reidmoony-toast

[reidmoony-toast]

imagine jk rowling being a criminal minds writer so wed get the scene where spencer is standing at some train station with his kiddo grabs him by the shoulder and says derek tobias reid you were named after the two bravest men i know and knowing them gave me so much it taught me what real friendship and trust are and also gave me a dilaudid addiction and lifelong trauma—

[reidmoony-toast]

what if i OC-fy jegulus and call them like jack platter and reginald grey so they wont be recognised as characters from the hp franchise and the only people to know that im actually doing jegulus fanart will be the ppl that follow me... like an inside joke...

[reidmoony-toast]

"zak's broken my ribs, lando's given me a bruise on my.. behind" 😭😭

[reidmoony-toast]

im still losing it over the "how did high schoolers write 600 word essays before chatgpt" post. 600 words. that is nothing. that is so few words what do you mean you can't write 600 words. 600 words. this post right here is 45 words.

[reidmoony-toast]

comment just reminded me that ahb! is almost 3 years old … what 🧍‍♀️ the fuck ?

[reidmoony-toast]

Never let me go. ౨ৎ

"But the arms of the ocean delivered me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer and r are investigating a case that involves a lake and a rickety old boat—the problem? They can't stand each other.

Content: based off this vid of George Russell and Carmen (it's so random I know but I was inspired), fluff, banter, Spencer does the Darcy hand flex (!) cw: lil bit of violence (they briefly mention a case) wc: 2.1k an: I started this AGES ago oh my lord but anyways I hope you enjoy this very weirdly specific prompt, ilyy <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

About halfway down to the dock, you are seriously reconsidering this whole ordeal. Maybe it was Spencer’s confidence when he expressed his knowledge of boats when the officer offhandedly mentioned his massive workload, or maybe it’s your dedication to the job, or your unfortunate tendency for some light masochism. Whatever reason your brain had conjured previously has vanished into smoke between the police precinct and the gravel path you now traverse. 

The officer leads the way, Spencer walking beside him, discussing the impending trip that the two of you are about to take. Together. Alone. In the middle of the lake with a man who might have the theoretical—but certainly not the practical—knowledge to drive this boat without killing the both of you in a freak boating accident. 

You finally reach the dock, and you examine the death machine moored in front of you. It was an old police dinghy, with a small frame around the driver’s seat, and inflatable sides to increase its safety level. The officer begins to explain the workings of the boat, and you squint out at the expanse of lake before you, as you try to pay attention—if only so you can call Spencer up on anything he does minutely wrong. 

The officer eventually deems the two of you water-safe and gives his final farewells, echoed kindly by Spencer. After a few seconds, while Spencer is checking the mooring line, you clear your throat pointedly. 

Spencer glances up, eyebrow raised in question. You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m not getting into that boat with you as its captain.”

He stopped with the rope all together. “Technically, I'm the Skipper. Captain is saved for bigger vessels with more authority.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah whatever, smart-ass. Still not letting you be my Skipper.” You huff. “I don't have a death wish.”

He lets out a long sigh, like you’re a petulant child. “You volunteered to come and look at the dump site with me. No backing out now.” He returns to his work, like your indignation is simply fleeting because he knows he will win in the end. “Plus, I need a second pair of eyes.”

You let out a loud groan. As much as you can’t stand to spend over an hour in a rusty old boat, with nobody for company but Spencer Reid, you have a job to do, and you can’t very well flake out now. What would Hotch say if you came back now, with the only excuse being ‘I can’t deal with Spencer’? Most likely something about being disappointed at your immaturity, that you can’t even manage to work with one of your fellow team members. 

“Fine.” You snap, unendingly irritated that you have to concede to Spencer. The corner of his mouth tips up in triumph, and you have the violent urge to kick him in the face. He’s in the perfect position for it, too. But, of course, being a mature adult, you gallantly resist.

“I’ll grab our stuff, you can get in.” Spencer passes you, heading to your equipment bag, as you step to the edge of the pier. It’s a much further way down than it had looked from where you were previously standing, and you pause for a moment, assessing the best way to get into the boat without falling into the chilled lake water. 

You sit on the edge, attempting to lower yourself down into the dinghy below, but your legs are too short, and you scrabble for purchase, trying to reach the boat floor, and succeeding, but only with the tips of your shoes. 

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer speaks up from behind you, a lilt of amusement clouding his voice. You continue your pitiful attempts to climb into the small boat from the too-high dock. 

“I'm fine.” You say, petulantly, not bothering to turn to address Spencer, as you knew he would be smiling at your misfortune. Finally, you shakily lower yourself down until you fall heavily onto the floor of the boat, staggering when it rocks in the water. 

“Whatever you say.” 

You turn just in time to see him swiftly, and with a surprising amount of grace for a man you have seen trip over nothing but his own feet, enter the boat. He lets out a low chuckle as he passes you towards the controls. 

“Show off.” You scoff loudly, and roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they return back to the realm of the living at all—although it's not like he could see it anyways as he fiddles with the buttons at the helm. 

You and Spencer spend the whole boat ride, and examination of the watery dump site, bickering about god knows what. From Spencer’s questionable driving skills, to your glove application, to your differing opinions on the case. While the whole situation was bothersome, you find yourself surprisingly unvexed, even to go so far as to somewhat enjoy yourself. You shake off those thoughts—Spencer is a pain in your ass, and that will never change.

“You’re seriously doing it wrong.” You say for the hundredth time, as Spencer jerkily guides the two of you back to shore. 

“I’m doing fine, okay?” The boat jolts, and you wobble, letting out a yelp, before finding your feet again. “Stop doubting my abilities and trust me.”

“I am most definitely doubting your judgement, and I do not trust you!” You tightly grip one of the rusty beams of the cockpit. “I was almost flung out of the boat just then, you maniac!”

“Calm down.” Spencer counters, sounding exasperated.

“I think I have a say in how I go out, and dying in a dusty old police boat with you of all people is not what I choose!” You make a noise of frustration when Spencer simply laughs at your agonising. 

“Is that really a bad way to go?” He keeps his eyes on the approaching dock, but there is a lilt of amusement in his tone.

“The worst.” You groan out, and Spencer chuckles jovially.

By some miracle, Spencer manages to dock the boat, and he motions for you to disembark first. 

You stare at the dock, and your stomach dips. You might have had trouble getting into the boat in the first place, but getting out? That was a whole other story. This was certainly going to be a lot trickier than it was before. 

“Need some help?” Spencer pipes up, just like before—the deja vu was very definitely unappreciated. He must have seen your assessment in your hesitation, and taken it as yet another opportunity to terrorise you.

“No.” You move to the edge, judging the large distance before you—the gap was considerably larger now, and it was much harder to traverse up than down. You blamed Spencer’s questionable boat-driving skills. The length wasn't a problem by itself, but paired with the height, it was an impossible feat for someone with your frame. You bend your knees, ready to jump across—your hopeless plan to somehow get yourself from the boat to the dock. You lean forward, but almost lose your balance, stepping back abruptly to prevent a very unpleasant outcome.

You finally bail on your fruitless attempts when you realize it would most likely end with you either in the water, very injured, or with a severely bruised ego. Less than if you let Spencer help, that is, but the other two options weren't something you wanted to experience. 

You exhale slowly, knowing you had to admit defeat. You turn slowly, facing Spencer. He grins, knowing what your look meant. 

You hated needing the help of others, preferring to do everything yourself; assistance from others always felt like a personal failure. You also knew you could be… stubborn, and you had rejected Spencer's help already, so this was certainly a blow to your ego.

You stare at him impatiently, waiting for him to get the memo that you need his help. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face and his eyebrow flicks up in a silent mocking question. 

“Spencer.” You deadpan, fixing him with a glare. 

He shoots your name back to you in the same flat tone, eyes dancing in amusement. You glare back, unblinking. A battle of wills arises in the form of prolonged intense eye contact, but you unfortunately don't possess the demanding expression you were hoping for, and you begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Can you…” You groan at the words you have to utter. “help me.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

Scratch that. The scathing look you were searching for? There it was. Spencer snorted, wholly entertained by the whole situation. You debate shoving him straight into the grimy lake. 

“Please.” You grit out. 

“Thank you.” He says cordially, like he was a perfect gentleman. Yeah, the lake could definitely help him see the hard truths. 

He walks forward carefully, trying his best not to rock the boat too much. As he enters your space, your chest tightens slightly, but you don't read into it. That was something to unpack later. Much later. 

“Can I?” Spencer asks, and you realise he's asking permission to touch you. You nod quickly, watching in morbid anticipation as his hands snake towards you, settling carefully but firmly on your hips. You snap your attention away, desperate to break the strained silence with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you even strong enough for this?” The execution of nonchalance you were aiming for is partially botched when your voice comes out breathier than normal. 

“Ouch.” Spencer hisses, tutting amusedly. “You’re relentless today, aren't you?” His hands break from their hold on your hips and fold across his chest, and you feel an utterly irrational sense of disappointment. 

“I might not be Morgan, but I’m still an agent.” He glances down at your form, sizing you up like you’re a bothersome math equation. “Also, I’m guessing you weigh about as much as a small sack of potatoes, so you’ll be fine.” 

You scoff at that, but don’t argue back, and Spencer takes it as his green light. 

“Brace on my shoulders or you’ll make this very difficult for the both of us.” He replies, and you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders, not wanting to get any closer to Spencer than you already are. 

He rolls his eyes. “Are you even trying?” 

“Geez, I’m so sorry I respect the personal space of others, I won't be so considerate next time.” You jab back, narrowing your eyes at him. He responds with an amused huff, but doesn't speak as he gently moves your hands to where he wants them. You shiver.

One ends up on his bicep, while the other wraps around the back of his neck. His hands fall back to your middle, but instead of settling back on your hips, his large hands mould to your waist, flexing as he finds his grip. They tighten and he pulls you closer than ever. You find yourself with nothing to say—witty retorts form in your throat, yet none seem willing to come out.

“Ready?” He says in your ear, voice low. 

“No,” you answer, still very apprehensive at his physical ability to get you all the way to the dock. 

“Too bad.”

Before you can retort, he lifts you with surprising strength and ease in one smooth movement, and you let out a small squeak at the suddenness of it all. He swings your body around, using the momentum to haul you onto the high dock, long fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep hold during the precarious lift. It was more of a controlled throw, if you’re being picky—which you always are.

You wobble slightly, but manage to gain your balance on the waterlogged wooden planks. You glance back to Spencer, who is standing stock-still on the little boat, eyes a little unfocussed. You watch as the warm hands that were just clenched on your waist flex once, twice, before he blinks a moment later and looks towards the dock. Towards you. 

“All good?” He asks, voice strained.

“I’ll live.” You stare at Spencer for a moment, before shaking yourself from your slight stupor and turning to head back up the hill. 

“Now hurry up,” you call over your shoulder. Spencer simply sighs, lifting himself easily from the boat and jogging to catch up, hauling your shared belongings onto his back. 

As you finally re-enter the precinct a little while later, Spencer peeling off to debrief the team, you swear your hips still tingle from where his hands were wrapped tightly around them mere minutes ago. 

But, like you said. You would think about that later.

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @thegloryofliterature <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[reidmoony-toast]

"You made the space brighter, all the little touches of you in the house were like rays of sunshine through the clouds on a gloomy day. Something that you’d baked and left in the fridge, a necklace forgotten by the sink, his house may as well have been yours. He wished he was, too."

STOP LEGIT AMAZING BEST THING EVER THE PINING FROM HOTCH URGH IM SICKKKK THANK YOU FOR BLESSING ME W THIS MASTERPIECE

this is a state of grace

Aaron Hotchner x fem babysitter!reader - Drinks with the team

cw: fluff, a hint of angst, age gap, hotch calls reader 'sweetheart', drinking, pining, reader's hair is straight/wavy, the team is as desperate for them to get together as we are wc: 2k a/n: they're so hopelessly in love I hope they kiss one day (I'll write it guys I promise maybe)

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Aaron could come up with as many reasons as he wanted as to why he invited you out for a post-case celebration—you deserve a break from your constant hard work, he wanted you to get a second meeting of the team that didn’t involve dating accusations—but nothing that he could come up with rang true. Honestly, he just wanted to spend time with you, not in babysitter mode, but as yourself. Instead, he found himself spending time with a very drunk version of you, courtesy of a drinking game Garcia had roped you into.

“Sweetheart, please don’t.” He wrapped his hands around your waist, tucking you into his side, much to the amusement of the team.

“I want to dance.” You didn’t struggle against him, crossing your arms as you slumped into the seat, frowning up at him in annoyance. Adorable.

“Just stay with me.” He squeezed your waist gently, rubbing your side in an attempt to comfort and calm you, to keep you by his side, rather than letting you run off into the flock of drunken clubbers.

“You’re so clingy.” You groaned, dropping your head onto his shoulder as you spoke, which diminished any thoughts in his mind that you were actually annoyed. He brushed his fingers through the soft strands of your hair in the hopes that it would quiet your hushed grumbling.

“I need to keep my favourite babysitter safe.” He pulled you in closer, too distracted to notice the looks being exchanged between the others at the table with you.

“I’m your only babysitter.” You corrected, glaring at him.

“So be grateful I didn’t call you my least favourite.” Aaron couldn’t help the lazy grin that spread across his face as he spoke, unbothered by the fact that the team was there to witness it. He became bothered when they decided to disrupt the two of you, popping the bubble he had been happily residing in, and would have remained in forever if he could. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end.

“Aww, you two are so cute.” Garcia cooed, bringing Aaron’s attention away from you and back to his unruly team just in time to see several eyes dart away from their boss and his babysitter-who-was-just-his-babysitter-thank-you-very-much. He was also just in time to see Morgan slap Garcia on the arm with a look he presumed meant something like ‘why would you say that?’ and her returning pout that undoubtedly meant ‘because they’re cute and I know this face will make you forgive me.’ Which must have worked, because Morgan sighed, then pulled her into his side and kissed the top of her head.

He gave her a warning glance, although from the lack of worry on her face he assumed his usual air of intimidation was being diminished by the way you seemed to be attempting to crawl into his lap.

“What are you doing, sweetheart?” He untangled his hand from your hair, relocating it to your waist alongside his other as he tried to gently redirect you back into the seat beside him, although it became apparent that you would not be so easily persuaded.

“Seat’s too warm. And sticky. Just really gross.” You fought against his efforts, struggling to stay where you were, half across his lap, one of your legs draped over his own while the other remained on the leather booth.

“The alcohol in your system is raising your internal temperature, that’s why you feel warm.” Reid piped up from across the table after a moment’s delay as he swallowed his sip of water, and you appeared to listen, pausing for a moment to ruminate on what he’d said.

“I think it’s just the seats.” You shrugged and moved again, catching Aaron off guard as you swung your other leg over both of his, then readjusted yourself so that you were delicately perched sideways on his lap. Almost immediately, you struck up a conversation with JJ, who had all of Aaron’s amusement, without his apprehension or current embarrassment. After a few more minutes of jeers and teasing remarks, he decided enough was enough, leaning in so that you could hear him over the sound of the bar.

“We should go home.” He used a hand resting on your waist to tap your back lightly, hoping you would take it as an invitation to move off of him. You didn’t, only clinging tighter to him and staunchly refusing to move.

“Aaron, I don’t want to go. I wanna dance.” So you were back at dancing again, just as insistent as before—if not more so—and he had no idea how to persuade you away from it.

“Sweetheart, it’s getting late, we don’t have time to dance.” He tried to plead, to convince you that you simply didn’t have the choice to stay, despite the bar not closing for another two hours. It must have worked, you climbed off him, landing back where you had been sitting, and slid out of the booth as Aaron sighed in relief, thinking it would be smooth sailing from there. As always, you had other ideas, and as he followed you out of the booth, you—much to the amusement of his colleagues—wrapped yourself around his arm and bargained.

“Can we dance as we leave? It won’t even slow us down.” Really, how was he supposed to say no? There wasn’t a single reason he could come up with that aligned with his previous excuses as to why dancing was off the table, and the implication that Aaron was now expected to dance alongside you was making him wish he’d just let you go earlier.

“We will be doing nothing of the sort, you can dance on the way out.” He tried to sweeten you up, prying you off of his arm and spinning you in a circle under his arm, rolling his eyes at the wolf whistles sounding from the table behind him.

“No, no-no-no-no-no, you have to dance with me.” You whined, using the hand he had spun you with to pull him away from the team, an outcome he wouldn’t say he was disappointed about. He glanced back at the table to see Prentiss winking, as Morgan mouthed ‘get some,’ and Garcia was managing to draw hearts in the air without lifting a finger. He was going to make Monday a nightmare for them.

“I’ll spin you one more time, but that’s it, okay?” He pulled you back to him, holding you close as you both walked towards the exit, only to keep you safe, of course.

“Fine.” You pouted, his gaze flickered to those soft, unfairly tempting lips that were still somehow coated in a sparkly pink gloss, despite spending the night sipping on various drinks. He supposed you must have been reapplying it every time you went to the bathroom, but you had no purse, and he couldn’t figure out where you were storing it.

“Come on.” He tore his eyes away from your lips, guilt creeping in at the corners of his mind, admonishing him with reminders of who you were and who he was.

You managed to convince him to spin you four more times on the way to the car—he would have made the world spin faster if you’d asked him to—and he watched as you flopped into the passenger seat. Tired, drunk, slightly dizzy. It was a deadly combination that had knocked you out within minutes, your head lolling against the window with a soft ‘thud’ that made Aaron wince each time.

It was just past one when he parked his car in the driveway, gently shaking you awake, “Hey, sweetheart, I need you to get up for me.”

You mumbled something unintelligible, and Aaron decided he shouldn’t have woken you up in the first place as he carried your almost limp body into the house. The only noticeable difference to if you were unconscious was the pressure of your arms wrapped around his neck.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you.” He murmured in your ear when you started to show clear signs of distress at the loss of one of his arms that kept you from falling. He had the door open a moment later, without dropping you, which you had clearly been nervous about. The door swung closed behind him, and he quickly disarmed the alarm before taking you to your room. Your door was slightly ajar, so all he had to do was push it open with his hip and carry you in.

He cupped the back of your neck as he sat down on the bed, tenderly lowering you onto the mattress beside him, “I need to leave for a minute, is that okay?”

“No, don’t leave, I don’t want you to go.” Those sad eyes almost had him staying, but he had to lock up the house, because the thought of you getting hurt was unbearable, and he would take your momentary disappointment if it kept you safe.

“I’ll be back before you know it, sweetheart.” He adjusted you to lie more comfortably against the pillows, “There we go, good job.”

When the fight was successfully coaxed out of you, he returned to the entryway, securing the locks and alarm before heading to the bathroom. He found your makeup wipes, the spare pack you kept at his house for the many nights you stayed over, before returning to your room.

You were fast asleep, and this time Aaron couldn’t bring himself to wake you. Sitting beside you, he tried to put his weight down gradually to keep the dip of the mattress from being sudden enough to disturb your slumber. He pulled one of the damp wipes out, distinctly familiar after years of baby wipes, he wondered if that was why you used them instead of anything else. Maybe they were just ‘in,’ and Aaron needed to stop overthinking things.

He rolled you onto your back, closely watching your face for any signs that your sleep wasn’t as deep as it seemed and finding none, your demeanour as peaceful as ever. He brushed your hair out of your face, replacing it with the wipe, softly swiping it over your skin, each pass bringing with it your foundation, blush, the sparkly eyeshadow you’d insisted on wearing for a night out, and that had thoroughly dazzled him.

When no more came off, Aaron took another wipe in hand, one final pass over to make sure that none was left. He stood up just as slowly as he’d sat down, taking a step away from the bed before he allowed himself to look at you. You were as breath-takingly beautiful as ever, so calm in your sleep, and he thought he might have seen a slight smile dance across your face, indicative of a nice dream. For a moment, he let himself imagine waking up to that kind smile, those bright eyes watching him from the space on his bed that would no longer be empty.

He stepped out of the room before he could think any more, before he started to truly feel like a creep. But not before one last look at the space you had built around yourself—the candles on your nightstand, the posters of your favourite artists on the walls, the framed photo of you and Jack—so completely yours, he’d ceased calling it the guest room years ago. You made the space brighter, all the little touches of you in the house were like rays of sunshine through the clouds on a gloomy day. Something that you’d baked and left in the fridge, a necklace forgotten by the sink, his house may as well have been yours. He wished he was, too.

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tysm for reading!!

Tags: @reidmoony-toast @selmasdaydreams @khxna - Comment to be added <3

[reidmoony-toast]

"have you revised for grill the grid?"

oscar: "i have not"

"hadjar was a bit of a dark horse"

oscar: "he doesn't know who he's up against. i should've brought the trophy with me just to remind everyone"

[reidmoony-toast]

To the anon in my asks, thank you sm for the suggestion <3 I will try to get to writing it as soon as possible! x

The idea is so cute omgg 😭

[reidmoony-toast]

Never let me go. ౨ৎ

"But the arms of the ocean delivered me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer and r are investigating a case that involves a lake and a rickety old boat—the problem? They can't stand each other.

Content: based off this vid of George Russell and Carmen (it's so random I know but I was inspired), fluff, banter, Spencer does the Darcy hand flex (!) cw: lil bit of violence (they briefly mention a case) wc: 2.1k an: I started this AGES ago oh my lord but anyways I hope you enjoy this very weirdly specific prompt, ilyy <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

About halfway down to the dock, you are seriously reconsidering this whole ordeal. Maybe it was Spencer’s confidence when he expressed his knowledge of boats when the officer offhandedly mentioned his massive workload, or maybe it’s your dedication to the job, or your unfortunate tendency for some light masochism. Whatever reason your brain had conjured previously has vanished into smoke between the police precinct and the gravel path you now traverse. 

The officer leads the way, Spencer walking beside him, discussing the impending trip that the two of you are about to take. Together. Alone. In the middle of the lake with a man who might have the theoretical—but certainly not the practical—knowledge to drive this boat without killing the both of you in a freak boating accident. 

You finally reach the dock, and you examine the death machine moored in front of you. It was an old police dinghy, with a small frame around the driver’s seat, and inflatable sides to increase its safety level. The officer begins to explain the workings of the boat, and you squint out at the expanse of lake before you, as you try to pay attention—if only so you can call Spencer up on anything he does minutely wrong. 

The officer eventually deems the two of you water-safe and gives his final farewells, echoed kindly by Spencer. After a few seconds, while Spencer is checking the mooring line, you clear your throat pointedly. 

Spencer glances up, eyebrow raised in question. You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m not getting into that boat with you as its captain.”

He stopped with the rope all together. “Technically, I'm the Skipper. Captain is saved for bigger vessels with more authority.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah whatever, smart-ass. Still not letting you be my Skipper.” You huff. “I don't have a death wish.”

He lets out a long sigh, like you’re a petulant child. “You volunteered to come and look at the dump site with me. No backing out now.” He returns to his work, like your indignation is simply fleeting because he knows he will win in the end. “Plus, I need a second pair of eyes.”

You let out a loud groan. As much as you can’t stand to spend over an hour in a rusty old boat, with nobody for company but Spencer Reid, you have a job to do, and you can’t very well flake out now. What would Hotch say if you came back now, with the only excuse being ‘I can’t deal with Spencer’? Most likely something about being disappointed at your immaturity, that you can’t even manage to work with one of your fellow team members. 

“Fine.” You snap, unendingly irritated that you have to concede to Spencer. The corner of his mouth tips up in triumph, and you have the violent urge to kick him in the face. He’s in the perfect position for it, too. But, of course, being a mature adult, you gallantly resist.

“I’ll grab our stuff, you can get in.” Spencer passes you, heading to your equipment bag, as you step to the edge of the pier. It’s a much further way down than it had looked from where you were previously standing, and you pause for a moment, assessing the best way to get into the boat without falling into the chilled lake water. 

You sit on the edge, attempting to lower yourself down into the dinghy below, but your legs are too short, and you scrabble for purchase, trying to reach the boat floor, and succeeding, but only with the tips of your shoes. 

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer speaks up from behind you, a lilt of amusement clouding his voice. You continue your pitiful attempts to climb into the small boat from the too-high dock. 

“I'm fine.” You say, petulantly, not bothering to turn to address Spencer, as you knew he would be smiling at your misfortune. Finally, you shakily lower yourself down until you fall heavily onto the floor of the boat, staggering when it rocks in the water. 

“Whatever you say.” 

You turn just in time to see him swiftly, and with a surprising amount of grace for a man you have seen trip over nothing but his own feet, enter the boat. He lets out a low chuckle as he passes you towards the controls. 

“Show off.” You scoff loudly, and roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they return back to the realm of the living at all—although it's not like he could see it anyways as he fiddles with the buttons at the helm. 

You and Spencer spend the whole boat ride, and examination of the watery dump site, bickering about god knows what. From Spencer’s questionable driving skills, to your glove application, to your differing opinions on the case. While the whole situation was bothersome, you find yourself surprisingly unvexed, even to go so far as to somewhat enjoy yourself. You shake off those thoughts—Spencer is a pain in your ass, and that will never change.

“You’re seriously doing it wrong.” You say for the hundredth time, as Spencer jerkily guides the two of you back to shore. 

“I’m doing fine, okay?” The boat jolts, and you wobble, letting out a yelp, before finding your feet again. “Stop doubting my abilities and trust me.”

“I am most definitely doubting your judgement, and I do not trust you!” You tightly grip one of the rusty beams of the cockpit. “I was almost flung out of the boat just then, you maniac!”

“Calm down.” Spencer counters, sounding exasperated.

“I think I have a say in how I go out, and dying in a dusty old police boat with you of all people is not what I choose!” You make a noise of frustration when Spencer simply laughs at your agonising. 

“Is that really a bad way to go?” He keeps his eyes on the approaching dock, but there is a lilt of amusement in his tone.

“The worst.” You groan out, and Spencer chuckles jovially.

By some miracle, Spencer manages to dock the boat, and he motions for you to disembark first. 

You stare at the dock, and your stomach dips. You might have had trouble getting into the boat in the first place, but getting out? That was a whole other story. This was certainly going to be a lot trickier than it was before. 

“Need some help?” Spencer pipes up, just like before—the deja vu was very definitely unappreciated. He must have seen your assessment in your hesitation, and taken it as yet another opportunity to terrorise you.

“No.” You move to the edge, judging the large distance before you—the gap was considerably larger now, and it was much harder to traverse up than down. You blamed Spencer’s questionable boat-driving skills. The length wasn't a problem by itself, but paired with the height, it was an impossible feat for someone with your frame. You bend your knees, ready to jump across—your hopeless plan to somehow get yourself from the boat to the dock. You lean forward, but almost lose your balance, stepping back abruptly to prevent a very unpleasant outcome.

You finally bail on your fruitless attempts when you realize it would most likely end with you either in the water, very injured, or with a severely bruised ego. Less than if you let Spencer help, that is, but the other two options weren't something you wanted to experience. 

You exhale slowly, knowing you had to admit defeat. You turn slowly, facing Spencer. He grins, knowing what your look meant. 

You hated needing the help of others, preferring to do everything yourself; assistance from others always felt like a personal failure. You also knew you could be… stubborn, and you had rejected Spencer's help already, so this was certainly a blow to your ego.

You stare at him impatiently, waiting for him to get the memo that you need his help. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face and his eyebrow flicks up in a silent mocking question. 

“Spencer.” You deadpan, fixing him with a glare. 

He shoots your name back to you in the same flat tone, eyes dancing in amusement. You glare back, unblinking. A battle of wills arises in the form of prolonged intense eye contact, but you unfortunately don't possess the demanding expression you were hoping for, and you begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Can you…” You groan at the words you have to utter. “help me.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

Scratch that. The scathing look you were searching for? There it was. Spencer snorted, wholly entertained by the whole situation. You debate shoving him straight into the grimy lake. 

“Please.” You grit out. 

“Thank you.” He says cordially, like he was a perfect gentleman. Yeah, the lake could definitely help him see the hard truths. 

He walks forward carefully, trying his best not to rock the boat too much. As he enters your space, your chest tightens slightly, but you don't read into it. That was something to unpack later. Much later. 

“Can I?” Spencer asks, and you realise he's asking permission to touch you. You nod quickly, watching in morbid anticipation as his hands snake towards you, settling carefully but firmly on your hips. You snap your attention away, desperate to break the strained silence with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you even strong enough for this?” The execution of nonchalance you were aiming for is partially botched when your voice comes out breathier than normal. 

“Ouch.” Spencer hisses, tutting amusedly. “You’re relentless today, aren't you?” His hands break from their hold on your hips and fold across his chest, and you feel an utterly irrational sense of disappointment. 

“I might not be Morgan, but I’m still an agent.” He glances down at your form, sizing you up like you’re a bothersome math equation. “Also, I’m guessing you weigh about as much as a small sack of potatoes, so you’ll be fine.” 

You scoff at that, but don’t argue back, and Spencer takes it as his green light. 

“Brace on my shoulders or you’ll make this very difficult for the both of us.” He replies, and you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders, not wanting to get any closer to Spencer than you already are. 

He rolls his eyes. “Are you even trying?” 

“Geez, I’m so sorry I respect the personal space of others, I won't be so considerate next time.” You jab back, narrowing your eyes at him. He responds with an amused huff, but doesn't speak as he gently moves your hands to where he wants them. You shiver.

One ends up on his bicep, while the other wraps around the back of his neck. His hands fall back to your middle, but instead of settling back on your hips, his large hands mould to your waist, flexing as he finds his grip. They tighten and he pulls you closer than ever. You find yourself with nothing to say—witty retorts form in your throat, yet none seem willing to come out.

“Ready?” He says in your ear, voice low. 

“No,” you answer, still very apprehensive at his physical ability to get you all the way to the dock. 

“Too bad.”

Before you can retort, he lifts you with surprising strength and ease in one smooth movement, and you let out a small squeak at the suddenness of it all. He swings your body around, using the momentum to haul you onto the high dock, long fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep hold during the precarious lift. It was more of a controlled throw, if you’re being picky—which you always are.

You wobble slightly, but manage to gain your balance on the waterlogged wooden planks. You glance back to Spencer, who is standing stock-still on the little boat, eyes a little unfocussed. You watch as the warm hands that were just clenched on your waist flex once, twice, before he blinks a moment later and looks towards the dock. Towards you. 

“All good?” He asks, voice strained.

“I’ll live.” You stare at Spencer for a moment, before shaking yourself from your slight stupor and turning to head back up the hill. 

“Now hurry up,” you call over your shoulder. Spencer simply sighs, lifting himself easily from the boat and jogging to catch up, hauling your shared belongings onto his back. 

As you finally re-enter the precinct a little while later, Spencer peeling off to debrief the team, you swear your hips still tingle from where his hands were wrapped tightly around them mere minutes ago. 

But, like you said. You would think about that later.

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @thegloryofliterature <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[reidmoony-toast]

Reblog for the other side of the world xx

Never let me go. ౨ৎ

"But the arms of the ocean delivered me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer and r are investigating a case that involves a lake and a rickety old boat—the problem? They can't stand each other.

Content: based off this vid of George Russell and Carmen (it's so random I know but I was inspired), fluff, banter, Spencer does the Darcy hand flex (!) cw: lil bit of violence (they briefly mention a case) wc: 2.1k an: I started this AGES ago oh my lord but anyways I hope you enjoy this very weirdly specific prompt, ilyy <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

About halfway down to the dock, you are seriously reconsidering this whole ordeal. Maybe it was Spencer’s confidence when he expressed his knowledge of boats when the officer offhandedly mentioned his massive workload, or maybe it’s your dedication to the job, or your unfortunate tendency for some light masochism. Whatever reason your brain had conjured previously has vanished into smoke between the police precinct and the gravel path you now traverse. 

The officer leads the way, Spencer walking beside him, discussing the impending trip that the two of you are about to take. Together. Alone. In the middle of the lake with a man who might have the theoretical—but certainly not the practical—knowledge to drive this boat without killing the both of you in a freak boating accident. 

You finally reach the dock, and you examine the death machine moored in front of you. It was an old police dinghy, with a small frame around the driver’s seat, and inflatable sides to increase its safety level. The officer begins to explain the workings of the boat, and you squint out at the expanse of lake before you, as you try to pay attention—if only so you can call Spencer up on anything he does minutely wrong. 

The officer eventually deems the two of you water-safe and gives his final farewells, echoed kindly by Spencer. After a few seconds, while Spencer is checking the mooring line, you clear your throat pointedly. 

Spencer glances up, eyebrow raised in question. You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m not getting into that boat with you as its captain.”

He stopped with the rope all together. “Technically, I'm the Skipper. Captain is saved for bigger vessels with more authority.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah whatever, smart-ass. Still not letting you be my Skipper.” You huff. “I don't have a death wish.”

He lets out a long sigh, like you’re a petulant child. “You volunteered to come and look at the dump site with me. No backing out now.” He returns to his work, like your indignation is simply fleeting because he knows he will win in the end. “Plus, I need a second pair of eyes.”

You let out a loud groan. As much as you can’t stand to spend over an hour in a rusty old boat, with nobody for company but Spencer Reid, you have a job to do, and you can’t very well flake out now. What would Hotch say if you came back now, with the only excuse being ‘I can’t deal with Spencer’? Most likely something about being disappointed at your immaturity, that you can’t even manage to work with one of your fellow team members. 

“Fine.” You snap, unendingly irritated that you have to concede to Spencer. The corner of his mouth tips up in triumph, and you have the violent urge to kick him in the face. He’s in the perfect position for it, too. But, of course, being a mature adult, you gallantly resist.

“I’ll grab our stuff, you can get in.” Spencer passes you, heading to your equipment bag, as you step to the edge of the pier. It’s a much further way down than it had looked from where you were previously standing, and you pause for a moment, assessing the best way to get into the boat without falling into the chilled lake water. 

You sit on the edge, attempting to lower yourself down into the dinghy below, but your legs are too short, and you scrabble for purchase, trying to reach the boat floor, and succeeding, but only with the tips of your shoes. 

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer speaks up from behind you, a lilt of amusement clouding his voice. You continue your pitiful attempts to climb into the small boat from the too-high dock. 

“I'm fine.” You say, petulantly, not bothering to turn to address Spencer, as you knew he would be smiling at your misfortune. Finally, you shakily lower yourself down until you fall heavily onto the floor of the boat, staggering when it rocks in the water. 

“Whatever you say.” 

You turn just in time to see him swiftly, and with a surprising amount of grace for a man you have seen trip over nothing but his own feet, enter the boat. He lets out a low chuckle as he passes you towards the controls. 

“Show off.” You scoff loudly, and roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they return back to the realm of the living at all—although it's not like he could see it anyways as he fiddles with the buttons at the helm. 

You and Spencer spend the whole boat ride, and examination of the watery dump site, bickering about god knows what. From Spencer’s questionable driving skills, to your glove application, to your differing opinions on the case. While the whole situation was bothersome, you find yourself surprisingly unvexed, even to go so far as to somewhat enjoy yourself. You shake off those thoughts—Spencer is a pain in your ass, and that will never change.

“You’re seriously doing it wrong.” You say for the hundredth time, as Spencer jerkily guides the two of you back to shore. 

“I’m doing fine, okay?” The boat jolts, and you wobble, letting out a yelp, before finding your feet again. “Stop doubting my abilities and trust me.”

“I am most definitely doubting your judgement, and I do not trust you!” You tightly grip one of the rusty beams of the cockpit. “I was almost flung out of the boat just then, you maniac!”

“Calm down.” Spencer counters, sounding exasperated.

“I think I have a say in how I go out, and dying in a dusty old police boat with you of all people is not what I choose!” You make a noise of frustration when Spencer simply laughs at your agonising. 

“Is that really a bad way to go?” He keeps his eyes on the approaching dock, but there is a lilt of amusement in his tone.

“The worst.” You groan out, and Spencer chuckles jovially.

By some miracle, Spencer manages to dock the boat, and he motions for you to disembark first. 

You stare at the dock, and your stomach dips. You might have had trouble getting into the boat in the first place, but getting out? That was a whole other story. This was certainly going to be a lot trickier than it was before. 

“Need some help?” Spencer pipes up, just like before—the deja vu was very definitely unappreciated. He must have seen your assessment in your hesitation, and taken it as yet another opportunity to terrorise you.

“No.” You move to the edge, judging the large distance before you—the gap was considerably larger now, and it was much harder to traverse up than down. You blamed Spencer’s questionable boat-driving skills. The length wasn't a problem by itself, but paired with the height, it was an impossible feat for someone with your frame. You bend your knees, ready to jump across—your hopeless plan to somehow get yourself from the boat to the dock. You lean forward, but almost lose your balance, stepping back abruptly to prevent a very unpleasant outcome.

You finally bail on your fruitless attempts when you realize it would most likely end with you either in the water, very injured, or with a severely bruised ego. Less than if you let Spencer help, that is, but the other two options weren't something you wanted to experience. 

You exhale slowly, knowing you had to admit defeat. You turn slowly, facing Spencer. He grins, knowing what your look meant. 

You hated needing the help of others, preferring to do everything yourself; assistance from others always felt like a personal failure. You also knew you could be… stubborn, and you had rejected Spencer's help already, so this was certainly a blow to your ego.

You stare at him impatiently, waiting for him to get the memo that you need his help. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face and his eyebrow flicks up in a silent mocking question. 

“Spencer.” You deadpan, fixing him with a glare. 

He shoots your name back to you in the same flat tone, eyes dancing in amusement. You glare back, unblinking. A battle of wills arises in the form of prolonged intense eye contact, but you unfortunately don't possess the demanding expression you were hoping for, and you begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Can you…” You groan at the words you have to utter. “help me.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

Scratch that. The scathing look you were searching for? There it was. Spencer snorted, wholly entertained by the whole situation. You debate shoving him straight into the grimy lake. 

“Please.” You grit out. 

“Thank you.” He says cordially, like he was a perfect gentleman. Yeah, the lake could definitely help him see the hard truths. 

He walks forward carefully, trying his best not to rock the boat too much. As he enters your space, your chest tightens slightly, but you don't read into it. That was something to unpack later. Much later. 

“Can I?” Spencer asks, and you realise he's asking permission to touch you. You nod quickly, watching in morbid anticipation as his hands snake towards you, settling carefully but firmly on your hips. You snap your attention away, desperate to break the strained silence with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you even strong enough for this?” The execution of nonchalance you were aiming for is partially botched when your voice comes out breathier than normal. 

“Ouch.” Spencer hisses, tutting amusedly. “You’re relentless today, aren't you?” His hands break from their hold on your hips and fold across his chest, and you feel an utterly irrational sense of disappointment. 

“I might not be Morgan, but I’m still an agent.” He glances down at your form, sizing you up like you’re a bothersome math equation. “Also, I’m guessing you weigh about as much as a small sack of potatoes, so you’ll be fine.” 

You scoff at that, but don’t argue back, and Spencer takes it as his green light. 

“Brace on my shoulders or you’ll make this very difficult for the both of us.” He replies, and you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders, not wanting to get any closer to Spencer than you already are. 

He rolls his eyes. “Are you even trying?” 

“Geez, I’m so sorry I respect the personal space of others, I won't be so considerate next time.” You jab back, narrowing your eyes at him. He responds with an amused huff, but doesn't speak as he gently moves your hands to where he wants them. You shiver.

One ends up on his bicep, while the other wraps around the back of his neck. His hands fall back to your middle, but instead of settling back on your hips, his large hands mould to your waist, flexing as he finds his grip. They tighten and he pulls you closer than ever. You find yourself with nothing to say—witty retorts form in your throat, yet none seem willing to come out.

“Ready?” He says in your ear, voice low. 

“No,” you answer, still very apprehensive at his physical ability to get you all the way to the dock. 

“Too bad.”

Before you can retort, he lifts you with surprising strength and ease in one smooth movement, and you let out a small squeak at the suddenness of it all. He swings your body around, using the momentum to haul you onto the high dock, long fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep hold during the precarious lift. It was more of a controlled throw, if you’re being picky—which you always are.

You wobble slightly, but manage to gain your balance on the waterlogged wooden planks. You glance back to Spencer, who is standing stock-still on the little boat, eyes a little unfocussed. You watch as the warm hands that were just clenched on your waist flex once, twice, before he blinks a moment later and looks towards the dock. Towards you. 

“All good?” He asks, voice strained.

“I’ll live.” You stare at Spencer for a moment, before shaking yourself from your slight stupor and turning to head back up the hill. 

“Now hurry up,” you call over your shoulder. Spencer simply sighs, lifting himself easily from the boat and jogging to catch up, hauling your shared belongings onto his back. 

As you finally re-enter the precinct a little while later, Spencer peeling off to debrief the team, you swear your hips still tingle from where his hands were wrapped tightly around them mere minutes ago. 

But, like you said. You would think about that later.

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @thegloryofliterature <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[reidmoony-toast]

Love you pookie 😭🩷

Never let me go. ౨ৎ

"But the arms of the ocean delivered me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer and r are investigating a case that involves a lake and a rickety old boat—the problem? They can't stand each other.

Content: based off this vid of George Russell and Carmen (it's so random I know but I was inspired), fluff, banter, Spencer does the Darcy hand flex (!) cw: lil bit of violence (they briefly mention a case) wc: 2.1k an: I started this AGES ago oh my lord but anyways I hope you enjoy this very weirdly specific prompt, ilyy <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

About halfway down to the dock, you are seriously reconsidering this whole ordeal. Maybe it was Spencer’s confidence when he expressed his knowledge of boats when the officer offhandedly mentioned his massive workload, or maybe it’s your dedication to the job, or your unfortunate tendency for some light masochism. Whatever reason your brain had conjured previously has vanished into smoke between the police precinct and the gravel path you now traverse. 

The officer leads the way, Spencer walking beside him, discussing the impending trip that the two of you are about to take. Together. Alone. In the middle of the lake with a man who might have the theoretical—but certainly not the practical—knowledge to drive this boat without killing the both of you in a freak boating accident. 

You finally reach the dock, and you examine the death machine moored in front of you. It was an old police dinghy, with a small frame around the driver’s seat, and inflatable sides to increase its safety level. The officer begins to explain the workings of the boat, and you squint out at the expanse of lake before you, as you try to pay attention—if only so you can call Spencer up on anything he does minutely wrong. 

The officer eventually deems the two of you water-safe and gives his final farewells, echoed kindly by Spencer. After a few seconds, while Spencer is checking the mooring line, you clear your throat pointedly. 

Spencer glances up, eyebrow raised in question. You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m not getting into that boat with you as its captain.”

He stopped with the rope all together. “Technically, I'm the Skipper. Captain is saved for bigger vessels with more authority.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah whatever, smart-ass. Still not letting you be my Skipper.” You huff. “I don't have a death wish.”

He lets out a long sigh, like you’re a petulant child. “You volunteered to come and look at the dump site with me. No backing out now.” He returns to his work, like your indignation is simply fleeting because he knows he will win in the end. “Plus, I need a second pair of eyes.”

You let out a loud groan. As much as you can’t stand to spend over an hour in a rusty old boat, with nobody for company but Spencer Reid, you have a job to do, and you can’t very well flake out now. What would Hotch say if you came back now, with the only excuse being ‘I can’t deal with Spencer’? Most likely something about being disappointed at your immaturity, that you can’t even manage to work with one of your fellow team members. 

“Fine.” You snap, unendingly irritated that you have to concede to Spencer. The corner of his mouth tips up in triumph, and you have the violent urge to kick him in the face. He’s in the perfect position for it, too. But, of course, being a mature adult, you gallantly resist.

“I’ll grab our stuff, you can get in.” Spencer passes you, heading to your equipment bag, as you step to the edge of the pier. It’s a much further way down than it had looked from where you were previously standing, and you pause for a moment, assessing the best way to get into the boat without falling into the chilled lake water. 

You sit on the edge, attempting to lower yourself down into the dinghy below, but your legs are too short, and you scrabble for purchase, trying to reach the boat floor, and succeeding, but only with the tips of your shoes. 

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer speaks up from behind you, a lilt of amusement clouding his voice. You continue your pitiful attempts to climb into the small boat from the too-high dock. 

“I'm fine.” You say, petulantly, not bothering to turn to address Spencer, as you knew he would be smiling at your misfortune. Finally, you shakily lower yourself down until you fall heavily onto the floor of the boat, staggering when it rocks in the water. 

“Whatever you say.” 

You turn just in time to see him swiftly, and with a surprising amount of grace for a man you have seen trip over nothing but his own feet, enter the boat. He lets out a low chuckle as he passes you towards the controls. 

“Show off.” You scoff loudly, and roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they return back to the realm of the living at all—although it's not like he could see it anyways as he fiddles with the buttons at the helm. 

You and Spencer spend the whole boat ride, and examination of the watery dump site, bickering about god knows what. From Spencer’s questionable driving skills, to your glove application, to your differing opinions on the case. While the whole situation was bothersome, you find yourself surprisingly unvexed, even to go so far as to somewhat enjoy yourself. You shake off those thoughts—Spencer is a pain in your ass, and that will never change.

“You’re seriously doing it wrong.” You say for the hundredth time, as Spencer jerkily guides the two of you back to shore. 

“I’m doing fine, okay?” The boat jolts, and you wobble, letting out a yelp, before finding your feet again. “Stop doubting my abilities and trust me.”

“I am most definitely doubting your judgement, and I do not trust you!” You tightly grip one of the rusty beams of the cockpit. “I was almost flung out of the boat just then, you maniac!”

“Calm down.” Spencer counters, sounding exasperated.

“I think I have a say in how I go out, and dying in a dusty old police boat with you of all people is not what I choose!” You make a noise of frustration when Spencer simply laughs at your agonising. 

“Is that really a bad way to go?” He keeps his eyes on the approaching dock, but there is a lilt of amusement in his tone.

“The worst.” You groan out, and Spencer chuckles jovially.

By some miracle, Spencer manages to dock the boat, and he motions for you to disembark first. 

You stare at the dock, and your stomach dips. You might have had trouble getting into the boat in the first place, but getting out? That was a whole other story. This was certainly going to be a lot trickier than it was before. 

“Need some help?” Spencer pipes up, just like before—the deja vu was very definitely unappreciated. He must have seen your assessment in your hesitation, and taken it as yet another opportunity to terrorise you.

“No.” You move to the edge, judging the large distance before you—the gap was considerably larger now, and it was much harder to traverse up than down. You blamed Spencer’s questionable boat-driving skills. The length wasn't a problem by itself, but paired with the height, it was an impossible feat for someone with your frame. You bend your knees, ready to jump across—your hopeless plan to somehow get yourself from the boat to the dock. You lean forward, but almost lose your balance, stepping back abruptly to prevent a very unpleasant outcome.

You finally bail on your fruitless attempts when you realize it would most likely end with you either in the water, very injured, or with a severely bruised ego. Less than if you let Spencer help, that is, but the other two options weren't something you wanted to experience. 

You exhale slowly, knowing you had to admit defeat. You turn slowly, facing Spencer. He grins, knowing what your look meant. 

You hated needing the help of others, preferring to do everything yourself; assistance from others always felt like a personal failure. You also knew you could be… stubborn, and you had rejected Spencer's help already, so this was certainly a blow to your ego.

You stare at him impatiently, waiting for him to get the memo that you need his help. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face and his eyebrow flicks up in a silent mocking question. 

“Spencer.” You deadpan, fixing him with a glare. 

He shoots your name back to you in the same flat tone, eyes dancing in amusement. You glare back, unblinking. A battle of wills arises in the form of prolonged intense eye contact, but you unfortunately don't possess the demanding expression you were hoping for, and you begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Can you…” You groan at the words you have to utter. “help me.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

Scratch that. The scathing look you were searching for? There it was. Spencer snorted, wholly entertained by the whole situation. You debate shoving him straight into the grimy lake. 

“Please.” You grit out. 

“Thank you.” He says cordially, like he was a perfect gentleman. Yeah, the lake could definitely help him see the hard truths. 

He walks forward carefully, trying his best not to rock the boat too much. As he enters your space, your chest tightens slightly, but you don't read into it. That was something to unpack later. Much later. 

“Can I?” Spencer asks, and you realise he's asking permission to touch you. You nod quickly, watching in morbid anticipation as his hands snake towards you, settling carefully but firmly on your hips. You snap your attention away, desperate to break the strained silence with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you even strong enough for this?” The execution of nonchalance you were aiming for is partially botched when your voice comes out breathier than normal. 

“Ouch.” Spencer hisses, tutting amusedly. “You’re relentless today, aren't you?” His hands break from their hold on your hips and fold across his chest, and you feel an utterly irrational sense of disappointment. 

“I might not be Morgan, but I’m still an agent.” He glances down at your form, sizing you up like you’re a bothersome math equation. “Also, I’m guessing you weigh about as much as a small sack of potatoes, so you’ll be fine.” 

You scoff at that, but don’t argue back, and Spencer takes it as his green light. 

“Brace on my shoulders or you’ll make this very difficult for the both of us.” He replies, and you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders, not wanting to get any closer to Spencer than you already are. 

He rolls his eyes. “Are you even trying?” 

“Geez, I’m so sorry I respect the personal space of others, I won't be so considerate next time.” You jab back, narrowing your eyes at him. He responds with an amused huff, but doesn't speak as he gently moves your hands to where he wants them. You shiver.

One ends up on his bicep, while the other wraps around the back of his neck. His hands fall back to your middle, but instead of settling back on your hips, his large hands mould to your waist, flexing as he finds his grip. They tighten and he pulls you closer than ever. You find yourself with nothing to say—witty retorts form in your throat, yet none seem willing to come out.

“Ready?” He says in your ear, voice low. 

“No,” you answer, still very apprehensive at his physical ability to get you all the way to the dock. 

“Too bad.”

Before you can retort, he lifts you with surprising strength and ease in one smooth movement, and you let out a small squeak at the suddenness of it all. He swings your body around, using the momentum to haul you onto the high dock, long fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep hold during the precarious lift. It was more of a controlled throw, if you’re being picky—which you always are.

You wobble slightly, but manage to gain your balance on the waterlogged wooden planks. You glance back to Spencer, who is standing stock-still on the little boat, eyes a little unfocussed. You watch as the warm hands that were just clenched on your waist flex once, twice, before he blinks a moment later and looks towards the dock. Towards you. 

“All good?” He asks, voice strained.

“I’ll live.” You stare at Spencer for a moment, before shaking yourself from your slight stupor and turning to head back up the hill. 

“Now hurry up,” you call over your shoulder. Spencer simply sighs, lifting himself easily from the boat and jogging to catch up, hauling your shared belongings onto his back. 

As you finally re-enter the precinct a little while later, Spencer peeling off to debrief the team, you swear your hips still tingle from where his hands were wrapped tightly around them mere minutes ago. 

But, like you said. You would think about that later.

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @thegloryofliterature <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[reidmoony-toast]

Never let me go. ౨ৎ

"But the arms of the ocean delivered me"

Spencer Reid x gn!reader

Spencer and r are investigating a case that involves a lake and a rickety old boat—the problem? They can't stand each other.

Content: based off this vid of George Russell and Carmen (it's so random I know but I was inspired), fluff, banter, enemies (ish) to lovers, forced proximity, romanic tension, Spencer does the Darcy hand flex (!) cw: lil bit of violence (they briefly mention a case) wc: 2.1k an: I started this AGES ago oh my lord but anyways I hope you enjoy this very weirdly specific prompt, ilyy <3

· · ───────────── ·𖥸· ───────────── · ·

About halfway down to the dock, you are seriously reconsidering this whole ordeal. Maybe it was Spencer’s confidence when he expressed his knowledge of boats when the officer offhandedly mentioned his massive workload, or maybe it’s your dedication to the job, or your unfortunate tendency for some light masochism. Whatever reason your brain had conjured previously has vanished into smoke between the police precinct and the gravel path you now traverse. 

The officer leads the way, Spencer walking beside him, discussing the impending trip that the two of you are about to take. Together. Alone. In the middle of the lake with a man who might have the theoretical—but certainly not the practical—knowledge to drive this boat without killing the both of you in a freak boating accident. 

You finally reach the dock, and you examine the death machine moored in front of you. It was an old police dinghy, with a small frame around the driver’s seat, and inflatable sides to increase its safety level. The officer begins to explain the workings of the boat, and you squint out at the expanse of lake before you, as you try to pay attention—if only so you can call Spencer up on anything he does minutely wrong. 

The officer eventually deems the two of you water-safe and gives his final farewells, echoed kindly by Spencer. After a few seconds, while Spencer is checking the mooring line, you clear your throat pointedly. 

Spencer glances up, eyebrow raised in question. You fold your arms across your chest. “I’m not getting into that boat with you as its captain.”

He stopped with the rope all together. “Technically, I'm the Skipper. Captain is saved for bigger vessels with more authority.”

You roll your eyes. “Yeah whatever, smart-ass. Still not letting you be my Skipper.” You huff. “I don't have a death wish.”

He lets out a long sigh, like you’re a petulant child. “You volunteered to come and look at the dump site with me. No backing out now.” He returns to his work, like your indignation is simply fleeting because he knows he will win in the end. “Plus, I need a second pair of eyes.”

You let out a loud groan. As much as you can’t stand to spend over an hour in a rusty old boat, with nobody for company but Spencer Reid, you have a job to do, and you can’t very well flake out now. What would Hotch say if you came back now, with the only excuse being ‘I can’t deal with Spencer’? Most likely something about being disappointed at your immaturity, that you can’t even manage to work with one of your fellow team members. 

“Fine.” You snap, unendingly irritated that you have to concede to Spencer. The corner of his mouth tips up in triumph, and you have the violent urge to kick him in the face. He’s in the perfect position for it, too. But, of course, being a mature adult, you gallantly resist.

“I’ll grab our stuff, you can get in.” Spencer passes you, heading to your equipment bag, as you step to the edge of the pier. It’s a much further way down than it had looked from where you were previously standing, and you pause for a moment, assessing the best way to get into the boat without falling into the chilled lake water. 

You sit on the edge, attempting to lower yourself down into the dinghy below, but your legs are too short, and you scrabble for purchase, trying to reach the boat floor, and succeeding, but only with the tips of your shoes. 

“Do you need help with that?” Spencer speaks up from behind you, a lilt of amusement clouding his voice. You continue your pitiful attempts to climb into the small boat from the too-high dock. 

“I'm fine.” You say, petulantly, not bothering to turn to address Spencer, as you knew he would be smiling at your misfortune. Finally, you shakily lower yourself down until you fall heavily onto the floor of the boat, staggering when it rocks in the water. 

“Whatever you say.” 

You turn just in time to see him swiftly, and with a surprising amount of grace for a man you have seen trip over nothing but his own feet, enter the boat. He lets out a low chuckle as he passes you towards the controls. 

“Show off.” You scoff loudly, and roll your eyes so hard you’re surprised they return back to the realm of the living at all—although it's not like he could see it anyways as he fiddles with the buttons at the helm. 

You and Spencer spend the whole boat ride, and examination of the watery dump site, bickering about god knows what. From Spencer’s questionable driving skills, to your glove application, to your differing opinions on the case. While the whole situation was bothersome, you find yourself surprisingly unvexed, even to go so far as to somewhat enjoy yourself. You shake off those thoughts—Spencer is a pain in your ass, and that will never change.

“You’re seriously doing it wrong.” You say for the hundredth time, as Spencer jerkily guides the two of you back to shore. 

“I’m doing fine, okay?” The boat jolts, and you wobble, letting out a yelp, before finding your feet again. “Stop doubting my abilities and trust me.”

“I am most definitely doubting your judgement, and I do not trust you!” You tightly grip one of the rusty beams of the cockpit. “I was almost flung out of the boat just then, you maniac!”

“Calm down.” Spencer counters, sounding exasperated.

“I think I have a say in how I go out, and dying in a dusty old police boat with you of all people is not what I choose!” You make a noise of frustration when Spencer simply laughs at your agonising. 

“Is that really a bad way to go?” He keeps his eyes on the approaching dock, but there is a lilt of amusement in his tone.

“The worst.” You groan out, and Spencer chuckles jovially.

By some miracle, Spencer manages to dock the boat, and he motions for you to disembark first. 

You stare at the dock, and your stomach dips. You might have had trouble getting into the boat in the first place, but getting out? That was a whole other story. This was certainly going to be a lot trickier than it was before. 

“Need some help?” Spencer pipes up, just like before—the deja vu was very definitely unappreciated. He must have seen your assessment in your hesitation, and taken it as yet another opportunity to terrorise you.

“No.” You move to the edge, judging the large distance before you—the gap was considerably larger now, and it was much harder to traverse up than down. You blamed Spencer’s questionable boat-driving skills. The length wasn't a problem by itself, but paired with the height, it was an impossible feat for someone with your frame. You bend your knees, ready to jump across—your hopeless plan to somehow get yourself from the boat to the dock. You lean forward, but almost lose your balance, stepping back abruptly to prevent a very unpleasant outcome.

You finally bail on your fruitless attempts when you realize it would most likely end with you either in the water, very injured, or with a severely bruised ego. Less than if you let Spencer help, that is, but the other two options weren't something you wanted to experience. 

You exhale slowly, knowing you had to admit defeat. You turn slowly, facing Spencer. He grins, knowing what your look meant. 

You hated needing the help of others, preferring to do everything yourself; assistance from others always felt like a personal failure. You also knew you could be… stubborn, and you had rejected Spencer's help already, so this was certainly a blow to your ego.

You stare at him impatiently, waiting for him to get the memo that you need his help. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face and his eyebrow flicks up in a silent mocking question. 

“Spencer.” You deadpan, fixing him with a glare. 

He shoots your name back to you in the same flat tone, eyes dancing in amusement. You glare back, unblinking. A battle of wills arises in the form of prolonged intense eye contact, but you unfortunately don't possess the demanding expression you were hoping for, and you begrudgingly admit defeat.

“Can you…” You groan at the words you have to utter. “help me.” 

“What’s the magic word?” 

Scratch that. The scathing look you were searching for? There it was. Spencer snorted, wholly entertained by the whole situation. You debate shoving him straight into the grimy lake. 

“Please.” You grit out. 

“Thank you.” He says cordially, like he was a perfect gentleman. Yeah, the lake could definitely help him see the hard truths. 

He walks forward carefully, trying his best not to rock the boat too much. As he enters your space, your chest tightens slightly, but you don't read into it. That was something to unpack later. Much later. 

“Can I?” Spencer asks, and you realise he's asking permission to touch you. You nod quickly, watching in morbid anticipation as his hands snake towards you, settling carefully but firmly on your hips. You snap your attention away, desperate to break the strained silence with the first thing that comes to mind.

“Are you even strong enough for this?” The execution of nonchalance you were aiming for is partially botched when your voice comes out breathier than normal. 

“Ouch.” Spencer hisses, tutting amusedly. “You’re relentless today, aren't you?” His hands break from their hold on your hips and fold across his chest, and you feel an utterly irrational sense of disappointment. 

��I might not be Morgan, but I’m still an agent.” He glances down at your form, sizing you up like you’re a bothersome math equation. “Also, I’m guessing you weigh about as much as a small sack of potatoes, so you’ll be fine.” 

You scoff at that, but don’t argue back, and Spencer takes it as his green light. 

“Brace on my shoulders or you’ll make this very difficult for the both of us.” He replies, and you hesitantly place your hands on his shoulders, not wanting to get any closer to Spencer than you already are. 

He rolls his eyes. “Are you even trying?” 

“Geez, I’m so sorry I respect the personal space of others, I won't be so considerate next time.” You jab back, narrowing your eyes at him. He responds with an amused huff, but doesn't speak as he gently moves your hands to where he wants them. You shiver.

One ends up on his bicep, while the other wraps around the back of his neck. His hands fall back to your middle, but instead of settling back on your hips, his large hands mould to your waist, flexing as he finds his grip. They tighten and he pulls you closer than ever. You find yourself with nothing to say—witty retorts form in your throat, yet none seem willing to come out.

“Ready?” He says in your ear, voice low. 

“No,” you answer, still very apprehensive at his physical ability to get you all the way to the dock. 

“Too bad.”

Before you can retort, he lifts you with surprising strength and ease in one smooth movement, and you let out a small squeak at the suddenness of it all. He swings your body around, using the momentum to haul you onto the high dock, long fingers digging into the flesh of your hips to keep hold during the precarious lift. It was more of a controlled throw, if you’re being picky—which you always are.

You wobble slightly, but manage to gain your balance on the waterlogged wooden planks. You glance back to Spencer, who is standing stock-still on the little boat, eyes a little unfocussed. You watch as the warm hands that were just clenched on your waist flex once, twice, before he blinks a moment later and looks towards the dock. Towards you. 

“All good?” He asks, voice strained.

“I’ll live.” You stare at Spencer for a moment, before shaking yourself from your slight stupor and turning to head back up the hill. 

“Now hurry up,” you call over your shoulder. Spencer simply sighs, lifting himself easily from the boat and jogging to catch up, hauling your shared belongings onto his back. 

As you finally re-enter the precinct a little while later, Spencer peeling off to debrief the team, you swear your hips still tingle from where his hands were wrapped tightly around them mere minutes ago. 

But, like you said. You would think about that later.

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Thank you for reading, feedback is appreciated x

Tags: @reidology13 @thegloryofliterature <3 - Comment to be added!

Masterlist ౨ৎ

[reidmoony-toast]

I know that Oscar is seen as someone who isn't very emotive, but every time I see him (outside of the car) he is either a giggling mess or has never experienced joy in his life. Or both. And I love that about him.

[reidmoony-toast]

SO SO SO CUTEEE AHHH

𝐜𝐨𝐠𝐧𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: spencer genuinely can't believe that you're being kind to him. and you—well, you weren’t ashamed to admit that seeing him with the child had just a little melted your heart.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, a very fleeting mention of the babysitter kidnapper, but other than that, the fluffiest shit ive ever written (don't get used to it) (love them so much shshaha its unhealthy) (spencer performing MAGIC TRICK!)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 2.3k

𝐚/𝐧: requested by lovely @ihatethecrowdsyouknowthat love you so much you have no idea

The yellow Ford Falcon XB was reaching its record speed, slicing through the racetrack like a released arrow, emitting that signature mechanical growl and drawing dozens of captivated gazes.

At least, that’s how it looked through the eyes of a six-year-old.

Through Spencer’s eyes, it was just a toy car being pushed across the wooden surface of the table by a small hand.

The boy’s brown hair nearly touched his shoulders, and he wore a blue soccer jersey with a number on the back. His gaze wasn’t curiously darting around the office where they were alone—it was fixed solely on his favorite toy.

Reid watched him in silence for a moment, letting him play in peace before starting the conversation he, unfortunately, had to initiate.

For some time now, they had been working on a case involving the abduction of babysitters—each disappearing while on the job, vanishing after leaving the house with the children they were watching. Whether heading to the park, the playground, or a store, that was the only variable. The rest of the details were so methodical, so patterned, that there was no doubt they were dealing with a serial offender.

"Liam," he began, drawing the boy’s green eyes to him.

Spencer didn’t feel comfortable in this role. He never considered himself particularly gifted when it came to interacting with children—which was strange, considering everyone around him seemed to think otherwise. Especially since the arrival of his godson, Henry, had given him more opportunities for it.

"My name is Spencer, and…I’d like to talk to you for a moment."

He paused. The boy's face took on an odd expression; he didn’t respond, just looked at him with a certain shyness. Spencer hesitated, opening his mouth only to close it again.

All the previous babysitters had been taken the moment they looked away, leaving the children alone. From a child’s perspective, it must have been confusing. One moment, their beloved babysitter was with them, and the next, uniformed officers arrived, whisking them away to a place where more strange adults asked them strange but gentle questions.

For example, if they saw anything strange.

Strange? The children never really understood what that meant. After all, they had just been playing at the park like they did every afternoon. What could possibly be strange about that?

Spencer sighed. He didn’t want to bombard the boy with questions that would, at best, earn him a nod or a shake of the head. If he wanted answers—testimony (though the word felt absurd when referring to a six-year-old)—he’d have to take a different approach. He needed Liam to open up naturally. Even if it took a little longer.

"Is that a Falcon XB?" he asked, deliberately exaggerating his interest as he nodded toward the toy car teetering at the edge of the table. He moved around to take a seat beside the boy, slouching slightly. It always seemed easier to talk to kids when they were at the same eye level. "Can I see it?"

Liam stared at him for a moment before nodding.

Spencer carefully picked up the toy. His hesitation wasn’t just about earning the boy’s trust—though that was important. No, the real reason for his reluctance was the fact that, just five minutes ago, he had watched Liam absentmindedly shove the car into his mouth, biting down on its yellow surface.

"It’s really cool. Is it your favorite?" he asked, trying to push aside the thought of bacteria. The countless, countless bacteria.

There are an estimated 700 different species living in the human mouth…

Liam nodded again.

Focus, Reid. Cars, not bacteria.

"Did you know the original Falcon XB had an engine that let it reach over 220 kilometers per hour? It was so popular in Australia that the police used it for high-speed chases."

The boy studied him in silence for a moment, but Spencer could tell he had his attention.

“So…it’s a police car? Why doesn’t it have a siren?”

“The ones used by the police did," Spencer explained. "They also had lights on the roof so they could chase criminals. You know, yours might not have them because…”—he lowered his voice—“…it’s actually a secret police car.”

Liam frowned, clearly not following. “A secret police car?”

Spencer nodded.

“Used for undercover missions,” he continued. The boy’s full attention was locked onto him now—he must’ve hit on something that really fascinated him. “By secret agents, so they wouldn’t be noticed. And when they really need to…”

He glanced at Liam out of the corner of his eye, making sure the boy was still watching him closely. Once he was sure he had him hooked, Spencer clasped his hands together, concealing the Hot Wheels car between them. He held them still for a moment, letting the anticipation build.

Then, finally, he pulled them apart—revealing nothing but empty palms.

“…it disappears.”

  The boy’s mouth fell open in amazement, gasping. Spencer couldn’t help but smile at the sight, even though, to him, it was nothing impressive. He had done this trick hundreds of times—it was so simple. And yet, there was something oddly satisfying about watching the boy’s reaction, seeing how intently he studied Spencer’s hands, completely baffled by the disappearance of his toy.

Then suddenly, in the middle of it all, Spencer felt someone watching him.

He shifted his gaze toward the doorway, toward the figure standing in the threshold—the sight of whom caused his smile to falter. Not out of displeasure, but more out of surprise. And it wasn’t just her presence that caught him off guard. Lately, they had been running into each other in the most unexpected situations, to the point where he was starting to get used to it. What he wasn’t used to was the expression on her face.

By now, he had memorized the looks she most often wore around him—irritation, sarcasm, playful exasperation. But the way her head tilted slightly to the side, the faint curve at the corner of her lips, and the softness in her eyes didn’t fit into any of those categories. 

 Spencer felt his shoulders tense. He wasn’t sure if he had always been this paranoid or if it was a newly acquired trait—maybe one tied specifically to her—but a sense of unease settled over him. Before standing up to approach her and find out what she wanted, he cleared his throat and turned back to Liam one last time. He placed his hand behind the boy’s ear, pulling out the toy car as if it had been hidden there all along.

“I’ll be back in a moment, alright?” he informed him.

The boy didn’t even look at him, completely engrossed in examining the car from every angle, as if truly believing it could vanish on command. Spencer found himself smiling again. But that expression faded entirely when he stepped closer to the woman leaning against the doorframe. She shifted slightly backward into the hallway—probably to keep their conversation out of the child’s earshot.

“You know,” she started before he could say anything, raising her eyebrows slightly.

She lifted something in her hand—something Spencer hadn’t even noticed before, too focused on analyzing the look on her face. That suspicious look on her face. It was a plastic box of crayons.

“When JJ ran into me in the hallway, shoving this into my hands and begging me to find Spence and give it to him, I was a little confused. But now I get it.”

She nodded toward the boy.

Spencer instinctively followed her gaze, mirroring its path. At the same time, she shoved the box of crayons into his hands. Caught off guard, he had to grip it tightly to keep from dropping it. She then crossed her arms over her chest.

He glanced at her face once more and suddenly sighed, finally realizing what this meant.

“Oh, well, let me guess,” he began, rolling his eyes upward. “Because you had to deliver this to me, you now expect something in return. And you won’t tell me what, you’ll just keep me in suspense for the next few weeks, casually reminding me that I owe you, until eventually, you demand something absolutely ridiculous.”

He spoke with confidence, convinced of his theory. But as a prolonged silence settled between them, he started to doubt it. Especially when she averted her gaze for a moment.

Someone might think she was crafting a particularly sharp retort—he himself considered it for a second—until he realized she never needed time to think of a comeback. When talking to him, they rolled off her tongue at machine-gun speed.

Another brief glance toward the boy.

"This is about the case with the kidnapped babysitters, isn’t it?" she asked, completely ignoring his entire speech. "I heard something about it. The kid—he's okay?"

Spencer didn't hide his surprise at the question. It took him a moment to realize that it was completely natural in this situation—almost anyone would have asked it. Maybe it was just the rare trace of concern in her voice that caught him off guard.

“Um… yeah…yeah, he's okay,” he stammered, his tongue suddenly twisting over the words. He had no idea why. He shook his head slightly, trying to clear the strange fog in his brain.

“I mean, I was just about to talk to him, but I’m pretty sure he didn’t see anything. Same as in the previous cases. This unsub doesn’t…doesn’t hurt kids.” Suddenly, he became aware of the weight of the crayons in his hands, remembering them again. He added, “And, uh, thanks for this. When we work with kids, we often give them paper and crayons. Sometimes it’s easier for them to draw something than to say it out loud.”

She let out a sound—a hum—suggesting that she understood.

He caught himself mentally keeping track of time. They were probably breaking a record for how long they had gone without arguing. Or at least without one of them slipping in a tiny jab at the other.

He was experiencing so-called cognitive dissonance.

“So, they stuck you with babysitting duty today?” she asked. Before he could respond, she let out a quiet snort. “Well, no surprise there.”

“What do you mean?” Spencer frowned. “By the way, this isn’t a common thing. I’m not particularly good with kids. Usually, they assign someone else for this, like—”

“I’m not particularly good with kids,” she repeated, her voice laced with mockery.

Oh. So they were back to their usual dynamic.

“Congratulations. You heard me correctly.”

“I know I did,” she shot back, sharper this time. “I just don’t agree. I watched you two for a moment. You are good with kids. Didn’t you see how excited he was when you did that trick?”

“He was just surprised. I made his toy disappear.”

“Which doesn’t change the fact that he’s a kid whose babysitter was just…” She mouthed the word kidnapped, only her lips forming the shape of it. “Something he might not fully grasp, but still—he was taken to a completely unfamiliar place, away from his parents. And instead of being terrified, he’s calm, even fascinated by what you showed him. So, like I said, you are good with kids.”

Spencer listened to her explanation, an odd feeling creeping over him. A kind of uncertainty, like she couldn’t possibly be talking about him. He almost wanted to turn around, check if someone was standing behind him, if the words were meant for someone else. But he didn’t—because, strangely, even moving felt difficult at that moment.

“Anyway,” she murmured suddenly, breaking the prolonged silence between them. “I’ve got to go. And don’t worry, you don’t owe me anything this time. I’ll let you off the hook—just this once.”

Before she left, she focused on his face one last time. That strange expression was still there—the same one from the beginning of their conversation, the one that had thrown him into cognitive dissonance. That strange expression that, maybe, was… something kind?

He returned to Liam, so lost in thought that he hadn’t even noticed the boy watching him for quite some time. He gave a small nod, pulling himself back to reality, back to the case at hand.

“She’s your friend?” Liam asked, his gaze drifting to where the woman had just been standing.

Spencer set the box of crayons down on the table, within the boy’s reach. He considered the question for a moment. He decided, however, that a six-year-old didn’t need the complicated details of their relationship.

“Yes.”

A brief silence followed his—well, lie.

“Really pretty.”

Laughter gathered in his chest. It was, in its own way, charming—the infatuation hidden in his shy words.

"Yes," he nodded gently. "I mean, she knows that” 

"Because you told her?"

He hesitated at those words, genuinely unsure of what to say. Fortunately, the boy wasn’t waiting for an answer. For a moment, his green eyes locked onto the toy car still sitting on the table, then back to Spencer, full of silent request.

"Can you teach me that trick?"

*

"Okay, buddy. Don’t stress. You’ve got this. Good luck."

Spencer patted the boy on the back. Liam gave a small nod, as if gathering courage, then hesitantly made his way toward the woman.

At the sight of a child suddenly at her feet, her eyebrows lifted high. She crouched down, asking him something in a soft voice.

Liam held out both fists, the yellow toy barely fitting in one of them. It was obvious where it was hidden, yet the woman pretended to consider her choice carefully before pointing at one hand.

Proud of himself, he revealed both empty palms—then pulled the toy car from behind her ear.

Her lips stretched into a wide smile, exaggerated in surprise. Then, she sought out his gaze, holding it for a lingering moment—just long enough for Spencer to realize he was smiling too.

[reidmoony-toast]

“it hurts to be something, it’s worse to be nothing with you” is so black brothers after Sirius ran away

[reidmoony-toast]

Spent my entire psychology class looking at photos of timothee chalamet on my Pinterest board titled “timmy or reggie?”

Hope I get an A!