empress

kaltain | she/her | I’m 23 gardenias on the tile

[empress-ghoul]

masterlist

howdy y’all, i’m kaltain (she/her), 23, currently writing call of duty and maybe different stuff down the line

writing

ghost | soap | gaz | price | ghoap | devil’s minion

oneshots

tbd

series

rising waters - old gods of appalachia au golden age - ethel cain anthology

original characters

nina

extras

general inspo

fic covers

moodboards

ao3

banners by @/cafekitsune

[empress-ghoul]

A shapeshifter, but instead of it being some mystical beautiful transformation it’s bloody and gory visceral. You can feel every bone splinter and tendon snap. You can feel your blood like molten steel in your body, rapidly adjusting to whatever the temperature is of the animal you chose.

It’s agony. It’s beautiful. It’s blasphemy.

[553580]

thinking of you on ao3

[basementcoffee]

john price who buys a plot of land and moves west, only to arrive after weeks on the trail and find a ramshackle little cabin already squatting on it. the whole place looks abandoned. reeks of neglect. he draws his gun and ventures in for a look anyway, see if he can’t at least salvage the place to build his own—and scares its lone resident, a woman armed only with a knife.

though it takes some time, skittish as you are, he talks you down. learns who you are and what you’re doing on his property. apparently, you’ve been fending for yourself for months after your new husband took your horse into town for supplies and simply never came back. no letter or body, nor word from anybody who might’ve seen him—just a house that’s falling apart and a garden you depend on to keep you alive.

price shows you the deed and bill of sale to convince you he isn’t some drifter or swindler trying to trick or rob you, and watches the fight go out of you when you realize what the papers actually mean, that the land was never your husband’s to begin with. that this stranger has every right to put you out.

you were frightened before, but now you’re looking at winter coming on with no horse, hardly any money, nowhere to go, and truly no one left in the world. and price, who’s spent his life living hard and thought that he’d spend the back half of his life alone, finds he can’t stomach the sight of you standing there trying not to beg him mercy.

he looks at the growing calluses on your palms, the dirt under your fingernails, and the dried mud caked along the hem of your skirts, and he is struck. all those violent, bloody years he survived when better men did not? this must be what he’s been kept alive for. to come all this way to this slice of heaven and find you here.

so he strikes a bargain instead: you can stay through the next month while you decide what you want to do. in the meantime you’ll help him make the place livable and he’ll teach you what he knows.

you’re not stupid. you know exactly how lopsided a deal it is, how little you have to offer compared to what he’s putting on the table—besides the obvious. he gives you the night to think it over, you toss and turn beneath for hours trying to invent a better alternative, but there simply isn’t one.

in the morning, bleary-eyed and embarrassed, you tell him you accept. john just grins and drains his coffee. to him, the matter was never in much doubt. he puts the two of you to work immediately.

the first few weeks are hard. john tackles the roof and walls first, making you his little helper, calling down for whatever tool he needs next or sending you to fetch whatever materials you can manage. you go to bed and wake up sore, palms blistering in a pair of his old gloves. all the while, john, strong as an ox, seems capable of working from dawn until dusk.

in the afternoons, when the heat makes repair work miserable, he puts you both on his horse and rides double to the nearby lake to teach you to fish. you squirm the first time he makes you gut a trout, nearly retching when the knife opens its belly. john only laughs when you try to shove the whole bloody business back toward him. his big hands close over yours instead, guiding the blade while his chest glues to your back, his voice rumbling in your ear as he chides you for trying to worm your way out of it. can’t live on good intentions, love. go on. get your fingers in there.

he teaches you to shoot next and that’s when you get your first inkling of whatever life he led before he found you. he’s an excellent shot, on foot and horseback. he’s also a good teacher. hands-on. correcting your stance, one wide palm at your waist and the other on your elbow, enduring every flinch of yours until you can fire without shaking. he shows you how to set basic snares and read the ground for tracks. in return, you teach him what grows best in the garden and what you’ve found foraging.

and during those early weeks, you live on edge, waiting for him to ask for more than just a second helping at dinner. because you know enough of the world to know what sort of bargain a woman in your position might ordinarily be expected to make, whether the exact terms are spoken aloud or not.

you hold your breath whenever he squeezes past you in the kitchen and go stiff when his hands squeeze your sides while shooting, steadying you against the recoil. more than once you’ve lain awake listening to the floorboards creak beneath his weight while he stays up late, waiting for him to appear at your bedside. when you bathe in the lake, he stands watch on the bank with his back turned, and though you wait to catch him looking over his shoulder. but, to your honest shock, he never does.

he’s refreshingly gentlemanly. you can’t tell whether he’s honoring the existence of your husband, suspended somewhere in that awful limbo between living and dead, or whether john is simply a patient man biding his time. waiting for the right moment.

whatever the reason, each day that passes without him demanding that certain kind of tender as payment relaxes you just a bit more. your vigilance eases and you stop keeping track of where he is in and outside of the cabin. for the first time in a long time, you feel at peace.

as a consequence, the whole situation grows domestic. his razor appears beside your washbasin. his coat hangs beside yours by the door. you start setting two places at breakfast and supper. at night, when there’s oil or wax to spare, you read aloud to each other.

so it comes as a surprise when, near the end of the month, john tells you to put on your best. you’re going into town.

today, apparently, you’re going to finally buy a horse of your own.

you start protesting immediately—you haven’t the money for a horse, your husband carried the bulk of it, you certainly don’t have enough a good one—but john waves all that away. you need one, he insists. can’t have you stranded. and while you’re in town, you can make some inquiries after your husband.

that shuts you up. almost makes you petulant. worse is the stab of shame when you realize you’ve barely thought of the man in weeks. for months, his absence had occupied every waking hour. you would daydream and imagine hoofbeats or footsteps and fly to the window, searching. then john arrived, and at some point, your husband became an afterthought.

in town, john waits patiently while you ask after your husband at the general store, the barber, the blacksmith. he accompanies you into the saloon, standing a few paces behind while you question the bartender and whatever regulars might have been there around the time your husband disappeared. john doesn’t say a word. he watches their faces, thick arms folded across his chest, eyes jumping from face to face beneath the brim of his hat while you explain when your husband left, the horse, and what he looked like.

nobody knows a thing.

in the end, you wilt dutifully. resigned to the fact that he either ran off or that his bones are bleaching in a ditch somewhere on the road. the thought ought to devastate you more than it does, and that brings another little stab of guilt.

john simply plants a hand between your shoulder blades and steers you toward the livery.

there, at least, he manages to cheer you up. he helps you choose a pretty chestnut gelding with a blaze on his forehead and a friendly disposition. john pays for him while you’re busy cooing at the creature, along with a saddle and tack, and when you claim that you’ll pay him back, he merely smiles and says, ‘m sure you will, love.

back home, neither of you mention that your agreement is nearly up. and when the month comes and goes, and neither of you mentions that either.

the timeline simply stretches, one day passing into the next. any sense of urgency gets lost. there’s still work to be done on the cabin, after all. you’re getting better with the rifle but john reckons you’ve plenty left to learn. you’ve only just got your own horse and ought to become a better rider before setting off anywhere alone. then the sun starts setting earlier and the leaves start to change, and really, leaving now would be foolish what with winter so close. you better to stay until spring.

john lays all this out over dinner one night. says it so plainly.

you agree, a mite too eager, and hide your smile behind another bite.

that night, while you sleep curled beneath your blankets, john eases your door open enough to look in on you. he stands there for a long while, listening to your breathing, before slipping a hand into his pocket. his thumb finds the worn band of that wedding ring he picked off a dead man on the road west and toys with it.

he wonders if he ought to pray. john never put much stock in faith or fate before. but what could he call this? finding that failure of a man, then finding the home he’d abandoned and the wife he’d left behind? what else is john supposed to understand it as, if not a series of signs pointing him precisely where he was meant to go? of all the land he might have bought, all the roads he might have taken—what are the chances?

the next day, he takes that dead man’s ring down to the lake and tosses it in. he will buy another the next time the two of you ride into town.

and that night, after weeks of patience, of sneaking off to see to his own wants in private, kicking dirt over his wasted spend, he will finally make his move. he will employ that same slow tenderness he’s shown you from the beginning. he has no reason to believe you won’t welcome it. you won’t shy away. you’ve been alone so long, starved for company, and he’s taught you to reach for him when you need something, hasn’t he?

no, you won’t fight him one bit. you’ll understand better, too, when he’s got you on your back, cock buried deep, drool hanging off your lip—you’ll know that you’re both right where you belong. where you’re meant to be.

and with luck, by the time spring returns, there’ll be more reason for you to stay. maybe his baby in your belly and a new ring on your finger. that bargain of a single month so far behind you both that neither of you will remember there was ever supposed to be an ending to it.

[553580]

chapter 7 of the smell of creosote is up on ao3

[553580]

ao3

part 6

obsessive gaz x telepathic reader

cw: stalking, minor character death, sexual thoughts, alcohol

the text is simple- a date, a time, and a place. only a fucking idiot would show up- which is why kyle knows konig will be there. he'll also probably show up early, thinking he's being clever by scoping out the area beforehand- as if that will save him from kyle's wrath.

he shoves his phone back into his pocket and watches the screen of his laptop as his pretty, soft neighbor cries herself to sleep, the shaking of her body and muffled sounds of her sobs growing fainter and fainter until she goes still, her white noise machine having apparently lulled her to sleep. poor thing, she must've run into that big ugly brute while she was out and about, he must've frightened her terribly, and kyle can't help but kick himself for being away- too busy giddily hiding the cameras and microphones nikolai's contact had sold him while daydreaming about moving his few personal belongings into her flat.

"i'm sorry, babes." he whispers to the image on his screen, fingers tracing over the exaggerated curves of her ass and thighs. "i'll fix this. i've got you."

it'll take some work to get her walls to come down a bit more, but he's confident in his ability to wear her down little by little. she's clearly been put through the wringer by her shitty kortac boyfriend, but in his mind, that makes her even more perfect- she's already used to the distance and the secrets, after all. kyle knows he can make it better than konig ever could simply by virtue of not being a charmless git- he'll order flowers for her when he's got cell service, have her favorite food delivered to her flat, and make sure that every moment he's on leave is spent by her side (or on top of her, or under her, or pressed up behind her). he'll be everything that big lout isn't; handsome, attentive, caring, and loving.

he thinks back to that meeting in the coffee shop as he shuts his laptop closed, shaking his head in disgust. no 'hello darling', no 'i've missed you', nothing. just a stern 'i have been looking for you' that sent red flags flying in kyle's mind. clearly something is amiss, and he's desperate to make things better for her by any means necessary. god knows how long this poor girl has been trapped in this relationship, but it won't be for much longer. a plan is in motion to set her free, and nothing short of a bullet to the brain will derail kyle's plot.

he pauses as he steps outside of his door, eyes trained on her door number. she's tucked away, sleeping deeply behind a flimsy and a very pickable lock. anyone could get at her if they truly wanted to, and the idea makes him sick to his stomach. good thing he's taking matters into his own hands. god knows what would happen if he left her to fend for herself.

he can just imagine it now- big dirty boots kicking down her door, stomping loudly as that big austrian git chases her around her tiny little flat. screams of panic that would go intentionally ignored by the neighbors who don't want to know, don't want a fuss, are too concerned about protecting themselves against whatever it is that would make her shriek so wildly. the more kyle thinks about it, the clearer the solution is-

the austrian has to go.

he makes his way onto the street and strides down the sidewalk with a pace quick enough to create a bit of a breeze against his face. his pristine chelsea boots stomp against the concrete with intention, unwavering on their journey, all the while kyle's mind churns, spitting out scenarios, what-ifs, potential consequences and repercussions. it muddles his mind, but doesn't deviate him from his plan- if anything, it convinces him that this isn't a solo operation, that it's something he'll need assistance with.

the prepaid cell phone in his pocket feels heavier, as if it's begging to be used, calling to him like a siren's song that he has no intention of resisting. fingers fly across the screen in a practiced motion, tapping out a number long since memorized, and the line only buzzes once before it connects.

"ah, sergeant. so nice to hear from you." nikolai practically purrs, affection ringing clear through his words.

"nik. i need a hand."

"is that right?" nikolai sounds amused, and it nearly makes kyle laugh. he's clearly enjoying being needed, even if on an informal basis.

"found a kortac operative sniffing around my... neighborhood. the big austrian one." kyle explains, mentally kicking himself for nearly saying 'my girl'. god knows nikolai would never let him hear the end of it if he knew this was over a woman. the teasing would be merciless and unending.

"ah yes, the one so ugly valeria requires him to cover his face." nikolai chuckles, and kyle aspirates a small laugh. "still sore about the last kastovia op, eh sergeant?"

the big brute had caught him completely unaware in kastovia, dropping through an open hole in the ceiling and nearly catching kyle in the throat with his k-bar. it was only luck that the floorboards was so weak, dropping the big austrian lunk through another floor- and nearly taking kyle with him. it was close- too close- and ghost had reamed him out thoroughly about being caught off-guard. seems word had reached price, which obviously meant it reached nikolai, too.

no bigger gossip-mongers than soldiers and mercs.

"just being cautious. i'm hoping to take care of things before he becomes an issue. again." kyle can practically hear the gears turning in the pilot's head, hoping his vague response won't earn him a denial.

"and what exactly is it you need from me?" nikolai asks, and kyle can hear the telltale sounds of ice being dropped into a rocks glass, followed by the pour of what kyle can only assume is a paint-thinner vodka being poured over it. nikolai always did enjoy his rot gut liquor, insisting it builds character and separates the men from the boys. probably a mentality he picked up from price.

"i've set up a meeting, but i'll need cameras off for this one." the less evidence, the better.

"getting into freelance wet work on your time off, sergeant?" nikolai teases, and kyle knows immediately it's price that's tipped him off about being on leave.

"just settling a score before it comes to settle me." kyle deflects easily, and it earns him a deep, booming laugh.

"understood. send me the time and place, and i will make things happen. i will need at least one hour to prepare, and the window will have to be small in order to avoid detection. should be easy for a professional like yourself, yes?" kyle can practically hear that cheshire grin over the phone.

"copy. thanks nik."

"any time, my brother." the line goes dead, and kyle can't help but exhale in relief. trying to do this solo would have surely ended in disaster, he's convinced of that the more he dwells on it. getting the giant git out of the way was never in question- but getting away with it was uncertain. but now with nikolai backing him up and taking out the cameras, success seems inevitable

kyle ducks into a nearby pub, forwarding the information he'd sent to konig over to nikolai as he waits for the bartender to serve him. the pieces are settling into place, all he needs now is for his quarry to bite. it's an inevitability, but at this point all he can do is wait for confirmation.

this is the right thing to do, he tells himself as he gives a dazzling smile to the heart-eyed bartender. there was a time not that long ago that he might've pursued her, followed her home and slid into her bed- but those days are behind him now. he's locked in and focused, with a clear goal in mind; the woman in number 541.

the slight curve of her hard-won smile from earlier fills his thoughts as he kills time sipping his beer and halfheartedly watching the footie game on the shitty little telly in the corner. men in red and blue kits battle it out on a pristine green field as his mind wanders to the pretty face and big soft body he covets so deeply.

wonder what it would take to make her laugh. bet it's pretty, and that it makes all of her jiggle, he muses to himself, imagining the bounce of her tits. it'll be so much easier once we take care of our little problem- after all, she'll be much more relaxed once that giant git is out of the way. those walls she's built up will crumble when the imminent threat is gone, and she'll let us in. wonder what she'll give us first- her mouth or her pussy? maybe her hand, if she's shy- but i can work with that. we know all the shit girls like to hear, we can talk her into more. we can always talk them into more.

she's not like the others, though, another corner of his mind counters. that's what makes her special. you'll have to truly earn it this time- after all, any other bird would've given in at the coffee shop much more easily. she made you work for that smile, and you nearly didn't get her to agree to see you again. that bavarian git's got her disillusioned- you're going to have to restore her faith in others again.

the pocket of his jacket vibrates, and he can't help the satisfied smirk sliding across his face. he'd taken a calculated risk, calling in the favor o'conor had owed him- but declan came through, it would seem, having provided him the phone number to his brother-in-arms at kortac.

>>i will be there.

the smirk blooms into a full smile as the cell phone slips back into his pocket. in a quarter of an hour he'll meet the big brute, handle his business, and move on to phase two- comforting his poor, grieving neighbor over the loss of her boyfriend. or helping her celebrate his disappearance. either way, he'll be there, ready to pull her into his arms, and with any luck, her bed. his tongue traces over the edges of his teeth as he imagines biting into the fat of her ass, and he has to force himself to think of anything else to keep himself from getting hard while perched on a bar stool and sipping an incredible mediocre porter; wrinkled old nuns wagging disapproving fingers in his face, grenade victim's blown open ribs left still smoking, price's hairy arse in the showers catching and holding bubbles from the lather of his soap.

his libido settled and beer finished, kyle stretches his legs as he saunters towards the meeting spot- the tube. people around him filter in and out of the bisected staircase leading underground, their faces temporarily aglow from the red circle that stretches other the entrance, welcoming them to the underground. in a way, they remind him of ants, filing neatly behind one another, keeping to the left, their movements almost instinctual, never bumping into each other or lingering in the middle of a thoroughfare. he lingers for a moment, fingers idly playing with the edges of his oyster card as he watches the throngs of people moving around him.

with a forced casualness, he saunters down the steps, entering the underground. it's like a different world down here, where every single sound seems to echo off the tiled walls and the smell of burning metal, sweat, and piss commingled into an unmistakable signature scent. there's no transport police in sight- not that he'd really expected them, but it would be his luck to plan this little rendezvous on the same night as a protest or big concert that would bring the bobbies out in droves.

the burner phone buzzes in his hand as he checks the time- one new message from an unsaved but deeply memorized number.

>>they're off. you have two minutes.

kyle rushes to his platform, scanning for the big ugly kraut. it's not hard to spot him- tall, broad, and poorly dressed, loitering by some fenced structure with high walls, put up for some construction project or another. kyle's eyes sweep the platform as he strides forward- there's very few people around, and those that are have their noses solidly pointed towards their phone screens. it's late, likely they're texting loved ones, checking schedules, or killing time scrolling through social media. they're not looking around, aren't aware of their surroundings-

just like konig isn't. there's no time to waste, so kyle bee lines for konig, tapping his shoulder and leading him behind the fencing, away from prying eyes.

"you." the austrian says, accusation dripping off the single syllable as he steps behind the fencing.

"yeah, me, arsehole. we need to chat." kyle snaps. he's allowed to be short to a man who's shot at him, he justifies to his wincing sense of propriety.

"about?"

"the woman i was with earlier- what do you want from her?" kyle demands, crossing his arms over his chest.

"it isn't your business." konig replies, monotone. "what is she to you, anyways?"

"it isn't your business." kyle echoes, enjoying the flash of annoyance on the other man's face. "but what is my business is that you've upset her. i can't be having that."

"she's a silly woman. there is no reason to be upset, and no reason to bring you into this. i just need her to do as i say-" konig turns his head to watch the incoming train, like the fucking tourist he is, and kyle takes his opportunity. with one sharp shove with both hands between his shoulder blades, he sends konig tumbling onto the tracks mere moments before he's run down. there's barely enough time for him to scream like a frightened child before it's cut off and then drowned out by the squeal of the braking train. a woman screams, a man yells and points, and several people have their phones pressed to their ears as they call for help- but none of them seem to notice the young man with the blue baseball cap joining the throng of panicked people striding towards the exit, with his head down, moving at a quick and purposeful pace.

you had to. for her. now she'll be able to sleep without crying, be able to go get coffee without being harassed by him. it's for the best. you saved her. a voice in his head that sounds suspiciously like price consoles him. and besides, it's for the greater good. you've seen the things that man would do for the pittance kortac pays him. whatever he was in england for, it certainly couldn't have been any good.

the thoughts console him all the way back to his flat, where he immediately pops open his laptop to watch the his neighbor sleep. she's rolled onto her side, curled up in a round little ball that inspires his imagination to run wild with what it would be like to wrap himself around her, having that big fat arse cradled up against his hips, hand draped over her to better play with her tits. she looks so peaceful like this, it'd be fun to see if he could fuck her in her sleep, something slow and gentle, maybe, so she would wake up until she came on his cock.

as he settles back on his couch, kyle fires back a quick thanks to nikolai, and barely has his phone back in his pocket when it starts to ring.

"is there a problem?" kyle says in lieu of hello.

"yeah. a big one." ghost's voice says, and the surprise of it makes him check his phone to look at the contact number. he'd expected nikolai, or maybe price- but this is a shocking development. he can tell already that his plans for his pretty, soft neighbor have been blown to fucking hell in less than ten seconds.

"makarov is on the move. get your arse back on base asap- your leave's suspended until further notice." ghost continues, and kyle curses under his breath.

"copy." kyle replies through grit teeth, jabbing at the call end symbol harder than strictly necessary.

fuck.

[ceilidho]

I also think a really cute idea that would focus less on the nobility and more on the common people (which is right up my alley) would be smallfolk!reader accidentally causing the death of some highborn lord and having to basically flee the city on pain of death (she knows instantly she's absolutely fucked if she stays in the city because the lord's guards were nearby when she accidentally killed him, so she has to immediately start running).

she gets enough of a head start that she's able to make it to a small village on the outskirts of the city (she stole the lord's horse or something and then set it free so it wouldn't give her away) and then begs the first person she sees to hide her (the village blacksmith because his forge is at the end of the main road leading into town, and she's so desperate that she barely even registers the way his eyes glow with the same heat as the red hot iron resting on his anvil), and he tells her he will.

only what he doesn't divulge, until a few knights of the realm come galloping into town, is that his plan to conceal her identity involves telling them that the woman sitting anxiously in his house is his wife of several years and yes of course, he saw the smallfolk woman they speak of come riding through not long ago, they should be able to catch up with her if they don't tarry.

and of course, after they've left, she can't exactly go back to her hovel in the city. they'll be waiting for her at the gates. better just for her to stay with him and share his bed and, well, it would do for her to have a husband to keep her out of trouble if this is the kind of trouble she attracts.

[ceilidho]

#MyGhost

[niraves]

[stingyanart]

let the farmer do the plowing 🐎 john price back at it again !!

[ceilidho]

best friend's older brother soap who flips up ur skirt whenever ur over and laughs when u shriek at him, loudly talks about how he'd fuck u to his friends when he knows that u and his brother can hear u (gets pissed off if any of the other guys is a little Too enthusiastic tho), BOLTS to their pool if he finds out ur coming over and may go for a swim he would just love easier access to yank ur top down and bikini tops are so flimsy did you lose it?

bit through my fist while reading this, anon. (dubcon/noncon below)

bolts to see you when he hears that your best friend brought you over to swim and hang out. says the crassest things about your tits and lifts you up when you try to duck around him to go back inside the house, a poor excuse to grope you. throws you into the pool when you scream at him to let you down, mostly because he probably wants to see your bikini get all wet :((

it makes you hate going over to your best friend's house, so you usually invite them over to your place, but that just ends in Soap confronting you when he sees you around town. maybe he snatches you bag and holds it over your head just to watch you try to jump for it, says he'll only give it back for a kiss :(( but at the last second, he turns his head and gives you a sloppy kiss on the mouth :((

pulling you into the bathroom when you finally come over to your best friend's house, thinking Soap wouldn't be there because he was supposed to be away camping that weekend, and covering your mouth while he tells the person knocking on the door that he'll be out in just a second. big hands groping at your tits while you're screaming behind the hand covering your mouth. pulling the top of your bathing suit down and cooing when he pinches your nipples until you cry.

[quarterlifekitty]

cw: transactional relationship, babytrapping

Sugar Daddy!Price who takes his role with reluctance.

Does he want a transactional relationship based on his money? No. But does he have time to date someone and realistically keep them on the hook in a real relationship? Also no.

He thinks of himself as a logical, compartmentalized man. He can make hard decisions. He can do what’s best for everyone, not just himself.

So why is his relationship with you so fucking difficult for him?

Maybe it’s because you follow his stringent, quite frankly pain-in-the-ass contract to a T. You’re infuriatingly professional in a relationship that’s so intimate…

John can feel a clock ticking. He feels this constant twitter pated second hand growing closer to piercing his heart as it throbs. These relationships aren’t for keeps. Catch like you? Certain to find a fine young man… one that won’t be alright with you draping yourself over an old man like a mink coat. One that can provide for you and give you real love. The kind Price has shut himself off from by thinking “logically”, pragmatically, in his approach to relationships. Seems like every man with a gun knows how to shoot himself in the foot.

Asking you for something real… that could send you running. Birds who look for this kind of relationship aren’t looking to get tied down, and have a healthy suspicion of men with resources. There’s no more destructive thing in the world, after all. He can attest to that first hand.

Replacing a foil seal isn’t so difficult. Simon could do it in his sleep, but Price is a little out of practice and short on time. Had to order the sugar pills special— make sure the size and shape were right. The job isn’t perfect, but perfectly acceptable-looking to someone who’s never had an attempt made on their life. Or their freedom.

The part that follows is as natural as breathing. Fucking you stupid, balls smacking wetly against you from your tempting fucking cunt leaking all over him. Buries himself deep as he groans, your hips in a bruising grip while the heat of his load pulses against your cervix.

Got himself tested recently and everything. He may not be a spring chicken, but his count and motility is still high. The drinking and smoking have done their damage to him certainly, but in virility he remains blessedly pristine. At least, when he has the right motivation placed in front of him.

The image of you, a bump beneath your dress, lounging in his bed during a lazy morning. No intention of getting up, redressing, of getting back to some other life that has nothing to do with him. A generously sized rock on your finger. That’s motivation enough for him.

[pacificnorthwestcore]

(Source) August 2nd, 2026.

The Confederated Tribes of Warm Springs Wildfire Recovery Fund

[basementcoffee]

thinking about reader’s coworker from made to last and that poor girl’s fate, yeah, but mannn soap might be worse.

[basementcoffee]

price, gaz, and ghost are so used to soap's catastrophic 'dating' cycle that they stopped taking him seriously years ago. it always goes the same way: meet. fuck like rabbits. smother her with attention, barely let her out of bed come on too strong so she runs for the hills. he mopes for one week, swears off it all, and then like clockwork, he's back to corralling some new girl to the car park behind the pub.

they've seen this exact run so many times that they barely look up anymore whenever soap starts talking about this shy, sweet lass he met. price gives it two weeks. ghost gives it three days. gaz asks for her name only because it's easier to keep track of the casualties that way (and ever since ghost began his own hunt...well, someone should know something).

they've got a running joke for it—soap doesn't have girlfriends. he has chewtoys.

"how's the new chewtoy?" gaz asks over breakfast.

soap's tongue bulges against his cheek as he fishes a piece of gristle from between his teeth and spits it onto his plate. "think i'm in love."

ghost snorts into his tea. price doesn't even lower the newspaper. "that's what you said about the last one."

"and the one before that," gaz adds.

"'s different," he jabs his fork into the next bite. "'s gettin' serious. she's movin' in."

that gets price to finally peer over the top of the paper. he catches gaz's eye in a look. ghost's already leaning into his space, knocking his elbow into soap's arm.

"that right?" he drawls. "she aware of that plan?"

soap's shoulders rise toward his ears. his whole posture caves inward, thick forearms boxing in his plate as his knuckles white around his fork. his jaw tics. he won't look up at any of them now, suddenly engrossed in the hash he's carving into smaller and smaller pieces.

"'course she does."

[ghouljams]

thinking about omega!princess who goes into heat while on the road with knight!ghost.

he wants her so badly, but clearly not as badly as she wants him given the way she lunges, the way she pins him down with snarling teeth and tears in her eyes, pressing her leaking cunt against his codpiece and riding it like it's his cock. begging him to breed her and ghost is going crazy because he wants to knot her more than he's ever wanted anything in his life. the man is salivating, foaming at the mouth to be inside of her, and poor princess who is sobbing and crying for him, asking why he won't fuck her, she can feel how hard he is but he won't fuck her :( as if he codpiece were his cock and not hard steel. and poor ghost who is going to come in his armor, fat cock attempting to knot his breeches while his princess rubs her poor pussy raw on hard metal until she manages to come and relieve some of the heat insanity.

poor knight!ghost holding his charge in the chill of a stream as she thrashes and growls at him, trying to avoid looking at her as the water makes her under-dress cling to her sweat sticky skin and her sweet voice demands he fuck her, please, please fuck her, he said he would take care of her, why isn't he taking care of her? :(

[basementcoffee]

in the palm of your hand / ghost x f!reader

part of seconds; a weird soulmate/reincarnation horror thing. tags: noncon, abduction, references to violence and suicide

This time, Simon finds you without looking.

In fact, he is not yet aware of you at all. He has not felt that familiar wrenching sensation low in his belly, that grand shifting of perspective—no rug yet pulled clean out from under another perfectly ordinary life by the universe’s perverse sense of timing.

He’s simply walking home from work.

A road closure has forced him onto a different route. Funny, really, how often it comes down to something so dull. He’d wager seven out of ten times that the circumstances of your meetings are mundane. Hardly ever any fanfare. Today, it is a burst water main. Whole area’s cordoned off. Fate, when it bothers adding color to the details, lacks imagination.

He’s a couple beers deep, smells like it too, entwined with stale fryer oil from the basket of cheap fish and chips he wolfed down outside the site. His shirt and work vest cling to his chest and back, soaked through with sweat. The back of his neck splotchy and burnt pink from another day spent baking in the sun. He lumbers along, flat-eyed and bone-tired, every few steps rolling a shoulder, flexing a wrist, tipping his head to one side in futile attempts to work the knots from his body.

The street Simon’s been shunted onto is livelier than he reckons it usually is. Tree-lined and somehow mostly untouched by the new developments he helps put up. A mix of cozy Craftsmans and bungalows, single-story brick storefronts with hand-lettered signs. Patios are starting to fill for happy hours. A cluster of people funnel down the basement steps of a church for a meeting. Teenagers with nothing better to do try to look older as they loiter in front of a convenience store. Frantic streams of displaced commuters pound the pavement, staring down at their phones as they try to figure out bus reroutes or how to reach the next station.

One by one, though, instinct tickles the back of their necks, and their heads lift. They veer around him when they spot him, granting him the wide berth they might afford to say, a grizzly bear that wanders too close to civilization.

You do not.

Half a street away, you waltz straight across his line of travel with the complete, astonishing obliviousness that seems to follow you from life to life. If there’s one constant beyond the fear that follows you, it’s this: you never notice his arrival until it’s far too late.

You emerge from a shop carrying a sandwich board, swing it open, and step back to check it. A chalk arrow points toward the door that you disappear back into.

And how could it not be a sign? It literally is. The universe’s sense of humor is up there with its timing.

In an instant, the sum of his desire swells and breaks loose. A pendulum dislodged from the crater it’s beaten into a wall, now hurled hard in the other direction. Pulled by a change in his gravity.

All he ever needs is a second, a glimpse, for it all to come rushing back. 

His hand on your nape. A tight fist around a braid or a ponytail, when you have hair. White knuckles glued on a lead. Your eyes—whatever pretty color they are at the time—big and glassy, looking to him with every emotion laid bare.

He can practically hear it:

No, the tremble of a lip and a dimpling chin.

Yes, the curl of a cut lip, ‘s me, bird. One an’ only.

He stops dead on the pavement, staring at the black hole of the doorway. His whole body thrums with sudden energy. The week’s fatigue sloughs right off. Minutes ago, he’d been thinking about a shower, a wank, and falling asleep in front of the television in his recliner. Now he feels as though he could hike the mountains north of here. You’d come too, of course. 

He’d find the next truck parked on the street, toss you in it. Drive out into the woods, use bolt cutters to open up a logging road, and travel as far as he could down it. Give you a good scare in the cab or truck bed first, work you up to the brink on a couple of fingers before slapping your flank and sending you out running, wet between the legs. The customary headstart and then he’d give chase, just like old times.

The roar of blood in his ears recedes after a few deep breaths, the clenching and unclenching of his fists. When he feels like he can keep himself together, he starts walking again. It’s so abrupt that a woman who’s been carefully edging around him toward her parked car startles and yelps, dropping her keys.

Simon doesn’t so much as glance at her. His vision’s tunneled. As far as he’s concerned, for the next hour and maybe longer, there’s no one else in the universe. Only you.

The shop isn’t much to look at, ‘least that’s what he thinks this is. He didn’t actually read the sign. 

He feels gigantic in it. If he could stretch both arms out to his full wingspan, he’d come a few inches shy of touching both walls. Beneath his feet, old timber floors disappear under a thick woolen rug, probably concealing water stains that match the ones on the ceiling. A freestanding counter sits in front of a doorway partitioned by a beaded curtain that forms a sunset. It smells vaguely herbal and musky, old incense and laundry detergent. Somewhere past the curtain, soft and wordless music plays. 

He’s trying to decide whether or not you’re some kind of masseuse or counselor when the beaded curtain rattles, and you reappear.

You’re wrapped in muted colors, flowy linen draping off all your limbs. All very easy to peel or rip off.

“Hi, sorry, I was just setting up for the evening.” Your voice is pretty. Always is. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around here before.” You smile easily, politely—but he sees you swallow when you tilt your chin up to look at him.

“No, you ‘aven’t.” You would’ve fled the country if you had, he thinks. “‘M takin’ the scenic route ‘ome.”

“Oh,” you peek past him, almost hopefully, as though expecting any other customer to materialize behind him before your attention returns. “Are you…interested, then?”

Yes. “In?”

“A reading? A palm reading? …Unless,” Then, and your eyes light up at this, “you’re here for a spiritual reading.”

Simon bites his cheek to stop from laughing when he realizes you’re serious. Serious enough at least to sell it. 

So, this is what you are this time around. A charlatan. A cheat. A little swindler gaming hardworking—probably lonely and desperate—people out of their money by telling them what they want to hear. Looking at their hands and faces, spinning stories out of thin air. This is new. He can’t recall a single time when you pulled a stunt like this.

His amusement bleeds away a bit. He searches your face, eyes narrowing as he tries to make sense of it. What happened to you in the years before this? What sort of life steered you here, into this dingy shop, leading you to smile at strangers and pretend to see the future? Because if anyone should know how impossible that is—it’s you.

Simon huffs and rakes his nails over the buzzed hair on his head. He’s got his work cut out for him. You need help remembering how good you can be.

An equally laughable, unbelievable, and eye-watering two hundred dollars later, he’s wedged into a velvet armchair in a room smaller than the lobby. A two-person table separates you, but only barely. Your knees touch underneath it.

(Reminds him of the time you met at a circus. Him, a lion. You, an equestrienne whose horse he gutted to reach you.)

“You need to relax, Simon,” you gently encourage, rubbing your hands together. They’re slick with hand sanitizer, and the lavender fragrance it is mixed with does nothing to blunt that medicinal note. Cuts into the ambiance of the place, in his opinion. “I know that’s probably easier said than done given your, um, work.” You smile through a wince. 

His scent must be worse in this glorified closet. The heat’s trapped inside, insulated with the convenient soundproofing. He knows he’s ripe. It’s no coincidence when you fiddle with the vase on the table, stuffed with what he thinks is eucalyptus and some pale purple flowers.

“‘m relaxed, bird.” The pet name slips out from years of habit. He catches your flinch and grins, knowing full well that the sight of his smile does nothing to reassure you. He does you the courtesy of wiping his damp hands on his jeans first before offering them. He plants his elbows on the table, making both it and his chair creak when he leans forward.

You inch backward on your own chair in return, but even so, your eyes fall to his hands.

“Rough,” you murmur, hesitating a moment before leaning closer as well for a better look.

They’re crosshatched with old scars. Thick white lines earned from his honest day-to-day, the others from what pays better on the side. Split skin stitched over knuckles that have been broken several times. At a whirl of your finger, he turns them over, palms up, and wonders if the callouses on the meat of them make your ‘job’ any harder.

His cock twitches against his thigh when you finally touch him.

One at a time, your thumbs gingerly wander over the creases of his palms. You squint, hum to yourself, ask meandering questions, hedging your comments when he peppers in a couple what could tha’ mean. 

To Simon, your fishing could not be more transparent.

Sneaking peeks up at his face, tossing out broad enough statements and ideas that anyone with a pulse could see themselves in. It is cute, how you clearly think you’re getting away with something.

You tap the tail end of a line beneath his pinky. “So, there’s someone, or there was someone.”

“Yeah.”

Your brows lift a hair. “It ended badly?”

More times than he can count. Knock-down, drag-out fights, messy divorces, suicide pacts. Bleeding out on the steps of a temple or face-down in blood-soaked fields, each of you finding the other too late. Putting you down in a veterinary clinic and, in turn, you making him your dinner after fishing him out of a river.

The good times are fewer. Those memories smear in his head. Don’t stand out as much.

“Y’could say that. Last time I saw ‘er, she told me to—she was leavin’.”

“You really love her?”

“With all my ‘eart. She’s my other ‘alf.”

You nod, then pull his hand closer with a sympathetic and close-lipped smile. If you feel an ounce of guilt, the dollar signs in your eyes dampen it.

“Let’s see if there’s hope for a happy reunion.”

Your chin dips as you inch your fingers across the line, eyes moving rapidly like you’re actually reading something profound.

He flexes his thighs under the table. He’s hard, cock trapped and leaking into his boxers. Aching to give you something real to wrap your hands and head around.

“It’s…Huh,” you finally speak, the confidence in your tone audibly wavering. Your smile’s weak when you glance up at him, then quickly back down. You wet your lips, head slightly tilting as though the angle might change what you’re seeing. “This here says that you will, uh, see her again. That…”

“That?” he prompts.

Simon sees the gears in your head turn. A ghost slips across your eyes. The tiny muscles around your mouth tighten, forehead creasing. A shiver runs through you, to the hand holding his, traveling like an electric current. He feels it in his chest.

“That you’ve…y-you hurt–?” Your gaze snaps up to his. “I don’t…How do I know–”

At last, realization hits. You jolt away from him, hands pulling to your chest. Char legs scraping across the narrow floorspace as you thrust yourself backward, chest rising and falling in shallow, panicked breaths.

There you are—Here I am.

Simon watches your pupils grow, taking in the threat, and not just a threat, but the threat. Not the only predator you’ve ever met, but the apex. Singular in its appetite.

Recognition follows, and your hands jerk in quick succession. A twitch toward your hip, then up to your shoulder. Down to your thigh and ankle.

He delights in their familiarity. He’s seen them before. Grabbing for a revolver strapped to your hip. Nocking an arrow from horseback. Drawing a knife underneath a tablecloth at dinner. Every little thing you do, every nervous look or restless fidget, they’ll tell him what you’re about to do. He’ll read you like you’ve pretended to read palms.

So when you shove the table at him and lunge for the door—he’s already there, full weight thrown against it. Suddenly, there’s nowhere left to run but into him.

You shriek when you collide with his chest. He grabs your arms, holding them up as you twist and kick violently. It amounts to nothing. It is nothing. He gathers you against him, glad to collect your bruises, and buries his face in your neck. He breathes in deep and smells home. He doesn’t even mind when you bite his fingers, pressing the same horrible palm to your mouth to shut you up.

It’s short work to bend you over the table and kick open your legs. Your struggling jostles the vase, tipping it over, cool water sloshing over the wood. Eucalyptus wreathes your head when he pins your wrists to the small of your back and thrusts a mitt down the front of your cotton pants. He folds over you when your thighs start to shake, rutting against your arse while you whimper. He groans filth in your ear, relishing the pulse of your terrified cunt around his fingers. He doesn’t care that he spills in his jeans. He’ll have you lick it out later before he pops them in the wash.

You’re always more cooperative after an orgasm. Less whiny. But you’re still a flight risk, so he tethers you to the armchair with his belt while he generously locks up. You glare at him through the crack in the door. Must not be feeling very grateful yet.

He finds your car keys and wallet in your bag, and reclaims his two hundred dollars. He scans your driver’s license. The address makes him chuckle, though it feels close to injury. All this time, you’ve been living a handful of blocks away. Just outside his orbit. Walking the same streets, breathing the same fucking air. You’ve passed like ships in the night. All those near misses.

Thank fuck for burst pipes and other accidents.

He crouches in front of you, hand skimming up your thigh then jumping up to your cheek. 

“Gonna bring the car ‘round, bird,” he informs you, thumbing the keys in his hand. “Then we’re gonna go on a ‘oneymoon. You a beach girl now?” You shudder in your seat, a shaky breath escaping through your nose. The corner of the silk scarf he jammed in your mouth flutters with it. “Don’t fret,” he pats your cheek. “We’re gonna make the best of our ‘appy reunion.”

[553580]

ao3