#I’ve decided to throw my trash in the street for you raccoons | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

viastro · 4 years

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lavender | yoon jeonghan

ミ★ synopsis: it was a cold winter the year you met jeonghan. now he’s all you think about when it snows.

ミ★ genre: angst, fluff, happy ending

ミ★ warnings: none!

ミ★ word count: 2,459

ミ★ pairings: jeonghan x female reader

ミ★ notes: i just spent thirty minutes trying to find a gif of jeonghan with his lavender hair and i didn’t find a SINGLE ONE. i am going to wreak havoc.

You’re walking on the crowded streets of Seoul, feeling a snowflake fall onto your nose. You wipe it away, letting out a small sigh that shows itself in the cold air. This season only reminds you of him. From the way your breath appears before you due to the frigid temperatures, to the soft purple skies in the morning that resemble the hair color he had in college. This season only brings back the memories like a wave crashing onto the sandy shore.

It was a cold winter the year you had met Jeonghan.

The snow was falling softly from the sky and onto the pavement as you walked at a brisk pace towards the library. Having been late to your shift due to the fact that your friend, Joshua, thought it’d be funny to take in a baby cat off the street. Now that would’ve been cute if the cat was actually a cat.

Joshua had taken a baby raccoon into his apartment. Yes. A trash panda.

So now you were late for work as you had to help Joshua figure out what to do with the cute garbage eater of an animal, and you’re basically running across campus as the snow sticks to your specs. You finally reach the library, practically bursting in and melting at the warm air. You let out a sigh, walking over to the back room and checking yourself in. Unwrapping the red scarf from around your neck, you put it into your cubby and place your bag in there too. You wipe the snow off your glasses, and head out to the front to start restocking the returned books.

That’s when you notice a head of lavender colored hair, nose deep into a philosophy book. You raise an eyebrow, watching him lift his face up with a pout on his lips as he turns his attention to his journal to write some notes. You feel your mouth drop open at the sight of his face.

He just has to be the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.

His lavender hair compliments his skin tone wonderfully. A lot better than what you’ve seen on campus with everyone having a mental breakdown during finals week and thinking dying their hair will be a good coping mechanism.

It’s not.

You turn away before he can catch sight of you literally gaping at him, scooting the cart closer so that you can place the two books in their designated area. However, you decide to turn around and take one more peek, only to lock eyes with the man.

His chin is resting on his palm, and he’s giving you a small smile, as if he was waiting for you to turn back around. You feel your face burn up, giving him a small bow before turning away and pushing the cart as fast as you can to the other section of the library.

Jeonghan giggles as you hurriedly walk away, having been caught staring at him. He thinks you’re rather cute, the complete opposite of who he would’ve expected to be working at the library. I’ll talk to her later, Jeonghan thinks to himself before beginning to work on his notes again.

While you’re currently shitting yourself at the fact that the pretty boy caught you turning around to LOOK at him. You curse yourself for being so stupid, making sure to shove yourself into putting away all the books to get your mind off the boy.

hint: it does not.

✿✿✿✿✿✿

It’s currently 11:00 pm, and you’re finally off your shift. You wrap your red scarf back around your neck, giggling at the warmth it brings you. You find yourself rather giddy, knowing that you can go home and finally eat the leftover banh mi sandwich you ordered yesterday.

You practically skip out of the backroom, feeling your stomach gurgle at the thought of the sandwich, only to literally pause once you see the lavender haired boy. Instead of him being nose deep into his book reading, he’s nose deep into his book fast asleep. You notice he’s the only one left in the library, and you feel bad.

I guess I should wake him up, you think to yourself as you push your specs up your nose. Walking over to the ethereal man, you poke his shoulder softly, to which he continues sleeping. You giggle, deciding to pat his back instead.

“Wake up.” You mutter softly, and he lets out a small groan opening his eyes slowly. He locks eyes with you, and he lets out a small smile, making your heart violently beat against your chest.

“You’re the pretty girl who was staring at me earlier.” He mumbles, making you regret even waking him up. You were hoping he possibly forgot about it, but that was obviously a lot to hope for.

wait.

he thinks I’m pretty?!

“I’m going to ignore that comment and let you know that you should go back to your place and rest rather than drool on your philosophy book.” You respond, trying to hold back the warmth rushing towards your face. He nods his head sitting up and stretching with a yawn.

You nod your head, getting ready to turn around and head out of the library.

“Wanna go eat pork belly with me?” The purple haired man asks you, and you all but pause once again. You turn to look at him with wide eyes, pointing to yourself as you ask, “Me?”

“Yes, you.” He answers with a smile, and you feel yourself practically melt at how cute he looks when he smiles. He puts on his thick jacket and zips up his backpack, awaiting your response.

“But we just met. You don’t even know my name, bro I don’t even know your name.” He shrugs, throwing his backpack over his shoulder.

“I’m Yoon Jeonghan, it’s my last year here at this uni.” Jeonghan introduces himself, walking up so that he’s now standing in front of you. You look up at him, realizing how small you are as you’re borderline to his shoulder.

“I’m YLN YN, it’s my third year here.” You say softly, and he gives you a grin.

“Now that we know each other’s names, would you like to go eat pork belly with me? I’ll make sure to cook the meat.” He offers, and you find yourself smiling at the offer.

“Sure Jeonghan, I’ll go eat with you.”

It’s been four years since then, two since Jeonghan left South Korea. You don’t know where he is now or what he’s been up to. All you know is that he left for Japan to get a break from Korea, and that he didn’t know when he’d come back.

You both had an unspoken agreement to act as if you two were strangers when he left, like you hadn’t been pining after each other for the past two years. Or maybe that was just a one-sided agreement, as you decided that it’d hurt more to speak to him knowing he wasn’t within a driving distance from you anymore. He complied though.

You haven’t spoken in two years.

To say you were devastated when he left is an understatement. You were absolutely heartbroken. He told you that if you came to see him off at the airport, he’d stay. Joshua and Mingyu tried to convince you to go, but you stayed at your apartment. Clutching the gift he left on your kitchen table before he left, knowing you weren’t going to come.

He was wrong though.

Your leg bounces nervously on the car floor as you try to be patient with the taxi driver. You’ve already asked him to go faster twice, and you know you’re on thin ice already. You’re three minutes away from the airport, and you’re about to shit yourself.

You had to tell Jeonghan you’re gonna miss the way he would sneeze whenever he’d open up an old book at the library, the way he’d pull small pranks on you no matter how much it annoyed you. You’re gonna miss simply having his presence beside you as you’d both try to read a story you were not at all interested in but had to read for the sake of your mental health.

You have to tell Jeonghan you’re in love with him.

The taxi comes to a stop in front of the airport, and you all but leap out of the car, paying quickly before sprinting into the airport. You run towards Jeonghan’s terminal, squeezing your way past tired travelers simply trying to either go home or catch a flight. You finally see his terminal number after what felt like an hour of running, and you sprint over, seeing Joshua and Mingyu standing by the window.

“Is he still here!?” You yell, only to stop in your tracks, seeing his airplane take off into the sky. Joshua’s mouth drops open the moment he turns around and sees you, and Mingyu immediately pulls you into a hug once he sees your hopeful expression crumble.

You let out a sob into his shoulder, feeling your heart completely shatter while you squeeze Mingyu’s shirt between your hands. Joshua reaches out to pat your back, muttering that Jeonghan tried to have the plane wait as long as it could, and you sob even louder.

You were too late.

You let out another sigh, feeling self-pity for yourself at the fact that you still think about him. You wait for the crosswalk light to show the little man signaling for the crowd around you to walk. The snow falls softly from the air, and you plan out your dinner in your head in an attempt to try and halt your thoughts of him.

You turn your head to see a kbbq restaurant that’s specialized in pork belly, and you scrunch up your nose, turning away to look at the ground. It’s always harder during winter, you think to yourself. Staring at the ground, the snowflakes melt as soon as they touch the pavement, so you know it won’t be sticking for a while.

You look up once the people around you start crossing the road, and you see the little man on the crosswalk light showing. You walk slowly, staring down at the white lines on the road as you walk. You glance up again, seeing the numbers begin ticking down the time the pedestrians have to pass the crosswalk.

“Yn?” You freeze at the voice behind you, immediately recognizing it. The snow falls around you, and the red numbers continue to tick down as you turn around slowly to see if you were just imagining.

You weren’t.

“Jeonghan?”

He’s staring back at you with wide eyes, and you feel an overwhelming sense of nostalgia as you realize he’s actually here. His once brown hair is dyed black, now a shorter cut than you’ve seen on him. His shoulders are a bit broader, and his facial features have matured a bit, but he’s still the lavender haired college boy you remember.

“Oh my God, it’s really you.” He says, and the tears finally fill your eyes as more snowflakes fall onto Jeonghan’s head. A car horn honks, causing you both to jump up in surprise, immediately breaking the intense staring between you two. You glance over to see the red hand on the crosswalk light, signaling that it’s time to get off the road.

Jeonghan reaches out and grasps your hand, pulling you over back to the side of the street you just left. He doesn’t let go once you both reach the sidewalk. In fact, he squeezes your hand tighter when he looks down into your eyes.

“You’re back, you’re actually back.” You mutter, a tear slipping down your cheek. He lets out a small smile, reaching up and wiping away the tear with his cold hand.

“I missed you.” He whispers, causing you to let out a small sob. You don’t even care that you’re on a busy street in the middle of Seoul and that people are staring at you.

You haven’t felt the feeling of home in two years.

“Why didn’t you come see me at the airport?” Jeonghan asks softly, tears threatening to spill out of his eyes as well. You’re crying, and your crying face isn’t that pretty. The snow falls around the both of you, some individual snowflakes land on your hair, framing your face. He thinks you’re the most beautiful thing he’s ever laid eyes on at this exact moment.

“I came, I came too late.” You answer, and the tear finally slips from his eye as he rests his head onto your forehead. “Your airplane took off right as I came to your terminal.”

“I guess time was against us during that time, huh?”

You nod your head, letting out a small giggle as more tears fall from your face. Jeonghan smiles at the sound, having missed it in the years he was gone.

“I wanted to tell you I love you that day.” You whisper, pulling back to look up into his eyes. Jeonghan’s eyes widen slightly, and he looks away with a big smile forming onto his lips. You smile back once he looks back at you.

“Does it still apply?” He asks softly, and you nod your head.

“Always.”

Jeonghan bites the inside of his cheek, noticing the pedestrians now crossing the sidewalk once again. He lets out a small grin, feeling like fate was finally on your guys’ side.

“Can I kiss you?” He asks, and you smile.

“Yes.”

That was all Jeonghan needed to hear before he finally leaned in, pressing his cold lips to your warm ones. It’s nothing more than a small peck, something similar to that of a highschooler’s first kiss. However, it has the both of you giggling like a bunch of children.

“I love you.” Jeonghan whispers against your lips after you both finish giggling, leaving another kiss on your lips. “I love you too.” You respond, squeezing his hand.

“I saw a kbbq across the street, they specialize in pork belly.” Jeonghan begins, and you let out a laugh.

“Will you cook the meat?” You ask, and he scoffs, turning the both of you so that you start walking in the direction of the kbbq restaurant. Jeonghan places your intertwined hands into his warm jacket pocket, and you smile softly.

“Of course I’ll cook the meat. Last time I left you in charge of the pork belly you burned it, we aren’t doing that again.”

“Hey! I started cooking more when you left! I’m a new woman.”

“Does that mean you wanna cook the meat?”

“No, that’s your job Hannie.”

“My job is to love you.”

“Pfftt… simp.”

“Says the one who literally raced to the airport to confess their love for someone.”

“... valid.”

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steepgan · 4 years

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t. oikawa - the balcony

in which you befriend your neighbor during quarantine. gn reader.

To put it briefly, your neighbor across from you will not be quiet.

Everyone is cooped up in their respective apartments due to a pandemic, and this guy decides to have a party every goddamn day. You can hear his music when you’re in the shower, and sometimes you don’t want to listen to Firework by Katy Perry. Sometimes you want to listen to One Direction.

Your apartment is situated oddly. The neighbor you speak of is not across the hall from you (if he was, you might have already filed a complaint). Instead, your apartment is given a balcony that directly faces the neighbor in question’s balcony.

Below the balconies is a small street that has passerbyers and chatting people that are looking for a shortcut. You get the occasional street cat that yowls in the trash cans at night and fights with raccoons. They are far more pleasant company than your neighbor.

In other words, the loud neighbor lives in a different apartment complex from you.

Every day is a new horror. Once, there was nonstop playing of Lorde’s Melodrama album (to which you were so concerned to the point of finding your neighbor a therapist), and the next day, there were strange trumpet noises (where did this guy find a trumpet during Covid?)

After the third week of the neighbor’s incessant noise, you take it upon yourself to ask your neighbors if they, too, are perturbed by the loudness. To this day, they do not mind the noise.

You’ll get used to it, they say. We’re neighbors. Sometimes we make noises, too, [L/N].

The noises are seemingly getting louder and louder. You swear you hear a chainsaw at some point. Not even your poor headphones can cancel out the sound. You wonder how your neighbors are faring with this sort of noise.

You hope that they are annoyed as you are this time. If they are, you can laugh at their face and ask who is getting used to the noise now. However, you suck up all your annoyance and pretend that you don’t mind the noise.

Then one day, you snap.

You open your balcony doors and march to the railing that is only a few feet away from your noisy neighbor’s balcony. You clear your throat and try to yell.

“Dude!” you shout. “Hello? Mind turning it down a bit?”

There is no response.

“Hey, man!” you persist. “Turn it down! No one wants to listen to the Backstreet Boys at 6 A.M. in the morning!”

The neighbor who lives beside you opens his balcony door. He sleepily pokes his head through and says, “I, actually, find it quite ni—”

“Go back to bed, Jorge,” you snap. “No one cares.”

Jorge retreats back into his apartment.

Grumbling, you go into your apartment as well. If shouting will not catch the neighbor’s attention, you need to find something tangible. You need something that will physically grab your neighbor’s stupid attention away from the Backstreet Boys.

You pick up the nearest object that you could find and return to your balcony. Without further ado, you throw it over. You aim at your neighbor’s balcony window, hoping to alert the neighbor without completely shattering his apartment and getting sued.

As luck would have it, the infamous neighbor himself opens the balcony door just then. He is rubbing the back of his neck with his lazy brown locks of hair falling here and there, perfectly framing his face.

Unfortunately, you do not manage to get a good look at his actual feature, as the object you chose to throw at him hits him smack in the face. He is taken aback by the sudden force and staggers before falling backward.

You wince.

He groans.

You let out a meek voice. “Holy shit, I’m so sorry.”

The man stands back up, and you flinch as if he rises from the dead. He holds the object in hand and stares at you. He seems a little groggy (rightfully so) as he asks, “did you just throw a purse at me?”

He speaks the truth. You chose to throw a purse at him.

Your neighbor looks more put together than you thought. He maintains a broad, athletic frame and stands at a decent height enough to impress. He leans against his balcony door, and the rising sun peeks over the apartment buildings, shining generously on his face.

The rays illuminated his cheekbones and rich, brown eyes. He tilts his head, his skin pulled smooth over his jaw down to his collarbone. He looks otherworldly. Ethereal, even. It must be golden hour, you quickly convince yourself. It’s just the golden hour.

“It was empty,” you say, not helping your case. You scramble closer to the railing. “Sorry! Super sorry. I just needed to get your attention.”

“You most certainly got it,” the neighbor says, amused. You hope he is not too annoyed. Most of your pent-up annoyance is melted away because you threw a bag at him. “Do you want this back or—”

“Of course I want it back,” you say. “I was just wondering if you could turn down the music a bit. You play it all the time, and it’s disturbing me.”

The neighbor gives you a blank stare. It’s as if he’s never been asked this before. He sheepishly admits, “I’ve never been asked this before.”

Bingo.

“Oh, well, do you mind being a little considerate?” you ask. “And give my bag back?”

“Sorry,” the neighbor says. “I’ll be sure to turn the volume down.”

He does not intend to throw the bag over the balcony as you foolishly did. Instead, he reaches out with the bag in his hand. Your bag dangles over the street, precariously close to falling down.

You stretch over the railing. Your fingers briefly brush your neighbor’s. Warmth crawls up your cheeks, but you blame it on the fact that you’ve kept human contact to a minimum ever since quarantine started.

He gives you the bag, and you hold it in your arms. You are tempted to crack a joke about Covid and ask if he washes his hands regularly, but your neighbor seems like the type of man who knows how to take care of himself properly.

“Say, do you have a party or something every day?” you ask. “You play it so loud, so I’m just wondering if you hold small kickbacks.”

“Every day?” the man goes. He shakes his head and laughs while crossing his arms. “Nah. I try to follow Covid procedures as well as I can. Oh, but, umm, I do have the occasional party to myself.”

“You throw parties by yourself?”

“Why do you look and sound so disappointed?”

True to his word, the neighbor keeps his music down for you to concentrate. You are extremely grateful, as you can now listen to your own television and study for your online classes.

Although you hear the faint drumming beat of music sometimes, you decide that it was far worse last time he blasted his music all over the place so you let it slide. There are a few neighbors who pass you in the hall and thank you as well.

Unable to rest one night, you walk out onto your balcony for some fresh air. After this, you will finally go to bed at 4 A.M. in the morning. In the dim light of the lanterns, you can see a silhouette of a person on your neighbor’s balcony.

Oh, if it isn’t your good neighbor!

(Well, who else would be on your neighbor’s balcony?)

He is on his phone while leaning on the railing. The bright screen reflects on his face, showing his concentration. His athletic build is slightly hunched over his phone as he hums leisurely, scrolling innocently.

“So,” you say, “do you usually stay up until 4 A.M.?”

The man, slightly startled, looks up from his phone and sees you. He cracks a grin that’s more brilliant than the fact that his house plants are still alive despite you never seeing him water them.

“Well, hello, there,” the neighbor says. “I actually get up at 4 A.M.”

You still. “You what.”

“I get up at 4 A.M.”

“No, I don’t think I heard you right. Mind repeating it again?”

“I get up at 4 A.M.,” the man repeats, and although he has said it three times already, your mind cannot process it. While you’re going to bed at 4 A.M., this guy was waking up at 4 A.M. How insane! “I’m an athlete, so I wake up and use an elliptical. Feeling sluggish isn’t good for me.”

It was then you catch his name: Toru Oikawa of Club Athletico San Juan. You can’t bother to be gobsmacked as you do not catch up with sports news, but you keep in touch with old friends who are still involved in sports. You believe that they’ve mentioned the San Juan club a few times.

“Jesus Christ,” you say.

“No, not Jesus,” Oikawa pipes up, “although I’ve been told about the similarities.”

“I’m [F/N] [L/N],” you offer. “It’s very nice to meet you, Toru Oikawa.”

“Likewise,” he says, “unless you're throwing a purse at me.”

“Again, I’m super sorry—”

You and he talk for some time about anything that comes to mind. You ask him to show you a few of his volleyball videos, as you want to see how he plays. You assume that because of social distancing, he’s been unable to practice.

He obtains your phone number and sends you a few videos with a snarky little comment at the bottom, which you choose to ignore. You watch his videos, and you realize that this Oikawa guy is actually really good.

It seems your friendship with him is on feebly, baby-doe legs. There are days where you do not talk to him at all, as you are more of a night owl and Oikawa is the physical embodiment of carpe diem. There are some days where you and he do not let a single hour slip by without texting each other (you must admit that Oikawa is very entertaining).

Your neighbors tease you, constantly reminding you of your previous hatred for Oikawa (back when you did not know what his name was). You tell them that it was perfectly sensible to be mad, especially since he had been so loud, but they wave you off with a smirk of their faces you’d gladly wipe off. You can tell that they think you like Toru Oikawa.

You tell them that the day Oikawa calls you enchanting and thinks of you as a goddess is the day you might consider him as something more than a neighbor friend.

A month and a half flies by, and you are dawdling on your balcony with Oikawa. He is sitting with his legs swinging back and forth through the rails of the railing. His volleyball hands grip the top of the railing as he chats with you aimlessly, the same smile that he typically wears is upon his face.

“You must have a lot of experience,” you note, watching Oikawa’s videos on your phone. “It’s super impressive.”

Oikawa laughs. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” you say incredulously. “I was watching one of your old high school videos, and I compared it to one of your more recent ones. Your growth is to die for. I super admire your skills, Toru.”

“My skills?”

I wish I could say more, you think. You believe your words are not enough to describe how you feel. Nothing is able to amount to the pride you feel towards your newfound friend, and it aches to keep your words to yourself. You can tell that he has suffered, and you can tell that he is suffering even now. You smile thinking about how far he has come, how far he has gone to be standing across from you with such a moonlit smile on his face.

You know how he fights, and you are so proud.

Of course, there is no non-cheesy way to say this, so you hope that Oikawa can read your eyes well enough. You hope that Oikawa knows that you are being more genuine now than ever, and you hope that he does not mistake your authenticity for pity.

“I think you are very great,” you say to him truthfully.

Oikawa’s voice is shaky. “Thank you.”

It feels as if years are going by with you locked in your apartment. Oikawa becomes an integral part in your life and in your everyday habits. You text him nearly every day and find yourself rising early in the morning just to talk to him for a few minutes before collapsing back on your bed.

Your neighbors suggest that you and he have a forbidden lovers thing going on. You ask them where they got that from. They bring up the fact that you and he are from different apartment complexes that just-so-happen to be facing each other.

If your neighbors want their own drama, they might as well try throwing a purse at their neighbor’s window and hope the neighbors are as amicable and handsome as Toru Oikawa. You struck gold with him.

He is easy to get along with. He tells you a lot of stories in the middle of the night and whenever he can. Every experience he tells you about seems to be linked with another experience, which is linked to another and then another. The conversations are flowing out of him, and sometimes, the most you can do is keep giving him positive affirmations so he will keep talking to you.

You like it when he talks to you.

“No phone, Toru?” you note, seeing his empty hands. Oikawa usually has his phone when he talks to you on the balcony. It is strange to see him without it, but Oikawa is a strange guy, you figure. He’s a total dork.

Oikawa is in love with a sport.

You have many athlete friends. Ordinarily, they complain about waking up early and never getting enough sleep—especially when balancing it with schoolwork. They enjoy their sport to a degree, but it pales in comparison to what Oikawa feels toward volleyball.

To Oikawa, and to people like Oikawa, volleyball is a practice. They turn volleyball into a habit. It becomes a habit that they care for the sport, and most importantly, it becomes a habit that they, in turn, take care of themselves.

“Too much blue light,” Oikawa says, shaking his head. “I’m cutting down my phone time. It’ll be better for my eyes, too. You ought to do the same.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” you joke. “I have to look at screens all day, even if my eyesight deteriorates in the long run.”

“What will you do if you end up blind?” Oikawa leans on the railing. It’s as if he is trying to get close to you. However, the distance between the balconies is six feet apart. Whether you and Oikawa like it or not, you and he are following safety procedures. “You won’t be able to look for aliens with me.”

You laugh. “I don’t believe in aliens.”

“Well, they don’t believe in you, either.”

You make a sad face.

Oikawa is taken aback. He starts speaking quickly. “They don’t have to believe in you. It’s their loss. I’ll believe in you instead. You don’t need the approval of aliens, and you don’t need their opinions. They’re not even on Earth! The Earth is grand enough with you on it, [F/N]. As long as one person—me, or yourself, even!—believes in you, you’ll achieve greater things than aliens.”

It is then you smile. Oikawa is so silly, you think to yourself. You doubt there is anything else in the world that can replicate the neighbor across from you. He is truly one of a kind. “Thanks, Toru. You’re such a loser.”

“Hey,” he says, “love me or hate me. Don’t do both. Make it make sense.”

With Oikawa cutting back his screen time, you do not receive as many volleyball videos or texts from him. You miss his texts, of course, but this only spurs you to catch him in the mornings or in the late evenings when he gets back from practice. Your whole sleep schedule now revolves around the man. He is your friend, after all.

You slightly envy the man, as he seems dead set on becoming better than the person he was yesterday. However, you and he carry different morals. You do not mind not knowing what to do at all; you live from one day to the next, happily taking whatever life gives you. You are content not knowing what the future holds because you know that it is scary, but nothing is fun without being scary.

You do not need to follow Oikawa’s beliefs. Everyone raises themselves differently than the next person, and that does not make them any less productive. As each experience goes by, people take a different lesson from it, learning and learning and learning. That is human thought.

Of course, you learn a thing or two from Oikawa. You learn that there is always someone better, and that should only move you forward. You come to realize that if life does not lead you along, life will drag you, and you are far too pretty to be dragged.

With this in mind, you finish your project in time.

More weeks fly by, and Oikawa greets you as you walk out on your balcony. He is dressed in his practice clothes, and you are dressed in pajamas. You wrap your coat around yourself tighter, as the colder seasons are approaching and you aren’t so keen on freezing to death.

Oikawa’s brown hair feathers the tips of his reddened ears and touches the nape of his neck. He gives you a small wave, and you groggily wave back in response. It is far too early to meet Oikawa, but it seems you and he have an unspoken meeting time at 4 A.M. You have set many alarms for this man, and you hope he appreciates your efforts.

He holds something in his hands. You ask him what it is for, and he calls it a phone. It is not a phone. It is two cups, and they are held together by string. Oikawa tells you that one of the cups belongs to him and the other you. He stretches over the balcony, and you do so as well.

Your fingers barely whisper over his as you grab the cup from him. Oikawa quickly pulls away, nearly making you drop the cup. You swear you felt as if you were on the verge of a heart attack. You angrily curse out Oikawa for scaring you like that, and he only laughs in return.

That is the second time you’ve touched Toru Oikawa.

What a douche.

“Let’s test out the phone,” Oikawa says, putting his mouth to the cup.

You settle your ear to the cup, awaiting Oikawa’s message to you from your balcony. You wait, you wait, and you wait. Your ear is warm with anticipation, and just as you are about to tear your ear away from the cup to yell at Oikawa for joking with you, you hear something.

It is soft and quiet. If not for the stillness of the morning, you would not have been able to hear it. The voice is very faint, and the voice is very, very him.

“[F/N],” he says. He says your name like a prayer, like something he has kept lodged in his throat. He says it with apprehensiveness and doubt, as if he isn’t sure that it will reach you, as if he isn’t sure that it’ll work—but it does. But it does.

You smile, and you hold the cup to your mouth.

“Toru,” you say. You say his name again. “Toru.”

You flit your eyes up to see Oikawa, to see what he thinks of your personal message. In the dim light of the lanterns that hang on his apartment, you see that Oikawa is blushing. The red of his ears has spread across his cheeks.

He realizes that you are looking at him, and he turns his cheek to the side—a poor attempt of hiding. It is really impossible to keep his expressions from you, as it is only him and you outside. Even your neighbors recognize that there is an hour designated for you and Oikawa.

You put the cup down. Excited, you ask him, “did you hear me?”

“Yeah,” he says, regaining his composure. “Your breath stinks—”

You then throw the cup at his head. Oikawa falls back.

It is every day that you and he speak through the string-cup-phone-thing. You and he speak through it in the mornings when he wants to tell you a secret about his coworkers. Oikawa tells you that he has returned to work, as his team mates (including himself) have tested negative for Covid. You are entertained by his stories.

Oikawa has some of your habits, you realize. He must have picked them up from you during the duration of your friendship with him. When he eats candy, he saves his favorite color for last and eats his least favorite first. When he speaks, he crosses his arms—a habit that you have only because of your easy annoyance. He takes some of your jokes as well and repeats them to his coworkers (and you only know this because he tells you; at least he gives his credit to you).

He finds satisfaction in the littlest of things now. He will bring up how pretty the lights in the street below are, and when you are slightly pissed at anything, he will tell you how those aforementioned lights are nothing compared to you. He likes the smell of the bakery down the street, and he promises that he’ll take you there one day because it’s his favorite.

When he tells you a joke, he looks at your face to see if you are laughing. You think he likes your laugh. Or maybe he likes your time and appreciation. Whatever it is, Oikawa does not grow tired of seeing you laugh.

Toru Oikawa is as strange as you, you believe, and strange people stick together.

“Today,” Oikawa says through the string-cup-phone-thing, “I saw a skunk, and I thought of you.”

You blink. “I hate you.”

“Skunks are cute!” he insists through the cup. “I’m talking about its eyes. It had beautiful eyes. Take it as a compliment! The skunk’s beautiful eyes were so astounding that they seemed to—”

“Don’t try to redeem yourself.”

There are some days where Oikawa is too tired to talk to you, and although you are hurt by it, you realize that he needs time to himself. He sits on his bed, visible through the balcony window doors and buries his face in his hands. He looks defeated. All you can do is watch and pretend you do not see.

The thing about character is that one has to keep building it.

Oikawa constantly compares himself to others. At first it is not visible, but it becomes painstakingly obvious to those who are close to him. Oikawa brings up other volleyball players all the time, and he says that he wishes that he can serve like him or receive like her. You tell him that he can, and he laughs.

His envy is tiny, and you can see it in the way he praises this person’s sets and in that person’s passes. All you say in response is that they have to grow to get there, and that he, too, can grow.

So you wait by the string-cup-phone-thing. The cup hangs from you railing and dangles near your ear. It is too late in the day, but you force your eyes awake every time you feel yourself drifting off to sleep.

You will be here for Toru Oikawa. You will be here for him.

Oikawa steps outside today, and he sees you by the string-cup-phone-thing. You are curled up in a ball, dozing off near your respective cup. There is a lopsided grin on his face that appears whenever he sees you. He feels dizzy.

He sits down on the balcony, reaching for his cup that dangles from his railing. He starts talking. He tells you about his day, and he tells you about what he’s worried about. Although you are barely awake to hear it, Oikawa is glad that you are here anyway. You have this unspoken determination about you that makes Oikawa feel jumpy.

The months pass by, and you realize that you have a strong connection with Oikawa. Although having never spoken before quarantine and having never seen him closer than six feet away, you feel closer to him than ever. You do not need to be holding him; you do not need to be near him.

All you have to do is be there.

There are nights where it is you and him and silence. You and he seem to forget that the other is there with them, but if one were to leave, then you and he would feel as if something was wrong. The Earth will not be the same without the other, and you come to the profound realization that the universe is built upon one thing missing the other.

You are humming, and Oikawa is rolling around his volleyball. There is nothing but the sound of the concrete underneath the leather ball and your broken humming. You hum quietly, and it is breathy and choppy.

Then you hear something from your string-cup-phone-thing. You quickly snatch the cup and motion for Oikawa to repeat what he said.

It is quiet and apprehensive. “Do you want to spend Christmas with me?”

You drop the cup. It dangles. You stare at Oikawa, whose ball was rolling away toward the panel of the balcony window door. He is sheepishly carrying his cup and looking at you, expecting an answer.

“Just reject me already,” Oikawa says. So his invitation has more connotations that you realize. Your heart is like that of a jackrabbit. “Then you’ll never hear me bring this up again, if you don’t want me to.”

He stands there, his hair looking like shiny lucky pennies on sidewalks. His smile is as genuine as ever, and it tells you that even if you tell him no, he will still be there with you because that is what friends do.

If Toru Oikawa were to look in a mirror, he will see a hero.

He is glowing, you think. You don’t know if anyone else can see it. You want everyone to look at Oikawa and see how beautiful he is glowing. He is like the moon. The noisy neighbor whom you once hated is now the person who is most cherished across from you. You believe you can find no one close to Oikawa.

You don’t think you can ever stop appreciating the pillar that is Toru Oikawa, and you don’t think you ever want to. You have a thousand things you want to say, and you do not know which one to say right now. You do not think that this is the right time, either.

Maybe you will say these things later, if you have time.

During the most unfortunate of times, human beings are desperate. Thus, you can say with your utmost confidence that you are here for Oikawa, and that is all.

You grab the cup and scramble to your feet. It is then you lean over your railing and hold the cup to your mouth. You are happy. You are indescribably, ardently, and passionately happy. There is an answer that rips from your throat when you open your mouth. You say something along the lines of hoping that it better be the best Christmas you will ever have.

Oikawa laughs, and he says, “you’re a delight, [Y/N]. I think you’re like a goddess.”

“Delight is a lousy way to describe me,” you say. “Call me mesmerizing, jaw-dropping, and radiant.”

“How about enchanting?”

You think about it. “I think enchanting will do just fine.”

“Right then,” Oikawa says, “[F/N], you are absolutely enchanting.”

#oikawa toru #oikawa x reader #oikawa scenario #oikawa x you #haikyuu x you #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu #oikawa one shot #haikyuu one shot #oikawa #oikawa imagine #haikyuu fluff #i went like philosophical midway BYE #i wrote this for a little collab on quotev dot hell #haikyuu!!#no beta we die like men

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trickkombowerskru · 5 years

Text

Safe Haven-Henry Bowers Imagine

Request: Anonymous: Hi ! I have a request if it’s possible for you ! Can you write a AU where Henry is a homeless and he’s always next a dinner to steal some foods ect because he know that the peoples from the dinner throw so many foods at night, and one day, a waitress who see him everyday but don’t know anything about him, decide to help him and offer him a bed for the night and some good food for once, because that breaks her heart to see him like that ?

Warnings: None

You were closing up the diner again as you see movement under the dingy street lights. It was too large to be a raccoon and you had a hunch at what it could’ve been. Sure enough when you followed it there was Henry Bowers dumpster diving.

While you steered clear of Henry without knowing too much about him, you heard the rumors floating around that his dad kicked him out for something. He did a good job of hiding it, the only reason you knew the truth was because you caught him more than once rummaging through your diner’s trash.

It honestly hurt every time you found him you weren’t sure what to do. Tonight was different thought, tonight it was supposed to rain and storm tonight, and no one deserved to stay on the street through that. So you decided that tonight would be the night you finally helped the poor boy.

“Hey,” you call out to him.

He gets a ‘deer in the headlights” look thinking you’re going to tell him to beat it like anyone else did. His face softened when he saw you slowly coming towards him without any anger on your own face.

“Do you wanna maybe stay at my place for the night?”

“What?”

“Yeah I mean you can take a shower while I wash your clothes and ya know I can make you something to eat not from the garbage.”

“Do you know who I?,” he questions genuinely surprised you’re showing him of all people this kindness.

“Kind of, but I’m not one to listen to gossip. And whether they’re true or not no one deserves to stay out in the cold during a storm.”

“You ain’t fucking with me are you?”

“No. I promise I’m not.”

“I won’t get thrown out?”

“Nah my parents are gone on some business trip for a while and my older brother is away at college so you can borrow some of his stuff while I wash your clothes and crash in his room”

You see his face shift into a slight smile as he nods.

The drive back to your house is silent aside from the rain that started to come down hitting the window.

You open the door, taking off your coat, and turn to Henry.

“Um bathroom is down the hall and to left, Brother’s room is second door on the right upstairs when you’re done.”

“Thanks.”

You smile at him as he heads to the bathroom, after collecting his clothes, and putting them in the wash, you head to the kitchen. After that long ass shift you were kind of hungry yourself. You wanted to make something filling but quick and settle on some of your famous mac and cheese.

When Henry comes back down stairs, he sits at the table, taking a bite of the mac and cheese before getting a look of bliss on his face.

“Holy shit, this is fuckin amazing” he says in awe making you laugh.

“Well I’m glad you like it.”

“Why are you helping me?”

“I told you no one deserves to be out side in that shit, also I’ve seen you dumpster diving behind the diner before I just didn’t know what to do about it, but it broke my heart seeing you like that. No one should have to scrounge for food like that.”he just nods still finding it hard to believe.

After your meal you talk with him a bit more before heading separate ways to sleep. For the first time in a long long time Henry fell asleep with a smile on his face. He didn’t know what sparked your interest in him, but he was glad about whatever it was.

#it 2017 #the bowers gang #henry bowers #henry bowers imagine #henry bowers x reader #nicholas hamilton

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almostcrazyfanfictionwriter · 5 years

Text

Hearts at War Part Three

Tagging: @ikesenoodle @littlelady-blackwell

If anyone wants to be tagged, let me know and I will gladly add you!!

The next time he sees the painter, is two days after seeing her.

He wakes up and gets dressed, feeds Chutney and waters his plants before brushing his teeth and having breakfast.

He walks to the flower shop and starts watering them, changing the soil and repotting, if the flowers need it.

Clients come and go, and Sirius chats with them and gives advice about plants and seeds.

He likes to keep himself busy.

Being busy means he has no time to mull over things.

Not that he’s mulling, of course not.

At noon, just after he finished his lunch break, the bell at the door chimes and the painter walks in, a small smile on his face.

“Cedar leaves, flowery currant and red poppies, please.”

“Something happened?” Sirius asked as he gathered everything.

“She doesn’t want to talk about it yet, but yeah.”

Sirius nodded and tied the bouquet with a bow before presenting it to the painter.

“It looks perfect. Thank you.” He pays and leaves.

Days pass by until the full moon is only a night away.

He has read and answered every letter he received. Both to the brats of the Black Army and to Lance and Harr.

It seems as if the Joker will be an outlaw no longer and Sirius wishes he could be there to see it.

He tells them he found her.

The painter enters the shop just as he is about to start closing the shop.

He asks for dwarf Sunflowers, pear tree flowers and callas.

“Is she feeling better?”

The painter’s eyes light up. “Not only that. It’s the first time in all the years I’ve known her that she is happy during this time of the month.”

Sirius stops midway to reaching the sunflowers at those words, his mind racing.

“I know she hasn’t told me the full story about what happened, but I’m not pushing her. I hope she will tell me in time.”

“I see.” Sirius resumes his work as the painter answers Sirius’s questions about his job and after a while, he offers the painter the finished bouquet.

“It’s perfect. Thank you.” He pays and leaves after Sirius wishes him good luck.

The rest of the day he just paces around the shop, weeding and cutting wilted leaves off the stems.

He thinks about every time the painter came to the shop and realises they were always near or the day of the full moon.

It couldn’t be… could it?

He sees her again the following night at the park.

He refrained himself from dressing any different than normal just because there was a chance she could be there.

He has the letters in his right pocket and Chutney on a leash in his left hand.

She had trashed his place when she saw Sirius was getting ready to leave without her and did not stop until Sirius gave in and brought her along.

“Are you excited?”

Chutney chirps and tugs on the leash, urging him to walk faster.

He complies.

“That makes two of us, then.” he smiles a small smile and enters the park.

She is already there. Blanc is not.

“Good evening, little lady,” he greets.

She tenses her shoulders and turns to meet his eyes.

“Sirius!” He loves hearing her saying his name.

He strolls to where she is and takes her hand in his, placing a gentle kiss on her knuckles.

It’s dark so he can’t see it, but he knows she is blushing. Two roses blooming on her cheeks.

She snatches her hand away and takes a step back.

She doesn’t notice Chutney until it’s too late.

As soon as they were near her enough, Chutney runs excitedly around her, unaware of the way her leash is tangling in the woman’s legs. When she takes the step back, her legs get caught and she trips back, flailing her arms in the air, trying to hold something, anything, that will stop her fall.

Sirius shouts a warning and grabs her by the shoulders, pulling her to his chest. She clutches to his shirt and, for a moment, lets herself be surrounded by him.

The crown of her head is right under his chin and he doesn’t miss the chance of inhaling the scent of her hair, the perfume on her skin.

It has been years since they were this close and Sirius doesn’t want to let go. She is so soft and warm against his chest. She is melting the cold in his chest away, just with being in his arms. A cold that he can never get rid of, no matter how hot his showers nor his tea are. No matter how many coats he puts on or how many logs he puts in the fireplace.

A cold that has settled in his core ever since she left.

He forces himself to step back, his hands lingering on her shoulders just in case she loses her balance again.

“I’m sorry.” He crouches down and helps her out of the leash trap, scolding Chutney, who looks unapologetic between them. “Chutney was excited to see you again.” Sirius smiles.

“Chutney?” At the mention of her name, the raccoon climbs her dress and rubs her head against the woman’s soft cheek, making her laugh. “Oh my! You have gotten so big!” she throws her arms around her furry body and hugs her close to her chest.

He doesn’t try to hide his smile this time, watching the two most important girls in his life reuniting.

“My, my, this is the most animated welcome I’ve received in years,” Blanc chuckles to himself as he arrives.

She doesn’t let Chutney go, and greets The White Rabbit with a full smile. There is not much time before the hole to Cradle closes until the next full moon, so both quickly give Blanc the letters they want delivered and Blanc gives Sirius the bundle of letters he had for him.

“See you in the next moon!” Blanc disappears after putting everything away in his bag.

Sirius puts Chutney’s leash on her again and offers his free arm, “Let me walk you home.”

They walk in silence through the streets of London.

“Thank you,” she says as soon as they are on her porch. “Both for accompanying me and… Well, for the letters.”

“They will be more than happy to hear from you, little lady. And they will stop nagging me.” She looked up at him in confusion. He smiled “They ask about you in every letter.”

“Oh.” Now he could see the soft blush on her cheeks. “And what do you tell them?”

“What indeed.” He smiles and says nothing. It’s always the same thing. That he hasn’t found her yet and that he will not stop until he does. But he won’t tell her that. Not yet. “Well, we need to get going.” He tugs gently on Chutney’s leash. “Good night, little lady. See you around.”

“Sirius, wait.” she grabs the back of his shirt gently and he turns. “Please. Tell me. Why are you in London?”

“I told you. I wanted to deliver the news myself,” he smiles again.

“I’ve been thinking about it and I can’t make heads or tails of it. Is that really all?”

Sirius looks at her, wondering if he should just tell her, but decides against it. “It’s still too soon.” “It’s getting late, li-”

“I'm tired of this. Of you dodging my questions. Of you giving me half answers and hiding behind a smile, Sirius." She glared at him. "I'm tired of you not being honest with me and running away.”

He is frozen in his spot, startled at her outburst.

“This whole month, ever since I saw you, I’ve tried to come up with the right words. This is a conversation I thought I would never have and I need to get it off of my chest.” She breathes in deep. “I loved you, Sirius. And leaving Cradle broke my heart.” His heart starts drumming in his chest at those words. “You have no right to barge into my life, calling me ‘little lady’ and expect things to pick up where you left them”

"MC... I..." He is speechless for a moment, before all his resolve crumbles. He has known about her feelings for years, ever since she confessed to him in her sleep, on that couch, all those years ago. And yet… Hearing her saying them in past tense makes his heart ache. “Damn it. You still don’t hold your punches… Alright. You win…”

Hope shines in her eyes.

“The truth is…” His fingers twitch at his side, longing to cradle through her hair. “I came back for you.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times.

“... Oh…”

“I came as soon as it was safe to take you back home.” He caves in and holds a lock of her hair between his fingers. “With me.”

“Sirius…”

“I was aware that finding you would not be easy. But letting you go was never a permanent option.”

She remained silent for a long time, looking up at him.

“How did you think things would go? That I would just pack my bags and disappear again?”

“Not until you had sorted everything out. With your work and with your landlord.”

“And if I tell you that, although I miss everyone terribly, I can’t go back because I'm in love with someone else? What would your plan be?” That hurts him more than any battle he had been in. His heart skips a beat. He looks her in the eye and knows she is not just being hypothetical. Her next words confirm that. “He's a good man, Sirius. Straightforward. And kind… I can’t do that to him. Not after everything he has done for me.” She frees her lock from his fingers and moves to open the gates to her building.

“I will win you back.”

“I'm not a prize to be won,” she huffed.

“Then let me make you fall in love with me again,” he pleaded.

She bid him goodnight and disappeared behind the door.

Masterlist

(Part 1) (Part 2)

#Sirius Oswald #ikerev sirius #ikerev fanfic #Sirius's route spoilers #hearts at war #ikemen revolution #ikerev

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weeklyhumorist · 3 years

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I'm the 47-Pound Raccoon That Goes Through Your Trash Every Thanksgiving, and I've Decided to Stay Home This Year

Dear Aunt Marissa,

I want you to know that this was not a decision I came to lightly. It was only after a long discussion with my 53-pound raccoon wife and our seven 25-pound raccoon children that we have decided to decline your kind offer to spend Thanksgiving with you and yours. You may not remember extending an invitation, but the untouched casserole Larry threw out the window when you weren’t looking did all the talking.

We want you to know that this in no way changes how we feel about you. We intend to spend many a coming Thanksgiving, Christmas, Hanukkah, and just general Monday through Friday nights with you. We feel truly blessed to have you in our lives, whether you know you are in our lives or not. This Thanksgiving, just like every other, I give thanks for your company, that your husband and your children absolutely despise your cooking, and that you have the flimsiest, shittiest trash can lids in all of New Jersey.

That being said, we are very disappointed in you.

We really thought you would be taking this virus seriously after losing Vinny to rabies from a raccoon bite that definitely did not involve either of my seven 25-pound children. Maybe the raccoon that bit him also had Covid-19, you never know. But after hearing your conversation with Sheryl while I was shredding a chicken carcass in your recycling bin, I have to say I am quite upset. You’ve invited all the grandparents, aunts and uncles, in-laws, cousins, the cousins’ cousins, and even the Abramovich’s from up the street. Mrs. Abramovich never throws out any large quantities of noodle kugel, and their trash can lids are bolted down. I don’t trust that they are taking this pandemic seriously for one second.

And Sheryl is bringing the new guy she’s seeing? She’s known him for what, 72 hours? When is someone going to pull that poor woman aside and tell her that these men are just in it for the bean dip and flat-screen TV? C’mon Sheryl.

I expected more from you. And also more bundt cake? I haven’t seen that in the trash for a while. At the end of the day, this is about the safety of my family. Obviously, I’d much rather spend the day listening to you and Larry argue over which is the “good silverware” while scarfing down the first botched turkey of the day that is both so raw and so overcooked I almost break a tooth. But this is 2020, and we can’t have nice things, now can we Marissa?

Instead, we will be spending Thanksgiving in our hole in the ground. Instead of feasting on the nice warm pumpkin cheese pie that Rebecca always brings but nobody likes, we will have to make do with a frozen Thanksgiving casserole surprise you made four years ago. Do you ever think of anyone besides yourself?

We don’t have cable in our hole in the ground. Do you know how hard it is to keep track of how many interceptions the Cowboys throw from a hole?

But the reality is, we just can’t take the risk this year. As much as I would love to send my in-laws to dumpster heaven early, the 53-pound wife would leave me for the 97-pound opossum that’s living in your garage.

If it seems like you’ve straightened out your priorities, we might drop by for some latkes and applesauce on the sixth night of Hanukkah. But until then, you’re going to have a very full trash-can and a very empty heart.

Best wishes,

Chuckles

I’m the 47-Pound Raccoon That Goes Through Your Trash Every Thanksgiving, and I’ve Decided to Stay Home This Year was originally published on Weekly Humorist

#family #holidays #raccoon #thanksgiving

0 notes

spooktales · 7 years

Text

The Shriek

Jordan looked around. The sun was blinding; she had just opened the bay doors in the back of the Radio Shack. As manager, she had keys to the loading dock, but had only opened it up herself a couple of times. For a second, her mind wasn’t focused on the sound that had led her to the bay door, it was mulling over the fact this was likely the final time she’d ever be on the loading dock. She glanced to her right at a large trash barrel which was now home to an oppressively yellow and orange “Store Closing - Everything 50%-75% Off!”. You know you’re truly about to be out of a job when a sign like that has already been thrown away. Jordan squinted in adjustment to the evening sun, low in the sky but not yet behind the trees across the street from where the bay door opened to. She stood there to silence, craning her neck around he corner of the door to see if anyone was there. There wasn’t. But then where did that sound come from? Jordan jumped gracefully down the five feet from the dock to the earth, her muscular jogger’s legs absorbing the drop with ease. She contemplated closing the bay door behind her, only then remembering there was no stock even left in the building, only trash. Jeff Bezos had finally squeezed the last drops of blood from smaller electronics stores, leaving Jordan to fill out countless resumes for a manager position, even though her college degree sat collecting dust on a mantle at home. Jordan surveyed the area in front of her, with the bay door at her back: woods in front of her across the street, an expanse of parking lot to her left, and some scrubbier vegetation and a small creek down an embankment to her right. Truck drivers backing into the bay making deliveries would occasionally question their parking skill and ask to hand-offload their pallets, scared of miscalculation and toppling down the small embankment. The skilled drivers seemed to back in without even looking. Only the wind, distant traffic, and some idle chatter from birds and squirrels surrounded Jordan. Nothing that would emit that horrific wail she had heard less than a minute ago. It was loud enough that Jordan heard it through the closed bay doors, when she was exiting the warehouse bathroom. Additionally, it was so loud that she actually felt the need for further investigation, landing her where she was standing currently. Jordan turned left and right, her long and straight auburn hair escaping the confines of her ponytail in the hot summer breeze. She squinted her eyes in an attempt to see further into the scrub-wilderness on her right. Unless the sound came from a passing vehicle (doubtful), or from within the woodsy and spacious forest across the road, it must have come from near the creek in the scrub. Jordan started toward the scrubland when her managerial mind popped into consciousness, telling her to get back to the store. This voice was immediately quelled with her more rational mind, telling her that it was only her job for the next fifteen minutes and all their stock had been carted off in an eighteen wheeler three hours ago anyway. The store she managed for two years of her life, was now just a shell of commercial space, soon to be occupied by a mattress store or a short-lived takeout spot. The evening sun shone at an blazingly acute angle, cutting the azure sky and leaning everything toward a sepia-orange hue. Jordan briefly thought to run back and grab her sunglasses in her small office, but decided against it. It had still only been a few moments since the sound which brought her out here, barely a minute. Jordan was about three feet from the edge of the scrub and embankment to the creek, when something startled her backward another three feet. “Hey!” It was a chubby man, sweaty and running over to her in gym shorts and a burgundy t-shirt, darker splotches in a few areas from running. “Shit sorry,” he said, acknowledging the fact he had nearly just given her a heart attack. “Sorrysorrysorry!” Jordan looked in his direction, hands clutching her chest, and breathing quickly. “It’s okay, it’s okay. You just scared me so bad.” “I’m super sorry!” he said. “I’m not usually known for my silent ninja approach,” he added with a chuckle. Jordan smiled as she regained her composure. After a few more deep breaths her pulse slowed to normal and she stood facing the man in the hot parking lot. “Sorry, I’m Robert, and I was just running my usual route when, um, well I heard something really weird? Maybe like someone needed help? It seemed to come from over here-ish?” he said quizzically as he waved his arms toward the general area of the scrub. “Hey, I’m Jordan,” she said, extending a hand to shake. “That’s actually why I came out too. I manage- erm, ‘managed’ this place.” She crooked a thumb behind her to the loading dock. “I heard it too, so I just hopped down to check it out. Any idea what it was? It sounded, I dunno, it sounded crazy. I’ve worked here for about two years and I can’t say I’ve heard that before.” Robert shrugged. “I’ve been running this way through here for a year or two, and me neither.” They both stood there in silence for a moment, thinking. They were interrupted. “You hear that!?” Jordan was startled for the second time in the span of one minute, Robert for the first time. They turned to see a small black man, partially dressed in business attire, but with his tie loosened, top button unbuttoned, and black jacket slung over one shoulder. He had glasses and was smoking a joint. “Oh my poor fat heart,” joked Robert. “You almost just killed me.” Jordan and the suited man didn’t know Robert well enough to laugh about his weight. “Sorry y'all,” said the suited man, taking a long drag off his joint and holding in the smoke for a moment before exhaling, an Irish flag tattoo peeking out from his sleeve. “I just heard some shit from my car over there,” he gestured toward the parking lot. “And I thought, I dunno someone needed help or something?” “Neither of us,” said Jordan. “That’s why we both came over here too.” “I’ll be damned. Where y'all think it came from?” asked the suited man. Both Robert and Jordan shrugged and looked toward the scrub. “In there? Damn I hope nobody needs anything in there 'cause I’m definitely not fuckin’ up these shoes,” the suited man remarked, taking another puff. “Oh excuse me, y'all want some?” he extended his joint. Both Robert and Jordan accepted and they sat down on a small fallen tree near the scrub. “My name’s Jack,” said the suited man. “Just came from a job interview. Got me stressed as fuck. Pulled into this parking lot to smoke one and heard that shit. I thought I was just blazed up at first but then got worried someone needed help or something.” Jordan’s managerial spark almost piped up: “EXCUSE ME SIR THIS IS A PLACE OF BUSINESS AND YOU CAN’T JUST PARK IN OUR LOT TO ROLL UP,” but quickly realized it was only her job for about ten more minutes and didn’t say a word. Instead, she took a huge puff and coughed up a lung for about ten full seconds, vision blurring momentarily. Robert held his smoke much better, he’d clearly seen the business end of a bong more than once in his life. They sat. The three of them a motley crew on a log in front of the scrubby woods. The joint was extinguished and they made some remarks about the weather, each only mildly stoned (Jack apologized and said his “good stuff” was at home). They may have sat there for another five minutes, enjoying each other’s company, but once again something tore through the silent evening. They all jumped, startled by the shriek. It was the saddest wail, every salty tear that had ever fallen, gathering in an ocean of misery and exploding forth in a cry of anguish. It was a terrified cry of a woman, scared for her child running toward green light traffic because “Green means go!”, scared because of a shadow she saw outside of her bathroom window, staring at her. It was the angry scream of boiling rage overflowing out of the throats of the maligned, the sound was covered in blood and inextinguishable inferno. It was all of these things at once. Jack covered his ears with his hands. Jordan winced and reeled backward a bit. Robert darted his eyes back and forth, hunting for the source. The scream lasted about five seconds. After it stopped, silence again. The wind grew a bit, moving the pine trees across the street, and making the small bushes and twigs in front of the three scatter amongst the other scrub and sawgrass. After they collected themselves, the three exchanged confused glances. “What the hell could that have been?” Jordan asked. “Beats me,” said Jack. “I’ve never heard anything like that shit ever. Maybe some animal? There animals in there?” He pointed toward the scrub. “I dunno,” said Jordan. “Raccoons and whatnot will get into our dumpster and throw trash everywhere sometimes. But that was so loud. I don’t think raccoons make that sound.” “What about, like, a rabid one? Some Cujo-coon?” offered Jack. Jordan shrugged. “I really have no idea. It’s definitely the same sound I heard before though.” “Me too,” Jack replied. “I was thinking I made it up. You know, some wild weed paranoia or some shit. I’m high, but I’m not that high, man.” “It came from in there,” Robert pointed into the scrub. “For sure this time.” Robert had been silent until now, mulling it all over. What was it? Who was it? Where was it? Why should I even care? He did care, though: it was in his nature. Robert had people poke the bear about his weight his entire life, so he always wanted to help. Robert knew what it might be like to have to scream like that. "Definitely in there,” Robert repeated, getting to his feet. Jordan stood up too fast and for a moment had rainbow amoebas floating in front of her eyes. Jack stood casually and there they were: three strangers standing in front of messy scrub forest. “I’m gonna go in,” Robert finally said. Jordan shot him a look filled to the brim with “Don’t” and Jack gave him eyes that said “Your funeral, man.” Robert went in anyway, stepping carefully over a large thorn bush to keep from ripping his thin running shorts. Jordan took a breath and followed closely, without saying anything. After re-lighting the joint in vain (it was just too small at this point), Jack stamped it out, put his suit coat on, and walked in as well. He was less careful about the thorns and tore a small seam at his right ankle, just shaking his head and thinking he’d stitch it back together later on. The trio walked deeper into the wild scrub. The forest across the street was cool, smelled of sap, and had softly crunchy beds of pine needles for a floor; the scrub they trekked was less pleasant. Jordan quickly realized she had to watch where she stepped after nearly rolling her ankle on a rogue stone. The ground was dusty and dry, most of the small trees were dying or mostly barren, only the topmost branches housing any leaves. Despite the shade the jagged canopy provided, it felt hotter, even the breeze instead felt like someone’s hot breath on your neck. Robert still led the way, warning Jordan and Jack about pricker bushes or poison ivy as he blazed a trail. There was very little idle chatter; the three of them felt oddly united in their inquisitive mission. They didn’t speak a word for five full minutes, when there was another scream. The wail was closer now. Much louder than before. Even Robert covered his ears with his hands and squinted his eyes in a wince. It startled Jack so badly he dropped his suit coat, which he had already taken off to drape around his shoulders. Jordan locked her eyes shut, covered her ears and waited for the wail to stop. When it did, their silence was broken further. “Can I ask you guys something?” Jordan said. Both men nodded slowly and quietly. “Did… could you hear the scream even with your ears blocked?” Robert’s fair skinned face flushed a bit, and Jack’s eyes went to the ground. “I thought I was being stupid,” Jack said. “Me too, kinda,” Robert added. “Okay so it’s not just me,” Jordan continued. “Is this insane to either of you guys?” Both men nodded again. “I’m, uh, I’m not sure why we’re doing this,” Jack stated. “Like, I don’t think someone really needs help anymore. I was just coming over for a quick check, I thought shit would be handled already. I wasn’t trying to do some hike to find some fucked up yelling in some sketchy woods.” “You’re not curious?” Robert asked. “Sure I am,” replied Jack. “But not enough to do some half-assed ghost hunter shit. You ever watch movies at all? If Freddy Kruger is out there, I definitely die today, ya dig?” “Only if you fall asleep,” said Robert. Jack looked at him, confused. “He’s a dream guy. He kills you in your sleep with nightmares. You should be all set unless you take a nap,” Robert explained. “Man, you’re splitting hairs! My point is, we don’t even know what we’re walking into. You guys ever been in these woods?” Jordan and Robert shook their heads. “Yeah, me neither,” Jack continued. “Best case scenario: we get lost, the sun goes down, we remain fucking lost. I didn’t even have good cell service in the damn parking lot, it’s not great in here either. That’s the best case. I have plans tonight, man. I just had a nice job interview that seemed to go pretty great. It’s Friday. I don’t wanna spend it traipsing around some hot-ass forest looking for a… disembodied voice!” Jordan said: “What if she needs help?” “She?” said Jack. “Since when do even have that information? Doesn’t sound quite like any lady I’ve heard scream. It was in my head. I know that. I covered my ears and it didn’t do anything.” He paused. Nobody said anything. “Listen, I’m leaving, y'all. I can still see a sliver of the Radio Shack and I’m gonna follow it. I was having a nice day, for once. Sorry, if y'all wanna play Fred and Velma in your Mystery Machine back here, go for it. I’m out. It was great to meet y'all, you seem nice, enjoy your walk in the woods. I’ve gotta go.” “Daphne,” said Robert as Jack walked away from them, back in the direction they had come. Jack spun around. “What?” he asked. “You said 'Fred and Velma’. It was Fred and Daphne who were the couple,” Robert explained. Jack smiled, “Yeah thanks, Shaggy.” He continued away from them. “And then there were two,” Robert said, then sighed. Jordan looked at him, and shrugged. “I guess we just continue on?” she said. “Sally forth!” Robert joked. Jordan cracked a small smile and began walking alongside Robert. They carried on through the scrub, which was only now spacing out, giving them room for footfalls that didn’t plant directly into a bush or thicket of sharp thorns. Jordan noticed the sun lower in the sky and checked her watch; it had been about 20 minutes since they were seated behind the Radio Shack, smoking a joint and musing about the sound. Jack probably had the right idea, Jordan agreed, in her head. She could no longer see the parking lot or the store behind them, but could see Jack in the distance, jumping over a shrub, his back turned toward them. If you had told Jordan even yesterday that her final minutes at work would actually be spent in the company of a stranger searching out a mystery noise, she wouldn’t have believed it. “So I couldn’t help but notice the store is closing,” Robert mentioned. “Yeah,” Jordan replied. “Nobody cares to leave their house and buy a HDMI cable when they can have it overnighted without even getting off their phones.” Robert chuckled. “Well, I have to say I’m guilty of that too,” he said. “Sorry for contributing to your downfall.” Jordan smiled and told him it wasn’t his fault. Robert was handsome, but in a way where Jordan still wouldn’t have dated him. As this thought passed through her mind, she reprimanded herself for thinking that way. So shallow. Scathing without even trying or meaning it. It’s just how people were, she supposed. Everyone has some invisible list of traits, dos and don'ts, yeas and nays. She assumed it must be hard for Robert, being a large man despite him even saying that he’d been running for years. He’ll find someone, she thought. But she wasn’t going to be the one. On the other hand Robert had been thinking how pretty Jordan was, even in her stupid collared short sleeve work outfit. He assumed it must be easy for her. Must be easy for her to meet guys and laugh with them. Very rarely, if at all, would she be laughed at. Two very different lives, walking side by side, assuming things of each other. In the silent moment Jordan noticed for the first time what Robert was wearing. His shirt’s backside had what looked like a family crest and the script font text “O'HARE FAMILY REUNION 2015”. “Is that your family?” she asked. “What was that?” Robert replied. “On your shirt, the family reunion. Is that you?” “Oh yeah,” Robert said. “Yeah got this a few years ago. In Ireland, actually. Only time I’ve been out of the country. Finally met a bunch of extended family. Some of them were hard to understand, y'know, with the crazy dialects you get in the countryside? Land was beautiful though.” “Sounds amazing, I’d love to go someday. I doubt my family will have a big reunion there though.” “You Irish?” “Yeah, both sides actually. Last name is McNamara,” said Jordan. “Wouldn’t you know?” Robert smiled. “Justa couplah Oirosh folk a-roamin’ the fahrest!” He said in his best approximation of the accent. The sun continued droop further toward the horizon. Although it wouldn’t be truly dark until a little after 9pm, even the scraggly trees provided somewhat of a canopy to darken their hike a bit. It remained quite hot, however. Jordan and Robert made idle chatter about the usual: summer plans, family, music, movies. Time passed easily and without much effort. Conversation hit a lull when Robert brought up his job (an English tutor for SAT prep), and Jordan realized the time. She had been out of a job for twenty minutes, now. Five o'clock hit and she hadn’t even realized, so consumed in their slipshod mission. The thought of applications, emails, phone calls, interviews, and obligatory follow-ups began to numb her mind. Jordan realized she hadn’t been without a job in nearly a decade. She had been lucky in the sense that she had worked since late middle school, and had slipped from job to job quite easily over the years. Something told her it wouldn’t be as easy now, her qualifications just too similar to the litany of other people her age. Over educated, under stimulated. Jordan’s mind was about to smash cut to student loans and credit card debt panic, when the scream sliced a fissure in her brain again. This time it was really bad. Jordan collapsed to her knees, hands once again cupping her ears in vain. Robert half-fell against a tree and pressed his meaty palms to each side of his skull, as if trying to squeeze the scream out of it. The sound was the same, it affected them far worse now, though. The pained wail seemed to shake the trees and ground around them, Jordan swore she saw what looked like a handful of dead pine needles floating about six inches above the ground near a shrub to her left. When the scream stopped they both straightened themselves. Robert had a small amount of blood running from his right ear. “Oh shit,” he said, touching his pointer finger to the blood trickle. Jordan was scared now. She hadn’t really been before; before it had just been an almost morbid curiosity. She had never experienced anything like this before. It felt new. Her job loss had left a strange and jagged hole of purpose inside her, and this strange and random adventure was we trying to fill it. She knew that now. Jordan and Robert looked at each other. Their glances both seemed to scream “LET’S GET OUT OF HERE NOW” but then, a different sound was heard. A baby crying. Not far away. Jordan looked in the direction of the noise. She saw what looked like an abandoned work shed about a football field away. The crying seemed to be coming from there. Robert’s eyes met Jordan’s. They began to speed walk toward the shed; this was he answer they had been searching for. Jordan noticed a scrawled sign in rainbow colored chalk that said “KEEP OUT - BOYS ONLY”. It must have been a hangout spot for some kids. A private place they could let their imaginations explode forth in the summer heat, swatting gnats and mosquitoes while they aimed perfectly shaped sticks like rifles at one another. Jordan and Robert approached slowly and quietly, hiding behind the most obtrusive shrub they could find. Peeking gingerly around the shrub, they saw a baby carrier, the kind that snaps into a base to become a car seat. It was clean, new, and pink. It looked nothing like anything else around. The baby in it, which they could not see from this angle, was crying quietly. Nobody else was in sight. Until the man. A man, with greasy black hair, an olive complexion, baggy cargo pants and an oversized jacket walked from around the corner of the makeshift fort, toward the baby. The jacket was far too warm out for the season, and the man was sweating profusely. He cooed and knelt down next to the baby carrier, moving a large tote bag from behind it. He took out a bottle of formula, shook it, and gave it to the baby. He unpacked more out of the tote bag: a large blanket, diapers, packets of formula, some toys. The man then looked into the bag, and seemed to be reorganizing it with both hands inside. Jordan looked at Robert who just returned her confused gaze. She held her hand up to her ear, sticking her thumb and pinky out like a phone, and looked at Robert with a question in her eyes. He nodded and reached into his shorts pocket and retrieved his phone. Robert looked at the screen and his face fell, dejected. Jordan shifted her eyebrows trying to figure it out silently. Robert just shook his head and extended his arm to give her the phone so Jordan could see zero bars. The phone slipped out of his sweaty palm and hit a rock on the ground, shattering the glass screen. They looked into each other’s eyes, blazing with a cold terror. The man’s eyes darted up from he tote bag, and he stood. Shining in his right hand was a pistol. Robert looked at Jordan: “Run,” he said. “Go, now.” Robert stood up, and Jordan took off in a sprint. Her runner’s legs pounding muscle into the ground and sending her screaming through the forest. The hot wind whipped strands of hair around her face, and rippled her shirt. She heard a clatter and what sounded like a massive flock of birds fluttering directly above her as she darted by. After about a fifty yards, she turned around to see Robert wasn’t following her. Jordan ducked behind a slender tree and looked back. Robert stood there, hands up, speaking to the man who now pointed the shining pistol at Robert. Jordan could barely make out what they said. “Did she send you!?” the man hollered. “Nobody sent me, sir. I heard noises from the road and thought someone needed help. Do you need help?” “I need answers!” the man screamed back. “Did that bitch send you!?” “Nobody sent me!” “I don’t fucking believe you! My bitch wife sent you! You’re not taking her back!” the man was crying now, tears and blubbering filling in the space between his words. “I made one mistake! This is MY daughter! You weren’t here alone. That girl too! You’re all after me, I know it!” Robert just shook his head, sweating and pleading. After a silent moment, the man shot Robert in the face. A fine vermillion mist spread through the air where Robert once stood, he now laid on the dry bed of spent earth. Jordan screamed, and the man pointed the gun in her direction. and ran toward her. She was frozen in shock, dropping to her knees and hitting her elbow hard on the tree she was pressed against. Jordan was dizzy; she gagged and spat on the ground. The man closed in, only about ten yards away now, running toward her. “You too bitch!” he yelled as he raised his gun, training it at her head as she knelt there, crying and terrified. He was standing over her, sweaty and red, his grease making the pistol slick in his hand. His eyes narrowed. His finger tightened around the trigger. Jordan looked up to see the empty black hole of the barrel looking at her, like the abyss she was about to face in death. Suddenly, the shriek. It shook the world, bringing the man to his knees, clawing at his ears. Pine needles around them rose into the air, as if propelled by the noise. The man was yelling too, rolling around in the dirt flailing wildly. The scream that disabled the unsuspecting man, snapped Jordan out of her daze. She stood. She ran. Faster than before, like the shriek was doing to her legs what it was doing to the pine needles. As the shriek ended and she ran, Jordan heard another commotion in the canopy above her. Mid-sprint she glanced up briefly to see a woman in the trees. She wore a huge nightgown dress, flowing in slow motion all around her, an ethereal blue glow surrounding. The woman had green eyes and long red hair, a look of sadness and anger on her face. Jordan ran even faster; she was hallucinating, had to be. She heard the man groaning behind her, the distance widening between them with each stride she took. The man was uneasy on his feet, it seemed it was the first time he’d even heard the terrible shriek. Jordan never stopped running. Even when she broke though the tree line from the scrub forest she leapt up into the ladder and into the still-open bay door she had opened not even an hour before. She closed and locked it behind her, breathing heavily and sweating like Robert had been when she first saw him, jogging over to her. Robert. Robert was surely dead, she thought. Jordan began crying softly as she sat down in her office chair for the final time. Her phone suddenly rang, leveling her mind back into the real world. She silenced the call, from her cousin Mike, and then called the police. Weeks later, as Jordan used her unemployment time to mentally recover from the debacle, she would learn from police that the man in the woods was Garret Douglas, a recent divorcee and paranoid schizophrenic. Garret had gone back to his old home, with the key he still had, and stolen his daughter Emily from the crib she slept in. The babysitter had been shot, but lived. Garret had taken his daughter to a place where he used to play as a child, growing up in the same town. Jordan’s call had alerted the police to his whereabouts, they had been utterly clueless. They told Jordan the baby may have died if it hadn’t been for her. Garret’s ex wife visited Jordan in the hospital two days after the event to thank her. There weren’t many times, until years later, that Jordan would remember the banshee she had seen in the trees that day; either warning Robert, Jordan, and Jack about the danger which laid so nearby, or beckoning them to save the life of an innocent child, held in the clutches of a deranged father. Up to interpretation, she mused. Only three true things can be said of that day. Jordan recovered. Robert was dead. Jack got the job.

©Joseph Legere 2017

#shriek #screw #Horror #horror story #scary story #scary #Irish #lore #legend #stephen king #clive barker

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two-creepy-nerds · 5 years

Text

Cinnamon and Sirens

By: Byron Kastilahn

Inspired by the deliciously disturbing creature designs of Trevor Henderson: https://twitter.com/slimyswampghost / http://slimyswampghost.tumblr.com/

Joan drove through the night, not a care in the world, not a care for the world. That being said, her son in the passenger's seat was the only exception in that matter. Looking at his sleeping face any chance she could get on the sleeted, slushy road was a breath of fresh air.

Yes. Fresh air. The thing she needed most. A thing she was most grateful for.

“Take the week off. I’ve got this,” her partner had said.

Dan, the awesome, son of a bitch, promised her he’d take care of her landlord duties while she went on vacation. And it was just over drinks. A casual break. Shit talking, chit-chatting, holster empty. Even then she was comfortable for the first time in a while. And when he put the offer on the table, she jumped straight for it.

It was going to be a small vacation. Just go a few cities and towns over to Grandma Debbie’s with little Nathan. It’d be simple and not even a sudden snowstorm was going to complicate things.

If anything, the snow made the drive nice. Slow paced. Cozy heat. Sleeping kid. No need to get anywhere fast. It was kind of perfect. They were almost there too. And the closer they got, something kept stimulating this long forgotten optimism. Something Joan was only starting to notice.

There was a faint smell. She couldn’t even remember when it first became noticeable, only that it became a very apparent scent and that it was still growing. It was sweet. Maybe the reason it took so long to notice was that it smelled like Grandma’s cooking. It seemed more natural that she was just remembering it too fondly, but this was real.

There were no sweets in the car and any food they’d eaten on the trip had been tossed out at a gas station Joan had visited only a few hours ago, save for a bag of chips in Nates lap secured by a clip Joan made sure to put on. The smell was confusing, but Joan tried her best not to acknowledge it too much.

The road was getting worse though. Her anxiety couldn’t be helped.

Slow down. Slow down.

Slush. The road was full of it. Leaves too. Winter kicked Fall in the face this year as it decided to come in early. Come in seething cold. Didn’t help that construction counted as a season too in her state. The road had been against her. Truth is, she was still worrying in the back of her head that this was a wasted experience. That the fun would get to her head. That she’d forget how to work. That she couldn’t support Nate. That she was a failure for taking off the badge so long ago. That her brain fucked up everything. That the gun in her shoulder holster felt so enticing to hold. And the ground was full of this filth in her mind.

No. It was strange. There were no longer any leaves in the slush. They weren’t the right color. More pink and red than orange and red. The way it all glistened unsettled her. The red patches of slush around them uneased her. And then she realized she was looking more down at the road than across it. Then when she snapped out of it and finally regained focus, that’s when she saw it. Something could not explain, at least for now.

It looked like a large pipe was stretched across the road, crooked as it seemed to hover between 6 to 8 feet from the ground. This detail about the height was the only thing that was on her mind in the car and she knew she had to turn immediately. Or so she thought in that instance. The result of her turning so suddenly only sent her car spinning.

Nate awoke. Screams filled the car. A sudden crack filled the air. Smash! All was quiet again in a matter of seconds.

---

“You miss being on the force, Joan?” Dan asked her over a bottle of White Zinfandel.

“I’ve told you ‘no’ a hundred times, buddy,” she was pouring herself another glass.

“You tell me, but you never seem like it.”

She downed the glass quickly and responded with, “I know what I say, Dan. That’s that.”

“I know, but you don’t seem like you’re living, as blunt as that sounds.”

She leaned over the side of her chair to grab the cooler next to Dan’s feet, muttering, “You got anything better? Shit tastes like refried beans.”

“Joan, you need to get out of here.”

She dragged the cooler over to her side, “I’m fine. And I know you need the help.”

“Joan,” he grabbed her hand just after it had slapped a big blue bottle of Svedka on the table, “Take the week off. I’ve got this. Get Nate out somewhere away from that Fortnite or James Bond video game crap and actually see something different for a change.”

She looked at him sternly. That good, drunk cop stare when you’re trying to watch the new Transformers movie and your son tells you how shit it is and suddenly the frying pan looks like it’d be fun to clack around on the stove because loud sounds are funny when you’re drunk. That roughly translated to Joan giving Daniel a look that he couldn’t take seriously.

And as he laughed, she finally said something, “Goldeneye is a lost treasure we’ll never get back Dan! You know it! You remember college!”

He wiped away a tear and said, “Seriously. Take a trip. Don’t worry about this for a bit. Put your mind somewhere else.”

---

Joan woke up with a throbbing headache. The front window of her car was smashed and a branch from the tree she’d run into had just grazed her shoulder. When she looked to her son, there was only a bloody seat. Loud, high pitched cries could be heard outside.

She went into overdrive. Her hands acted fast. One on the seatbelt release, the other grabbing for her pistol. Once that was done she got out of the car and stayed low behind it while pulling the slide back slightly on her CZ P-10 to make sure a round was already in the chamber. With the brass check done, she stood up and looked over the car towards where the sound was coming from with the gun at the ready.

On the other side of the car, maybe thirty feet away along a trail of blood were two thrashing bodies in the snow. One body was getting slower. Getting weaker before it finally stopped resisting to the wolf at its neck. The wolf bit down one more time on the unfortunate raccoon and it was done.

About midway between the car and the wolf with its food was the bag of chips that Nate had been snacking on, ripped open and contents scattered across the snow along with the red mess.

Joan ducked back behind the car and tried to think of what her next step was. The wolf was busy with something, so she that wasn’t the top priority to worry about. She just needed to find Nate.

Jesus Christ, she thought, he still can’t be safe if wolves are out here.

She tried to scan as much of the area as she could without getting the attention of the proud predator. The road was still close by. There was no need to fuck with the wolf. Just get to the street and head towards town.

Yeah, yeah. And then call 911. It took a moment to consider that option for Joan. That was intentional. But priorities are priorities. She needed to make sure her face wouldn’t get mauled off.

She took another peek through the windows this time.

The wolf was gone.

The raccoon was also gone. All that lay in their place was red snow.

Joan heard a snapping to her right! Nothing. Nothing was there. No twig. No dog. But the red lights on the rear of her car did cast a shadow. It was hard to tell what it was. Joan didn’t want to settle on this idea, but it looked nothing like a K-9.

Its muzzle could be mistaken as one owned by a dog at first glance, but it was too long.

That muzzle is too long. Way too long. Does it… have hair? What is this sweetness assaulting my nose?

Joan barely realized she was moving closer to the shape. It was only when it moved out of view that Joan realized she was right at the corner of the car. It was just then that she knew she could move her head just a bit forward to peek around that corner, see if it was still there, or bolt it and fire back at whatever might chase her down.

“Whatever?”

“Whatever” it must have been, was originally one of the greatest predators this planet has to offer. “Whatever” it was, became mans best friend sometime down the line of Earths history. “Whatever” this thing was, Joan couldn’t figure it out. “Whatever” it was, it’s making a noise...

Scratch Scratch Scratch

… it was metallic…

Scritch Scratch Scratch

… it was close…

Scrape Scrape Scratch

… the car…

Joan was doing it again. The scraping against the car drew her curiosity over the edge and around the corner. Joan didn’t see anything. Or so she would say if you ever asked her in person. She didn’t see something slink around the other side of the car. Out of site. Out of her mind. Insignificant enough for her to finally stand up from her crouched position.

Knees popped and ready to go, Joan pulled out her phone as she made her way to the road.

“911, what’s your emergency?”

“Hello, my name is Joan Edwards! I just got out of a car crash and my son is missing!” her teeth were chattering.

“OK, ma'am. Let’s remain calm and let me go over this situation with you very clearly. Are you hurt and do you know if your son is hurt?”

“I have some scrapes and bruises, but I’m fine. I’m not sure about my son. I went unconscious after the crash and never saw where he went.”

“OK. Now can you tell me where you are?”

“I’m, uh, on county road 36. Pretty sure that’s the last sign I saw.”

“Ma’am, please stay where you are and we’ll have a cruiser by in five.”

“Good, good. Thank you.”

“One more question though, Joan.”

“Huh?”

“Did you feel relief?”

“Excuse me?”

“Did you enjoy throwing your career in the trash?”

“What?!” Joan raised her voice as the pistol shook in her hand.

“Did you love pulling the trigger?!”

She hung up instantly after that. Her breathing was getting hard to keep control of. Head’s still throbbing. Hard to think straight. She didn’t want to admit it, but taking a quick breather didn't sound bad.

She reholstered the gun and sat against a nearby tree.

Cálmate, Joan. Think of one thing at a time if you need to. In fact, maybe think of something good to settle down. Think of a good song. Yeah.

This inner coping didn’t last long for Joan as she noticed a low sound. It was almost unnoticeable until she was finally able to focus. It was a crackling sound. Joane unholstered the gun once more and peeked around the tree.

Nothing.

It was strange. It began to sound like radio static, but even though Joan moved further towards the road, there was nothing in sight out of the ordinary. She exhaled in frustration and desired to go sit down again. But when she looked back at the tree again, it was gone.

She heard a loud scuttle behind her! She spun around and still saw nothing.

This night really needs to end.

The static began to play again.

“MoOoom. I’M rrrrigHt herE.”

The voice sounded like her sons. Distorted and low, but she could never mistake it. It was right next to her. But when she turned to look that way, all she saw was a circle of dark, red, gummy like flesh and a whirlwind of teeth in the middle of all of it.

She screamed and fell on her ass as the horrid excuse for a mouth attempted to bite at her! She raised the gun at it and fired off two rounds consecutively, only to miss as the amalgamation of flesh and teeth flew up in the air. No. It didn’t fly. Joan realized it just moved out of the way as she only needed to turn her head a little to the left to see the owner of that nightmarish maw.

It stood thirty, no, forty feet tall maybe. She thought back to the tree that disappeared mere seconds ago as its slender body had a brownish, rust color to it. But the skin seemed dry, old and definitely organic.

Her horrified and confused state of mind killed any time to rationally act and escape. The creature quickly swept her off the ground with ease with its long arms and held her up to reunite with that face. She could finally take in the details of it.

Around those hungry, snapping teeth was a metal rim. It seemed like its head was that of a horn and she could just barely see another right behind it.

The mouth got closer and closer, snapping every way. Then she snapped out of it and pressed the muzzle of her pistol against its chest, firing two more rounds into it. A high pitch sting emitted from its mouth as it violently spasmed and threw Joan into the forest.

Her body hit a branch and then another and another until her head met the cold, snowy ground. And it was dark again.

---

“Why!?”

The child was being held back by his mother as he thrashed and kicked. His snotty, crying face screamed in anger and sorrow.

“You killed my puppy! You killed my puppy!”

Joan wasn’t worried about the kid wanting to pummel her with his weak fists. She was afraid of the man with a shotgun now pointed at her.

“Why the fuck are you here?!” the man shouted, “Show me a warrant or I’ll blast your ass out of here!”

She didn’t even dare point her smoking gun at him, the one that had just taken the life of the pit bull that rushed at her just seconds ago. The gun that alerted the family of her presence in their backyard that she’d just fence hopped into. The gun that was given to her by the Police Department that sent her here to investigate this family of drug smuggling. The PD that hired the ass hole who told her they were going to do this their way. But even if her partner was an asshole, even if he recommended the plan first, she agreed to it. She agreed and she regretted from the moment she pulled the trigger, to the moment her partner called back up, to the moment that kid was left without a family when she was praised and hated for making one shitty neighborhood on this shitty planet safer. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t accept herself as a protector, so she put that shield on that desk and left.

But the gun remained hers. She swore to rarely touch it, but it was hers to learn with. She’d protect the only thing she knew that mattered in this world.

---

Joan awoke with the fuzzy thought that she’d probably need to see a doctor and check for brain damage after all this. Then she noticed something in the snow just next to her. It looked like bones.

They had fresh blood on them. They were small. And she noticed that there were still remains of flesh on them. Not familiar flesh, but still unfortunate flesh. Joan screamed and climbed to her feet. She didn’t want to look anymore.

She turned and walked away from the remains.

“M… mOmMY…”

The voice came from in front of her and she reached for her gun, but it wasn’t in her holster.

Must’ve flown somewhere.

She wasn’t going to be tricked again. Joan scanned the area and saw her pistol laying in the snow. She ran for it and heard long, rhythmic thuds in the snow following behind her.

It’s taller than you. It’s faster than you.

She dove for the gun and grasped it, quickly lining up the sights and firing off three shots before the thing jammed. She noticed it stopped moving towards her, the tall, twiggy, freaky creature. But it wasn’t down, just stunned as it knelt in the snow with a nice thud and gripped its chest. She took this moment to try and escape.

She dashed to who knows where but only after sprinting for a few seconds did she come across a white colored estate that she began to dart towards. She used every breath, every ounce of energy her body could use to get to the front door and if she had to blow it down, she would.

Thankfully, it was unlocked. She turned the handle all the way and busted that sucker open before slamming it on the face of that beast and locked the deadbolt. It didn’t even bang on the door once.

Joan backed away from the door and cleared the jammed chamber of her wet CZ. She then ejected the magazine from it, wiping it against her pant leg and stowed it away. She then locked the slide back on the pistol and blew into the chamber, rubbed the gun down on with her coat and slid in a dry, fresh new clip.

Then it was waiting time. It was going to be waiting time until Joan didn’t have the patience or stamina to wait. That stamina lasted five minutes. She tried to loosen up, if only just a little, and check around the house. It seemed empty. Residence probably took a vacation too. Hopefully, it wasn’t as bad as this one.

When Joan checked the second floor, she quickly came across a king-sized bed. It was calling her name.

---

Joan woke up in a panic! She needed to quit fucking around and find Nate. She jumped out of bed and was about to check the rest of the second floor of the house until she heard glass shatter downstairs.

She made her way to the stairs and waited there. She heard no footsteps. No movement whatsoever. But she could feel the presence of something coming. Its pale white, decayed head came into view over the stair railing near the bottom and turned it to look at her with a notable crack.

Behind this ghostly, horse-shaped head was a long neck that seemed to crack and pop with every movement. And it just kept getting longer. The head was carried up the stairs, getting closer to her. A strong, sweet smell was filling her nose. The now clear smell of cinnamon.

She fired.

The noise came and went, the muzzle flash cleared in an instant and like smoke being blown away, something else was revealed. Something took the place of the horse in an instant. It was Nate at the bottom of the stairs, his body slumped against the far wall, blood trickling down it and onto the floor.

“Nate!” Joan screamed and practically leaped down the stairs to cradle her son. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry baby!”

She reached for her phone, but it wasn’t in her pocket. Had it fallen out when she was thrown to the ground? Her eyes grew wet and her hand pressed tightly against her sons wound. To hopelessly help stop the bleeding. To put him out of his misery. To snuff out the problems she can’t face.

“YoU reALLy DoN’T caRe… dO yoU?”

The static-filled voice was at the front door that Joan didn’t even notice was open. It was the beast with the siren for a head. Its long arms reached into the house, making their way towards her.

“LiFE is NoThinG buT A MoMent to bE fORgoTTEn.”

Closer.

“NoThiNG wILL maTTer in tHe End.”

Closer.

“We WiLL aLL juSt fAde aWaY.”

“No!” Joan shouted.

The arms stopped suddenly and she took no second to wait and unloaded into the thing. Every shot pulsated her flaming hatred towards the thing with new life. New, willful life. A fiery warmth. A caring warmth.

Her head grew light with fury. Her vision was blinded by the stoked flames of survival. And her screams raged on. Raged on. Raged on and on until it wasn’t anger, but pain. And the light faded away in her vision.

She was back in the car. Her son was beside her with nary a few scrapes and bruises. Joan, however, had the branch stuck in her again. And this time it was dug closer into her vital regions.

“Mommy! I thought you were dead!”

Joan grunted, “I’m good baby.” She coughed and her lips felt wet, “Can you get Mommy’s phone from her pocket?”

“Yeah.”

“Can you dial 911?”

“Yeah.”

“You know what street we’re on?”

“Yeah. I remember the road last time we went to Grandmas.”

“Good,” she cried happily, painful, but happily and then patted his head “Thank you.”

Her eyes fluttered, grew heavy and the world was bright again.

---

Joan drives into the lot of the apartment complex and sighs. The last ticket was an annoying one. Sometimes she wonders if it was all worth coming back to. And then she notices Dan sitting outside her apartment with Nate playing in the lawn in front of it.

She steps out of her cruiser and asks, “Enjoying a good suntan?”

“Hey Joan, just enjoying a bud with a bud. How’s it feel being back on the force?”

“It’s still thankless, but if you met some of the guys I work with, I guess it’s understandable why,” she responds.

“Oh, I already know, Joan. Not even sure why you went back. I can still always use help if you want to.”

Joan just stares at Nate who’s a good fifteen or so feet away from them, playing pretend with a Nerf gun.

She says, “I can still help you when I’m off. I think that vacation was just good enough to let me remember what I need to protect.”

A kid from across the lot comes out of another apartment and shouts at the top of his lungs, “Nate! You wanna come over?!”

Nate looks to Joan, who just nods. He then runs off.

“You on break?” Dan asks.

“Yeah.”

“You want a beer?”

She stares at the drink in his hand, still looking cold and fresh from the condensation on this hot, spring day. Then she smells something all too familiar. The sweet scent of cinnamon. And then the sudden sound of static emits somewhere near her.

She grips her pistol and looks around only to quickly realize it’s her radio.

“424, we have a disturbance call on Cleveland Street,” a voice emits from the radio.

Joan wipes her forehead, “Got a call, buddy. Can’t.” She then brings her radio closer to her mouth whilst heading to her cruiser to respond, “This is 429, copy, en route.”

She grasps the handle of the car door and takes a second to see Nate heading into his friends' place. He closes the door behind him and she opens hers, hopping in and driving off without a worry in the world.

Dan chuckles, “Not like I was going to let you anyways.”

#horror #writing #byron

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bumblebeeishappy-blog · 7 years

Text

Beauteous Precipitation - Pietro Maximoff X Reader

Chapter One: Mondays Can Go Fuck Themselves

I have no idea how to use this site help me

It’s funny because I’m writing this on a Friday. Contradiction! It’s not actually funny. I’m just really lonely. Help.

I’m so fucking pissed because I can’t find Pietro’s age anywhere and god dammit I low key need it so I can freaking write.

If you know it, please spill, because I’m flying blind and blind birds usually end up crashing into a window, having a seizure then consequently shitting themselves.

Uh… yeah.

So I’m gonna go on a limb and say fuck it, he’s gonna be twenty-three. Deal with it. Or y'know, don’t. I honestly do not care whether you agree or not.

I promise I’m not always this rude.

Okay that’s a lie I’m constantly a bitch. I’m also pretty sure my vocabulary is literally just swears. Oops?

Anyway, let’s get this shitshow on the road!

Pidge, a Bengal cat with a knack of being a complete asshole with unlimited energy. Is relevant to the plot. Always relevant to the plot.

Pidge is the main character concerning the plot.

All hail Pidge.

💨

Mondays fucking suck.

That’s obvious and an understatement. Duh.

I know that they suck because for one, they’re the first day of the God-forbidden week. Secondly, every Monday without fail, something bad just coincidentally manages to plague my life. They range from ‘not so bad, but bad enough to annoy me’ to 'holy shit I almost died.’

Broken arms, broken hearts. Broken vases? You get the gist. It’s a whirlwind. A lottery. I’m waiting for the day when something good finally happened to me for once. In vain.

I honestly sometimes consider that I have a problem, a curse. I should be locked away. Countless times people have gotten hurt because of my bad luck. It’s a danger hazard.

And I know what you’re going to say. There’s no such a thing as luck, you crazy bastard. I used to think that too, honest, but it’s there and it’s happening. There’s no other excuse. And there’s fucking Norse gods in New York. Alien invaders, too. A little dash of bad luck doesn’t seem like such a stretch of reality, really.

It’s as if the universe had this vendetta against me. What the hell did I do to get its panties in a twist?

But this particular Monday had me in it’s mind’s eye as its number one victim. Hurray.

Why do you ask?

Because, for one thing, I failed my final exam in astronomy sciences, my major. Some little prick decided to copy my work and because of goddamn plagiarism, neither of us could pass. That meant i’d have to retake the last few weeks of education. Pay to retake the last few weeks of education if I ever wanted a proper job.

I’m broke.

Another thing; It was completely bucketing down with rain. In July. July.

I had no means of sheltered transport (or money. I lost that at the park when a goose decided that I was it’s next lunch. What gives?), hence I had to walk from Upper Manhatten to Central Manhatten, and though that doesn’t seem like too tedious a walk, it still took me over an hour. In the rain. Just to add, I forgot my rain jacket at home.

I kind of low-key wanted to stab a bitch.

No. Scratch that.

I really wanted to stab a bitch.

But not bitch as in a dog. Let’s face it, dogs are way better than people.

I resisted the urge to completely trash up my apartment as soon as I entered, shivering and muttering curses, through the door. Instead, I decided to vent out my totally appropriate and not-at-all petty anger into furiously eating some dinner because food is the answer to life’s equation.

Probably.

With a nonchalant toss, the sopping bag I used for college landed upside down on the couch that was definitely the home to a nice family of mice. The pillows squeaked suspiciously as the backpack fell against them.

Ignoring the free-loaders, I passed the ill looking sofa in hunt of self-pity food. Ice cream and pizza sounded absolutely perfect for munching my despondency away. For the time being.

But first, I needed to take a shower so I’d lessen the chance of getting an illness. Wouldn’t that just be the screw you icing on the fuck you flavoured cake? It was a present from the deities that lounged above the dense, depressing clouds that forever hung over NYC. They laughed at my suffering as a way too pass the time.

Thanks. Feeling the love.

Assholes.

The only thing greeting me was my middle aged bengal cat, Pidge. His brown rosetted fur stroked against my damp jeans as he stared up at me with an unamused expression.

I sighed, kicking a tinsel ball with my toe. Pidge was quick to leap onto it and continue attacking. He acted like more of a dog than a cat. It proved to be a problem in most cases. He had an unlimited amount of energy and was always on the run. Also always was an asshole, despite my efforts of keeping him occupied. He never fucking sleeps!

I switched on the lights as I went through the comically small apartment, wincing at the fact that half of my lights were busted. Fuck. Pidge darted between my legs, threatening to trip me over.

“Pidge, you shitswizzler,” I muttered as I regained my balance, glaring daggers at the bengal who blinked back at me, feigning innocence.

I continued on anyway, pulling the cheap, tacky curtains across the single-glazed windows in a half-assed attempt to get my box of an apartment building at least at a liveable temperature.

Making my way through the drab and sad apartment, it took me only a few steps to get from one side to the other where the musty and laughably small bathroom was located. My eyes glanced at the mirror for a second before flicking away. I didn’t need to see how terrible the flash rain storm had made me just yet. Pidge meowed emphatically at the closed door. I ignored him.

I peeled off the water-dense, skin-hugging material that stuck to my body like a catsuit. Hoodie, tank top, jeans. They hit the bathroom tiles with a 'splat,’ and I was left in my soaking underwear in front of the sink, finally staring at the mirror to see how crazy I would of looked coming home.

I usually like walking to and from school in the summer months (but not when it’s fucking pouring cats and dogs). It’s not exactly tranquil, and the streets are literally always clogged up with people in suits and beggars on the sidewalk. There’s just a sense of achievement that I saved money and got that little bit fitter at the same time.

I snorted to myself. Yeah, and that little scrape of fitness is about to go down the drain when I splurge on sugary treats.

But did I give a damn?

Pfft, no.

I scrunched my nose at my waterlogged reflection. My hair stuck to my scalp and the remainder of my cheap and poorly applied make-up was everywhere but the correct place. I looked like a cat fucked a raccoon and their hideous hybrid offspring was doused in a pool filled with regrets and all the fucks I didn’t give at that particular moment.

Eh.

I rid my body of the drenched underwear, chucking the garments onto the pile while stepping into the relaxing warm spray of the shower. My muscles spasmed harshly at odd intervals from the dramatic change in temperature, so I was forced to stay in the shower for longer than I usually did.

Not that I’m complaining.

I took the chance of an extended shower by finally scrubbing down fully and extra-throughly washing my hair. After a short while, feeling spick and span, I grasped the metal handle and pushed it towards the wall, cutting off the pleasing flow.

By then, my stomach was grumbling in earnest, but I still took my time to wring my hair and wrap an extra towel around the crown of my head.

I finally obeyed my stomach’s orders with a groan, encasing myself in a fluffy dressing gown and padding to the kitchen, grabbing the phone as I pulled open the freezer and snagged the ice cream carton without a second thought or a guilty conscious. Fuck em. I can do whatever I want.

Using my nearly none-existent fingernails, I pried the plastic lid off, releasing the sweetened dairy product from its grasp, oozing sugar and promising that I’d be regretting the binge in the morning.

But hey, it’s not morning now is it?

Turning away and kicking the freezer closed with a heel, I placed the opened container and lid on the kitchen bench, fishing out a spoon while punching in the numbers for the local pizza shop that I had conveniently memorised to heart from all the times I’ve ordered from them. I’m a regular. They know me by name. That’s not a surprise.

Pidge leapt onto the counter, sticking out his tongue to collect the water droplets that formed on the tap. I rolled my eyes at him.

“Heya Chip,” I spoke into the mouth piece while shoving a spoonful of ice cream beyond my lips. It made me shiver but damn, it tasted good.

I knew it was Chip who was on phone duty. Throughout my excessive pizza ordering (that more often than not were on Mondays), I’ve come to remember each shift the workers had. It was a small business.

Mondays on odd weeks of the year and during the term were Chip’s shifts. I was hoping to hear their masculine/feminine voice through the speaker so I wouldn’t feel stupid. I expected at least a 'So-and-so from The Pizza Pond here, how may I help you?’ but I didn’t even get that.

“Excuse me, miss,” the cool, orderly female voice that sounded almost like a robot emerged from my phone. “But this is a private line. Please remain where you are so I can detect your position and send any additional information about your persons to Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark?

Utterly confused, I pulled the phone from the side of my head. Studying the number, I realised that I was missing a whole unit- wait, Mr. Stark?

As in the Mr. Stark?

As in Iron Man?

As in the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist?

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

The spoon of ice cream that was dangling from the corner of my lips tumbled to the bench, splattering the sugary treat everywhere within a ten centimetre radius.

I squeaked out a “sorry, wrong number!” and quickly ended the call, throwing the device at the wall, which cracked.

Both of them cracked.

“Shit,” I mumbled, glaring at the phone as if it was about to sprout legs and attack me with a tiny gun and matching minuscule rounds. It didn’t do such a thing, but instead the screen lit up with the message 'DATA TRANSFERRING’ and a tiny chibi Iron Man helmet.

“Oh, shit,” I repeated my curse, this time with much time emphasis as the screen started to glitch out and then spontaneously die.

A tense minute passed while I stood, just staring at the cracked phone. Maybe it was just a joke?

But then fucking Spider-Man crashed through my window, showering me with shards of glass.

“Uh, hey,” he greeted, seemingly quite out of his comfort zone and a little socially awkward as he stood in front of the window without a window pane, the curtains billowing out behind him. “You’re Y/n L/n, right? Please tell me I’m right, 'cause if not then this is like, super awkward.”

I didn’t know what to do or say. I was frozen, in shock. Rather than blurt out my name and reassure the obviously young hero of his anxieties, I remained silent as I stared at the kid.

“Hey, uh,” the boy spoke, stepping towards me slowly with his hands raised as if to reassure me. “This would be a lot less troublesome if you willingly came with me. Sir Stark the Almighty just wants to talk with you.”

Wait.

What the fuck?

“Sir Stark the Alimighty?” I echoed, narrowing my eyes in disbelief and flippancy.

Spider-Man winced at that, rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, yeah… can you forget I said that?”

“Will you leave me alone?” I countered adamantly. “And did you have to crash through my window? There are such things as doors, you dork.”

I was tempted to call him something much stronger than dork, but he only sounded like he was in his mid-teens and he was just doing his job.

“… no,” Spider-Man answered the first question hesitantly. “Uh, sorry. Dramatic entrances and stuff. I’ll remember doors for next time.”

I rolled my eyes, scooping a previously spooked Pidge from the ground before he stepped on a shard of glass and had a right fit.

“So…” Spider-Man trailed off, glancing around my dingy apartment, shifting his feet and wincing at the sound of glass crunching beneath them. “Are you gonna come with me..?”

I pretended to ponder thought, grasping Pidge a little tighter, ignoring as he dug his claws into my shoulder and struggled in my arms.

“Um, no,” I deadpanned.

The superboy in front of me sighed. He hung his head in defeat, before lifting it up and, before I knew it, I was encased in a cocoon of web.

“Hey!” I cried indignantly, struggling in my bonds. Pidge was pinned to my chest and was letting out confused, ear-splitting yowls. “This is against my human rights! Plus, animal abuse!”

“If you want, we can leave the cat here,” he offered innocently, as if he didn’t just pin me defenceless against my will.

I glared at him, considering my options. Glancing down at the glass, I knew my answer.

“The cat comes.”

Pidge isn’t stupid, but he is too curious for his own good. If you left him alone, he’d no doubt step on the glass, freak out and then have a fit because he’s alone, injured and an idiot.

Spider-Man shrugged. “If you say so.” And promptly scooped me into his arms, cat, web cocoon and all, and leapt from the window, shifting me on one arm so he could manoeuvre his way through the streets of Manhatten.

I shrieked, and instinctively went to wrap my arms around across his chest and shoulders, but realised I couldn’t because he fucking constricted me.

Pidge was a mess. He fidgeted feverishly. The claws that were dug into my flesh extended even more so, but I could barely feel the pain.

The swinging sensations made my head twirl. My stomach began to churn and- oh god I’m going to puke.

I clenched my mouth shut and tried to calm my stomach, but Spider-Man was really totally not helping at all. I hit my head on his shoulder to get his attention. Another wave of nausea almost sent me over the edge.

The teen quickly glanced down, and once lying his eyes on my pale-greenish face, gasped and started swinging faster.

“Please don’t puke on me,” he begged while shooting webs. “This suit was from Mr. Stark.”

“Do you really think puking is my intention?” I spat back, before regretting opening my mouth and twisting my head away from superboy.

“Okay, we’re here,” he said and gently dropped me to the ground before slicing the back of the web cocoon open.

I wheezed, rolling out of the encasment, bring Pidge with me because he’s my only soul support. He yowled in response.

I ignored him and got to my feet, leaning against the side of a building as I got my bearings back. Once my stomach was calm enough and the ringing had slightly dulled, I turned my head upwards in awe to see the tall, modern building that looked liked it cost much more than a pretty penny to make.

“I know,” Spider-Man said excitedly as he saw my gaping mouth and wide eyes. “I was like that too. Welcome to the Avenger’s Tower.”

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