#I am pulling this all out of nothing and holding it up with pseudoscience and nonsense

[deva-arts]

Vincent has dark roots and white hair. Does he dye it?

Nope. His hair just fades in that color past a certain length. If he were to let it all grow out instead of shaving the sides all the time, it would all look white and spiky.

(Similarly, if he buzzed it all off, it would be black.)

[mrwinterr]

Die Happy

Pairing: Ghost!Bucky Barnes AU x Female Reader; tiny hint of Sam Wilson x Female Reader

Summary: You summon a really friendly ghost.

Warnings: Smut 18+ (consensual vibes all around, masturbation, vaginal fingering, oral [female receiving]) and language. Dabbling into the occult (use of a Ouija board).

Disclaimer: I’m a spooky bitch, I like how Ouija boards look like, but I would NEVER mess with them.

Title Inspiration: “Die Happy” by Dreamers  

A/N: I was on Reddit and I stumbled across an erotic audio that inspired this, so I definitely owe it to them. I’ve just been dying to write a ghost AU. I decided to hold back on the smut on this for now and maybe save it for later. This can be turned into a series, but I don’t want to get ahead of myself. Idk. You tell me! Enjoy!

It’s here.

It’s finally here. The package that would help you find the answers you were so desperately looking for was finally here.

Package in hands, there’s a skip to your steps as you happily make your way back into the living room of your somewhat new home. You had moved in almost six months ago, but it still felt so surreal. You, a homeowner. All those years of saving up and house hunting - you finally did one of the most adult things you could do in your life.

The small house had been in the neighborhood for decades and owned by plenty before you, in fact, too plenty, but for a home in Brooklyn, New York it was surprisingly affordable. You’re still patting yourself on the back for how you managed to score this place at such a bargain price.

It was the ideal place, really; surrounded by friendly neighbors and with a great home association. It was at a reasonable distance from your workplace and the city. Furthermore, cosmetically, it was your dream home. You never took a second to ask why someone would quickly put this home back on the market...until recently.

The realtor had assured you that everything in the house was functioning properly before you signed away. There was little to no refurbishing on your end, which was part of the dealbreaker, but now you can’t help to wonder if the realtor was duping you. A young, pretty woman and a first-time homeowner? That was easy bait for them, right? There had to be a catch or information that they were withholding and well, you weren’t about to wait any longer to find out.

Lately, strange things had been happening and while at first you brushed them off as mere coincidences, they were becoming almost too outstanding to ignore.

First, it was the air conditioning unit acting all wonky. You kept the house at a reasonable and comfortable temperature, but you found yourself often sporting hoodies even during the warmer seasons. The technicians couldn’t find a single problem with it and besides whenever you scheduled a visit for inspection, it was magically working just fine. Never mind the breeze that blew past you here and there…

Next, much like the AC unit, the electricity started to have a mind of its own. Before you could flip the light switch or press the button on your remote, it was always one step ahead of you. It was almost like you were living in a smart house, but instead of acting on voice command, it read your mind.

Not to mention, things disappeared and reappeared every now and then. Small things like the morning paper would vanish from the coffee table and if you couldn’t locate where you last left your keys, you never searched too far.

Then the eeriest one of them all was the unexplained smell. There was a distinct yet alluring scent that would waft by when you felt that breeze pass over. You had deduced that it wasn’t any like of your fragrance collection nor was it from the only friend that visited you. It was a pleasant odor and almost calming to you.  

You didn’t want to believe it, but these weren’t just common occurrences - these were tall tale signs of a haunting. The spirit wasn’t vengeful, that much you gathered since it didn’t make attempts to harm you in any way. Sure you could just either ignore these oddities or relist the home, the latter which wasn’t in your favor because it wasn’t that simple. Instead, curiosity won the best of you and you opted to take matters into your own hands.

Literally.

“Whoa!” You hear your close friend Sam Wilson exclaim and watch as he scoots to the other end of the couch as far away as he could when you pull the Ouija board out from the box. “Shit, girl. I knew you liked Halloween, but I didn’t think you were that spooky!” He said, his eyes bugging out in disbelief that you’d ordered such a thing.

You roll your eyes at him and place the board on the coffee table. He immediately gets up from his spot and sets what he deems is a safe distance from it as if the object was cursed. You’re not deterred by the Ouija board at all. It had quite the opposite effect because you were all too fascinated with the supernatural.

“You really shouldn’t mess with that kind of stuff,” Sam warns as you handle the remaining piece, the planchette.

“I don’t know why you’re so scared,” you respond, blowing him off and kicking away the now empty box.

“And you’re not?!” He says incredulously, “trying to speak to the dead is not right!” Well, it certainly wasn’t normal, but so weren’t the things that were happening in your home lately.

“I need to find answers, Sam!” You bite back, the volume of your voice matching his. You didn’t miss the hint his exclamations gave off and it bothered you. “What do you expect me to do? Continue living like this? I’m not in control of my own home.”

Oh, he knew. He was your closest friend and you trusted him enough to share your theories about your home and the experiences in it.

“You really think this place is haunted.” It comes off as more of a statement because he can see you’ve clearly made up your mind on how you’re going to prove the theory.

“Why do you think I can’t have Sarge or any pets over?” You absolutely adored Sam’s dog Sarge, but he made it apparent that he didn’t like something about or in your house.

Before Sam could try and spit out an explanation you’ve already heard, you stopped him, “I’m not going crazy! And I certainly am not going to spend another fee on having a technician tell me there’s nothing wrong with the units again.”

“Look. Why don’t you just come spend the night at my place and we can think of another way to approach this?” He offered and you knew that offer all too well. It had always been on the table. When you decided to move to Brooklyn and were looking for your own place, Sam had offered you a room, but you were hellbent on making it on your own. You were proud and independent...and weren’t sure about taking the next step with him.

Sam was everything your past lovers weren’t and you while you both weren’t official, a couple of dates happened here and there, something was holding you back. You cherished his friendship so much and a part of you feared finding out what it could be that you weren’t willing to jeopardize what you two already had if anything more came out of it and then failed miserably. He made it clear how he felt about you, but you brushed it off casually each time. Sam knew you simply weren’t ready.

“Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” You reply, breaking away from seeing the look of concern on his face and back to the planchette your hands were fidgeting with. You knew he was a skeptic on these kinds of things and only worried for your safety.

The nights he had spent here nothing strange ever happened. It’s like these occurrences were only happening about you. Sam wasn’t sure if he believed in ghosts or not, and he deeply cared for you, but he wasn’t about to stick around and find out. He knew that you could be stubborn, but there was only so much he could do to change your mind from where he stood and he just hoped he hadn’t lost you yet.

The small crack of thunder in the sky indicated a storm was coming and you took that as a sign to convince Sam to leave for the day. You didn’t want to fight with him about this. The few times you did talk about a possible haunting were just humorous conversations to Sam, but you were always being serious. It was evident that you two were not on the same page.

“You should probably start heading home before the rain comes,” you advise, standing up to walk over to the front door, hoping it’d sway him, but he knew what you were doing. Sam wasn’t mad. He was always very patient with you.

He only nods in false agreement before following your lead. “I’m coming back first thing in the morning to check if you’re still alive though,” he jokes, before pulling you in for a hug and giving you a kiss to the side of your head. His words elicit a light chuckle from you, but is mostly muffled against his biceps, then you’re playfully shoving him out the door.

As soon as his car disappears from the end of the street, you jolt and head snaps quickly at a sudden crash from the kitchen. You make your way in that direction to find the mug gifted to you on your last birthday from Sam shattered in pieces all over the kitchen floor.

The last roar of thunder must’ve been a strong one or the elevation of the shelf had been slightly off or maybe the house didn’t like Sam…

You shook your head at that last silly thought from your mind and sighed preparing to clean up the mess. Once that was done, the gloomy weather quickly casted a blanket over the sky and with a remix of fast raindrops against the windows and pavement and the lag in thunder, you didn’t waste time on the mission.

What better time than now? It set the mood. Were you scared? You weren’t sure. You were already convinced you were living with a spirit. You didn’t ponder long enough to think about the aftermath. Was this all just a bunch of hocus pocus or pseudoscience? Would you get possessed by a demon or would he be like Casper?

The use of a Ouija board, especially by someone inexperienced as yourself, was highly not recommended and very much frowned upon during your upbringing. If only your parents could see you now...

The spirit in your home couldn’t be that bad though, right? If they wanted to possess you, they would’ve done so by now; unless they were just waiting for an invitation. Well, there was only one way to find out.

You dimmed the lights and lit a few candles around you. Was this insulting? You did some fair share of research, but most of what you knew about Ouija boards were credited to horror movies.

You take a deep breath and begin to summon your supposed roommate.

Bucky felt bad as he watched you clean up the mess he made in your kitchen. He knew you liked that mug, but he didn’t and he certainly didn’t like how Sam made you feel. Sam made you feel all sorts of things and Bucky knew that, which explained why Sam never experienced anything unusual in the house because Bucky didn’t like seeing you with him.  

He was aware of how silly it was. A ghost jealous of two living humans. He had his turn, but it was tragically cut short. He was so young. He left everything behind to fight a World War. There was a high chance he wouldn’t come back and he was sadly part of that statistic.

But why did his afterlife have to consist of seeing the most angelic living human being just waiting to fall in love with the perfect living man? He didn’t get a chance to live out that part of his life, so was he bitter? Yes. And especially outraged at any distress that was brought upon the current tenant of his old home.

Bucky wasn’t sure why he was able to roam around his old stomping ground over the last couple of decades. He tried his best to communicate with the previous owners but he always ended up scaring them off. When you moved in, if he wasn’t already dead, and you could’ve seen him, he just knew he would’ve been as pale as a well...ghost. He made sure to not send you running for the hills.

He tried to help you with everyday things, trying his best to be subtle. He didn’t even spy on you during private moments like in the shower or on those lonely, needy nights. He proved himself to be a ghostly gentleman.

He even tried to not eavesdrop on your conversations and almost always disappeared when guests were present, but he heard you raise your voice earlier at Sam. He wasn’t sure what you two were arguing about and sure it was petty on his part, but before he could summon enough energy to knock over the mug, Sam was already gone.

Bucky followed you back into the living room and watched as you lit the candles scattered around. He lightly smiled believing you were attempting to relax. If only seeing you in peace was enough to put him to rest - permanently - but when he sees you take a seat back on your couch his expression fell and he swore his heart would stop again if it could.

“Oh no,” he says as he watches you stare at the Ouija board on the table before you. Bucky starts pacing in front of you, his hands over his head. Anyone that set foot and stayed long enough knew this place was haunted, and he knew you weren’t stupid and besides he wasn’t as subtle as he’d like to have been lately.

“Is anyone here?” He hears you ask the first question. He looks over your direction and sees your eyes are closed with both hands on the planchette.

“Oh my God,” he barely whispers and realizes, “she’s really trying to talk to me.” He couldn’t believe you’d be so brave to risk such a thing and importantly willingly reaching out to him.

“Yes! I am! I’m here!” She can’t hear you, idiot. “Fuck, of course she can’t hear me.” Bucky argues with himself on what to do before he remembers how Ouija boards work.

He almost can’t believe it when he does it, but he’s able to delicately move your hands and slide the planchette over to the word ‘YES’.

Your eyes pop open and you gasp when you see that you got an answer. You're frozen and look up in front of you half expecting the spirit to show itself to you, but you don’t see anything.

At least that’s what you think. Unbeknownst to you, you’re staring right at Bucky or rather through him. His expression mirrors yours - complete and utter shock. He was never able to easily move or touch anything solid in years. The incident with the mug earlier, that kind of stuff usually required a lot of concentration and energy on his part. He’s also scared that he’s frightened you with that move, but at the same time excited that he’s successfully communicating with you.

You’re unsure if you should continue. You were half expecting this to be a bust, but it moved. It actually moved! While you were excited that this worked, the tiny voice in the back of your head had you considering that maybe you shouldn’t go any further, but who ever really listened to them? You blink a few times and refocus your attention on the task.

“What are you?” You ask.

“What am I?” Bucky repeats the question, “I’m dead.” Wait. He starts to spell the letters ‘D-E-A-D’ with your hands on the planchette. He compares the sight of the corners of your mouth lifting, amused at that response, of course he was dead, as to what angels must’ve felt like when they earned their wings. If anyone believed in that sort of stuff...either way he felt very blessed.

“You liked that one, didn’t you?” Bucky said more to himself with a big smile on his face. He loved this! It was like he was having a conversation with you. It was something he only ever dreamed of for the last six or so months.

A particular flash of lightning followed by a thunderous sound startles you and you breakaway from the Ouija board. You weren’t going to lie. You were still absolutely spooked out and decided that maybe that was enough contact with the dead for the day.

When your heartbeat finally returned to its normal pace, you got up and turned on the lights, made sure you blew all the candles out and turned in for the night. Before you left, Bucky watched you look around the room and bid goodnight to seemingly nothing, but he knew it was meant for someone - it was meant for him.

The days that followed, you were growing curiouser and curiouser that in your spare time, you started digging into how much can come out of the Ouija board, but first you needed to figure out who you were dealing with.

With as much access as you were granted, you found out about a man, who was around the same age as you, that had died during World War II and the hauntings that would start to occur after the first tenant took residence upon this home.

The house belonged to a man named James Buchanan Barnes, but signed it under the name Bucky. How cute. You thought to yourself over the nickname, then you saw an accompanying photo of who you assumed was living with you. It was in black and white and the quality wasn’t that up to par, but from what you could make out you could determine enough. Cute name for a cute guy.

You read the experiences of others that lived here before you and they all seemed harmless. They were just spooked and you didn’t blame them. They had every right to be scared, but you didn’t scare that easily.

You’re so engrossed with your findings, you barely paid any attention to Sam, even when he’d come in to check on you. He had the spare key in case of emergencies, and you ignoring most of his unreturned phone calls and missed texts, uncharacteristically you, to him was deemed as an emergency.

Sam was only less than thrilled to see your enthusiasm on all this. Normal people didn’t go around poking at the dead. He pointed out you were lucky you didn’t get possessed, not paying any mind or adhering to you claiming he was probably a friendly ghost.

“This isn’t an episode of Casper!” Sam says fed up again. His face falters as he watches your shoulders visibly slump. He hated killing the vibe, especially when you were excited, but you were excited about something all too unreal and that shouldn’t be messed with at all in the first place.

“What if I can help him?” You try reasoning with him, “What if I can help him pass on? Then I can live in peace...and so would he.”

“You’re already lucky that you’re unharmed,” Sam reminds you, “I’m just worried about you.”

“I know you are, but I’ll be fine,” you assure him, hoping you could keep that promise. After all, you couldn’t even confirm you were really communicating with Bucky.

You were relieved that the conversation with Sam didn’t take a turn for the worse like it easily could have. You understood where he was coming from and you were lucky to have someone like him care so much about your wellbeing. The realization never fails to punch you in the gut for not allowing yourself to give in.

So why were you more scared to commit than of willingly reaching out to a ghost?

Take two.

You sat perched up and ready to communicate once more. Bucky, on the other hand, is more than ready and the cool familiar breeze that passes you by lets you know that he’s here.

“Who are you?” There weren’t exactly formalities with contacting the dead and your heartbeat starts to pick up as you’re slowly spelling out ‘B-U-C-K-Y’.

“Bucky,” you whisper. Boy, did Bucky like the sound of his name coming from your lips.

“How did you...die?” you had to swallow in between the last word in that question, hoping it wouldn’t trigger a negative response. Even in the afterlife, death couldn’t be an easy topic.

The letters ‘W-A-R’ and the number ‘2’ gives you your answer. It was him! Internally, you’re overjoyed that you’ve figured out your ghostly John Doe, but you try to remain at ease.

“Did you knock down my mug?”

Bucky rolls his eyes at that, but swiftly moves your hands over to ‘YES’.

“Okay. I mean that wasn’t very nice,” you couldn’t just bite your tongue as the sass flowed right out of you.

‘S-O-R-R-Y’.

The apology takes you by surprise, and suddenly you weren’t mad about the mug anymore.

“It’s alright. It was just a mug,” you try to assure him. You’d just have to explain to Sam another time that the ghost broke it. No biggie. Yeah, right. What with the tiny arguments, he’d most likely believe you destroyed it out of anger and frustration at him.

Your arms were getting tired from the position they were in. Several minutes had passed since you last said anything to Bucky and you weren’t sure of what to ask next.

Where does this end? Do you ask him to leave? This is his home. No, it’s not anymore. It’s your home now. But he doesn’t belong here anymore. How do you help him pass on? Did you have that ability? Do you hire a medium? Enlist the help of a priest? Call a ghostbuster? Your mind grew tired all too quickly, you slumped back in your seat, breaking away from the Ouija board.

Bucky watched as you rubbed the muscles of your sore arms. He felt helpless. He wishes he could ease or take away your pain. Instead, all he could do was watch and make sure you were okay until you were ready to start talking again.

With your hands back on the items, you ask, “are you still here?” Bucky responds with ‘YES’. You take a deep breath and close your eyes, mentally preparing yourself, before proceeding with the next question.

“Can you show yourself to me?” There the ultimate question and Bucky can’t help but ask why? Why were you interested in seeing him? He was a lost cause.

“No?” you ask more to yourself, still staring at the word through the eye of the planchette, and frown at his response.

Bucky wanted nothing more than to show himself to you, but he didn’t know how. For decades he was nothing but a gust of air. No matter how hard he tried to show himself to previous owners, he was never successful.

You pull your hands back away and place them in your lap, unsure of where to go from here. Well, you couldn’t force a ghost to do something they didn’t want to do, but you hoped that maybe perhaps seeing him would make it less taxing while communicating.

There’s a sudden iciness that covers the side of your cheek, sending a chill down your spine, causing you to flinch and your hand rising quickly to warm the spot.

Bucky almost disappears at the sudden reaction. He can’t believe it. You felt that. You could feel him. It was different than pushing your hands in different directions because this time, neither of you needed the help of the Ouija board.

You’re not sure where he is as your eyes scan the room, you wanted to feel that again. Sure, the cold was a bit alarming, and as sharp as his icy touch was, so was the surge that flowed through you. It was unexplainable, but soothing.

It sucked for Bucky because he couldn’t keep your eyes trained on just him.

“Are you sure you can’t show yourself?” You ask again, this time convinced you didn’t need the Ouija board anymore.

However, Bucky needed the board to reply. You sigh in defeat as you watch the planchette slide across to the word ‘YES’. You couldn’t allow yourself to get mad. You just couldn’t understand how it was possible for him to do all these other things, but not be able to show himself. Whatever it was, you’d just have to accept that you’d never understand ghost logic.

The sound of the planchette scraping against the board, offers you the word, ‘F-E-E-L’.

Feel? You definitely felt a presence, but now it was confirmed. It was him. He was trying to communicate through touch.

“Yes, I felt you,” you let Bucky know quite eagerly. The planchette remains unmoved after that and instead of what would appear to be awkward silence, the seconds that were passing by could be more appropriately compared to that of a ticking time bomb.

“Touch me,” you request.

Bucky’s stunned. If he were alive and well right now, he’d no doubt be on his knees for you with a command like that. He floats over to you and is only more than eager to touch you again, but he’s not sure of where. Feeling a soft anticipation of a ghostly tingle, he hesitantly places both hands on the underside of your jaw, in a cradle-like fashion, hoping it'll stop your wandering eyes.  

You stand still, frozen in place, now seeing the breath of air that escapes your mouth in a cloud of smoke. He’s definitely here and in front of you.

“More,” you say barely above a whisper.

Fuck. Bucky inwardly swears at himself as you unintentionally egg him on. Testing his limits, what more could he already lose? He was already dead.

He goes all in. He leans in and presses his cold, dead lips to yours in the most gentle and light kiss ever. When he pulls away, he sees that your eyes have closed and he can’t help immediately start to wonder if you actually felt that or not. He sure as hell felt it. He can’t be certain as he tries to gauge at the expression on your face. Shit, why did he do that?

“Do it again,” and this time with a more affirmative tone, Bucky doesn’t question anything anymore and obeys. His lips dig deeper against yours, you let out a small moan and purse your lips to respond. You don’t think about how silly it must look to be making out with practically nothing, not knowing what to do with your hands because there was nothing to hold onto, but despite that it all felt too real. He was real.  

Bucky’s mind is reeling at the sound of pleasure that spews from your mouth, he can’t comprehend how this is even possible. He’d been dying to know what kissing you felt like - what you felt like at all.

When your lips start to get numb and turn blue, you reluctantly pull away. You open your eyes to a dark room and wish you could at least hear him, the sounds of ecstasy played a pivotal role in intimacy.  

Your body temperature returns to normal, blood rushing, mind a haze. You stand up and head towards your bedroom without another word. Would he take the cue to follow you? You can’t be sure. You can’t see or hear him, but your actions say otherwise and make you both feel as if he wasn’t dead at all. It was now a game of cat and mouse.

Bucky or not, you were unabashedly turned on. In moments like these, it was hard to be in control of your own body and the only thing you could do was give in to the desires. In this instance, your body couldn’t make up its mind because as if you weren’t just freezing your ass off while kissing Bucky, you were suddenly hot all over.

Flustered, you pulled down your shorts, tossed them carelessly across the room, perhaps a little too harshly. If he wasn’t going to help you out, then you would do the job yourself. A mad smile on your face, surprised you weren’t the least bit embarrassed if he was going to watch you or not. It only added to the thrill and the excitement.

Trying to regulate your breathing, you lie down on the center of your bed and run your hands over your face down to where you needed them the most. Your fingers experimentally graze along the wet spot of your panties, groaning in acknowledgment of the sudden arousal. There’s no sense in conjuring up a justifiable explanation as to how something so seemingly innocent as the kiss you shared with Bucky got you so crazed. Not wasting any time, you lift your hips up and bend your legs to slip the flimsy garment off.

No longer a thin barrier between, your entire body shivers slightly, a sharp gasp escaping your lips, when your fingers make first contact with your clit and you begin to rub slow slow circles over it. Your stomach sinks in with each relieving exhale, your breathing growing heavy. Your fingers run off course and dip into your folds, past the floodgates, your fingers resurface coated in your own wetness and you use it to an advantage in invigorating your clit.

Eyes closed, you start to think about Bucky. You want to feel guilty or believe this was all wrong. Instead of getting off to someone like Sam or someone real for that matter, you lied there baring yourself to a ghost. You try to picture that baby face of his, and all that you could based on the lone image you found of him on the Internet.

The curve of his full lips that you were fortunate enough to feel on yours moments ago. You already knew they were soft, but what about his other features? Did his eyes sparkle or were they like black holes? What color were they? They had to be of a set that could hypnotize someone. Maybe it was okay that you couldn’t see him because if you had you just knew that you’d be at his mercy.

And that was just on the surface of it all. How was he like in other areas? How would his tongue feel against yours, on your skin, in you...The simulation causes your thighs to clamp up, knees involuntarily knocking into each other; your other hand clutching onto the bed sheets. He made it that easy, but you needed one more good push to dive in the deep end.

A thin layer of sweat coats your skin from the increase in body heat, then an abrupt familiar cold sensation runs through you, his alluring scent filling your nostrils, your legs forcefully separate; all tells you that Bucky was here. You pick up your head, always a small hint of disappointment flashes through your features at the fact you still and won’t be likely to ever see him.

It shoots a wild pang through Bucky’s chest because he doesn’t miss it; never knowing he could read someone so openly. He missed out on a good chunk of his life. He missed out on someone like you. Life was so cruel.

Your thoughts aren’t as far away from his as you start to wonder, why was it all so easy - seamlessly flawless - with him? Running with only first-party information and two silent conversations, you were already willing to go headfirst for halos for Bucky. Was it pathetic? You didn’t care anymore, whatever would ultimately bring you to him, you just knew in the end you’d die happy.

Your head falls back in defeat and you try to keep your emotions at bay, until you feel the hem of your shirt being lifted, exposing your midriff. Your lips cave in and you wince at each uncalculated cold peck Bucky’s lips leave on you. Whereas you felt a minor sting at how cold his touches were, for the first time, Bucky felt like he was on fire at how hot to the touch you were in this moment. This moment with him.

His lips create a path down to your core, and the contrast in temperature feels good. Not knowing what to do with your hands again, your arms lie sprawled on the bed on either side of your body, then you mentally curse at another sad truth that you had no one to hold on to.

A cool breeze brushes past your folds and your heartbeat spikes up again. Bucky never imagined he’d ever be able to make someone feel this way. It was pointless for him, but he dreamt about it countless times. And then he wickedly thinks how he was dumb to not spy on you during those nightly sessions. He was missing out. You were absolutely divine in his eyes.

“Bucky,” his name slips past your lips when his make contact with your swollen clit. It started off so innocently, but when he pulled his lips back and ran his tongue over the wet spot you left on them, giving him a taste of what you had to offer, he wanted more.

The cold, with each bit of contact from Bucky, was no longer a thing as your body quickly acclimated to it. Bucky uses his fingers to spread your pussy lips apart and allows himself to get a better taste. Your head lulls back, sinking in deeper into your pillows.

There’s only so much you could do to communicate with Bucky, you want to feel his hands all over, but instead you pick up on the slack as you grab and squeeze handfuls of your breasts, massaging them and adding onto the sensation. Your groping proves to be successful when you draw out more noises.

Bucky’s eyes never tear away from watching your reaction, the way your body moves from pleasure - pleasure he’s bestowing on you. His mouth doesn't require guidance as his tongue pulls all the right moves, weaving its way through and between your folds. He drags out a long moan from you when he dips his tongue in and then captures your folds between his lips, tugging as he sucked on them.

“I-I need,” you try to voice out your desires, but you’re reveling in so much, especially in being able to feel Bucky’s fingers digging into the sides of your hips; you bite down on one of your fingers, trying not to let out a crazed scream.

Bucky doesn’t want you to hold back though, so he introduces his fingers into the mix as they take turns in you. You wished you could hear him and all the sounds of his onslaught. To hear those pretty boy moans, the filthy pops and slurping noises. Was he a dirty talker? God. Imagine the things he would say.

He gets the message loud and clear. You want to come, and so he quickens his actions until your body goes into overdrive. When you reach your peak, your eyes snap open, pupils blown, and your back arches up in perfect bridge-like fashion. It almost looks like you’re being possessed before you come back down releasing choppy gasps of breaths.

Exhausted, you struggle to stay conscious wanting to communicate with Bucky one last time, but it felt like the orgasm almost sucked the life out of you. The puffs of cool air against your pussy are an indication that Bucky is still present and he wasn’t going to go anywhere just yet. He hasn’t moved from his position and is short of breath, in awe of seeing you coming undone for him and more so the fact that this happened. This wasn’t just another one of his dreams.

For as long as he’d been an apparition, he’d hoped to be able to finally pass on and if this was his actual last day on Earth, then he’d gladly accept it because one night with you was enough. 

Bucky would die happy.

A/N: Yeah, the ending wasn’t strong, but I wanted to leave it open for interpretation. Let me know what you think! A simple like and reblog is enough to help a sis out! Thank you for reading! 

[willsimpforanyone]

Buzzfeed unsolved X Sanders sides

Virgil (nonbinary) is the sceptic that is a little too easily convinced

Logan is the real sceptic, easily figures out what makes the creepy sounds (trans man)

Patton (trans man) is a terrified believer that is just trying to keep it all together

Roman (genderfluid) is the enthusiastic believer who drags everyone on ghost hunts

----------------

"Roman please, you're going to figuratively pull my arm out of it's socket if you tug any harder," Logan sighed at his enthusiastic friend who was holding very tightly to his hand. Roman, blue 'he/him' pronoun bracelet clearly display, was pulling him to the porch of the presumably haunted house, closely followed by Virgil with their camera and a very nervous Patton.

"You really don't need to clarify, we know I couldn't actually pull your arm out of its socket," Roman rolled his eyes, but eased his grip on Logan's hand, slowing his pace so they could walk side by side.

Virgil aimed a kick at Roman's feet. "So what are we actually doing here? Is it ghosts or demons this time?"

"Both, actually," Roman turned back to swipe at Virgil's head. "There are at least three ghosts, and a demon in the attic."

Patton squeaked. "Uh, hey, um, you didn't say anything about a demon, Ro..."

"Roman, I wish you would stop saying things like they are irrefutable facts. There has been no definitive proof that ghosts or demons exist." Logan rolled his eyes, but Roman was undeterred.

The group had been allowed one night in the supposedly haunted house, and Virgil had been commissioned to film the events that could take place. They were secretly grateful that they didn't have to be in the actual video footage at all if they didn't want to be, but outwardly complained that they would get tired of holding the camera, that this house was stupid anyway, they didn't even believe in this crap.

Roman hesitated at the door, and Virgil smirked. "What, getting scared?" They pointed the camera at their friend. "Big Bad Roman is scared of the front fucking door."

That was enough to get Roman to swing open the door and stroll on in like he was merely popping in to a coffee shop. Logan followed, unbothered. Patton clung to Virgil, and the pair entered together.

The bag Roman slung on the table made a loud thud, and when opened he produced an EMF reader, divining sticks, a ouija board and a few other things that he laid out neatly on the table. Logan raised an eyebrow.

"I'll admit, you do seem to be passionate about this, no matter how idiotic this quest may be." Logan picked up the EMF reader and scrutinised it. "I'm not sure if I can call your methods scientific, however. You do understand this entire night is going to yield results only supported by pseudoscience?"

Patton took the EMF reader from Logan's grasp. "Now now, be nice Lo-Lo, this is something Roman is excited about and we should be supportive. And, if we're- lucky? Or unlucky, I'm kinda hoping we don't find anything- we might hear or see something that is definitive proof of ghosts!" Patton smiled encouragingly at Roman, who grinned back.

Virgil was fiddling around with the camera. "Hey, who did I give the batteries to? This one is empty."

"But-" Roman stared, frozen. "That was a new battery, wasn't it?" He took out a new battery from the front pocket of the bag and handed it over. Virgil shrugged, and simply swapped the batteries over, unwilling to admit that it was indeed a new battery, and that they'd double-checked it just before they arrived at the house.

"W-well, we'd better get started, right?" Patton's voice was higher than normal and he'd detached himself from Virgil only to reattach himself to Logan, finding comfort in the unceasing scepticism.

Roman handed out torches to both Patton and Logan. "Indeed, let us at last embark on a quest to uncover the secrets this house holds, let us walk among the dead and speak to those belonging to days gone by!" He grabbed Virgil and started dragging them upstairs. "Come, my friends, adventure awaits!"

The enthusiasm held by Roman was the driving force for the rest of the group as they followed him all the way up to the attic. Patton gave a nervous laugh as Roman placed the ouija board down and gestured for them all to sit on the floor. "Are we sure about this, Ro? I mean aren't ouija boards supposed to be really... scary?"

Virgil smirked from under their fringe. "That's the point, Pat- they communicate with those beyond the grave." They wiggled the fingers of the hand that wasn't holding the camera at Patton and laughed lowly, darkly. "You never know, maybe the demon will possess one of us."

"Please cease from scaring him, Virgil, my arm is starting to hurt from where he is holding it," Logan glared at Virgil, and Patton guiltily let go, opting to sit next to Roman.

"You'll save me, right Ro?"

Roman put his arm around the slightly smaller man. "Indeed I will. Never fear, my dear friend, for it will take more than a mere demon to frighten me!"

Eventually, all four of them were situated round the board- Virgil was exempt from being involved as they were filming the scene, but the others all had two fingers on the plancette that was placed in the middle of the board.

"...do we introduce ourselves? It would be polite, right?"

"Patton, there is nothing to be polite to- demons do not exist."

"Oh hush, Specs-tre... you get it? Like spectre? Like a ghost?"

Virgil sighed, exasperated. "Can we get on with this, please? My arms are starting to hurt."

They decided on spelling out their names, with only minor mistakes, and waiting to see if there was any kind of response. Roman and Patton were eagerly leaning over the board, while Virgil and Logan exchanged glances.

Very slowly, the planchette began to move. Roman scowled at Logan. "If this is you trying to trick us, I don't appreciate it."

Logan raised an eyebrow. "I am not trying to trick you, I am merely sitting here like you two."

Roman turned his gaze to Virgil, who scowled back. "How can I have anything to do with it, dumbass? I'm not even touching the board."

The planchette had moved from the middle of the board where they had put it after spelling their names to the 'G', and was moving to what seemed to be the 'O'.

Inhaling shakily, Patton looked at the camera. "V, I think it might be saying 'go away'."

Virgil quickly wiped the look of worry off their face- they were supposed to be a sceptic, after all- and nodded. "Yes Patton, the demon is antisocial and wants us all to fuck off." They spun the camera around as if looking for a demon. "Understandable, have a nice day."

"Virgil, will you please deign to keep the camera on the board, I fear Roman is going to start yelling any minute otherwise." Logan's even voice brought all attention back to the board, where the planchette was just moving off the 'A'.

Roman looked like he was about to burst. He let out a breath he'd been holding. "Everyone shut up, this is the most evidence we've ever got!"

"This isn't exactly evidence. The planchette moving is due to what's called the 'ideomotor effect', simply meaning your body talks to itself. It's an example of involuntary, unconcious physical movement." Logan was now the focus of attention. "Patton has planted the idea that the so-called 'demon' is trying to spell 'go away', so it is likely the planchette will react to your unconcious movements to spell out those words."

Sulkily, Roman sat back, leaning on both his hands. "C'mon teach, you can't just... take the magic out of this like that."

Logan looked surprised. "I... I'm sorry Roman, I just thought it would be interesting to know the actual science behind the board, especially since we're filming it." He looked sincerely apologetic. "I apologise for taking the metaphorical 'magic' out of this activity."

Roman sighed, but smiled slightly. "Don't worry about it." He fiddled with the pronoun bracelet, and switched it to a green 'they\them' bracelet. "You know, I don't believe the ghosts are biting tonight. I suggest we leave and perhaps try again another day."

Patton nodded enthusiastically. "Yes please, can we please leave, I keep feeling like we should leave, let's leave-" He scooped up the ouija board, only pausing to move the planchette quickly to 'goodbye', and stuffed it in Roman's bag.

The procession downstairs was slightly less upbeat than the procession upstairs had been, but Roman was determined to not make Logan feel bad. "Besides," they said, arm slung around Logan. "I doubt demons would be very respectful of pronouns." Virgil stifled a laugh.

"Yeah, nobody wants to talk with disrespectful demons." The group reached the door and they turned to look at the house once last time. "Fuck off demon, we don't need your transphobia!"

Patton panicked for a second and clapped his hand over Virgil's mouth. "Virgil! It'll hear you!"

Roman laughed heartily. "Don't worry, Pat, I agree with Casper the Unfriendly Ghost here. Who cares if the transphobic demon hears, I refuse to bother myself with the opinions of demon who can't even talk back to us."

Walking back to the car, Logan was nudged gently by Roman. "Hey, teach, you can't say there's absolutely no way the planchette was moved by a demon or a ghost, can you?"

About to retort that yes, he could say that, Logan looked at Roman's face, their eyes showing just a little bit of hope. "...no, I can't say for certain that the planchette wasn't moved by a supernatural force."

Perhaps it was foolish, but seeing Roman's face light up was worth it.

---------------------

i love the sanders sides and i love buzzfeed unsolved so here ya go, have this brain child, hope you enjoy- you're welcome to ask for more!

[escapingpost]

Five Things Everyone Knows (Final)

Part 1: Five Things I Know About Cho Seungyoun 

Sequel: Five Things Cho Seungyoun Knows About You

Suggestive and language warning.

The kiss in the alleyway would have been the cherry on top for this mess of romantic comedy. It would be the turning point of the plot where the next few scenes were merely a fast-forwarded, shortened down versions of what would be to come with your perfect “friends to lovers” relationship.

But, you were hit with the reminder that this was not an actual romantic comedy and reality is much harsher.

The next day, you woke up from a text from yours truly telling you that the girl he was texting ages ago finally got back to him. They were going on a date this weekend.

Your mind went through different thoughts in a span of one minute:

Were the two of you that drunk yesterday? If that was the case, you would have a hangover. And Seungyoun? You were sure he was too busy making Hangyul drunk to drink himself.

Were you just dreaming? No, your hair definitely smelled of rain water and you could still almost feel Seungyoun’s strong arms around your waist.

Then, what the hell was this?

As if answering your thoughts, Seungyoun sends another text message.

younie: I smell like sewage right now. What even happened last night.

And with that one text message, you were brought back to the reality of romantic relationships in your twenties.

Romance was dead and so were your feelings.

NOT my best friend: Dumbass, how am I suppose to know.

“I can’t believe you did that.” Woohyun was currently hovering over Seungyoun on the couch as Seungyoun holds his phone out of his reach. Woohyun gets up and dusts himself off. “Have fun being lonely. I’m rooting for Hangyul.”

“Wait, Woohyun.” Seungyoun also gets up from his couch. “I’m sorry. I just, I can’t do it.”

“Seungyoun, what do you mean, you can’t?” Woohyun says trying to keep calm. Him and the guys did the most to get Seungyoun to realize his feelings, but when he actually does, it backfires.

“I don’t want to mess us up.” Seungyoun says, avoiding Woohyun’s gaze.

“You know the feeling is mutual, so why?” Woohyun asks.

Seungyoun takes out a few crinkled pieces of paper from the small trash in his studio. He takes the first crumple piece of paper and hands it to Woohyun.

Woohyun looks at Seungyoun weirdly before unfolding it and reading his chicken scratch writing.

I wish you happiness

It's okay if it's not me

I don't think I'm good enough for you

We're so different

Woohyun takes the rest of the crinkled papers and unfolds them.

Tell me you're tired of me

Tell me you're seeing someone else

For me, even just a little bit

To hate you, just lie to me

Woohyun stops reading and crumples the paper into its original state, “This is different from the last time. You know it.”

“We’ve been best friends for years. I just can’t risk that.” Seungyoun looks down, his fringe hiding his eyes.

And Woohyun could not think of a comeback with Seungyoun looking like he already lost the most precious thing in his life.

“You know, its true what they say about musicians. You are all creative, crazy messes.” Woohyun says with a huge sigh.

Which brings us to the first thing everyone now knows: 1) Seungyoun, for a fact, has slight commitment issues.

A week passes by after the night with Seungyoun. You try your best to avoid him, but he stuck to you like nothing had happened. Sure, it was only the alcohol that made him do it and the reason why he could not remember. But, he should take some sort of responsibility, right?

The day of his date with the girl, you went to a library to study for your classes, but the silence was worse. It only made your sad thoughts louder. Letting out a deep sigh, you run your fingers through your hair and leave the quiet room.

“Hey!” Before you could start walking down the staircase to the lobby, a familiar voice calls your name.

You close your eyes. You knew exactly who it was and he was probably the second person you did not want to run into. Quickly changing your expression into a neutral one, you turn around to him, “Hey, Hangyul.”

Long story, short: You and Hangyul did go on a date. You actually had more fun than you thought and he said he would call you back, but never did. When he did end up calling you for a second date, the two of you still had unfinished business. Seungyoun crashed your second date before the two of you could talk about it.

Hangyul scratches the back of his neck, a habit of his whenever he felt uneasy. Your fake expression was apparent to his eyes, “Do you want to go to a cafe? I hated the silence in that library.”

You said yes and maybe it was the fact you wanted to show up Seungyoun for being on a date. Or, it might have been that you believed Hangyul was a nice, decent guy so he deserved some sort of explanation.

“I just wanted to say sorry for everything.” Hangyul says with a soft smile.

“Sorry about what?” The warm tea hits your throat and it calms your nerves.

“Sorry about not calling you when I said I would.”

You let out a petty laugh, “So you did know.”

Hangyul moves in closer, “Of course, I did. I was just confused and needed time to think.”

You purse your lips, “Well, I’m sorry for taking Seungyoun along on our second date.” You look down at your cup of tea.

Hangyul plays with the straw of his smoothie, unsure of what to say.

“It was a dumb decision.” You add.

“Did something happen?” Hangyul carefully asks.

You shrug, not wanting to think about it, still looking down.

Hangyul takes a deep breath and lowers his head so he was in your peripheral view, “Hey, to be honest, I wasn’t sure if you were actually available.”

You are forced to return his gaze, his face a little closer than a few minutes ago, “What do you mean?”

“I know you don’t have a boyfriend.” Hangyul was now staring at you intently with a soft expression, “But, on our first date, it didn’t seem like you were emotionally available.”

And that’s exactly what everyone thought: 2) No one else was really good enough for you, but him.

The guy with cute dimples? You preferred adorable rabbit teeth. The talented vocalist? A high-toned voice with the duality of IU’s ballads and Flowsik’s rapping was more your genre. The possible future president of the country? How about the person who you trust all your secrets, dreams, and inside jokes with?

As exaggerated as it was, Seungyoun just started to infiltrate your mind with no invitation.

You gulp and slowly nod your head, “Sorry, Hangyul.”

Hangyul feels a heavy weight lifted from his shoulders and he gives you an assuring smile, “We’re good.” He pats the side of your head.

You return his smile, feeling ten times better.

"I’m not sure what happened with you and Seungyoun, but if you want, I’m meeting with him later with the guys. Maybe you want to come?”

Your ears perk up at hearing his name, “Wait, Seungyoun is hanging out with you later?”

“Yeah, Seungyoun and some other people from the Taekwondo club.”

‘What about his date?’ You think. ‘Did that brat lie to me?’ You add. Did you not just have a small monologue on how great he was?

Hangyul calls out your name.

You snap back to reality, “Oh sorry, why don’t you text me the address and I’ll meet you there?”

The night was a little colder when it was predicted to be a warm summer night. Mercury was in retrograde or something along the lines of a pseudoscience explanation. 3) Everyone just knew it was going to be an interesting night.

“You like to hurt your own feelings?” Dohyun scratches his head.

“Masochism. Its called masochism.”

“Yohan, shut it. Don’t teach him that.” Hangyul rubbed his temples.

“Well, at least you’re better off than Seungyoun. He didn’t even give closure. He completely made his whole friendship awkward as hell.”

Hangyul blows out air from his nostrils. He wanted to keep it a secret and was not planning on inviting you to see Seungyoun. It was his chance to ask you out for a third date. But, taking advantage of your vulnerable state was the last thing he wanted to do.

Yohan hands Hangyul his black jacket, “Here, buddy. At least look cool while setting up the two idiots.”

Hangyul turns to Dohyon, “Don’t you dare learn from Yohan.” Hangyul moves closer to whisper in Yohan’s ear, “Yohan thinks he’s some sex god.”

Yohan has an appalled and disgusted look on his face, “A dude grinds on the floor one time and automatically becomes the icon of greasiness.”

Hangyul receives a text message alert and stops their conversation.

soju girl: Hey, I’m already here. My phone’s on vibrate so just text me when you get here! Too loud to take a call :(

“Lets go, idiot three.” Yohan puts his arms around Hangyul.

hangyul: see you soon

You bite down on your bottom lip and pull down on the short black dress that you wished did not sacrifice to cover either your chest or thighs. It was one or the other. You furiously shake your head to get some sense in you, “I need a drink.” Or not.

One drink turned into two, then three, then four and it all went downhill from there. The last sober thought you had was the fact that you could change your social media addiction and put your energy in making a blog about the wonders of alcohol.

“Close her tab.” you hear a voice and the person has reached over the counter. That was weird because you only conditioned yourself to listen to one specific voice through a loud bass of music.

“Oh? Its my best friend, Cho Seungyoun.” your voice slurs and you see he is confused because he can’t hear anything through the music and you made no effort to talk over them music. Seungyoun quickly scans your state and has you wear his oversized bomber jacket. You do not put up a fight while he quickly zips up the jacket. “Am I your date for tonight?” You say with no energy or volume.

Seungyoun gets to eye level with you and smiles, “Lets go.” He mouths.

The unapologetic smile, his eyes that assured you that your were safe, and his eyebrows that drooped in worry made you furious. The alcohol spoke and made the decision for you, “Fuck that.” You push him away and stagger through the dance floor.

And Seungyoun never felt so awkward trying to keep you away from other people on the dance floor while still remaining a sinful centimeter away from you and that miniature piece of fabric people called a dress.

His eyes darted around to catch the glimpses of other people on the dance floor to make sure they knew you were with him. Just when he thought people were getting the hint, a stranger attaches himself behind you.

He quickly snakes his hand around your waist and pulls you into a secure hold, turning your whole body like a tango move.

You continue to shamelessly dance, not giving a two coins because all you could see are the blurry lights, your mind was still buzzed, and whose ever arm was around you felt too good.

No matter how much he tried, there was only one answer to your shenanigans.

If you can’t beat them, join ‘em.

Seungyoun brings you into his chest as close as humanely possible and lays his hands on your hips as you two dance. He can only catch glimpses of your face, but when he did see you through the club lights, the look on your face got to him.

Your eyes were no longer the awake eyes that he could see from a distance away. Your eyes were half-lidded and seductive. Your baby hairs stuck to the side of your face and your cheeks flushed pink.

Then, Seungyoun’s ears were blocked as if he had water stuck in them. Your mouth was moving, but he could not understand what was happening anymore. The loud bass drowns out any reasonable thoughts.

Seungyoun did not drink any alcohol that night.

But, he got the same sweet alcohol on the tip of your tongue and caught the same alcohol buzz.

When Hangyul left the club that night and did not get to see you or Seungyoun, it was already a given: 4) The literal climax of the story that everyone would know of.

By the time you were all partied out and the two of you got to his apartment, the alcohol high wore off, but neither of Seungyoun’s or your hormones did.

The conversation was said through messy kisses, but it went something along the lines of Seungyoun apologizing for being a coward and a liar. Then, you try to say something back, but whatever he was doing down there did not help you form a coherent thought.

It was the climax that happened in Seungyoun’s small studio, both emotionally and physically.

Finally, it was the scene before everything fell into place. At least, as much as reality allowed you to.

“That dress wasn’t going to cover anything.” It was the morning after and you did not wake up glamorously. It was a good thing Seungyoun always saw you like that and nothing about his feelings changed. He laid on the couch and watched you find your stuff that was lost in the hurricane.

“Yeah, but your sweater will.” You quickly slip into it a sweater that he left hanging on his chair and Seungyoun curses in his mind for being weak to the cold.

“Wanna get breakfast?” Seungyoun sits up and also looks around for his lost t-shirt.

“Not like this.”

“I can pick something up from the convenience store.” Seungyoun finally finds his clothing piled up on the side of the couch.

You two only had to be apart for ten minutes, but Seungyoun was running back from the store like he left a stove on.

Also, you had no idea what you were getting yourself into until Seungyoun drops the food on his small desk and starts to make his way towards you. Alert, you hold him back with one finger, which stops him for a grueling second until he picks you up like a bride and lays you down on the couch.

You always thought Seungyoun looked like a rabbit with his two front teeth. Now, he looks like a tiger creeping up on his pray (read: you). You were quickly reminded Seungyoun was actually a bear because he pulls you into a warm hug as the two of you lay on his couch.

“There’s not enough space, so we have to stick as close a possible.” Seungyoun is breathing down your neck and you were not sure if it was on purpose.

You stir in his arms and he looks at you.

The images of you two playing tongue hockey in the middle of the dance floor flashes through your mind and you wanted to dig a tunnel into the couch because this time, he was there to remember it.

Seungyoun bit back a silly smile.

“Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything?” He says with a smirk.

“Hey, we can’t tell anyone.” You are talking to his chest because you could not bear to look at him without being reminded of last night.

“Why not?” Seungyoun, on the other hand, had no shame and kept his eyes on you. “I swear, I was going to post this on my story.”

“Seungyoun!”

He gives you his cheeky, smiling eyes and presses his forehead on yours, “I’m sure every already knows.”

“That’s a little bit T.M.I, no?” You ask him.

“Not with them. They know everything.”

The two of you look at each other both thinking that everyone was weirdly invested in the two of you getting together. You and Seungyoun laugh knowing the same thought went through your head.

“I like you so much.” Seungyoun unconsciously says.

“I like you too.” You say making random shapes with your fingers on his chest. “Hey, um.” You finally muster up the courage to look at him.

“Yeah?” Seungyoun gives you his full attention.

You gather your arms and push him off the couch, “I’m hungry.”

Even if you were not hungry, Seungyoun’s scent was getting to your head and all the red flags went off.

He didn’t have to know that, though.

Months pass and you two are still together and annoying.

“Can you not?” You step on Seungyoun’s foot under the table.

“What?” Seungyoun moves his hand closer to your inner thigh, but you swat his hand off.

“Can you two just stay in Seungyoun’s studio? Forever.” Wooseok pretends to barf.

“We would, but the AC is broken.” Seungyoun shrugs.

You smack him on the side of his head.

“I don’t even want to sit on that damn couch now.” Seungwoo slowly shakes his head.

“Maybe it was better for you two to stay single.” Yohan taps on the table.

“Hey, I’m all for that.” Hangyul chuckles as he opens a bag of chips.

Seungyoun’s neck almost breaks turning to Hangyul, “If you eat chips like that, your fingers are going to stain.”

“Well, I’m gonna eat it with chopsticks.” Hangyul retorts.

“Where are the chopsticks, genius?” Seungyoun mocks Hangyul’s matter-of-fact tone.

Hangyul’s eye darts back and forth, until he sees you slipping him the chopsticks. “Here.”

Seungyoun makes a face at you, “Whose side are you on?”

You give him a chaste kiss and the self-proclaimed all rounder turns into one thing and it was the fifth and last thing everyone knew.

5) “Whipped.”

[fernwehbookworm]

Haunted- Chapter 6

Lena feels giddy with her first bite of food. Solid food. Because she is solid again. The warm tomato sauce bursts across her tongue, mixing with the garlicky crust and earthy flavor of mushrooms. A tomato slice pulls off with the melted cheese and Lena moans into the bite. Kara laughs from across the table in the rundown pizza place tucked into a forgotten alleyway. It was the best pizza Lena had ever had, living up to Kara’s claims. The pizzeria sold by the slice or the pie, Lena getting the former, Kara ordering the later. Which didn’t surprise Lena at all, after practically being by her side for a week. The Pizzeria was also open twenty-four hours a day, which was great for the starving CEO at 5 am.

Lena wipes at her lip self consciously as she notices Kara staring. “What?” Lena asks.

“Nothing, just still can’t believe you are actually here.”

“You’re telling me.” Lena laughs, “I was very worried when you went to your sister’s. I didn’t think I would ever be able to reach you.”

“Hey, I was freaked out. But we are here now.”

“Yes, we are.” Lena smiles softly. “Does this count as our first date?”

“Only if that means we get a second. This isn’t what I was thinking when I asked you out. I planned on roses and candles and probably some cheap champagne.”

“I think this is perfect.” Lena takes another bite and chews quickly before continuing. “Everyone always wants to woo me. To give me fancy things and impress me with money. This,” Lena gestures with her slice around the dimly lit pizza parlor, “This is wonderful.”

“Good, because I am far from fancy.” Kara smiles, a blush coloring her cheeks as she and Lena lock eyes. Kara only looks away when her phone rings.

“It’s Alex. Hold on,” Kara says and Lena nods. “Hey, Al. Any news? Okay, great. Yes, I’m sure she will want to be there. Thanks. See you soon.”

“Well?” Lena asks as Kara hangs up.

“They will have the warrant within the hour. They have enough to seize records, thanks to you. The team is gearing up to arrest Max Lord. I figured you would want to see that.”

“See it? I want to be a part of it. Come on.” Lena stands and takes one last bite of her slice and drops a large bill on the table. Kara scrambles to follow after Lena with her pizza box.

“Where are we going?” Kara asks through a mouthful of triple meat pizza.

“Lord Tech, of course. I need to talk to Max himself, plus he’ll need to be distracted. Otherwise, once he catches a whiff of the feds, he will disappear.”

“So what's your plan?” Kara asks.

“To go rub it in his face that I am not actually dead and then keep him talking until your sister busts down his door and cuffs him.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a plan. How are you getting in?”

“Oh honey, I’m a Luthor. I can get in anywhere.”

Lena flags down a cab and Kara climbs in the back seat with Lena, continuing to eat her pizza. Kara offers Lena a slice but Lean declines. Kara just shrugs and hums happily as she finishes the last three before they get out in front of Lord Tech. Lena straightens to her full height, gathering an air about her that directly contradicts the sweats she had put on to replace the lab clothing she had been trapped in, collected and held for testing, of course. The MIT sweatshirt even covers most of her hands and Kara has tried very hard not to be distracted by that fact.

Lena strides into the building like she owns it, not even stopping as a confused security guard calls out for her to but then choking off their commands as they realize that a ghost has entered the building. Kara trails behind, unwilling to let Lena out of her sight now that she isn’t at risk of losing her.

The elevator is quite as Lena begins to set up the chess pieces in her mind. She is thinking through the moves Max and she had been playing for since taking over for Lex. She will play him like a fiddle until the FBI shows up. Lena smirks at the thought.

“So… this is my most interesting first date. Saving my date from completely disappearing, pizza, and now an arrest. I don’t think I can ever top this.” Kara breaks the silence and into Lena’s thoughts.

Lena laughs. “Yeah, it is pretty memorable. You are pretty memberal.” “And you are very pretty.” Kara grins, cheeks stretching with the width of it. Lena laughs again and that is all Kara wants to hear. It is a great laugh.

“I have a feeling that the two of us working together will be a great thing,” Lena says honestly.

“Me too, but we can still go on a second date right? This isn’t going to be one of those situations that you don’t date people you work with, right?”

“I just don’t date people who work for me. Not with me. The better the chemistry, the better the result.” Lena winks. Kara is saved from stuttering out a response when the elevator doors open and Lena strides out. The CEO is no doubt on a mission. Kara is just along for the ride as the powerful woman tears a warpath past upper-level executive offices and makes her way to the giant doors clearly installed to stroke Max’s ego, his initials inlaid in gold, taking up the entire floor to ceiling doors.

Ignoring the stuttering secretary, Lena pushes the doors open and sweeps into the room. Kara mumbles an apology to the woman before brushing past also. Max stands quickly at the intrusion from behind his desk. Lena suppresses a chuckle. Max gathers himself and straightens his tie.

“L-Lena Luthor. What are- How are you not—”

“Dead? Yes, it seems like it was quite a misunderstanding.” Lena makes her way to the wet bar and pours herself a drink. “Want anything Kara? Max here only stocks the best whisky. It’s really his only redeeming quality.”

“Oh, umm, no thank you. Whisky isn’t really my thing.” Kara decides to hang towards the door.

“And who is this?” Max asks, noticing Kara only after Lena drew attention to her.

“Oh, the reporter who saved my life after my lab accident. She really is quite brilliant. And her story on my death will be printed in the morning, and then her story on my resurrection will be printed the day after. But I am sure, her article on your arrest will earn her awards.”

“My arrest?” Max repeats, indignantly.

“Why yes. You see, Max, you slipped up. You got sloppy and greedy while I waited for the opportunity to strike. I—” Lena is interrupted by Max’s phone ringing.” Don’t you need to get that? Could be important.”

“No, I am much more interested in how I might be arrested. You and I both know that I am too careful.”

“Oh, you used to be. But I think you have grown careless in your own age. Also without Lex protecting you and holding your hand, you got in over your head. I mean, really, trying to kill me when you were literally the only one who knew my plans had changed. That was just idiotic. And then, your man didn’t even do it right. He left it up to chance. An experiment gone wrong. Granted, it was almost clean. You almost got away with it, you just didn’t count on such a connection between me and a stranger.”

“What are you even talking about?” Max seems to be reigning his composure after his initial surprise.

“Are we really going to play this game?” Lena sighs after taking a drink and sets her glass down, purposefully next to the coaster. “Fine. I know Max. You sent in a sloppy assassin to kill me after I told you I couldn’t make our meeting because I was stuck in the lab. He just changed the settings on my matter transporter and it didn’t kill me. Instead, I was stuck in a state in between being molecularly solid and being separated. Luckily, I was able to anchor myself to my favorite pen and then communicate with Miss Danvers here,” Lena pauses to point to Kara, who wiggles her fingers in an awkward wave, “And she was able to reverse the conditions to bring me back.”

“And what proof do you have of all this pseudoscience you claim to be happening?”

“Oh not much on the actual science yet, but the assassin and your shady dealings, plenty.”

Max smirks. “That seems unlikely. Why else would you be here? You are just trying to scare me into confessing something that is untrue.”

“Oh, no. I’m just here to watch.”

“Watch? Watch what?”

A commotion sounds in the hallway and heavy footsteps thunder towards them. Kara moves away from the door and urges Lena to the side of the room as Max’s eyes go wide and fix on the closed office doors.

“Watch you be dragged away kicking and screaming,” Lena smirks as the doors burst open jackbooted, FBI swat troops storm in. The women raise their hands but are completely ignored as the agents surround Max Lord.

Agent Danvers strides into the room and begins reading out the arrest warrant and Max’s rights. She pauses briefly to salute Lena silently before shoving Max out the door.

Kara is busy watching her sister and doesn’t notice Lena dialing her phone.

“Yes, Jess? Dump our stock in Lord Tech. I have a feeling it’s about to tank. And anything of L-Corp buy up. I'm about to rise from the dead."

A couple of agents stay back to escort Kara and Lena from the building. By the time the reporter and CEO make it to the lobby, a massive crowd has gathered out the doors and Max Lord is struggling as he is pushed through the crowd. He bites comments at the reporters, jerking his head side to side, much like a muzzled dog on a leash. Lights flash like fireworks and Lena holds back, slowing to a stop just short of the doors.

"You should probably wait. This will be a mess." Lena says softly, taking a moment to actually look Kara in the eye.

Kara smiles softly, "Hey, we've made it this far together. I'm seeing this through with you."

Lena seems to deflate with relief to not have to face the mob alone. Then she takes a deep breath to build herself back up. One of the agents opens the door for them, the other leading the way with the first following behind the two women. It takes a moment for the press to turn from where Max Lord was loaded into a government SUV and to turn to look upon the newcomers. Kara could have sworn she could hear a pin drop in that second. But it would have been lost in the next as the reporters scramble to get a  good look.

More agents force themselves between the crowd and the CEO, forming a small circle to give her room. Lena ignores all questions and waits for the chaos to die down as she levels a glare over the crowd. Soon just the flashing of lights and shuffle of feet fill the air.

"Now, I realize you have many questions. I will not answer most of them, the exclusive will be going to Catco because, with their reporter's help, I was able to contact the FBI and help provide information for them to arrest Max Lord. As you can see, I, Lena Luthor, am not dead. Nor was I ever. I sincerely apologize for the multiple power outages and L-Corp will be working to help those affected. The rest of the story can be read tomorrow through Catco. Good day."

Lena strides towards The final government SUV without waiting for more questions, Kara right on her heels. The questions come anyway, some even thinking to throw some towards Kara. Kara follows Lena's lead and ignores them all. Once an agent closes the door, all the shouting is finally muffled and the flashing lights are barely visible through the darkly tinted windows.

Lena deflates once more and leans her head against the glass, closing her eyes. Kara watches her. That's all Kara feels like she is doing, too afraid of Lena suddenly disappearing again. Without looking, Lena holds out her hand and Kara just stares at it. Lena sighs and opens her eyes to look at Kara.

“I thought there was going to be handholding that came with our dating?”

“Dating?” Kara asks, still confused.

“Well, we had one date, and I would like to go on a second. Multiple dates usually means dating. Unless you didn’t enjoy our first date?” Lena raises an eyebrow at Kara.

“No! What? I mean, yes! I had a great time. How many people have a first date that ends in the arrest of a corrupt businessman?”

“I’ve had three. Granted, the man was the date for the other two, so this is far better.”

“This has been the best first date I have ever had.” Kara twines her fingers with Lena’s and relaxes against the seat of the car.

After a debriefing with Alex, Kara and Lena were free to go. Kara shuffles a bit on the sidewalk outside of the building, unsure what to do. She wasn’t really ready to go home just yet. “Would you like to come back to mine and watch a movie?” Lena asks as if reading Kara’s mind. “I need to shower first but we could order more food and just hang out. I don’t think I’m ready to be alone yet.”

“Me either. Is that weird? I mean it was only a couple of days, but it's like I am so used to your presence now, it will be weird to be without.”

Lena smiles softly, “Same. Come on.”

A short cab ride later, and the couple make it to Lena’s penthouse. Kara tries not to snoop too much as Lena showers but Lena did say for Kara to help herself to any drinks in the fridge and pick from the take out menus in the drawer. Kara orders from her favorite Chinese place and settles on Lena’s much too comfortable couch to look through her video streaming services.

Lena is out before the food arrives and she pays cash when it does. It’s a weird sort of domesticity that Kara feels settling over her as Lena pads towards the couch with a paper bag in her fuzzy socks. Kara smiles at her and Lena grins back.

“There are some sweats and a t-shirt I put in the bathroom if you want to change,” Lena says while unpacking the red and white cartons.

“Sounds perfect. I’ll be right back.”

A quiet evening in with a wonderful woman is just what Kara needed after all the chaos and panic of the week. The food dwindles to just enough for leftovers as Kara and Lena pick at it. Lena stands to put it away before settling on the couch, right next to Kara. Without thinking, Kara lifts her arm and places it around Lena’s shoulders, pulling her close. It felt like something she had been doing for years, not for the first time. Soon the two begin to slowly sink lower and lower into the couch, and by the time the credits roll, Kara is half asleep on her back with Lena snoring softly in her chest. Kara manages to reach the remote to turn off the TV and pull a blanket over them. There was no way she was waking Lena now, plus the couch was really comfortable.

[buckeroonie323]

This is for @findingbuck 's request of what Our boy Bucky would be like in quarantine. I present to you the well thought out titled two part fic.

Bucky in Quarantine!

Word count: 1.7k

Warning: SMUT kind of. Bossy Bucky.

Paring:Quarantine!Bucky x Working!reader

So turns out this fic wanted to be a two parter. Sorry to make you wait for the fun stuff but I gave you a little. #sorrynotsorry

"BABY! HELP MEEEE!" Bucky calls to you from the living room. "I'M DYING HELLPPPPP!!! I'M BEING ATTACKED!"  He continues to wail. You jog to the living room. "What's wrong Buck? Who is attacking you?" You see that Alpine is sitting in a cat loaf on Bucky's chest. The cat is unfazed by the screaming because it happens all the time. 

Bucky beams at you as you walk into the room. His hair is in a cute bun on the top of his head. He has little baby hairs floating in a halo. 

"Hi sweetheart! I missed you so so much." You roll your eyes at him and sit down putting his legs over your thighs. You grab Alpine holding him to your chest.

"James, what did we talk about yelling in the house? Especially when I am only a room away." You fake scold. Now it's his turn to roll his eyes.

"I was in danger, baby. I could have died. I'm lucky you came to save me." He sits up to put a kiss on your cheek. He takes his legs off of your thighs. "You're my hero." 

You giggle at his comment. "Yes, you are lucky that your untrained civilian girlfriend came to your rescue. An extremely well trained assassin and soldier for over 70 years. You totally couldn't have handled the situation yourself." 

Bucky takes Alpine from you setting him on the floor. The cat prances away. Bucky pulls you into his lap so you're straddling him. He pulls you right into a hug. 

His right hand doing warm passes over your back. You melt into him. Bucky puts a lingering kiss on your neck. "I love you. Just so you know. Do you want to go cuddle?" You feel more than hear him say.

"Is that not what we're doing?" You murmur into his neck. "I want you to come lay on top of me so I can hold you and never let go." By this point his hand had stopped running on your back. He has brought it up to stroke your hair. 

"I don't know honey. I have a conference call in 15 minutes." You lean back reluctantly to look him in the eyes. 

"I was getting ready before your call of distress bubba." You motion to your half disheveled appearance. 

You're in silk pj bottoms and a button up work shirt. Your eye makeup is done but nothing else is. 

"I'm sorry sugar. But why do you have to wear the makeup? I'm not saying you shouldn't. I love when you express yourself. BUT it's quarantine. They can suck my ass if they think you need to be super professional." He starts ranting. 

"On another note, what makes them think makeup is the female equivalent to professionalism? They need to step the fuck off." You silence him by giving him a kiss.

"I agree. Just so you know I'm the only one allowed near your ass. But I do my makeup because it makes me feel a little more normal Buck. I'm bored out of my mind in the house." You say as you reluctantly pull away.

"Doll, I have plenty of ways I can keep you busy." He wiggles his eyebrows at you with a smirk. "Okay, smooth criminal. I need to get ready. Let me up."

"No. You're mine." He says tightening his grip and nuzzling into your chest. "If you let me go get ready and set up my laptop out here I'll play with your hair during my meeting."

Bucky immediately perks up. "Okay baby. I'll do that for you. Go get ready Princess." As you get off of his lap, you roll your eyes at the nickname. He gives your ass a cute lil slap.

As you walk away you jokingly say "I am a queen and you know that bubba." He scoffs. "You are my queen. Love you." You hear as you turn the corner. "I love you more baby." You call over your shoulder. 

WARNING: SMUT AHEAD 

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You come back into the living room and all of your equipment is set up for your conference call. Bucky took his hair out of his bun and it's flowing down to his shoulders. You admire him from the door for a moment.

"Everything all set honey?" You ask him with a smile because he's wandering around the living room aimlessly.

He nods and motions you to sit. There's a glass of water, some orange juice and a small cheese, cracker, and fruit plate beside your laptop.

"Awe thank you honey. Remind me to suck your dick later." You smirk at him sitting down and grabbing a sliced strawberry. 

Bucky gapes at you for a second. He reals himself in. He lays out on the couch resting his head on your thigh. "Text me if you need anything Bubba. Are you comfortable?"

He nuzzles into your thigh a little bit, throwing a blanket over himself. "Yes baby I'm comfy." You start running your hands through his hair. Bucky's eyes start to close. You smile fondly down at him. 

"I'm ready when you are sugar." You feel so much love towards this man. He has full control over your heart and he doesn't even know it. Before you can dwell on that thought for too long your conference call has started. You put on your noise cancelling headphones that Bucky got for you for your birthday.

Before long your hands have grown still in his hair. Your plate of delicious food is gone, your water has been drained, and your orange juice is half full. 

His snores are soft and can't really be heard by the call. It's been almost 3 hours. What more can Ronald from the pseudoscience branch of your company have to say about how microdosing shrooms could be beneficial? All he is doing is repeating the same words over and over and over. 

It's ridiculously redundant and you're tired. You feel Bucky starting to stir. Hopefully he can keep you company better than Ronald Karen Cheryl and Tom. 

You start to feel one warm hand kneading your thigh. You look down at Bucky to give him a strange questioning look. He puts his finger up to his lips and tells you to shush. 

He's pushing himself up to his elbows still out of sight but definitely there. For the most part you ignore it. He's probably just stretching anyway. 

"So back to what we need to accomplish during this next quarter. Put together what we can to find out how we as a team can be successful." 

You feel his hand inch further up. You look down at his smirking face and it almost seems like he's asking for permission so you give him a small nod as you look back to your screen. It looks as though that's all he needed. 

He massages your thigh a little more. He starts to untie the silk bow on your pajama shorts that you hadn't changed out of if you weren't on call he might just might have just ripped them open. 

Once he's opened the tie in the shorts he dips his hand in and slightly over your underwear just rubbing softly on your clothed core. You let out a soft breath of air. Could have been mistaken for breathing. But he knows exactly what it was. 

"Okay, how about we take a five-minute break, pause the call whatever we have to do. Go get some water, get some snacks, use the bathroom because I have a feeling we're going to be here for a while. I'll see you all in about 5 minutes?" After your confirmation from your coworkers you leave the call. 

"Bucky what the hell do you think you're doing?" You asked in a hushed tone.

"Baby I'm doing whatever the hell I want. Now, I'm going to go get you some more water and some more snacks. I want your shorts off by the time I get back. You better keep those panties on. I want you to turn so your legs are on the couch leaving room for me to lay there." He pauses in thought. 

"If I come back and I don't see what I want to see. I will make you come over and over and over again. I won't stop until you're begging me to stop. Even then little girl, I will not stop until I'm satisfied with you. Am I understood?" You blink and surprise a couple times. Kind of collect your thoughts. Although you love when he talks to you like that. 

You're a little confused as to when this side of Bucky came to the surface. He was so sweet earlier. Either way you know you're in for a treat. So, you reply in the way you know how. Luckily you're not feeling bratty today. Even if it would be very very entertaining. 

You don't think your co-workers would much appreciate you begging your boyfriend to stop making you come. "Yes, sir." You say to him while batting your eyelashes. 

"Good girl." he kisses your thigh and heads to the kitchen. Quickly you get up and rid yourself of the shorts. You readjust yourself on the couch so that you still look presentable. 

You also make sure Bucky has room to lay on the couch and between your thighs. He comes back with another plate of food and some more water. 

"Oh, look at you honey. You're such a good girl. I'm glad that you did what I asked you to do." He picks an ice cube out of your water and puts it in his mouth. 

He lays in between your thighs. He puts both of his hands on either side of your core. Thumbs rubbing up and down your labia through your damp pink cotton panties. 

"What am I going to do with you baby? Guess we'll find out. I don't think I need to tell you that you're going to have to be quiet baby doll. You're going to talk to your coworkers. Tell them what to do in that sexy bossy voice I like, while I destroy you and take you apart." 

He's putting kisses all around your pelvis, your hip and your stomach purposely skirting around the place you want him the most. 

"If you're close, tap on my hand. You'll be a good girl and rejoin the call." If you weren't wet before you certainly are now. You put on your headphones and rejoin the call

Tag list I guess? @sweater-daddiesdumbdork @that-damn-girl @kitkatd7 @moteldwelling @m-c-who

Reblog lemme know how you feel.

[anthropwashere]

phango19: we go around, one foot nailed down

\o/ 30th DP fic and it’s the infamous dissection trope \o/

(you know I had to do it to ‘em)

Legit though, I’ve been wanting to write a DP dissection fic since, jeez, since I joined the fandom in '13 probably. It's practically a rite of passage to have one of these under your belt, isn't it? So here's me, giving you the gift of Danny Having a Bad Time.

There'll be some notes about the research I did for this one for the curious at the end, but apologies to anyone with an ounce of scientific know-how. I almost failed high school chemistry and that was something like 12 years ago. I am but a simple idiot with Internet access. Please call me out if there's something egregious in need of correction; otherwise... blame it on ghostly handwavium?

Title comes from TOOL’s “Pneuma.”

AO3 | FFN

=

It had been agony, at first. But like anything he’s ever set his mind to, it’s gotten easier with practice. 

He’s had plenty of opportunities to practice.

That doesn’t mean it doesn’t still hurt. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t wish he could quit the whole ugly business right this moment. Burn every file, lock the lab up for good, and pray for no more nightmares. But this ugly business needs doing and he’s the only one for it. He can’t allow Maddie to shoulder any more of this burden than she’s already insisted on. He won’t let those white-suited bastards lay so much as a finger on his family either, not while he’s got any say in it. There'll be hell to pay for going toe-to-toe with the GIW, but that's fine. He doesn’t care what happens to him anymore, so long as Maddie and Jazz are kept clean of all consequences.

If his luck holds out the courts will be hashing it all out for a while yet anyway. He’s never had a head for fine print or subtlety, nor doing anything so morally gray as—well. Everything lately. What should be done is clear as day to him, but if the courts agreed that easily with the GIW he wouldn't have a chance to make up for what he’s done.

He needs to do that much. 

The courts and those bastards will eventually agree he doesn’t have a leg to stand on, regardless of blood relation or his wealth of experience in an incredibly niche field. Sooner than later those bastards will come, and when they do there's only so much protest and fighting spirit they'll indulge in. That's a fight he'll lose once it comes, but in the meantime those bastards and all their clever little monitoring devices can’t come within 300 feet of Fenton Works without causing an uproar.

He has to take advantage of the time they have left.

This evening the house is empty, just him and—

Well.

Maddie’s out there fighting the good fight, Jazz and Sam and Tucker at her side. The three of them have got more experience than Maddie and him ever realized. They’ll be just fine. They’ll handle whatever toothy specter is out there terrorizing the good people of Amity Park and make sure nothing gets in the way of his work. He needs the peace and quiet. No distractions. He needs to do this by the book.

Working by the book isn't a habit he’s ever had to cultivate, not with Maddie there to shore up his madcap inventions with reams of reproducible data and neatly labeled blueprints, all hard copies done in triplicate and the digital files regularly updated to a secure server off-site. You can’t ever be too cautious when you’re putting pseudoscience to the test and winning, Maddie always said with a grin, and he’d kissed her every time for being so much more brilliant and beautiful than he deserved. What would he do without her? How far could he have gotten without her? Would Danny still be—

He swallows.

Best to banish that train of thought before it can run him down. No distractions. No what-ifs, no maybes. Not if he wants to make up for what’s happened. What they’ve done. What he's done. This one’s all on him, no matter how Maddie tries to tell him otherwise. Either he fixes this or—

Well. 

There is no ‘or,’ is there? 

He presses the record button on the Jack Fenton-improved observation rig. Blinking red lights and a momentary whine of feedback means he’s good to go. “Nov—”

Too hoarse. Clarity and enunciation are key here. Slow and steady. He’s got to do this right, each and every time. He clears his throat and begins again.

“November 24th, 2006. 9:43 p.m. This is the ninth full examination of the ectobiological aberration self-identified as ‘Phantom,’ legal name Daniel Fenton. General details of the aberration's previously accepted physical characteristics can be found in the recording and transcript of the first examination. General details of the aberration's current physical characteristics can be found in the first, second, and third examinations. Detailed characteristics that have remained unchanged between forms—the wholly living, the selectively living, and the wholly deceased are also recorded in the first and second examinations."

“For the record, I still don't think I qualify as an 'aberration,'" the body says.

He breathes. Swallows. Chooses to ignore the interruption. 

“This examination will consist of further study of Phantom's physical deterioration, to include the taking of samples of hair, skin, bone, and various fluids and tissues as necessary. Additionally I—" 

He hadn't identified himself, despite the GIW's explicitly written protocols on ghost examinations. He curses inwardly, decides not to bother. He's the only examiner on any of the recordings, after all.

The body takes advantage of his pause to add, “Oddity maybe. Hell, anomaly sounds pretty cool. But aberration? That makes me sound like I'm on the verge of a villainous origin story or something."

He presses on through gritted teeth. "I'll be conducting several tests as outlined separately—exact location in the Phantom file will be added to this examination's transcript—to see if it's feasible to separate the Phantom aberration from Daniel Fenton's remains."

"How many times do I have to tell you that Phantom has always been—"

"Danny."

The body sighs. Well. Its inhabitant does anyway. "Sorry, sorry."

He resists the urge to thank the body. He resists the urge to pat its mottled green hand. He doesn't trust his voice to remain steady if he does either.

"External examination.” He describes the body from toe to tip, his voice measured, unhurried, detached. Dark green skin, healed as flawlessly as it had seven times before. Untamed black hair that shines a glossy green in the harsh overhead lights. Eyes red as holly berries that shine with the predatory gleam so common among true ghosts when the overhead light hits them. The skin is firm, and firmly attached to the lean muscles beneath, and those too still conform to the bones as if the body hasn’t been dead for months. The body is as limp-limbed as a ragdoll in his hands as he goes through the checklist. He confirms that it’s continuing to lose weight incrementally despite no outward signs of decay or starvation—

(Can a dead thing still starve? God, but what were those two years like for Danny? All those worries, those fears, all those questions without answers, and now….)

Nothing untoward or abnormal—in shape, if not in color—can be noted. A normal male distribution of body hair. Teeth in fair repair. Gums, tongue, and oral cavity all normal, albeit pale green. Symmetrical and normal in appearance are checked off wherever they need to be checked off. On, and on, and on. An exhaustive process that embarrassed the body’s inhabitant horribly the first few times. Now it’s borne in silence, with only an occasional gruff sigh.

No deformities. No injuries, except for the postmortem thread that’s bunched up at weird angles as the body stubbornly insisted on healing practically overnight. He makes a note of it as he takes a small pair of shears to the tangles, snipping and pulling as needed. The small holes trace out a capital letter Y that’s gone a bit hunchbacked and knock-kneed. Another day or two and that scar will be gone, replaced by a new one that will stretch stark and symmetrical, for a little while. The small holes left behind don’t bleed. There isn't any blood or ectoplasm pooled or pulsing through the body. The heart is still, a fist-sized lump of dark green muscle. He'd drained the clay-colored fluid that had operated as blood out into a jar marked DP Specimen #58 - 3.85ltr ecto found w/in complex circ sys(!) w/ unk contaminant(s?). It hasn't clotted, and the body hasn't produced more.

They don't know why. They still don’t know why the body continues to heal. There’s not enough energy in the remaining ectoplasm to generate such a speedy recovery, but neither does it heal enough. Danny’s ghost—the aberration—is still bound to this inanimate, impossible corpse. Danny is still trapped.

Not to mention that the healing seems to be failing incrementally as the days pass. He doesn’t know what it means. He doesn’t know if they’re running out of time or not. He doesn’t know what will happen to Danny if—

There’s no ‘if.’ He’s fixing this. 

He has to.

“You’re staring,” the body says quietly.

He swallows, shaking himself out of it. “I—I will now begin the internal examination to compare the body’s current state to that of the eighth examination conducted on November 16th. Additionally, with the data gathered from the previous examinations and tests conducted upon various tissue samples and the body itself it’s believed that optimal results might be achieved with as little biological interference as possible.”

“You said full examination,” the body interrupts. “Brain included?”

“Brain included,” he confirms. He can’t quite keep the apology out of his voice. Not as if those bastards would notice an ounce of kindness if it—

Focus.

The body doesn’t breathe. It can’t. Those lungs gasped their last 36 seconds after Maddie landed a neat hit on Phantom with a full 450 milliliters of their experimental paralytic. 

(He’d said it himself, not 24 hours before that day. Enough to lay out a ghost ten times his size! What a damn stupid, blind idiot he was.)

The inhabitant inside the body makes the sound of a slow, steadying breath. It shouldn’t shake. It shakes anyway. “Just. Don’t keep my face c-covered any longer than you have to.”

Danny’s made this request each time. As if he’d forget to give Danny what mean comforts he can through—through this. Danny had screamed all throughout that first examination. Not out of pain—he insisted he couldn’t feel anything anymore—but out of sheer, visceral horror. He doesn’t blame Danny one bit for that. 

(He’d hoped removing the brain would do the trick, that it would free Danny’s ghost, put him out of his misery. But it just grew back. There are three of them resting in glass jars of glowing formalin now. At the rate he’s going the entire lab will soon be nothing but bits of Danny in jars.)

“Sure thing,” he whispers, and picks up the scalpel. 

He narrates as he works, making small notes on the diagram at his elbow with a gloved hand that grows damp over time with green fluids. He makes the initial incision, running over it repeatedly where necessary, and inch by inch peels the anterior thoracic musculature and subcutaneous layers away. 

(He’s almost gotten used to making these incisions, to applying the necessary force as pulls the layers apart. The motions have almost become habit. It’s all the sounds of peeling the body open that continue to haunt him.)

The flesh folds like a thick blanket, draping over the body’s elbows out of the way. There’s no need at this time to study the neck musculature or organs. He leaves that stretch of skin where it’s meant to stay. He focuses on cutting away the pale bits of fatty tissue that might interfere, fully exposing the deep black bones of the body’s rib cage. 

(That had been a hard shock, the first time. He’s almost used to the sight now.)

As with the body’s hair and eyes, the bones have a faint green gleam to them. The same iridescence of a raven’s feathers. They yield to a rib cutter the same as any human’s would. He makes the cuts close to the sides rather than near the breastbone; he wants to get a good look at the heart and lungs in situ today.

The inhabitant begins to breathe rapidly. 

He pauses, the front of the body’s rib cage gripped carefully in both hands, pulled halfway out. “Do… do you want me to move the mirror?”

Oh, but he had put his foot down about the mirror. There was no way, no way, he would force Danny to observe as his own father cut him open—did this to him. Danny had asked first that his eyes not to be taped shut, because laying there paralyzed and feeling nothing in the dark was so much worse and anyway his eyes don’t seem to be going anywhere, right? The third examination is when Danny had asked for a way to watch him work, and he’d protested and blubbered and even shouted, enough that Maddie had called down the stairs in a voice thick with tears if everything was—if everything was—did he need help?

Yes, he needed help. But he didn’t tell her that. He told her everything was—was—that she needn’t worry, that he had everything handled. 

Danny had asked again. Again and again and again, and every time he said no, told Danny all the reasons why he wouldn’t, couldn’t, would never—

But Danny kept asking.

I want to understand, Dad. Please. I’m gonna go crazy if I all I do is just lay here until you and Mom fix me. I—this is all I can do. I want to see what you’re doing to me, instead of trying to imagine. Please. Please, Dad.

He’d relented for the seventh examination. He’d attached an arm to the observation rig above the table, attached a mirror to the arm, and messed with the angle of it until Danny said he could see himself perfectly. 

It had been such a terrible thing to do to Danny, but Danny had thanked him all the same.

The body sighs, chuckles weakly. “N-no. No. I just—hate that sound. That—cracking. Gets—gets me every time.”

He nods, not trusting himself to speak. He tries to be as gentle as he can, separating the breastbone from the clavicle, but some sounds are unavoidable. After setting the rib cage aside he swallows, and swallows again. His voice betrays him anyway. “M-mediastinum intact again as well. Comparable in color to previous examinations. The residual fatty thymic tissue present….”

And on. And on. Cutting and pulling and weighing, comparing weights and textures and colors to the eight other times he’s already done this.

How many more times will this be necessary?

Danny breathes, sometimes, hitching like he means to say something, or like he's trying not to cry.

 Danny doesn’t do either, but he hates himself anyway.

“Decellularization continues apace,” he murmurs near the microphone, tracing a careful finger across one lung in the scale. It and its twin had been a vivid lime green in the beginning, but like nearly every other organ it’s begun to shed its inhabiting cells, leaving a colorless scaffolding in the same rough shape of itself behind. 

Ghost organs. He’s never heard of such a thing happening outside of a microbiology lab. It’d almost be funny.

He doesn’t know what it means.

 He doesn’t know what any of this means.

The accident should have killed Danny completely, left a well-cooked corpse and an entirely separate ghost behind. Not hybridized him. Not at the risk of this. Their paralytic is what killed him—

(his son, his boy, little Dann-o, gone gone gone and it’s all his fault)

—but if he’d died another way would this have been the same result? This powerlessness, this fading? There’s no knowing, and that most of all is what keeps him up at night.

He finishes comparing all the numbers to those previously recorded. Then samples are taken and the cell debris drained, all the vials and containers marked appropriately. Lastly he bags the organs he intends to keep for study to minimize leakage, leaving the rest in their individual trays. If he were to place them all back in the body the bags would—somehow—vanish within a few days, all the organs reorganized and reattached exactly as they should be. If he doesn’t, new ones will take their place. 

Maddie suspects this to be the cause of the decellularization. The body is drawing on its own limited materials to regenerate because the ectoplasmic core once sustaining it has been snuffed out. None of their instruments can even pick up that Danny’s still in there, but there he is all the same. No one knows what to make of that.

All in all, it’s been over an hour by the time he carefully suctions out the last of the fluids pooled within the emptied cavities, filling and marking one more container to join the collection on the stainless steel counter. He’d lined the interior of the body with cotton, the first time. It had gone the same way as the bags, vanished or vaporized or who even knows. He doesn’t bother this time, returning the unbagged organs to rough approximations of where they should be. He gives the small intestine up as a bad job, grimacing apologetically. In the space where the right lung sat he places an oblong monitoring device small enough to fit in the palm of his hand. Something clever Maddie cooked up to measure all sorts of things, all potential avenues to make sense of the body’s physiology and shake the ghost clean of it. It shouldn’t be too intrusive once the lung grows back. Not that it matters.

It’s far too late to save their son. They know that. That doesn’t make this any easier.

“Brain next?” The body asks once he’s finished up the new Y incision. 

“Brain next,” he confirms wearily, setting aside needle and thread. “Your moth—”

He bites his cheek hard enough to taste blood, but that’s not enough to take back the slip. No familiarity. No acknowledgement of their relationship. No divulging more details than strictly necessary. That had been part of the agreement.

He wiggles the rubber block out from under the body’s back, moves it to support the head, cards his fingers—a fresh pair of gloves on—through its thick dark hair. Danny can’t feel it but hums a wordless thanks anyway, watching in the mirror. There’s the faintest shiver of motion at his eyes; not the eyeballs themselves but of a fey light within. It’s the only sign anyone’s still in there.

He makes the incision across the crown, sloping from behind one ear to the other. The scrape of the scalpel against bare bone makes Danny suck in a breath. He peels, he cuts, he peels. He whispers an apology as the anterior flap covers the eyes, the nose, the mouth, the chin. The inhabit’s imagined breaths come faster than ever, but it’s only the dark that upsets him. It is. The dark, the numbness, the helplessness. A hell that can’t be imagined, only experienced.

He moves quicker now, his narration stuttering in favor of action. The posterior flap peeled and cut and folded out of the way, then both of the temporal muscles severed. The scalpel traded for a blade like a bread knife to etch out a rough guideline around the crown of the exposed skull. Then the hammer and chisel.

Danny whimpers all throughout.

As soon as the brain—the same gray-green color of mold—has been removed, he gently pulls the anterior flap back, lets it dangle over empty space as he wipes the body’s face clean of a few green drips. “Keeping this one for testing, I’m afraid,” he says.

“Okay,” the body whispers.

“Nearly finished now.”

“I know. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t acknowledge that. He can’t afford to. The brain—what a brilliant kid, a professional ghost hunter, reaching for the stars since he first realized they were up there, the sum of his son cradled in his hands and this isn’t ever going to get any easier, it’s not, it’s not, it’s not—

He takes a deep breath. Steadies himself. Sets the brain carefully aside to be dealt with shortly. Soft as Jell-O, brains are, but unfathomably powerful. Science has only scratched the surface of what goes on in that three-pound mass. Danny might still be—somehow—tied to the body, but maybe the answer lies in the brain. 

Nearly finished. He can do this.

The skullcap is held awkwardly in place as he sews the scalp closed. It’ll be good as new in no time, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t still take care to make the stitches tidy. He uses the back of his hand, the cleanest part of his glove, to smooth the dark hair over the seam.

“This concludes the ninth examination of Daniel Fenton, AKA Phantom,” he croaks into the microphone, and at last, at last, he can kill the recording. As soon as he has he reaches up to nudge the mirror askew so Danny doesn’t have to stare at himself a second longer.

“Done,” he says, his voice gone hoarse again.

“Yeah,” the body says.

He stands there a long, long minute, braced on the examination table staring down at the twisted corpse of his son, both splashed with any number of ghostly-bodily fluids. Arms shaking, his knees rubbery, breathing through a throat of sand. He’s tired. He’s tired. He doesn’t know how much longer he can do this.

As long as he has to. As long as it takes to help Danny. That’s how much longer he has to. No ifs, ands, or buts. 

“Are you okay?” Danny asks.

He laughs. It comes out wetter than he meant it to, but it’s fine. All of the recording equipment is off. The only person who’ll see him cry now is Danny. “Sh—shouldn’t I be asking that?”

“Maybe,” Danny says, “But it’s not easy on anybody. Is it?”

“...No. No, it’s not.”

He’s made such a mess of this corner of the lab. Maddie’d be furious with him if she saw. Not that she will. He’s cordoned it off with tall curtains and begged her on bended knee to leave this whole ugly mess to him. She hasn’t looked yet. He’d know if she had. He's seen the way her eyes linger on the curtains while they're working in another part of the lab, how her hands fumble, how her mouth thins. She's not slept more than four hours at a time since—

Since.

"Quit staring," the body orders. "Mom'll blow a gasket if you leave the lab like this. So c’mon now. Hop to it."

He laughs again, sniffling thickly as he pats the mottled green hand nearest him. Danny can't feel or see him do it, but it feels right to do it all the same. "You're a good boy, keeping your old man on task."

Danny hums. "Somebody's got to."

Well. That’s true enough, isn’t it? He’s always needed a firm hand to keep him focused. It’s been Maddie since the day they met in college, his rock in all things. All things but this. He won’t let her carry this burden. Not the messiest parts he can protect her from anyway.

So. Another checklist.

Juggling trays full of specimens off the second examination table to the counter so he can wipe the table clean. Then cleaning the body. Then moving the body to the second table so he can clean and sterilize the first. 

(Like a twisted game of musical chairs, Danny had joked once. Neither of them had laughed.)

But before that comes organizing and storing all the specimens for Maddie to study tomorrow with that eagle eye and incredible patience of hers. She’s doing the real work, laying out all the pieces of Danny to see what makes him tick, working on a way to free him even as she tries to understand him. They’ve dedicated another corner of the lab to this; nearly an entire wall, really. All their other work has gone by the wayside, shelved apart from the necessity of dealing with any ghosts that slip out to wreck a little havoc. 

Funny, how few times that’s happened—since. They’d worried, once Jazz and Sam and Tucker had told them the whole terrible truth, that the ghosts might celebrate Phantom’s condition. Take advantage of his helplessness to get revenge or at least run amok in Amity Park. They know news got out; the ghost Phantom had been after the day Maddie got her lucky shot in had gotten away. 

But there’s been nothing. Almost nothing, apart from a few non-sapient threats. Mean and cunning things, but nothing half so dangerous as they’d feared would come. Danny doesn’t seem surprised, or worried for that matter. If he knows something though, he’s staying quiet.

Once he’s passed back through the curtains the body says, “Jazz visited me again last night.”

The curse slips out him before he can help it, anger and worry and shame and grief a hot migrainous mess hammering away at his skull, matching the pace he’d chiseled at Danny’s. “She knows better—!”

“Yeah, and I told her to get out too.” Danny chuckles. “She never listens though.”

“I….” He sighs and shakes his head, exasperated. “...Yeah. She gets that from your mother. How is she?”

“Figured that’d be obvious.”

“She won’t talk to either of us,” he replies, and goes to clean and disinfect the table and floor. Easiest to get that done with before he spends 20 minutes hunched over the sink and autoclave. His back’s already clamoring for a hot shower and a handful of ibuprofen after—

Well.

“She’s not as angry as she was,” Danny says in a pause between clangs. “She hardly cried at all this time.”

“Good. That’s—good.”

“Hey, Dad? Do me a favor?”

He’s at Danny’s side at once, taking one hand in his and leaning enough to be in more than Danny’s frozen peripheral. “What is it?”

“She’s gonna try to sneak Sam and Tucker down here this week—”

“What?”

“—so can you make sure the security system will let them in?”

His knee-jerk reaction is to put his foot down, to remind Danny and then Jazz of how tenuous a position they’re in with the GIW, of how they can’t afford the littlest slip or look for loopholes or do anything to risk Danny—

But.

Danny’s been down here so long now. Alone apart from him, from Maddie’s voice on the other side of the curtains, Jazz’s midnight visits. Just his family and the ceiling and hours of silence and a hundred experiments and failures and—

And that’s no way to live. That’s no way to live at all.

“Is that what you want?” He asks.

“I… I really don’t want them to see me like this,” There’s nothing but revulsion in Danny’s voice, self-loathing and guilt and horror. “But they’ll do it no matter what I tell Jazz, and I don’t want them to get caught either.”

“Okay. Okay then. I think I can finagle three days before anyone might notice. Make sure she knows.”

“Yeah. Thank you.”

He goes back to cleaning, finishes the area and moves to the instruments and trays. Ectoplasm is notoriously difficult to scrub out. It takes time. The smell of bleach burns his eyes and nose, eventually overpowering the citrus sting of ectoplasm. Once the autoclave is set to run he tosses the latex gloves into the hazardous waste bin and takes a moment to let his hands breathe. Never did like the feel of latex, but his usual pair don’t allow him the finesse he needs for—well, this kind of work. His fingertips have gone pale and wrinkled. His fingers ache. His wrists are on fire, to say nothing of his shoulders and back.

How many more times is he going to do this?

“How do you feel?” He asks.

“I’m fine,” Danny says. Too quickly.

“Be honest, kiddo. Please.”

“I… Cold. Heavy. Like I got stuck phasing through the ground, and any second I’m gonna slip up and go solid and it’ll—” Danny makes a small, miserable noise and falls silent.

He rubs his aching eyes, gritting his teeth against every stupid, useless thing he wants to say. He’d asked, hadn’t he?

“Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s been months.”

“I know.”

Danny’s voice breaks. “I have to get out of here.”

“I know,” he repeats. It’s the only thing to say. He’s exhausted all apologies. “We’re trying, son. We’re working on this day and night. We’ll get you sorted, you know we will.”

“...Yeah. I know.”

He forces his aching legs to the cabinet to pull out a fresh sheet to drape over the body, then Danny’s comforter over that, pulling them both up to the body’s chin to hide the edges of the incision. “Eyes open or shut tonight?”

“Um. What time is it?”

He glances at the wall as he carefully swaps the rubber block under the body’s neck for a plastic-wrapped pillow. “Just after midnight.”

“When will Mom be down?”

“Six sharp, same as always.”

“Right. Um. Shut’s fine.”

He gently tugs the medical tape off the body’s face, smoothes the eyebrows flat and brushes the bangs aside. The green skin feels even colder on his bare fingers. 

This is the part where he bids his dead son good night and retreats upstairs. This is the part where he passes by Jazz and Maddie with his eyes firmly on his feet. This is the part where he near boils himself in the shower until he feels almost clean again, scrubbing his skin raw to wash the smell of ectoplasm away. This is the part where there’s only nightmares followed by silent hours spent staring at the ceiling of their bedroom, trying to imagine how helpless and terrified Danny is down here.

He stays where he is, hands braced on the table again. He asks the question that's festered in his gut ever since Jazz threw herself over Phantom's prone shape and spat the truth out through a stream of furious tears. "...Why didn't you tell us?"

Danny is quiet for a long, long time. Then, "I was always gonna end up on this table."

He shudders, pulling away. "We— you don’t really think that. Do you? We love you, Danny. We wouldn't. If we'd known, we wouldn't have."

Another long silence. Then, "Good night, Dad."

“I….” He shuts his eyes, weary in a way he’ll never find the words to express. “Good night, Danny-boy.”

He shuts the lights off on his way up the stairs.

=

Notes: Decellularization is cool as hell. Check out the >Wiki page< for it, and if you don’t some close-up pictures of a pig heart >here< is a fascinating DIY to create your very own ghost organ as a Halloween decoration! (Scientists are amazing.) For the rest of the research I did for this, I’ll just say that boy! You sure can find some extremely specific How-Tos on the Internent, huh? I sure learned a lot this week!

Anyway, thanks for reading! You’re great. <3

[whatif-animagineblog]

Prompt: This story is still based on a chat room conversation and can be seen here

Warnings: Still angst man. Some pseudoscience where I pretend to know what I’m talking about after some google research.

Pairing: Bones/Reader (predetermined)

A/N: one more after this. Then it all comes to an end. Catch up on this series if you haven’t! PART 1 PART 2

Word Count: 1627

By the end of the fourth month, David had a stroke. The pressure on the brain, caused by the high levels of blood. M'Benga thought it could be caused by a clot. That’s when he told you he was unsure what damage had been caused, but there was probably damage and it would affect him for life if he pulled through. You vomited into the toilet, not wanting to believe what was true. He was getting worst.

Meanwhile, Leonard was finding solace at the bottom of the bottle. They had both taken a nosedive in the last month, the need for blood draws increased to once a day, you were sure now some else would pop up. The labs still had nothing and were still doing their best. Or so they assured you.

You watched your son, his skin all pink, a sign that his blood count was reaching unsafe levels, again. He was bloated from all the fluids they were trying to push into the tiny body. His voice was hoarse from all the crying. But the crying grew less and less as lethargy took over. You were thankful for the relief, but you knew it was a bad sign. On top of that Leonard seemed to go AWAL on you.

For the first time in a long time, you felt alone. Isolated on an island. Your husband would be no help, he was probably half way through a bottle of whiskey. You needed someone. So you ran to Jim. You aren’t sure why. Maybe because he’s the Captain. A comforting figure when everything is going to shit. Or, maybe because you two had grown close over the years, you being with Bones, meant you spent a lot of time with Jim. So, you pounded on his door, calling his name, tears threatening to overflow.

“Y/n,” he asked sidestepping to let you in immediately. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I can’t take it anymore! I can’t handle this on my own anymore Jim! I just can’t! I can’t fight this battle!” You began to sob, a hard, ugly, soul-crushing sob.

Jim threw his arms around you holding you to his chest. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” Jim hushed. “Breathe, breathe with me.” You were still crying but you managed to start breathing with Jim, finally getting it to level out. “Where’s Bones? What do you mean alone?”

“He's dealing with his guilt and emotions he can't process with liquor. He spends his time in his office. I haven't seen him for more than about an hour every day for the past two weeks when I have seen he’s been drunk. He's self-destructing. He's falling apart and leaving me alone to be a tower of strength. And I'm just not that strong Jim. In trying but I'm not!” You yelled, tears streaming down your face. “What if David dies? What if Leonard goes after him? He feels so guilty, and won’t realize I don’t blame him. I’m scared, Jim.”

Jim hushed you, pulling you back to him. Rubbing circles into your shaking back. “You are not alone. You always have me, too. Remember that. I'll talk to Bones.” You shook your head.

“You don’t have to get involved.”

“I am. I dragged his drunk ass out of this kinda thing before. I can do it again. He needs a good slap in the face of reality. I’ll handle this.” He rubbed your arms. “Stay here tonight. You need a break. I’ll take the couch. Alright.”

“Jim you don’t need to do that. I’ll be fine. I’m fine,” you tried to convince yourself.

“I order you,” your head snapped up and looked into his eyes. That were soft, worried, and kind. A smile gently pulled at his lips. “I order you to stay here, take my bed and relax.”

You chuckled in spite of yourself. “Yes, sir.”

He nodded, “good. Take a nap. Take one of my shirts. Alright? I’ll be back,” Jim said as he exited out the door.

“Jim,” you called. He popped his head in. “Thank you.” He just nodded once and left.

Kirk walked into Bones’ office. The other man looked up from his glass, “Jim, you want a drink?”

“No,” Jim spoke curtly. “Bones what are you doing?”

“Having a drink,” Len grumbled. “What does it look like?”

“At 2 in the afternoon?” Jim huffed, crossing his arms. “How’s David?”

“He’s deteriorating. I-I don’t think he has much time,” Bones’ voice began to quake.

“And exactly how is you getting drunk helping,” Jim pressed, he leaned against Leonard’s desk, the comment causing the other man to stare.

“What can I do Jim?! I’m helpless! Without that cure, I can’t do a damned thing. So I’m numbing the pain sue me,” Bones spat.

“That’s great for you but I want you to stop,” Jim punctuated by putting his hand over the glass. “You’re being selfish.” Bones rose from his seat leveling himself with Jim, swaying slightly.

“Back off, Jim. You have no idea what I am going through! So don’t you dare come posturing in thinking you can damn me for trying to deal with this.” He gestured wildly at the door, obviously meaning his son.

“I might not understand, I can’t understand. Not yet anyway,” Jim raised his voice, standing to his full height, taking the few inches Leonard had gained back.

“Then get off my back,” Bones growled.

“No, Len you need to listen. I might not. But I know who does.” Bones recoiled. Jim never called him anything close to his real name, unless he was serious. “Your wife. You remember her? Or have you drank so much you can only remember this room?” Bones went to leave, angry, furious at Jim. That’s when the blond grabbed a fistful of his shirt. “You can run away from this! You are on a starship. Space isn’t an option anymore! You’re already here.”

“Get off me. Don’t you lecture how to handle my grief.” Bones attempted to break free of him, but to no avail.

“It’s not just your grief,” Kirk yelled shifting his grip to is friend's arm “You might be losing a son but at this rate, Y/n is losing a son and a husband! Len you can’t keep doing this! You can’t keep running to the bottle!”

“Let go of me, Jim,” Bones barked, his voice raw. “Jim. Please,” James could see the tears in his eyes.

“Not till you realize you are not alone anymore! Y/n came to me today.”

“What,” Bones murmured.

“She came to my quarters. Crying. She didn’t know where to go. She didn't want to be in medbay because she needed a break. But she didn’t want to be alone in your quarters. So she came to me. Saying she couldn’t do it alone. She needs you.”  Jim was now speaking softly, hoping Leonard would understand. “You don’t have to fight alone. You have me and y/n. And she wants to stand with you so bad, and you just left her alone. She needs you. She needs her husband. She needs Leonard McCoy.” Leonard looked down and away. “You have her. She would follow you to hell and back. Fight Satan himself for you.” Jim could see the recognition in his eyes. It was finally hitting him.

“I’ve been an idiot. My son is dying, and I’m leaving my wife to suffer alone. I gotta,” Bones started trying to pull away. “I gotta go see her. I gotta make this right.”

“No, you are going to your quarters to sleep this off. She doesn’t need you drunkenly apologizing. She’s spending the night in my quarters. Alright?”

“I’m so sorry,” Bones moved back towards his desk. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered placing his hands on his desk, head hanging. Jim sighed and walked over to him, placing a hand on the now trembling back.

“Bones.” Len shook his head, his back heaving with a sob. “Bones, come on. Let me walk you to your quarters. You need to sleep.” Jim maneuvered his way under one of Len’s arms, encouraging the other to follow him. Kirk gripped tightly, whispering soft words of encouragement as the other fought to stop his tears.

“Jim I’m so scared.”

“I know, I know. So is she.”

You walked back into the shared quarters early. Leonard was asleep on his stomach, mouth open. You smiled, he needed it. You felt pretty okay, Jim’s bed was comfortable, and the different environment helped you get some rest. Your rustling woke the sleeping man. “Y/n?”

“Len,” you replied instinctively. You turned and watched him sit up to address you.

“I’m sorry.” You opened your mouth to say something. “No, let me finish. Jim told me you went to him yesterday. And I’m sorry. I just. I forgot that I had you. I had someone to stand by me, help hold me up when the universe wanted to beat me down. So I returned to what worked best last time my life was crumbling. I don’t expect you to forgive me. Hell, I don’t forgive me. But I’m here. And I can fight without you.” He reached a hand out to you. You walked towards him, gently taking his hand. He pulled you close, burying his head into your stomach.

“You scared me.”

“I know, never again alright? I promise.” You carded your fingers through the thick locks, causing Leonard to hum at the attention. He ran his hands up and down your spine. Those talented hands rubbing knots out of your lower back.The monument was was so gentle. Just you and him, the ship felt still, the universe felt still. Life was still.

Until the com buzzed. “Leonard, David experienced a seizure.”

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[jessicakehoe]

5 Instagram Poets Who Will Warm Up Your Winter Blues

Blue Monday might have started as a press release to promote travel in January, but whether or not the equation—yes, there’s “math” to this—is total bologna-pseudoscience, it’s hard to deny the blues that come with cold weather. To help you through the chill, we’ve created an updated list of on-the-rise Instagram poets who have embraced the public platform as a way to make their voices heard. If you’re a fan of the insta-poets we’ve showcased in the past (Nikita Gill, Nayyirah Waheed and Yrsa Daley-Ward), these five talented writers are the perfect people to fill your day with sunshine and similes.

Tyler Knott Gregson

Best known for his Typewriter Series and book Chasers of the Light, Knott writes almost exclusively about love. His words are loaded with passion, softness and authenticity. Reading one of his poems feels like unfolding a love letter meant just for you—exposing, yet comforting. He’ll have you tagging your loved ones in the comments in no time, the perfect solution when your own words don’t feel like enough.

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Some days we are earth tones, all greys and greens and we fade into the landscape, into the weather. Some days we are neon, we pop and contrast the world around us. We explode in color and light. Some days all that rain makes one hell of a rainbow. . 📸 by @christinefigs

A post shared by Tyler Knott Gregson (@tylerknott) on Oct 6, 2018 at 7:04am PDT

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Typewriter Series #2441 by Tyler Knott Gregson

A post shared by Tyler Knott Gregson (@tylerknott) on Dec 2, 2018 at 4:58pm PST

Morgan Harper Nichols

Morgan Harper Nichols is the ultimate hype girl. She is the supportive, wisdom filled friend that we all need when the blues begin to weigh us down. Her profile, which she uses as a platform for mental wellness and self-care, is loaded with positivity and empathy. Nichols writes about personal growth, accepting your failures and moving forward. She is happy to share, with templates and phone wallpapers available for free download, so that her reminders are with you always. My own lock screen currently reads, “she does not know what the future holds, but she is grateful for slow and steady growth.”

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“Tell the story of the mountain you climbed. Your words could become a page in someone else’s survival guide.” I wrote these words for someone else, but I need this reminder too. ⠀ I have always naturally been a quieter, more inward type, and for most of life, expressing feelings and emotions was a challenge for me (Enneagram 5, INTJ). Because of that, I often thought that because I did not naturally have certain personality traits, there was no way I could connect with others, even when it came to the things I made. ⠀ I had a great family growing up, but outside of the home, I struggled to figure out where I “fit.” I struggled making friends and often blamed myself for not being more extroverted or “interesting.” This sent me inward: Deep inside my journals where I would say all the things I was never able to say during the day. I would write things for people but never knew how to share it with them. I would fill pages of composition books just to try to understand why I felt unheard and unseen. I started to convince myself that the best way to show up in the world was to not to be myself. Even in an environment where my parents lovingly encouraged my gifts as a writer and artist (I thank God for the encouragement my parents gave and still give me everyday), I still didn’t feel like I fit anywhere in the outside world. But there was this inside world where I could draw and write out all of the things I never figured out how to say during the day. Over time, I have finally begin to see: in the same way I learned to fill my journal page by page, I could learn to connect with others one by one. Showing up in the world does not mean that I have to show up everywhere all at once. Connecting around real people and real stories, in relationships and art is about the one. Impactful things can be said on big stages and in chart topping songs but they can also be said in hospital parking lots and handwritten letters. I have come to believe that in a world that often seems too crowded or busy to notice meaningful things, there is yet still room for each our stories and I just hope that the art I make, page by page, person by person is just one example of that.

A post shared by Morgan Harper Nichols (@morganharpernichols) on May 19, 2018 at 10:25am PDT

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When you start to feel like things should have been better this year, remember the mountains and valleys that brought you here. They are not accidents, and those moments were not in vain. You are not the same. You have grown and you are growing, you are breathing, you are living, you are wrapped in endless, boundless grace. And things will get better, there is more to you than yesterday. — Morgan Harper Nichols And if it happens to be one of these evenings/mornings/afternoons where reading it aloud or writing it down might bring some comfort, this is for you When I start to feel like things should have been better this year, I will remember the mountains and valleys that brought me here. They are not accidents, and those moments were not in vain. I am not the same. I have grown and I am growing, I am breathing, I am living, I am wrapped in endless, boundless grace. And things will get better, there is more to me than yesterday. ♥️🙏✨

A post shared by Morgan Harper Nichols (@morganharpernichols) on Nov 7, 2018 at 8:28pm PST

Mustafa Ahmed

Raised in the public housing of Regent Park (a Canadian boy!), Ahmed, who goes by “Mustafa the Poet” is a proud Muslim songwriter, poet and spoken word artist. He writes about the struggles of mental illness, loss and poverty, but he is full of a hopefulness that is infectious to his audience. You may recognize his name from The Weeknd’s song “Attention,” which he co-wrote and performed, but his fame started at age twelve when he garnered attention from Toronto’s 2009 Hot Docs Festival for his poem “A Single Rose.” Watch Mustafa continue to bloom on his Instagram.

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Live in peace fam, there's no amount of money or pride or success that's worth your peace!! May you rest in it one day too

A post shared by Mustafa (@mustafathepoet) on Sep 11, 2017 at 2:39pm PDT

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Patience 🌥

A post shared by Mustafa (@mustafathepoet) on Feb 4, 2016 at 12:17am PST

Samantha Jayne

Samantha is less about inspiration and more about relatability. Under her handle @quarterlifepoems, she writes about mundane, millennial crises and honestly, it is comedy gold. She writes almost-limericks paired with colourful doodles about accidental double taps on Instagram, social anxiety and financial confusion, all of which make you feel slightly less alone. She uses social media to make a refreshing statement on who twenty-somethings truly are behind all of the perfectly curated profiles. Her work is clearly catching on, her popular poetry being picked up as a television series, which will premiere at Sundance and air on FX this Spring.

View this post on Instagram

got me a solar earring 💫

A post shared by Samantha Jayne (@samanthajayne) on Sep 6, 2018 at 7:17am PDT

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💁 #longhairdontcare #whatevs #selflove #instagood #me #smile #nyc #la #sunglasses #cute #photooftheday #poetry #quarterlifecrisis #twenties #girl #funny #happy #picoftheday #instadaily #attitude #ink #igers #fun #summer #drawing #bestoftheday #smile #painting #womenirl #instamood

A post shared by Quarter Life Poetry (@quarterlifepoetry) on Mar 24, 2015 at 10:27am PDT

Haley Macleod

Haley’s following isn’t as large as her fellow poets, with 25.5k, but the Calgary-born writer’s voice is genuine, and her fans are loyal. She writes about love, heartbreak and self-respect, advising readers, and likely herself as well, to choose a life of fulfilment and happiness. Her posts are visually stunning as well, with typewritten pages placed over photographs of seasides and city nights. They evoke a sense of peace and calm, the perfect escape from sharp winds and snowfalls.

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• i hope you find a love who always calls back who never shows up late who pulls you closer in the middle of the night who never again makes you question the word stay who touches you so wild you believe again in the hands of fate who does not rob you of your softness or grace who instead renovates the parts of you that you have labelled damage that you keep hidden away who plants flowers in your lungs so the smell of roses awakes you each day who makes the blood in your veins triumphantly rise who only says i will see you later who never has believed in the word goodbye who can see the universe that exists behind your emerald eyes i hope you find a love that makes you feel nothing but alive who will always always always take the time to see your sunrise • haley macLeod ☁️

A post shared by HM ♱ (@haleymacleod) on Sep 5, 2017 at 2:59pm PDT

  View this post on Instagram

  who were you before this all – before the hands of grief turned off the lights of hope inside of your heart. before the lust poisoned your veins and made you forget how to love. before you became this person the world told you to be, instead of wearing the flesh of who you really are. who were you – i know, pain changes people, but healing does too. do your soul a favour; let the light in today. let it softly pour into the scars of your darkness. let it set fire to all of your darkness. bathe in the light. it will be the light that is going to save you; when it comes, let it 🌹•

A post shared by HM ♱ (@haleymacleod) on Nov 6, 2018 at 10:59am PST

The post 5 Instagram Poets Who Will Warm Up Your Winter Blues appeared first on FASHION Magazine.

5 Instagram Poets Who Will Warm Up Your Winter Blues published first on https://borboletabags.tumblr.com/

[lindyhunt]

5 Instagram Poets Who Will Warm Up Your Winter Blues

Blue Monday might have started as a press release to promote travel in January, but whether or not the equation—yes, there’s “math” to this—is total bologna-pseudoscience, it’s hard to deny the blues that come with cold weather. To help you through the chill, we’ve created an updated list of on-the-rise Instagram poets who have embraced the public platform as a way to make their voices heard. If you’re a fan of the insta-poets we’ve showcased in the past (Nikita Gill, Nayyirah Waheed and Yrsa Daley-Ward), these five talented writers are the perfect people to fill your day with sunshine and similes.

Tyler Knott Gregson

Best known for his Typewriter Series and book Chasers of the Light, Knott writes almost exclusively about love. His words are loaded with passion, softness and authenticity. Reading one of his poems feels like unfolding a love letter meant just for you—exposing, yet comforting. He’ll have you tagging your loved ones in the comments in no time, the perfect solution when your own words don’t feel like enough.

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Some days we are earth tones, all greys and greens and we fade into the landscape, into the weather. Some days we are neon, we pop and contrast the world around us. We explode in color and light. Some days all that rain makes one hell of a rainbow. . 📸 by @christinefigs

A post shared by Tyler Knott Gregson (@tylerknott) on Oct 6, 2018 at 7:04am PDT

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Typewriter Series #2441 by Tyler Knott Gregson

A post shared by Tyler Knott Gregson (@tylerknott) on Dec 2, 2018 at 4:58pm PST

Morgan Harper Nichols

Morgan Harper Nichols is the ultimate hype girl. She is the supportive, wisdom filled friend that we all need when the blues begin to weigh us down. Her profile, which she uses as a platform for mental wellness and self-care, is loaded with positivity and empathy. Nichols writes about personal growth, accepting your failures and moving forward. She is happy to share, with templates and phone wallpapers available for free download, so that her reminders are with you always. My own lock screen currently reads, “she does not know what the future holds, but she is grateful for slow and steady growth.”

View this post on Instagram

“Tell the story of the mountain you climbed. Your words could become a page in someone else’s survival guide.” I wrote these words for someone else, but I need this reminder too. ⠀ I have always naturally been a quieter, more inward type, and for most of life, expressing feelings and emotions was a challenge for me (Enneagram 5, INTJ). Because of that, I often thought that because I did not naturally have certain personality traits, there was no way I could connect with others, even when it came to the things I made. ⠀ I had a great family growing up, but outside of the home, I struggled to figure out where I “fit.” I struggled making friends and often blamed myself for not being more extroverted or “interesting.” This sent me inward: Deep inside my journals where I would say all the things I was never able to say during the day. I would write things for people but never knew how to share it with them. I would fill pages of composition books just to try to understand why I felt unheard and unseen. I started to convince myself that the best way to show up in the world was to not to be myself. Even in an environment where my parents lovingly encouraged my gifts as a writer and artist (I thank God for the encouragement my parents gave and still give me everyday), I still didn’t feel like I fit anywhere in the outside world. But there was this inside world where I could draw and write out all of the things I never figured out how to say during the day. Over time, I have finally begin to see: in the same way I learned to fill my journal page by page, I could learn to connect with others one by one. Showing up in the world does not mean that I have to show up everywhere all at once. Connecting around real people and real stories, in relationships and art is about the one. Impactful things can be said on big stages and in chart topping songs but they can also be said in hospital parking lots and handwritten letters. I have come to believe that in a world that often seems too crowded or busy to notice meaningful things, there is yet still room for each our stories and I just hope that the art I make, page by page, person by person is just one example of that.

A post shared by Morgan Harper Nichols (@morganharpernichols) on May 19, 2018 at 10:25am PDT

View this post on Instagram

When you start to feel like things should have been better this year, remember the mountains and valleys that brought you here. They are not accidents, and those moments were not in vain. You are not the same. You have grown and you are growing, you are breathing, you are living, you are wrapped in endless, boundless grace. And things will get better, there is more to you than yesterday. — Morgan Harper Nichols And if it happens to be one of these evenings/mornings/afternoons where reading it aloud or writing it down might bring some comfort, this is for you When I start to feel like things should have been better this year, I will remember the mountains and valleys that brought me here. They are not accidents, and those moments were not in vain. I am not the same. I have grown and I am growing, I am breathing, I am living, I am wrapped in endless, boundless grace. And things will get better, there is more to me than yesterday. ♥️🙏✨

A post shared by Morgan Harper Nichols (@morganharpernichols) on Nov 7, 2018 at 8:28pm PST

Mustafa Ahmed

Raised in the public housing of Regent Park (a Canadian boy!), Ahmed, who goes by “Mustafa the Poet” is a proud Muslim songwriter, poet and spoken word artist. He writes about the struggles of mental illness, loss and poverty, but he is full of a hopefulness that is infectious to his audience. You may recognize his name from The Weeknd’s song “Attention,” which he co-wrote and performed, but his fame started at age twelve when he garnered attention from Toronto’s 2009 Hot Docs Festival for his poem “A Single Rose.” Watch Mustafa continue to bloom on his Instagram.

View this post on Instagram

Live in peace fam, there's no amount of money or pride or success that's worth your peace!! May you rest in it one day too

A post shared by Mustafa (@mustafathepoet) on Sep 11, 2017 at 2:39pm PDT

View this post on Instagram

Patience 🌥

A post shared by Mustafa (@mustafathepoet) on Feb 4, 2016 at 12:17am PST

Samantha Jayne

Samantha is less about inspiration and more about relatability. Under her handle @quarterlifepoems, she writes about mundane, millennial crises and honestly, it is comedy gold. She writes almost-limericks paired with colourful doodles about accidental double taps on Instagram, social anxiety and financial confusion, all of which make you feel slightly less alone. She uses social media to make a refreshing statement on who twenty-somethings truly are behind all of the perfectly curated profiles. Her work is clearly catching on, her popular poetry being picked up as a television series, which will premiere at Sundance and air on FX this Spring.

View this post on Instagram

got me a solar earring 💫

A post shared by Samantha Jayne (@samanthajayne) on Sep 6, 2018 at 7:17am PDT

View this post on Instagram

💁 #longhairdontcare #whatevs #selflove #instagood #me #smile #nyc #la #sunglasses #cute #photooftheday #poetry #quarterlifecrisis #twenties #girl #funny #happy #picoftheday #instadaily #attitude #ink #igers #fun #summer #drawing #bestoftheday #smile #painting #womenirl #instamood

A post shared by Quarter Life Poetry (@quarterlifepoetry) on Mar 24, 2015 at 10:27am PDT

Haley Macleod

Haley’s following isn’t as large as her fellow poets, with 25.5k, but the Calgary-born writer’s voice is genuine, and her fans are loyal. She writes about love, heartbreak and self-respect, advising readers, and likely herself as well, to choose a life of fulfilment and happiness. Her posts are visually stunning as well, with typewritten pages placed over photographs of seasides and city nights. They evoke a sense of peace and calm, the perfect escape from sharp winds and snowfalls.

View this post on Instagram

• i hope you find a love who always calls back who never shows up late who pulls you closer in the middle of the night who never again makes you question the word stay who touches you so wild you believe again in the hands of fate who does not rob you of your softness or grace who instead renovates the parts of you that you have labelled damage that you keep hidden away who plants flowers in your lungs so the smell of roses awakes you each day who makes the blood in your veins triumphantly rise who only says i will see you later who never has believed in the word goodbye who can see the universe that exists behind your emerald eyes i hope you find a love that makes you feel nothing but alive who will always always always take the time to see your sunrise • haley macLeod ☁️

A post shared by HM ♱ (@haleymacleod) on Sep 5, 2017 at 2:59pm PDT

  View this post on Instagram

  who were you before this all – before the hands of grief turned off the lights of hope inside of your heart. before the lust poisoned your veins and made you forget how to love. before you became this person the world told you to be, instead of wearing the flesh of who you really are. who were you – i know, pain changes people, but healing does too. do your soul a favour; let the light in today. let it softly pour into the scars of your darkness. let it set fire to all of your darkness. bathe in the light. it will be the light that is going to save you; when it comes, let it 🌹•

A post shared by HM ♱ (@haleymacleod) on Nov 6, 2018 at 10:59am PST

[trevstravels]

30 days of hiking: Days 4 & 5

Yesterday and today were both overcast and the clouds above the range I hike have been dark and foreboding. It’s a fearful intimidation I have of the valley when it’s stormy. It’s part of what’s so important to me about hiking the valley every day, that it forces me to deal with fears. There’s a component to the fear that’s very reasonable, as flash flooding in that narrow valley would be the end of me, but the irrational part feels like the fear of seeing bigfoot, or swimming in dark water. I’m not a very spiritual person (in the traditional sense), nor do I believe in pseudosciences, but that valley scares me into superstition. I also get freaked out swimming in the falls pool when I’m alone. All I can think about is something pulling me under (I feel like there are some Hawaiian legends about Mo’o doing just that!). 

Today I skinny dipped at the falls since I had the whole trail to myself. I think about the giant Malaysian prawn when I swim in the buff! I passed two couples on the way back down. Because of the rain, the trail’s been super slick. Yesterday my foot slipped off a rock and I banged the inside of my left ankle pretty good. It must have hit a tendon cause it caused some weird pain up and down my leg. I did it again today to the same spot! I’m pretty sure footed, and usually avoid slipping but on days like today I don’t stand a chance. There were a handful of slips that could have led to pain but I lucked out, aside from slipping in the mud and wedging my leg under a fallen tree branch. 

Because I’m barefoot, I walk differently than when I’m in shoes. I walk from toe to heel instead of heel to toe, and consequently have the opportunity to feel where I’m putting my foot down before I commit. The trick to feeling before committing is all in the legs. I found that I was wearing my legs out even on lazy days of hiking, probably because of the demands from my feet and the trail. Barefoot hiking is all about balance and control. Stumbling wildly on the trail is tempting fate. There is also, as I mentioned in the previous post, the mental component. You’re scanning the ground ahead for the best footfalls and holds, considering terrain (dry, slippery, crumbly, sharp, steep), and monitoring the health and fatigue of your feet. It promotes (necessitates?) awareness. It’s the beauty of all natural activities, that there are wonderful and plentiful consequences! 

I’ve been coming home with a head full of questions after each hike. I found a Flickr group for Hawaiian plant I.D. with thousands of pictures and people’s best botanical guesses. I’ve been seeing this incredible tree with brilliant purple flowers all over the jungle and found that it’s a mountain apple! I I.D’ed night flowering jasmine, mamaki (a Hawaiian medicinal plant), and some others. With every familiar face in the forest, it becomes more welcoming and friendly. I harvested some of the mamaki to make tea and am excited to learn more plants and trees, not only for the satisfaction of knowing what they are, but also knowing what they’re useful for, and if possible, how to sustainably harvest and use them! My latest mystery is a strip of bark I found on the bank of the stream amongst some other flotsam. The bast fibers were amazingly strong and beautifully uniform. I made some fine cordage from it and am dyeing to know what the plant is!

I haven’t really timed the trip but today I think I left the house just after 8, and got back home around 11. I think it’s around a half hour of riding on either end which makes trail time 2 hours! I’d like to time it on a dry day. I can feel that I’m getting into a groove physically, and have been dropping body fat like crazy (every time I look in the mirror I’m noticeably thinner (don’t worry mom, I started out with plenty of reserves so I won’t waste away any time soon!)). I can easily set a pace and stick to it without getting winded or needing brakes. It feels wonderful to be in shape. My upper body gets a workout as well since a quarter of the trail is through thick hau bush which requires climbing over and under twisted branches. I think because I’m doing the same trail, I take note of good routes and footholds and ways of moving through challenging areas. In doing so, it pushes me to be stronger and have more stamina to pull off a series of movements which gets me to the other side safely and quickly. 

I had been hiking with a camelback for a while, and enjoyed the convenience of a pocket for packing in my phone and wallet and knife and soap, but it got stinky and got thrown in the laundry and I hiked without it and loved the freedom. Now I hike in a pair of board shorts and have nothing else on me. I ride with my camelback and bring it up to the first spring and refill it for the ride home, then stash it in the bushes. I’ve made a habit out of stopping at the spring halfway up the trail on my way up and back down. It’s a magical source of water, tucked deep in the hau, trickling out of the side of the mountain. It’s ample hydration! One of these days I’m going to learn where all of the low hanging pointy branches are in that area to avoid whacking my head on them all the time. 

Every day after the hike I’m pretty useless for a few hours. Food and a cold shower feel good. I can’t help but wonder how my Lyme disease factors into this. I’ve had Lyme since I was 12, and was doomed to have chronic Lyme since it was 6 months before we could figure out what was going on. It effects me every day. Sometimes it’s just feeling tired (despite a good nights sleep, good diet, no alcohol, low stress, etc.), other times (usually in addition to tiredness) I have brain fog, confusion, and almost always have horrible memory. I also get bad depression, chronic stiff neck (never ever goes away!!!!!!), headaches, insomnia, severe anxiety, weak vision and lots of floaters, inexplicable soreness and muscle pains and weakness, lightheadedness, etc. 

My Lyme was actually a big motivation for doing this hike. The best I’ve felt since contracting Lyme was when I was doing my bike ride across the country. Two months of blissful Lyme-free days! My mind was clear, body fit and healthy, happiness abounding. It was incredible! And now I’m enjoying that same relief  from the hell of Lyme. My theory is that all the exercise is doing good things for my immune system, which in turn keeps Lyme at bay. I’ve been reading Buhner’s “Healing Lyme” and am feeling more and more empowered about beating the disease. I hope that this can be an inspiration for anyone else suffering from chronic Lyme. Be your own advocate, educate yourself on the disease so you’re not fully reliant on doctors, be proactive and lead a healthy lifestyle (good diet, good relationships, low stress, no alcohol, plenty of exercise and plenty of rest. Shouldn’t everyone be doing that?!), and have faith in plant medicine, after all, plants have been evolving incredible biochemical defenses for millions of years and those compounds can have amazing results when administered properly (read Buhner’s book!).

I suppose I’m digressing and rambling so I’ll end here. Hopefully another glorious day tomorrow!