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cherryblossomfairyy · 14 days ago

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Shake It Off.

Pairing: spencer reid x popstar!reader

Summary: Glimpses into the chaotic, glittering life of popstar Y/N and her quiet genius : the relationship going live, new music, dates, rumors and rings. Along the lyrics of the song "Shake It Off" by Taylor Swift.

Masterlist

a/n: ngl i kinda lost the plot, but enjoy! wc: 7,8K

cw: intimate moments

Spencer Reid adjusted his messenger bag awkwardly as he stood backstage at your concert. The energy of the stadium buzzed behind the curtains, a mix of bass, screaming fans, and your voice soaring through the speakers. It was a world completely unlike his usual one of serial killers and behavioral analysis. Garcia had practically shoved him into attending. “She likes you, Reid! Go see her perform! Don’t overthink it!” The final notes of one of your many hit songs echoed, and the crowd erupted. Then came your encore — and your speech. “I know some people say a lot of stuff about me — in the tabloids, online, even on late-night TV,” you said, breathless, sweat-slicked, smiling like you couldn’t be touched. “But y’know what I always say?” The beat dropped. “Hey, hey, hey. Just think, while you've been gettin' down and out about the liars and the dirty, dirty cheats of the world. You could've been gettin' down to this sick beat” Spencer chuckled despite himself. You had told him once that you hated gossip — but that you’d learned to “shake it off.” It sounded like a defense mechanism, and he recognized it instantly. He used intellectualism. You used glitter and glittering lyrics. Backstage, after the show, you threw your arms around his neck. “Did you hate it?” He shook his head. “I didn’t expect to enjoy it as much as I did. It was… fun.” You grinned. “Is that a Reid-certified review?” “Statistically speaking, the combination of upbeat music, synchronized dance, and audience interaction creates a dopamine response in the prefrontal—” You kissed him before he could finish. “Just say yes, baby genius.”

A week later, you were curled up on Spencer’s couch in one of his oversized cardigans, scrolling through your phone. The latest tabloid headline flashed: “Pop Princess Parties While Profiler Pouts — Trouble in Paradise?” You let out a frustrated groan and dropped the phone. “God, they make it sound like we’re in some reality show.” Spencer looked up from his book, concerned. “Do you want me to file a cease and desist?” You laughed, weakly. “No. I just— sometimes I feel like no matter what I do, they’re going to twist it. I post a video, they say I’m showing off. I don’t post, they say I’m hiding something. I never miss a beat, I’m lightning on my feet, but they still say I’m fake.” He set his book down and sat beside you. “Do you want to stop?” “I can’t stop,” you whispered. “I don’t want to stop. I just… wish people would stop talking about me like I’m not a person.” “That's what people say, mm-mm.” Spencer reached for your hand. “I know what it’s like to be misinterpreted. When I joined the BAU at 22, no one thought I belonged. They called me a robot. Mocked me. Assumed I was weak.” You turned toward him. “And what did you do?” “I showed them what I’m capable of,” he said softly. “Eventually. And so will you. Because you’re the strongest person I know.” You blinked at him. “I thought I was the smartest.” With a sweet smile you said. “You can be both,” he smiled, and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Let the world spin. We’ve got our own rhythm.” Outside, cameras might be flashing, but in this quiet moment, you felt invincible — not because of fame, but because of him.

You leaned into Spencer’s chest, his cardigan sliding off one shoulder. “I hate how they think they know me,” you murmured, your fingers brushing the back of his neck. “The real me.” He looked down at you, brushing a lock of hair behind your ear. “I do,” he said. “I know you.”

There was something about the way he said it—low, reverent, like a secret being confessed in the dark—that made the air between you shift. Your heart thudded with the same rhythm that pulsed through arena speakers, but slower… heavier. You tilted your head. “Then prove it.” His breath caught, eyes searching yours. “Are you sure?”

You didn’t answer with words. You closed the space between you with a kiss, slow at first, until his hands found your waist and pulled you into his lap. He tasted like cinnamon tea and something distinctly Spencer—warm, a little hesitant, but all-consuming once he gave in. As your lips moved against his, your hands wandered—beneath the hem of his sweater, over the sharp lines of his ribs and the softness of his skin. His cardigan slipped further down your arms as his lips trailed to your jaw, then down the column of your throat.

“You’re not some pop persona to me,” he whispered against your collarbone. “You’re Y/N. The one who snorts when she laughs. The one who steals my FBI sweaters and sings in the shower off-key.” You laughed breathlessly. “I never miss a beat,” remember?” Spencer smiled against your skin. “Then why is my heart completely off tempo right now?” You tugged at the hem of his shirt, fingers curling. “Maybe we need to reset the rhythm.”

That’s all it took. The way he kissed you after that—like he’d been thinking about it all week, maybe longer—was less composed, more needy. You gasped as he lifted you with surprising strength, carrying you to the bedroom like he already knew every step in this dance. Spencer laid you back against the pillows, his gaze dark but soft, reverent. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he murmured as his fingers traced your thighs, slow and deliberate. “I’ll tell you if I want you to keep going,” you teased, breathless. That earned a smirk — rare and devastating — just before he leaned down, kissing a trail from your ribs to your hips, peeling fabric from your skin like he was unwrapping a secret.

He wasn’t rushed. Every movement was patient, like he was profiling your body — learning what made you tremble, what pulled gasps from your lips, what made your back arch. His mouth followed his hands, exploring you with maddening slowness. “You’re beautiful,” he whispered into your skin, “but not because they say it on magazine covers. Because I see you.” You pulled him up, your hands tangled in his hair, kissing him deeper, needier. “I want all of you, Spencer. Now.”

When he entered you, it wasn’t frenzied—it was complete. He moved with rhythm, like he was composing a symphony only you could hear. Each thrust was laced with emotion, soft moans, whispered affirmations: “You feel incredible.” “You’re everything.” “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

Your fingers dug into his back as your bodies tangled, sweat-slicked and desperate, riding that high together—until you came undone in his arms, trembling with pleasure, calling his name like a melody. He followed seconds later, burying his face in your neck with a broken moan, as if letting go in your arms was the safest thing he’d ever done. The room was dim, the only light a soft amber glow from his bedside lamp. You lay curled against Spencer, your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Neither of you spoke for a while. There was no need. Finally, you whispered, “Do you think it’ll always be this complicated? Me in the spotlight. You in the line of fire.”

He was quiet for a second. Then: “Maybe. But I think… when we come back to this—this room, this bed, this… us—it won’t matter what’s outside.” You traced circles on his chest. “They’re already speculating about us. If I post you, I’ll get hate. If I don’t, I’ll get accused of hiding you.” Spencer kissed the top of your head. “Then don’t post anything for them. Just live for you. For us.” You smiled, half-asleep. “That’s kind of poetic for someone who quotes Freud and quantum physics.”

“I’m full of surprises,” he murmured, his voice a lullaby. You sighed contentedly. “You know, the next time they say I’m ‘dating above my IQ,’ “Got nothing in my brain. That's what people say, mm-mm” I’m just gonna say, ‘Damn right I am.’” Spencer laughed, low and real. “Well, the haters gonna hate, right?” You turned to face him, hand on his cheek. “And I’ll keep shaking it off. As long as I have you to come home to.” And in the quiet, wrapped in each other, nothing else mattered.

It started with a red carpet photo. You were in Milan for a music awards event — Spencer couldn’t make it due to a case in L.A. You’d FaceTimed that morning, but now he was scrolling through Twitter on the jet back to D.C., and there it was:

Y/N looking cozy with chart-topping DJ Luca Thomas — new collab or something more? “Cause the players gonna play, play, play.”

The photo showed you in a glittering backless gown, laughing with the tall, annoyingly handsome producer, his hand just a little too familiar on your lower back. Spencer felt something twist in his chest — irrational, he told himself. He trusted you. Still, the image burned in his mind like a profile he couldn’t shake. When he finally saw you that night, already jetlagged and in one of his shirts, you greeted him with a smile and open arms. But his hug was tight. Possessive.

“You okay?” you asked, nuzzling into his shoulder. “You and Thomas looked... close,” he said, voice casual but eyes sharp. You pulled back, blinking. “It was press. You know how red carpets are—everyone gets touchy when there's a million flashes going off.” Spencer didn’t respond right away.

“Wait,” you said, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Are you jealous?” “No,” he said too quickly. “I’m… concerned.” “About?” He exhaled. “I’m not used to dating someone the whole world wants. And I know I’m not... flashy. Or charming on camera.” You cupped his face gently. “You’re not a stage show, Spencer. You’re home. Luca Thomas is a playlist. You’re the whole damn symphony of my heart.” “It's like I got this music in my mind. Sayin', "It's gonna be alright"

His brows furrowed, then softened. “That’s oddly romantic coming from someone who once rhymed ‘Ferrari’ with ‘party.’”You laughed. “Come here, genius.” You kissed him slow, hand slipping under his sweater. “I’ll prove who I belong to. Again.” And he let you.

Two weeks later, you were performing at a major charity gala, and you pulled a surprise move mid-show. The crowd screamed as you stepped forward in a shimmering black jumpsuit, mic in hand, music dropping to a hush. “I’ve got someone really special in the audience tonight,” you said, scanning the front row where your friend, garcia and Spencer sat, awkwardly in a tailored suit Garcia forced on him. “He doesn’t like attention. Or loud noise. Or… people.” Laughter rippled through the crowd.

“But he likes me for me. And that means more than any award I’ve ever won.” Gasps and coos from the audience. “So, Dr. Spencer Reid… this one’s for you.” The band kicked into a dreamy acoustic version of “the lakes” — stripped down, even slower, almost reverent — and your eyes never left his the entire time.

Backstage after, paparazzi swarmed the exits. Spencer instinctively reached for your hand, unsure. “You sure you want to be seen with me?” he asked, teasing, but a flicker of doubt in his voice. You squeezed his hand. “I need to be seen with you. Otherwise how will the world know my taste is impeccable?” A camera flash popped. You leaned in and kissed him — soft, public, no hiding. And for the first time, Spencer didn’t flinch.

The kiss made headlines by midnight.

“Pop Queen Y/N Confirms Romance with FBI Genius — Worlds Collide in the Best Way”

“Dr. Reid? More Like Dr. Steal Your Girl”

“Some Fans Swoon, Others... Not So Much” Your social media exploded. @ ynupdates: Y/N kissing Spencer Reid on stage just fixed my trust issues. @ Dr.Reidpage: My FBI crush is dating a popstar. I’m both betrayed and so proud. But, of course, the haters were loud too. @ popgossip24: Why is she dating that nerdy FBI guy?? She could have anyone. @ foryoupage: He looks so awkward, like he doesn’t even belong in her world.

You rolled your eyes scrolling through the comments, curled up next to Spencer in bed, his shirt half-buttoned, hair still messy from sleep. He looked over your shoulder. “Should I profile their insecurities one by one?” You laughed. “That’s what I love about you.” He kissed your cheek. “Not that I need to remind you, but the players gonna play, play, play, play, play...” You joined in with a grin. “And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate...”

He raised an eyebrow. “So what do we do?” You grabbed your phone and posted a photo of the two of you: Spencer mid-laugh, wearing your sunglasses, you in his cardigan, holding a coffee mug that said 'Talk BAU to me.'

Caption: ” I keep cruisin'. Can't stop, won't stop groovin.” #softlaunchcomplete #shakeitoff #reidsmine #hatersgonnahate

The post racked up 4 million likes in four hours. Garcia texted: “YASSSSS. He is trending. I repeat, Dr. Reid is trending. Protect him at all costs.” Later that day, paparazzi caught the two of you walking hand in hand near Quantico, coffees in hand, sunglasses on.

“Y/N and Reid: Lowkey, Lovey, and Unbothered”

You whispered to him as cameras clicked, “You know we’re a meme now, right?” He nodded. “Then let them meme. I have you. That’s the only headline I care about.” And despite the chaos, the headlines, and the noise — when he looked at you, it all melted away. You were just Y/N and Spencer. And the rest? You’d “shake it off.”

The event was huge: a cross-industry charity gala bringing together top names from music, film, and federal service. And somehow, that meant you and Spencer walking the red carpet together for the first time — officially.

You were radiant in a sleek, deep crimson gown, sparkling under every flash. Spencer was in a classic black tux (thanks to Garcia), looking criminally handsome and only slightly panicked. “Just breathe,” you whispered, looping your arm through his. “I memorized calming breathing techniques in five languages. None of them apply when someone yells ‘kiss her again for the camera.’”

You laughed and leaned in. “You’re doing amazing.” Just then, a reporter waved you over. “Y/N! Dr. Reid! Over here — can we grab a quick word?” You nodded and led Spencer to the mic. The reporter, bright-eyed and clearly thrilled, smiled. “Okay, first of all — couple of the year, easily. You look stunning, and Dr. Reid, might I say, very dashing.”

Spencer adjusted his glasses. “Thank you. I let someone else dress me today.” You squeezed his hand. “Garcia. She’s a miracle worker.” The reporter grinned. “Now, Y/N — you recently went viral for dedicating a song to Dr. Reid at your concert. And then that kiss backstage broke the internet. What made you decide to go public?”

You smiled at Spencer. “Because the truth deserves a spotlight, too.” “Besides,” you added with a wink, “the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate…” The reporter gasped. “You didn’t. That was iconic.” Spencer cleared his throat. “She warned me when we started dating. She’s not subtle.”

The reporter turned to him. “Dr. Reid, you’re usually pretty private. How does it feel to suddenly be in the entertainment spotlight?” He looked thoughtful for a second. “Well… it’s unusual. There are more sequins and fewer serial killers than I’m used to. But if it means standing beside her, I can adjust.” You visibly melted. So did the crowd.

One final question came in: “Any advice for dealing with the public pressure, Y/N?” You leaned into Spencer. “Find someone who sees you — not your followers, not the headlines. Just… you.” And as the cameras flashed and the world buzzed, you and Spencer walked down the carpet like you belonged — because you did. Together.

Spencer Reid had been shot at. Kidnapped. Drugged. Tortured. He’d once outsmarted a cult leader in a Mexican prison using only a rubber band and his knowledge of obscure mathematics. None of that prepared him for a red carpet event. Flashbulbs popped in chaotic rhythm. The sound was overwhelming. Everyone wanted something — a smile, a wave, a quote. But none of it mattered, because she was beside him. Y/N.

In a red dress that made his thoughts short-circuit. Not because of the fabric or the cut — though yes, that too — but because of how comfortable she looked in her own skin. How she glowed. She held his hand like it grounded her. She made the cameras seem irrelevant. And when she quoted Shake It Off with a wink at the interviewer, he felt something bloom in his chest he hadn’t quite named before: pride, maybe. Or awe. Or something dangerously close to forever. after the tiring event they went to her place, to relax and come down of the high.

They stumbled through the front door, laughing.“Okay,” she said, kicking off her heels. “Be honest. Did you hate it?” “I’ve delivered psychological profiles to murderers who were more relaxed than I was tonight,” Spencer admitted, loosening his tie. “But… no. I didn’t hate it.”

She raised a brow. “Even the part where that one reporter called you ‘America’s most dateable genius’?” “That was… unsettling.” “Hot,” she corrected, pulling him closer. “It was hot.” She kissed him, soft and playful at first. Then slower. Deeper. She tasted like champagne and cherry flavoured gloss and something sweet he couldn’t name. “You gonna help me out of this dress, Dr. Reid?” she murmured against his mouth. His brain short-circuited again. “Statistically speaking, zippers in tight-fitted gowns are—”

She turned, pulling her hair to one side. “Zip. Now. Or I’m gonna call Garcia to do it..” He swallowed, fingers slightly shaking as he undid the zipper. The dress slid down like a whisper, pooling at her feet. “I’ll never understand how this is both an outfit and structural engineering,” he mumbled, mesmerized. She stepped out of the dress and into his arms, smiling. “You’re the only structure I care about tonight.”

They ended up tangled on the couch — her legs across his lap, your laughter echoing around the apartment, interrupted only by kisses and the occasional: “Wait, did that reporter really ask if I was training you for fame?” She smirked. “You’re untrainable. That’s why I love you.” He paused. Looked at her. “You… do?” She blinked, realization dawning. “Oh.” “I mean,” she rushed, “yeah. Kinda. Not in a pressure-y way. In a… I think I already do and I don’t want to not anymore way.”

Spencer smiled — slow, soft, a little stunned. “Good,” he said, brushing her hair from her cheek. “Because I love you, too.” And outside, the world kept spinning. But in here, it was quiet. In here, they were just Spencer and Y/N. And they didn’t need anything else but eachother — not tonight.

It had been a hell of a week. A whirlwind of PR meetings, rehearsals, and an exhausting photo shoot where your stylist insisted on taping you into an outfit so tight you couldn’t fully breathe. All you wanted now was sweatpants, tea, and Spencer’s arms around you. When you walked into your apartment that night, it was quiet — except for the soft hum of jazz playing from the record player. Spencer wasn’t on the couch, but a small note sat on the coffee table. “In the bedroom. No shoes allowed. — Spencer”

You smiled, kicked off your heels, and followed the scent of cinnamon and paper and something faintly musky — his cologne. Inside your bedroom, candles flickered low, casting golden light on the bed — and sitting on the duvet was a box. Wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine. Very Spencer.

Another note sat on top, written in his careful, neat handwriting. “For the girl who can sell out stadiums and still makes time for Dr.Who reruns with me. Thought you could use something... grounding. Love, Spencer.” You sat down, heart fluttering, and opened the box. Inside was a first edition copy of your favorite childhood book — the one you once told him you used to read backstage when you were 12, nervous before performing at school talent shows. Pressed inside the front cover was a Polaroid of the two of you at a used bookstore, both in sunglasses and hoodies, hiding from fans.

Below it, in his handwriting again: “You’ve always been magic. Even before the spotlight.” You didn’t even realize you were crying until you heard the door creak behind you. Spencer stood in the doorway, holding two mugs of tea. He paused. “Too much?” You shook your head, eyes glassy. “No. It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

He walked over, set the mugs down, and wrapped his arms around you from behind. “I just wanted to remind you that before all the noise, the cameras, the flashing lights… you were already enough.” You turned and kissed him — slow, deep, and grateful. And that night, the gift wasn’t just the book. It was the silence. The stillness. The way he saw you, even when you forgot how to see yourself.

It was supposed to be a cozy morning. Rain tapped softly on the windows, the two of you curled on the couch, legs tangled, sharing a blanket and sipping coffee. Spencer was reading aloud from a book about obscure ancient symbols. You were only half-listening, more focused on how happy he looked — hair still messy, glasses low on his nose, smile soft.

Then his phone rang. His whole body shifted. He stood immediately, the warmth disappearing from beside you. “Reid.” A pause. “What? Where?” You sat up, heart dropping. He was already pulling on his jacket.

“There’s been a shooting. An agent’s down. They need us at the scene — Quantico dispatched the jet ten minutes ago.” Your throat tightened. “Do you have to—?” “I have to.” You stood, walked over, grabbing his hand. “Be careful.” He looked at you like he wanted to say a hundred things — but settled on, “I’ll call you when I land.”

It has been radio silent ever since he left. You have been waiting, scared, by the phone for hours. For an update, a message, a call, anything to know he’s save. It was 2:07 AM when you saw the first headline.

“FBI Agent Caught in Hostage Situation During Ongoing Case — No Confirmed Fatalities”

Your stomach dropped. No confirmed fatalities. But no names, either. You tried calling. No answer. Then texts. “Are you okay? Please, Spence, say something.I don’t care about protocols — I just need to know you’re breathing.”

The internet was relentless. People already tagging your name alongside vague theories.

@ fandombuzz: Y/N’s FBI boyfriend was allegedly injured during today’s standoff? @ nosycatlover: If that nerd dies I swear I’m never listening to her again.

You were spiraling. And then — finally — your phone lit up. Unknown number. You picked up, voice cracking. “Hello?” “Hey…” Spencer’s voice was low, exhausted. “It’s me. I lost my phone during the evacuation.” You closed your eyes, chest heaving. “I thought—God, I thought I was gonna lose you.” “I’m okay. A few bruises. But alive.” You felt the tears hit, hard and fast. “I can’t shake it off, Spencer. Not when it’s you.”

There was silence for a second. Then you heard the break in his voice,he whispers softly to you “I’m sorry for scaring you, I hate this feeling. I promise I’ll try harder to update you.”

“You better, I can’t breath right until I know you're safe."

The Next Morning – When He Comes Home The second he walked through the door, still in his wrinkled FBI vest, you launched into him — arms around his neck, lips crashing into his. “You scared the hell out of me.” “I scared myself,” he murmured, kissing your forehead. “All I could think about was getting back here. Back to you.” You touched the side of his face gently. “Next time you go running into danger…” “Yes?”

“You take me with you. Or you take a damn tank.” He chuckled, voice hoarse. “Noted.” Then you whispered, “Promise me you’ll always come home.” “I promise,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “Because wherever you are… that’s home.”

The venue was glowing with golden lights, music pulsing through the rooftop as the crowd swayed in a slow-burning rhythm. You were in a deep purple-colored dress that shimmered every time you moved. Spencer was beside you in a crisp white shirt with sleeves rolled up, tie long forgotten, curls soft and touchable. And most importantly? You were blissfully happy. Until—

“Oh my God!,” a voice cut through the bass-heavy track behind you. You turned. There he was. Your ex. Wearing smugness like cologne. And beside him? His new girlfriend — clearly dressed to outshine someone. You.

She blinked at you, mouth slightly parted. “Wow. You look… different.” Spencer stepped closer to you instinctively, hand on your waist. You gave her a once-over, then smiled sweetly. “Don’t worry, different’s always been my thing.” Spencer leaned in, whispering in your ear. “That him?” “Mm-hmm,” you murmured. “The ex-man. With the dramatic accessories.”

“My ex-man brought his new girlfriend”

“But I’m just gonna shake…” You looked Spencer straight in the eye, grinning. And you did exactly that. You grabbed his hand and pulled him onto the dance floor, not even glancing back as you twirled into his arms, the crowd cheering around you.

“And to the fella over there with the hella good hair.” You sang the line to him, giving him a big wink and “Won't you come on over, baby?”. Spencer laughed — loud and real. Dragging your fingers through his curls playfully, trying to kiss him as he pulled you close, then spinning you out and back in like he’d been dancing his whole life. “I’m the fella with the hella good hair?” “You are,” you said, lips brushing his jaw. “And you’re mine.” His voice dropped, low and warm. “They can stare all they want. I’m not letting you go.” And he didn’t. “We can shake, shake, shake.”

While your ex watched, bewildered at how little power he had left over you, you were wrapped in the arms of the man who actually saw you - sparkling, alive, unbothered. So you danced. And laughed. And didn’t look back.

You were humming as you kicked off your heels, still high from the energy of the night. “I think I actually enjoyed that,” you said, flopping onto the couch and tugging him down beside you. Spencer didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you. You tilted your head. “What?” “I just… I watched you tonight,” he said slowly, fingers brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “The way you danced, the way you smiled when he walked in. Like he was nothing. Like the past didn’t even scratch you.”

“It didn’t,” you said softly. “Not really. Not compared to this. Compared to you.” He smiled faintly, but there was something deeper in his eyes. “I think tonight made me realize how terrified I am of losing you.” Your brow furrowed. “Spencer—” “Not because of him,” he added quickly. “I know I’m not that kind of afraid. It’s just… you’re brilliant, and radiant, and fearless. You walk into rooms and change the atmosphere. I walk into rooms and analyze the oxygen.”

You leaned in, resting your forehead against his. “You walk into rooms and make me feel safe in a way no spotlight ever has.” His eyes closed. He inhaled the way he always did when overwhelmed — sharp, then slow. “I don’t know how someone like me ended up dancing with someone like you,” he whispered. You kissed him gently. “Because there is no one on this world that can make feel as loved as you ever have. I feel honored that I get to hear all your briljant thoughts.” You sniffled, realising how true your words are. “And because you’re “the fella with the hella good hair,” you teased.

He laughed under his breath. “And,” you added more softly, pulling his hand over your heart, “because this? It beats louder for you than it ever did for anyone else.” Silence stretched between you — not awkward, but reverent. Then he kissed you. Not desperate, not rushed. Just real. And when you curled into him on the couch later, his voice barely audible, he whispered something into your hair that made your eyes sting. “I don’t just love you. I love you more than I thought I could ever love anything.”

The lights dimmed. The roar of the audience softened into an expectant hush. Tonight, the cameras weren’t your enemy. The crowd wasn’t pressure. Tonight, it was just you and him.

Spencer Reid sat in the front row of the Music & Media Impact Awards, utterly still except for the nervous way his fingers tapped on his knee. He looked breathtaking in a charcoal suit, hair freshly trimmed but still curling slightly at the ends. His handsomeness wasn’t loud — it never was. But to you? He was the only one in the room.

And tonight… you were going to tell the whole world why. The stage lights flared. You stepped into the glow, mic in hand, glittering gown catching every spotlight. The crowd erupted. You leaned into the mic, heart racing. “This next song isn’t on the album,” you began. “I wrote it in secret, after someone walked into my life who reminded me that love doesn’t have to hurt. That it can be kind, quiet, and still make you feel like a damn hurricane.” “I'm lightnin' on my feet. And that's what they don't see, mm-mm.”

The crowd murmured. Spencer blinked, visibly startled. “This one’s for the man who never tried to dim my light — only ever held up a mirror so I could see it for myself.”

The piano began. And then you sang. “Starry eyes sparking up my darkest night. My baby's fit like a daydream.” Not about heartbreak. Not about fame. But about a boy with brilliant eyes and messy hair who could recite Shakespeare and statistics in the same breath. About late-night bookshop dates, whispered kisses behind closed doors, and dancing barefoot in the living room to jazz no one else heard.

Your voice cracked once — but it only made the lyrics hit harder. Midway through, the camera panned to Spencer. And the world saw it. The way he looked at you like he was watching the stars breathe. The way his lips parted in awe. The way his eyes — red-rimmed — never left your face. When the final note fell, the crowd rose to their feet. A standing ovation. Roaring applause.

But all you saw was him — standing too, hands trembling slightly as you stepped off the stage and walked straight into his arms. “Was that…” he started, breath caught, “for me?” You pulled him closer. “Every note.” He kissed you right there, in front of the world, in front of the flashing cameras and open mouths and stunned press. And somewhere in the crowd, someone whispered: “That’s not just a song. That’s the real thing.”

By morning, the internet was in meltdown. @ PopCrave: Y/N’s surprise love ballad at the MMIA leaves crowd sobbing — and Dr. Spencer Reid in tears. @ cultureunfiltered: Pop star writes new song for FBI profiler boyfriend… and yes, this is our Roman Empire now. @ DailySleaze: Dr. Spencer Reid: Hot Nerd or Heartthrob Hero? A deep dive into why smart is the new sexy.

Your DMs were chaos. Your team was losing their minds. And your fans? Unhinged in the best way. @ ynnation: We don’t want a bad boy, we want a genius in a cardigan who’ll annotate our heart. @ brainyxyn: "He never dimmed my light — only held up a mirror." HOW DARE YOU MAKE ME CRY BEFORE COFFEE.

Meanwhile, Spencer had tried (and failed) to mute the noise. “Do you know how many ‘hot nerd’ listicles I’ve been involuntarily added to?” he asked that night, holding up his tablet. “I think someone made a Buzzfeed quiz titled ‘Which of Spencer Reid’s Ties Matches Your Emotional Damage Level.’” You snorted. “Okay, but do they get it right?” “I got ‘The Maroon One That Says You Need Therapy.’” “Accurate.”

He gave you a long-suffering look — then smiled. “They don’t know the half of it.”

Two days later, you came home to a note on your piano. Do not open until I tell you to. Also: turn off your phone. I mean it. —Spencer. You obeyed. He arrived 20 minutes later, wearing a cozy grey sweater and carrying a manila folder. “I wrote you something,” he said, clearly nervous. “But I… I don’t do songs. I do science.”

You opened the folder. It wasn’t a love letter. It was a proof. Titled: "The Mathematical Probability of Forever: A Personal Hypothesis.” It included: • A Venn diagram titled "Your Chaos + My Logic = Something Sustainable” • A timeline with key events labeled things like “first eye contact” and “first mutual book hangover” • A small scatterplot of serotonin levels from his daily journal entries since meeting you • And at the bottom, written in the margin beside an impossibly sweet equation: “You are the constant in every variable I can’t control.”

You blinked, tears rushing in uninvited. “Spencer,” you whispered, voice cracked. “This is… this is everything.” He fidgeted, suddenly shy. “Does it make sense?”

“Yes, ofcourse,” you said, wrapping your arms around him. “It makes sense, it makes feelings. In the best way possible.” He buried his face in your neck, voice warm with relief. “Good. Because I think I just scientifically proved that I’m in love with you.” You laughed, a little teary. “Guess we’re peer-reviewed, then."

Spencer had never been inside a recording studio. He walked in cautiously, wide-eyed, eyes darting between the mixing board, walls padded with soundproofing, and your lyric scribbles scattered everywhere like clues to a case. You stood in a pair of Spencer’s mismatched socks in the vocal booth (for good luck), headphones around your neck, humming softly into the mic. Spencer sat outside, watching you through the glass with the reverence of someone who couldn’t believe they were even allowed to.

“I’m stuck,” you said over the intercom, pressing the button. “Bridge is mostly done.

Just need a good ending, something grounded.” Spencer tilted his head. “What’s the bridge? You recited it:

“I was spinning in circles, chasing my doubt. Trying to find what life’s all about. My heart was a puzzle with pieces misplaced. ‘Til your love came in and softened the pace” He thought for a moment, then mumbled, almost to himself: “Now you’re the variable that stabilized my chaos.”

You blinked. “Say that again.” He looked startled. “What?” You burst into a grin, slamming the intercom button. “That! Spencer! That is the line!” He flushed red. “I wasn’t—I didn’t mean to write a lyric.” You laughed. “You just accidentally wrote the entire soul of the track.”

Two Weeks Later – The Announcement You posted a black-and-white photo. You. Spencer’s hand in yours, just visible. The edge of a page. A scribbled line in pencil. “You’re the variable that stabilized my chaos.”

And below it, the caption: New Album: CHAOS THEORY Out this fall.

The internet imploded. @ PopCrave: Y/N’s new album title confirms long-rumored scientific influence from her FBI boyfriend. @ brainyxyn: *CHAOS THEORY?? That’s literally Reid-coded. She's naming an era after his entire worldview. @ spencergfactual: This is how you love someone like Spencer Reid. You name your art after their brain. @ culturedromantics: We are getting an intellectual, emotionally literate love album. Buckle up.

Spencer just looked at you over his book that night, stunned. “They really think this whole thing is about me?” You kissed his temple and whispered, “That’s because it is.”

CHAOS THEORY (Launch Night)

The venue pulsed with anticipation — intimate, moody, lit with deep violets and golds. Just a few hundred fans, press, and industry insiders packed in to witness the live debut of your new album. Spencer stood backstage, fidgeting slightly, wearing all black. He’d been quiet all day — proud, yes, but tense. Like your success was a miracle and he didn’t want to breathe too loud in case he broke it.

When you walked past him toward the stage, he gently caught your hand. “You okay?” you asked. He nodded. “Statistically? This may be the night the world realizes what I’ve always known.” You blinked, thrown. “What’s that?” He leaned in and murmured, “That you're brilliant in ways no algorithm can measure.” And with that, you took the stage.

The setlist was a ride — deep, aching ballads, glittering pop confessionals, even a spoken-word interlude called “Parallel Lines” that referenced one of Spencer’s journal entries.But the moment of the night?

Track 7: “Paper Rings ” —an upbeat, sparkling, chaotic-love anthem that had the entire room on its feet. You twirled, laughed through the lyrics, eyes finding Spencer in the wings.

“Went home and tried to stalk you on the internet. Now I've read all of the books beside your bed./ I like shiny things, but I'd marry you with paper rings./ Blue ink vows and quantum things.”

And the crowd lost. its. mind. Twitter exploded before the song ended: @ popwitch: UM is Y/N saying she'd marry Spencer with PAPER RINGS? @ wifeyynnation: Blue ink vows. And quantum things?? She’s so gone for him I’m SCREAMING @ diamonddetectors: Not to alarm anyone but there is DEFINITELY a gold band on her right hand tonight. Engagement ring flipped around?! You were still breathless, glowing from the lights and adrenaline, when Spencer met you at your dressing room door. “That song,” he said, eyes soft and unreadable, “you really meant that?” You nodded, still catching your breath. “I don’t need a diamond. Just you. Paper rings would do.”

He kissed your forehead — then reached into his coat. And handed you a tiny origami ring, made from a torn-out page of one of his journals. Inside the fold, in tiny perfect print: “Proposal probability: inevitable.” You laughed. You cried. You kissed him until the makeup smudged. And somewhere down the hall, a photographer caught the flash of gold on your finger as the door shut behind you.

By 8am, the headlines were out of control: @ EntertainmentDaily: Paper Rings and Real Sparks: Is Y/N Secretly Engaged to Dr. Spencer Reid?! @ thePOPhour: “I’d marry you with paper rings” — Popstar's new song ignites engagement rumors after suspicious hand photo surfaces. @ GossipGenie: FBI refuses to comment on whether Dr. Spencer Reid has proposed to global pop sensation… but our hearts say yes.

Clips of your “Paper Rings (and Theories)” performance trended for 48 hours straight. And the fans? Fully unhinged.

@ ynnation: If they don’t actually get married with a paper ring and they don't adopt a dog and call him Schrödinger, and make him the ring bearer, I will sue. @ spencerfiles: He gave her a homemade origami ring. WE ARE LIVING IN A NOVEL. @ engagedintheory: I calculated the trajectory of this relationship based on

Spencer’s facial expression during that song and yes. It’s a proposal arc.

Even your label leaned in, dropping a cryptic teaser: “Track 13 is classified.” Which, of course, sent your fans theories into orbit.

Spencer had never planned anything like this before. Not a press conference. Not a field op. Not even one of the 187 surprise birthday parties Garcia tried to rope him into.

This was different. This was you. So he made a list (of course).

Proposal Outline – v3.4 by Dr. Spencer Reid Objective: Propose to Y/N using personalized symbolic logic and emotionally resonant memories, while maintaining discretion and maximizing emotional impact. Stage 1: Location • Initial pick: the bookstore where we first hid from a storm. • Revised: planetarium after-hours, private viewing of Cassiopeia (her favorite). Request meteor simulator. Stage 2: Object • Custom ring: inscribed with the phrase “stabilized chaos” in Latin. (Ask Garcia for engraving vendor.) • Also: duplicate origami ring, sealed in glass as keepsake. Stage 3: Delivery • Monologue: include quotes from her favorite poets + Alan Turing + something dumb I said that made her laugh. • Close with: “There is no formula for love, but I would still spend my life solving for you.” Stage 4: Contingencies • In case of tears: pocket tissues. • In case she says no: improbable. Statistical margin of error: 0.002%.

He closed the notebook and looked down at the velvet box in his hand. He wasn’t nervous — not exactly. He was ready. And so, so in love. He just needed the stars to align. Literally.

"It's like I got this music in my mind. Sayin', "It's gonna be alright"

You thought it was just a late-night surprise. Spencer had been vague all day — “Wear something warm,” “Trust me,” “No, I’m not hacking NASA again,” and “Yes, it involves stars.”

The car dropped you off at a quiet observatory in the hills just outside D.C. Security led you through a side entrance, and when you stepped into the main dome, the lights were low... and it was just the two of you. No astronomers. No public crowd.

Only the hush of awe and the curved ceiling above, suddenly alive with constellations. Cassiopeia blinked into view. Your favorite. Spencer had remembered. Of course he had. You turned to find him, but he was already standing in the center of the room, one hand in his pocket, the other reaching out to you. "Come here."

You walked slowly to him, the silence thick with something beautiful and terrifying. He was wearing his soft grey cardigan — the one you always stole — and his expression looked somewhere between reverent and undone. “I’ve been preparing this,” he said, voice shaking. “For weeks. Actually, months. Realistically? Since about three minutes after I met you.”

You laughed softly, your breath fogging in the cool air. “You are unpredictable,” he continued, “which, for someone like me, should be unbearable. But instead… you’ve redefined what safe feels like. You made chaos feel like home.” Behind him, the stars flickered and spun — a slow cosmic dance. He pulled a folded page from his coat pocket. It was torn from one of his journals. A star map, annotated in his handwriting. You glanced at it, confused — until you saw what he had circled. You. A point in space marked in constellation. Labeled “Constant.”

He dropped to one knee. The room stilled. He opened a velvet box — not just any ring, but a delicate band with a tiny engraving on the inside you’d later find said "amor est scientia" — love is knowledge. “I don’t have a formula for forever,” he said softly. “But I know the constant in every equation I want to solve for… is you.”

You couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe. Could only nod — then say it: “Yes.” His hands trembled as he slid the ring onto your finger. You kissed him. Hard. Gripping his cardigan like you’d never let go. Somewhere in the rafters, a meteor simulation streaked across the digital sky. And beneath it, the genius who thought he didn’t deserve this kind of love finally understood: he was her muse too.

Back at Quantico, the BAU squad had never seen Spencer this nervous—and glowing—at the same time. Garcia was the first to notice the ring during on of their family dinners. She squealed loudly enough to make Morgan nearly drop his glass of wine. “Reid, you did this without me knowing?! I demand every detail!” she demanded, practically bouncing in her chair.

JJ smiled warmly, “It suits you both perfectly.” Morgan clapped Spencer on the back, grinning. “Man, I thought you were just gonna propose with a PowerPoint. Proud of you, dude.” Spencer adjusted his glasses, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “I tried to incorporate some astrophysics, but yes… I proposed.”

You laughed and leaned into Spencer, feeling the familiar comfort of your chosen family. Hotch nodded approvingly, “Congratulations. You two deserve the happiness.” The room was filled with laughter and teasing, everyone eager to hear the story of the stars and the paper ring. You felt completely at home, surrounded by the people who had been there through everything.

Weeks later, in the quiet after the storm of the album launch and proposal rumors, you sat down with your guitar and a quiet heart. Inspired by Spencer, the team, and the moment you just lived, you wrote a song—something unpolished and raw, meant only for him. You called it: “Constellation”

A soft ballad about finding a constant in the chaos, about love as a guiding light through the darkness. You sent the track to Spencer in a private message, no pressure, no release date—just a gift. His reply came quickly, and it made you smile like nothing else could: “I’m crying. The science checks out. This is the soundtrack of my life.”

And in that quiet exchange, away from the flashing cameras and screaming fans, you both knew: this was just the beginning.

You had never intended to release “Constellation.” It was your secret song—your personal love letter to Spencer, tucked away from the spotlight. But somehow, an early demo leaked. The reaction? Instant and overwhelming.

@ PopStarIntellect: The most beautiful surprise is Y/N’s secret track “Constellation,” a stellar love ballad that sounds like it was written for the stars themselves. @ lyricdetective: “Find a constant in the chaos”??? Clearly about Dr. Spencer Reid. Fans are losing it. @ reidnation: @ reidBAU I didn’t think I could love this couple more. But this song? I’m shattered. In the best way.

Despite the leak, you and Spencer just laughed. “Guess the universe has its own PR team,” you said. He grinned, pulling you close. “And their taste in music is impeccable.”

It was a rare Saturday morning when the two of you had zero plans. You woke up to Spencer reading aloud from a vintage astronomy book while you made coffee. “Did you know,” he said, “that the Crab Nebula is the remnant of a supernova observed in 1054 AD?”

You smiled, pulling him closer. “I love how you find poetry in science.” He looked at you, eyes soft and warm. “Because you are my poetry.” You spent the day like that — lazy breakfasts, stolen kisses, writing lyrics on the porch while Spencer decoded a crossword puzzle.

Later, you two sprawled on the couch, playlists humming softly, fingers intertwined. At one point, Spencer pulled out his notebook and scribbled a new idea. “For our next song,” he said, “a love letter with equations.” You laughed. “Of course you do.” He kissed your forehead. “Because you taught me love isn’t just in feelings. It’s in logic. It’s in constellations.” And there, wrapped in each other’s arms, you both knew: this was the life you’d been waiting to write.

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