsy it sounded.​

“Ah,” you said with a knowing smile. “So you do recognize me.”

He paused for a moment, his eyes darting to the floor, the ceiling, anywhere but directly at you. “I… yes, I do. And I’m sorry,” he added, his second apology in less than five minutes. “I didn’t mean to make this weird.”

Your smile deepened, clearly enjoying his discomfort, but not in a cruel way—more in the sense that you found his awkwardness oddly charming. “It’s fine, I’m actually used to it,” you told him, uncrossing your arms. “And I don’t mind being recognized by someone as cute as you.”

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. “…cute?”

“Adorable,” you emphasized. “What’s your name?”

You called him cute. Cute.

What was his name again?

Oh. Right.

“Spencer.” He cleared his throat nervously. "I’m... Spencer."

“Spencer,” you repeated, and he could hear the way your voice softened, almost breathless, like you were savoring the sound of his name as it slipped from your lips. “It suits you.”

His tongue swiped along his bottom lip. “It does?”

“Mm-hmm. It has a nice ring to it.” Your eyes flickered down to his mouth for a split second before meeting his gaze again. "Strong, but gentle. You seem like the type of guy with those traits."

Spencer felt a wave of heat run through him. “I—I wouldn’t say that...”

“Well you are,” you continued, leaning in just slightly. “You seem gentle, but there’s more to you, isn’t there?”

“I… I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

"Oh, come on," you said with a teasing grin, your eyes flickering over his features as if trying to read the depths of his thoughts. "You've got that sweet, quiet thing going on. Like you're trying to be all polite and proper... but there's something else, isn't there?"

His eyes darted at the edge of the bookshelf. “No. I’m just… me.”

"Just you? Somehow, I don't believe that. I think there's a side to you that doesn't come out very often. Maybe you're not so innocent as you let on. Or maybe..." Your voice dropped lower, almost a whisper, just loud enough for him to hear. "Maybe you're not as gentle as you seem."

There was a flicker of panic in his eyes as he tried to laugh off your words, the sound coming out strained and awkward.

“I’m really not that…”

But you didn’t let him finish. You leaned in closer, just enough that he could feel the heat of your body, your breasts brushing lightly against his chest.

“Not that what?” you pressed. “Not that innocent, or not that gentle?”

His pulse pounded visibly at his throat. “I... don’t know what you mean,” he said, but you could see the way his pupils dilated, the way his fingers twitched at his sides.

“I think you do,” you replied softly, your fingers brushing just barely against his. You watched as he stiffened, his shoulders momentarily tensing as if the slightest touch sent a shock through his whole body. You smiled, leaning in just a fraction closer. “I like you.”

You felt his breath hit your face as he let out a strangled sound, almost a gasp, and the warmth of it urged you on. Your hand gently found its way to his arm, fingers tracing a path down to his wrist.

“And I think,” you continued, looking up at him with wide eyes. “You might like me too.”

Spencer couldn’t find the words to respond, he couldn’t even breathe properly. How could he when your sweet scent filled his senses? How could he when he had imagined what it might be like to touch you, to have you this close, and now it was real?

He took a deep, calming breath to steady himself, but his heart was pounding violently against his ribcage, and his mouth had gone completely dry. Your fingers trailed down his arm, lingering for a moment before slipping under his hand to guide it firmly to your waist.

He was sure he could combust right on the spot.

“Tell me something, Spencer,” you murmured. “Did you like my pictures? The ones in the magazine?”

He tenses under your touch. His pupils dilated even further, his grip tightening on your waist involuntarily.

“I—uh,” he breathed out, his voice almost breaking, eyes darting away as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze. But you didn’t let him retreat. You shifted slightly, pressing your soft breasts more firmly against his chest. His gaze flickered back to your cleavage.

“Come on, I bet you did. I bet you… enjoyed them.” You let the implication linger. “Didn’t you?

His eyes fluttered close. Enjoyed felt too innocent for what he'd felt, what he'd done. He didn't just enjoy those photos—he devoured them. He touched himself, imagining you sprawled in front of him in that same pose. He fantasized about you, dreamt of your pretty face, the sultry look in your eyes, the way those cute bunny ears framed your hair but left everything else bare.

He grew even more painfully hard at the thought, and you could feel his his arousal pressed against your hip. A soft laugh escaped your lips.

"Spencer,” you cooed, his name rolling off your tongue effortlessly. "What ever are you thinking?"

He tried to shift away.

“I-I’m not—” he started, but every word he tried to speak died on his lips the moment your hand brushed against his stomach. He felt like all the air had been knocked out of his lungs.

“You’re not?” You let your fingers trail down his abdomen, feeling the way his muscles clenched under your touch, before drifting even lower. “Because it seems like you've got something on your mind. Or..."

Your fingers passed over his belt buckle, grazing the edge of his waistband.

“Somewhere..."

You hovered over his bulge.

“…else."

Without hesitation, you palmed his erection, feeling the full hardness straining against the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath. “W-What are you—”

You brought your lips to the shell of his ear, letting your breath tickle his skin. “I think you know what I'm doing."

Spencer's eyes glanced to the side, as if anyone might appear around the corner at any second, but he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Not when your hand was moving slowly along his length.

“We… we can’t,” he managed to choke out. “Someone could—could see us."

“Hmm? Should I stop then?” You pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. “Do you want me to stop, Spencer?”

The hesitation in his eyes was unmistakable, but so was the desperation. Brown orbs stared helplessly back at you. He couldn’t bring himself to say yes when every part of him screamed no. So he opted for silence, hoping that his lack of protest would tell you everything he couldn’t put into words.

You understood him clearly, so you pressed your hand more firmly on his bulge, fingers teasing the sensitive outline through his pants. The shape of him grew even more defined as you moved slowly, teasingly, with just enough pressure to make him gasp.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?”

His grip on your waist tightened.

“Y-yes,” he managed to breathe out, eyes half-closed as he gave himself over to the sensation.

"I bet I can make you feel even better.”

Without breaking eye contact, you began to sink slowly to your knees, hands sliding down his body. You let your fingers trace down his hips as you came face to face with the unmistakable outline of his arousal, your gaze still locked on his as a smirk danced on your lips.

An IQ of 187 was hardly enough to process what was happening now. Every neuron in his brain fired wildly, trying to make sense of the rush of sensations, the heat of your touch, the intensity in your eyes.

How was this even real?

You let your lips hover for a moment, teasing him with the anticipation before you pressed a soft, lingering kiss against his cock. He let out a muffled cry.

“Shh,” you whispered soothingly, your fingers working at the straps of his belt. The metallic clink of the buckle was faint as you loosened it, pulling it free with a soft hiss of leather. “We don’t want anyone to hear us, do we?”

Your fingers brushed against his waistband, eyes looking up at him all doe-eyed, wide and innocent, though everything about your touch was far from it.

He was going crazy. You looked so sexy, so pretty, yet so impossibly cute in that moment, like the very picture of temptation wrapped in innocence. His mind couldn’t help but flicker back to those pictures—the pictures—where you wore nothing but those bunny ears, your gaze so similar to the one you were giving him now.

He watched as you slowly peeled down the fabric, and found himself holding his breath. The cool air met his hot skin as his cock sprang free, and for a second, he couldn’t breathe.

Because Spencer knew he was different. He wasn’t like the other men you’d surely encountered, who knew their way around a woman like you, who were confident, who didn’t hesitate. And then there was the matter of size. He couldn’t help the thoughts rushing through his mind, wondering if you’d find him lacking, if he measured up to whatever experiences had shaped you into the woman that knelt before him now.

But a smile tugged at the corners of your lips as you wrapped your hand around his cock.

“You’re so…” You let out a small, appreciative laugh, your thumb brushing over his tip. “God, everything about you is cute, isn’t it?”

Spencer struggled to steady his breath, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts as your touch made it impossible to think clearly. You leaned closer, eyes still locked on his, and your tongue darted out to give a teasing kitten-lick along the base of his cock.

“Not too big,” you teased, dragging your tongue up the underside, tracing every ridge.

“Not too small…”

You let your tongue travel upward until you reached the tip, where you sucked gently, swirling your tongue around him in circles that had his legs shaking.

“You’ll fit perfectly.”

A pained groan fell through his lips. “Fit… where?”

You let go with a wet pop, his cock twitching as the cool air replaced the warmth of your mouth. Holding his gaze, you let your fingers move to your blouse, slowly undoing the buttons one by one. “Don’t think I didn’t catch you staring.”

Then in one sudden, fluid motion, you tugged your bra down, letting your breasts spill free. The movement made them bounce slightly, the soft curve of your flesh catching the light, and Spencer’s eyes went wide.

His lips parted as if to say something, but no words came out, just a strangled groan as his cock twitched visibly. The sight of you was too much for him to bear. He couldn’t decide where to look, his gaze flickering between your breasts and your face, like he was afraid to miss a single second of this moment. He followed your movement with wide, hungry eyes as you wrapped your hand around the base of his cock, guiding him to your chest.

“See?” you teased, pressing his length firmly between the soft, warm flesh of your breasts. “Perfect fit.”

His pupils dilated with full-blown lust as you started to move, slowly at first, letting him feel every inch of your warm, soft flesh sliding around his cock. You squeezed your breasts tighter together, the pressure creating a delicious friction that had him biting back a groan, his eyes glued to the way he disappeared and reappeared between your curves.

Up. Down. Up. Down. The head of his cock glistened as it emerged at the top again, only to slide back down into your cleavage, leaving a hot, wet trail along your skin.

“God… oh god,” Spencer choked out, his voice strained as his hips bucked slightly with each thrust. His eyes squeezed shut briefly, only to flutter back open as if afraid to miss a second of what was happening. His mind was a mess of disjointed thoughts, desperately trying to make sense of the scene unfolding before him. But all rationality was drowned out by the way you moved, the soft squeeze of your breasts around him, and the warm, slick glide of your sweat-kissed skin against his length.

He felt himself spiraling, the pleasure climbing higher, and all he could think was how good you looked, how perfect it felt, and how badly he wanted to paint his cum all over your face.

“Look at you all worked up.” You leaned forward slightly, letting the tip of his cock brush against your lips as it emerged, just the barest whisper of a touch. “You’re already so close, aren’t you?”

His fingers dug even deeper into the shelf, nails scraping against the wood. His voice was raw, almost desperate, as he let out a strained, “Please.”

With a satisfied smile, you lowered your head just enough to let your tongue flick out, circling around the head of his cock as it emerged from between your breasts, tasting the salty-sweet bead of arousal that had formed there. His hips slammed forward.

“Mm,” you hummed softly. “You wanna use me now, Spencer? Is that what you want?”

His grip on the shelf finally faltered, and you could hear the whimper in his throat, the way he bit down on his lip to keep from making a sound that would echo in the library. “Yes,” he gasped. “Please, I… I need to…”

“Go on,” you coaxed him, squeezing your breasts tighter around his length. “If you want it, take it. Use me.”

The moment those words left your lips, his hips jerked forward. The movement was sharp, desperate, and once he started, he couldn’t stop. He fucked himself into the tight, slick warmth of your breasts. He stammered incoherently, half-formed words falling from his lips, barely audible over the sounds of his ragged breaths and muffled whimpers.

“Please, I—I can’t… I can’t—oh god…”

He finally snapped, his body trembling violently as the sensation ripped through him, the pressure too intense, too overwhelming. His hips bucked wildly, thrusting desperately into the warmth of your body, lost in the heat, in the wetness, in the need to let go completely—

And then, everything vanished in an instant.

He jolted awake, eyes snapping open, his chest heaving as he took in his surroundings. No longer surrounded by warmth, no longer on the brink of release. Just the quiet stillness of his bedroom, sweat beading on his forehead, heart pounding in his chest, sheets tangled around his body… and the magazine lay open beside him, your image staring back at him mockingly.

Bunny ears perched on your head, delicate breasts spilling over, legs spread wide apart.

It took a few seconds for Spencer to catch his breath. He glanced down at himself, his eyes trailing to his painfully hard arousal, noticing the wetness seeping through his boxers and sticking to his skin. The rush of disappointment and adrenaline twisted sharply in his chest as reality hit him.

It was just a dream.

An embarrassing, all-consuming, impossible dream.

the goodness, love, i still carry for you ; 101

Spencer Reid x Non-BAU Reader

TLDR: Spencer contemplates the future of your relationship after the death of Haley Hotchner - 5.5k - angst, comfort

Warnings: long established relationship (start season 2+), almost break up (it doesn't happen, i can't do sad endings), spoilers for S5E9, talk of death and grief, religious imagery probably, some swearing, me going off on one about italy and the universe's inherent desire to breed because this is my fanfiction and IM in charge, existential crisis but reader's vibing, spencer is in hospital (not narcotic related) because of injury that is in like the whole of season 5, the tiniest tiniest tiniest mention of spencer not taking painkillers, maybe a tiny tiny reference to reader liking spencer's fingers in her mouth and being submissive i'm sorry arrest me

Notes: Second Person, no y/n. Fem reader. Specifically set following the immediate events of episode 100.

One thousand one hundred and sixty-two days ago, you had crossed through a public park on your way to work in a vain attempt to avoid the blistering sun burning down on Virginia. You sought the trees for relief. That, and you could watch dogs sniff around flowerbeds and skip happily on cool grass, chasing bright tennis balls and using their brilliant senses to embrace the last of the summer far better than humans can.

Your clothes were too thick for the season but you’re not good at adjusting – at handling change – and so, the sun did not take you by surprise, but rather held you entirely accountable for your attire. The gravel crunched under your dawdling feet and the trees stood tall and protective around the park, some rounded by children in giggling games of hide and seek, and the sparse benches found themselves bunched with families and picnic blankets, couples embracing each other, friends that tip their heads back with laughter, and solitary elderly people with books in their grasp. You stepped aside as a series of cyclists passed, some thanking you for your movement, and you traded a smile in exchange.

On any other day, your passing of a public chessboard would’ve been an innocuous, inconsequential act. Many people around the world – even just in Virginia – pass a public chessboard surrounded by players of varying skill and passion every day, and have this barely be anything worthy of attention on their route, let alone have an infinite impact on their whole life.

That day was different.

That day, Doctor Spencer Reid had been in attendance of a chess game. He stood in the back – being one of the tallest – in his glasses and a white speckled shirt and dark tie, his hand balled into a fist under his chin as he watched the game curiously. You noticed him because he was mumbling to himself and his eyes were flicking about the board, like he was playing his own game alongside it.

The odds of him noticing you were between seventy-five to eighty-five percent. They were good odds.

You saw him, and he saw you.

Your eyes flicked away then flicked back together again, like the millisecond of perception had pitched your brains to one radio frequency. The same song played. You wondered what song. Spencer awkwardly smiled, and you did too – albeit a little smoother, though you would later learn you could do anything smoother than Spencer Reid – and then you passed him.

You looked back. He did too. That’s always how you know.

Your face reddened and you blamed the heat as you resumed your walk to work, your steps unwavering, and you applauded yourself silently for getting the attention of someone you wanted attention from.

Still got it.

And though you hadn’t exactly sought the park for shade over the next few days, the weather remained hot and, therefore, an excuse. I deserve some refuge, you told yourself.

He wasn’t there. Not the day after. Or the day after that.

You grew a little embarrassed.

Until the Friday, when he was back, and you were thinking about all the religions you studied back in school and wondered which God or philosophy you owed your luck to.

And for a while, that was the extent of your relationship; nervously glancing at each other in the park like children on a playground, wishing you had a friend to beg to ask him if he likes you. Sometimes he’d be playing and not notice you, but if he wasn’t completely fixed on the game, then he was absolutely waiting for 8:24am when you would pass through.

You realised you were very obviously on your way to work, and it was manners that he hadn’t approached – that, and chasing down a woman in a park is the opposite of Spencer’s ethos.

In your infinite genius – and sick of your month of noticing but never doing – you leave your apartment early one day to get a coffee from the park, and prayed your morning crankiness wouldn’t be completely off-putting.

The early hour had you wishing you hadn’t and you were entirely counting on the universe’s uncanny irony to have this mystery chess player be absent on this day.

But the universe showed mercy.

He was there. He was saw you. And he watched you head to the park café – a small green building with baristas serving from windows, and old people slouched with newspapers on benches.

You felt his presence – saw his shadow – before you saw him.

“Hi.” he said.

You looked up.

“Hey.”

It was all very shy, and very sweet, and you glanced up at him – so much closer than he had ever been – and returned to standing in line for a coffee you were craving.

In realising he’d approached and had made the first big move, you decided it was on you to resume it.

“How’s the game going?” you asked then, nodding to the chessboard.

Spencer – the stranger, to you – smiled, blushed, and looked at his shoes.

“Nothing like Ivanchuk versus Yusupov.”

Spencer would later teach you exactly what he meant over game after game of chess, played miserably albeit amicably on your part. He admired your willingness to lose just for the sake of the game. You’re a good sport, and a winner in other ways.

Every time Spencer strokes your cheek and kisses your forehead, you win.

Every time Spencer utters a pet name, you win.

Every time his fingers trail the line of your back in the chalk-white sheets of his bed, you win.

Your fingers combed through his ever growing hair, inches longer than it had been when you’d met. God, how the time had passed – how you’d both decayed and flourished, how you’d changed and transformed.

You understand what love is now – love is the willingness to accept death, both inside you and in front of you. To fathom time. To say, okay, this won’t be forever, but I will grasp every moment like splitting glass, until my palms are torn and my heart is spent. Love is sameness. Recognition. Rest.

“Actually…”

Your eyes roll as you toy with Spencer’s hair in the hospital bed, gazing up at him in the dim light, casting your skin in a volcanic glow. Even with his leg shot to bits, he has to correct your factual inaccuracies.

“Love is more about psychology, chemistry, and biology.” his voice is raspy and quiet, as comfortable as he can be, brows knit and raised as he absorbs the multitude of your expression; the worry, the adoration, the annoyance, and he smiles, “Chemically, love is oxytocin and dopamine and-,”

“Yeah, and serotonin – everybody knows that.”

Spencer laughs, and you grin, and your face gets all warm like the muscles of Spencer’s thigh haven’t been ripped through. Resting on the bed, on your stomach and facing him as he slumps, you toy with the crisp, thin bed sheets draping his sore frame.

“All right... smart girl." he tuts, "Biologically, it’s more about mating and attachment-,”

“I don’t get why every living thing is – like – predisposed to wanting to reproduce; of all things to want to do, why that? Plants. Bugs. Germs. Even fire spreads.” you ponder, and Spencer’s smile widens at your tangent – your brilliant mind, your keenness to discuss and divulge and tear the human race to shreds, “I don’t want more of me. I suck.” you grumble.

“You don’t suck.” his head shakes, “And the fire-,”

“It was an analogy.” your brows pinch.

“More like a metaphor..." he hums, "look, genes want to survive. That’s the baseline. The way they do that is… producing offspring. It’s all evolution, really, most things come back to that in the end.” Spencer sighs, “But I think you’re branching more into the philosophical, colourful way of thinking.”

“I just wanna know why everything insists on spreading.”

“Because that’s life.” Spencer hums, almost laughing, “If nothing ever spread, as you so eloquently put it, there would be no life. The only other options are extinction or immortality.”

“That’s it? We either fuck, die, or live forever?”

Spencer’s head shakes.

“So crass.”

“You like my crass mouth.”

He reaches up. You think he might caress your cheek. His thumb, however, strokes your lower lip, tracing the well-kissed skin, and your jaw grows slack as you let him toy with you a moment, the salt of his touch lingering on your lips. It's far more intimate than he usually is with you in public. You shiver. You're torn between gazing into his brilliant eyes and shying away from them.

“I much prefer it when you’re muttering your soft little metaphors about love being sameness.”

You beam. You kiss his chest through his gown. His hand comes to stroke over your head.

“You and I are the same.” you tell him, very simply.

Spencer wonders how he ended up as lucky as he did; to go through a drought of love in all its forms to stumble one day, a few years ago, on someone so willing to give all of it to him.

Perhaps God had some making up to do.

“Psychologically, love is about mutual understanding and shared values and a… cognitive commitment,” he swallows, “a… recognition, then, of some kind. And you can explore attachment theory too, I suppose there are some merits in that – I’d be a fool to deny the impact on early development and how it leads to later expressions of emotions.”

“Is that why you love me the way you do?” you ask.

“How, exactly, do I love you?”

You tsk and sigh, rolling on to your back, and the movement sends a jolt of pain through Spencer’s ruined leg, desperately hoisting it away from your jostling. His hand returns to you as soon as possible with no mention of the harm you’d caused.

Spencer thinks you could’ve fired the shot yourself and he’d still find a way to stroke your cheek and tell you about love.

Saviour. Saviour.

“Very well.” you mumble contently, “Like ‘m the only thing in the universe worth loving.”

Spencer smiles at your theatrical little statement, adoring your moments.

“Maybe you are.” he hums, more to himself than anything.

“Quit your job, then.” you suggest, peering up at him, “Run away with me. We’ll go to Italy; all the best, most important lovers were there. We’ll eat too much pasta, and you can get sunburnt, and I will finally learn the language, and we’ll be happy.”

“You’ve really thought about this…”

“I like to think, in some other universe, I did it.”

You stare at the white squares of the tile ceiling above you, dirtied and grey with their age, fiddling with the hem of your shirt, lost in thought as always.

“That we did it – that you said, okay, baby, let’s run away together…”

Free will is not as free as people assume, and sometimes, when you look at the board of life, you find only white squares.

It's why you dream. Why you lose yourself. Why the greatest high is when your eyes glaze over and your inner storyteller unleashes their darkest fantasy.

Spencer’s smile softens into a sympathetic line. Your acknowledgement of some other universe evidences your understanding that he’s not going to do that – that the BAU is his crown and the bullpen is his throne, and he’s right at home there.

It’s probably all Spencer’s ever wanted, you figure. A home.

“Maybe that’s a better definition of the purpose of life,” you say, “that it’s not about life itself but what lies in it, and… to experience that, everything must keep going. Endure and survive. Because how will you have pasta in Italy if wheat doesn’t pollinate and tomatoes don’t have seeds?”

Spencer’s hand caressing the soft dips and curves of your forehead and the slope around your ear pauses, and he adores you, and he knows that Darwin was right and Dawkins’s The Selfish Gene outlined all about the innate impulse to reproduce, but he decides you’re right too.

It’s a much nicer sight, he thinks, to decide love - that 'spreading', that life and birth - is about eating pasta together.

You’re his Library of Alexandria. Beautiful. Impossible.

"You and I are the same." he says.

Minutes and metres.

The space between Haley and Aaron had been minutes and metres, but it may as well have been millenniums and lightyears. Loss is loss no matter how much distance and time might have prevented it.

Cane in hand, Spencer stops at the door to his apartment building.

Metres and minutes. The space between you and him.

No doubt, you will be waiting for him inside, bright as ever, gazing at him like he’s the milky way – the very thing the whole universe revolves around.

There had been a period in Spencer’s life when all he wanted was for someone to look at him – to feel about him – like that, but as he stares at the door to his building, it only brings him motions sickness. The sunset burns against the back of his head, curls stroking his neck, cane in his calloused hand, and hovering there in that liminal space, in the minutes and metres, Spencer realises he loves you too much to love you.

The thought you might befall the same fate as Haley ravages him from the inside out, from his delicate strands of DNA to the cells of his skin, and as his jaw tightens and he blinks, sighing into the cool evening air, Spencer decides he has no choice but to leave you.

Your loss would be the ultimate tragedy; for your sake, for all you would and could have done.

Spencer clambers the stairs, cane supporting his leg, and he stops outside the front door.

He hears you inside.

The soft mumble of a television left on even though you’re not watching. Music playing from the kitchen where you’re engrossed in some thrown together recipe. Your steps galloping across old wooden floorboards. You’d brought so much life to someplace that had been so quiet.

Spencer opens the door.

He finds you leaning on his kitchen counter, laptop on the table, engulfed in an old jumper and thick socks on your feet, stroking the sleeve across you bottom lip as you stare at the screen. Images of vineyards and Tuscan kitchens flash across your vision and you smile. You and Spencer are in definite need of a vacation, and now he’s back on his own two feet – with some help – you figure it’s time to satisfy that little fantasy of yours just a little bit.

Even if it’s not real. Even if you know it won’t be.

Swamped in basil and garlic, the kitchen summons Spencer forward, one hand tucked into his pocket. He turns the television off as he passes, and he admires you distantly for a moment. You hadn’t heard the door close behind him, too busy in your own little world and your ginormous, all-encompassing thoughts. Dinner cooks away behind you, and he hears the same playlist you always listen to – Spencer swears he’s memorised the order of songs.

You’re so beautiful. And so human.

With another step forward, you blink and catch Spencer coming in.

“I didn’t hear you.” you grin.

Your warmth and smile, usually melting Spencer’s slightly cold exterior, are forced to reach Arctic temperatures instead.

His lips press into a fine line but he does try to smile. Dressed in dark colours, Spencer clashes the marigold ambience burning everything into beauty.

“You okay?” you ask, “Is your leg causing you trouble again?”

Spencer spies the vacation deals you’d been stalking on the internet but says nothing. He shakes his head. He hadn’t been paying much attention to how his leg had been feeling. It probably hurt.

“No, no, I’m fine, thank you…” he says.

Gingerly, he steps to you, almost chest to chest, and presses a kiss to your forehead. I'm home. Something about the way he hesitates and then lingers fills you with unease.

You stand there like a pawn, waiting for the next move.

When Spencer pulls away, he gazes down at you, forehead almost brushing yours, and one hand raises to your cheek, stroking along the warm curve of your complexion.

Then, he steps away, leaving you in his cold and comes to stand further away, leaning against the counter.

Your tight jaw sends ripples of tension through your body and you close your laptop, heading to the oven, turning the heat off and shifting your food off the flames.

“What’s wrong, Spence?” you ask.

Spencer doesn’t like to worry you.

The problem is, on this occasion, he doesn’t have much of a choice. The man has never deemed himself to be the perfect partner. He figures he worries too much, or is a little – a lot – insecure, and, because he’s swept away at any moment, leaves you with more than half the chores and errands. In the last few hours, Spencer’s come to find the only way for him to be your perfect partner is to not be your partner at all; to not sign you up for a demise like Haley, to not ruin your life with his drought, to have you waiting all the time.

To promise you everything. To give you half. To make you feel guilty for craving the rest of what he’d offered in the first place.

“Haley Hotchner died today.” he tells you.

It’s simple. It’s not sugar-coated. It’s not beautiful like most things he tells you. He starts as he means to go on.

The marigold haze pales to beige. You understand the coldness.

You knew Haley. Her smile was phenomenal. The kind of smile people do fall in love with. Haley Hotchner was sunshine. She was good.

She was dead.

Brain buffering, you do your best to process the information as it’s handed to you. It can’t find a place to settle so it remains in front of you instead; not in anger, not in sadness… just… there, and you hold it.

“What?” you ask.

“Haley… she…” Spencer swallows, brows wrinkling, “she was killed by – um – the Boston Reaper, he… he tracked her and Jack down, and… and he killed her-,”

“W-what are you saying, wh- no, no, that’s- I saw her last week-,”

“He shot her.”

Still, the news cannot find a home inside you.

Spencer watches the cogs turn – or rather, not turn – in your head and you go into reset mode; not smiling, not talking, not thinking, just standing there as you try to process the information. Haley had always been nice to Spencer. She didn’t have much of a bad word to say about anyone; especially not Spencer, and especially not you.

She’s a firecracker, Haley had once said about you, smirking over a glass of wine at dinner, eyes flitting between you and Spencer as you wandered off to join Jack with his new space toy set.

“Oh my god…” you mumble as the penny drops, “h-wh-how’s Jack? Is Jack okay?”

“He’s alive. So’s Aaron.”

“Spence…” you murmur, not meaning anything by it – reciting his name as if to ground yourself.

He powers through your shock. He’d have preferred to have dinner instead, but dinner tonight isn’t worth the loss tomorrow.

“We’d been… tracking the Boston Reaper… he was one of ours, ‘nd he’s dead now.” he explains, “He’d formed a… a real grudge against Hotch, and… took it out on Haley… probably Jack too if he could’ve, but… Jack hid…”

“Oh, Spence… are… are you okay?”

“Yeah, ‘m fine.”

“You can not be fine, Spence, I… I know you were fond of Haley.”

“We all were.”

You nod, coming to stand in front of him, fingers tracing over his blazer and encouraging it from his shoulders, and he lets you take it off him, draping it over the kitchen counter instead. Gazing down at you, Spencer catches the twinkle in your eye as you peer up at him.

Unlike Haley, he has this horrible feeling that you’d wait and wait and wait until you hated yourself, and still, you would stand there – an angel sculpture in the centre of a town long abandoned. Birds would rest on your stone wings. You were built to stand still until Spencer came back, and he'd done that whether he realised it or not.

Spencer sighs.

“Come sit with me.” he rasps, voice gentle all of a sudden.

You figure he wants comfort in the warm temple of your embrace, and you nod, taking one of his hands as he hobbles to the couch.

He goes to sit down but winces and can only make it as low as the arm of the couch, so settles there, with you standing between his legs in front of him.

Pushing his hair from his face, he allows you this moment of softness – you’re not the problem after all. He even manages to smile at your sweet gesture; you offer your tenderness to him so freely.

What a cruel act it would be to allow that to be taken from the world.

“What happened today… was barbaric…” he mutters, your fingers still trailing his locks, “and it can’t ever happen again.”

Your brows pinch as you run his words over and over again through the meadow of your mind.

“And I love you so much.” he tells you, “Love you in every way.”

“And… and I love you…” you say, your tone spoiling the anxiety pooling in your stomach.

He smiles. He relishes in the feeling of your love until it makes him sick with stress. Kind eyes burning gold in the dying sunlight, his gaze flicks about your expression, just making sure it’s entirely fixed to memory.

“And if I – if the world – lost you, if you lost life… because… because of my work, because of what I do, I-,”

“Spence, you can’t think like that.”

He licks between his dry lips, eyes flicking away for a moment before returning to yours just as scalding.

“But I have to… because it happened.” he swallows, “It’s not some nightmare, baby, it’s… it’s real… and if it can happen to Haley then it can happen to you. There is no second you, there is no second chance, I-,"

His jaw tightens.

“And I can’t sit back and watch.”

The truth sinks like the Titanic. It starts slowly, then breaks in half and plummets to your depths, taking screams with it.

You step back. Your hands fall.

Spencer reaches to hold you but doesn’t force you into his grasp, so when your arm slips from his fingers, he lets it. Part of you burns hot at the thought of him wanting to comfort you when he’d caused such anguish in the first place.

“No.” you mumble, more disbelief – more of that displacement, of not knowing where to put this feeling, of how to swallow it.

“Baby-,”

“No.” you retort louder, “No, that’s not- no, I-, go get into comfy clothes and come eat dinner – I made dinner, I worked really hard on it, a-and I found this vacation-,”

“Sweetheart-,”

“Florence, you know, I wen-, it’s beautiful, ‘s beautiful…”

“Baby,” he stands then, wincing, and gazes down at you, “I can’t go to Italy with you.”

“Not with that shitty knee…” you frown, brows pinched, biting back the cry crawling up your throat.

Spencer smiles. Actually smiles. It breaks your heart.

It goes quiet. You breathe out a sigh. The clock ticks and the sun cools and the world spins on as it always had, and you can’t help but feel that everything, everywhere, should be on lockdown just like you.

More of that suffering. More of that silence.

“You can’t break up with me because Haley died.”

“I can.”

“No, you can’t, because… because it’s… it doesn’t make any sense, it’s for all the wrong reasons-,”

“I love you. That’s the only good reason for doing anything.”

Spencer’s hands clasp your jaw, cradling your face, trying to steady you, encouraging you into eye contact you’re desperate to resist. You curse the magnetism that’s pulled you from the very first day; that naturally makes you submit, that quiets you and your rambling and turns you into nothing but wide, teary eyes.

“So… what, you’re just never gonna love anything ever again? Never gonna have anything, or want anything, or hold anything… on the chance something might happen to it?” you ask, “Never gonna love anybody else, never gonna have children or a family or a dog because you might lose it?” your eyes flick between his, “That’s life, Spence.”

“No, it’s not - what happened to Haley, this is not normal; I am… a bad apple… for you.” he says tenderly, like he’s reciting poetry about your majesty.

His softness, he hopes, distracts from how difficult he’s finding this whole thing. He knows it’s for the better. He prays so, anyway.

“We’re not apples, Spencer, we’re people.”

You push him away, putting metres between you, trying to find the right distance in order to withstand the cold.

Spencer’s tether snaps far before he expects it to – perhaps it’s the grief or the fear or the tension in loving you so much and hurting you because of it.

“Do you have… any idea… how much I must love you in order to put us both through this?”

The worst part of this whole thing, you decide, is that it is so full of tenderness and affection. Every part of your surrounding world suffocates you with undeniable love, and it hurts so much.

Spencer continues.

“Do you have any idea… how hard it would be to… look at the world every day – wake up, eat breakfast, see the sun, walk around the park – do all that… knowing what I took from it?”

Heart thundering in your chest, you curse the sunset for being so bright and the room for being so warm. You’re not at home in it at all – you’ve embodied all the wrongness that you’ve tried to swallow. It had to go somewhere.

You break.

“Oh, so you blame Aaron then?”

His brows pinch.

“What?”

“You blame Aaron for what happened to Haley, right?” your head cocks, voice vibrating with sudden anger, “If you’d blame yourself for anything that might happen to me then it works out that you blame Aaron – that it’s Aaron’s fault, huh?”

“No,” Spencer swallows, “that’s… that’s not what I’m saying.”

“No, it is,” you yell, “say it, say you blame Aaron!”

Fury envelopes your gaze as you glare up at him – daring, challenging, as you always have – and Spencer sighs, uncertain how to navigate such dangerous territory.

“I can’t, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do! Say it! Say it!"

“Baby…” he hushes; you’ve always been a worthy opponent – a pleasure to defeat and an honour to kneel before.

“So, you can’t stand there and talk about blame and me dying…” your brows tremble above wide, glazed eyes that you fight so hard to keep clear and stern – it exhausts you.

There is no comfort – no kind words, no thoughtful actions – that can soften the horrendous blow; gunshots are gunshots even if you use a silencer.

“But Aaron blames himself. Right? We can agree on that?” his voice is so gentle as he reasons with you, “And if you were me, you would feel the same – you know you would, baby.”

You hate that he’s right.

That if anything happened to Spencer, you would always wonder what you could’ve done to prevent it. God, Himself, could offer you splendid integrity – call you a blameless lamb – and you would still beat yourself blue with fault. It’s your way.

A funny feeling builds in your chest like rust. Your blood turns to gold. Your heart does not beat the same.

And Spencer seems to sense the unease possessing your haunted frame. Daring once more, he crosses the distance and runs a thumb over your cheek even though he knows he shouldn’t.

“It’s not fair.” you utter with little left to offer.

“I know.” he says, “But it’s what I want.”

“It’s not,” you sniff, “it’s what you think needs to happen. You’re martyring yourself – it’s what you do.”

Typically, Spencer would respond with denial, but as you seem to near acceptance, he doesn’t want to chase you away. Your stubbornness only inflates his adoration for you and, in turn, forces him more and more to let you go.

He lets you say what you need to say so you can find peace with it all.

Unfortunately, you are not the peace-making kind.

“I can’t let you do this.”

“Baby.”

“No, because it sets a bad precedent.” your head shakes and your arms cross, “Break up with the wall – not me.”

He smirks at you, entirely adoringly. He almost wishes he were the cruel and tactical kind; that he could drive you to despise him, that he could dig deep and find enough meanness to make you walk out. He’s always been a lover. Loving somebody doesn’t let you say mean things to them, for he has none to say.

Even your snark – your beautiful defence – has him crumbling at your feet. He understands the Battle of Actium. How torturous a loss in the name of love; how willing to be crushed so long as you are crushed together. Drown with me. Drown with me.

“And what kind of precedent does it set if I don’t?” he asks you, “I’m telling you that my wants come over your safety – that I would put you in danger for my own selfish agenda, that what happened to Haley means nothing to me at all. It wouldn’t have happened if-,”

“Why does what happened to Haley have to be the rule, not the… the horrible exception? Even you have to see th-the statistical fallacy in that!”

Oh god, you have him smitten.

You’re so angry with him and for him and at him.

“You can’t make up odds as you go – as you see fit – you can’t just pick and choose the thing that makes you feel bad a-and… and…”

You’re crying then.

Spencer’s heart clenches in your chest. You’re working with two cycles of grief spinning inside you; processing Haley's death, and understanding Spencer’s reasoning for ending your relationship.

You crave rage to bite at his words but the thought of never seeing Haley’s smile cremates your dignity, and you’re so mad at the Boston Reaper for taking her from this world but so devastated by Spencer’s stubborn love toward you. Everything blurs together and starts to feel like nothing; a poisonous nothing that kills you, nonetheless.

Your tears are his complete weakness. He’s not seen them many times, but every time he does, his resolve is slashed to splinters.

“I can’t be selfish with you, baby.” Spencer tells you, “The very worst thing that could’ve happened has happened, and… so long as there’s even the smallest chance…”

He sighs.

"No amount of good I could ever do would make up for costing the world you."

“But why isn’t that my decision?”

“What?”

“You’re making that choice for me; you’re not even letting me decide what to do with my life – if I wanna take the one-billionth chance. You think you know best because you’re all clever and smart and know all these stupid big words like heteroscedasticity-,”

He blinks at you.

“-but you don’t because you’re just as emotional as the rest of us – as me. And…” you suck in a harsh breath, “and I hate you right now but I love you, so… so you’re just gonna have to let me make my own choices. And I know you – you’d never take away my choice.”

The phrasing challenges him – dares him – to do what he’d never do; trap you, force you, bind you into a world you didn’t agree to.

True love sets you free, he knows.

Spencer wonders if, in trying to release you from one cage, he’d only been ushering you into a very cold, dark box under the guise of it being better.

If fear and guilt and terror had turned him into a preacher of what-ifs.

You’re all teary-eyed and biting down hard to keep your voice tame and emotions under control, but with each silent second, your veil tumbling like an avalanche into the arctic, the thunderous cold of your rage consumes Spencer too.

It’s too much.

“All right,” he relents, coming closer to you, “you’re right, you’re right, I’m sorry… baby, I’m sorry…”

But you’re already in pieces, consumed by grief and confused by it all the same – swamped in Haley’s loss and suspended by your throat over the ocean of odds and demise.

“No, you’re so mean to me.” you sniff, palms pushing him away despite careful fingers lacing around his shirt.

You’re both trapped in an awkward push and pull. Spencer can’t blame you for your sudden uncertainty; who knows when the tide will pull out again – what carcasses it will reveal on the sea floor?

“I’m sorry, I know, I’m sorry.” he murmurs against your forehead, pressing his lips against your warm skin, his hair brushing your skin, “I love you, I was scared – I’ll take you to Italy, baby, I’ll-,”

He reaches to caress your cheeks, your jaw, your neck, your shoulders – anywhere he can soothe, can touch, can make feel better with his warmth.

“I hate you.” you grit.

“I know,” he almost smiles, not because it’s funny but because you’re so passionate, “I know…”

“You’re banned from breaking up with me-,”

“Banned?” he chuckles against your forehead, “I’m not sure that’s how it works, sweetheart.”

“It is now.” you wipe your eyes clear.

Spencer grasps both your wrists to hold them close, fingers steaming the delicate pathway of your veins and tendons.

“I’m so hot.” you whimper out.

“I know you’re deflecting-,”

“I’m not!” you sniff, grounding yourself with a heavy breath.

The sunset burns warmer then – rises from the ashes – and returns the fiery glow to Spencer’s apartment.  

"You are completely impossible." he says then, "There's no burning you down, is there?"

"Absolutely not."

No. No. You are not paper. You are not leather. You're something much more immortal.

He laughs. He cradles you. He kisses your forehead again.

"I'm sorry Haley died." you add, gazing into those brilliant earthy eyes of his.

Spencer loses himself in his own mind for a moment, trying to navigate the treachery of loss alongside his logical mind; how he has no other conclusion other than gone-ness being final.

In your eyes, he finds your humanness. Fragile.

You cannot flee from it. You cannot be protected from it.

Of all the things he can and cannot do, Spencer swallows whole the bitter truth that time, misfortune, and decay are out of his hands. He cannot fight them nor wage war against them. No amount of 'genius' can change that.

"Yeah," he sighs, "I'm sorry too..."

You kiss his fingers as they continue to grasp your wrists. Heat rises to Spencer's cheeks and he does not feel the ache of his messed up leg as he stands before you. He releases you as you step closer, wishing to be held and being too obstinate to ask for it, and his arms drape about you, fingers caressing the nape of your neck in delicate circles.

"And I'm sorry I tried to break up with you."

You sort of laugh and sort of cry.

"You're not forgiven."

He smiles slightly.

"I'll keep begging for redemption then."

"I mean... I've always wanted to go to Pompeii." a soft chuckle ripples through your chest.

You sniff, your hot breath tingling against his chest. There is still the rich scent of basil and tomato and chilli, and your laptop sits on the counter with a hundred searches for escape and love and fantasy. Oh God, you want him to live with you, not just survive - not just wait for a terrible thing to remind you that existence is and was and won't be again.

Evolve. Evolve. Evolve.

Spencer's guilt comes in waves until it's too much to handle; until he's drowning.

"Did you know that Pompeii was actually discovered by accident fifteen-hundred years after the eruption?"

The best things are discovered by accident.

You walk through a park one day because it was hot.

And Spencer was too late to play the chess game.

"There's a Doctor Who episode called The Fires of Pompeii. Why don't we dish up dinner and watch it together?"

You nod, swallowing, still deeply unhappy with the man before you and the one thousand, one hundred and sixty-two days you'd known him. He'd never changed. You love him. You hate him. You love him more.

Spencer smiles, eyes narrowing with pinch of his cheeks.

"That's my girl. I love you. Really, I... I completely love you."

And, somehow, this softens you enough - melts your frost, residual ash and heat blowing in from 79AD.

"Completely love you too."

masterlist for more relationship-fighting angst, you may enjoy serendipity and harlot (18+) for more sweet spencer x reader moments, feel free to check out lobotomy and tramp

kissaphobic - make out monday unknown / nth - hozier waiting room - phoebe bridgers

levi may not be the type to call you honey, baby, or sweetheart, but he is the kind of man to hit you with a “that’s my girl”.

when you turn red, as of course you do because he’s never once said anything like that before, he arches an eyebrow in confusion. “what’s wrong with your face?”

Useless

W.c.: around 500

Cw: reader's dad is a bitch, repercussions of verbal domestic abuse, redear is insecure, Spencer is a sweetheart (not betaread) (she/her reader!)

Masterlist

"He said- what to you?" Spencer's voice comes out too strong for your liking. You flinch, barely, but the expression on his face tells you it was enough for him to notice. You shrug, trying seem casual as you prepare yourself to bare your soul. Truth be told, you don't feel ready. Your fingers twitch and bend in your lap, you gently press fingertips in between fingertips, one at the time.

You don't really want Spencer to see... to know, that not even your father believed you worthy of all the love you're now receiving.

It's not like you did much improving from when it happened. 

You've matured, learned to do most of the things you put your mind to, but, at your core, you're still you.

And the you that at 15 years old was found faulty, has yet to be fixed. You look away from Spencer. His gaze is heavy on your face, you can feel your cheeks getting warmer. "It doesn't really matter, Spence."

You're met with silence. Part of you wishes he'd press for answers, so you could label him as pushy and flee the conversation, but you know he's too smart for that.

So he waits, and you wait.

You get more fidgety as the silence stretches in between you and fills up the room, suffocating you in the process. You've never done well in the silence under direct surveilance.

The 15 y/o inside you wants to run away and never look back, but she can't. She's been thaught to stay meek under any circumstances, and to answer questions only when directed to her. So you sit, as still as you can.

You force your eyes upwards, to look at Spencer. You open your lips to speak, but your mouth is dry and your voice comes out weaker than intended.

"Just that no one wanted to be my friend because i wasnt useful." Bitter. The words leave a bitter aftertaste on your tongue. Taste Like bile.

Spencer frowns. A proper frown, with his pretty pink lips pursed and his eyebrows forming to angry question marks.

His voice vomes out fragmented. "What?"

You make yourself smaller, wishing for the world to stop spinning and for Spencer to stop caring so much for a minute. The words feel carved out on your forehead and you find yourself thinking about how now he'll never be able to look at you without knowing you aren't worth it. You aren't worth all the trouble, all the trials and tribulations that come with dating you.

Like a bad investment, you'll drag the life out of him, and make him regret that one, bad decision that damned him forever.

His hands are on your face before you can even realise what he's doing. He cups your cheeks, gently, tenderly. Your eyes shoot up to his face, to find his own eyes teary and glassy. His pretty pink lips are curled into a pout.

You're confused. He should be running away and blocking your number, he shouldn't be looking at you so heartbroken.

Before you can speak, his lips are pressed all over your face, your cheeks, your nose, your forehead. "Oh angel, my sweet angel."

He kisses your lips, softly, gently, tenderly. It's as if you're delicate porcelain under his touch. "He's an absolute moron if he cant see how wonderful you are, angel."

Party Planners | E.M.

You and Eddie discuss your ideas for bachelor and bachelorette parties, and your limits — eddie x fem!reader fluff with a hint of angst

warnings: a little angsty, worries about boundaries, mentions of sex work (not in detail at all)

words: 0.9k

“Okay, I’ll see you soon, Nance. I’m so excited! Bye!” Were your last words before hanging up the phone and walking out of the room with a giant smile across your face. 

You walked downstairs and found your fiancé on the couch watching cartoons and eating a bowl of cereal. He turned around after hearing the sound of your footsteps and immediately noticed your grin. 

“What’s got you all smiley?” He asked, already knowing most of it since the walls of the trailer were extremely thin, but wanting to hear you talk about it anyways. 

“I was on the phone with Nancy.” You sat down with Eddie, still smiling. “We were planning for the bachelorette party.”

He scooped up a spoonful of cereal and nodded. “Ah, so that’s what all the giggling was about.”

“It’s exciting stuff, Eds. You know too ‘cause you have your party coming up too.”

“I do, but it doesn’t sound as cutesy and fun as your party. What do you ladies have planned, exactly?”

You were reluctant to tell Eddie all of your plans. You weren’t hiding anything. In fact, it was a relatively calm plan as far as bachelorette parties go. Honestly, you just weren’t all too familiar with the concept of bachelorette parties and you weren’t sure how customary it was for the couple to tell each other in advance. 

Maybe it was like the way the groom isn’t allowed to see the bride’s dress before the wedding. But ultimately you decided that you would risk any potential bad luck for Eddie. 

You cuddled up against him, and Eddie put his bowl on the coffee table so he would wrap his arms around you. 

“We’re gonna go to Nancy’s place, she’s gonna make lunch and we’re gonna pregame a little while watching some John Hughes movies. Then we’re gonna go bar hopping until we get tired or one of us throws up.”

“Sounds fun.” Eddie shrugged. “Not as fun as my party with the guys, though.”

He was clearly leading you to ask more questions, so you followed along and did what he wanted. 

“And what are you boys planning?”

“I can’t tell you that! It’s bad luck.”

You rolled your eyes, yet he couldn’t even see them since your head was resting on his chest. “I told you! We already have bad luck if that’s true.”

“Well, I still can’t tell you. But it’ll be wild. You’ll hear about it when I come back home hungover and still on a high the next day.”

Eddie didn’t answer any further, just turned his gaze back to the screen across the room, watching the children’s cartoons he was playing because it was the best thing on when he sat down.

You told Eddie your plans, so why wasn’t he telling you his? Neither of you were leaving the city for the parties because of your budget, so you wondered what he could have planned. 

Your mind started going to dark places, imagining your fiancé going absolutely crazy during his bachelor party, and you didn’t like the mental image you had just conjured. 

“Eddie?” You asked, barely above a whisper.

He hummed in response and loosened his arms so you could turn yourself around in his lap and look at him in his mesmerising brown eyes. 

“I know we said we wouldn’t really have input on each other’s parties but can I make one request about yours?”

Eddie looked confused, but willing to listen and oblige nevertheless. “Yeah, what is it, baby?”

“No hookers.”

“What?” 

Eddie looked stunned, not expecting your answer. That detail only worried you more. Before you even started to elaborate, tears rimmed your eyes even though you were trying to be stern yet kind. 

“I know they’re kind of a bachelor party staple, but I’ve never liked the idea, and I don’t really want you doing anything with other women. Strippers, I think—”

Eddie cut you off as he could see you becoming closer and closer to crying with each word. 

“Sweetheart, I promise that wasn’t at all a part of the plan. I would never want that either.”

“Really?” You pouted. 

“Really. We were just going to get super wasted at The Hideout and then roleplay Lord of the Rings.”

A breath of relief escaped your lungs. It’s not that you didn’t trust Eddie, you were just worried that there was a difference in your visions for how you would commemorate the last bit of time before getting married. 

Eddie gently combed his fingers through your hair, pressing a few kisses on your forehead. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. I was just teasing.” Eddie apologised softly. “Honestly, the thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. You’re the only woman I have eyes for.”

While Eddie was apologising, you took the time to gaze into his adorable button eyes—the eyes you hoped your children would have some day. For each second you watched him talk, you grew more appreciative of how sensitive and genuine he was being. 

“You’re so sweet.” You told him honestly. 

“You’re sweeter.” He replied just as sincerely. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

Hey my pookie!! Please do prompt 19 with Chandler Bing.. Dankie 😁🫶

19. Person B is insecure about their scars, person A makes them feel better about this.

Of course, random stranger- 👀

I’m not great at the advice…

You had been friends with Monica and Phoebe for ages. And by extension Rachel, Ross, Joey and Chandler.

It had been pouring with rain in New York and Chandler and I were soaked through. We ran into his apartment.

I saw chandlers gaze rather fixated on my chest, I glanced down at my white button up work shirt it was clung to my bare skin and rather see-through.

I flushed red and glanced around grabbed his blazer from the counter and put it on.

“Sorry-“ he said looking around. I shook my head with a small smile, brushing it off.

I looked out the window. “You mind if I camp out the storm?” I asked

“Yeah- yeah of course.” He nodded. He looked me up and down. He smiled a little

“What?” I asked.

He shook his head. And I couldn’t help but smile. “It looks better on you.” He smiled nodding his head to the blazer. I blushed.

We talked a couple times but we were never as close as the other members in the group.

I was shivering from the wet clothes. “Do you wanna borrow something?” He asked tripping over his words a few times.

“I can just go get something of Monica’s-“ I say and he brushed it off. “She’s with Richard,” he said.

“I could-“ I started but he interrupted me. “It’s fine y/n really.” He said.

I smiled at him. “That would be nice.” I said and he went into his room closed the door and when he came back he had changed into pjs and handed me an old t-shirt and some blue plaid pajama pants.

“Thank you. Now I have my Halloween costume too.” I smirked, going into his room to change.

“Are you sure? I think there’s gonna be too many kids dressed up as awkward loser this year-“ he stopped his ramble when I walked out in his clothes. All a little big.

He stared “wow.” He let out.

“Not such a bad costume now is it?” I smirked.

“I should stop buying clothes, now that I’ve seen this they’ll look terrible on me forever.” He said.

My cheeks tinted pink. We were friends. He flirted with Monica and Rachel and phoebe too right?

“So what do you wanna do?” I asked

“We could-“ his eyes darted around the room.

Soon enough we were on the recliners facing each other. A little table in the middle. Trying to throw coins into the cup.

“Is this what you and Joey do all day?” I asked.

“Well n-“ he paused. “Yeah,”

I chuckled. I threw the last one in. I put my arms up and smiled. “I win!”

Chandler smiled at me. I sat back down. His face softened, and then turned into a frown.

I glanced around “what?”

He leaned forward and took my arm and pulled it towards himself. My face fell when I realised he was looking at my scars.

I pulled my arm away. I never wore t-shirts for this reason. With the rain and everything I just forgot. I wrapped my arms around my legs and looked away.

He was quiet for a long time. I sat there tears in my eyes.

“Hey-it’s okay.” He said softly.

“It’s not, it was a long time ago and I regret it. And god you were the last person I needed seeing this.” I wipe my face.

“What- what does that mean? I’m not gonna make some stupid joke about it-“ he said kneeling on the floor in front of me and turning my chin to look at him.

“That’s not it.” I said.

“Look y/n I know we’re not best buddies but I care about you and you can talk to me.” He put a hand on my cheek. “Why am I the last person-“

“Because I was stupid and thought you might actually like me- and now I’ve ruined it-“ I couldn’t help a tear rolling down my cheek.

Chandler froze. He used his thumb and wiped my cheek.

“I’m gonna go call a cab.” I say standing up and he scrambled to his feet.

“No y/n please don’t go! I’m sorry it’s just- you like me?” He asked.

“Isn’t it obvious?” I asked feeling insecure and pathetic.

“No no I don’t think you heard me you like me…” he smiled, poking at my sides. “You hear that I like you it’s no big deal but you, liking me.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “There it is!” He exclaimed. I rolled my eyes and it faded again.

I kept holding my arms trying to cover up now.

“You can talk to me about it when you’re ready, but just so you know…scars and everything you’re still like wayyy out of my league.” He exaggerated and I smiled.

“You really like me?” I asked softly.

“Really, really.” He squeezed his eyes shut. I smiled.

“Now can I kiss you? Because this whole soap opera, you in my clothes, and confessing your love, it has me a little antsy.” He spoke.

I nodded biting my bottom lip slightly. He leaned in and I pulled him the rest of the way by his shirt collar. Having to go on my toes. We kissed his hands in my hair and the small of my back.

We broke apart when the door opened and Joey stood there wide eyed. I flushed red. And he pointed at us.

“Joe! It’s Joey!” Chandler exclaimed

I stood frozen. Almost wanting to laugh. “Dude!” He exclaimed

I glanced at Chandler.

“It finally happened I’m so proud of you man!” Joey gave Chandler a hug.

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You told him you liked me?” I asked.

“Oh you have no idea, I mean you’re nice, but the talking blah blah blah!” Joey exclaimed wide eyed.

I laughed. Chandler was now blushing.

He nudged Joey “right sorry.” He cleared his throat and went into his room giggling.

I leaned my head on chandler’s chest laughing. “You’ve got a crush.” I teased lightly.

“Oh shut up,” he put a finger on my lips. I smiled.

“Make me.” I smirked and quickly his lips were on mine and I laughed as he kissed me passionately.