Chapter 68 68: Moaning Myrtle [2]
For a long, agonizing moment, neither of them moved. The air in the bathroom felt instantly colder, the temperature dropping sharply as Myrtle's ghostly aura flared in panic.
Ethan stared at her, his brain struggling to process the sheer absurdity of the situation. He was a Master of the Mystic Arts. He had fought Dark Lords, manipulated space, and communed with cosmic entities. And yet, here he was, standing half-naked in a haunted girls' bathroom, locking eyes with a teenage ghost who had just been caught flicking her spectral bean.
"Well," Ethan said, his voice dripping with heavy sarcasm as he leaned against the stall frame. "I can officially tick that off my to-do list. Never thought I'd live to see a ghost masturbating."
Myrtle's translucent face went through a rapid series of expressions: shock, absolute mortification, and finally, a deep, ghostly flush of shimmering silver that spread across her cheeks like frost.
"Y-you!" she shrieked, her voice echoing off the damp tiles like a wailing siren. She scrambled backward in mid-air, floating into the plumbing pipes as she hastily yanked her spectral skirt down to cover her knees. "What are you looking at?! You're... you're a peeping Tom! A pervert! How dare you barge in here!"
Ethan blinked, slowly lowering his hands to his hips, completely unbothered by the fact that he was still fully erect and exposed.
"Me? A peeping Tom?" Ethan scoffed, raising an eyebrow. "I didn't realize ghosts needed privacy for... that. Though I suppose considering what just happened out there on the sinks, you had a pretty front-row seat to get you in the mood, didn't you, Myrtle?"
Myrtle's silver flush deepened. She floated higher, crossing her arms defensively over her chest, her thick glasses magnifying her wide, tear-filled eyes.
"I... I wasn't looking! You came into my bathroom!" she lied poorly, her voice a trembling whine. "But... but it was so loud! The groaning! The slapping! You and Professor McGonagall were making a dreadful racket! What is a poor, dead girl supposed to do when people come into her bathroom and act like... like wild animals?!"
"Well, joining in from the sidelines is one way to handle it, I guess," Ethan chuckled, a slow, wicked grin spreading across his face. He let his eyes travel down her translucent form, noting the faint, glowing silver moisture that seemed to be evaporating off her inner thighs. "From what I can see, you really enjoyed the show. I never knew ghosts could actually cum. I guess the name 'Moaning Myrtle' suits you a lot better than people think."
"Shut up!" Myrtle wailed, covering her face with her hands, though she peaked through her fingers. Her eyes darted downward, locking onto the thick, heavy ridge of his cock, which was still throbbing in the cold air. She looked away quickly, only to steal another glance a second later.
Ethan noticed the trajectory of her gaze. "Oh? Do you like it?" he asked, taking a step closer, letting his hands drop to his sides. "Do you want to know what it feels like to have it inside you?"
Myrtle's head snapped up, her spectral mouth dropping open. "What are you talking about?! You're... you're sick! I'm dead!"
"Don't make excuses," Ethan said, his voice dropping into a low, persuasive purr. "I can see you want it. Your hand was going a mile a minute back there. Honestly, I want it too. I was just cock-blocked by the Deputy Headmistress, and I need a release. And on top of that... I'm genuinely curious."
He took another step, his eyes raking over her pigtails and glasses. "I want to know how it feels to fuck a ghost. And a virgin ghost, on top of that. Because you are a virgin, right? You died when you were, what, fourteen?"
Myrtle's silver blush flared brighter. She nodded slowly, her chin trembling.
Ethan did the math in his head and let out a sharp laugh. "Fourteen when you died, plus the fifty years you've been haunting this toilet... damn. You're a sixty-four-year-old virgin, Myrtle."
"I AM NOT OLD!" Myrtle shrieked, the pipes behind her rattling as her ghostly aura spiked. "I'm a teenager! I'll always be a teenager! You cruel, nasty, horrible man!"
She began to wail, but the anger quickly dissolved into her signature melancholy. Her shoulders slumped, and she floated down to hover sadly over the toilet seat.
"It doesn't matter anyway," she sniffled, wiping a ghostly tear from behind her glasses. "It doesn't matter what I want."
She drifted forward, floating right up to Ethan. "I'm a ghost. I can't even touch anything. Look."
She reached out and pushed her hand directly into his chest. Ethan felt a sudden, icy plunge in his sternum, like he had swallowed a block of dry ice, as her translucent fingers passed right through his flesh and out his back.
"I can't even touch you," Myrtle whispered, her voice cracking with decades of accumulated loneliness. "I can't feel anything real. So what does it matter if I want that thing or not?"
Ethan looked down at the ghostly hand protruding from his chest. Instead of backing away, the wicked smirk returned to his face, sharper and more confident than before.
"I just needed your answer, Myrtle," Ethan said softly. "As for how it's going to happen... that depends entirely on me."
Myrtle looked up, confused. "What do you mean?"
Ethan didn't explain. He closed his eyes, drawing upon the deepest reserves of his Kamar-Taj training. The golden geometric lines of his magic flared to life, not in his hands, but deep within his core. He focused on the tether between his physical shell and his spiritual essence.
With a sudden, violent shove of will, Ethan pushed.
SHOOOM.
A blinding flash of golden light erupted in the bathroom. Myrtle shrieked and covered her eyes. When she looked back, she gasped in pure horror.
Ethan's physical body—still half-naked and erect—had collapsed backward, hitting the wet stone floor with a heavy, lifeless thud.
But standing right where his body had been was another Ethan. This one was translucent, glowing with a brilliant, amber light. His physical clothes were gone, leaving his spiritual form completely bare, radiating an intense, cosmic heat that Myrtle had never felt in her fifty years of undeath.
He had used Astral Projection.
Myrtle hovered over his lifeless physical body, her hands flying to her cheeks. "What... what the fuck?! Did you just die?! Did you kill yourself just to—"
Her frantic questions were cut off instantly.
The Astral Ethan stepped forward, his spiritual feet hovering an inch above the tiles. He grabbed Myrtle by her spectral shoulders. For the first time since 1943, she felt something grab her. It wasn't cold; it was a burning, overwhelming heat that sent a jolt of pure electricity through her ghostly form.
Before she could process the sensation of being touched, Astral Ethan pulled her in and crashed his glowing lips onto her translucent ones.
The kiss wasn't wet, but it was electric. Their spiritual energies collided, sending a shockwave of silver and gold sparks ricocheting off the bathroom walls. Myrtle let out a muffled, stunned moan against his mouth, her ghostly hands tentatively reaching up to grip his broad, glowing shoulders.
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