#fuck. brain is so empty. I feel sad. eugh

[entropy-sea-system]

I am. so bored .

[goremet-chef]

anyways im having a lot of transgender type thoughts and specifically ive decided like. heres my fantasy right wouldnt it be so cool to be like.

some part of me wants to just!! its like i mean obviously i dont wanna make any friends cuz thats hard and scary but IF WE CAN SUSPEND THE DISBELIEF RIGHT

being the token boy in a group of girls??? in my sillay little head it gives me euphoria thinking about how different i would be from them, and if they would like. see me as a boy right cuz

this is really sad but we've been trying to move for a while cuz we rent our house for the last like 5+ years and my mom wants to actually own one cuz its just more comfortable yknow UNDERSTANDABLE thats not that sad part btw no the sad part is while we went to look at houses, for most of that house searching i was still in school, and i just

we'd drive by the schools and get a good look at the area and i could see the scene layed out so clearly, me moving in and being the new kid again, but a group of other boys accept me as one of them with no problem and its. it made my heart so full, i could cry just thinking about it

that fullness was replaced by emptiness pretty quickly cuz i knew that would never happen. id have to be a different person entirely personality wise to even be up front about the fact that i was trans back then. LET ALONE thinking that thered would be a very conveniently accepting group of boys ready to let me in the gang right like yeah thats not happening

i dream about it though, i dream about it a lot. it makes me feel so happy man, sometimes i hold onto the thought cuz i know ONE DAY ill get there

in the mean time though? put me in a room with a bunch of girls, and they would probably reject me themselves SKFJS ive got boy brain whether anyone likes it or not sometimes i just wanna go ape shit i just wanna get silly with it i wanna throw myself around and do dumb things for the sake of being a fucking idiot because its FUN

but thats the thing right. cis girls? i dont know many girls to begin with, pretty much none outside of my family, but CIS GIRLS? cant trust them no i honestly dont feel like i cant trust anyone whos not trans which i think at this rate is pretty rational thought

picture it, perfect and golden. pretty transfem group and i will be their token boy its so good ladies listen to me. im so dumb and youll look at me and go eugh whys he like that right?? giggling teeheeing, kicking my feet even

its like ive lived a lot of my life presenting as a girl, so like. i generally feel comfortable around women. but cis women are weird! so trans girls are the way to go. like LOGICALLY that just makes the most sense im so smart

this is a hypothetical probably cuz i cant look past my crippling social anxiety for too long but hey a guy can dream 🤷‍♂️

[ubemango]

sunlit affair (m)

note: I don’t want to wait for Hobi’s bday to repost this hehe so early bday sex for the nice Aquarius man w a beautiful nose and sick dance moves!!!!! 🥰

PAIRING. hoseok/reader GENRE. romance, domestic au RATED. M WORD COUNT. 2.6k WARNINGS. riding, creampie SUMMARY. Twenty-five is a good look on Hoseok. 

Your alarm is set to go off at 9:05 AM. 

The ringer is low because Hoseok stumbled into bed with a fatigue that told you he didn’t want to be bothered unless it was the inevitable stream of sunlight that always somehow snuck onto your pillows. It’s an uncanny awakening—you wake up at 8:59, and to the premature strike of light right in your eyes like a premonition, though you always knew what today was.

He’s snoring. Project had gone well, boss is happy. The only words he’d gotten to you other than his good night, please don’t wake me up at midnight I’m so tired. Then he’d knocked out, but you didn’t mind. He deserved it.

Twenty-five is a good look on Hoseok. Not that he looks any older than he has, but the gentle maturing of his face comes in the form of the deepens wrinkles in his eyes, the lines in his forehead. Permanent grooves that only mean he’s getting happier and it makes you happier, too. 

The urge to kiss his cheek is strong. You shimmy out of bed as quietly as possible before you give into it: breakfast won’t make itself, and he’ll be awake soon enough.

You opt for scrambled eggs because oil would be too loud. The coffee brews as you arrange the plate in what you hope is an appetizing meal with the sausages Hoseok likes from the co-op, and little slices of strawberries in another bowl—organic, courtesy of his mother dropping by the other day in complaint of your fridge’s lack of hope for anything healthy other than the occasional splurge on asparagus. We’ve been more broke is an odd thing to contend with, but Hoseok has seen how sad you’ve gotten from all your loose corn and tuna meals for god knows how long. 

(You take extra care in stirring the sugar in his coffee because now you’re sentimental over the goddamn food in your fridge.)

Hoseok is as new to the world as a baby out the womb, eyes blinking too much because he woke up on the wrong side of the pillow. The sun fighting the sun itself. He smiles when he sees you.

“Happy birthday to you…”

And you sing for him, tray of goodies in your hands as you waddle closer and he sits up to help you place it on his lap. He accepts it with a pout of his lips and a press to yours.

“Happy birthday Hobi,” you say when you break apart, and Hoseok twitches before he remembers there are fragilities on his thighs. He settles with a whine that asks for one more kiss. You give it to him. “I love you.”

“Thank you baby,” he says. He cocks his head in gesture for you to sit next to him. He’s still warm from dreaming. “Smells good.”

“I worked hard. But you worked harder last night.”

“Ugh. Jimin was on my ass and IT had to fix some bug on the computer.” Hoseok jabs sadly at a sausage. “But it’s done. Let’s—not talk about work.”

“Okay. What’s it like being an old man?”

Hoseok grumbles through a mouthful of eggs. “My joints aren’t what they used to be.”

“Sad,” you say. “You’re falling apart.”’

“Hm. This is really good babe. And—no, for real? When I went to the gym the other night?” Hoseok stares at you with eyes that hold a thousand stories. “Could hear my bones cracking.”

“Ew.”

“Click clack.”

“Okay,” you snort. “You’re old. Now finish your coffee. More plans.”

You take the emptied plate when Hoseok tries to slurp on his mug. “Hot.” He makes a broken face.

“It’s coffee.”

He waves you off. Embarrassed but you’ll give it to him. “Thank you. I love you.”

“Mhm. Brush your teeth, I don’t wanna kiss your stinky coffee breath.”

The morning progresses as you wash the dishes. Hoseok finally sheds the grogginess of last night when you hear the faucet turn on from the washroom, and you take the time to contemplate your day. Dinner later is out of the question, a reservation under Yoongi’s name at whatever o’clock because he keeps forgetting to tell you the time. Maybe a quick movie? Because it’s been a while since you had time in with Hoseok. And the bed calls to you anyway. The last plate is put away with much more resolve than you had before.

You barely catch Hoseok coming out when you pin him to the wall with soap-softened hands. His face is damp, hair swept back with a careless hand. Mouth-watering because Hoseok was never not at his peak-handsome. Yours for the morning.

“Woah, mama.” You press a kiss to his neck. You feel his hands around your waist. “Plans, huh.”

“Yeah,” you say. Mouth preoccupied with the taste of him and it warms you from your core. “Can I take care of you?”

“Can I say no?”

“If you want to.”

“I don’t want to,” he says.

And you lead him back to bed; a false promise of rest but hopefully he’ll be blissed out soon enough. Hoseok looks awfully cocky with his satisfied grin, lying down with an ease that says he’ll be at your mercy time-willing. You crawl over his body and settle with the press of your thighs against his hips. His long fingers trace a path on your sides (a shiver he notices with a silent chuckle) when you bend down to push love into his mouth. Spearmint.

“I’ll ride you,” you decide then and there. Hoseok licks into you with more eagerness he seems to want to let on because his eyes are wide. He clicks his tongue.

“You spoil me.”

“Start your morning off right.”

“D-Damn straight,” he murmurs, breath lost when you trail your kisses down his sternum, over a wrinkly shirt he can’t be bothered to take off because he’s so relaxed, melting into the sheets like warm honey. You lift up the fabric to lick at his abs, and you feel him shiver. “Tickles.”

“Sorry.” Hoseok laughs. Then you slide his boxers down and envelope his hard dick with the soft suction of your heat. 

“Fuuuuuck—”

You'd say something about him being too provocative but the dick in your mouth keeps you pliant. You don’t want to ruin the moment with any snark, though—and as much as you want to see him fall apart, the slow build-up of his pleasure is a drama on its own. You see the glow of pleasure in Hoseok as his hands rake through your hair, a silent command for your attention and you give it. You give it to him tenfold when your lips reach the base of his shaft.

“Ugh that--feels...” Your tongue presses against the underside of him and his head teeters. “Agh—!”

You swallow before you take a breath, hand pumping him slowly to keep the tip of his dick near your lips because you can’t get enough. Always. “Feel good?”

“Yeah,” he asserts. “Thank you for taking care of me.”

You huff out a laugh. “Don’t thank me yet, bubba. Need you wrapped around my finger.”

And you get back to it; a rough grab for his pleasure if it means you get to see Hoseok twitch under you like he’s here for your mouth only. The slick of your spit on his skin is a wet mess and the sound is even more dirty. A noise you could only appreciate behind closed doors. (Yours isn’t, but you’re wet anyway.) 

Hoseok sighs with the pleasure of a catered man. “Fuck that’s—“ he rises onto his elbow with a pant— “I’ll cum soon.”

“Do you wanth to?” Garbled because you won’t let up.

“No—just—come up here.”

He kisses you when you do. His love is rough, the insistence on your lips nearly pushing you back but his hands hold your neck and you sigh, tongue twisting behind your teeth and your knees are caught as you take off your underwear but you can’t pull away. An attraction neither of you can deny when you pull apart to breathe but Hoseok chases you for more.

“Mmph—” he sucks on your top lip and you groan— “Hoseok—wait.”

“What?” He nips down your neck and settles on a spot that has your mind blanking. Suckling. Forgetting this is about him and he seems to be none the wiser. 

“Nothing, I just. Let me breathe for a second.”

He settles his forehead against yours. “Have I taken your breath away, baby?”

“Eugh.”

“You like it.”

“I do,” you confirm. “But you’re gonna kill me.”

Hoseok pecks your nose. “I’m a force to be reckoned with.”

“Says the wise guy who tried to chug on coffee and died.”

“You’re supposed to be taking care of me,” he whines. “Don’t make fun.”

“Lie down. And don’t cum until I say so.”

You take his shirt off. And you’re about to remove yours, but Hoseok is squinting and the open blinds are absolutely obliterating his eyes with the rising sun. You get up with a huff to pull them closed. Not without Hoseok calling out for you because now he’s cold, but at least he can sorta see now.

“Now we make love in the dark,” you say.

“And they say chivalry is dead.”

“I hate it when we fuck and it’s bright.”

“So romantic,” Hoseok coos sarcastically. “Now take off your shirt.”

The air is still. No coffee brewing, no static of the TV when it’s on. The outside world is divided from your tryst by your chipped blinds and the flimsy mesh of the window—quiet, even when the occasional car slips into a sinkhole. Hoseok is under you, dark hair splayed along the softness of his pillow and he grins, hands grabbing yours as you settle comfortably on his lap. A scenario you couldn’t have conjured up any other way but somehow, in this simple abode, you’re flushed with this heavy feeling of love. Love for this man and your home and he’s probably so tired but he gives into you. All the time.

“Stop thinking so hard,” he says. 

You laugh. “What am I thinking about?”

“I donno. But you look pensive.”

“Ooh.” You line his dick up with your core. Sinking down like you have the whole day to contemplate all the good ridges of his length. “I’ll tell you when I’m done fucking your brains out.”

Hoseok snorts. “You’ll nag me when your thighs start to hurt.”

“And what about it?”

“I like an honest partner,” he says. 

“So you don’t think I can fuck your brains out.”

“Not without my help.”

“What’d I say before? Don’t cum until I say so.” You lift up a little, settling your bum on his thighs and Hoseok groans. You start like that: a rise of your knees, pussy squeezed and you know he feels it from the way his breath is stunted. You feel it all. And he looks good in this lighting, the barely-there glow of the light like no one’s meant to see him except you. You defile him in your presence alone, and Hoseok takes it.

He bucks up when you slam down hard. “Shit—ugh you feel so good.”

You might say something but you’re scared you’ll falter. You settle for a moan when the tip of his cock hits deeper, nails digging into the back of his hands and he squeezes back. Eyes rolling back when you grind into it, but now you can’t hold back. “Oh fuck.”

Your thighs don’t hurt yet, but you settle your hands back onto his thighs and swirl your hips the way you know he likes to see. And he erupts. “Fuck babe—you’re so hot. Oh—squeeze me—like that. Shiiiit.” Hoseok grabs your ass and you catch yourself on his chest, cuss on the tip of your tongue but he beats you with even more dirty words. “Fuck yourself with my dick.”

You gasp when he pushes into you again. “I’m s-supposed to be taking care of you.”

“Rescinded. I just want you to cum.”

Well. That’s okay too. And you ride him in earnest, dragging your pussy up and down and the ache in your muscles is starting, but Hoseok’s panting under you and it’s all you can do not to stop. His eyes are on your tits, soft bounce for soft bounce—one hand snaking its way up from the grip on your butt to pinch a hard nipple and you squeak. 

“Hoseok—”

“That good?”

“Yes—!”

His other thumb is on your clit. Feet moving up behind you and you feel his knees digging into your back every time you come down, and now he’s thrusting up into you too, like he wants you to lose it all over him. “Can you cum like this?”

“Fuck—yeah. Y-Yeah.”

“Tell me when.”

It’s soon. And you can’t say anything because nothing registers in your head other than the feeling of Hoseok fucking into you like he’s possessed, brows furrowed, concentration honed in on you and him and your sweat and love, so much love. It’s the way he knows how to hit it there—

“Oh my god.”

Closer. And your hands are on his shoulders because now you’re tired, and Hoseok takes it in stride when he grabs your hips to keep you where he wants. Unsteady and steady all at the same time when your body tries to keep up, bearing down when his hips cant up, but the grind to your clit is too much. You know he feels it.

“There?”

“Mhm. Y-Yeah—!”

“Tell me when. Tell me when.” He’s desperate. You feel it too, the way his rhythm picks up and in your wont of clenching when you’re close he groans even more. “Fuck baby I can’t last—”

And you know it. You’re so wet the slide is of his cock is embarrassingly quick but it touches all your sweetest parts. The part in you that’s close is almost there—almost—

“There—oh Hoseok—I’m—cumwithmecumwithme—”

“Fuck babe—”

You collapse, Hoseok bringing his arms around you, breaths lost in your hair as he pumps himself through orgasm and you’re helpless—caught in the whirlwind of your own as you moan into his neck and it’s so hot, the sound of his cum fucked into you. Deep inside and you groan at how sticky you feel all over. Hoseok presses a kiss to your head.

“Congrats, you just fucked the shit out of me,” he says.

You laugh. “And my reward?”

“My semen.”

“Attractive.”

He pulls out. A mess you’ll clean up later because for now you seek refuge in Hoseok’s arms. “But now you’re not thinking so hard.”

“You’re right.” It’s light, the feeling. Like everything’s gonna be fine. A good orgasm does that to you, but now you’re sentimental all over again. “I think I’m ovulating.”

“Oh.”

“Besides the point. But I—don’t know. I just got really emotional.”

“Like you do.”

“Like I do,” you hiss because he always makes fun of you for being more feels-y than you like to let on. “I’m glad I get to do life with you, I guess.”

Hoseok stares at you. Gaze soft and unyielding, like he knows exactly what you’re going through. “You’ll make me cry.”

You scrunch your nose. “Do it, pussy.”

“I love you,” he says through a half-laugh. “So goddamn much.”

And Hoseok smothers you with a thousand kisses, and you feel his cum on your stomach as he rolls over you but you don’t resent him at all. Only if it means you’re getting his love.  That’s all that matters this morning.

[kittehkillzz]

I'm awake at 3am so

1 depressed as usual

2 cloudy Apparently

3 absolutely

4 absolutely not

5 never have been

6 very

7 this body I dislike created children

8 everything

9 yes cats

10 some don't we all

11 three

12 another life, hopefully better

13 don't really have one so clear

14 I have a few times absolutely will again

15 five

16 yes

17 yes

18 yes strongly

19 ehh not majorly?

20 yes

21 the physical part of tech

22 English

23 ten near 11 years

24 watch YouTube/Netflix

25 suffer and sometimes get angry

26 usually partner, or I just don't

27 sweet all the way

28 Dr pepper

29 Chinese

30 not stuck I'm playing a shuffle playlist

31 underwear I'm at least in bed

32 night

33 should be me but I can't

34 never put complete trust in someone they will exploit it

35 I like to think I will one day

36 already have but yes to more

37 pet hair and hayfever

38 probably

39 I like red, but apparently grey is my majority

40 strained kinda

41 not giving it away

42 yea

43 at this minute I feel empty so not really

44 I'm not good at it but yeah

45 for certain things yes

46 nope fuck em up everytime

47 be a vet or sound engineer

48 I see red

49 my partner

50 fish anything

51 if I had to, legs

52 my kids, as they should be right

53 since this is random and my brain hit delete on the most recent it's gotta be when I dreamt that my ex was cheating on me

54 yes

55 depends on the day

56 respected because I'm not

57 nah, money would be good but the fame wouldn't

58 quiet and to myself

59 partner

60 sunny, a good drive to a beautiful place and just enjoy the peace and view

61 Greece

62 happiness I hope

63 no I should start

64 used to play basketball, miss it

65 used to be keyboard not for a few years now

66 nursery when I went to visit my retiring teacher with my mum, I spoke, then played with the matrioska dolls

67 flight or super speed

68 jocks or the wannabe jocks

69 being ignored

70 sixteen

71 yes

72 no

73 heights and creepy crawlies

74 no

75 both are good

76 warm or neon both

77 with sad music

78 sea lions

79 Moana or encanto 😁 I am an adult

80 oof burn I reckon, or maybe freeze is good because then I'll fall asleep and just stop

81 nervous laughter, nail bites

82 scowl and shoot things in a game

83 another language

84 eugh no thanks none

85 if it was wanted in advance, i think the person would be able to go at more peace

86 I don't like it

87 any name I give my kids because why wouldn't I love that

88 back

89 they are too scary for me considering most are high

90 dragons or elves

91 not really at first sight, but I'm demi so I gotta know them, you do you

92 my future

93 not great but let's not go into that

94 anywhere between 4 hours and 13 hours

95 short and spiky

96 twenty seven

97 punk

98 Scotland

99 yes

100 forty two apparently but I like that it's supposed to mean nothing and you make of it what you will

random asks ♡

how are you feeling right now?

what’s the weather like?

are you impulsive?

are you organised?

are you self confident?

are you sensitive?

what’s something you love about yourself?

what’s something you hate about yourself?

do you have any pets?

do you have any regrets?

do you have any siblings?

what do you think comes after life?

what colour is your water bottle?

have you ever dyed your hair/would you ever want to?

do you have any piercings/would you want to?

do you believe in aliens?

do you believe in ghosts?

do you believe in karma?

do you believe in astrology?

do you believe in luck?

what is/was your favourite subject in school?

what is/was your least favourite subject in school?

how long have you been friends with your longest friend for?

what do you do in your free time?

what do you do under stress?

who/what do you turn to to vent?

spicy, sweet or savoury?

what’s your favourite drink?

what’s your favourite cuisine?

what song is currently stuck in your head?

what are you wearing right now?

what’s your favourite time of day?

who do you trust the most?

do you trust anyone completely?

would you ever want to get married?

would you ever want children?

do you have any allergies?

do you hate anyone?

what’s your favourite colour and why?

what is your relationship with your family like?

what is your middle name?

what word do you think you say the most often?

do you miss anyone right now?

do you like making art?

do you believe in the death penalty?

do you follow routines/plans easily?

growing up, what did you want to do in life?

what is your favourite album?

what’s something you’re grateful for?

what’s a food you hate?

would you rather lose your legs or arms?

what is the most important thing to you right now?

what’s the last dream you remember having?

do you believe in soulmates/true love?

what is your favourite word?

would you rather be loved, trusted or respected?

would you want to be famous if you had the chance?

what are/were you like in school?

who’s the last person you talked to?

what would your perfect day be like?

where is a place that you’d love to visit?

what is your main goal in life?

do you exercise often?

do you play any sports?

do you play any instruments?

what is your earliest memory?

if you could have a superpower, what’d you choose?

what kind of person annoys you the most?

what is your biggest pet peeve?

what’s your favourite number?

have you ever been in love?

do you collect anything?

what is your deepest fear?

have you ever met anyone famous?

cats or dogs?

warm, cool or neon colours?

how do you deal with loneliness?

what’s your favourite animal?

what’s your favourite disney movie?

would you rather freeze or burn to death?

what are some of your bad habits?

what do you do when you’re angry?

what is something that you’d want to learn?

what’s your favourite insect?

what are your thoughts on euthanasia?

what are your thoughts on your name?

what’s your favourite name?

would you rather go back or forward in time?

what are your thoughts on roller coasters?

what’s your favourite mythical creature?

do you believe in love at first sight?

what is something you’re currently worried about?

what was your childhood like?

how long do you usually sleep for?

what hairstyle do you have right now?

if you could be one age for the rest of your life, what’d you choose?

what genre of music do you listen to the most?

where do you come from?

do you curse/swear often?

what is the meaning of life?

[mindfulwrath]

Onward

A BuzzFeed Unsolved Fanfic

A spirit can only move on when it has completed its unfinished business.

Or, it can't, because ghosts aren't real.

Words: 4,922 Warnings: Blood & gore, major character death Additional tags: Angst with a happy ending, character turned into a ghost, platonic Shane & Ryan

AO3 Link

"It's really kinda nice up here, don't you think?" Shane says, looking out over the vast moorlands. Moonlight glimmers off of brackish water, casts soft shadows across lumps of heather and gorse.

"You're insane," Ryan spits.

"What? You don't think it's nice? Just look at this view! It's lovely."

"It's creepy as fuck, aaaaaaand you're crazy."

"Okay, well have fun looking for ghosts while I'm enjoying the beautiful Scottish countryside."

"Yeah, thanks, I will," Ryan says under his breath, shaking his head. He raises his voice and speaks for the cameras. "Okay, so, here we are up on the battlements of Crathes Castle, uh, Shane is admiring the scenery, but we are hopefully gonna see something much more interesting. Now, the curator told us there'd been some restoration ongoing up here, so uh, watch your step, 'cuz . . . oh boy."

"We are pretty high up," says Shane, sticking his neck out to look over the parapet. Far below, there's a pale square of concrete, some outbuilding being redone after falling over. It's about the size of a postage stamp from this perspective.

"And when Shane's saying that, you know it's high."

"Hah-hah, the height jokes! Fruit so low-hanging, even you can reach it."

"Yep, sure, that's about what I expected from you. Anyway, let's see if we can find some ghosts."

"You do that, I'm just gonna hang out here and watch."

"Yeah, good, stay out of my way," says Ryan.

Shane spares a glance over his shoulder at the camera. He shakes his head. As Ryan starts up his customary shouting-at-nothing, Shane puts his elbows up on the parapet and leans back, settling in for the show.

Stone grinds on crumbling masonry. Ryan yelps. Shane flails at empty air.

"Whoah, fuck—"

There's no scream. There's a horrible, plunging sickness, and an instant of perfect clarity.

The second-to-last thing that goes through Shane's head is, Wouldn't it be ironic if—

The last thing is a four-foot piece of rebar.

It isn't surprising that the universe has a cruel sense of humor. That's been made evident since the dawn of time, in things like rosy-lipped batfish and mass-extinctions and the invention of capitalism. The Homers and Ovids of the world, the Shakespeares and Edgar Allen Poes, they might actually have gotten things kind of almost right—at least in that whoever's running things, they're 1. a poet, and 2. a bastard.

It is somewhat surprising to look down at his own dead body.

"Son of a bitch," he says.

His body settles, dripping blood. There's a lot of blood, and a lot of him is broken—shattered, really. A noise draws his attention upward, a shout and clamor. Shane can't make out what it is. The sound is distorted, and now that he's paying attention, everything else is, too. It's like a dreamscape, like someone took dozens of photographs over decades of time, printed them on transparencies and overlaid them. If he concentrates, he can pick out individual images and bring them to the forefront.

Something moves in the doorway. Shane can't quite focus on it. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes. He's not sure, but he thinks he can hear screaming, and it stirs something in him and he doesn't like it. Fortunately, it goes away pretty quickly, and silence falls again.

"Well?" he calls out. "What now?"

The world does not answer.

"Do I have to stay here, or can I, like, go? Can I just go? 'Cuz uh, gotta tell you, I'm not really into the whole ghost-thing!"

Still, nothing. The distant sound of sirens drifts on the breeze. He looks down at his body and folds his arms.

"Oh, shit, I could go to my own funeral," he realizes. "Boy, that'd be a trip, huh?"

All's quiet on the moors, save for the approaching sirens. Shane glances over his shoulder. Out of curiosity, he wanders back to the camera crew. The bright lights leave the world in a haze, illuminating a sea of phantasmal cars, buses, carriages, horses, people. It's hard to focus on the ones that are here now, so much so that it gives Shane a killer headache.

Or maybe that's just the lingering memory of the rebar going through his skull. Could be either.

He finds Ryan huddled up in the back of the equipment van, a blanket around his shoulders and about six people clustered around him. He's shaking like crazy, his eyes wide and wild, and he's . . . he's. . . .

Sobbing.

He's explaining, to the crew, what happened. The words are a jumbled mess. Tears stream down his face. They're trying to comfort him, but they all look just as shell-shocked and sickened and scared. Somebody calls Ryan's girlfriend for him. Somebody else is on the phone with corporate, and someone's still talking to the emergency dispatcher, and Ryan—and Ryan is crying so hard he can't breathe. . . .

Shane backs away, slowly. He goes back to the shattered wreck of his own body, sits down on a chunk of stone that might have been dragged off two hundred years ago. It's less disturbing than the scene back at the van.

"Man, I look like a really fucked-up unicorn," he remarks. "I got brains comin' out the back of my head! That's no good!"

Nobody answers. Blue and red flashing lights crest the hill. Shane sighs and hangs his head.

"And here's me, talking to air again," he mutters. "Okay. So uh—here's what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna leave. I'm gonna go do . . . other stuff. And not watch them take my body outta here, 'cuz that's gonna be gross. Eugh."

And he's not going to attend his own funeral, either, he decides, as he wanders down the hill away from the castle. He'd kind of assumed everybody else would be as cool with him dying as he was, that it would be no big deal, that it would be sad, but overall just another Thing That Happens. He doesn't want to see Ryan cry again. He doesn't want to see any of his other coworkers cry, either, his friends, or—God forbid—his parents. He doesn't want to be mourned.

It occurs to him about an hour later, as he's slogging through a thousand years of Scottish fen.

He is in an absolutely unique position to find out exactly where, and how many times, Ryan was wrong.

It's hard to gauge the passage of time, but it's probably been a few years, and Shane has learned something very important about ghosts: they don't happen where—or to whom—popular opinion had it.

The big places, the asylums and castles and manors, they're quiet, they're empty. Taverns can be a little bit more populous, although they really aren't any fun.  Nobody's having a good time in this part of the afterlife, and most people are alone. He almost never sees anyone with a friend, and never a group of more than three. He's really hoping he never runs into anybody he knows, for . . . lots of reasons.

It's the mundane places that are really teeming, the streetcorners and back-alleys, the factories, the wilderness. And it's not the big people, either—not the mobsters and judges and doctors, but the urchins, the servants, the prostitutes, forgotten in life and forgotten in death. He made it back to America eventually, and the horrors that soaked the earth there made him sick. Not a square inch of all that once-beautiful land was free of blood. In places, it's like the earth itself has died. In places, he can see its ghosts, too.

One place he finds Ryan was right about is Salem.

There's an old house, well-kept, slightly more there than most other structures he finds, although he's sure he never saw it when he was alive. He climbs the steps. An old Black woman sits by the fire.

"Are you Tituba?" he asks. It's a stupid thing to say, but he hasn't said much in a long time. Most of the other ghosts don't like talking to him. For a minute, he thinks Tituba won't, either.

"I remember you," she says. "You were very rude."

"I guess I was," says Shane. "Uh . . . sorry."

She rocks her chair. The fire crackles, although it makes no warmth.

"Can I ask you something?" he says.

"If you want to know the answer."

"Why are you still here? Why haven't you gone . . . wherever dead people go?"

"I'm waiting," she says.

"For what?"

A shrug is all he gets.

"Well . . . good luck, I guess," he says. "I hope it comes to you, whatever it is."

He asks around a little more after that, although people who will talk to him are few and far between. Why are some of us here? It's obviously not everyone. Why are you here?

And he gets the same answer.

I'm waiting.

Time has passed. Shane's more well-traveled than he's ever been, but there's still a strange restlessness in him. Something, he feels, needs to be done, but he'll be damned if he knows what it is. It gets so bad that at one point he risks going to visit his own grave.

It's nice. The tombstone is nice. There's no epitaph, which is about what he wanted. Somebody's left flowers, although they're plastic.

"Kitchy," he says to no one. "Get that shit outta here."

"Plastic?"

Shane starts. There's another man, very old, loitering at a nearby grave. It's the first time someone's struck up a conversation with him, instead of the other way around.

"Uh . . . yeah," he says. The old man shakes his head.

"Kind gesture, but it does feel cheap, doesn't it."

"I guess."

"I always told them not to put plastic flowers on my grave, but some damn fool's done it anyway."

"Sucks. I'm sorry."

He shrugs. "No point in getting upset about it now. Say, do you know when the chariots or what-have-you come down?"

"I don't," Shane admits. "I've never seen 'em."

"Ah, what a shame. I'll wait, then. It's not like I have anything else to do."

"Right?" he says, chuckling, shaking his head.

Between one moment and the next, the old man disappears, like smoke, like fog. There's not even a shadow of him left, not in all the layers of history painted across the world.

Even without a choir of angels, or a blast of Hellfire, it's pretty obvious what just happened. Maybe neither of those things exist to happen, and the vanishing is all there is, after this.

Shane looks down at the flowers on his grave. He takes a deep breath.

"Okay," he says. "All right. I get it."

It's going to take a while to get to L.A., but he's got time.

Ryan's actually kind of doing okay. That's a pretty firm marker on how long Shane's been gone. Incredibly, he's still doing Unsolved, even the paranormal stuff. He's got a new guy working with him, too, although they're a little stilted and they have difficulty making each other laugh, even for the cameras. They seem like they're getting along okay, though. Ryan's definitely chilled out a lot since the last time Shane saw him. He's rusty on the ghost hunting.

It takes a while, takes a lot of following and waiting, but eventually Shane gets the chance to tag along on a trip.

"Man, this brings back some memories, huh," he says, meandering along behind Ryan as he creeps through some abandoned, burnt-out warehouse. "Look at you, though! You grew a big ol' spine since the last time I saw you."

Ryan doesn't respond, because of course he doesn't. He's looked right through Shane a dozen times already. Shane's not too bothered by it. Nobody's seen him in years.

The hunt goes like it always goes. Eventually Ryan and the new guy split up. The new guy goes first.

"This is so dumb," he mutters to the camera, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

"Right?" says Shane. He shakes his head. "Hey, take a little nap, buddy. It's nice! Nice little break from all the craziness."

The guy waits out his five minutes. Shane hangs out. Ryan comes in, trades some banter with the new guy, and is left alone.

Something about the way he moves makes Shane's mind come into sharper focus. The layered blur of the world grows clear in the darkness when Ryan turns out his flashlight.

"Oh, man," he whispers. "Okay. I'm getting chills already. Shit. Shi-hi-hit. No, I'm okay, I'm okay. I'm a big boy. I got my big boy pants on."

"Calm down, big boy, nobody's gonna hurt you," says Shane, rolling his eyes.

But something in him hurts. Something aches. He hasn't felt a damn thing in years, but suddenly, now, it's almost like being alive again. It's almost like he wants something again.

"All right," Ryan says, raising his voice. "So, uh, if there's anybody here with me, uh, my name is Ryan Bergara, I'm a—a paranormal investigator."

"Oh, huh, are you? Is that what you're calling it these days?" says Shane, folding his arms.

"Um . . . if there's anyone here, can you make a noise?"

"No, Ryan, I can't make a noise, because I'm a ghost, and I can't interact with the material world, ya big dummy. I'm made of ectoplasm, or—electromagnetism, or something, I don't actually know. But it doesn't touch stuff! Sometimes if I concentrate real hard, I can walk through walls!"

Ryan just stands and listens. His head swivels back and forth like a radar dish. His eyes are wide and bright. He swallows. He waits, and waits, and waits.

"Okay," he says to himself. "Okay, okay, that's fine, that's okay. Uh—okay, so if there's anybody here, uh, I'm gonna get out this little, uh, this little device. It's called a spirit-box."

"Oh, for crying out loud," Shane sighs, except that the heart he doesn't have anymore is suddenly up in his throat. "It's not gonna tell you anything. It's baloney."

Ryan takes it out and sets it down gingerly on the table, his breaths coming quick and panicky. "And, if you wanna talk to me, you can use this, okay?"

"What—how?" Shane cries. "How am I supposed to do anything with that hokey box?"

"So I'm gonna . . . turn this on, and you should be able to talk to me, through it. Okay, here we go."

The box squeals, then launches into its randomized chirping. Ryan gulps, his eyes flicking around the room. Shane kicks at the table the box sits on. His foot hits something, but Ryan doesn't react, so it probably wasn't the table-as-it-is he kicked, but the shadow of some past version from ten or twenty years ago.

"Okay, so . . . if there's anybody here with me, my name's Ryan. Can you say my name back to me?"

"Of course I can't, the stupid box doesn't do anything."

Ryan stands in silence, listening, listening. A squawk of static comes out of the box.

"What was that?" he says. "Can you say that again?"

"I said your stupid box doesn't do anything."

Choppy white noise, blips of music and talk shows and nothing.

"If there's somebody here with me, can you make a noise?" Ryan asks.

"No! I can't! Because I'm a ghost, you idiot!"

Ost oop it, goes the box. Ryan stiffens.

"What was that? Did you say something?"

"I did, but I didn't say it through your stupid box, which is fuckin' useless!"

Useless.

Ryan pales. His eyes go wide. His breath comes short. "Ohhhh man, okay. Okay. I'm freakin' out a little now. You—Eustice? Is that—is that your name? Eustice?"

Shane's too blind-sided to call him an idiot again. He seizes the spirit box and shakes it. It's like trying to shift a boulder. His voice cracks as he shouts.

"No! No, it's Shane, it's Shane Madej, tell him, tell him it's me!"

Eh ih-ih ee.

"I don't know what that was, I—I'm sorry. Could you repeat that, Eustice?"

"Shane! It's Shane! Ryan, come on, man!"

Chk chk chk chk shh sht cht chk.

"Okay, fuck this, I'm done," says Ryan, reaching for the box. "That's all, bye Eustice, we're done!"

In absolute, idiotic desperation, Shane screams, "Spaghetti!"

Spa-ghet-ti.

Ryan freezes.

"What did you just say?" he whispers.

"Spaghetti! Apple tater!"

Ap-ah t-t-r.

He's shaking so hard his hand blurs over the spirit-box. His breath mists in front of his face. There are tears in his eyes.

"Did you just say . . . apple tater?"

"Yes! I did, yes! Ryan, it's me! Come on, you stupid box, tell him it's me!"

Stih-up-p-p box.

All the blood drains from Ryan's face. He stops breathing. When he blinks, the tears slip out. When he speaks, it barely makes a sound, but Shane feels it, feels it like a punch to the chest, like a struck bell.

Shane?

The only thing he can do is shout, whoop at the top of his lungs and jump in the air. The spirit-box lets out an ungodly wail, and in an instant, Ryan slaps it off the table, screaming.

It smashes on the floor. The room goes silent.

"No," Ryan says, choked up. "Nope, no no no, fuck this, fuck it, I'm out, I'm done! Fuck everything about this!"

He beelines for the door, his knees wobbling. He's just a hair shy of a full-on sprint.

"Where are you going?" Shane demands, hurrying after him. "Hey, no, don't leave! You—you fraidy cat! Ryan! Ryan!"

But he's out of there, back to the noise and bright lights of the camera crew, where the world becomes less real, where Shane's head gets fuzzy and his focus scatters. He retreats back to the shadows, a sudden exhaustion overtaking him.

"Okay," he says to himself. "It's okay. First try's always gonna be . . . messy. And Ryan's an idiot, so—yeah. So yeah. Just gotta keep—keep on keepin' on, Shane. Chin up, buddy. We'll get there."

So of course, because the universe is a poet and a bastard, Ryan does the one thing Shane could never have predicted.

He gives up ghost-hunting.

Quits his job at BuzzFeed, in fact, and moves up north to the Klamaths, and lands a nice little job teaching film and creative writing at a community college. His girlfriend—now wife, apparently—doesn't comment on the fact that they have a night-light in the bedroom. They've probably already talked about it. Shane doesn't like it, the smug little bluebird shitfish, but he leaves it be. Some things are sacred, inviolable.

Anyway, he's got time.

Ryan's daughter first sees him when she turns three.

"Daddy Daddy!" she cries, barreling into his room at ass o'clock in the morning. "Daddy, there's a tall man in my room!"

"What?" he mumbles.

"A tall man, I saw him!"

Ryan comes to check. He turns the lights on. He looks right through Shane a dozen times as he searches the closet and under the bed and behind the lamp and everywhere.

"There's nobody here, sweetie," he says. "Go back to sleep, okay?"

"Okay," she says.

He kisses her head and clicks the light back out. Shane follows him through the door, because—well, it's kind of weird, hanging out in a three-year-old's room. He was just a little spellbound at first, because it was Ryan's kid, and that's a bizarre thought even when he's looking right at it. But staying would be weird, so he doesn't stay.

But he does come back.

It's not like he's haunting Ryan, no, that's not what it's about. He mostly keeps to himself and doesn't bother anyone, but the kid is weirdly good at spotting him, and there's something about being seen that makes him feel . . . good? Important? Less dead and miserable and alone?

Daddy Daddy, the tall man came back. Daddy Daddy, I saw him by my closet. Daddy Daddy, he came to my tea party. Daddy Daddy, he moved my book!

Which, yes, he did, as ludicrous as it was. For lack of anything better to do with his time. If he focuses as hard as he can and pushes with all his might, sometimes, just a little bit, he can move things. Like a child's book, or a doll's hand, or maybe a door if the hinges are well-oiled. He tries not to do it when anybody's home, but he can't always tell. The kid's too good at seeing him, too, but at least she isn't scared. He tries to make sure she knows he's not there to hurt anybody, and although he's pretty sure she can't hear him, she seems to have gotten the message.

Ryan, maybe, didn't.

He gets more jittery. Lights stay on. There's a marked increase in the amount of religious iconography and (likely) holy water. He spends a lot of time on the computer, drinks a lot of coffee, falls behind on his teaching stuff.

One night, the wife and kid go out, and Ryan stays in. This is weird. Shane sticks around.

Ryan goes up to the kid's room, and he settles into the reading chair by her bed, and he turns out all the lights. The blue glow of his phone illuminates his face. He sits still for a long time, just breathing.

"Shane," he says. His voice shakes. "If you're here right now, could you give me a sign?"

The old desperation seizes him. He slaps the window blinds as hard as he can. They manage a faint, whispering sway. Ryan stiffens, takes a deep breath, lets it out again.

"Okay," he says. "Okay. I—I made this for you. I thought maybe it would help, if you're . . . if you're struggling to move on. I hope it helps you, or . . . something. So here it goes."

Another deep breath. Shane waits, pulled taut with anticipation. Ryan adjusts his glasses and looks down at the phone, and he starts to read.

The alien planet of Tomat-0. A rustbucket of an old spaceship sits on a landing pad, engines primed, ready to launch. A pair of plupples, which are alien fruits that are like plums, but cooler, and blue, carry a charismatic box of fries from the future and a sturdy can of good soup up the loading ramp.

"Plup, plup!" says one of the plupples.

"Plup, plup," the other agrees. Plupples are very stupid. However, unfortunately for our heroes, they are not so stupid that they cannot carry out orders from their dark master.

Shane can't believe his ears. He wanders across the room. Even if he had lungs, he wouldn't be able to breathe. He sits down on the bed near Ryan, pulls up his knees and wraps his arms around them. Ryan reads on.

"Wait just one plupping minute, there!" A voice rings out! The plupples halt. There, coming over the horizon of Tomat-0, a witch-hologram of corn riding upon a giant plupple comes charging to the rescue.

"Plup, plup!"

"Plup, plup, plup!"

The hologram corn, Maizey, arrives. "You put those critically-acclaimed and universally-beloved characters down, you Ewok ripoffs!"

"PLUP," the giant plupple plups in agreement.

"Whoah, hey, uh, whoah!" Garce, one of two intelligent plupples, emerges from the ship. "Hey, uh, wow, corn girl, how did you, uh, escape your deadly trial by combat, which you were sentenced to by the great Dr. Goondis, played by Ryan Steven Bergara?"

"I fought the beast and I won, as you can see, because I am riding it into battle with you little blue freaks. Also I ate Dr. Goondis, because we didn't have the time to cut up more VO files for him, so now he's dead."

"That makes perfect narrative sense, uh, but how did you find us?"

A flash of light, a creaky, cackling voice.

"Pam, Pam, kazam, it was me!" A tiny hotdog, about forty percent bigger than Jiminy Cricket, appears in a flash of witch-light on Maizey's corn shoulder. "I'm doing my part to atone for the evil I did before I died, even though it was totally sick and awesome!"

"That's understandable. But uh, what are you both going to do now?"

Maizey draws herself up tall, tall and proud atop the giant plupple. "We're going to take our friends back from you blue goons. We're going to travel back in time and save my witch-hologram wife, stop Pam from killing the hotdog family, the unbelievably rich and compelling characters of Dan, Rebecca, and Brandon, and creating the Gauntlet of Ultimate Power, or G.U.P.—"

"Gup! Gup! Gup!" plup the plupples.

Shane laughs. He puts a hand over his mouth, like Ryan's going to hear him or something, come over bashful and stop reading. Ryan doesn't hear him, though. He keeps going.

And that, dear listeners, esteemed fans of the Hotdaga, that is what they do. Together, Maizey and Pam, along with the un-drugged Gene and Mike Soup, they rout the plupples. They fix the Minestrone, that marvelous spacecraft, and equip it with the Bernoulli Converter to reach the wormhole in the Graxilon quadrant. Dear fans, they travel back in time, and stop the evil Pam from dumping that delicious party of wedding guests into the lava. By having Pam from the future eat herself. It's totally wicked awesome.

Maizey reunites with her witch-hologram french-fry wife, Gebra. Gene gets the Risky Fixin's band back together, for one last smash hit before the happily ever after you've all been waiting for. And here, my dear friends, here it is.

Music plays. It's stupid. It's the stupidest thing Shane has ever heard, and the production value is shit, and Ryan can't sing worth a damn, either.

For the next two minutes and eighteen seconds, he cries like a baby.

"And that's . . . it," says Ryan. He's crying too. "That's the thrilling conclusion to the Hot Dog Saga, or Hotdaga. It's . . . solved. I hope you—I hope you liked it."

"You nailed it, man," Shane says, choked up. "You got it. You nailed it. Shit, Ryan. Thank you."

Ryan sniffles. He wipes his face. He puts his phone down and sits in the dark.

"I don't wanna sound rude or anything, Shane, but . . . now could you please, please leave my family alone? Like, I miss you, but I just—I can't. I can't do this anymore. I'm sorry, man. I'm so fuckin' sorry for what happened."

"What? No, no no no, what are you talking about? Ryan, it wasn't your fault, Jesus!"

Ryan scrubs at his face, puts his head in his hands.

"Just please . . . please let me—just let me move on, too. I can't do this anymore."

"I—yeah," says Shane, shaken right down to his core, in so much pain he can barely hold himself together. "Yeah. Of course. I'm sorry. I didn't even think about . . . yeah. I'll go. I'll go."

He almost puts a hand on Ryan's shoulder, then thinks better of it. He walks out the door.

He doesn't look back.

About four months before Ryan's eightieth birthday, the Universe catches up with him.

Shane isn't sure how he knows, but he knows. He makes his way back to Crescent City, finds the hospital, the bed. It's bad. It's been bad for a long time.

It's not going to get better.

His daughter is with him that night, when the lights are dim and Shane doesn't have to fight so hard to stay present. She's middle-aged now. It's weird how fast five decades can slip by, when you spend them wandering around doing nothing.

Well, nothing except waiting.

"Sweetie, do you remember the Tall Man?" Ryan asks.

"My imaginary friend?" she asks. "Kinda. Why?"

"I think . . . I see him," says Ryan. "The Tall Man was always nice, wasn't he? He was always nice to you?"

"He was, Daddy. You were the only one who was worried about him."

"Good. Good. Because if he ever wasn't, I'm gonna . . . I'll kick his ass."

She laughs. Shane laughs.

They're stupid last words, but it's okay. He dies in his sleep about three hours later, when his daughter is sleeping, too.

Ryan takes a moment. He looks down at his body. He isn't terribly concerned.

"Huh," he says.

"'Bout sums it up, doesn't it."

Ryan turns, and he sees Shane. Shane waves.

"Hey," he says. "So uh . . . turns out you were right."

You were right.

It rings down through fifty years, reverberating, a struck bell, a punch in the chest.

You were right.

The corner of Ryan's old ghost mouth turns up, and then he smiles a big, wrinkly, toothy smile, and Shane knows, in that moment, that this is what he was waiting for.

"Damn right I was," says Ryan.

"So you uh . . . you got anything you wanna do, before . . . whatever's next?" Shane asks.

"Mm, maybe a couple things. Like, y'know, see all the haunted stuff, if it's actually haunted."

"Yeah, that's cool, that's cool. Pretty much what I did. You uh . . . you mind if I tag along?"

"Mind? No. Wouldn't have it any other way."

"The Ghoul Boys ride again," says Shane, smiling, even as he feels something begin to dissolve within him.

"Hell yeah," says Ryan.

He sticks out a hand, old and weathered. Shane shakes it. Ryan pulls him in and hugs him, so tight it threatens to pop him like a bubble.

"I'm sorry, Shane," he whispers. "I'm sorry."

Shane hugs him back.

"It wasn't your fault," he says. "It's okay."

From one moment to the next, with no choir of angels and no Hellfire—

In a flash of white—

They go onward.