Disclaimer: I don't own Danny Phantom. Nope, nope, nope!

Author's Note: To get a real feel for this story, listen to the song "Smother Me" by The Used. Surprisingly, for a song by The Used, it's not in a bad context in any way... despite the title sounding bad. Download that song, listen to it, and read this story. If you don't have the song, it's all right, just Google the entire group of lyrics from this song. I hate writing stories with lyrics intertwined in it, because I just think it's taking up more space than necessary. If it's worth it, there are lyrics in the beginning, like this.

Wow, it's almost been a month; I had been planning to put this out much earlier, but I haven't had much time to breathe.


Smother Me

The Response

August 11, 2007


Let me be the one who calls you baby

All the time

Surely you can take some comfort

Knowing that you're mine

Just hold me tight, lay by my side

and let me be the one who calls you

Baby all the time

I found my place in the world

Could stare at your face for the rest of

my days

Now I can breathe, turn my insides out

and Smother me

Warm and alive I'm all over you

would you smother me?


She lounged back on her sofa, watching television with her long-time boyfriend and resident protector of the–hell–the entire world. She usually felt so fragile and helpless next to his accomplishments and what he was truly capable of, but now she had one-up on him. She was slowly driving him mad with paranoia, and she was sure of it. She could sense his anxiety when it came to her, wondering whether or not his words were delivered eloquently enough to enrapture her heart... to be the one who would be his partner, his equal, for the rest of their days together.

Sam laid back, resting her head in his lap as they watched a re-run of an old favorite show. She felt as he absentmindedly played with her hair. Despite not vocalizing her adoration for it, she loved it when he played with her hair; hence, why she left it down whenever they planned on just lounging around on a lazy afternoon.

It had been almost a full week since she had received his letter in her mailbox. She chuckled when she got the letter, finding it endearing that he would use the postal service to make his declarations. For someone that could easily work as his own postal service in record time, it seemed more real to put a stamp on the right-hand corner of that envelope and stick it in the mailbox. She figured that he thought it was a lost cause, now, and that it had gotten lost in the mail, and the only copy of his feelings towards her was gone forever.

Sam tried to place her emotions for a good, long while after reading that letter. First, she was shocked that he would even think about trying to write her a letter to articulate his feelings for her. Guys, she thought, ignored the mushy, truthful aspect of any relationship in order to just be happy, get sex, or just not fight. Then, she was confused, wondering what in the hell brought on the letter; she didn't think she had acted any differently towards him, but... maybe he was just so moved by the fact that they were so solid and wanted to tell her? She was then saddened that he didn't say it to her face, which was followed by relief, when she realized she had started crying while reading the letter–thank goodness he wasn't there for that.

The thing that shocked her the most was the end of the letter, "I promise, to spend the rest of my life with you, would be all I want in my lifetime when it comes down to the wire. If you're thinking that's a marriage proposal, then it is."

She wanted to call him up, run over to him, or just... uncharacteristically squeal when her eyes grazed over those words.

She was through playing games, but teasing wouldn't be so bad...

"You know, you have really nice handwriting for a guy," she spoke, her eyes still fixated on the television, watching a commercial flitter across the screen.

"What?" he asked, his curiosity piqued.

"Tucker's handwriting is chicken scratch, but I can make out when you write so much easier than his writing," she replied to his question simply, like it was the most common thing in the world.

He decided to bite the bullet. With a suspicious tone to his voice, he asked, "When have you seen my handwriting lately?"

"Nowhere special," she responded nonchalantly, which tipped him off immediately.

"Sam," he warned, turning her in his arms, forcing her to look at him. Her eyes always betrayed her.

"Yes?" she replied.

"Tell me the truth," he said, extremely vulnerable to her motives. "Please?" he added desperately, looking down into her violet eyes.

Seeing how much this was affecting him, she gave him a weak smile, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you earlier. I had to digest the information first."

He seemed relieved and tense at the same time; relieved that she received the letter, tense at her reaction to said letter.

"When did you get it?" he asked tentatively.

"Almost a week ago," she said, averting her eyes briefly. "I think I've read it about a hundred times, at least, by now."

He nodded somberly, waiting for the brunt of her reasoning.

She chuckled, despite herself, "You've always had a knack for saying things in a certain way to make me cry." At the look of alarm on his face at her words, she followed up with, "Good tears." He relaxed.

"Wait, so, what does that mean?" he asked, his nerves jumping, the butterflies in his stomach he had tried to squash down now having boxing matches with one another.

"We are young, I agree," she spoke, dancing around his question (or so he thought), "but I've heard of long engagements."

"Engag–wait! You accept?" his eyes widened as he sat straight up now, watching her movement.

She sat up, moving herself so it would be more comfortable for them. "If you ask properly, that is. No hiding behind a pen and paper."

"I said I was going to tell you myself, didn't I?" he questioned, giving her a look.

"Well, yes–"

"Marry me?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really?"

She glared at him, but with a smile on her face. "No, I was just kidding the first two times I agreed to marry you. Oh well–" her mocking was cut off with a searing kiss, rendering her breathless.

"Really?"

"Until the end of time," she smirked, leaning in for another kiss.


End Note: Now that is the end. I hope it didn't suck too much, but I decided against having her write back a letter to his, since that was probably predicted. Nonetheless, it was a response! I hope you enjoyed reading.

-A