south asian âś she/her âś minors dni âś fics, drabbles, hcs âś multifandom âś #1 gaz enthusiast and mohabbot truther âś AO3 âś requests are open !!
i write for cod, animal kingdom, the pitt, twd, the punisher and more. probably. (all works are 18+)
RECENT WORKS:
âś bluebird ch3 (updated august 25th)
WIP:
âś spheres (gaz x f!reader)
âś bluebird ch4 (andrew âpopeâ cody x f!reader)
âś panthera (andrew âpopeâ cody x f!reader)
CURRENT MASTERLIST HERE
most works will probably include explicit/nsfw content, so read at your own risk. if youâre uncomfortable with something, move on.
You can only stare at him from the other side of the kitchen island while the dim yellow light from the living room leaks into the space that you left all dark and full of shadow. Itâs enough to see him beside the refrigerator, frozen still and looking as perplexed as ever.
Whatever heâs up to, youâve entertained it for longer than any normal person would. Hell, you brought him into your home instead of shooing him away or calling for help. Maybe youâve finally come to your senses because your stomach begins to tie itself in knots.
âAre you watching me for somebody? Did Ben put you up to this?â You ask with some kind of venom trembling in your voice. Foolish to have believed in the generosity of a stranger. âOh my God, is that why I keep seeing you at the store?â
You try to recall the details of the day at the grocery store when he carried Sam to find you in another aisle with Ben, who entrapped your wrist and spat whispers of empty threats into your hair. Pope didnât look at him with recognition. If anything, you thought he was about to split the guy in half.
That kind of quiet rage pooling in his eyes was almost marvellous to see while he held your daughter so tenderly. The same hands that cradle a child can reshape themselves to rain hell upon a man.
idk how it's been almost 2 months since i last updated but i will post the full chapter soon !
Your characterisation is amazing and the way you write is so beautiful and poetic and omg you just have so much talent!
Thank you for sharing it with us <3
anon, this means a lot to me and i apologise for the THREE MONTH WAIT HAHAHA!! thank you so much, i do try my best and i am hoping to make part 4 significantly longer. very excited to post again soon!!
âYou donât think youâve ever seen a man surrender like this.
tags: heavyy angst, stalking, descriptions of gore and organs? (not exactly literal), more heavy pining and yearning
wc: 1.4k (i know this is SO short but i promise i am writing more for part 4)
note: dude i haven't updated in like three months but i am back .. with a really short chapter sorry
âHello?â
A breath on the other end of the line. Two breaths. And then you hear a throat clearing before a flat itâs me.
You know who.
âAndrew?â
âYeah.â
You sit up like itâll help you hear him clearly, sheets falling to your lap as you adjust the phone against your ear. Silence swallows. Not even the whisper of a breath on his end now.
âHow late do cage fights go on for?â You joke mid-yawn, tired and croaky with remnants of sleep.
âDid I wake you?â
That tugs a hiccup of a laugh from your throat. âWell, itâsââ you pull your phone away for a moment, ââalmost two AM.â
âSorry,â he murmurs. âIâm- Iâm not calling about a fight, I justâŚâ
You drag the sheets off to the side and turn to let your bare feet find the floor as he loses his words again. It makes sense to feel inconvenienced when somebodyâs woken you up with a phone call and no explanation, but youâre more curious than you are vexed.
There doesnât seem to be any urgency in his tone. There doesnât seem to be anything at all besides the fact that he just sounds lost. Unmoored in the blue meridian.
Faint hairs of light from the streetlamps leak through your blinds as you stand up to pace your room in the dark. âAre you alright?â You perch your free hand on your hip, pausing in the middle of the room when you hear him inhale. Itâs a slow draw of air, trembling in his throat.
âYeah, yes,â he says after a while. You canât get another word in because heâs apologising again before abruptly cutting the line.
âAndrew, hello?â
The dead call is displayed on your screen after you pull your phone away. It only lasted three and a half minutes. Heâs already woken you up, so itâs only right that you make it last longer.
He picks up on the third ring. Doesnât utter a word.
âYou donât just call someone up in the middle of the night for no reason,â you say as gently as you can. âWell, unless you really have nothing else to do?â
Thereâs very little movement to be heard from his side of the call, and you wonder if heâs in his bed. Or if heâs even at home to begin with. You consider hanging up and blocking his number. It canât be highly likely that youâll run into him a fourth time and, if you do, you donât really owe him anything. But donât you? Maybe youâve been too quick to overlook his intentions, whatever they may be. Too trusting.
Youâre young, you have a child; no partner, no solid support system. To the wrong type of person, you look like you might blindly fall into the first pair of arms that reach for you. Isnât that what youâre doing? He very well could be the wrong type of person. Another bait and switch.
âThereâs a full moon,â he says, âout by the beach.â
You nod to yourself, lowering to sit on the corner of your bed. The more you learn of him, the less you know. âOkay. Why did you call me?â
A whole minute devoid of sound and you think he might have hung up on you againâ
âIâm outside.â
Itâs like a latch clicks into place. Your heart jumps to work overtime, pumping torrents of blood through your veins with sharp alarm.
âWhat?â you press, voice laced with a venom heâs never heard from you before. He contemplates hanging up on you again while you spring from your bed and race to your window. The moment you split the blinds apart, you scan to the right and spot a familiar dark pickup parked on the other side of the street. Directly opposite your neighbourâs house. The same one youâve seen lurking around a few times in the past three weeks. You feel something tear a hole in your gut. Heâs not visible at all, but you can come to your own conclusions. Your hot, surging blood runs cold. âHow⌠What is wrong with you? Jesus Christ, I donât even know youââ
âIâll leave,â he stammers, but he doesnât hear another word from you. Fraught and breathless, he can only frown at the road before him with his phone pressed up against the shell of his ear. Like the absence of you has turned him to stone. Canât feel the stiff ache of the pressure when heâs numbed with dread.
It isnât until he catches a blur of movement on the left that his hand drifts down to his lap.
Youâre charging across the road in a loose top and shorts, flimsy slippers flicking up under your feet as you stride over to his truck. The dimly lit street makes it hard enough to read your face but he doesnât miss the crack of fury splitting through your glare. Brows low, mouth closed.
You could use all the force in the world to rip the door off its hinges and he will still be utterly transfixed by the shower of light from the streetlamp washing over your eyes. Vision aflame with purpose. Fear.
If it really comes down to it, he can accept this. If you proffered him death in the warmth of your clawing hands, he would coil his body up in the centre of a plate. Get your fingers tearing into his flesh, teeth catching on his ribs. His heartâyour feast.
He preens the image of a sanguineous red crawling over your chin and he remembers the wrath of Nemesis. He remembers retribution.
Itâs only fitting that he turns in your stomach until you spit him out to resemble something that deserves to exist. Eaten bloody and swallowed raw before surging back up your throat to find reprieve. Baptised on the bed of your tongue. There canât be a sweeter end than your touch.
âAndrew.â
He blinks upon realising that youâve dragged him out of the driverâs seat and shoved him up against the side of his truck. A wonder. Had you been anyone else, heâd have split you in half by now. Youâre lucky he was slackened by the vision of you. Youâre lucky you unravel him.
His eyes dip to find your fists seizing his crumpled collar. Reproach. He feels like a bad dog.
âHow fucking long have you been doing this?â You press. He stares aimlessly back at you like heâs worlds away. Careening between echoing dimensions with no hope of return. But you donât know how close he feels. How he wonders if being held like this, even with such force, can ground him. Shackle his body to the earth so he canât drift away into the rapacious black hole of his conscience. You shove him with your fists, shirt still seized in the lock of them, âAnswer me.â Teeth gritting.
He blinks again before closing his eyes. âIâm sorry. I am,â he says. âI canât explain it.â
Youâre about to fire back at him until his chest follows a slow rise and a slow fall under your forearms and you feel your fists loosen his collar. You can only look at him now, stepping back. Sighing with dwindling irritation that slips into pity at the sight of him. Still backed up against his car door as if you havenât moved an inch. As if heâs waiting for you to do your worst, eyes locked away under their lids. You donât think youâve ever seen a man surrender like this.
(He is trying to breathe again. He is trying to perform like a functional human being. Canines bleeding through gum.)
The night air is only creeping up on you now, raising your skin to bumps.
âJesus Christ,â you run a hand over your face and shake your head as you turn away. âCome on. Just come inside.â
He doesnât register anything at all for a moment. When it clicks, he finds himself following your lead. Distance still generous, words still lost. His phone isâŚsomewhere in his car. So are his keys. Itâs all a blur and he would not stray from your heel if somebody materialised from the shadows and drove away with the truck. With his phone and your precious number in his contacts. With the secret wad of cash stowed beneath the passenger seat. The pistol in the glove compartment.
Youâve got him on your leash.
Youâre the core of the earth, pulling him further in and in and in.
picking splinters out of a big, burly, hairy lumberjack means he's watching you with soft eyes as you ease the wood from his palm. the man is quiet and still, breath shallower than usual because your touch feels a whole lot better than the rough of the trees he's been chopping all day. once you've finished your gentle poking and prodding, he asks if he can drag you into the shower with him. tells you he needs something nice and soft to squeeze on while he suds up, his mouth curling into a knowing grin. along with a promise to only kiss on you a little.
I love explicit fanfic. I love smutty shipping. I love horny one shots. I love filthy erotic nasty longfics.
I love character or plot driven fic that uses sex as a tool for characterization, conflict and catharsis, and I love fic that exists solely to be hot and sexy.
FANDOM : midnight mass (2021)
PAIRING : father paul hill x afab!fem!reader
RATING : explicit đ
WORDCOUNT : 17.3k
Reader POV. Seeking peace and a sense of self, you pack up your life and move to a small fishing village in the Pacific Northwest.
You're not prepared for what you find there.
Read on AO3 here.
đ Only including an excerpt of the first thousand or so words under the cut, as Tumblr formatting hates longwinded porn!
Canon-divergent. Takes place in an alternative version of Episodes 1-4.
Blasphemy and filth fueled by religious guilt and repression. Hierophilia. Reader is agnostic and has no prior ties to the Catholic Church. Mutual pining (but make it weird). Having horny thoughts about a priest (and Christianity in general). Lots of yearning and pondering. Second person.
â ď¸ Canonical animal death is mentioned. Blood-laced communion wine is given to the reader without her knowledge. Implied/referenced drug addiction (if you tilt your head slightly to the left). Age gap (20/30-something malaise and mental unwellness featured throughout). Dubious consent and coercion. Reader has no idea what she's gotten herself in for. Honestly, neither does he. â ď¸
When the smut rolls around: Body worship and oral (reader receiving). Soggy sub-leaning behavior from Peepaw Monsignor Father Paul. Because we deserve it. Weird sensory overload vampire sex. Lots of religious themes and motifs.
What can I say? 'Cause this is his body, this is his love. Such selfish prayers and I can't enough. Or whatever.
And I will pour upon you clean water,
and you shall be cleansed from all your filthiness,
and I will cleanse you from all your idols.
And I will give you a new heart, and put a new spirit within you:
and I will take away the stony heart out of your flesh,
and will give you a heart of flesh.
Ezekiel 36:25-26
The thing in the grass sees you far before you see it.
Later, youâll find yourself wondering just how long it was watching you. It doesnât really matter. Long enough.
Right now, youâre trying to count. It shouldnât be that hard. Part of you knows that, but the other part doesnât seem to be paying attention. Your brain does that sometimesâslips a bit, gives up halfway through.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6â
Youâve gotten to seven again when you finally catch a glimpse of it. Itâs barely much of anything, just a flicker of movement in your periphery. By that point, itâs already making its way towards you. The grass rustles furiously as it moves, tunneling its way into your full attention. You watch curiously as a head erupts out of the stalks.
Itâs a cat.
The realization comes with a sting. Spitting a curse out, you drop the knife. The price of your distraction bubbles to the surface of your finger, bright red and angry. A few drops of it speckle the orange slices youâve been cutting.
Out the window, the cat is still watching you.
A thought flashes wryly in your mind. If youâre trying to make a habit out of injuring yourself, you might want to schedule it around the ferries. You imagine it coming from the cat, doused in unimpressed feline judgment.
Rinsing your hand off under the tap, you inspect the damage. Itâs nothing to be worried aboutâjust a shallow cutâbut those were the ones that bled the most. Even now, you could see a fresh bead of red blooming on your skin.
Popping one of the tarnished oranges in your mouth, you head to the bathroom to fish in the medicine cabinet. The bandages you have arenât big enough for the gash, but you lay one on top of it anyway, smoothing the edges out.
Youâll be more careful next time.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6â
It makes sense that your favorite is what throws off the count. Seven was a good number. The best number, really. Lucky.
Youâd chosen to move on the seventh month of the year, seven years into a job that was only as good as it was good enough. Youâd been fine. Managing. Navigating adulthood seemed to amount to nothing more than days spent playing connect-the-dots between headaches, shaking ibuprofen into your palm.
Throughout it all, seven had been there, tucked into addresses, stamped onto licensed platesâseemingly assigned to you in particular.
In this sea of banality, there was a small thrill to the idea of something that existed solely for you.
Overhead, the sky is an icy blue, darted through by clouds that look like wrung out dishtowels. Making your way down the front steps, your bag thumps dully against your thigh.
Youâre thinking in numbers again. Counting steps, doors.
Salt hangs in air, blasted back against the faded paint of the buildings. Husks of them sit like dried-out cicada shells, brittle and abandoned. With no one to fill them, they seem to blur into the backdrop of the islandâstationary outcroppings of the land, just as still as the boulders along the beach.
Here and there, whispers of chimney smoke curl into the air. They were stubborn declarations of lifeâmade by equally stubborn people. Each came from families that felt as old as the ground under your feet, generations on generations whittled down over time. Their faded American flags jut out from front porches, battered folding chairs sitting in overgrown yards. They were here to stay, for better or for worse.
You shiver. Thereâs an unmistakable chill present in the air, making you regret leaving your gloves at the house. The wind stings your face as you turn the corner. Itâs cold out here and itâs only to grow colder still. You wonder if youâll ever get used to it. You hope you will. After all, this was home now.
For-ever, for-now? You werenât quite sure yet.
Months into your assumed ownership of the house, unpacked boxes still sit in your living room. Your walls are still bare. The wind chimes you bought are languishing in a plastic bag under the sink. Itâs hardly much of a home, but youâll get to it, you will. That line of thinking works for a bit, but promises of tomorrow have the habit of extending into the next week, and then the week after that. Now, it all just felt like a vague hint of eventually, bookended with maybe.
You werenât sure why youâd thought that moving here would imbue you with some great sense of motivation. The whole place seemed antithetical to that sort of thing. Things just moved slower out here. It was difficult to feel rushed. Whatever urgency Crockett might have had was just as weatherbeaten and tired as the houses that lined the road. You look at them as you walk, balling your hands into fists and shoving them into your coat pockets.
There are small victories, though, you remind yourself. Minor progress. Finally having run out of clean clothes, youâve had to give up living out of your suitcase. Your hand was forced, of course, but it was something.
You change direction, stepping off the path.
Down at the edge of the shore, someone is walking slowly along the water.
Your eyes alight on a large piece of driftwood, bleached bone white on the sand. Youâd claimed it as your own a few weeks inâeasy to do on a beach as lonesome as this one. Sitting down, you pull out your book, giving the cover a cursory glance before opening it. Itâs the same one youâve been starting-stopping-starting again the entire time youâve been here.
Youâre a few paragraphs in, fingertips starting to numb in the cold, when the distraction hits. The words feel tired, on this, your thousandth time attempting to read them. Your eyes slip down the page, scrambling the letters into a cluttered mass of black scribbles.
Twisting your head away from the incomprehensible blur, you find yourself staring at a beached boat. It sits lopsided on a tangle of long yellow reeds, windows coated with a thick sheen of sand. A bent fishing cage sits on its bow, sea grass collecting under it. Despite the debris, itâs difficult to gauge just how long it might have been marooned for. After all, everything eventually ended up looking like that out here.
You can just about make out a number painted on the side of the hull, faded and dull.
7.
âPardon me, young lady.â Startled out of your thoughts, you look up. An elderly man stands in front of you, clutching his hat in his hands. Heâs the one you saw down by the water when you arrived.
âI donât believe weâve met.â The breeze upsets his hair, whipping white strands of it around his head. âI hope youâll give grace to a very old man if heâs incorrect.â
You came here for isolation and youâre finding anything but. People seek you out, they want to know youâor rather, know of you. Where youâre from, how long youâre planning on staying. Why you chose this place, out of all the places.
âNo, youâre right.â You give him a polite smile, closing your book. âI just moved here.â
âMay I?â He gestures at the space on the log next to you.
âAbsolutely.â
You watch with anticipatory concern as he slowly shuffles forward. He lists to the right, carefully bracing his hand on the wood. With a groan, he finally lowers himself down beside you.
âWould you do me the privilege of telling me your name?â he asks. âYoung lady of whom Iâve never met?â
You tell him and he gives a decided tut, as if heâs committing it to memory.
âWhatâs yours?â you ask.
He seems to consider the question deeply, his brow creasing in concentration. Letting out a breath, he drums his fingers absently on his knee.
âJohn,â he finally says. âThereâs a whole lot ofââ he gestures vaguely out in front of him, his mouth pulling into an unimpressed frown. ââhoopla after the John. Before the John, too. But you know, I, uh, I canât be bothered with all that today. Today, wellâŚâ his words trail off. âToday Iâd very much like to be John. Just John.â
âYouâve got it, Just John.â
âA young lady with a sense of humor,â he chuckles. You follow his gaze as it drifts back to the ocean. Gulls dip and dart in the air above the waves, barely more than specks of white in the distance. âNow thatâs something quite special.â
The silence that settles around both of you is a tranquil one, full of the rush of waves and the chirps of bird song. Heâs very still beside you, staring out at the water. The moment hangs, extends. He blinks slowly, mumbling something under his breath. You almost feel as if heâs forgotten youâre there.
You wait. Eventually, you lower your eyes, flipping your book open. You manage to get to the end of the chapter before he speaks again.
âI must confess, I did have ulterior motives for coming out here today,â he says conversationally, as if no time has passed. âIf Iâm to be perfectly frank, young lady, Iâm quite the suspicious character.â
âIs that true?â You look over at him, raising your brows.
âOh, yes,â he replies brightly. Lowering his voice, his tone takes on a playfully conspiratorial edge. âIâm on the run today, actually.â
âFrom the law?â You smile.
âSometimes it does feel like that,â he sighs. âNo. My pursuers are, um, very kind people. Quite well-meaning.â
âSo whyâd you run?â You stuff the book back into your bag.
âThey try to stop me from taking my walks.â He shakes his head. âBut I wonât. Not on days like this. Not while IâmâŚhere. Iâve been having less of these, truth be told.â
You watch his face.
âThatâs a secret, by the way,â he says softly. âI shouldnât have those, but I do.â
âI feel like everyone does.â
John hums out a noncommittal noise, shifting beside you on the log. Fishing in the pocket of his coat, he pulls out a small metal tin. You glance over at it as he cracks the lid open. Itâs filled with an assortment of chalky-looking candy. Selecting a peppermint from the top, he raises it slowly to his lips.
âDonât get old,â he says, extending the tin towards you. His hand trembles a bit with the effort. âLive as long as you can, but donât get old.â
âIâll try my best.â You nod, plucking out a piece of bright yellow candy.
âVery good.â He smiles gently over at you. âEnjoy.â
You pop the candy into your mouth as he snaps the tin shut. Itâs lemon, sugary and just a touch stale. The taste is a nostalgic one. It slots in perfectly with everything else about him, ubiquitously grandfatherly.
âThanks, John.â
âSee, John sounds right, doesnât it?â He exhales deeply, turning back to the ocean. âYouâre very welcome.â
You return home. You count and then recount. You think about secrets and count them too. Youâre not sure if you have seven anymore.
For all intents and purposes, you had disappeared. You were fairly professional at it. People cared initially, but the longer the gulf grew, the less they did. It was a blameless thing.
You always had a foot out the door of your own life. Self-sabotage and self-preservation were things you fumbled for in the dark. You always grabbed the wrong one, but you never noticed until it was too late.
Another blameless thing. They felt the same at first.
You imagined the lives you had vanished out of as gulls, bobbing at the surface of the water. They barely flew, those birdsâjust opened up their wings and let themselves be caught by the wind. It was the only sensible thing to do in response to something so inescapable.
You unlatch the window and crack it open. You breathe, you think, you count.
It was possible that the people youâd known werenât the gulls at all. Maybe that was just you, a resident of nowhere in particular. Living in moments youâd just happened to end up in, ambivalent to a future that might exist past your next meal. It was an unfortunate thought.
Or maybe you arenât any of those things. The thought came in a flat, unimpressed voiceâthe one youâd imagined for the cat outside your window. Itâs gone now, but you can still picture those eyes. Amber, wide and unblinking.
It was correct, of course. You werenât the parasitic maw in the shape of a bird, nor the wind that carried it. You couldnât be. It was a hollow triumph to know that you were just a person and had always been one.
If you were anything, you wish you were the ocean. Impartial and vast and beautiful. Since you werenât, you settle for filling your lungs with the salt of her exhale.
sorry i love writing about pope and the lost bond with his dead father because ohmygod the way colin haunts him his whole life and he was never really aware. we all know how smurf shaped pope, but colin is his outline. colin is his spine. the callouses in his hands when heâs looking down at himself, trying to figure out how he came into this world all mismatched and fundamentally wrong. the missing piece is his father, so he was essentially just doomed the moment he was born.
parallel lines, never crossing. never joining. two madmen, separated by a single bullet and four decades.
says something like âdidnât even know i had a dadâ when he meets his uncle and cousins.
What is your header image from? It looks so familiar but I canât place it
good question, i actually have NO IDEAđ i got it from pinterest and iâve tried to trace it back through image search but thereâs never an original source that comes up unfortunately
the pitt not being like greys anatomy and actively avoiding gratuitous focus on romance is great bc that means that in the next season mohabbot will have like three scenes. in one of them, abbot will most likely be having a panic attack. the other two will be them together in surgery. there will be a single line from one of them that's something like "we make a good team." potential bonus of princess and perlah sharing suspicious eye contact.
