Introducing..

I have devastating news. I’m Musab Ahmed, and for no clear reason, GoFundMe disabled the contact that was responsible for receiving and transferring the funds from my campaign to me, starting April 21st, 2025. Even though I had raised 24% of my goal, I was unable to access any of the money I worked so hard to collect. We tried reaching out to them multiple times, but they haven’t responded, and now I’ve been forced to start over from scratch.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I nearly had a heart attack from the shock and stress — especially after all the hope and effort I poured into that campaign.

Here is the link to my new fundraiser. Please, if you can donate or even just share it, your support would mean the world to me. I urgently need the funds, as I still haven’t been able to undergo the second surgery for my shoulder, and things are getting harder by the day.

gofundme.com

Donate to "Help Us Start a New Life After Our Home and My Father's Fac, organized by Mosab Hammouda

My name is Musab Hamouda, and my wife is Aya Abu Al-Qambaz. W… Mosab Hammouda needs your support for "Help Us Start a New Life After Our Hom

I’ve been verified by @gazavetters

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mariathemostbeautifulsoundiveeverheardmariamariamariamariaallthebeautifulsoundsintheworldinasinglewordmariamariamariamariamariamariamariaivejustmetagirlnamedmariaandsuddenlythatnamewillneverbethesametomemariaivejustkissedagirlnamedmariaandsuddenlyifoundhowwonderfulthesoundcanbemariasayitloudandtheresmusicplayingsayitsoftanditsalmostlikeprayingmariaillneverstopsayibgmariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariamariasayitloudandtheresmusicplayingsayitsoftanditsalmostlikeprayingmariaillneverstopsayingmariathemostbeautifulsoundiveeverheardmaria..

UGH

okay okay but hear me out right. slow soft sex with saxon who gets super freaked out because he was trying to do his usual thing and then it got real vulnerable all of a sudden and he doesn’t know how to feel about it after….BUT he knows it got vulnerable because he actually felt safe with her and blah blah blah or whatever. i think about him. that man needs to be fucked real gentle and lovingly or something.

anon, I like the way your mind works… I’ve added some plot to this though so bear with me in the first half…

let me be in your life like that ft. Saxon Ratliff

MDNI 18+

cw: obsessive(?) Saxon, established relationship, fluff, p in v (unprotected), “babe” as a pet name, mentions of oral (f! receiving), mentions of cheating (not followed through)

a/n: re-read it and now I have to write rafe & him tag teaming or something... idk the things going on in my head are devious rn. Title inspired by Ariana Grande’s “west side”

Not that SAXON RATLIFF ever thought of himself as the loyal kind, but he’s just been so uninterested in any girl other than you. Well, any one other than you. Understand that he would never admit that he’s a shit boyfriend; in every relationship before this, there was always a point where he’d wake up to realize how little he cared for his current partner. There was a whole twitter “exposé” at one point from one of the sorority girls he dated. Something about how much of a douchebag he was and that “he’s the equivalent to a community bike.” So with that in mind, he can’t help but be confused about his current predicament.

He’s away from you, on some business trip in the Outer Banks to close up a deal with some investors. Really, it’s more like a vacation; hot girls in the most scantily clad bikinis, (other) out of touch nepo babies on their week long vacation trip, and all the great restaurants, of course.

But get this, he can’t get his dick up. Like at all. Every time, he would bring someone back to his room, and bam! He’s got whiskey dick. Not that he could even fall back on that. Half of the time, he wasn’t even drunk. He’s never had this problem before. Rather, the opposite. Always needing another warm body. Always needing someone new. Which is why it’s such a perplexing experience to come to terms that he’s being haunted by you. From his wet dreams to any time he’s getting hard, it’s always about you, you, you.

So, maybe he needs to fuck you out of his system. Have his way with you on his bed, in the bathroom, in his car. And when that doesn’t work out, he figures he needs to go to your place; smell your sheets when he has you pressed into him, use your shampoo when he’s got you in the shower, eat you out as breakfast on your kitchen counter. Just anything to work you out of his head.

He thinks it’s finally working. He’s over at your place again, nose buried in your hair to smell that fresh shampoo as your legs dangle over his shoulders. Y’know, to really ram into your cervix. He swears he’s starting to feel that same sort of boredom he’s gotten with all his past relationships. Suppose that after today, he’ll be done with you and onto the next.

But, he makes a mistake. He kisses you. And it doesn’t feel like those “heat-of-the-moment” kisses. Matter of fact, it’s something much too foreign to him. Your nose is bumping his, and your lips are entirely too soft. How is it that the way he’s fucking you is so savage, but every touch of you makes him confront those weird butterflies in his stomach? How has he never noticed how you scrunch your nose? That you laugh with your whole chest? Or how your smile lines enrich your expression?

“Saxon?” You’ve got lilt to your voice that he can’t bring himself to snap out of. “You good?”

Somehow, you don’t even realize what you’re doing with your eyes.

“You have no idea what you’re doing to me, do you?”

“What are you talking about, you weirdo?” God, how is it that even your giggle is infectious?

He rolls his hips slowly, almost experimentally. He catches how you gasp a bit at that, rolling once more at a much slower pace.

“Please, babe, keep doing that.” Your legs are around his waist now, but he’s taking his time rocking back and forth, reveling at how your breath hitches when he circles your bud.

You’re kissing at his shoulders, hand massaging through his hair, and he doesn’t ever want to leave this moment. He whines at how you’re touching him. Soft, high moans that sort of catch you off guard. It makes you feel so good to know he’s enjoying himself though.

He’s kissing the nape of your neck, leaving deep hickeys in his wake. Then he’s at your lips again, gently. As if he’s scared he’s going to break you. As if all the time before he wasn’t going crazy on you.

“Ugh, I think I’m going to…” Saxon is rutting into you now, fingers still on your clit.

“Okay, fuck, don’t pull out…”

“huh?”

“Inside! Just cum inside!”

Your legs are tied around him, and you’re so tight that Saxon couldn’t even pull out if he wanted to. He’s so deep in you that he wouldn’t even be surprised if you told him your Plan B didn’t work out. He figures he would cross that bridge when he gets there.

For now, he’d rather enjoy basking in the heat of the sunlight to cuddle you with.

YAHT ROCK???? Oh you see my exact vision

⋆ ࣪introducing.. 70s GOLDEN BOY ART DONALDSON

golden boy art.. may live and breathe tennis, but he’s not just his sport. Off the court, he’s the picture of effortless style, pressed polos, crisp white shorts, loafers without socks, sunglasses perched lazily on his nose like he belongs in some glossy magazine spread. Even when he’s lounging, he looks like he has somewhere important to be, like he’s already won at something.

golden boy art.. doesn’t read much, but when he does, it’s always something too intellectual, something dense and complicated. He wants to be the kind of guy who reads Camus or Kerouac at a party, drink in hand, looking effortlessly cool, but the truth is, he barely makes it past the first few pages before he gets bored. Still, he keeps a book on his nightstand, just in case.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. was raised in country clubs and private schools, where competition was just as much about who you knew as how you played. He’s always been good at both. He knows how to charm the right people, shake the right hands, flash the right smirk. He’s got that old money ease, the kind of confidence you can’t fake, but underneath it all, there’s something restless. Like he’s always searching for the next thing to chase, the next high, the next game.

golden boy art.. never turns down a dare. Jumping into pools fully clothed, sneaking into concerts without tickets, taking a road trip to nowhere just because someone said he wouldn’t. He thrives on impulse, the thrill of the unexpected, the idea that life is only as interesting as you make it.

golden boy art.. is secretly a romantic, but he’d rather die than admit it. He doesn’t do grand gestures, but he’ll remember the way you take your coffee, the song you hum under your breath, the exact shade of your eyes when the sun hits them just right. He teases more than he compliments, but when he does say something sweet, it sticks with you for days.

golden boy art.. loves the ocean. Not just for the way it looks, but for the way it feels, cold saltwater against sunburned skin, the endlessness of it, the way it makes him feel small in a way he actually likes. He’ll dive under waves like he’s chasing something, stay out there longer than he should, come back to shore breathless and grinning.

golden boy art.. has a way of making everyone feel like they belong, even when he feels out of place himself. He’s the life of the party but also the guy who’ll sneak out early just to drive around with the windows down, radio low, smoke curling from his lips as he sings along to some song no one else remembers.

golden boy art.. is the guy who falls asleep with a book on his chest but never actually finishes reading it. He likes the idea of being well-read, but he prefers stories that move, movies, music, things with rhythm and motion. He’s seen every classic film twice and can quote entire scenes from memory. He thinks Casablanca is overrated but The Graduate is genius.

golden boy art.. loves the chase. Loves the way people look at him, the way they lean in when he talks, the way they fall into his orbit without him having to try too hard. He flirts like it’s a game, all teasing grins and lingering touches, but sometimes, just sometimes, he catches himself meaning it. And that terrifies him.

golden boy art.. is all confidence and charm until he isn’t. There are nights when the weight of expectation feels heavier than his racket, when the pressure knots in his chest so tightly he can barely breathe. He doesn’t talk about it. Doesn’t know how to talk about it. Instead, he drowns it in late-night drives and half-finished cigarettes, in the feeling of someone else’s hand in his, grounding him, steadying him, reminding him that he’s not just golden boy Art Donaldson, but something more. Something real.

taglist.. @italiansunsetss @sylvanianngirl @st7rnioioss-alt @sincerelykelsss @throatgoat4u @wiseladypoetry @gracieabrmslvr @pearlzier @1-hypegvrl @piperrrr-16 @mackyyyk @luna443 @flowerxbunnie @calliepie @cupidsword @notaboutlovebyfiona @recklesssturniolo @littlebookworm803 @blissfulxsins @camsturnz @st7rnioioss @yearlyism @cinnamoncunt

Next fic—

(Yes I took the time to write this out and????)

I wanna write for squid game but idk how to make it 70s🧍🏽‍♀️

the DRIVE IN

chris and babydoll reader

summary.. After a group movie night, Chris drives you home and doesn’t know how to act.

The night air was warm, thick with the faint smell of popcorn and exhaust from the drive-in. Chris had parked a little away from the crowd when you all arrived, his old car a quiet escape from the chaos of your friends, who somehow always seemed louder in public. The movie had been alright, not that Chris had been paying much attention. His eyes kept drifting, almost like they had a mind of their own, to you.

You had leaned back against the car seat, your hair perfectly framing your face, the glow of the giant screen painting your skin in shifting light. You didn’t say much during the film, just a few clever quips about the plot and one or two sarcastic remarks that had him smirking. But when you laughed, soft and sudden, it was like something had shifted in the air, and Chris felt it in his chest, sharp and undeniable.

Now, the car hummed quietly as he drove you home, his fingers drumming an uneven rhythm on the steering wheel. You sat beside him, turned just enough to let the warm breeze from the open window brush your face. Your scent lingered in the small space between you, light and familiar, something he never wanted to forget.

“Didn’t think you’d enjoy the movie,” he said, breaking the silence in a way that felt more casual than it actually was. His eyes flicked toward you, hoping to catch something, anything, in your expression.

You tilted your head, lips pulling into a half-smile. “It was fine. Could’ve done without all the explosions, though.”

“Explosions are the best part,” he shot back, grinning like he was trying to win you over.

“Yeah, for someone with no taste,” you teased, your tone light but sharp enough to shut him down in that effortless way you always seemed to have.

He laughed, shaking his head. “You really don’t let me have anything, do you?”

You shrugged, your eyes still on the window. “You don’t need me to.”

Chris bit the inside of his cheek, his grin softening into something quieter. You always had this way of cutting through all the nonsense, leaving him feeling completely seen. It wasn’t a bad thing, but it wasn’t something he was used to either.

The drive stretched on, the streetlights casting fleeting shadows over your face. He kept stealing glances, noticing how your fingers absentmindedly played with the edge of your sleeve or how your lips pressed together, like you were lost in thought.

Then there was a moment, a small one, but enough, when you turned your head, and your eyes caught his. He froze, his hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. For a second, neither of you looked away, the air between you thick with something unspoken.

But just as quickly as it happened, you looked away, turning your head back toward the window.

“You’re so quiet tonight,” he said, his voice a little lower, the words almost catching in his throat.

You hummed softly in response, shifting in your seat. “Just tired, I guess.”

He wanted to say something else, something that felt as big as the way he felt when you were near him, but all he could do was reach for the radio, settling on a low, mellow tune to fill the space.

The ride to your house felt too short for him but probably just right for you. He pulled up to the curb and turned off the engine, the sudden quiet making his pulse feel louder in his ears. You unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t make a move to get out just yet.

“Thanks for the ride,” you said, your voice soft as you turned to look at him. Your eyes lingered on his face, and for a moment, Chris felt completely unraveled.

“Yeah,” he said, his hand brushing the back of his neck. “Ofc. You don’t even gotta ask.”

You leaned toward him then, and he felt his breath catch in his throat. His heart was pounding so loud he was sure you could hear it. He thought, hoped, you might kiss him, but instead, your lips pressed gently to his cheek.

The kiss was soft, lingering in a way that left him breathless. When you pulled back, your face was so close to his, and the smile you gave him was warm and just a little mischievous.

“Goodnight, Chris,” you whispered, your voice quiet but carrying a weight he couldn’t quite understand.

And before he could say or do anything, you opened the door and stepped out, your hair bouncing as you walked toward your front porch. Chris sat there for a long moment, one hand on the wheel, the other brushing against the spot on his cheek where your lips had been.

He watched you until the door closed behind you, then let out a long, shaky breath. “fuck,” he muttered under his breath, somewhat disappointed.

@issysh3ll

If they do decide to remake an American psycho movie I do not think it should be Nicholas Chavez or Jacob elordi. I think those options are ass ngl. But pls pls pls cast Cory Micheal Smith. If u saw Saturday night yk he can do the voice. AND if u watch Gotham he is very good at play a psycho and he is very versatile so i think he could make to where his demeanor matches Patrick’s. He always talks about spending so much time and research into his characters and I think if they are gonna cast somebody this is what needs to happen. HE IS PATRICK BATEMAN LIKE WHAT.

Im coming out.. I hate/despise/can’t stand enemies to lovers. (I keep a gun by the door btw)