#el post ese de what is it boy what did you see DANGER what danger

[tortademaracuya]

Día de Ansiedad Máxima. Ansiedad de qué? Quien sabe pero amsiedá

[spkyleweek]

Guidelines // SFW Prompts // Pinned Post

Kyle Week 2024 is a character appreciation event that will run from May 20th - May 26th. Each day has two prompts to choose from, of which you can do anything: write, draw, edit, make a playlist, whatever you like!

La Kyle Week 2024 es un evento creado para mostrar nuestro cariño y apreciacion por el personaje, y se desarrolla desde el día 20 de Mayo hasta el 26 del mismo mes. ¡Cada día encontrarás dos temáticas entre las que elegir, que puedes usar para crear cualquier contenido que gustes; como escribir, dibujar, editar, crear playlists, etc!

NSFW PROMPTS – TEMÁTICA NSFW

Day 1: Somnophilia, Public Sex – Día 1: Somnofilia, Sexo en público

Day 2: Monsterfucking, Predator/Prey – Día 2: Monsterfucking, Depredador/Presa

Day 3: Masturbation/Selfcest, Favorite Toys – Día 3: Masturbación/Selfcest, Juguetes (sexuales) favoritos

Day 4: Lingerie/Dress-Up, Roleplaying – Día 4: Lencería/Atuendos, Role-play

Day 5: Body Hair, Oral Sex – Día 5: Vello corporal, Sexo oral

Day 6: Free Day – Día 6: Día libre

Day 7: Breeding, Shibari – Día 7: Preñar, Shibari

Further explanation and suggestions for themes are listed below. - Puedes encontrar explicaciones y sugerencias para los temas aquí abajo.

Day 1 / Día 1:

Somnophilia: Giving, receiving, let Kyle have some fun!

Somnofilia: Dar o recibir… ¡haz que Kyle pase un buen rato!

Public Sex: Dressing rooms, alleyways—here’s Kyle’s opportunity to be a dirty, filthy little boy. Maybe he’s an (un)willing viewer!

Sexo en Público: En cambiadores, callejones… Cualquier situación en la que Kyle pueda ser un cochinote. Incluso, ¡puede encontrarse viendo algo que no querría… o si!

Day 2 / Día 2:

Monsterfucking: Monster Kyle, Kyle with a less than human partner. Danger or desire?

Monsterfucking: Kyle monstruo, Kyle con una pareja no humana… ¿Peligro o deseo?

Predator/Prey: Is Kyle at the top of the food chain, or is there someone else he needs to worry about? Enjoyment? Shame?

Depredador/Presa: ¿Está Kyle en lo alto de la pirámide alimenticia o hay alguien (o algo) más de quién debería preocuparse? ¿Diversión, o pena?

Day 3 / Día 3:

Masturbation/Selfcest: By himself, with an audience, peeping tom, mutual masturbation. Crossovers with other Kyles (SoT, TFBW, Jersey), have fun!

Masturbación/Selfcest: Él solo, con audiencia, espiando, masturbación mutua, crossovers con Kyles diferentes (SoT, TFBW, Jersey), ¡lo que gustes!

Favorite Toys: Toy preferences for himself, for someone else? Plushophilia. (Sorry, Clyde frog!)

Juguetes (sexuales) favoritos: ¿Sus preferencias para si mismo, o para otras personas? Plusofiliia/ursusagalamatofilia (¡lo siento mucho, Rana Clyde…!).

Day 4 / Día 4:

Lingerie/Dress-Up: An outfit for Kyle or one for his partner. What does he like to wear? What does he like to see?

Lencería/Atuendos: Un traje para Kyle, o para su pareja. ¿Qué le gusta llevar? ¿o qué le gusta ver?

Roleplaying: DnD after dark, BDSM, whatever! Does Kyle take to his character easily, or is it a struggle he has to overcome?

Role-play: DnD para adultos, BDSM, ¡cualquier cosa! ¿A Kyle le cuesta entrar en papel, o se desenvuelve bien actuando?

Day 5 / Día 5:

Body Hair: On Kyle or on others. Shaving, waxing, picking pubes out of his mouth with disgust?

Vello corporal: Tanto en Kyle, como en otros. Depilación, cera… ¿quitándose vello púbico de la boca con asco?

Oral Sex: Giving, receiving, fantasizing about. Fellatio, cunnilingus, ass-eating, oral fixation!

Sexo Oral: Dando, recibiendo, o fantaseando con ello. ¡Felación, cunilínguo, beso negro, o fijación oral!

Day 6 / Día 6:

Free Day: Anything that your heart desires, after dark! (Or… did someone say… free use?)

Día libre: Déjate llevar por los deseos de tu corazón…más cochinos. (¿Quizá alguien dijo… Kyle de libre uso?)

Day 7 / Día 7:

Breeding: Ruts/heats, breeding, being bred, baby fever or just a sexy kink!

Preñar: Kyle en celo… tanto preñando como siendo preñado. ¿Quizá se le despertó el instinto paternal? ¡O quizá todo sea un juego en la cama!

Shibari: Whether it’s rope bunny or rigger Kyle, he’ll look good doing it! Bruises? Immobilized? Defenseless?

Shibari: ¿Has pensado alguna vez si Kyle luciría bien siendo atado? ¿O atando a otra persona? ¿Qué hay de los moretones? Siendo inmovilizado, o quedando indefenso…

[kuuderekweenfics]

Canción de Cuna

Two in one week? I’m on a roll! (Actually, I was just late to post my last fic, so I thought I’d hit ya with a double whammy.)

Well, if you wanted an emotional roller coaster, you’re in for a real treat.

Because the turmoil is strong in this one. This is a follow up to my previous Dabi fic, although you don’t necessarily have to read that one to enjoy this piece of work. 

Now that I’m three fics in, I want to start opening up the polls to you lovely readers. I don’t necessarily have to stay on the MHA/BNHA train. I’m free to venture into other territories.

I’ve been thinking about maybe a Levi from AoT/SnK fic. But we’ll see. :)

Anywaayyyssssss, back to the point of the matter:

Dabi x Female Reader

Explicit Warning: non-con, and angst sex, as well as psychological abuse and trauma. A lot of adult themes here, people. You’ve been warned. (18+)

Manga Spoilers! Not anything that hasn’t already been put out there, but if you are only watching the show, beware!

El que no sabe de amores, llorona,

no sabe lo que es martirio.

(He who does not know love, weeping woman,

does not know martyrdom.)

Tápame con tu reboso, llorona,

por que me muero de frío.

(Cover me with your shawl, weeping woman,

Because I’ll die of cold.)

He has red hair.

Your child has red hair and you’re not entirely sure you’re seeing this right because, boy, is it red. 

Like brick red. 

Like fire-truck red. 

You blink, rub your eyes, then blink again.

Not a trick of the light. It’s still very red.

Well, at least he’s no longer bald.

You lay him down in his crib, a melodic, yet cracked, lullaby stringing its way from your lips as sleep attempts to overtake you. You run a finger against his puffy cheek, and watch him breath silently. 

Up, down. Up down. 

Sometimes, you stare at his chest for several minutes at a time to make sure he’s still breathing. To make sure he’s still there. He’s a miracle; a glowing ember in the dark void from which he was borne. 

For weeks after your discovered pregnancy, you contemplated aborting. He was a product made not from love but fear. No one would blame you. But the day you heard the whirred sound of a quick and steady heartbeat, your love became boundless. And thus, you gave birth to your baby boy. 

His red hair must come from his paternal genes.

You learned a lot about his father recently. Although, you didn’t have much of a choice in the matter since he hijacked the entire broadcasting network to air out his family’s dirty laundry. If he hadn’t broken you over a year ago, you’d probably feel bad about what he went through. It sure explains a lot of those inner demons he has. 

A small part of you almost wishes that his child inherits some of that apparent intelligence he has before deciding against it altogether. You want him to be nothing like that monster. He will be a good boy. The thought of the great man he will surely become etches a smile on your face. 

You scan any signs of distress before heading back to bed. If you can manage to get in an hour of undisturbed sleep, you think you’ll be able to keep the patisserie running for a whole day tomorrow. While money isn’t necessarily tight, being a single, new mother in a bustling metropolis can be expensive. Not long after your eyes close are you alerted by a high pitched coo. He’s not crying. But he’s awake. And being awake equates to needing attention. 

You don’t register the shadow standing in the corner of his room as you make your way in, your eyes closed and only your deeply ingrained memory of the layout of the nursery to guide you to his crib. It is when your fingers meet an empty bed, growing cold from the lack of a body, do your eyes finally fly open. 

Another coo raises the hair on the back of your neck. This one is deeper, much calmer. You crank your head. Nausea creeps up, pinching every nerve in your stomach with a ferocity that leaves you quaking.

You shouldn’t be surprised to find Dabi there. Part of you had always known that he may come back. Out of sheer curiosity or some bitter resentment, perhaps. But you desperately locked the thought into the depths of your mind, hoping that he might possibly be arrested, or eradicated before then. 

He holds your child, his child, gently, a whisper of a smile almost odd against his otherwise rough demeanor. He is slightly illuminated by the blue hues coming from a small night light. Cerulean eyes flicker at you before settling back down at the small human who sleeps soundly in his arms. 

Your breathing is forced and shallow. Have you blinked? The stinging pulse at the corner of your eyes is a good indicator that maybe you should. But you don’t dare to. Not when he’s around.

“I’m surprised you kept him,” he starts, his low voice rumbling through your core. “It didn’t take long for my hounds to find you. I thought you’d at least put in a bit more effort to hide.”

The silence rings in your ears. You’re not sure if he wants a response or if this is just another villainous monologue to add to his collection. But as the seconds crawl, slow but steady, your confidence grows. You clear your throat. Did your tongue always feel this dry and heavy? You grip the crib with white knuckles. An anchor for the fury you’re about to unleash.

“You changed your hair.” 

It comes out small and tired. Of all the things you could have said, all the icy venom you could have spat at him, you decided to comment on his white hair. His. Hair. You mentally plead for a do-over, as if the earth would spin backward to take the last minute and give you another opportunity to rain hellfire. 

He smirks at you, reading your inner turmoil, but decides to drop the matter. “What have you named the twerp?”

You tell him. He nods a bit, and you wonder if it’s a mark of approval as he walks toward the crib. He leans forward to gingerly place the baby back in and you feel the tension in your body cave, your rigid muscles releasing almost sorely.

Another pregnant silence.

“Sometimes, his eyes scare me,” you admit finally, chipping away at the stifling quiet. “Not because I believe he’s capable of ever doing what you did; what you do...but because they look just like yours. And then I see you.”

He doesn’t turn to you. Doesn’t react. He keeps his attention on his child, and, for a moment, you’re not sure if he’s heard you at all. 

“Do you regret it?”

Do you regret being there that day? Do you regret not calling for backup? Do you regret keeping your child? His question can apply to so many things, but the answer to all of them remains the same. 

You look down at the sleeping boy and finally answer, “Never.”

You hadn’t noticed he closed the distance until his hand was pressed against your lower back and your lips met. 

Oh no. No, no, no. Not again. Your heart thunders in your throat as you push him away. But his other hand wrenches your arm down and he pulls you in, deepening the kiss.

A sob escapes your trembling lips. You use your free hand to grab hold of his jaw, the skin thick and scarred, and shove him from you. You reach for the baby, your alarm blaring for you to get out, to create any distance you can from the danger before you, but his arms wrap around your waist before you can attempt your escape. 

“Don’t do this,” you plead, hoping the fragment of kindness he had shown toward his son would extend to you. 

He rests his forehead in the crook of you neck and holds you tighter. You can feel him shake behind you. Is he crying? Is he remorseful?

The blood drains from you as you hear it: laughing. Softly at first, a quiet, tired chuckle cutting into the dark, turning into loud cackle which startles your son into a tearful wail. 

You reach out in a feeble endeavor to comfort him. Your hand is pushed back down by your captor. 

“He’ll be fine. I think we should focus our efforts on giving the little tyke a playmate, what do you think?” He growls into your ear. “Maybe we can try for a girl this time. She’d be pretty, like her mom.”

You swallow the hot bile back down. It’s so unfair; him speaking to you as if he’s ever the doting father, as if he was around during the most crucial moments of your pregnancy, or in the months thereafter. He threw away his opportunity of being a family man long before he met you. Not that you wanted him there at all. Another child wouldn’t change him, wouldn’t change the fact that you didn’t, had never wanted, a family with him.

You don’t know what made him decide on you. What made him believe you were the perfect candidate to bear his children? You failed at having a useful quirk for power-breeding.  You were a shell among the rest of them. How long had he wandered along the shore, surpassing all others before reaching down into the sand and picking you? 

He breathes you in, the mere scent of you encouraging his cock to harden and rub into your ass. How did you get to this point? What could you have said differently? It goes without saying that you have no means to fight. He trails wet, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and bites down on your shoulder. You hate that he elicits a shiver in response. 

You lean forward on your own, letting him rut against you as you take a pacifier and place it into your son’s mouth. 

You hum a lullaby as your shorts and panties are pulled down and fall in a heap on the floor. 

You stroke his cheek as Dabi stroke his length against you, the precum coating your folds and the tip just barely grazing your clit.

You choke down the sob as he claims you, for the second time, just as the boy slowly submerges into another warm embrace of sleep.

He grips your shoulder and drills into you, and despite not having any form of stimulation, your arousal awakens hot and electric with each pulse. You close your eyes in a vain attempt to shield your son from seeing you this way: broken and needy. 

But he’s fallen back asleep. No, what you’re really shielding yourself from is the shame enveloping you as your legs squeeze together and your back arches. Because you want Dabi to hit that spot; you want him to pound into that button that shoots a wave of pleasure up your spine and into your skull. And as his thick cock finally strikes home one, two, three times, and your pussy becomes a soppy mess, you’ve realized he’s found it. 

You let out a raspy moan. This only invites him to reach over and rub your clit.

How embarrassing. How unbelievably mental you are. You bite down on your bottom lip, hard enough to taste a metallic tanginess. You just hope he decides against his previous notions and pulls out at the last moment. 

But It’s different from before. He holds you close, bending down and grabbing the crib’s railing with one hand and tucking the strands of your hair behind your ear with the other before bringing it back down again to play with your bundle of nerves as he whispers obvious fantasies against your cheek. 

Teaching his son how to control his quirk.

Learning how to braid his daughter’s hair.

The tears fall freely from you now. Because each dream sounds so perfect. So delightful. But that’s all it will ever be. A dream, wrapped nicely with a polka-dot bow. Because Dabi cannot be the man of your dreams. Not when he’s stolen so much from you already. Not when he is devoid of any basic human decency. He licks your tears and fears away and plants a sloppy kiss against your clammy forehead as he pounds almost endearingly into your tight, obedient cunt. 

And maybe that alternate reality is how you let yourself fall deeper into the abyss of want. You mask moans with whimpers to deny the immense pleasure you feel. Each squelch, squelch, penetrating the night’s stillness in sequence with your bodies. Cruelly tethered to one another until death. 

He growls, signaling his close release. His hand latches onto your hip as his thrusts become erratic. His balls, heavy and begging for release, slap up against you. You let out an open-mouthed gasp, closing your eyes as you hone in on that feeling that sends you deep, so very deep, into oblivion. 

Unlike the first time, you both cum together, your groans a harmony in the night.

You don’t remember what came next. Either from lack of sleep, mental exhaustion, or both, you fall into a deep slumber. You could have also fainted. But trying to figure it out now was simply futile.

Only, you’re not sure how you made it into bed, or how you opened the blinds to let the sun shine brightly through the window. And you’re not quite sure how long you’ve slept either. But you snap back to reality and run to the baby’s room, only to see not one, but two sleeping figures swaying back and forth on the rocking chair.

You can almost hear the crack, crack, cracking as you surrender, the fracture in your mind severe and unmendable.

You walk quietly, reaching for Dabi’s shoulder. His eyes flutter open, and immediately close as your lips meet, tender and sweet.

And you allow yourself hope, just for a bit longer, that maybe, just maybe, it may not be so bad after all. 

[vidaandthecity]

Holding Space for the Spaces that Held Me

There’s a big move coming up in my life. Those who truly know me know that moving has never been simple for me. Its never been just the physical movement of my belongings from one place to another, or similarly the movement of my self from one neighborhood to a new one. Moving has always symbolized a new chapter and the end of an era. Moving has been letting go, saying goodbye, facing new challenges, and experiencing new adventures.

Today I sit here in the apartment that my son grew up in. The same place he uttered his first word, “dada” yes I know, “mama” took way longer. I’m sitting in the same place I had his first birthday, where he took his first steps, first haircut, first dance moves. The same place I cried myself to sleep when I found out my father died, followed by my grandmother’s death months later. It was the place I said I would never return to, “never say never” is what people say. Yet, here I am. Five years ago, I came back with my son in tow, a small infant at that time, with my fears and post partum depression dismantling all that I had once held as normal. Soaked in the unknown virtues of motherhood and yearning to be back with my family; I came back eager to soak up all the knowledge that mami, (a single mother of six) had to offer. Her best advice was and still is, “Disfruta tu hijo, que este momento no vuelve.” So I did just that and submersed myself in all the little miracles my son offered me daily. I was his personal paparazzi, and have hundreds of photos and videos to prove it. I lived in the moment and saw him grow right before my eyes. I came back to these familiar Brighton streets, the smell of the beach I had grown up in, a love-hate relationship with this neighborhood that no longer felt as familiar. I got to enjoy my grandmother’s last few months on this planet and see her hold my son. Something both my pops and grandfather never got the chance to do. Shit happens for a reason.

Soon, I will be saying goodbye to this place. Like I’ve said goodbye to so many other places that were special to me for other reasons. It is truly a bittersweet tango, a wrestling of my yearning, an inner tug and pull. These places I left knowing instantly that I would never return to, and if I did return it would never be or feel the same again.

I’ve moved a lot in my life. Mami moved us a few times when I was kid. Back and forth, back and forth. She would always say, “el cambio es parte de la vida.” I hated it, but she was right. Change is an inevitable part of life and with that change people move. And so we moved and moved and moved from place to place, state to state, city to city, borough to borough.

My first memories of a home are pretty dope. It was just me and mami, my brother was small. I remember my father being present, coming home throwing down his plate of arroz con habichuela, pollo guisado, maduros with a side of aguacate. The most perfectly green and ripe aguacate you could ever hope to see. He would moan with every delicious bite and suck chicken bones dry. I used to watch him enjoy his food and think that’s how a man should eat.  I remember my parents either dancing or fighting. There was never an in between, I mean I don’t remember them watching television together or talking about the weather. They were always an intense sight to behold.  

We lived in a tiny apartment on 191st street and Wadsworth. The floors were red oak, always shining in Mistolin and smelling like pine oil. There was a giant wooden wall of bookshelves that towered from the floor to the ceiling. This bookshelf housed mami’s beloved books of poesía, our encyclopedias, (we had 2 collections) and papi’s massive medical textbooks. It was a tiny apartment, with a heavy red steel door that one day while playing almost took my bottom lip straight off, I still have the scar to prove it. There were popcorn ceilings, except in the bedroom. Where I remember staring at the ceiling while laying with my mom, looking at the lines and her pointing out all these majestic figures that appeared within the cracks of paint. There was a beautiful princess with a gorgeous gown wearing a crown, then a disfigured monster, with a massive nose and scary eyes living in a cave, a bird with a long elaborate feathery tail, and what appeared to be a knight riding a stallion yielding a grand sword. She would point to these figures and ask me, “Keka, que ves alli? Qué te parece a ti?” We would go back and forth sharing what we saw, the way you stare at clouds forming shapes in the sky.  We found ways to be happy.

There was music, lots of music all the time. Music played on our stereo, music blasted from cars zooming by, from fire-escapes, and in bodegas and restaurants that made you feel like you were stepping into a discoteca. There were people that looked like us. Unlike here in Brighton where most don’t look like me. People who had traveled to this city from the same island that my mother and father had come from. People that ate plátanos, spoke Spanish, danced merengue, and smiled at you when you entered the corner bodega. We lived in Washington Heights in the eighties. My father was a young doctor and mami was the most beautiful woman my eyes had ever seen.  I haven’t seen her glow that way since we moved from there.

Our building was like a big famila. We were more than vecinos. We were birthday parties, Nintendo maniacs, gossiping housewives, funny Saturday nights, barajas and brujas, primos y primas, poetas y bachateros. We were alive and blending and becoming a new set of Americanos. We were first generation of American-Dominicans growing up with our mother’s who still had their dreams and their toes firmly set on the sands of playa Boca Chica y Juan Dolio. But you couldn’t help but to be mesmerized by the concrete jungle and all the players on Saint Nicholas avenue. After all is was the eighties, at the height of the crack epidemic. The city was changing and all the jodedores, the crackeros, the negociantes, and the men that had more labia than a library were in full pursuit. The mujeriegos and their queridas, the nosy viejas and the horny viejos all waved hello and had a refrain for the day. It was the old school Dominicans versus the nuyorminicans. There was danger, sex, drugs, and excitement in that hood. There was love too. Lots of it. Don’t get me wrong. But that love wasn’t enough to keep my mom there. So she moved us to Brighton Beach, to be near her mom, where I’d spend most of my years going to school, even though years later destiny would have me right back there. In the heights, right where I had started.

Destiny is a funny part of moving. Sometimes we move without planning or ever expecting that move. Sometimes moving is our only choice. We move to survive, or to escape a bad memory. We move out of necessity, to change the page, or to hit the reset button. We move for love, to pursue love, keep love or maintain love. We move for opportunity, for a change of scenery. We move back to what we know, or away from what we know. We move to make sense out of life. Sometimes we move in search of something without even knowing what that something is.

Moving molds us in ways that being stationary does not. I always wanted to be one of those people who grew up and lived in the same place all their life. Its like the show Cheers, when you walk down the street and everybody knows your name. It’s a stability I’ve never known. It is being a part of a place, a community, an unspoken family or a people in such an intimate way. People who move often don’t have that. We belong to many places, and people, and instances, and lifetimes.

What I do have from this life of movement is the uncanny ability to adapt to my surroundings. I can come to a new place and reinvent myself, make new friends, learn the routine, find new spots that bring me peace and renew my senses, and find the strength to make this new world, this new shelter, feel like home again. So yes, I am a woman of many homes, of many places, and languages, and faces, and moments that all come together to make up this great big life that I have lived. I guess that’s the way I make peace with this.

Brighton beach had its charm, we had good times there too growing up with my grandparents, aunts and uncles’, having primos’ visit during and holidays and summer breaks. Our weekends were consumed by Saturdays on the beach, park visits, and summers in Coney Island. It was a nice way to grow up.

Then we moved to Fort Lee. These were my rebellious teenage years. My hardest move to date. It was quite the transition. A wealthy snobby town that slept on the edge of Jersey kissing the heights via the Hudson river. Fort Lee was just a hop and skip away from the exciting concrete dance floor I had left as a small girl. So I hopped and skipped. Back and forth. Escaping until I felt like I could breathe again. The George Washington bridge became my best friend. I learned her trails and paths, her highs and lows, her best views, and the best time to cross her. Fort lee was just a house, it never felt like home. It was my first real boyfriend, my first heartbreak. It was sneaking out of my window, jumping fences, and leaping over ponds. It was prison, deportation, and learning the truth about my father. It was Hector Lavoe and Marc Anthony, and the death of Aaliyah, Biggie and Pac. It was the 90’s and the world was changing yet again. It was breaking the rules, and playing with fire, cutting school, and dancing, and making money, and falling for the bad boys because the good ones’ bored me. It was breaking hearts and not giving a fuck because I had been broken too. It was coming into my womanhood and learning how to fight and stand up for myself in ways I had never done before.

Then there was Kissimmee Florida, a humid hell that drove me insane. So at 17, I moved myself as a teenager, against my mother’s wishes, against my own fears and hesitation. I moved and moved and moved. I came back to Manhattan with the famous 5 dollars in my pocket, and worked my ass off, and pursued a new love that was never love, and hustled till I dropped. It was moving to the Bronx, and Jersey, and back to the heights, renting rooms, sharing bathrooms and kitchens, and hiding my C-Town compra’s from roommates that got the munchies after smoking haze all day. It was borrowing sofa’s for the night, summer park benches, it was Monique and I in her Jersey adventures, and back to the Heights, every inch of the heights and now on to Harlem. It was dating one loser after the other and not truly loving any of them except for the one who taught me that not all love looks and feels the same. Sometimes love is ugly, just like the move, just like the change that comes with the move.

During that time my moves were equivalent to breakups. It was the way I ended a relationship, or mourned one. Some women get a new hairstyle after a break up, I would move to a new place, avoiding parts of the city that reeked of my ex’s. Places that had once been my favorite getaway had now become emotional landmines. And so I would move, fall in love with new parts of the city and wait till the scent wore off before revisiting the places that bad love had ruined previously.

Once I had graduated college and had a steady job I got my single lady pad in the Fordham Road section of the Bronx and quickly moved my sister in. It was our pink boom-boom room.  A tiny, shitty apartment, but still all ours.  Every time I visited my mom and grandmother in Brooklyn, they would go on and on with the same song and dance, “Ay mija cuando tu te vas a salir de ahi? El Bronx esta demasiado peligroso. Mira ponte a oir las noticias."  I would look at them and the fear in their eyes, and laugh, “Lo sé mami… Lo sé mamá… No se preocupen, yo soy una tigera.” Just to make them laugh and relax.  They were right though. It wasn’t the safest place to live but it was ours in the meantime. It was poetry, and magic, and single living, and poverty and riches, and self realization. It was bachata dancing, and smoking hookah, and kissing under traffic lights, it was writing till my fingers went numb, it was sisterhood, and drums, saxophones, and piano keys. It was sex and the city, purging old loves, it was finalizing the kind of kick ass woman I wanted to be. It was the end of many friendships that were artificial, and the beginning of some new awesome connections. It was where I met my now husband. It was learning to be still and learning to let go. I became pregnant while living there and all of a sudden I felt like that wasn’t home anymore.

One day with my son, who was a newborn at the time strapped to me (kangaroo style), I decided to walk my dog. It was about nine in the morning, a beautiful summer day and here I was surrounded by dirty needles, giant mounds of dog shit, used condoms, and football playing transvestites prostituting just up the corner from me in broad daylight. I think its moments like that, when moving becomes instinctual. It is those moments that the art of movement becomes an urgent need. I remember I was so grossed out that my dog had scooped a condom into his mouth, and spit it out after I frantically yelled at him. I ran my ass home, crying baby and all, called mami and told her, “I got to move ASAP, I cannot raise my kid here.” Thirty days later I was out and moving into what is now the living room where I’m typing this.

So here I am now anticipating this next move that will happen in a couple of months. A little sad to be leaving my favorite vecina, my mom and best friend, but excited for what the future holds. I’ve come full circle.  This time the move is so much different from any other time I’ve moved. It is a move that has been in the works for the last three years. It is a move that has required so much teamwork between my husband and I. A move that pushed us to learn, and educate ourselves, and knock on many doors, and meet so many people. So many rejections, and losses, and failed attempts, but we made it happen in one of the most difficult states, my beloved New York. We are finally here! We bought our first house. A house that we will fix, and design, and make our own.

So to say that I’m feeling nostalgic is an understatement. I’m holding space for all those places that held space for me when I needed it most. I’m paying tribute to all the addresses that I called home, that sheltered me during thunderstorms, the walls that kept my secrets, the kitchens that fed my soul, the living rooms that witnessed my poems and music unravel, the bedrooms  that cradled me during break ups, and the ceilings that became hidden works of art. Thank you to all those places, some humble, some beautiful, some borrowed, some mine, some far, others near, some quiet and peaceful, others loud and dangerous. I am grateful for each move was growth, each home, a chapter so lovely and all mine.

Written by: Maria Billini

(All rights reserved by Maria Billini and vidaandthecity)

*Image courtesy of talented artist Roeqiya Fris.

[dontshootmespence]

Passive-Aggressive Partnership

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5 / Part 6 / Part 7 / Part 8 @coveofmemories​

Part 9

Note: I wanted to have one of the team members interview a victim in Spanish. I used Google translate, so there will undoubtedly be mistakes. Just, bear with me.

                                                            —–

“College roommates Colin Kincaid and Robert Mobley were found in an alleyway outside a local bar with their genitals cut off,” Hotch started as Reid walked into the Bureau that morning. After getting changed into new clothes, he and Y/N took separate cars so she could get to examining these two victims. “By the lack of blood in the alleyway, it’s likely that they weren’t killed there, but dumped.”

As JJ rifled through the pictures, handing one off to Spencer who was just sitting down, she noted the brutality of the wounds. “The one victim looks like a clean slice, the other…”

“The other looks like it was ripped off,” Morgan said, shaking with the thought. For some reason anytime something happened to one guy’s parts, it was a community feel, with all guys subtly protecting themselves. 

“Oh my god,” Garcia exclaimed, walking into the room to see the grotesque picture on the screen. Freezing in place, she pointed at Rossi, who was holding the remote, and then pointed at the screen. “Please, tell me when it’s gone. I don’t need that in 1080p.”

“All good,” he said, causing the pictures to vanish and the victims’ pictures to come up instead. “We all have hard copies anyway.”

While Penelope booted up her laptop to start a general search, Emily made her contribution. “Whoever we’re dealing with definitely has a lot of rage built up. These men could be surrogates for someone that abused them in the past.”

“Considering the injuries, they could also be sexual assailants themselves and this is about revenge,” Reid said. For the only wound to be in the genital area was odd, unless that was the source of the unsub’s anger for one reason or another. 

“Garcia,” Hotch said, taking what Reid said and running with it, “Do either of the victims have a record?”

Garcia slapped away on the keyboard, the pitter-patter of keys sounding like a light falling of rain. “Oh do they ever,” she started, immediately pulling up not only their records, but two articles from local papers and posting them to the TV screen. “Colin and Robert were both accused of raping a recent immigrant to the United States, Magdalena Sanchez. Ms. Sanchez claims that the two raped her while she was on her way home from work one day last spring, but both boys have fathers with quite a lot of moolah to throw around if you know what I mean.” As she filtered through the information, Emily said what everyone was thinking. 

“I hate the fact that we have to find who did this and put them away.”

“Me too,” Rossi replied. “But we can’t have vigilantes running around.”

Emily sighed, “I know, but I wish people couldn’t play the system.”

“Me too. It’s disgusting,” Garcia interrupted, “but Girl Genius here has a little more information for you. Not only did both boys have the best defense lawyer in the area on retainer, courtesy of their fathers of course, but the fathers also made generous donations to the college, presumably to have them downplay what happened.”

Spencer scoffed. “Disgusting.”

“Our likely profile is that of a vigilante,” Hotch said, starting up with their orders for the day. “Which means we are already ahead of the game in regards to tracking him down. JJ, I want you to go to the college and interview the dean. Given that these boys had the best defense lawyer in the area, I doubt we are going to be able to interview the fathers just yet. Morgan, you and Rossi go to the alley where they were found. Emily, I want you to go and interview Ms. Sanchez. And Reid, you and I will head to the ME’s office to see if she’s made on progress on our two victims.”

                                                           —–

On the way to the ME’s office, which at this point, Reid wanted to be going to alone, Hotch hinted at the topic of the two of them. “She’s good,” Reid said, wanting to be truthful but also not wanting to divulge too much. “We’re good. And we have no problem working together just so you know.”

“I never doubted that,” Hotch said, pulling up to the ME’s office. “Let’s go see if she has any information for us.”

If Reid had come alone, he would’ve walked in and kissed her (even though it had only been a few hours since they’d last seen each other), but with Hotch in tow, he knew it wouldn’t be appropriate. Although neither was the makeout session in her office before they started dating. “Morning, Agent Hotchner,” she greeted. If Reid were her, he would’ve said good morning to both, because leaving him out would undoubtedly lead his boss to believe that he’d spent the night at her place. “There honestly isn’t a whole lot to discuss when it comes to cause of death. Both men died from loss of blood directly related to having their penises cut off,” she grimaced.

“We noticed from the crime scene photos that one looked like it was cleaner than the other,” Reid said, attempting to act as professional as possible. It was a little difficult considering she’d decided to wear a jewel green tank top and blazer that morning. The top was dangerously low, but she didn’t seem to care. That was another reason he liked her, much more confident and carefree than he. 

When Y/N looked up she could see a smile paint the corners of Hotchner’s face. Of course he knew about last night. Spencer only worked with the best after all. But if he wanted to be aloof about the two of them then that was fine by her. “Yes, one was cleaner than the other. Robert’s looks like it was cut off with a straight-edge knife, while Colin’s was removed with a serrated knife. Given that the only wound was the unfortunate appendage removal, I can’t tell what kind of knife was used on Robert, but Colin’s I will be able to tell the exact model after a little more time. I just haven’t gotten to that yet.”

“So two different knives, or two killers with a different knife?” Spencer thought out loud. 

Hotch knew the unlikelihood of two different killers in a situation like this - that at least from the looks of it - was very pointedly about sexual revenge, but he also knew it couldn’t be ruled out either. “It’s likely just different knives, but this early on, we obviously can’t rule out the possibility of two killers.”

“Do you have any inkling about what this was about?” Y/N asked. She knew Spencer would tell her if they were alone, but with Agent Hotchner here, it was a toss up. “This seems like a very pointed attack, at least from a medical point of view.”

“Obviously, we aren’t sure yet, but both men were accused of rape. Never convicted,” he replied. 

Y/N looked up, glancing between the head agent and her boyfriend, wondering if she should say what she was thinking, but if she knew Emily, and she was pretty sure she did, Emily had already said what she was thinking. “Do you have to find who did this? Because I’m sure you will, but I’m also not sure if I want you too.”

“Unfortunately yes,” Spencer said. “That’s all you can tell us for now, right?”

She shook her head, promising she’d be in contact later with any knew information. “Keep me updated.”

“We will,” Hotch said. “Thank you.”

As Hotch left the room, Spencer turned around quickly to give Y/N a kiss goodbye. “See you later.”

“Bye, babe,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

                                                           —–

Back at the local station, Morgan, Hotch, Reid and Rossi went over the information they’d gathered; Emily and JJ had yet to return. “Y/N said that Robert was cut with a straight-edge knife, while Colin was cut with a serrated knife,” Spencer said as he sat down at the table. 

Hotch had stopped by the lead officer and overheard a few of the officers talking about Colin and Robert’s case. Apparently, the cops didn’t believe the men were rapists. This precinct was also the one that handled their case. Carefully, he shut the door and called Garcia. “Garcia.”

“You’ve reached the fountain of all knowledge, boss man. How may I help you?”

“Garcia, I need you to check into the financial background’s of the cops at the station, specifically the ones that handled Colin and Robert’s case.”

“You think the fathers of the victims paid off some of the cops too?” she asked incredulously. “If they took any nefarious bribes, your minion will be sure to find the evidence. I will hit you back when I have something.”

“What did the two of you find in the alleyway?” Hotch asked of Morgan and Rossi. 

Morgan deferred to Rossi as he was looking through papers. “There was minimal blood in the alley. There’s no way they were killed there especially if Y/N said that they died from loss of blood. It was definitely a body dump.”

“So all we need to find is the actual crime scene, the murder weapons, and the killer or killers,” Spencer said unenthusiastically. “Hopefully, Emily and JJ come back with something useful, because right now, we don’t have much.”

                                                          —–

Knocking on the door outside Magdalena Sanchez’s apartment, Emily waited for the chance to interview her. It was unlikely that she was the killer, but they needed to rule her out. When she answered the door, she could see how scared she was, her eyes darting from side to side and down to badge Emily was holding. 

“Hola, Mi nombre es Emily Prentiss. Estoy con el FBI. Puedo hacerle algunas preguntas sobre Colin Kincaid y Robert Mobley?”

The woman began to close the door. Emily thought she’d lost her chance, but she unlocked it, inviting her inside with a quiet smile. “Que hay de ellos?”

She began by telling her that both of her accused rapists were dead - the relief washing over her as tears cascaded down her cheeks. “Aye dios mio,” she exclaimed as her hands came up to cover her face. She has been scared to go to work. With them gone, she might finally be able to not live in fear - at least from them. Despite all she gained from their deaths, Emily knew the minute she said they’d died, that Magdalena wasn’t the one that killed them. 

“Sabes quién pudo haber hecho esto?” Do you know who could’ve done this? Magdalena said she didn’t have anyone here. Her family was back home because she’d come here for work. Since she got here, about a year and a half prior, she’d been working for a cleaning company that made a point of hiring immigrants needing a fresh start. Emily wondered if anyone made a point of asking about the two men before.

“Not personally,” she said, but someone she didn’t know, a man, had asked her if she knew the two men, pointing to them in an article and asking if she was the victim. 

“And you don’t know who he was?” Emily asked. This was a true vigilante. 

Magdalenda shook her head. “I’ve never seen him b-before,” she stuttered, “But if he killed them, he is mi héroe.” Before leaving, Prentiss asked if Magdalena would come to the station the next morning to give a description of the man. Thankfully, she agreed.

“Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Sanchez,” Emily said, placing her hand over hers as she got up to leave. Magdalena definitely wasn’t their killer, but at least one of them was probably this mystery man, taking revenge on rapists that bought their way through the system.

[dachi-chan25]

OMFG! I can't belive I did read them all.

1.-Murder at the Happy Home for the Aged by Bulbul Sharma.

🌟🌟🌟

So it wasn't bad but it wasn't exactly great. Had some intresting stuff worth exploring much, but the book didn't go there and I mean fine, the characters were pretty bland, I was hoping more definition to them but nope, still the book is a pretty straightforward murder mystery and it is entretaining.

2.-None of the Above by I.W Gregorio

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

I absolutely loved it!!! There is still not much talk or information out there about intersex people, so I really think this book is great for intersex people to come forward and tell their own stories, I.W Gregorio wrote a very informative story and honestly is great, the characters are so human and that’s what I loved the most of this book it felt so real.

3.- Defy the Stars (Constellations #1) by Claudia Gray

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Claudia Gray made me fall in love with a robot (sorry not sorry) and I adore her for it. Ok so this book is great, it laids out such an intresting complicated future for Earth and what would happen if humanity did succeed in colonizing habitable worlds, honestly this book is so great and the romance the FUCKING romance is *cheff kiss* exquisite like I want them together forever and I can't wait to get to the sequel.

4.-Gone with the Wind by Margaret Mitchell

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Fucking god this book is a whole ass ride. I wasn't expecting to enjoy it at all I thought I would drag myself through it but nope I was turning the pages like a possesed entity, I guess that it helped the fact that I found all the main characters such insuffrable hateful people that it filled me with joy to see what fucking misfortune was gonna happen to them next. Honestly I thought this book was gonna be all white power fantasy (it had some of that and the fucking PoC representation in this book is atrocious like fucking disgusting how Mitchell dared to think slaves were happy as they were her idiot mind) and all the glory for "ThE CaUsE " but this book is surprisingly self aware and it shook me cause most of the main characters think the war was a stupid ass idea and the only think they miss is the privilege and position they lost and honestly the way that post war is portrayed is quite raw and yup honestly it was a great read even if there were moments that made me sick.

5.- Feminismo para Principiantes de Nuria Varela

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

Un libro muy informativo y bien documentado acerca de la historia del feminismo y las diferentes olas y los momentos históricos que los ocasionaron. Me fascinó, siempre es un placer leer acerca de la lucha por el feminismo porque creo que al menos a mi me da una nueva perspectiva de porque es importante seguir luchando por un mundo más justo y equitativo para todos.

6.- Skyward by Brandon Sanderson

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

I loved it!!! Spensa is so extra and she has my whole ass heart, I am dying for the next book to come out. That plot twist tho like I wanted to know what the Krell are and my mind was blown. This is the 1st Brandon Sanderson book I have ever read and I see why he is so succesful his stories are fucking bomb.

7.-The Tea Girl of Hummingbird Lane by Lisa See

This book made me ugly cry, it was so good and honestly I could see a lot of similrarities between how ethnic minorities are treated in China and how they treated here in Mexico and I depressed myself all over again about the unfairness of it all. The book was an amazing story of growth, healing, suffering... simply amazing, and I will definitely read more books by Lisa See.

8.-The Bell Jar by Sylvia Plath

🌟🌟🌟🌟

Wow simply wow. This book has such an intense style such a way of taking you along the emotional and mental break down of Esther when she is faced with the world out side school and all this expectations she faces from her family, society and herself that it's just too much, that shit felt so real for me, I really liked it a lot but I don't think I'll be reading it again anytime soon cuz it really hit me too close being a woman that has (and still is) struggled with mental health a lot .

9.-An Assassin's Guide to Love and Treason by Virginia Boecker

🌟🌟🌟

The plot of this book is completely outlandish BUT it was a welcomed respite after the intensity of "The Bell Jar" and honestly I fricken love Shakespeare retellings (like pls go read Hag Seed by Margaret Atwood y'all) and the Twelfth Night is such a silly fun play what is not to like??? The pacing is good, the characters are ok, the romance is good and it's an all around fun silly story (yes they attempt to kill the queen but who cares?)

10.- Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

I had only ever watched the movie before and it low key annoyed me how every incel fan boy out there thinks the movie is the truest shit out there (cuz boooooy the toxic masculinity of the whole ass concept of a Fight Club all those edgy ass bitches Tyler Durden wannabes drawing anarchy signs in their notebooks that I have had to deal with *sigh*), but I absolutely love Chuck Palahniuk's books, his sense of humor is my jam and I knew there had to be more to the Fight Club than edgy fake depth and omg like it was so funny this book is about the dangers of toxic masculinity (half of the book I thought our narrator was in love with Tyler and I was like omg this shit is so gay how are those incels not seein this??) and that fake ass depth all those edgelords worship had me in stiches. Truly loved this book.

11.- The Lady from the Black Lagoon by Mallory O'Meara

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

This book tho. Millicent Patrick was a fricken badass and such a wonderful artist and her story is so incredible. Like wow the film industry hasn't changed all that much huh? It was an amazing biography, I was crying by the end of it at the amount of love that went into all the research and how important it is to bring to light all these creative amazing woman facing the odds just to pursue their dreams, the thing I loved the most about the book was Mallory intertwining the story of her research with Millicent story like I appreciate all the effort it took her and it was amazing to read it.

12.- The Prince (Original Sinners #3) by Tiffany Reisz

🌟🌟🌟🌟

First off, how dare u Tiffany Reisz!!! That fucking cliff hanger. Now onto the book, wow, just when I thought Søren's life couldn't get more fucked up u proved me wrong, also why u make me ship everything, like now that I know what Kingsley and Søren's relationship was and how much Kingsley still loves him and wants to be with him aghfhfhhd, but also Nora and Weasley, he is so goddamn sweet and they love each other but thing is I don't think they will work out at all, cuz Nora and Søren are so much like each other (the parallels between the 2 of them were so clear) and their love is still there even if they are apart and whyyyyyy u make me suffer like this???

13.- Descendant of the Crane by Joan He

🌟🌟🌟

This book is really great, all the construction of the lore and the political drama!!!! Like I live for that and I seriously need a sequel. A great fantasy with an amazing protagonist, those plot twists !!!!!! I never saw them coming. I just need the next book pls 😢😢.

14.-The Poppy War by R.F Kuang

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

This blew my mind, honestly this month I read such great fantasy books. I wasn't expecting anything that happened (well I did guess about what Rin was but it was pretty clear) it broke my heart time and time again and I need to get to the sequel soon (like why do I do this to myself, I need to finish a hella lot of series and I just keep starting new ones like a dumbass).

15.-The Way of Kings (Stormlight Archives #1) by Brandon Sanderson

🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟

💞💞💞 High Fantasy is my favorite thing in the world and this book, gosh i fell in love. The characters! The fucking world!!!! The political drama, the magic, the religion, (also all those drawings throughout the book were amazing) ahdhenmdhdj I adore when writers create whole ass worlds and this omg I hadn't been so excited about a high fantasy book since I finished the ASOIAF books. The story blew me away Brandon Sanderson dives right into it and I need to read the next book.

It was a great reading month for me tbh, I didn't think I would finish my TBR for this month but suddenly I did and it was because I got really great books and I hope next month will be just as good.