#Alma Presses Play

[dolls-and-cats]

To Jewish friends in the doll community, gut yontif and I hope y'all have a sweet new year.

I am not Jewish myself, but have appreciated learning about Judaism over the past few years from public historian Rebekkah Rubin's (iamexcessivelydollverted on instagram)'s posts. Today, I made a honey cake from a 1970s recipe book, From Dora with Love, following Rebekkah's recent patreon post. Rebekkah says the honey in the recipe ties in with the hope for a sweet new year.

My doll is Alma from the book Alma Presses Play by Tina Cane, which is loosely autobiographical and set in NYC in the 1980s. Alma grows up with Jewish and Chinese heritage but doesn't grow up as an observant Jew or connected to a synagogue community.

[all-purpose-dish-soap]

1.2k / 18 / soap soulmate au, part 1

...

You're Soap's enemy. One of Graves' Shadows. You just betrayed him, and now he's seeing his name tattooed across your skin. The Las Almas night nearly eclipses the soulmark's inky color. But it's there, clear as day. He can't wrap his adrenaline-addled mind around it.

He ghosts up behind where you're posted--pacing, patrolling, on the lookout for him--and wraps his hand around your mouth. You react in surprise, grabbing his wrist. But before you can twist out of his grasp, he slides the blade of your fallen Shadow's knife against your back.

If you're his soulmate, it changes nothing. He'll still be one man against dozens, chances slim to none that he'll make it out of this alive. But he has to know.

"You," he growls. "What's your name?"

You still. You're trained to keep a cool head under far more extreme circumstances than this.

"Your name," Soap repeats, voice like gravel.

He loosens his grip just enough to let you speak.

You release a slow breath out. "Classified."

He increases the pressure of his knife against your back. "That bastard Graves trusts you, aye? Not many others posted this way. Nobody'll find you for awhile." He presses the tip of the knife back into the fabric of your uniform. He'll keep the pressure there until he gets what he wants. "Your full name."

You say nothing for a long moment. But then, you see no reason to die overlooking these twisting Las Almas alleyways. You tell him your full name.

It confirms what he already knows. It's the name printed on his own skin, the name he's repeated to himself thousands of times over. The knife disappears from your back.

"Look at me," he tells you.

You push his arm away and turn on him, drawing your sidearm and training it at his chest. You step back, looking him up and down. "You're the one we're looking for. Aren't you? Capture or kill--" Your voice falters when you see he pulls his shirtsleeve up, revealing his own soulmate. He doesn't give you one goddamn second to try to deny it or turn your eyes away the way you've been trained. Your name. Tattooed on your target's arm.

Seeing you eye to eye, Soap's breath catches in his throat. His own name on the side of your neck is clear as day to him now.

"You're her," he says, still not quite believing it.

You take another step back. What are you supposed to do? You should shoot him, yes, but could you even make your finger pull the fucking trigger now? You lower your gun, but you don't put it away.

"You should go," you tell him, voice low. "Now."

But he doesn't move. He wants to take this moment in, study your face, memorize every detail. You're the real thing. His blue eyes stay locked onto yours, and a myriad of scenarios play through his mind, just like yours. What happens if he leaves? Will he be able to find you again?

He takes a step toward you.

"Don't do that," you warn him, sliding back a step to keep the same distance between you. "Don't make me hurt you."

"You wouldn't." He moves for you now with the confidence of a man who believes that, too. He wants to touch you again. Just to make sure you're really here. His voice is rough and thick. "I need to look at you."

You bite down on a gasp when your heel knocks against the wall. He's getting too close. You can't let your control on the situation slip. You can't forget why you're here or what will happen if Graves finds out about this.

"Back off," you warn him again. You still have your sidearm in hand, but you're terrified he's right--pointing it at him is an empty threat.

"Can't."

He moves in close to you, his breath hot on your neck. You swear you can feel his body heat through the layers of both your uniforms. Your nerves are on fire. His scent is everywhere. This can't be happening. Not now. It should be a dream, meeting your soulmate, but it's a nightmare.

"Listen to me," you force out. "They'll find you and kill you. Leave. Now."

"Can't." Soap is close enough to whisper it into your ear. His hands close around your arms. "Can't think straight with you in front of me." His gaze darkens as he pushes forward, pressing you into the wall and pinning you there. If he's not going to live to see morning, he's going to kiss you. He has to taste you.

You hear another Shadow under you, boots thudding against the metal stairs, scaling up to your lookout perch.

You try to fight the panic welling up in your throat. You could both be shot for this. Killed for it. Worse.

You can't let them see him. If you give him what he wants, he'll go, right?

You grab his collar and pull him forward, meeting his lips in a searing kiss. His lips feel like stubble and taste like blood. He shudders, feeling your body suddenly pressed against his. He deepens the kiss. He's starving, but it's not enough. Just the taste and feel of you isn't enough. His fingers weave into your hair and he pulls you close, pressing even harder against your body.

You forget yourself for a moment. Your brain chemistry shifts hard, heat and want burning in your veins.

Then you hear voices from below and reality washes over you again. With a strangled groan, you push him away. "God damn you. Hide."

Soap has to force himself to let you go. It takes every ounce of control to keep from reaching for you again. But the look in your eyes when you push him away... he knows you've crossed a line.

He disappears the moment two more Shadows crest the top of the iron staircase.

You avoid rousing suspicion as you lie to your allies' faces, reporting no sightings of either target. By the time you're forced to leave your post and follow the others back to the nearest rendezvous point, you're resigned to never seeing him again. It's better not to wonder.

All you can think about are his fingers weaving into your hair, his lips on yours, the burning grip of his hands around your wrists. You tell yourself not to think about it... but then your mind goes back to it, over and over. No matter how much you tell yourself it's better not to fantasize.

Even when you learn he evaded capture, he's a wanted man. A dead man walking. You're better off pretending you never saw your name tattooed on his skin.

...

There is no other thought on Soap's mind but you long after he slips away into the Las Almas night.  The sight of you leaving with the other Shadows haunts him when he closes his eyes. He wakes up adrenalized, thinking about you in his hands, his heart pounding like it could punch through his rib cage.

His soulmate got away, and the weight of regret is setting in.

...

[part 1] / part 2 / part 3 / part 4 / part 5 / part 6 / part 7 / part 8 / part 9 / part 10 / part 11 / part 12

more Soap / masterlist tag

[ivy-loves-chocolate]

resident evil boys taking readers virginity 👁️👁️

Literally don’t care what boys you write for this prompt I just need Luis 🙏

I gotchu anon. Hope you like these 🥰 Warnings: smut, loss of virginity, oral sex

He wanted to make this night special since it was your first time, so he went above and beyond with the preparations. I'm talking about candles all over the place, rose petals in the bed, champagne, a good movie to relax, and good music to put you both in the mood. During the movie, he initiated everything. He just couldn't wait. He wanted you for so long that it started to hurt.

You'll start to feel his fingers tickling your skin, gently tugging your shirt and going under it. His hand went up to your bra, and there he cupped your breast, massaging it gently. The little sounds that you make while he is touching you are delightful to his ear. He turned his head to look at you, closed the gap between your bodies, and started to kiss you passionately, all while still giving attention to your breast.

He took off your clothes slowly, kissing and tasting every inch of your skin as he exposed you. It was like unwrapping a long-wanted gift, so he took his time.

"Mi alma, you are simply gorgeous," he said as he was looking at your naked body.

His kisses went from your neck to your breast, where he spent some time playing with them. He cupped them as he gave each nipple special treatment, and then moved on to your thighs.

As he kissed you down there, he began to moan as well. His tongue moved in circles around your bud, and over it, he made all sorts of movements just so he could keep hearing you puffing and moaning. You took a fistful of his hair, pressed his face closer to your core, and began to rub your hips all over his face. He was so close that you could feel the vibrations of his own moans. His beard also felt nice over your heated core.

When he inserted two fingers, your grip tightened on both hair and sheets. You rolled your eyes and hips, trying to get more friction.

When he felt you were wet, he stopped and removed his own boxers. Your eyes widdened at the sight of his cock, which was thick, long, and soaked at the top. You knew he was big from the moment you rubbed on him, but you were still surprised at the sight of it.

"Easy, love, I'll go slow. If it hurts, tell me, ok?" He said this as he came on top of you. He suppoerted himself on the elbows. He was looking into your eyes, his gaze so deep that it pierced through your soul. You felt him so close, and you gasped when you felt his tip breaking inside. It stings a little, and you breathe heavily. You dig your nails into his back.

He went slow, he never went with the full length because he wanted you to give you time to adjust. He also began to kiss you again, with the same passion, and he also kept whispering sweet, loving words to your ear. His romantic attitude helped with the pain, and after a few more thrusts, pleasure took its place. It began to feel good—so good that you told him it's fine to increase the pace.

You felt him close, he was listening to your indications, and he knew how to stimulate that spot inside you. Eventually, you felt a familiar pressure in your lower belly, and soon, you were milking him of everything that he had to offer.

He collapsed next to you, pulling you closer to his chest. His big thumb was running circles on your cheek, and the other arm was wrapped around your body. He kept asking if you were alright and if he had done something to hurt you. All these worries took hold of him, and he failed to see how much you enjoyed it, but you showed him when you climbed on top of him for round two.

When he knew that he would be the man to take your virginity, he was very pleased. In his eyes, you were just his property, a useful tool in his arsenal, but that didn't mean he wouldn't take care of you on your special night.

His lips felt like feathers on your skin. His hands moved gently along your curves, grooping the flesh when the kiss got intense.

"On your back," he said almost shyly. His tone was so sweet, so gentle, and so unusual for him.

His lips moved from yours and travled to your neck, giving you soft bites that won't leave marks. His hands moved to your breasts, cupping and massaging them gently.

"Albert," you whispered as he began to rub your nipples with his fingers.

He left your neck and descended further until he reached your breasts. All this time, his lips never left your body, constantly kissing your hot skin, and soon they found your nipples. His tongue twirled around them, going up and down until you were a complete mess down there. He kept on like that until you clearly grabbed his hips and urged him to give you some more friction between your legs.

"Albert, if you keep going like this, I'll cum," you desperately said.

He chuckled but didn't hurry up. He gave both of you nipples one more lazy, long lick before moving on.

"Bastard," you said under your breath.

He finally reached your core, and this is where he finally gives you the attention you want. Two of his fingers enter your hole slowly, as his tongue begins its usual activity on your clit. He moves in perfect rhythm, making you arch your back and call out his name.

You reach out hesitantly to his head, wanting to grab his hair. At first, you gently touched his golden locks, looking for a reaction. Seeing that there is none, you grab a fistful of his hair, but you don't pull hard. Still no reaction, and in fact, he added a third finger, making you gasp. That was the moment when you properly tightened your grip and pulled his hair properly—a moment in which he moans too.

"Are you enjoying this Wesker?" You teased.

"What do you think?" he asked as he pulled out and removed his pants. His cock was thick and long, and it was swollen. His tip was also pretty soaked.

He went on top of you, glued himself to your body, and pushed the first few inches into your cunt. He grunted instantly, as you were so tight. It took every ounce of self-control to not push his dick inside you in one thrust and fuck you sensless. You gasped for air as it began to sting. You dug your nails in his back, leaving small red marks.

Wesker went slow, so slow, and was paying attention to you the whole time. He began to kiss your neck again and also to praise you. You liked when he was being gentle with you, and the more affectionate he'd be, the less it would hurt. Little by little, kiss by kiss, the pain faded, and you began to feel good—so good that you urged him to go faster.

He knew how to rub that spot inside you, and you felt your orgasm approaching.

"Albert..." you started but were cut off instantly by him. He began kissing your lips again, very passionate and almost sloppy.

A few more thrusts, and your cunt was contracting hard around his cock. A few seconds after that, he came as well and filled you to the brim, feeling your belly expand a bit.

When he pulled out, all of that thick cum oozed out of your cunt.

What shocked you was how gentle and caring he was afterwards, but what shocked him more was how fast you climbed on top of him for round two.

He knew it was your first time, so he made sure to clear his schedule so you could get all of his attention.

When you arrived, he poured two glasses of wine and put your favourite movie. You were the one to initiate the foreplay, as you placed a hand on his thigh and squeezed hard enough to make him notice. You noticed how well-toned his leg was when he flexed under your touch.

Then, you moved your hand up until you reached his cock. Yeah, you were feeling brave, especially after those glasses of wine.

He split his legs and allowed you to toy with his growing erection. You felt your legs going weak as you kept massaging his big bulge. You kept thinking, "If he feels this big now, I wonder..." Your thoughts were cut short when you felt two fingers lift your chin. His big, blue eyes were looking at you, admiring your delicate features.

"You are doing great so far," he said with a smirk.

He pressed his lips on yours. The kiss was so gentle and sensual that you felt yourself getting soaked.

He began to undress you, taking time to admire your body. It was like unwrapping a gift.

As you were lying down with your legs spread, his fingers were busy rubbing your clit and his mouth was sucking on your tit. He loved the sweet, sweet sounds that you made, the little moans and puffs, and how you would say his name. You noticed how his cock would twitch every time you said his name.

"Leon..."

another twitch, but this time a small, white bead formed at the tip, which then dropped along the length.

His fingers were moving up and down your bud as his tongue was twirling around your nipple. You gasped when you felt two thick fingers entering you, but it didn't hurt. It felt so good to see how they'd come in and out, and he curled them to stimulate your spot so you could hear angels singing.

"I think you're ready," he said, and he came on top.

The first few thrusts stung a little and made you feel uncomfortable, but he went slow, very slow, so you have time to adjust. He was very careful with you all the time.

When the stinging sensation was fading and pleasure took its place, you told him to pick up the pace, the moment in which he came closer to your body, glueing himself to you, and buring his face at the crook of your neck. He caressed various portions of your flesh by kissing them and occasionally biting you gently. He loved when he was all over you like that, and that showed by how enthusiastic he trhusted his hips.

You dig your nails on his back, leaving small marks that would faint shortly. It was the first time when you felt this full, and as overhwelming as it was, you never wanted him to stop. He also knew how to stimulate that spot inside you, which made your toes curl and caused you to become louder and louder.

"Leon, I..." you said as you felt your orgasm approaching.

"I know, babe, I feel it too."

His cock was throbbing like crazy before entering you, but now it was pure torture, especially since you were so tight. When he felt your cunt contracting around his sore cock, he couldn't control himself anymore. It came instantly, filling you to the brim.

Leon collapsed near you and pulled you into a tight embrace. Between heavy breaths, he asked if you were alright. He was worried about you, and he was also worried if he did something to hurt you. However, his worries began to fade when you asked for a second round.

He wanted to make something special for you. This touch-looking man is actually a softie inside, so he made sure that everything was perfect for your first time. He got vanilla-scented candles, champagne, chocolate, and he even cooked.

You were the one to initiate the act as you began to caress his chest softly. His big arm was wrapped around your body, and he'd stand to mimic your movements. When you felt more courageous, you slid your hand underneath his shirt and started touching his torso, blushing when feeling his toned abs.

One thing led to another, and now Kauser was on top of you, kissing you very passionately. His hands were squeezing your breasts while his tongue was busy capturing yours. He was a good kisser, and he knew how to touch you. That was shown by your actions, as you kept moaning and rolling your hips underneath him, urging him to move on already.

He couldn't help himself and stopped by your breasts to give them a little attention, licking and sucking on those hard nipples. While his mouth was busy with one, the other would pinch and twist your sensitive part, making sure they both got the same appreciation.

"Jack..." you called him, hoping he would get the hint.

"I'm sorry, I got carried away."

He went between your legs and wasted no second. His tongue quickly found your clit and began to circle it relentlessly. He loved the sweet sounds that'd come out of your mouth as they persuaded him into toying with your little cunt all night.

He inserted some fingers inside you just so he could hear you getting louder. He curled them inside you, finding that spot and rubbing it fast enough to make you pant and grab the sheets.

It overwhelmed you already, but you were still a sucker for new sensations.

He came on top of you and glued himself to your body. You got a glimpse of his cock and got a little worried.

"Hey, everything will be fine," he said after noticing your expression. "I'm here all the way. Just tell me if it hurts, and I'll stop, ok?"

You nodded, closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. You felt his lips touching yours, and you wrapped your hands around his neck. The kiss was gentle, not so chaotic as early. It still didn't distract you from the sudden pain you felt when he inserted the first inches. A whelp came out of your lips, and he didn't push further. Instead of going at a slow pace, he kept kissing you, and he told you countless times how good you're doing.

Eventually, after all that praising and slow progress, you began to feel good and demanded he move a little faster.

He knew his ways, and he quickly managed to rub that spot inside you. His thick cock went in and out of your tight cunt at a normal pace now, making you both moan and call each other's names.

"Jack..." You felt your orgasm approaching, so you held tight. You wanted to feel him close, as these new sensations were very overwhelming.

"I know, babe," he said between grunts.

A few more thrusts, and you felt thick, hot shots of his cum filling you up. Calling his name, you let the orgasm wash over you. A white veil lowered over your eyes, your toes curled, and you held him tight. Your walls kept milking him until the very last drop.

He collapsed next to you and pulled you closer to his chest. Krauser kept praising you, saying how good you were and how well you took him. A few worries got to his mind, but they were soon cast aside once you climbed on top of him for round two.

Captain, my captain. This man is so responsible and overprotective, and when he found out that he would soon be the first man to ever take your virginity, he felt like he had such a huge task ahead of him.

He overdid himself with the preparations. He got some expensive wine, cleaned the apartments thoroughly, and prepared a nice playlist.

His touch was so gentle on your body. His hands slid up and down your curves as he kissed you so passionately. He pushed you on the bed and climbed on top of you, his beard tickling your skin.

He started with your neck, then lowered to your breasts, which he massaged the whole time. His fingers would relenttlessly go over your hard nipples, making you arch your hips and meet his erection. His bulge was big, and it made you wonder if he would fit inside.

His tongue circled your nipples a few times before descending again, leaving a trail of kisses on your hot skin. He reached your core, placed your legs over his big shoulders, and began to kiss you again on your lips. Then he parted them, revealing your clit and started sucking it.

Your moans made his cock twitch in his pants, and he felt himself getting soaked.

His tongue and fingers worked hard to make you ready, and when the time came, he removed his boxers and approached you.

"What if..." you began as you parted your legs.

"It will be alright, I'm here."

The first inches sting, and he went very, very slowly. He asked constantly how you were feeling and if you wanted him to stop, but you assured him you're fine.

His body was pressed tight against yours, his fuzzy chest tickling your skin. He was so warm and gentle, and you felt so safe between his big arms. Because you felt so safe with him, you started to enjoy it little by little until you moaned again. You wrapped your legs around his waist and urged him to go faster.

You were both moaning and panting. He was so delighted by how good your tight cunt felt, and your body went numb from how good he felt inside you. The more he rubbed that spot inside you, the faster the pressure in your lower abdomen increased.

"Chris..." you whispered faintly and hugged him tight.

"I know. I feel it too."

In a bit, you cunt kept contracting around his cock, milking him of everything he had to offer. He filled you to the brim, and when he pulled out, some of his semen oozed out.

He collapsed near you, pulling you close to his chest. He kept kissing you—your forehead, cheeks, and lips. Also, he asked you constantly if you were alright and if you enjoyed it. Chris was very concerned about you, but all of his worries faded when you climbed on top of him for round two.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

bésame

words: 1.6k

warnings: 18+ only! smut, female receiving oral, p in v sex, unprotected sex, bilingual!reader, spanish dialogue (its not really translated but all the important parts are explained), rafe learning spanish

rafe sets down his briefcase, toeing off his shoes as his eyes scan the foyer for you, surprised that you don’t come running up to greet him like you normally do when he gets home.

“hola, baby!” he yells out, suddenly hearing a clatter from the kitchen before you stick your head into the hallway.

“hola, amor.” you smile. “just making tamales for dinner.”

“ahh.” rafe nods, the time consuming dish explaining why you were already working in the kitchen, filling the corn husk with ingredients before rolling them up.

“come keep me company?” you smile at him, batting your eyelashes in a way that always has rafe bending and agreeing to anything you ask him. “tell me about your day?”

“of course.” rafe walks the short distance in the hallway, pressing a kiss to your lips, his arm wrapping around your waist to pull you close.

“missed you.” you hum against his lips. “te amo.”

rafe smiles back at you. he didn't know any spanish besides hola when he first began dating you. “te amo, amor.”

you give him a look, eyes widening slightly as you go back to working on your dish. “that pronunciation was shockingly good, rafey.”

“i may have been practicing a little.” rafe smirks, in truth he's been practicing a lot, working really hard to learn the language for you, even going as far as to hire a native speaker to meet with him on his lunch breaks.

“practicing, eh?” you smile, fingers effortlessly folding the tamale, having done it so many times. “how do you say eat, then?”

“comer.” rafe answers, without even having to think about it.

“¡no me digas!” you gasp in surprise. 

rafe laughs, a faint blush on his cheeks at the look of wonder and excitement in your eyes. “we… i mean uhh… vamos a comer tamales.”

“yes!” you squeal. “we are going to eat tamales!” you have to put the corn husk down, quickly washing your hands before moving over to rafe, touching his cheeks.

“you’re so good, cariño!” you have to get up on your tiptoes to press a kiss to rafes lips. 

“i know that one.” rafe admits with a smile. its one of the first thing he had the instructor teach him, various pet names to call you. “sweetheart or darling. i also know mi vida, mi corazon. i even know princesa and uh..." it takes rafe a second, but the word for soul finally comes back to him, "mi alma."

“oh wow.” you could melt on the spot at the sweet words coming out of rafes mouth, only sounding even better in your natural language. “let me see if you know this one… bésame.”

it takes a second for the words to click, and then rafe smirks down at you, leaning in to press your lips together in a kiss, just like you asked for. his mouth dominates yours, turning your bodies so you’re the one leaning against the counter, trapped between rafes strong arms.

“quiero verte.” you whisper to rafe, tugging on his shirt. “i want to see you.”

rafe quickly pulls the shirt off over his head, his muscles on display for you to rub your hands over.

“how do i say undress me?” rafe asks, moaning lowly when your hands pass over his nipples.

“desvísteme.”

“undress you? okay. bueno.” rafe smirks as you let out a laugh, tricking you into being asked to be undressed. 

you raise your arms up so he can tug your shirt off, eyes widening when he realizes you’re not wearing a bra. his hands cup your chest, playing with your tits as he finds his way back to your mouth, tongue running along your lower lip until his thumb swipes over your nipples and makes you gasp, finally allowing him entrance. 

“quiero probarte.” rafe whispers against your lips, your eyes widening when you realize what his words mean, still not used to hearing him speak in spanish. “quiero probarte, baby. can i take your shorts off?” “yeah, yeah.” you nod. you swear you must be dreaming, with rafe saying that he wants to taste you in spanish. you wonder who he asked, who gave him the translation, because as far as you know, the only spanish speaking people he knows is your family members, and while rafe is not easily embarrassed, even that's going too far for him.

rafe tugs at your shorts and underwear, letting them fall to the floor before you’re being lifted up onto the island counter, half-assembled tamales long forgotten as rafe bends, burying his face into your core without any delay.

his tongue laps at your entrance, tasting your juices as they build up. his mouth makes an obscene slurping noise, and you didn’t even realize how wet you’d gotten from hearing him speaking spanish, getting to communicate with him in such a beautiful language that you love so much.

he drags his tongue upward, flicking it against your clit. “te gusta?” rafe asks.

“yeah, yeah i like it!” you answer rafes question, head feeling fuzzy as he goes back to flicking over your clit before circling it teasingly, making you feel every nerve when he drags back over before his tongue finds its way down towards your entrance.

he gathers even more slickness on his tongue before dragging upward, using it as extra lubrication against your clit. he licks at your most sensitive area before tugging your clit between his lips, sucking it into his mouth.

you let out a squeal, reaching down to grip his hair in your hands to hold him in place, pressing his face further into you.

you can feel rafe chuckle against your skin at your clear excitement, but he doesn’t pull away, simply continuing to eat you out as you mumble a few curse words in spanish when his fingers press against your entrance.

hes slow when pressing his digit inside, counter to the speed and intensity of his lips on your clit. when he finally begins to pump it inside and out, your body relaxes, the familiar feeling allowing him to slip a second finger in.

rafe wastes no time scissoring his fingers, clearly needing to open you up quickly to get himself inside.

“fuck!” you shout out. “rafe, rafe, cógeme. cógeme, por favor.” rafe pulls away, looking up at you, clearly having not heard that word before. “fuck me!” you tell him in english, tugging on his hair slightly to encourage him to stand up, to take you.

rafes confusion turns into amusement, his grin spreading as he slowly raises, fingers continuing to thrust inside of you as your hands grab at his pants, undoing them as quickly as you can before shoving them down, rafes hard cock rising.

“tell me the truth, rafe.” you gasp as his fingers pull out, only momentarily feeling the gaping emptiness inside of you until rafes cock takes its place, filling you up effortlessly, the perfect amount of stretch to your walls to bring you the slightest hint of pain, that only increases your pleasure. “who is teaching you this?” “i may have hired someone to help me out on my lunch breaks.” rafe smirks, keeping his cock buried inside of you, your hips moving while sat on the edge of the marble counter, trying to entice him into thrusting. “no promises im ever gonna be fluent, but i figured its the least i could do. for you.”

“oh, rafe.” you feel tears well up into your eyes. you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pressing a kiss to his lips. “i love you.”

“te amo.” rafe smiles down at you, your legs wrapping around him next, waiting for the thrusts to begin, but rafe remains still for a few more moments, letting you enjoy the soft, sweet moment.

it lasts as long as rafe can hold himself back until he suddenly pumps forward, hips thrusting up rapidly, glad that the island counter sits at the perfect height for him to fuck you at.

“oh, yes!” you moan out, nails raking down his back. “fuck, feels so good baby.” “yeah, can feel your tight little cunt squeezing me.” rafe moans as well, combined sounds filling the kitchen. 

“don’t know…” you try to get the words out, his cock repeatedly filling you, making you interrupt your sentence with gasps. “don’t know how long i’ll last.”

“yeah? my mouth and cock that good? need to cum already?” rafe loves how easily he can make you cum, how fast he can push you to the edge. it only turns him on more.

“sí.” you nod. “close, papí.”

rafe lets out a groan, his orgasm suddenly close from the use of that single word alone. “call me that again, baby girl.”

“papíííí.” you whine out, rafes hips pushing up, slapping against your skin as an orgasm suddenly forces out of you, cunt pulsating around rafe, pulling his own orgasm free.

“fuck.” you curse, before repeating it in spanish. “joder.”

“god, your pussy is perfect.” rafe says, pressing his lips against your cheek as the last of his cum is milked out. “how do you say that in spanish?” “nnn, i don’t know.” you groan. “my minds not working right now.”

“aww, pobrecita, all fucked out.” rafe laughs, pulling his cock out of you.

“your fault.” you grumble, feeling his cum leaking out onto the counter, but you need at least another minute of rafe holding you close before you care about the mess. “your fault dinner is gonna be late too.” you look at your workstation. “we’ll wash up and then i’ll help you.” rafe offers. “and you can teach me some more words in spanish.”

“fine, but you don’t need to learn any more dirty ones, niño travieso.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid

[saint-ajax]

༒ OCT. 09 | El Sin Nombre

༒ KINKTOBER

TW: 18+ | TEASING | EDGING | THIGH HUMPING | DRY HUMPING | ORAL SEX | VAGINAL FINGERING | PHONE CALL | MOMMY KINK |

   El Sin Nombre is the faceless man who rules Las Almas. Respected out of fear. People may respect the name, but true and loyal souls of the city despise it. One thing you love about the respected, dreaded, image is that the man who built the name is a woman.

   “Sin Nombre 's personal sicaria?” you say.

   “ Si, mi amor? ” the woman's voice called out behind you. There she was. Your Valeria Garza. The hottest, most beautiful woman in your eyes.

   “ Ola, mami .” you smile giddily, excited to embrace your woman after a long morning without her. You walk closer to her, arms open and ready to wrap around her neck. 

   You did as you planned, wrapping her neck with your arms, tiptoeing to reach for her lips. She grips the back of your hips, where her fingers lie on top of your ass. She leans down to meet your soft lips. “You miss me, baby?” 

   She asks in her husky voice. “Of course,” you say as you lean back to look at her face, and rise again to kiss her. Then you do it again.

   “I still have—” you tiptoe to kiss her, “—work to do,” and again, “—I'm sorry, mami. ”

   She says as she kisses back every time you rise up to meet her lips while she caresses your ass. “Okay..” you say with a slight pout as you look up at her through your lashes, “but, can I stay here?”

   She furrows her brows, thinking. “Will you behave?” a grin appears on your lips before you nod eagerly.

   “Promise.” You say before leaving another peck on her lips.

   “Alright, you can stay.”

   She holds your hand as she brings you to the long table of her office. The people in the mansion know who you are, and what you are to Sin Nombre. They respect and protect you, lusting over your beautiful body isn't allowed or else they're dead. 

   She sits down and spreads her legs as she makes you stand up in front of her. “Twirl for me.” She commands you.

   You smile as you show off your red skimpy sundress flowing with the wind. A brow rose as she noticed something. “Lift your skirt.” She demands. You stopped and blushed. You were caught already.

   Your fingers grip on the edge of your skirt, hesitant to lift it. There weren't any other people around in the room, which was good. You slowly lift it, exposing your creamy skin. 

   “Faster.” Valeria demands impatiently. You lift it up to your waist, revealing your pussy. “I knew it, you putita.”

   You blush and look away, folding your lips together in embarrassment. “I- I did it for you.” You mutter. 

   “I know. Come here.” She says gently, encouraging you to approach her. You did as you were told.

   Her hands press down your waist while the other creeps up your legs, traveling the sweet spot between your legs. “A- ah…” you moan in surprise when she forcefully spread your legs and straight up inserted a finger in your cunt.

   “So fucking wet already.” She comments while she slides her finger up and down your wet folds. You bite your lip as your brows meet. She stood up and tug aside the cloth on your tits to lick on it. She sucks on your nipples while playing with your pussy.

   She fastens the pace on your cunt and when you start trembling she stops. “I’ll see you later, mami .”

   She smiles before leaving a kiss on your lips and sucking her finger drenched in your juice. You watch her dumbfounded.

   You spent the day watching your woman answer calls, yell at men around the house, and work like a dog. She's never been hotter when she speaks and curses in Spanish.

   “¡Qué puta madre, pendejo! ”

   You watch from afar how she gets mad at the stupidity of men around the place.

   Yet when she sees you, her furrowed brows and piercing eyes soften. You are the prettiest thing. The one who calms her down.

   “ Mi princesa,” she whispers in your ear, purposely tickling you to hear your adorable giggles. 

   It's her habit to push you into a tight room and eat you out. “O- oh..” you moan as your lifted leg exposes the cunt she's devouring. “A- ah.. I'm- I’m cum–” 

   Just when you're about to reach your high, she stops and kisses you on the lips, leaving you high and wet. Such a fucking tease.

    She laughs at your grumpy face. Frustrated from all the teasing. “Come on, cara bonita, smile for me.” You roll your eyes at her which makes her laugh louder.

   But when she touches you and you reject her, that's when you get too cocky. All of a sudden, you find yourself bending over her lap while she spanks each cheek exposed from your lack of undergarments. 

   “Estás probando tu suerte, mi putita.”

   Her degrading nicknames for you only wets your pussy more. You wince at every smack hitting your skin. Your ass eventually came red and thoroughly spank. You apologize for testing your luck. 

   “I- I'm sorry, mami. ” You mewl in softly and she lets you go. She massages your soft skin until she can't help but dip her fingers in your wet cunt. Then eventually leaving you longing for more.

   Night time drops and the endless calls kept coming, it was boring you. You can't wait to feel her touch on your greedy pussy anymore. You whine and sigh on the side while she talks business on the phone.

   You decide not to wait anymore. You walk closer to her and put her lap under your bare cunt. “Hi..” you whisper gently with a sweet smile as you hang your arms on her shoulders.

   “ Si- si– Mami, what is this? – porque? si, ahuevo– What are you doing? That's what I said, exactly the plan– ”

   “Ignore me.” You say as you kiss her jaw, her neck, exposed arms covered in hot tattoos. You even lick it, and suck her skin, leaving a mark of territory. A low rumble on her chest causes to slip out because of your stunts. You smirk and start to thrust your hips. You fix your sitting, trapping only her right thigh then continued to rub your bare pussy on her cargo pants. You start to undress yourself as the friction on your clit feels so good and dry at the same time. 

    You look her in the eye while she speaks to the phone, you suck three of your fingers wet before putting it on your clit to drench it with saliva. Then you continue to hump on her thigh, your clit and pussy hole pleasured yet aching for more as you arch your back. Your bare chest presents your tits closer to the woman busy with a call. 

    You moan at your own cause. You grind faster as she catches a grip on your hip, but you don't stop. You play with your nipples, pinching the hardened buttons and squeezing your mound as you throw your head back from the self-inflicted pleasure.

   The knot on your abdomen was threatening to explode. You keep your pace on her thigh, you squirm from the friction against the cotton and your sensitive clit. Valeria watches you as you play with yourself. She was impressed when you made yourself cum with just her thighs. 

   Your pace slowed down, gently rubbing your core on her thighs. Your mouth hangs open as you ease the climax down. Your eyes are forced to widen when you feel her grip pull you to face the other way, to lie your back on her chest, she creeps her in your legs. The pad of her fingers encircles your glossy clit from your orgasm. 

   You writhe under her touch as she awakens the flame of pleasure on your cunt. “ Yes, it will be delivered in time .” She tells the other person on the phone. If her Spanish is fucking sexy, her English accent is even hotter. You moan in her ear as you throw your head back and fall on her torso.

   “Si, mami.” you whimper as she inserts her finger, sliding them in and out of your sopping cunt. Your hips move in circles, you can't help it. You were meeting the rhythm of her digits.

   She uses her free knee to spread your legs wider and cup your pussy, massage its sensitive nub, scoop delicious juices as she inserts fingers rapidly in a pace that feels good for you.

   “Si, it'll be coming shortly.” She cleverly replied to the phone before dropping the call and focused on her beautiful needy slut.

[leah-lover]

Girlfriend duties. Alexia putellas x reader.

Angst, smut, fluff.

90 minutes and not a single successful shot from you. You were beyond devastated when the ref blew her whistle . Another olympic gold escaping through your grasp. Another lost opportunity at redeeming your country. Another moment of weakness. Another loss.

The stadium erupted at the final blow but at the moment you couldn't hear anything. You just sat down, your head in your hands, and felt nothing. Nothing was going through your head for a few seconds. Then you remember your girls. Most of your teammates were young. This was their second consecutive major loss. You got up quickly, collected yourself and went straight to the first person to console them. You made the round of everybody. You told them how proud you were of them, how good of a job they did throughout the Olympics , and how lucky you were to play with them in the final. Your regard to your own feelings was invisible. You were the captain, it's your duty to help them.

After the team huddle, you made the round of the pitch and met every fan you could. You signed autographs, took pictures, and spent as much time as you could before getting your silver medals.

As expected the winning team clapped for you as you went to get your medals. What hurt you the most about the loss was how better the Spanish team was than you. They were on a different level than you for the whole 90 minutes.

While walking to get your medals, you kept eye contact with the Spanish captain of the night for a little too long. All you wanted was the comfort of her arms. You wanted to cry in her chest, you wanted her to tell you how good you are, you wanted her to talk Spanish to you, to south you, to make love to you, but you couldn't be that selfish. Tonight was her night.. She deserved to celebrate her hard fought win along with you Barca teammates.

It was like she knew your exact thoughts. The look on her face was enough to give you the confidence to wake up those stairs, get your medals and help your team heal.

You didn't stick around to see them get their medals. Instead you followed as a crying teammate to the locker room. After consoling her more, you showered and picked up your phone.

“ I need to see you meet me in the hall please.” texted alexia. Once you saw her name you smiled. You didn't want to ruin her fun so you hesitated in responding. “ please mi alma.”

“ okay.” you responded, dropped your phone and headed to the hall.

The music was getting louder as you approached the Spanish locker room. You stood, your head against the wall,your eyes closed, waiting for alexia. You didn't hear her come near you, you just felt her arms pull you in for a huge. Your head on her shoulder, you didn't dare to open your eyes.

“ mi niña estoy orgulloso de ella.” she whispered kissing you temple.

“ I am not sure there is anything to be proud of.” you respond. she then brings your head in front of her so she can look you in your eyes.

“ don't you ever say that again. You're an olympic medalist now. Plus I saw the way you handled your girls. You were so good to them mi amor.” she added, her thumbs rubbing your cheeks.

“ don't let me ruin your night go celebrate with the girls and tell aitana, ona and the others congrats.”

“ I want to celebrate with you.”

“ We can do that once we are back in Spain, baby. We can't now.”

“ Come with me, we can travel together back to barcelona.”

“ You are kidding right? Baby they don't know about us.”

“ They are our family. It's fine if they knew. I want to be with you.”

The Spanish plane was going to land in Barcelona because they want to do the press there, so going with them would be an easy flight to your home, back to your bed and in ale's comfort. You hesitated before saying yes due to the awkwardness of the situation but you knew that while alexia was there she would be the only one who got your attention.

“ hola bebita, nice of you to join us.” said aitana as soon as she saw you enter their locker room your hand intertwined with alexia’s.

“ merda les capitanes estan juntes al llit.” said ona.

“ no es permeten preguntes de moment. celebrem-nos en pau.” said alexia shutting down the confused faces.

The Spanish girls lit up your mood even though half the time you were texting your teammates. Once you were in the bus, you and alexia sat at the front where no one was. You put your head on her shoulder and she put her hand on your thigh. She kept rubbing her hand along the length of your thigh the whole journey back to the hotel. Once you got to her room and shut the door behind you, you whispered in her ear. “ mommy, i need you.'' She then picked you up, put you down on the bed and proceeded to strip you. She knew that you wanted her too much so she didn't bother to tease you. She just kissed you all over. She kissed your lips, your neck; your chest, your stomach until she arrived at your inner thighs. She spread your legs slowly, and teased your entrance a little before putting two fingers inside you. You arch at her action and release a small moan. While thrusting into you she whispered in your ear how proud she was of you, how good you were for her, and how much she loves you.

“mi amor eres tan bueno para mí. que buena niña." She whispered again before speeding up. Once she realized how close you were she started kissing the sensitive spot on your neck unleashing filthy sounds from you. You came without her permission which she doesn't like. You thought that she would punish you for it. Instead she put her fingers full of your juices in your mouth and said, “límpialos por mí.” After you cleaned them, she got up, handed you water and said, “ I am gonna prepare a bath for us then we are gonna go down and celebrate with the girls okay?.”

“ I love you so much. You are perfect. ” you say to her.

“ I am just doing my girlfriend duties.”

[ytmanzwhore]

Chase It - 1

summary: in which nellie harding gets pulled back into the world of storm chasing, and butts heads with the tornado wrangler himself

warnings: none so far :)

an: hey peeps- this story is being cross posted on my wattpad account (forbesfever) so if you want to check it out there, that is likely where updates will go first!

read chapter two // three

then

"Wakey, wakey," a cooing voice whispered in Nellie's ear where she sat curled up in the front seat of Jeb's SUV. The red head groaned as she began to slowly stretch her legs, peeking her eyes open to see Addy's bright smile hovering over her. "It's time to get going bud."

"It's so early," Nellie whined as everyone began to move around, Javi of course still snoring on the ground till Addy blared the horn at him. The six of them had a pretty solid routine at this point, so it took them only a few mintues to get back to full functioning capacity.

"Hey!" Nellie shouted at Addy sharply as the blonde banged on the metal cylinder in front of her, ignoring Jed's camera turning to her. "Addy how many times to I need to tell you, do not hit that device or I swear to-"

"That's our Nellie," Kate laughed at the camera as the redhead continued to berate Addy. "Nellie is our resident health care professional with us in case of emergency, but also the reason we have Dorothy here with us."

Nellie, Kate and Javi had met by chance at Muskogee State. There was no real reason for two kids in the Meteorology department and a girl in the nursing school to interact, unless you factored in Nellie's last name. Muskogee State College in 2005 had been the lucky recipient of a donation from Dr. Jo and Bill Harding, of the last used Dorothy prototype. At that point, Jo and Bill had retired from chasing and consulted and taught across the country.

In 2018, their niece had chosen to attend their alma mater. In the past, the Harding's had gladly allowed different departments to take Dorothy out in the field, after giving them stern warnings and usually making them pass some tests. But when Nellie was stationed there, she became their new point girl. So when Kate's proposal came across their desk, they asked Nellie to be Dorothy's custodian as the girl did her field research with her team. And so formed the odd but strong bond between Kate, Javi and Nellie, and an all around a passion for storms. 

"Nellie might not be studying with us," Javi moved in extremely close to the camera. "But she's probably chased more storms in her life already, then the rest of us ever will."

And Javi wasn't wrong, because Nellie? While her little brother was attending play time with the kids from the farm down the road (because their parents were too busy to parent), Nellie was sitting in the backseat of Jo's beat up truck, hearing Dusty scream down the radio and watching vortex after vortex leave paths of destruction. Nellie's childhood was split between that backseat, school, and cuddling on the couch at Aunt Meg's house while waiting for their parents to finally check back in on their kids.

So here Nellie was, berating Addy as she hit a legendary piece of equipment. "I told you I can handle Dorothy," Nellie huffed as she walked over and pet the cylinder. "She's just a temperamental bitch."

"Like you," Javi giggled, giving a innocent smile as Nellie whipped her head around to glare at him. 

"I got her," Nellie nodded as she looked at the control panel, and poked at the release button gently, holding it down for a few seconds before pulling back and pressing again. Dorothy as if knowing who was asking something of her, opened up easily. "There's a method here, and-"

"Ok we know you're the Dorothy whisperer," Praveen laughed as he walked over with his laptop. "The only reason you're here."

"Whoa, whoa," Kate interjected, walking up to wrap an arm around Nellie's shoulder. "That's not true!"

"Thank you," Nellie nodded with a grin. 

"She makes a great instant coffee too," Kate giggled as Nellie gasped. "Alright guys, lets get going."

And with that, their little group made some last minute checks before loading up the cars and hitting the road. They were driving through the farmlands of Oklahoma, both Kate and Nellie looking around and thinking of home. Nellie was watching the radar with Praveen while Kate took a last minute call from her mama. 

"There's barbecue waiting for us at home," Kate grinned as she hung up the phone and everyone in the cars cheered. As the group drove towards the storm Kate had been eyeing, they could all feel the conditions begin to build. The wind began to whip, and Nellie cracked the window and took a deep breath, feeling the energy building around them. 

While Nellie might not have a want to follow the academic side of storm chasing, what she did have was the instinct. Like Kate and her aunt and uncle, she could understand a storm like not many could. She loved the thrill of the chase, but what her heart called for, was to help people in the aftermath. Which is why she had chosen to pursue nursing instead of meteorology. 

"It's time," Nellie said quietly as Kate also called for Jeb to stop so they could finalize the solution in the barrels. With that, Javi set up in his van to track data, while the other five loaded back into Jeb's SUV to get into position. 

Nellie's chest began to ache as they drove and the hail began. "Something's not right," Nellie said as Kate began to peer out the windows. The two of them realized at the same time that the tornado was behind them. Everyone's heart began racing, especially as Jeb in an effort to avoid some debri, ended up in a ditch. They took that chance to hop out, save the overturned barrels, and drop the trailer in the tornadoes path. 

The car moved further and further away from the vortex, feeling elated as Javi announced Dorothy's sensors had gotten swept up into the atmosphere. Kate's face was stone as she watched behind them, and noticed the compound wasn't active. Javi's voice tapered out as Nellie's arm hair stood tall. 

"The velocity is 200 miles an hour," Praveen said quietly as Addy tried to hail Javi. Everyone's stomachs dropped as the realization hit them all, that an EF5 was quickly gaining on their position. 

Jeb tried his best to drive them out, but the car couldn't handle the roads. Once again they ended up off the road. "This car's gonna fly," Jeb said to everyone, and Nellie needed no more influence to throw her door open and grab Addy's arm.

"Let's go," she screamed as they booked it to the overpass ahead of them. Kate and Nellie made their way up the slick incline, Nellie freezing as she watched Kate's leg get sliced by a piece of metal. "You're ok," she yelled as she pushed Kate's butt until Jeb grabbed her arm. The red head turned around, spotting Addy lying prone on the incline. 

"Addy come on," Nellie shouted, leaning down to where the girls hand was outstretched. "Take my hand-"

And she could only watch as Addy's body got too high, and the girl's body was swept away by a flying piece of wood. "Oh no," Nellie's breath came quickly. "Okay Nellie," she talked to herself as she turned around and finished climbing to where Kate was being held under Jeb's bulk.

"Come on," Kate yelled, reaching for Nellie. The girl was silent and cold as she moved behind Jeb, bracing her feet against the concrete pillar and wrapping her body around the metal pipings. She closed her eyes, listening to the whistle as it built, hearing Kate's screams as she felt another one of her friends get swept into the vortex.

"Nell," Kate whispered as the silence hit. "Nellie."

Hours later, the two girls were found on the side of the road by a kind police officer, who hid his horror at the blank stares and bloodied bodies walking towards him.

now

Nellie's body jerked awake as her alarm went off, pulling her out of another dream about dark storms and the sound of a train approaching. She sighed as she pulled herself out of bed, opening her black out curtains and seeing the afternoon sunshine outside of her little apartment. The girl went about her usual routine, pulling on some leggings and a long sleeve before lacing up her tennis shoes and heading out for a run.

From there, it was time to shower, down some coffee and food, before throwing on her scrubs to head out for her 12 hour shift at a regional hospital in Oklahoma as a Senior Shift Nurse. She went through the motions that day as she did many days when her night was plagued with nightmares. But no matter what, she gave her best patient care, knowing she might be serving people on the worst day of their lives (or just for a paper cut). 

At 7 am, the girl made her way back to her apartment, looking at her phone and seeing a missed call from Javi. Knowing the boy's habits had changed drastically, she gave him a call as she started her car. 

"Good morning sunshine," Javi said into the reciever as he picked up her car. "You on your way home?"

"That I am," she nodded. 

"Long night?"

"Always," she sighed with a tired smile. "But feeling good."

"Good good," Javi said with his own sigh.

"How was Kate?" the girl probed. And with that, the red head listened as her friend spoke to her about his meeting with Kate in New York, and his failure to convince her to come to Oklahoma. Nellie finished her drive home, choosing not to interrupt the boy to tell him she'd already heard most of this from Kate the night before on her way to work.

"Do you think you can talk to her?" Javi asked desperately. "Try to get her to just give this a chance?"

"Javi," Nel sighed. "I have talked to her. And she's terrified honestly to chase again, to get that close to another storm like," and she didn't have to finish her sentence for the man to understand. 

"I know," he sighed. "There's just so much going on. So much I wish I could do. And I wish I had her skills or your skills, but I don't."

"Javi you need to believe in yourself," Nellie scolded. "You are great at what you do. And you're great at helping people. You just need to find another way. Kate is not the only way you can get this to work, you just need to think outside the box. But hey, let me call you later ok? I just got home and I need to get some sleep."

The two friends said their goodbyes, before Nellie headed inside and readied herself for her post shift nap. After another shift, two of three before Nellie was off, the redhead was sleeping once more when her eyes popped open in anger as she heard banging at her front door. The redhead cursed as she stomped her way to her front door, not even checking the peep hole before swinging it open. "What?" She growled, her mouth opening before she processed the two faces in front of her.

"Hi Nellie," Kate waved nervously as she bounced on her toes. "Missed you!"

"What the hell!" Nellie gasped as she leaned in to hug her friend, looking at Javi in confusion over her shoulder. "How did Javi convince you to come out here?"

"Well here's the thing," Javi laughed uneasily as the girls pulled apart. "She said she'd give me a week, but only if we dragged you along with us."

"What?!"

[redroses07]

AHS boys cuddling headcanons. <3

A/N: Hey guys! I'm back from my year long hiatus! It's been a crazy year for me and I've been through a lot of ups and downs but I'm finally back! Expect me to be posting a lot now because I have a TON of ideas. Anyways, enjoy this little drabble! Love y'all!

Contains: Tate Langdon, Kit Walker, Kyle Spencer, Jimmy Darling, James Patrick March, Kai Anderson, Michael Langdon, and Xavier Plympton.

Tate Langdon:

This boy is definitely a little spoon.

Constantly asks you to hold him in your arms.

You, personally love this, and happily wrap your arms around him lovingly.

Places soft kisses on your fingers while you trace his features.

Absolutely LOVES when you play with his hair, he practically begs for it.

Now don't think he's always going to be the one being held, that's just what he prefers.

If you're feeling down he'll pull you into his chest, and hold you like something's going to take you from him (his abandonment issues showing)

Loves kissing your neck while cuddling.

Kit Walker:

Kit is truly the most loving partner you could ask for and cuddling with you is one of his favorite things in the whole world.

Likes to see your pretty face so prefers that you two lay facing each other.

Softly tells you all the things he loves about you while pressing kisses to your nose, lips, cheeks, and forehead.

When I tell you his hands would be all over you, I mean ALL OVER. He loves to trace his fingers down your arms, torso and stomach.

Kit also likes to sneak his hands under your shirt when your laying together, and he often falls asleep with them like that.

Cannot fall asleep unless his hands are on you in some way (will not lose you like he lost Alma)

Anyways Kit is amazing and I am in love with him.

Pre-death Kyle Spencer:

Tbh he's my least favorite Evan character so apologies if this sucks.

For some reason I feel like he loves to nuzzle his face in your neck, and he often falls asleep like that.

Lets you lay on his lap while he works on schoolwork, and starts playing with your hair when he loses focus.

Loves when you sit in his lap, he will pull you in his lap literally anywhere. No matter if you're alone, or with your friends he feels the best when you're comfortably situated on his lap.

Jimmy Darling:

Big spoon!!!!!!

Loves when you straddle his waist or wrap your arms around his neck.

Really loves to feel as close to you as possible so he'll tangle your bodies together in every possible way.

One would think it would be hard to get comfortable like that but your comfort is Jimmy's #1 priority, even if that means sacrificing his own.

So if that means his arm falls asleep or his leg cramps, that's okay! as long as you're co. mfortable.

Jimmy loves to kiss your cheeks, and when he's in a silly mood he quickly switches between the two. This leaves you flustered, and in a fit of giggles.

James Patrick March

You wouldn't expect it but James LOVES cuddling with you.

On the outside he seems like he would be cold and dismissive in a relationship but you are his EVERYTHING.

Loves when you lay on top of him and he can comfortably wrap his arms around you.

Constantly whispers to you how much he loves and adores you and would do anything for you (In love with his accent)

Probably not surprising but he likes to leave marks all over you, and not just during sex.

Will bite and suck on your skin while you're cuddling. His favorite place to leave marks is your collarbone.

He sees this as an intimate act, and loves the idea that people will know you belong to him.

Kai Anderson

Lets be real...this man is not a cuddler. To be honest he only cares about you when he's trying to make the messiah baby.

But occasionally he'll be extremely overwhelmed with cult responsibilities and will turn to you for condolences.

Holds you while he vents to you about his frustrations.

Plays with your hair or fiddles with the straps of your tank top to distract himself.

Will also ask you about your day to give him something else to think about.

These are the few times when Kai shows his vulnerable side.

Will kiss your shoulders while you tell him about your day, or give him cult advice.

Michael Langdon:

I love Michael so much y'all he's literally my husband.

Cuddling can go either way with him tbh. Sometimes it's him holding you, and sometimes it's you holding him.

When he holds you he pulls you into him and traces is fingers along your back.

Loves to intertwine your fingers and tightly grip your hand. It makes him feel closer and more connected to you.

Cuddling is when you and Michael have your most intimate bonding moments. When you spill your deepest thoughts and secrets to each other.

On the other hand, when the pressure on Michael is too much, he wants you to hold him.

He cries softly, and stuffs his face into your chest in an effort to hide his tears.

When life just becomes too much for him being held and kissed by you makes everything feel okay.

This is a weird one but I feel like he'd have you brush his hair (I love long hair Michael don't hate).

Xavier Plympton:

Likes to listen to music while cuddling, and will softly sing along if he knows the lyrics.

Will also tap on your back along to the beat.

Likes when you lay your head on his chest and drape your legs over his.

Loves to talk while cuddling, telling you everything that comes to his mind.

He talks, you listen, and that's what he loves about you.

Takes breaks in between his various rants to kiss the top of your head and make sure you're comfortable.

[kaiserio]

underneath the tree - best friend!alma x reader

cw: cursing, making out, suggestive at the end, mdni. not proofread

living in the city of gokurakugai, you are no stranger to the noisy hustle and bustle of the city, especially during the festive season.

despite the bitter december coldness in the air, you are sweating. your parka coat is clinging to you as you dodge and weave your way through the crowd of people attending the christmas markets, the smell of churros making your stomach growl.

mariah carey’s ‘all i want for christmas is you’ is playing loud through the communal speaker. is this the seventh time you’ve heard this today? eighth? who knows.

all you do know is that you’re desperate to get home. you’ve just escaped your 8 hour shift, you’re tired, hangry and quite simply fed up. you love christmas - but commuting to and from work during the festive period is stressful.

you’re able to breathe once you manage to catch your train from the business district to the residential. your apartment building is only a 5 minute walk from the station. nap or dinner first?

as you ascend the stairs to your second floor apartment, you remover your headphones to be met with music, loud christmas music. and a male voice (albeit tone deaf) singing along with the words.

“YOU’RE ALL THAT I NEED - ah, shit - UNDERNEATH THE TREEEEE”

you sigh in disbelief. it’s coming from your apartment. and you know exactly who it is - your eccentric best friend, alma.

you see him as soon as you enter your front door, thanks to the open plan layout of your apartment. he’s in the living room, still oblivious to your presence, shaking his ass age dancing around a tree to the kelly clarkson christmas song, placing random baubles on the trees branches.

“and where did you get that from?” you shout over the music, pointing at the large tree that alma had erected and decorated without asking.

alma whips around, throwing his body in your direction. “y/n! welcome home!” he excitedly shouts. you happily inhale the scent of his cologne and wrap your arms around his midsection as he engulfs you in a hug.

“thank you,al,” you say with sincerity in response to your friend. sure he was a bit much at times, but all he ever wants to do is make you happy and it shows. you always appreciate him.

“so.. ms tao and i got you this christmas tree, since you never have one, and then i got you all these decorations - and then i got excited to put it up since it’s the 1st now, but then when i got here you weren’t here so i figured you were workin’, so i thought i’d put it up for you and OH - i ordered takeout if you’re hungry..”

you smile at the redhead’s excited babbles. he’d always gotten so happy at christmas time, since you were kids.

alma’s quick yapping was quickly silenced as you lean up on your tiptoes and pressed a quick peck to his cheek. his bright aqua eyes widen, his cheeks quickly blushing into a shade of red not from from his hair colour. he was adorable when he was flustered.

“thanks, al. i appreciate you. plus i’m starving. let me look at this tree first, huh?” you press, smiling up at his visibly nervous face.

“oh, right! yeah - the tree! come here and i’ll show you!” he links his arm with yours with a quick “m’lady” before guiding you to the large (and granted) beautifully decorated tree.

“it’s gorgeous, al! i love it!” you gushed.

“iloveyou.” alma blurts out, cheeks still pink and eyes looking anywhere but your face.

did you hear that right?

“hmm? what did you say al? sorry i can’t hear you properly over this music.”

“i said i love it too!” he tells you, flashing you his signature big smile.

“oh…” what’s this pang in your chest? disappointment? what exactly were you hoping for there? you turn back to the tree to examine it a little more before you eat dinner.

“ah… fuck it.” alma mutters under his breath, pulling his little plan out of his pocket before approaching you from behind. his heart is racing, it’s getting hot in here, he’s so nervous he feels sick. it’s now or never.

he holds his left hand high above your head, and taps on your shoulder with his right hand.

“hey, y/n.” there’s a slight shaky nervousness in his usually confident tone. “look up.”

you turn to face him, first looking at his face in confusion. he gulps at your delay, his own eyes flicking up to his left hand, then back to you.

you follow his hints, looking up to where his arm towers above your head. and then you see it.

mistletoe.

you gasp slightly and alma immediately starts flapping.

“okay so this idea seemed a lot better in my head y/n but i was thinking, because i love christmas and you love christmas, and i love you - that this would be a good time to tell you but i didn’t know how to tell you so i figured that-”

“oh my god, al, shut up.” you grab him by the neck of his hoodie and pull him down to your level, crashing your lips onto his.

he inhales sharply, initially with shock, before his hands find your jaw and he tilts his head, deepening the kiss, lightly groaning into your mouth before you both pull away, alma’s hands still grounded to their places on either side of your jaw.

alma presses a kiss to the end of your nose before resting his forehead on yours. “doessss this mean that you’re mine now?” he questions, hopefulness evident in his voice.

“let’s be honest, al. i always have been, right?”

he laughs before kissing you deeply again, picking you up so that your face is level with his height, legs automatically wrapping around his hips.

“i know that. but we can be official now, yeah? no more of this best friend shit, you’re my girl, hm?”

your heart melts.

“sure thing, boyfriend.” you confirm.

a growl emits from alma’s throat before he crashes his lips onto yours again, walking in a random direction until your back is flush against the wall.

you’re in for a long night with your boyfriend, alma.

[ghost-with-a-teacup]

𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞

Pairing: Miguel O'Hara x GN!Reader

Summary: Some nights you just can't seem to sleep no matter how hard you try, it's alright though because Miguel's on his way home.

Warnings: None, it's just very, very soft.

A/N: Not a request, but I have to write at least one fic about dancing in the middle of the night with Miguel. Set in the same universe as What's In Between, listen to the song mentioned here. Enjoy!

Everyone has those nights where they just can’t fall asleep. Whether it’d be the stresses of the day before or the next, an issue that has been troubling you, or simply because you can’t shut off your mind and fall asleep, it inevitably happens to us all.

Unfortunately for you, that was tonight. After tossing and turning for the last two hours, you had enough.

Maybe it was because the bed just felt so empty without Miguel in it, who knows.

All you knew was that you could not fall asleep. So what better thing to do than to make a late-night snack?

Sliding out of bed, you blearily blink your eyes as they readjust to the kitchen light. After a few moments of scrolling through your playlists you settle on a soft one, to match the mood of the early morning (or late night depending on who you asked).

The music played softly in the background as you made your favourite snack, humming along to the song. Miguel’s shirt hung loosely down your frame as a warm summer breeze floated in through the open window.

The reason you loved the night so much was because it was so quiet. So simple, so peaceful, with only the light of the moon shining its way.

“One day, I will stop falling in love with you~” you sing softly, swaying from side to side in between bites, a happy little smile on your face.

Miguel watched as you swayed gently from side to side, a soft look on his face as he feel himself relax with your presence alone.

He still wore his Spiderman suit, the aches of a difficult mission starting to settle in his bones but he seemed to forget all of that the moment he saw you.

“Until then I’ll drink my coffee, eat my pie pretend that we are more than friends~,” you sing, swirling around as you feel that familiar prickle giving away his presence.

His eyes seem to widen slightly as you acknowledge him before a small smile settles on his face.

“Then of course I’ll let you break my heart again,” you say, making your way up to him as the smile on your face mirrors his own.

“Dance with me?” you ask him, holding out a hand for him to grasp. He only shakes his head.

“Mi alma, you know I’m not much of a dancer,” he replies but eyes your hand for a moment.

“Oh, c’mon Miguel,” you plead, a hand held out waiting for him to hold it. “Just one dance?” And even though he tried his hardest, he just couldn’t resist the look in your eyes.

“Alright, but just one,” he says, grasping your hand warmly before pulling you close, wrapping his arms around your waist. Your expression lights up as he does, and you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing a kiss to his chin.

He can’t help the smile that plays across his face, his heart growing so warm in fondness.

The longer he holds you in his arms, the more he can feel his body relax within your embrace as you sway from side to side with the slow melody.

Being a protector of the multiverses, he didn’t have time to be soft. Not when the decisions he made, when the decisions all the spiders had to make under his direction would destroy that softness in an instant….But with you, he could afford that vulnerability, because he knew you would hold the frail wounded heart hidden behind the walls he built gently.

He reserved that softness for you, only you.

“Someday, one day,” you continue to sing, and he lets your voice wash over him like a calm ocean wave. “I will stop falling in love with you.”

He lifts an arm up from your waist for a moment, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

“I don’t think I ever could, querida,” he whispers softly. “Stop falling in love with you, I mean.”

You look up at him, unable to stop the tears from welling in your eyes at the admission but he wipes them away before they could fall.

“I don’t think I could either,” you say softly before leaning your head back on his chest, listening to the steady thump of his heart. “You’re stuck with me, unfortunately,” you chuckle, but he only pulls you closer.

“How are you feeling?” you ask hesitantly, noticing how he looked more tired than usual. You knew it was a 50/50 tossup as to whether he would answer in truth, but you knew he appreciated the thought.

It wasn’t often he allowed himself to be vulnerable, truly vulnerable with you. To spill all those thoughts swirling in the beautiful chaos that was his mind. That strong front he put up was the only thing that held him together.

“I’m alright, mi corazón,” he answers, though his eyes held the depth of a thousand words.

He was tired…but he was home.

Taglist: @remuslupinwifee

[sunflowersteves]

i'm not cute || m.o.

pairing || miguel o'hara x fem!reader

summary || Miguel always loved when you played with his hair.

author's notes || this is my first miguel fic and im v excited!! there will be much more to come <3 also, my spanish is v v v limited and i tried following what ppl were saying in the miguel tag but please let me know if I need to fix anything!!

warnings || none, fluff, it's tooth-rotting

“Did you just braid my hair?”

You paused—froze even. Your hands stilled in between his luscious, soft hair, and it took every ounce inside of you to not continue to feel through each strand of his. 

“Uh, no?” It was bashful. 

You inwardly winced at the extremely unconvincing tone of your voice. You couldn’t see, but his lips curled into the smallest of smiles. His spidey-DNA, as you liked to call it, sensed the heat that radiated off of your body. 

After an unsuccessful mission, Miguel came home in a state of ire. His eyebrows were furrowed, anger rolling off of his body in waves as his chest heaved up and down. But as soon as your hand placed itself across the plains of his chest and soothed the fabric of his suit, everything started to dissipate. 

The anger, the grief, the guilt—everything. 

You gently pulled his wrist, and he blindly followed you into the living room of your makeshift apartment he built in Nueva York. You sat right above him on the couch, brush in your hand as you stroked through each strand of hair. His frame practically barrelled over you, despite him sitting on the ground with his back to the legs of the couch.

 In return, he wanted to desperately turn around and press light kisses into your skin, but he refrained. He knew that all you wanted to do was comfort his tense muscles. 

“That didn’t sound very convincing.”

You bite your lip, sheepishly, as you ignored his comment and started to braid another part of his hair. You very carefully twisted the fluffy soft hair between one another and grinned at the What he didn’t have to know wouldn’t hurt him, right? Well, apparently, you were wrong because once you tugged on his hair, yet again, and he practically jumps. 

“¡Ay!” He yelps and turns his head to look at you, “¿Qué mierda haces?” 

Your eyes widened, “Miggy! Oh—I’m so sorry!” You go to reach for his head again in an attempt to soothe the pain that you caused, but he caught your wrist. 

If you weren’t too concerned about tugging on his hair, you would have noticed the slight change in his lips that turned into a sly smirk. “Cariño,” He warned. His voice was gravelly and rough—the sound sending shivers down your spine. “¿Qué voy a hacer contigo?” 

In one motion, he’s hovering over you. “Hmm?”

Your mouth opens in surprise—the spark in your heartbeat not going unnoticed by the man before you. “I–I just, Miguel—” You were starting to get nervous under his gaze—just like you always do.

Pure adoration flashed between his ruby eyes, and his finger gently rubbed against the side of your cheek. It was so gentle and affectionate that it almost created tears against your waterline. He loved when you got nervous and playful—it always struck against his chest and seized him whole. He wanted to see the effect that he had on you in every waking moment, it seemed. 

He smiled. “You’re cute.”

You gasped, attempting to turn the tables around and flip him over. “I am not cute!” Alas, you were unsuccessful. 

He laughed. It was hearty and pretty against your ears. “You’re right. You’re the cutest.”

You grumbled under your breath, and it took every ounce of control not to kiss the puffing of your cheeks. “Whatever, you’re the cutest. Not me.” 

Miguel smiled—teeth showing and entirely genuine as he took in your playful expression and fingers that twisted the short hair against the base of his neck. 

“I’ll eventually make you admit it, mi alma. Don't you worry."

~~

¿Qué mierda haces? - What the fuck are you doing?

Cariño - Honey

¿Qué voy a hacer contigo? - What am i going to do with you?

Mi alma - my soul

[mylarena]

thinkin abt soap being able to touch ghost, unlike literally anyone else on base. like, even gaz and price get minimal leeway on it. the medics act like hes a feral cat when treating him. theres rumors that he once broke a guys wrist for patting his arm.

but then soap shows up, and hes like, Ah Nah Man, Itll Be Fine!

and punches him in the shoulder and says 'save ya a seat, sir!' and sees the momentary flash of shock from his absolute fucking audacity before he turns and ignores the absolutely killer glare he gets as he walks away

then ghost pats his arm before he leaves the camera room, leaving soap too shocked to do anything but give him a weak thumbs up as he walks away

then soap pats his shoulder before climbing onto the helo out of las almas

and thats just the start.

people around base see soap bump shoulders with ghost while walking down a hallway and everyone can only look on in horror as ghost-- does nothing. huffs and rolls his eyes, but does nothing.

and anyone who witnessed it are simply not believed when they tell people about it.

but they know.

then it happens again, and more people see it, and then its flying around the base in whispers and gossip.

"soap gave lieutenant ghost a shove and he didnt even react!"

"he sat next to him during the brief, and he was pressed right up to him!"

"they were sitting across from each other in the mess, and, you wont even believe this, but they were playing footsies! soap was stealing things right off of his plate! and ghost just let him!"

and ghost starts being more open to other peoples touch, too. nothing even fractionally as close to what he lets soap get away with, but price gets to ruffle his hair in the 141 common room in the rare occasion that ghost is without his mask. gaz can throw an arm around his shoulder without being growled at like a fuckin dog.

the next time a rookie accidentally bumps into him, theyre terrified for a moment that theyre either going to be booted off the base for disrespecting their CO or gutted like a fish, but ghost just nods stiffly to their frantic apology and steps to the side to walk right past them.

and, even wilder than everything else, ghost is seen initiating contact with soap. patting him on the back (making soap beam like the sun), ruffling his hair (causing soap to borderline giggle), grabbing him by the chin to tilt his head to get a better look at a wound over his eyebrow (making soap look up at him with a gentle expression, settle a hand over his wrist, and softly reassure him that he's okay.)

and it says a lot that eventually when someone says that they walked into the gym late one night and caught ghost and soap pressed chest-to-chest with soaps arms hooked up and around ghosts neck and ghosts hands on soaps hips, people dont immediately dismiss it as something entirely unbelievable.

[theperksofbeingstupid]

tudo que você chorou lavou a alma

"Are you fucking crazy?" Nathalia manages, sticking her fingers into the still-warm pool of blood seeping into the dirt at their feet and trying to muster up all the courage she has. In the time it takes her to do this he draws closer. Him and his fucking stopwatch— the ticking sounds like gunshots in her head. Nathalia swipes her hand across Lila's face, pressing against her eyelids, leaving a streak of bright red as she goes. "Play dead," she whispers, and rises from her crouch.

wherein nathalia dodges an axe, lila stabs a murderer in the face, and maybe they even kiss about it

[melancholicstation]

Salvatore can wait, now it's time to eat soft ice cream — bobby f. kennedy

As Jack's wife many may propose your sex life to be exuberant and quite frequent: in reality it's nothing of the sort. After having your beautiful baby-girl Enya, you'd expressed fears and insecurities of being intimate about your new post-baby body with Jack to which he kindly dismissed them telling you that he loved you even more now. While hearing those words from a man you've loved half your life warmed your heart his sentiments fail to quell your fears. However, what sets you free from all your present worries and gives you release is in fact his own brother and your brother in-law: Robert.

taglist: @vile-harlot @dulcegal @rockstarfreddybby @starsprangledgirl @bluelancergirl @hisamericanmuse @violetharmonsfavgf @vampyiricris @rocker-chick-7 @reptaysgf @castiellover77 @salvatoresablondie @mckinleygirl98 @h-l-vlovesvintage @h-l-v-kennedy-blog @monturi @darcyspirits @unmarlou @remotewatch @kennedyism @bloxholden35 @fortheloveofjos @strip-weather-forecast @ultr4v1ol3nt @acrowdedstreetin1944

warnings: mentions of pregnancy, postpartum insecurities, possible inaccuracies to do with pregnancy and postpartum as i have never been pregnant before, infidelity, nipple play, desperate catholic man, unprotected sex, drunk sex, fingering, being eaten out, 18+

words: 2,950 words

It was a quiet morning for you. A statement that you could rarely ever leave your mouth truthfully due to your residence being that big egg-shell coloured house located at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington—or how it's more commonly referred to as the White House. But you weren't in the White House, no, you for now were in the land of fado, wine, and poetry: Portugal.

Taking advantage of the barren land in your calendar managed by your assistant spacing between the 21st and the 28th you had decided to go visit your sorority sister, Alma, and her sprawling Lisboa estate 'Quinta da Abrigada'—or at least that's what she'd called it in her letters inviting you to the country house. You'd been initially apprehensive, a cross-country flight with a 6 month old baby seemed to be a recipe for complete and total disaster. Not to mention the press coverage, nit-picking your choices labelling you as an unfit mother, while hailing Jack as the dotting husband and father. Which he was, though that was when he was there which proved to be scarce.

Despite this worry of yours the person who truly convinced you was not Alma herself and her gushing about the residencies sparkling woods and breathing taking views of the Serra do Montejunto. In fact it was your very own tousled hair, chiseled jaw, president of the United States husband: Jack.

Apparently, in his astute opinion, he believed that some time away from the unrelenting US press and the ever thinning tightrope of public opinion would be good for you and the baby. Initially you'd worried that it would be to distressing for your little Enya to be away from her father that much for more than a couple days—you swore that you'd read a dreadful story in women's weekly of a baby forgetting the face of one of their own parent! You retold this story to Jack to which he only chuckled, and delicately cupped your face teasingly tapping the tip of your nose. In response to this he'd told you that once he'd finished up scheduled business in Palm Beach that he'd fly to Lisboa on the SAM 26000 Boeing. That was on the night before the 21st, and after listening to your husband you'd confirmed with Alma that you were in fact coming.

However it was now the 24th and Jack still hadn't shown up, and you were given no indication that he was ever going to.

Your melancholy about your marital situation was intermittently interrupted for a few days by Alma keeping you an incredibly busy working woman. You see, she was trying to convert the Portuguese country home into a fully functioning hotel and a wedding venue—she would never admit it to you or to herself but you had a sneaking suspicion it was a true vanity project in every sense of the word. You'd heard rumblings between European socialites that her Argentinian polo player husband was growing weary of her shopping sprees down at the Avenida da Liberdade and the last straw was a wine-filled rampage of the strip boutiques on Castilho Strett that ended in a bill of over sixty-two thousand euros.

Despite positioning your Portugal stay as a vacation Alma really put you to hard labour. Or at least your version of hard labour at 6 months postpartum which was lugging the ostentatious amount of floral and foliage arrangements for the happy couples who'd chosen the Portuguese country home to be a witness to their holy matrimony.

By 4 pm you were done for the day having laid out the varied bouquets of chocolate cosmos, primroses, hollyhocks, and wisteria. Some were incased by crystal glassed vase, like a trapped ballerina forced to spin inside of a music box. While others were allowed to roam free, tangled up the arched walls of the chapel, propped up by short and stumpy neoclassical stone pillars.

You'd initially underestimated how unhappy it would make you to see couples—each more happy than their former. It made you want to take a microscope to the state of your own marriage and shred it open. How unrecognisable you both were to the versions of yourselves that had walked down that Rhode Island aisle that day. Your marriage to Jack wasn't bad by any means: it was just different than it had been at the beginning. After having a child your relationship with Jack had morphed into more of a companionship rather than a romantic relationship. He'd become more distant: working later hours and coming to the west wing smelling of palo santo and black current bud.

A stark contrast to your personalised musk of waffle cone accord and vanilla...

But you were committed to make your marriage stick. For your sake, for your children's sake, and for the sake of Jake's whole presidential career. You were each other's best friend but sometimes, all of the time, you'd just wish he would touch and cherish you like a lover. You just wish he would be soft with your heart every once in a while.

You'd hoped a European getaway for the both of you would make some difference, but it seemed that Jack had made his choice. And so will you.

Because you had been such a help around the home Alma decided to watch Enya while you helped the florists prepare, the last time you saw your baby-girl was only a few short hours ago and yet your heart felt like it was being ripped from your chest.

Dusting yourself off, brushing away the cut stems of flowers and pollen from various flowers that were sure to stain the surplus of linen matching sets you had brought along with you, you made a bee-line away from the chapel and towards the main house. Maybe Alma truly was on to something about making the sprawling estate into a hotel what with its ample land of approximately 1,350,794 Sq Ft.

Due to its overwhelming size Alma had allowed you to stay in the third wing of country home which had been newly renovated to accommodate for her aspirations of it one day becoming an auberge, but much, much large. With its many rooms you and Alma, and Jack if he bothered to show, were more than comfortable. Though you could afford it with the shear square footage of the wing, Alma's cot stayed with you directly to the side of your king sized bed, a welcomed addition of the renovations by you.

You couldn't believe that Alma was taking this kind of project on, to you just planning it all out seemed hugely anal. What with all the construction needed to implement tarred streets, sidewalks, public lighting, water pipes, sewage, electrical and network cables at the entrance of each lot. I mean it was a lot.

As you push open the door connecting the wing you immediately b-line for the washroom: eager to get the confused scents of opposing flowers off of you this instant. You thought back to your conversation with Alma, remembering that she would be watching her until 5pm: delightful. Despite the absence of your daughter resting on your chest being deeply felt by you, it was a blessing to be able to take your time in the shower. A privilege that you had taken for granted in your twenties.

Apparently your darling Alma, along with Alma's own older children, was going to get a private tour of the romantic woods, the various sycamore trees, and even the proprietary chapel in between the scheduled weddings that day. You'd gathered that by now, taking a look at your watch while you start to disrobe for the shower, Alma and Enya would have already stopped by the church by now.

During your shower you lathered yourself with your 'garden essentials' body wash the scent of California lavender leaving you with a camphorous scent, awakening your senses invigorating you for the evening. Next, you applied a scotch pine shampoo bar to your scalp-a gift from one of your Californian friends from elementary school who'd turned to the all natural life—whatever that meant. Once out of the shower you palmed a hair oil blend of argan oil, natural antioxidants and fatty acids, pear seed oil, and castor oil throughout your locks. Since getting pregnant and after giving birth you had seen a direct decline in the thickness of your hair and an increase in hair loss, a symptom of postpartum you absolutely detested. Activating the arrival of your baby soon you'd decided to get your hair out of your face, since her favourite pastime of late seemed to be yanking your strands of hair with remarkable strength.

Speaking of postpartum symptoms... since you had started breastfeeding your baby girl, your nipples had gone increasingly sore and sensitive especially at nights. As a preemptive measure you put some nipple cream given to you by a midwife and went along with your out of shower routine slathering on your personal favourite body oil that you'd dispersed into a travel size bottle.

Moving out the bathroom after dressing your put on immediate edge. Despite its size you hear noises coming from the room adjacent to the bathroom you'd just stepped out of—the bedroom you and Enya had been staying in.

Ice hot horror had bleed into every crevice, and every vein in your body. Jack always told you to be wary of going places without security—always fretting over your security and your penchant for leaving unannounced, and now you were paying for it.

In an almost comical defence, you grab the nearest thing in your line of sight: ironically an erotic sculpture ground by a plinth that looked like it weighed a far few. Hands shaking you, grasp the brass handle and quickly turned the nob: trying to look as menacing as possible to an intruder.

But what was behind the door was anything but. There was Bobby, in all his grecian tragedian beauty, holding Enya with his big pilose arms supporting her head like a true natural parent—which you'd hope he was after having enough children to start as sports team.

Both of you looked equally surprised as each other.

"Christ, hun what ever are you doing with that thing?" Bobby says chuckling, while rocking back on the soles of his feet and motioning to the stone sculpture.

"Oh Good Heavens, Bob you nearly gave me a damned heart attack" you say clutching a hand to your chest. To which Bobby shamefully and discreetly looks at your chest—in his defence you were wearing a more than revealing top because you really weren't planing on any visitors.

"Oh I'm sorry, c'mere sweetheart how are you? It's been ages!"

"Bob we spoke over the phone two days ago!"

"Oh, c'mon now you that phone calls don't suffice for either one of us."

Bashfully you smile, but realise Jack has not accompanied Bobby, wondering where he is you ask,

"God Bobby it's good to see you too, tell me where is Jack around? did you tell him that there's stables he's probably there he'd love th-"

Interrupting you Bobby explains, "Sweetheart, he couldn't make it I'm sorry."

A bit embarrassed, you try to play it cool. Noticing your discomfort Bobby gently dislodges Enya from his chest to yours, and it's cheesing to say but the weight of her on your chest salves the wound ever so slightly.

"Bob how did you get her? I thought Alma was watching her?"

"Oh she was but we met down at the chapel and I offered to take Enya—she looked a bit occupied with her own roady children. I didn't want Enya to be forgotten about." he says while stepping closer to you, trailing the back of his hand against her cheek and then moving his eyes to you.

Flustered you take your time analysing him back: dressed in a rolled up button up white shirt, and khaki coloured slacks. Blushing, Bobby says,

"She seemed pretty sleepy when she was handed to me. Why don't you have some time on your own and I'll watch her for you?"

"Oh please Bobby i've had plenty of 'me' time. Your ramblings would do me good, would take my mind of Jack. Matter of fact I'm starving aren't you?"

"Famished! I tell you a palm beach flight to Portugal is no joke."

"Well that sorts it! we'll take her bassinet and have some food out in the grass."

"Sounds perfect, maybe some champagne. I know you can't drink but you can live vicariously through me!"

Chuckling you nod, and he follows you out of the room.

Moving into the kitchen you start to prepare the snacks. Looking at your bleak options since you haven't gone to the market you decide on hors d'oeuvres chicly displayed on a walnut cutting board gifted to you by a baroness. Gathering the necessaries: crisp bread, casalingo salami, foie gras parfait, chicken liver paté, and finally a bottle of pierre mignon for your beloved Bobby.

Delicately balancing the board with one hand, and the bottle in the crevice of your arm, you glance back into the bedroom with Bobby and Enya. Despite your unintentional eavesdropping you hear Bobby rocking Enya to sleep,

"You are so lucky to have your mom, huh? She's the best mom anyone could ask for don't you think?"

The comments warm your heart but you're unable to dissect that feeling as Bobby steps out of the room moments later and like a gentleman: immediately steps to take the bottle of wine and board from your hands.

And one thing leads to another, the hours pass, and by 10 pm you both felt drunk—and probably look it to any outsiders passing by. Despite not drinking a single drop you feel utterly intoxicated by his very presence.

Luckily, Enya had been picked up by Alma to be watched for the night after she'd landed upon you two in the grass: with Bobby's head in your lap, giggles emitting from the both of you.

As the night drew on you'd gotten immeasurably close physically, simply tripping over yourselves trying to catch each other up on both of your lives when you weren't with each other. Bobby being Jack's brother meant that a great portion of your life was spent next to Bobby, and even going a few days apart felt like a whole year for the both of you. Possibly a little co-dependent considering you both had parents but you both didn't want to question it to hard—the papers did enough of that themselves, always questioning your friendship or rather the existence of something more.

Once you two had sufficiently caught each other up on your respective lives, the conversation turned more soft and touchy. Bobby was extremely tactile when tipsy. You and Bobby had kissed a couple of times over the years but you'd never gone the distance, always stopping yourselves.

However this time neither of you wanted to stop, in a haste Bobby motions to take off your top, that was until Bobby's soft caresses of your body reminded you of the insecurities plaguing you for the last 9 months.

Feeling you freeze up Bobby, worried that he'd done something wrong, asks if you're feeling okay,

To which you reply, "It's nothing on you Bob, it's just that ever since Enya I'm so different to how I was. Now i'm sore and I ache all the time, and I feel so damn unloveable."

"Oh Hun, you're nothing of the sort. I see, before me, a woman not only worthy of love but of worship. Let me worship you, please I promise it'll be-"

Captivated, you nod almost immediately but cringe as you release you hadn't had time to wipe off the nipple cream you'd lathered on hours before.

Once your breasts are revealed to him you can't bear to look from embarrassment expecting him to recoil, but he doesn't in fact—your worries are bulldozed by the fervid pleasure of his mouth of your bud, sucking delicately for your pleasure and your pleasure only.

Taking his warm mouth of your bud for just a second Bobby says with batted breath,

"Take a deep breath, baby, C'mon"

Overcome, you arch your back like a Persian kitten. Your nails scrambling, and tearing into the soft grass: your moans turning into soft, delightful screams.

Overcome with gratitude and deference to Bobby you scream out, so loud that you're not entirely sure that Alma can't hear you,

"Baby, baby, baby, I'm-i'm your man"

Who knew you could cum from that? Certainly not you, that's for sure but alas you did.

You take several minutes to come out of it, to which he just cradles you brushing a few short strands of hair, dotting kisses along the concave of your breasts.

As if to give back you raise a hand to his chin, and engulf him in a sweet kiss, nothing reminiscent of dominate coming from either side: just tenderness.

"Oh I can taste champagne on your lips, Bobby!"

"Y'know I do have an idea on how to get rid of that taste" to which Bobby dramatically lays you on the ground and gets down to business on his hands and knees, fingering and teasing your mound: warm and inviting.

By the whole end of the ordeal you've had 5 orgasms and made enough noise to rival the neighbouring cats and dogs screeches and barks.

All the nipple butter has been removed from your breasts and is now squarely strewn around on Bobby's face and lips—they do say lanolin is a good moisturiser for the lips...

[batmanlovesnirvana]

Chapter ten | tick, tick, boom.

masterlist

pairing : bruce wayne x fem!oc (can be read as x reader)

words : +7k

A/N : New chapter is here!!! I hope you all enjoy it :) Apologies for the delay—university has been keeping me busy. Also, English isn’t my first language, so I appreciate your patience with any mistakes.

previous chapter | next

MARYAM WAS STILL DAZED, the world around her a cacophony of panic and motion that she could barely process. 

The freezing air of the parking lot behind City Hall bit into her skin, sharp and unforgiving, as if trying to snap her back to reality. Grey, clunky cars lined up like faceless sentinels, their dull metallic sheen muted further by the overcast sky. 

People flooded out of the building in a chaotic tide, their hurried footsteps echoing off the asphalt. Some were running, others briskly walking, heads down, jackets pulled tight against the cold, all desperate to escape.

Her family surrounded her, their voices a frenzied blur.

"Mar, are you okay?!"

"Have you lost your mind?!" "What happened in there?" "Was that Bruce Wayne?!" "That white boy is crazy!" "Maryam, answer me! Are you even listening?!"

The questions came like an onslaught, each one louder than the last, but Maryam couldn't register a single word. 

She stood there, mute, her mind a foggy labyrinth of recent events, her body swaying slightly as if the world beneath her feet had shifted off its axis.

Warda, her sister, gnawed at her nails, her other hand protectively cradling her swollen belly. Alma gripped Maryam's arm so tightly it began to hurt, her phone pressed to her ear as she barked orders or pleaded with someone Maryam couldn't identify. Sherine's questions poured out relentlessly, her freckled face a storm of worry and frustration. Rania, pacing in small, frantic circles, muttered to herself, shaking her head as if to dispel her own disbelief. 

Aunt Jamila, always the caretaker, tilted Maryam's head this way and that, examining her face with clinical precision. Her hands were warm but firm, her scolding muttered in Arabic, sharp and cutting: "Stupid girl. Careless like always. What were you thinking?"

"Ya Allah, what is happening?" Aunt Meysa's voice rose in the background, her phone glued to her ear. She was practically shouting into it, probably to Uncle Fawzi, rattling off a mix of Arabic and English in a flurry of panic.

The chaos was suffocating, but it was Ryan who finally broke through. His voice, usually calm and soothing, now carried an edge of command that silenced the crowd.

"Guys, we need to get out of here—now," he said, his arms wrapped protectively around his pregnant wife, dark eyes scanning the parking lot with the sharpness of a man used to anticipating danger.

Maryam blinked, her senses snapping back into focus like a camera lens sharpening its view. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. "No," she said, her voice hoarse but determined. "I'm not going anywhere. I need—"

"Maryam!" Ryan interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Now is not the time for this. There's a bomb in there. Do you hear me? A bomb! We need to leave—all of us."

His words hit her like a bucket of ice water, clarity piercing through the haze of her shock. 

The DA was inside, a bomb strapped around his neck. A psychopath was loose in Gotham, playing games with riddles and lives. She wasn't the only one in danger. Her family—her family—was here, vulnerable. That realization settled into her chest like a weight, heavy and cold.

She nodded, swallowing hard. "You're right. Let's go. We'll head to Aunt Meysa's. If that bomb goes off, it could take out the whole block."

Warda protested immediately, her voice trembling. "No, you need to go to the hospital! Look at yourself!" Her hand gestured wildly at the gash on Maryam's forehead, where blood trickled down the side of her face in crimson streaks, stark against her pale skin.

"I'm fine," Maryam insisted, though the dizziness creeping into her vision said otherwise. She barely flinched when Aunt Meysa whacked her arm with a closed umbrella.

"Leh! You are not fine!" Meysa snapped, her accent thick and sharp, slicing through the cold air like a blade. Her voice trembled, caught between anger and worry. "Look at you! You're about to faint, bleeding out like this!"

"Khalas, Amti," Maryam said softly, forcing a tired smile. "I said I'm fine. It's just a cut. I'll clean it up and put some ice on it. Nothing to worry-"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence!" Meysa interrupted, her eyes blazing with worry. "You think you're invincible? Wallahi, Maryam, I've had it with you acting like you don't need help!" She grabbed Maryam's chin, tilting her face toward the light. "You need stitches, not ice! Jamila tell her"

Aunt Jamila only shakes her head, a hand a gains her own cheek, too tired to even speak.

"Khalas, Amti," Maryam murmured, her voice soft but insistent. She gently pried her aunt's hands away and motioned toward the car. "We don't have time for this. Just get in. We need to leave before anything else happens."

"Before you collapse, you mean," Warda muttered, her hand resting protectively on her belly. "You're not convincing anyone, Maryam."

Maryam opened her mouth to argue, but Ryan stepped in, his voice low and commanding. "Everybody needs to calm down. We're wasting time. Meysa, she's stubborn—you won't win this one." He ushered Warda toward their car, his hand never leaving her back.

"I don't care about winning," Meysa huffed, still glaring at Maryam. "But mark my words—if she keels over, I won't be the one to pick her up. Let her explain herself to God!"

Maryam rolled her eyes, more out of habit than defiance, and turned to Sherine just as she grabbed her arm. "Listen," Sherine began, her voice calm but her eyes filled with concern, "Perry needs me. The team's waiting at the front of City Hall, and I've got to cover this. Don't worry—I'll be fine."

"Me too," Rania chimed in, barely pausing as she typed furiously on her phone. "Bella's expecting me, and it's important. I'll update you, okay?"

Maryam gave them both a weary nod, her chest tight with unease. "Just... be careful."

"Always am," Sherine said, blowing her a kiss before calling over her shoulder, "And I'll try not to get blown up!"

"La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!" Aunt Meysa hissed, glaring at Sherine. "Don't joke about that!"

"Okay, okay, I'm sorry!" Sherine called back, her voice fading as she disappeared into the crowd.

Maryam climbed into the driver's seat, ignoring the relentless throbbing in her head and the sticky warmth of blood trickling down her temple. Her hands gripped the steering wheel tightly, knuckles white against the worn leather, as she stole a glance at her family in the rearview mirror.

Meysa sat rigid, her lips moving in whispered prayers, beads of worry etched deep into her brow. Beside her, Jamila leaned against the window, her face pale and drawn, tears threatening to spill over. Alma clutched her phone like a lifeline, her fingers trembling as she scrolled through what Maryam could only assume were frantic messages or news updates.

The doctor shifted her gaze to the empty parking spot outside her window, her chest tightening at the absence of Warda and Ryan's car. At least they were gone, safely on their way—she hoped. The hollow space where their car had been felt heavier than it should, a stark reminder of the chaos they were leaving behind.

"Everyone buckle up," Maryam said quietly, her voice cutting through the tense silence, steady despite the searing pain that made her vision swim. "We're getting out of here."

For a moment, no one moved, the weight of unspoken fears hanging thick in the air. Then, with a rustle of fabric and the soft click of seatbelts, her family obeyed.

Maryam exhaled slowly, her breath fogging up the windshield for a fleeting second. She turned the key in the ignition, the engine sputtering to life with a low growl. This wasn't over. Whatever horror was brewing back at City Hall would follow them in one way or another—she could feel it.

But for now, she had one job: get her family to safety.

For now, nothing else mattered but the people in her car and the faint hope that they'd be out of harm's way before the next storm hit.

They all arrived safely to the apartment.

Maryam perched on the armrest of the couch, her arms tightly crossed over her chest, hazel eyes fixed intently on the screen. She didn't blink, barely breathed, her focus riveted to the unfolding nightmare.

Aunt Jamila shuffled in quietly, a tray of hot tea in hand, the soothing aroma of mint curling into the warmth of the living room. She set the tray on the coffee table with care, though no one reached for a cup. 

Without a word, she handed Maryam a cold pack wrapped in a towel. 

"Here," she said softly.

Maryam murmured her thanks, pressing the ice to her cut. A sharp sting made her wince, but the pain was easy to ignore compared to the tension tightening in her chest.

Aunt Meysa sat nearby, fingers working over her prayer beads in a constant rhythm. Click. Click. Her lips moved soundlessly, prayers spilling forth like a lifeline. Across the room, Uncle Fawzi was hunched forward in an armchair, his leg bouncing with restless energy as he muttered under his breath, glancing repeatedly between Maryam and the TV.

On the couch, Alma gnawed at her bottom lip, her phone clutched in one hand like it might deliver answers. Beside her, Warda sat with Ryan, her hand protectively resting on her growing belly. Their attention, like everyone else's, was glued to the TV.

Sherine's face filled the screen, her windblown red hair flicking against her cheeks as she held the mic with a steady hand. The scene behind her was chaos—cops, military personnel, and reporters swarmed the City Hall steps, their movement a stark contrast to her composed demeanor.

Uncle Fawzi leaned forward, waving a hand at Alma. "Put the volume up, binti! We can't hear a thing."

Alma complied without a word, turning the volume dial until Sherine's steady voice filled the room, cutting through the heavy silence.

Ryan shifted uneasily, his arm a fortress around Warda's shoulders. Her fingers curled instinctively over her growing belly, as if shielding the life within from the horrors unfolding on the screen. Aunt Meysa's whispered prayers grew faster, the rhythm of her beads clicking frantically in her hands.

Maryam barely noticed the ice pack slipping in her grasp, the cold water trailing down her arm like phantom fingers. Her hazel eyes stayed glued to the screen, unblinking, as though the pixels might rearrange into answers she couldn't find herself.

"Yes, Olivia," Sherine said, her voice cutting through the crackle of the wind. It was calm, measured, but underpinned by urgency that sent a chill through the room. She pressed her finger against the earpiece, steadying herself against the chaos around her. "I can confirm that a bomb collar is involved, though the extent of its power is still unknown. Negotiations are ongoing, but so far, Gotham PD has not issued an official statement. There is—"

Sherine broke off, her gaze shifting off-camera, lips pressing into a thin line as she listened to something in her ear.

Maryam's grip on the melting ice pack tightened, the sting of cold and the ache in her temple a distant afterthought. Half an hour ago, she and her family had been there, caught in the thick of the storm. It felt surreal, like time had folded in on itself. They had escaped—but only just. And the threat hadn't gone anywhere.

No one moved toward the tea. The cups sat forgotten on the table, their heat spiraling into the air in thin, ghostly wisps. Comfort was there, within arm's reach, but the room was too tense, too brittle for anyone to take it.

"Allah yustur," Aunt Jamila murmured, breaking the stillness, her hands clasped tightly together.

Sherine's voice came back into focus, the microphone trembling slightly in the relentless wind. "As we speak, the situation remains volatile. Crowds have been evacuated to a safe perimeter, but tension is high, and..."

She hesitated, glancing behind her at the swarming police vehicles and barricades. Her composure faltered for a brief second, and in that fleeting moment, Maryam's chest tightened.

The room was silent, save for the low hum of the television and the faint clink of Meysa's beads. It felt as though the walls themselves were holding their breath, waiting for what would come next.

Maryam didn't speak. She couldn't. Her gaze stayed locked on the screen, unblinking, as if the sheer force of her focus could pull Sherine away from the chaos. The knot of dread in her stomach tightened, coiling into something almost unbearable.

The TV feed flickered, cutting from Sherine's wind-swept figure to shaky footage from a SWAT camera. The dark, unmistakable silhouette of Vengeance moved through the room, his cape rippling like a shadow given life. No, not Vengeance. Bruce.

"He actually came," Warda murmured, her voice low but sharp, the disbelief clear as she leaned forward. Her husband, Ryan, tightened his grip around her shoulders, his jaw set like he was bracing for something inevitable.

The entire room seemed to tilt forward as if gravity had shifted. Aunt Meysa shook her head slowly, her fingers flying over her prayer beads with rhythmic precision. "Ya Rabb," she whispered, "keep us safe from this madness, and guide us from what we don't understand..." Her voice cracked slightly, but she didn't stop.

Maryam's eyes never wavered. Her jaw tightened as the camera focused on Bruce—on the deliberate way he peeled the tape from Gil Colson's mouth. The prosecutor's face was a mask of terror, his every breath shallow and labored. The screen flickered again, splitting into two: Bruce on one side, and Colson on the other, with the distorted voice of the Riddler filling the room like a sinister melody.

"...You give me the answers, and I'll give you the code for the lock..." The Riddler's words were taunting, sing-song, and dripping with sadistic delight. It was a voice that seemed to revel in the chaos it caused, every syllable a dagger meant to twist.

Alma gasped, her face illuminated by the glow of her phone. "He's live—on Instagram!" she exclaimed, shoving the screen toward Maryam, as if she could do something about it. "Look at this!" 

The chat scrolled in a blur, a storm of reactions:

@cclods : OMG, he's insane!!! @jakepplew : This guy's got no chill, fr. @dytmq : HE'S A LEGEND. @liabvjj : he's crazyyyyy @gfdyy : somebody stop him helloooo ??? why isn't anyone stepping in? @vcxz : He's literally speaking the truth; y'all can't handle it  @heljooop : best live of the decade !!!

The stream had millions of viewers, every one of them watching the madness unfold like it was some sick, dystopian reality show.

Maryam blinked, her lips pressing into a thin line as the Riddler's livestream filled her vision. Her stomach churned at the thought of how many people were not just witnessing this but engaging with it, feeding the fire.

She finally exhaled sharply, the sound cutting through the tense silence. Standing, she moved with purpose toward the kitchen, the weight of everyone's eyes trailing her.

She grabbed a glass and filled it with water, the soft trickle of the faucet almost drowning in the thrum of her own pulse. Her hand tightened around the glass, but she didn't bring it to her lips. She just stood there, staring into the water, her reflection distorted by the ripples.

Her mind raced. She could still feel the familiar sting of cold nights, the adrenaline, the darkness of Gotham's streets. As The Wraith, she had always been in the thick of it—observing, planning, acting. But here she was, removed, confined to the safety of her family's warm apartment.

It was maddening. She felt disconnected, like a thread pulled too taut, on the verge of snapping. Watching Bruce—Vengeance—on that screen, risking everything, stirred something deep inside her. A part of her itched to act, to be out there again. Another part of her hated herself for even thinking it.

In the living room, the voices of her family rose and fell, mixing with the tension of the broadcast. 

Meysa prayed louder now, her voice cracking as she begged for divine intervention. Alma's eyes darted between her phone and the TV, her fingers shaking slightly. Her thumb hovered over the screen, like she was about to type something, but the words never came. She just stared at the broadcast, as if it might hold the answers.

Warda was pressed against Ryan, her fingers digging into his arm as if she could anchor herself in his calm, but there was nothing calm about the way her eyes darted from the screen to the other family members. Her face was pale, her lips drawn tight, as if she were holding her breath in a room where the air was getting thinner by the second.

Aunt Jamila, ever the commentator, bit her nails down to the quick, her eyes glued to the screen as she muttered under her breath. She occasionally shot a glance at the others, shaking her head with disbelief at the riddles, the twisted game that Riddler was playing with them all.  

Uncle Fawzi, ever the grumpy presence in their family, was now unmistakably restless. He waved his hand dismissively at the screen, the gesture slow and deliberate, but it spoke volumes. The man who usually sat back, unimpressed by anything, was now on edge, his patience fraying. He was no longer the man with the answers, the one who held everything together—he was just as uncertain as the rest of them. 

But Maryam just stood there, gripping the glass tightly enough that her knuckles turned white. She couldn't shake the feeling that, despite the chaos they had fled, she hadn't truly escaped. She wasn't just watching this unfold. She was still in it, whether she liked it or not.

Aunt Meysa's voice rose again, trembling with disbelief as she stared at the countdown on the screen. "What kind of sick man enjoys this? Making puzzles out of people's lives?! Ya Allah, how have we come to this?" Her beads, clutched tightly in her hands, her knuckles white, as though holding onto them might ward off the ugliness of what they were witnessing.

Maryam's phone buzzed against the counter, jolting her attention. She glanced down, the glow of the screen revealing a message from Sherine: Riddler's insane, but he's not wrong about the corruption.... Are you seeing this???

Maryam clenched her jaw, swiping the message away without replying. Her focus snapped back to the screen just as the bomb detonated. The room went silent as the screen flashed white, followed by static crackling in an eerie aftermath.

"Astaghfirullah," Uncle Fawzi muttered, shaking his head, his hand hovering over his heart as if steadying himself. "When people lose their faith in justice, they start looking for it in the wrong places." His voice, usually a source of calm, carried an edge of unease that mirrored the expressions on the faces of everyone around her.

Riddler wasn't just playing games; he was dismantling lives. 

But not just any lives—lives of power, privilege, and corruption. A small voice deep inside her stirred, a younger, angrier version of herself. That voice whispered congratulations, a twisted kind of gratitude for the reckoning he was forcing on people who had long escaped consequence. These were the same people who had thrived while others like her family had suffered, watching their hopes erode under the weight of the system's sins.

But now? Now, she wasn't so sure.

Maryam shifted uncomfortably, the conflicting emotions pressing against her chest. She wanted to feel satisfied, even justified. But the reality unfolding in front of her wasn't clean. It wasn't justice—it was chaos, and it left her feeling more hollow than vindicated.

She couldn't help but wonder—what if the Riddler was exposing a truth no one wanted to face? What if this was what justice looked like now, messy and terrifying?

Then she thought of the bomb. The flash. The deafening silence that followed.

It hit her like a wave she'd been bracing for but could never quite withstand. But most of all, It felt disgustingly familiar—like the echoes of wars she had tried so hard to bury. Wars that still crept into her dreams, twisting them into nightmares. The sound of crumbling buildings, the smell of ash, the sight of faces frozen in shock and fear—it all came rushing back, raw and relentless.

Her chest tightened, the weight of it almost unbearable. She clenched her fists at her sides, grounding herself against the rising tide of memories.

This wasn't justice. It was vengeance wearing a mask of righteousness, and it reeked of the same devastation she had spent her life trying to escape.

Aunt Meysa's prayer beads fell silent in her hands, their rhythmic clicking ceasing as if her whispered invocations had been tied to the bomb's ticking. Her lips moved soundlessly, her hands gripping the beads tightly.

The medical examiner didn't flinch, her hazel eyes glued to the television as the live feed resumed. The footage shifted to the chaos outside the city hall—SWAT officers rushing in, the scene a whirlwind of lights and movement.

Sherine's face appeared on the screen again, her voice steady despite the chaos. "We are live just outside the city hall. The bomb has just exploded—I repeat, the bomb has exploded. Authorities have cut all live feeds from inside. The Riddler's livestream has been taken down, along with all other feeds."

Maryam didn't hear the rest. 

Her sister's voice faded into background noise as she absentmindedly touched the delicate pendant around her neck, her fingers tracing its outline. Her mind was elsewhere, consumed by a singular thought that made no sense, yet refused to leave her alone:

Bruce.

Was he okay? Was he hurt? ...Was he alive?

A shiver ran down her spine, a chill that no amount of logic could dispel. The man she barely understood, who had dragged her into his world of shadows, now consumed her thoughts. And for what reason? She didn't know.

Just as Maryam reached for her phone, intending to contact Gordon for any information, her screen lit up with a notification from him: MEET ME AT THE GCPD ASAP. URGENT.

Maryam's fingers moved quickly, typing a simple reply: Coming.

Without hesitation, she grabbed her long black coat draped over the back of a chair and slipped into her heels. She didn't have time to change out of her funeral clothes—her tailored, somber attire felt like a second skin now.

Aunt Meysa's voice broke the tense silence in the room, soft yet pleading. "Maryam... where are you going?"

Maryam froze momentarily at the door, her hand resting on the handle. She didn't turn around, her back to them, her shoulders stiff with the weight of the moment.

"Out," she replied, her tone firm but distant. Grabbing her bag, she added curtly, "Gordon needs me."

She didn't wait for a response. The door clicked shut behind her, cutting off their worried murmurs and the muffled sound of the TV still narrating Gotham's descent into chaos.

Outside, the cold night air hit her like a wave, sharp and unyielding. 

Maryam descended the stairs quickly, her heels clicking against the pavement as she disappeared into the shadows, mind racing.

The city was unraveling, and she had no choice but to be in the thick of it.

Chaos pulsed like a living, breathing thing, and tonight it seemed to have found its epicenter inside the GCPD station. 

Maryam felt it in her bones as she entered the station, her heels clicking sharply against the linoleum floor. The air carried the sharp scent of tension, stale coffee, and a faint undercurrent of sweat.

Officer Martinez stood near the doors, his familiar mustache twitching slightly as he adjusted his belt. His stance was stiff, his usual lazy air replaced by a readiness that made Maryam's stomach tighten.

"Hey," she said, adjusting her bag on her shoulder.

"Hey," Martinez replied faintly, giving her a once-over with raised eyebrows. "You were at the funeral?"

"Yep," she said, popping the p with forced nonchalance. "So, what's so urgent?"

"The freak's down here," he muttered, gesturing for her to follow.

Maryam froze mid-step, narrowing her eyes. "What do you mean, 'the freak'?" Her tone was sharp, though she already suspected the answer.

"You'll see for yourself." Martinez didn't elaborate, leading her down a flight of stairs into the precinct's basement. The air grew colder with each step, the sterile, fluorescent lighting casting long shadows against the walls.

As they approached the interrogation room, a low hum of voices filtered through the heavy steel door. Martinez opened it without a word, and the scene inside hit her like a brick.

A cluster of officers surrounded a long table, their postures varying between hostility and wariness. At the center of it all was the unmistakable figure of Vengeance.

He lay motionless, his armored frame still intimidating even under the harsh light. The bat ears of his cowl caught the glow of the overhead bulbs, but the mask was still intact, shrouding his identity. 

The air in the room buzzed with tension, officers exchanging wary glances and hushed whispers that darted like shadows. A charged, uneasy energy filled the space, as if the very walls were holding their breath.

Maryam weaved through the sea of blue uniforms, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she approached Gordon, her pulse quickening with every step. Grabbing his arm, she hissed, "Gordon, what the hell is this?" Her voice was low, sharp, though her wide, searching eyes betrayed her unease.

Gordon turned to her, his expression grim, his eyes flicking toward the table where the Bat lay still, his imposing figure reduced to vulnerability. "Ah, good. You're finally here," he said, voice tinged with relief. "I need you to check on him."

Her gaze snapped to the unmoving form, then back to Gordon. "So... he's alive?" she asked, her voice a notch softer, almost tentative. Her fingers fidgeted with the strap of her bag, the chill from outside still clinging to her skin.

"I hope so," Gordon muttered, running a hand over his face. "That's why you're here, kid."

She hesitated, her throat tightening. "I'm not the right doctor for this."

"Maybe not," he admitted, leaning in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "But you're the only one I trust right now."

Behind them, the cluster of officers grew louder, their agitation bubbling into sharp-edged murmurs. Gordon's jaw tightened. "Come on," he said, gripping her arm as they pushed through the throng.

When they reached the table, Maryam stopped short, staring down at him—Bruce, she reminded herself, though his armor, his mask, everything about him screamed Vengeance. The blood smearing his cape, the shallow rise and fall of his chest, made the sight all the more jarring.

She glanced at Gordon, her hesitation dissolving under his steady gaze. There was no need for words. She nodded once, her determination settling like a weight in her chest.

From her bag, she pulled out a small bottle of rubbing alcohol and doused her hands, the smell sharp and sterile. She wasn't dressed for this, wasn't prepared for this, and yet here she was. For him. For Bruce.

"Give her space!" Gordon barked, his voice slicing through the tension in the room like a knife. The officers reluctantly stepped back, their muttering fading to a low hum.

Maryam took a breath, the cool air of the basement chilling her lungs.  Her hands hovered over him for a moment before she pressed her fingers to his clothed neck, searching for a pulse. As she worked, the room seemed to blur around her. 

All that mattered now was this man.

Her brain worked in overdrive.

Hours ago, she'd learned the truth behind the mask. Now, she was the one keeping him tethered to life.

The tension in the room was suffocating as Maryam slung her bag over her shoulder, her sharp eyes taking in the scene. His suit was scuffed and torn, battle-worn, but it wasn't the visible injuries that worried her—it was the ones she couldn't see, hidden beneath the armor and the stoic stillness of his body.

The officers circled like restless wolves, their collective hostility thick in the air. One of them, a burly man with a permanent scowl etched into his face, folded his arms and muttered, "Why're we letting her handle this? We should just take off the damn mask and be done with it."

Maryam didn't flinch, didn't even look up. She stepped closer to Bruce's still form, her movements deliberate. With a click, the flashlight on her phone flared to life, casting a cold, white glow over his battered face. She leaned in, checking his pupils, her hand steady despite the crackling tension around her.

The officers craned their necks, peering over her shoulder. "Who do you think is under there?" one of them asked, his curiosity thinly veiled under a layer of skepticism.

Maryam kept her focus razor-sharp, her voice cool and detached as she said, "Take it easy." Beside her, Gordon cut in with a firmer, "Back off, all of you."

"I wanna see," the burly officer scoffed, his impatience flaring. He stepped forward, reaching for the mask, but Gordon intercepted him with a sharp shove. "Don't even think about it," the lieutenant warned, his tone like steel.

Maryam sighed, her breath misting in the cold basement air. "He's breathing steadily. No signs of a concussion so far," she murmured, her words measured but firm. "But I need more time to—"

"Time?" The burly officer's voice cut through hers like a blade. "This is a waste of it. He's just some vigilante. Not a hero. Take off the mask—what's he gonna do, stop us?"

That was it. 

Maryam snapped. 

Without looking up from her task, she spat, her tone ice-cold, "Touch him, and I'll break your filthy fingers."

The room froze. The burly officer's face flushed with anger, his mouth opening for a retort, but another voice cut in before he could speak. "What's he got on his eyes?" someone asked, his curiosity tinged with suspicion.

"Who cares?" another younger officer hissed. "I wanna see his face."

Maryam ignored the growing noise, her world narrowing to the flashlight beam and the faint movement of Bruce's chest. His pupils responded sluggishly to the light, their gray-blue depths striking even in their dulled state. She frowned, her mind calculating the possibilities—shock, exhaustion, blood loss—but her face remained impassive.

She could feel the hostility swirling around her, but she didn't let it touch her. She worked with the precision of someone used to chaos, her hands steady as the storm of egos and suspicions raged behind her. 

This wasn't about them. It wasn't even about her. It was about him.

In this moment, the man under the mask was hers to protect, and she'd be damned if she let anyone compromise that.

The room was a powder keg, and the burly officer struck the match.

"What are we even doing here?" the officer grumbled, his impatience evident as he leaned over the unconscious Batman. "Let's just take it off."

Before anyone could stop him, his hand reached for the edge of the mask, fingers brushing the cowl.

Maryam stiffened, her hand halting mid-motion. Gordon's voice cut through the air like a crack of thunder. "Don't—"

But it was already too late.

In a heartbeat, the Bat came alive, shooting up from the table like a coiled spring. His eyes snapped open—sharp, wild, electric with fury. The room erupted into chaos.

With an almost inhuman fluidity, he was off the table and on his feet, dropping instinctively into a fighting stance.

Maryam's heart jolted as her phone slipped from her hand in the commotion, the sharp crack of its screen shattering against the linoleum floor barely registering over the chaos around her.

"HEY—RELAX, GODDAMMIT!" Gordon bellowed, rushing to position himself between the towering vigilante and the startled officers. The burly man stumbled back, his bravado giving way to wide-eyed panic.

"You're protecting this guy, Jim?" Chief Mackenzie spat, his tone laced with disdain. "This freak interfered in a hostage situation. Colson's blood is on his hands."

Maryam rose from her crouched position, retrieving her fractured phone, her unease growing as the verbal sparring escalated.

"Maybe it's on yours," the Bat growled, his voice low and lethal, a rasp that cut through the air like the scrape of a blade.

"What'd you say?" the chief snapped, stepping forward, his voice dripping with challenge.

The Bat didn't even blink, his steely gaze drilling into the cop. "He'd rather die than talk," Batman said, his voice cold and steady, every word dripping with accusation. "What was he so afraid of? You?"

The tension was electric, unspoken threats coiling in the silence. Chief Mackenzie stepped forward until their faces were inches apart, his voice low and venomous. "You son of a bitch. Do you know the kind of trouble you're in? You could be an accessory to murder."

Before the charge could detonate further, the same burly officer made another attempt at the mask, lunging from behind. Batman moved like a shadow given form, twisting effortlessly and shoving the officer back with a force that sent him crashing into the wall with a heavy thud.

Another officer surged forward, but Batman sidestepped him with a precision born of instinct, flipping him onto the table with a resounding crash. Papers and coffee cups scattered, the room descending into bedlam once more. Maryam was jostled in the melee, but she planted her feet, refusing to be pushed aside.

"BACK OFF! BACK OFF!" Gordon shouted, his voice commanding but desperate as he wrestled two officers away from the towering vigilante.

Mackenzie glared at Batman, his anger boiling over. "Right now, I've got you on assaulting an officer."

Batman's voice dropped into a growl, the barest hint of a smirk in his tone. "You've got me on assaulting three." He took a deliberate step forward, his presence oppressive, as if the room itself was bending to accommodate him.

But Gordon had had enough. He surged forward, slamming Batman back against the wall with a force that echoed through the room.

"HEY!" Gordon's finger jabbed toward the Bat's chest, his voice sharp and biting. "What's the matter with you huh?! This isn't the way to do this!"

The two men stared each other down, the chaos around them momentarily stilled. Maryam, clutching her broken phone, watched with bated breath, her pulse pounding in her ears. The night was unraveling faster than anyone could catch it.

The Bat's piercing gaze locked onto Gordon, cold and detached. His voice came low and measured, a blade wrapped in shadow. "You too now?"

Gordon didn't flinch, his finger still poised, the weight of his frustration clear in his stance. He kept his eyes trained on Batman, his tone clipped but resolute. "Let me handle this, Chief."

Chief Mackenzie crossed his arms, his sneer practically audible. "You're seriously gonna put yourself on the line for this scumbag, Jim?"

"I'll get him to cooperate," Gordon replied, unyielding. "Just give me a minute."

The room fell into a tense silence, every officer waiting for the Chief's call.

Finally, with a begrudging grunt, Mackenzie relented. "Ok. One minute. Clear the room."

A wave of discontent rippled through the officers as they exchanged glances and grumbled their protests, but none dared challenge the order. 

Slowly, the room began to empty.

Gordon eased his elbow off the Bat's chest, stepping back. His voice dropped, steady but firm, as he spoke over his shoulder. "Doc, you stay. Keep checking him for injuries."

Maryam, who had instinctively moved toward the door with the others, paused mid-step. She turned, nodding silently, her lips pressed into a thin line. She clutched her bag tightly as she moved back toward the table, nerves coiled tight.

The last officer shut the door with a heavy click, leaving just the three of them in the room. Through the glass, every officer who had been forced to leave now stood watching, their eyes glued to the scene like vultures circling prey.

Maryam stole a quick glance at the throng beyond the glass, their scrutiny suffocating, then turned her focus back to the towering figure of the Bat. 

His broad frame loomed like a statue carved from fury, yet his breathing was shallow, controlled. He hadn't moved a muscle, his presence filling the room as if he were still the only one in it.

Inside, the room felt oppressively still, the hum of the fluorescent lights amplifying the tension. 

The medical examiner set her bag on the table, the crack on her phone screen glinting under the harsh glare. Gordon adjusted his coat with a sigh, the sound heavy with frustration and resolve.

"Alright," he said, his tone measured but commanding. "We need to talk. Maryam, keep going." He gestured toward Batman.

The Bat stirred slightly. "I don't need—"

"Shut up and let me work," Maryam interjected, her voice sharp as a scalpel. She placed her phone carefully on the table beside them and pulled on a pair of gloves.

The silent onlookers behind the glass loomed like an audience in a theater. Gordon, sensing the need for a show, suddenly slammed his hand on the table. The sound cracked through the air, startling even Maryam.

"Now you listen to me!" Gordon snapped, stepping closer to Batman with a pointed finger. But his voice dipped lower as he leaned in. "We need to get you out of here."

Maryam huffed, her breath fogging slightly in the cold air. She grasped Batman's gloved hand, turning it over with clinical precision. "If you don't stay still, this'll take longer," she muttered, her fingers brushing over the armor. 

The suit made it almost impossible to see any real damage, but she kept her hands busy for the sake of appearances.

Batman's voice was quiet, yet it carried a weight that filled the room. "They'll put a lot of heat on you."

"Punch me," Gordon whispered, shaking his head slightly. "Make it look real."

Batman tilted his head, a flicker of dry amusement breaking through his stoicism. "Huh."

Maryam snorted softly, pressing her fingers near his ribs as if she could feel for injuries through the thick armor. "You two are ridiculous."

Gordon discreetly pressed a small key into Batman's hand, leaning close enough that it seemed like a continuation of his supposed reprimand. "Take this. Go through that door, head for the stairs to the roof."

Batman's gaze shifted subtly to the door, narrowing when he spotted a familiar figure in the crowd of officers behind the glass. "Who's the mustache?" he murmured, barely moving his lips.

Gordon followed his line of sight. "Kenzie, narcotics."

"He's one of the guys I got into it with at the Iceberg Lounge," Batman said evenly.

Gordon frowned. "What are you saying? Kenzie moonlights for Penguin?"

"Wouldn't be surprising," Maryam added, crossing her arms as she stepped back.

"Or," Batman said with a sharp edge to his voice, "he moonlights as a cop."

Kenzie's face shifted when he noticed Batman staring, his discomfort visible even through the glass. Maryam tensed as she saw the realization click in Batman's eyes.

Without warning, Batman turned, his fist connecting with Gordon's jaw. The lieutenant went down hard, groaning in exaggerated pain.

"Oh my—" Maryam yelped, stumbling back as chaos erupted around her.

Batman bolted for the stairwell, his cape swirling behind him like a shadow swallowing the light.

"Stop him!" one of the officers shouted, and the hallway filled with the sound of pounding boots as the cops surged after him.

Maryam crouched to help Gordon up, her hand on his shoulder. "You okay?"

Gordon winced but gave a faint smirk. "He didn't pull that punch, did he?"

She shook her head, raising an arched brow. "You said to make it look real."

     Night had fallen by the time Maryam returned home after bidding Gordon goodbye. 

Vengeance—or rather, Bruce—had vanished, according to Martinez. Apparently, he had leapt off the roof with his wings.

The doctor didn't press for more details; she was too drained to even try to make sense of it. Her feet throbbed from the unforgiving high heels she'd been trapped in since the early hours of the morning. 

Every step sent a fresh wave of discomfort shooting up her legs, but she forced herself to keep moving. Tomorrow would bring another relentless day of work, another endless stretch of tasks to bury herself in. 

She needed sleep. Or at least she needed to try. 

But the weight of the day, of everything still pressing on her mind, made even the thought of rest seem out of reach.

All she knew right now was that Gotham was a crucible of madness, where reason bent and fractured under its weight. She didn't want to waste energy unraveling the absurdity.

Her thoughts were a tangle of fog, heavy with the strain of Gotham's relentless turmoil. It was as if her mind was drowning in the city's madness, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rise above it.

But then, as she stepped through the door of her apartment building, the familiar scent of sandalwood and aged wood greeted her. It was a sharp contrast to the chaos outside, cutting through the haze that had clouded her mind. For a fleeting moment, Maryam allowed herself to breathe, to exist outside the suffocating grip of the madness that had defined her day.

She barely had to glance around before spotting a familiar figure—one that was anything but unwelcome. No, this presence was a balm for her frayed nerves, a quiet anchor in the storm. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, one that had already begun to form without her even realizing.

Ahmed's presence was like the steady hum of a lullaby, a soothing melody that softened the sharp edges of the world. His skin, kissed by the sun of Senegal, had deepened over the years, carrying the warmth of distant shores. His once-full Afro had long since faded to a gentle silver, now framed by the quiet wisdom of age. His face, etched with time, spoke of stories he'd lived and places he'd seen, yet his eyes—soft and kind—held an unspoken peace, a warmth that wrapped itself around her, like a familiar embrace.

Dressed in a flowing khamis, the fabric rippling as he moved, he was the kind of man who felt like home, like an old song sung in a language only the heart understands. A small, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corner of his lips as he caught sight of her, and in that moment, she was transported back to the days when life felt simpler, when the world outside her doorstep wasn't quite as heavy. 

He was a familiar sight, reminding her of Uncle Fawzi on his way to the mosque, of family, of home, of the kind of love that is rooted in tradition and unconditional care. 

Being near him was like stepping back into the warmth of her childhood, a warmth that, no matter how far she traveled, would always call her home.

He stood by the mailbox, moving through his mail with the deliberate calm of someone who understood that the weight of life wasn't always found in its grand moments, but in the quiet ones that slipped by unnoticed. The soft scent of sandalwood clung to him, blending with the musty, weathered air of the old building—a strange pairing, yet one that somehow fit perfectly. 

Ahmed lived just a few floors above, and his family had always been a part of her life in ways that felt like second nature. His daughters, Khair and Fatima, were like cousins growing up, always running around her aunt's house, causing their own kind of chaos. His wife's bakery—those warm, golden loaves of bread—had been a quiet staple in the neighborhood, the scent of it drifting down the street on crisp mornings. People would line up at the door, drawn in by the comfort of something simple and real.

He looked up from his mail as she approached, his face softening into a smile that always seemed to make the day feel a little lighter. "Salaam," she said softly, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a little.

"Wa alaikum as-salam, my dear." He answered with that same steady warmth. His voice was full, rich—like someone who truly cared about how you were doing. "How's life treating you today?" he asked, pausing as if whatever was in that letter didn't matter much at all in comparison.

"I'm managing," she admitted, her heart tugged by his gentle concern. "Just a bit tired." She offered a small smile, letting herself rest in the comfort of his presence. "Are you off to the mosque?"

He nodded, a thoughtful light in his eyes. "Yes, it's time for prayer. There's peace there, you know," he said, tucking his mail away, leaving his hands open, unburdened.

She sighed, juggling her grocery bag as she sifted through the contents of her own mailbox, her fingers brushing against a pile of bills and junk. "I could definitely use some of that peace," she murmured, more to herself than him.

He rested a hand on her shoulder, his touch warm and steady. "You don't come around much anymore," he said softly, his voice carrying no judgment—just a quiet, familiar observation. "I remember when you were just a little one, barely speaking English. You were always there, every day. Running around the mosque with your siblings and cousins. You were so proud of having memorized the whole Quran." He smiled at the memory, the corners of his eyes crinkling with affection.

A half-hearted smile tugged at her lips. "I know... I just can't seem to find the time these days."

The excuse sounded hollow, even to her. 

Back in her hardest days—when she was juggling school and work under Fish's shadow—she'd still made time. Now, though, it felt like that part of her life had slipped away, leaving only an ache she didn't know how to fill.

Faith had always held a place in her heart, as natural as breathing. 

It had woven through her childhood like a cherished thread, linking her to her roots, her family, and her people. She remembered her father's quiet prayers, his rhythmic voice soothing her even as a child, her own giggles mixing with her siblings' as they climbed over him while he prayed, the Quran playing in the background, filling their home with a warmth as familiar as the worn rugs beneath her feet.

She missed hearing the call to prayer echo through the streets, that gentle reminder floating through the neighborhood and settling into the spaces of their lives, drawing everyone close in spirit. 

Those echoes were now only memories, softened and blurred, reminders of a time when faith had been woven through her life so seamlessly, so effortlessly.

But as she grew, the gentle simplicity of those days unraveled. Life had a way of twisting memories into something both treasured and lost. Tragedy followed her like a shadow, stealing the laughter and replacing it with silence, the kind that seeped into her heart and stayed.

The world outside chipped away at her faith, each hardship a blow to the comfort that had once been unshakeable. Her people's suffering, the losses she witnessed, carved themselves into her very soul. 

The songs of hope she'd once heard as a child had been drowned by cries of despair, leaving only an echo of something she once knew.

It wasn't the faith that had changed. It was her.

Her belief still stirred quietly within her, a flickering light. She hadn't let go completely; she still found herself murmuring familiar prayers, reading verses from the Quran. But it was different now, tinged with doubt and a longing she couldn't fully explain. She missed the purity of her younger days, the untested faith that hadn't yet known hardship.

Ahmed's hand stayed on her shoulder, grounding her, as if sensing the depths she'd fallen into. "Maryam," he said, pulling her back, his eyes soft with understanding. "Faith isn't about never doubting. It's about turning back, even when it's hard. Even when we feel lost."

His words reached into her, breaking through the walls she'd built. "Sometimes... it feels like I can't go back. Like I've drifted too far."

Ahmed nodded, his face softening. "It isn't a straight line. There's no shame in feeling lost. Even when you feel far away, you're closer than you think."

Something in his voice eased the ache in her chest, as if granting her permission to take her time, to not have all the answers. To accept that finding her way back didn't have to be perfect; it just had to be hers.

"You're always welcome," he said, his voice as warm as the hand on her shoulder. "The mosque doors are always open. And remember, no matter how far you feel, Allah is closer than you know."

A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it. 

It had been so long since she'd let herself feel this vulnerable, and something in Ahmed's kindness broke through her defenses.

"Thank you," she whispered, her hand briefly brushing his, grounding her for just a moment.

He gave her shoulder a gentle squeeze, his smile steady and comforting. "Sometimes, we all need a reminder. The path back is always open. Fi amanillah," he added softly, leaving her with a blessing that felt like a gentle shield.

She watched him walk away, his words hanging in the air, like a soft light cutting through the shadows. She stood there for a moment, letting the weight of them settle. 

Then, taking a deep breath, she locked her mailbox and climbed the stairs, each step feeling a little lighter.

That night, as she stepped into her apartment, she went straight to the corner beneath her bed where a pink velvet box lay hidden—her secret treasure chest of memories. Inside were the fragile remnants of her past: photographs that carried echoes of generations long gone, some from her mother's side, dating back centuries, and others from her father's, still fresh yet too precious to be displayed in the open air of her small living room. These were the pieces of her family she wanted to keep shielded from the harshness of the world, tucked away from the prying eyes of reality.

She carefully laid her family’s brooch back into its place in one of the smaller boxes. Her delicate fingers lingered, tracing the edges of the old trinkets. Then, as if led by some quiet instinct, she sifted through the memories, her heart quickening until she found it—the knight figurine that Bruce had left behind two decades ago. It was small, worn by time but still familiar, a relic of a past neither of them could escape.

She held it in her hands, watching the dim light cast soft shadows across its intricate details. For a moment, the world outside seemed to vanish as she gazed at it, lost in a memory she wasn’t quite ready to let go of.

She took a deep breath, closed the box, and slid it back into its hiding place beneath the bed. After a quick shower and slipping into her pyjamas, she crawled into bed, the cool sheets wrapping around her. Maryam placed the knight figurine on the small table beside her, where it stood quietly in the dim light, watching over her. 

Its presence was both a comfort and a silent reminder of the past—everything she couldn’t seem to forget, no matter how hard she tried.

And Bruce, with all his shadows and unspoken words, was the constant echo of it all. The memories tied to him lingered, never fading, always just out of reach but never truly gone.

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taglist : @faeryki, @gaypoetsblog …

A/N : new chapter !!!! currently writing the next. Sorry for the delay :) If you’d like to be added to the taglist, lmk!!! I’ve only tagged those with who I interacted with on my previous chapters.

[ TRANSLATIONS ] • "Leh" : no

• "Wallahi" : I swear to God [It is an Arabic expression often used to emphasize the truthfulness of a statement, convey sincerity, or make a solemn promise. it can range from serious to casual, even playful, in daily conversations.]

• "La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah!" : There is no power and no strength except through Allah [ Meysa is using it as a mix of exasperation and resignation ]

�� "Fi amanillah" : In the protection of Allah [ heartfelt phrase often used as a way to bid someone farewell, wishing them safety and divine care. It carries a sense of trust and reliance on God to watch over the person as they depart.]

• "Astaghfirullah" : I seek forgiveness from Allah. [ someone wants to repent for something wrong they did, or even when they hear or see something upsetting, inappropriate, or shocking. Casually, it can also be an automatic reaction, like saying, "Oh no!" or "I can't believe that happened!"]

[jazzandother-blog]

Ray Charles and Quincy Jones

(English / Español / Italiano)

‘Shortly after arriving in Seattle, I heard about a blind man who had shown up one night at the Elks Club on Madison Street and had blown up the place away with his playing and singing. Rumour had it that he had appeared in Seattle out of nowhere and was amazing, so I snuck in one night to hear him. He was a lanky, dark-skinned guy, and he was throwing himself around like a madman. He played piano and sang like Nat King Cole and Charles Brown, and he also played be bop on alto sax like Charlie Parker. There was even something of Bud Powell in his piano playing. I attended a whole set and then introduced myself. He told me his name was Ray Charles and it was love at first sight for both of us. I was fourteen when I met him and he was sixteen, and what I liked about him and his music was that he was independent. At sixteen, Ray Charles was already a man. […] I admired the way he did the shopping, the way he cooked, the way he did the laundry. I'd watch him cross the street without a cane or a dog, avoid traffic, do the shopping, figure out the rest, shuffle across the pavement, never missing a step, and I'd say to myself, ‘Hell, if he can do it, I can do it. [Ray was my role model at a time when I had few role models. He understood the world as I was incapable of understanding it. He told me, ‘All music has soul, Quincy. No matter what style, you have to be true to it. He refused to set limits for himself.

("Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones", Three Rivers Press, 2002)

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«Poco después de llegar a Seattle, oí hablar de un chico ciego que se había presentado una noche en el Elks Club de Madison Street y había hecho estallar el local tocando y cantando. Se rumoreaba que había aparecido en Seattle de la nada y que era increíble, así que me colé allí una noche para escucharle. Era un tipo delgaducho, de piel morena, y se lanzaba como un loco. Tocaba el piano y cantaba como Nat King Cole y Charles Brown, y también tocaba be bop con el saxo alto como Charlie Parker. Incluso había algo de Bud Powell en su estilo al piano. Asistí a un set entero y luego me presenté. Me dijo que se llamaba Ray Charles y fue amor a primera vista para los dos. Yo tenía catorce años cuando le conocí y él dieciséis, y lo que me gustaba de él y de su música era que era independiente. A los dieciséis años, Ray Charles ya era un hombre. […] Admiraba cómo hacía la compra, cómo cocinaba y cómo lavaba la ropa. Le veía cruzar la calle sin bastón ni perro, evitar el tráfico, hacer la compra, calcular el resto, arrastrar los zapatos al pisar la acera, sin perder nunca un paso, y me decía: «Joder, si él puede hacerlo, yo también». […] Ray fue mi modelo a seguir en una época en la que tenía pocos modelos a seguir. Entendía el mundo como yo era incapaz de entenderlo. Me dijo: «Toda la música tiene alma, Quincy. No importa el estilo, tienes que ser fiel a él». Se negaba a ponerse límites».

("Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones", Three Rivers Press, 2002)

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«Poco dopo essere arrivato a Seattle, sentii parlare di un tizio cieco che una sera si era presentato all'Elks Club di Madison Street e aveva buttato giù il locale suonando e cantando. Si diceva che fosse comparso a Seattle dal nulla e che fosse incredibile, perciò una sera mi intrufolai lì dentro per ascoltarlo. Era un ragazzo magro, dalla pelle bruna, e ci dava dentro come un matto. Suonava il pianoforte e cantava come Nat King Cole e Charles Brown, e suonava anche il be bop sul sax alto come Charlie Parker. C'era anche un po' di Bud Powell nel suo stile al pianoforte. Assistetti a un intero set e poi mi presentai. Mi disse che si chiamava Ray Charles e fu amore a prima vista per entrambi. Avevo quattordici anni quando lo incontrai per la prima volta, e lui ne aveva sedici, e ciò che mi piacque, sia di lui che della sua musica, è che era indipendente. A sedici anni, Ray Charles era un uomo. […] Ammiravo il modo in cui faceva la spesa da solo, cucinava da solo e si lavava i panni. Lo guardavo attraversare la strada senza un bastone né un cane, evitare il traffico, fare gli acquisti, calcolare il resto, strascicare le scarpe mentre saliva sul marciapiedi, senza mai mancare un passo, e mi dicevo: “Accidenti, se lo può fare lui, posso farlo anch'io”. […] Ray era il mio modello, in un momento in cui di modelli ne avevo pochi. Capiva il mondo come io non ero capace di capirlo. Diceva: “Ogni musica ha la sua anima, Quincy. Non importa in che stile sia, devi esserle fedele”. Rifiutava di porsi dei limiti»

("Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones", Three Rivers Press, 2002)

Source: jazzit.it