the new york times has such a great series of elevated butter noodles, if you ever want a super fast easy dinner that still feels grown up and you can emulsify pasta water + butter together basically the sky is your limit
ya got
gochujang butter noodles
peanut butter noodles
chili crisp fettuccine alfredo
miso butter noodles
any one of these + a bag of salad or whatever vegetable side you find easiest/cheapest, and you've got yourself a full meal that tastes far above the effort you put in.
summary: you’ve been able to see ghosts since you were a child, but years of bad experiences have taught you one thing: keep it secret. people don’t take kindly to the things they can’t explain. then you meet jack—a highly observant doctor with a ghost of his own, and what begins as an unlikely friendship slowly becomes something more. but trusting him means risking the one thing you’ve spent your entire life protecting: yourself.
tags: hurt/comfort, angst, romance, fluff, flirting, explorations of grief, supernatural elements, mentions of an ex, reader doesn't take good care of herself
word count: 18.3k
a/n: my baby is finally finished! i've been working on this for months now and tbh i could probably keep doing it. there's just something so interesting about this theme and how two people are affected differently by death. this fic was inspired by the show ghost whisperer and i see reader's abilities as somewhat similar to melinda's. as always, feedback is greatly appreciated! i really hope you guys like it! <333
The Pitt | Masterlist
Main | Masterlist
You hate hospitals with a deep passion.
They're too loud, too bright, and too crowded. Waiting rooms that make you feel like tinned fish, packed together beneath harsh fluorescent lights and the constant hum of voices. It's not even a busy night, and you're still counting down the minutes until you can leave.
There's a man with a clenched look on his face that suggests why he's choosing to stand despite the unusually empty seats. A woman nearby desperately hums to her wailing child, rocking her back and forth against her chest with a feverish gleam on her face. A man coughs wetly into his mask while a group of drunk girls giggle away in the corner.
It's a relatively empty waiting room considering it's the E.R—if you don't take the other people into account. There's a woman in a white gown wandering through the room before disappearing into a wall. A man with a gash on his head sits in one of the chairs, patiently waiting for his turn that will never come. Only the occasional flicker of his form reveals his true state.
It's only been half an hour, but from where you're sitting, you've already spotted five ghosts. And the longer you wait, the more they'll feel the pull of you—previous experience unfortunately lets you know that. So, if you can help it, you stay away.
But midnight ideas involving a ladder, a light bulb, and an unexpected vision hadn't proven to be a good combination. You'd been on the third rung, reaching overhead, when the familiar sensation hit. Your body had locked, your vision hazing as your mind left your apartment, and by the time the vision released you, your foot had slipped, and you'd fallen hard onto the ground. You'd blinked back to a shattered bulb beneath your palm and a sharp flare of pain where your head had clipped the coffee table. This was, unfortunately, an injury too severe for you to fix yourself.
Now it's three a.m., and you're holding a soaked dish towel to your bleeding hand as you try to avoid eye contact with the spectres drifting past. It takes another twenty minutes of staring insistently at the ground before your name is called and you're led into a room.
You sit on the crinkly paper, tapping your fingers against your pants as the door shuts again. Another five minutes pass before the door opens again, but you don't mind. At least, it's quiet in here—no ghosts following you.
"Hi. Sorry for the wait." A man in black scrubs steps inside, smiling at you kindly. "I'm Dr. Henderson." He's got one foot on the rolling chair, about to sit down when the door opens again.
"Crus." An older man interrupts, one hand on the door as he holds it open. He nods out towards the hallway, greying curls falling slightly forward at the motion. "Head to Trauma 1. You can assist with a lumbar puncture." He turns to you with a charming smile. "I'll take over here."
Heat rushes to your cheeks when his intense gaze lands on you, and you quickly avert your eyes. Instead, you watch as Dr. Henderson's face lights up. He sends you an apologetic smile, clapping the other man's shoulder on his way out.
"Sorry about that." The door shuts behind him as he finally steps fully inside and draws the curtain. "I'm Dr. Abbot." He picks up the tablet left behind and scans your chart quickly. Snapping on a pair of gloves, he drops down onto the chair.
"So," he says, eyeing the towel around your hand and the dried blood on your temple. "How bad did the other guy look?"
You blink. "What?"
Dr. Abbot gently tips your head toward the light to inspect the cut. His gloved fingers are surprisingly warm against your skin. "Whoever hit you got a decent shot in. Still, it's nothing we can't patch up."
"I didn't fight anyone."
"No?" A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he turns his attention to your hand, carefully peeling the towel away. His gaze flicks down to your heart-patterned pyjama pants. "I don't know. You look like you could be hiding a professional boxing career."
Heat creeps into your cheeks as you realise he's teasing you. "Oh. Ha."
His grin widens, and you find yourself watching the way his eyes crinkle. "So, what happened?"
"...I fell off a ladder."
His eyes flick up to yours. "Strange hour to be climbing ladders." He shifts your hand back and forth, testing your grip.
You shrug. "Couldn't sleep."
"Ah," he says. "That, I get." He rolls the chair back to gather supplies once he determines it isn't a severe cut. "There's a bit of glass stuck inside, so I'm gonna give you a shot for the pain, pick out the pieces, stitch you up and then send you on your merry way. Sound good?"
You nod, glancing down at your hand, expecting your stomach to roll, but feeling strangely detached from it. You guess you've seen worse in visions before. A surprising positive, you suppose.
He pulls off his gloves, throwing them into the trash behind him. As he leans forward to grab a new sterile pair, the chair suddenly rolls forward beneath him. The wheels squeak as it turns to face you, and Dr. Abbot's hands shoot out instinctively, landing briefly against the plush of your thighs to steady himself.
You both freeze. His eyes flick down to your thighs, then back up.
"Sorry," he says, pulling away immediately.
"No, that's—" You swallow. "That's okay."
Dr. Abbot rubs the back of his neck before turning back to the task at hand. The room suddenly feels too warm. Something metallic flashes beneath the fluorescent lights, drawing your attention to his wedding ring. He's married. Of course. A man like that doesn't go through life without attracting someone. You look away before you can wonder why that thought bothers you.
You focus on the ceiling tile above him instead. A faint crackling sound brushes against your ears before disappearing. Your attention snaps to the corner, but no one is there. The sound comes back, like an old radio searching for a station. Your skin prickles, and the hairs at the back of your neck rise in warning.
You're not alone, but no one appears. No one speaks. It's just that crackling sound, continuing for another minute before it disappears again.
Dr. Abbot reaches for your hand again, oblivious to it. He administers the shot as you try to look around the room without him noticing.
"So, what were you doing on the ladder?" he says, breaking the awkward silence. He moves to clean your forehead as he waits for the lidocaine to set in.
You huff a laugh. "Putting in a new light bulb. I've been putting it off for weeks. Maybe this was a sign that I shouldn't have waited that long." Your chin lifts, a sense of pride filling you when his lips twitch. You get the feeling that he isn't that easy to get a reaction out of.
"Not handy, I gather?" he says as he finishes placing the butterfly stitch on your forehead.
You glance down at your hand. "What gave it away?"
He huffs a laugh.
The saline feels odd, but not unpleasant, and you barely notice as he plucks out the glass pieces. The silence that settles over the room is comfortable, and for a moment you believe the ghost has left you alone. Maybe it has finally decided you're not worth bothering. But as Dr. Abbot dresses your wound and turns to write follow-up instructions on a notepad, the crackling starts again. Then, his pen flies off the desk.
"Oops," he says, not sounding particularly surprised. He ignores it and turns back to you. "The stitches are self-dissolving, but come back if there's any swelling or irritation." He hands you the note, his mouth curving into another teasing smile. "And no more fights, at least until you're healed."
"No promises." You grin. "Thank you."
He gives you a small nod. "You're welcome."
You slip off the bed, clutching the note in your good hand. At the door, you glance back without really meaning to. He's still looking at you. For a second, neither of you says anything, then you leave. There's a slight pull, almost as if something is trying to keep you in the room, but you push forward without placing much thought on it. Whatever ghost is trying to communicate can find you tomorrow.
The bookstore Cordelia's is located next to the park and has been yours for almost three years. It's small, but you've managed to make the most of the space. Tall shelves line almost every wall, some of them old enough that you constantly worry they'll fall apart at the slightest touch. There's a little reading nook tucked beneath the front window, two mismatched armchairs beside a low table, and a counter near the register that has been scratched and dented by years of use. The bell above the door has a slightly different ring depending on how hard someone pushes it, and the floorboards creak in places you've long learned to avoid.
It's comfortable. Warm. The kind of place where people come in intending to browse for ten minutes and somehow end up staying an hour.
Ethan is similar in that way. He never dreamed of working in a bookstore, and somehow, he's gone from a part-time worker to being here more than you are. He's always liked books—even has a minor in English literature—but he'd always imagined himself doing something more. Maybe teaching or being a famous author—something that involved people knowing his name. Definitely not standing behind a counter for eight hours a day arguing with customers about whether a particular first edition was worth what the internet claimed it was. And yet, he loves it.
He hadn't at first, but that was before his roommate started haunting him.
Ethan had been drawn to the store, and you'd found him overwhelmed in the back row, head in his hands. Somehow, without even meaning to, he had divulged it all to you, and you hadn't been even a little bit unnerved by the strange things he'd told you. You hadn't laughed. You hadn't suggested he was imagining things. Instead, you'd asked him what his roommate's name was, and then you'd revealed your abilities.
You were able to see and speak to ghosts.
Ethan had laughed at first—right up until his bathroom mirror had smashed in his face and the pieces spelt out his name on the ground. After that, he was a true believer. And with his roommate crossed over, Ethan put his plans on hold to follow you. He'd offered to work in your store, which was closed more often than not with you out dealing with your ghostly companions. He'd expected it to be temporary. It wasn't.
The bookstore came with its own companions. Lydia and Delia, the couple who had owned the store before you, who had apparently decided that death was no reason to leave. It had taken Ethan a while to get used to them. It had taken them even longer to get used to him. Now he can't imagine the place without them. Even if he does wish they'd stop throwing the books they dislike at him.
Still, it's nice to have some company, even if he can't see them. Especially since he never knows exactly when you'll be in or for how long. He knows it's one of those days where you disappear for hours when you enter the shop with two coffee cups and an already apologetic smile.
His attention immediately catches on the stitches on your forehead and the white dressing covering your hand. "What happened to you?"
You shrug casually. "Ladder. Light bulb. Ghost. It was an accident."
Ethan's brows pinch together. He reaches out, fingers catching lightly beneath your jaw in an attempt to get a better look at the cut, but you duck away before he can inspect it properly and push one of the coffees into his hand instead.
"I think I figured out who it is. Is it okay if I—?" You tilt your head towards the door.
Ethan worries his lower lip for a second. It's not the first time he's seen you hurt by a ghost, but he still doesn't like it. He knows better than most how casually you treat your injuries. If it weren't for him reminding you, you'd forget to eat during cases. "Be careful. This ghost doesn't seem too happy with you."
"This was just bad timing." You brush it off.
He stares at you. You stare back. Eventually, you sigh. "...Fine. I'll be careful."
"Good." He nods. "Call me if there's anything."
You hum, already halfway across the store again. "Sure. Thanks!" The door slams shut behind you.
Ethan sighs and takes a sip of his coffee. He knows you can take care of yourself. It's just that the two of you have very different ideas of what that means.
He steps behind the counter again and slumps down onto the chair. A few boxes are waiting to be unpacked and placed on shelves, but they can wait until he's finished with this cup. He's got at least another hour until the first customers filter in, so he leans back and grabs his notepad. His novel won't write itself. He stares at the blank page, then writes two words. Deletes them. Takes a sip. Writes another sentence. Deletes that too. He sighs. Maybe he should've stuck with teaching.
The bell rings again, barely a minute later.
"Forget something?" he calls out, still staring at his paper while chewing on the end of his pen.
"I don't think so."
The male voice makes him look up.
Ethan shoots to his feet, notepad clattering to the ground. "I'm so sorry. I thought you were someone else." He bends to pick it up, cheeks burning with embarrassment, before his flustered gaze meets the eyes of an older man.
Scrubs. Tired-looking. Handsome.
The man looks around the store, almost confused, as though he's not entirely sure why he's here. Seeing that, Ethan's customer-service persona finally clicks into place. "Looking for anything special?"
The man hesitates, frowns, then shakes his head.
"Okay. Well, we've got a bit of everything." Ethan gestures to the aisles. "Give me a shout if you need anything." He logs onto the computer to give the man some space to explore, but keeps an eye on him out of the corner of his eye.
The man wanders slowly between the shelves, fingertips occasionally brushing over the spines. He doesn't seem to be looking for anything in particular. Eventually, he stops at one of the displays and picks up a book. "How long have you had this store? Don't think I've seen it before."
"Oh, I'm not the owner; she's out at the moment—" The light flickers above him, and he looks at it with a frown. It's not like Lydia or Delia to interrupt when there's a customer. "It's been here for about three years now."
The man nods, puts the book down, then takes a step toward one of the aisles. A book flies off the shelf next to him.
Ethan freezes. The man doesn't. His shoulders rise, tensing, but not in a way that suggests surprise. It's more like resignation. Another book flies from the shelf on the opposite side. Then another. It lands directly in front of him.
Ethan's certain now. There's a ghost attached to this man. But it's the man's reaction that unsettles him most. He barely reacts. No startled jump. No nervous laugh. No frantic glance around the room. He simply looks down at the books, bends down, picks them up and puts them back.
Ethan watches him carefully. He's seen people react to ghosts before. He knows the usual responses. Fear. Confusion. Denial. This man looks like someone who's seen this before. Before Ethan can say anything, the stranger nods at him and hurries out of the store.
Ethan stares after him, waiting for something else to happen, but the store is quiet again. "If you're still here, I can't see you, but my friend can," he calls softly. He looks toward the aisle. "She'll be back later."
He waits for an answer, but nothing happens. No books fly out. No lights flicker. His shoulders drop a fraction. Even after years of seeing you interact with ghosts, he can't help his instinctual fear when he's alone. At least when you're around, he has an idea of what the ghost wants. On his own, he's completely clueless about their intentions.
He looks toward the door again. Who was that guy?
Ethan wanders over, fishing out the books that had been pushed half-hazardously back between the others. His fingers brush the spines, reading the titles, then he crouches to retrieve the last one. The theme is clear, but the one that landed closest to the man says it best.
The Art of Dating.
Ethan stares at it. "Well," he mutters, putting it back on the shelf. "That's subtle."
It's close to midday when you enter the store again, but instead of this morning's excitement, there's a dull headache throbbing behind your eyes. It sits stubbornly at your temples, refusing to ease no matter how much you rub them. You're not sure if it's the lack of sleep that's finally catching up with you, the hit your head took last night, or the disappointment of your visit, but either way, you feel drained.
"Hey, how'd it go?" Ethan calls from somewhere between the shelves. He emerges a moment later, a book tucked beneath one arm, and takes one look at your face. "Bad, huh?"
You don't bother pretending otherwise. "Yeah..." You sink onto the plush chair behind the counter, letting your head fall back against it with a sigh. "I'm gonna try again tonight. Maybe I'll get a read of something."
Ethan hums, leaning his elbows against the counter. He studies you for a moment, his expression telling you he's considering arguing before apparently deciding against it. "I'll come with you."
You close your eyes and shake your head. "You don't have to."
He shrugs, completely unconcerned with your refusal. "It's good research for my book."
Your eyes open again. "Oh! How's that going? When can I read something?"
"I'm nowhere close to that," he groans, his head dropping dramatically. "I've been stuck on the same paragraph for hours now."
You blow a raspberry at him. The sound earns you a look, but you can see the corner of his mouth twitch. "Lunch then?" you suggest, sitting up slightly. "We could try that new place down the street?"
He pushes himself off the counter, already reaching for his jacket. "Yes, I'll go get it. Some fresh air might get rid of my writer's block."
You lean back again, closing your eyes once more as he heads toward the door. You hear him rummaging around for his wallet, then the soft jingle of the bell as he pulls the door open. "Oh," he calls out, the door halfway open. "Some man came in earlier with a ghost attached to him. I told it you'd be back later."
"Did you get a name?"
"No, he ran out before I could ask. He was in scrubs, though, so maybe a doctor or nurse?" He shrugs, then shuts the door behind him, leaving the store quiet again.
Scrubs?
You frown. For a second, your mind supplies the image of Dr. Abbot before you can stop it. The kind man from last night. His warm fingers against your skin as he'd examined your forehead. The crooked smile when he'd teased you about fighting someone. The flash of his wedding ring beneath the fluorescent lights.
You shake the thought away. The hospital is across the park, and you've never seen him here before. The chance of him coming into the bookstore afterwards is low. It was probably just an odd coincidence.
You let your head fall back against the chair again.
"He was real handsome, too," a warm voice croons from your right.
You don't even open your eyes. "You say that every time a man walks in here."
"I do not," Lydia protests. You crack an eye open, finding her beside one of the shelves, arms folded across her chest, looking deeply offended by the accusation. She turns her head to Delia. "Do I?"
"...You do," Delia says, wincing when Lydia turns to glare at her. "But"—she points a finger at you—"this time she is right."
You roll your eyes before closing them again. "Mm," you hum. "I'm not looking for anything." You settle deeper into the chair. "You know that."
There's a pause before Delia clears her throat gently. "Honey, maybe it's time to—"
"No," you cut her off, opening your eyes just enough to look at her. "But thanks."
You close your eyes again before she can start arguing, effectively ending the conversation. The two ghosts sigh in unison. You can hear the soft rustle of fabric as Lydia moves, followed by Delia's faint scent of roses. Then a rush of cool air brushes across your skin, signifying that they're gone.
You let out a slow breath as the bookstore settles around you again. You know they're trying to help. You know they have the best intentions. But Lydia and Delia have been together for decades, including the years after death. They've managed to find the kind of love that survived everything—life, death, and apparently even the refusal to cross over.
You're happy for them. You really are. But sometimes, when they talk about love like it's something inevitable, something that simply arrives and stays, you can't help wondering if you're the exception.
Because you've already been given this gift. Maybe that's it for you. Maybe you're simply meant to spend your life helping other people find their way to the other side while you stay back. The thought shouldn't still bother you. You've told yourself that often enough that it shouldn't, and yet, when you do think about it a little too seriously, it aches and pulsates somewhere deep down.
So, you try not to. And with the embers of your last relationship still burning after its fiery end, it's becoming easier to believe. Your ex, John, had made it clear how he thought you were crazy for believing in things nobody else could see. You'd loved him. That had been the worst part. You'd finally trusted him enough to open up, and that was his response. For a long time afterwards, you'd wondered whether he had been right about everything. Maybe you were too strange. Too difficult. Too much.
You stare at the ceiling through half-lowered lashes. You don't doubt it anymore. It's easier that way. Easier to believe you're not meant for love than to risk it all again.
You don't think you can handle it.
Considering that you've been involved in ghost activities since you were a little girl, you should know by now that nothing is ever a coincidence when ghosts are involved. You'd seen it, following your mother around, fingers clutching her skirt as she got roped into ghostly schemes, openly parading her abilities—right up until your father had her committed when her visions took over.
You learned then and there that what she had considered a gift was best left hidden. That it wasn't everybody who understood. That, at times, it was more a burden than a gift.
Despite having all that experience, you don't think much of it the first time you see Dr. Abbot again. You see him in the supermarket, his hand reaching for a bunch of bananas as you turn into the fruit aisle. Your eyes meet across a display of apples, and for half a second, both of you stare at each other, until recognition flickers across his face. You send him a brief, polite smile before ducking into the nearest aisle and pretending to become intensely interested in a selection of tinned tomatoes. You stay there until you're reasonably certain he's gone.
The second time could be coincidence. The third is harder to explain. By the time you see him in the park, you've stopped counting.
It's late evening, the last rays of the sunset shining across the park and through the store windows. You'd sent Ethan home earlier, telling him you'd deal with the odd technological error that had somehow deleted all your online orders and the ones you'd placed for new books. Once that is sorted, you close the shop, a little later than usual, and head home.
But rather than taking the fast way, you turn right at the park entrance, choosing the scenic—and considerably longer—route. An unexplainable feeling guides you, but you're too tired to examine it.
You walk past friends sprawling across picnic blankets with half-finished drinks between them, couples walking hand in hand along the paths, and children chasing one another through the grass while their parents call after them. Then you hear laughter. Your attention drifts toward a group of scrub-clad people gathered beneath one of the trees, several cans of beer scattered between them. You take another step, let your gaze fall forward, and then the sight of a familiar face registers.
Your eyes snap back.
Dr. Abbot's already looking at you. His lips twitch when he sees your surprised expression, and he lifts his beer in greeting. Your mouth lifts in an unwitting smile before you can stop it, and you give him a small nod in return. A few of the people around him follow his gaze, curious eyes turning toward you. You immediately look away and hurry down the path before any of them can catch your gaze properly. You try to ignore the heat that's flaming under your skin.
It's a coincidence, you repeat to yourself. Just a coincidence.
That assumption promptly gets thrown out when he shows up at the store. Now you're certain that something is going on.
It's just you this time, with Ethan having been given the day off after you'd closed your last case. The death had been accidental—a slip and fall down a flight of stairs—but things had remained dramatic until the very end. Things had been thrown before your ghost was ready to listen, and the family was ready to talk. You'd been caught in the crossfire, leaving bruises scattered across your arms and a particularly ugly one blooming near your elbow.
Still, books needed to be placed on shelves and with Ethan out, you were forced to make your aching arms comply. You bend to pick up another box, already mentally calculating how many more trips you'll need to make before you can finally sit down. Maybe you should order a take-out for lunch to celebrate?
"Do you need help?" A gruff, familiar voice says from behind you.
You huff, half amused, half annoyed. You're used to ghosts appearing without warning and asking for help at the worst possible moments, so you don't bother turning around immediately. "And how would you do that?"
Warm fingers brush against yours as he takes the box from you. "I may be older than you, but I'm not decrepit."
You gasp, your eyes snapping up to meet Dr. Abbot's warm, teasing hazel gaze. For a second, you're too surprised to say anything. "I'm so sorry, I thought you—" You shake your head and gesture toward the cart. "Never mind. You can just put that there. Thank you."
Your gaze follows the box as he sets it down, lingering despite yourself on the way his arms barely strain beneath the weight of the heavy books you'd struggled to lift just moments earlier. Without a word, he picks up the remaining boxes and sets them down beside the first.
You stare at him. He glances at you. "What?"
You smile awkwardly. "Nothing."
When he turns back, his eyes fall down the length of your arms. They narrow slightly.
You snatch the cardigan you'd abandoned on the counter when you'd gotten hot earlier and tug it on, trying to make the gesture look casual. "So, what can I help you with?"
He frowns, but decides to leave it alone as his gaze turns to the aisles. "One of our med students just landed a residency, and I offered to get the gift for her."
"And you have no idea what to get her?" you ask.
"Yeah." He grins sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.
You step out from behind the counter, your arm brushing against his. The contact is brief, barely anything; still, heat sparks through the fabric. You ignore it. "Do you know what she likes?"
"Uh... She's big on social media and very into astrology."
"Ah." You nod, moving with certainty to the cart. You grab a box cutter, slice through the tape, and fish out a book from the box. "Get her this. It's been sold out for months, and I just got it back in stock."
You hold out a book with astrological signs circling the cover. He takes it, turning it over once in his hands. "You're lucky you came in now. I was gonna update our socials after I'd finished shelving the books. They'd probably be gone in a few hours."
He hums as he follows you back to the counter, scanning his card without glancing at the price. "Guess my intuition proved me right."
Your fingers pause against the wrapping paper, glancing up at him. "Intuition?"
"Yeah." He rubs the back of his neck again. "I don't really believe in it, but I was here a few weeks ago, and I just had this feeling that I would find what I was looking for here."
Your fingers still for the briefest second before finishing the bow. When you look up at him, he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.
"I see." You put the book into a bag and hand it over to him, forcing a smile onto your face. "Guess you were right."
He nods. For a moment, neither of you moves. He hesitates, swallowing down whatever he was about to say before settling on a soft, "See you around?"
You nod, smiling. "I'll be here."
He smiles back, lifting a hand in an awkward little wave before turning toward the door. The bell gives its familiar little chime as the door swings shut behind him. The grin on your face falls the second you can no longer see him through the windows.
He's the scrub-clad man Ethan told you about, and after all these encounters, you're forced to admit that his ghost has proved more persistent than you thought. You're just not sure what it wants.
"Handsome, right?" Lydia grins as she appears beside you.
You roll your eyes and move to roll the cart toward the shelves.
"Oh, ignore me all you want, sweetheart. You have a tell."
"I do not." You turn to glare at her.
Her smile widens as she shrugs. "If you say so." She disappears before you can argue.
A second later, Delia appears in her place, softer around the edges. She winks at you before following Lydia's path through the shelves.
Ghosts.
It's early morning when you settle onto your usual bench in the park, thermocup warming your hands as the last rays of the sunrise fade over the horizon. The air still carries the faint chill of the night, drops of dew clinging to the blades of grass.
You take a slow sip and lean back against the bench. It's been a nice couple of days—ghost-free and able to fully focus on the store without somebody dead demanding your attention.
A blur materialises out of the corner of your eye. It was too good to be true, you suppose.
You sigh lightly, then turn to face it. "Hi."
A woman blinks at you. Water drips steadily from her clothes, darkening the fabric around her shoulders. Her hair hangs in wet strands around her face, and she looks incredibly confused. "Where am I?"
"What's your name?" you ask her instead.
"I—I'm—" She spins around, sending droplets of water in every direction. You cover yourself instinctively, even though none of it can actually touch you. "What's going on?"
"Hey, it's okay. I can help you."
She frowns. Her mouth pulls into a tight line, but just as her shoulders begin to loosen, a figure steps straight through her. She disappears immediately.
You bite back a groan. You were just about to reach her.
"Sorry..." A low voice pulls your attention away. "I didn't mean to interrupt, but... are you okay?"
You glance up to find Dr. Abbot standing a few feet away, one hand half-raised like he wasn't sure whether he should approach. Of course.
You look toward the empty space where the woman had been. "Sorry. Just a second." You hold up a finger to him and turn your head slightly, pretending to listen to something only you can hear. "I gotta go. Yeah... Bye."
You turn back to him and pull out your headphones, feigning confusion. "Sorry, what were you saying?"
He studies you for a second longer than feels comfortable. His eyes move briefly to your hand, then back to your face. "Nothing. Sorry."
You smile awkwardly at him, thanking your past self for the foresight.
Dr. Abbot leans slightly to his left, an expression of pain flickering across his face, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you gesture to the space beside you. "Do you wanna sit?"
He hesitates, glancing toward the empty stretch of bench before lowering himself onto it, leaving a polite gap between you. Silence falls for a second before he speaks. "My resident loved the book."
Your face brightens. "Really?"
"Oh yeah," he says, his mouth curling slightly. "I'm apparently her favourite attending now." He nods in your direction. "All thanks to you."
"You're welcome!" You grin. "Next time you need a recommendation, you know where to find me." You take another sip of your coffee. "Is she the reason our page is popping off?"
He hums. "She did say something about posting it on her TikTok..."
You smile at the unsure grimace on his face. Clearly, he's not an avid user of the platform. "Give her my thanks, then. The store's been buzzing the last few days. The coffee corner's been packed since."
"Oh, you have coffee now?"
"Yeah! New addition. Ethan thought it would be good."
"Coffee's any good?"
You shrug. "Depends who's asking."
His mouth curls. "I am."
"Then I'll say yes."
He huffs a laugh.
Silence falls between you again, but this time it's more comfortable. You find yourself noticing that with him, silence doesn't seem to demand anything. You don't have to fill it, and neither does he. He just sits beside you, looking out across the park.
You lift the crinkly paper bag beside you and take out a croissant. You break it in two and hold out one half to him. He looks from the pastry to your face, as though checking whether you're serious.
You nod. "Take it."
The corner of his mouth lifts before he accepts it. His wedding ring catches the morning light as he does. The reminder sends a quiet swoop through your stomach, though you're unsure why.
You take a sip. "Feel free to bring your wife with you," you add. "We get lots of couples coming in."
"Oh..." His expression changes almost imperceptibly as his eyes drop to his hand. His thumb brushes over the edge of his wedding ring. "She passed away a few years ago."
The words are simple. There isn't a dramatic pause afterwards, no visible struggle to say them. Just a quiet fact placed between you. It explains the weird feeling you've gotten each time you've seen his ring—you must've picked up on it subconsciously.
"I'm sorry."
He shakes his head. "Don't be."
You glance at him.
He looks down at the croissant in his hand, turning it slightly between his fingers. "I was lucky to have her."
You smile softly. It's clear from his voice just how much he loved her. "She must've been special."
His own smile appears, small but genuine. It's still wider than any you've seen from him so far. "She was."
You've seen enough death to know there's no right thing to say afterwards. Sometimes people want sympathy. Sometimes they want to talk. Sometimes they just want someone to acknowledge that it happened and then let them breathe. So you don't try to fix it. You just sit beside him.
After a moment, Dr. Abbot takes another bite of his croissant and changes the subject. "So, was it always in your plans to own a bookstore?"
You breathe out. "No, I actually stumbled on it a few years ago."
You don't tell him about Lydia and Delia making life hell for the new owners, or how their refusal to move on had eventually led to the place being sold to you for barely a dime. Instead, you tell him, "I've always loved books. So, it just felt right to share that love with others."
He hums, smiling slightly. "That makes sense."
"What about you? Did you always want to be a doctor?"
"Couldn't afford college, so I joined the army. Lost my leg." He pats his right leg, but doesn't make more of it. So you don't either. "Then after that, I entered emergency medicine. And that was that."
You glance at him. "That was that?"
He shrugs. "Seemed like a reasonable way to spend the rest of my life."
You snort. "Most people would say they wanted to help people."
"Well, I try to keep the inspirational speeches to a minimum."
You laugh. The conversation drifts again. It's strangely easy. You talk some more about the bookstore. He tells you about some of the residents who have passed through the ER, right until a yawn interrupts his words.
You fight back a smile. "I'd better get going," you say, standing and brushing pastry flakes from your jeans. "The store's not going to open itself." Well... it might. But the last time Lydia and Delia tried, it hadn't ended particularly well.
Dr. Abbot's eyes flick briefly to the fading bruises on your forearms before meeting yours again. He opens his mouth, hesitates, then simply says, "Take care of yourself."
You smile. "I usually do."
"Thanks again for the book recommendation."
"Anytime," you say, smiling at him. You give him a small wave before turning towards the path.
The tension in Jack's shoulders eases the second he steps into Cordelia's and is met by the familiar smell of paper, ink and coffee. The bell chimes softly above him as he swipes his wet feet at the mat.
"Oh no, poor you." You emerge from the back, taking in how the rain clings to his hair.
He waves his hand. "It's not that bad. Just a light—" A loud boom of thunder interrupts him, followed by rain pelting hard against the windows, "—drizzle. Huh." He leans slightly to his left, trying to place more weight on his good leg, but even that one is hurting today.
He can feel your gaze on him, so he turns back to you with a charming little smile in place, trying his best to avoid letting you know how bad it is.
"Go sit." You nod towards the armchair, an air of resolution over you as you head for the coffee machine. Somehow, you see right through him every time.
Jack doesn't have the energy to argue. He settles into the armchair, propping his leg on the ottoman that appeared after his second long visit. He's not sure when it became tradition for him to show up after shift. It just did.
You're not even open yet, so most mornings you sit with him. Sometimes you talk. Sometimes you don't. It's nice. You've become an unlikely friend, someone who he looks forward to seeing after shift. It certainly beats going home to an empty apartment. Somewhere along the way, Cordelia's had become part of his routine.
"Here." You reach over, bringing him his cup. He lets his hands warm against the porcelain before taking a long sip.
"You've done it again," he breathes out. "You really are magic."
You shake your head. "I thought we agreed not to call me that."
"You agreed. I didn't." He shrugs. "You always find the best books and, somehow, make this coffee taste good. Magic."
"Uh-huh." You roll your eyes, heading back towards the counter with your own mug. Jack rests his head against the chair, letting the quiet rustle of the bookstore and the sound of rain wash away the beeps and shouting voices still ringing in his ears.
His eyes follow you as you lift a box up onto the counter. "What'd you got there?"
You grin widely. "One of our customers left us a few boxes of vintage books." You slice cleanly through the tape. "I mean, look at this." You pull out a gorgeous green-covered book, holding it carefully in both hands, your entire face lighting up.
Jack can't help the little smile that tugs at his lips. You're cute when you're excited. He looks away before you can catch him staring, spinning his ring around. He's not sure where that thought came from.
"It's beautiful," you say, running your thumb carefully along the spine. "Look at the binding."
The bell rings again as Ethan drags himself in through the door, shaking his umbrella and leaving it at the entrance. He waves to Jack before immediately slumping down behind the counter with a yawn.
"You look like a wet rat," you tell him.
"Oh, thank you." Jack hears the offended tone in Ethan's voice as he stands up, shaking his wet sleeve at you.
"Hey!"
Jack chuckles quietly to himself as the two of you begin bickering.
"What's all this?" Ethan asks, finally noticing the box. A low whistle escapes him. "This might be worth a pretty penny."
Jack watches the two of you fall into your familiar rhythm. You inspect every book before Ethan checks the condition. You argue over whether certain editions should be sold or kept. Ethan reads out the occasional title with a laugh. You keep nudging books toward him for him to look at.
Jack mostly stays quiet. He doesn't mind. That's one of the things he likes about the store. He doesn't have to perform here. He can sit with his coffee and listen to the two of you bicker about books while the morning slowly settles around him.
His gaze drifts back toward you. Your hands are scratched. Again. He notices immediately. Fresh little cuts cross your fingers and knuckles, some still pink around the edges.
At first, he worried someone was hurting you. Ethan had been the obvious possibility, if only because he was the person Jack saw you with most often. But a little careful observation—and a few questions asked in the casual way only a doctor can manage—put that suspicion to rest.
You trust Ethan. Completely. There is nothing between you that suggests otherwise.
So now he's left with another question. What's happening to you? He doesn't like the thought. You've always been a little accident-prone. He knows that much. There was the initial fall from the ladder. The bruises. The scrapes. And now this. He could ask. He should probably ask. But he doesn't. Not yet. You aren't his patient. You aren't even—
He doesn't finish the thought.
Instead, he takes another drink of coffee and watches you laugh at something Ethan says. You're both leaning over the same box, shoulders nearly touching. For some reason, he finds himself smiling again.
Then you pick up another book. It's blue, covered in tiny butterflies. "Oh, this is so pre—"
You stop. Completely. The change is so sudden that Jack sits up. Your fingers remain frozen against the open page. Your eyes stare somewhere beyond the book.
"Magic?" He says it lightly at first, his eyes roaming over your frozen figure. You don't respond.
Ethan notices at exactly the same moment, but unlike Jack, he doesn't move toward you. Ethan moves toward him, stepping directly into his line of sight, and blocking you from view. "You want another cup?"
Jack frowns. "I—" He leans sideways.
Ethan shifts with him. He tries the other way. Ethan follows.
"What are you doing?"
Ethan's face is neutral, but the tightening around his eyes reveals his true position. He doesn't want Jack to see you for some reason. "Offering you coffee."
Jack looks down at his still half-full cup, his frown deepening. He shifts forward, planting his good foot firmly on the floor. Ethan still doesn't move. Jack pushes himself upright, his prosthetic taking an extra second to cooperate. By the time he's standing, Ethan has finally stepped aside.
And it's like nothing happened. You're fine. You're flicking through another book with the same casualness as before. Jack stares. "Hey, you okay?"
A smile immediately settles over your face. "Yeah." It arrives too quickly, too smoothly.
He doesn't believe you. You know he doesn't. For a second, something passes between you. A silent acknowledgement that whatever just happened, you both know it did.
Ethan clears his throat. "So, coffee?"
Jack looks at him, then back at you. "I—no. I should head home."
You frown. "So soon?"
He pauses.
Your expression changes the second you realise what you've said. "Sorry, go on. You're tired," you add quickly. "You should sleep."
He smiles faintly. "Yeah." He looks at you for another second. "See you tomorrow, Magic."
You roll your eyes, waving him off.
The bell jingles softly behind him. Outside, out of sight from the store windows, he pauses on the pavement. He barely takes notice of the rain, his mind busy running through everything he's seen. Bruises. Scratches. Lethargy. Disassociation. The way you froze just now. His thoughts begin sorting possibilities automatically.
Anemia. Thrombocytopenia. Something autoimmune.
He discards some almost immediately. Others linger. His stomach twists. He knows better than to diagnose someone from a handful of observations. He knows better than to let his mind run ahead of the evidence. But his brain doesn't care. It keeps circling back.
Cancer.
He closes his eyes for a moment. Not again.
You've only seen Jack once this week, a significant enough break in your routine that you find yourself thinking about him all the time. You catch yourself wondering whether he heads straight to bed instead of coming to the store, whether he's been working more shifts, whether he's okay.
You'd made Ethan leave him a note after you'd missed two mornings in a row. Somehow, the two of you have never exchanged numbers, so you don't even know he's seen it. Maybe he hasn't even come by, and you've been worrying for nothing. He's a busy man, after all.
You hope he doesn't think you're avoiding him. The last time he came by, you could see the questions swimming in his eyes. Questions you had elegantly sidestepped, but the doubt was still in his posture when he left.
You're just not sure what to tell him. Oh, that? That was just a vision. I get those sometimes—ghosts like to talk to me through them. What? Yeah, I talk to ghosts. It's no big deal.
He'd think you were crazy.
And you're genuinely busy. The vision from the blue book has led you through one dead end after another, the child ghost attached to it proving considerably harder to cross over than usual. Every time you think you're getting close, something changes. A new location. A new clue. Another fragment of a memory that sends you in the wrong direction.
So the bookstore has been running mostly without you. Ethan has taken care of most of the day-to-day things, with you dropping in whenever you can. Long enough to check the register. Long enough to unpack a few boxes. Long enough to make sure Lydia and Delia haven't started another argument over which section needs reorganising. Then you're gone again.
You push through the bookstore door late in the afternoon, the bell giving its familiar little chime above your head.
Ethan looks up from behind the counter, his eyes trailing over you. "You look awful."
You drop your bag onto the counter. "Gee, thanks."
"You know what I mean." He closes the book in front of him and crosses his arms. "You look exhausted. Have you been sleeping?"
You shrug, already heading toward the boxes stacked in the back. "I'll sleep after."
"After what?"
You crouch beside one of the boxes and start digging through it. "After."
"There's no after with you." His brows pinch together. "You can't help anyone if you're not taking care of yourself."
You ignore him, pushing aside a stack of paperbacks. "You sound like my dad."
"I'll take that as a compliment."
"It wasn't."
"Still taking it."
You finally find what you're looking for. The blue book. You pull it free and hold it against your chest. You stand again and turn toward the door. "I'll see you later, okay? Close the store early if you want."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." Your hand closes around the door handle. "I'm sorry for leaving it all to you. I'll make it up to you."
He waves you off. "You know, I don't mind... Jack's been asking for you."
So he has been by. Not directly after shift, because Ethan doesn't open that early. He's taken time out of his day to actually come by, disturbing the little sleep he gets. You stop, the bell above you giving a tiny jingle as the door shifts beneath your hand. "What did you say?"
"That you were busy." He leans back on the counter. "He's worried about you."
You swallow. "Well, tell him I'm fine."
Ethan's eyebrows lift. "That's it?"
"What else am I supposed to say?"
"Maybe ask why he's been asking about you."
You give him a flat look. A faint thump comes from somewhere behind the shelves. Ethan's eyes flick toward the sound, but you keep yours straight ahead.
"Tell him I'm fine."
"You could tell him yourself, you know."
You pause. For one brief, stupid second, you're tempted. The temptation is sharper than it should be. You could stop by the store one morning, let this ghost wait a little longer, but the wide-eyed, fearful gaze of your ghost reminds you that this is a little more important.
Jack can wait. Besides, it's not like the two of you really are anything to each other. He knows what you like to eat at breakfast, the books you prefer to read, and how your mother died when you were young. You know how he likes his coffee, the way he walks when he's trying to hide how his leg is hurting, and the passing of his wife. He'd even told you how his mother passed just a few years later and how he hadn't coped well with it.
Normal things. Things friends know about each other. Nothing that meant anything.
You push it down. "I'll see you later, okay?"
Ethan watches the door swing shut and sighs. Delia and Lydia join him from their hiding spot behind the shelves.
It's yet another early morning when Jack heads toward Cordelia's. He's stopped telling himself he's only going for the coffee by now. At first, it had been an easy excuse. He liked the place, the coffee, the books, and the quiet.
And, admittedly, he liked seeing you. He liked the way you made the silence feel comfortable. He liked that you noticed when his leg hurt even when he tried to hide it. He liked that you never made a big deal out of it.
That last part had been easier to ignore when you were actually there.
Now it's been over a week since he last saw you. Still, every morning after a shift, he finds himself turning down the same street, parking in the same spot, and walking toward the same little bookstore with the faint hope that this will finally be the morning he catches you. His hope grows when he sees the lights are on, which normally doesn't happen this early unless you're in.
Ethan looks up when the bell rings. His smile is polite, almost apologetic. "Morning."
Jack steps farther inside, letting the door swing shut behind him. He tries not to let the disappointment show on his face. Ethan is fiddling with something in the middle of the store, adjusting one of the little displays.
Jack leans against the counter, watching him for a moment. He doesn't bother pretending he's here for a book. He stopped doing that after the first two times. "...You talk to her?"
Ethan glances over. "Yeah, she came in yesterday."
Jack's shoulders ease slightly. "And how was she?"
"Fine." The answer comes too quickly. Ethan turns back toward the display.
Jack watches him. "Fine?"
"Yeah."
Jack nods slowly. Something about it doesn't sit right. He's seen you. Not properly, but he's caught glimpses. Once through the hospital window when you'd been crossing the street. Another time when he'd been driving past the bookstore and spotted you leaving through the side entrance.
You'd looked different. Paler. Thinner. Tired. He'd wanted to ask if you were okay, but each time he'd tried to get your attention, you'd climbed into your car and driven away before he could reach you. He'd told himself you were busy. Then he'd told himself you were avoiding him. That thought had bothered him more than it should have. Then he'd wracked his mind for a reason but ultimately landed on none.
"Is she sick?"
"What?" Ethan's head turns sharply.
"Is she sick?" Jack repeats. The words sound worse spoken aloud. "I've been seeing her around. She doesn't look well."
Ethan's expression shifts.
Jack's stomach drops. "She is sick."
"...No."
Jack catches the hesitation immediately. "Then what?"
Ethan looks away.
Jack's pulse starts beating harder. "She's been exhausted. She's lost weight."
"She's busy."
"She looks pale."
"She's been busy."
"She keeps leaving before I can talk to her."
Ethan sighs. "Jack—"
Jack watches his face. He's a doctor. He knows what people look like when they're trying not to tell you something. He knows what hesitation means. His mind starts filling in the blanks before he can stop it. Bloodwork. Imaging. Specialists. Treatment. His stomach twists. He pushes away from the counter. "Please."
Ethan finally looks at him.
"I'm a doctor. I can help."
"You can't."
"Please."
Ethan's expression softens.
Jack swallows. "If it's money, I'll take care of it." The words come out before he can think better of them.
Ethan blinks. "Jack—"
"I mean it." His voice is quieter now. "I'll pay for whatever she needs. Tests. Treatment. Whatever."
He doesn't explain why. The memory is already there in his mind. A hospital room. A diagnosis he'd wanted to believe wasn't serious. A woman he loved telling him she was fine when she wasn't. All the little things he'd missed. The things he should have noticed. The things he should have done differently. He'd promised himself he'd never make that mistake again. Not with someone he cared about.
Ethan stares at him, then shakes his head. "...She's not sick."
"Then what?"
Ethan bites his lip. For a moment, Jack thinks he's going to tell him. Instead, Ethan looks down at the display. "That's not for me to say."
Jack's jaw tightens. "Ethan."
"I'm sorry."
"Please."
"I can't."
Jack stares at him. There is something desperate in his own voice now, but he doesn't really care. "You know something."
Ethan doesn't answer.
"You know what's wrong with her."
"I know she's dealing with something."
"Then tell me."
"I can't."
Jack exhales sharply. His hand curls against the edge of the counter. "She doesn't have to know I'm asking."
"Jack."
"She doesn't even have to know I can help."
Ethan shakes his head. "It's not my secret."
Jack looks away. For a moment, the anger drains out of him, leaving only exhaustion. Right. Of course. He can't demand this. You aren't his patient. You're not his responsibility. You're—
He doesn't know what you are to him. He grabs his keys from his pocket. "Okay."
"I'm sorry."
Jack nods once. "Yeah." He turns toward the door.
"Jack?"
He pauses.
Ethan's voice is gentler now. "She's okay."
Jack looks back.
Ethan gives him a small, reassuring smile. "She'll be okay."
Jack searches his face. He wants to believe him. He wants to believe him more than anything. "Right." He steps outside, the door closing behind him.
He stands on the pavement for a moment, staring at the bookstore window. His chest feels tight. He should go home. Sleep. Forget about it until tomorrow.
He thinks about the first time you'd met. The stupid heart-covered pyjama pants. The cut on your forehead. The way you'd laughed at his terrible jokes. The coffee you'd started making exactly the way he liked it. The bench in the park. The croissant you'd split with him. The way you'd listened when he'd talked about Rachel without making him feel like he was saying too much. The fact that he'd noticed your absence almost immediately when you stopped coming around.
He'd told himself it was because he'd grown used to seeing you. That was all. Just routine. Except now he has to admit how much he misses you.
Jack exhales slowly. Because whatever you're dealing with, you're dealing with it alone. And for reasons he's not ready to examine, Jack really, really doesn't like that.
You feel like you're losing your mind.
Your ghost won't leave you alone. She's there when you wake, when you eat, when you try to work. Barely a second passes without seeing her somewhere in the corner of your eye, hovering close enough that you can hear the quiet hitch of her breathing. When you try to sleep, she cries because she's scared. When you're at the bookstore, she cries because she's scared of Lydia and Delia. When you tell her to stay away from the shelves, she cries. When you tell her you'll help her, she cries harder.
For your own sake, you need to cross her over. Soon.
But it's not proving easy. She doesn't remember anything. Not where she lived. Not how she died. Not even where her mother is. You know exactly one thing about her. Her name is Poppy. That's it.
You've tracked down the customer who left the blue book behind, hoping there might be some clue in where they'd bought it or who had owned it before them. Nothing. You've searched. You've asked questions. You've followed every lead Poppy has given you. Every single one has ended nowhere. You're completely lost.
One lead keeps bringing you back to the same place, though. An old house on the edge of town, where you've felt the presence of more spirits than you can count. Not the lost, confused ghosts you're used to. These are different. Angry. Territorial. The kind that makes the air feel heavy before you even cross the property line.
The first time you went near the house, something had whispered your name from inside before you'd even reached the door. You hadn't gone back alone since. You're not sure what Poppy's connection is to these spirits, but she always seems more frightened after you've been near the house. You haven't been able to figure out what they want from her.
So, trying to change your surroundings in the hopes that it might clear something up, you head to the park. You sit on your usual bench, which you haven't done in a long time, with a thermocup warming your hands. For once, there's no one around. No customers. No Ethan. No Lydia or Delia. No Jack. Just you.
And Poppy sitting cross-legged in the grass a few feet away.
"I miss my mommy," she whispers.
Your eyes close. "I know."
"She'll find me, right?"
You swallow. You don't know. "Try to see if you can remember something."
Poppy looks at you. "I'm trying." Her voice is louder this time.
"I know." You keep your voice gentle, trying to soothe her. "But—"
"You're just trying to get rid of me," she accuses.
"What?"
She stands. "You don't want me here."
"Poppy—"
"You don't want me!"
You lift a hand. "I want to help you."
"You want me gone. Just like they said."
The words catch somewhere in your mind. They? But Poppy is crying again before you can ask.
"You need to cross over," you say, more firmly now. "This isn't where you're supposed to be."
Her face crumples. "You don't want me," she cries louder. "I want my mommy."
"I am trying to find your mommy."
"I want her!" Her voice rises.
You wince. "Poppy—"
"I want my mommy!"
The sound tears through you. You press your fingers against your temples. "Stop."
She freezes.
You breathe hard. "Just stop. I can't take it anymore."
Poppy's lower lip trembles. "You don't want me."
The anger drains out of you immediately. You rub a hand over your face. "Wait. Poppy, I didn't mean it like that."
She's already disappearing.
"Fuck." You stare at the empty patch of grass, your chest rising quickly. You don't notice the footsteps approaching until a familiar voice speaks beside you.
"Hey."
You look up. Jack. He's standing a few feet away, concern written plainly across his face. Of course. Of course he's here now.
You wipe quickly beneath your eyes. "It isn't what it looks like."
Jack's eyebrows lift. "No?" He gestures toward the empty grass. "Then what is it?"
You stare at him. Your heart starts pounding. You can't do this. Not with him. Not after everything. You remember Ethan's words. He's not like John. You swallow. "I—"
This is much harder than when you meet the family members or friends of ghosts. You can show them proof—hand them something that assures them you aren't crazy. You can't do that with Jack. He might have a ghost attached, but his mother hasn't tried to reach out to you in weeks. You haven't seen or spoken to her. You have nothing that will convince him.
Jack doesn't interrupt. He simply sits down beside you, leaving enough space between you that you don't feel trapped.
You fiddle with your fingers. He waits patiently. Maybe Ethan was right. Maybe Jack isn't like John. "This is gonna sound crazy."
"Okay."
You glance at him. His expression doesn't change, but he reaches over, placing his hand on top of yours.
With another deep breath, you finally say, "I can see ghosts." The words sound ridiculous the second they're out. You stare at your intertwined hands and wait for him to pull away. He doesn't.
When Jack doesn't say anything, you look over at him. He's watching you. His eyes are kind and curious. Not horrified or pitying like you suspected.
"I've always been able to," you continue quietly. "I help them cross over. Go into the light. Like my mom." You swallow. "Do you believe me?"
Jack nods. "I do."
The relief that moves through you is almost painful. You let out a breath you didn't realise you'd been holding. He doesn't ask for proof. Doesn't ask you to demonstrate. Doesn't ask whether you're sure. His thumb brushes over your palm, then he looks at you again.
"Would you be willing to come to the hospital with me?"
The relief stutters in your chest. "Why?"
The warmth in his voice remains, but concern slips into it. "You're thinner than when I met you. You show up with random bruises and scratches."
Your stomach sinks.
"You're tired. You freeze up sometimes, and just now you were talking to the air."
Your other hand curls around the thermocup, holding it tightly. You stare at him, tears welling up.
He squeezes your hand. "I want you to get checked out."
It's like it all processes at once, the air in your chest rushing out of you. "You think I'm crazy."
"No." He shakes his head immediately. "I think you're sick, sweetheart."
The words hit harder than they should. For a second, you're back somewhere else. Not the park. Not Pittsburgh. Years ago. John sitting across from you. A much different expression but that same certainty. You're imagining things. You're crazy. You're just like your mom.
And now Jack—
Jack, who you'd thought was different. Jack, who had listened. Jack, who had made you feel normal. Jack, who has a ghost attached to him and has seen strange things happening around him. Who acts like it isn't unusual—
He doesn't believe you. He thinks you're sick.
You shake your head. "I'm not."
"Honey—"
"I'm not." You stand so quickly your coffee nearly spills.
Jack rises with you.
"I'm not sick."
His brow furrows. "I'm worried about you."
"No." You shake your head. "You're worried because you think there's something wrong with me."
"There could be." His voice is gentle, which somehow makes it all worse.
"I don't understand. You should know better than anyone that I'm not crazy. You've experienced things you can't explain—I know it."
Jack goes still.
Your eyes burn. "I know what I'm seeing."
He takes a small step forward. "I believe that you believe you're seeing—"
You flinch and move backwards. "Don't."
Jack's face changes. He realises too late what the words sound like. "That's not what I meant."
"I'm not sick." A tear slips down your cheek. You wipe it away angrily.
Jack's expression twists. "Magic—"
"Don't call me that." You look at him through teary lashes. "I thought you were different."
His face falls.
For a moment, neither of you speaks, then you turn away. "I need to go."
"Please." His voice is suddenly unsteady.
You shake your head. "I can't do this. Don't come to the store again."
His expression breaks, and his lips form your name, but nothing comes out. You turn around. You don't wait for him to say anything else. You walk away, and for once, you don't look back.
You hole up in your apartment after that day. Steer clear of anything that could lead to a ghost finding you. You don't go to the park anymore. Jack doesn't come to the store. Ethan checks in every day, but you keep your replies short and insist you're fine. He eventually decided to stop asking, but you feel his eyes following you in the store constantly.
Poppy also doesn't show herself again. Part of you is relieved, another part of you worries that you've made things worse. You don't have the energy to figure out which feeling is winning.
You're sprawled across the couch sometime after midnight when the crackling starts. The sound grows louder. Your hands fly to your ears. It doesn't help. The static crawls through your skull, sharp and distorted. Your vision blurs at the edges. You squeeze your eyes shut. The crackling rises. Louder. Louder. Then—
It quiets.
You slowly open your eyes. A woman is standing in front of you. She's watching you carefully. You stare back.
"Can you see me?"
You let your hands fall into your lap. "...Yes."
Her eyes widen as her face lights up. "Finally!"
That's not the usual reaction you get from ghosts.
She grins. "You have no idea how long I've been trying."
You blink as the pieces connect. "You're Jack's ghost, aren't you?"
Her smile wavers a bit. "Yes."
His mother looks younger than you expected, with kind eyes and an expression that's almost painfully patient. Frail. It's the lack of hair that surprises you most—her head is entirely bald.
"Is he okay?" The question comes out before you can stop it, even as your stomach twists.
Her smile returns, softer this time. "All things considered, yes."
You look away. "Good."
"He's worried about you."
You stand immediately, turning toward the kitchen. "I mean no disrespect—I know, he's your son—but I don't really care."
A burst of laughter follows you. You turn around slowly.
The woman is laughing so hard she's doubled over. She wipes beneath one eye. "Oh, no, I'm not his mother."
You frown. "Then who are you?"
She straightens. "I'm his wife." Rachel.
The words move through you strangely, hollow and sharp at the same time. "Oh." You make it three steps. "Wait." You look over your shoulder. "It's been you this entire time?"
Rachel appears next to you in the kitchen. "Yes."
You exhale slowly. "You've been here for a long time, then."
She hears the question behind it. "I can't leave yet." Her expression softens. "Not until he lets his guilt go."
You turn to her fully. "Guilt?"
She sighs. "He blames himself for my death."
You lean against the kitchen counter. "Why?"
"By the time we found the cancer, it was too late. Jack thought he should have seen it as a doctor, but—" She looks down at her hands.
No one could have known. Sometimes life is cruel like that. You know that better than most. Sometimes people die. Sometimes there is nothing you can do. Sometimes the world simply decides that someone isn't getting another day.
You fill the kettle. "So you want me to help him?"
"Yes..." She hesitates.
You narrow your eyes at her. "What else?"
Rachel gives you an innocent smile. "Well... We thought maybe you could help each other."
You stop filling the kettle. "We?"
"Us ghosts."
You stare at her.
"We talk."
"You talk."
"Yes."
"About me?"
"Sometimes."
Your eyes close. "Wonderful."
"I followed Jack into the park one morning and met Lydia and Delia. They told me about you. We thought you might understand each other."
You stare at her, then the realisation hits you. Your mouth falls open. "What?"
She has the decency to look embarrassed. "I—well..."
"I can't believe this. This is insane."
"We didn't mean to hurt you."
"You're his wife! Why are you involved in this?"
"His dead wife!" she counters, voice rising slightly. "He deserves more than this. He deserves to be loved. I want that for him. I want him to be with someone who understands him—and you do. You get it. You know what death does to a person. You understand what it means to carry someone with you even after they're gone. And he'll understand you if you just let him. If you give him another chance—"
Your voice is hoarse as you cut her off. "Please, get out."
Rachel looks panicked. "Please, we didn't mean—"
"Get. Out." You tell her, pointing toward the door. "I won't ask again."
She looks at you for a long moment, then she nods. "I'm sorry."
She disappears without another sound. For several seconds, you don't move, not until the kettle pings. You blink back tears, cursing out Delia and Lydia in your mind.
Maybe they'll be able to hear you. You hope so.
Weeks later, the bookstore has been quiet. Not just quiet in the ordinary sense. Quiet in the supernatural sense. No books flying from shelves. No lights flickering. No crackling static in the middle of the day. No Lydia appearing beside you with unsolicited advice. No Delia whispering things you absolutely didn't ask to hear. After your last conversation with Rachel, you'd made your feelings very clear to everyone involved. Apparently, they'd listened. For once.
Ethan is behind the counter when you emerge from the back room. He looks up, then does a double-take. "You look pretty."
You glance down at yourself. You've traded your usual jeans and cardigan for a dress, slipped into a pair of heels, and touched up your makeup. You put in one earring. "Thanks."
Ethan continues staring. "Got a hot date or something?"
"Yeah."
He straightens, the teasing tone disappearing from his voice. "What?"
You laugh. "Yeah."
"Really?"
"Is it that unbelievable?"
"No," he hurries to say. "I just thought..."
You pause. "What?"
"Nothing."
"No, tell me."
He sighs. "I thought you were in love with Jack."
Your fingers still around the clasp of your earring. For half a second, you don't say anything, then you scoff. "I was never in love with Jack."
Ethan raises an eyebrow.
"We were friends." You grab your purse from the counter. "And now we aren't." You check that you've got your phone, wallet, and keys. "End of story."
There is also some stubborn part of you that wants to prove to Rachel, Lydia and Delia, and every other ghost who'd decided they knew better, wrong. You and Jack don't fit together. Whatever they thought they'd seen between you was wrong.
"Right, sure." His tone is carefully neutral. "So, where are you going?"
"Uh… that restaurant that serves that pasta dish you like—Angelo's!"
"Damn, I'm jealous." He shakes his head. "Where you'd meet this guy?"
"Hinge."
Ethan makes a face as he fiddles with a piece of paper. "I thought you were over dating."
"Boyfriends," you correct.
"There's a difference?"
"Obviously." You check yourself in the reflection of the darkened window. "A boyfriend gets to know everything."
"Everything?"
You shrug. "About me."
Ethan watches you.
You adjust one of your earrings. "A date doesn't. We can just have fun and let it be that."
"If you say so," he replies.
"You're the one always telling me to get laid."
"I didn't mean this."
You give him a warning look.
He raises both hands. "Fine. Have fun. I'm a phone call away if anything happens."
You send him a small smile and sling your purse over your shoulder. "Got it. You have my location. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Yeah, tomorrow."
Your dating attempts all go down the drain. Every single one. Even if it starts promisingly enough.
The first guy is named Daniel. He's handsome in an unassuming sort of way, with dark curls, a charming smile, and the kind of manners that make you able to imagine going home with him. He holds the restaurant door open for you. He compliments your dress without making it sound like he's expecting anything in return. He even listens when you talk.
You make it through appetisers without incident, then the wine glass beside his hand tips over. It spreads over his shirt, soaking into the fabric. You don't suspect that it was anything but clumsiness until the dessert, and his plate shoots sideways, landing straight in the lap of the woman sitting at the next table.
You don't see anyone, but you know exactly who did it.
You haven't forgotten what happened by the second date, but after forty spectacle-free minutes, you've relaxed. It's pleasant. There's no sparks flying, but you don't need that. You don't want that, actually. The pleasantness comes to an end when his salad bowl jerks sideways, launching dressing straight into his eyes. And that was that.
The third, fourth and fifth go exactly the same. One man receives a drink he didn't order and has it thrown directly into his face. Another finds his phone repeatedly dialling the same number despite the fact that he hasn't touched it. One poor bloke gets locked in the restaurant bathroom for twenty minutes while you stand outside listening to him insist that the door "just won't fucking open."
No one shows themselves, but you feel their presence, that tell-tale feeling of ghosts being near. Delia's perfume drifts past your nose one time. Lydia's laugh echoes another time. You even hear Rachel's voice in between other ones that you don't recognise. It seems like your matchmaking ghosts have made all their friends part of their schemes. You can't even blame your dates for leaving. You'd leave too.
And the worst part is that, even before the ghosts got involved, none of them had felt right. Daniel was charming. The second was funny. The third had made you laugh so hard you'd snorted wine through your nose. They were all perfectly nice. Perfectly suitable.
None of them is Jack.
You hate that your mind keeps making the comparison. Jack's dry humour. His crooked smiles. The easy silences between you. The way he's never made you feel like you had to perform or explain yourself. With everyone else, you find yourself waiting for something to click. Some spark. Some feeling that tells you this is worth pursuing. It never comes.
By the time you finally stomp into Cordelia's, you're furious. You slam your purse onto the counter. "Show yourselves." You fold your arms. "I'm not in the mood for this." You glare toward the shelves. "I know you're here."
Slowly, three figures appear across the room. Rachel at least looks apologetic. Lydia doesn't. Delia looks like she's trying very hard not to smile.
You stare at all three of them. "You need to stop."
Lydia opens her mouth. "But dear—"
"No." You hold up a hand. "Nothing else. This stops now."
She looks offended. "We're only trying to—"
"I don't care." Your voice cracks through the room. "You've ruined every date I've been on."
Delia winces as Lydia folds her arms. "They weren't right for you."
"You don't know that!"
"They were boring."
"That doesn't mean you get to throw food at them!"
"We didn't throw food at them," she argues.
You stare at her.
"We threw the plates." Lydia gives you a tiny shrug. "Technicality."
You breathe deeply, eyes flaring. "Are you serious?"
Delia loops Lydia's arm in between hers, holding her back.
"If you do this again, I'm selling this place."
All three look at you. Delia hesitates. "Dear—"
"I mean it."
Rachel takes a hesitant step forward. "We only wanted you to be happy."
"You don't get to choose for me." You look between them. "Are we clear?"
Rachel nods first. Slowly, reluctantly, the other two follow.
"Good." You grab your purse.
You're over dating. Completely. It's not worth it anymore. Unfortunately, that leaves you with a lot of extra time to think. To think about Jack's face when you told him to stay away.
So, you start seeking ghosts out deliberately. Cemeteries. Old houses. Anywhere you hear rumours of someone who hasn't crossed over. It's easier when you're busy. If you're talking to a ghost, you don't have to think about Jack. You don't have to wonder whether he's angry with you. Whether he hates you. Whether he still thinks you're sick. It also means you're spending more time around hospitals than you used to, but you've been careful around PTMC. You tell yourself that's enough distance.
Until the ghost in the park finds you. He's flickering badly, his form disappearing every few seconds before snapping back into place. He begs you to tell his family he's fine—that they don't have to worry about him. You promise you will.
You reason with yourself that there's no reason that you'd meet Jack. It's daytime. Jack works nights. Even if he's here, he's an attending in the E.R. You're not heading there. Ergo, you're not going to see him.
You really should have known better.
The elevator doors open, and as you step in, you find Jack already inside. His expression changes the second he sees you. Surprise first, then something softer, something that looks painfully close to relief.
"Hi."
Your breath catches at the sight of him. He looks tired. More tired than you remember. You manage a small nod. "Hi."
You stand beside him, folding your arms and fixing your eyes on the numbers above the door. He glances at you. You can feel it without looking. He doesn't say anything. Neither do you.
The ghost stands in the corner beside you, watching the two of you with open curiosity. "Is that Jack?"
Your head nearly snaps to the side. How does this random ghost know Jack? Does the entire ghost community gossip about you? You stare straight ahead.
The ride takes thirty seconds. Thirty seconds of Jack standing close enough that you can feel his warmth beside you. Thirty seconds of remembering what it felt like when that same closeness had once been comforting. The doors open. You step out immediately.
Jack's brows rise when he registers the floor. Oncology. His expression changes.
"Wait—"
You keep walking. You don't turn around.
That was just the first awkward meeting. The next time, you're sitting in the waiting room for bloodwork with your phone in your hand, pretending to scroll while a ghost whispers in your ear.
You're tired. You're always tired lately. You haven't slept properly in days, and your body feels like it's made of something heavier than bone. You rub at your temple, trying to ease the dull ache behind your eyes as you listen. A familiar pull makes you look up, and your eyes meet with Jack's.
He's standing across the waiting room. His eyes travel over you. Your face. Your hands. The dark circles beneath your eyes. His expression tightens, concern flashing across his face. As he takes a step toward you, you finally regain control of your limbs. You stand immediately and leave before he can get any closer.
Somehow, he's everywhere you go.
Hallways he has no business being in. Elevator rides that you were certain would be clear. Waiting rooms you thought would be empty. Once, you even catch sight of him through a glass door just as you're leaving.
And every time, his expression gets worse. More worried. More confused. He tries to talk to you more than once, but you don't want to listen.
The more you see him, the harder it becomes to keep your walls up. Every time he looks at you like that, some small part of you wants to stop running. Wants to tell him everything. Wants to let him explain. Wants to believe that maybe you were wrong. Maybe he really would understand if you gave him the chance.
And that's exactly why you start avoiding the hospital again. Because if you keep seeing Jack, eventually you're going to stop running. And you're not sure if you can survive another rejection.
It's another lonely afternoon again. You're sprawled across the couch in an old sweatshirt, a carton of takeout balanced precariously against your stomach. Some terrible rerun plays on the television, the kind you've seen often enough that you don't really have to pay attention. You take another bite. For once, you're not thinking about ghosts. Or Jack. You're just tired.
The lights flicker.
You sigh. The television crackles. You slowly lower your fork as the lights flicker again. A cold gust sweeps through the room, lifting the edge of the blanket pooled around your legs.
The air shifts, and Poppy appears in front of the television. Her eyes are wide. "Help me!"
"Poppy?" You stand, moving toward her. You haven't seen her in weeks. Her hair is tangled around her face, her little body flickering so badly that pieces of her seem to disappear before snapping back into place.
She takes a step toward you. "Please."
"What's going on?"
"They're gonna get me." Her voice breaks.
"Who's going to get you?"
Poppy looks toward the front door, seeing something you can't. Pure terror crosses her face. "Hurry. They're so angry."
"Poppy, wait."
For a second, she's gone. Then she appears beside the front door.
"Who is going to get you?"
She doesn't answer. She just looks back at you. "Please." She disappears through the door.
You stare after her. "Goddammit." You grab your jacket from the back of the chair, shove your feet into the nearest pair of shoes, and snatch your keys from the counter. You barely remember to lock the door behind you.
You hurry down the steps, shivering slightly in the cold autumn weather. Your jacket is too thin, but you don't care; you just need to find her.
You don't know what has changed, but it's enough that she was terrified enough to return to you.
Jack can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
It starts small. A nagging sensation in his gut that he can't quite explain. He's spent weeks trying to convince himself that you're fine. Ethan said you were fine. You told him you were fine. He should leave it alone. Instead, by the time he's getting ready for work, the feeling has grown too large to ignore. So he calls Robby and asks him to cover his shift.
He doesn't even know what he's going to do when he gets to the bookstore. He just knows he needs to see you. There's something restless in the back of his mind. Not a thought exactly. More like a pressure, an insistence he can't quite place. It eases as he nears the store.
When he pulls up outside, Ethan is locking the door with frantic, fumbling motions, panic written across his face.
"Hey," Jack calls as he steps out of the car.
"I don't have time to talk right now." Ethan hurries past him to his car.
"What's going on?"
"Nothing I can explain right now."
"Ethan."
Ethan keeps moving. "I'm serious. I don't have time for this right now."
"Why? What's going on?"
Ethan slams the car door, but Jack opens the passenger door before he can pull away. "Ethan."
Ethan sighs, clearly conflicted. "Just—get in or close the door."
Jack hesitates.
Ethan turns toward him, anger flashing on his face. "Get in the car or stay here. I don't care. I need to go."
A gust of wind rushes past Jack, and he stumbles into the car, more pushed than moving under his own power. For a second, he could swear someone shoved him.
Ethan hits the accelerator so hard that Jack is thrown back against the seat. "Jesus, Ethan."
"Put your seatbelt on."
Jack buckles himself in. "You could've mentioned that before you launched me."
Ethan doesn't respond.
"What happened?"
Ethan glances at him out of the corner of his eye before returning to the road. "I don't know."
"Ethan."
His hands tighten on the wheel. "I'm not sure you want to know."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
Ethan swallows. "I got a message from Lydia and Delia."
Jack frowns. "Lydia and Delia?" He's heard the name before in the store when you and Ethan have been whispering back and forth, but he's never put a face to them.
"The ghosts in the store."
Jack stares at him.
Ethan keeps his eyes on the road. "They said she's gone somewhere she shouldn't be. They're scared."
"How did they tell you?" Jack forces himself not to dismiss Ethan outright, even as his mind starts searching for a rational explanation.
"They wrote me a message." Ethan sighs. "I told you she wasn't sick."
Jack breathes out. "Ethan."
"No." Ethan cuts him off. "I told you. She told you. I thought you were different." His jaw tightens. "I was wrong, apparently."
Jack's brow furrows.
"She's not sick. I need you to trust me—or her, or whatever you have to trust—when I tell you she was telling the truth."
"I—" Jack starts carefully.
"No." Ethan's grip tightens on the wheel. "I need you to have an open mind, or you need to get out of this car. She's in trouble, and I can't help her if I have to worry about you."
"...Okay." Jack is silent for a moment. His worry for you wins. "Where are we going?"
"Somewhere bad."
The sun has set by the time Ethan and Jack pull up to the house. The place looks abandoned from the outside. No lights. No cars. Nothing to suggest anyone is inside. Then a light flickers behind one of the windows.
Ethan's hand is already reaching for the door.
Jack gets out after him. "Ethan, wait—"
But Ethan is already heading for the front door. Jack follows, every instinct he'd learned in the army and SWAT kicking in as he crosses the threshold. He scans the room automatically, checking corners, doorways, anything that could be a threat. Then he sees you, and everything else disappears.
You're standing in the middle of the room with candles surrounding you. Dozens of them. They're arranged in a perfect circle, their flames flickering wildly despite the fact that there isn't a breeze. Your head hangs forward. Your arms are loose at your sides. You don't move.
He breathes your name out quietly.
Ethan takes a step toward you, calling out for you in a louder voice. You don't react.
Jack's pulse hammers against his throat. "What's wrong with her?"
Ethan doesn't answer. He looks just as horrified. Then the air changes, a sudden rush of cold tears through the room. Every candle flame bends toward you. Your body jerks harshly.
Jack takes a step forward, calling out for you again.
Another shudder runs through you. Your head snaps back. Your feet leave the floor. Jack freezes. For one impossible second, he simply stares.
You're floating.
Not stumbling. Not being lifted by anything he can see. Just—floating. Your hair shifts around your face as though you're underwater. Your eyes open, two black pools staring back at him.
Jack's heart stops. "What the fuck—"
Ethan lunges forward. Jack follows before he can think. He steps straight through the circle. The instant his foot crosses the line, something slams into him. He staggers. It feels like walking into a wall. "What—"
He pushes forward anyway. The pressure bears down against his chest, trying to force him backwards. He grits his teeth, taking another step. His entire body strains against whatever is holding him there. Finally, he reaches you. His hands close around your waist. You're cold. Far too cold. "I got you."
He pulls. For a moment, nothing happens, then the resistance changes. The pressure eases. Jack feels something tugging at you from the opposite direction, but it's no longer trying to keep you there. It's almost as though something else is helping him. "Come on."
He pulls again, and your body suddenly tears free. Jack stumbles backwards, dragging you with him. The candles go out. All at once. He doesn't stop to wonder; he keeps moving and gets you through the doorway and onto the grass.
He drops to his knees, keeping one hand beneath your head so it doesn't hit the ground. He calls your name, fingers pressing against your pulse point. It's weak.
"Call 911," he orders Ethan, without looking away from you. Ethan is already reaching for his phone, but Jack barely hears him. His entire world has narrowed down to you.
"Come on." Jack brushes your hair away from your face, his hands shaking. He checks your eyes for any reaction, but there's still nothing behind your eyelids but that unnatural darkness. He's never seen anything like it before.
"Don't do this. Come back." He bows his head over you. He thinks about the last time he'd seen you. The way you'd looked at him. The hurt in your eyes. He'd been so sure. So fucking sure. His eyes burn.
"I'm sorry." His voice cracks. "I should've believed you. I should've believed you." A tear drops onto your cheek, followed closely by another. "I knew something was wrong. I knew it." His hand cups the side of your face. "And I still—" He can't finish, his chest heaving. "I'm sorry." He repeats it again, and again. Until the words barely sound like words anymore.
Ethan kneels beside him. "Come on," he murmurs, taking your hand. "Stay with us."
Neither man notices the figures gathering around them. A woman with kind and patient eyes. Two ghosts who have spent years watching over you. A little girl who had been frightened into trusting the wrong people. Ghosts from the hospital. Ghosts you have helped, even if they didn't want to cross over.
They gather in silence. One by one, their hands link, until they form a circle around you. Together, they turn toward you. The darkness inside you pulsates, but the ghosts hold their ground. The air grows colder as the darkness recoils. It fights. The candles inside the house flare back to life one by one.
You arch violently in Jack's arms, and your mouth opens. A strangled gasp tears from your throat as black smoke pours from your mouth. Thick and unnatural, it twists through the air before disappearing into the darkness of the house.
Your body goes limp again.
Jack catches you against his chest. For one terrifying second, there is nothing. You're completely still. Then your chest rises with a shaky, shallow breath.
Jack presses his forehead against yours. "That's it. Come on, baby." His voice is barely audible.
Your eyelids flutter, opening slowly. They're normal again. Your gaze struggles to focus, then finds him. "Jack?"
He nods. "Yeah. I'm here."
Your mouth parts again, but before you can say anything else, your eyes roll back, and your body slackens again.
Jack immediately checks your pulse. He pulls you carefully against his chest when he's certain it's there. "I've got you." He holds you tighter. "I've got you," he whispers again.
Ethan can't remember much of the past day.
The ambulance ride is a blur of flashing lights and clipped voices. The E.R. is worse. People moving around him, asking questions he can't seem to process. Someone taking you away from him. Jack refusing to move until someone physically makes him. Then the ICU. Monitors. Machines. A bed that makes you look impossibly small. It all blends together into one long stretch of panic and fear.
There had been a moment in the ambulance when Ethan was certain they were too late. You'd been so still. So pale. He'd watched the paramedic work on you and thought, you're going to die.
He'd thought he'd failed you. That he'd found you too late. That the last thing you'd ever hear would be him telling you to hold on. He'd never been that scared in his life.
Now he's sitting in the ICU waiting room with a cup of coffee he hasn't touched, staring at the wall. You're still unconscious, but you're alive. That's all that matters. Ethan looks toward your room. Jack is there. Of course he is. The man hasn't left your side once. Not when the doctors explained what they knew. Not when they explained what they didn't know. Not when Ethan finally went downstairs to get something to eat and came back to find Jack sitting exactly where he'd been before.
He's barely spoken. Ethan can see how he's trying to wrap his mind around it—trying to find a medical explanation for what happened. Ethan knows there isn't one. He doesn't know what happened inside that house. He doesn't know what took hold of you. He doesn't know what drove it out of you, but he knows you were dying. And he knows Jack brought you back. Or at least helped.
Ethan and Jack haven't talked about the ghosts. Not really. There hasn't been time. But Ethan isn't angry with him anymore. He'd seen Jack's face when he found you. He'd watched him walk straight into something impossible without hesitation because you were on the other side.
Whatever Jack had believed before, Ethan knows he believes you now. That's enough for him.
Ethan stands and looks into the room. Jack is sitting beside your bed, one hand resting over yours. His head is bowed. He looks exhausted, dried tear tracks still visible on his face.
Ethan knows that look. Maybe Jack doesn't. But Ethan does. Because he's watched the two of you for months. The way Jack always showed up at the bookstore. The way his face changed whenever you walked into a room. The way he'd ask Ethan how you were doing and pretend he was only making conversation. The way he'd worry. The way he'd look at you when he thought no one was watching.
Ethan glances through the glass again, watching as Jack lifts your hand to his mouth and presses a kiss against your knuckles.
The room is quiet when you wake. Not silent; there are always noises in a hospital—the steady beep of the monitor beside you, the faint hiss of oxygen, footsteps passing somewhere beyond the door—but quiet enough that you can hear Jack breathing.
He's asleep in the chair beside your bed, his hand wrapped around yours, even in sleep. You stare at him for a moment, taking in the exhaustion etched across his face. He looks terrible. His hair is a mess, his shirt is wrinkled, and there's a faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
You squeeze his fingers weakly. He doesn't wake.
Your eyes drift shut again. The lights flicker, sending different shapes across the back of your eyelids. When you open your eyes, Poppy stands at the foot of your bed.
She's crying. Not the frightened, angry crying you've grown accustomed to, but a silent, guilty outpour. Her shoulders shake as tears stream down her face. "I'm sorry."
Your heart aches. "Poppy."
She takes a hesitant step toward you. "I'm really sorry," she repeats. "I didn't mean to."
"I know."
"They said if I brought you there, they'd help me find my mom."
You swallow. "They were lying to you."
She nods, tears dripping from her chin. "I'm sorry"
"It's okay."
"Are you mad?"
You shake your head. "No."
"But I hurt you."
"You didn't mean to, sweetie." You reach a hand toward her, even though you know you can't actually touch her. "You were scared. They used that."
"I'm really sorry."
"I know."
Her crying finally quiets, and you give her a tired smile.
She takes another step closer. "I found my mommy."
Your breath catches. "You did?"
Poppy nods. "The others helped me." A smile slowly appears through her tears. "She's waiting right there." Poppy points toward the corner. "Can you see her?"
You smile back, only able to see the light warming Poppy's face. "I can't."
"Oh. Maybe you will later?" Poppy looks toward the corner of the room, then back at you. "Can I go now?"
You nod, blinking back tears.
She smiles. And for the first time since you've known her, she doesn't look frightened. She turns toward the light and steps through.
You breathe deeply, fingers tightening around Jack's. You take a moment before turning your head toward him. "You can stop pretending to be asleep now."
Jack's eyes open slowly.
"Hi," you murmur.
"Hi."
"I'm guessing you heard that?"
He nods.
You bite your lip. "Still think I'm sick?"
His face falls slightly. "I'm sorry. I should've—"
"It's okay," you interrupt. "I know it's a lot."
"It isn't," he hurries to say. "I just... I saw you getting thinner. I saw the bruises. You were exhausted all the time, and then I found you talking to someone who wasn't there."
He swallows hard. "And all I could think about was Rachel. I watched her get sick, watched her get weaker and weaker, and kept thinking I should have noticed sooner. I'm a doctor. I should have known something was wrong. So when I saw you doing the same things…" He blinks wetly. "I thought I was watching it happen again. I thought I was losing you."
"I was scared," he says. "But that's not an excuse. I hurt you. I made you feel like I was just another person who thought you were crazy." His voice breaks slightly. "I'm sorry."
You have faint memories of what happened that night. Jack coming to get you. His voice breaking as he apologised. Tears on his face. But memories aren't enough. You need to hear it from him. "Do you believe me now?"
"Yes." There's no hesitation in his voice. "Completely."
You study his face for a long moment, searching for the doubt you'd spent your whole life learning to recognise. You don't find it.
Jack shifts closer, careful not to disturb any of the wires attached to you. "I don't expect you to forgive me yet." His fingers tighten around yours. "I just want the chance to earn your trust back."
You stare at him for a long moment. "I missed you." The confession slips out before you can stop it.
Jack's face softens. "I missed you, too."
You look down at your joined hands. You aren't ready to say everything is okay. Maybe you won't be for a while. But you don't pull your hand away.
Three days later, after you've been discharged, Jack joins you in the store. You sit on the edge of the armchair opposite him, your hands wrapped tightly around a mug you haven't touched.
For several minutes, neither of you speaks.
You'd thought about this conversation constantly since waking up. You'd imagined telling him everything in a dozen different ways. Some versions were angry, some were tearful, some were calm enough to make you wonder if they were even real. None of them prepared you for actually sitting across from him.
"I don't know where to start."
He shifts in his seat. "You don't have to start anywhere in particular."
You look at him. He's not rushing you, not filling the silence, just waiting. There's a familiar shift in the air as space refits itself around two new forms. Lydia and Delia stand near the shelves, their expressions softer than you've ever seen before. There's an apology in their faces. No excuses, no teasing, no insistence that they know what's best for you.
Just sorry.
You let out a slow breath, then you nod. Delia's eyes fill with tears; Lydia gives you the smallest smile. You watch them disappear again, then turn back to Jack. Somehow, it feels a little easier to speak after that.
So you tell him everything. About your mother and the visions. About your father deciding that what she called a gift was an illness. About the hospital, and how young you were when you learned that some truths were safer kept to yourself. You tell him about the ghosts you've helped, about Lydia and Delia, about Ethan. And eventually, you tell him about John.
That part is harder.
Your voice gets quieter as you explain how you'd trusted him enough to tell him the truth and how he'd used it against you. How he'd looked at you like you were broken. How, for a while afterwards, you started wondering if he was right.
Jack doesn't interrupt. Not once.
When you finally run out of words, the store is so quiet you can hear the faint hum of the coffee machine behind you. "That's everything," you whisper.
Jack looks at you for a long moment. "Thank you for telling me."
Your throat tightens. "I was scared you wouldn't believe me."
"I know."
You swallow. "I don't want to hide it anymore."
His expression softens. "You shouldn't have had to in the first place."
Your eyes burn, and you look away before he can see.
Lastly, you tell him about Rachel. His face settles into a quiet understanding as every strange thing that has happened to him finally falls into place.
The air beside the window changes. You know the feeling before you even turn. Rachel is standing there. She smiles at you.
You glance at Jack. "She's here."
His expression changes immediately. "Rachel?"
You nod.
He sits straighter. "Can she—"
"She can hear you."
Rachel moves closer. For a moment, she simply looks at him. There's so much love in her expression.
"What does she say?"
You look at her, then back at Jack. "She says you've spent enough time blaming yourself."
His jaw tightens.
You translate as Rachel speaks. "She says none of it was your fault."
Jack looks down. "Tell her..." He stops. "I should have known."
Rachel shakes her head.
"You couldn't have known. You did everything you could."
A tear rolls down Jack's cheek.
Rachel steps closer. "You loved her." You repeat the words softly. "And that was enough."
Jack closes his eyes. His shoulders shake quietly.
You keep your voice gentle. "She doesn't want you to spend the rest of your life punishing yourself for surviving her."
You look at Rachel. She smiles sadly at him before looking at you.
"You're good for him," she says.
You sigh.
"I'm not telling you what to do. I'm telling you what I see. And life's too short for this. Be brave."
You bite your lip. "Rachel."
"Let yourself have something good."
Jack looks at you, his eyes wide. "What'd she say?"
You keep this to yourself, breathing out before repeating her next words.
"To tell you that she knows and that it's okay." You don't know exactly what Rachel means, but whatever she said reaches something in him that nothing else has. "She wants you to keep living."
His face crumbles. "Rachel."
She moves closer to him, sitting on the corner of the armchair. "It's okay, Jack." Her hand brushes against his cheek gently.
Jack's eyes close, his head tilting toward a touch he can't really feel. A long breath leaves him, and for the first time, something in his face seems to loosen. Years of grief don't disappear in an instant, but the fight against it does. "Okay."
Rachel's smile widens, then the light begins to gather around her.
Jack sees the change in your expression. "She's leaving?"
You nod. "She's ready."
He looks toward her. "I'll be okay."
You squeeze his hand. "She knows."
The light grows brighter. Rachel takes one final look at Jack, then at you. She mouths two words, thank you, and disappears.
Jack stares at the empty space for a long moment, then he turns toward you. He looks down at your joined hands. For years, he's carried the weight of losing Rachel like a punishment. Now, for the first time, he lets himself put it down.
He lifts your hand to his lips and presses a kiss against your knuckles. "Thank you."
You squeeze his hand.
After that, things are slow.
Jack starts coming back to Cordelia's. At first, he asks if you're sure he can stay. You tell him he can. Then he starts bringing coffee, and you start saving him the chair he likes. Some mornings you talk. Some mornings you don't.
You don't call it anything. You don't need to. Little by little, the distance between you disappears.
Weeks later, the bookstore is thriving. Not just surviving but thriving. The shelves are stocked, the front window is decorated for Halloween, and there's a steady stream of customers throughout the day. The little bell above the door seems to ring constantly now.
Ethan is unbearably smug about it. Not just because of the bookstore and his coffee corner idea, but mostly because Jack is once again the store's most frequent customer.
"Morning," Ethan calls from behind the counter as he spots him.
You look up from the books you're sorting through. Jack stands in the doorway, two coffees in one hand and a paper bag in the other. By now, the sight barely surprises you.
"Morning." His eyes find you immediately.
You smile. "You know, I'm gonna get spoiled enough to expect this every morning."
Jack grins. "Wouldn't hurt anyone."
Ethan makes a noise of disgust. You ignore it and grab your coat. From somewhere behind you, Lydia makes an exaggeratedly pleased noise. You shush her.
Jack pauses, then glances toward the empty space beside the shelves. "Someone disapprove?"
Delia appears between the shelves, giving you an enormously delighted smile.
You roll your eyes. "The opposite, actually."
Jack lets out a pleased hum, grinning as he opens the door for you. The morning air is cool, carrying the smell of rain from somewhere nearby. You walk beside him toward the park and finally reach the bench. Jack sits first, stretching his leg out slightly as he settles. You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his. He hands you the bag, and you break the croissant in half and hand him a piece. Silence falls as you watch the people passing through the park. Your shoulder brushes Jack's lightly as you eat.
His hand rests on the bench between you, right next to yours. Your fingers touch. You glance down. Jack does, too. His pinky hooks around yours gently. A second later, his hand shifts, palm turning upward, and you slide yours into it. Neither of you comments on it.
You lean your head against his shoulder after a moment. His cheek rests lightly against your hair. For once, nothing is demanding your attention. No ghost asking for help. No mystery to solve. No fear. Just Jack. His thumb moves slowly over the back of your hand.
You turn your head when his cheek lifts. He's already looking at you. "What?"
He shakes his head. "Nothing." His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back to your eyes. He hesitates. "Can I kiss you?"
You smile. "You don't have to ask."
Jack huffs, his expression softening. He leans in slowly, giving you every opportunity to change your mind.
You don't.
His lips meet yours in a gentle kiss. His hand lifts to your cheek as your eyes close. When you pull back, neither of you goes very far. He kisses the corner of your mouth, then your cheek. Then, after a moment, your lips again.
For once, you don't wonder whether this is a mistake. You don't wonder what the ghosts think. You don't wonder what comes next.
idk if this is an usamerican thing or not but it always blows my mind as a small european country resident that yall have many names and types of apples???? what do you mean its not just red yellow or green??? why is it so complicated??? who is granny smith????
if you are in Oregon, on Mt Hood's Fruit Loop, Kiyokawa Orchard (purchased by a couple who met in a Japanese internment camp during WWII) has an apple tasting event on Oct 17th & 18th where you can sample 80+ apple varieties!
last year my local safeway stocked Lemonade apples which hail from Aotearoa (i believe) and genuinely taste like someone dipped an apple in lemonade. they’re so good i can’t wait for them to come back
cotton and Silk thread; https://redrockthreads.com/
Linen thread and wool fabric; https://burnleyandtrowbridge.com/ (they’ve got wool stuffs and worsted wool fabric for $15 a yard! I just got three yards of navy worsted wool I’m making a constellation winter skirt from)
More linen thread and wool; https://wmboothdraper.com/ (just ordered wool broadcloth to make a coat)
Silk fabric (THE best place to get silk lining fabrics and raw silk fabric):https://www.dharmatrading.com/
A varying assortment of wool and silk and cotton and even some leather, use coupon code spring2020 for 50% off your full order, worked yesterday when I bought some stuff there; https://metrotextilesnyc.com/
Wool. You want wool coating for under $20 a yard? Sure you do. It’s here. Not a huge variety of colors, most are black or brown, but hey https://www.fashionfabricsclub.com/Catalog?refinementIds=4096748&Keyword=wool&pageSize=16
I don’t know a lot about sewing, but I want to make or have my mom make some linen pants & shirts for when I’m watering, because it gets to 105 here and we have mosquitos so I need to be covered. What type of linen do I buy? Also, linen pajama shorts, yes/no?
(I’ve been wearing my renfaire pants which are a linen mix, I think. But the frikking mosquitos that hide in the tomatoes get my arms)
For wools, I cannot recommend Woolsome enough! They’re a bit more expensive then the above links, but they have a spectacular range of colours and weights, as well as diamond pattern and herringbone weaves. They also have a range of linens, though not as extensive.
Plot - Azriel punishes you for leaving the House of Wind unescorted. The night involves intense BDSM sex (spanking, shadow bondage, rough penetrative sex, orgasm control, oral, and anal), followed by aftercare and mutual claiming.
They always did. Soft, cool tendrils of darkness slipping beneath the door of my chambers in the House of Wind long before Azriel himself walked in. I felt them coil around my ankles, slide up my calves, press against the soft insides of my thighs like a lover’s mouth. A warning. A promise.
I was already on my knees when he entered.
He didn’t speak. He never did, not at first. The door shut with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than any slam. His shadows thickened, swallowing the candlelight until the room existed only in shades of grey and the faint blue glow of the siphon on his hand. I kept my eyes down, as he’d taught me. Spine straight. Knees spread. Hands resting palm-up on my thighs. Naked. Waiting.
The silence stretched until my pulse thundered in my ears.
Then his boots stopped in front of me.
“Look at me.”
I lifted my gaze.
Azriel stood over me like a carved shadow given life—tall, broad, the hard planes of his body barely contained by the black leathers he hadn’t bothered to remove. His wings were half-furled, the membrane catching what little light remained. Those hazel eyes were dark, almost black, the usual careful control stripped away until only hunger remained. Hunger and something colder. Something that made my stomach drop and my cunt clench in the same breath.
He crouched. One gloved hand—still wearing the leather, still carrying the faint scent of steel and night—tilted my chin up further. His thumb brushed my lower lip.
“You disobeyed.”
My breath caught. “I—”
“You left the House without an escort. Again.” His voice was soft. Deadly soft. “After I told you what would happen if you did.”
Heat flooded my face. Fear and arousal twisted together so tightly I couldn’t tell them apart. “I only went to the market. I was careful—”
“Careful.” He almost smiled. Almost. The shadows around us tightened, brushing my nipples, sliding between my legs to stroke once—just once—over my already slick folds. I jerked. “You think careful is enough when there are people who would use you to hurt me? When there are things in this world that would peel the skin from your bones just to hear you scream my name?”
I swallowed. “I’m sorry.”
“Not yet.” He stood. “On the bed. Face down. Ass up. Hands behind your back.”
I scrambled to obey. The mattress dipped under my weight as I positioned myself the way he’d trained me—chest pressed to the sheets, knees spread wide, spine arched so my cunt and ass were presented for him. My wrists crossed at the small of my back. I felt exposed. Filthy. Wet already, the cool air of the room kissing the slickness between my thighs.
Azriel moved behind me. I heard the soft rasp of leather, the quiet clink of metal. Then the first shadow-rope wound around my wrists, cool and living, binding them tight enough that I couldn’t pull free no matter how hard I strained. Another slid around my ankles, forcing my knees wider. A third—thicker—looped around my throat, not tight enough to choke, but present. A reminder.
His hand came down on my ass hard enough to make me cry out.
The sting bloomed hot and sharp. Before I could catch my breath he struck again, the other cheek, then the first, then the sensitive place where thigh met ass. He didn’t count. He didn’t speak. He just worked me over with methodical, brutal precision until my skin burned and tears pricked my eyes and my cunt was dripping down my thighs.
“Please,” I whispered.
He paused. One leather-clad finger traced the welted flesh, then slid lower, through the mess I’d made of myself. He pushed two fingers into me without warning. I moaned, hips jerking back onto him.
“Greedy little thing.” His voice had dropped into something darker. “You leave the House like a reckless child and then present yourself like a bitch in heat the moment I touch you.” He fucked those fingers into me hard, curling them against the spot that made my vision spark. “Is that what you are? My reckless, needy little whore?”
“Yes,” I gasped. “Yours. Please—”
He pulled his fingers free. I whimpered at the loss, i clenched around nothing. Then I felt the blunt head of his cock—hot, thick, already slick with oil or his own precum—press against my entrance.
He didn’t ease in.
He slammed home in one brutal thrust that punched the air from my lungs.
I screamed into the sheets. He was so big, so deep, stretching me until the burn edged into pain and then melted into something darker, sweeter. Sheer ecstacy. His hands gripped my hips hard enough to bruise as he set a punishing pace, fucking me like he was trying to carve his name into my body. Every thrust forced me forward into the mattress; every withdrawal left me clenching around nothing, desperate, aching for more.
The shadow around my throat tightened just enough to make breathing an effort. Another shadow slipped between my legs, finding my clit, circling it in tight, relentless strokes that matched the brutal rhythm of his cock.
“You don’t come,” he growled. “Not until I say. You left me. You made me hunt for you in that market like some common guard. You will take what I give you and you will thank me for it.”
I sobbed. The dual assault was too much—his cock battering my cunt, the shadow tormenting my clit, the constant pressure at my throat. Pleasure coiled low and vicious in my belly. I tried to hold it back. I failed.
The orgasm ripped through me without permission, violent and shaking. My cunt clamped down on him so hard he cursed, low and filthy. He faltered for just a moment but he didn’t stop. He fucked me through it, through the aftershocks, through the overstimulation that made me thrash and beg.
“I said not until I allow it.” His hand cracked across my ass again. “You come when I tell you. Not before.”
He pulled out. I made a broken sound at the emptiness. Then his hands were on me, flipping me onto my back easily, as if I weighed nothing. The shadow-ropes adjusted, pinning my wrists above my head, forcing my legs wide and open. He loomed over me, still fully dressed except for the open leathers, cock glistening with my release. His shadows writhed around us like living things.
Azriel’s eyes were pure black now.
He leaned down and bit the soft underside of my breast hard enough to leave a mark. I arched. He soothed the sting with his tongue, then moved to the other side and did the same. His mouth trailed lower, over my ribs, my stomach, until he was between my thighs. He didn’t tease. He licked a long, filthy stripe up my cunt, tasting the mess he’d made of me, then sealed his mouth over my clit and sucked.
I nearly came again from that alone.
He edged me ruthlessly. Every time the pleasure built too high he pulled back, leaving me shaking and empty. When I started to cry in earnest—frustrated, aching, desperate—he finally rose over me again.
“Beg.”
“Please,” I whispered. “Please fuck me. Please let me come. I’ll be good. I’ll never leave without telling you. I need you. Please, Az—”
Something in his expression fractured.
He thrust back into me in one smooth, deep stroke and stayed there, buried to the hilt, hips pressed flush against mine. His forehead dropped to mine. For a moment the darkness receded just enough that I saw the man beneath the Dom—the one who carried too many scars, too many shadows, the one who was terrified of losing the only soft thing he’d allowed himself.
“You are mine,” he said against my mouth. “Do you understand? Mine to protect. Mine to punish. Mine to fuck until you forget every name but mine.”
“Yours. Always.” I breathed.
He kissed me then—hard, claiming, all teeth and tongue and the metallic taste of his own control slipping. And then he started to move again.
This time it was different. Still rough. Still deep. But there was something almost reverent in the way he rolled his hips, grinding against my clit on every downstroke. The shadows loosened around my wrists enough that I could touch him—my hands sliding under the leather of his jacket, over the hard muscle of his back, then the warm membrane of his wings. He shuddered when I stroked the sensitive joint where wing met shoulder.
“Harder,” I whispered. “Please. Don’t be careful with me.”
A dark, broken laugh. “Careful was never an option with you.”
He hooked my legs over his shoulders and folded me nearly in half, driving into me at an angle that made stars burst behind my eyes. The new position left me completely open, completely at his mercy. He fucked me like that until I was babbling nonsense, until the only word left in my mouth was his name.
“Come,” he ordered, voice ragged. “Come on my cock. Now.”
I shattered.
The orgasm was catastrophic—white-hot and endless, my cunt milking him in helpless pulses. He followed a moment later with a deep, guttural groan, burying himself as deep as he could go and flooding me with heat. I felt every pulse, every spurt, the way his cock jerked inside me as he came, it felt like heaven.
For a long time neither of us moved.
Azriel’s weight pressed me into the mattress grounding me, his wings draped over us like a living canopy. His shadows slowly retreated, releasing my limbs, stroking over my skin in soothing and almost apologetic caresses. I felt the wet slide of his spend leaking out of me around his softening cock. The marks he’d left—bruises on my hips, bite marks on my breasts, the burning welts on my ass—throbbed in time with my heartbeat.
He eventually pulled out and rolled to the side, gathering me against his chest. One wing curled around me, warm and protective. His hand stroked down my spine, gentler now.
“You scared me love,” he admitted quietly into my hair. “When I couldn’t find you. When I thought—”
I pressed a kiss to the scarred skin over his heart. “I know. I’m sorry. Truly.”
He was silent for a long moment. Then: “Next time you leave the House, you take two shadows with you. At least. And you tell me where you’re going.”
“Yes, sir.”
His fingers tangled in my hair, tipping my face up so he could look at me. The darkness in his eyes had softened into something almost tender. Almost.
“And if you ever disobey me like that again,” he said, voice low and velvet-dark, “I will tie you to this bed for a week and use every hole you have until you forget how to walk. Do you understand me?”
A fresh pulse of heat went through me at the promise. “Yes, Az.”
He kissed me again—slower this time, deeper. When he pulled back there was a wicked glint in his gaze.
“Good girl.” His hand slid between my legs, two fingers pushing his own come back into me, plugging me up, I gasped. “Now rest. Because I’m not finished with you tonight. Not even close.”
I shivered, already aching for more.
The shadows curled around us both, possessive and content, as Azriel settled in to keep his word.
───
He woke me twice more before dawn.
The second time he fucked my mouth until tears streamed down my face and spit ran down my chin, holding my head still with both hands while he used my throat. He made me look at him the entire time. When he finally came he held himself deep, forcing me to swallow every drop, then pulled out and painted my tongue and lips with the last of it so he could watch me lick it clean.
The third time he took my ass.
He’d prepared me carefully—oil, fingers, the slow stretch of a shadow-cock that pulsed and thickened inside me until I was writhing and begging. When he finally replaced it with his own cock the burn was exquisite. He went slow at first, letting me adjust to the fullness, murmuring filthy praise against the back of my neck.
“So tight. Taking me so well. Look at you—stuffed full of my cock, dripping from earlier, marked all over. Perfect little toy.”
Then he stopped being careful.
He fucked my ass the way he’d fucked my cunt earlier—hard, deep, relentless. One hand reached around to work my clit; the other stayed fisted in my hair, forcing my back into a deep arch. The dual stimulation was overwhelming. I came twice before he finally buried himself to the root and filled me a second time, the heat of his release making me sob with overstimulated pleasure.
Afterward he cleaned me himself—warm cloth, gentle hands, soft kisses pressed to every mark he’d left. He carried me to the bathing pool and held me while the water soothed the ache between my legs. His shadows kept watch at the door. His wings never left their protective drape around us.
When we finally returned to bed he pulled me on top of him, chest to chest, and slid back into my cunt with a slow, deep thrust that made us both sigh. He didn’t move. Just stayed buried inside me, holding me close, one hand stroking absently over the bruises on my hips.
“Sleep,” he murmured against my temple. “I’ve got you.”
I drifted off to the sound of his heartbeat and the soft whisper of shadows, thoroughly claimed, thoroughly used, and more content than I’d ever been.
In the morning he would be the Spymaster again—cold, distant, lethal. But for now, in the dark, he was simply mine.
This post was supposed to be a long story but I got impatient and posted it. Now we have the full story. Hope y’all like it as much as I do. <3
Orc professor
Orc x chubby fem!reader || power dynamics, dom/sub undertones, exhibitionism, voyeurism, cum play, breeding, size kink, age gap, degradation, praise kink
It was your third failed mini-test when you thought enough was enough. Your hot orc professor was too attractive for your sanity. He was so hot with his cardigans and whatever he wore that you were always distracted, unable to take notes. It was his fault, and you needed to remedy that before you failed the whole class. You just needed to talk to him and see what could you do to pass. You’ll do some extra homework, maybe write a few more papers. Anything. A naughty part of you wanted to offer him sex favors, but you knew he wasn’t that kind of orc. Maybe.
You knocked on his office door and heard the muffled “come in”. You opened the door and your breath was taken away because how fucking attractive he was. The black framed glasses and salt and pepper hair just accentuating his green skin. Your panties got wet instantly. Fuck. Why had he to be so fucking hot? It would be a lot easier if he was just an old wrinkly dude.
“What do you need from me?” He looked up from the papers he was grading and that look combined with that phrase made your pussy tingle. Fuck, you were so turned on by everything he did.
He could be talking about the condensation of the trees in the desert and you’ll be panting in the back of the class, panties wet. And right now, you were worried your arousal was going to form a wet patch in your pants. This needed to be fast before you embarrassed yourself.
“I- I want to know if I can do some extra activities to improve my performance in your class.” You told him as fast as you could, sitting down in front of him and trying really hard not to rub your thighs together.
The frantic pulse of your heart was mirrored on your clit, and it was driving you completely crazy. Being so close to him was like an aphrodisiac in itself.
“What kind of activities do you suggest?” He seemed uninterested. Some part inside of you got mad at him, you were clearly trying to improve and he looked like an asshole who didn’t care if his students passed or not. And for some reason that only made him hotter. You needed to get laid soon before you humped his leg or something.
“I- I don’t know. I just need to pass your class. Please, I’ll do anything,” you begged. You were sure it was too much, but he looked at you, a spark of interest in his dark pupils.
You realized how bad it sounded when you thought about it. You tried to take it back, say you didn’t mean it like that, but then he surprised you asking back: “Anything?” His smirk was enough to send lighting down your pussy, your panties soaking through your clothes. Good Goddess, how was he so fucking hot?
Contrary to your better judgment, and probably thinking just with your southern parts, you matched his teasing tone as you answered: “Yes, yes. Anything.” You leaned closer to his table, showing more tits than you knew you should. But fuck it. If you couldn’t pass this class, at least you could fuck the hottest professor on campus.
He leaned back on his chair, his eyes flickering to your almost exposed breasts. He hummed and finally said: “Okay, little human, we’ll make a deal.” You nodded eagerly, so ready to do whatever he asked.
If he asked you to get naked and suck his cock right there, you would fall to your knees so fast he wouldn’t even see you moving. You were more than ready, so wet and needy you could feel the wetness pooling inside your thighs, probably through your pants. The walk home was going to be so uncomfortable. Ugh.
But you weren’t expecting his offer to be so filthy, so nasty. “Each morning, you’ll arrive a bit early, and you will handle me your panties. Used panties. And I want you to take them off in front of me, so I suggest you start wearing those slutty skirts you love so much.” You were bamboozled by his words.
Did he notice you? Did he like your skirts, too? He must like them if he noticed you wearing them so often. And he though they were slutty (they were, and you might or might not wear them to see if he reacted). A part of you wanted to be offended, but the other part of you was ready to say yes. Yes to that, yes to anything.
He interpreted your silence as agreement and kept talking. “If you do that, you will pass my class. That works for you?” He was back to looking uninterested, but you saw right through his facade.
His hand was resting suspiciously close to his groin, and you could almost make the outline of a dick. A huge dick, but you weren’t sure. You wanted to lean closer to inspect it, but you refrained, your head spinning with everything that just happened.
“Yes. Yes. Perfect. I’ll do it. Thank you, thank you, thank you…” You repeated a dozen times before he dismissed you. There was a big grin on his face when you left. You could feel his eyes fixed on your ass as you walked out. Point for you.
The first couple days it went without a hitch. You arrived early, and he was always there, expecting you with a knowing smirk. You usually made a show of pushing your panties down your legs and grabbing them, never actually showing him anything, but making it obvious that you were enjoying yourself with the game you two were playing. He always smelled them and hummed appreciatively, making your clit get excited instantly. You loved when men were vocal in bed. In his case, when monster’s were.
Where all monsters more vocal than humans? You never slept with a monster before. You always wanted to try, but never knew someone who excited you as much as your orc professor. The first time you saw him you tripped on your feet and almost hit the ground. He was so much older than you, he could probably be your father, but good lord if you wouldn’t love to call him daddy.
After the fourth day giving him your panties, you got a bit bolder. You turned around and bent down, making sure he was seeing your naked pussy and fat ass as you did so. The red lacy panties barely covered your wet pussy as you pushed them down your legs. He growled loudly at you when he saw them, you groaned softly. When you handled the panties to him, his eyes were as dark as a storm and you could see the outline of his dick perfectly. You gasped, he was so big, so much bigger than anyone you’d been with before. How would that feel inside of you? Would it even fit?
That day, you left feeling elated because of his reaction, a plan starting to form in your mind. You were going to be really, really bad. You spent the rest of the class rubbing your thighs together and trying not to touch yourself. You could still see the outline of his dick if you focused on his groin, and it was making you insane. You almost ran out of the class to jerk off in the bathroom.
On the fifth day, you wore your shortest skirt, the one that barely covered your ass. You walked in and waited until he gave you a once over. Your body was burning by the time he ended his staring. He arched a brow, expecting you to do what you were instructed before. You turned around and repeated the same actions as the day before, showing him your wet pussy as you bent down. He growled again and you smirked.
You handed them the black lacy panties and grinned. “Here you have them, sir.” You pronounced the last word with all your intent, being as flirty as possible as you walked away, sitting in the first row. You never did that before, you were forever a last row girly, but today you had plans. You felt his eyes lingering on your half exposed ass. The walk home was going to be a bit sketchy with that skirt, but it was worth it.
The class started and he looked at you. You smiled innocently as he started to explain about the life circle of some plant. You didn’t care, you were a girl on a mission.
When he turned around and started asking questions, you opened your legs.
The girl sitting next to you wasn’t paying any attention to your actions, but his gaze zeroed on you. You open your legs slightly more, knowing full well your big thighs must cover your pussy most of the time. But if you open them far enough… Yes. You realized the second he saw your pussy because he dropped the pen he was using to write down some stuff on the board.
And then you saw it: the outline of his monster cock noticeable against his dark pants, making you drool and do it again. You parted your legs and bit down on a pen, trying to be as slutty as possible. He coughed to cover what you guessed was a groan. He sat down and ordered everyone to write some stuff for him.
Before you left the class, he grabbed your arm and told you: “Remember we have a meeting after class, I’ll be expecting you in my office.” His tone is harsh and final, you nodded, blushing. Suddenly you feel very embarrassed about your performance in class, but your slutty side is more than happy to comply.
After all your classes, you rushed to his office and knocked softly. He opened the door before you could ask, grabbing your wrist and pulling you inside. He closed the door behind you and pressed your back against it. He was over you instantly, his big mouth kissing you as his tusks framed your jaw. You kissed him back with equal passion, grabbing his hair and pressing your whole body against his. You moaned against his mouth when he pulled back.
“You were a very naughty girl. And naughty girls need to be punished.” His voice had an edge of danger to it that had you panting. You nodded, eagerly. “Bend down over the desk. Now.” You had to press against him to get to it, but you complied.
“What about the papers?” You asked, trying to move them around but he grunted. He put a hand on the middle of your back and pushed down, plastering your head against the papers and pulling your skirt up at the same time. You felt the cold air against your backside and shivered.
“Such a slutty girl, offering me his panties for a pass. Showing me her wet pussy like a slut. Parting her legs for me in the middle of class.” He punctuated each one of your actions with a caress to your ass. You were panting against the papers, pushing your ass up to get him to touch you more. “You need to be punished for all of that. You were a very, very naughty girl. Such a slut.” And then his big hand made contact with your right ass cheek. You screamed and he stopped. “That won’t do. You need to be quiet.” You looked at him over your shoulder and watched as he took your panties out of his pocket. “Open.” You complied, and he shoved them in your mouth. “Good girl. I’m going to spank your little slutty ass and then fuck your pussy, do you want that?” You nodded eagerly.
He hit your ass ten times, one after the other, not letting you catch your breath before he was hitting you again. You cried out around the panties in your mouth, but you only got them wet with saliva. Tears fell from your eyes and landed on the papers on the desk, making a mess. He didn’t care about it. When he finished spanking you, your pussy was so wet you were sure it was dripping.
“Such a good girl taking the spanking she deserves. Are you on the pill?” His question took you by surprise and when you nodded again he smirked. “Good, I’m going to breed you so deeply you are going to feel me for days.” You groaned at his words. He lowered his pants enough to get his dick out. When you saw it, you whimpered. “Don’t worry, it will fit.” You weren’t so sure about it, but he was already pushing the tip against your gaping hole.
By the time he bottomed out you were breathless. His dick so big you could feel it in the back of your throat. You were spread so wide you felt like you were going to tear in two. But it felt so fucking good. His dick hit every single good point inside of you, rubbing against your G-spot and parts of your pussy you didn’t even know could feel that good. He breathed hard over you as you adapted to his size. He was being so careful with you it was a shock from the way he acted when you entered his office.
After a few minutes you started moving your hips back. He grabbed your hips and pulled back, controlled. You groaned and he chuckled, pushing into you again. The scream you let out wasn’t muffled by the panties. And then the carefulness stopped. He fucked your pussy restlessly, until you were drooling around the panties and over papers on the desk. You could feel the bruises forming on your hips, where his green hands were holding you.
He fucked you like a machine, grabbing you like a toy and fucking your body like you weren’t more than a fleshlight to him. You moaned and groaned around your gag every time he thrusted inside. The pleasure so high it was maddening. His hand went around your body and he started rubbing your clit frantically. You came less than three seconds later and he rapidly followed. His cum was scalding hot in your insides, so deep and so much of it you could feel it slipping out around his dick.
When he finished cumming, he draped himself over you and hugged you close. “You did good, you were perfect.” He took the panties out of your mouth and kissed you softly, moving your limp body until your back was on the desk and he was sitting on his chair in front of you. “Now, take out my cum and eat it.”
You pushed your torso off the table, leaning on your elbows. “Wha- what?” Did he really wanted you to do that? That felt forbidden, like a step too far, but it made you so hot to think about it...
“Finger yourself for me and eat out mixed essence like a good girl for me,” he repeated. As soon as he praised you, you were ready to do whatever he asked you to.
So you complied. “Ye- yes, sir.”
You proceeded to do exactly what he told you, slowly scooping his cum from inside you with your fingers and putting it in your mouth. You moaned at the first taste, feeling naughtier than ever, feeling like the slut he called you earlier. His eyes were focused on your pussy and it felt so good to have all his attention over you that you wanted to scream again, your pussy tingling.
“Come here.” He pulled you off the table and to a kneeling position between his legs. You looked up at him adoringly, your brain, blind with pleasure. “You are going to show me those beautiful breasts of yours and I’m going to come again over you. Then you’ll put the shirt back on and walk to your house like that. Pussy dripping cum, tits marked by me,” he growled the last part. You nodded, already taking your shirt off. “Good girl.”
He jerked his monster cock over your tits, his green fist contrasted with his red tip and darker dick. It was beautiful to see. It took him less than three minutes to be groaning over you as he painted your boobs with his release. He spread it all over your tits, pinching your nipples as he did so. You groaned, your clit pulsing again. You couldn’t understand how much his actions turned you on.
He helped you put back your shirt, and he put you over his lap. You made out for a few more minutes as you melted against him.
“Tomorrow morning I expect you to be early for class.” You arched an eyebrow at him, confused. “If you want to show me your pussy, my cum better be leaking out of it. Do you understand?” You nodded, unable to form words after such risky order. “Good.” He kissed you again before sending you home.
Anticipation filled your inside as you walked home feeling his cum drying over your tits and leaking out of your bare pussy.
You were going to get an A+ in his class.
Don’t forget you can comission me for something like this if you want.
in all seriousness, if you're craving ice cream, it's likely that your body needs fat and carbs. If ice cream isn't an option for whatever reason, you can try to feed yourself something else with a significant amount of fat and/or carbs. You may also be dehydrated if you're craving sweets.
That said, sometimes your body and brain do genuinely just need a pick me up.
The more frequently you practice intuitive eating like this, the better you'll get at figuring out what it is that your body is asking for.
Also, a great trick is to take a look at what you're craving, note the nutritional contents (fat, carbs, protein, plant matter/fiber) and try and figure out what else sounds tasty for your particular craving. This can give you more data points to go off of. For instance, if you're craving ice cream, but a sweet roll sounds just as good, it's probably carbs your body is asking you for. That said, if you're craving ice cream and a sweet roll doesn't sound good at all BUT a bagel with strawberry cream cheese or avocado toast DOES sound good, you know it's fat you're needing.
If all you're craving is ice cream and nothing else sounds worth the effort, you may just need a low effort mood boost, which is also totally valid! This can also help you even if you can't have ice cream, because now that you know what your body actually wants, you know there are more ways to fulfill that order than the way it asked you to!
also, uh.. Migraines.
I started getting a migraine and all of a sudden I just NEEDED Ice cream. I had some in the freezer so put some in a cup, went off, and it was instantly fixed.
Turned out the cold in ice cream can alter the blood flow via the veins in the top of the mouth and that somehow can fix migraines? Ice water will do the same. But if you are getting a migraine, try getting ice cold water or ice cream to the roof of your mouth as a first step fix.
I have genuinely never regretted listening to my body when I had a genuine craving.
A couple of months ago, when we were trying to get my insulin/blood sugar all set and I was struggling real hard, I also had a HUGE craving for shellfish. I generally don't eat shellfish on account of, you know, Jewish, but when all I could think about for DAYS was eating COLD SHRAMP RIGHT NOWWWWW, I went and got some.
I felt better right away, and my wife pointed out that we usually use sea salt in our food, which usually doesn't have iodine in it. She got us some sea salt with iodine, and I stopped dreaming of shrimp, and my blood sugar/insulin situation calmed down, bc iodine helps glucose processing.
Also like... even though it was extremely treyf, it made me feel good to listen to my body and give it what it asked for, even if it was a "forbidden/bad food" the way that most Americans talk about ice cream. Sometimes just listening to yourself is what you need as much as anything.
It makes you more confident in your body, and that's rad.
Also, I use that ice cream trick for migraines all the time.
The Talmud actually directly addresses the topic of severe cravings and for the record, eating treyf in your situation was absolutely following halacha:
מַתְנִי׳ עוּבָּרָה שֶׁהֵרִיחָה — מַאֲכִילִין אוֹתָהּ עַד שֶׁתָּשִׁיב נַפְשָׁהּ. חוֹלֶה — מַאֲכִילִין אוֹתוֹ עַל פִּי בְּקִיאִין, וְאִם אֵין שָׁם בְּקִיאִין — מַאֲכִילִין אוֹתוֹ עַל פִּי עַצְמוֹ עַד שֶׁיֹּאמַר דַּי.
MISHNA: With regard to a pregnant woman who smelled food and was overcome by a craving to eat it, one feeds her until she recovers, as failure to do so could lead to a life-threatening situation. If a person is ill and requires food due to potential danger, one feeds him according to the advice of medical experts who determine that he indeed requires food. And if there are no experts there, one feeds him according to his own instructions, until he says that he has eaten enough and needs no more.
(Yoma 82a)
Iodine levels are a whole thing that’s been backgrounded in a lot of countries because we get it through iodized salt, but if we stop getting our required iodine it can really fuck us up.
being an mcu fan is so embarrassing like yeah i am a big fan of one of the most famous, highest-grossing movie franchises of all time. yeah it's falling apart at the seams and it's run out of creativity and it looks boring and the plot is too overdone and a lot of the decisions being made behind the scenes are driven by racism, misogyny, and homophobia. but like it used to be really fun in the good old days all the actors weren't huge A list actors so they gave a shit about the projects and they were all friends with each other and the interviews were hilarious and the movies were made with a lot of heart and love and every once in a while you would get a crazy lil one second cameo and it wasn't a lot but it was a fun easter egg for you and the three people who were caught up on the lore. man where did we go wrong
“Because the truth is, tech doesn’t have an image problem. It doesn’t have a message problem. It has an intention problem. What’s wrong with the axe murderer who broke into my house is not that he hasn’t successfully persuaded me to buy into his narrative. What’s wrong is that he’s trying to kill me with an axe. Similarly, when you launch a product that’s designed to put millions of people out of work, block access to sources of verifiable truth, replace human creativity with slop, and lower the barriers to every sort of atrocity, the problem isn’t that you haven’t told the public a good story about those things. The problem is that you are trying to do them.”
Young people don’t know when I joined this website a decade and a half ago we used to have to walk to the post button and back and it was uphill both ways
Everyone in the notes being like oh yeah the reblog button used to be at the top of the post and you had to scroll back to the top I forgot about that I was just shit posting 😭 how could I forget after my first reblog of Colors of the sky
Summary: Falling into a portal to a fictional world was not on your agenda for your night out.
Author's Note: my first ever x reader fic ahhhhh. Anyway, I've been toying with this idea for a hot sec and I figured I'd finally actually write it out lol.
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If you knew you were going to fall into a portal, you would’ve brought a bigger purse. But when you started getting ready for a night out with your friends, you decided to only bring the essentials – wallet, phone, charger, and your trusty lip combo.
The Atlas was one of the few bars in town that could be relied on to play good music, something evident by the numerous bodies on the dance floor. The air smelled like sweat and cigarette smoke with a slight undercurrent of a fruity perfume from someone who never learned restraint. You could feel a bead of sweat run down the center of your back and the slight frizz your hair had gained from the heat of everyone packed together. At some point, the press of people against you has shifted from comfortable to claustrophobic. You felt a thread of anxiety curl in your chest. Buzz worn off, the colored lights were too bright, the bass too loud, and the dance floor just too damn hot.
The music transitioned to a throwback from the 2000s. The bass thrummed, mirroring the headache growing at your temples. Pulling your phone from your shoulder bag, you could see the time had just passed midnight. Shoving it back in amongst the lip glosses and charging cord you craned your neck trying to get a glimpse of your friends. Two of them were standing by the bar, while the third was pressed up against a man. You dodged and weaved through the grinding couples and girls screaming lyrics at each other to reach the duo at the bar.
“How are you guys feeling?” you shouted at them.
“Pretty good,” one yelled back. You leaned in until your ear was an inch from her mouth.
“We’re ordering another round and then I think we’re going to hit Rosie’s,” she shouted.
“I think I might head out,” you shouted back. “I’m pretty tired and I have a bunch of stuff to do tomorrow.”
She nodded in understanding, asking if you were going to get an Uber back to your apartment. You assured them you would and promised to text when you were home. In turn, you asked them to keep an eye on the fourth member of your group who currently had her tongue in someone else’s mouth.
With a final goodbye, you shoved your way through the mass of people, until you stumbled out into the cool night air. Once again, you pulled your phone out to order a car. If you were lucky maybe you could be in bed by one. Quickly checking the street, you dashed across to the small blinking dot on your screen that showed where the car would get you. A street light cast a circle of illumination on the sidewalk. There, you stood and waited. It was some yards away from the bar’s entrance. You turned from the concrete buildings and looked out over the river. The dark water reflected the lights before smoothing out into an inky blackness. The only barrier between you and the water were short concrete bricks. You wondered how many drunk girls had fallen into the river trying to walk atop them. You stared into the water and wondered what stared back.
The pain wasn’t noticeable at first. At least nothing that couldn’t be chalked up to the vague ache that followed after a night out. Maybe if it had been more intense at first you could have done something. Could’ve called for help. Could’ve gotten someone’s attention. But the slow creeping ache was unremarkable until it wasn’t. By the time you realized something was really wrong it had radiated out from your chest, turning from an ache into a sharp pain. It felt like someone had wrapped a hand around one of your ribs and pulled. You stumbled forward, knees hitting the unforgiving concrete. One hand grabbed at your chest as the other flew out to stop your fall. But where you should have felt the sharp sting of concrete on your palm, you felt only nothing. The pain pulsated again drawing you forward. Something was pulling, tugging. You gasped and lurched forward, falling into the dark water.
It should’ve been fine. Even with the unrelenting pain that now permeated your body, you still should have been fine. You knew how to swim. Your buzz had worn off hours ago. You should have been able to kick your legs and break through the surface. But it seemed like no matter how hard you kicked and fought and thrashed you kept sinking. That pull in your chest, the one that had caused you to fall in the first place now pulled you down. Pain radiated through you, an agony that seemed to burrow down into the marrow of your bones.
Down, down you sunk. Farther and farther. No light shone through the water. The lack of light made it hard to gauge how you moved. It was only the vague sensation of water rippling past your skin that gave you any indication that you were actually moving at all. Time seemed to stretch, seconds turning into minutes and minutes turning into hours. You honestly didn’t know how much time had passed since you fell into the water. It seemed like you drowned for eons until suddenly you felt a shift in the water. It seemed that whatever pulled you down, tethering you to the deep void had abated somewhat. Your legs kicked and for the first time since you fell in, you were able to maneuver yourself through the water. As you squinted, you even thought you saw the glimmer of light. With your newfound freedom, you kicked and swam towards that glimmer, watching it grow and sharpen into focus, until your face broke through the surface. Taking huge gasping breaths you pushed yourself towards the shore with all the grace of a newborn fawn. Once your feet touched muddy ground, you clawed yourself halfway out. Bent over on hands and knees, you coughed up water until you thought you could take a deep breath without half drowning. You stayed like that for a minute on all fours, taking in huge shuddering breaths as you tried to orient yourself. You no longer felt the immense pain deep in your chest, but your throat felt raw from swallowing so much water and then immediately throwing it all back up. Once you wrestled your breathing under some semblance of control, you lifted your head taking in your surroundings. Looking around you felt the tight coil of anxiety in your chest grow tenfold.
You weren’t on the sidewalk outside the bar. You didn’t think you were anywhere near the bar at all. Instead, you were hunched on the shore of a small pond in the middle of a clearing. Tall pine trees towered around the edges of the clearing and you could hear the soft song of birds and the rustle of leaves in the wind. You sunk back until you sat on your haunches, your hands fisting in the fabric of your skirt. The only thought that seemed to echo through your mind was “This is not the Atlas.”
Somehow – despite the turbulent journey you had experienced – you had managed to keep a hold of your bright pink purse. With shaking hands, you unzipped it pulling out your damp phone. With a soft tap, you woke the screen up. No service, but you hadn't expected to get any in the middle of an unknown forest. Swiping the screen, you pulled up the emergency call page and with shaky fingers, dialed 911. The phone began to ring, the sound echoing through the clearing. It rang and rang and rang. Finally it disconnected with a soft beep.
This was bad. This was very, very bad.
The tears started slowly, but as your breathing quicked so did the gasping, heaving sobs as your body folded in on itself. Your wet hair hung around your face as hot tears fell onto the ground. You were never a pretty crier and the complete and utter fear you felt did nothing to help.
After a few minutes of completely losing it, you noticed that the soft noises of the forest had seemed to…quiet. You knew little about the normal sounds of a forest, having spent your whole life in the suburbs. But a distant part of you remembered hearing that when the birds and other small animals went silent, it meant that something dangerous was near.
This was it you thought. This was how you were going to die. Transported to some random pond in the middle of a random forest torn about by a wolf or a bear or a very angry moose.
“If you’re going to kill me get it over with already,” you croaked out. The forest didn’t respond. You sat like that for another few minutes in silence that was only broken by your soft sniffles. A shadow shifted in your periphery drawing your attention to the side. Squinting into the darkness you could barely make out a mass of shadows and the glint of what might’ve been claws or teeth. Your heart stuttered in your chest.
The being shifted through the shadows of the trees, closer to you.
“Please,” you said. You didn’t know what you were asking for. You saw the being shift, almost like it was cocking its head, considering you.
“you are far from home,” came a voice like steel over stone. It wasn’t spoken out loud. It felt more like hearing your own inner monologue. Except the voice inside your head had never been so ancient sounding..
“I don’t know where I am,” you responded. The shadowy being gave what appeared to be a nod, before stepping out of the treeline into the clearing. The clear view of it gave little insight into its appearance. Even in plain view it seemed to be a shifting, shapeless mass of darkness. Every so often a shadow would move to just the right place giving you a glimpse of a claw or tooth. The only thing you could make out clearly were two solid silver eyes..
“you are in Prythian,” the being said.
Prythian. Like the…fictional Prythian? Prythian, the island full of magic and fae that didn’t actually exist because it was from a fictional romance series. Oh God, you thought right as you started hysterically laughing.
“This, this is a joke right? Some sort of really elaborate prank?” you asked.
Its eyes gleamed out of the dark being as it said “this is no joke. you have slipped between.”
“Slipped between what?” you asked, incredulously.
“worlds,” the being said.
You stopped laughing and started crying again.
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