I like reading Karen McManus they're my equivalent to the romance novels ppl read if they wanna turn their brains off. Not super deep but interesting enough to keep you reading. I do feel like they tend to be repetitive and I think it would be interesting to see how she'd fair if she wrote smt out of the niche she's in rn
I love that I share my house with one of the most efficient apex predators millions of years of evolution could produce. I love that two of natureâs most prolific machines met and were like âhmmm. We should lay around and do nothing togetherâ. Now weâre both fat and happy and full of meat. The hedonism of it all
Humans keeping cats and dogs as family members is like three prodigy assassins being introduced in the back of a shady nightclub and 45 minutes later theyâre 6 crunchwrap supremes deep passing a blunt in the back of a shag carpeted Volkswagen microbus rating Oreo varietals by fuckability
tumblr users have the unique ability to string together sentences never before seen in all of human history and yet they conjure up such specific visceral imagery that you canât help but be a little in awe. and i think thatâs beautiful
kids have very little autonomy, so getting to actively choose a task & what food to eat helped when feeling overwhelmed
gave me some breathing room if no one else was in the kitchen
but MOST importantly: banana peanut butter sandwiches are chewy as hell and extremely frustrating to eat. got to focus all my annoyance and energy on hand to hand combat with a damn sandwich.
all in all, a surprisingly effective anger management tool for a world weary 11-year-old, would recommend
Got called a lying sinful man on the phone today by a customer which is probably a top ten insult for me unique and interesting with a dash of gender euphoria
Soda was an effervescent corn-based drink that was popular during the height of the American Empire. Regionally known as pop or coke in some provinces, it was prepared by extracting corn sugars into a thick syrup to be mixed with water
did i tell yâall that one time when my friends and i were making a joke mockumentary about a fake cryptid, my sibling and i got into a really bad hospitalizing car crash and instead of delaying it we just decided to film in the hospital and also convinced my mom and dad to play roles in it as well?
to be honest even if vaccines did cause autism i would rather live in a world where everyone is vaccinated and some of those people have autism than an unvaccinated autismless world. like ok whatever. would you rather have autism or polio. autism or measels. idk about yall but im choosing autism every time. its not even a hard choice.
âš Summary: Spencer Reid lives by logic. Y/N, his girlfriend, trusts in what canât be measured echoes of the dead. When a presence reveals intimate details of Spencerâs past no one else could know, heâs forced to face a truth beyond science: sometimes love and grief reach further than reason.
A/n: HAIIII bunnies đđ sorry posting this late, school has been eating me alive đđ but I finally got this one done! I hope yâall enjoy it, itâs spooky but also soft and emotional (and yes, I made Spencer cry hehe). Lmk what you think!! đ
The rain pattered a soft, rhythmic tattoo against the windows of Spencer Reidâs apartment, a sound that usually soothed him. Tonight, it was just background noise to the churn of his own thoughts. Case files were strewn across his coffee table, a constellation of violence and misery, but his focus wasnât on them. It was on the woman curled against his side, her head resting on his shoulder as she read a thick, cloth-bound book on Byzantine architecture.
Y/N. FBI Technical Analyst. His girlfriend. And, according to her, a medium.
Spencerâs thumb absently traced circles on her arm. Heâd known about her⊠gift since theyâd started dating six months ago. Sheâd been upfront about it, her voice steady though her eyes had held a flicker of trepidation, waiting for his dismissal. He, of course, had responded with a long, clinically detailed monologue on the prevalence of psychological suggestion, the ideomotor effect, and the complete lack of empirical evidence for post-mortem consciousness. Heâd cited studies, papers, and the works.
Sheâd simply listened, nodded, and said, âOkay. You donât have to believe it. Just donât tell me itâs impossible.â
And so, an uneasy truce had settled. He loved her fiercely illogically, in a way that defied all his carefully structured models of human connection. He loved her brilliant mind, her dry wit, the way her eyes crinkled when she genuinely laughed. He loved the safety he felt with her. But this one thing⊠This he filed away in a mental drawer labeled âCognitive Dissonance.â
âYouâre thinking too loud,â Y/N murmured, not looking up from her book. âYour heartbeat changed rhythm. Youâre agitated.â
âMy resting heart rate is significantly lower than the average male my age due to myââ
âSpencer,â she interrupted, finally closing her book and tilting her head up to look at him. âItâs me. You can just say whatâs wrong.â
He sighed, his shoulders slumping. âItâs the Varner case. The little girl. The things the unsub did⊠it doesnât align with any of the standard psychological profiles for that kind of aggression. The math is wrong.â
Y/N was quiet for a moment, her gaze turning inward. âThe house where they found her⊠itâs old. Thereâs a presence there. Not malevolent, just⊠sad. Stuck. Itâs like a record skipping, replaying the same moment of despair over and over. Itâs pressing down on everyone who walks in, amplifying everything.â
Spencer withdrew his arm, sitting up straighter. âY/N, please. You know thatâs not a variable I can factor into an equation. Sadness isnât a quantifiable energy force that influences behavior. Trauma, yes. Environmental stressors, absolutely. But not⊠ghosts.â
His voice was gentle, but the frustration was there, a thin crack in his scientific resolve. He wanted to understand, to fit this piece of her into his worldview, but it was like trying to force a square peg into a round hole labeled âObjective Reality.â
She sat up too, pulling her knees to her chest. âI know you donât believe me. And thatâs okay. Iâm not asking you to. But you asked what was wrong, and Iâm telling you what I feel. The math is wrong because youâre not accounting for all the data.â
âData has to be observable, testable, reproducible,â he countered softly. âWhat youâre describing is subjective experience.â
âSo is love,â she said simply.
That shut him down. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Checkmate. He couldnât quantify his love for her, couldnât prove it in a lab, yet he knew it with more certainty than he knew the atomic weight of any element on the periodic table.
The silence stretched, filled only by the sound of the rain. It was a comfortable, if thoughtful, silence. He reached for her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. âIâm sorry. I donât mean to beâŠâ
âA stubborn, brilliant, beautifully logical scientist?â she finished for him, a small smile playing on her lips.
âSomething like that,â he conceded, smiling back.
He leaned in to kiss her, a gesture of apology and affection, when a sudden, sharp chill descended on the room. It wasnât a draft; the windows were sealed shut. It was a cold that seemed to originate from nowhere and everywhere at once, settling deep into the bones.
Y/N flinched, her head snapping towards the empty armchair in the corner of the room. Her grip on his hand tightened painfully.
âY/N? What is it?â he asked, alarm spiking through him. Her face had gone pale.
âThereâs⊠someone here,â she whispered, her voice thin.
Spencerâs eyes darted around the room. Nothing. The piles of books were undisturbed. The kitchenette was empty. âThereâs no one here. Itâs just us.â
She wasnât listening to him. Her gaze was fixed on the chair, her eyes wide, not with fear, but with a profound, deep focus. It was a look heâd seen on her face at crime scenes sometimes, a look that had often unnerved the rest of the team. A look of listening to something no one else could hear.
âSheâs⊠sheâs looking at you,â Y/N said, her voice barely a breath.
âWho is?â Spencer asked, a prickle of unease tracing his spine. This felt different from their usual debates. This felt real, and immediate, and it was happening in his home.
âAn older woman. She has kind eyes. Warm. Sheâs wearing a⊠a blue dress with small white flowers. A brooch. Itâs silver, shaped like a music note.â
Spencerâs blood ran cold. Every hair on his arms stood up. He stopped breathing.
Y/N continued, her voice gaining a little strength, though it was still ethereal, dreamlike. âSheâs humming. Itâs⊠itâs faint. âThe Way You Look Tonight.â Sheâs smiling. Sheâs saying your name. Not Spencer. The name she called you. âMy little sparrowâ.â
A punched-out gasp escaped Spencerâs lips. He recoiled, scrambling back on the couch as if physically struck. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. âNo. No, thatâs not⊠you canât know that.â
No one knew that. His mother called him that, a private, cherished name from a childhood that held few safe harbors. But this wasnât about his mother.
The woman in the blue dress with the music note brooch.
Tears welled in Y/Nâs eyes, but she didnât break her gaze from the empty chair. âShe wants you to know sheâs sorry she left so soon. She hated missing your high school graduation. She watched from⊠somewhere. She said you looked so handsome and so nervous, fidgeting with your tassel.â
Spencerâs world tilted on its axis. The memory, sharp and vivid, flashed in his mind: the itchy cap and gown, the overwhelming crowd, the ache of her absence and a physical pain in his chest that day. Heâd felt so alone.
âShe says the daffodils you planted by her stone come up beautifully every spring. She loves them.â
He had. Every year. No one knew he did that. He told no one, not even his mother. It was his quiet, personal ritual.
Y/N finally turned to look at him, her own tears tracking silently down her cheeks. âHer name was Eleanor. She was your grandmother.â
A raw, broken sob wrenched itself from Spencerâs throat. He folded forward, elbows on his knees, face buried in his hands. It was her. The descriptions were impossibly, terrifyingly accurate. The brooch. The song. The daffodils. The name. The private, hidden details of his grief that were his and his alone.
All his science, all his logic, all his vast repository of knowledge crumbled to dust in the face of this. There was no study, no statistical probability, no rational explanation that could account for this. This was knowledge that existed outside of any possible channel of information transfer.
He felt Y/Nâs arms wrap around him, pulling his shaking form against her. He clung to her, weeping into her shoulder greatly, heaving sobs of confusion, of shock, and of a longing so profound it felt like it would tear him apart.
For years, he had held his grief for his grandmother in a sealed compartment, treating it as a data point of loss. Now, it was a living, breathing wound, but it was also⊠a gift.
After what felt like an eternity, the storm of tears began to subside, leaving him hollowed out and exhausted. The strange, penetrating cold in the room had vanished, replaced by the familiar warmth of his apartment. The presence was gone.
He pulled back slightly, wiping at his wet, stinging eyes with the heels of his hands. He looked at Y/N, really looked at her. Her face was filled with such empathy, such unwavering love, that it made his chest ache all over again.
âHow?â he croaked, his voice rough with emotion. âHow is that possible?â
She brushed a stray curl from his damp forehead. âI donât know how Spence. I really donât, I donât know the physics of it, or the biology. I just know that sometimes, for some reason, the veil is thin. Sometimes, they can come through. She loved you so much. That⊠thatâs the strongest force. Itâs what leaves the deepest imprint.â
He thought of his earlier argument. Data has to be observable, testable, reproducible. He had just observed it. It had been tested in the most visceral way possible. And the result had reproduced the most intimate details of his life.
This was data. It was the most personal, confounding, and real data he had ever encountered.
âSheâs okay,â Y/N whispered, her hand cupping his cheek. âSheâs at peace. And she is so, so proud of the man youâve become. She wanted you to know that.â
Another tear escaped and traced a path down his face, but this one was different. It was not of anguish, but of release. Of a question heâd carried for over a decade finally being answered. She was okay. She was proud.
He leaned his forehead against Y/Nâs, closing his eyes, breathing her in. The scent of her shampoo, the warmth of her skinâthese were real, tangible things. And so was what had just happened.
âI believe you,â he whispered, the words feeling foreign and monumental on his tongue. âI⊠I donât understand it. I may spend the rest of my life trying to and failing. But I believe you.â
He wasnât just saying he believed in ghosts. He was saying he trusted her. He accepted this incredible, inexplicable part of her that she had never asked him to, but had offered anyway.
A soft, relieved smile broke through her teary expression. âYou donât have to have all the answers. Not everything is a puzzle to be solved, Spencer. Some things are just⊠a song to be heard.â
He kissed her then, a slow, deep, heartfelt kiss that tasted of salt tears and staggering truth. It was an apology, an acceptance, a promise.
Later, wrapped in a blanket on the couch, the case files forgotten, he listened as the rain softened to a drizzle. His head was in her lap, her fingers carding gently through his hair.
âShe used to make the best lemon cake,â he said quietly, his eyes closed. âFrom scratch. She never wrote the recipe down.â
Y/Nâs fingers stilled for a moment. Then she smiled. âShe says it was a cup and a half of sugar, but you have to cream the butter and sugar for exactly five minutes until itâs pale and fluffy. Thatâs the secret.â
Spencer let out a wet, shaky laugh that was half a sob. He opened his eyes and looked up at her his brilliant, logical, extraordinary, impossible girlfriend.
For the first time, the world felt bigger, stranger, and more wonderful than he had ever calculated. And for a man who thought he knew everything, it was the most beautiful discovery of all.
A/n: OKAY but like⊠Spencer??? CUTEST. BOY. ALIVE. đđ heâs out here being all logical and then turning into a soft little puddle and Iâm just??? pls sir let me hold ur hand. anyway hope yâall liked this, love u bunnies đđ
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