#probably a lot of kirby in class doodles tomorrow | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

macbookpro-hard-drive · 6 years

Text

control [jeremy h. x squipped!reeader] pt.1

like what i do? consider buying me a coffee!

haha so i literally was on the fence abt how to do this first part before CB helped me decide ‘yeah this would work better so’ ;)

i’m gonna post this first part on it’s own since this one isn’t really heavy at all - but i’ll try to post the heavier parts w some fluffy stuff for people who need it/don’t want to read control

warnings: mainly just pain in this part. we’ll get into worse things later.

The first day of eighth grade at a new school was stressful. You walked into your first class with shoes tied a bit too tight, backpack light, and your stomach tying itself in knots. You remembered finding your name taped into the corner of a desk, right next to a first: at the head of the list. You remembered not having friends for a while. And then you found yourself sitting behind Jeremy Heere in eighth grade physical science, and you found yourself partners with this awkward, tall, noodle-y thirteen year old for some stupid project that you actually didn’t remember. Jeremy Heere had planet stickers on his bedroom door. Jeremy Heere laughed at the same stupid jokes you did, liked the same music as you (plus more that you two got each other into), and loved video games like Spyro and Kirby. Jeremy Heere was your first friend, and then Michael Mell was your second, and the rest of eighth grade didn’t seem so tough anymore. You had friends to sit with at lunch, people to bitch about classes with, and video games to win and lose at sometimes with two pretty nerdy guys. But you didn’t mind that last part - you were fairly nerdy as well. They didn’t judge you for the little doodles you’d leave on your class notes or on your knockoff Vans or on the cuffs of your jeans - and neither did their parents, honestly. Michael’s moms accepted you like their own, treating you as if you knew Michael as long as Jeremy had. Jeremy’s parents were kind, his father soft-spoken and his mother bold and full of life even on her longest work days. You felt at home with the two of them.

Freshman year wasn’t so daunting either - the three of you moving onto Middleborough with a lot of familiar faces. Freshman year was when the three of you went to homecoming together for about thirty minutes before ditching to go play Mario Party 7 on the GameCube that Michael Mell still had in his basement with his brother sometimes chilling in the background every so often. Freshman year was when Jeremy met Christine Canigula for the first time, saw the winter play with her in it, and immediately fell. Freshman year was when you realized how the butterflies that stayed in your stomach whenever you were near Jeremy weren’t just anxiety-fueled, but a soft sort of yearning that fluttered whenever his hand brushed your own. The end of freshman year was when things started turning rocky. The start of sophomore year is when Jeremy starting becoming distant, and in turn, that’s when Michael followed him out of your life. Hanging out started to become a happy daydream, lunch grew too quiet and a time to lose yourself in doodles and music, and your afternoons were filled with homework and no one to bitch to about it. Late sophomore year is when you heard about the divorce.

You’d been standing next to Jeremy after school one day, a week later, stomach churning with anxiety and loose feelings that began to resurface. “I’m sorry about what happened, Jeremy.” You’d mustered up, fingers curled tightly around your bag, sleeves dipping down over your fingers.

He looked over to you, slouched forward and hands shoved into his pockets - a habit he’d recently picked up, as if maybe he could hide himself if he just kept trying. “Yeah.” He sort of smiled a little, “it’s... fine.” He lied. You remembered how Jeremy would badly lie: teeth slightly clenched, gaze averted, voice quiet and wavering every so slightly at the end of his words.

“Is there anything I can do-”

“No.” He said, a bit blunt, before finally adding on, “it’s uh.. it’s fine, [y/n]. Thank you.”

You watched his dad pull up, gaze distant and soft. Jeremy left your side. Fifteen minutes later, your dad’s car pulled up to the curb and you were quick to enter the car.

Five months later, you were a junior - so close yet so far from that bit of freedom you craved. Just two more years and you’d be out of high school, and you could deal with college when that got closer. Five months later, and you were stuck with Jeremy Heere in four of your classes. In your American History class, he sat desks ahead of you, close to the door - and you’d caught yourself staring at the back of his head while your attention evaporated, and you prayed that he didn’t notice that shit because staring was creepy, fuck, you didn’t mean to stare at him. In Chemistry, he sat next to Michael at a table close to the teacher’s desk - the one in front of him preoccupied by a certain Rich Goranski and some baseball player who’s name you never bothered to remember, all because they were trouble and that was the easiest way for your teacher to keep an eye on him. In American Literature, he sat across the room, hidden behind multiple football players which gave him the perfect cover to nap behind because that was in the mornings and he was a tired little shit sometimes - something you understood a bit too personally. And then there was algebra, where you sat right next to Jeremy Heere, who always asked you for your calculator because he forgot his own.

You’d begun to keep your head down, your focus on anything but the people around you, and your task to keep invisible. You hardly stood out - plain clothes that were usually dark in color, hair sort of kept neat as you could keep it, and the normal shitty acne that you’d been trying to get rid of. Maybe it was the stress. You’d caught yourself picking at your nails plenty of times (and fuck, you were going to have to find out how to break the stupid habit), or keeping close to the walls and shoving your hands into your pockets, or fuck - when anxiety reared up bad enough, you’d take to biting your nails. In the eyes of the world around you, you could only assume you were written off as some emo freak or some shit - not that you’d care, frankly. You were left alone for the most part, and that’s how you enjoyed it.

Jeremy, on the other hand, wasn’t. Something apparently turned Jeremy into more of a target than you - and to be honest, you weren’t exactly sure what it was. You’d seen Rich make shitty remarks to him, ranging from just a simple “tall-ass” to shit questioning Jeremy’s friendship with Michael being just that. Maybe one day you’d gather your courage and tell Rich to fuck off. But you weren’t a blip on the radar - not like how Jeremy was. So you told yourself it was better you stay safe for right now because Jeremy had Michael: you had no one, and you weren’t sure if putting that target on your back would leave you to survive high school. The regrets were there, sure, but at least you stayed unseen.

At least, until around three weeks into the school year. You had this habit of going to the mall after schools just to wander - never really buying too much since you’d been saving your money from your allowance and your commissions (as sparse as they’d been) for some sweet merch you’d been eyeing up. This habit didn’t lend itself to every single day of every single week - but it had been enough to call it a habit, just because the idea of heading home alone to do nothing but drown yourself with bullshit homework assignments and commissions started to turn your stomach. You didn’t spend a long time there anyway - just sort of wandering into Spencer’s or into GameStop before leaving, maybe grabbing some pretzels or cookies or something first. One Thursday afternoon, you tore out of Spencer’s as business picked up, and as fate would have it: you stumbled right out into the familiar frame of Rich Goranski. Lucky for you, he’d been alone - about to make some comment as he studied your face. Recognition flickered. He knew you.

Your breath caught in your throat as you flung yourself back a step, “shit - fuck, dude, I’m sorry, I should have-”

He looked absent. “[y/n].” He said, voice quiet, processing slowly your presence before he blinked several times, as if he was coming back to life right before you. “Right?”

You gave a slow, cautious nod. “Yeah... look, I’m sorry about-”

“Tomorrow,” he cut you off, “after school, behind the gym. We’ll talk.”

Anxiety squeezed your organs. “Fuck, dude-”

“We’ll talk,” he repeated, and that pretty much solidified the thought that well, shit, you’re probably going to die.

You nodded slowly before he walked off, muttering something softly before stealing a quick glance over his shoulder at you. And then he was gone, swinging into some store before you let out a long sigh. Okay, so - Rich was going to kill you, you decided. At least that means no chem test for you to fail? You frowned. Weak attempt to be okay with that - but... then again, when you really thought about it, Rich wouldn’t just... kill you on school grounds, right? Especially right after school?

You swallowed hard, before heading towards the exit. Twenty-four hours. Time to see how many scenarios you can dream up.

The entirety of Friday was swallowed up by dread and panic and everything shitty. Your heart was beating hard in your ears during your last class, and you’d been pretty damn jumpy all day - accidentally nearly throwing your calculator when Jeremy asked for it, right on cue, and then you came up with some bullshit excuse that you weren’t feeling too peachy keen, Jeremiah, but you’d definitely feel better later. He stared at you before sliding the case from your calculator, slowly turning back to Michael to continue his work. Could that have gone better? Totally. But he seemed to buy it at least - and that’s all that truly mattered in the end. Your leg bounced continuously for the entirety of lunch and throughout the remainder of your final class, anxiety screaming for some sort of release and endless leg bounce was the best way you could channel it. The moment the bell rang, you shoved your things into your bag and bolted out of the room, heading towards the gym. To your surprise, you were alone when you first arrived.

Twenty minutes later, Rich showed up, bag hanging off of one shoulder and hands jammed into his jeans pockets. He gave you a once-over, before shrugging his bag from his shoulder, tossing it to the ground. This was it: he was gonna fucking kill you and you sort of stumbled back, wondering if you could outrun him-

“... Jesus fucking - Relax.” He frowned, staring you down as he stretched, joints popping as he did so, “didn’t think you’d show up.”

You nodded slowly. “Yeah. Yeah, uh, figured... you’d probably hunt me down if I didn’t - but... look, Rich, about yesterday-”

He groaned, “god fucking-” He cut himself off there, watching as you tensed up, before letting out a heavy breath. “You...” He paused once more, studying your face, “you...” He spoke slowly, “you remember me freshman year, right?”

You nearly said no. But you did: Rich Goranski, who sat next to you in Biology and... was actually rather quiet, speaking with a strong lisp that you weren’t sure if you remembered correctly because you’d never heard it again. Rich with the D&D dice set in a little pouch in his bag, who sorta smiled at you a little when you brought up this idea for a campaign you had but you didn’t have the players for. Nodding slowly, you finally answered him: “yeah. Biology-”

“Then you remember how I was-”

“Yeah? We talked about D&D a couple times-”

“Don’t fucking bother me with that nerd shit,” he spat, “that’s not important right now.”

You pressed your lips together for a moment, before finally speaking once more. “I... I don’t see what this has do to with yesterday-”

“Shut up about that shit!” He snapped, and you flinched slightly and took a step back. He watched you, before he started to regain his composure. “Sorry. Habit.” Shitty habit. “Look. I thought you could use the help I got.”

“What help? You went from being kinda nice to being a huge fucking dick-” You started before catching yourself. Anger flared up in his eyes. “Sorry-”

“If you don’t fucking want my help, then fine-”

“No!” You started, “no - dude, I just... what’s this help?”

The smallest little smirk started to play at the corner of his lips, and he stood slightly straighter. “You like Jeremy, right?”

Fuck, was it obvious? “How did you know-”

He didn’t answer. His smirk became more apparent. Something about it was unnerving - and... Rich didn’t feel so Rich-like, as weird as it seemed. “I’ve got something that can help you with that.”

“With... Jeremy?” You started, furrowing your brow, “look - Rich, Jeremy and I were friends-”

“And you can be his friend again, and more, with a SQUIP.” Something about he said that made you feel uneasy.

But curiosity reigned supreme in the end. “A... what?”

“A SQUIP,” he repeated, “it’s this grey, oblong pill with a supercomputer inside of it. You take it and,” he reached up, tapping the side of his head, “you don’t have to worry about shit anymore, because you’ve got it telling you all the right moves to make. You’ll be cooler or smarter or whatever the fuck you want to be! You want to fuck Heere - you can.”

“I don’t-” You paused, cheeks growing warm, “is that... safe?”

“It’ll help you.” He said. “Look, it’s six-hundred dollars-”

“Six-hundred?” You parroted back, “oh, fuck, yeah sure, let me just pull out my fucking wallet with six-hundred in it right now-”

“Are you always a sarcastic little shit?” Rich asked, stepping towards you, “give me your phone.”

You pulled it out, unlocking it before holding it out. He opened the contact, and you could only assume he was punching his number into it. Thoughts simmered in your mind as he handed the phone back to you. Questions bubbled. You didn’t speak.

“Text me when you get the money.” He gave you another smirk, “I know what you’re thinking but... it’s worth it. Trust me.”

He turned, swiping up his bag in one hand before shrugging it back onto his shoulder, and left you standing there in the hot afternoon sun. Trust him. You looked down to your phone, Rich’s contact still open. You looked back up, watching him disappear into the distance, and started off towards your home. Six-hundred bucks for a pill that’ll change your life, by the sound of it. All you had to do was trust Rich.

You let the thought sit with you all through the rest of the afternoon, all through the half-assed attempt at homework that you’d probably finish throughout Sunday and Monday, through dinner with your parents. It wasn’t until you’d been tidying up your room that you found this old shoe-box hidden underneath your bed, and counted the cash that you’d found inside of it - seventy dollars. Why you’d hidden it away, you weren’t sure, but you remembered still having money from commissions that you’d been saving up on PayPal. Seventy as well, you were pretty sure. With your weekly allowance of fifteen dollars, that left you with over a hundred and fifty. Maybe getting six-hundred wouldn’t be too rough after all.

So you took the leap and you trusted Rich.

The next day, you called up as many family members as you could looking for any sort of work you could do. Your grandmother was happy to take you up on the offer, and for the next few hours you were outside doing a ton lawn work with the promise of fifty dollars fueling you forward. It wasn’t until you were sitting in her living room, ice-cold lemonade and cookies (the traditional grandma offerings, in your experience) between the two of you with conversation flying, that your phone started to ring and you were greeted with your aunts asking if you could babysit since your parents had said something about you wanting work and that they were willing to pay you forty for tonight - ten dollars an hour. Before you could question why Alexander (the oldest of their kids at age fourteen) couldn’t handle shit, you learned he’d been getting into fights and they couldn’t exactly trust him right then.

So you thanked your grandmother for the refreshments and the money, and offered up to come help out again if she needed you within the next week before you head home to take a cold shower and head over to your aunts’ in a few hours. Time flew past quickly, and by eleven that night, you were sitting in your bedroom with ninety bucks to add to your total - and that was the moment it hit you that you should probably transfer your funds from PayPal to your bank account then instead of waiting.

Sunday you started to clean things out, finding anything that you could sell. Thanks to trading in shit at GameStop, a lot of your old video games managed to add up to almost a hundred - only at the cost of childhood nostalgia. Counting everything up, you had roughly three-hundred and thirty dollars. This wasn’t so bad. You could handle this.

Then came the idea of baking. That usually had a good payoff, right? Besides - you weren’t against the idea of baking at all, since it was rather therapeutic. You focused on baking cooking the entire night after dinner. You managed to rack up fifteen during the school day, fifteen more for baking shit for someone’s younger sibling’s birthday, and then twenty more from their mom for being such a nice kid and doing this on such short notice. Thursday comes and these seniors approach you after school, saying they heard you were the kid that bakes shit and asked if you wanted to come with them - and then immediately clarified they need your baking expertise for brownies, if you caught their drift.

You did. You weren’t one for weed, but you were one for money. The girl with them drives you to one of their houses that looks a bit too fucking fancy for this kid to just be a stoner who goes to Middleborough. But you shook the thought away - you couldn’t really judge, could you? Money was money, and this wasn’t harming anyone. The three of them sat, talking you through everything while two of them pooled their money together to pay you upon your refusal of any brownies. The two come up with sixty, thanking you for being a bro and also using their vegan ingredients (which you honestly thought deserved an extra ten since vegan weed brownies weren’t your area of expertise) before the girl - Martha, you caught - drove you home.

She asked you why you agreed. You told her you needed the money. She shoved an extra five into your hand saying that she can’t really pay much since she’s short on cash. You thanked her anyway, and immediately proceeded to do laundry the moment you got home just as a precaution because you really didn’t need to explain the smell of weed.

Your allowance came the next day. That night you ended up texting Rich that you’ve almost got all the money, if the offer still stands. He told you he’d give you another week. The deadline surprised you, but you figured that you could maybe try to get some commissions if anyone was willing to buy. So you knocked down your prices seemingly out of nowhere, and you end up getting two takers for two full-body, full-background pieces for twenty each. You’d regret the work later. Through a mixture of art, more yard work, the selling of a couple books, you managed to withdraw what you needed with your allowance that Friday giving you the final bit you needed. You texted Rich. He told you to meet him behind the gym in an hour. You told him you’d have to sneak out. He told you it’d be worth it.

So you trusted him.

Picking the remainder of leaves off of your shirt, you looked up to see Rich approaching you, his truck pulled onto the grass with headlights shining behind him. His shadow stretched toward you, and soon he was standing before you, a shoe-box tucked under one arm and a Mountain Dew in his other hand. When you go to question him, he stopped you.

“I’ll drive you home.” He said, shifting the box. You could hear rattling inside of it. “Where’s the money?”

You reached into your sweatpants pocket, feeling the large wad of cash and for a moment, you had to wonder if this was a good idea or if Rich was just scamming you. Slowly withdrawing the money, you hold it out to him and he took it, shoving it into his own pocket. “You’re not going to count it?” You asked, watching him pop the box open.

He looked back up at you. “Do I need to?”

“It’s all there,” you said, “but... I just thought you’d-”

“I trust you to not pull any shit.” He plucked a pill from the box, stepping towards you, “look. For some fucking reason, you have to take this shit with Mountain Dew. It’s going to fucking hurt for a bit but... it’s not gonna last long.”

Cautiously, you took the pill from his hand, watching him uncap the Mountain Dew and hand it to you. You only watched him place the lid back on the box, stepping back for a moment to set it down, as he stared you down. Finally, you placed the pill on your tongue, and took a swig of the soda, the taste of mint chasing it’s way down your throat. A small smirk twitched at the corner of Rich’s mouth. Fear filled your stomach.

“I... don’t think it-” You started, only for a sharp pain to stab through your head, “fuck-” For a moment, you thought that’d be it before the ache spread through your brain, pulsing. You let out a hiss, shutting your eyes, “shit, Rich-”

> CALIBRATION IN PROCESS. PLEASE EXCUSE SOME MILD DISCOMFORT.

Your legs shook underneath your weight, the pulsing threatening to knock you over, and before you knew it, Rich was there to steady you. But finally, your legs gave out, your hands flying to the sides of your head as you dug your nails into your scalp as the pain slowly increased, your breath growing more labored between the soft swears that started to spill from you. Then there was the strangest sensation of what you thought was something forcing it’s way into your brain took over. And then, all in a moment, it’s gone. You steadied yourself, looking to Rich as you were about to try to stand.

“Was that-”

> CALIBRATION COMPLETE. ACCESS PROCEDURE INITIATED.

“Wait, Rich-”

> DISCOMFORT LEVEL MAY INCREASE.

“FUCK-”

Barely a moment later, you’d been thrown to the ground as pain spiraled throughout every single fiber of your being. It grasped you strongly, seizing you with nothing but agony as spasms ran through you involuntarily, a shriek finally escaping you before Rich pounced, a hand clasped over your mouth as he swore, trying to keep you still. Tears streamed down your cheeks as your thoughts were gone, replaced with nothing but pain and the occasional swear and something else-

> ACCESSING: NEURAL MEMORY.

> ACCESSING: MUSCLE MEMORY.

> ACCESS PROCEDURE: COMPLETE.

> [Y/N] [Y/L/N].

> WELCOME TO YOUR SUPER QUANTUM UNIT INTEL PROCESSOR.

> YOUR SQUIP.

#percy's writing corner #be more chill #bmc #bmc reader insert #be more chill reader insert #bmc x reader #be more chill x reader #be more chill imagine #bmc imagine #jeremy heere #jeremy heere x reader #jeremy heere imagine

46 notes · View notes