doors floorboards

anonymous asked:

You guys MUST give us more details about the proposal(s) - How Stiles proposed and how Derek was planning to propose. Please and thank you <3

“Son, you need to calm down.”

Stiles paused in his pacing to spin on his heel, arms flailing, and fixed his father with a wide-eyed stare.

“Calm down?” His voice hitched, “Calm down? You told me he’s going to propose, dad. That’s- that’s huge.”

John raised one hand in a sort of placating gesture, “Now, I never said-”

“You implied it,” Stiles was vaguely aware that his hands were shaking as he dialled Derek’s number, for the third time in the span of a minute. A frustrated noise died in his throat when it went straight to voicemail, again.

“Stiles, I don’t get why you’re making such a big deal out of this,” John stabbed another piece of lettuce with his plastic fork, and pulled a face as if it had personally offended him. “This tastes like nothing.”

“Eat your goddamn salad,” Stiles muttered, eyes fixed on his screen as he typed out a string of texts. Badly punctuated, slightly hysterical texts.

“Not until you sit down and tell me what the issue is, here,” John tilted his head meaningfully towards the chair across from him, “I don’t want you having a panic attack.”

Stiles slumped into the seat, reluctant, and bit at his thumb. He narrowed his eyes at his left knee, which kept bobbing up and down as his leg twitched.

“What’s the problem, Stiles?”

I was the one who was supposed to propose first, okay?” the words left his mouth faster than he could think of them, a little louder than he’d intended. At his father’s questioning look, he took a deep breath and continued, “In theory. I mean, I didn’t see it happening for another year or two.”

“So you think it’s too soon.”

“Not necessarily, no- it’s just…” Stiles exhaled heavily, ran unsteady fingers through his hair, “maybe. Maybe it is. That’s the problem- I’m not sure. Do you really think we’re ready for this?”

“I know that you and Derek love each other,” the Sheriff’s brow was furrowed, “There isn’t any doubt there, right?”

“None at all,” Stiles said- immediately, reflexively. “It’s just that…God, I don’t know.” he groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“Didn’t you have any doubts before you proposed to mom?” he asked quietly, through his fingers.

“Of course I did,” his dad’s response was soft, “How could I not? She was an amazing woman and I still wasn’t entirely convinced I deserved her. But…” Stiles lifted his head in time to see his dad shrug. “It’s normal to have doubts, son.”

The sound that escaped Stiles was helpless: “Derek’s not perfect, but neither am I. I’m kind of obnoxious and I talk too much and–  and at the end of the day, I’m just kinda an anxious mess, dad. I still have the nightmares, like, weekly. Should anyone really have to put up with that?

“And- and Derek has his own issues, but at the end of the day I’ve actually seen that he’s the sweetest goofball of a man and I love him so much and he’s probably got some huge romantic gesture planned that I could never top but, goddammit, I really wanted to propose to him first-”

“I’m going to stop you there,” his dad levelled him with a look, “Just tell him, Stiles.”

“What- tell him what?” Stiles muttered to his knees.

“Everything you just told me.”

“But I-”

“Go to him, tell him these things, and- goddammit, Stiles- just propose to him, if you want to propose.”

“I. I don’t have a ring, though-”

Go.” His father jabbed a finger towards the door.

Stiles shot up from his chair and was out of the office within the minute.

John dumped his salad in the trash.

The front porch of the Hale house made one hell of a noise when you walked on it- Stiles knew this, because he was physically incapable of walking around quietly (unlike certain werewolves that he knew). Currently, it was kicking up one hell of a protest as he stomped towards the front door, floorboards whining under his sneakers; not that he cared, not that he really registered the sound over the rushing in his ears. His heart was in his throat and his mind was running a mile a minute and he needed to remind himself to breathe.

Stiles took a shuddery breath and flung the door open. It hit the inside wall with a bang.

I was going to propose first, asshole!”

Okay, maybe not the best way he could have phrased that. He’d have to try again.

Derek, who seemed to be in the middle of assembling some kind of furniture, fumbled and dropped the screwdriver in his hands (goddammit, Derek never fumbled, what the hell). He turned to face Stiles; his ridiculous puppy eyes were wide and his eyebrows were doing the thing.

“Stiles, what-”

“You know what.” Stiles stalked across the room, gripped the front of Derek’s henley with his fists. “You were going to propose tomorrow, weren’t you?”

“I-” Derek looked crestfallen, suddenly, eyes shifting to the side as he said, “I’m sorry? I-”

“No, shut up and listen to me,” Stiles’ voice was low, intense, as he leaned closer and made Derek look him in the eye.

“I love you so much, Derek. So freaking much it scares me.” He loosened his grip a fraction, smoothed down the wrinkles in Derek’s shirt with one hand, “I love how you have this sense of humour that you only really share with me. I love the little crinkles around your eyes when you smile. I actually kind of love when you’re grumpy, too.

“I like it when you don’t shave and you get stubble burn all over me. I like that you’re actually, like, friends with my dad,” Stiles laughed, “I. I still have no idea how that happened, actually.”

Derek grabbed onto the hand that Stiles kept running down his shirt, lacing their fingers together,“Stiles–”

“No, I’m not done. So, yeah, sometimes we have our differences, like when you argue that a bald cupcake most definitely is a muffin-”
“But it is-”

“Shut up, it’s not.” He pressed his fingers to Derek’s lips, and Derek’s eyebrows shot up. “I’m trying to tell you that I love our differences. I love that we can argue and it can still be fun.”

Derek’s lips twitched, like he was fighting a smile.

Stiles lowered his eyes and went on,  “And…and I love that you’ll wake me up from my nightmares, help me count my fingers and calm down- and I just. I–” he shook his head, “I’m being cheesy, now, or whatever, I know– but you probably had something three times as romantic as this planned, so.”

Derek stared at him for a minute, gaze soft. He pressed a kiss to Stiles’ fingers, and Stiles lowered his hand.

“May I speak now?” Derek murmured.

“Just,” Stiles threw his hands up, “Will you marry me or not, you dork?”

Derek swept him- literally swept him into his arms, his feet left the floor- into what could only be described as a bruising kiss. Stiles made a soft, desperate noise and clutched at Derek’s shoulders, raised one hand and slid it along Derek’s jaw. Derek bit at his lower lip, licked into his mouth, and Stiles groaned and arched into him, seeking the warmth, craving the intensity. Gradually, the kiss slowed- became something softer, sweeter. Stiles pulled back reluctantly to take a breath, and Derek mouthed at his jaw.

“That’s a yes, right?” Stiles asked, on an exhale.

Derek buried his face in Stiles’ neck and laughed.

“You’re ridiculous,” Derek’s lips moved against his throat- soft, familiar. “Of course I’ll marry you.”

Stiles grinned so hard it hurt, and ran his fingers through Derek’s hair, “Good. Wanna put me down, now?”

“Nah,” Derek nipped at him playfully, “Think I wanna carry you upstairs.”

“Oh, good idea, yes. The best idea.” He hit at Derek’s shoulder, “Go, what are you waiting for.”

It didn’t take them very long to get to the bedroom.

((hope this was okay, anon <3))

  • spirits: breathe a draft of cool air, creak floorboards & swing doors ominously
  • me, half asleep, face mashed into pillow: listen up u lil bitch, this is my house, you can hang out if you want but you gotta be quiet do you hear me
Twelve Hours

Summary:  The RFA+S wake up before MC.  In my Ideal World.  Not that long after Seven’s After Story.

Pairing:  Saeran x MC/Reader

Genre:  Slice of Life; Fluff

Rating:  M, for a little swearing and a little steaminess.

Word Count:  Approx. 1800

A miracle happened, that day.

Saeran woke up before you did.  That never happened.

To earn a living, your boyfriend did freelance coding and internet security algorithms, and the work usually brought him late into the night.  He had incredibly erratic sleeping hours, either sleeping in late, or taking random naps throughout the day.  More often than not, you ended up going to bed by yourself.  

However, the night before, Saeran had fallen asleep with you.  You had drifted off to sleep in his arms and he hadn’t wanted to disturb you.

It was your phone’s alarm that had awakened him.  It was an annoying, almost whining sound; you had picked it specifically because it irritated you and you would want to turn it off immediately.  Unfortunately, you had set that alarm ages ago; now, you were a little bit too used to the sound.  Abruptly roused, Saeran glared at the phone in question, then looked down at you, still with your head on one of his arms.  You didn’t move; your boyfriend smirked a little to hear you snoring lightly.

He hesitated, then reached over you to your phone, hitting the ‘snooze’ button for you. You always set your alarm too early.  A couple more minutes of rest couldn’t hurt.  Saeran wrapped you more comfortably into his arms, and kissed the top of your head.  

All mine, he thought, resting his chin in your hair.

He knew you had work, that day, but he never liked seeing you leave.

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I'll Make a Man Out of You

Cute lil request. Tbh I had sm fun writing this I’m glad with the way it turned out. Enjoy!

tags : @the-masked-martyr

request : Can I request something fluffy (gotta get those feelings back) where Peter catches the reader just dancing around to Disney sound tracks? Just the worst dancing but Peter is heart eyes because ‘you may be an dork, but you’re my dork’? (or maybe he joins in singing because he likes Disney idk man go wild) would this be okay?

Y/N = Your Name

words : 484

Song : I’ll Make a Man Out of You from Mulan



Originally posted by tom-hollcnd

Peter knocked on your apartment door, waiting for you to come and get it, only to be met with no reply, “Y/N? You there?”

He knocked again and waited for you to come. He was supposed to meet you at your place to study, ‘Maybe she forgot.’

Then he heard the sound of a thud come from inside the apartment, and naturally panicked, thinking it could’ve been an attack; especially since he is Spider-Man.

He scattered around, trying to remember where the spare key your family put around was. Remembering quickly, he bent down, lifted up the mat in front of your door, lifted the loose floorboard, and grabbed the key.

Unlocking the door in a haste, he barged in. Inside he saw your back facing him, before turning with your eyes closed, holding a mop, earbuds plugged in and blasting, belting out the words,

“Let’s get down to business, to defeat,” you swung the mop to the other side of your body and stuck out a hand balled up in a fist, “The Huns!”

Peter grinned and leaned up against the wall, watching you, ‘Let’s see how long it’ll take her to realize I’m here.’

“Did they send me daughters,” you opened your eyes and turned again, “When I aske- Peter!”

You slipped on the floor you’d previously been mopping due to your pink, fuzzy socks and landed straight on your butt.

“For sons!” Peter shouted before breaking out into laughter and outstretching his hand for you.

“Pete! It’s not funny!” You grabbed his hand, “I was in the zone!”

“It’s actually pretty funny, (Nickname),” Peter wrapped his arms around your waist, “But it’s also pretty cute.”

You pouted and put your arms on his biceps, “How long were you standing there?”

“Let’s just say that I now know you have pretty nice skills with a mop.” Peter smirked and leaned down to give you a kiss, but not before you pulled away from him.

“No kisses,” You crossed your arms and turned you face to the side, “You don’t deserve them, Parker.”

“Come on, (Nickname),” he grabbed your arms, “You’re cute.”

You only turned your head to the side more before Peter leaned down to whisper in your ear,

“You’re the saddest bunch,” he cupped your face and pulled it to his, noses touching, “I ever met.”

You couldn’t help but let out a giggle at the seriousness on his face.

Peter smiled, “See,” he pulled you into a hug, “You can’t stay mad. Did you see how cute I was there?”

You laughed some more before putting your hands on his chest, shoving him away, and grabbing the mop once again.

“But you can bet,” She swung the mop to her side again and tossed it to Peter, “Before we’re through!”

Peter laughed and raised the mop up high before belting out, “Mister, I’ll make a man out of you!”

Drunk Masterlist (2)

behind bars by crashing-into-the-sun

Simon and Baz are young and dumb. They get arrested and wind up in the same jail cell. Romance ensues

Drunk by askcookpritchard

“Come on, it’ll be fun” he says dragging me into the line outside the night club, Baz is insisting that we go clubbing as I have never been before.

drunken texts by carryonsnowflakes

It was sent by accident. Something that was never supposed to be seen, except by the eyes of the author. It was simple enough, a small happy birthday text addressed to one Simon Snow. It sat unsent for quite awhile, destined to be a draft in his phone for the rest of eternity.

Gin is a Sedative, Kisses are Caffeine by thenwhosflyingtheplane

One step through the door, the floorboards started creaking. Simon stayed where he was, stomach down on his bed and not quite deep, but not yet shallow breaths. He peered through the window and saw the beginnings of orange and yellow seeping into the inky horizon. Dawn, probably. Fucking perfect.

i’ll pay you back by theinsidioushumdrumming

Baz is drunk and meets Simon at the bookstore after causing a huge scene

I’m Not As Think As You Drunk I Am by ebbthegoatgirl

I stared at the little hole in our sofa, approximately three inches to the left of Simon’s head.

in which simon snow gets drunk by ismill   

annoyed baz and drunk snow 

It’s just a late night out by come-on-eileen-snowbaz

The minute after I’ve finally told her ‘I love you’ officially starts here and now.

simple by cosmeticaphelion

baz and simon are the best of friends. no-watford. baz broods over impossibilities. alcohol is involved.

snowbaz drunk fic by isabella1159

Simon was worried, again.

Surprise! by jamesxlilyxpotter

  It’s Simon’s 19th birthday and Penelope wants to throw him a surprise party. She decides to have Baz take him out for a few drinks to get them out of the way. A truce for one night just before summer, Snow and Baz get to finally know each other after living together for almost a year.

With Any Luck by bazsnowsimonpitch

Baz was better at being discreet when he’s staring across a bar. Simon isnt.

oopiejay5  asked:

Please break my heart with an empty kiss?

In the rare nights he spends at her estate, she always falls asleep first. They talk until late into the night, smiling over wine and firelight. They curl into each other, and he listens to her breathing slow, even out, feel her dreaming against him. She smells like lavender. Her back is warm against his chest, his arm underneath her neck. The other is wrapped around her waist. He pulls her closer, breathes her in. She murmurs in sleep, and he feels her fingertips light against his arm. Rolling up and down until she finally wraps her hand around his.

Their legs are tangled up together, no space lost between them. He listens to the dying embers in the fireplace, the crickets that haunt the street. He kisses the bare space of her shoulders, the three freckles all in a row. Two weeks and a day since they put Danarius in the ground. There was such a rankling in his soul, an uneasy pacing. With her, he feels only calm. Years and years and years of it and only now does he truly think himself free. On the floor, Hawke’s mabari perks up, growls at the closed door.

At this slightest noise, Hawke stirs. “Go back to sleep,” she murmurs at the dog. She turns over, buries her face in his chest. Throwing an arm around him, curling the other one between them. He feels her breathe out against him, hot on his collarbone. He presses a kiss against the crown of her head. She smells like lavender. His hands splay over her back, pressed between her shoulder blades, against the curve of her spine. Her feet press against his as she wedges her leg between his. Wound and bound once again.

The dog rises to its feet. Still growling, snarling, ears pressed back. Hawke’s eyes flutter open as she rolls over onto her back, rubs the sleep from her eyes. Fenris sits up, feet against floorboards. The door crashes open, and the mabari charges forward. The first Templar finds the dog with his sword. He pins it against the ground, not pausing even as the dog whimpers and whines. Hawke is on her feet instantly, flames around her hands, shouting at the top of her lungs. Fenris is moving forward, lyrium markings burning bright in the darkness.

They smell of magebane. They’re practically soaked in the stuff. They crowd around Hawke, gauntlets biting into skin as they force her to her knees. Someone has their hands in her hair, forcing her head back. Filling her mouth with fouler smelling bane. Someone has their knee in his back. Smashing the hilt of a sword against his temple until he can feel the blood rolling down his face. She smells like lavender. The floor is cold against his cheek. His vision is fading black, watching as they drag her past him.

It’s Sebastian who finds him. Too long had the streets been empty of his friends. Hawke in the mornings in the Chantry, card games with Fenris in the evening. The basket tumbles out of his arms when he sees him. Pinned to the floor, a sword in his thigh and in his palm. “They took Hawke,” he’s saying as Sebastian wrenches him free, “they took Hawke.” Barely coherent, babbling her name, as he picks up the elf in his arms, races to Darktown.

Anders says nothing as he heals him. Fenris catches only bits and pieces of the argument. He recognizes Aveline’s voice, barking over the others. Varric’s quiet but stern rebuttal. Even Sebastian’s voice is rising, a tremor of unease in his tone. Merrill’s quiet whispers, Isabela’s stronger insistence. Fenris struggles to rise, and it takes only Anders’s hand on his chest to keep him in the cot. Wheezing, turning over on his side, retching into the bucket he holds out for him. He can only smell the magebane.

“They poisoned you,” Anders tells him. “We’ll get her back.” He should be going with them. In the end, they are no better than the Templars. They poison him as well, drug the food that’s meant to help him heal. It puts an end to the arguments, to the yelling, to Fenris’s attempts to limp from the bed. He crashes into dreaming, thinks of her smiling. Running his hands through her hair. Her touch on his face. When he wakes, it is not Anders at his bedside.

Varric with his head lowered, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together. “Fenris,” he says. The panic rises like bile in his throat from the first word. Fenris, not Broody. He pushes himself up, and everything moves with him. Rattling around in his skull, it takes a few moments for the world to right itself. Varric rises with him, allows Fenris to lean on him as his leg is still healing. His ribs are too tight. His heart beats too quickly. He can’t breathe.

A hand fists around the covers of the bed Varric leads him to. Forcing them back and he finds her simply sitting. Quiet, her hands together on her lap. She stares at the floor. Varric steps back as Fenris steps forward. Fingers at her chin, lifting her head to look at him. Pushing back her bangs. A fresh scar, a grotesque burn, newly made on her forehead. Her eyes are dull as they look at him. She smells like lyrium. He drops to his knees before her.

He takes her hands in his, presses a kiss to her knuckles. “I’m sorry,” Varric is saying. “We didn’t make it in time.” Burying his face in her lap, wrapping his arms around her waist. She doesn’t move even as he shakes, his teeth gritted together. The tears spill, roll down his face. Leaning back, reaching upwards, his thumb brushing across her face. Pushing himself upwards, pulling her down to him, and pressing his lips against hers.

She doesn’t react. Her skin his cold. Her gaze is distant. “Hawke,” he says, “Marian, please.” He kisses her again. And again. And again. She is a vase filled with flowers long dead, water soured. She smells like emptiness. She smells like shackles.  

“Under The Spell of Moonlight”

The Olicity Valentine’s Day Smut-A-Thon @olicityvalentinesdaysmut-a-thon

Prompt: Morning Sex.  

A/N:M-Rated. I decided to write an alternate ending to 2x23.  There’s angst with a splash of love finally declared and sexy times.

Originally posted by librocubiculariste

Through the languor of bone deep exhaustion, Felicity could feel the vehicle ease to a complete stop. She was both physically and emotionally drained.  The trip back from Lian Yu and the horrifying events of the last few days were catching up with her.  She lay heavily against the door of the passenger seat in Oliver’s car, with her head against the window, seeking relief in the coolness of the glass.

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i’ve seen guys pull away from hooking up so quickly it seemed almost cartoonish.  they hear a car pulling up to the house, and they buckle their pants & tug on a shirt in the 4 seconds it takes them to realise that it’s just the neighbour, not their parents.  so i don’t really buy the argument that safewords are necessary because they “break immersion” in sex.

if your brain can simultaneously think about sex and make sure your roomates/parents/siblings aren’t about to walk in, why can’t you also make an effort to see how your partner is feeling & if they’re saying “no”, “stop”, or “wait”, or looking pained or uncomfortable?  if you can hear the garage door or a creaking floorboard, why can’t you hear “no”?  why does it take “bookworm” or “pineapple” or what the hell ever to make you pay attention?

mary pipher said “young men need to be socialized in such a way that rape is as unthinkable to them as cannibalism”.  is it too much to ask that you consider the prospect of forcing yourself onto an unwilling person as disturbing as the idea of your parents catching you with your pants down ??

Fic: “I Choose Us...” (1/1)

A Chris Evans x OFC Fanfic

Summary: Chris and Natalia go on their first date night following the events of Fix You
language, slight angst, sexual content
: Thanks for reading! xx


Chris let out a nervous breath, a cloud releasing from his mouth from the cold January air. Picking up his wife of twenty years for dinner shouldn’t have been as nerve wracking as it was, but this was their first night out together in what felt like forever, something that their marriage counselor had suggested to reconnect.

Over the years, date night had been a constant in their relationship; something that kept the magic alive. But, like every couple could relate to at one time or another, a growing family meant additional responsibilities, and taking time for themselves had somehow become scarce.

In an attempt to shake off the nerves, Chris puffed out another breath and rolled his shoulders back. Another ten whole seconds ticked by before he mustered up the courage and ascended the porch steps, one at a time. Once he got to the door that needed a new paint job, he respectively rang the bell rather than using his keys, clutching the bouquet of flowers in his tight grip.

Immediately, without fail, he heard the dog barking, followed by the sound of nails scratching across the floorboards. The door swung open seconds later and Chris prepared himself for the unavoidable attack.

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The pulse was designed to ward ghosts away from the human world by causing them to experience an intense paranoia, prompting them to go back into their world. The project itself had been in progress for nearly 25 years, the GIW had never let the secret experiment outside of the few researchers that were constantly at work on it. After a few years, it’d become sort of a GIW myth.

Except that it wasn’t. And the device was finished. The device would send out pulses all across the Earth to send ghosts fleeing into their own world. At least, that was the original plan. Unfortunately, the lab and its small-level ecto-entities only took them so far. The GIW needed to test it on an area where it would be controlled but also in a place where the results could be clearly seen; Amity Park was the perfect place. An ectoplasmic hot-spot and a small town. The citizens would need to be evacuated for a short period of time, the GIW needed there to be no interference with their experiment, so they could properly calculate the effects of the pulse on higher-level ghosts; just like the kinds that frequented Amity. The higher-up people in the U.S. government agreed that the small town of Amity Park was the perfect place to test the device, because of its frequent haunts-provided the GIW have the townsfolk safely out of the area as the tests were conducted. The civilians would only know what they needed to; that the GIW were going to try and rid their town of ghosts but in order to do so the people needed to be evacuated.

This was why, in a nutshell, the citizens of Amity Park were split into various lines. Children in the middle and elementary schools would be evacuated first with their teachers, then citizens over age 50, followed by adults between the ages of 30-49 (and their children that weren’t elementary-aged yet), and ending with teenagers and young adults ages 14-29 (the children of these young adults evacuated at this time too). The lines were organized further by birthdate.

Unfortunately for April-Born Danny, he was split from his best friends, as his friends had been born months prior; Tucker in the August of the previous year and Sam in February. He was directly after Dash Baxter, of all people. Apparently there was only a couple days between their respective birth-dates, who knew?

He could see his family, along with Sam and Tucker, waiting for him on the sidelines, next to the Assault Vehicle. They’d all already gone through the fun and games and were waiting for Danny to be put in the clear so that they could all leave to the center where they were to be housed until the evacuation was complete and they could resume their lives.

Danny was expecting to be thrust into another line-these guys are seriously obsessed with order, honestly-to wait for this lame experiment to be over (and it was bound to fail, obviously. The GIW don’t have the skill to catch the Box Ghost, let alone create something to prevent ghosts from spending their free time in the human world).

He wasn’t expecting that being deemed ‘fit for travel’ included a scan of ectoplasmic levels in his body. (It made sense after he thought about it; you’d have to get the citizens with a higher potential for ectoplasmic radiation farther away from the pulse to avoid them getting seriously ill, but at the time it all seemed so surreal.) Dash was pronounced clean and Danny found himself backing away. The GIW scientist scoffed at the boy’s fear, not knowing the source.

“Relax, kid. It’s just like an x-ray, or a metal detector. Not even that, really. It just looks at any ectoplasmic residue that may or may not have been left behind on you what with all these ghosts infecting your city. Just hold still for a second, it doesn’t hurt.” Danny shook his head and dodged the small device which, indeed, looked like a metal detector that they’d use before boarding an aircraft.

“N-No! Get it away from me!” He could tell that there was immediate confusion and utter disbelief at the boy’s reaction. Dash smirked.

“Afraid of a little x-ray, Fen-turd?” He quipped as he was led away into the mass of transport-ready civilians. The GIW agent narrowed his eyes before looking at two other agents that were awaiting orders nearby.

“Hold him.” The agent ordered and Danny found himself grasped in the hold of two burly men. His blue eyes widened. He was in a rock and a hard place. If he phased through their hold, they’d know; but if he let them scan his ectoplasmic levels-which always was a reflection of his ghost-half’s power level-they’d know as well.

Sam and Tucker were being held back, as well as his sister.

“He doesn’t want to be scanned! He’s healthy! Just let him through!” The red-head protested to no avail. The GIW weren’t budging. He was alone. Danny closed his eyes as the scanner passed over him; the machine had barely passed his collarbone when it began making noise.
“Mother of… This kid’s off the charts! Wait-” Danny couldn’t breathe and his eyes snapped open, though he couldn’t see much because his panic blurred his vision. “He has a signature! An ectoplasmic core!” The agent stumbled on his feet, dropping the scanner, and the two agents that had been holding the halfa ran away in utter disbelief. Danny shakily backed away, his eyes watering and his heart racing in his chest. Another voice entered the fray from where a separate agent scanned the boy’s supposed signature, only to find out that his colleagues were right and that the kid’s signature was all-too-familiar.

“It’s Phantom! The Ghost Kid!” At that exclamation, the stunned silence snapped and GIW agents whipped out ecto-pistols and other various weaponry which they brandished at the horrified teen. His parents were fighting their way through the men to get to him and Danny was wrought with indecision. This indecision only lasted for a moment, however, when the agent closest to him decided to shoot the boy with a burst of energy.

Instincts honed by nightly ghost fights and bullying from Dash, Danny’s eyes glowed a bright green and he used his hand to fling the ecto-blast away. Before he registered what was going on, his ‘defensive mode’ was switched on and Danny found himself in his ghost form and there was a shield in front of him that absorbed the small blasts fired into it.

For a moment, he noticed the looks of shock and horror on the faces of his parents. The looks on his friends’ faces, their parents’ faces, Jazz, Dash, Kwan, Paulina…. Danny gasped at realizing that he was in his ghost form and dropped the shield long enough for a large blast to nail his shoulder. Sam and Tucker were yelling at him to do something. Jazz too. The GIW spat out threats of dissection and painful experiments but Danny found himself deaf to them all. The ectoplasm from his core thrummed in his ears and his shoulder was oozing the glowing green substance, flecks of red blatantly displaying his half-ghost status.

They knew. They all knew.

Danny shook his head and jumped into the air, zipping away back into the town that they were all evacuated from. Knowing the GIW, they wouldn’t delay their planned experiment just because of this revelation-they’d just have to update their databases so that they were searching for Fenton and Phantom. The tears stung his eyes and froze on his face. He made it to his bedroom before he collapsed into his human form, his entire body numb.

He had a few hours, at most, before he’d have to go on the run. To continue running until the day he died. It was a hard pill to swallow. But he managed to pull himself together after twenty minutes of wallowing in self pity. He forced his emotions down, something that Danny had gotten enough practice doing for the past year, and flung his closet door open.

Underneath the floorboards was a simple dark blue backpack. A rather large one but not large enough to be cumbersome. Being almost as paranoid as the rest of his family, Danny had packed the bag full of what he knew he would need if he had to run off. A change of clothes (that he’d never wear in normal circumstances), scissors, a razor, a small bottle of bleach, soap, a small first aid kit, and a one-person tent rolled up and stuck on top of the backpack.

He pulled his wallet off of his bedside table and peeked inside. Twenty-five dollars and seventeen cents. He took everything except the cash out of his wallet-student ID, contact information, everything-and reached deeper under the floorboard in his closet for a few select cards.

If ever he was grateful to have a friend obsessed with technology and hacking, Danny was thanking his lucky a stars now. A fake birth certificate and social security number for a made-up boy that had only ever existed in paper form. Neil Tonne. One of Danny’s brighter moments had been to rip letters from Daniel Fenton to come up with a convincing, if not boring, identity. Shoving the papers into a pocket of the leather wallet, he packed the wallet away into his bag.

He switched forms so he could fly away but he hesitated. Taking one last look around the room, he found a framed picture of his family and friends. Him smiling obliviously along with them in front of Fenton Works. Letting a few tears slip from his toxic green eyes, he gingerly removed the photo from its frame and folded it, zipping it up into his bag as well (his HAZMAT didn’t have pockets, after all). Steeling himself, Danny made himself invisible and flew into the sky, leaving everything behind in a neatly written journal that laid on his bed innocently.

Assuming they didn’t already hate him and reject ever having a son, Danny left the journal to explain everything to his mother and father. The accident, why he kept his secret hidden from them, and recollections from every single battle that he’d ever fought in, including his evil future self. As it happened (well, directly after, in any case), he had written it down in the worn little book. Maybe even if they didn’t read it, Jazz would find it and get some comfort from it.

Pushing all thoughts of the life he was leaving behind him away, Danny sped into the horizon. He didn’t know where he was going, but it was away from Amity Park. Away from Michigan, from the Midwest, hell, maybe even away from the U.S. altogether.

As far away from the GIW as he could get, he would go. And continue going. And going.

If he ran away and didn’t contact his friends or family, the GIW wouldn’t bother them on his whereabouts. They wouldn’t know and the GIW wouldn’t know.

They’ll be safe from the GIW. They don’t care about humans if they don’t have information. Danny chuckled bitterly to himself as he flew over Colorado. Still playing the hero, even when nobody else is left behind to care. The teen let his tears fall freely through the air as he continued to fly at breakneck speed without direction.

Thick woods surrounded him, the sky above was a deep, star-speckled cobalt with the brilliant moon lighting the sky. Danny landed. He could guess that he was somewhere around Ohio, from the signs that he’d passed along the way. Before he found somewhere public, he needed to become a nobody; which is why he had landed near a small lake in the middle of the thick woods.
He tossed his backpack off of his sore, chafed shoulders and rifled until he found the bleach, scissors, and razor. It was dark and he needed light for what he was going to do. He conjured a small ball of ectoplasmic energy to hover over him. It wasn’t too bright, so it wouldn’t attract unwanted attention. Sighing heavily and steeling his nerves, Danny studied his reflection in the water. This was the last time he’d see his face. The last night that he’d be Daniel Fenton.

He started on his face first; carefully, he used the razor (while intently staring at his reflection so he wouldn’t mess up) to trim his brows so that they weren’t as thick. Grabbing the scissors, Danny had to confidence-check himself again before he started to cut away the thick locks of black hair until his long and messy hair was short and choppy; his bangs now barely reaching his brows from where they once flopped over his eyes if given the chance. Using his razor, Danny had carefully thinned out a good deal of hair on the sides and back of his head. While he was certainly no beauty major, the teen didn’t think that he looked half bad by the time he deemed himself finished.

Danny shook his head with a shaky sigh; he was really doing this. He’d played the scenarios over and over in his head but it was never real before. It had all been a joke at the time. Nothing that he’d ever have to do. He pulled his shirt and jeans off, leaving him bare but for his plain white boxers. He swallowed down the lump in his throat (they’re just clothes, come on!) and folded the shirt and jeans neatly on the dirt floor before lifting his hand and promptly incinerating them. He grabbed the bleach and shook his head again. He tugged his boxers off and stuck them next to the readied clothes by the backpack. He allowed the small, hovering ball of light to fade. Generously applying the bleach to every last hair on his head, Danny stepped into the freezing October water. If it weren’t for his ice core, he would have had hypothermia. He edged himself further into the cold water until he was at chest level and leaning against a large rock in the lake. His head spun with everything that had happened in just a few hours. He couldn’t feel-no, not yet. He couldn’t break yet; he could worry about his feelings later-now, he had to just… He just had to run.

When he finally pulled himself out of the water, Danny recreated his ball of light and studied his reflection in the stilled lake water. He was shocked to find out just how much a change in hair color and style could do to change someone’s face. His hair was maybe a shade away from Dash’s natural color. Since he had been rather thorough, and had left the bleach in his hair longer than he would have normally preferred, Danny liked to think that the blonde hair with his blue eyes looked almost natural, even with his black eyebrows. After he put his boxers back on, the clothes from his pack were next. A pair of faded, dark blue jeans that were torn in places purposefully to look “stylish” were the first to be yanked over his bare legs. Next came the tight black shirt over his head and with it was a forest green jacket, unzipped to his naval.

Now changed and disguised, the teen carefully cleaned everything up and pushed it all down into his backpack. Every last hair that he could find-everything was incinerated and the char marks were scuffed away to reveal spotless dirt. It was like he was never there. Danny transformed back into his ghost half and took to the air again, his backpack not quite as heavy as the weight of the world that he now carried on his shoulders.

It was when he made it to a place in New York, in the middle of the city with the same name, that he landed again-still invisible. It was somewhere around 5 in the morning. He’d been flying all night but the adrenaline had helped so that Danny hardly felt the true extent of his exhaustion.

He noticed that his face-both of them-were plastered across screens and billboards. He almost panicked before remembering that the face on the television wasn’t really his face anymore, thanks to his own precautions. A hand ran through his trimmed hair to reassure himself.

He sighed quietly and drifted into an empty alley, turning back into his human form. Swallowing down his terror and calming his furiously pounding heart, the boy tentatively started making his way through the streets. Nobody bothered to give the small blonde kid a second glance, often even shoving him out of their way. Danny, through his relief, couldn’t find it in him to be annoyed by the rudeness of the people around him. New confidence in his steps, Danny strode his way around the city, taking in the scene that befell him.

For a moment or two, he was even able to fool himself that he and his family were on a normal vacation. Jazz was at the New York Public Library reading everything she could get her hands on and his parents were studying the local haunts, particularly ones that Bill Murray had visited in the 80’s while filming the movie Ghostbusters, which his dad had long ago deemed a historical documentary of sorts. Danny decided that he liked his delusion and continued his trek through the city, studying the magnificent buildings that laid across the city as far as the eye could see and further. Amity Park was nowhere near as urban as he’d been under the impression that it was. Being in New York City made him feel so… insignificant. And it was wonderful.

The day went by too quickly. Soon, the city was engulfed in darkness. People went home to their loving families and luxury apartments. Others came out and rifled through garbage bins with their shopping carts full of cans and bottles. Sirens, screaming, and gunshots could all be heard in the ghettos where Danny currently was tentatively creeping through-invisible to be safe.

Everything was starting to catch up with him, as it had a tendency of doing. He was tired, hungry, thirsty, and completely alone in a huge city. No family, no friends. For all intents and purposes, Danny Fenton no longer existed. He was Neil Tonne, a nobody who knew nothing about the paranormal. A teen on the run from a life that no longer existed. Steps faltering, the boy swallowed hard and ducked into a dark space in between two buildings and behind a dumpster before collapsing onto his knees. He closed his eyes and let the tears fall. Noiselessly, he cried. The boy let everything out, his shoulders shaking from the effort of trying to stay quiet.

As pathetic as it sounded to his ears, he just wanted his mom to comfort him. He wanted his dad to laugh with over a bowl of ice cream. He wanted Jazz to psychoanalyze everything he said. He wanted to do that horror movie and hot wing marathon with Tucker that they’d put off to hunt ghosts. He wanted to tell Sam that he loved her. He wanted home more than anything in the world. Danny didn’t realize when he’d made the transition from quietly crying to bawling aloud.

He laid down on the ground, the smell of rotting food around him; the sounds of street-fighting, guns, and screaming matches ringing in his ears. A schizophrenic elderly woman hobbled past the alley, hollering about people draining all the metal from inside of the Earth. The teenager clamped his hands over his ears and sobbed harder.

He just wanted to go home.

*5 years later*

Danny couldn’t help but to wonder how much he looked like the people in those advertisements he often used to see on the television. Thin, emaciated bodies with wide eyes begging the more fortunate around to be merciful. Rough, leather-like skin chapped from days of dehydration. Some big-shot celebrity pretending to give a shit for the good publicity.

He knew he probably didn’t look much better, at least. Probably just a good deal paler like the people around him, in London. His hair was back to black but it didn’t seem to matter. He was unrecognizable from the… months? Years? However long he’d been running.

Dangerously thin, especially considering his six foot height that he’d gained over time, along with a broad chest and shoulders. Blue eyes that were lifeless and rimmed in darkness from lack of sleep. Greasy, tangled mass of hair that reached his shoulders. All he had in the way of clothing was a faded pair of dark jeans and an even more worn brown leather jacket that was zipped up if he needed to go anywhere that required a shirt. He was leaning against a brick building located within the fabulous city of London in the UK. It was cold in London now; what month was it, again?

How he’d managed to get this far was beyond him. He could only assume it had something to do with the ghost half inside of him that was becoming more and more difficult to access as he grew weaker.

It was really lucky, in all honestly, that he ended up in England. Even if his Mandarin, Spanish, and French were adequate, English was the one language he knew that he could understand for certain. Not to mention the cold rain felt like the blessed touch of a God against his feverish skin.

The sickness was probably why he couldn’t exactly recall when he had gotten to England, or how really. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been sick, for that matter. The body aches that came in bursts were natural and they often paled in comparison to the constant twisting of his stomach as it begged for sustenance. Danny could even ignore those, having gotten used to it some time ago.

Danny’s dull eyes turned to the right and he took to people-watching. He was quiet about it, but he liked to imagine what their lives were like. This lady was probably a lawyer, with the way her suit was so strict-looking… That young man was either a student-teacher or a newly-hired teacher; either way, he definitely had the ‘must mold young minds’ look about him… That guy was a family man, with a wife and some kids waiting for him wherever he was going.

Most that walked by ignored the fact that he was there. A blight on the good, properly-homed people of society. Those that dared look his way often did so with glares or looks of disgust. How awfully inconvenient for their walk home to have to smell the filth on a homeless teenager.

Such a rude boy he was to be so blatant about his existence.

Danny could feel it in the way that they avoided meeting his eyes. The way that they twitched their noses and quickened their pace. He didn’t mind, really. He knew what a waste of space he was; what a failure he was. The few things that he was supposed to do in Amity Park and he couldn’t do them. Keep his identity a secret and prevent malevolent ghosts from destroying the town he called home.

Ah, home.

What would his parents be doing about now? Cleaning up after dinner, likely. Did they even remember that they had a son? Jazz… would she be at a university by now? He couldn’t tell. Perhaps he didn’t want to be able to tell, he didn’t want to know how much of his own life had been wasted as he took horrid jobs for menial pay unless they wanted to ask questions.

His “Neil Tonne” persona had gone up in flames not even a month after he’d adopted it and began working while using the identity. He’d been caught for who he was because people started to ask questions. He’d answered them, which was the worst thing he could have done. If it hadn’t been for an elderly lady in Amityville, Massachusetts with a heart of gold, he would likely be in the hands of the GIW.

He hated questions so, as long as no questions were asked, he’d take the grunt position that he was given. Often it was cleaning out animal stalls, moving brick and mortar around, and once he was even tasked with breaking concrete slabs with a sledgehammer. That had been his favorite. Good, old-fashioned misplaced aggression taken out on the cold, gray surface of unfeeling concrete.

But he could never stay too long because people asked too many questions. How old are you? Where do you live? Don’t you have a family?

So he would have to leave. Get far away from the questions.

There was often little water for days at a time, and absolutely no food for even longer. If he could find someplace other than underneath a bridge to sleep, he was the luckiest man in the world. When he’d made enough money once, from a particularly difficult construction job, he was even able to get a hot shower with a warm meal and a bottled water. It had been the best day of his wretched, miserable life. Sometimes he wondered if he’d ever get that lucky again. It was unlikely, but he enjoyed relishing in the idea.

He remembered working for shit pay alongside illegal immigrants from Mexico. They had accepted the job for some of the same reasons that he did, and they could relate in more ways than one but at least many of them had wonderful families. His immigrant friends were nice to him and didn’t ask many questions, not that he could answer a whole lot anyway because his Spanish had been meager at the time. They had been the one to teach him how to speak Spanish more fluently; and he also learned quite a few cuss words. They also sang songs and always were kind enough to share some of their lunches that their families had packed for them. A few even offered that Danny stay with them.

But he was wanted by the GIW. The ghost hunters were willing to pay in exchange for him or information on his whereabouts, and Danny knew what the promise of money could do to someone and their steadfast morals. He always had to refuse, despite his heart yearning and tugging at the promise of being part of a family again, even if it wasn’t his own.

Danny let his head fall back, letting the icy rain pelt his scarred face. Opening his mouth, he allowed the cool water to moisten his tongue. It wouldn’t be enough, he knew, to help him much. At least it would stop the more intense burning of his throat. He tossed his jacket aside, though he knew it was unwise to do so. He needed the coolness on his body; not to mention it might help with the filth caked onto his person, might help with the smell that was bothering the other people passing by.

Speaking of which, there actually weren’t many that were out and about; the few people that were outside in this weather were just tourists now, mostly. There was a decent hotel not far away and they were all hobbling back from their exciting activities in “The Old Smoke”. The rain had completely soaked the denim which now clung to his weak legs. Danny blinked slowly, swallowing the water in his mouth before closing it.

The teen knew, in the back of his mind, that this was it. His body was giving out and he knew it. Any urine he’d been able to pass off, with what little water he’d had, was tainted with blood. He was now in constant pain, unable to sleep for more than maybe four hours even though he always felt completely exhausted. He was so tired; he knew that if he relented and closed his eyes that they wouldn’t open again.

But why was he hesitating? What was he waiting for? Closing his eyes meant… release. He wouldn’t have to run anymore. Worry about when his next meal would be. Wonder if his family missed him.

His legs drew close to his chest and his head drooped to rest atop his bony knees. Water rimmed his eyes and the pressure of unshed tears threatened to burst through his careful wall of apathy. But he was dying now. If someone was dying, they were allowed to cry, were they not? He didn’t have to put up anymore farces.

He carefully reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a worn photograph. The ache in his chest flared and Danny gasped slightly. It wasn’t the normal pain that he was able to ignore; this was something so much deeper, something that hurt worse than any kind of sickness or any kind of starvation that he’d ever experienced. He coughed out a choked sob, letting his eyes close and the tears fall freely.

I miss you Mom, Dad. I’m sorry if you’re disappointed in me for what I am… For who I’ve become. I wanted you to be proud of me like you were proud of Jazz. Jazz, I bet you’re doing good about now with how smart you are. Probably graduated now, right? … I’m sorry that I’m not there for you, Jazz, I am. I’m sorry I’ll never be able to see my nieces or nephews. I’m sorry I’ve been such a rotten brother. Brother… Tucker, the closest thing I’ve ever had to a brother. I miss you, man. I wish you could be here and tell me to ‘shake it off’ or something funny like that. Heh, you’d probably tell me to man-up and that my kidneys are just fine; I’m being a wimp. Except you’d be joking because you’d do this while you and Sam dragged me to the hospital to be looked at. Sam… I wonder if you’ve found a boyfriend. Most likely. Hopefully he treats you right; gives you everything you need and anything you want… I still love you, Sam. I’m sorry… I’m so sorry…

With his apologies murmured internally, Danny was able to quiet his broken sobs. His head fell back against the brick, his limbs went lax, and he went still.

A blonde boy was grinning ear-to-ear despite the pounding rain. His poncho took care of most of it anyway, keeping him warm and dry. His parents were a few paces ahead, discussing what they wanted to do for tomorrow, their last day before flying back to Michigan. The blonde nineteen year old went along his merry way until he heard a loud splash coming from an alleyway just to his left. Curious, he peered into the alley and, just against the red brick building laid a kid his age. He’d fallen to the side into a puddle. His ribs poked out dangerously from a much too pale chest. His messy mop of black hair clung to his pale, gaunt face with the muddy rain water. The teenager ventured closer with a look of puzzlement. He… He looked familiar. Almost like… But it couldn’t be… He saw a crinkled, torn piece of paper in his hand. It was a… photograph? His eyes widened and he nearly choked on air as he realized the identity of the boy laying in the cold mud.

“Is that-? No… Fenton? Fenton?! O-Oh my god! I-I found-! Mom!”

Bastard Valley: A Camp Camp Apocalypse AU

The official first chapter; a sequel to this short story I published a few weeks back. 

The valley of Sleepy Peak Peak is overrun with wild children, all of whom are desperate and violent and completely fucked up. And as winter approaches, Max, Nikki, and Neil have become more desperate for the tools they need to survive. 

Perhaps a little too desperate.

(As always; I do not own the characters or the show; I only write the words before you here).

Warning: Intense violence/gore from here on out. 


Bastard Valley: Chapter One 

They call it Bastard Valley: overrun with violent children without supervision or guidance. It’s a war-zone of survival, and those few who are lucky enough to escape never wish to go back, even for the friends they left behind.

But even children are capable of sophistication in times of desperation, and Bastard Valley, for being known as hell on earth, was still divided and organized to a certain extent. To the north, along the cracked clay deserts beneath the mountains, the Wood Scouts reigned: powerful and merciless to all who opposed them. More south, in the overgrown clearings and hills, the Flower Scouts resided: cold hearted and practically isolated from the rest of Bastard country. Bands of child pirates fought by western shores of the lake, and groups of wild children ran under the canopy of the woods, each more ruthlessly violent than the last.

None of them were completely safe; not even the strongest among them.

“Kick his ass Max!” Nikki screamed from the rooftop, lungs burning dry from the frost that had begun to settle. The crowd below her seemed to swell in argument, completely circling the two opponents in the ring.

From a strictly visual standpoint, Max was at a complete disadvantage. He stood at half the height of his opponent, and was nowhere near a comparable body weight. Had Neil had his way, they’d be back at the cave, bundled under stolen blankets and doing their best to cure their frostbite and injuries from hunting.

Instead, they were competing in the fighting ring for a god-damn saw.

“You’re a sad sack of shit, aren’t you pipsqueak?” Nerf laughed, tossing his shirt aside. Max merely rolled his eyes, tearing off his own and tossing it to Neil with no acknowledgement of the freezing air.

“Better than being a dumb sack of shit.”

Nikki’s laughter roared from above, setting off a ferocious wave of noise that did nothing but aggravate his imposing opponent.

“I’m gonna fucking kill you.” The threat is definite, signaling a hard, bone-shattering punch across Max’s face, breaking his nose with a loud crunch that silences the crowd around them.

The entire crowd falls silent. Even Nerf, breathing low and triumphant, stands stunned by his own actions. Max coughed, nearly paralyzed at the strength of the force and the strong damage of the injury. But he’s stubborn, crawling back up on his feet, blood pouring down his face and dripping from a wicked smile.

“You fucked up.” Nurf hit the ground, his own ribs cracking as Max dealt a swift round of kicks to his own nose. Within minutes they’re both on the ground, blood splattering and gushing from wounds sliced open by the crushed pavement below them. The fight lasted for five minutes, until the red-splattered ground turned into a pool of blood. The bell clattered, calling for the forcible separation of the two boys. Preston declared a tie, but the true winner was clear:

Nerf looked like shit, but was still standing with strength and determination.

Max had been completely shattered.

He couldn’t stand. He could hardly breathe, leaning on Neil for support as he tried to open his mouth. His entire body was stained in heavy patches of red. His skin was swollen a dark purple, coated in thick layers of frost-covered chalk.

Even Nikki was completely shaken by the sight of him.

“Max?” She whispered, unnaturally innocent and whispy, “are you going to be okay?”

“Get the saw, we need to go.” Neil hoisted Max onto his back, tugging hard so that his own jacket could cover the scar tissue on his back. Nikki ran through the crowd, the saw hoisted sharply at her hip, as the three of them left the fighting ring, which was already being cleaned and prepared for the next round.

They were silent until the lights of town were long lost in the undergrove, snow finally flaking down through the pines. Neil coughed, too weak to carry Max much farther.

“Nikki,” he stopped, “get him off me, can you? Back’s fucked up.”

Nikki was silent, gently grabbing Max and laying him on the blanket. He had fallen asleep during the walk, and the sudden sting of snowflakes on his face had finally roused him.


“You’re a fucking moron.” Neil sighed, holding up the saw. “At this rate this piece of shit is gonna be cutting your casket.”

“Don’t be such an ass, Neil.” Max coughed. “You know everyone’s out hunting whatever the fuck they can find; we need those fucking fish to…fucking hell-”

“Quit talking.” Nikki hushed her friend. “You look like you’re a zombie, are you sure you didn’t die on the way here?”

“Come on Nikki, quit joking.” Neil sat down to look at Max’s injuries, wincing at the sheer gore. The cuts were deep, some of the stones still stuck inside his skin. His nose was crooked, and his eye completely black. Wiping his hands in the fallen snow, Neil examined one of the gashes on his arm.

A thin, liquid pus had begun to form.

“…We’re fucked.” Neil’s eyes were dark, lost in panic and complete disbelief at the fate of his friend. “He needs direct medical attention or he’s going to fucking die.”

Nikki blinked, unwilling to register what he was saying. “No, you don’t mean that. It’s Max! He’s going to be fine!”

“Nikki, he’s going to get an infection. Even if we used every clean cloth and boiled hot water and all of the liquor we found, he could lose an arm or leg over this.”

“I’m right,” Max wheezed, “fucking here, you dipshits!”

“You don’t get to fucking talk!” Neil snapped. “Obviously you’re really shitty about trying to make decisions that guarantee you’re gonna survive here in this hell hole. So unless you got a bright idea for what to do with you, you can shut the-”

“I know.”

The boys stopped talking, taken aback by the sudden serious tone in Nikki’s voice. Her eyes were fixed out into the woods, glazing over snow dusted logs and rocks until there was nothing but the dark shadow of the woods.

“There’s a man who roams about here; with a big mask and gun. I see him sometimes when I’m out hunting. He doesn’t say anything, but he’s there.” She turned to her boys, defiantly smiling. “He lives by the lake in some cabin; I’m sure he has to have medicine; he’s always collecting plants and shit and putting them in his bag. It’s a long shot, but if it means Max doesn’t die, then I think it’s worth a shot.”

Both boys looked at each other. Max sighed, too tired to argue anymore.

“Fine. Nikki, when do you want to go?”

“Right now!” She chirped, hoisting Max and his blanket upon her shoulders. Neil yelped, stunned as Nikki grabbed his arm and dragged him through the windy, dark woods, the saw cluttering behind them with every quickened step. The moon was still shining, and while it was hard to see, the snowflakes lit the path just enough for them to pass through without tripping over a spare root or natural ledge. Their lungs burned like fire, dry and exhausted and desperate for a miracle, but it got them to the clearing, and the cabin that snugly situated itself just off the shoreline.

The snow appeared to make everything new again; coating all possible activities of human life. The windows were dark and foggy; its beams sturdy enough to withstand the wind. Nikki and Neil exchanged a look, slightly hesitant to move any closer.

“You sure this is the right place Nick?”

“One way to find out.” She slowly approached the door, careful not to let Max drop from her arms. With a sharp flick of her ankle, the house shook, sure to rouse whoever or whatever resided inside, if anything was still there.

But the house was still silent; no doors or floorboards creaked from the inside. Nikki kicked the door again.

“Let us in!” Her voice cracked in the wind. “We need to see the woodsman!”

The door opened sharply, revealing a shaded figure and the polished barrel of a shotgun.

“Who the fuck are you?” The voice was serious, unsuspectingly stoic and distinctly feminine. Neil stepped in front of Nikki, arms raised in defense.

“We need medicine. Please, just let us stay the night. We’ll pay you back in blankets or firewood or shit.”

“What makes you think I have medicine?”

“We don’t. We’re just-”

“Come on, Gwen,” a softer voice called from within the cabin, “let them in.” Slowly, the barrel dropped, replaced with a stern, weather-worn face. Gwen didn’t offer a shred of comforting expression, but she was calm, slowly opening the door and letting the three children into the foyer.

XF headcanon where Mulder and Scully are separated but Maggie has no strong son to help her move the furniture to redo the house so she phoned up Mulder and he offers to do all of it for her: the wall painting, the floorboards, the doors,… she names it. And Maggie sees it’s helping him get better because it takes his mind off his depression. They chat over tea and she cooks a builder’s lunch for him but with loads of vegetables still (now he knows where Scully gets her eat-your-greens obsession from). One Sunday afternoon, Mulder is repainting the living room and Maggie greets someone at the door. He immediately recognises her voice and he knows he looks like an absolute mess when Scully pauses in the doorway, a mixture of shock and amusement on her face. Maggie emotionally bullies them into staying for dinner because she claims she never sees her daughter anymore and Mulder is forced to stay because of lack of transportation back to his house. They both know it’s a conspiracy to make them reunite but for once they give in and when Maggie sees them hugging by the sink instead of washing up, Mulder’s soapy hands around her daughter, she knows they will be alright in the end.

Drove past your house on the way home from work last night, a message from his dad says when he checks his phone one morning. The lights were on.

Niall already has his bags packed. His guitar is leant up against the wall by the front door of the rented flat, and a car is set to pick him up for the airport in a matter of hours. He presses the phone to the mattress, and then his head to his pillow. Screen and nose in threaded conversation upon sheets that aren’t his. His breath is warm of transparent longing on all that white, an It’s easier than it should be to change his destination in a matter of minutes.

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have a drabble with absolutely no context courtesy of the heatwave the uk is currently experiencing~

Sansa lays on her stomach on top of the sheets, her cheek pressed into the cool fabric of the pillow. Heat this far north is suffocating; humid and heavy and sweat-inducing and awful, really, compared to the crisp dry heat in Kings Landing. Sansa heaves a sigh into the pillow and instantly regrets it when the coolness disappears and she has to turn it over again. 

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Because She Can

A/N: Most self-indulgent fic ever. Also my first Hamilton fic. I planned on having this be a one chapter fic, but it ended up getting too long. Because I’m trying not to lose my nerve, I haven’t really proofread it so let me know if there is any huge errors. I’m posting the first half now and working on the second. Enjoy!

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A fragment of my mind, that is what you are. I stay in my head–as if it were an old house I once stayed in, and eventually outgrew. The house gives off a faint scent of bygone jubilation and pain. 

I look around, and I see a timeworn room with its door slightly opened. Each floorboard slightly creaks as my footsteps make their way to the open room. I look around and open dozens of cabinets that all seem to have the same content.


I stumble upon your name numerous times, it’s familiar.
But it’s vague.

—  a short house visit
5,000 Miles of Space

A bug is the only spectator. A tiny black beetle with a shiny shell and six short little legs is the only creature around to watch a relationship of six years tremble, quiver, and, eventually, crumble.

“And what exactly is it you want me to say?”

The bug shudders along with the creaking floorboards as Newt paces over a horrid Persian rug. The orange carpeting is a monstrosity, not only clashing with the deep blue curtains hanging over the open windows but also a thing the bug had wandered over and found no food in.

“I want you to be honest, Newt! Is it really so hard to just admit it?”

“Admit what? That I have a job?”

Your voice softens, as though the words are a certainty, as though you know what they will do. “Admit that you’re certain you don’t love me anymore.”

Newt runs a hand through his hair, freckles hidden behind the blush that long ago crept into his cheeks. “I thought I wasn’t supposed to lie.”

Your lower lip wobbles. “I know it isn’t a lie, Newt.”

The beetle backs away when you cross your arms over your chest and step away from Newt. It may be near the counter, but there are smashed wings here, others have been killed in what seemed to be safer areas.


“Don’t,” you interrupt, eyes shutting and a hand raising to stop Newt from approaching you, “don’t use that word.”

He stops short, mouth closing, a short sigh breathed between his lips.

“Newt, just tell me that you don’t love me, and this can be over. We can move on.”

He reaches an arm out but drops it to his side before he can touch your elbow, gaze dropping from your face to your shoes. “I don’t know what you mean. I just need some more time.”

“You said you needed space, and I gave it to you. I did. But you were 5,000 miles away for a year, and you’re still unsure. I’m starting to think that an entire universe apart wouldn’t be enough space for you.” You wipe at an errant tear, blinking the others away.

Newt’s fingers thrum a beat against his thigh as his shoulders slump. His next words are barely audible, to you or the beetle. “I’m sorry.”

A thousand Newts in the beetle’s eyes duck their heads, shame and desperation to save a doomed situation crossing their expressions. The thousand Newts cross the room with heavy footsteps, a back bent to hide the tears leaking from the corners of their eyes. The thousand Newts shut their eyes when they come face to face with a smiling picture of them next to the woman they’d thought would one day be their wife. And they apparate with a quick pop, leaving behind a thousand women breaking into pieces in the front room.

The smell of something rotten sweeping under the door crosses over the floorboards and hits the beetle, sending it scuttling out from under the counter, eyes darting away in time to miss the woman kneel down where she sits and sobs.

anonymous asked:

Sam and puppies

Neighbors had been complaining about alarming noises coming from an abandoned house in Reo, Indiana. The brick home decorated with overgrown weeds and shattered windows was already the birthplace of local ghost stories and the recent whines and growls only exacerbated the residents’ fear of the lot. Adrenaline-seeking youths would scope out the place at night, many fleeing with fright after hearing the unexplained noises in the night. 

You and Sam left for the case together, the knowledge of the home’s history under your belt. It was a story of a happily married man who tragically lost his wife and then quickly spiraled downward, putting a gun to his head just weeks after her death. His spirit was said to plague the house, eternally wailing from grief and scratching at the entrapping walls. He wanted to escape the confines of his past, but he was forever trapped. 

The night was cool and a sharp breeze threw hair into your face as Sam opened the front door slowly. Inside, the floorboards creaked under your weight, echoing in the otherwise silent house. A cry rose in the distance, followed by the described scratching sound, like old fingernails against wood. You and Sam froze, raising your guns into the darkness, not able to see much. Sam motioned for you to search upstairs while he stayed on the main level. 

The stairs creaked even louder than the floorboards, but as you went up, the whines and scratches grew fainter until you heard nothing but your own breath and your boots against a thin, fraying rug. You opened one door then another, each of them empty. There was no sign of the apparition, no cold spots or unexplained movements. You prepared to search the last rooms when you heard Sam cry from downstairs. 

“Hey! Come…here, ah! Hurry!”

You spun around and sprinted down the stairs, your gun cocked and ready to banish the ghost. You heard more wordless cries coming from somewhere in the back of the house. You stomped forward, letting the sounds guide you to a cracked-open door. You flew in, the doorknob slamming against the wall as you lifted the gun and your finger moved on the trigger, ready to shoot. 

It was a good thing you didn’t.

Sam wasn’t being attacked by a ghost. He wasn’t in any danger. There didn’t even appear to be any ghosts in the house. Instead, there was a litter of puppies crawling over Sam while he sat in the middle of the room, taking turns petting and scratching them as they climbed over his legs and up his arms. 

You dropped your arms and exhaled, your heart beating the inside of your chest. Sam heard you de-cock your gun and he looked up, surprised to see you so scared. 

“It’s puppies!” he said. He couldn’t help but smile and continue playing with the abandoned animals.

You looked around. There were three bowls of water and a large bag of dog food opened and spilled onto the floor. At least someone hadn’t left them there to die. 

“Yeah,” you breathed out, “I see that.”

“Come on, come play with them! They’re so sweet and-ah!”

Sam was interrupted by one of the puppies jumping up and licking his face. You couldn’t help but start laughing. It was such a relief to see Sam unharmed, and with puppies nonetheless. You leaned your gun against the wall and joined him, two of the dogs running over to greet their new friend. Later, you’d take the animals to a nearby humane society, making sure they were properly cared for, but for now, you’d take a break and play with some puppies. 

One-Word Drabbles closed.

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