one thing vi’s learnt from being in a long-term relationship with you is that you can never stay mad at her for long… especially since she’s oh so good at making you fall apart on her fingers.
“i’m- ah! ‘m still mad at you, y’know!” you manage to squeal out between whines. you’ve been at it for, god you don’t even know how long, and she’s pulled however many orgasms from your limp body.
“i know baby… and i’m apologising profusely,” a whisper, silky and drawled-out falls from her lips as she slides another digit into your glistening cunt.
you two are messy today — tangled limbs atop your shared bed, lights dim and moans echoing off the walls. drops of sweat slide down vi’s face and gather on her cupids bow while a puddle of your juices collect around the area beneath your ass.
“please please vi-“
“please what, pretty girl?” she brings her face close to yours, a quirked brow and subtle head tilt teasing your fucked-out expression.
“can’t! can’t take it ‘nymore!” you start bucking your hips, vi’s other hand no longer being able to restrain your movements. your hips buck wildly, sucking her fingers impossibly deeper into your core. vi coos, whispering sweet nothings into your ear as you come undone for her again.
the ringing in your ears rise to a crescendo and your vision goes white.
not proofread just hit post ౨ৎ
edit 2k for a mindless horny drabble is insane. love u guys tho
Published 01/02/2026 | E-rated | CW: Non-Con | 9475 words | Oneshot
Tags: Graphic Depictions Of Violence; Rape/Non-Con; John "Soap" MacTavish/Simon "Ghost" Riley; John "Soap" MacTavish; Simon "Ghost" Riley; Dead Dove: Do Not Eat; Power Imbalance; Extremely Dubious Consent; Consent Was Not Consulted; Gaslighting; Plausible Deniability If You Squint; Compulsory Heterosexual John "Soap" MacTavish; He Is Not Figuring It Out Here; Sexual Coercion; Trauma Bonding; Codependency; Non-Chronological; Author Has Never Played Call Of Duty; Author Has Only Watched Other People Play Call of Duty; Author Has Read A Metric Tonne Of Ghoap Fic Too; Baby's First Ghoap Fic; Exactly Like Riding A Bike; Oneshot; Ambiguous/Open Ending; Not Beta Read; we die like my sleep schedule; Unresolved Emotional Tension; Dark fic
If it means Soap gets Ghost's voice reverberating low and close in his ear, telling him how sweet he sounds, that he's doing a good job, 'good boy, Johnny, so fucking perfect, made for this' – he’d take it. At this point he’d take that over this hot load of... nothing. He’ll suffer the side of his mouth cracking at the stretch of being gagged, and inhaling pre-cum and spit, for the dregs of their former closeness. He'll be dizzy and desperate for Ghost to touch him softly after (he will); for Ghost to hold him close and fix the hurts (he can’t); tell him he did good without turning him into nothing first (...he won't).
Or: Ghost only ever has sweet words or praise for Soap when he’s hurting him.
Instead of writing, I made a writing tracker in my new writing bujo. The tentacles return. I'll give myself a little star for writing, edits and posting because gamifying it helps sometimes ✨️
pairing: astarion x female npc (reader, not the mc!)
warnings: vague references to abuse and torture that will become less vague in future parts
rating: teen for the above reasons, for now <3
word count: 1,388
notes: so i think this’ll be my first astarion mini-series, as this’ll definitely have another part (and hopefully soon)! i just wanted to toy around with what might happen to astarion should the mc sell him out to the monster hunter...
part two. ao3.
You are scared to touch him. You think he will cry out in pain.
He might be warm, you continue to think. Like skin. Or cold from the night seeping between the bars of the cage. His doublet looks frayed and unloved. The man is hungry behind the eyes, but also afraid. But also angry.
“You,” he spits, “who are you? Where am I?”
With troubling speed, the man hurls himself against the side of the cage. The metal rattles and shakes under his pale hands but they do not budge. You watch, wide-eyed and horrified as he grits his teeth against an unseen pain.
You’re stunned to silence, slack-jawed with fear. With a grunt and a mournful sound, the man behind bars slumps down away from them. His palms are singed red, you notice. Whatever the cage is made of is poisoning him.
“Outside the Dying Gull,” you whisper. The man driving the covered wagon didn’t look too friendly, you’d rather he not know you’re speaking to his travelling companion. Or captive. “It’s an inn on the highway, about a week’s hard ride from Baldur’s Gate.”
The man sounds flat, pressing his injured palm to his forehead and being careful not to touch the bars with the back of his neck.
“Well,” he sighs, “I’ve heard far worse news in the past three days. That just leaves who you are.”
“Just the barmaid,” you admit. After a pause, you continue, “If you don’t mind, can I ask a question now?”
“Were I in your position, I may have a few,” the man says. He’s still slumped over, you’re beginning to worry. His hand now covers his eyes, like they hurt. However, his tone is oddly sarcastic for his apparent exhaustion. “By all means, ask.”
“What’s happened to you? Why’s that man got another man locked up in the back of his wagon?” once you’ve opened your mouth you can’t quite stop. The man huffs, either in amusement or annoyance.
“That is two questions, in fact. So now you’ll have to pick just the one,” he says.
“I answered two,” you reply. But you’re inclined to take pity. “Fine, the second one.”
“I am in the company of a very incompetant bounty hunter,” the pale man begins, “who has wrongfully determined my identity to be that of a criminal.”
“Oh,” you tilt your head to the side. Looking into the cage, you see two red eyes swimming in the centre of his pale face when his hand moves. “A criminal might just say that. Are you lyin’ to me?”
“Of course a real criminal would lie, but I am not one in the least,” he insists. He seems to gain a little energy defending his morality, either that or he’s a capable performer. The man sits up until he’s moved away from the bars at his back. “Whatever that Gur says, I am not who he thinks I am.”
You say nothing for a moment, peering through the dark at those deep-red eyes. You decide that he’s lying. But to his credit, he’s a man in a cage. And you find something other than pity welling up in your chest once more.
His anger seems mostly gone now that he knows it was misdirected. The creature looks tired and gaunt, hungry and in pain. Your heart lurches.
“One more question?” you ask. He heaves a sigh.
“Very well, what was it?” he starts, “Right, what in the world has happened to me, well--”
“No,” you stop him. “Not that one, I don’t really want to force you to make up more lies. I just want to know your name. Can you tell me that?”
He seems stricken for a second. And only then does it occur to you that he’s begun to peer back. It’s what sways you to find him innocent, you decide. He looks at you, stares at you and tries to decide if you’ll be the third person to hurt him in as many days.
“Astarion,” he says. “My name is Astarion.”
“Good to meet you, Astarion,” you say. He seems troubled by your good-natured smile, not the least bit comforted by it. But it’s better than a grimace or a look of fear, he seems to reconcile.
Especially when you put your hands on the cage. Then, it appears as if hope’s caught in his eye. The bars don’t burn you, you notice. And you frown. But only for a moment, only as you’re thinking.
“This won’t be easy to open,” you say. You bring your knuckles down on the metal, eliciting a hollow sound. “Were the whole thing pure silver, it’d buckle under its own weight. But it’s platin’ somethin’ sturdier--”
“And how do you know that?” Astarion asks. You look down at him, your eyes are no longer sizing him up.
They’ve decided he is neither predator nor prey, as he has with you.
“Da was a goldsmith, he worked with all sorts of precious metals,” you explain. “Means I can identify ‘em, but I’ve not the strength to rip the door straight from its hinges.”
“And I’ve been starved for days,” he confesses, “so I’m far too weak to be of any help.”
The look of empathy on your face is unprecedented. It seems to make Astarion uncomfortable, so you stop it. You turn instead to the door that’s locked tight. A cruel, rusted padlock bolts it shut.”
“Could nick the keys off ‘im,” you muse. You’re not watching the stranger’s face, but it’s more expressive now that it’s been since you tugged the curtain covering the cage aside.
“You would do that for me?” he asks. “You believe me, you would free me?”
“Please,” you huff, “you’re bein’ treated cruelly. And I’ve no reason to trust the man who’s keepin’ you hostage, either. I won’t aid him.”
“Good to know that there’re still a handful of decent souls to be found,” he says, “even if I’ve only noticed a dearth of them.”
“But I don’t believe you in the slightest,” you add. Astarion squeezes his eyes shut.
“I swear to you that I am innocent, what more--” he starts, you cut him off with an unexpected smile.
“I know you’re innocent, I’m choosin’ to believe that. But I also know you’re far from honest,” you say. He cocks an eyebrow.
“Then we have an understanding,” he says. He sounds relieved and you nod.
“I’ll need the key, but I can steal it. Once you’re out, I’ll take you to the barn behind the inn. There’s cattle there,” you tell him. But Astarion bristles with feigned disgust.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” he snaps.
You try your best not to roll your eyes. Lying, it seems, comes too naturally to him. With the plan laid out before you, you drop the padlock.
“I’m not stupid, Astarion. And you’re a poor liar,” is all you say. And it’s all that he does, too.
When you move to tug the curtain back over the cage, however, Astarion sits up. Panic is back in his eyes, you dislike the sight.
“No. Don’t, please,” he says. He holds his hands out, perilously close to the silver that burns him so badly. “I-- I haven’t seen outside in days. Leave it.”
“Of course, I wasn’t thinkin’,” you say. “I’ll be back in an hour or so, try to stay out of sight of any passers-by.”
You make a point to tug the curtain a little further back, giving Astarion a view of the Gull after dark. He watches you turn away.
The inn glows, light spilling out of its square windows. The Gur inside is still boasting, drinking himself into a stupor that he’ll have to sleep off eventually. But whether he’ll do it here is what worries you, what pushes you back inside and in search of the key that fits the padlock.
As you walk, you can hear the awful voice rising above the din. Part of you wonders if the vampire in the cage is lying to you about everything, for he is a liar at heart. Another knows that either way, what’s being done to him is evil. You pause before you open the door.
It’s time again to commit theft, which calls for a different arrangement of the face.
notes: i accidentally deleted my other naraku fic so have some uhhh questionable romantic liaisons
rating: teen, there’s some making out but nothing heavier
pairing: naraku / reader
word count: 1,796
You pry up the cellar door and flinch at the smell of decay. The castle festers at its core, exacerbated by Naraku’s transformation.
He detests this state, but the struggle of holding his body together is prolonged by denying it. His most precious asset is his ability to reforge flesh, And for this process he prefers to be alone. You know that. Still, you descend.
The smell is worse with your feet in the dirt. You’re careful not to grip the ladder too tightly, should your grip make the brittle wood crumble. You closed the hatch before climbing down, the only light now from the cracks around its edges.
It’s barely enough to make out the mass in the centre of the room, but your eyes adjust. A wriggling, pulsing thing blinks it’s single eye. Then, another tendril uncoils slowly, as if in sleep. Knotted together and writhing as one are a hundred demons.
At their centre is his head, bowed in sleep.
You feel a lurching sensation, a knee jerk reaction to the dirt in the cellar. It feels like old, dried blood beneath your feet. The corruption has seeped into the support beams of the cellar. You doubt the place would stand on its own if not for his magic.
Blinking slowly, you wait for the head to notice you. A demon’s maw lolls open, it’s fleshy tongue poking out at you before it also succumbs to sleep. Naraku’s body twitches unnaturally, and then his true head finally moves.
You see two red eyes beneath his black fringe. His skin is so pale, white in the shadows like a death mask. He sneers in your direction, seeing nothing but darkness and the faint outline of a person.
“Kagura?” he snarls. His eyesight is poor when he’s in pieces. Naraku inhales sharply, recognizing the new blood that woke him is human.
“No,” you reply, “it’s me.”
“Hm,” he grunts. It’s difficult to tell if he’s still angry. “I did not summon you.”
You shift your weight to your hip, hazarding to step closer. No doubt he’s irked at his sleep being interrupted, but you understand that his desires are always a double-edged sword. Regardless of your actions, it’s his natural state to be displeased.
“I missed you,” is the only excuse you can offer.
You half expect him to dismiss it as pathetic, but instead Naraku hides his shock beneath a grimace.
“I didn’t think you were foolish enough to disturb me as I regenerate,” he finally tries, though it lacks the bite you know he can have.
“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” your chin is still raised to look at him. But Naraku understands that it is at once both practical and an act of defiance. Despite that, he can’t bring himself to lash out.
Instead, he laughs. It’s like dark water, pulling you in a few more steps. You’re lulled into a half-way sense of safety, worried less for your own bodily health. Perhaps it’s too soon, you fear. But Naraku seems unwilling to pin you with cruelty.
“Of course, I suppose I am the one who disturbs,” he says, “at least, for the time being.”
His cheeks are gaunt and heavy bags hang under his eyes. He looks tired, his voice is barely more than a reedy breeze. He creaks more than he speaks. You move even closer, until your toes touch the edge of the mountain of demons.
Naraku’s head is supported by a nexus of thick, gray tubes. His hair is entwined with the cellar rafters. He is hideous, you can admit that, and yet you shake your head.
“Do I not terrify you?” he asks, sounding more amused than shocked or angered by your lack of reaction. He does so love fear. “Most can’t bear to look.”
“Have many people seen you like this?” you ask, cocking your head to the side. You kneel on the body of the demon at your feet, using it as a stepping stone to get to the second.
Naraku makes a dismissive noise, unwilling to grace your question with an answer. He lacks one that will prove his point, and that annoys him.
“I thought as much,” you reply, “Kagura’s opinion hardly counts, in that case.” The demons are foul to the touch, but you manage to climb them one by one. Naraku stays terribly still as you do so, waiting and watching to see what you’ll do.
“And yours does?” he asks. A hint of thank ink-black, cruel humour creeps into his voice again. Still, you don’t flinch. He wonders if you might wish to hear him laugh again.
“Generally yes,” you kneel on the back of a sturdier demon, your eyes at level with his. “As I’m your lover,” you’re close enough for him to smell your blood, and the hummingbird beat of your heart.
You’re fragile, he thinks. But then again, so is he. And you’re looking at him with the worst kind of adoration a creature like him can fathom. Still, in his chest that’s now in pieces on the cellar floor, his heart that was once human lurches in your direction.
“You make a compelling argument,” Naraku decides. There is still a sharpness in his eyes, and it comes from ugly fear. You’re close enough that in a single, violent motion he could be dead. And your knife could be bloody.
But you keep your hands on your knees, looking at him with your head tilted. You move slowly, as if you know exactly what he’s afraid of. Maybe he has a right to be unnerved by this, but that won’t make you stop.
You lift your hands and put them on his cheeks, wiping dirt and grime from his face. His thin lips turn up into a smirk. He is a monster, a hateful, terrifying beast of hell and still you lean in to kiss him.
Your lips are human and soft. You’re warmed through, not disquietingly clammy the way he is. But you seem not to notice. You seem to reach through the haze of evil energy and the smell of decay to find the spark of heat belonging to Onigumo. That bit of life that makes you love him so.
He drags his tongue across your bottom lip, demanding out of habit that he be granted entry. Naraku gets what he wants, he’s used to that. So when you press your mouth closed, making a tight seal that his sharp teeth can’t break-- his eyes open.
“Did you come here only to torment me?” he asks, pulling away enough to be coherent. But he’s still so close.
He’s never felt more like an insect than when chasing your warmth. Naraku has looked on at moths flying headlong to their death, toward fire and now he understands why. It’s addictive, your humanity. It’s like a song that he could fall into.
He wishes he had arms, that’s what the longing in his displaced chest is telling him. He’ll wrap you up and keep you with him for hours when he’s finished remaking his body. And you won’t be able to deny him a thing.
But for now, you look at him with an amused expression he does not appreciate. You have ideas above your station and too little fear for his taste. At least, until you press your lips to his again.
It seems you grant him permission to deepen the kiss now, though he doesn’t know what’s changed. He’s the same as he was a minute ago, just as breathless and horrible to behold. Perhaps you simply wanted to prove you could control him.
That thought is simultaneously gut-wrenching and delicious. Naraku doesn’t know which is worse.
The smell of rot doesn’t register as pervasively, you notice. You put your hands in his long, black hair and drag his severed head against your mouth. Your fingers brush gray-mottled tendons and pale flesh.
He’s making decisions about which parts of him to keep even as he accepts your kiss, but he’s working a lot slower than before you arrived.
You have a nice time ruining his solitary confinement, sneaking kisses over his cold flesh. You try your best to warm him, he realizes, and the sentiment is unhelpfully pleasant. He loses count of how many times he needs to reconsider his decision to discard part of himself, you’re a beautiful distraction.
“I’m inhibiting you,” you say when you finally pause to breathe. He mirrors the action, struck very suddenly by how distant the need to do so was with your mouth to his jaw.
“Deeply,” he replies.
“My apologies,” you say, bowing your head. “I really did miss you.”
“If it would please you,” he begins, making you lift your head, “you may stay a while longer.”
“It would please me,” you reply. You kiss the corner of his mouth, moving too quickly for his poor vision to see. “I’ll be still as a mouse so you can be done sooner.”
Naraku closes his eyes, taking a deep breath before nodding. You can feel a shift in the cellar as he goes back to sleep. So much for parting remarks, you suppose. But he isn’t one for affection, especially not when vulnerable.
You sit back on your knees, watching his severed head hang from the rafters. And the sight, to your intense displeasure, inspires no fear. You know what he is, who he is, and still you make yourself comfortable.
Somewhere in the space between Naraku regrowing his neck and shoulders, you too succumb to sleep. The dark, cool cellar fades away, as does the smell of rot. You lean against the old wooden wall, the demons underfoot don’t bother you.
By nightfall, he’s finished. And you, his lover, lie curled up on the packed earth. His body is as it was, but now it’s much stronger. He feels better, more in control and sturdy. As much as he would like to look down on you with vague disgust brewing in his now rightly-placed heart, he can’t.
You’re roused hours later, somewhere just as dark but less oppressively macabre. You’re not in the cellar any more, you know by the smell. The wet, old air is cleaner in this new place.
Your fingers brush the floor, no longer made of packed earth. It’s tatami, you realize, the same tatami found in Naraku’s private chamber.
Sitting up, you realize how warm you are in this new place. Even in the blue-dark, you can’t feel anyone else’s eyes on you. You’re alone.
You look down next, wondering what’s covering you. You didn’t bring anything when you climbed down the ladder. But thrown over your chest, undisturbed by your heavy sleep is a white cloak of baboon fur.
Last night I had worship for young adult and Highschool students (I was Young Adult) and the whole time the host kept on reminding us to open our hearts, but not only our hearts our minds as well to the Holy Spirit. When I was kneeling there and praying to Jesus to help me receive the Holy Spirit a name came into my head. I won’t share his name, but all I could do is pray for this young boy I knew through a friend. So, as the week is over (and I’ll start fresh this coming Sunday) I want you to dedicate your prayer to someone. Someone who’s new to their faith, struggling with something, or even ask God to guide you and teach you how to help them. If you’d like use this prayer to remind you of what our Father has done for us: — Father in Heaven, please help me to know you and grow to know you as the generous, wonderful, merciful, and loving Creator God that You are. Help me trust You in what You tell me so You can work miracles in my and the lives of my loved ones. In Jesus’ name. Amen. —
when the soccer player reached out to you via social media, you made it very clear that eyeliner tattoos hurt like a bitch, much more so when it’s on the lower lash line. i know, no problem for me, he responded.
let me paint the picture: him lying on the bed in your little studio, dad rock playing faintly over the speakers, a ring light illuminating his skin. you’re hunched over his head, your face so so close to his as you trace your gun along the stencil. his lashes are long, almost tickling your forehead. you can feel his breath against your ear, his skin is warm and silky under the pads of your fingers.
you’ve instructed him to keep his eyes open during the process and stare straight at the ceiling, though he can’t help but take peeks at your concentrated expression — frosty irises scanning your features as you work, a tug at the corner of his lips.
with each wipe of the paper towel, crimson ink drags across his pale skin, staining it pink; his eyes have started to water after a few minutes, and you dab it softly with a tissue. the proximity, gentle touches and stolen glances are all so intimate and tender and almost amorous as you sit in comfortable silence, not daring to risk the daintiness of your art.
he checks himself out in the handheld mirror after you’ve finished, and says not much aside from “looks good, liebling,” when you ask him what he thinks. he asks for a mobile number transfer instead your bank details, and goes on his way.
you whip out google translate once he’s out the door, and had to take a seat when you read the translation lol
taking a break from the pink haired butch and going back to my roots — slutty sports anime men [proud]
