#and the madonna/whore complex is stupid

[infinitelytheheartexpands]

Opera you like but don't talk about much?

so! let’s talk about bellini’s la sonnambula.

“savannah you don’t even like bellini that much” lalalalalalalalala can’t hear you i have Opinions.

specifically, let’s talk about lisa.

if you’re not familiar with the story of la sonnambula, it’s basically about this small town village girl named amina who’s in love with a boy named elvino and they’re about to get married and shit. BUT amina is a sleepwalker! and no one in this swiss village circa 1830 knows that sleepwalking is a Thing. so when amina sleepwalks into an older gentleman’s hotel room and elvino discovers her there, he denounces her as a cheating whore and breaks off their engagement, but amina’s honor and engagement are swiftly restored once the whole village sees amina sleepwalking and realizes that That Is A Thing.

it’s an exceptionally stupid plot, but i digress.

so who’s lisa?

WELL, lisa is the owner of the aforementioned hotel and she’s had her eye on elvino for practically forever. in fact, they were even engaged before amina came into the picture and he broke up with her. she flirts with count rodolfo (the aforementioned older gentleman) in his room while she’s making the evening rounds, but runs when amina shows up (not knowing she’s sleepwalking) and drops a handkerchief in the process.

then she goes and finds elvino and is like “uh hey i think your girlfriend is cheating on you” and then elvino has this massive overreaction and yadda yadda yadda he actually decides to marry lisa after breaking up with amina! but then amina’s adoptive mother teresa finds the handkerchief and slut shames lisa in front of the entire village.

and here’s the thing: even with her getting elvino, which caused amina’s life to be temporarily ruined, i feel incredibly bad for her.

first off, she’s a businesswoman in a small town in the 1800s. that was really fuckin hard and she was probably already looked at with some suspicion by the townspeople, especially working in a job that yes, did cater to men traveling alone!

[also, a tangent off this: as i previously mentioned, lisa is in love with elvino, who was engaged to her before he broke up with her and got engaged to amina. but lisa is being chased by a local village dude named alessio, and she is Not Having It With Him. she’s trying to gently fend him off too, which is ALSO very hard in a small town in the 1800s. plus the class differences and how she’ll no longer have her own property if she gets married. get married to someone she doesn’t like AND have to give up ownership of her property? no thank you. and that may also cause some problems for her. she litchrally just wants to live her life and not get treated like a piece of shit.]

but really: is it at all sensible to claim that being in the same room as a man alone means you’ll have sex with him? girl was just doing her job and she flirted with a guy ONE (1) time at work. and it wasn’t even really flirting!

this is the entirety of the “flirting”.

immediately after this, amina shows up and lisa runs away. and i think she does even though the intruder is coming in through the window (and what sort of person would come in through the window?) because she’s probably already on edge. she’s probably afraid of making that one wrong move and having her honor and reputation obliterated, which could also be bad for her business!

and lisa getting elvino isn’t her trying to destroy amina’s reputation! she doesn’t know amina is a sleepwalker!

it’s an on-sing one line-off thing. ten seconds tops. she even leaves the room before singing the line so she doesn’t know!!! so she may benefit from amina being out of the way, yes, but she didn’t know!

also, lisa did not intend to have the entire village see the debacle play out imo. she did know they were outside to welcome the count, but the chorus was already peeping in before lisa returned with elvino so she had no way to tell them all beforehand! they didn’t know either, which makes me think lisa didn’t intend for them to know.

there is this, which some could interpret as lisa saying “uh, fuck you amina”:

but i have a different approach. this is not necessarily her saying what should happen to her; it’s her saying what will happen to her. if it’s true she’s been unfaithful, according to nineteenth-century society, she’ll be hated forever. that’s just how it was. she’ll be a social pariah.

and lisa knows that, and she’s afraid that it’ll happen to her.

and then it does.

see, in act two, elvino decides “well let’s go to my fallback girl and marry her” and lisa is obvs Quite Happy About This.

she doesn’t feel worthy of him. 🥺

so they are just about to enter the church for the wedding when rodolfo shows up to stop them and then teresa shows up. after much back and forth, lisa tries to defend herself:

this is what we call projecting. i cannot stress this enough: she is trying to protect herself.

is it very cash money of her? okay, no. is it understandable? uh, yeah.

and technically, she is correct: she doesn’t know amina is a sleepwalker and amina was the intruder in the previous act and they never interacted, so no, she has never been caught alone in a man’s room.

but as i said, even if she had been caught: she was at work! she was LITCHRALLY at work!!! what is this, a mike pence “never be alone in a room with someone of the ‘opposite’ [there are more than two genders btw] gender even for professional reasons” thing? that’s ridiculous!

and in a way, as we quickly see, lisa was caught: teresa pulls out the handkerchief she found and shames her.

and lisa is ashamed, saying she doesn’t dare to even lift up her head and she cannot defend herself.

and after this, in the libretto, lisa is silenced. she never speaks her own words again. this powerful woman is rendered powerless, humiliated to the point of losing her ability to express her own thoughts in this village now set against her.

and no one comes to defend her. not elvino, her former/current lover. not alessio, the man supposedly head over heels for her. obviously not teresa, who is the one leading the charge against her. not anyone who has ever interacted with her in a professional or personal capacity.

not even count rodolfo, the powerful man who was actually there and could exonerate her, decides to defend her.

it’s not that he can’t defend her, it’s that simply he does not want to. he litchrally says he does not want to share his thoughts.

and then he turns around and immediately pleads amina’s innocence.

he wants to defend her. and that may be possibly because of the implication for him: he took advantage of a poor peasant girl. but for lisa: oh that’s different, surely she was flirting with him, she had power in the situation because it was her business, and so on.

but let’s set that aside for a section because that is conjecture. except for elvino, no one else connects this to him.

but it ties into a larger thing that may or may not affect rodolfo, definitely affects the villagers, and probably affects stage directors to this day: the madonna/whore complex. amina is the pure madonna, lisa is the whore left in the shadows. amina’s innocence must be protected but lisa can fend for herself so surely she’ll be okay, right? wrong.

amina being an ingenue doesn’t make lisa a bad person. lisa is in a precarious position and she is afraid and she is trying her best to stay afloat in a society designed to work against people like her.

she isn’t an angel or a devil. she is a woman trying to live.

thank you for coming to my ted talk!

(had a long conversation about this last night with @carlodivarga-s)

[yuzuvrse]

consequences of studying psychology // cw nsft

for reference : the madonna-whore complex is a freudian concept which says that men only categorise women as either a madonna (saintly/pure + respected, cannot be viewed thru a sexual lens) or a whore (debased + degraded, only viewed thru a sexual lens).

imagine jimmy who sees you, youngest of the crew and... Yeah. as the weeks go by, he starts to notice the way you're always smiling at everyone, getting along well with the whole crew, even him. you're endlessly kind, so full of love it seems ready to spill over, and jimmy finds himself wishing you would bathe him in your light. he doesn't realise it, but you're already taking the place of the madonna in his mind. somehow he starts being ever so slightly nicer, gentler with you, treating you with the utmost respect though his expression strains as he forces himself not to snap at the crew as much. he'll do anything just to catch a glimpse of your smile.

jimmy places you on an impossibly high pedestal. you seem to be his saviour, an angel descended. but then he realises that angels who fall from heaven are nothing more than devils when he sees you with daisuke, naked underneath the other man and making the lewdest noises. just like that, you're nothing to jimmy. a goddess killed overnight. nothing more than a stupid whore. but that means he can have you, he can finally have you. you're not too good for him after all, you're as worthless as he is – in fact he'd argue you're even worse, giving yourself up to stupid daisuke like a slut. and that's when jimmy decides to sneak into your room one night.

[disaster-writer]

Bitter

Alpha!Kuroo x Omega!Reader

—

“I don’t want a mate.”

The gasp that washed over you and your friends’ shared corner of the classroom was way too melodramatic in your opinion

”B-but— why?” Your Omega friend stuttered, looking as if she was about to cry. “I thought after high school all of us would eventually find a mate, get married, and have pups so they can all grow up together and be best friends like us.” 

Your two other friends snickered at Rin and the hopeless romantic she was while you simply huffed, crossing your arms and leaning back in your chair and away from your food. You suddenly lost your appetite.

”I don’t want pups either.” You added and you could’ve sworn the poor girl was about to burst into tears at the way her bottom lip wobbled.

”Why not—“

”Oh give it a rest Rin,” said Hana, picking up some rice with her chop sticks, “If she doesn’t want a mate she doesn’t want a mate,” she shrugged before shoving the rice in her mouth.

”But you’re not even interested? Even a little bit?” Mei asked curiously.

“When I was a little girl, sure.” You answered, “But it’s all a hoax. They teach young Omegas that falling in love and having pups is the most desirable thing in the world, before you know it you’re barefoot and pregnant, cooking dinner for an Alpha that doesn’t appreciate it and who’ll eventually come to resent you. Ever heard of the Madonna and the Whore complex?”

Your three best friends stared at you stunned, before Hana whistled lowly. “Maybe take a break from the video essays girly. They’re making you sound bitter.”

You rolled your eyes. 

Bitter

Just another word to call Omegas who didn’t want to be doomed to repeat history.

”Honestly I sometimes feel like I’m the only one that escaped Plato’s cave,” you snarked back.

”Alright, alright, miss smarty pants,” Hana rolled her eyes, “No need to get holier than thou on us, we’re just saying—“

”It can’t hurt to keep your options open right?” Mei continued, “Like maybe you don’t follow a traditional path but who’s to say you don’t meet an Alpha that doesn’t support you.”

You shrugged halfheartedly at that, staring at your lunch, “If it happens it happens, but I’m not holding my breath—“

You paused, scenting the air as a new smell invaded your space, before tilting your head back to find Kuroo Tetsurou hovering behind you with one of his signature grins.

”Don’t tell me,” you said, “You want me to come toss for you and Kenma.”

”Ohoho, such a clever Omega aren’t you?,” he snickered, tugging on a lock of your hair.

”Or maybe you’re just a predictable Alpha,” you snarked back, sticking your tongue out at him.

“Childish too,” he added, pinching your tongue between his index finger and thumb.

You smacked his hand away, grabbing a napkin to wipe against your tongue, “Ew.”

“Sorry to steal her away from you all again,” Kuroo said, finally addressing your friends, his hand grasping the back of your neck, signaling you to stand up. “But this one’s mine for the rest of lunch.”

”Eh, she was bringing the mood down anyway,” Hana replied with a smirk, eyeing you both.

”Maybe when I’m through with her she’ll be more bearable to be around.”

You gasped, smacking Kuroo in the chest, “The hell is that supposed to mean you stupid Alpha. Y’know—“

Kuroo only cackled as he dragged you out of the classroom as you ranted in tow.

“Think she has any idea?” Mei asked.

”what idea?” Rin asked, confused.

”’Course not,” Hana shrugged, “Plato’s cave, my ass. That Omega is just as blind as the rest of us.”

“When do you think she’ll figure it out?”

”Figure what out?” Rin asked exasperatedly.

Hana hummed, before rifling through her bag and holding up a little bottle, “When she realizes she’s missing these.”

”You didn’t.” Mei gasped.

Hana only shrugged, tucking away the bottle of heat suppressants she had nicked from your bag.

——

Requests open

[lenoue]

Add to that the Maddona-whore complex and you've got it, someone's losing their mind, Dean, Sam, us?

https://www.tumblr.com/lenoue/772966652905160704/i-saw-a-drawing-of-sam-as-a-woman-and-dean-still?source=share

dean's madonna whore complex is very special to me because if you consider it real, you'd need to dig into his relationship with his mother

the first proponent of this theory was Freud, who called it Psychic Impotence (lol) Basically that men cannot feel arousal around women they love and cannot love women they want to fuck. And Freud being Freud linked this directly to the Oedipus complex. To summarise, unresolved tension of this incestuous affection one feels for their parent can create a divide between how you view women as sacred and women as desirable. Normally children resolve this tension by developing to the next psychosexual stage.

Important to mention that Oedipus Complex occurs at ages 3-6

If you consider this theory, think about exactly how catastrophically unresolved it would be for Dean who lost his mother at 4 and did not have any other available woman to take her role but Sammy. Sammy who looks in awe of every stupid thing he does just like mom did, Sammy who gets mad at him for getting hurt while patching him up just like mom did, Sammy who prays and believes in angels, just like mom did

Sam as the mother equivalent in so she is pure and untouched and someone who is in the family, therefore capable of soft touches and unconditional love. On the other is Sam as this woman he does not recognise.

Would be sooo insane if he can only get it up for her when she feels so Other to him, so monstrous that he wants to break her bones for it

[kithtaehyung]

This is a bit off topic, but can we talk about how much of an amazing and sensual lover that 3TanYoongi is?

Like I wish for every women in this world to come across a man that will fuck you like a slut but also treat you like a princess in a heartbeat lmao.

He just seems to have a very healthy relationship with sex and sexuality as a whole. No one likes a man with a Madonna-Whore Complex.

It doesn't get talked about enough. Women getting fucked stupid shouldn't stop people from seeing us as humans. All I'm saying is that sex should not be seen as inherently degrading to women nor something that's done "TO US" but rather "WITH US"

Rant over lol, but lollipop was amazing and hot and cute and gave me all the feels all at the same time 😄

I want what they have 😩

Lollipop also just happened to influence this train of thought which is why I went on this mini rant haha

oh the “to us” versus “with us” comparison SAY IT LOUDER🗯️🗯️🗯️

that’s quite literally one of the biggest reasons why 3tan yoongi will always be weaved so tightly into my heart. his viewpoints and experiences have shaped him into how we see him, and honestly reader makes him grow during the course of the series so they truly are improving together—mentally, sexually, etc. like even though he’s been the more seasoned one he never makes us feel lesser. his goal is to legit make reader feel like a fucking star I—

Yes. 100% yes we can always always talk about this facet of him🥺 It’s almost too overwhelming for me to just think about on my own HAHA so this is actually helping me get the words out and have someone to talk to about it, too!

Thank you for reading and for saying this. It gives me hope that y’all see this in him and find comfort because of it.

[atopvisenyashill]

why do you think targ nation fans favor daena and naerys so strongly? obviously, they would enjoy dany, rhaenyra, and alysanne because they're the most visibly "girlboss" and they probably prefer rhaenys because she was the more "conventionally feminine" of aegon's queens and appeals to the targcest shippers for being the more loved wife. but why daena and naerys?

imagine me deep sighing, taking a long drag of a blunt, coughing a bit too much, then saying "it's the madonna whore complex, that old bitch."

for naerys, it really is that simple - she is not just a clear madonna she's also pretty clearly meant to be in a conversation about madonna-whore dichotamies. i think the main problem with Those Insane Twitter Stans (which is a vibe - there's a LOT of those people on here too and they just completely took over reddit) is that they don't engage with Naerys any deeper than that. She is the perfect peerless madonna and no need to actually dig into how naerys may have felt about her reputation as the constantly suffering sweet queen. she did her duty and that's all that matters.

i do think daena also falls into this, but in sort of the opposite way, like how the rhaenyra-alicent discourse will get SUPER deranged. Daena is really easy to divorce from what happened to her because she has an ~aesthetic~ that is interesting on its own. I think they want to deal with the powerful parts of them and ignore the fact that the "Whore" in a lot of the Madonna-Whore groupings are/were deeply miserable in their lives, or engage with the fact that the men they loved share a lot of personal responsibility for putting them in danger. So I think a lot of the feelings towards Daena right now are glossing over the actual damage being in the maidenvault did to her + completely glossing over how she's likely very supportive of Daeron's stupid ass war in Dorne & the fact that her romanticization of him probably comes from her anger at Baelor.

[grecoromanyaoi]

Idk how to phrase this but can you talk some more abt Anca's like general situation... I love hearing abt her already

yesssss omg so basically her grandmother lisistrata is the leader ("the master") of the cult of the stargazers. they are heavily based on the cult of dionysus, and basically believe the world is a play that the stars orchestrate for their enjoyment, and the most entertaining actors win a place of honor among the stars (become stars. badum tsss). they are batshit insane and have huge abuse n murder n drugs etc problems in the community bc the more "interesting" ur story is the better. also they base their logic and storytelling techniques and morals on the old plays, so they just fucking hate women (the general society is somewhat misogynistic, but its mostly in a strict gender roles way n not in a women r inferior way). lisistrata's son, mercuțio, was supposed to inherit her role, but he ran away from the cult with his girlfriend, leaving behind his older son, orlando. when anca was abt 15 her grandmother found them, murdered her son and kidnapped anca to the cult. when she grew up both her parents were p abusive n they were struggling financially n her house was a v unstable place n within the cult she was rich nobility, so p soon, altho after a good amount of grooming n gaslighting, she came to see the chain of events as positive. when she turned 19 (altho grooming her for it sooner) her grandmother turned her into some sort of a spy n borderline sw, where shes sent to learn ppls secrets (i was thinking abt finnic from the hunger games) so the cult could manipulate them n get better rights n benefits n support for her cult. her older brother, orlando, "fell in love w her" the moment he met her (when she was 15 n he was 31!! guards!!!!) n has a 4d chess type madonna whore complex abt her where he both thinks shes stupid n incapable n that he should take care of her but also that shes the most perfect woman in the world. his wife looks suspiciously similar to anca. theres also her "reeducator", damian, who is also certain hes in love w her, n both him n orlando r basically waiting for lisistrata to drop dead so they could marry her n make her into their pefect wife (docile housewife in a semi permanent state of pregnancy). basically almost everyone in her life is either psychologically, physically or sexually abusing her she just became so disconnected from herself - she learned not to form any opinions, to not moralize or think abt anything happening to her (if someone were to hit her shed think this is physically painful not this is bad or even this is harming me), to completely disconnect from her own body, etc. at the beginning of the story her grandma sends her as some sort of an embassador to the court n in order to seduce the crown prince, marin, who is actually the first person in her life to actually care abt her. so she starts learning abt herself n putting boundries n becoming opinionated n actually seeking out pleasuring herself instead of only other ppl (for example she starts exploring her bisexuality n actually fucking women, not just making out w them for mens amusement) n basically becoming her own person. im still not sure how her ties to the cult will end - i dont want to abolish the cult entirely, but i do want to 100% Get Her Out Of There yknow. so yeah tysm again. im so normal abt this story

[darklinaforever]

Seriously, at this point people are being stupid on purpose, it’s not possible ! This person dares to tell me that I don't have media literacy ?! While she dared to tell me that... THERE IS NO PROPAGANDA IN FIRE AND BLOOD ?! IS THIS SOME KIND OF BAD JOKE?! So not only does the obvious pro-Greens propaganda of Fire and Blood not exist according to this person, under the pretext that Aegon II and Helaena are also overweight (although I remind you that the text never denigrates them on this several times, unlike Rhaenyra who is exactly that, the fucking nuance is here, but listen, apparently I haven't read Fire and Blood 🙄), but I would be fatphobic to dare to say that Rhaenyra is not fat... You know... THE TRUTH ?! As proven by all these official representations of her in the commented article concerned ?! (especially since the real fatphobics are precisely those who tend to insist on the so-called fact that Rhaenyra is fat in order to be able to denigrate her, while conveniently ignoring the fact that their favorites are the real fat people...) And don't tell me that she dared to bring Mushroom out to me as a reliable source for Rhaenyra's weight under the pretext that he would have been on her side ? The guy who just talks bullshit about his own camps and who just happens to have a really weird Madonna whore complex with Rhaenyra ?! Once again, where is the camera ?! I can't stand idiots anymore ! Okay, well now I guess we can add fatphobic to the list of ridiculous insults thrown at me. When I say that today people are throwing around big words without any fucking basis... Here is the post the comments came from :

[undead-supernova]

This Love is a Shrouded Mystery / Masterlist

Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 / Chapter 10

plot: welcome to your well-anticipated album release party! you couldn't be happier...right?

Pairings: modernrockstar!Eddie x fem!popstar!Reader (curvy!reader, bisexual!reader)

Warnings: bro there's so much angst I'm sorry, mention of smoking & alcohol

wc: 5k

note: I made the album cover/tracklist and wrote all of the lyrics mentioned in this chapter and I'm super proud of it! Thank you for reading my hard work hehhehehehee

ALSO DO NOT REPOST THESE LYRICS ANYWHERE ! Thank yew

He hated all the tiny things.

The way you crinkled your nose every time The Beatles came on. How you held your acoustic guitar like it was a delicate creature. The nights he would be up late practicing, only to find you passed out with your mouth slightly ajar and snoring. The mornings he spent listening to you making little sounds in your sleep, as if you were so close to saying something but didn’t know how. Your poetry and your music and your scent and your stupid smile you got whenever you looked at him and how grateful he’d been when he first noticed. 

And he really didn’t hate it at all.

He just missed you.

It was fucking torture, being away from you. He sat up, night after night, wondering what you were doing. How you felt now. If you wanted him back. If he was better off without you. If you could ever speak cordially and what that would cost.

As if he truly cared about the answer or the consequences.

Eddie just missed you.

You stared at yourself in the floor-length mirror, looking over your outfit for tonight. Trying not to suck in your stomach, trying to let yourself be the person that you wanted to be. 

A spaghetti-strapped crop top with Madonna-Whore Complex stitched in white across the breasts. Short shorts just to say Fuck You. Block-heeled boots laced up to your knees. All dolled up with a diamond necklace and thin rings. A velvet choker with a broken heart pendant in the middle.

There you were, a vision in pink. 

There you were, a shell of the person you used to be.

Maybe it would be better to play a role tonight.

But nothing was able to halt the worry, halt the anxiety that coursed through your veins. 

That last night, with your eyes glistening with grief, you’d told him you had to go into hiding. That you needed to get away from the public eye. That he couldn’t come with you. But he’d seen pictures of you since, albeit a bit blurry, running in and out of the recording studio in New York City.

There was an edge to your outfits now, with a touch more lipstick and heavier eye shadow. Changed your hair and painted your nails anything but your usual pink. Your face, the one that once held a permanent smile for the press, now hardened. Blank expressions. No smile, no feigned light in your eyes.

It was like you were wearing some kind of armor.

It was like watching someone trying to adapt to their surroundings.

Flailing, slipping.

Trying to prove to everyone else they can do it without thinking about the consequences of their actions.

Eddie could only hope you wouldn’t let yourself drown in the process.

“Yeah, I’m good,” you said for the third time in the last ten minutes.

If anyone had a goddamn braincell, they could see that you weren’t good. But this had been the last few months for you. Doing whatever anyone asked. Staying busy. In and out of the studio so often that it became your second home. You honestly couldn’t count how many times you’d fallen asleep—you got more there than when you were home anyways.

How could you when the only thing you saw behind your eyes were crashing waves, the roar of the boat as it pulled you further and further away from the life you desperately wished you were still living? You wrote and wrote and wrote, trying to make sense of it all. Trying to figure out how to apologize. How to profess your love. How to feel any semblance of desire to say goodbye.

Your label had been shocked when you’d gotten the album done so quickly after months of producing nothing—especially calling around and getting Halsey, Lucy Dacus, and Janelle Monaé to feature. Not to mention Maisie Peters who’d actually reached out to you. It was a match made in heaven, an album stitched and woven together by the bitterest fate. 

The label gladly rolled everything into production, insisting that you do as much promotion as you could. So, you were a little money machine, doing bland Instagram reels and Tiktoks, practicing your smile in between takes. You were fine to be a puppet. You’d done everything they wanted you to, right? What’s a little bit more?

What’s better than tightening the collar on your losing dog?

            “Can you get that done for me, sweetie?”

            “It would be so nice if you could just do this one thing.”

            “You know, the fans would love it if…”

            “We’d be grateful if you just…”

“You look tired.”

You turned to Este, noticing her raised eyebrow and crossed arms. The past few minutes had been spent zoning out, trying to keep yourself from thinking too hard. But it only made things worse because all you could do was remember why you were trying so hard not to think. Your friends knew better, but you hated admitting to it. 

“Just trying to wake up the excitement,” you lied.

“For yourself or for the label?” Becky asked.

You glanced over at the door before back at her. “Yes.”

“You got this, okay?” Mary encouraged, rubbing your back. “You’ll feel better once you get there. You know you will.”

“Yeah, you’re right. At least you guys are here.”

“We’d never miss it.”

A pang of grief washed through you at the reminder of someone who would most definitely miss tonight.

Eddie knew what tonight was—and he could’ve sworn it was going to kill him. Nothing hurt him more than not celebrating your album release with you. He was planning to show up and support you the best he could. Show you off. Make sure you felt as celebrated as you could be because you were so amazing.

But here he was, back in Wayne’s house for the weekend. Laying low, talking to the walls as if Wayne could hear him. Screaming at the ceiling for someone to give him a reason to make sense as to why his wounds were still bleeding. Even after five months.

Bouncing his knees on the edge of the guest bed, growing more and more anxious as the night fell. Going in and out of the back porch, cigarette after cigarette. Hoping and praying that Wayne was a ghost and was able to talk to him through the windchimes hanging by the front door. Feeling sick when they hadn’t moved. Not even once.

Fuck, Eddie should be there with you. He should be by your side.

Instead, he was ashing another cigarette and reaching for the Garfield mug hanging on the wall. Poured the last few sips of Jack Daniels left on the kitchen counter. Trudged back into the guest room.

Tried not to cry.

You were trying not to cry.

The party was spectacular, with all your favorite foods laid out and cake and your favorite music and your friends and, and, and…

It was everything you could ask for from tonight, but nothing you’d actually asked for. Clara had been sneaky, making sure that you assumed the livestream started two hours before it actually did. Brought you to this fancy restaurant, all decked out in themed balloons and pictures of you. A Congratulations banner and a big bottle of champagne for you to pop.

And you were happy, you really were. But there was just something that overwhelmed you about it all, something weighing on you. Something eating at your stomach, making it nearly impossible to eat or even talk correctly.

Scott kept you grounded the most, always giving you a word or two of encouragement. For the last five months, he’d been cautious of you. You knew it even if he never said it. Him and his wife, Rebecca, made sure to offer you a place to stay when New York started to feel like a stranger. And hiding out in Tennessee was never a bad idea, ending up getting a third home near him, just outside of Nashville.  

Tonight was no different. It was in the way he offered you food, asked if you needed some more water. If you looked even remotely uncomfortable, Scott was there to direct you somewhere else. Kept whispering that you were doing great. Kept reassuring you that your album was amazing. That you were amazing. That it was all going to be okay.

And it was a daydream, a surreal experience you were still getting used to after five years slowly rising into the public eye. Now here you were releasing your third album, knowing in your bones that this was your best work yet. 

And everyone was being so nice.

And the party was beautiful.

And you looked beautiful.

And…

And Eddie wasn’t there. 

He wasn’t anywhere these days, actually. It was like he had vanished entirely. There were no paparazzi pictures, no fan sightings. Even People Magazine had him on the front cover literally saying, “Bad Boy Eddie Munson Mysteriously Disappears from Public Eye.” You were uncertain if he’d ever be seen again. And you knew it was your fault. All of it was.

What felt the strangest was how the internet was still speculating whether or not you and Eddie broke up. It had been five months and you hadn’t told your publicist to confirm it. Didn’t even speak of it. 

The most peculiar thing was…neither had Eddie. There was nothing for anyone to do but question why the two of you hadn’t been spotted in public together even once.

Maybe one day you’d feel strong enough to bury this relationship.

Today definitely wasn’t that day.

And tonight definitely wasn’t it either.

But your album was all was about Eddie.

Everyone would know it.

And you just had to hope that one person out there would listen to it for the music and not for your real-life experiences.

But you guessed that was just how things would have to be.

So, you put on a smile and told yourself to get over it.

Smile for the cameras.

Come up with every way to deflect.

Since you’d broken up, it seemed that your label had set up a livestream for the fans to listen to the album with you at the same time. Experience it together. Get to send in questions. Get to connect. Eddie thought that was sweet, knowing how much you enjoyed talking to your fans. 

And he knew he shouldn’t, but he really considered hopping on.

Was it a little weird for him to tune into the listening party? 

Maybe.

But he wanted to hear the album, wanted to hear the songs you’d barely shown him when you were together. You were always so shy with your music you wrote for him—which was fair. He did the same thing, keeping any and all projects about you a secret. Hell, the new record set to drop next month was done in the last five, his fingers unable to do anything other than race up and down the neck. Stuffing his pick between his lips as he wrote and wrote and wrote. Tried to write himself out of whatever this black hole was that was starting to swallow him. 

And now here he was, ready to hear what you had to say.

Sighing, he grabbed his laptop.

But maybe you were better off without him.

Maybe this was all for a reason and everything just had to happen this way. It would be a nice thought, right? A nice explanation for the twisting of your gut as you set up for the livestream. Standing on a pink stage, practicing your smile one last time before the cameras got the shot juuust right. Took a step to the right to show off a poster with the album cover on it.

All you could think as they counted down from five was, I hope Eddie is watching.

When Eddie saw you, he knew he’d fucked up already.

You were radiant, always a vision in pink. Always a vision, period.

The album cover had the name “Madonna-Whore Complex” with a picture in the center of bunched up silk—pink, of course. The same color you were wearing. The same color Eddie had yearned to wrap in his arms and make breakfast for. 

And when Eddie heard your voice, his stomach flipped.

“So,” you started. “Before we even get to the tracks, I wanted to kinda explain the album title. I know people got a little weird about it, which is fair.”

Eddie could tell that you absolutely did not find that fair.

“But I think that we live in a society that is so obsessed with a woman’s place. If she’s happy with herself and comfortable with her sexuality, she must be seen as a villain or a whore. There’s no room for her to be a good person or even able to truly be in love.”

Something tugged at Eddie’s chest at the sound of you mentioning being in love. If only you’d said that to him five months ago. If only those words had left your lips, he’d have gotten on his hands and knees to make you stay.

But you hadn’t.

“It seems that you cannot be one or the other. Either you’re this harlot who runs through people like it’s nothing or you must be this chaste woman who is only allowed to be idle in the corner. I think that I’ve always been put in this position, and, with the content of this album, I feel like I’m able to both be satirical about those accusations and show the vulnerability of, um.” He watched your eyes dart away nervously before coming back. “The vulnerability of how that has affected my personal life and my personal relationships.”

“Oh, and I really love the back cover,” you said with a wide grin, shifting the subject. “Especially the track list and the font and, oh my god, the people I collaborated with? Incredible artists, right? I just feel really excited for you guys to hear it in a few minutes.”

It was then that he remembered he hadn’t looked at the track list, too anxious at the thought of you referencing anything about him on there. But of course, you did. What else would this album be about? Some other guy? He knew better than to speculate anything like that.

His heart began to race as he found it all laid out for him already, his words being spat back out at him. Something True. Could You Say the Same? Acceptance Speech. Trade You for the World. Could’ve Fooled Me.

Eddie’s stomach twisted, queasy with the exact anxiety that he’d spent the last few months trying to prevent. But he couldn’t run away from this. He was already here, watching you nearly trip over your heels in real time. Reading the titles out, each one feeling like a prison cell built just for him.

Shakily, you stated, “Okay, everyone. Let’s start the album.”

Took a deep breath.

Closed your eyes.

Eddie took a deep breath.

Closed his eyes.

And listened.

         “Okay, my pretty boy…now move!”

Eddie felt like he was losing his ability to breathe. Track after track, jumbled with lyrics all meant for him. All written for him. Words upon words of poetry that told him how much you missed him and how guilty you fucking felt and how you just went ahead and chose the world over him and, dear god, it was all too much for him.

Grief settled in his chest at every line that he called his favorite.

Okay, Now Stop!

          “Okay, now stop!

         We're dancing dirty to The Beatles and the Stones.

         Okay, now stop!

         You're dancing pretty asking me to lead you home."

The Bisexual Slut (featuring Halsey)

         “This one boy whimpers on his knees

         Twenty girls beg to finally taste me 

         If I’m so greedy, so damn needy

         Then why does their love come so easy?”

My Body, Your Choice

         “Should I base my worth off your fickle insecurities?

         Take a scalpel to my skin to justify your animosity? 

         If I’d known my body was stained with impurity

          I would’ve begged my mother to deliver me with modesty

         But I wouldn’t change a goddamn thing

         Fuck you, I’ll never change a thing.”

Something True

         “Tell me a story, one where love always dies

         Say it with finality in your glassy brown eyes

         Thread the needle to weave through our fate

         Knowing the outcome, you still beg me to stay.”

Madonna-Whore Complex

         “My halo slipped, and my limbs are sore

         But his head seems to stay in between my legs

         I’m wrapped around his fingers as they choke my neck

         I’m his sweetheart, his princess, his saccharine whore.”

The Mess (You Once Called Yours)

         “And your fingerprints stain this house

         Baby, I’m haunted by your phantom touch

         Oh, now I’m screaming and pleading, growling and howling,

         ‘Please end this agony, my love, it’s all too much.’”

Your Residential Coward

         “Guess she’ll never really let me live that down

         Throwing daggers at my portrait now that I’m gone 

         And now that I finally see my tilted crown 

         It turns out I was the jester all along.”

Could You Say the Same?

         “Simple questions come with simple answers

         That’s why I sew my mouth shut

         The moment I saw you, wild necromancer

         Devotion gnawed at my gut.”

Synonymous (featuring Lucy Dacus)

         “Sucking in my stomach in attempt to survive

         It’s like I’m fifteen again

         All crooked teeth, low self-esteem, and love-deprived

         Only coping with a wilted pen.”

My Gentleman

         “You’ll never let me look away, that is the cerulean dream

         Could be your future wife if we let our consciousness stream

         And I confess I don’t think that would be too much to hope for

         So keep talking like that, let the wine pour, pour, pour.”

Acceptance Speech (featuring Janelle Monáe)

         “In the modern age, a sacrifice is already made

         The moment that you’ve made a choice

         But, baby, the problem always chooses herself

         And suddenly she has lost her voice.”

Trade You for the World

         “I stood in sepia tones while you bled electric crimson 

         Built the motivation before I built the scene

         Led the poets astray, bathed them in patient indecision

         Now I sit in vignettes of truth, desire what was in between.”

Back to the Beginning

         “City after city, glazed in momentary dignity, 

         I chased the prophecy of my becoming

         And, dear god, if I could tuck my tail between my legs

         I’d run us right back to the beginning.”

Could’ve Fooled Me (featuring Maisie Peters)

         “And we’re dancing around each other tonight

         Elevators built like confessionals

         Desperate to blanket myself in transparency

         I wanna say, ‘Pretty boy, you’re sensational.

         We weren’t the only freaks anyhow

         But how could anyone not love you then?

         And how could they not love you now?’”

Eddie watched you dance and party. Vaguely answer the questions about what certain lyrics meant. Focused on the sound more than the overall meanings. Thanked everyone for giving you this celebration and how you were very grateful for this opportunity.

And, peculiarly, you were handed a new acoustic guitar, soft pink and sparkling. Your name written in calligraphy down the neck.

“Um, so since this is a special night,” you said while trying to move your white capo down to the third fret. “I wanted to play a special song that didn’t make the album. It just didn’t fit the rest of the album’s vibe, so I cut it.” 

You laughed and Eddie knew he was the only one who could notice it was out of nerves. You tested the strings, making sure everything was in tune. 

“But I wanted to play it for you guys if that’s okay?” Laughing again, you shook your head. “I hope everyone said yes, otherwise this would be so embarrassing.”

You leaned into the microphone, glancing up at the camera as if you were making direct eye contact with Eddie and Eddie alone.

“It’s called Questionnaire.”

The chords were simple. 

C, Em, Am.

F, G, C.

It rang out soft, sweet. Albeit a bit sad.

         He noticed the way you chewed on your lip before you started, finding your groove.

         “Do you think about the way we live without sanctuary?

         How the fates wrap their hands around our throats, cutting off our breath?

         Do you think about the way we live without sanctuary?

         How there’s no guarantee when it’s over there’ll be anything left?”

Eddie felt a sickness wash over him as he heard you sing directly to him. You were right. It was different from the rest of the album.

He tried to gauge how you were feeling, knowing damn well the only way he could was through the music itself. How the change in chords matched the change in your emotions. 

G, Am, F.

         “Oh, oh, oh.”

Am, G, F.

         “Oh, oh, oh.”

The camera pulled in closer to your face, as if they knew that Eddie was watching. Waiting. Pathetically desperate to hear what you had to say to him. 

         “Do you wonder if there’s any chance that this was all just a dream?

         But there’s no fucking way you can’t hear me calling your name.

         Do you wonder if there’s any chance we could wipe ourselves clean?

         But there’s no fucking way to explain the way I’ve been claimed.”

You repeated the Ohs, belting out the last set before you changed the sound completely. 

New chord patterns. New set of emotions. Harsh strumming, the sound growing louder and louder as frustration filled your voice.

         “Do you know the clouds darken whenever you’re away?

         Convinced myself that my storm would worsen if I’d stayed.

         God, I need you now to answer my revelation.

         Is there any dignity in self-preservation?”

You repeated the line again, sounding angrier than before.

         “Is there any dignity in self-preservation?”

The buildup faded away, the rough strumming turning light again as the chords of the verses returned. There was a small instrumental as the camera pulled out to show you on your pink throne, surrounded by the pink balloons and holographic streamers.

You were alone.

Eddie could just barely make out the tears trickling down your face as you began to strum each chord once.

         “Do you think about the way we lived without sanctuary?

         How we fought and you fought for me until I gave it all up?

         I think about the way I live without your sanctuary.

         How there’s no guarantee I’ll ever fall in love again.”

You sighed and sniffled softly before repeating it. 

         “How there’s no guarantee I’ll ever fall in love again.”

Despite no one being in the shot, he could hear applause coming from around the room. He could even hear Becky, Este, and Mary individually, all cheering you on.

He watched you stand, laughing off the emotions as you blotted the wetness around your eyes. “Okay, Now Stop!” started playing over the screen as people scrambled to disassemble the makeshift stage. 

It occurred to Eddie then that there…had been no chorus. No hook. It was just a list of questions for him and statements for yourself. A bout of self-loathing and the guilt that he was only now starting to grasp.

And he realized that he too was crying, trying desperately to cease them with the back of his hand. And then his sleeve. And then the tissues he scrambled around the bedroom to find. 

As soon as the livestream ended, Eddie pulled out his phone.

“You’re so brave for doing that,” Becky said, crushing you in a hug. “I’m so proud of you.”

A broken smile met your lips. “God, everyone’s going to talk about it.”

“Let them,” Mary said with a scoff. “Who cares?”

“Yeah,” you whispered, knowing full well who you really wanted to talk about it. To hear it. To think about it.

Your phone began to vibrate in your pocket. As you pulled it out, something resembling belief in fate rushed through you.

Eddie.

You couldn’t suppress an audible gasp, taking a step back from the conversation.

“I’m sorry, I have to take this,” you mumbled before walking away quickly. Pressed that green button. Whispered, “Hello?”

“Oh, hey.”

His voice crawled over you in a rush of relief, an ease that had been missing for so fucking long. “Eddie, hey,” you said nervously, shocked by your own ability to say his name out loud.

“Hey, is this an okay time?”

“Yeah, yeah. You’re good. What’s up?”

“Nothing,” he lied, fiddling with blanket. “I just wanted to congratulate you on the album. It’s really incredible. Your best work yet.”

“Oh, thank you, Eddie. Um, you think?”

“Hm?”

“That it’s my best work?”

“Of course it is,” he answered with a breathy chuckle. “Are you kidding me? You took your individual sound and expanded on it and made it into a high-quality concept album. And the lyrics are incredible. It’s beautiful.”

“That’s really kind of you to say. I’m really proud of it.”

“You should be.”

“Are you working on anything new?”

“Yeah, we’re actually finishing up the album now. Should be out next month if everything goes right.”

“I bet, um. I bet it’s incredible.”

Eddie’s chest tightened at your hesitation. “Each song transitions into one another. You’d think it was cool.”

“I’ll have to listen to it. If, um, if you think I should.”

Swallowing a sigh, Eddie closed his eyes and tried to focus on keeping his voice level. Keep from cracking. Keep from begging for you to come back.

“It’s only if you want to,” he replied, trying to stay neutral before moving on. “Are you doing okay? I know you get really anxious after being, like, out in the open for a while.”

“Yeah, sure I am.” He knew you were lying. “It’s just work.”

“I just wanted to make sure you were okay in case you weren’t,” he admitted.

“You know…” you trailed, pausing.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. “You didn’t have to call if you didn’t want to…”

“Ah, come on,” he said with a chuckle. “I wanted to call you, so I called. Promise.”

Anxiety began to wash over you as you bit the bullet. 

“Is that everything you wanted to say?”

Why hasn’t your publicist confirmed the breakup?

Is this killing you like it’s killing me?

“Well, uh, I don’t know.”

Did you really mean what you said about never falling in love again?

Does that mean there’s a chance?

“What does that mean?” you asked. “I’m confused.”

Is this over?

Are we over?

“I think… I think that’s all I had to say.”

And there was the disappointment.

“Oh, okay.”

“Yeah, I hope you have a good night.”

“Yeah, you too.”

“Oh, hey, one last thing.”

You couldn’t help that ugly surge of hope. “Yeah?” 

“Remember to take care of yourself. You matter more than anyone else does.”

“Oh,” you responded, deflating. “Yeah, I’ll try, Eddie. Take care.”

“Bye.”

“Bye,” you whispered before ending the call.

There’s nothing to say once the phone call ends. No one mentioned the breakup. No one mentioned how the album he called incredible was about him. About the love. The crash and burn. How your love still glowed inside you, bright enough for him to touch if he’d just stretch his fingertips a little further.

And yet, neither of you said a thing.

And neither of you admitted to what you knew was coming in his own album.

You found yourself mute as you shuffled into the back of the black SUV and got out of the city. Left your buzzing phone next to you, knowing that Eddie wouldn’t call you again. Knowing that everything must be over now.

If this was closure, it sure didn’t feel like it.

When you walked into your house, still empty and swirling with dust, you let the grating silence whisk you towards the wine cabinet. Got yourself the shiniest glass you had, poured the cheapest bottle you found. Sat on the back porch and looked out at the moon. 

If things were different, Eddie would be here right now instead of a voice in a fucking phone. His voice, a tiny shard of glass that was surely going to rip you open and never mend itself again. 

He’d sit next to you with his own glass. Comment on how nice it was to just drink the cheap stuff. Roll you a celebratory joint with dried rose petals, the way you liked it. Ask if it was okay if you spent the night out here, just looking up at the moon together.

It’d been a full year since you’d met. Five months since you last spoke. And now you were starting to fold, starting to maneuver yourselves into strangers. Even if that was the last thing Eddie wanted. Even if the mere thought of never talking again made nausea pool in his stomach.

Eddie desperately wished you were looking at the moon together.

And maybe you would feel different than you did tonight. Maybe you would’ve had a perfect night with all your accomplishments and the perfect man beside you to experience it all with.

But he wasn’t there. 

And you felt so alone.

So fucking alone.

Tears streamed down your face, a burning in your chest growing with each What If that you conjured. 

You were not better off without him. 

He knew it the moment you told him goodbye on the island. He knew it the moment he returned to California, shutting himself off from the world. He knew it the second he called you and the second he heard you say goodbye one last time.

Eddie was not better off without you.

once again thanks to the lovely @strangergraphics for making beautiful dividers for me. it is an honor!

[thevampiremarie]

Heartless, Chapter 7

🔞 Simon “Ghost” Riley x reader 🔞

Fake marriage/marriage of convenience, SMUT

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Ghost hasn't touched you in a while, so you ask him to teach you how to shoot. Tags under the read more.

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Smut tags: EXTENSIVE SAFE HANDLING/USAGE OF GUNS AT A SHOOTING RANGE, description of guns and gun safety, gun kink, exhibitionism, more degradation, more praise, love for titties, semi-public sex, s/m, biting, possessive Ghost. Brought to you by my deep love and affection for the OG Ghost skin.

Ghost hasn’t touched you since your flare-up. Not literally. He’s been… stupidly nice, his hand never leaves the small of your back when you walk together, and sometimes, he even pushes doors open for you.

But things haven’t gone past kissing, which you do a lot of nowadays, more than before. He’s constantly kissing you, soft brushes of lips on your forehead, gentle bites at the pulse in your neck; if he’s feeling frisky, he’ll tangle his tongue with yours.

That’s it.

He withdraws if you try to pull his shirt up or take your pants off. And it’s driving you fucking crazy.

It’s not all bad. Ghost changes his mask in front of you now instead of ducking into the bathroom, and he leaves the door open when he brushes his teeth.

You catch glimpses of his face, jaw, and eyebrows like wisps of fog. They'll slip out of your grasp if you hold on too tight or demand too much. He’s turned you into a Victorian gentleman, at his feet for the smallest bit of bare skin.

But what you want almost more than to see Ghost’s face again is for him to fuck you. It’s been weeks. Literal weeks.

You’ve tried prancing around your apartment in nothing but your skimpiest lingerie, lace and tulle and embroidered silk.

You drop things in front of him and bend down to retrieve them. You draw your kisses out as long as possible, as indulgent and possessive as possible.

Go, Ghost. Give us nothing.

You thought that maybe he wasn’t attracted to you anymore. That he saw you in pain and need, and that killed any desire he had, like some weird Madonna-Whore complex.

But one day, while rolling on a pair of delicate thigh highs, you felt eyes heavy on your skin.

You looked up to find him standing at the sink, watching your reflection in the mirror, his gaze feverish, like that little slip of elastic cinching into your plush thigh was about to make him crawl.

That made you realize that your stupid husband is only treating you like glass because he doesn’t know any better, out of some deeply misguided sense of chivalry.

Today, you have a plan. A really, really good plan. One he can’t wriggle out of so effortlessly.

He looks more handsome than he has any right to look in his camo pants and dinky wraparound combat sunglasses, and when he crosses his arms, your mouth goes dry at the sight of his broad, muscular back in that gray jacket.

You’re determined to get him.

“Ghost, I have a question. Well, it’s more like a favor,” You ask as you dab on some lipstick, mouth open in a perfect ‘o.’

He’s on his way out, but Ghost stops and turns in his tracks just for you. “Hm?”

In the mirror, you see him adjust his sunglasses, and your instincts tell you he’s either looking at your lips or your ass in your miniskirt. Or both.

You tamp down on the smile tugging at your mouth before he grows suspicious. “Do you think you could… teach me how to shoot? If you have time today. I never learned how, and I trust you,” You add in a soft, fragile voice.

Then you bend over the sink just a touch more and arch your back. As you calculated, Ghost is too taken in by your tantalizingly short hem to notice how off your voice sounds.

He clears his throat, light reflecting off his glasses as he shakes his head. “Yeah. Alright. Let’s go,” He says flatly.

You keep some distance as you walk past him into the hallway. You know, just to keep Ghost on his toes.

“Awesome! Oh my god, thank you. I’m so excited,” You tell him as you rest your arm in his, intentionally pulling tighter so your tits in this push-up bra brush his bicep.

Ghost doesn’t pull away, but he does stiffen as he walks you through the base. “Better cool it. Don’t get frisky ‘round loaded firearms,” He cautions.

Damnit, he won’t even look at you. And you know you’re very pretty right now - this is his favorite shade of lipstick on you, and you’re wearing more mascara than a waitress at Hooters.

Ugh. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ll be good, I promise.” You won’t give up so easily.

He stops in front of a soldier manning a counter cut into what looks like a big ol’ wire cage. Past the cage, you see a massive metal wall with locked shelves.

The private salutes your husband as soon as he sees him. “Lt. Riley. How can I help you?” He asks, clearly used to Ghost’s presence. The man’s eyes flicker towards you curiously, but Ghost leans forward and quietly raps his knuckles on the cage.

The private looks away with a blank, bloodless face.

Ghost nods approvingly. “Checkin’ out a Glock 17. And some ammo,” He says, handing his DODID over so the other man can type his information into the computer.

After Ghost gets his card back, the man stands and unlocks one of the shelves by punching in a code. “How many rounds?” The private asks as he sets out a black hard plastic case.

“30.”

Three unmarked white boxes join the case. “There you go, sir.” Another salute, this one sharper and more respectful, then Ghost signals for you to go ahead of him.

You follow the signs towards the shooting range with your Uniformed Services ID card displayed prominently between your fingers. Both your husband and Soap have drummed the importance of this card into your head, and you hesitate to even walk around without holding it somewhere visible.

Ghost joins you after a minute to swipe his ID at the shooting range, effortlessly carrying the case and the ammo with one strong arm.

You see someone take off their ear protection. As the man turns, you recognize his profile.

“Sergeant Garrick,” Ghost calls out. To a stranger, he would seem just as cold and withdrawn as he was checking out his pistol.

You know better. His shoulders grow less tense, his stride easier, and his head dips in greeting.

When Gaz reaches out a fist, Ghost taps it with the back of his knuckles. “Lieutenant. Surprised to see you’ve let her out. You doin’ alright, sweetheart?” The sergeant asks, clearly having been apprised of your health.

“Thanks, Gaz. I’m feeling a lot better. Ghost has been a gentleman,” You assure him with a smile. This most recent flare was horrid but mercifully short. You were only out of commission for a few days.

And he was, in fact, nothing short of a gentleman the whole time. You doubt Ghost left your side for one second unless necessary, even when you were asleep and wouldn’t have known.

Your husband appraises you from the corner of his eye for a second. “Clear out,” He says as he interrupts Gaz’s follow-up inquiry into whether you need anything.

“Why? Are you… oh.” His gaze falls to the Glock-branded case in Ghost’s hand. “Are you teaching her how to shoot?”

“I asked him to.”

Gaz chuckles. “Good luck, mate. I’ll keep the others away for a few hours,” He says before sending a two-fingered salute your way.

You wait until the sergeant is through the doors to speak. “Why do you shoot alone?” You’re not complaining; it looks like Lady Luck is smiling down on you.

“Don’ like people gawking at me.” Ghost picks a lane off the side where he can conveniently see the exit, then sets the case flat on the little side table.

The target he picks is the standard white paper with a vaguely humanoid shape colored in black. White numbered concentric circles mark the points you can pick up, depending on where you hit.

The dead center of the target’s chest is worth 10 points.

Ghost opens the case with a soft click. The pistol he chose for you is just like the guns you see in the movies and on TV, a straightforward, standard handgun in a dark gunmetal gray.

It looks gorgeous in his large gloved hands, like he was always meant to carry one. He holds it as an extension of his body, and you decide to ask him later to show you the other firearms in his collection. He must have a rifle or some shit, something he uses to sweep through his enemies like a reaper’s scythe.

That sounds so hot.

Ghost first sets out the empty magazines, then removes the pistol from its case. “Basic gun safety. Treat every gun like a loaded weapon, even if you know it’s not.”

“Always keep it pointed away from you or anyone else.”

On the left-hand side of the gun, he shows you a tiny rectangle just below the trigger. “This button releases the magazine. Then you slide it back in, usually loaded,” Ghost tells you as he demonstrates it, slotting the empty magazine into the base until it clicks, then popping it out.

You step closer, ostensibly, so you can scrutinize the demonstration better. “What about, um, a safety? Is that what that’s called?” You ask as you lean in and tuck your hair over your ear, drawing Ghost’s attention momentarily to the long line of your bare throat.

He nods. “Yes. That’s what that’s called. This pistol don’t got one, so you need to be careful the whole time. Alright, doll?” His hands never leave the gun, not even for a second, and he aims it very, very, deliberately away from you.

But you feel Ghost bump his hip against yours before opening his posture, allowing you to nestle yourself near his chest.

“Mmhm,” You acknowledge.

His sunglasses make it impossible for you to see where he’s looking. A gleam of the harsh overhead LED lights on the dark lenses catches your attention; Ghost’s gaze is fixed on the pistol now, where it wasn’t a minute earlier.

With one finger, Ghost releases a tiny lever towards the top of the gun, then rests his hand on the back of the barrel. “This is the slide. Pull that back; that’s the chamber.” He holds it up so you can see the empty space that goes down all the way to the bottom of the gun, a space that the magazine would typically fill. “That’s where the… where the round goes before you pull the trigger.”

He pauses. “You do know what a trigger is, right?”

“Sleep with one eye fucking open tonight,” You threaten as you try to step on his toes. He’s wearing his steel-toed boots, so you get about as far as awkwardly balancing on his shoes.

Ghost sets the gun down on the table, then wraps his free hand around your jaw, forcing your mouth open with his fingers pressing into your cheeks. “Hey. What’d I say? Firearms. Live ammo. Shut it,” He cautions, his voice low and gravelly.

Oh. So you are getting somewhere.

You let your tongue loll out, a small teasing flash of pink flesh glistening with saliva. Ghost grunts as he snatches his hand back like you might bite it.

He touches the small of your back, making it clear that he won’t indulge your foolishness any further. “First thing. Always. Make the gun safe, make sure it’s unloaded. Pop the magazine out. Pull back the slide so there ain’t a round in the chamber. Keep the slide open.”

You’re trying to concentrate. Really, you are. His hands' hypnotic, smooth motions as he handles the pistol are… distracting.

He’s still cautious and as safe as can be, but the confidence- You’d almost guess Ghost is trying to show off, and it works because he is just that good.

He has to clear his throat a few times before you look up at his face, hidden behind the balaclava and the glasses. “Repeat the important shit back to me,” Ghost orders with a smirk you can hear through the cloth.

You make yourself the very picture of obedience and mindfulness, hands tucked behind your back to show your seriousness.

“Treat every gun like it’s loaded. Don’t point it at anyone. Make it safe, magazine out, slide back, keep the slide open,” You say. Coincidentally, your tits get pushed forward when you position yourself like this.

“Good girl.” Ghost looks back at the gun like a priest averting his eyes for fear of sinful thoughts. One step forward, three steps back.

Now, he gestures to the black metal magazine. “It holds ten rounds, so you get ten shots before you have to reload,” He informs you as he taps one of the ammo boxes.

It would be overkill if you started twirling your hair, so you settle for tilting your head and making your eyes all round and fluttery. “Do I have to, like, make it… um, make it stick the bullet in the chamber myself?”

His stupid little chuckle tells you that your performance is believable. “Semi-automatic. You fire one bullet when you pull the trigger, but it reloads automatically,” Ghost says indulgently.

“Okay, got it.” You smile back at him.

“Go on an’ assemble it, just like I showed ya.”

Right. Right.

You try to recall the order he laid out for you.

The pistol feels menacing in your hands, even though you know it’s currently as safe as any gun can possibly be. You almost drop the magazine a few times; the metal is slippier than anticipated.

“Magazine, in. Slide… cocked. Heh. Ready to fire, minus the bullets.” You hold it with pride but carefully point it down range.

Ghost touches your back again, and this time, he lets his hand linger. “Ah, we’ll make a soldier out of you yet,” He whispers into your ear.

“Disassemble it.”

“Boom,” You say as you lay the pistol down.

Instead of moving you to the side, Ghost crowds forward to reach around your arms.

“Attagirl.”

Like this, he could rest his chin on your head if he wanted to.

His broad chest is so warm, and you feel his harness snag on your shirt as he grabs one of the empty magazines. “‘M gonna load this magazine for you. You focus on firin’,” Ghost tells you, his voice a rumbling, soothing comfort on your nerves.

He slots ten rounds into the magazine, which cleans out one of the three boxes.

Then he tips your chin towards him, his glove rough and chafing on your sensitive skin.

“Doll. Hey. Listen to me. Once this magazine goes in, this pistol is loaded and dangerous. Dangerous. I don’t want you getting yourself shot, so for the love of God, pay attention to where you’re pointing the fuckin’ thing.”

You look into his sunglasses, as black as night, and you know that the minute you fuck around too much, Ghost will bodily remove you from the scene for your own good.

“I will pay attention.”

You wish you could see his face. He’d never agree, especially not in public, so you know better than to ask. But…

Even the sight of his deep, rich brown eyes would be enough. You go back and forth with yourself for a few seconds; he might be willing to take the glasses off, but if he wanted to show his eyes, he wouldn’t have put them on in the first place.

After a minute, Ghost releases your chin. “Assemble it. I’ll be right here,” He encourages, dropping his hands to your waist.

When loaded, the magazine is much heavier, and you take great precautions to avoid dropping it.

Click. You feel the gun's weight in your hand and understand why he’s so cautious about something so small. It can do some hefty damage.

Ghost held this like it weighed nothing at all.

The slide is satisfyingly loud when it slams into place. “There you go,” You say, hands trembling just a little as you hold the pistol up for his inspection.

He takes it from you before you can put your fingers in the wrong place or, God forbid, accidentally discharge it, and you exhale softly with relief.

Now, Ghost steps up to the firing lane. “Make sure you have a comfortable grip. None of the gymnastics and shit you see on the telly. Fire with both hands on the gun. Both. Shoulders and feet square,” He tells you, limbs moving in time with his words so you have something to emulate.

You watch him straighten his spine; his head tilts a little, and his breathing slows. “Line up your sights. Squeeze the trigger.”

His shot rips a neat hole in the target’s chest. Ten points to Ghost.

“Gonna recoil. Every gun does. Let it happen, don’t tense up. You’ll make things worse.”

Finally, he lowers the pistol.

“Ready to try?”

“Yeah, I’m ready.” You’re not that ready. Ghost is watching you like a fucking hawk, and your palms grow slick with sweat.

God, what if you do it wrong? What if he thinks you don’t know shit?

Ghost doesn’t say anything. Instead, he grabs a set of ear muffs you didn’t realize he’d slung around his neck and hands them to you.

You slip them on, tighten the headband so they fit you, then wipe your hands off on your skirt.

When he passes you the pistol, he never aims it away from the target.

‘Shoulders and feet square’ is a harder direction to follow than it sounds. You know you must always look where your firearm is aimed, but then how do you check if your feet are square?

You shuffle around for a moment, and you think it’s fine if you just lower your arms for a second-

Ghost sighs. “No, don’t- don’t hold it like that. Fuckin’- here,” He grumbles as he uses his boots to nudge your feet into the right position.

Then he gets behind you again with his large hands braced under your elbows. “That’s your stance.”

You inhale. “I’m scared.” Your exhale comes out shaky and fucked-up, but thankfully, your grip doesn’t falter.

“…Mm. I’m right here,” Ghost reassures you, pressing you protectively to his chest.

Some of your nerves ebb away, and you try to imitate his example. Straight back, confident aim.

“See? You can do it, love.”

“Thank you. Okay. Sights aligned…” Then you pull the trigger.

You get, like, maybe one point at most. Your guy has a hole in an area that a satirical British comedy troupe might generously call a ‘flesh wound.’ The target will need stitches in its’ left hand.

“Nice aim. You really killed him dead.”

“Shut up.”

Ghost takes the gun back. “Here.” That was rude of him. Did nobody teach him how to share and ask politely?

He fires. Then fires again. “Dead on.” Two perfect headshots. “Don’t worry, don’t expect you to pick it up so quickly,” Ghost says as if he isn’t fucking preening. He’s probably even gleeful under the shit covering his face. Not like you would know, you grouch to yourself.

Ghost presses the pistol into your hands. “Give it another few tries.”

You clear your throat, determined to do a little better this time.

You get your sights lined up, everything’s good, and you feel good about this one. “Eep.” Except the gun kicks back, taking you by surprise, so you try to make it stop moving, and your shot hits the target’s ankle.

Ghost’s laugh would be more attractive if it weren’t at your expense. “Recoil. Told ya. Loosen up,” He chuckles, briefly tapping the top of your head with his mask-covered chin.

“It’s harder than it looks.” Your complaint falls on deaf ears; he simply indicates that you do, in fact, have to keep practicing with him.

Just when you go to take your next shot, Ghost rests his hands on your hips and steps close enough that you can feel his pants, almost scaring you out of your skin.

“Babe, you’re literally being so rude right now.”

“You’re cute when you’re frustrated.” Please, how is he making this your fault?

You stick this bullet in the target’s other ankle.

“Take it easy. We got plenty more ammo. You can’t be good at everything.”

Actually, yes, you can.

Enough with the fucking reindeer games.

This time, you bring your heel down on his boot hard enough that he steps back in surprise before you tear the ear protection off with one hand.

“Fuck you,” You snap before returning to the target.

You’ve done this, like, a million times; your dad taught you to shoot when you were ten.

You rest the butt of the Glock on your left palm, your right pointer finger naturally curls on the trigger.

You slide your right foot back a little and get more comfortable. His instructions are too rigid for your taste.

You incline your head, your brow furrows in concentration, and-

Four perfect shots. The slide sticks open after the last one because you’ve finished the magazine, just as you knew you would.

Two in the ten-point ring in the target’s chest, joining Ghost’s first shot.

One next to his headshot.

The last bullet hits the target’s groin for good measure.

You pop the empty magazine out without missing a beat, tuck it into the case, and then present the unloaded gun with a slow, theatrical turn.

Since he’s too busy standing there, with a distortion in the painted-on skull mask as the only clue his mouth is open with shock, you press the gun into the case yourself.

Mindful of his repeated emphasis on safety and your lived experience of shooting empty beer bottles in an abandoned quarry as a teenager, you go so far as to lock it on his behalf.

That clicking sound spurs him into action.

You find yourself more or less shoved against the wall, head tilted back and breathless as Ghost towers over you, taking full advantage of how… inhuman he seems.

“Goddamn. Looks like you didn’t need me to teach you after all. You conniving little bitch,” He growls, impressed against his will.

He runs a gloved finger along the line of your jaw, you bite your lower lip, and Ghost shoves his knee between your legs so you can’t dance away even if you want to.

At least he’s able to appreciate your effort now. “Nope. I just wanted your attention.” You’re shameless, grinning like you won a blue ribbon at the county fair, and when he cups your warm cheek, your bright gaze engraves your victory on his mask with the precision of a knife.

His long-suffering exhale is not a sound of release - it’s a provocation, a warning shot.

Then Ghost wraps a piece of your hair between his fingers; its fragility is the only thing keeping his restraint intact. “I know. You’ve been begging for my attention for some time, haven’t you?”

You were right. He was not cosplaying a monk. You’re always right.

When your lips twist into a pout, Ghost straight-up snarls. “What? Thought I didn’t notice?” He taunts, lowering his face closer to yours.

He releases your hair to slip his hand under the hem of your shirt, resting his coarse glove against your soft, curved belly.

“Those sexy fuckin’ panties, this short skirt. The goddamn… garter belt with the little stockings?” Ghost’s breathing deepens, the pace of it picks up, and his fingers dig into your skin. He’s riled up and angry that you’ve done that to him, and those two emotions feed off each other like wildfires and gasoline.

You can see it in his powerful, well-built frame, and any second now, he’ll take the tension out on you.

He smells like gunpowder. He smells like petrichor, that intoxicating, electric zing that hangs in the air before a storm.

His hand slides around your waist to push your body towards him, forcing you on your toes. “Acting like a horny, needy slag.” Ghost spits out each word with venom so he can almost lovingly watch your pupils dilate and lips open in a silent moan.

“Well, doll, congratulations. You’ve got my attention.”

When you slide your arms around his neck, he doesn’t stop you. “What was I supposed to do? You were ignoring me,” You whine. Your voice is a breathless, fluttery thing, your head won’t stop spinning, and your bra chafes your sensitive, hardening nipples.

You can’t decide if you want to drop to your knees in worship or tear him out of his jacket.

He removes his hand from your body to rest his forehead on his palm. “Use your words, maybe? Not luring me out to the firing range so you can grind that pretty arse against me.”

“But that would be less fun,” You point out. You know, to be helpful. It seems like you have to do all the work around here.

“There’s something wrong with you.”

“You like it, though.”

That’s his final straw. Ghost closes his fingers around your throat, tight enough to choke, as he drags your skirt around your waist.

As far as you can tell, his gaze is still fixed on you, on the flush crawling up your cleavage. “Anyone could walk in right now and-“ His fingers inch up your thigh, slow, so slow that you start shifting around, so he hurries the fuck up.

Ghost kicks your feet wider for better access. “And see you like this. Spread open for me…” Then his hand brushes over the roundness of your bare hip. Completely bare. “Fuck. You’re-“ He cuts himself off with a groan.

“Not wearing underwear, yeah.” It would just get in the way if things worked out as planned. And look - they did.

Now that your cunt is bared to his concealed gaze, your hips tilt away, trying to hide your arousal.

Ghost doesn’t like that. He pins your hips to the wall with one firm hand. “God, you’re dripping,” He murmurs, his voice filled with awe.

When he holds his other hand up to your lips, you keep your eyes fixed on his mask as you pull his glove off with your teeth.

The glove falls from your mouth when he takes his fingers and slots them between your folds. Not quite pressing in, just teasing your sensitive flesh, fucking playing with the slick coating your skin. He brushes your engorged clit, then moves on before you feel anything beyond the tiniest jolt.

You bite back a wail when the hand on your hip tightens, pressing hard enough to bruise.

“Is that what you want? You want them all to see you getting fucked, to see me using you like a fuckin’ toy?” Ghost punctuates that by dragging his mask down to suck his scarred fingers clean of your arousal, and you see his lips shine and-

Then he bends down to kiss you, savagely, brutally, all teeth and the salt taste of you coating his mouth like expensive wine. When Ghost pulls back, a string of saliva stretches between your mouths.

His fingers touch your temple softly.

What is he seeing? What does he think when he watches you blush like a schoolgirl? Is he pleased? 

Without Ghost’s eyes, you feel small and utterly helpless in the face of his glasses' curved, almost alien gaze.

You tilt your head back as you catch your breath. “Well, that can only happen if you fuck me.” You’ve won. You’ve fucking won.

“If there’s even a single drop of your mess on my boots, I’ll make you lick them clean,” Ghost threatens as he kisses your forehead. The innocence in the gesture is as menacing as the bare hand he fists into your hair.

He’s playing with his food.

“Kinky.”

Ghost wraps more of your hair around his fingers. “You know what you’re askin’ for ain’t gonna be nice? No takin’ it easy,” He warns you, shaking your head back and forth ever so slightly with his better grip.

“You just watched me empty the clip into that poor piece of paper, and you think I want easy? Or nice?” You laugh, even as he tugs harder, and your eyes roll back.

You get your answer when Ghost exposes your neck and sucks a dark, possessive bruise over your pulse.

Now that he doesn’t have to worry about keeping the mask up, he’s relentless. Starved. His mouth wanders across your skin, sucking and licking and biting, it hurts like cigarette burns, and you whine, fight, push for more.

His tongue traces your collarbone, his teeth bite another bruise into the crook of your neck.

You’re so covered in sweat and spit that it takes him a few tries to draw more of your skin into his mouth.

That’s Ghost’s cue to shove the neckline of your shirt down, exposing your heaving tits still encased by your lacy bra.

He doesn’t move for a couple of seconds. Not only to take in the view, and you know he’s enjoying it, but because there’s something…

Debauched and profane about your poor skirt tugged up and your shirt sliding off your arms, and you’re trying to get him to take the rest of your clothes off, “Ghost, I’m begging you-“

Fresh arousal trickles from your core, then down the insides of your thighs. It’s like there are live wires under your skin, burning you from the inside out, and you can’t think, or stand up straight, or reason.

He puts you out of your desperate, horny misery by pulling your bra straps down your shoulders, freeing your breasts from their underwire prison.

You watch him discard his sunglasses over his shoulder without giving a shit if they break. He’s too busy bending down to take one nipple between his teeth to care.

Ghost fucking moans into your skin, his other hand paws at your hips, your ass; he just can’t touch enough of you at once.

“Fuck, I need to feel you,” He gasps when he lifts his head long enough to breathe. Your nipple feels sore even at the slightest brush of air, sensitive from his kisses and tongue lathing over and over the aroused bud until your skin is dark red and glossy with saliva.

You’ve banged your head against the wall at least twice at this point, too overcome with pleasure and heat and white-hot pain to notice. “Oh my fucking god-“ You keen as he slips his hand between your legs once more, only to find your aching cunt so wet that you’re dripping down to your calf.

He slides two thick fingers into you, and the stretch doesn’t pinch in the slightest. As soon as he starts moving his fingers and working his thumb furiously on your clit, you’re screaming and sobbing into the empty firing range.

It’s quick and fast and brutal, he switches to your neglected nipple, and your cunt seizes around his fingers when he bites down. “Gorgeous fuckin’ tits,” He growls, the sound vibrating through your overstimulated skin.

Your hands scrabble on his shoulders for stability because your legs will give out any second now. You can’t focus on anything because his mouth leaves red marks along the curve of your sensitive breast, and it feels too fucking good.

You don’t know what the fuck he’s doing to your tits but you feel each lick and nip deep in your pussy, just as good as when his fingers deftly find your g-spot.

He stills for a moment, causing you to whine and smack his shoulders to get him where you want him, curses and insults tumbling from your lips.

Ghost bares his large, frightening teeth until your tantrum fades and your hips move of their own accord.

You chase the high, eyes screwed shut and your nails carving a bloody furrow into the back of his neck. “Yeah, that’s it. Good girl. Fuck my hand,” He rasps, curling his fingers so you can wring the most pleasure out of him.

Then he kisses your exposed hip, forcefully driving his fingers into you again when your thighs tremble and your muscles shudder. “Shit, fuckfuckfuck, Ghost, a- aah-“ You chant, mouth open because you can’t get enough air, and everything tastes like salt and musk, and you feel something painfully hot pulse within you.

His other hand grabs your breast to grind his gloved fingers into your already-bruised and reddened flesh, dozens of broken capillaries sprinkled between his love bites.

Fuck. Fuck. Ghost releases you, then swats lightly at your nipples. “Think you can come like this? Right now?” He orders, bringing his hand down again on one breast, then the other.

It burns, he strikes the hickies, and he’s not even slapping your tits that hard, but the pain blossoms like lightning down your spine, and-

He circles your clit one more time, and you’re fucking gone. “Ghost!” You gasp as you come, shaking like a leaf. Your back arches, you’re wailing and twitching around his merciless fingers, each wave more devastating than the last.

It reduces you to a handful of primal nervous impulses in his grasp. Every fucking time your sensitive, helpless cunt sucks him in deeper, you cry out. He has to abandon tormenting your nipples to hold you up, one arm clutched tight around your jerking hips.

Ghost kisses your sweaty forehead, then fucks his fingers into you one more time to milk the dying throes of your orgasm.  “Attagirl,” He whispers into your hair, then smiles at your final, exhausted whimper.

Once you’re back in your body and not floating on cloud nine, you reach for his bared face and trace the edges of his eye black. To your surprise, Ghost permits the exploration. You don’t mess it up too much, cognizant of his effort, but it’s fascinating that he’d let you.

His eyes are mostly black, all blown-out pupils and want. He stands, then interrupts your wandering fingers with a deep, drawn-out kiss, no teeth because your mouth is already bruised. You feel him sigh, the tiniest hint of a moan, when your tongue traces his bottom lip.

“Think they heard you all the way in Manchester?” Ghost jokes as he moves away.

He refuses to let go of your ass even once you find your balance. “If you wanted me to be quiet, all you had to do was-“ You tell him, drawing out your words for his inevitable protest.

His cocky smirk is so profoundly, unfairly attractive - you never stood a chance. “I like knowing you’re enjoyin’ yourself.” You tug him back towards your lips with hands curled in his jacket hood so you can kiss him breathless.

His remaining glove rustles as he takes it off. “Are… are you okay?” Ghost asks, cupping your face with both large hands.

There’s concern written all over his face, and when you notice his gaze flick down to your midsection, checking if your posture shows any sign of pain, your heart twists violently in your chest.

Briefly, you consider making some snarky remark, turning his worry into teasing. But his worried brown eyes find yours, and you can’t bring yourself to be so mean. “I’m fine,” You reassure.

Ghost searches your face for a minute before finally nodding.

“And if you ask me that again, I’m going to bite you, and not in a fun way.” 

The little bashful upturn of his mouth sends another horrible wrench through you. “Sorry.” You don’t like it when Ghost apologizes to you like that, like he’s afraid being near you is too much.

It’s not.

You’re not sure how to tell him this, so you lean forward and press a sweet kiss to his cheek and hope he gets it.

He relishes in that simple, affectionate kiss, you can tell by his fingers curling tighter into your hips. Perhaps you’ll do that more often, then.

Ghost tucks some loose hair behind your ear. “I wanted to do it right. Do right by you.”

You know what he means. Hearing it from his mouth completely reframes the past couple of weeks. Instead of fixating on how his hands would brush your hands away, you remember the cups of hot tea he brought you regularly and how Ghost would never let you get out of bed without help.

He waits pensively for your response, like what you say next could break him. “I thought that maybe you didn’t like me anymore,” You confess in a voice barely louder than a whisper.

Ghost’s gaze turns from vulnerable to fierce faster than pulling a trigger. He doesn’t even need the mask; a cold, dark shadow falls over his scarred, beautiful face. This is not a man touching you. This is a demon grabbing your waist and pulling you towards him.

“Didn’t like-“ He can’t even repeat what you said without shaking his head in disbelief.

Ghost leans down to get level with your face. “Remember what happened the last time you said dumb shit? ‘M not afraid to turn your ass blue and black if you keep this up.” You jerk forward with a moan when he smacks one butt cheek as a reminder, just hard enough to sting.

“You are fuckin’ exquisite,” He tells you with the same tone he probably uses to threaten bodily harm on someone, the same insidious, frightening surety.

Ghost runs one hand down your ruined, bite-covered chest, losing his train of thought for a moment to watch your tits bounce when he plays with them.

Then he shakes it off so he can kiss you as he drags his hands over your hips, your thighs, one clutches the small of your back, and you’re as close as you can get with all his clothes in the way.

“Sexy as fuck, bloody brilliant, such a good, eager whore for me.” You see a flash of his white teeth when he laughs, a low sound that spills with amusement.

His hands spin you around and push you towards the shot-up target until you’re bent over the railing separating the firing booth from the rest of the lane.

Once you brace your arms on the metal barricade, Ghost grinds his hips against your body. “Yeah, I like you. You could call it that,” He hisses.

“Is that a pistol in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?” Your mouth runs before you can stop it.

“…That was awful.”

Then you’re laughing, cackling so hard that your stomach hurts. “I know right? Hah! I had to,” You chortle, hiccuping in delight.

You hear him sigh. “Don’t make that joke again.”

You take a second to evaluate your position. First, you adjust your grip on the metal so it will be a little comfier. “Why? Gonna use it on me?” You arch your back and look over your shoulder with a smile…

Ghost throws his head back at the sight you make. “You are fuckin’ evil, d’ya know that?” He mutters, then reaches for your body like he can’t even pretend to resist.

You feel him flip your skirt up over your back. “Aww, baby. That’s so sweet!” You tease.

“Gonna fuck you ‘till you stop callin’ me that.” At first, you think he will prep you like usual. But instead of stretching your pussy out with his fingers, Ghost simply works your clit until you’re wet again.

Oh shit. He spits into his palm, and you hear the slick sounds of him running his hand over his cock.

“Never- ah-“ You moan as Ghost eases the head of his dick into your folds. He hisses through his teeth as soon as your muscles clamp down, your body unsure whether to drag him in deeper or push him out.

Tears gather in your eyes as he slowly, slowly, slowly thrusts in. “Take it. C’mon. Fucking take it,” He commands through deep, desperate pants.

No. You can’t. You can’t. The stretch is- it’s more than you’ve ever felt before; your poor pussy aches as it flutters helplessly around the massive fucking cock rearranging your insides.

Your eyes roll back when he thrusts another inch further. “Ghost, please- I…” He pulls out, pushes in, your elbows can’t hold you up any longer, so you go boneless against the metal cutting into your arms. 

You don’t notice the hair covering your eyes, not when your heart beats so loud your pussy contracts with each pulse. “You’re so…” You cry out, trying so hard to do as he says, but his cock is just, it’s, it’s ruining you.

“Pretty girl. Gorgeous. Beautiful.”

Ghost curses as he readjusts, unintentionally sliding the tip of his cock past your g-spot, leaving you bowed over with white knuckles through a sharp bolt of pleasure that burns.

Finally, he gets his arm around you so he can play with your clit in slow, even motions, something stable and gentle for you to focus on. “You- you’re not gonna fit…” Your words come out garbled and stuttered, and it’s a miracle he understands you all.

He makes a deep, choked-up sound as he drives himself almost to the hilt. “Well, that’s too fuckin’ bad.” Carefully, Ghost increases the pressure on your clit, his fingers slipping a few times from all the wetness trickling out of your horribly-stretched cunt.

You push back without realizing it until, finally, he can slide all the way in. “There we go, that’s a good girl…” He purrs, lazily rolling his hips in a gentle rhythm. Right now, anything faster or harder would break you.

Deliriously, you wonder if he’s in your belly now. “Oh- oh my god, Ghost, I can’t-

“Feels good?”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, your cock, you’re so big, ohmygod,” You chant as he grips your pelvis and fucks you deeper, aiming for the most sensitive places in your core.

One of his hands slides into your hair and forces your head up. “Look. Look,” Ghost gasps into your ear. “See that? Immaculate fuckin’ aim.” You can barely focus on the target, not when you’re trembling so hard underneath him.

Your stomach tightens and tightens, and you’re moaning his name like it’s a prayer. “Fuck, squeeze me again.” Your muscles contract around his cock like a vise, not quite an orgasm, but almost.

Pain tingles in your scalp when he tightens the fist in your hair. “You’re deadly, sweetheart. And a fuckin’ stunner. My wife is perfect. Her body is perfect.”

At this point, you’re lax and incoherent, and the only other thing holding you up is the railing he’s fucking you on. It makes a slamming, cracking noise with each thrust.

“Tell me you’re perfect.”

Right now, Ghost could order you to do literally anything, and you would try; he feels just that good.

“I- I’m perfect,” You wail.

Fuck. Fuck. He’s grunting behind you, pounding into your ruined, aching core like he’s as close, as desperate for release as you are. “Good girl. This cunt was made for me, Jesus fuckin’ Christ.” He releases your hair to wrap an arm around your waist and help you arch your back.

“Tell me you’re a crack shot.” You can feel something shoot up your spine, some great force writhing and pulsating in your guts, so powerful and pleasurable that every muscle in your body screams for release.

“I’m a crack shot.”

Ghost’s brutal rhythm begins to falter. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ obsessed with you,” He pleads in a deep, rumbling whine.

“You’re obsessed with me, fuck, fuck, I’m coming-“

Your orgasm rolls through you like a crack of lightning, bright white lights bursting behind your closed eyelids. It rips the breath from your lungs, you forget how to use your vocal cords, and your wetness covers his pants and your thighs.

Your overstimulated pussy quivers on his still-thrusting cock, on and on, each pulse as pained as it is rapturous. You’re gonna die, you think deliriously, he’s gonna fucking kill you, as Ghost fucks you through the spasms with a vengeance.

When you think you’ll pass out, the tension unspools, and your muscles lock for the last time. Then you feel him come. Warm ropes of spend fill you until you can’t take anymore, then it spills out of your swollen folds to trickle down your legs.

Ghost pulls out to watch more of his cum flow out of you before helping you upright and kissing the back of your sweat-soaked neck. “…Fuckin’ hell,” He murmurs into your skin, leaving smears of black makeup where he nuzzled into your throat.

You push at his shoulders until he lets you turn around. Then you draw him down for more kisses. “I think you might have to carry me out of here,” You whisper into his lips.

The sound of his chuckle is so infinitely precious. You wish you could preserve it, like pressing flowers between the pages of a book so that you can remember it later.

“I can do that.”

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[procrastinatingsoicanreadfanfics]

Vikings and their eras

Summary: what era would vikigns be in if they weren't in their own

Notes: I did a lot of text for this one, bc I loved thinking about this!! There are some pretty popular characters missing (Ragnar, Sigurd, Athelstan) where I just couldn’t imagine a certain era for them. Thank you so much for your request :)))))) Some of these eras aren’t wonderful or filled with positivity but that doesn’t mean these characters wouldn’t thrive.

tagged: @majesticwren @obsessiveformiyatwins @leithdragon @demon-of-the-ancient-world @alicedopey, @ivarlover @levithestripper @batmandallyboy @akayxo09 @vrtualfairy (hmu to be added!)

based on this request | masterlist | requests are OPEN!

Lagertha

Lagertha would thrive well in times of crises and war (lmao). The black death, WW1 or 2, or long periods of war/famine/sickness is where Lagertha does well. Think about her what you will, but she brings people together, manages them, and takes care of them. She’s a natural leader, and a fighter, so she’s able to protect her community.

We’ve seen examples of this in the series, think during the sickness in Kattegat, or when she takes over and completely builds up Hedeby. People tend to trust her, and especially women look up to/feel safe around her. When disaster strikes, she would be able to save/take care of them.

Aslaug

I had to think about this for a really long time because I think that Aslaug fits so well into the era the show is set in, however, I finally decided on the 1920s. Even as a feminine woman in Viking Scandinavia, she had a lot of authority over herself and knew how to grow a business (Kattegat) when Hirst wasn’t feeling sexist.

In the 1920s, she’d live in a big city, maybe Berlin or New York, and she’d own some sort of speakeasy. I’d love to think that her speakeasy would be a place for the very few pagans of the city to meet up in secret, and she herself would still be a norse pagan, völva, etc. Also, she’d dip her toes into wild jewellery design (think Schiaparelli). Definitely someone who attracts artists and would be considered a muse.

Rollo

Middle Medieval Ages for sure. He thrives being a knight because he’s a manipulative little hoe that I can’t stand. Gets to do his performative heroism during tourneys and woo women only to leave them all alone.

Rollo is not a good person, esp. towards women. He constantly gets into trouble with the church and with fathers whose daughters he ‘dishonors’. Definitely needs a wife like Gisla to slap some sense into him. I think that eventually (mid forties) he’d start to mature. Also, having children would help him become a better person (I think they should have put that into a show).

Bjorn

Bjorn thrives well in the late 2000s to early 2010s, when travel blogs were on the rise. He’s one of the early influencers, and travels the world together with Halfdan. This only works bc cancel culture isn’t real yet. Bjorn would say some stupid shit and get hounded for it let’s be real. Nonetheless, there is always some rumour about him and Halfdan being a thing (they would be if they both didn’t constantly say ‘that’s gay’).

Alternatively, Bjorn might make a good colonizer (can I say that?), but it’s not like he isn’t that already.

Ubbe

Ubbe would thrive during the late medieval ages (defo not the Renaissance though). He’s the type of man who would enjoy the idea of the charming knight. I think Ubbe would definitely enjoy the idea of quests/saving damsels in distress/having the arranged-marriage-turned-lovestory (he’s a booktok girly tbh).

This doesn’t mean that all of this is totally pure. Ubbe gets some shit twisted in canon as well (ESPECIALLY concerning Margrethe). Maybe his first war was something crusade-like, and he went into it thinking of heroic acts and blabla and then got fucked up by battle and gore. Also has a religion and Madonna/whore complex problem.

Hvitserk

In the show, Hvitserk was always seeking sense/purpose while also struggling with balance, which is why I think he would thrive in the 1970s. This is THE era for protests and social change. Climate change, feminism and sexuality all became important topics. Going to protests would be able to give him a sense of change, and I think it would be liberating for him as well, to be able to free himself of his restraints by changing something.

I’ll go into communes a little more for Helga, but I think Hvitserk would thrive in an early commune a lot. He needs to have people around him taking care of his mental health, and this would be great for his mental health. Yes, therapy helps a lot of people, but I think if Hvitserk lived in our time, he would think that talk therapy is stupid, and completely close himself off to it. This guy just needs a lot of love, okay?

Also, he needs to smoke some 70s weed every once in a while.

Ivar

Just like Hvitserk, Ivar would thrive during the 1970s. However, this is for completely different reasons and also means that no one else gets to thrive. I chose the 1970s because it’s THE serial killer decade.

That honestly sounds terrible but we all know it’s true.

Ivar would be bitter about being discriminated/not being able to fully take part in society/not getting any women and that would turn him homicidal. He definitely overcomplicated his killings and does shitty bloodeagles to get some cool name but all he gets is like “the Viking killer” or something and he’s so mad about that he reveals himself on his deathbed to change his title. It doesn’t work.

Floki

Floki just wants to be where Helga is, but he would not thrive in the 2020s. I think he’d get in arguments with Helga about vaccinations. However, I want Floki to be in the 2010s/2020s with Helga. He definitely has some kind of hallucination-related mental illness at the least. I think that especially the season where he acted out against Helga (season 4?) shows that his mental health was making him harmful towards others and probably towards himself.

I can’t diagnose Floki, but I think we can all see that he might have some kind of bipolar disorder/mania disorder on top of a schizophrenia. He needs some kind of meds, and he needs someone to help him taking them.

Helga

This is very specific, but Helga would do AMAZING during the early era of Covid (like March 2020). Yes, she’s a very social person, but I do believe that Helga would be part of a quite isolated commune if she lived during modern times, and even during that time be isolated with Floki.

I would like to think that the commune could be self-sufficient and Helga just gets to go ham making banana bread and care packages. She thrives in this time where she doesn’t really have to go to work (even though she loves being a kindergartener too) and gets to take care of the people in her commune, and even further than that from the comfort of her own home.

Astrid

This woman thrives where no one else does, and that is toxic 2020s twitter. All she does is tweet, get cancelled, tweet, get popular, repeat. She’s so so annoying and bullies a bunch of people who don’t deserve to be bullied. Is most definitely blocked by trump, hailey Bieber and the Kardashians at least.

Makes a living by selling feetpics.

Ecbert

Ecbert thrives in the 1980s. Now. Hear me out. Ecbert in neon Zumba clothes. There, that’s my reason.

I’m just kidding, there’s more. I’m not old enough to fully understand most of the decades I’m talking about in here but the 1980s, it seems, were this extremely colorful and wild decade. Literally everywhere, color just kind of seemed to explode, and I think Ecbert would thrive in this kind of chaotic atmosphere.

(are there people in their forties or older on this post that can verify?)

Aelswith

I’m really sad that we didn’t go into Aelswith more in the show, but I firmly believe that Aelswith would make an amazing Sufragette. Thinking back to her time on the show, she was always very firm in standing her ground, more so than Judith or even Lagertha in some ways (especially in the sense that she was SO YOUNG). She directed and strengthened Alfred, and I think during season 6, she used a beartrap to defend her baby?

Anyway, I imagine her as a rich/aristocratic lady in London who definitely steers the household while Alfred brings the money in (he likes art) and she decides that, if she puts in the work in the house, she should be able to decide over the country that house is in as well.

[yallemagne]

Everyone talking about the new Dorian Gray taking the fuckin Sailor Moon approach to praying the gay away.

Let's like actually dip our queer little toes into this. If they keep Basil's attraction to Dorian, hey what the fuck? Hey fucking dumb cunt writing this stupid adaptation, let me tell you a little something: you are directly comparing being gay to being incestuous. And let me tell you another thing: a difference between being gay and being incestuous? Being gay is neutral and being incestuous is bad. Wanting to kiss people of your same sex? Perfectly neutral but has a history of being condemned as a sin worse than murder. Wanting a romantic/sexual relationship with your family members? Bad! Immoral, even! Inherently toxic and unhealthy! All "consensual" depictions of incest are blatant examples of childhood sexual grooming.

(if anyone wants to say "it's just a story it's not saying anything about gay people" literally in the book the characters are representative of gayness. Basil is a representation of gay men who pine but never indulge, Dorian is a representation of the boogeyman gay that the lawmakers use to justify imprisoning people for homosexuality. the whole fucking book is a commentary on shit in society, it is an OBNOXIOUS commentary. you cannot make an adaptation without taking your decisions into account.)

This is just like the fucking Dorian Gray musical that gender bent ONLY BASIL because they claimed they needed more female characters. The reason they claimed they needed more female characters? They wanted to show more facets of femininity than Sibyl Vane's femme fatale. WHAT? Yeah they called Sibyl a femme fatale. Bitch, the only person this femme is fatale against is her goddamn self. I think they were genuinely trying to squeeze in a Madonna vs Whore complex and assumed that since Sibyl is an actress she must be a whore. Literally just MAKE THE MAIN TRIO CHICKS WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU?!

Anyhow anyway, bereft of anything to really spice up the Basil/Dorian thing as Forbidden, they aged up woman Basil to be Dorian's art teacher, using her authority over him to force him to model for her. Wuh. Uh. WUGHh. WHahglsh. "THERE ARE NOT ENOUGH WOMEN IN THE OG STORY QUICK MAKE BASIL A PEDOPHILE!!!"

We don't need a modern retelling of Dorian Gray, and modern retellings will aways be trash because the events of that book are moulded by the era is set in. But I suppose if someone has a gun to your head telling you to make a modern retelling, you do know that being gay is still illegal in a lot of places, yeah? So you don't... You don't need to change the story to the point that Basil, one of the only non malicious characters in the story, just flawed the regular human amount and condemned by unjust laws, now deserves to be in prison for a legitimate crime.

This is a ramble.

Netflix stop fucking adapting shit you fucking suck. Every single time you fucking suck. Is this gonna be worse than when they compared vampirism to AIDS and cast people suffering from AIDS in a very predatory light for the Dracula miniseries? Who knows? But I guess there's gonna be an influx of incest kink people in the Dorian Gray tag if that miniseries' popularity is anything to go off of.

[gascon-en-exil]

Sorry if I sound rude Saying this but a woman wearing a short skirt and a cleavage isn't sexualized and acting as if thighs belly button and chest are sexual when they are just body part is the main problem of women not being able to dress how they want and to have t hide some body parts to not excite the male gaze. I agree that FEH is indeed using fanservice but saying that a woman wearing outfits exposing those body part is itself fanservice is wrong beyond limit, especially regarding the Edelgard design since it's very modest and anatomically wrong

Say it with me now:

Fictional characters are not people. They are tools.

What these units wear says nothing about what women should wear, but it does say quite a bit about FEH's artists and their target demographic. If you'd actually paid attention to that post, I was advocating for hornier male character art because that would allow FE's tastelessness to at least feel consistent.

Also, Zettai Ryouiki is the trope I was thinking of - sexualizing the gap of bare skin between a short skirt and stockings. I'm not going to pretend to understand why that's a thing - maybe it's sort of like the joke that Victorian Anglos got horny for exposed ankles? - but it apparently is, and winter Edelgard's got plenty of it.

I realize that part of Edelgard's sexual/romantic appeal is, ironically, that she's "modest" and unavailable to anyone but you the player(-as-Byleth), because straight men have that whole Madonna/whore complex thing going on where women or female characters who are perceived as too sexual or too experienced are somehow threatening or, worse, "used." There's also a TV Trope for that. Given my own experiences and the total absence of that sentiment in gay male culture, it's little wonder that some of my favorite modern FE female characters are Camilla and Manuela - because they've got obviously sexualized designs but are also written to be aware of their own appeal and how they make use of it.

However, you've really got to let go of that "My Girl Is Not a Slut" thing with Edelgard, because IS has no such reservations. Never mind the thigh gap winter alt, we've got

boob armor where previously there was none, for the alt players actually voted for,

a much softer and more human take on the Hegemon,

lying supine in a nightdress, and more exposed thigh courtesy of Cipher,

more exposed skin and basically a camel toe; I also know that Reddit threw a fit over this one in particular, because she's not muscular and/or scarred from the Agarthan experiments,

and an upskirt shot from Azure Gleam that lasts for two whole seconds, in the middle of a scenario where Edelgard is made to take orders from two older men and then reduced to a babbling child.

In the midst of any outrage over my pointing out more examples of IS treating Edelgard like a sex object, I'd like you to turn that feeling around and ask instead: Why does the camera never lovingly linger up a male character's clothes? Why are possessed male characters (ex. Conquest Takumi) never treated like helpless children? Why are there no Cipher cards of any male characters lounging around in nightwear giving the viewer bedroom eyes? When male characters become monsters (ex. Lyon with Fomortiis), why do their FEH versions look the same or even more monstrous?

Oh, wait. Is it because of this? I assume you also sent this.

Funny how when male characters are actually objectified in the same way, then and only then does it become stupid.

People get horny over Edelgard, and IS knows it. People also get horny over naked and mostly-naked men in ways that do not necessarily cater to straight male comfort, although fortunately for you I imagine IS doesn't seem to know or care about that. Take your wins where you can get them, and let the rest of us have our fun.

[rei-comfort-zone]

I know that ash and Kyle have a sibling dynamic but does Kyle just ever say something that reminds ash that he’s a man? that man has been stewing in misogynistic 4chan threads and /soc/ discord servers for years, like would he slip out ‘foid’ while talking about women or something?

First of all ! ! !

I won't lie that I first felt quite an ick when you had to highlight Kyle's and Ash sibling dynamic before asking the question, BUT WELL I did my best to not see it in a bad light and actually answer this:

(Kyle and Ash are in fact step-siblings actually, as ocs they started as friends with sibling dynamic until I actually made them into actual step-family btw)

And !! I actually like to think that Kyle is the typical incel with a Madonna whore complex (in his mind there's women he respects and women who doesn't deserves respect). He WOULDN'T actually approach Ash in any sort of incel behaivor out of respect and genuine sibling love and quite overprotection to her, BUT maybe would had say misogynist stuff around her BY ACCIDENT but never letting himself say explicit stuff or violent foid hate, just basic misogynist joke or rants about one of his ex girls that dump him for being and asshole and immature

He is like those brothers that is "I know how men usually thinks" and tries to keep her safe of anything outside of his own incel behaivor <-Madonna whore complex acting again to have an idealization of Ash

And yeah he may be an incel but I always try to not make it fall into making seem Kyle as possible threat/misogynist creep around Ash, just a stupid overprotective brother that was raised by incels but still haves some sort of gen worry in him for his fam

[fairydust-stuff]

2ha thoughts spoilers

I hate that stupid flower of hared! Not only does it throw the idea of redemption off a cliff! But it makes Mo Ran so much more less interesting. Mo Ran is presented from the start with the most screwed up Madonna/ whore complex. Or Whatever the Chinese idea of this is. 

He files Shi Mei as this kind of pure creature comparing him to the moon. He cann’t even feel attraction to his crush and spends more time lusting after Chu Wanning his rape victim from a previous time line. Who he focuses on in both a sexual manner and was implied to have sexually targeted due to viewing him as a terrible person who pretended to be pure. 

Then there’s Song who was killed after revealing she had a nasty streak by being boiled alive. Who Mo Ran never forgives for her transgression of bad mouthing Chu Wanning. 

 Rong Jiu who is assaulted, beaten and ruined in retaliation for betraying Mo Ran. Even though their interactions were purely transactional. Both whom Mo ran admitted to being drawn too because they reminded him of Shi Mei. They are cast aside when they no longer play into a fantasy no longer fit the idea of the boy in his head. 

Also the only people Ran Mo can bring himself to have sex with are a prostitute, His teacher who he see’s as bad and Song a Butterfly Beauty Feast. All three of these people are far enough from being people in Mo Ran’s eyes that he can bring himself to lust after them. 

this actually strengthens the Chu Wanning X Mo ran dynamic because Chu is the first person who Mo Ran’s view of gets shaken to its core. Mo Ran learns that Chu wanning has complicated reasons for the things he does. Even if those things might be harmful to some. He’s forced to see Chu as a complex person and even after he finds out Chu is in fact made of wood. 

Mo still see’s him as a person. In fact Chu is the only one who becomes real to him enough to shatter to barrier between love/sex and invoke feelings of both in Mo ran allowing him to actually be in love. Chu shatters his shallow view makes Mo Ran realize he was wrong to treat a person as a object for his pleasure. 

Except the flower reveals its a dam lie! 

Instead of an examination of the ideas/ culture and experiences that might teach a  guy  who to value and who to use for sex. And how those values lead to things like lack of respect for sexual consent. Which makes way too much sense considering the world Mo Ran grew up in. Which encourages the consumption of others. And the idea of how you can look past those ideas. 

He loved, respected and was attracted to Chu Wanning all along. Mo ran never had to learn to respect his sexual partners. He was only ever drawn to Shi Mei, Rong Jui because of the flower, he was just weird not because he had a tendency to dis value his sex partners for shallow reasons no it was because he’s not even drawn to girly men/ladies. (rolls eyes). 

Shi mei made Mo ran dismiss him as a perfect object. So him/Hau Binan being  angry or influenced by dealing with Mo Ran’s objectification of Shi Mei. Which are views expressed by both halves of Shi Mei in the text.  Isn’t allowed to affect Mo Ran in any way. Which is irritating since Shi mei whole deal is being part of a race that has been reduced to being treated as sub human. 

Since the story has decided that doesn’t matter. The fact that Ran Mo has been the client of an actual sex slave. Ran mo and his complicity in said abuse of older man despite his age. Lets just ignore that it wasn’t his fault it was the flower. 

In my opinion, that weakens Ran Mo as a character because he is never allowed to be complicit in his own negative, actions biases and even gets this special get out of jail free card. That reduces his character to nothing more then a victim of others actions. 

Yes Mo Ran still does the work to make up for certain past actions but his infractions which link to the theme of the novel about dehumanization  how it breeds monsters are completely ignored and outright dismissed. 

[envolvenuances]

analysing that "women as a class are fucking stupid" post under the light of Madonna/Whore complex and Loving to Survive