Universe, Please Be Kind - G.w

"hope this email finds you well"

how the email found me :

Look me in the eyes and tell me your taste in music isn't what your dad used to play in the car.

-admin strawberry

hello!! if you get this, answer with three random facts about yourself and send it to the last 7 blogs in your notifications, anonymously or not. let's get to know the person behind the blog :)

omg the way my heart just went kaboom!!! okidoki;

1. I will be starting college this fall with a major in veterinary science

2. I have played the bass clarinet for 7 years:)

3. I have 2 furbabies, a cocker spaniel named Scout and a bulldog named Millie

Please leave Joseph Quinn alone!!! You have no right leaking his personal information, spotify or adress! And certainly no right going to his home, his personal space, and invading it! And for what?? No one wants to be ambushed like that!

This poor introverted soul made his playlists private and changed his username just because some rabid stans leaked it! If he doesn’t even want you to know what he’s listening to, what makes you think he wants you to ambush him at his home???

This isn’t fan behavior, it’s stalking and it’s wrong. This man is so private that his only social media isn’t even managed by him and you’re just going to scare him further away.

GIVE HER BACK TO ME 😭 TAKE CRISTON COLE PLEASE

okay guys, I am currently writing something involving animals/a veterinarian reader, and the title I decided on has the purrfect cat pun. I can’t reveal too much but ugh I just laughed for like 5 minutes

Every Part of You (tasm!PeterParker x Reader)

Summary: The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room. It didn't ring again. — or, the one where you have a panic attack & Peter is there for you.

Words: 1.5k

Notes: anxiety and panic attack — please read with care; some cursing; negative self-talk, fem!reader, intense feelings. please be kind to yourself if you read this & please don't read it if you are not in the right space to do so. anxiety and panic disorders are different for everyone—this is based on my own experiences and may not represent your own experiences living with anxiety and that's okay and normal. take care of yourselves, loves 🌻 written for some lovely pals who requested this topic xx ily

The squirrels had gotten into your window garden again, telling gnaws in the leaves of your basil plant a conspicuous giveaway. Normally, you’d be cursing the fluffy devils, swearing up and down that if you ever caught the little bastards in the act you’d go medieval.

But you didn’t exactly have time to imagine your revenge or mourn your chewed up herbs as you towelled off your hair and began preparing for the date you and Peter were set to go on that evening. Plus, the excitement you felt buoyed you past the point of anger, your feet nearly gliding along the carpeted floor of your bedroom as you busied yourself with hair and makeup and the always daunting task of picking the right outfit.

It had been a few weeks since you and your boyfriend had gone on a proper date, not that you minded. The nights you spent sprawled across his lap while you battled it out on the XBox were the only thing you needed. But Peter had been busier than usual with what you playfully called his after hours job, a flood of some new drug making its way across the dimly lit alleys and back rooms of New York. And you’d been focusing so intensely on your applications for grad school that you’d hardly gotten a full night of sleep in a week. So you’d both agreed a night out was in order, and Peter would be meeting you at that gorgeous Italian joint that he’d taken you to on your second date.

You glanced at the clock on your bedside table, its neon red letters catching the breath in your chest, stopping you in your tracks as you moved around your bedroom, half-dressed and hair damp.

You were going to be late.

A surge of cold energy made your stomach somersault and you grit your teeth against it. You could hurry, maybe just throw your hair back with a headband?

Those stupid squirrels—if you hadn’t had to spend time worrying about them—

And the subway was always running behind this time of day. You’d end up having to stand, squished between strangers and too warm, sweating and jostled around.

And you still wouldn’t be on time. Because why would anything ever go right? Why couldn’t you do anything right?

Dread crept up your spine, flexing its fingers around your lungs and making you wonder, for a moment, if you were dying, the sudden overwhelming weight of mortality crushing you.

No. No. No no no.

You closed your eyes, a tightness building in your chest, and when you opened them, it was as though you were seeing the world through a fishbowl, distorted and grotesque. You felt a cold sweat prickle at the back of your neck, inexplicable fear bubbling in your stomach. You bit your lip, turning around once in place, pinching your wrist to try to focus on anything other than that awful little voice that had begun worming its way into your ear.

You knew there was nothing to worry about. It would be okay if you were late.

But it would ruin everything.

No, it wouldn’t. You tried, truly you did, to force the thoughts you knew were ridiculous out of your head, but your failure to do so only made you more frustrated, more disappointed. Your nails dug into your palms, tiny crescent moon shapes appearing under the pressure.

All the planning Peter had done, for nothing.

Everything seemed to blur and your legs slowly buckled, your body giving you enough time to fall gently to the floor before you hugged your knees up to your chest. Still, you heard whispers, your brain betraying you as it cruelly lashed you with hissing thoughts.

Your nail polish is chipped. Your shirt looks hideous.

And you should be studying. Kiss grad school goodbye. You’ll never get in.

You haven’t called your parents in a week, that’s awful. After everything they did for you.

You are nothing.

You were falling, falling, falling, slipping under the waves of your own insecurities until they blanketed you like an unforgiving, crushing rockslide.

You will never be enough.

Peter is too good for you.

You will never be loved.

You pressed your palms into your eyes, pushing hard to try to distract yourself from the whirl of thoughts in your head, from the tangled knots in your stomach. You lowered yourself onto your side, a sob wracking through your chest.

Peter…

With effort, you reached up for your phone, on the bed above you, fingers trembling, dropping it twice before you managed to tap on Peter’s contact information.

You’ll only make it worse by calling him, idiot. What are you doing?

It rang once. You hung up. Tears now fell freely from your eyes, your chest tight as you tried to suck in air from a room that was growing smaller and smaller, its walls closing in around you.

Then, your phone rang, a cheery sound that cut through the buzzing in your ears. You ignored it, allowing it to go to voicemail. You couldn’t talk to him, not now, not when you were so broken.

So pathetic, upset over literally nothing.

Ruining Peter’s night over literally nothing.

The phone rang again and you took it in your hand, seeing Peter’s face grinning up at you, tongue stuck out between his lips. For a moment, your finger hovered over the button to answer the call, but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it, instead throwing the device across the room.

It didn’t ring again.

It might have been five minutes or five hours—time slipped by agonizingly slow and all at once—before you heard clambering outside your bedroom window, the sound of someone prying it open and falling with little grace onto your floor.

“Hey ladybug! I’ve been tr—”

You’d known it was Peter even before you heard his voice die in his throat. For his part, he’d been so worried that you’d called him and then not answered he swung over to your place in record time, heart hammering in his chest.

It took him a breath or two to fully take in the scene before him, your form curled up on the floor, shaking with silent sobs.

Shit. He knew what was happening.

Peter was by your side in a second, close enough to offer his hand, far enough to allow you space. You looked up at him with bleary eyes and he smiled weakly.

“Hi beautiful,” he whispered, “I’m here.” He saw the fear in your eyes, the quivering of your lip and his chest constricted. Still, he knew he had to focus on helping you. “You’re having a panic attack, Y/N.” He paused, allowing you to digest his words. When you nodded almost imperceptibly, he continued, “You’re gonna get through this, yeah? It’ll all pass and I’ll be here. Now, you gotta tell me, love, what are five things you see?”

Peter’s voice was warm and soft in your ear, much kinder than the voices swirling in your head. You tried to focus on his words, on his face. Swallowing thickly, drawing in a deep breath, you began to answer. “You,” your voice was shaky, but Peter smiled encouragingly.

“Good, what else?”

“The floor. The bed. Those socks. My hands.” Each item listed gave you a moment’s focus.

“That’s my girl,” Peter encouraged you, still keeping a space between you, “Now four things you can touch?”

You reached for his hand and he freely gave it, allowing you to wrap your fingers tightly around his own but keeping his grip loose.

“Your hand,” you whispered. Peter nodded. Your free hand moved up to touch your cheeks, feeling the heat of your skin and the dampness of your tears there. “My face,” you continued.

“Yeah,” Peter smiled, “Your sweet face. What else?”

Time began to settle into its usual rhythms as Peter helped you ground yourself, shift your focus, bringing you out of your head. The bedroom took on its normal appearance, walls no longer falling in around you, objects once again sharp-edged.

Before you could open your mouth to apologize, Peter was rubbing a pattern on your knuckles. “Can I hold you?” he asked. In response, you pushed yourself up and closer to him, falling into his arms as your head met the firm cushion on his chest.

“I’m sorry, Pete.”

“Don’t apologize, Y/N,” Peter kissed the top of your head, “It happens. It’s normal. Today it’s you, tomorrow it’s me, yeah?” You nodded against him and he pulled you closer.

“How about I order us a pizza?” he asked, “We can eat it in bed?”

“Yes please,” you whispered, laughing lightly as Peter picked you up and set you amongst the silky softness of your bedsheets. You watched as he grabbed the phone from his back pocket and called the pizza place across the street, watched the way his lips moved as he spoke and the way his fingers played with the zipper of his hoodie as he idled and the way he kicked off his Chucks and curled his toes, clad in mismatched socks, into a stretch.

You weren’t perfect. Neither was he. There were parts of both of you that were sometimes a little worse for the wear, but what was loving someone if not sinking deep into their skin, replacing their hurt with your love.

Taglist: @v1oletvenus // @violetrainbow412-blog // @veraocruel // @morgane–stark // @frannyyy03 // @nervouslaught3r // @alijulia87 // @kdatthecastle // @di4na // @infp-t-rhi // @dreamer7black // @plutoneu // @equivocalshit // @yodelingzavia // @pinkybee926 // @where-is-my-oat-milk // @lia-andari // @multiple-boxes-of-earthworms // @starkovsmarvel // @lucyysthings // @panicattheeverywherekid // @earthgirl616 // @huhurrr-r // @astoria-reads // @schmuckyschmarnes // @mypalbuck // @spider-starry // @theupsidedownkiss

Stranger Things Social Media Profiles:

→ El Hopper and Max Mayfield

this is me trying | s.r

summary // spencer fell in love with you months ago while working on a case. as much as he tried to have boundaries, something about rescuing you etched onto his heart forever. each month, he sends you money to keep you on your feet. but tonight, you need more than a bank deposit.

pairing // spencer reid x fem!victim!reader

genre // angst

rating // mature

word count // 1.9k

warnings // mutual pining, friends (?) to lovers, major character death!, mentions of violent crime, victimization, s*xual assault mention, mention of s*x crimes, mentions of s*x work, medical mention, mention of guns, needle mention, trauma, alcohol/intoxication, drug addiction, overdose, negative self talk/self image, rehab mention, kissing. oh and I barely proofread this. please let me know if i forgot anything.

Spencer was sitting on his couch, calmly sipping on a cup of white wine and settling in to read the novel he had excitedly bought from the bookstore earlier that day. The rain outside spattered against his window while the moonlight glimmered through the curtains. Spencer found himself lost in the book as he sat, finding peace in the story that his mother had read to him a million times before. He had been over the moon to find a vintage copy of it, and he knew if you'd been with him you'd have encouraged him to buy it.

Just as Spencer had reached one of his favorite chapters, there was a small rap at the door. He raised an eyebrow quizzically, setting his mug down onto the coffee table in front of him. He glanced at the gun on his side table, tucking into the waistband of his pants - just in case. The brunette walked to the door and glanced through the peephole, startled to see you standing there. You had your arms wrapped tightly around your body, shaking from the cold rain. Spencer swung the door open hurriedly, his voice cracking as he began to speak.

"Y/n? What are you doing here?"

But before your feet could carry you through the door, you felt yourself falling. Spencer reached out quickly to grab you. Spencer could smell the faintest scent of alcohol on your breath.

"Y/n..."

Spencer had seen wounds more times than he could count. He had seen corpses mangled beyond belief. Human suffering was like an old ghost that haunted his days. But when Spencer looked at you, he could see the pain that was scattered somewhere deep beyond the surface, intertwining itself in the confines of your heart.

"What did you do? Hmm?," Spencer queried softly and kindly, kneeling down to help you to your feet. He pulled you to his side, helping you into his apartment. He kicked the door shut behind him, sitting you down gently on the couch.

He was shocked to see you at his apartment, but he tried not to show it. "Let me get you a glass of water, okay?"

You watched with blurry eyes as Spencer headed into the kitchen. You could see him from the living room. He filled up a glass from the sink and brought it out.

"Tiny little sips," he instructed, hoping you wouldn't get sick.

"Are you mad at me, Spencer? For coming here?"

Spencer looked at you with the deepest compassion in his brown eyes. He shook his head, using his fingers to steady the cup and give you a drink.

__________________________

The minute the unsub hit the floor, Spencer was running over to you. He moved quickly to rip the duct tape off your mouth. It stung, but it didn’t hurt more than what you had already endured over the last fourteen days. You were kicking your feet desperately, as you were unable to move your arms. They were strung over your head. Spencer was breathing heavily, doing his best to untie the ropes. Finally, he was able to unbind you. You fell forward, immediately gripping onto his Kevlar vest. Spencer had just become your hero. He had saved you from a sadist who had kept you captive - that was enough to forge an attachment deep into your psyche. When the medics came over to put you onto the gurney, you refused to let go of Spencer. You dug your hands around the side of his vest, resisting the futile attempts of the emergency medical technicians.

Spencer brought his hands up to yours. “Hey, y/n? What if I came with you? We need you to go to the hospital so you can get checked out and fixed up. Okay?” You refused to speak, just nodding. Spencer smiled warmly, offering to help get you onto the gurney. The medics began to speak to you as they wheeled you out of the abandoned building and into the ambulance, but you couldn’t form words. “Miss y/l/n, can you tell me if you’re in any pain? Do you have any injuries?” You stared up at the lights at the top of the ambulance, reaching out for Spencer’s hand. Nervously, he grabbed your hand. “Miss y/l/n, did the attacker hurt you?” You moved away from the medic, letting out a whimper. Spencer looked at the medic with a slight tinge of annoyance. “I think she just needs some space.”

_______________________________

You opened up your beaten-up old purse and pulled out an envelope. You shoved it against Spencer’s chest. You slurred, standing up wobbly on your feet. “I just w-wanted to give you your money back.” “What?” Spencer said shocked, opening up the envelope and pulling out a few hundred dollar bills.

Spencer had spent days with you in the hospital. He was the only one you would speak to. He collected information from you, stayed during your rape kit, and even stayed up all night with you.

He had gotten to know all your favorite things. He found out that you had been on the streets since you were a preteen and learned the intricate details of your trauma. But, he also learned also that you loved classical literature and mathematics.

Through all of this, you and Spencer had become extremely close. Spencer, being the good man that he was, offered to meet you every Sunday. He would buy you a warm breakfast and give you enough money to make it through the week without having to turn tricks.

Spencer cherished those moments, watching you with twinkling eyes as you devoured your only hot breakfast of the week. Sometimes, you would grin, holding out your fork for Spencer to take a bite of your banana pancakes. In return, Spencer would take part of his blueberry pancakes and place them onto your plate. It had been over six months since he rescued you. You had forged a beautiful friendship - full of laughter and sharing of the darkest parts of yourselves.

But now, you stood before him, fully prepared to push him away forever. “I’m not your charity case, S-Spencer.” You wobbled toward the doorway and Spencer sped up to grab you gently. He spun you around and you looked into his eyes, unable to hide the tears brimming in your waterline.

“Is that what you think you are to me, y/n?” You pushed him away gently. “That’s what I know that I am.”

As he held your wrists gently in his hands, he turned your arms palm up. On the inside of your elbows, he saw fresh marks - a clear indication that you were using again. “Y/n…”

“What?! You’re shocked?! You’re shocked that I’m fucking getting high again? That I’m out there on my back again?!” You chuckled sarcastically. “Some fucking profiler you are.” Spencer felt his heart hammering in his chest. Tears were caught in the center of his throat, but he pushed them down. “Please, don’t go. Stay here.”

“Why? Are you going to pay me? I charge by the night now, you know.” The words spilled from your mouth, dripping with venom. The truth was that you abhorred the woman you saw in the mirror. You felt that you would never be good enough for Spencer - the beautiful genius with a heart of gold.

“Because I care about you, okay?”

The room fell silent. Spencer dropped your wrists and you recoiled just slightly. “You don’t mean that,” you decided, your voice coming out just a decibel above a whisper. He reached out and touched your cheek, one of your tears splashing against his fingertips. “I do. I want to help you get better, y/n. Please.”

The room was silent as Spencer looked at the track marks on your arms again. He couldn’t tear himself away from the sight. Knowing you had relapsed, despite everything, tore his heart to bits. Before he could help it, tears began to slide down his face. “Come sit on the couch for a bit, yeah?” You nodded, letting Spencer guide you back over to his sofa. He pulled you close to him, pulling the blanket around both of you.

“I’m...I’m scared, Spencer. But please don’t cry, not on account of me. I’ll be okay, I promise.”

You turned to look at him, your eyes fixated on his soft, plush lips. You leaned forward, letting your lips meet his. Spencer had waited for this moment for months, as had you. But yet it still came as a shock that it was actually happening. Spencer had told himself you were friends and nothing more. He had sworn up and down to Hotch, Morgan, and Garcia that it was completely professional. He hesitated for a moment before leaning in to the kiss, bringing his hands down to cup your face. Slowly, you scooted forward, reaching for his belt buckle.

Spencer quickly moved to place his hand on yours. “No, no, none of that. I don’t want that.”

It was unusual for you. You had never met a man who just wanted to kiss you, and nothing more. “Just...just kisses?” Spencer smiled, planting a soft kiss on your forehead. “Just kisses.”

“I’ve w-wanted to kiss you for a long time, Spence,” you admitted, lacing your hands in his.

“Y/n?”

“Will you get help? Please.”

“I...I don’t know anything else, Spencer. This is all I’ve ever been...I don’t feel worth--” Spencer shut you up with a kiss, pulling apart to press his forehead to yours. “You are worth everything, do you hear me? I’m going to be with you every step of the way.”

“I don’t want to go away, Spencer. I...I’m sorry...I shouldn’t have kissed you. I have to go.” “I’ll visit you every single day.” “I’m...I have to go, Spencer.”

You stood up fast this time, stumbling as you rushed toward the door. Spencer moved as quick as he could but you were out the door, leaving him standing on the porch. He watched as you rushed off into the rain. “Y/n!”

The rain splattered loudly against the roof, but Spencer continued to call out to you. “Y/n!” It was to no avail. You were gone, leaving the Good Doctor alone on his porch, praying for a miracle to a God he didn’t even believe existed.

_________________________ The next day, Spencer sat down at the round table, sipping on a strong cup of coffee. The rest of the room was eerily silent, avoiding eye contact with him. “What?” He snapped, acknowledging the elephant in the room.

“Y/n Y/l/n…,” JJ began, sliding a folder across the table to Spencer. “We got the alert, since she was a victim.” “Was? You said was…” He mumbled, flipping open the folder. His coffee cup landed with a clatter onto the table, liquid splashing onto the floor. Garcia moved quickly to grab it as Spencer stared at the images in front of him. “I’m sorry, man. OD,” Morgan said. “I know you had been helping her through some stuff. We can’t find any loved ones….” The team had no idea just how much he’d helped you. He left everyone standing there confused as he rushed out of the room, getting himself into the bathroom just in time to slide down the wall, loud sobs bursting from his lungs. “Kid?” Derek’s voice came calling as the door opened. “Hey…” Derek knelt down, looking at Spencer as he cried. “Oh man...don’t tell me...Reid…”

“I loved her, Derek, I loved her.” Derek pulled him into a hug, mimicking that moment so many months ago when you’d refused to leave Spencer’s arms.

____________________ criminal minds and/or spencer reid taglist: @hufflepuffhaze @omghufflepuff @txtdreamss @k-k0129 @awritingtree @ssavanessa22 *Please fill out the form in my navigation to be added to my taglist!*

I Wanna Hold Your Hand

Pairing: Aaron Hotchner x BAUfem! Reader

Category: Fluff

TW: Mentions of usual CM case-related violence, mentions of Haley’s death, insecurity, and cursing

Well, this is new, innit? (And, yes, I am referencing The Beatles with the title). I wasn’t sure if my usual tags would be interested in this, but I’ve included it just in case - I’m sorry if I tagged you and you’re not interested in this! Hope you like it! xx 

Profilers are strange creatures. A bizarre breed of human, truly. Not bad, per se, just…odd. Charmingly odd, in most cases, as you’d discovered upon joining the elite Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI. The team were a fascinating and brilliant bunch, but also unerringly loyal and empathetic (highly desirable and important qualities in your line of work). However, being able to read people also equips profilers with the infuriating ability to make themselves impossible to read. They know all the tricks of the trade to hide their tells and never give away anything. And now, nearly a year into working with the BAU, you’ve managed to crack nearly everyone…except your boss, Aaron Hotchner. The most intimidating man in the world. And why do you consider him the most intimidating man in the world? Because you’re not at all sure where you stand with your boss…ever. At any time. You have absolutely no idea how he feels about you or perceives you. Which is unsurprising considering the mixed messages you get from Hotch. 

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