404lizzylizard

[404lizzylizard]

HII HRUU!! could I possibly request spencer reid x reader (gender not specified) who is a secretary for a workplace that is very similar to The Office (KINDA LIKE PAM IF YOUVE SEEN IT!!) the bau had a case that was related to this workplace and they had to speak to all the employees of that specific office. spencer is assigned to talk to reader and they decide to talk outside of work ykwim?? fluff and a bit of crack idk lol more fluff 😭😭

Paper Cuts and Coffee Cups

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Reader

Genre: Fluffy romance, comedy, tiny bit of crack

Word Count: ~1.0k

tone/content: Flirty Spencer, awkward office banter, mentions of a case (no graphic details), mutual crushing

a/n: i did not forget about this request. i haven’t watch the office(don’t kill me😓) so i tried my best I’ve seen TikTok clips yk. Also I tried timeskips but idk Mann ion rlly like it but give me feedbackk

You heard the rumors before they even walked in.

FBI.

Real-life FBI.

Not like Josh’s cousin’s roommate is a cop kind of FBI—actual suits, actual guns, actual criminal profilers.

By the time you turned your head from your desk where you’d been very responsibly and diligently decorating your memo pad with doodles of ducks in business suits they were already stepping out of the elevator.

They didn’t look that intimidating, except for the tall, broad guy with the tight jaw and buzzcut. He looked like he could bench press a filing cabinet.

But your eyes didn’t land on him.

They landed on him.

The cardigan-wearing, slightly-swaying, rambling-before-he-even-finished-stepping-forward him.

“Dr. Spencer Reid,” he introduced himself to no one in particular, holding up a badge that looked real but slightly worn around the edges. “We’re here to investigate the incident that occurred in this building last Friday, involving your coworker and—uh, a glitter bomb?” He turned to the dark-haired woman next to him who nodded seriously.

It was a glitter bomb.

You tried not to snort.

Instead, you sat up straighter behind the front desk, blinking up at the group like the world’s least helpful receptionist in the world’s most dysfunctional workplace.

“Oh. You guys are, like, the FBI. Like the, um—catch-serial-killers type?” you asked, halfway between awe and “can I offer you some day-old donuts?”

Reid smiled at that, pushing his hair behind his ear in a way that definitely wasn’t fair.

“Well, technically our division specializes in behavioral analysis, but yes. That’s us.”

“That’s kinda hot,” you said before your brain could file that under “Do Not Say to Federal Agents.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the tall woman next to him (hot, terrifying) slowly turned away and pretended she hadn’t heard anything.

Someone from accounting audibly gasped.

You wanted to die.

But Dr. Spencer Reid?

He smiled. Not a pity smile, either. Like—genuinely.

“Thanks,” he said sheepishly. “So… you’re the receptionist?”

“I prefer the term ‘paperwork sorcerer,’ but yeah. Secretary. Front desk. Keeper of the pens.”

“I have a pen collection,” he said brightly, like you’d just told him you were part of an elite secret society. “Vintage fountain pens, mostly, but I also have this really interesting prototype from 1953 that was designed to write upside-down in zero gravity—”

“NASA pen?” you asked, raising a brow.

He lit up. “You know about the NASA pen?”

You shrugged, suddenly much more interested in this interview than you’d been ten minutes ago when your boss, Jim, got caught trying to prove the copier was haunted. “I know a thing or two. Especially about pens that cost tax dollars and explode in space.”

Spencer looked like he might propose.

But he didn’t. He just took a seat across from your desk, opened a file, and started asking questions about the incident. Very professional. Except he kept getting distracted.

By you.

You noticed it too.

His smile would linger a little too long.

He asked you about your favorite brand of sticky notes. Twice.

At one point, your fingers brushed while handing him a form, and he blushed like a Victorian ghost.

And before he left, he paused, fidgeting with the edge of his sweater sleeve.

“Do you—uh…” He cleared his throat. “This is not protocol. And I—uh, I never do this, but… would you maybe want to get a coffee? Sometime? Outside of a criminal investigation context?”

You blinked. Then smiled.

“Only if you bring the NASA pen.”

~~~The Next Day~~~

You met at a little café around the corner. Spencer was already there, reading a book and solving a crossword at the same time. He waved when he saw you, awkward but sweet, knocking over the salt shaker as he stood to greet you.

“I, um, brought the pen.”

He did. It was clipped carefully to the inside of his jacket like it was a rare jewel.

Over espresso and way too many croissants, you talked about everything—his job (which you mostly understood), your job (which he pretended to understand), and office drama (which he devoured like it was an unsolved case).

“So wait,” Spencer leaned forward, eyes wide. “Your coworker, Steve, was the one who rigged the glitter bomb?”

“Yes. Out of spite,” you confirmed, sipping your drink. “Because Toby stole his ergonomic keyboard and wouldn’t give it back.”

“That’s… actually kind of brilliant.”

“I know. I wanted to be mad, but it was so sparkly. And technically Toby did get warned.”

Spencer laughed. Like, really laughed. And you liked the sound of it. A lot.

Somewhere in the middle of your second round of coffee, he reached across the table like he was going to touch your hand—then panicked and just… patted the table instead.

“I like talking to you,” he said earnestly, then looked like he immediately regretted being earnest. “I mean—not just as part of the case. Or because of the case. Or because of the pen thing. Or—”

“Hey,” you interrupted gently, your smile crooked. “I like talking to you too.”

He relaxed. Just a little.

~~~3 Days Later~~~

Your coworkers watched from behind cubicle corners as you walked back in after lunch… with Spencer Reid.

You were smiling, carrying two coffees. He was holding a small potted plant you’d said you liked the day before.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

You just looked at the camera like this was the weirdest, cutest week of your life.

Because it was.

And it was only just beginning.

[404lizzylizard]

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

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

<3

It’s up!! hope you enjoy

[404lizzylizard]

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.

-lizzy

[404lizzylizard]

[404lizzylizard]

i LOVE decipher this SO SO GOOD NEED MORE excellent job keep it up 🥳🥳🥳

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

TYSM FOR THE SUPPORT

[404lizzylizard]

WHATTTTT LIKE OMG I DID NOT EXPECT THIS TO LWK BLOW🤭. I started working on another one shot of ditzy!reader but im a slowwww writer but it will come out eventually🧍‍♀️

TYSM GUYSSS💗💗

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

- Lizzy lizarddd 🦎 (I wanna change my user)

[404lizzylizard]

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

- Lizzy lizarddd 🦎 (I wanna change my user)

[404lizzylizard]

What we thinking about spencer x ditzy!reader HUH HUH

[404lizzylizard]

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

Bridgerton

[404lizzylizard]

Acts of Service

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.

Dr. Reid sat at his desk, tapping his pen against his lip while reading over a document — your document. The unmistakable teal header from your case notes peeked out beneath his hand. And was that… your handwriting?

You stood slowly, squinting. Then crossed the bullpen with all the subtlety of a jungle cat.

“Hey, Spencer.”

He startled like he’d been caught breaking into a safe. “Hi! Hello. Hey. Good morning.” His voice did that pitchy nervous thing, the one that meant his brain had already cycled through nine potential exit strategies and decided none of them would work.

You leaned on his desk.

“That’s my case summary.”

He blinked. “Oh. Right. I—uh—I was just reading it.”

“Reading it. Or rewriting it?”

Spencer flushed.

You crossed your arms, trying not to grin. “Reid. Have you been… finishing my files?”

His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Define ‘finishing.’”

“Rewriting case synopses. Cleaning up victimology timelines. Adding footnotes in Latin.”

“…okay, yes. But it’s not like— I didn’t mean to! Not at first.” He rushed to explain, words tumbling. “It started because I saw your file on the coffee table and I noticed the timeline had a two-hour discrepancy between when the suspect left the gas station and when the body was found, and I thought, well, that’s probably important, so I checked the timestamps, and then—then I realized it needed clarification, and by the time I looked up, it was…done.”

You blinked.

“And then it kept happening?”

Spencer nodded, sheepish. “They’re just… fun to work on. Yours are fun.”

You tilted your head. “You think my case files are fun?”

He smiled, that shy, endearing half-smile you hated how much you liked. “They’re very organized. And you leave sarcastic comments in the margins sometimes. It’s like… an annotated tour of your brain.”

That one caught you off guard. A little flutter somewhere deep in your chest.

“I thought maybe you were annoyed,” you admitted, quieter now. “I figured you were fixing my mistakes.”

Spencer looked horrified. “No! Not at all. You don’t make mistakes. I mean- statistically, everyone makes mistakes, but yours are minor and usually spelling-related and once you spelled ‘unsurvivable’ with two R’s but I thought it was kind of charming-”

You laughed, covering your face. “Okay, okay, I get it.”

He cleared his throat, trying to regain composure. “Sorry. I’ll stop. I didn’t mean to overstep.”

You glance down at the neat stack of color-coded papers on his desk, your name typed at the top, your scribbles still faintly visible beneath his tidier notes. Something warm unfurls in your chest. You shake your head.

“You don’t have to stop.”

Spencer blinks. “Really?”

You shrug, a little self-conscious now. “If you like doing it, and I still get the credit, I mean… who am I to take away your nerdy acts of service?”

His ears go pink. “Acts of service?”

You smile, grabbing your folder back from his desk, fingers brushing his as you do. “Spencer, this is the workplace equivalent of braiding my hair and packing me lunch. Admit it.”

He looks momentarily dazed. “Do you… want me to pack you lunch?”

You laugh, walking backward toward your desk. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Romeo.”

Spencer watches you retreat, stunned and very clearly flustered. When you sit, you peek up just in time to catch him smiling stupidly at his paperwork.

It happens again the next day. And the next.

Eventually, the team stops asking why your files are always perfect.

But you catch the way Hotch glances between the two of you. The way JJ smirks when Spencer brings you coffee. The way Garcia fake-swoons every time he quietly slips a revised summary onto your desk like some criminal-profiling fairy godmother.

You don’t mind.

Because now, every time you open one of those perfectly polished files, you find a new note — sometimes just a margin doodle, sometimes a quote, once an actual equation that solved a joke you’d made in passing two weeks prior.

Eventually, one of the footnotes reads:

P.S. If you ever want dinner instead of coffee, I’m available.

—S.R.

You don’t annotate the note.

You just write your number on a sticky note and place it under his favorite pen.

[404lizzylizard]

Ok guys I lied my laptop broke….so bear with me🤧 BUT TRUST THAT FANFIC IS DONE I gotta upload it here somehow

[404lizzylizard]

I’ll be uploading the fanfic tdy vacation playing is not for the weak💔

Omg I forgot to post this.. I swear I did. Anyways I want to start an oc or wtv it’s called js so I can be more organized with everything.

[404lizzylizard]

Omg I forgot to post this.. I swear I did. Anyways I want to start an oc or wtv it’s called js so I can be more organized with everything.

[404lizzylizard]

OMGLMNOP!!!! Tyyy so much for taking the time to readd. Inspiration came from my 2020 shifting scenarios….

Personal Space

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.

Hotch once walked by and you were halfway sitting on Spencer’s desk, poking at his notes with your pen, and Spencer didn’t even blink. But when Morgan tried to leave his coffee cup on Spencer’s stack of files?

Spencer swatted it off like a fly and snapped, “Please don’t clutter my workspace.”

That’s when Morgan noticed.

“Yo, Pretty Boy,” Morgan says one morning, leaning on the edge of your desk with a too-wide grin. “How come when I so much as breathe near your books, you act like I’ve threatened national security, but she—” he nods toward you, where you’re perched backward in your chair, full torso leaning into Spencer’s space “—basically lives in your lap and you don’t say a damn word?”

Spencer glances up from his files, ears already pink. “I don’t—she’s not—”

You spin fully around, chin in your hand. “I’m charming. It’s a well-documented immunity.”

Morgan chuckles, folding his arms. “So that’s how it is?”

“Could be,” you say sweetly. “Unless someone else wants to let me take over their desk space and steal their snacks.”

Morgan holds up his hands. “Nah, nah. I like my boundaries.”

Spencer murmurs something into his folder, barely audible.

“What was that?” you ask, turning to him again with a teasing glint in your eyes.

“I said you can keep stealing my snacks,” he mumbles, not meeting your gaze.

Morgan gives you both the most dramatic side-eye ever recorded in Quantico history. “Mm-hmm.”

You test it later, just to see.

You drape yourself across Spencer’s desk with zero purpose—just your elbows propped up and your chin in your palms, watching him work.

“You're gonna get a paper cut to the face one day,” Emily says as she walks by, smirking.

“I’m conducting important psychological field research,” you reply. “Studying the Reid in his natural habitat.”

Spencer glances at you. “That implies I’m some kind of… lab rat.”

You grin. “A cute lab rat.”

Spencer stares for a second too long, then blinks and returns to his files. His ears? Pink.

Two days later, you wear something a little… new. Not scandalous. Just a fitted wrap top with a neckline that dips a little lower than usual. It hugs your waist. Shows just a hint more. You don't plan it for Spencer.Okay. Maybe you do. A little.

You barely sit down before you turn in your chair again, arms draped over the back as you rest your chin near Spencer’s stack of books.

“Morning,” you say softly.

His head snaps up. His eyes flick to your face—and then, instinctively, lower.

Just for a second. Barely a blink.

But you catch it.

He looks away immediately, pretending to read a chart. His posture is too straight. His jaw clenched.

You smirk. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, not looking up.

You lean just a little closer. “You seem tense.”

Morgan, passing by, drops his coffee right into a trash can because he’s not subtle. “Well, well, well. Interesting outfit choice, sunshine.”

“Thanks!” you chirp, fully unbothered. “Spencer didn’t say anything, but he looked.”

Spencer chokes.

Emily stops mid-step. “Reid. Did you stare at cleavage on government property?”

“I didn’t stare,” he sputters, burying his face in a case file. “I glanced. There’s a difference. It’s neurological.”

“Dude,” Morgan says, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. “You are down bad.”

You laugh, and Spencer gives you a helpless, side-eyed glance. It’s adorable.

Later, when the bullpen empties out for lunch, you linger. He’s still sitting at his desk, scribbling in his notebook, pretending nothing happened.

You perch yourself on the corner of his desk. “You really didn’t mind?”

Spencer looks up at you slowly, expression softer now. “When you’re here?”

He shrugs, offering a half-smile. “It actually makes the day better.”

Your chest flutters, but you stay cool. “Even when I mess up your system?”

“I built a new system,” he admits.

“Around you”

You blink.

“Oh.”

He clears his throat, going back to his notes. “Anyway.”

You hop off the desk and lean in close, lips near his ear. “In that case… I’m never sitting straight again.”

Spencer swallows hard. “Please don’t.”

You grin. “Told you. I’m charming.”

As you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s watching.

And for once, you’re the one who doesn’t say a word…

[404lizzylizard]

Personal Space

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.

Hotch once walked by and you were halfway sitting on Spencer’s desk, poking at his notes with your pen, and Spencer didn’t even blink. But when Morgan tried to leave his coffee cup on Spencer’s stack of files?

Spencer swatted it off like a fly and snapped, “Please don’t clutter my workspace.”

That’s when Morgan noticed.

“Yo, Pretty Boy,” Morgan says one morning, leaning on the edge of your desk with a too-wide grin. “How come when I so much as breathe near your books, you act like I’ve threatened national security, but she—” he nods toward you, where you’re perched backward in your chair, full torso leaning into Spencer’s space “—basically lives in your lap and you don’t say a damn word?”

Spencer glances up from his files, ears already pink. “I don’t—she’s not—”

You spin fully around, chin in your hand. “I’m charming. It’s a well-documented immunity.”

Morgan chuckles, folding his arms. “So that’s how it is?”

“Could be,” you say sweetly. “Unless someone else wants to let me take over their desk space and steal their snacks.”

Morgan holds up his hands. “Nah, nah. I like my boundaries.”

Spencer murmurs something into his folder, barely audible.

“What was that?” you ask, turning to him again with a teasing glint in your eyes.

“I said you can keep stealing my snacks,” he mumbles, not meeting your gaze.

Morgan gives you both the most dramatic side-eye ever recorded in Quantico history. “Mm-hmm.”

You test it later, just to see.

You drape yourself across Spencer’s desk with zero purpose—just your elbows propped up and your chin in your palms, watching him work.

“You're gonna get a paper cut to the face one day,” Emily says as she walks by, smirking.

“I’m conducting important psychological field research,” you reply. “Studying the Reid in his natural habitat.”

Spencer glances at you. “That implies I’m some kind of… lab rat.”

You grin. “A cute lab rat.”

Spencer stares for a second too long, then blinks and returns to his files. His ears? Pink.

Two days later, you wear something a little… new. Not scandalous. Just a fitted wrap top with a neckline that dips a little lower than usual. It hugs your waist. Shows just a hint more. You don't plan it for Spencer.Okay. Maybe you do. A little.

You barely sit down before you turn in your chair again, arms draped over the back as you rest your chin near Spencer’s stack of books.

“Morning,” you say softly.

His head snaps up. His eyes flick to your face—and then, instinctively, lower.

Just for a second. Barely a blink.

But you catch it.

He looks away immediately, pretending to read a chart. His posture is too straight. His jaw clenched.

You smirk. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” he says, not looking up.

You lean just a little closer. “You seem tense.”

Morgan, passing by, drops his coffee right into a trash can because he’s not subtle. “Well, well, well. Interesting outfit choice, sunshine.”

“Thanks!” you chirp, fully unbothered. “Spencer didn’t say anything, but he looked.”

Spencer chokes.

Emily stops mid-step. “Reid. Did you stare at cleavage on government property?”

“I didn’t stare,” he sputters, burying his face in a case file. “I glanced. There’s a difference. It’s neurological.”

“Dude,” Morgan says, grinning like the cat that caught the mouse. “You are down bad.”

You laugh, and Spencer gives you a helpless, side-eyed glance. It’s adorable.

Later, when the bullpen empties out for lunch, you linger. He’s still sitting at his desk, scribbling in his notebook, pretending nothing happened.

You perch yourself on the corner of his desk. “You really didn’t mind?”

Spencer looks up at you slowly, expression softer now. “When you’re here?”

He shrugs, offering a half-smile. “It actually makes the day better.”

Your chest flutters, but you stay cool. “Even when I mess up your system?”

“I built a new system,” he admits.

“Around you”

You blink.

“Oh.”

He clears his throat, going back to his notes. “Anyway.”

You hop off the desk and lean in close, lips near his ear. “In that case… I’m never sitting straight again.”

Spencer swallows hard. “Please don’t.”

You grin. “Told you. I’m charming.”

As you walk away, you don’t have to look back to know he’s watching.

And for once, you’re the one who doesn’t say a word…

[404lizzylizard]

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• Characters: [George Weasley, Spencer Reid, Aaron Hotchner.]

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