lesbian with adhd. detailed daydreamer. hellenic polytheist, omnist, pantheist and witch. written by gracie abrams. yellow and pink and light green. science, art, humanities and english lover. alina starkov reincarnated. silver girlie. a hugger! sunshine lover. trinket enthusiast. avid reader.
˖ 𑣲 ⋮ long intro ✶ the house tour ✶ masterlist ꒱ ‧₊˚
🔮 i do tarot readings for free as a hobby!! find out more here.
back from my accidental hiatus, but not consistently active on this blog! (2/8/26) if you see me active, theres a good chance im on my priv blog i run just for me :)
credits to @xoxochb who's beautiful blog i used for some inspo for this post and the layout of my navigation. i'm still very new to making tumblr posts and was a bit lost at first haha ♡
gorgeous lesbian flag button divider made by @caring-angeli, tysm, you're so talented!!
adores quick kisses, stolen sneakily in passing – to the cheek, to the lips, to his jaw (especially to the curve of his jaw) – when he is always rushing about from apartment to office to the plane, he cherishes any modicum of affection he can get.
he is always fidgeting, so any time he can fidget with something, he will take it. if your fingers are free, they are is prime target; tracing them, comparing them to his own, drawing patterns that feel like equations across your palm.
he finds showering relaxing. He still can’t turn his brain off, but the warm, steady flow of water is calming, helping to separate time at work from time at home, especially after a flight. it’s more effective when you join him, massaging the shampoo into his scalp and him running the washcloth over your shoulders. it’s like meditation.
spencer can sometimes struggle to sleep, that is not a secret. he can toss and turn and stare at the ceiling in bed for hours until his mind lets him fall asleep and stay that way. he’s found pressure helps – a heavy blanket that he can curl up into a ball beneath. as soon as you enter his life, you become that blanket. he will tangle your legs with his, tuck you into his chest, and sleep far more soundly like that – a mess of long limbs wrapped around you.
has a killer sweet tooth, and while he usually has an aversion to shared food, he will share his sweet treats with you. in the early days he does not go so far as to share a fork with you, but further into your relationship he has been known to hold his desserts up to your lips for tasting, fork or fingers, he doesn’t mind.
his favorite late-night indian place becomes your regular spot – it makes sense, given that his strange, unpredictable working hours means planning dates is far from an exact science. it’s comfort and predictability, everything he loves. he stops asking the team to go with him, securing it as your special place.
spencer never lost his love of being read to, and he would ask, sheepishly, in the beginning if you would read aloud when he caught you with a book. the quiet propositions settled into him laying his head in your lap when a tome was balanced in your palms, waiting patiently for your story to begin and your fingers to find his hair.
he’s tall, almost prohibitively so, often slouching or stooping his shoulders so as to not stand out quite so much. he straightens quickly when he sees you across a room, so you might spot him (you do, of course), and stoops only to brush your hairline with his lips when no one is looking.
while tall, he has no aversion to being the little spoon. whether you’re curled against his back with your nose pressed to his spine, or he’s tucked into the crook of your shoulder with his cheek smooshed against your chest, he doesn’t mind. after so long alone, it’s simply nice to be held again.
it would be impossible for him to have written his daily letters to his mother without mentioning you. your name appeared scarcely at first – a slow means of introduction, drops of your habits, fragments of his feelings. by the time he finds the courage to introduce you, diana understands your small intricacies perfectly, can recognise the tiny eccentricities spencer found that you’d become blind to – each loved in equal measure – that it feels as if she had somehow known you for years.
having spent so much time looking after his mother, and in spite of his frequent interjection of fact and statistic, there are few better nurses than spencer. be it a simple cold or a chronic illness, he tends to every whim, every ache, whenever he physically can.
clumsy, clumsy, clumsy. there are few words that describe him better. it’s endearing, in truth, but there are moments where you wonder how your giraffe of a man has made it so far with all of his fingers. cooking, in particular, is troubling. burnt fingertips are usually the extent of your concerns. he is lucky those deep, wet, puppy dog eyes are so sweet as you force his hand under a cold running tap and fetch the aloe vera from the cabinet beside the sink. it’s nothing a kiss better won’t fix.
Tags: established relationship, fluff, soft emily (like the softest emily possibly ever), kisses, no use of yn
Request: here! Celebrate 2k with me!
Word count: 0.6k
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Emily thinks, sometimes, that you've bewitched her.
She has no qualms about being bewitched. You do it sweetly, ardently, and she succumbs with little protest. The effect slams into her at times—at others it just sneaks under her skin, working its magic while she bends to your every whim and will.
Now it's full in her face, a loud, belated revelation as she unlocks the front door and steps into the apartment, an itch soothing deep, a knot unraveling itself into loose, easy thread.
Emily had never really had a home. Houses, yes, plenty of them, though few could actually be called hers. Even when she did have her name on the lease, she didn't have the warmth burning at every corner, the full, heavy air of a house lived in—a house inviting, a house that was a home. There was always just silence, or tension, or disagreements echoing off the walls.
There was never this.
The faint sound of your humming, music pouring out from your phone and into the hallway; your touch in the decor, the furniture—your blankets draped over the couch and a million candles lit on tables; the palpable warmth of home-cooked food, the bits of you in every corner, crowding her lungs. Rushing home is a still-fresh novelty to Emily. The reason sits flitting about the kitchen, your hair a little frizzed around your face, two pans and a pot sitting on the stove-top.
Emily's mouth pulls.
"Hey, stranger."
You turn, your mouth parting in an O. Faint surprise lights up your face. A smile follows.
"Hi." You step back from the stove and meet her halfway, twining your arms around her neck. Emily presses a kiss to your cheek. She tugs you into her, hugging you flush. Her hands slip around you and settle on your waist, your warm, bare skin spilled wide under her palms.
She skims a thumb over your side. Skirting her hand up, she finds the hem of your shirt, a stretching, clingy thing, and gently tugs it back down. You shift to brush a kiss to her cheek; it catches the corner of her mouth, instead, and Emily smiles, turning to kiss you properly.
"Hi," she murmurs.
You hum, thread your fingers through her hair. "You're back early."
"Missed you." She shrugs, trailing her lips over your jaw.
You lightly shove at her shoulder, laughing.
"Sap."
Emily's chuckle is soft, unapologetic. She gives you a squeeze, her eyes cutting to the stove as she kisses your temple. "What're you making?"
"Stir fry," you say, wriggling out of her arms. She reluctantly tucks her hands in her pockets, stalking over with you to the stove. You hover above the pot of noodles, steam flushing your face, and poke them with a fork. Satisfied, you turn the heat off.
"Can I help?" She asks. Quite uselessly, but you hum and shake your head.
"I'm almost done. You go get changed." You wave her away, reaching up for the cupboard above you.
With the movement, your shirt rides up again. Your skin flashes, and the shirt is still stubbornly bunched even after you shut the cupboard and settle back on your heels. Emily's smile pulls. She steps in, trapping you before you can get closer to the stove-top. Her fingers hook into the hem of the shirt and tug it back down.
You smile at her over your shoulder, eyes squinting with it, and she drops a small kiss on your mouth, hands splaying wide on your side. She gives your waist a squeeze.
"Careful you don't get splashed," she murmurs, her lips to your temple.
"Yes, Mom," you say, but she can hear the smile in your voice. It tumbles into a laugh when she pinches you, lightly, somewhere not very motherly, your flesh briefly caught between her fingers.
“what are you doing this weekend” i am going to fantasy land. i am hiding under the covers in bed. i am making things up. i am contemplating events that didnt happen. i am talking to fake people. i am listening to my tunes. i am envisioning scenarios
spencer reid w/ a chronically ill lover headcanons
if there is anyone who understands the trials and tribulations of long-term illness, it is spencer. having looked after his mother for so long, he understands the nuances of chronic conditions, no matter how much of an impact it has on your day-to-day.
there can be a sense of guilt that comes with long-term illness, that it inconveniences not just yourself but those around you, too. spencer never lets you feel that way. he shuts down every apology, every ‘i’m fine’, every ‘you have enough on your plate–’.
he falls into a similar trap as he did with his mother, absorbing study after study in the hopes a fix might present itself somewhere between the nineteenth and twentieth journal article. it gives him some sense of control over it all, especially when he is so often not at home.
before you, he had little issue with the chaotic working patterns that kept him stuck at his desk or jetting off at a moments notice. after you, it’s harder to be away so often, especially when you’re in a flare – especially with such little warning.
when he is away, his care manifest’s as texts; reminders to take medication, checking if penelope has stopped by as she promised to, goodnight messages (often at odd hours that suggests he is, in fact, not going to sleep at all) and reminders that this isn’t adding to his work load, no matter how you try to argue otherwise.
when he is home, he’s your favourite nurse. he isn’t overbearing, he doesn’t treat you as if you ought to be wrapped in bubble wrap, he respects the fact you’ve lived with it before him and can manage your flares 90% of the time. but that 10%? he’s your crutch, your hair holder, your heating pad, your pharmacist – anything you need.
he’s the softest version of himself in those moments. he rambles but more quietly, tone muted but no less himself. either distractions, or soothing facts and statistics accumulated through previous flares, supported assurances that it will not be long until this one passes too.
there is nothing more soothing in these moments than the feeling of his fingers against your back, tracing patterns along your spine, curling you into him as he reads aloud and urges your system to relax.
there will never be a moment where he makes you feel like a burden, never a time where he feels overwhelmed by his love for you. in sickness and in health he chooses you time and time again.
this is so beautiful and comforting i love it sm. its also really nice to see chronic illness represented. op i adore u, this is my new fav thing <3333
