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juniorgman187 · 4 years

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Something Borrowed, Something Blue (Reid Fic)

*MY GIF

Summary: Despite her engagement to someone else, Spencer grapples with the reality that he’s in love with SSA Reader when he sees her in her wedding dress.

A/N: I am so fucking proud of Spencer’s speech that I wrote. Playlist: Till Forever Falls Apart by Ashe + FINNEAS This song hurts so good :,) Category: Fluffy happy ending! Pairing: Fem!Reader x Spencer Reid Content Warning: possible unrequited love, soft angst Word Count: 6k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

Call it a superpower or a sixth sense, but I had this inexplicable, preternatural ability to detect when we weren’t heading in the right direction - a skill unaffected by even shut eyes or the deepest slumber.

It seems as though after all these years of being (y/n)’s passenger, my body has developed a survival adaptation in order to offer her guidance before she would even have to ask, or worse - lower her pride and admit she’s lost!

With as hard-headed as she is, she’d sooner drive us to Timbuktu before asking me for help.

I was half-asleep when I peeked through one half-lidded eye to observe where we were only to see she blew right by Gregory Boulevard when she should’ve turned left on it.

“Um, you should make a u-turn at this next light,” I gently advised her before returning my head to its previous position perched on my hand. I closed my eyes again with the presumption she would follow my navigation and make a u-turn, but when I didn’t feel the car change course, I opened them to see that she blew right past the stoplight, too.

“Hey, my apartment’s that way.” I gestured behind us while looking at her for the first time, catching a smug look on her face. That’s when I knew I was in for it. “Where are you taking me?”

“You’ll see.”

“You know I don’t like surprises,” I grumbled, slumping back into my seat with partially renewed energy. Her little antics never failed to get my heart racing. I never knew whether to expect a sweet sunset or a sea of snakes when it came to her. She was that polarizing. “Can I at least get a hint?” I egged on, considering she had yet to even reply to my first statement.

She was completely unfazed by my pleading. She didn’t even peel her eyes away from the road - that’s how little attention she thought I deserved. “Mmm depends. What’s the magic word?”

This blatant tease was successfully getting a rise out of me. “Pleaseee,” I dragged out the word as if it would do me any good to let her hear it for longer, but in reality, she just liked to hear me beg.

She took a sharp intake of breath through gritted teeth, a chupse, to express her displeasure before saying, “Ooh tough luck. The magic word was actually mushroom, but nice try.”

A mirthless chuckle escaped me for willingly falling for her tricks despite knowing she’d pull something just like that. This girl was the bane of my existence, but at least she still rewarded me with a hint anyway.

“Your hint is …” While pondering what hint to give me, her eyes traveled to the side, away from the road long enough to make my heart palpitate in a “if-she-doesn’t-pay-attention-to-the-road, we’re-both-gonna-die” kind of way.

“... something old.”

Again, she tore her eyes away from the road so she could register my reaction, but truthfully, I didn’t have one. I had no idea what that hint meant. Or rather I had too many ideas, far too many to limit to just one.

She could’ve been talking about the age of a location, the history of a place, the vintage appearance of something - virtually anything.

“There’s an infinite amount of possibilities about what that could mean,” I argued. “If you actually want me to guess, you’ll have to give me something more.”

As expected, she was not a fan of my whining and simply rolled her eyes at me. “Oh, stop complaining and use that big brain of yours. I’m sure you’ll figure it out before we even get there.”

Although there was a high probability she was right that I could’ve solved it by myself, it was more enticing to feed off of what she could give me. “What if I ask you ‘yes or no’ questions?”

The gears in her head were turning as she weighed the pros and cons of humoring my offer. “You better ask some good questions then,” was her answer, which was the long way of saying yes.

“Is this ‘something old’ an object?”

She hesitated, then decided on, “No.” So I took that as maybe.

“Is this ‘something old’ a place?”

There was no indecision with this answer. “No.”

“Is this ‘something old’ as in appearance?”

Again, a partial hesitation, but still ultimately a, “No.”

Realizing I pretty much exhausted the tangible, I settled for something more abstract. “Is this ‘something old’ a concept?”

“Yes, you could say that.”

Her answer would prove to be redundant, as just seconds after we would arrive at our mystery destination.

Ellie’s Bridal Boutique.

“Something old, something new. Something borrowed, something blue.” I recited to myself under my breath when I finally unearthed the meaning. The rhyme was a wedding tradition that referred to the things a bride is supposed to wear on her wedding day that’s meant to provide protection and prosperity for the new couple - a superstition.

“Ding! Ding! Ding!” She mimicked the sound of a winning buzzer. “And you are going to be my something old.”

A short chuckle left me as I stepped out of the car. “Oh yeah? What are you gonna do - wear me?” I jested.

“Well you are a very pretty boy, but I don’t know if you’re pretty enough to wear down the aisle.”

“So then how am I going to be your something old? I’m only two years older than you.”

She stopped dead in her tracks on the sidewalk to reach for my hand. I’d be lying if I said the chilling warmth of it didn’t make my breath hitch. My eyes fell to where our bodies met, but they rose to look at her again when she finally spoke.

“You’re the very first person I met when I started working in the BAU, which makes you my oldest friend on the team, and since you were the first one that saw me, I wanted you to be the first one that saw me in my dress, too.”

I was already aware that she’d picked out her wedding gown months before, so this appointment couldn’t have been anything more than an alteration update. The only reason I knew that, besides the obvious, was because I could still remember with perfect clarity the morning she came into work after her fitting. She marched right up to my desk to wave a picture of her in the garment right in my face. It wasn’t until I drew back with my head that I could see the image clearly. The dress, while incredibly stunning on her, ‘didn’t fit right’ - her words, not mine.

“But that’s not how it’s actually gonna look on me. I asked them to take in the waist, change the neckline, and alter the length.” She vividly described to me, letting her finger run over the digital photo of the dress as she spoke. “Do you see what I mean?”

I lied when I said, “Yeah, I do,” because really, I didn’t need her to describe the details to me - I could already see the vision. Even if the dress was the wrong color, length, and ‘poofiness,’ I’d still think she’d look lovely.

It was my only hope that her future husband would think so, too.

“I’m (y/n) (y/l/n). I’m here for my alteration with Reagan at 4.” Just as quickly as she introduced herself to the receptionist, she was being whisked away by an older woman who seemed to have recognized her.

“Oh, (y/n)! It’s so good to see you again! Come, come, your dress is ready. I just know you’ll love it.”

Before she slipped out of my vision completely, (y/n) turned around to address me. “I’ll be right back, I promise. Just wait here.”

I raised my hand in the air to give a short acknowledgment goodbye and followed her instruction to sit in the chair that lied directly in front of a circular raised platform.

“Are you the groom?” A soft voice from beside me suddenly asked. I looked up to see it was the receptionist holding a tray with a glass of champagne.

“Oh, I’m okay thank you,” I denied the alcohol with a shake of my head. “And no, no I’m not. Just an … an old friend.” Again, her words, not mine.

It would come as a surprise to both me and you that with as much as I know about the world, I had no idea how long this would take before I saw her again. With my estimates, it should take maybe fifteen minutes maximum before she walked out in her dress, but who knows? It’s (y/n) after all. She runs on her own clock. The sun rises and sets on her.

At least in my world it does.

By around minute 17, I realized my estimates were way off and there was no way she’d be coming out any time soon, so with all that I could do in that store having been done already, the only thing left for me to do was read. Nothing of quality, though. Just those frivolous bridal magazines on the coffee table beside me. I didn’t even want to think about the germs and bacteria that were harboring on these reading materials, but if it meant it’d cure my boredom then perhaps the contraction of microbes would be worth it.

To say I wasn’t well-versed in fashion would be an understatement and reading the subscriptions only emphasized that further. To put it in perspective, you could style my future bride in a medieval frock and it wouldn’t discourage me whatsoever because I simply have no understanding of what a ‘good’ wedding dress is, therefore, I cannot make an accurate comparison.

Take, for example, the dress on page 17 of Modern Bride. The model was donning a high neck, long sleeve creme satin dress. I thought it looked quite nice and classic, but the excerpt described it as totally out of style and too old - a faux pas.

But when comparing that dress to the gown on page 24 of The Bride’s Guide, I couldn’t spot a single difference between the two, yet this passage was written in complete adoration. “This dress is vintage done right,” said the article. But to me - they were exactly identical! What was wrong with the first one?

Maybe it was a good thing grooms weren’t allowed to help pick wedding dresses because if I had to assist my bride in picking her’s, then, of course, it would be bad luck! I’d probably pick something utterly horrendous!

I had to admit it was slightly humiliating to confront my incompetence relating to wedding dresses, so before my self-esteem plummeted any further, I set the magazines back in their rightful place on the coffee table so they could once again be what they were always intended for - extraneous decor.

With a flick of my watch, I noted the period of waiting had only increased by three minutes. Again, I had yet to master the art of wedding garment fittings, but how was 20 minutes not enough time to put a dress on? However, unlike my better half, I had (relatively) zero problems admitting my ignorance, whereas she’d rather drive us off a cliff or into a lake before letting me know she was lost.

In surrender to my lack of knowledge, I rose from my seat to approach the receptionist and ask if she had a more accurate estimate for how long it would be until I saw (y/n) again. But as it turns out, any estimate she might’ve been able to tell me would’ve been completely wrong for she wouldn’t have even been able to finish her answer before the aforementioned future bride entered the space behind me.

Remember before when I said I had no gauges of good fashion to outrank a medieval frock? Well, I stand corrected.

(Y/n) in her dress is what I will measure everyone against. And no one will ever compare.

“Wow…” The word came out of my mouth before I could think to stop it. My tone was so honest that it scared me. “I’m - You’re …” I was at a total loss for words that I had to sit back down to hopefully regain some clarity. She laughed at my stupidity with a laugh so gentle, I couldn’t not laugh back.

“That good, huh?”

I wordlessly nodded while my mouth lied openly in waiting. But the right words never came out; there just weren’t any that could capture this vision of perfection in front of me.

My mannerisms had clearly already given away the true level of my admiration, so in an effort to lessen the enormity of my obvious wonderment, I reluctantly broke my gaze away from the angel in white and picked up a magazine on the table to perfect the notion of nonchalance.

“You look . . .” She impatiently waited for my addition, even doing the most adorable little twirl in her dress to give me the full view in the meantime. “Nice,” was the adjective I settled for, as it was such a thoughtless response that perhaps it would convince her that there weren’t a million thoughts on my mind. The most recurring one, and arguably the most troubling one being: I think I’m in love with you.

“Nice?” She repeated like the word stung her tongue, more out of mock offense than earnest disappointment. “You’re reading your magazine upside down so it’s gotta be better than nice.”

I bashfully looked down to find that, sure enough, her words were true. The magazine was upside down and therefore a total revelation of just how ‘nice’ I really thought she looked.

I tried to hide my smile behind my knuckles as I pressed a fist to my lips, deciding on the most sincere compliment I could give her.

“Nobody holds a candle to you, (y/n),” I nodded in affirmation. “You look absolutely beautiful.”

After saying so, I nonchalantly - well as nonchalantly as one could when caught slack-jawed and completely in awe - reoriented the catalog. Had I glanced up even a second later, I might not have caught her reaction to my words and the way they made her smile uncontrollably. I looked back down at the magazine with a smirk, giving it a brief flick to open up the pages all the way to me and parrot the motions one would make if they were actually reading.

We both knew I wasn’t though.

It seemed I never left that wedding boutique because even as we arrived outside my apartment later that day, my mind was still there, stuck on the future bride in her gown.

“Earth to Spencer!” She waved her hand in front of me to grab my attention despite already having it. “We’re here!” She announced. Who was I kidding? She always had my attention. I only wish it didn’t take me this long to realize that the reason she was constantly at the front of my mind was that I loved her.

Nearly about to exit the car, the millionth and one thought rang in my head like a bell - wedding bells, if you will.

Speak now or forever hold your peace.

At a tantalizingly slow speed, I released the doorknob and turned back towards her.

“...I love you.”

She furrowed her brows and shrugged with her mouth, forming a confused pout. “I love you, too, Reid?” She kind of laughed when she said it, so I knew she thought this was just a friend sending off a friend goodbye, but I couldn’t let her think that’s what I meant.

“No, not like that.” I clarified with the utmost candor. “I’m in love with you.” I shook my head when I said it which, in any other context, might make you think I was lying, but the shake of my head was merely the physical manifestation of every bone in my body knowing I shouldn’t be saying this, but my heart still having the audacity to do it anyway.

I confessed with that brutally honest tone again, the one so raw and vulnerable it leaves you nauseous and breathless all at once as you anxiously anticipate the other person’s response to your vulnerability. But I couldn’t even meet her eyes, I was too scared. Even if I had, they would’ve been vacant. Her spirit had vanished from her body, and in its departure left just the shell of a woman who was completely void of color. Her flushed face was a remnant of the shock that paralyzed her and it wouldn’t disappear even as I tried to bring her color back.

“I’m so sorry, (y/n). I wish I had better timing - trust me, I will beat myself up later for not saying it sooner. But I promise you, I am not trying to ruin things between you two and I would never actually try to stand in the way of your wedding - you have to believe me. I want you to be happy and if he’s what makes you happy, then I will live with that. I just had to tell you now because ... if you married him without ever knowing how I felt, I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself.”

This was true - I wouldn’t have been able to forgive myself if I hadn’t said anything - but now that I have - will she be able to forgive me?

Vacant stares turned into piercing glares that drove, what felt like, a thousand daggers right through my heart. She was looking at me as though I were a stranger - completely unrecognizable to her.

(Y/n), it’s me. It’s Spencer. Don’t you remember me? My heart pleaded. I’m still the same guy I was before. I’m the first friend you made on the team, remember? I’m your something old. Please, please remember me.

By the time I came to the woeful conclusion that she wouldn’t reply, at least not now, there was only one question weighing on my heart heavily enough to make me ask it before I left her car.

“Would it have been better if I didn’t tell you?”

My question stayed answerless even as I lingered at the door after getting out, waiting for one. I knew I should’ve closed it, but I couldn’t. In many ways, it would’ve been shutting the only open vessel to her, formally closing myself off from our friendship. The possibility of losing her as soon as I walked away was too real, and I wasn’t ready yet.

“Please, (y/n), talk to me.” It was a trending theme to have every word I spoke be underlined by this profound piteousness. “Say something.” Say anything.

“I ... I need to get home,” She quietly whimpered, practically begging me to let her go. Up until then, I didn’t want to, but I suddenly wished I had shut the door sooner so that I might not have had to hear the quiet addition, “To my fiancé.”

The color she was so void of in her face? It seems I must have recompensed, for not only was I crowned her something old that day, but I was also her something blue.

_ _ _

If there were a guidebook on all the things to do as the love of your life’s wedding (to someone else) nears, I’d like to think I was following all the protocol.

Since my not-so-subtle confession, I had yet to press the subject or force her for an answer to my final question, which I think she was thankful for. I also hadn’t plotted a giant scheme to ruin the wedding, nor did I have any intentions of doing so.

For all intents and purposes, I was acting as a gentleman (who’s in love with you but whom you’re not marrying) ideally should.

You would think that after my big declaration, (y/n) would do everything in her power to avoid me. It’s what I would’ve done. But she’s no coward. That exact heart of gold I fell in love with made no exceptions. Because even after what I did, she still had it in her to extend her kindness to me.

She’s stubborn like that, remember?

And though she was showering me with a treatment I didn’t deserve, it still wasn’t enough for my greedy heart.

The true pain lied in the pretending. Every day I would have to come to work and talk with her and laugh with her and smile with her - I would have to be her friend … pretending that was all that I wanted and nothing more.

It was both a blessing and a curse that she was acting just as she always had with me. It may seem weird to have expected, nay - wanted - a different reaction from her, but I just wanted something. At least, if she was angry, then I would know what I said had some effect on her, but she was just so indifferent. Like what I said didn’t matter.

It’s been said that there is a thin line between love and hatred. Hate and love both seem to be involved in the neural processing of what is sometimes referred to as the arousal effect of emotion - this is a technical term, so arousal can be negative. Scientists studying the physical nature of hate have found that some of the nervous circuits in the brain responsible for it are the same as those that are used during the feeling of romantic love – although love and hate appear to be polar opposites. Therefore, the same brain circuitry is involved in both extreme emotions. So, as strange as it may sound, if she didn’t love me, then I at least wanted her to hate me, just so I’d know she had any passion for me that matched my burning passion for her.

But as it turns out, she would never go on to display signs of hatred or love, for she never acted passive-aggressively, never gave me the silent treatment - nothing. Nope, she just acted as if it never happened. She went on with her life, essentially expecting me to do the same, but how could I carry on with life while she was still carrying half of my heart with her?

It’s an impossible feat, that - to walk around with half a heart. And it’s one that has not gotten easier with time. If anything, time has made it worse, and the closer we got to the wedding, the more difficult it became for me to hold back. And with this exponential growth, it was only inevitable that the pinnacle of difficulty came right before the wedding.

Before shit hit the fan, she arranged, or rather insisted, that I give a speech at the dinner rehearsal. That hadn’t changed, despite almost everything else having done so. Up until the minute I arrived at the venue, I could’ve recited that speech a million times, forwards and backwards, in my sleep, or even in Russian. But I lost any ability to form coherent thoughts from the second I laid eyes on her.

As soon as I opened the door, she stood at the entrance to greet her guests, having taken a radiant form that I could only imagine would not pale in comparison to what she would look like tomorrow on her actual wedding day. That thought alone scared me shitless.

If this is how beautiful she looked tonight and it was only just the rehearsal, how would I ever be able to resist her less than 24 hours from now when she would be marrying a man I could only dream of being half so lucky as?

“Spencer!” Familiar crinkles formed around her eyes as a result of her gigantic smile when she saw me and hugged me thereafter. Her embrace was strangely tighter and lasted for longer than usual, not that I was complaining, but I had to wonder if she was compensating for something. What’s that saying - keep your friends close, and your enemies closer? Was she killing me with kindness? That might’ve been wishful thinking though. Because the same flash of indifference I’d been dealt in recent times came back into her face and tone after hugging me. “You’re at table five with the rest of the team.”

“Oh, thanks.”

That was it? Just a ‘Spencer!’ and then a nudge in the direction of my seat? No questions about my speech? No threatening comments to not say anything that would ruin the charade we’d been playing for months now? Had she forgotten I was even giving a speech?

“Oh, wait, Spencer!” I felt her hand on my shoulder before I heard her voice. “You left this in my car a couple months ago. I’ve been meaning to give it back to you, but I didn’t remember until today.”

The first thing that raised a red flag was what she was saying. I’d left something in her car? That would imply that I’d forgotten something, and we both knew that wasn’t possible. But the second suspicious element was the matter of what she claimed I’d left behind. She was handing me a book with the back cover facing me. From the looks of it alone, it wasn’t mine. Clearly, it wasn’t mine. I knew every single book that resides on my shelves and this one has never once crossed them. That, on top of the new book smell and the lack of a wear in the spine, was enough to tell me that not only was this a book I’d never read nor was one to grace my bookshelf, but it was most certainly not one I would have left behind.

She was lying.

She saw the realization dawn on me, but knowing I would mention it, her hand’s grip around my wrist, which I hadn’t noticed was even there in the first place, tightened, sending me a message.

She knew I saw the deception. There were so many flaws in what she was saying, that she couldn’t have possibly been clueless of them. It was too easy. Or maybe that was by design. She wanted me to figure out it was a lie. But why?

What was she hiding?

The final thing to leave me when she did was her hand. In its place, it had left a a near perfect indentation in my sleeve. How flawlessly it sculpted to her hand told me just how tightly she was holding me. What was she trying to say?

That’s when I flipped the book over to see the cover.

Can Love Happen Twice?

And right on the inside cover page was scribbled - in a handwriting so distinctive it could only belong to one person and one person alone - “Yes.”

_ _ _

My heart was racing the entire night as I anxiously awaited for the moment to give my speech. Nothing seemed to ease the tension. Not a sip of water, not the loosening of my tie, not the self-soothing bouncing of my leg. But all it took, all it took was one glance from her and suddenly, the storm within me had settled.

“Next up we have a speech from Spencer Reid!”

I rose from my seat like a floundering mess, as to be expected, because how can you possibly catch your bearings as you’re about to make a speech to a room full of people?

“H-hi there. I’m Dr. Spen- I’m Spencer Reid. I’ve worked with (y/n) for several years now and - and so I, um, I wrote this speech for her, so, so I’m gonna read it to you all now,” My stammering had gotten the best of me, so before I could unravel into the mess I surely came off as right about now, I spun from my previous position facing the majority to facing only her. I needed to see her. I needed the reprieve of her eyes again, and she was happy to give it to me.

“(Y/n), from the moment I met you, I thought who is she? And I mean that quite literally because I had no idea who you were and why you were there,” Laughter from the crowd erupted, but her laugh was the only one that mattered to me. “But also because there was just something about you that told me I needed to talk to you. I had no idea what that instinct to strike up a conversation with you would lead to, but I trust my gut a little more now because that very intuition gave me one of the best friends I’ve ever had.”

To my words, an endeared pout formed on her face. She was touched, and I was glad.

“Over the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years we’ve spent together, I have enjoyed every single measure of time with you. You have taught me more about life and myself than I could have ever learned otherwise - which says a lot,” This once again brought her to laughter. “So I thank you for that, because without you, there would be no one to tell my campfire stories to, there would be no one who could recite Jung or Freud with me, and there would be no one I’d have to correct when they drive down the wrong path,” My own chuckle cut my sentence short.

“Life with you has simply been made better, and my only hope is that tomorrow, as you get married, you too, will experience that eternal bliss with which you have surely bestowed upon everyone who has had the privilege of knowing you.”

By now both of us were on the verge of tears, hers more apparent than mine as she used the palm of her hand to stifle her sniffles.

“There is so much more I could say about how great you are, but your favorite author, F. Scott Fitzgerald, has said it best. ‘She was beautiful, but not like those girls in the magazines. She was beautiful, for the way she thought. She was beautiful, for the sparkle in her eyes when she talked about something she loved. She was beautiful, for her ability to make other people smile, even if she was sad. No she wasn’t beautiful for something as temporary as her looks. She was beautiful, deep down to her soul. She is beautiful’,” A tear ran down her cheek as my own eyes welled up beyond their means. “So to you both - may you have a life as beautiful as the bride.”

Even if that life isn’t with me.

I tuned out all the clapping and cheering, and set my focus solely on her, giving me full liberty to see the way she rose from her chair and escaped the room. Not even shock could paralyze me or stop me from running after her. I sprung so fast into action, which required the maximum amount adrenaline, although I could not credit my speed to the rush, but it was more the exclusive motivation to find her that powered me. The entire time I kept calling out her name as I frantically chased her out of the venue.

“Spencer.”

I didn’t even see her there at first, probably because I was half-expecting her to be jumping into a cab or running away from me some more when I found her, but just as before, she made it too easy for me. She was waiting for me, standing there in no spectacular fashion.

The wind was blowing strands of hair in her face that were not so large so that I couldn’t see the red rings around her eyes that were caused by the irritation and formation of tears. She was simply staring back at me with this look in her eyes as if she wanted to say something.

In the silence, I could still appreciate how astonishingly gorgeous she was. How badly I wanted her. I would’ve whisked her away and taken her as mine if I knew it would make her happy. But that’s just it - I didn’t know.

I needed her to say it. So say it.

Say it, darling.

Spoken through a congested voice (which spoke volumes in reality because of the mere revelation that she was indeed crying) was the plainest, “I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that, she vanished back into the restaurant, leaving me to my devices on the sidewalk.

She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to.

_ _ _

Perhaps the false confidence in my speech or what little she had to say to me after it or even the hidden message in the book got to my head, but whatever it was, I was feeling suspiciously alright. Luckily, that feeling didn’t deviate even as I made my way to the church.

Upon arrival, everything seemed exactly as it should be, so consequently the lack of something out of place did not adequately denote what lied just beyond those doors. Or should I say what didn’t?

Much to my mortification, it was a completely empty church. Every pew, though decorated for a wedding, was uninhabited and showed no indications of having been such recently. As I walked further in, the door automatically shut behind me with a loud bang. It would’ve shocked me more had something else not caught my attention already.

It was (y/n), standing at the altar … completely alone.

Suddenly, it felt like I’d been drawn in by this invisible gravity, which was now floating me down the aisle. My feet could not carry me to her fast enough.

I was sure this was some kind of dream simply by the way the light gleamed through the stained glass windows, casting banners of golden luminescence on her. It was as if heaven itself had come down with the specific delegation to illuminate the vision of one of its fallen angels.

“(Y/n)?” My voice reverberated throughout the chapel, ricocheting off the high, painted ceilings and back to me. “Where is everyone?”

It wasn’t until I reached a certain point in the middle aisle, that I realized her veil had been covering her face this entire time. The angel in white only turned more heavenly when she flipped the veil backward, revealing herself to me.

It took her a moment to answer, but it was her head that answered first before her mouth did. She began shaking her head slowly, followed by a short, unequivocal, “No.”

As you might imagine, I was dumbfounded. “No?” That answer wouldn’t have made sense in the context of what I had previously asked.

“No.” She repeated, with somehow even more definitiveness. I decided it was best to stay silent and wait for her explanation.

“No, it wouldn’t have been better if you didn’t tell me.”

There was my answer I’d been searching for.

“God, Spencer - what took you so long?”

From the breathlessness and the rushed cadence of her voice, I knew precisely what was coming next. She instantaneously abandoned the bouquet she’d been clutching in favor of her hands’ ability to pull me in. The pressure on my fragile skull when our frenzied lips finally met was not a punishment so much as it was a reward. And just as we began to find our rhythm, I slid my hand into her hair, which I began to regret when I realized just how much time and effort probably went into its structuring. I pulled away the moment I felt a carefully placed pin lodged within her hair slip between my fingers.

True, for a moment I was unable to open my eyes afterward from the sheer elation I was experiencing, but as I came to, I found myself looking at the hairpin I’d accidentally extracted from her curls, one that I could’ve sworn I’d seen a fellow coworker of ours donning in the past.

“Is this -”

“Yep, it’s Penelope’s.” She admitted through the most debonair giggles. After giving her a quizzical, and only partially judgmental glance, she managed to blurt out, “What? Why are you looking at me like that? It was my ‘something borrowed’!”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　

reid taglist: @s1utformgg @no-alarms-no-surprises-silence @jemimah-b99 @justanothetfangirl @kylab @rainsong01 @calm-and-doctor @inkstainedwritergirl @rexorangecouny @ashwarren32 @carooliina @fortheloveofcriminalminds @watermelongubler @obsessedmaggiemay @k-k0129 @aperrywilliams @eevee0722 @spencersmagic @spencerreid-mgg @half-blood-dork @goldeng1rl8 @just-a-bunch-of-fandoms @random-human-person

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid kiss #criminal minds #juniorgman187 #something borrowed something blue

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colbybrocksmolder · 5 years

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A Video To My Future Wife - Colby Brock x Reader

Colby set the camera up, taking a minute to gather his thoughts.

“Hey guys, as you can tell by the title, this isn’t a normal video. Remember a few years ago when Sam and I made videos for each other to look back on when we’re older? Well this is another one of those. Kind of. But today, I’m going to make this for you. And for Y/n. The love of my life. The most beautiful human I’ve ever met, both inside and out.”

Colby ducked his head, smiling at how giddy he was to finally share you with the world. “A lot of you are very confused right now, I know. And I’m sorry. I’ve kept this part of my life off of YouTube for well over a year now and honestly? I don’t regret it one bit. It’s been the happiest year of my life so far. I know in my heart she’ll continue to make me my happiest self until literally one of us ceases to exist on this earth. I hope I die first because I don’t want to think about a life without her.”

Colby sighed, looking past the camera for a moment before cracking a smile. “If Y/n were home right now, she’d scold me for being so morbid. She doesn’t like when I talk about dying. She’d pull me into her arms, start listing reasons why it’s a waste of life to think about death. On my more stubborn emo days, she clings to me like a koala. Not a word of a lie. She’ll wrap her arms and legs around me and just talk. She once made it to like reason #56 that she thought I was adorable before I finally agreed to shower and leave the apartment. There’s no escaping the infectious joy she has inside her. I have yet to meet a single person who isn’t happier around her. I know a lot of you guys freak out whenever you hear dating rumors about me or see me with a female friend, but guys...you’re going to fucking love Y/n. So much. A handful of you guys already know her and I want to specifically thank you for keeping our secret. I’m just waiting for the photos you guys took with us to spread like wildfire now that it’s out in the open.”

Colby smiled, pulling out his phone to look at a picture the two of you had taken with a group of fans. “I’ll put this picture up on the screen so you can actually see it, but do you see this goober right here in the skeleton onesie? That’s y/n. You’re probably wondering why we’re all in our pajamas with a bunch of fans…Well that’s just a tiny glimpse into how kindhearted, selfless, and loving this girl is. We met a family one day while we were out. The two daughters and their friends happened to be fans of Sam and I. While I sat and talked to the girls for a minute, Y/n was sitting talking to their mom. Turns out these two girls had been through quite a rough year. The mom said that YouTube was what really kept them going. Y/n exchanged numbers with the mom and over the next few months kept in touch with the two girls. When the older sister’s birthday rolled around, Y/n had an idea. She talked with the mom and set up a little surprise movie night so that we could celebrate with the girls and their friends we had met with them. Her and Kat went out and got these goofy onesies for everyone, loads of snacks, games... Sam, Kat, Y/n, and I showed up and surprised them. It was awesome. Better than any Trap House party we’ve ever thrown.” Colby laughed.

Colby stared at the picture for a few seconds before locking his phone and putting it back in his pocket. “At this point, I already thought that I loved her. I was already convinced I had found my forever…but seeing her take time out of her insane schedule to go above and beyond to love on two random fans…When I tell you I was in awe of her, I mean it. I was a blushing, sweaty palmed, nervous boy. All night. The girl’s dad even pulled me to the side to whisper a ‘you’ve got it bad, kid’ to me.” Colby’s cheeks blushed with a hint of pink.

“And honestly? I have no fucking clue why she puts up with me.” Colby laughed. “I’m indecisive and clingy and moody. I can’t keep a schedule to save my life. I always need to be in control or I’m anxious or bail. And I never ever ever put my shoes away. I can’t tell you how many times Y/n has tripped trying to leave our kitchen because even though she’s asked me 200 times not to, I still leave my shoes right in the middle of the walkway. Yet every single day I find a new little note that she’s left me. Sometimes two or three on bad days. Actually, you know what? Be right back…”

Colby moved across the room to grab a photo-box full of papers. “Look at these.” He said, tipping the box to show you how full it was. He started reading some of them off. “Seeing you smile is my favorite way to start my day” “Your friends love you” “Your laughter is contagious” “You bring people joy” “Your ass looked great in those jeans last night” He laughed at that one, reading out one last note. “Strip away all of your fame and money and looks and what do you have left? The most accepting, honest, encouraging, and loving heart I’ve ever had the privilege of holding.” He stared at the piece of paper for a second before shrugging his shoulders and staring off into the other room. “Like I said, I have no clue what I did to deserve her.”

He moved to put the box back where he got it from and sat back down on the bed. “I know that a lot of you don’t like change. I know she’s going to get hate comments about loads of shit that either isn’t true or doesn’t matter. But do you want to know the truth? Neither of us care.” He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. “We aren’t worried. We’re happy. And God does it feel good to say that because throughout my YouTube career, the amount of times I’ve been able to say that with a straight face are far and few between. Something to know before you start writing that shitty hateful comment…Y/n is never ever going to reply to you with hate. It doesn’t matter how mean you are to her. It’s just not in her. She’s too loving. She’ll probably apologize that you feel the way you feel and then treat you with perfect kindness. She goes out of her way to build people up. So, remember that before you’re too quick to try and tear her down.”

Colby heard the apartment door open and made a wide eyed ‘oh shit’ face at the camera. “Hey, baby! Are you home?”

“In here!” Colby called.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” She apologized, seeing that she had interrupted him filming.

“Don’t worry.” Colby smiled up at her, reaching his arms out to invite her to sit on his lap for a moment. “I’ll just edit it out. What’s up?”

“This girl just moved in right above us and I want to go help her get settled. Her friend bailed on her and we have that bottle of red wine we’re never going to drink. Do you mind if I grab some snacks and the wine and go help her?” She asked, pressing a kiss to Colby’s cheek.

“Of course, I don’t mind, babe.” He slipped his arms tighter around her and kissed her lips. “I’ll text you when I’m done to see if you guys need help with anything heavy.”

“You’re too good to me.” She said, sliding off of his lap.

“I love you!” Colby called out after her, hearing her pack a bag full of snacks and grab the wine.

“I love you more!” he heard her call back. The apartment door closing behind her.

“I’m definitely not editing any of that out.” Colby laughed, looking back at the camera. “But do you see what I mean? That was a perfect example. One of like a thousand I could share. She so effortlessly walks into people’s lives and does whatever she can to help them.”

“I just realized you guys have no clue how we met.” Colby shook his head, laughing to himself. “So, you know those overnight videos we do with TFIL? Well we were once again being complete idiots and trying to sneak into this massive indoor sports arcade type place. Everyone had hidden except for me and I was about to get caught. I had climbed over this massive basketball free-throw cage thing and I was going to drop down behind it when the manager of the arcade started walking towards his office…right next to where I was hanging. This girl and I made eye contact and she recognized who I was. She obviously knew what I was up to. She started to laugh but quickly realized I was about to get caught. When the Manager went to step by her, she ‘stumbled’ into him and pretended to faint. Throwing in an ‘I don’t feel good’ right before hitting the ground for good measure. Her distraction gave me enough time to drop down behind the machine. When I peeked through the bars, I saw her ‘wake up’ and ask the manager if he could show here where the ski ball was like nothing had happened.” Colby snorted rolling his eyes. “She wasn’t the best actress on the planet, but she sure as hell had my attention. I spent the whole night annoying the rest of the guys trying to figure out how to find her and thank her. Talk to her. Turns out, it was easier than I thought. When we finally left at like 5 am, there was a little torn piece of paper tucked under my windshield wiper that said ‘you’re welcome’ and her phone number. Needless to say, I didn’t go to bed. I ended up meeting her at a diner where we talked so long, we ate both breakfast and lunch before parting ways. I’m usually a listener, you know? I know people see me in videos and think I’m crazy and loud 24/7, but I’m honestly usually the shy quiet kid sitting in the corner, people watching, and hoping no one notices me. But when I sat in that diner…I couldn’t shut up. It’s like she was pulling words out of me. I felt very…comfortable.”

Colby looked to be thinking about something for a moment, a soft smile on his face. “This video is partially for her and partially for you guys. I wanted to be able to introduce her before she just randomly started showing up in pictures or in videos. I didn’t want rumors about me ‘maybe’ dating her. I kind of wanted to spill my guts and talk about her to you guys because she’s the most important person in my life. And she doesn’t let me dote on her much, so I figured this was a good way to get it all out” he couldn’t help but smile. “I know you guys are going to love her. I know it. And I know she already loves all of you. It’s going to take her some time to get used to all of the attention, but I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to share her with you.”

“Y/n.” He faced the camera, speaking directly to her. “It would be impossible to list all of the things you’ve changed in my life. I know it sounds sappy as shit, but when poets say weird stuff like ‘the trees just looked different after meeting her’ I get it, now. It makes total sense to me. It’s like you reached down deep to the worst parts of me, shined a light on them, and loved me anyways…and I will never be able to actually explain how much I love you…But I will spend the rest of my life trying.”

#colby brock #colby brock imagine #colby brock x reader #colby brock fluff #colby brock oneshot

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seismicmeowmeow-blog · 8 years

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Blind Life: an adaptation of The Great Gig in the Sky by Pink Floyd

Part 1

My father and his father and the father before him all died cowards. Whether it be curled in the fetal position before a cohort of Germans with shiny rifles and ear to ear grins or in the bathroom of a brothel with a needle stuck up his sleeve, those men were cowards. They abandoned women and children and dogs and cats and even little, innocent fish. We were just waves washing against their lives, receding into the ocean to never be seen again. The sand would mold and stay, but after enough washing each castle, each unique empire, would fall tragically before the power of the waves. An entire feudal system, concocted by geniuses broken down and recycled to fish litter.

I’ve been a magnificently defiant sand castle.

I was born on a Tuesday. If you asked my mother or father or neighbor or doctor what kind of Tuesday it was they would all recall it was a spectacularly uneventful Tuesday. I was one of eight in four years. Each one the heir to a disparate throne. Except Milo and Winslet, they were twins.

Mind you, my mother was no prostitute, just a splendid fool, hoping that each truck driver and vacuum cleaner salesman after the last would be an upstanding, classy fellow, ecstatic for the opportunity to wed and settle down with a wonderful woman like my mother. Supporting the likes of eight children, a microcosm of our lovely mother earth.

You see, before me there was nothing. Tedium molecularly crafted. Besides the click of empty revolvers in my mother’s bathroom, the house was silent. My future brothers and sisters knew not to speak. Not even a word. The man my mother was laying with, my very own pa, was a wildhack. The men before him had beaten her and beaten them and stolen from them and even kidnapped Milo thinking it was his own child, only to return the following evening, defeated, mother never the wiser.

But this man, my father, was especially boring. Not the boring that one may suffer through a math class or at work, or even in the war at times, but a crippling boring, a lull of words that bounce off the ear and echo around the room until the frequencies of it all burst the listener's ear drums and prod them towards insanity. That is not to say he was loud - this man was, in fact, extraordinarily quiet - that was part of his boring charm, wasn’t it.

All of the children - seven of them at the time - gave their hundred and ten percent effort to keep clear of his incessant dreariness. Even the youngest of the bunch, Hector, only four years of age, at the time, knew to shut his yapper the minute this king of apathy walked through the unhinged door. He had been fired from his last job for bringing down office morale and was now working as an energetic UPS driver, full of stories from the day, eager to spew them out in a semiautomatic fire of doldrums.

He was gone by Friday. The three days of whining and shitting and crying that I besieged upon him was enough to send this emperor of drab back to his lock up in Bermackeron, Wyoming. I went head to head with this spineless, humdrum asshole and defeated him effortlessly. For most of my siblings it took them weeks, some even months, one in fact had a father for a year until the little schmuck got pinkeye and ma queried the father to foot the bill. He was gone by sunrise, but a year nonetheless. I was triumphant in a matter of days. My mother never hesitated to remind me of this as I aged, each time bolstering my already bloated self-esteem a little more.

I was special. For an instant there I was really special, wasn’t I.

Out of that treacherous cloud of smoke, out of the ashes, I arose. Grander and more cunning than any man before me. Out of the blindness monotony of everyday life, I came, the savior of a generation, the maker of men.

Why should I be frightened to die.

Part 2

I lost my virginity at age twelve, to no one other than my very own sister, Clarissa. It was not meant to happen that way, that wasn’t how I planned it, it just occurred, simply and unapologetically.

She was fourteen at the time and just as interested in me as I was in her. Mother had never explained to us what sex was, she was too drugged up and busy with the three other pregnancies to deal with the babies she already had. Some of those babies were as old as seventeen, but babies nevertheless. Still stuck in prepubescence, trying, unsuccessfully to tear pieces off the cocoon, hoping that opioids and amphetamines may assist in their escape.

She cried when we did it. I don’t think I did it right. Looking back on it, I am sure that I did not.

Afterwards we sat there for a minute, indecisively. Do I punch her now? Scream at her? Steal her emerald necklace and run away? Do I tell her a story about the interesting conversation I had with Jerry just before heading out to deliver dildos to middle-aged wives?

I decided to tell Milo. He bashed me in the head with a lava lamp.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, you little sister fucking prick.”

He was coked up at the time. Found a little of the dust laying on mother’s nightstand.

I shook my head around, trying fruitlessly to find my eyesight in the muddled room, full of cartoons and porno mags, the battered bits of a cocoon.

I think he was jealous.

Part 3

The second time I had sex was with Oksana. This is the time I tell people about when they ask me regarding my virginity.

“It was exquisite” I tell them “We waited until we knew we loved each other.” I’ll say.

They’ll “awww” and smile and I’ll smile and that’ll be it, just another endearing virginity story in a sea of white noise. I should make a machine that plays people telling their virginity stories, maybe a writer could sit in solitude and just write and write and write with no distractions around her, a painter could decorate his masterpiece, a poet could cry on paper, all because of me with my million dollar idea. But somewhere in that homogenous tune a voice would scream out. I fucked my sister. The painter perks up, stares at the machine, examines it for cracks and bumps, veers out the window, wondering what hooligan, what deviant would utter such words.

You see, I was special.

Oksana was my everything for a minute there, wasn’t she. After all these years of corrosive juice I’ve been pouring into my skull, I still remember her. Not her face - no - that has faded, but her essence, her being, has imprinted itself in the foam of my consciousness. No matter how many acid waves come and go, her castle will not wash away.

Atop that acropolis is a desolate tree, her and I tragically below it. That tree is everything to me. The existence that is humanity. The momentary lapses of reason and divisiveness, the unwavering feeling of loneliness in a sea of bourgeois, that rests upon the words on a tongue on an autumn day in November, leaves falling about the tree. There is a hollowness in her eyes, a fatigue, a yawn. But to me, this is the pinnacle. The reason death brought me fright during the war, the reason Clarissa cried, the reason I will be drowned out by the screams of a million souls, writhing in their graves, waiting for their time to be alive again.

Out of nowhere emerges life, it ages, it misbehaves, it screams, it lies, it laughs. It lays in bed at night when it is thirteen years old, crying because one day it will be erased. Because there will be a point in time when everything is forgotten about its little, old existence, every memory of a memory - euthanized.

Part 4

All I remember is the screams of my comrades with shrapnel up their urethras.

Who gives a fuck about war, anyways.

Part 5

I wasn’t special.

I fucked and abandoned as many pregnant women as my own father and his father and the father before him.

I was just as cowardly and tripped out as all those lousy schmucks. I used the war as an excuse for all my dickery, for all my addictions and habits and dependencies and what have you. But so did they, didn’t they. It’s a generational rhythm, I guess, send off the coked up young broots to kill some commies in the war and have them return just as adolescent as they were sent, with blood on their hands and rape and murder in their hearts, grabbing at whatever potential victims they can.

I was no different.

In the end it all evened out. I killed as many men as I made. I was the maker and destroyer of man.

I was god, wasn’t I.

Part 6

I died on a Thursday, a spectacularly uneventful Thursday if you asked my mortician, or my sons or my daughters. I was the 14th strike of the clock in a science museum, measuring each of the world’s deaths, second after second. I was that one, right there. Reduced to nothing more than a statistic.

It was a brutishly slow death.

I needed the medicine. I needed the drugs. I needed to see that time was malleable, that one instance I would be in the operating room and the next I’d be killing commies in the war.

Part 7

I have returned from the dead to claim my spirit, I believe I left it here, somewhere around this room, with all the cartoons and porno mags. It only exists in a picture frame now. A single picture. It sits on my great grand daughters bedside table. Gets boxed up in a hurry, moves from house to house, from nightstand to nightstand until one day. When a Klan member burns her house down. My only granddaughter.

All of those god forsaken children churned out like frozen yogurt on a summer day, only to perish one after the other, fruitless, little savages. My sperm could have kept children in Africa from starving, but instead it was wasted on those egregious imbeciles.

Didn’t I deserve more than one grandchild. More than one memory of a memory of a man.

The photo was of that Autumn day, under the tree, atop the hill, on that beach, beneath those acid waves of mine. That was the day I got drafted for the war. That was the day, I believe, I began dying. My death was an insignificant day for me, now that I think of it, no more special or mundane than any other. Just a day like all days, a day for the ages.

It was that spring evening with my grand daughter, with the yellow house with maroon window panes, with the klansmen. That was the day I ceased to exist. And within the monotony and peculiarity of that day was my photo, Oksana and I, Clarissa and I, our love.

I never said I was frightened of dying.

I mean, I was god, wasn’t I?

By Paul Miller-Schmidt

#war #postmodern #Paul

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