Gaz's Blue Hat @gazs-blue-hat - Tumblr Blog

Gaz’s Blue Hat Masterlists and introduction! (Please Read Me!)

Hello! I’m Val, or “the hat”. I love the CoD universe and have watched play throughs of most of the games. At the moment, I’m only writing for 141 and possibly other main characters throughout the story.

If you do not have your age in your bio, you’re getting blocked. I’m sorry but this is an 18+ blog. I don’t feel comfortable with minors interacting with my things.

Another thing. I will write rough topics. I’ve struggled with Suicide, Self Harm, Sexual Abuse, Addiction and many other vices. I feel like there (rightfully) is a lot of hesitation to write these topics. However, I find comfort in stories. Of course I’ll put trigger warnings on every piece I do, but I want to let you know that you’re seen and you’re heard. Final thing and I'll stop my rambling, I promise. I won't tolerate hate here. I do my best to stay educated on things and thus, this is a safe place for people to ask questions and learn about things they might not know about. Be kind folks.

Key:

💖-Fluff

🪄 -Silly

🩸-Whump

☠️-Angst

❤️‍🔥-Smut

#masterlist

vasyandii

This is how me and my mutuals look interacting with each other’s content

rosaries-and-thorns

@gazs-blue-hat Us.

gazs-blue-hat

I’ve never been so outed before

rosaries-and-thorns

Johnny browses Craigslist when he’s bored. It’s a habit he picked up as a teenager and he’s never really stopped. He sees all sorts of weird shit on there- sex ads, sketchy electronics, animals, fist fighting offers, even paying folks to be wedding crashers (One of which he did reply to. It was one of the best nights he and Gaz have ever had together)

Today, however, as he’s lounging in the rec room between drills, his eyes scan over a listing posted five minutes ago

ISO: Someone to break into my asshole ex’s house and steal my cat back. Details inside.

rosaries-and-thorns

You wake up to an empty bed one morning after a very eventful night prior. You’re covered in hickeys, sore between the legs, and doubtlessly your hips are going to hurt by evening. Confused and dismayed you text Simon, who doesn’t answer. His hoodie, mask, and phone are all gone. For a desperate moment you think he’s been called on assignment, or even worse: left entirely.

When he finally comes home a few hours later, you demand to know where he’s been. Wordlessly, he pulls his shirt over his head and points to a new tattoo on his shoulder:

A perfect imprint of your teeth.

miss-vanta-likes-to-write

Johnny whimpers each time he thrusts into you. The sound of his hips slapping against yours accompanies the rhythm of the headboard, hitting the wall gently. Your legs are wrapped around his waist and your arms around his shoulders.

This isn't the first time he's found himself on your bed. It's the third, and he's hooked. You smile, drunk in the pleasure but not as far gone as he is. You press kisses against his lips and cheek, pulling him down closer to where he's almost laying on you.

Your insides feel like molten lava, and the tingles of pleasure zip through you. Johnny barely is saying anything that makes sense.

"Bonnie- fuck- I can't." He whines and grinds his hips against yours. Stirring up your insides. You squeal from the angle and let out a breathy sigh.

"Yeah you can Johnny." You whisper in his ear. "This pussy is yours, and I wanna feel you cum deep in me." You clench your muscles up and feel each drag of his dick even more. The warmth and heaviness of it makes you gasp and you feel him twitch.

"Ye c-can't, fuck fuck fuck," He whines as he starts to jack hammer himself into you. He's chasing his release, "ye cannae say stuff like tha' you'll make me cum too soon." He's over stimulated.

You don't care. Part of the fun is hearing his whiny whore like moans when he cums.

"Come on baby, come on." You're like a siren to his ears. "You can do it. Cum inside of me. You're so close, you can do it."

He gasps, his blue eyes cloudy with pleasure and his hips press against you. He's trembling and whining, barely sounding like the playboy he pretends to be. A long drawn out fuck escapes him through clenched teeth. You watch him, enthralled by how pretty he looks, flushed pink from exertion. Drool dripping down the cor er of his mouth.

You roll yourself and him over so you are on top. He's shocked at the sudden placement. His hands gripped your hips and he throws his head back as you ride him. He's still in the trappings of his orgasm and this is pleasurable torture.

"Bonnie wait, it's too much!" He's trying to slow your movements. "I can't take it, fuck!"

"Yeah you can Johnny, you're doing so good for me." You coo to him. "Just a bit more yeah? Be a good boy for me."

He whimpers and nods his head, "yeah I'm your good boy."

He can feel his cum spill out of you with each roll or bounce of your hips. He wants to be a good boy for you. It's part of the reason he keeps coming back.

ottervii

🧢🚿

ottervii

Gaz lost a bet with Soap and has to do recruit training for a week..

simonriley09

Soap who fucks you like you're gonna leave him if he doesn't.

He's a whore, wanting to grind his cock as deep as he can while fucking you into the mattress, making you scream and try to crawl away from the overwhelming pleasure.

You feel like you're dying from how good it feels, the hard, slow thrusts driving you crazy. You can't do anything but moan, thighs useless and limp, the bed creaking and groaning under you.

Your hand fists the sheets, tears ruining your makeup, throat hoarse from screaming his name as he continuously ravages your insides.

You've cum like what, 4 times already? Your pussy is raw, aching, taking pounding after pounding, your cervix is ruined, toes curled and then you feel his rough hand shove your face into the sheets.

Which makes you clench. Such a slut he is.

You can't help but pass out after the 5th orgasm is pulled out of you.

Once Soap is done with you he holds you close, smirking as he feels you whine and twitch as his softening cock presses against your lower back.

Inspired by this plink

rosaries-and-thorns

“JOHNATHAN ARCHIBALD PRICE!!”

Simon can hear the sound of every sphincter in the room squeezing shut. The typical chatter of the footie game goes silent except or the noise from the telly, and he watches with a curious sort of amusement as his normally stoic captain’s face pales to the color of chalk.

“Archibald?” Gaz whispers to Soap beside him, who remains shock still, eyes looking everywhere except the door to the kitchen. He can’t remember the last time he saw the Scot that still- as if a single movement will summon a deadly predator.

Simon’s heard graveyards louder than the silence that falls over the room.

At last Price clears his throat, grunting as he stands from his creaky armchair and nodding to Simon and the others.

“Pardon me, gents.”

The look Gaz offers appears more like a send off for a soldier wrapped in a flag going back home for the last time.

“Heaven help him.” Soap mutters, clutching at his cross through his shirt with a whispered prayer.

Simon hums, more curious than concerned. He’s never heard you use Price’s full name before, which is an event in of itself. But raising your voice with the power of a whip is something unique as well. He can’t help but wonder what his normally unflappable captain did to deserve such ire.

“Prolly forgot to take the bins in.” He muses, and though he doesn’t believe it, it’s enough to get the conversation going.

“It’s more serious than that.” Gaz comments, nose scrunching in that tell tale way of his. “Probably left cigar butts in the yard again.”

“With a voice like that? Wouldnae be surprised if she found someone else’s knickers in his laundry.” Soap offers, shaking his head. “Poor man.”

The silence descends again, and this time Simon strains to hear any sound of argument or voices from the other room. Instead there’s silence, which would be concerning if not for the fact that Simon’s curious about what fate may have befallen Price.

“Takin’ a piss.” He rumbles after a few more minutes, watching advertisements roll through on the telly.

“Don’t you die too.” Soap comments wryly, and Simon mutters a low curse towards the Scot, which only makes his smile brighten.

Simon doesn’t head to the bathroom at first. Instead he follows Price’s path through the kitchen and dining room, listening until he hears a noise from the laundry room. He thinks at first maybe Soap was right about the panties after all, until he hears a noise that stops him in his tracks.

“John~”

Spoken with the true depravity of someone getting fucked.

Simon’s not a voyeur, or at least he tells himself as much, but he’s also not above quelling his interests in things that make him want to peel back the curtains to others houses. So he lingers in the shadows of the hallway- deadly silent as he carefully peeks through the doorway to reveal the sight inside.

You’re sitting atop the washer, house dress bunched up to your hips, your panties dangling from an ankle and mouth parted in a silent ‘O’ as you clutch at the head between your legs.

Price’s hands wrap around your hips, mouth securely fastened to your folds as he utters a low, breathy groan into your cunt. Simon can see the man’s fingers kneading into the flesh of your thighs, stopping between breaths to mutter low, filthy praise right against your entrance.

Fuck, Simon can’t help it when his cock twitches in his pants. Between the wet glisten of your cunt, the rise and fall of your breasts with breathless gasps, and the wrecked, utter look of ecstasy on your face, Simon can feel himself chubbing up, and reaches a hand down to grope at himself with a silent groan.

He can’t tell what turns him on more- the sight of your blissed out, starry expression as you roll you hips up into Price’s mouth, or the fact that he gets to hear his captain eating you out like a man starved.

Christ, he wishes you weren’t quiet, can’t help the envy that bubbles in his gut at the idea that Price gets to hear those sweet little sounds you’re making at any time of the day.

He can see the orgasm build in you, watches it travel the length of your spine until it clenched in your stomach, and your legs snap shut around John’s head. Price works you through it, and Simon watches as you jolt through the waves, panting, sweat beading on your brow, until at last it fades and you force out a long, slow breath.

“There’s a girl.” John coos, standing and wedging himself between your legs so he can kiss you properly. There’s a few murmured words Simon can’t hear, but at last Price gives a warm, fond chuckle.

“There’s better ways to get my attention, love.” He tells you, and you laugh before dragging him in for another kiss.

Simon manages to adjust himself before he heads back to the living room, settling down in his spot and ignoring the curious glances of the younger men with him. When Price returns with a gruff assurance, Simon allows himself to linger in the silence before finally speaking.

“Got something on your beard, Boss.”

It takes three seconds for Price to process, and another two to promptly launch the remote at Simon’s head.

gazs-blue-hat

ARCHIBALD *Dies laughing*

ladykelsi

Gaz will give you a choice for how to start the new year.

do you want to cum, for the first time ever in your life, on his tongue or on his cock? he's fine with either one, he just wants you to start the new year with a bang.

he's secretly thrilled that you choose his cock. but first spends the a good amount of time edging you with his tongue, rolling your swollen clit and sucking on it till you beg for him to just put you out of your misery.

he doesn't. he's too cautious not to let you cum in his mouth because he relishes the fact that he gets to spend the last few moments ending the year with his cock nestled inside your virgin cunt.

and he times it just right for both of you. does a whole countdown while watching the alarm clock. counts the seconds from 23:59 and hastens his pace to have you both panting and clinging for dear life with your foreheads pressed against and with him swallowing your choked whimpers in his mouth.

and when the whole neighbourhood celebrates outside at midnight, you both hear them shouting "five, four, three, two—"

his cock slides in deeper than ever and touches that spot you didn't know existed while he rubs your clit. your eyes roll back, his name spilling from your tongue and yours on his as you both cum together when the fireworks start to pop outside at midnight.

"happy new year, love." he whispers into your mouth.

rosaries-and-thorns

Thy Oath, Mine Hand

(Commission for @bellerva)

(Female Reader, Knight 141, Poly 141 x Princess Reader, Medieval AU, Seduction, Smut, Vaginal penetration + fingering, Nip sucking, Cunnilingus, Fellatio, Seduction, Implied age gap, Virgin Reader, Loss of virginity, Orgy, Seducing your knights so your father the king doesn't marry you off to some loser prince)

---

You are eighteen years of age when your father announces your hand for marriage.

It’s not unexpected. In truth you’ve been preparing your whole life for this. As your kingdom’s only princess you know by now that your duty falls not as a bearer of the crown, but as a contract- an obligation to whatever country your father chooses to send you to.

You know also, that you will not have a choice in who that is.

rosaries-and-thorns

Running with the Wolves

(Commission for the lovely @bellerva)

(Poly Werewolf 141 x Witch! Reader, Werewolf shifting, Sex dreams, Brief Smut, Female Reader, Fluff, Domesticity, Magic)

---

It’s Autumn when you first hear the whispers of the wolves.

“Strange beasts.” Whisper your neighbors at the market, bending low in hushed tones to whisper to you at your stall, where colored glass hangs from the beams above and waxed bottles lay piled on shelves. “They said they saw them by the old forest.”

You pay no mind to it, at least at first. In a town as small as yours, there’s always a tall tale of some kind- a whisper of a ghost or strange sound among the trees. They’re only fables, things meant to scare children into bed and keep them mindful of their parents. At worst they’re spoken of by the priests, a warning against those who don’t turn to the faith of their gods. Yet you- you know. You know that some stories are far more true than they seem.

silverlullabies

@auberghyn “Need me a feral maiden x Ghost and he’s just like alright you do all the work, and he understimates her horniness”

know I said it write this by the end of NYE but you also listened to me goon about toxic!price the past few days so…

You’re not subtle.

You thought you were subtle, at first your steps were light, your skirts gathered in one hand as you slipped from shadow to shadow. But he’s a knight, a hunter on two feet, all chainmail and scar tissue and soldier’s instinct. He noticed the moment your gaze started sticking to him longer than was polite.

He noticed when you started following.

At first, Ghost pretends not to. He walks the outer wall, the training yard, the inner bailey, never once glancing back. The great skull painted over his helm stares straight ahead, impassive. But his strides slow a fraction near corners, he takes turns you can’t resist peeking around, and every so often he pauses long enough that you nearly plow right into him before he moves again.

It’s a game you don’t know you’re playing.

It’s a game he very much knows he’s winning.

You follow him down a side passage you’ve never taken before: narrower, quieter, the usual racket of the keep fading behind you. The air is cooler here, stone sweating with the kiss of evening. Torches burn lower, further apart, throwing more shadow than light.

He doesn’t turn.

You bite your lip and keep your distance, fingers worrying the edge of your sleeve. You know it’s foolish. Servants don’t follow knights. Maidens don’t stalk men in iron through empty halls. But you’ve been watching him for weeks, watching the way he moves, the way people move around him, like he’s a blade they don’t want to back into.

You want to press your thumb right to that edge and see if it cuts.

He rounds another corner. You hurry to keep up.

The corridor stops in a blank wall, ancient stone and a barred arrow slit overlooking the outer moat. No other doors, no other turns. No Ghost. You blink, breath catching, and start to turn around-

-and nearly hit his chest.

You must’ve made some small sound, because his head tilts the slightest bit as you run right into him. One moment the passage was empty, the next he’s simply there, a wall of mail and leather and heat.

You suck in a sharp breath, stumbling back. His gloved hand catches your elbow before you can properly retreat, steadying you.

He doesn’t say anything at first.

The skull on his helm stares down at you. Closer than you’ve ever been. You catch the faint scent of steel, oil, and something warmer beneath it: sandalwood, leather, the ghost of smoke.

Your heart starts beating a little too fast.

“I- I was just-”

“Following me.” His voice is low, roughened by disuse, like he doesn’t waste it on small talk. Up close, it vibrates through your bones. “Third evening in a row now.”

Heat rushes to your face so fast you feel a little dizzy. “I wasn’t- I mean, I didn’t mean-”

“Careful.” His fingers tighten briefly on your elbow, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you how easily he could. “Don’t start lying now. You’ve done a fine job of tellin’ on yourself so far.”

You swallow. “I’m not… hurting anyone.”

“Not yet.” His head tips, considering you. “But these halls are empty. No one comes down here much. An unescorted maiden trailing after a man like me?” He clucks his tongue quietly behind the mask. “A man might get ideas.”

Your pulse stutters. You can’t tell if it’s fear or interest. Possibly both.

“You’re not… just a man,” you manage.

“Mm. No.” There’s a hint of dark amusement in his tone now. “I’m worse.”

He takes a half step forward.

You take a half step back.

He follows.

You retreat until your back meets stone. Cold seeps through the thin fabric of your dress. He plants one hand on the wall beside your head, bracing there, blocking most of the light from the nearest torch. Suddenly it’s just him, and you, and the sound of your own breathing in your ears.

Up close, he’s huge. You knew that before, watching him from the courtyard, seen the way his sword rests easy in his hand, how his shadow swallows half the training yard. But pressed between him and the wall, you feel it. Feel the size of him, the heat of him, the way the air seems to thin out.

“Tell me,” he says softly. “Do you follow all the knights like this, dove? Or am I special?”

You bristle on instinct, lifting your chin despite the way your legs want to tremble. “If you thought you were just anyone, you wouldn’t have led me here.”

Something in his posture shifts. You can’t see his face, but you sense the change, like his attention sharpens another notch.

“Lead you here.” He tastes the words, like he’s turning them over. “‘s that what you think?”

“I know you saw me,” you say, fingers curling in your skirts. You’re too worked up to pretend anymore, too cornered, too aware of how your body has been buzzing for him, of him, around him for days. “You could have gone back to the main hall.”

“Could ‘ave,” he agrees.

“You could have sent me away.”

“Coul’ve done that too.”

“But you didn’t.”

Silence stretches. His hand flexes against the wall, leather creaking softly.

“No,” he finally says, voice gone low. “I didn’t.”

You breathe in, slow, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t work. You’re more aware than ever of every inch of him, how close his chest is to yours, the gap that’s only there because he’s holding it.

“If you keep following men like that,” he murmurs, voice dropping to something almost dangerous, “one of them might decide to… do something about it.”

The way he says “do something” leaves absolutely no doubt as to what he means. His accent wraps around the words like a hand around a throat.

The warning should cool you. It doesn’t. It lights a fuse.

“Is that supposed to frighten me?” you ask. Your voice comes out a little shaky, but the words are there, stubborn.

“It’s meant to make you think,” he murmurs, voice scraping over the words. “You’re alone. And I’m not a gentle man, love. Not patient, either. If you were smart, you’d watch whose shadow you chase, unless you’re looking to be fucked against these stones ‘til you can’t walk straight.”

He leans in. You feel the shape of the helm brush your hairline, the painted skull grazing your temple. His breath is hot against your cheek, the air crackling.

“If you’re not careful,” he rasps, voice dark and hungry, “I might just haul you up right here, lift your skirts, pin you to this wall, make a mess of you. Leave you dripping down your thighs so everyone in the keep knows who’s ruined you.”

Your breath hitches so sharply he hears it.

His hand on your elbow tightens, not cruel, but enough to make your knees threaten to buckle. “D’you understand me, dove? Next time you follow, you’d best be ready to take what you’re begging for.”

Your heart is a drum gone wild, shaky, burning, wanting. It would be so easy to stammer, to flee, to pretend you hadn’t dreamed about this in the dark, aching for him to lose control.

Instead, you swallow, breathless but steady, and say, “Good.”

He goes still.

“Good?” he repeats.

“Yes.” Your fingers, traitorous and bold, lift to toy with the edge of his pauldron. The metal is cool under your touch; he is not. “That’s what I was hoping for.”

You can feel the way that sinks in.

The air between you changes, goes thicker, heavier, more charged. His grip on your elbow slackens, not because he’s letting you go but because something like surprise has knocked some of the tension out of him.

“You were… banking on it.” It’s not really a question.

You meet the black slits of his helm dead on. “I didn’t follow you because I was lost.”

He stares at you.

For the first time since you’ve known him, the knight who moves like he’s already thought a dozen steps ahead clearly hadn’t prepared for this particular answer.

The silence after your words is thick enough to choke on.

You feel it when it lands- good- the way his breath stutters behind the skull, the way his body goes rigid like you’ve just shoved a blade under his armor and twisted. For a heartbeat, neither of you moves.

Then something shifts.

Slow. Dangerous.

His hand drops from your elbow, not in retreat, but in recalculation. Like he’s reassessing the threat, only now he’s realizing you’re not prey at all.

“Careful,” he murmurs. The word isn’t a warning anymore. It’s an appraisal. “You’re speakin’ like you already belong to me.”

You smile, small and wicked, and let your fingers drag deliberately down the front of his cuirass. “You told me what you’d do to me if I wasn’t careful,” you say softly. “I’m just saying I didn’t come all this way to be spared.”

The air tightens. His shoulders lift with a slow inhale, and when he exhales, it’s right against your mouth; hot, restrained, strained.

“You think,” he says, low and rough, “that because I haven’t put you on your knees yet, I won’t?”

Your pulse jumps. Your thighs press together on instinct.

You tilt your head, exposing your throat to him without even thinking about it. “I think,” you say, voice dropping, “that if you wanted me kneeling, you’d already have my chin in your hand.”

That does it.

A sound rips out of him- half laugh, half curse- as he finally reaches for you. Not gently. One hand slides hard to your waist, fingers digging in like he needs to feel you’re real. The other braces behind you, pinning you flush to the wall.

“You’re askin’ for trouble,” he growls, mouth close enough now that you can feel the heat through the mask. “Dirty little thing, followin’ a knight into the dark and hopin’ he loses control.”

Your body reacts before your brain catches up, hips tipping forward, breath hitching. “I’m counting on it.”

He exhales, long and slow, and finally relents, steps back and drops onto the bench behind him with a heavy thud, spreading his knees just enough to be an invitation. He leans back, bracing his arms, deliberately casual.

“Alright,” he says, voice rough with confidence he hasn’t earned. “You’ve got teeth. I’ll give you that. Go on, then. You do the work.”

The arrogance of it makes something sharp and hot coil low in your belly.

You don’t hesitate.

You climb into his lap, skirts shoved up and out of the way, bare thighs locking around his hips. His breath punches out of him as your weight settles, heat against heat, softness against solid muscle. You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and feel exactly how hard his cock already is beneath you.

“Oh,” you murmur. “You were ready.”

He chuckles darkly. “Been ready since you started stalkin’ me.”

You grind down harder, deliberately cruel. “Then you should’ve known better.”

You reach between you, fingers deft as you free his cock from his trousers. He hisses when cool air hits him, when your hand wraps around him; thick, heavy, hot in your grip. You stroke him slowly, watching the way his jaw tightens beneath the skull mask, the way his thighs tense like he’s fighting the urge to thrust.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You don’t hesitate, do you?”

“No,” you say, breathless with anticipation. “I don’t.”

You line your cunt up and sink down onto him in one smooth, claiming motion.

He groans, deep and unguarded as you take him inch by inch, hands flying to your hips on instinct before he catches himself and slams them back down on the bench. Your cunt stretches around him, heat and pressure stealing the air from his lungs.

“Saints,” he rasps. “You’re tight.”

You rock slowly at first, dragging him through every tight, dripping inch of you, the head of his cock pressing deep with each grind of your hips. Your nails dig into his shoulders for balance, clutching at the thick leather where armor used to sit. He growls low in his throat but doesn’t move, trying so damn hard to obey, to stay still, to let you use him.

You lift and drop, hips snapping, thighs trembling as you chase the high you’ve been aching for since you first saw him on horseback, towering and silent and deadly. Each thrust down has your cunt swallowing him whole, sucking greedily around his cock, the stretch brutal and perfect.

It’s messy- obscene- the lewd slick sounds of your bodies meeting echoing off the stone like blasphemy. You’re soaked, flushed with effort, your movements wild and needy, more beast than girl.

The slap of your ass against his thighs gets louder, wetter, the rhythm sharper as you fuck him, the sounds echoing off stone walls that have seen prayer but never this kind of worship.

Ghost’s head tips back against the stone wall, a curse hissing through clenched teeth.

“F-fuck- dove…”

His breathing breaks, ragged and uncontrolled, groans spilling from behind the mask now, too wrecked to care. He clutches the edge of the bench, white knuckled, thighs trembling beneath you.

You lean forward and ride him harder, faster, taking everything he’s giving without asking. The muscles of his abdomen twitch under your touch, his cock twitching deep inside you every time you clamp down.

You swear he’s shaking.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he grits out, voice cracked, desperate, like he’s holding himself together with nothing but a prayer and the bite of his own teeth.

You lean in, mouth brushing the shell of his ear, and bite down just enough to make him jolt.

“Good.”

And that’s what shatters him.

With a growl ripped straight from his chest, his hands finally snap up to your thighs, calloused palms gripping hard, anchoring you in place as he slams his hips up into you without warning. The force of it knocks the breath out of your lungs, your moan turning high and broken.

“Fucking hell,” he rasps, voice wrecked. “Look at you riding me like you’ve waited your whole life for it.”

You don’t stop. If anything, you grow more frantic, bouncing in his lap as he fucks up into you now, the pace savage, relentless, no longer restrained. His cock hits deeper like this, the rhythm brutal and perfect, and every thrust drags a sob from your throat.

Your hands slide to his neck, clinging to the edge of his mask, fingers curling beneath the strap as your head drops back.

“Harder,” you gasp.

“Greedy little thing,” he growls, “you want it like that? Want me to break you open?”

You nod, body shaking, words lost to the way he’s splitting you apart from the inside.

He slams into you again, again, the bench creaking dangerously beneath his strength, your body bouncing helplessly with each brutal thrust.

“Taking it so well,” he grits out. “Drippin’ all over me. Gonna fuckin’ stay stuffed full of my cock until you’re crying for mercy.”

The coil inside you snaps.

You come with a cry- loud, wrecked, sobbing out his name as your body seizes around him. Your walls clamp down tight, milking him, dragging a raw curse from his mouth as he slams deep one final time.

“Fuck- fuck- fuckin’ take it,” he growls, voice breaking as he comes, hot and deep, hips jerking, his hands bruising your thighs as he spills inside you, thick and overwhelming, filling you to the brim.

You collapse against him, boneless, trembling, sweat slick and gasping for air. His arms wrap around your back without thinking, holding you tight, still buried inside you, cock twitching with aftershocks.

Ghost rests his head back against the wall, breathing hard through his nose. For a moment, the room is silent but for the sound of both of you trying to breathe.

Then he stirs beneath you, one arm shifting as he braces to lift you, to pull out, to help you down and maybe carry you off to somewhere soft.

But the second he tries to move you, your fingers tighten, thighs clamping down around his hips with surprising strength.

He freezes.

“Where do you think you’re going?” you murmur, voice saccharine sweet.

He leans back slightly to look at you and you’re smirking. Smirking. Flushed, breathless, soaked in sweat and slick and sin, and somehow still cocky enough to look like you’re in charge.

His brows lift just barely under the mask.

“…You’re not done?” he rasps, voice hoarse.

You tilt your head like a cat toying with a much larger animal. “Not even close.”

And then, with full eye contact, you grind down again, slow, mean, dragging him through the overstimulation, your walls squeezing him back to life.

Ghost jolts beneath you like you slapped him.

“Saints,” he breathes. He’s still sensitive, raw, but your cunt is warm and greedy and too fucking tight, and he can already feel himself getting hard again, like his body’s decided it doesn’t matter if his soul survives this or not.

“I’ve barely gotten my fill,” you say, tracing your fingers over the edge of his mask like a crown. “You think I climbed into your lap for one round, Sir Knight?”

He stares at you- stares- because he just fought a war and you’re talking like it was a warm up.

You don’t let him speak. You lean in, mouth at the ear of his mask, and whisper: “You said I could do all the work. So sit back and pray, darling. I’m not through with you yet.”

His breath catches. His hands twitch.

And somewhere in the depths of his ruined brain, a little voice mutters what the fuck have I gotten myself into.

You roll your hips again, feeling him throb back to full hardness, and his head tips back with a guttural groan. You’re soaked, aching, insatiable. He’s trembling now, not from fear, but from the sheer effort of holding on.

“Dove,” he rasps. “You’re going to kill me.”

Your grin is all teeth and triumph. “Then die pretty for me.”

And Simon “Ghost” Riley- personal knight to King Price, soldier, slayer of men, grim reaper in chain mail, proud bastard that he is- whimpers.

the-californicationist

Hi Cali!

You're one of my favourite writers on here and I've noticed you're anti-ai which is cool. Recently I put some of my own work into a scanner for spelling as my google doc just wasn't responding and it came up with a 98% ai generated warning?

I absolutely wrote this on my own from what I thought was an original enough idea but now I'm worried about sharing it if people are going to think I got a bot of some kind to write it. I know that the em dash is now unfortunately meant to be a giveaway that it's ai, since ai like to use it but now I'm concerned my love of ellipses and commas is also coming of kind of botty?

How do I make my writing better and less like a soulless machine spat it out? Your writing is always so amazing and immersive.

It's not you, anon. Your writing is just fine. The main issue is the way that some of these natural language processors were fed stolen corpora. To build their AI systems, some creators used purposefully good writing - stolen works from corpora hosting sites like AO3 and Wattpad and even Project Gutenberg - to train their syntax models to reproduce clauses.

Everyone should be able to tell that your work is not slop. AI slop is bad for a number of reasons: it is unethical, soulless, theft, and extremely damaging to the environment, but it is also very weak writing. There is no depth. There are no painful stakes. There is no joy. It just reproduces a basic, milquetoast plot and calls it a day.

My mother-in-law died a few years ago. But, before she did, she taught me how to knit. We got so good that we were knitting heirloom sweaters with each other, following crazy tough patterns and having a blast doing it. I miss her a lot, and more than anything, I miss her lessons. The one lesson that really sticks with me is that she always told me to leave at least one mistake behind in my work. She said that I could be a wonderful knitter, and that I could even knit a perfect sweater, but that I would never be able to out-do a machine. That's just the truth. A machine is always perfect. No mistakes. So, when you receive a garment from someone (which is like receiving a piece of someone's soul, jsyk), and it has an error near the hem or in some corner somewhere out of sight, you should cherish it. That mistake - a purl instead of a knit, or a skipped color in a pattern - is a rebellious display of your humanity. You fucked up strictly because you are NOT a machine.

So, write messy scenes. Write people struggling and failing and hating and scrambling and being in pain. Write fumbles and laughter and misspoken lines muttered through hopeful lips. Write misunderstandings and bad accents and fading dialects and lost languages. Write your characters with errors, and show off just how human they are. Write what's real. Don't shy away from the truth.

I think - sometimes - authors are reluctant to write what they actually think should happen inside of a scene. They think to themselves, no, I can't have her pull a knife. That's too violent. It's too extreme. Too messy. Perhaps I should do less. I should make this "more normal." But that's not the Truth. The Truth is that if you believe in your gut that your character would pull a knife - do it. Don't hold back.

ChatGPT will hold back. Every time. It will never push the boundary of the Real. It will never challenge what the expected outcome of a scene would be. It will never show a character being irrational or feral. It will never write the unexpected way. But you can. Whether or not you should will be up to you.

But, more than anything, trust your readers. Tell them the truth. Show them your hand. Leave all of your cards on the table, spread and visible for them to see. Be vulnerable to them, and they will feel it when they read your words.

Maybe one day computers will be able to create a form of art that communicates true feeling and raw emotion, but I don't think that day is here. I also doubt - much like handmade sweaters - that the intrinsic value of the work that you are doing will ever degrade. Sure, you can get a quick knit off Shein for $5 plus shipping, and it might keep you warm, but it'll never be the real deal, and I can guarantee that those clankers never twisted a stitch.

Things that are good are good because they are real, not because they are perfect.

Good luck, anon! Keep writing. Never stop.

rosaries-and-thorns

It happens like this.

With Ghost- shoved between your thighs, your pants dangling from one boot and your back flush to the wall of the storage unit next to the armory. Your hands wrap around his neck for balance as he ruts into the slick wetness of your folds with a slow, deep, aching grind. The tip of him feels lodged up against your lungs, and every breath of air it forces up escapes as a choked, mewling groan into his gloved palm. The other forces your legs open, keeps you spread to accommodate the sheer size of his body trapped between your aching thighs. Low, wet breaths huff through the fabric of his mask and he stares, flaying you open with only his gaze.

You can’t look away, not with his hand trapping your face like this, unable to turn your gaze from his piercing stare. Despite your remaining gear and layers you feel sliced open to your rotten underbelly, your souring insides spilled open for him to see. It sends a pulsating heat slinking through your veins, extending out to every limb with a fissure of pleasure you can’t control- and with every thrust Ghost nurtures it into a pending cataclysm, an advection that feels seismic against every twitch and coil of your guts.

“No.” He growls when you finally can’t take it anymore, scrunching your eyes shut against the rust brown of his gaze. It feels like old blood, like a wound not scrubbed clean, and the sensation is so familiar it hurts. “Eyes on me, Fix. On me.”

On me. The phrase that lights a beacon you follow in the fog, the lighthouse in the storm, the call in a night with no stars. You can’t ignore it if you tried, sinking in like a gravity well where even light does not escape.

Ghost adjusts his stance, pausing to shift his weight before thrusting back up into you again. You think your eyes roll, but behind the veil of stars you aren’t entirely sure. It feels so close and impossibly too much at the same time. When you dig your nails under the fabric of his mask, sinking into the bare flesh of his neck Ghost growls, deep and primal as the hand holding your thigh threatens to bruise. The weight, the heat, Gods the smell of him- ash and fire and rain from the downpour that caught you all surprise on mission. He’d lifted a hand above your head for only a moment to shield you, and had dropped it before Price and the others could notice.

You’re not sure how you’re supposed to cope. You’re burning, rotting from the inside out where he’s planted the seed, but the smell of decay remains an intemperance you cannot resist.

“Ghost.” You manage behind his palm, brow scrunched in delicious pleasure that verges on the razor thin edge of too much. You almost whisper ‘Please.’

He’s close too, you can tell. You’ve done this enough times to know his tells. In darkness, in shadowed corners, behind closed doors where no one can ever see you know the shape of him. You know the motion, the scent, the sound. You know it when his breath starts catching a little, when the flesh of his stomach jumps and his thrusts become bruising with intensity.

Your hand sneaks down to your clit, and Ghost notices instantly.

“That’s it, Fix.” He breathes, voice dragging deep in his chest. “There’s a girl.”

Fuck.

It doesn’t take long. Yet even as you come you can’t look away- trapped by his gaze as you fracture open under his stare. There’s a whimper, a broken little noise swallowed by the meat of his palm and you jolt as the crest peaks, snapping and flooding through your veins with white-hot ecstasy that deafens the world from the blood rushing in your ears.

“Fuckin hell.” Ghost snarls as you clench down on him, and he sheathes himself full into you, his balls twitching as they grind against the swell of your ass. The gooey warmth of his release floods your insides and you can’t contain the purr of appreciation that escapes you as he grinds himself into it, working himself through the peak of his climax.

Those rust colored eyes never falter.

Though, you’ve always thought they reminded you of a smoky bourbon- one that burns against your tongue.

beloveds-embrace

(p5/final part of fae poly 141 x cursed human reader || masterlist || cw: ANGST) peep the chapter title in the masterlist :D

It came as a quiet- one so deep and vast that even the winds forgot to blow.

The castle knew before anyone. It held its breath, the great hearths snuffing down to embers, the stones cooling beneath its bones. The will-o-wisps blinked out, one by one, not in fear, but reverence- so that today, no one will be led astray. The trees along the garden paths stopped their whispering, leaves still mid-quiver, branches creaking as they turned inward toward the heart of the estate.

Thrain raised his head beneath your chamber window.

The stag, so old and rooted in legend no bard had sung his name rightly in an age, stared skyward as snow began to fall. Slow, soundless. Not cold. Each flake shimmered faintly with magic, with memory. With you.

Inside, the chamber was dim and quiet, lit only by the pale glow of starlight seeping through frost-laced glass. The scent of lavender and winter clover hung in the air, soft and faded like a lullaby remembered from childhood. Curtains, woven with moon-silver threads and embroidered with wards to keep the darker dreams at bay, shifted gently in the breeze that wasn’t there. The room itself seemed to breathe slower now, as if matching your rhythm- one long inhale, one longer silence.

You lay nestled deep beneath layers of velvet and fur, of wildflower-threaded quilts and fae-woven linens that shimmered faintly with old enchantments. Johnny had insisted on them each morning, draping warmth around your ever-fragile frame even when spring had melted the snow and kissed new green into the garden paths. It was his way of trying to keep you rooted here- on this side of the veil.

Your breathing was soft and faint. The curse had slowed in its cruel unraveling, tugged back again and again by the desperate, tireless magic John poured into you. Every drop of power he possessed, every ounce of his life force, siphoned away over the years in hopes of buying you another day, another breath, another smile. It worked for a time.

But nothing lasted forever, and John knew that.

He had known before the sun set.

He sat beside you, unmoving, save for the way his hand combed endlessly through your hair- gentle, reverent, trembling. His other hand held yours, your fingers loose and still, warmed only by his touch. Your head rested against his chest, your face tilted toward the hollow of his throat like a child tucked beneath a parent’s chin. You hadn’t spoken in days, not truly. Only murmured fragments- echoes of half-remembered songs, unfinished questions, and once, the name of a star he hadn’t heard in years. You’d sounded so happy… John’s heart had wanted to tear itself apart.

You were quiet now in the way ancient things are quiet. Like a garden gone to sleep beneath snow, like a book with no more pages left to turn.

John whispered stories to you anyway.

He spoke of the first time you met- how he thought you were too stubborn to survive the fae court and too soft to ever bend it. How wrong he’d been. How the court, the world, and even he had been reshaped around your steady, patient will.

He told you how Simon had found you one morning feeding the ghosts of the orchard, and how Kyle still carried your pressed flower charms in his armor. He recounted Johnny’s latest disaster in the kitchens and how you’d once laughed so hard at him you cried- and gods, how he wished he could hear that sound again. He told you all of it, weaving memory into magic and memory again, as if with enough words, he might stitch your soul into staying.

And as he held you, his voice frayed around the edges.

"I love you," he said. Not for the first time. Not for the last. The words cracked like porcelain dropped from too high a shelf. “Still. Always.”

Your breathing, already shallow, paused, and he stilled in turn.

Then, you sighed- just once. A sound as soft and weightless as the falling of a single petal from a long-dead flower, peace in each strand. A sound of release, a breath unburdened.

And then- you were gone.

No thunder nor flash of light, and no violent wrenching. Just absence- the soul's candle guttered in silence.

Your fingers slipped from his. Your warmth, so long faint, faded fully. Your face went still in the most peaceful way, a small smile carved on your cheeks like something ancient had simply returned to the earth it loved. The faintest glow that had always clung to your skina your humanity tempered with magic, your life steeped in love- shimmered once, and then dimmed like a star blinking out.

John did not move.

He couldn’t even if he wanted to.

The grief did not crash into him; it hollowed him, slowly, like the sea does to cliffside stone. He stared down at your face, memorizing what he already knew. The curve of your lips. The flutter of lashes against your cheek. The small scar on your jaw from where you’d once fallen in the Queen’s Gardens.

John did not weep even if several tears tracked down into his beard. His hands, too strong to tremble in battle, now trembled with the soft weight of your body in his arms. He could not weep, for he knew this- this was your peace. He had done his best to find a cure, but- life was not kind.

A low, resonant groan echoed through the castle, neither man-made nor fae.

The very walls- alive with magic older than time itself- mourned you. A wail of stone and a s sigh of timbers. Crystals embedded in the ceiling chimed once and shattered and the lights in the sconces flickered to ash. The wind outside did not howl- but it bent, as if bowing low to the one it had once braided through wildflower hair.

And still, John did not let you go.

He held you through the coming dark, his chest silent but for the uneven quake of breath between shaky breaths, his magic still curled around you like a desperate tether. And for hours, he simply rocked you. As if in this moment, you were still alive. As if holding you long enough might unmake the inevitable.

But death, like magic, answers to no king.

And your body stayed still and at peace.

You had left with no anger in your heart, no hatred nor guilt. You left only love, quiet and worn and fierce- threaded through every inch of the man who now mourned you.

A soul as lovely as yours could never die cruelly.

It simply… drifted home, and John understood that even if he felt something shatter so deeply it echoed across every realm.

You were gone.

No cry and no shudder, just the soft parting of a thread from a tapestry.

Later, it was Simon who walked in first. He did not speak, only looked at John- stone-eyed and trembling, and knelt beside the bed to touch your cooling hand. Kyle arrived moments later, lips parted as if he might beg you to wake. But his voice failed him and so he sat on the floor, pressing a kiss to your palm and weeping quietly into your skirts.

Johnny didn’t believe it.

He shook his head, muttering, “No, no, not yet, not today, she promised she’d stay-” over and over, until Simon caught him and held him still while he sobbed like a child.

The castle keened.

The bellflowers shriveled in their hanging baskets. The ivy browned and curled. The air itself bent with sorrow, and the spirits of the hallways- kindly, playful little creatures- huddled in corners, their small eyes wide with grief.

Outside, Thrain bowed his antlers low and walked slowly through the gates of the high keep. His hooves did not echo and no one stopped him.

He climbed the stairs, impossible though they were for a creature of his size, until he stood in the doorway of your chamber. And all the men- wounded and raw and grieving- stepped aside for they knew.

He had come for you.

With reverence, Thrain knelt beside your bed. He took in your face- still so gentle, still so full of grace, even in death. He pressed his massive muzzle to your chest and for a moment, nothing happened.

Then, with a breath of magic so quiet even the fae barely felt it- your soul slipped free like morning sunlight spilling through an open window.

It rose, soft and warm, radiant with the echo of every kindness you’d ever given. Every time you’d kissed a servant’s brow or sung to the garden or asked a crying will-o-wisp what was wrong. Every time you’d called Thrain your dearest friend, every time you’d held hands with the men, and every time you’d forgiven John with that smile- always that smile.

And Thrain caught your tender soul.

Delicate, light as wind through reeds, and glowing like the first star of twilight. He cradled it in a curl of his antlers, the shadows of your memory flickering through the air around him- your laugh, your hum, your gentle little sighs of thought. He stepped carefully back from the bed.

John sank to his knees, and he still did not cry. There was no breath left in him to do so.

Thrain walked. Out of the castle and through the mourning halls, the bowing dryads, the crumbling roses, the silent sprites. Through the gate, down the weeping forest paths, across the river that had frozen at the moment of your death.

He walked and walked, until no living soul would reach his pace and spot.

And when he reached it, the veils parted for him alone, and he stepped into starlight.

The trees there had no bark, only silver and the roots sang hymns and chants. The sky was soft and black and full of ancient light. Thrain stood at the edge of the great pool of souls, and he bent his head low.

He did not let you fall.

He lowered you with gentleness carved from centuries of patience and pain, until your soul touched the surface of the pool like the caress of a mother’s hand.

And the water welcomed you, for you were a memory that would never die. A memory that caressed the space between his antlers just before he returned alone.

And the men- your men- stood at the gates, waiting, and they bowed their heads as he passed.

And John, still dressed in the clothes he wore when you left him, touched the place in the air where your soul had once lingered and whispered, for the last time:

"I love you."

The castle echoed the words for centuries.

And the world, though emptier, remembered you in everything that still dared to be kind.

“Will you still love me when I forget what love is?”

“Always.”

rosaries-and-thorns

It's a foggy morning in Manchester. Sunday, which according to Simon's schedule means he's due for his morning constitutional walk and sitting in the park while everyone else is at church. The park is empty except from him. Mist hangs like wisteria from dry branches, obscures the path like smoke billowing in from a distant battlefield. It's quiet as usual. He prefers it that way.

Which is why he's not expecting the figure that comes running through the mist up ahead of him, bare feet slapping against the stone path and the swish of fabric sweeping along the ground. At first it looks like something straight from a ghost story- a woman clad all in white racing down a misty path underneath a overcast sky threatening rain. It takes him a few moments to realize you're wearing what looks like a wedding dress.

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