#book nerd

[tyger-land]

𝗟𝘂𝗸𝗲 𝗦𝗺𝗮𝗹𝗹𝗲𝘆; Photographs from his book Sunday Drive , published posthumously in 2009.

[nerdby]

I don't really believe in separating the art from the artist, but I remember how much it hurt when I found out Rowling was an absolutely shit person and so I do worry about the Gaiman fans out there who are in pain because of the article that was dropped today. I hope this helps.

[wetcherryliquor]

[melimausl]

I love nerdy losers

[aponii1]

Books and cats.

[mrsinsat]

Who's in for book club?

[dxe111]

Nerd

[mrsfoone]

Dear authors,

The phrase "crocodile tears" should be used to reference someone who is faking an emotion. It's not about the tears or crying themselves. Definitely not about a quantity of tears cried or sobs involved. (Fun fact: there's also a condition nicknamed "crocodile tears." It causes sufferers to shed tears after eating or drinking after recovering from damage to a facial nerve.)

Apparently, this phrase is derived from an Egyptian fable that said that crocodiles shed tears while eating their prey.

I've seen several authors use "crocodile tears" to describe the tears of a child or innocent person. Seemingly trying to convey the emotion is too large or impactful for such a person. If you need a new word, try describing someone as sobbing, wailing, or even blubbering. Or perhaps inconsolable, disconsolate, or heartbroken.

The distinction between real and false emotions is very important.

Earnestly,

An avid reader

[violettressedd]

well read women are so attractive. yes i do want to hear about the character that you've psychoanalyzed. and yes i want you to explain the entirety of the lore and setting of that book series you're reading right now

[the-book-ferret]

Wasabi will always love and accept you for exactly who you are. 🩵💖🩵

[beccawise7]

Night mood... 💜🖤

[nerdby]

It's so important that I have a book to read at all times.

[ethelshound]

MILK, HONEY AND METAPHORS. • S.REID

─── IN WHICH Spencer has always believed that some things are best left unwritten, but with you, every glance, every touch feels like poetry, and for once, he doesn’t mind reading between the lines.

Spencer Reid 𝓍 𝑔𝓃!reader 1.6K ⋆ fluff ⋆ comfort ⋆ established relationship ⋆ awkward Spencer ⋆ soft moments ⋆ book nerds/breakfast

The kitchen is quiet, save for the steady drip of coffee into the pot and the faint rustle of pages as Spencer flips absently through a book.

He’s perched at your counter, long fingers resting in the middle of chapter six but his eyes skimming past the words, unseeing. The coffee he poured for himself sits lukewarm beside him, untouched. The toast he began five minutes ago remains unfinished on the counter, the butter knife laid precisely parallel to the plate, as if the geometry might settle his nerves.

Statistically speaking, breakfast should only take a few minutes to prepare—two to four minutes to toast bread, twenty seconds to spread butter evenly, an additional five for honey, depending on its viscosity and ambient temperature.

And yet, he hesitates.

There’s something sacred in the stillness of your apartment. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in the pale glow of early morning. Dust dances lazily in the light, swirling in golds and creams. Your cat sleeps curled in a sunbeam on the windowsill, tail twitching in the cadence of dreams. Somewhere in the next room, you sleep with the door cracked open and one arm slung over the side of the bed, as if even in sleep you’re reaching for him.

He’s not used to mornings like this.

Spencer glances toward the hallway like a teenager caught in someone else’s kitchen. His curls are still messy from sleep, and the sleeves of his sweater bunch awkwardly at his elbows. He pushes one up again, only for it to slip down as soon as his hand moves.

The quiet feels too loud all of a sudden.

He clears his throat and turns back to the task at hand, trying to focus on the toast. Butter first, then honey. He spreads it carefully—precise, even strokes, like he’s painting something delicate—and adds just enough honey to form a thin amber sheen. He presses the halves together with the gentlest pressure, as if anything more might ruin it.

Your kitchen smells like sleep and sugar and coffee.

He takes a breath.

Spencer isn’t quite sure how to move in spaces like this—spaces not meant for profiling or statistics or the sterile click of FBI pens on laminate desks. Here, the math doesn’t help. There’s no algorithm for how to make someone feel loved at eight in the morning while wearing their hoodie and standing barefoot on their tile floor.

He wants to do it right.

Wants you to wake to something good. Something soft. Something simple.

But he's never been good at simple.

He startles when he hears the soft shuffle of your feet behind him. Turning slightly, he catches you leaning against the doorframe, sleep-warm and blinking slowly at the morning light. Your hair’s a little tousled, cheek marked faintly by the pillow, and Spencer thinks—statistically speaking—this might be the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“Morning,” you say, voice still hoarse with sleep.

Spencer smiles, quick and awkward. “Morning. I—uh—made toast. Well, I’m in the process of making toast. I got distracted.”

You pad toward him, barefoot and comfortable in the quiet, and he watches the way you move—soft, easy, like you belong here. Like he belongs here.

You peer at the plate, then glance at the untouched coffee.

“You got distracted reading a book and forgot your coffee?” you tease lightly. “Are you okay? Who are you and what have you done with Spencer Reid?”

“I was thinking,” he says defensively, but there’s a blush creeping up his neck. “And I didn’t forget. I just... didn’t want to disturb anything.”

You blink, confused. “Disturb what?”

He gestures vaguely around the kitchen. “This. You. The morning.”

You soften instantly. Moving toward him, you slip your arms around his waist and rest your cheek against his shoulder. He stills like he always does—tense, almost startled—and then melts, carefully, into the contact.

“You could never disturb this,” you murmur.

He wraps one arm around your back, the other coming up to rest tentatively at your waist.

“I don’t really know what I’m doing,” he admits quietly, lips brushing the top of your hair. “I know how to recite The Waste Land from memory, but I don’t know how to... be here. With someone. Without messing it up.”

You tilt your head up to meet his gaze. “You’re here. You made toast. You’re wearing my hoodie.” A soft smile plays on your lips. “That sounds pretty perfect to me.”

He huffs a laugh. “I analyzed the honey-to-butter ratio for eight minutes.”

“And that’s why I love you.”

Spencer’s breath catches in his chest. You’ve said it before—many times, in fact—but it always feels like it’s the first time. Like his brain still doesn’t know how to compute being loved so openly, so without condition.

“I used to think some things were better left unsaid,” he says, voice quieter now. “That putting them into words made them... real. Vulnerable. That if I didn’t say how much I wanted this, it wouldn’t hurt if it went away.”

You reach up and touch his cheek, gentle.

“And now?”

He leans into your hand.

“Now I think you’re the exception to every theory I’ve ever had.”

You grin. “That might be the nerdiest way anyone’s ever told me they’re in love with me.”

“I am, though,” he says, earnest and breathless. “In love with you. Completely. Quietly. Constantly.”

You press your lips to his, soft and slow, like you’re underlining something important. And when you pull away, you rest your forehead against his and whisper, “Then say it out loud. Write it on toast. Read it in the morning light. I’ll keep reading, Spencer. As long as you’ll let me.”

He smiles—truly, fully smiles—and you watch as the tension in his shoulders unwinds just a little.

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay.”

And somewhere between the soft light, the forgotten coffee, and the still-warm toast, Spencer Reid learns that not everything has to be calculated.

Some things can just be.

And with you, he doesn’t mind reading between the lines.

[ivyrotica]

i hope you guys know i’m a huge fucking nerd-loser outside of kink… i read ao3 like it’s a full-time job, i’ve been to anime conventions (in cosplay, obviously), i’m in a band, i get way too deep into typology, and i overanalyze books, films, and poetry for fun. i have an obsession with harry potter’s dead dad and his queer friend group of gay wizards from the 70s, i wear square-framed glasses, and i have an embarrassing amount of niche knowledge about regulus black. oh, and i’m usually in bed by 9 PM.

the list goes on but you get the picture

[aponii1]

Angela Davis and Toni Morrison in 1974