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anythingdrabbleTitle: Beware of Platitudinous Ponderosity
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairings: Reid/Morgan
Word Count: 500
Rating: General
Some philosopher or another said that life was a string of bitter moments, sown together, tied with the twine of pleasant memories-- something like that Spencer doesn't have the time to search for. Well, Derek is that twine in a series of rather tragic life events, like a candle in the dark, the relief of a warm mug on an iced-over day— Reid's burning fire in the rain and haze. So, like a reasonable person, after debating with himself for three to five years, Reid decides to confess. He procures beautiful flowers with truth in meaning and a 'perfect' coffee shop after watching Morgan's slender, pretty fingers pour sugar and handle steaming mugs for so long, then promptly decides to woo Derek with things the once-beat-cop enjoys. Once imagining Derek frequenting an establishment with him, his smile, his brown, deep eyes, Reid commits to the plan.
The only hitch in the plan comes from his caffeine-addled mind, but then, it isn't his mind but his entire fucking body. He is forced to personate a benevolent god's shitty machinations. It isn't enough to take away the good things in life. Life, as it turns out, has the gall to leave you with so much more of its utter bullshit and blueprints that are just bad enough to prompt screaming into Nietzsche's black abyss. Spilling coffee on Morgan's jeans when he's about to confess isn't part of the script.
"My bad," Morgan fumbles, stumbling, "sorry."
Morgan's brows furrow as he reaches to scrub the little stain ruining his suit pants, and butterflies twinkle in Reid's stomach.
An articulate, wise, intelligent man-- Mark Twain, actually, once said: "In promulgating your esoteric cogitations, or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity." or, in other words, don't be unnecessarily wordy; unfortunately, a wise man acknowledges the limitless unknowns, and Spencer Reid is not that man, and he is winded, smart, intelligent, but yet to be properly wise, and very, very wordy.
"Sorry, sorry. W-well," Reid shakily sighs, neurotic thoughts permeating his brain as his tongue tempts itself closer to his teeth, nearly forming syllables. It attempts to manipulate him into delivering an impromptu declaration of love with nothing more than half-psychotic ramblings as fuel. "It's --- was for you. Now it's spilled. Yeah."
Morgan notices the flowers in his other hand, stilling instantly. Reid watches the exact moment Morgan pieces the clues together.
"Those flowers are for me, then?"
Reid nods. Nods with big wide eyes.
"Yeah," Reid shifts to his other foot, "Uh." Reid thrusts them out awkwardly. "They're for you— Uh, you noticed the asters, huh? I wanted to confess, accompany you, uh, well, itdidn'tgoaccordingtoplan— actually, I planned a perhaps-more-superior bouquet but authenticity beckoned— rather, I thought you'd like southern asters— well, you do—"
Morgan nods slowly, gently, comprehending everything, and suddenly the butterflies in Reid's stomach become ballistic hives.
"Yeah." Reid finishes. "Uh. Go out with me?"
Morgan mellowly smiles, closes his eyes, and leans forward.
Fandom: Criminal Minds
Characters/Pairings: Reid/Morgan
Word Count: 500
Rating: General
Some philosopher or another said that life was a string of bitter moments, sown together, tied with the twine of pleasant memories-- something like that Spencer doesn't have the time to search for. Well, Derek is that twine in a series of rather tragic life events, like a candle in the dark, the relief of a warm mug on an iced-over day— Reid's burning fire in the rain and haze. So, like a reasonable person, after debating with himself for three to five years, Reid decides to confess. He procures beautiful flowers with truth in meaning and a 'perfect' coffee shop after watching Morgan's slender, pretty fingers pour sugar and handle steaming mugs for so long, then promptly decides to woo Derek with things the once-beat-cop enjoys. Once imagining Derek frequenting an establishment with him, his smile, his brown, deep eyes, Reid commits to the plan.
The only hitch in the plan comes from his caffeine-addled mind, but then, it isn't his mind but his entire fucking body. He is forced to personate a benevolent god's shitty machinations. It isn't enough to take away the good things in life. Life, as it turns out, has the gall to leave you with so much more of its utter bullshit and blueprints that are just bad enough to prompt screaming into Nietzsche's black abyss. Spilling coffee on Morgan's jeans when he's about to confess isn't part of the script.
"My bad," Morgan fumbles, stumbling, "sorry."
Morgan's brows furrow as he reaches to scrub the little stain ruining his suit pants, and butterflies twinkle in Reid's stomach.
An articulate, wise, intelligent man-- Mark Twain, actually, once said: "In promulgating your esoteric cogitations, or articulating your superficial sentimentalities and amicable, philosophical or psychological observations, beware of platitudinous ponderosity." or, in other words, don't be unnecessarily wordy; unfortunately, a wise man acknowledges the limitless unknowns, and Spencer Reid is not that man, and he is winded, smart, intelligent, but yet to be properly wise, and very, very wordy.
"Sorry, sorry. W-well," Reid shakily sighs, neurotic thoughts permeating his brain as his tongue tempts itself closer to his teeth, nearly forming syllables. It attempts to manipulate him into delivering an impromptu declaration of love with nothing more than half-psychotic ramblings as fuel. "It's --- was for you. Now it's spilled. Yeah."
Morgan notices the flowers in his other hand, stilling instantly. Reid watches the exact moment Morgan pieces the clues together.
"Those flowers are for me, then?"
Reid nods. Nods with big wide eyes.
"Yeah," Reid shifts to his other foot, "Uh." Reid thrusts them out awkwardly. "They're for you— Uh, you noticed the asters, huh? I wanted to confess, accompany you, uh, well, itdidn'tgoaccordingtoplan— actually, I planned a perhaps-more-superior bouquet but authenticity beckoned— rather, I thought you'd like southern asters— well, you do—"
Morgan nods slowly, gently, comprehending everything, and suddenly the butterflies in Reid's stomach become ballistic hives.
"Yeah." Reid finishes. "Uh. Go out with me?"
Morgan mellowly smiles, closes his eyes, and leans forward.
