never opening my windows again


fridges-of-neverland said:

Hello again! First of all, your imagines are AMAZING! Once, I caught myself scrolling through my dashboard only to check whether you’d done the Tasmanian Devil request. Secondly, I NEED more of your amazing writings so, I’d like to request a Pan imagine based off the song Lost Boy by Troye Sivan. It’s a really good song I can relate to and, judging by the title, it should suit the imagine. Thank you so much for having to deal with my requests and turning crap into HOLY CRAP THAT’S AMAZING!!! <3

Warning/s: violence, swearing


summary: a oneshot inspired by the song “Lost Boy” by Troye Sivan ;) 

You were currently sitting on the roof by your window with Peter. He looked at you sideways and smiled. You tried to fake a smile but as soon as you flashed it, it fell. Peter’s smile fell and was replaced with a frown. “What’s wrong?” he asked. You shook your head, “Nothing”.

“Come on. Something is clearly up and you’re not telling me.” He raised an eyebrow at you.

“It’s nothing really. Don’t worry” you tried to convince him.

“It’s about your mother isn’t it?” he whispered.

“No” you stood up. “You’ve been here for a long time now. You better get back to Neverland. The lost boys might be waiting.” You said while walking over to your window and into your room.

Peter followed you and grabbed your arm before you can even lay on your bed.

He forced you to face him. “Why can’t you just let me take you with me?” he asked.

You shimmied away from his grasp and gave him a strict look. “I swear if you don’t leave now I’ll never leave the locks on my window open again.” You threatened.

He sighed and lowered his head. “Fine. Let me just tuck you in” he lead you to your bed and pulled the covers over you. He leaned in and kissed your forehead before flying out of your window. You sighed and closed your eyes.

The next day went by painfully slow. Numerous taunting and name calling from your schoolmates. Now that you are home, you see your mom lying on the couch holding a bottle of vodka. When you closed the door quietly, she looked up and glared at you.

“Don’t be so loud!” she shouted at you. You murmured a sorry and walked over to the stairs that leads to your room.

“What did you say, bitch?” your mom shouted at you and grabbed you by the hair.

“I said I was sorry” you yelped as she pulls your hair harder.

“Stop lying you ungrateful bitch!” she screamed at your face and hit you directly on your left cheek, catching you off guard. You fell to the floor and you held your cheek, surprise from what just happened. She kicked your legs and walked back to the couch where she passed out. You stayed in that position for a while before you made your way to your room. 

You decided to take a shower so you went to your closet to get clothes and went to your bathroom to take a shower. You dried yourself after taking a shower and changed clothes in the bathroom. You went over to the sink to brush your teeth. When you looked up to the mirror, you saw a bruise forming from where your mother had punched you. You sighed and walked over to to the door.

“Holy!” You screamed as you saw Peter sitting at edge of your bed.”The hell man” you chuckled and walked over to him, sitting beside him. He chuckled and looked over to you, a frown replacing his laughter when he saw the bruise your mother gave you. He stood up and you saw his jaw clench. “I swear Y/N! If you won’t fight for yourself, I will!” he screamed. You stood up and hushed him. “Don’t be too loud! She might hear” you whispered.

He grabbed your hand and stared at you. “I’m taking you with me. Now” he demanded. You pulled away from him and looked down. “No” you whispered.

“It’s not like you have a choice” he scoffed.

“I’m not coming with you and that’s it!” you shouted.

“Come on Y/N! We both now that you feel lost and you don’t belong here. You’re lost! Let me take you somewhere you will belong!” he said, frustrated with what’s happening.

“That’s the point!” you yelled.

“What is the point?! Tell me Y/N, because I don’t see the point in staying somewhere you’re not safe.” he raised an eyebrow.

“I am lost. I know that. I’ve been lost ever since and I think I learned how to live with it.” you whispered.

“What are you saying?” he asked.

“I’m saying that I’m lost a-and I-I don’t think I’m ready to be found” you looked down. Peter looked at you sadly. You didn’t deserve this. You didn’t deserve to get used to with your cruel life. Now Peter is determined to make you feel the things that you never felt. Freedom, happiness, safety, love.

“Y/N” he started.

“I promise if you come with me, I’ll show you everything you’re missing. You’ve been hidden from the real world by your mother and everyone around you that you can’t see the beauty of anything. I promise you that everything will get better. Just please, let me help you” Peter offered a hand for you. You stared at it and sighed.

You held his hand and he smiled at you.

“You won’t regret this” 

He lead you to your window and flew the both of you to Neverland.

I don’t like it lmao. idk what to put as title so lol

Requests are open yo

Fuck, I’m never going to fucking open my windows ever again at night. I’m ok with bugs and I’m not afraid of them but jeez, a green cricket on my damn hand out of nowhere after not seeing them in YEARS is some experience. I’m surprised that I wasn’t even scared. What is it even doing in my room??

anonymous asked:

my neighbor came up to me while i was walking my cat (yes i walk my cat she refuses to go in a litter box because she's annoying as fuck) and he told me i should start closing my blinds before i change. i think my neighbor has seen me naked. i didn't realize he could see through my blinds but also why would he be looking in my windows? i'm creeped out i'm never opening my blinds again

omfg that’s so creepy?? yeah definitely keep your blinds shut pal :/ stay safe

sleepover time!! come chat with me about anything!!


Absolutely top class passive-aggressive letter writing, courtesy of The Guardian. I can’t think why they don’t want to stay in touch with you, anonymous. It’s a mystery, right enough.

Questions I Have For The Squirrel Who Broke Into My Apartment And Ate My Cookies

Does it feel good, being a criminal? 

Does it feel good, walking into a stranger’s home, knowing that they’re asleep in the other room, knowing that they’re dreaming while you work, knowing that you’re ruining their lives? 

Does it feel good, sneaking through my open window, touching my things with your grimy fingers, unwashed most likely, sticky with sugar from baked goods you’ve stolen from other unsuspecting homes?

Did they taste good, those cookies, the ones you found on my kitchen table? Could you taste the effort I put into them? Could you taste the sweat and the tears, the love and the care I baked into every one, the delicate hand I used to transfer each one from the rack to the plate?

Did you think about me while you ate them? Had you seen me before? Had you watched me from outside while I baked them, knowing I’d leave the window open that night, knowing I’d be foolish enough to believe in their safety?

Do you think about any of your victims? Do you think about how they feel when they wake up, when they walk into their kitchen to find the crumbs you’ve left and the dreams you’ve destroyed?

Did you know you left your footprints in the dust on the windowsill? Did you do it on purpose so I’d know you’d been there? Did you leave them to taunt me? Do you do this to all your victims? Or was it just me? Did you know it would hurt me the most?

What made you the way that you are? What tragedy turned you into the sugar-lusting barbarian you’ve become? Does your family know this is the life you choose to live? Does your mother know that you wait until the sun has set before succumbing to your body’s reckless lack of self control? Does your mother know you’re a worthless ball of scum? That you offer society nothing but your depravity? That you prey on the hard work of good, honest people — people who bake cookies with the expectation that they’ll wake up and find the same number of cookies on their kitchen tables, and not a pile of crumbs, a mere memory of the warmth that now swirls in your pathetic stomach?

Does it feel good, coming back to my window every night, knowing I’ll never open it again, knowing I can still see you from inside? Does it feel good to bring the pastries you’ve stolen from elsewhere, to show me you can survive without me, that my cookies meant nothing to you, that your body no longer craves the nutrition I provide? 

Does it feel good to live without a soul?

Does it feel good to be a beast?

Does it feel good to be a monster?