#Jack and the Jukebox

[top-script]

ok but like

[mizukie297]

Intro post!

(Under cut)

Hey guys!(gender neutral)

I'm Mizu, if you want you can call me Emery, cause why not.

I think we should start by saying I AM a minor! If you are a major you can interact, just not in a weird way. I am genuinely uncomfortable if you break that rule. If you're gonna say NSFW jokes just make sure you use tonetags. /srs

I'm a cis woman (She/Her), I'm also Lesbian. (I'm not in a relationship or anything, I just like other girls.)

Fandoms: Helluva Boss, Touhou Project, Gravity Falls, Dandys World, Murder Drones, OSC, Tally Hall, Lemon Demon, Jack Stauber, Chonny Jash, Jukebox The Ghost, Will Wood, Chappell Roan (I'm lesbian, what did you expect? /silly), Milk in the Microwave etc.

DNI: Tallyshippers, Homophobes, Racists, Sexists, Transphobes, Proshippers, Pedophiles etc. (Just your basic DNI.) PLEASE RESPECT MY BOUNDARIES PLEASE PLEASE 🙏

┃OTHER BLOGS I RUN :3

@dw-art-daily (active)

@accidental-hb-reference (somewhat active)

@accidental-dw-reference (I don't post here)

I think that's it, if you read through all of this, thanks. If you didn't, just read the DNI atleast.

(Credits to @zero-templates for this ^^^)

[doyouknowthismusical]

[wolfgirlandfarmboy]

I just care very deeply about the fact Jack will literally melt in the palm of Nana's hand the second she touches his face

[razorsadness]

After seeing these pictures you end up finally not knowing any more whether a jukebox is sadder than a coffin.

—Jack Kerouac, from the introduction to Robert Frank's The Americans

[thesinglesjukebox]

TAYLOR SWIFT - "I CAN DO IT WITH A BROKEN HEART"

Who's afraid of little old meh?

[5.25]

Hannah Jocelyn: Hey, she played something with a fucking beat! [6]

Alfred Soto: An obscenity-laden ode to being as fabulous as Taylor Swift in 2024, "I Can Do with a Broken Heart" is as confident as "My Name Is" and "Izzo (H.O.V.A.)." If the performance sounds cagier, even more tentative than the words and vocal track suggest, blame Jack Antonoff, whose mix turns the instrumental foundation into yesterday's mud. In all the ways in which I imagined Swift developing, "lyrics first" would not have topped my list. [5]

Jackie Powell: Part of why “Anti-Hero” remains one of the best songs Taylor Swift has ever written is that the melody is just as strong as the relatable story Swift tells. There’s relatability here too, but the melody is “made to fit the music, rather than the other way around,” an astute observation that Pitchfork’s Olivia Horn made in her review of The Tortured Poets Department. It annoys me that the kick drum that I can’t stop tapping my foot to doesn’t lead to the appropriate burst of emotion in the chorus. This is a song about the compartmentalizing and suppression of raw emotions, yet the hook feels matter-of-fact. Would these lyrics have been more potent if the melody wasn’t so stale? I know a lot of folks have been saying this, but it’s time for Swift to work with someone besides Jack Antonoff.  [5]

Alex Clifton: Witnessing the Eras Tour was an experience unlike any other. It’s an impressive feat of endurance, and it was surreal to know that 70,000 people (including me) had come to watch this one woman do her show. Every so often I had to remind myself: this is real, she’s actually doing all of this, she’s a real human being and yet I can’t think how she does this and has a life offstage. Well, now we know! As a commentary on the Eras Tour, fame, and the parasocial relationship Swift’s fans have with her, it’s pretty neat, and I like that she goes for the grimmer side of the glamour. She has every right to brag about her professionalism here; I can barely get out of bed on bad days, let alone put on a dazzling show. But sonically it’s just another Antonoff plinky-plonky-blippy collaboration; I definitely ignored it the first couple times I listened to Tortured Poets. To me that’s the biggest letdown: a song full of potential that doesn’t quite get to burst and sparkle the way it could. Instead it’s merely fine, 6/10, I don’t hate it but she’s done better. However, I deducted a point because while I try not to care who songs are about, knowing this is likely about Ratty Healy dampened it for me. He’s not worth wasting these kinds of feelings on! [5]

Jonathan Bradley: The public perception that Swift's oeuvre centers on lovers and feuds is eternal, yet a subject she has returned to throughout her career has been work, both as labor and as something to take pride in when it's done well. Work is different for a 34-year-old woman whose job has been songwriter and recording artist since she was 16, but she approaches her toil industriously. The subject has been present in her work since her debut, which had multiple tracks that used songwriting ("Tim McGraw," "Our Song") as a structural device, but she turned her attention to labor directly in 2010's "Long Live," which wielded the fairytale imagery of "Love Story" and "White Horse" to consider what it means to lead an enterprise — in this case, a touring band — and hope your combined efforts might build a creative legacy. "If you have children some day," she asked, casting her gaze into the far future. "Tell them how the crowds went wild." In 2024, the far future is now, and Swift is still working as a songwriter and a member of a touring band, and still conscious of the transcendence that promises and the dull effort required to achieve it. "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart" is a song about being a professional and executing her craft even while she's falling apart emotionally. "I am so productive," she promises, a one-woman economic stimulus package. She is condescending ("I'm a real tough kid") and callous to herself ("lights, camera — bitch, smile"), and offers her disintegrated person ("all the pieces of me shattered") to a public that demands and maybe deserves all of her. What do the thoughts and feelings of Little Old Her matter in the face of the Taylor Swift Industrial Complex? Yet it doesn't sound effortful; this is a party song, and heartbeat rhythm and accelerated tempo feels like the anticipation in the hours before an arena show put on by your favorite pop star. The arrangement's synth-pop pulse oscillates like a radio transmission: dancefloor-ready the way an accelerated revision of Folklore's spotlit slow-jam "Mirrorball" might be. (If this were 1996, the maxi-single would contain at least three inappropriately boshing remixes, and we are lesser for their absence.) But "I Can Do It" calls back to another period of Swift's career too: Reputation, an album that began with a flight to a secluded island and ended with the intimate domesticity of two lovers tidying up the remains of a party. The thesis statement of that album was that, for all her confessional lyrics and public scrutiny, Taylor Swift is fundamentally unknowable even to her most ardent fans. And look! Here she has performed a world-conquering tour, unprecedented in scale, and night after night kept secret this gloom consuming her. "I'm miserable," she crows as the song culminates, thrilling in subterfuge the way a magician might. "And nobody even knows!"  [10]

Taylor Alatorre: How'd it take Swift this long to have a charting single that uses the word "productive" as the shining centerpiece of its chorus? She's always had something of the overachieving AP student about her, and Tortured Poets is where she finally stopped trying to hide this and instead decided to make big-budget fanfic out of it. The tinker-toy soundscape, showily but not fussily busy, conjures up a Stephen Biesty cross-section of the inside of the Taylor Swift Hit Factory, all the whirring deadlines and clattering headlines that require teams of professionals to help manage them ("don't know my schedule on the 5th," as a smaller-scale pop neurotic put it). In "Broken Heart," Swift is eager to pull back the curtain from the machine further than she's ever done, though she naturally stops short of throwing her body upon the gears and wheels Mario Savio-style. I choose to believe that her lilting inflection of the word "it" is an allusion to sex in the manner of the Cole Porter standard, because that'd maximize the song's fertile intersection between public and private. Even if I'm wrong, though, and this really is just a condensed Behind the Music episode for Every Taylor Swift Break-Up Song, it at least hits the crucial mark of putting entertainment first and autofictional indulgence second. [7]

Nortey Dowuona: "He said he'd love me all his life!" is a frustrating sentence. At first, it's simple and cutting, a reminder of the anguish of losing someone who made a flimsy, insubstantial promise in a haze of heady, exaggerated joy then retracted it. The frustrating part is that this doesn't seem to be the realization -- the realization is the betrayal and anger at the betrayal, not an acceptance of the fading nature of the promise. Worse, it's phrased like "he said -- he'd love -- me all -- his life!", a leap forward over the four hits of the kick that only appears to jog you out of a stupor. The same effect is meant for "he said -- he'd love -- me for -- all time!", but the rest of the prechorus settles into that flat stupor. Swift isn't moved to sing in a deeper or brighter soprano, but returns to the same four measures of quarter notes, so once the chorus appears, it evaporates over the Broadway synthesizers. The synths are also weak, a hidden piano arpeggio flattened by limp pads, and when the drums and real synth line take the forefront, the prechorus synths seem even weaker. The even more frustrating part is that if you have no idea who and what Taylor Swift is, you have no idea who the "he" is who is dragging her into a pit of despair. "He said he'd love me all his life"/"he said he'd love me for all time" appears apropos of nothing and holds no weight; there is no way to make it noticeable unless you phrase it wrong. This is why Jack Antonoff is a bad producer: he can't prompt the songwriter to provide a more rhythmic or better-written prechorus, so the whole song cannot transition from verse to chorus without gracelessly lashing out. [4]

Will Adams: My lingering impression of TTPD was that the songs were all so hazy and drumless it might as well have been a two-hour compilation of the "pop song playing in an abandoned mall" genre. Revisiting "I Can Do It..." is refreshing; the drop, once it finally arrives, is fizzy and percolating. But then there are the lyrics. As ever, the tortured poet rears her head here, seemingly pouring out her feelings about the trappings of fame while never revealing too much. Even the attempts at catchphrase -- "lights, camera, bitch, smile" -- feel guarded. [5]

Ian Mathers: Keeping the count-in from the producer there in the background is the kind of thing that usually works for me, but it never quite gels here; volume? timing? Who knows. But it's the kind of not-quite-rightness that seems to be afflicting a lot of Swift's recent material. The later repetitions of the "birthday"/"plague" lines over the post-Chvrches synths make me think her going full synth pop might actually work in a way I wouldn't have guessed (or maybe I've been listening to too much early OMD recently). Lyrically and thematically this one kind of winds up in the "Anti-Hero" space of... yes, you've got a point, and some of the lines work, but no amount of self-awareness makes the ones that don't clunk any less. As with... everything to do with Swift, it would benefit from everything around her being at least slightly less exhausting/omnipresent. [6]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: Distinctly post-prime in a way that even "Fortnight" didn't hit. It's reminiscent of nothing less than Russell Westbrook on the Los Angeles Lakers; she's hitting all the right poses, putting on a good attitude about the whole enterprise, but nothing ever coheres — the same tricks that worked to varying degrees on the "Mean"-"Blank Space"-"Delicate"-"Anti-Hero" continuum, the intentional conflation of romance, selfhood, and fame, no longer land in quite the same way. What was once clever albeit effortful now is adorned with flop sweat; "lights, camera, bitch smile" and "I'm so depressed I act like it's my birthday every day" would've sounded leaden and cliché even on Lover. Everything is bright and shiny and rather boring — the skeleton of a great Taylor Swift song that in practice can only remind me of past glories. [3]

Leah Isobel: The more time passes the more I think "Dancing On My Own" should never have happened; the long procession of diluted knock-offs makes the original seem more formulaic, watery, and obvious every year. Taylor's take on the concept doesn't bother to invest its mixed emotions with any sort of physical reality: her performance is so Disney-princess smiley, the synth throbs and jittering hi-hats are so wimpy, and that disgusting little piano twing is so... hateful! This is tacky, the performance of performance, and it might work if Taylor had any semblance of camp about her. She does not. This sucks! [2]

Katherine St. Asaph: The year 2024 has brought two attempts to revamp Britney Spears' "Lucky": an explicit cover by Halsey, and this implicit remake by Taylor Swift. Superficially, the three songs are the same: pop stars cry too. Yet in their nuances, they are products of drastically different cultures. The biggest distinction is that unlike Halsey and Swift, Britney didn't write her single; the main writers were Max Martin and Rami Yacoub (plus ambiguous "additional songwriting" by Alexander Kronlund; maybe he just popped in on a session like on "Side to Side"). Some might be tempted to draw the easy #menwritingwomen conclusion here, but I don't think that's quite it. As a songwriter, Martin famously thinks of lyrics as phonics over subtext, and Yacoub is also not a lyricist first. Their skill is to write melodies that sound like they were engraved in the musical scale for centuries; it is not to provide psychological depth. If Lucky has introspected at all on her pain -- why do these tears come at night? -- Britney doesn't let on. The song is narrated in third person; even the chorus is just words "they say." Halsey and Swift, though, write not just in the first person but in a confessional mode. They allude to documented events in their lives, psychoanalyze what drives them and invite you to agree, and openly admit to how they're offering up their pain for public consumption -- all things that are demanded from celebrities far more now than in 2000. Despite Swift's reputation as pop's parasocial princess, though, Halsey's heroine is the one whose hell is basically parasocial: she does it all to be "liked by strangers that she met online." "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart" is closer to Spears' idea of celebrity: pop star as remote idol rather than universal bestie. Both songs linger on their sugary hooks, on the glamour and the sequins of it all; they even both rhyme off "winning." The key difference, though, is that Britney's Lucky has no agency; she wakes up to handlers knocking on her door, and what she wakes up into is just more dreamsleep. Taylor Swift -- or at least the autofictional "Taylor Swift" in this song -- is constitutionally terrified of the fact that there are things in life beyond her control. The problem of heartbreak making her miserable is secondary to the problem of heartbreak being a career liability she hasn't yet addressed. She's the girlboss's girlboss; as with "Woman's World," you get the sense that "I Can Do It With a Broken Heart" would have killed 10 years ago. In 2024, though, the song doesn't benefit from that hit of zeitgeisty extramusical energy; it must manage to do it with an outdated heart. The chorus is powered by self-loathing melodrama, like @SoSadToday set to the melody of "Guess I'll Go Eat Worms." How much it works depends entirely on how much it gets you to repeat stuff like "I'm so obsessed with him but he avoids me like the plague :D" on chipper singsong autopilot in such situations -- and for that, it admittedly works quite well. But the production is thin, as if the "Dancing on My Own" Jack Antonoff liked and bit was the radio edit and not the album version; besides the bubblegum melody, the chorus hardly registers as pop. This should sound show-stopping and manic and iconic; instead it sounds perfectly professional. [ ] Exceeds Expectations [X] Meets Expectations [ ] Below Expectations [5]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox]

[aletterinthenameofsanity]

Burn the House Down Playlist: Cynthia Freeman

My beloved Cynthia. (Confession: she's my favorite character. Her self-respect arc is one of my favorites in the book...I say even though I am so proud of all of them and tomorrow I might say that Annette's loneliness/maturity arc or Luis' forgiveness/pride arc or Preston's arrogance/loyalty arc or Janine's greek-tragedy-hubris/apology arc is my favorite.) The First Lady in our hearts, Cynthia Freeman is arguably the hero of the story despite the book being titled around Janine. She loves Janine to her own destruction but, more importantly, loves her adopted daughter and loves herself. She's the power behind the crown, the motivation behind Janine's moves, the storyteller. As her playlist character description promises:

Her students' favorite teacher. Annette's mom. Janine's wife. Her own damn person.

@snazzy-hats-and-adhd @blufox3542 @neshatriumphs @khruschevshoe @weedpoop @thesirhandsome-tepalehuia @sillylittlecheeto @nefertittti @henrythepug @meet-me-behindthemall12 @aboutblankpages-blog-blog @artemisiaarm @profiterole-reads @marchionessdebrannas @harrietmjones @thearcaneuniversity @little-bloodied-angel @artemisbones @jacksope-lives @fleuranna @shehungthemoon @spacecatrainshell @celestedeluna @onebigfangirlworld

[jellogram]

Save me weird small town bar weird small town bar save me

[sunforgrace]

this is why dean winchester should have blacked out like tony soprano

[newmsies]

OFMD au where everything is the same but Calico Jack's theme song is Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox (If I Die)

[rubin-therubix-loverofblorbos]

Is it bad that I feel like Bob's singing voice would sound almost exactly like Autoheart's? I just listened to Agoraphobia the other day and could not make myself think of any other character. But Kitchen Fork {By Jack Conte} and Under My Skin {By Jukebox the Ghost} have more of his vibe y'know? An Autoheart cover of Kitchen Fork would scream ROBERT VELSEB so loudly the AMV in my head might have a frame drawn out for once.

[screechingtriumphtiger]

Rather Be Lonely

My phone buzzed on the bar. I knew who it was without even looking at it. I glanced up at the crooked analog clock hanging over the door. 1:45. Right on time. My gaze shifted down to my phone's screen. What are you doing tonight? the message read.

My laugh was hoarse. Tonight? It's already tomorrow. This had become somewhat of a regular occurrence. It was hilarious to me, in a completely non-hilarious way that Joy had been the one to break things off and yet, here she was, texting me at two in the morning, trying to get back together. Was it for one more night? One more week? I rolled my eyes and flipped the phone over, pushing it as far away from me as possible.

I looked around. This close to closing time, the bar was practically empty. Just like the rocks glass in my hands. Ice cubes clinked against each other in the glass as I raised it to my lips, trying to get the last drops of watered down whiskey. Patsy Cline was falling to pieces on the jukebox.

I snorted. That was Austin's doing.

Austin had been my friend for years. We met in a bar in college and were still meeting in bars all these years later. The only difference now was he owned this one, and I was just a patron. But he had control of the music, and a dumb sense of humor.

"Very funny!" I called. I guessed he couldn't be far away and that proved correct. He was chuckling as he came around the corner. "Sorry man, I couldn't help it." His smile was genuine, and infectious.

I stared back at him, willing myself not to laugh. Instead, I shook my empty glass. "What kind of place are you running here? Can I get a refill or what?"

"What? Where's my bar wench? I don't pour drinks!"

That did it. I cracked a smile. "I'm sure Amanda is already home. I watched you cut her lose thirty minutes ago."

"Aw, shit. That's right." He grabbed the Jack out of the well and poured me a healthy shot. "Is Joy still bothering you?" he nodded toward my phone.

"Well, 'bothering' implies that I care," I shrugged. "And I just don't."

"Why don't you just block her and be done with it?"

I shrugged. I didn't know. I liked her, but I didn't like her games. And I didn't want to play anymore.

Sensing the direction of my thoughts, Austin leaned into the bar. "Do you want her back?"

"No." It just kind of slipped out. I didn't even think about it. I didn't need to think about it.

Austin chuckled. "There he is! Gimme that thing." He reached for my phone and pulled up the messages, then the contacts.

I took a long sip. "I don't even want to know how you know my password."

He shot me look over the screen. "It's your birthday. Very original."

I laughed. He had me there.

"Here," he slid my phone back to me. "Your phone is now Joy-less and hopefully now you can be more joy-ful."

I rolled my eyes. Where did he come up with this stuff?

[the-winter-brothel]

Verosika Tag Dump

[grealishxoxo]

tag dump

[basketonthedoorstepofthefbi]

Wingwoman (Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader)

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem!BAU!Reader

Summary: You take your good friend/coworker, Spencer, out to the bar to find him a girl to hook up with. Things do not go as planned.

Word Count: 5107

Warnings: Romantic/sexual tension! Mentions of drinking / sex

A/N: Hi! I haven't written posted fanfic in like, 8 years, please be nice xD I would love to know your thoughts - if you have any requests or anything, I'm happy to oblige. ALSO -- I have only seen up to Season 7 of Criminal Minds because I'm a fckn loser. Anywayyyyy enjoy! Not my gif btw, all credit to the owner :)

———————————

It was kind of your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

Actually, it was definitely your fault, now that you were thinking back on it. 

It had been your suggestion to go out. It had been your idea to act as Spencer’s wingwoman, some last-ditch effort to try to get him out of your mind. He was your coworker, for Christ’s sake. And your best friend. And you’d thought about him desperately for eight of the nine months that you’d known him. 

Emily, Derek, and Penelope had all agreed to tag along, but as the work day went on, each of your coworkers had found some kind of excuse to opt-out. Derek’s niece wanted to Facetime. Penelope forgot Kevin’s birthday was next week and needed to go shopping for a present. Emily had a headache. 

Finding Spencer a romantic prospect on your own was certainly not the plan, but, stupidly, thoughtlessly, you’d decided to go along with it. You could do this. Just one night in a bar, chatting up women for the man you’d slowly been falling for the past eight months. As good of an idea as any, right? 

You and Spencer took an Uber to the bar the group frequented. Ski-ball and pool in one corner, a vintage jukebox and small space set aside as a makeshift dance floor in the other. But the best part - half-off drinks for federal agents. You’d never been one to abuse the badge before, but… 

Three Jack-and-Diet-Cokes later, your moral code had a bit of a crack in it. 

Spencer stood next to you - towered over you, actually, because that man was a fucking beanpole - and you felt his eyes on you as you scanned the crowd. “What about her?” you suggested, jerking your chin to the woman at a high-top table against the wall. She had her nose stuck in her phone and an untouched martini on the table in front of her. 

“She’s clearly waiting for someone,” Spencer pointed out, and you realized he was right just as the woman looked up from her phone and towards the door for the third time in the past minute. “I also don’t understand why you’re so dead set on finding someone to hog me up with.” 

You snorted into your drink. “Hog you up with?” you repeated, turning in your barstool so you faced him. Your knees brushed his thighs. 

“Yeah, is that not…” realization dawned on Spencer and he grimaced. “That’s not the phrase, is it?” 

“Hook,” you corrected, but not impatiently. You made a little hook with your index finger, like a pirate. A little giggle escaped you. “And I’m not dead set on it,” you argued. “I just didn’t want to be the only one leaving the bar with someone.” 

Your eyes flickered up to Spencer’s to gauge his reaction. He seemed surprised by this implication that you planned to leave with someone - someone who was not him. 

“Yeah? Who are you leaving with, matey?” Spencer countered, arching a brow and pointedly looking at your index finger, still in its hooked position. You dropped your hand. 

“It doesn’t matter right now,” you blushed furiously, desperately trying to drive the conversation back to his romantic conquests. Your thought process was that if you actually saw Spencer with someone else in any sort of romantic capacity - dancing, flirting, kissing - you’d finally hurt yourself enough with the sight for those stupid feelings for him to dissipate. “We’re looking for you.” 

Spencer merely hmm-ed in response, an indecisive non-answer, and you noticed he shook his head. Like he was annoyed, but trying not to show it. You swallowed the lump in your throat and polished off your drink before returning to examining the patrons in the bar. You nudged Spencer’s elbow with your own and your gaze landed on the group of three women giggling around one of the tables. “Any of them? The blonde is cute,” you pointed out. 

“Not really into blondes,” Spencer muttered, and you glanced back at him. You could have sworn his eyes were locked on your brunette hair. You opened your mouth to say something, but Spencer cut you off. “But, sure, if watching me strike out will amuse you, Y/N.” Before you could protest, Spencer set his glass down on the bar and started towards the trio of women at the table. 

You leaned down to sniff his glass, curious as to what he’d been drinking. Clear liquid. No smell. Was he… totally sober? 

You watched with narrowed, studious eyes as Spencer approached the women. You could only see the back of his head, but the three women’s faces were perfectly visible. They smiled, friendly, unassuming, and then something came out of Spencer’s mouth that changed their expressions. The blonde in the middle furrowed her brows, and the two women on either side cocked their heads slightly. Spencer’s hand tapped the table and he earned awkward smiles as a goodbye was bid, and when he turned around to head back towards the bar, he just shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, like what are you gonna do? 

“What happened?” you asked as he returned to you. 

“I blew it,” Spencer said matter-of-factly. Too accepting of his defeat. Further supporting your theory that he’d gone over there and purposefully botched it. 

“Right,” you flagged down the bartender to order another drink. 

“You’re getting another one?” Spencer asked. 

You whirled your face to meet his and didn’t see judgment, but rather, concern. “Why does it matter?” you asked, no, dared. 

Spencer shook his head, defeatedly. “It doesn’t,” he grumbled. 

“What about that girl you were talking to earlier by the jukebox?” you asked, nudging his shin with your foot. “The grabby one. She seemed really into you.” 

Spencer visibly gritted his teeth. “I’m not interested.” 

“Are you interested in anyone in this bar tonight?” You asked. The words came too quickly for you to stop them. They were too real. Especially as Spencer’s frown hardened just slightly and you watched him look away from you. 

You took in a sharp inhale, the realization hitting you, the possibility that Spencer might actually feel the same way about you. And that you’d dragged him out here tonight to try and set him up with someone else. You were selfish and thoughtless and stupid. 

You hopped off the barstool, your feet wavering beneath you. “I’d better go home,” you said suddenly, grabbing your bag. You had to leave. You had to go home before you said something stupid, something irreversible. 

You stalked out of the bar and onto the brisk, late-autumn sidewalk. You’d forgotten your coat at the office and insisted you’d be fine. The chill smacked you in the face and you tucked your bag beneath your shoulder so you could cross your arms over your chest and hug yourself for any semblance of warmth. 

Thirty seconds hadn’t even passed before the door creaked and Spencer appeared at your side, throwing his coat wordlessly over your shoulders. “What did I do?” he asked. You looked up at him and saw his eyes - hurt, frustrated, confused. 

Your lips parted and there was a small shake of your head. “No,” you breathed. He furrowed his brows and you explained further. “You didn’t do anything.” 

“Then why the hell have you been so weird around me lately?” Spencer asked, scuffing his shoe against the sidewalk. Like a temperamental first-grader. 

“Weird how?” You asked, trying to pretend like you had no idea what he was talking about. Like your stomach didn’t flip every morning when you saw him. 

“Like you’re… like you’re mad at me. Like you don’t want to be around me,” Spencer looked at the street ahead of the both of you rather than at you. “You always find an excuse to leave the room when it’s just the two of us. You pull Derek or Emily or Penelope into the conversation so you don’t have to interact with just me. You’re out here trying to find me someone to hook up with?” he phrased the last sentence as a question, shaking his head. Your heart lurched. He let out an incredulous laugh. “It’s either you’re trying to shrug me off as a friend entirely, or -” 

He stopped himself. His eyes were fixed on the streetlamp a few feet in front of you. They widened and you felt your heart pound as he slowly met your gaze. The realization hit him, the second half of his sentence lingering, heavy and palpable between the two of you. 

“Or,” you repeated, not phrasing it as a question. Your voice was soft as you said it, your tone anything but a question. 

“Or?” Spencer asked, and you could see his chest start to rise and fall more slowly. 

“Or,” you confirmed, taking in a sharp breath. 

Spencer’s throat bobbed as he looked at you, his gaze piercing and soft, studious and lazy, hungry and satiated all at once. “Oh.” 

Oh. 

“How long?” he asked, turning his feet towards you. 

Your face went red and you lifted your chin, refusing to make yourself feel ashamed of it anymore. There wasn’t any point, not when he knew now. “Since March,” you admitted. Your voice was squeaky. 

“March?” Spencer repeated, incredulous. It was early October now. 

“Yeah,” you exhaled, shrugging his jacket off your shoulders and bunching it up by the middle. You handed it to him. “You don’t have to say anything,” you said. Your body felt like it was on fire. “You don’t have to-”

“I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.” 

You thought maybe you were hallucinating for a second. Your mouth fell open and despite your three drinks, you remembered clearly that Spencer had been drinking water. This was not some drunken confession, not for either of you, because the second he’d asked you why you had been so weird lately, you had instantly sobered up. “Oh,” was all you managed to choke out.

Oh. 

“Yeah, oh,” Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smile. That playful, friendly, teasing little smile you’d learned to love on him. He stepped towards you. 

You let out this little half-garbled laugh. Spencer reached for your hand, and you let him. Your fingers spread, allowing his in the spaces between. You looked up at Spencer and little fires shot up your hand. How could merely holding hands feel so monumental? 

“What do we… what do we do now?” You asked, your mind in a haze, like a computer awaiting command. 

Spencer let his jacket fall to the concrete and used his other hand to slowly, almost hesitantly, cup your cheek. He looked down at you and your entire face reddened. “Well,” his voice was soft, crackling, like a fireplace, and he met your gaze with searching eyes. “I’d like to kiss you now, if that would be okay,” he said finally. Your lips turned up into an idiotic smile. 

“I think that would be okay,” you whispered. 

His hands were so soft, you realized. His grip on your hand loosened and he was now cupping your face on both sides. And every nerve in your cheeks was firing off signals - Spencer is touching my face, Spencer is touching my face. Like it was some forbidden thing. But then, as if in slow motion, he ducked his head down and his lips touched yours. Gently, at first, tentative and wobbly like a foal taking its first steps. Your hands rested on his torso - taut beneath that stupid little sweater vest. 

He pulled back after just a moment. It was really only five or six seconds at the most, but you were red-faced and breathless by the time your eyes fluttered open, into his. Spencer’s smile was now a full-blown grin, and your expression mirrored his. “Yeah?” He asked, the word carrying more meaning. You’re into this, right? 

“Yeah,” you exhaled as Spencer dropped his hands from your face, but your hands remained on his torso, not wanting to step away just yet. The syllable meant more coming from you, too. I’m really, very much, super into this. Please, for the love of god, kiss me again. 

Spencer arched a brow ever so slightly, and you nodded your head. 

Just like a dance, Spencer’s hands moved to your waist, and at the same time, you slid yours around his neck. He backed you up, completely disregarding his jacket on the sidewalk, until you were flush against the brick wall belonging to the bar. The brisk October breeze ruffled through his hair and yours, yet, suddenly, neither of you were terribly concerned about the weather. 

He kissed you again, and this time it wasn’t as timid. Slowly, at first, his lips pressed against yours, and then his tongue darted out. It teased your lips in silent invitation, and you opened them to grant him access. His hands were everywhere, your hips, your hair, your face. You had moved your own down to his torso again. He coaxed the tiniest little mewl out of your throat, a completely uncontrollable and inevitable noise. 

Spencer’s low, gravelly groan reverberated through your mouth. Your hands gripped the bottom half of his shirt, balling it up in tight, white-knuckled fists. An unmistakable hardness brushed against your thigh. You were perfectly content to stay right there, pinned against the exterior wall of a D.C. bar, but the sound of a car honking its horn peeled Spencer off of you. 

His face was flushed and you released his shirt from your grasp. He let out a small grunt, stepping away from you to grab his jacket off the ground, wrinkling it haphazardly in his hand, holding it strategically over his middle. 

Oh, he liked you a lot. 

“You okay, Spence?” You asked all-knowingly, cocking your head to the side, leaning against the wall, lifting a foot to plant against it. 

Spencer shot a set of narrowed eyes at you, as if noting your smirk and storing it for later. “Yeah, I’m great,” he said, obviously struggling a little bit. His eyes quickly left yours and looked everywhere but at you. 

You didn’t want to embarrass him too much. So you just crossed your arms over your chest and looked at the sidewalk. But the smirk on your face wasn’t going away quite so easily. You considered briefly trying to talk to him about baseball or something to try and help him out, but you decided pointing it out would just humiliate him. Plus, it was a nice little ego boost, knowing you could get him like that with just a simple touch. 

He took a second, but he finally cleared his throat and met your gaze. You sucked your front teeth with your tongue and then bit your lip. “Want me to call an Uber?” You asked. 

Spencer just nodded, and you pushed yourself off the wall, stepping over to join him, digging your phone out of your pocket to order the car. “You okay?” You asked him again after submitting the request on your phone. Spencer’s face was still flushed, but he just nodded and reached for your hand. “Careful,” you warned, unable to resist the opportunity to tease him. “Don’t want you having an-“

“Shut up,” Spencer cut you off, and you snickered. 

——————————————————

You had never been in Spencer’s apartment before. It was unmistakably his, with stacks upon stacks of books in lieu of furniture. 

There was a sofa in his living room, along with a coffee table, a couple of lamps, and a television on a stand. The remaining space, besides a few spots here and there and a clear path with which to maneuver the room, was filled with books. 

You had never seen so many books in someone’s possession before. And sure, you were an avid reader yourself. But nothing like this. Your heart fluttered at the sight, not only because books simply just made you happy, but because it was an incredibly endearing detail about Spencer. Your Spencer. 

He shut and locked the door after you stepped inside, looking around with a childlike, awestruck grin. The TV had a thin layer of dust over the screen - he clearly didn’t use it often. And as you trailed a finger along the top of the nearest stack of books, you felt a pair of eyes watching your every move. 

You and Spencer had both been quiet in the Uber ride here. He had simply held your hand, swiping his thumb across the back of your palm every few seconds. You would occasionally meet his gaze, but then quickly, bashfully, look away, like the two of you were teenagers. 

It was so strange to think of what he had said to you - I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met. How had you not figured it out before now? 

You supposed you had been hiding your true feelings as well, so he was allowed to, too. 

There wasn’t any point in wishing to change the past, you reminded yourself. All you should be focusing on is right now. 

And right now, the street lamps peeked in through Spencer’s living room window, glinting off of his endless brown eyes and making them look like he had the moon in his irises. 

“So,” you said softly, not nearly as wicked as you had been when you were teasing him on the street by the bar. “This is where you live.” 

“Uh-huh,” Spencer bobbed his head, that awkward, straight-line smile crossing his face.

“Lot of books,” you pointed out. 

“Yep.” 

You arched a brow, a teasing smile crossing your face once again. “What’s with the monosyllabic conversation?” 

Spencer clenched and unclenched his fists at his side. “It’s just… really difficult to just stand here and not touch you,” he admitted, a sheepish smile crossing his face. 

You grinned. “You can touch me,” your voice dropped an octave, without you even really thinking about it. 

Spencer licked a canine with the tip of his tongue. God, that tongue. You remembered how he’d teased you less than an hour ago outside of the bar. “Maybe I will,” he shrugged, and you rolled your eyes. 

“You can’t really play it cool, right now, Spencer. Not when I just gave you a-“

“Please stop talking,” Spencer laughed, crossing the room and cupping your cheeks in his hands all in the same movement. You snickered and he kissed you and anything you might have been wanting to make fun of him for was forgotten about. 

You pressed your hands against his chest - holy pectorals, Batman - and craned your neck up so you could reach him. Spencer slid his own hands down your arms and to your hips, and you looped your arms around his neck. One palm flattened against the back of his head, holding him in place, fingers curling around pieces of his soft hair. 

Your heart was hammering away, and there was this aching, hot feeling that was pooling in your core and you all of a sudden felt hungry. Starving for Spencer, for every piece of him, for fully and finally crossing that line from friend to lover. An insatiable hunger for nearly every moment since you’d known him.

Finally you broke away from him, simply because oxygen was a necessity, and he rested his forehead against yours. Your eyes were still closed and your fingers ground into his scalp. “Look at me,” he requested, his voice low. 

Your eyes opened obediently and one of Spencer Reid’s hands curled under your chin. His face moved away from yours but his gaze was locked on yours, a pinpoint, a Northern Star. 

And when Spencer spoke again, your knees buckled. 

“I want you.”

Your mouth fell open, ever so slightly, and you nodded. “I want you, too,” you whispered. 

“Are you still…?” He asked, his eyes searching yours. You’d had three drinks earlier that evening, after all, but you’d polished the last one off nearly an hour ago. Maybe not fully sober, but sober enough to know what you wanted. 

“I’m fine,” you assured him. 

Spencer inclined his head to the side. “You’re sure? Can you pass a sobriety test?” 

You narrowed your eyes at him before you realized he was being sarcastic. You stepped back from him, shrugging off his hands, and extended your arms, touching your nose with your left hand, then your right. Spencer just laughed, and reached out for you, tugging you back to him. “Okay,” he chuckled, planting a kiss on your neck. You let him. “You’re fine, then?”

“I’m fine,” you agreed, shrugging him out of his sweater vest, and then reaching for the buttons on his shirt underneath. 

Spencer kissed your neck as you fumbled with the buttons - how were buttons suddenly impossible to undo? Your head craned back just slightly on instinct, wanting - needing - to allow Spencer more access. Your dexterity had become abysmal at this point, and Spencer’s lips were kissing your neck, down your throat, teasing at your collarbone. “Spencer,” you managed to groan out, a wave of annoyance present in your tone. 

“What?” he asked, pulling back, concern filling his face. 

You realized you had actually worried him. “Oh, no, no,” you waved it away, and he visibly relaxed. “I’m just really frustrated, because… because your shirt,” you stammered, and Spencer’s mouth twitched up into a smirk. 

“My shirt,” he stated. 

“That one, right here,” You laughed softly, curling your fingers around the buttons. You managed to wiggle one free, then another. Spencer leaned forward to continue kissing your neck, but you held a hand up to stop him. “Hang on,” you murmured, working through another button, and one more. “I’m concentrating.” 

“You’re sticking your tongue out,” Spencer snickered. Your eyes met his and your cheeks flushed.

“I’m concentrating!” Your voice rose slightly in self-defense. Spencer’s hands went to your hips. 

“It’s adorable,” he told you. “You make the same face at work. When you’re in the middle of filling out a form or trying to open a new bottle of coffee creamer without spilling it,” Spencer rubbed circles in your hips and your fingers stopped working again. 

“You noticed that kind of stuff?” You asked softly, looking up at him with doe eyes.

Spencer just nodded. “All the time.” 

I’ve had feelings for you since the day we met.

You inhaled sharply, finally undoing the last button.The skin beneath the shirt was pale, smooth, and perfect. And when he slid his arms through the sleeves and the shirt fell to the ground, you bit your lip, unable to help it. 

“Y/N?” 

You met Spencer’s gaze and let out this awkward little laugh. Embarrassing, really, if you hadn’t been in the company of your best friend. “You okay?” he asked, and you felt a little giddy as you nodded, moving your hands to his neck and standing on your toes to kiss him again. 

You didn’t know which direction the bedroom was in, so you just took a guess, pushing him back towards one of the doors. He kept his hands on your hips and his lips pressed against yours as he guided you, walking backwards, to the right door. You entered the bedroom and could not possibly be bothered to look around right now, not when Spencer was guiding you in a circle by merely touching your hips, not when the back of your knees hit what was unmistakably a mattress, not when you fell back against it. 

Your eyes were shut, unwilling to take in your surroundings as Spencer guided you onto your back. You toed off your shoes before lifting your legs, and Spencer hovered over you. Your lips were locked with his the entire time. And when you finally opened your eyes and you saw only Spencer, you grinned like a fool. 

Spencer’s fingers were like taking a shower. They were all over you - your hips, first, then your stomach, and you had to resist the urge to giggle because they tickled as he teased the bottom hem of your shirt up. You sat up slightly to get the blouse over your head and you watched him discard it onto the floor. And then his hands were over your chest, thumbs teasing under the wire of your bra, outlining the shapes of your breasts. 

Your breathing had gone heavy and staccato by this point, your body sinking into the mattress, shipwrecked as Spencer touched you. His eyes wandered over your and that little smile on his face was enough for you to know that he was immensely enjoying himself. 

“Can I…?” Spencer’s hands wandered down and gripped your pants as he looked into your eyes, a brow arched. 

You swallowed a lump in your throat and your blush appeared over your cheeks at the same time as his. “Yeah,” you whispered, and Spencer helped you wiggle out of your pants - black slacks, since you had gone straight from work to the bar. They were soon tossed to the floor, and you were only in your underwear and your bra. And Spencer’s brown eyes did not make you feel objectified or embarrassed, but safe. 

“You’re so beautiful, Y/N,” he told you, seriously, and your breath hitched in your throat. 

“You-”

“I’m not done,” Spencer cut you off, lifting a hand to run his thumb down your chin. “You’re so beautiful. And you’re so kind, and smart, and funny. And I’d really like to show you how much I care about you,” he looked into your eyes as a sort of request. 

“I’m not on birth control,” You breathed out in response, feeling your cheeks redden for even bringing it up. Way to damper the mood. Still, you wanted to be responsible. “Do you have a c-”

Spencer’s soft smile turned into a wicked grin and he shook his head. “We’re not going to need one,” he promised, and after looking into his eyes for a moment, you understood. 

________________________________________

Spencer had thoroughly worshiped you, until you quaked and cried out with absolutely no thought to how thin his apartment walls might be. Usually, you didn’t allow yourself to be the center of attention for too long, but Spencer had insisted, and, well, you couldn’t very well deny him what he wanted, right? 

Covered in a thin sheen of sweat, your hair matted to the back of your neck, Spencer finally lay down beside you. Your breathing was just starting to come back to you as you turned on your side to face him. Spencer’s body mirrored yours, the tips of his fingers - those fingers - trailing up the side of your arm. “That was…” his voice was soft, gravelly, and he looked at you like you had anything to do with it. It was literally all him. “Incredible.” 

“Yeah,” you managed to breathe out, unable to really focus on anything besides the curve of Spencer’s lips, the way the apples of his cheeks appeared when he smiled like this. Spencer kissed your lips, unlike any way he had before. All the other kisses tonight had been hungry and excited, exploratory and new. This one was lazy and slow and you let his tongue dance across yours, and when he finally pulled away, your nose scrunched up in delight. 

Your eyes traveled from his lips, down his neck, his collarbone, then back up, taking him in. The glow of his skin, the tired yet exhilarated look in his eyes. So different now than at the beginning of the night, when he’d looked at you with that slightly annoyed expression as you had tried to set him up with other women. You recalled how he had gone off to that group of three women right before you’d abandoned the bar, how he had struck out on purpose just to satiate your nagging. “What’d you say to those women tonight?” You asked him curiously, furrowing your brows at him. 

Spencer, in turn, arched his brows at you. “Why?” 

“Because I’m curious,” you said as his fingers continued to trail, feather-light, up and down your arm. You traced your thumb along his jawline, stopping at his chin. “You were obviously blowing it on purpose.” 

Spencer rolled his eyes. “I actually do have some game, despite what Morgan might say,” he said, his tone defensive. 

You snickered. “Sure you do, Spence. Took you, what, eight months, to get me in your bed?” 

Spencer shot a playful glare at you and pinched the skin on your arm. You squeaked in response and he just laughed. “I just asked them how they were doing tonight,” he said finally, and you knew just from the look on his face that he was lying. 

“You did not,” you pushed back. “Come on, Reid, spill it.” 

“Ok, fine,” Spencer heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, sitting up in the bed, his back against the headboard. You sat up, too, looking at him with concern. Why was he so embarrassed? “I told them… Jesus.” Spencer rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb and his forefinger. “I told them I was here with a coworker that I had a massive crush on, and that you were trying to set me up with someone else,” he began. 

You started to smile. 

Spencer continued. “I told them that I had absolutely no interest in going home with anyone tonight, and that I had been purposefully striking out all night long because I couldn’t stand the thought of even trying to look at someone the way I look at you.” 

Your smile grew and you moved to sit on your knees, inching closer to Spencer and throwing one leg over him, effectively straddling him against the mattress. “So I asked them,” Spencer continued, his lips turning slowly from an exasperated frown to a small smile. “I asked them if they could just look at me like I had said something stupid, and then I would leave them alone.” 

“Did they say anything to that?” You asked as Spencer’s hands found your hips, contouring to match the curves into the small of your back. 

Spencer’s voice got slightly lower, more serious, when he said, “The girl in the middle did. She said ‘that girl definitely has feelings for you, too’. And then they did what I asked, and I walked back over to you.” 

“She did not say that,” you rolled your eyes, just as Spencer kissed your lips. 

“I have an eidetic memory, Y/N,” he reminded you in a low whisper, as his lips lingered against yours. “Would I lie to you about that?”