#the reader is fucking crazy
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Wally Darling x Feral!Reader
I haven't seen too many fics on the reader being an absolute little shit and I think it's a hilarious thought, so here we go
TW: Swear words are used, rape is mentioned briefly (just one word)
🔥 You used to be known as the gremlin child in your friend group. Slept all day, stayed up all night, blasted whatever music matched your vibe, and was known for being a downright degenerate
🔥 You'd often end up in the deep, dark corners of the web after your hours of surfing the internet, and, eventually, you stumbled across a blog about an estranged children's show called Welcome Home!
🔥 You thought it was cute, but grew especially fascinated with the show's main character, Wally Darling
🔥 He grew fascinated with you too. A lot
🔥 So he nabbed your ass and took you Home
🔥 When you woke up on his living room floor, you didn't freak out like you thought he would. In fact, you were eerily calm. You sat up and looked at him with a blank expression on your face that he couldn't possibly hope to match
🔥 "If you don't tell me where I am in the next three seconds, I'm running out the door and screaming rape." Wally didn't know what that was, but he knew his friends would be concerned if a stranger ran out of his house screaming anything, so he explained the situation
🔥 You just nodded along as he spoke until he was done. "So, like, I'm stuck here? With no hope of getting out?"
🔥 "Yes, but it's okay, Neighbor.. Your dear friend, Wally will help you settle in..." He cocked his head and smiled.
🔥 "... Yeah, no, fuck that mess. I'm gonna find someone that actually has an ounce of sanity." You tried to walk out but Home wouldn't let open the front door.
🔥 "Open the door before I break a window and get out that way." Home opened the door.
🔥 You met the neighbors and despite the fact that they probably deserved to know that Wally was actually fucking crazy, you wanted to preserve their innocence, so you just acted like you just moved in.
🔥 There was actually a new house on the block, completely suited to your personality, so it wasn't a lie.
🔥 You settled in quickly and made friends with your neighbors (except for Wally), often doing activities with them and hanging out.
🔥 Meanwhile, Wally was distraught! This wasn't going how he wanted at all! Every time he tries to talk to you and explain himself, or apologize, you act like he's a fly @:(
🔥 "Shoo, shoo fly. Bye bye, now." "But.." "Go away 👹."
🔥 You found a boom box in your house and used that to annoy the shit out of him as payback. You tried different genres of music so find which he disliked the most, and then stood outside Home and blasted it at night.
🔥 Turns out, he strongly dislikes rap. He finds most of it distasteful. So, of course, that's what you always play. Your favorite was Short Dick Man by Gillette, you thought it suited him so well 😍🥰
🔥 Yeah, no, he fucking hated that song. He didn't quite understand the lyrics but he could take a guess that you were poking fun at him. He'd poke his head out the window with an uncharacteristic frown. "Would you please.. turn that off.. I can't sleep."
🔥 "Bruh, we both know you literally can't sleep, bffr." You'd turn it up louder.
🔥 Julie would sometimes join in on the fun too. She thought it was such a fun game! You'd just snicker and pass her the boom box.
🔥 Wally decided he'd had enough and marched up to you. "Neighbor, I'm very tired of your games.. You've been acting very unneighborly..."
🔥 "Ok boomer lol"
🔥 At this point, even if he did find a way to send you home, you'd refuse. It's become your life goal to harass him until the day you die. And you don't think you can die in this world, so you get to haunt him forever, isn't that fun? ❤️
#wally darling x reader#wally darling#welcome home fandom#welcome home puppet show#cursed reader#the reader is fucking crazy#but so is wally so it's fine#x reader#rivalry#more like Wally vs. reader tbh#but he loses lol#wally darling headcannons#welcome home headcannons#julie joyful#welcome home julie
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Hi!! Just had to drop in and say I LOVED your Luke fic and I can’t wait for more. I would love protective Luke with hurt/comfort, if that sounds interesting at all. Thanks for sharing your writing!!! 🌸
fighting chance; luke castellan
wc + pairing: 4.2k, luke castellan x daughter of ares! reader
synopsis: when an enemy takes advantage of your kindness during capture the flag, luke intervenes with a sword in hand.
warnings: a creepy boy👎, threats/harm to reader, she’s going through it, blood/injuries (nothing major), angry ANGRY luke, violence, lots of fluff/reassurance at the end<3
notes: thank you SO much for your kind words & your request!! hurt/comfort is my bread and butter my favourite fic genre of all time i think. & protective luke is just a bonus bc he’s already crazy so it can go as far as i want🤭 i’m not exactly sure what this turned into but if i fix it any more i'm going to go insane so hope you like it!
You’re not much of a fighter.
That alone is a normal thing to admit—plenty of people don’t like violence, the frisson of a challenge, the bruises that come with them. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.
Unless you’re a child of Ares.
People at camp often ridicule your gentle nature when they see you with your half-siblings. They’re all gritted teeth and sharp edges, born warriors that take up all the space they can get. You, on the other hand, are lousy with weapons and even lousier with your fists. You’re quiet, attentive. While your siblings charge into battle without second thought you stay back, flitting around to adjust armour, change out weapons, oversee the terrain. Planning isn’t Ares’ style so you’re pretty much useless but nobody wants to admit it. You’re usually mistaken as a child of Hephaestus or Athena.
Unfortunately, you are a child of Ares, through and through—just in none of the ways that matter.
There are rare times your father’s influence peeks through. Not with bursts of rage or fists flying, but with thoughts. And sometimes those thoughts turn into words. Well, not sometimes. One time. This one.
The evening before the camp’s Capture the Flag game, every cabin gathered around the bonfire past dinner. To burn offerings, to chat, or in Luke Castellan’s case, to admire.
He watches you laugh with Clarisse from a distance. The Ares cabin leader always had a certain fondness for you. When Luke first started dating you he had to ask Clarisse for her blessing beforehand just to be sure she wouldn’t kill him. He’d do it a million times over just for the moment you look back, your face warming when you catch his stare. He rolls his eyes at you to lessen his smile, but he’s not sure it works. You giggle and turn back to your friend.
He’s always loved your softness; your capacity to defend and not attack. Your body rejects any skill you could possibly develop for violence. Believe him, he’s tried to teach you sword fighting, but the last time he gave you a lesson you nearly impaled yourself thirty seconds in. He loves your wit and your tenderness, your proficiency at preventing conflict, your refusal to argue. But a selfish part of him loves the fact that he’s your protector even more.
The night wears on with the flickers of fire and friendly banter. One of the times Luke looks back at you, his brows wrinkle. There’s a guy talking to you. A group of them, actually, but there’s one clearly leading the pack. Some Aphrodite kid. Luke’s jaw twitches.
“Hey, princess,” the voice makes you pull away from your talk with Clarisse, but you’re confused. Luke is the only one that calls you that.
“Um, me?” You ask when you see the boy in front of you. He’s tall, chest puffed out. It’s not an endearing silhouette. “What’s up?”
“You wanna be on my team for Capture the Flag tomorrow?” He asks nonchalantly.
You laugh politely, “Sorry, but I don’t think we’re allied with Aphrodite tomorrow. That’s your cabin, isn’t it?” You feel bad that you can’t remember—his face is so … plain.
He chuckles back, but it’s a lot less nice. “No, doll, that’s not what I mean.” He steps a little too close, and even though you know Clarisse is behind you it feels like she’s a thousand miles away. “Well,” he drawls, a smirk drawn out, “you meet me in the forest after we start, and then we can … you know. Confer.”
“Confer?”
“Yeah. You get what I mean, pretty girl, don’t play dumb.”
A revulsion coats your gut. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me that,” you say as firmly as you can.
“What, pretty or dumb? Why not both?”
It’s demeaning, the way he says it, and it stirs a temper in your stomach you know you inherited from your father. You’re not big on confrontation. Or embarrassment. But this weirdo is talking to you out in the open and people are starting to stare. He wouldn’t dish it out if he can’t take it, right?
“I’ll pass on your offer. I have a boyfriend and I’m actually on his team tomorrow, so I’d rather confer with him, sorry.” Your hands wring together but you do your best to quell them, imagining it’s the string of Luke’s camp necklace, threaded between your fingers. You try to look for him out of the corner of your eye.
He snickers, even though it’s common knowledge you and Luke have been together for months now. “So you are dumb, huh?” He tries to smirk and you assume is supposed to be sexy, but it’s just gross. His hand tries to slide around your waist.
“Don’t touch me, please,” you hit his hand away. Your skin is crawling and the knot inside you tightens.“Just leave me alone. People are looking, you know.”
“We could go somewhere where nobody looks,” he sneers, and the grin on his face is so sleazy that you just can’t stand it anymore.
You pray to your father for strength. And to yourself for forgiveness.
“I’m sorry, are you stupid or something? I told you, no.” You snap. “Maybe you’re the pretty dumb one, but for a child of Aphrodite it’s shocking how little the first one applies.”
His eyes are wide, and the posse he’d assembled behind him has attracted quite the view. You almost feel like crying, all these eyes on you, but you’re so sick of people thinking they can walk all over you just because you’re not like your siblings.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? I’m just trying to be nice—” He grabs your wrist as you leave but you yank it hard.
“Don’t. Touch me.” People are staring at you now, but the only one you care about is Luke, who looks equally ticked and equally proud, and all you want to do is kiss him. “Hope the only time we confer tomorrow is if somebody’s sword is at your throat.”
It’s the last thing you say to him. He starts to go after you but Luke is already at your heels. “Back off, man.” You can spot how all his muscles are already rearing themselves for a fight. You wrap a hand around his wrist, and he meets your eyes. Not now.
The altercation is lost the second the two of you leave the bonfire. Nothing matters when Luke has you in his arms, kissing you outside of your cabin, telling you how damn beautiful you looked.
You’re fixing a new Ares boy’s armour when Luke finds you. “Hey, angel,” he says, leaning down to press a kiss to your cheek. He relishes in the way your face heats up. “You ready for battle?”
You smile, “Always.” You pat the kid on the cheek and send him on his way. He gnashes his teeth and roars, joining his siblings at the front. Luke catches the longing in your expression.
“All good?” He asks gently.
It takes you a second for your eyes to meet his. “Mmhm,” you swallow. “Just hope his armour doesn’t fall off.”
Luke sighs for a moment, then wraps his arms around you. “He’ll be fine, sweetheart. Be safe, okay? Stay close.” He kisses your temple, rubbing circles on the nape of your neck.
“Yes sir,” you reply against his chest. His insides flutter.
He pulls your face up to his and kisses you, tender and wanting. “Let’s show these hooligans who’s boss,” he quips.
“You’ll show them. I’ll hide in the woods until some idiot comes along and tries to ambush you.”
Your dulcet tone has him wrapped around your finger, and you don’t even know it. “You’ve always got my back,” he croons, kissing your brow.
“And you’ve always got our flag.”
You kiss him again and he lets you slip out of his arms no matter how badly he wants to keep you there forever. He watches you vanish into the trees, and his heart goes with you.
He gears up with his team and the horn sounds. Game on.
There’s yelling, sweat, adrenaline, and Luke embraces it all like a man starved. This is his chance to be ruthless, to let all his untapped rage cycle through him. This is why he’s unstoppable. This is why he’s the best.
Clarisse is unusually cooperative today, but competent as always, and whenever someone’s weapon breaks or they lose their team she just barks at them to go find you. You, the smartest person in Ares, who can mend a weapon with nothing but blades of grass and determination. Luke is pretty sure your cabin would be lost without you. He wonders if you know.
The groove of the game has fully enthralled him. He’s alert, his wrist nimble, his sword a living, breathing part of him. There’s almost nothing that can take him out of his victory path until he hears one of the younger campers tell Clarisse he can’t find you anymore.
Whatever nincompoop he’s dealing with is left groaning on the floor. “What?” He barks, hand flexing around his sword. “Where is she?”
“Probably just moved,” Clarisse grunts as she kicks back an opposing camper. “She knows where everything is. Maybe she’s—oof—safer.”
“But how am I supposed to fix my spear?” The kid frowns.
Luke runs his tongue along the roof of his mouth, dry and laden with salt. He told you to stay close. Where would you go? “I’ll find her,” he decides, already sheathing his sword to walk towards the trees.
“Luke—”
“I’ll find her!”
He barely pays attention to the calamity going on around him. With a flick of his wrist he knows he can take out any person he wants. The second he gets to the trees, where the air is cooler, it’s startling how much quieter it is. No wonder this is your preferred hiding spot.
He thanks the quiet a thousand times over because if it had been any louder he wouldn’t have heard you scream.
It’s so short it’s almost indiscernible, but he knows it’s you based on how his body movies before his brain does. It snaps something in him, the adrenaline transformed into something acerbic, determined.
“Don’t fucking scream again.” A cluster of boys are stationed around you. You’re leaning back in the dirt. You barely feel the earth sticking to your skin. Just your heart jostling madly, your fingertips shaking in the ground beside you. “Okay, I won’t, just put the sword down—”
The snarling Aphrodite boy from last night takes a swing at you, and you scramble back just enough to avoid it. “No can do, doll.” His face is twisted with rage. The lackeys he had when you told him off are there too, cornering you against a cluster of trees like you’re some caged animal. There’s a dagger clenched in one of your dirt-ridden fists but you know it won’t do you any good. You can’t fight; you don’t have it in you. But these boys do. And they’re angry.
“Tell me where the flag is,” he orders. The tip of his blade comes under your chin, fogging up with the labours of your breath, your head pressed against the trunk of a tree.
You stutter, “You’re not—You’re not supposed to threaten like this—”
“You embarrassed me in front of all those people yesterday,” he cuts you off. “Thinking you’re so fucking smart. I didn’t even say anything that big a deal but you run your mouth to the entire camp and make me look like the idiot. I thought you were nice.”
The words are laced with poison. You know from the wild look in his eyes that this isn’t about the flag at all.
Tears sting your eyes and the sword grazes your throat. Of course this is happening to you. The one time you feel your father’s rage, when you exemplify the thing you’re told to be, you are punished.
You are never going to be the right kind of daughter.
“I didn’t mean to hurt you,” you try to say it evenly, but your breath is so ragged it’s barely audible. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said all that.” You mean it, but they won’t care.
The boy’s face looks pleased at your tears. It makes you inexorably ashamed. “Some fucking Ares kid,” he snorts. “Can’t even fight, can you? Can’t even pretend to.” His sword leaves your throat and travels up to your quivering jaw. You’re wordless, white-knuckling the dagger at your side, praying that Luke is somewhere nearby.
“No wonder they stash you back here. You’re useless.” His eyes scan every part of you, and the idea of him knowing what you look like forever is so revolting it makes you want to vanish. “Too bad you’re alone, though. Nobody’s gonna know I was here because nobody’s gonna hear you.”
Your eyes get wide, and something in your mind rumbles through you like an engine. An urge buried in your blood.
Your dagger tears into his leg just as his sword dashes your arm. The pain is sharp, stinging, but the boy winces and you know you hurt him too. It gives you just enough time to roll out of the way as he lurches forward. “The fuck is wrong with you?” He swears.
Blood drips onto your shorts, splotched with tears. You know you can’t go anywhere because his friends are here and you’re almost certain you’ll be maimed, but you tried. At least you tried.
The Aphrodite boy picks his sword back up, stalks towards you, and then freezes.
Because Luke has just spotted you. And he’s spotted the boy that has you on the ground.
And he’s the best fucking swordsman Camp Half-Blood has seen in three hundred years.
“If you don’t get away from her right now I’m putting this through your skull.” He emerges from the foliage, his sword raised, sweat dripping down his face. You have never seen anyone look angrier. He has never felt angrier.
The boy blanches, and Luke sees how easily his lapdog friends shrink in his presence. Good.
“Woah, easy,” the boy holds his hands up in mock surrender and tries to flash a smile but it’s just fucking pathetic. His arms are shaking and his throat bobs about a million times. “We’re just playing the game.”
“Like hell you are,” Luke spits. “You gang up on my girlfriend and you expect me to believe this is fair play? Want me to tie you all together and push one of you off a cliff to keep the spirit going?”
“Didn’t know she was yours,” the boy tries to shrug but again, it’s a miserable attempt that only makes Luke feel stronger.
“Not that it matters but yes, you do,” Luke chuckles thickly. “I beat your ass in sword training last week. You know exactly who I am. And I’m sure you know who you are, so it’s obvious you’re playing out of your league here.”
Out of the corner of his eye he sees you still cowering, blood dribbling down your arm. He wants to tear the world apart. “Apologize and maybe I don’t send you to the infirmary.”
“We just want the flag, man,” the boy swallows.
“And I want your head on a stick. Want to see who gets what first?”
It’s too provocative an insult for a moron like this to ignore, so soon Luke has the pleasure of disarming five bitter boys that have clearly never been good at a single thing in their life. He tears through them like sheets of paper, knocking them to the dirt, ripping their clothes. He thinks of you, just you, your honest heart and patient hands, and it’s enough to fuel him for a millennia.
The last boy, the leader, is at Luke’s mercy, and he has none to give. The flat of Luke’s blade is pressed horizontally against the boy’s neck, an angering similarity to the position he had you in earlier. “If you ever do this again, I’m going to kill you.”
“You’re—fucking—crazy—” The boy wheezes, the length of the blade squeezing his throat against a tree trunk. “I’ll—I‘ll tell Chiron.”
Luke has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep him from doing something he regrets. “Oh yeah? You want me to tell Chiron how you harassed and terrorised a girl in the middle of the forest all in the name of play? Want me to tell him what you said to her last night at the campfire? Because I’m sure it won’t take much for him to get rid of your ugly face as it is, and I’m a camp counsellor.”
He knows it’s not the most morally correct use of his title. He knows he might be stepping over the line. But he also knows you’re always being ignored or trampled over and he’s tired of pretending like he doesn’t give a damn. He’s tired of people trying to force you into something you’re not. Of you crying in his bed at night because they’re trying to drag a violence out of you that isn’t there. Always in the name of fucking play.
Luke takes the sword off the boy’s neck and shoves him backwards. His calf is bleeding, not a deep wound, but a wound nonetheless, and Luke is full of pride when he realizes you did that. The boy’s bad leg makes him wobble and fall at the force of the push. Luke enjoys watching the scramble. “I—I was just trying to be nice, it’s not my fault she took it the wrong way!” The boy flails his hands in the air, rising to his feet again, and Luke shoves him down twice as hard. A piece of his shirt tears off in Luke’s hand.
“You’ve gotta stop talking or I really am going to kill you,” he seethes. “Don’t touch her ever again. Go.”
Luke is sure he looks homicidal right now because the guy finally tumbles his way down the hill. His body fades into the distance, swallowed up by shrubbery and sweat.
The second he’s gone Luke tosses his sword and armour and gets back to you. “Shit,” he mutters, kneeling down. You’re still shaking, your head in your arms, and all his hatred morphs into a love so desperate it terrifies him. “Angel, come here. Let me see.” He lifts your face with his hands and scans you rapidly. “Did he hurt you anywhere else? Anywhere?”
“Just my arm,” you whimper. “My arm.”
He knows it’s not the cut that’s hurting you; it’s long, but thin, and it’s not bleeding too thickly. He takes the cloth from the Aphrodite boy’s shirt and wraps it around your arm, knotting it at the end. “All right, that should be better.”
You look at him with watery eyes, and he knows all you need is for him to hold you. He folds you in his arms and leans against a stump. You can’t get close to him fast enough. The tip of your nose buries itself in his neck and he feels the dampness of your cheeks on his skin. “It’s okay, sweetheart, you’re safe,” he soothes, pressing a kiss to your hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Guilt swaths over him for a brief moment; he wonders if he shouldn’t have done all that, if he should’ve been more sensible. Then your lips form a ‘thank you’ against his skin and all is forgotten.
You feel so small. The shock is still running its course, so all you can do is cry it out. Your hands still shake when you thread your fingers through Luke’s necklace to steady them. He soothes you the best he can, running his hand along your spine, all the sharpness of his voice softened just for you. “You’re all right, angel. I’m not going anywhere.”
You stay like that for a while. The sounds of the forest return to you; leaves in the wind, birds chirping, Luke’s breath tickling your hair. You crane your head up to nuzzle your nose against the faint stubble of his jaw. “My hero,” you murmur, and feel his skin shift as he smiles.
“Couldn’t have done it without you. Saw the cut you gave him on his leg.” He kisses your temple. “I hope it gets infected.”
You giggle weakly no matter how you try smothering it in his chest. “Gods, you’re awful.”
“He deserves it! I probably should have killed him!”
“You came pretty close, didn’t you?” You mumble. Luke’s expression is wary, but you smile to yourself and it dispels everything. “I was hoping you’d come.”
“Good. Serves them right, messing with you like that. Fucking idiots.” He kisses your face again for good measure, “You sure they didn’t get you anywhere else, princess?”
You nod but you know you look wounded. You nudge into the crook of Luke’s neck again. “They … you know, it’s just … the usual stuff.” Every word weighs a pound as it comes out. Your heart feels sore.
Luke tenses again instantly. “What usual stuff?”
“Um, just—” The shame gets caught in your throat. “They all think I’m useless, Luke. Why can’t I do this right?”
You start to cry again, but he just holds you closer. Sometimes it surprises you how much patience he has. He prides himself as the harsher one between the two of you, but you don’t know who he’s fooling with the way he always knows how to comfort people.
“I don’t know what to do,” you continue, blinking back tears, “I’m not—I’m just not good at this, I don’t know why I’m in Ares, I don’t know why I can’t … be that. Why is he my father? I’m no good at being angry. I want to be angry.”
Luke’s quiet for a moment. Nothing changes except his hand rubbing circles on the nape of your neck again. Then he sighs deeply and says, “You don’t owe your father a damn thing. You don’t owe anyone anything.” He’s resolute, firm, a sharp contrast to his gentle kiss on your hairline. “You’re the smartest, most generous person I know. You need those people in battle. You’ll lose if you don’t.”
The warmth of his skin prompts you to look up at him. He looks different so often, the way he can shift between so tough and so gentle. Sometimes, like now, he’s caught in the middle, the remains of a furious sweat hardening his face, but his eyes are nothing but tender. You think it’s how you like him best.
“Besides, we’re not our parents, right? Who cares about Ares anyway?” Luke shrugs.
“Luke! Don’t say that!” your tears turn into a giggle. “The Gods might punish you!”
“I’ll handle it. There’s enough fight in me for the both of us.”
“Okay, tough guy,” you mutter with a weak smile.
You’re still sniffling. He runs his thumbs across your cheeks, and his gaze softens. “You’re an Ares kid because you are a fighter, angel. You just fight a hell of a lot smarter than the rest of us. Best one I know. Well, other than me.”
It makes you smile. “So second-best?”
“Tied for first.”
He kisses you with that stupid roguish smile. It’s salty with tears and sweat, but it mends your heart anyway. There is nowhere in the world you’d feel safer.
“I love you,” he says against your cheek. “Be as sweet as you want. If anyone has anything to say about it I’ll mess ‘em up good.” Your face warms as his voice drops to your ear, “And I know you’re an Ares kid because you’ll encourage it every time. You might not have a violent bone in your body, but you sure don’t have a problem with me using mine.”
“Diplomatically, Luke. Diplomatically.”
“Sure, sure. Whatever you want.”
You can’t help but kiss him again. You’re not entirely sure why he loves you so much, why you love him so much, but you never feel quite as secure as when you’re with him.
Cheers boom from the other side of camp. Luke’s head perks up like a dog, and you turn back to search for spots of red or blue. “Did we win?” You ask, craning your head to get a better view.
“Don’t care,” Luke says.
You look back at him. His anxious face says it all. “Yes, you do.”
“Okay yes, I do, and I need to see if those douches found our flag so I can choke them out with it.”
You laugh, standing so Luke can jog off to see the state of your team. But before he goes, he picks you up and smothers you in kisses, holding you like you’re his prize.
You are not a fighter, but your boyfriend sure is. And you’re perfectly okay with that.
#perrie’s fics#perrie’s requests#luke castellan#luke castellan x reader#pjo#pjo x reader#charlie bushnell#luke castellan comfort#luke castellan x you#luke castellan imagine#luke castellan fic#luke castellan fluff#percy jackon and the olympians#pjo fic#i kind of hate this i think I’M SORRY#but some parts of it are interesting so oh well#luke castellan you are fucking crazy.
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Show me where it hurts (part 1)
Miguel O'Hara x spiderwoman!reader
(AO3 Mirror), Part 2, Main Masterlist
summary: Miguel's acting weird, and you make it your mission to find out exactly what's going on.
warnings: no warnings for this chap, pg-13, swearing and canon level violence. smut next chapter xoxo
a/n: this is a combination of 2 asks and this post I saw on here a while ago: flirty/ snarky fem reader, Miguel during a ""rut"" (I don't know if it counts as a rut really, but its to do with his animal instincts/DNA) and Lyla playing matchmaker. I had so much fun writing this, enjoy :D
(i wrote this pre seeing spiderverse 2, so i think characterisation is a little off, esp for Lyla, apologies! I'll fix it in my upcoming fics)
edit: I use the term "bichita" which I have been informed can be read not as I intended in Spanish. I'm not a native speaker so I want to apologise in advance. I'm doing more research for my future fics and leaving this up as a testament to my stupidity. Spanish speakers, feel free to correct me / clown my ass in the comments. My bad guys :(
wc: 3.6k
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You think Miguel is avoiding you.
One of your closest friends, giving you the runaround for months, it seems. Calling the two of you close friends is a little extreme, sure. You've only known O'Hara for two years, and been in love with him for slightly less than that, thank you very much. And yes, he refuses to call you by anything but your last name. And the last time you saw him he wouldn't so much as look at you, but that was besides the point.
"..the point," You tell Lyla, in between exasperated bites of cereal, "... is that aren't elite forces of spiderpeople supposed to, you know, have some spiderpeople kick ass once in a while? And where exactly is our fearless leader? I haven't seen O'Hara's scary ass in weeks, and I'm starting to miss it."
She gives you a look, one that says this isn't what I'm programmed for , but you pointedly ignore it.
"His ass, by the way." You clarify. "I very specifically miss his ass. Remind me to get his routine. I know girls that would kill for…"
"How the fuck did you get in here?" A voice croaks. You turn behind you and see Miguel, not in his suit, but wrapped up in a blanket like he's just woken up. And he looks rough, like a train ran him over on the way here: puffy eyes, splotchy skin, tension kneaded into his brow.
"Wow." Your spoon drops into the milk. "You look like shit.."
He furrows his brow even deeper, if that was possible. " Mierda. You shouldn't be here."
"This isn't quite the welcome party I was expecting, man. I'm the only one to actually turn up to one of your meetings, and this is what I get?"
"I thought I told Lyla to cancel," He mutters, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"Cancel? Since when do you miss a chance to talk about rules and protocol?"
"I don't have time for this-"
"-and I'm not leaving without a proper explanation. Is everything okay?"
"It's actually way worse now you're here." He deadpans.
"Haha ." You turn to Lyla. "You drop everything to travel halfway across the multiverse and this asshole won't even say thanks."
"Thanks, but this asshole needs you to leave. Now."
This is the most he's spoken to you in forever, and you hate that you like it. You just want his attention, however it comes. If that means dragging this out so maybe he acknowledges you, touches you, looks at you - then so be it. Squinting, you get closer to him. You scan his face for anything to latch onto. You put a hand on his shoulder, still searching.
"You sure you're alright? You know you can tell me if-"
"Si, si." He grits his teeth, looking away. "M'just fine. I'll explain…. later."
"...because I'm your right hand man?" You grin, poking at his brow. "Stop frowning so much Miguel, you're gonna ruin that pretty face of yours."
He flushes, nervous, and swats you away. "-what? N-No. You're not my right hand man and I like my face just the way it is. Now, leave. "
Making your way to the door, you tap your nose teasingly. "You know where to find me!"
When the door closes with a click, you make your way down the corridor, and stop in your tracks when you hear it. It's muffled, but with the strain of your supersenses you can make out Miguel's voice just beyond the wall.
"I just…. don't want her to see me like this… Lyla, it's not happening… I can't tell her…." Tell her what, exactly?
Resolutely, you make up your mind. Miguel O'Hara's got a secret. And before you leave for home, you're gonna do everything in your God given power to wear him down and find out.
~~~
Despite his insistence otherwise, you liked to think of yourself as O'Hara's right hand man - and most of the other spiderpeople thought so too. You were one of the very first he recruited, after crash landing onto your earth like a spiderman-shaped meteor; the two of you were inseparable. Miguel was stubborn and headstrong and thought he was right all the time. Infuriatingly, he was, but that didn't stop you from telling him to get his head out of his own ass when his ego grew too big.
He was different around you, you think. Softer, sometimes. Harsher, other times. He told you what you needed to hear whether you wanted to or not; the result of mutual respect and agonising persistence. Slowly, you had chipped away his hard exterior; the one he built because he thought he needed to push people away. In that regard, you were similar, but this need manifested in you like a weed - an awful, awful compulsion to joke and laugh at your own expense, to keep others at an arm's length. You had spent your whole life picking and pruning away at yourself, looking for perfection. Even after all this, multiverse-hopping and fighting alongside people who were the closest things you had to friends , it wasn't enough. There was still something missing.
Ironically, Miguel had told you something similar the one of the last times you had spoken. You had fucked up a mission, well and truly. In the aftermath, all you can remember is coming back to base, limping on Jessica's arm.
"She's hurt!" She cries out. Lyla materialises and leads you both to the med bay, inspecting any visible wounds. There's a deep laceration, sticky with blood, at the base of your stomach. You shift onto the bed and hiss with pain.
Miguel is quick to follow, face twisted with confusion, pain, sadness. Even in your haze, you feel the tension radiating off of him as he drags over a cart of supplies.
"What happened?" He strains.
"I don't even… it happened so fast. We got ambushed, and all of a sudden I'm on the ground. I wasn't thinking straight and… " She sobs. "...she jumped in front of me. God, she saved my life-"
"-wasn't your fault, Jess." You croak, trying to sit up. "And I'm fine. Just need to walk it off…"
"Sit, bichita," His nickname makes you frown, despite yourself, and you settle back down. "Lyla, what's the damage?"
Your vision goes spotty, and Lyla's voice barely registers. All you can feel is searing pain in your side, but Miguel is warm, oh so warm. You clutch his arms, and force him to look you in the eye.
"M'ready, Miguel." He nods weakly, but you don't think he understands. "I mean it . I can lead, j-just need another chance and I won't let you down… Jess, tell him that I can-"
"It's okay. I believe you. You just need to relax for me, hmm?" He clutches at your hand, tight, and it's like you're the only two people in the world. "You did good. I promise."
Faintly, you nod. You feel a pinch at your arm, and Jessica's there, with an empty vial of something in her hands. The pain washes over you, and you fight to keep your eyes open. In those last few moments of light, you swear you feel a shaky kiss pressed to your temple.
"Sleep, mi bichito amoroso. Sleep."
When you come to, you're still in the medbay, moonlight streaming through. Well, artificial moonlight. Time worked a little differently here, something Miguel explained to you a while ago - God knows what about dilation and quantum interference. It makes you smile now, remembering his frustration as he tried to explain to no avail. You were the only spiderman this side of the multiverse without a degree in quantum tech, you had said with a lopsided smile.
You move to sit, and pain shoots up your side. Groaning, you push through it, determined to get out of this bed and find the others. As if on cue, Miguel walks in, almost leaping towards you.
"You should… mierda ! You should be resting in bed."
You pout as you stumble into his chest. He hooks an arm around you and leads you back. You clamber in, sighing. "M'fine, O'Hara."
"Your guts were halfway out of your body less than 24 hours ago. So stay put, or you might give me another heart attack."
You scoff, incredulous. "You were worried?"
He shrugs. " 'Course I was."
"Why? You know I'm practically indestructible." You give him a shit eating grin, and poke the frown appearing at his brow. He doesn't bat you away like he usually does.
"Famous last words, bichita." He sighs. You can't speak a lick of Spanish, but you know he only calls you that word when you've frustrated him to his limit. So you take it as a win, for now.
He drops into the chair next to you. "How are you feeling?"
"Just peachy, dollface." You wink, and he doesn't so much as groan.
"I'm being serious. You went through something pretty traumatic…"
"You want me to tell you it hurts, so, so bad, daddy? " You pout and flutter your eyelashes mockingly. Miguel shifts in his seat, unable to make eye contact.
"That's not what I meant."
"What did you mean, O'Hara? I feel fine. And in a couple of days, I'll feel even better, and I'll be up and about. I can finish what we started and-"
"-no, absolutely not." He frowns. "A couple of days? I'm sending you home-"
"You can't do that! On whose fucking authority?"
"On the authority of you almost fucking died ! Keeping you safe is our priority right now-"
"God, is this my punishment? This is a low blow, O'Hara. You know how hard I've worked for this: months of surveillance and intel a-and I did everything by the book, just like you told me to." You croak. "I fucked up . I know that, and I feel terrible. Give me a chance to make things right; that's all I'm asking. I can do it, I know it. "
He looks at you for a moment, something heavy in his expression. His face contorted, he strips you down to the bone with just his gaze. His voice is so quiet, you almost miss it.
"....you're still trying to prove yourself, aren't you?"
Honestly, it catches you off guard. You don't even know what the fuck that means, let alone why he said it.
"I don't… I d-don't…?"
"They all love you. Respect you. More than me I think, sometimes." He chuckles at that. "You're good at what you do. The best . What else are you trying to prove? What else do you need ?"
Your throat goes dry. You couldn't speak if you wanted to.
"I'm not punishing you. You made a mistake, but you don't need to be crucified for it. I just want to keep you safe. I can't… we can't lose you."
"Miguel-"
"-this isn't a discussion. And I'm not trying to argue, although I know how much you like to argue." He inches closer, cupping your face gently. You try to move away, blinking back tears. But his hands are steady and he strokes your jaw with so much tenderness you think you hear your heart break. He's pretty, so pretty. You don't deserve him, you think. "There'll be time to fight, bichita. Rest. That's your mission right now."
"C-can't sleep." You breathe. "It hurts."
Miguel pauses, head tilted like he's thinking. He taps your shoulder. "Scoot over."
You do as he says, and he slips into the bed with you. It's a tight fit, but he manages, placing you on his chest with an arm gently around your shoulders. You bury your face in his hoodie, sniffling and hoping he doesn't notice you choking back sobs. Absentmindedly, he settles into a rhythm, gentle breathing and playing with your hair, soothing you softly. He pretends he can't hear the tears.
"M'gonna stay here until you're asleep. For as long as you need."
You nod, unable to speak for fear of breaking down.
~~~
The days after felt like a blur. You woke up to Miguel gone, and an ache in your heart. Jess visits as much as she can, and Ben calls you a couple times, to see if you're okay. Peter B brings Mayday, and she clambers all over your bed, bringing some life into the room. Miguel doesn't visit per se - you hear whispers of him, Lyla visiting in his stead for comprehensive status updates. Once, you wake up in the night to see him on the adjacent chair, head lolling in deep sleep. He looks peaceful, calm - one of the first times you haven't seen his brow furrowed with worry. Of course, he's gone by the morning.
The very last time you saw him, he opened the portal home. It was weird, after everything, but if Miguel felt the same you wouldn't know. Talking at a thousand miles a minute, he alternates between assuring you they'll be fine without you and situation reports from spider people all across the multiverse. Things you'd missed whilst bedbound, asking for advice before you left. He trusted your judgement and the thought warmed your heart, almost making you forget that he completely brushed past the previous nights before.
You still remember the last thing he had said to you, which would've been weeks ago, now.
"...and if you need anything, and I mean anything, you call me directly. Not Jess, not Ben, and certainly not Peter B. Call me, and I'll answer, I promise. You need help, you need advice, you just need someone to talk to, then-"
"-I call you. I get it, O'Hara. Will do." He opens the portal, watching as you walk towards it. He can't take his eyes off of you, even though you can't see him. At the last moment you turn, and run towards him. You almost knock him over with a hug. Burying his head in the crook of your shoulder, he hugs you back, ever careful of your injury. Separating, your smile almost knocks him over again. Weakly, he smiles back as you head through the portal, back home.
You're left with that feeling, of his arms around your body - warm, so warm - as you putter about by the switchboard. After careful deliberation (you were really, really bored ) you'd taken to manage the Multi Modal Multiversal Switchboard - as aptly named by Miguel. Everyone else called it the Big Red Phone of course, but he had insisted on calling it by its proper name . Every. Time.
The thought makes you chuckle as you call up Peter B. His icon flashes on the screen in front of you. With a click, he picks up the call, his face materialising holographically in front you. A little hand reaches up and tugs at his ear.
"Ow… ouch … Dad's on the phone, honey."
"Aww! How's my favourite Parker doing?"
"Not bad, actually! MJ just made us probably the best burger this side of New York-"
"-sorry, Peter? Me and May are trying to have a conversation." You hear her giggle in the background. Her gap toothed grin pops into frame and she babbles excitedly. "...yeah, exactly May. That's literally what I said."
"Okay, okay, that's enough." He puts the toddler down and watches her scurry away. "You're feeling better, I see."
"Yeah, back in action. Thought I'd check in."
"All good here." He squints, trying to take in your surroundings. "You're at HQ?"
You hum.
"Could've sworn Lyla cancelled…"
"Yeah, didn't get the memo. But I think something's wrong with O'Hara."
He gives you a weird look. "Uhhh, what makes you think that?"
"He won't even look at me. Was it something I said? Something I did?" Your eyes narrow. "...what do you know, Peter?"
"Nothing! Absolutely nothing!" He scoffs, a little too quickly, clutching his chest like you've offended him. He's stared down some of the scariest villains around, but the look you give him is truly chilling. "Just… uhhh. You didn't hear this from me."
"Naturally…"
"We tracked 'em down, the guys that ambushed you and Jessica."
"The Sinister Six? From Earth-215?"
"Yeah, but by the time we got there, it was just Kraven and some of his goons. Miguel got there first, and…." He gulps. "He was pissed. Trashed the whole place looking for the rest of 'em. Beat Kraven half to death and we had to pull him off."
"Shit."
"Yeah, it was pretty rough. Never seen him like that before. And just generally? He'd been weirdly quiet, a little grumpy, more aggressive on missions. I don't know what's gotten into him."
"Hmmm. Thanks, Pete."
"No problem, sweetheart. And if the big guy asks… "
"...this didn't come from you, I know." Weakly, you smile. "Say hi to my favourite Parkers, for me."
" 'Course I will. We should celebrate, if you're back officially. Mine and MJ's is always open."
"Good to know. I'll see you around."
He waves goodbye, and the hologram clicks off. Sighing, you try to piece together what you've just heard.
Miguel: acting weird. Well, you knew that already. Aggressive was new. And Lyla? She had canceled, but not for you, for some reason. An honest mistake, perhaps. But Lyla doesn't make mistakes…
You stew for a couple of hours, puttering about the switchboard, twiddling your thumbs. Something's wrong, and for some reason you're afraid to see him. To have him look straight through you, again, when you ask to do the same. Show me where it hurts. Tell me how to make it better.
On the way there, you chew your lip in anticipation. In the corridor, you're outside the door to his place, hand hovering above the door. To knock, to call. In the harsh fluorescent light, you hesitate.
"Lyla?" Nervously, you sink down onto the floor. It's hard to explain, but you don't expect her to actually come; to materialise in front of you.
"How can I assist you?" She says with a ding.
"Uhh… hi. Just wanted to talk." You pause, clicking your tongue. "Can you be honest with me?"
"I can only be honest with you. It is not in my programming to lie, unless specified by my owner."
"Sure. Cool. It's about him, actually. Is Miguel okay?"
She tilts her head, as if processing your request. "Okay is a subjective term. Is Mr O'Hara alive? Yes. Is Mr O'Hara physically well? Yes. By those terms, he is okay ."
Too vague for your own liking. "I guess I meant more… his emotional state. To the best of your knowledge… in your opinion , Lyla: is Miguel okay?"
"...I believe Mr O'Hara is experiencing some emotional turmoil."
You frown. "Oh. Do you know why?"
"Mr O'Hara has instructed me not to disclose that information with you."
"Fair enough. But you don't have to tell me… I could just ask questions?"
She nods. "There is nothing in my programming that prevents me from answering some questions within certain parameters."
"Did I do something? Not just today but… last time I was here. Did I say something to hurt or upset him? Is that why he's acting weird?"
"No." She says blankly. "And yes. I suppose it is… complicated." She gestures around that word.
"I'm a little confused, Lyla."
She sits next to you, on the cool tile. Not that she could feel it, but it feels more intimate - like two friends talking. The extent of Lyla's consciousness, you weren't sure of. Was she alive? To you, she might as well be. Could she think, feel, emote? Maybe, maybe not. You weren't smart enough to understand the nuances of her programming. But you were human enough to see it in her - something glittering beyond the surface.
It could be projection, but you swear her voice is softer. "He has a name for you. When he speaks about you, and to you. I have it logged in my memory database. Do you know what that is?" You shake your head.
Lyla opens up her palm and projects videos and images - little Miguel's popping up in her palm, tinny and gruff voices ringing through the hallway. They say your name, shout your name, whisper it. Some say other things in Spanish. Curse words had always been your assumption, and he had given you no reason to think otherwise. Now, having it played back to you, you hear a tenderness in his voice you would've missed. Words and phrases that come up again and again…
"Bichita." She repeats. "Bichito del amor. Mi bichito amoroso. "
You shake your head, still confounded. "...I don't speak Spanish, Lyla."
"Little bug. Sweetheart. Lovebug. My little lovebug." She clears her throat. "I believe they are terms of endearment."
Steadfast, she directs you towards her palm. Another small Miguel appears, and you think it's him from this morning.
"I thought I told you not to let anyone in, Lyla?"
"I did not let her in. She let herself in using the code you previously gave her, Mr O'Hara."
"Yeah, for emergencies. Fuck. Mi bichita, too smart for her own good."
"...If you are in distress, I believe she would understand, Mr O'Hara."
"I just think it's too much. I don't want her to see me like this."
"According to Alchemax files, previous subjects showing this kind of aggression benefitted from-"
"Lyla, it's not happening, no chance. I can't tell her."
The figure blinks out of her palm. "Mr O'Hara has forbid me from telling you about certain things."
"...but not from showing me." Your eyes meet hers. You give her a watery smile. "Thank you."
With a hint of a smile, she nods and is gone from the corridor. You are left alone, with nothing but your thoughts of little lovebugs rattling around in your brain.
_
_
_
#miguel o hara x reader#miguel o'hara x reader#miguel o'hara#spiderman 2099#spiderman 2099 x reader#across the spiderverse#kat_writes😼#this gif is fucking crazy btw
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Why do I wanna write roommate Simon/Ghost??
Roommate Simon who's gone for months at time, but always brings you sweets and trinkets from wherever he's been stationed while he's deployed. He looks at little souvenirs or remembers the dishes he's tried and he takes a mental note to get you something similar before he boards the plane to go back.
Roommate Simon who barely keeps in touch but is worried sick about you. Did you eat? Are you sleeping okay? Does your car need fixing again? Are you safe? Are you still getting nightmares? God, he wishes he was there to hold you while he eases you back into sleeping again.
Roommate Simon who encourages you to text him anyway, despite being busy on the job and unable to text/call you back. But the moment he's on leave, he takes his sweet time scrolling down his phone. You tell him about your day, you text him about your hardass professor, send him videos of you being horrendous at darts at the bar you and him usually go to whenever he's back from duty, show him pictures of all the cute puppies and kittens you find while you're out on a walk and beg him if he'd be amenable to getting a furry friend for the both of you. (Truth be told, if it's you who's asking, he'd pretty much lay down the entire world at your feet.)
Roommate Simon who comes back home to the smell of good food being cooked and you running up to him but stopping short a few feet away from him - hesitant to touch him, only for him to engulf you in a bone-crushing hug as he breathes you in. You smell safe. You smell clean.
You smell like home. Maybe you are his home.
He doesn't have a penchant for physical touch - recoils from anything that intimate faster than the guns he uses on the battlefield, but god forbid, he deprives himself from holding you. For this instant, when you're alive and safe (and still so lovely), and you breathe enough life in him for him to feel like Simon again and not just Ghost, he'd like to hold you in his arms for now.
#god im fucking crazy for this man#it's insane#call of duty#cod:mw2#simon ghost riley x you#simon ghost riley x reader#simon riley ghost#simon riley#simon ghost riley#simon riley x reader#simon riley x you#ghost cod#mw2 ghost#ghost#call of duty headcanons#call of duty modern warfare#call of duty simon riley#call of duty ghost#cod ghost#cod modern warfare#cod mw2#cod mwii#cod x reader#char.simon ghost riley#celena.rambles#celena.writes
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Introducing that weird doctor that cums all over your face while you’re under anesthesia..!
YANDERE! HARPER
asher, please stop it already..
Thought we already knew the rules here, unless you want me to go over them again?
content warning! mentions of dub-con/non-con, manipulation and gaslighting, somnophilia, hypnosis, baby trapping, motherfucker drinks your fluids, nasty.
pc and harper are gender neutral as always unless explicitly stated otherwise.
extra note : thank you for your work @digenerate-trash
“My, my. Came to see me again? What a coincidence.”
yandere type : manipulative, two-faced, obsessive, possessive
Owns a certain collection of photos of you, a.. particular one to say the least. Do they really need to be focusing precisely on your ass every single time that they snap a picture of your nude body? No, not really, still does it however. Saves it for later, as in whenever they’re feeling a little pent up after a long, stressful day of being a totally ethical doctor, of course! Hands busy beneath the desk, stroking and rubbing away as they stare at that wonderful shot of your backside on the computer’s screen. Always manages to make a mess of themselves somehow, grumbling beneath their breath now that they have to change attire. It’s all your fault, silly.
Constantly makes sure that you’re not feeling entirely well. Oh, what’s this? Your skin suddenly feels all tingly and warm? What a surprise, looks like you need to stay with Doctor Harper for a while to get that checked out. Oh, you have a fever? And a real bad one at that. What a shame, huh.. You don’t even get to see the way their lips curl up into a smile whenever you visit, utterly giddy that you’re coming back to them once again and you’re here to stay. Obviously, Harper will make sure of it.
Overly touchy with you, babbling about how you’re their favorite patient, claiming you’re so well-behaved with them compared to the others they treat. Gloved hand trailing over your soft lips, finger gently pushing inside your warm mouth once more, says they need to inspect your tongue for any signs of illness. Eyes framed behind glasses, fixated on the way your saliva melds over their digits. Shit, how they wish they could just slip those stupid gloves off of their hands and feel the real thing against their skin. Well, it’s not like they won’t get the chance to do that soon enough..
What a good doctor Harper is, sanitizing their tools right after you used them. The method of cleaning? Um.. Perhaps their tongue does dart out of their mouth to lick and suck away at the used wooden stick that they stuck inside your mouth just moments ago. How nasty, huh? Can’t help themselves though, you taste sooo good. Look at that, all those delicious fluids that you’re leaving right behind for them. Doing this on purpose, aren’t you? No worries, they’ll make sure to drink from the source directly next time.
Feeds you and assigns you the weirdest of medicine. What does this pill do, doctor? Is it going to help me? Of course, it will. Just try it out right now, slip in between your lips, watch on as your body slowly warms up, heat rushing throughout your entire figure, flushed cheeks and gasping breath. Would you look at that.. Clutching at Harper’s white coat, fabric twisting in your hands, begging for you to touch them. Needy for Harper’s touch? They’re happy to oblige, why shouldn’t they? It’s only a doctor’s job to..
What’s that creaking sound that you hear in your room at night? Uh, it’s nothing, promise! Ignore the shadow that looms over you in the dark, clear outline of Harper’s frame towering over your sleeping form, blissfully ignorant as to what they’re doing. Ignore the sound of their belt unbuckling/skirt lifting up to reveal their moistened sex, already so goddamn horny for you alone. It’s not their fault, you just look so pretty like this, completely vulnerable to their forbidden touches, slender fingers gently caressing your bare skin.. So pretty.
Not letting any other doctor treat you. It’s always Harper who’s here to help you in time of need, how weird, huh? Must be fate as they call it. Frowns at the idea of you being alone with another nurse in the room, wanting you to themselves. Word going around that it’s the doctor’s orders to be the only one to treat you, touch you. You’re a ‘special’ case, they insist, special in their eyes for sure. It really looks like Harper is the only one deserving to be by your side.
Wants you to be utterly devoted to them in every way possible, doesn’t matter if they’re doing it through hypnosis, pen swinging back and forth in front of your eyes. Comforted by their warm embrace around your frame, hushing you and whispering into your ear. How Harper yearns for you to utter those four (three too) magical words to them, lips parting to speak them. “I love you, Harper.” and “I’m yours, Harper.” The doctor smiling at that, you’re being genuine about it, aren’t you? You truly do feel nothing but affection for them! Yeah.. Jesus christ, this shit head is delusional.
Wouldn’t hesitate to baby trap you, doesn’t matter the gender. M!Harper inserting a sterilized needle right into your womb if you happen to be !AFAB. Same goes for F!Harper with !AMAB, slowly jerking you off in your sleep, maybe if she’s feeling bold enough, which she probably is, rides your length, loving the way your cock stretches her cunt out so well. “Accidentally” forgets to pull out, your thick, precious seed shooting deep inside her own womb. If you share the same genitals? It’s all the same to them, they’re figuring out a way to get you to believe that you’re sharing a baby through hypnosis, permanently stuck with them now.
Gaslights you into thinking you need them. Arms wrapped around your frame, guiding you along to your room and would you look at that, it seems you have a bit of trouble walking. Now, they have to be near you at all times, it’s only their job as a medic, right? Spoon feeding you during breakfast and dinner time, doesn’t care for the weird glances that attracts from the other patients at the asylum, it’s only natural after all.. Cmon, you’re completely helpless without the doctor! You poor thing.. Don’t worry, Harper is here to help, here to stay by your side forever and forever. For eternity.
Surprisingly so, I actually like the silly little doctor despite the fact that they molest my pc at the asylum on a daily basis. Must be apart of their job description or something. Funny.
Coming up next, Yandere! Bailey!
If we’re being honest here, I’d let Harper ride me so bad, I know that harpussy is tight as fu—
[END OF POST]
#I meant every word I said on that last part#it’s tight and warm#ON GOD#forget I fucking said that#asher being crazy as usual#harper molesting poor johan at the asylum#not like he doesn’t like it#but still..#dol#degrees of lewdity#harper the doctor#yandere#yandere harper#yan dol#yandere x you#yandere x reader#asher writes
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May I ask for the one and only Killer Sans?
"We're gonna have a great time~"
So I totally decided "why not animate it rq"
real quick was a lie, this took hours and it was totally fuckin worth it
@swiftmitsu he's at your door bro, let him in (don't rip off the door on accident-)
Killer belongs to Rahafwabas
Please do not repost my animations
#melly's silly talks#killer sans#killer sans x reader#< implied#can be interpreted as a different thing though#my art#my animation#killer!sans#something new au#utmv art#utmv fanart#if this doesn't blow up i swear to god /j#y'all this took me several hours#of constant killer#I've never wanted to throw him so badly#like get ur rizzer ass outta here#you crusty tarface#(pls fuck me)#i mean what#who said that#that's crazy#anyways#enjo#enjoy#undertale au#undertale animation#undertale multiverse#no reposting
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I think the key component to my personal reading of post-Delphi Pharma is that he's trying to be a horrible person on purpose. Not "on purpose" in the way that people have free will to exercise their own choices, but in that Pharma's "mad doctor" persona is a performance he puts on to deliberately embrace how much everyone else hates him. Basically, if people already think you're a "bad Autobot" and a horrible doctor who just kills his patients for fun, why try to prove otherwise to people who have already made up their minds about you? Just fully embrace the fact that people see you as an asshole. Don't try to change their minds. Don't plead for their forgiveness or understanding. Just stop caring. If you're going to be remembered as a monster, you might as well be a memorable monster, and eke as much pleasure and hedonism as you can out of it before karma catches up to you and you inevitably crash and burn.
I mean, I guess you could just go the route of "Oh, Pharma was always a fucked up creepy guy and Delphi was just him taking the mask off," but I really don't like that interpretation because, for one, it feels really wrong to take a character like Pharma becoming evil under duress and going, "Oh well clearly he did the things he did because he was evil all along," as if somehow Pharma breaking under blackmail/torture/threat of horrible death was a sign of him having poor moral character. As opposed to, you know, suffering under the very real threat of horrible death for himself and everyone he cares about while being manipulated by a guy who specializes in psychological torture.
The second reason is that it just doesn't make sense to write Pharma as having been evil all along. I mean...
Occam's Razor says that the best argument is the one with the simplest explanation. Doesn't it make way more sense to take Pharma's appearances in flashbacks, his friendship with Ratchet, his stunning medical accomplishments, and the few we see of him speaking kindly/sympathetically (or in the least charitable interpretation, at least professionally) towards his patients and conclude "This guy was just a normal person, if exceptionally talented." Taking all of these flashback appearances at face value and assuming Pharma was being genuine/honest is a way simpler and more logical explanation than trying to argue that Pharma for the past 4 million years was just faking being a good doctor/person. I mean, it's possible within the realm of headcanon, but the fact is Pharma's appearances in the story are so brief that there simply wasn't room in the story for there to be some sort of secret conspiracy/hidden manipulation behind why Pharma acted the way he did in the past.
I just can't help but look at things like Pharma's friendship with Ratchet (himself a good person and usually a fine judge of character) and the fact that even post-Delphi, pretty much every single mention of Pharma comes with some mention of "He was a good doctor for most of his life" or "He was making major headways in research [before he started killing patients]" which implies that even the Autobots themselves see Pharma's villainy as a recent turn in his life compared to how for "most of his life" he "used to be" a good doctor.
And although Pharma doesn't know this, we as the readers (and even other characters like Rung) know about Aequitas technology and the fact that it actually works, so... if Pharma really was an unrepentant murderer, why couldn't he get through the forcefield too? The Aequitas forcefield doesn't require that a person be completely morally pure and free of wrongdoing or else how could Tyrest get through, just that they feel a sense of inner peace and lack feelings of guilt. Pharma has murdered and tortured people by this point, and put on quite a campy and theatrical show of how much he sees it as a fun game, so why then can he not get through?
It circles back to my headcanon at the start of this post that the "mad doctor" persona is just that-- a persona. Delphi/post-Delphi Pharma's laughing madman personality is just so far removed from every flashback we saw of him and everything we can infer based on how other people see/saw him before that, to me, the mad doctor act is (at least in large part, if not fully) a persona that Pharma puts on to put his villainy in the forefront.
To avoid an overly simplistic/ableist take, I don't think Tarn tortured Pharma into turning crazy. To me, it's more like the constant pressure of death by horrific torture, the feeling of martyrdom as Pharma kept secret that he was the only one standing between Delphi and annihilation, the physical isolation of Messatine as well as the emotional separation from Ratchet, being forced to violate his medical oaths (pretty much the only thing Pharma's entire life has been about), etc. All of that combined traumatized Pharma to the point that the only way he could avoid cracking was to just stop caring about all of it. Because at least then, even if he's still murdering patients to save Delphi from a group of sadistic freaks, Pharma doesn't have to feel guilty and sick about doing it. As opposed to the alternatives, which were probably either going off the deep end and killing himself to escape, or confessing to what he did and getting jailed for it.
In that light, Pharma becoming a mad doctor makes sense. It avoids the bad writing tropes of "oh this character who was good his entire life was actually just evil and really good at hiding it" as well as "oh he got tortured and went crazy that's why he's so random and silly and killing people, he's crazy" and instead frames Pharma's evil as something he was forced into, to the point where in order to avoid a full psychological breakdown and keep defending Delphi, he just had to stop caring about the sanctity of life or about what other people might think of him.
Then, of course, the actual Delphi episode happens, and Pharma's own lifelong best friend Ratchet basically spits in his face and sees him as nothing more than a crazy murderer who went rogue from being a good Autobot. Then Pharma gets his hands cut off and left to die on Messatine. At that point, Pharma has not only been mentally/emotionally broken into losing his feelings of compassion, he's received the message loud and clear: He is alone. Everyone hates him. Not even his own best friend likes him any more. No one even cared enough about him to check if he actually died or not. He will only ever be remembered as a doctor who went insane and killed his patients.
So in the light of 1. Having all of your redeeming qualities be squeezed out of you one by one for the sake of survival and 2. Having your reputation and all of your positive relationships be destroyed and 3. People only know/care about you as "that doctor who became evil and killed his patients" rather than the millions of years of good service that came before.
What else is there to do but internalize the fact that you'll forever be seen as a monster and a freak, and embrace it? People already see you as a murderer for that blackmail deal you did, so why not become an actual murderer and just start killing people on a whim? People already see you as an irredeemable monster who puts a stain on the Autobot name, so why beg for their forgiveness when you could just shun them back? You've already become a murderer, a traitor, and a horrible doctor, so what's a few more evil acts added to the pile? It's not like anyone will ever forgive you or love you ever again.
Why care? Why try to hold on to your principles of compassion, kindness, medical ethics, when an entire lifetime of being a good person did nothing to save you from blackmail and then abandonment? Why put yourself through the emotional agony of feeling lonely, guilty, miserable, when you could just... stop caring, and not hurt any more?
#squiggposting#pharma apologism#i'm sure the doylist reason for the writing is just that pharma was a designated villain#so since he's a villain and 'crazy' it's fine for everyone even the good guys to treat him like complete trash#i just think from a watsonian perspective taking a sympathetic approach is way more interesting and logically consistent#what i mean is like. from a meta perspective one of the best ways to show that a character is super evil and not worth saving#is when even the good guy heroes. the ones who are supposed to be kind and compassionate and wise. see him as dirt#and this is also kind of a necessity in most plots bc TF is the kind of series that just needs action villains and long-term antagonists#so not every villain is written or has a plot to be made redeemable. and pharma is one of these bc he's not important or a legacy character#so from a doylist (meta) perspective you could read the autobots' disregard of pharma as a sign of#'this guy is not meant to have your sympathy as a reader. pay no attention to him'#but from a watsonian (in universe) perspective it paints a miserable picture of pharma being utterly forsaken by the ppl he served alongsid#and like yeah i'm super autistic about pharma so of course i view him with sympathy but like#the idea of being a loyal and good person for years only to be subjected to a Torment Nexus of#being blackmailed into breaking all of the oaths you held sacred. under threat of you and all your comrades dying horrible torturous deaths#then when your comrades find out about it they focus solely on the 'harvesting organs' and not on the 'blackmail' part#and then you get literally left for dead by your comrades and best friend hating your guts#and then you get rescued by a guy who uses you as a test subject for his evil machine#this is a fucking nightmare scenario like pharma could hardly be suffering more if the author TRIED to make him suffer#and for me it's like. the evil pharma did can't be decontextualized to what drove him to that. as well as the question of like#how easily ppl can write someone off as evil and turn a blind eye to (or even find satisfaction in) their suffering bc theyre evil#and either brought it on themselves or it's just karma paying a visit#like. i feel like if pharma WERE a shitty doctor and a terrible person his whole life then the delphi situation would feel like karma#but the way it's written and the lore retroactively put in makes it feel more pharma getting thrown in a torture carousel#and THEN becoming evil. but then being treated as if he was always evil or was some sort of bad apple#bc like i'm not opposed to LOLing when a villain gets a karmic torture/death related to the wrongs they committed#but in pharma's case it feels less like karma and more like endless torture + being abandoned by ppl who should have been more loyal
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gif: @spoopymatthew
i’m not letting ANYONE escape this image-
#like actually what the fuck#DEAR LAWD#i go crazy every time#zb1 imagines#zb1#zb1 x reader#zb1 scenarios#zb1 hanbin#zb1 taerae#zerobaseone#zb1 ricky#zb1 jiwoong#zerobaseone taerae#seok matthew zb1#seok matthew smut#seok matthew fluff#seok matthew#boys planet matthew#matthew seok#matthew x reader#matthew imagines#zb1 matthew#matthew smut#seok matthew zerobaseone#seok matthew x reader#zerobaseone x reader#zerobaseone imagines#zerobase1
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[𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝]/𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐱 𝐲𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐞!𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐥 𝐡𝐜𝐬
warnings: 🔞 minors dni | standard yandere obsessiveness, implied murder by angel for ren, masturbation mention, sex mention, gn!reader
word count: 685 (i’m a YAPPER, okay?)
a/n: this has only been proofread by me so if it’s shit, im sorry | this came out of me constantly joking about how much i love ren and how my angelsona would absolutely be as obsessive as he is
as much as i love the innocent!angel not knowing what [redacted]/ren gets up to trope, i’m equally feral over the concept of yandere!angel knowing every single thing that ren has been doing, who is as obsessive and violent as he is, but plays along with him because he just seems to have so much fun thinking that he’s fooling them and who are they to meddle with their love’s fun?
yan!angel who immediately notices the similarities in several people they’ve met in town (it’s the eyes; the intensity with which each of them looks at angel is as if they were starving for them) and piecing together that it’s [redacted] trying out different characters to see which one angel likes most. angel who is so flattered by this that it immediately triggers an intense obsession with [redacted] to the same degree that he is with them
angel who purposefully leaves the window unlocked and ajar just to make it easier for [redacted] to come visit them. who giddily gets into bed to pretend to be asleep as their heart leaps out of their chest hearing [redacted]’s careful footsteps wandering the apartment. angel who grins beneath the sheets imagining how happy [redacted] must be with how easy it was to break into their apartment and nearly loses their cool when [redacted] comes near their face to study their features before brushing their hair softly, promising to be back soon. angel who dares a peek at him as he leaves before touching the same part of their hair that [redacted] touched, savouring the lingering heat from his fingertips
angel who is already so in love with [redacted] and considers telling him the truth but can’t fathom disappointing him after all of the hard work he’s done to become ren, so they double down on the innocent act. angel who waits, against their own wishes, to give [redacted] the validation and attention he wants so badly because they know part of the excitement is the anticipation of finally getting the person you want
angel who glares at anyone who gets too close to ren when he turns away from them before returning to their usual sunny disposition so quickly when he looks back that it would give anyone watching whiplash
angel who nearly bursts a blood vessel seeing how olivia acts around ren at the shop and who, after a …. talk with her that night in their apartment, smiles widely as they enter the shop the next day with ren, knowing for certain that olivia won’t be there to get in the way (it was a bitch to get olivia’s blood off their best clothes in time to see ren but, of course, angel pulls through)
angel who has to stop themself from gazing into any available camera lens lovingly, knowing ren’s watching. who changes all their passwords to the easiest possible combinations so that ren can access them whenever he wants, who has a dedicated playlist that they play whenever they know he’s watching them— singing along to every single word and meaning all of it
angel who loves changing in front of their cameras for him, letting him watch as much as he wants to, knowing he’s probably getting off to the view. who sometimes will play with themselves in front of the camera “accidentally,” and who starts showering with their phone propped up to give a full view of them showering as they blast their playlist for ren
angel who, when ren finally figures it out, is so delighted that he now knows everything, begging him to drop the ren act and just be [redacted].
when [redacted] relents (i mean how could he not, look at them), angel giddily tells him about all of the people they’ve gotten rid of just to be nearer to him, pouting when they feel that [redacted] even paid a mild amount of attention to certain people, but smiling wide when he tells them that none of them matter to him. that the only one he wants is you, always and forever. that he only ever wants to be with you, always with you.
angel who never leaves without a tracker on them, always making themselves available to ren whenever they can, and who, in mutual obsession, falls deeper and harder in love with him. who looks at him like he’s the sun, like he can do no wrong (because he can’t), like he’s their god
bless the souls that dare to like either one of these two because there’ll be hell to pay when they eventually figure it out x
#is this anything#this is truly the epitome of that one meme that goes#you think you’re crazy?? IM FUCKING CRAZIER#14 days with you redacted x reader#14 days with you redacted#14dwy ren x reader#14 days with you x reader#14dwy redacted#14 days with you ren#14dwy ren#14dwy x reader#14dwy#14 days with you#yandere x angel#yandere x you#yandere x reader#male yandere#yandere imagines#yancore#yandere x yandere#yandere x yandere!reader#yandere x yan!reader#yandere smut#my writing#ren my beloved#ren x reader#ren 14dwy#ren 14dwy x reader#ren x angel#ren x reader angel
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and if I said steve and you taking some spicy polaroids, and steve looking at them whenever you’re away and he wants you. he takes them out of their hiding space and touches himself to his favourite one of you under him.
hohhhhhh this is always such a delectable fuckin idea and it totally comes about after you take a polaroid of your tits and slip into a book and drop it with his lunch to steve at work <3 robin's like "gross, since when do you read?" and steve's about to scoff and maybe start bickering with her when the book in his hand falls open to a certain page and there it is. the first polaroid. robin fully believes you dropped him a steamy kind of book because she can't think of any other explanation for his abrupt red-cheeked stammering as he snapped the book shut and whirled into the backroom suddenly, claiming a quick break with a shaky voice. you get a very frustrated phone call that night, his voice all gravelly from being pent up all day and you take great pleasure at cooing at him over the phone, teasing him and hearing his slick noises and whiny moans as he works his cock until he cums over just the sound of your voice and that one picture :( it does not take long for this to become the remedy when you two are apart—faceless photos that are down right raunchy- half of what gets steve so worked up is knowing you've taken them for him :( looking at the arch of your back, your fingers pinching your nipple, all of it probably adds to his frustration as much as it alleviates it :( poor baby
#time spent apart always = crazy hot sex when you're back together#that is LAW for steve <3#he goes insane#and actually IM going insane#i would say anon u are so fucking correct and this is so fuckin hot#jay writes#anon#steve x reader#steve harrington#steve harrington x reader#steve harrington smut#steve harrington x reader smut
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MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI MDNI
a/n: sorry needed to get this out of my system bc it’s been driving me fucking ballistic all day
“hah mmm augh ah t-there please mmauhh-!” you moaned, back pressed into the sheets, knees spread wide and pushed against your chest. you panted and writhe against the bed, teary eyes stare up at ricky’s now storm clouds blue irises. he’s rutting himself into you, still partially dressed from his performance stage, the bed rocking and thumping as his hands dropped your knees held over his hips and gripped yours next to your head. creamy substance coated his dick sliding in and out of you rhythmically.
he chuckles, sweating running down his temple. you could see his chest shining with how his white shirt stuck to his skin.
“feeling good, love? right there?” he purred, smiling when you answered by squeezing your thighs around his hips. he squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, releasing a deep broken groan as he shifted to thrust into you at a different angle.
“a-ah ohmyGod yes yes yes there fuck yes,” you whimpered, releasing one of your laced hands to hold his back. your mouth fell open as he started pounding relentlessly, balls smacking loudly against your ass, legs trembling.
“d-did so well o-on stage today, fucking me so fucking good,” you whined as he pressed his forehead against yours. “love it so much, love you so much, feels so so goo-“ you started before you got cut off by ricky pushing his entire length in without warning. your back arched off the bed, eyes rolled back, toes flared, hand squeezing his so hard it cramped with him innocently rubbing his nose against your cheek.
“love you so much too,” his deep voice rumbled as he dragged himself out leaving just the tip , pressed a kiss against your cheek, and sheathed himself fully inside you again. and again. and again.
“can’t get enough of you,” he grinned as your hips subconsciously lifted to meet his. his thumb rubbed the back of your hand, which had gone limp and sweaty. your wails and “oh ricky”s filled the room, accompanied by skin smacking and grunts.
“gonna fill my sweet angel up,” he drawled as he pulled back, looking down at you and squeezed both of your hands. “always so good for me”
© 2023 rickittys
#🌫️ ⊹ ࣪ ˖#zb1 smut#zerobaseone smut#zb1 hard hours#zb1 hard thoughts#zb1 x reader#zb1#zerobaseone#zerobaseone x reader#shen ricky#zb1 ricky#ricky smut#fucking need him so bad#he can’t keep getting away with this#sexy ppl get away with EVERYTHING FUCK#anyways zb1 roty so true so real factual and correct :3#crazy ass face with a crazy ass waist#what the hell
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mikey: go ahead, shoot izana, if that will satisfy you—
izana:
#tr spoilers#izana is baby girl okay?#he’s fucking unhinged and beautiful#i love manjiro’s crazy ass#just egging him on like he’s got nothing to lose#i love his unhinged psycho baby ass#mikey x reader#izana x reader#mikey angst#mikey smut#izana angst#izana smut#draken x reader#mitsuya x reader#chifuyu x reader#rindou x reader#ran x reader#sanzu x reader#shinichiro x reader#kakucho x reader#koko x reader#inupi x reader#kazutora x reader#hanma x reader#baji x reader#tokyo revengers#tokyo revengers smut#tr smut
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the way you drew kokichi .. i think im ascending to the heavens .. i see the light .. chest collapsing .. heartbeat flatlining ..
oho, a Kokichi enjoyer!! tysm!! it was my first time drawing him at the time so im glad i didnt fail him. i dont want to fail any of the kyoto group. i love them all!! even w my clear favoritism
he's nice too, a bit more expressive than Noritoshi so i can finally draw something that isnt :| or >:( even if it isnt by much- i like him too
I like how he's both a dick but also kinda sweet. He's a different flavor of tsun... i can use this. my knowledge on him is limited but FROM WHAT I SAW IN THE WIKI OH MY GOD???????? OH MY GOD!!!!!!!!!!!! KOKICHI!!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
#muta kokichi#kokichi muta#mechamaru#kokichi muta x reader#mechamaru x reader#? i guess#double post lets go im tryna be as fast as lightning#woah a non noritoshi post... crazy.......#my hands feel tingly and weird#my blog is so yume centric that my one track mind made you a love interest right off the bat#fuck it. everyone's in love w you unless stated otherwise#congrats. youre a harem leader/protag now except i have a strong bias towards one guy unless asked abt someone else#AND I JUST FOUND OUT MORE ABT KOKICHI???? WHY AM I FUCKING CRYING????? DUDE WHAT THE FUCK#OH NO THIS IS NOT CORRECT.. IS THIS WHAT SHIBUYA ARC IS???? DUDE#IM GONNA RIP OUT MY HAIR. THIS CANNOT BE. I CANT FAWN OVER ANOTHER CHARACTER W SO LITTLE SCREEN TIME AND CONTENT GOD PLEASE#HE GIVES SO MANY VIBES..... LIKE FUCKED UP 'i'll sacrifice the world for you' VIBES AND ITS MAKING MY BRAIN KRCHAKKRCHAKKRCHACK#kokichi muta... another hidden gem.... wipes tear#we'll treat you right kokichi... sobs. there there
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For the Nikolai girlies.
#nikolai gogol#nikolai gogol bsd#nikolai smut#nikolai x reader#crazy clown fucking#cloobs#clock (get it cuz clown cock and all and…ok I’ll stop.)#bungou gay dogs#bsd#oshimagoofyhours
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#THIS PICTURE IS FUCKIN CRAZY🫶🏼#pedro pascal#pedro pascal smut#pedro pascal x reader#MINORS FUCK OFF
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Nightmare Academia | Spencer Reid x Reader
♥ Summary: Have you ever seen the tiktok where that guy brings a typewriter to his class because his prof doesn't allow laptops? Yeah, it's that, but you are the source of the typewriters. In other words, you're Reid's worst nightmare. [Prof!Spencer Reid x GN-Prof!Reader]
♥ Warnings: Descriptions of emotional vulnerability from a student to a professor, reminders that the world sucks and Gen-Z is fucked when it comes to housing. The reader is. Kind of Mean to Spencer, but I won't say he doesn't deserve it. Enemies to Lovers, but they're just Enemies right now.
♥ A/N: a couple things about this fic. 1) i have no clue when this takes place in the criminal minds timeline???? i just know reid took a some kind of leave from the bau, and this is what he's doing with it 2) reid isn't actually in this one that much. my bad. 3) i've got no clue what university these two teach at. i researched typewriters extensively for this, but i didn't bother googling universities.
♥ Word count: 2371
Series Masterlist
♥♥♥
“Alright, my little chilli babies, that’s about it for today. If you have any questions, office hours start now, and please remember there’s an exam next week. It makes me sad when you forget. Got it? Got it. Cool.”
Your students immediately began to stand and file out of the room. They left in groups. Some of them chatted amongst themselves softly, and some called out a farewell to you, but most of them were silent. One or two lingered behind to ask about the administration process of the PCL-R, but that was about it.
Except for this one girl.
You were pretty sure her name was Opal. She sat near the back of the room in the second to last row. She got good grades and performed well on tests and projects- although she was a touch shy during the one presentation project you assigned during the semester.
Usually, Opal was one of the first to leave, practically running from the room, but today she just sat there, staring straight ahead. You watched her for a second, vaguely assuming that she had a question or something. She didn’t get up to ask, though. She just sat still, staring at her laptop. You paid her no mind. Sometimes your students just needed a second, and that was usually nothing to worry about.
You were just about to pack up your own things and head for your office when you heard a sob. You looked up again to see Opal just sobbing into her computer. You winced. A pang of sympathy hit you dead in the chest. University was just like that sometimes- and she wasn’t the first or last student to cry on campus.
Shit, you cried on campus. Like, all the time. As a professor. The previous Tuesday you thought about the two-headed calf poem too hard and you ended up sobbing in your office.
You headed for the back of the room, leaning a hip against the back of the seat beside her. She didn’t seem to notice your presence. Her laptop screen was covered with detailed notes- it was honestly an impressive collection.
You crossed your arms, raising an eyebrow, “Everything okay over here?”
Opal gasped, looking up at you with wide eyes, “I-I’m- I-” she sobbed again, “I’m so sorrrrrry.”
“Sorry? What do you have to be sorry for?”
“I’m crying in your classroom, and I’m so overwhelmed, and my next assignment is going to be late, and I’m so sorrrrry.”
The poor thing put her face in her hands and hunched over in her seat. You pulled out the chair next to her and sat down.
“You have nothing to be sorry for. University is stressful. It’s easy to get overwhelmed and crying can provide a cathartic release from that.”
“I- I know. It’s just so- so embarrassing.”
“Again, don’t worry about it. I literally cried in here last week.”
“R-really?”
“Mhmm. Now, if it helps, I can provide an extension on that assignment. Your feedback might be a little less in-depth, but that’s really nothing to worry about. Your work has always met a high standard.”
Her eyes somehow got even wider, “Are you- are you sure, professor?”
“Absolutely. It’s not a big deal- it might not fix your whole problem though,” you pulled your legs up onto the chair, sitting criss-cross facing your student, “If you’re feeling overwhelmed, the school provides free counselling services. They can help you feel less… whelmed.”
Opal nodded, wiping her eyes, “It’s really just- just this one class I’m in. Our professor doesn’t allow laptops so I have to take notes by hand. But my- my writing is really messy, so then I have to figure out what I wrote, and-”
She was working herself back into a frenzy. You had to intervene.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay. Which prof is it, maybe we can ask about getting an accommodation made?”
“It’s-” she sobbed, “It’s Professor Reid.”
You froze. Opal continued to sob as a dark, heavy storm cloud rolled into your brain.
“That fucking bastard,” you hissed, effectively shocking Opal out of her stupor.
“Wh-what?”
“This isn’t the first time he’s- okay, come on, follow me, we’re going to my office.”
Wordlessly, Opal put her things in her bag. You ran to your desk to do the same, snatching your keys and water bottle before heading out into the hallway. Opal followed diligently, but she struggled to keep up with your purposeful strides. Her face was still tear-stained, but now, instead of sorrow, her expression was the ultimate picture of confusion. When you reached your office, you swung the door open wide and ushered the girl inside.
In all honesty, you were quite proud of the space you had created. It was warmly lit, a necessary contrast from the harsh white lights of the hallway (you fucking hated those lights). The walls were decorated with your doctorates and neat little art pieces you found in various places. It was colourful and pleasant, and now was not the time to focus on your choice of decor because you were on a mission.
Opal remained near the door, watching as you rounded your desk and reached for something below it. With a slight groan of effort, you quickly emerged with your prize.
A vintage typewriter.
A heavy vintage typewriter.
You placed the thing down on your desk as delicately as you could. Opal stared at you in confusion as you beamed at the fine piece of machinery.
“Which room is his class in, I’ll have someone bring this to you.”
“Professor-?”
“You use it for one class, just one, and I guarantee he’ll let you use your laptop. Damn, technophobe.”
“I don’t know how to use a typewriter.”
You placed your hands on the desk, leaning forward on it, “Okay, come here then, I’ll show you.”
Opal timidly made her way towards you. You made sure to leave her lots of space as you ran through the tech tutorial. She picked up on it quickly, being the good student that she was. When you were done, you collapsed back in your chair, another bright smile on your face. Opal looked significantly less distraught, but still vaguely confused.
“Can I ask why you’re doing this for me? You- you didn’t even have to give me an extension. Why are you-?”
“Because you aren’t the first student to have this problem.”
It was true. This was the seventh sobbing-student-style complaint you’d had about him in as many months- and Reid had only been there for seven months. You’d received emails, phone calls, and office hour meetings where desperate and devastated students would explain to you that they were falling behind. It broke your heart a little bit- and it pissed you right off.
It was ironic that Doctor Reid had come straight here from the FBI- his technophobic nature was slowly but surely murdering your students, and now, you were going to murder him.
“Now about that extension, does five days sound good?”
Opal handed in the assignment two days into her extension. You smiled as you looked over her incredible paper. Your little scheme had worked. You hoped that Reid was pissed.
–
He was! Kind of. Not really. It was a bit of a disappointment to be honest.
You had only known Doctor Spencer Reid for the seven months he’d been teaching alongside you, and boy howdy were you starting to hate his fucking guts. At first, everything was fine. He’d seemed sweet, and polite, and you were willing to overlook the whole FBI profiler thing to maintain the peace.
Then one of your students passed out during class.
Thanks to his high expectations and fear of computers, there was a lot of shit for his students to cope with. The worst part was, you agreed with some of his policies- of course, you didn’t agree with the tech thing, that was stupid- but there was other stuff that you liked. He taught your students things that could help them improve- but at what cost.
Your formerly dim-eyed and sleepy students (let’s be real, they were never going to be bright-eyed nor bushy-tailed, they’re fucking college students) were now going through life in a state of anxiety that was not good for their long-term health. That was enough to make you hate Spencer Reid.
And then one night, over a very full glass of wine you looked up his FBI career. You learned that the BAU used a private jet.
A private. Fucking. Jet.
They didn’t need to use the private jet. They could’ve used trains and it would’ve done the same thing. Shit, they didn’t even have to leave Quantico. They could’ve done their job from their main office. Most profilers do their job from their main office. Instead, Reid’s team had dumped fucking jet fuel into the damn atmosphere because they fucking felt like it. Not to mention just. FBI. Ew.
So, yeah. Fuck Reid’s three PhD’s, and fuck his ability to teach. You didn’t give a shit about any of that. You hated the man. You wanted to eat his heart in the main atrium, and given your way, you would.
Taking all that into consideration, it was only natural for the expression on your face to morph into one of absolute joy when Reid came to your office with the typewriter in his arms, and his tail between his legs.
“Doctor Reid,” your smile was a plastic thing, a false beauty with venom hiding beneath it, “What can I help you with.”
“Please stop sending that typewriter to my class.”
You opened your eyes a little wider, playing dumb just to fuck with him, “Typewriter? Whatever do you mean? I can’t imagine anyone in this century would even own a little antique typewriter like that thing there.”
“Little? That thing has to be over a hundred pounds- and it’s not antique, it’s-”
“It is literally thirty-three pounds.”
“Oh, okay,” he nodded. It was very clearly a ruse, “But how would you know that unless you own the typewriter?”
“I do a lot of research. That’s a 1960s Vintage Royal Empress Typewriter measuring about twelve inches in width and weighing thirty-three pounds and eight ounces. Y’know, now that you mention it, I’ve actually been in the market for a vintage typewriter.”
You put your elbows together on the desk and placed your face in your hands, “You wouldn’t know where I could get one would you?”
“Dr. (L/N), this is your typewriter. Please stop sending it to my classes.”
“Hm, I guess it doesn’t pay tuition, that’s not fair to the other students,” you opened your laptop, “What class do you teach again? I’ll sign it up and pay the price in full.”
Doctor Reid let out the most exasperated sigh you had ever heard in your life- and that was impressive. You taught college kids.
“Why are you like this?” he mumbled.
“Pardon?”
“I said-” he at least had the decency to look embarrassed, “I said, ‘Why are you like this?’”
Your smile split your face from ear to ear. You emerged from behind your desk slowly, carefully, like a predator eyeing up its prey.
“Why am I like this, Dr. Reid? I’m like this because in the past seven months, I have had to deal with seven emotionally wrecked students, and what did they all have in common? Was it personal tragedies? The pure state of the world and everything in it? The knowledge that very few of the students at this school will be able to afford houses once they enter the working world? No, Dr. Reid. The thing they had in common was you.”
“What are you implying?”
“Implying- what are you implying, he asks me,” you muttered, “I’m saying that your fear of computers is fucking over your students.”
“Studies have shown that handwritten notes-”
“No, no, stop. You don’t get to talk. I’m talking now. Handwritten notes might be better for long-term memory retention, but not everyone writes as fast as you talk. Most of these kids don’t have time to switch their notes to a digital format! And that doesn’t account for shit getting lost, or students who get sick and miss class. Look, I get that computers might be scary for you, but in a climate where most of your students are full-time students, who take a mind-numbing amount of courses that cover incredibly difficult material, go home and struggle with the steaming pile of shit that is reality, and then head out for their part-time jobs- or, in some cases, their full-time jobs- you might want to have a degree of sympathy.”
Reid stared at you. He seemed unaffected. You wondered if that was because you were like, an entire foot shorter than him. You pulled up a chair and stood on it.
“Let your students use their laptops, or I swear to god, I will never stop sending the typewriter to class. You will hear the incessant sound of keys clicking in your nightmares, got it?”
He paused, his eyes darting across your face from your lips to your eyes and back.
“How old are you?”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re standing on a chair like a child. How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven. Now get out of my office.”
He did as you asked. You could see a small smirk on his lips as he shut the door behind him. The sight of it made your blood boil, and there and then, you decided you were gonna keep sending the typewriter anyway because fuck that guy.
Still, over the next few months, you never heard another complaint about Spencer Reid and his technophobic habits. Your students went from extreme emotional agony to regular, day-to-day emotional agony. He’d stopped making them take notes by hand.
You were still gonna kill him just… maybe a little bit less.
#spencer reid x reader#spencer reid x gn!reader#spencer reid x you#spencer reid x y/n#x reader#holy shit two fics in two days that's fucking crazy#btw if you have an idea of when this should take place#let me know#im thinking it's around or just after season 9#i might be biased since im like. halfway through season 10#but if you've got ideas PLEASE SHARE THEM#anyway
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