Decipher This

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Ditzy!Reader (Forensics Mythologist, ERT)

Summary: reader is a ditzy but brilliant forensics mythologist from the Evidence Response Team and a friend of Penelope. When the BAU struggles with a cryptic case, Penelope calls her in. Despite seeming scatterbrained and rambling off topic, she quickly deciphers the symbol no one else can.

Tone: PG, humor, mild fluff

word count: 703

a/n: literally made that job title up but we’re gonna role with it. Also shout out to google cause I had no idea about the history of symbols.

The bullpen was quiet in that tense, worried way that meant everyone was stuck.

Spencer was pacing, gesturing with one hand as he rattled off theories. “The symbol is vaguely Celtic, but the lines are wrong. It has Masonic elements but not consistent enough. And the numerology in the corners doesn’t reduce to anything meaningful—”

JJ looked between the board and him. “So... you don’t know what it is?”

Spencer bristled, pushing his hair back. “Not yet.”

Penelope, perched on the corner of Hotch’s desk with her laptop, sighed dramatically. “Okay, don’t get mad... but I think I know someone who might know.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “Better than Boy Genius here?”

Penelope patted his shoulder. “He’s not threatened. Are you, sugar?”

Spencer frowned but mumbled, “No.”

Hotch didn’t even look up. “Do it.”

Ten minutes later there was the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway and an enthusiastic, singsong greeting before the door even opened:

“Hiiii BAU people!”

You pushed in, slightly breathless, a folder tucked under your arm, hair a bit mussed, Penelope scurrying behind you like she was corralling a puppy.

Spencer blinked.

You blinked back.

“Spencer Reid!” you announced, like you’d just won a game show. “You wrote that piece on colonial burial symbols in Forensics Quarterly! I loved it!”

He blinked harder. “You... read that?”

“Of course I did,” you chirped, dropping your folder and immediately crouching to pick up the papers you’d scattered. “Oops. Sorry. I read everything about colonial death rituals and coded symbology, it’s so—oh, wait, is that the symbol?”

You hopped back up and nearly collided with him, squinting at the board.

Hotch raised an eyebrow at Penelope.

She spread her hands in frantic jazz-hands of please trust me.

You peered closer, nose practically pressed to the picture. “Hm. Hm. Oh my gosh.”

You spun, narrowly avoiding smacking Reid in the face with your hair. “Do you have a pen? Pen? Pen? Never mind, I have a crayon.”

You produced a purple crayon from your coat pocket and began sketching on the back of one of Reid’s printouts.

Emily exchanged a look with Morgan.

Reid was speechless.

You babbled while you drew. “So the outer circle is wrong if you think it’s Celtic. It’s actually based on Rosicrucian variants. But they borrowed from alchemical cipher scripts, see? And then the inner part is Latin shorthand, just a weird one actually, wait, they used a funerary ligature system from 18th century Venice which is just so cool. I went there once, the pigeons are actually so aggressive, like I had a sandwich and they—”

“Focus!” Penelope chirped, clapping.

“Oh! Right! Sorry. Anyway.” You circled a section of the drawing. “It literally says ‘Judgment is Coming’ in an encoded form of Latin. This little line here changes the tense. Without that stroke it would have meant ‘Judged.’ Whole different vibe.”

Silence.

Spencer leaned in slowly. “Wait. How did you... you recognized it just like that?”

You beamed at him. “It’s my job, Dr. Reid. Forensics Mythologist. Symbol systems are kind of my thing. ERT keeps me busy. It’s amazing what you can learn if you hyper-fixate on crypt symbols for fifteen years! Also you wrote that really good breakdown of Puritan grave iconography, it’s super useful. Seriously. Top tier.”

Spencer actually turned pink.

Emily coughed into her hand to hide a laugh. Morgan didn’t even bother. Hotch just sighed — but in a way that sounded like relief.

Penelope grabbed your shoulders. “You. Are. An. Angel.”

“Oh!” You glanced at your watch. “Gotta go. I think I left my car door unlocked. Again. Last time a raccoon got in. Anyway, hope that helps! Bye guys!”

You waved, nearly hit the doorframe on the way out, then vanished down the hall with your crayon still in hand.

Penelope turned back to the stunned team, clapping her hands like a satisfied matchmaker.

“Well? Aren’t you glad I called her?”

Spencer was still staring at the door, a tiny smile creeping onto his face.

Morgan elbowed him. “Reid. You okay there?”

Spencer blinked, adjusting his tie.

“She, uh. She read my article.”

Morgan snorted. “Yeah. Try not to propose in front of the unsub.”

Spencer didn’t even bother denying

Lunch Hour Logic

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Ditzy!Reader (Forensics Mythologist, ERT)

summary: Spencer just needed to grab a box of evidence—he didn’t expect to run into the ERT’s ditzy but brilliant mythologist mid-lunch… or accidentally invite her to eat with the BAU. Chaos, yogurt, and unexpected kindness ensue.

tone/content: softly awkward, light humor, slow-burn potential, observational, Mild social exclusion, awkward interactions, food spill

a/n: aww I feel bad but I feel like for clumsy people they deal with being left out you know, so I wanted to make it relatable

word count: 1.0k

Spencer told himself it was a coincidence.

Really, it was. The BAU had needed updated chain-of-custody records for the evidence recovered from their latest scene. And ERT had them. And someone had to come get them.

It just happened to be him.

Okay, fine—he may have volunteered. But only because Hotch and Morgan were mid-briefing, JJ was working with the media team, and Garcia claimed “too many stairs, not enough sequins.” So, it was logical. Efficient.

Totally not because you were down there.

He stepped off the elevator into the slightly more chaotic third-floor Evidence Response Team wing. It smelled like bleach, printer toner, and the faintest trace of Doritos. Two techs were arguing over something at the corner cubicle, and another group laughed loudly around a desk covered in manila folders and decaf.

And then there you were.

Sitting sideways at your own desk, half-sandwich in one hand, the other fumbling with a napkin that had stuck to the sleeve of your lab coat. Spencer caught a flash of sparkly nail polish and the corner of a sticker on your laptop — it was a cartoon rat in a lab coat. It said: “Forensically Cheesy.”

You were completely, almost serenely absorbed in your sandwich.

Mayonnaise glistened at the corner of your mouth and you didn’t seem to notice.

You were smiling at something on your screen. It looked like ancient Greek script. Or maybe Enochian. He couldn’t quite tell from here.

Your coworkers were all within ten feet of you, but no one was talking to you. They were talking around you. Loud, breezy inside jokes flew overhead like paper planes, but you didn’t flinch or try to catch one mid-air.

It wasn’t icy. It wasn’t mean. But it was something Spencer knew the taste of too well. Exclusion that wasn’t spoken aloud.

He hovered awkwardly at the front desk until someone looked up. “Can I help you?”

“Um. Spencer Reid, BAU,” he said, holding out his credentials and shifting awkwardly as someone coughed near the breakroom (yuck, flu season). “Looking for the chain-of-custody forms for the Delacroix case?”

The nearest person— a tall woman with aggressive eyeliner — nodded and grabbed a labeled folder from a drawer. “Y/N processed that scene. She’s got the originals. Hey, Y/N!”

Your head snapped up.

“Oh! Hi!” You waved enthusiastically, narrowly avoiding smacking your cup of juice. “Hi again, Dr. Reid!”

You stumbled a little getting up and nearly walked into your chair. “Sorry! My sandwich had a structural failure.” You gestured to a sad triangle of bread on your plate. “Poor thing never stood a chance.”

He smiled despite himself.

You handed over the files carefully. “I kept the chemical trace forms at the front, and I color-coded the timestamps. Because otherwise they get all jumbled, and then someone ends up logging blood evidence under ‘biohazardous cheese,’ which, while fun, is very incorrect.”

He chuckled, then instantly looked down — God, what was he doing?

You were still holding the sandwich. There was mayonnaise on your thumb.

He tried to keep a very safe, very sanitary three-foot bubble between you both. Not because you were gross, just… food. Unpredictable. Sticky. Moist.

And still — there was that look.

Spencer glanced again toward your coworkers. They were still laughing, still in their orbit.

And you… you didn’t look sad, exactly. Just a little off-center. Like a puzzle piece that didn’t quite fit in the set.

It tugged at something in his chest. A very quiet, very old echo of his own first year at the Bureau. Surrounded by conversations he wasn’t invited into, too fast to follow. The sting of being called “kid,” then ignored completely.

He cleared his throat.

“You know… if you ever wanted to, uh…” he gestured vaguely toward the elevator. “You’re welcome to have lunch with the BAU sometime.”

You blinked.

Then beamed.

“Wait, really?!”

He froze. “I—um. I mean, sure. I guess.”

“Do you guys eat together?” You leaned in like he’d just told you there was a secret FBI club and you were being invited to join. “Like at the same table? With food? Like a movie lunch scene?”

He opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again. “Sometimes.”

“That’s so cute!” you gasped, pressing your hand to your chest — and smearing mayo onto your blouse. You didn’t notice. “I never see anyone eating together in this building. It’s very dystopian. Like, ‘Hi, we’re the FBI and we *investigate loneliness.’’”

He was… not prepared for you.

But he found himself smiling anyway. “We don’t always eat together. But… sometimes we do. And if we’re ever ordering in, I could, um… let you know.”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! I’m very good at food ordering. Unless it involves gluten-free substitutions. Then it gets dark.”

He couldn’t help it — a laugh escaped.

A real one.

You beamed again, looking far too pleased. “Okay! Well, thank you again for the files, and the invite, and for not judging me for the… sandwich disaster.”

You turned quickly, grabbed your juice, then spun back to your desk, nearly tripping on your own shoelace. Spencer winced but said nothing.

You didn’t look back.

You didn’t seem bothered.

But still.

Still.

He turned toward the elevator, holding the file a little tighter than necessary, trying to focus on the neatly sorted timestamps and the handwriting that looped its way between precise symbols.

The elevator dinged. He stepped inside.

And just as the doors started to close, it hit him.

He’d invited you to lunch.

He—Spencer Reid, certified germaphobe, awkward disaster, lunch-eater of exactly one flavor of yogurt and a protein bar—had just told someone who eats sticky sandwiches with mayonnaise and smudgy juice to sit with the team.

On purpose.

Aloud.

Voluntarily.

“Oh my God,” he mumbled into the elevator mirror. “What did I just do?”

The doors slid shut.

He stared at his own mortified reflection, the ghost of your smile still tucked in the corner of his thoughts.

pairing: spencer reid x coworker!reader

tone/content : Flirty, slow-burn workplace tension with classic Reid awkward charm

Word Count: ~1,050

a/n: from the poll yall. I had to download the app on my phone and transfer it🤧. Don’t worrry I come in clutch (not proof read….🧍‍♀️)

It started with the Garcia file.

You distinctly remember it being halfway done — notes scattered, references highlighted, a sticky note with a reminder to cross-check timestamps on page five. But when you opened it the next morning, it was pristine. Fully annotated. Color-coded margins. Footnotes. With APA citations.

At first, you chalked it up to a moment of overachieving late-night productivity. Maybe you'd done it in a fugue state. Maybe your brain was broken. Or maybe Emily had gotten bored and overly helpful after one too many Red Bulls. Wouldn’t be the first time.

But then it happened again.

And again.

By the fourth mystery-completed file, you were suspicious.

You glanced across the bullpen, eyes narrowing. Emily was sipping coffee innocently. Morgan was deep in conversation with Hotch. Garcia was mid-rant about someone in Cyber Crimes who dared call her a “data analyst.” Everyone looked appropriately overwhelmed.

Except Spencer.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Word Count: ~1,600

Tone: Flirty, fluffy, slow-burn with teasing

Warnings: suggestiveness (tinsy tiny), one brain cell shared between Spencer and the reader when it comes to feelings

a/n: spencer Reid fic from the polee (I was hoping it was George Weasley😖) but I still love me some reid

Your desk faces forward. Spencer’s desk is directly behind yours, parallel in that perfect, FBI-efficient way. Which means you spend approximately 62% of your time slowly spinning in your chair to talk to him.

It started innocently—questions about reports, inside jokes during late nights, coffee refills delivered with a dramatic swivel. But now, it’s become a habit. You lean over his desk without thinking, draping across his space, nudging papers, stealing pens, “borrowing” candy.

And the most fascinating part?

He never tells you to stop.

Like anything, idc, though I would love if it was a bit of a longer fic, no pressure!

<3

Criminal Minds

Aaron Hotchner

Permanent Affection

Spencer Reid

Personal Space

Acts of Service

Decipher This

Lunch Hour Logic

Paper Cuts and Coffee Cups

Harry Potter

George Weasley

Part 2 is doneeeee. I’ll post it tommrow at 4PM EST