POV: You’re A Rat In The Pitt About To Die

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→ El Hopper and Max Mayfield

tolerate it //[g.w.]

Summary: George has always been pretty much in the dark about how you feel about him, yet that hasn’t changed your affections for the ginger-haired boy.

Warnings: Angst, possibly slow burn idk

A/N: Hiya! My blog was pretty dead and I’ve just been reading other’s works on it, but I recently have been pretty torn about starting to write again. I figured that now is as good a time as any, and I hope that anybody who decides to read this enjoys it at least a little. I decided to just write and see where it takes me, so this is probably more of a drabble than anything else. This has not been beta read, and any feedback is appreciated!

Word Count: 884

I sit and watch you reading with your head low I wake and watch you breathing with your eyes closed

George had all but stumbled into the gryffindor common room after perhaps one of the most rigorous quidditch practices as of late. The tension practically dripped off his skin as he rolled his shoulders back and let out a deep groan.

“Hey Georgie, your face looks almost as red as your hair. Did you have to outrun Filch on the way back or something?” He mockingly laughed at your sarcasm and dropped down onto the couch next to you.

“Nah, we all know Filch can’t run nearly fast enough to tire me out. It’s just Oliver has been a bloody prat since the house cup is coming up...” George wiped his hand across his forehead, gathering the beads of sweat making their way across his hairline.

You giggled, and settled into a comfortable silence as you continued to study. George’s head hung down as he settled into the couch, seemingly lulled into a sleepy state by the intermittent turning of pages. Deciding to sneak a glance at the redhead, you looked up and were greeted by the sight of George’s head bobbing up and down, his eyes fighting to stay open.

“Why don’t you go get cleaned up, and I’ll go sneak us some biscuits from the kitchen. You look too tired to go all the way to the great hall anyways.” George nodded, and heaved himself off of the plush cushions.

“Remind me to have mom send you some cinnamon twists, you deserve them for taking care of me so well.” You giggled, and the two of you parted ways. You nearly sprinted to the kitchen, hoping that you could use up some energy and force your heart to calm down now that George was gone.

*****

I wait by the door like I'm just a kid Use my best colors for your portrait

“Awww, what’cha drawing, Y/N?” Fred made a grab for the sketchbook nestled in your lap, clearly egged on by the laughter of his twin brother and Lee.

“Fred. Give it back.” The way your voice rose shocked the three boys to their cores; In all the time they had known you, you never raised your voice at them. It didn’t matter if you were being used as a means of making a joke, you usually simply giggled and brushed it off. 

Fred turned away from you, and immediately realized why you wanted to keep the book out of his hands. On the open page, you had drawn his younger brother in astonishing detail. Every line was light, yet strategically placed as if you had spent hours painstakingly sketching the boy out. Fred decided it was a better choice to close the book and pass it back to your flushed figure.

“Sorry about that, Y/N. It was only a joke.” Fred stammered, and immediately staggered to place his hands on George and Lee’s broad shoulders. “Why don’t you boys go grab some skiving snackboxes from the dorm, and I’ll give Y/N here a nice shoulder rub for causing her so much grief.”

George and Lee simply chuckled and walked away, the swish of their robes breaking the awkward silence forming between Fred and you.

“You can’t tell George.”

“How long, Y/N?” He dropped next to you on the grass, placing his large hand on your knee as a sign of comfort.

“Look... It’s just a small crush, I’ve had it since 5th year. It’ll probably be gone by the summer. Just please, don’t bring it up.” You dropped your gaze and focused on pulling strands of grass from the area around your ankles. The ferocity with which you tugged on the green blades suggested all Fred needed to know, and he dropped the subject, deciding to focus on moving to knead your tense shoulders instead.

*****

I made you my temple, my mural, my sky Now I'm begging for footnotes in the story of your life

“Y/N, you won’t believe who I just asked to the yule ball!” George practically pounced on you from behind, ripping your focus from the potions essay you were currently writing.

Your heart immediately dropped, but you forced a smile on your face. “Who’s the lucky bird, Georgie?”

“Alicia! I mean, we are just going as mates, but who knows what this could lead to... Maybe I won’t end this year without a gal to send some letters to this summer, if you catch my drift.”

You could always send me letters...

“Well, that’s great for you George! I bet you will make a great couple, even if it is just for the dance for now.” You slammed your notebook shut, and began to gather your things. “Hopefully you both have fun at the ball.”

George noticed your lack of enthusiasm for his small victory, but brushed it off as jealousy seeing as you had no date for the ball yet.

“Hey, Y/N, you know I could always set you up with Lee or one of the lads, right? It’s what best friends do, after all!” The ginger’s voice carried through the common room, but what he couldn’t see was the fat droplets of tears rolling down your cheeks.

Best friends...

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

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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GIVE HER BACK TO ME 😭 TAKE CRISTON COLE PLEASE

and now your honey jars are frozen | f.w.

In which Fred Weasley is left seeing you in every little detail, every little object. // MASTERLIST. Prompts: Based off the song ‘Honey Jars’ by Bryan John Appleby. Word Count: 2.6k Warnings: Angst/general sadness, sickness and death, food/drinks/meals, mentions of parenthood and pregnancy. Flashbacks in italics. A/N: My face when my fic formats and headers aren’t consistent: 😃✋. Anyway, I really like this formatting! Hopefully, you guys like it, too! I’ve been messing around with my header stylings and I like this one! Also, Fred is an elderly man in this! It just fit better when I was trying to think of a plot (and that’s how the song I based it off plays out)! I apologize in advance, feel free to put tissues on my bill! Enjoy!

Fred woke up on a Thursday morning. It was warm. He had always loved warm Thursday mornings. When the sun streamed in at just the right angle, the birds chirped at just the right volume, when the spring outside his bedroom window rippled in just the right way. He would nuzzle further into the blankets, further into your embrace. Over the years, over the decades when his bones began to ache and his neck began to tingle with the littlest of movements, he settled for holding your hand. That way, you two were still close. Not even old age and grey hairs would stop the love you held for each other.

Until one day, it did.

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TOLERATE IT DESTROYED ME LIKE WOW STORY OF MY LIFE 😭 please make a part two I beg of you 😭😭😭😭😭

If it is wanted, I will def try and start it this weekend! I’m still not sure what my post schedule will look like, as I am a senior so life is extra ~hectic~ rn... I’m probably gonna base this off feedback and asks, but I still don’t know if there will be a happy ending or not, since I didn’t really think that far ahead lol

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

SPENCER REID AS MATTHEW GRAY GUBLER TWEETS.

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.

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