#so i wanted to punch bev keane on the face

[lady-a-stuff]

I was raised a catholic, my family and relatives are catholic and with this background Bev Keane it's the scariest thing out there. A woman of faith, too much faith. She believes that because she goes to church she is a good person and that she hasn't sinned and deserves the love of god, while people who don't go to church or have committed some sin (according to her) don't deserve and it bothers her that Father Paul and God loves all those renegades and sinners, and yet she still believes she is good. She is the woman who will judge you and turn the back and say you should be afraid of going to hell while not having this fear cause she is good.

But worse than that is that she's a woman with knowledge in her religion and she uses this knowledge to manipulate the reality and people. She's able to quote the bible, but only the parts that interest her and she distorts the text and its meaning to fit in her believe, and the reason she can manipulate everyone is that she's the only one with that knowledge of the bible. We have Monseigneur Pruitt/Father Paul who technically should have know too, but honestly we can't blame the man for get carried away he's literally a vampire. But anyway all the others faithfuls don't know, so when Wade and Sturge see Father Paul besides a dead Joe Collie they are afraid, they don't wanna to simply dump his body, it is Bev who, using the bible, convinces them. Simply like that.

So what is really scary is that we have a lot of religious people who don't know a shit about their religion so are easily manipulate by someone who knows.

[royalsunshinehotel]

i have a request for Hassan if you’re taking them!! maybe it’s been a long ass day (as it always is in the crock pot), and he needs a bit of “stress relief” wink wink,,, basically just kinda rough and possessive,,, already on the floor thinking about it tbh😳

10:49PM (Sheriff Hassan x Fem!reader, 18+)

A/N: I looked up some halal sodas and Shasta was the first one that came up. Love me some Shasta. If this is incorrect, please let me know.

The schedule in Crockett was something Hassan had yet to get used to. As the Sheriff, his day would start at 4:00AM, and wrap up at 9:00PM, depending on if there'd been a kitten stuck in a tree that day or not. Not that he'd be trusted with that responsibility.

It was a massive culture shock coming from New York. Harsher than he'd like to admit. Being a native to the city, the sounds had become a part of his life, and he missed the noise.

It was stressful, and he felt shame for being stressed about how quiet Crockett was. That was supposed to be a good thing, and here he was, anxious that he couldn't hear a fire truck from 12 blocks away.

But, like most things in his life, there wasn't much to be done.

And it's not like the hours were bad. Hassan didn't mind a late night, but the general store was open until 11PM. This left whoever was working, alone for about two hours.

Now he knew that Morty, the owner of the store, and Annie Flynn were capable of handling themselves.

And then there's you.

Lovely, gracious, and alone for two hours. He didn't know you well enough to feel comfortable judging if you could "handle yourself" or not, but the idea of you walking home that late made his skin crawl. Even in a small town, there's always something hiding under a rock, waiting for a chance to strike. There's always something hiding in the dark, he thinks.

He thought about you a lot.

After praying with Ali, and making sure his son was set for bed, he headed out.

His commute is exactly a 6 minute drive, and he wonders as he sits in the car, if he's hiding in the dark. If he's the thing you should worry about.

Hassan's shoves the thought down, because of fucking course not. This is exactly why he couldn't stand the quiet, because you could hear yourself think, and he didn't want to do too much of that these days.

So, being the good detective he was, he looked over the facts

He thinks about how you greet him with a full smile every morning, and the small talk he's come to look forward to. You were one of the only people who did, and he was grateful.

"How are you?"

"Good, and you?"

"Ah, not so bad."

One of those days he was going to beat you to the punch and say "how are you?" first, but something told him you wouldn't accept that.

And there was that one time he walked into his office a few minutes late. Beverly Keane had stormed out of the general store, and Hassan waited a little longer in his car to avoid the town’s least favorite.

When he got in through the front door, he inhaled sharply. You were clearly in distress, eating some sour straws, sitting on the floor in the corner. The tears on your face spoke for themselves, as you mumbled, “How are you?” same as always.

;pAnnie came around, looking uncharacteristically ruffled.

“What happened?” He snapped, maybe a little too harshly. Annie bent down to sit with you, urging you to drink your water in the way only mothers do.

"oh, Bev was just being Bev, and things got a little heated." She tried to dismiss, voice an octave too high for it to be “Bev being Bev.”

“Fucking..xenophobic… cunt…fucker” You mumbled as you sipped on your water.

“What?” He asked, not sure he’d heard you right. Annie shooed him away, and he went, letting you recover from Beverly Keane at your own time unsupervised.

And the last piece of evidence he’d acquired was thin, circumstantial at best.

When Hassan first moved into his new office, the fridge from the previous, now deceased occupant had been filled with soda.

Not just any soda. Sprite, and Shasta.

Now Hassan hadn’t had soda in years, but he found it a little bit odd that two of the few Halal brands of soda were ready and waiting for him in his workplace.

He dismissed it then, it’s just a coincidence.

Except he’d been wrong, it was you.

The tall man blinks, and frees himself from that train of thought, remembering what exactly he was there to do.

The yellow lights of the general store were still blazing against the cold blue of the night, and he could see you resting against the cash register, reading your book.

Stop staring, he told himself, before taking a breath, and getting out of his car. He’s not going to think about the way you perked up when you saw him. He was probably imagining it anyway.

“Hey!” You greeted, just as chipper as you’d been that morning. He nods to you as a greeting, and gets to the point.

“How about a french exit?” You blink, he sounds breathless, which wasn’t a tone you’d heard on him before.

“What would the town think if I shirk my duties?” You bat your eyes in an attempt to

“They’ll say anyone buying candy past 10pm is a degenerate,” replies Hassan, completely deadpan. You snort.

“Maybe they’ll make an ordinance about it!” You exclaim, not putting it past Beverly Keane to do such a thing.

The two of you laugh for a moment, when Hassan gets to his point.

“Seriously, how about I drive you home?”

The mere thought of the two of you alone in his car sent a lovely prickle down your spine.

“Yeah…Yeah I’ll lock up, I'll just be a minute.” Hassan smiles at you, and waits on the porch. You scramble to lock everything and turn off all the lights while not making a sound he could detect from outside.

Taking a deep breath, you open the front door to the general store, and lock it behind you, walking in sync with Hassan, letting him open his car door for you. He waits an extra second to make sure your long sweater doesn’t get caught in the door, before shutting it behind you.

You start to hear your heart pound in your ears, as Hassan comes around and gets in the driver's seat.

“10 whole minutes early, how do you feel?”

“Like the law is a bad influence,” you snipe back, feeling a smile bubble to the surface.

“They blame me for the bad weather, I’ll take this too.” He jokes.

“Where do you live?” Asks Hassan, trying to seem calm, but he’s watching every move you make like he’s trying to memorize it.

“Yellow house on Apricot Drive. You’ve passed it before.” Hassan froze for a moment, thinking about how it must have looked. But it wasn’t as if he waited outside your house to see you, he just noticed that was somewhere you lived. It was something he was aware of. A fact.

“It’s a small town ” You shrug it off, letting him breathe again.

“Right.”

Hassan has a small smile on his face while he starts the car, driving a little bit slower than he normally would.

The ride itself is silent, and you have to be proud of yourself that you didn’t reach over and sink your teeth into him. Everything in this car is just so Hassan, how could you sit here and act normal?

“So, how are you adjusting?” You start, trying to ignore the fact that this car was so him. Clean, organized, and somehow comfortable and warm. There’s a scent in the air that you couldn’t quite place, but it was sweet somehow.

“Six months is a long time.” You continue, trying to keep your typical tone, as if you weren’t overwhelmed.

“It’s…alright.” He replies, wondering if you notice exactly how tightly he’s gripping the wheel.

“Yeah, at least we have fish though.”

“I hate fish,” hums your driver, completely deadpan.

You break into a cackle, “oh my god! What are you doing here?” You can clearly see a flash of teeth in the dark

Hassan only sighs, before taking the final turn onto your street, pulling up to the curb and turning off the car. You’re not sure how long the two of you sit there, in a comfortable silence you can only find after 8pm.

“We need to talk more.” You state, eyes on your hands.

“We do.”

“I like talking to you.”

“Same here, really.”

“Hassan?”

“Hm?”

“Would you like some coffee?” You question, tone light.

Your body doesn’t react quick enough, but Hassan’s hand is warm against your cheek, tilting your face towards his.

Things seem to move in slow motion, as you feel a soft brush of his lips against yours, the brief scratch of his beard making goosebumps break out under your sweater.

And just as quickly as it happened, he’s pulled away.

“I…I’m-” He tries, dark eyes round, as if he was stunned at what he’d just done.

“I’ll take that as a yes.” You breathe, heart pounding in your ears.

Hassan isn’t quite sure where his mind went, but he follows you out of the car, up the stairs to your home. It looks prettier up close, he thinks.

You unlock your house, and Hassan exhales the breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The house is lovely, just like you, just like he pictured. And he’s here.

You take your shoes off, he follows suit. You take off your sweater, and Hassan takes off his jacket.

If he looks too closely at your shoulders, it might make him lightheaded, and he couldn’t do that right now.

He follows you to your kitchen, as you put a pod into your keurig, he hovers on the other end, leaning against a counter. You hover by the coffee maker, before turning around slowly and taking each other in.

He likes looking at you, he always has. You're looking right back, air in the kitchen starting to buzz.

You could collapse under the weight of his stare, and yet you don’t move.

“So.” He says.

“So.”

The keurig starts to hum, and you clear your throat, “Must be stressful, being here, dealing with everyone.”

“It can be, yeah.” says Hassan, softly.

You run a hand over his broad chest, to rest over his heart, “bet you could use some…relief.” Were you doing it? Were you actually going to say it?

“Oh really?” Hassan hoped to every higher power that he was able to keep his face neutral, and not express what he was actually feeling.

“Someone to take all that tension out on,” you continue, taking a step towards him.

“Are you sure about that?” He growls, making you shiver.

In a moment he’s got his hands around your waist, your back to his chest.

He’s stronger than you, taller than you, and you're trapped. You let out a small whimper, wriggling weakly.

“You wanna be my toy? Something I can play with to work out all this stress?” he snarls into your ear ,”Say it.”

You give him nothing, breathing in through your nose, and out through your mouth.

“Don’t be coy with me now, tell me how you feel.” You feel Hassan push his face into your hair, inhaling deeply, while he waits.

“I’d like to be your toy. Or your anything…” You answer honestly.

“You wanna be mine? Want me to stake my fucking claim?” Hassan moves his face into the crook of your neck, the scratch of his beard masks the faint tug of his teeth.

“Yes please.” You stick out your bottom lip, trying to sound pitiful, and he laughs faintly.

“Okay honey, okay.” Hassan grips your waist tighter, just for a moment, and you want to melt into him.

“I sleep over in there”, you whisper, pointing down a short hallway to your bedroom. You’d jump on him if your couch had been a little longer, but your bed was a better bet for his comfort.

He’s right behind you, taking wide steps, not letting his hand stray from your back. You turn around, and get on your tiptoes to put your mouth back on his, and you keep him there.

Until you hear a low growl, “Do you like this dress?” asks Hassan, not taking his mouth from yours for more than a second.

“Yes.” You squeak, and Hassan hums in appreciation, his hands wandering down to the hem of your dress, tugging it up over your head. You shiver, falling right back into his mouth, your favorite dress tossed off to the side.

“Do you like these tights?” He questions, his hands roaming down and squeezing the globes of your ass.

“No.” You practically whisper, holding Hassan’s gaze as he tears your tights, almost in half, but not quite.

“I like these.” He rumbles, running large hands over your chest, pausing to unclasp your bra.

Hassan knew that his poker face failed him, and you saw his expression flicker. His dark, hungry eyes lit up the moment he saw your chest. He hovers for a moment, running his thumbs over your peaks, as you bite down on your lower lip.

Hassan runs his hands down,

“Lean back.” orders Hassan, and you do, shivering with anticipation. Your eyes go to your ceiling, reflecting on the various times you’d fucked yourself to the idea of him, for a moment, you wish you could tell him, but his mouth is on your clit so quickly, the thoughts melt away.

“Fuck,” you shout, as the Sheriff doesn’t waste time, licking and sucking in his own rhythm, quick, but not quick enough.

The sounds are obscene, and he moves your hand to hold on to his peppered hair. You looked so pretty with your eyes screwed shut, absolutely soaked for him.

“Fucking sweet,” You hear, muffled between your thighs.

You huff, as he knew exactly what he was doing. The pattern he’d established was lovely, but it was getting you to an edge. You were walking a tightrope and he wouldn’t let you fall.

Typical.

“Daddy ‘M-” You are cut off as you feel him hook a finger inside your wet heat. He groans against your clit, “Tightly wound. Alright.” He almost laughs as he works you loose, you’re still walking the tightrope.

“Hold on baby, open up for me.” He tries to comfort you, toying with that one spongy spot that made you see stars. Hassan’s thick fingers would reach it, press it, but never for long enough. He’s cruel.

“I’m gonna c-” you try, but Hassan’s not completely evil, he presses down on your stomach, and enjoys the show.

You twist, only truly aware of Hassan’s hands digging into your thighs, keeping you in place.

Things seem dim, distant for a moment, before Hassan crawls up for a kiss. He hovers above you for a moment while your breathing steadies.

He’s watching closely, before putting your head on his arm, turning you only to your side. The Sheriff pushes your hair out of your eyes, and you could feel yourself clench down around nothing.

Fuck.

You’re boneless, he’s panting, and everything is beautiful.

But it’s not enough. With all of your strength, you sit up.

“Fair’s fair.” You try, wobbly, as you try to reach down for his belt, your mouth wet. Your face twists into a pout as Hassan catches your wrists in his hands.

“Later, I’m gonna fuck you now.” He replies bluntly, pushing his face into your palms. The scratch of his beard in your hands almost distracts you from the words.

“Oh,” You’re struck with a pleasant chill, remembering bed with a gorgeous man who looked as if he wanted to swallow you whole.

“Yeah, oh.” He mocks lightly, giving you a soft kiss.

“Can you take this off?” You give him the biggest puppy dog eyes, tugging at his denim shirt.

“What’s the magic word?” He teases, watching you intently.

“Please, daddy.” Hassan hopes you don’t notice how his breath catches. You do, but what’s there to say?

“Daddy, huh?” He grins, getting up off the bed to take off his

“Shut up.” You smack his shoulder playfully, watching Hassan shrug out of his white undershirt.

Fuck, he’s hypnotizing, you could stare at him all day. You’re in a stupor, until he undoes his belt and frees his erection.

“Hassan-” it’s too big, it won’t fit.

But the words don’t come, his mouth is on yours, and everything feels so certain. You let out a small whine, feeling him poke at your folds. His body weight keeps you pinned as you wriggle and squirm in his grasp. “Don’t run, you can take it.” He’s got you pinned with seemingly no effort. Tears spring to your eyes as he steadily spears himself into you. Your vision blurs as Hassan takes you over.

“God, you fit me just right.” You hear faintly in your ear, as you focus on breathing. You scramble to make a sentence, a coherent thought, anything, but nothing comes to mind. It’s just the two of you. He’s still, and you’ll thank every higher power for that.

But at the worst possible time, a thought comes. Your hand roams over your breast, pinching it down to your stomach.

“I-I can feel you here!” You exclaim, dumbly putting your hand on your lower belly, pointing out a lump. It’s him.

“Fuck.” He snaps, as you blink at him, vacant. Hassan shifts for a moment, putting one leg over his shoulder, and the other follows suit.

And he begins.

His pace is steady, but hard enough to be considered unforgiving. It’s all a haze to you, the lump in your stomach, the slapping of skin, Hassan giving your ass a smack every time your eyes would roll.

“Can’t believe you’ve been such a slut. This whole time.” The words should sting but they don’t, not when he says them.

“I’m-” Hassan’s pace stutters, as you feel a bolt of lightning strike through you, you’re not sure if you're real anymore. You clench down around him suddenly, taking him down with you. He pushes his face into your neck, panting, and there’s never been a sound more lovely.

You register his heat just a moment after he falls apart on top of you, a lovely, liquid heat, hitting deeper than anyone had before.

The sheriff’s words are faint, “Good job baby,” you’re too weak to squirm away, as you pulse. “Milk this cock like it's yours, that’s it.” Hassan takes the opportunity to bite a mark into your smooth neck, earning a squeak.

The haze settles, only slightly, as you swear you could hear two hearts beating. The blankets, pushed off your bed, meant he was your only warmth.

A metaphor for your stupid small-town existence.

The feral feeling of his chest, bare against yours, made you feel as if you should simply put him back, but someone needs to be able to speak for that to happen.

“I think Daddy’s pussy is all filled up, do you feel it?” You feel down between your legs, face heating at the absolute mess he’d made of you.

“Yes, Daddy.” I want to stay like this.

He smiles, pressing a kiss into your shoulder, “good girl.”

“Does my toy need to rest now?” His voice is smooth as honey in your ear, hands everywhere, settling on your chest, squeezing, pinching at your nipples.

It’s almost too much.

“Yes, please.” You eek out, eyelids getting heavy. Your body is humming, but at the last second Hassan grabs your jaw and pulls your face close to his own.

“If if I catch wind of you fucking anyone else, there will be hell to pay. This is my fucking pussy understand?” You whine as a response, “I get to use this and this, only me.”

Only me.

Your partner traces down in between your legs, tapping on your sensitive clit twice, relishing how it made your whole body twitch.

But it’s not enough, he collects his cum on his thick fingers, and pushes it back into you. It takes you a moment to react as he does it again.

Hassan smiles as you let out a pathetic little cry, eyes getting watery. You couldn’t squirm away if you wanted to. Hassan could do whatever he wanted with you, and your cock-drunk mind decides that you're fine with that.

Suddenly it’s cold.

You don’t have the energy to open your eyes fully, but something was wrong. He can’t pull away! He can’t leave!

But he’s back, quickly, taking a warm towel between your legs, pressing on his beard burn, just to make you twitch.

And he’s back in bed, long arms pulling you back into him.

He’s staying, he’s staying the night.

Your body instinctively grinds back into his, making his breath catch as you persist.

“Miss me already, hm?” You feel a warm hand rest itself on your thigh.

“Mhmm.” You nod.

“Wanna keep me warm, baby?” The question sounded so sweet and sincere, you almost would have forgotten he’d just taken you apart moments ago.

“Yes, please.”

And Hassan doesn’t waste time.

You let out a filthy moan as Hassan parts your legs slightly, and pushes himself back inside you. Blunt, deep, warm. He hums a little bit, getting to feel exactly how he stretched you out, as he grips you, feeling you start to squirm with sensitivity. That would just be too bad.

Toy’s don’t get sensitive, they’re made to be used. Over and over.

“It’s your pussy daddy. Whenever you want.” In your mind, you dream about Hassan playing with your body while you sleep, if he wants, but you can’t get that across. Your vocabulary is now extremely limited. But how lovely would it be, to be woken up by his unrelenting force.

“You shouldn't say things like that, I might get greedy.” Hassan attempted to sound calm like he wasn’t going to dream of keeping you in bed, holding your hips against his and fucking you until you forgot the year. You’re so pretty in this dream, starry-eyed, and limp, letting him play with you however he wanted.

Maybe tomorrow, he’d have to ask first.

As a well-earned sleep took you, Hassan was left alone with his thoughts, he’d think about before he sleeps is how he didn’t have a leg to stand on. He’s a father, a widow, a disgraced NYPD detective, what did he have that you could want?

Could he ask you to go steady? Do people still do that?

Before your mind had been cleared, you wanted to tell him that tonight was enough. Whatever this evening was didn’t have to go any farther than he wanted it to.

But it’s alright, you two have time.

[spellboundspectre]

ships passing in the night, p4

hassan el-shabazz x female!reader; 18+ only. minors do not interact.

content: more religious trauma, talking about feelings, bev keane gets a verbal ass kicking.

word count: 5k

a/n: theme song for this chapter is francis forever by mitski

masterlist

As each day goes by, Hassan finds it easier and easier to get out of bed. The sun isn’t any brighter, the air isn’t any cleaner, but there’s a spring in the sheriff’s step lately. He hasn’t had to spend a night dragging Joe Collie out of whatever bar he decided to make an ass of himself in. Ali seems to have settled into their new life here, and while he’s not too thrilled with the idea of him wanting to go to church, it means Ali wants to be in some part of Crockett, at least. 

Hassan takes that as a victory. 

His life here hasn’t been anything like he expected it to be, in both good and bad ways. But he’s figured out a way to roll with the punches. 

There was a minute he thought he fucked things up with you entirely; thought he burned the one bridge he had on this miserable island. For the first time in his life, Hassan was glad he was wrong. Though you often looked at him like a deer in headlights, he didn’t scare you away. 

He had been patient before, he could be patient again. The little moments he’s able to hide away with you feel like little glimpses into paradise. Hassan wasn’t going to fuck that up. 

So the sheriff let you set the pace. If you didn’t go for more than a kiss when he walked you home at night, he wouldn’t press you. But on the rare nights Whitney was either out with friends or babysitting, you dragged Hassan in by the collar and straddled him on your couch, he didn’t mind that either. One or two nights he had to walk home hiding an erection. 

And he rolled with it. 

After making sure Ali was asleep in bed and his door was locked, Hassan would revisit his time with you. He would remember you down to the smallest detail as he hand wrapped around his cock. Fucking his fist as he thought about the smell of your shampoo and the way you felt pressed against him. 

Tonight you’d been feeling extra affectionate, and Hassan was barely able to restrain himself. He expected nothing outside of his usual goodnight kiss, but tonight not only did you pull him inside; not only did you writhe under him as he kissed you in the most tantalizing of ways; but you grabbed his hand and dragged it down the front of your body to the edge of your panties. 

You came three times before Hassan finally pulled his fingers out of you to suck them clean. The way you moaned in his ear had his cock leaking with precum. Though you tried to be quiet, you really did, but more often than not the sheriff had to stifle your moans with his mouth. It was obvious that you weren’t used to being with someone who actually cared about getting you off, but Hassan quickly figured out he didn’t mind teaching you.

Said inexperience didn’t stop you from pushing all of his buttons. 

“You sure you want to leave like that?” You say, your eyes fixed on the tent in his pants. 

You’re draped across the couch, face still flushed from orgasm and skirt around your waist from when he pushed it out of the way. He’s on the verge of being completely wrapped around your finger, and you both know it. 

“If I stay in this house a minute longer, we’re going to be waking up all of your neighbors.”

He almost changes his mind when he sees you pout. Without even kissing you goodnight, again, he’s out the door and down the stairs. Hassan wonders what all you might have done to him if he decided to stay for that last kiss. Would it be your hand squeezing his cock? Would your hands be clumsy as they pumped up and down? 

Would you let him cum on your tongue?

The thought alone has his orgasm sneaking up on him, and he’s cumming in hand for the third time that day. 

He begins to think that Crockett might actually be livable after all. 

It’s late Wednesday afternoon, the library has been empty for over an hour and you’re revisiting a dog-eared copy of Needful Things when Erin storms in. Instantly, a chill runs up your spine. She’s bound to have noticed how busy you’ve been lately, how you always seem distracted.

And it wasn’t like you were trying to hide your relationship with the Sheriff out of fear of Erin judging you, but you weren’t exactly sure what the proper term for you and Hassan was. 

The two of you had gone beyond “friends” long ago, and yet you hadn’t crossed the line of being his girlfriend just yet. You knew it would be an awkward conversation, so you just wanted to put it off until it was hopefully a lot less awkward. 

But she doesn’t have the mischievous look you expect from her. Instead, she’s visibility exasperated, brows knit and fingers picking at the opposite hand as she walks into your office. 

“Hi.”

“Hi,” Erin gulps, “I have to tell you something, but I know it’s going to piss you off. So I just want you to remember that whole thing about not killing the messenger.”

“Oh it can’t be that bad,” you laugh. 

Erin makes a queasy face, shaking her head. 

“Trust me, it’s that bad.”

You’re out the door before she can finish telling you the whole story, the few details you do hear are enough to make you sick to your stomach. The aisles of the library flash in your peripheral vision as you dart out of the building, not even bothering to lock up behind yourself. Erin has a spare set of keys, she can handle it. You have bigger fish to fry. 

In record time, you’re home and through the door and you make a bee-line for Whitney’s backpack. Like she’s done every day of her life, she’s tossed it on the kitchen table. It doesn’t take long for you to find what you’re looking for. As soon as Erin told you Bev had been reading bible passages to the kids in homeroom, you knew it was only a matter of time before this happened. 

 “I’m going to ask you this once, and I expect me to tell you the truth,” you say as you round the corner to Whitney’s room, “Where did you get this?”

You hold up the bible you found in her backpack mere minutes ago. 

Whitney’s brows knit in confusion as she removes one of her earbuds. 

“It’s a bo-”

“No shit, it’s a book,” the color drains from her face at your choice of words, “Not one you would buy on your own, and you’re not dumb enough to steal. So who gave it to you?”

She doesn’t answer you.

“Whitney, please. I’m not angry with you, I just want some answers.”

“I don’t get why you hate religion so much. We all saw what it did for Leeza, so what’s the big deal? I’m curious? Since when is that a crime?” She spits back. 

“I don’t hate religion, I hate people who think sitting in a building for an hour every week magically washes away every horrible thing they’ve ever done,” you’re ranting now, lost in your temper, “I hate hypocrites who go on and on about how God loves everyone and then go and be hateful to anyone who looks or thinks differently than they do. They love to say how it’s such a personal choice and then push the rules of their religion on everyone else.”

“But that’s not even what religion is about, so what’s your point?” 

“That’s my point!” You spit, “You don’t need to go to church to be a good person. You don’t need to be promised some eternal reward so you can justify being kind to people. You should be doing those things already!”

You pause to catch your breath, your pulse is racing under your skin and you almost feel dizzy from shouting. 

“If your only motivation for being a decent human being you’re worried about upsetting God, then I..” then you failed at raising her, you failed your mother, “I don’t know what to say.”

The silence feels suffocating.

“I’m tired of being an outcast here,” she finally says.

“Going to that church won’t change that,” you reply. “People like Bev Keane will always treat us like we’re outsiders because we weren’t born here.”

“Oh so this is about Miss Keane now?” Whitney sneers. 

Of course, you think, of course it was her. 

“Did Bev Keane give you this fucking book?” Your tone doesn’t leave any room for her to avoid the question, “I’m going to ask you one last time.”

“She said whoever wanted one could have one, she didn’t force me to take it.”

“Thank you,” you exclaim, “I will be back later, do not leave this house. Understand?”

You don’t wait for a response before storming out of the room to grab your coat. The door slams behind you, much louder than you intended, but you’re too angry to care. By the time you’re banging on Hassan’s front door, you feel like you’re seeing red. 

Through the door, you can hear him shuffling towards you. He looks alarmed when he answers the door, but it dissipates the second he sees it’s you. 

“Scared me half to death,” He says, “Everything ok?”

You hold up Bev’s present, you’re still too angry to form words. 

Hassan rubs his hand over his face, running his fingers through his beard before holding the door open and stepping to the side. 

“You’d better come in, I’ll pour us some coffee.”

So you do just that. Hassan helps you out of your jacket after closing the door behind you. He leads you to the kitchen and pries that damn book out of your hand to throw it in the general direction of the garbage can.

You let out a laugh before Hassan pulls you into his arms and squeezes you tight. His nose brushes against the side of your head and you can feel him sniff your hair as he holds you. 

The two of you stay intertwined for a minute, blocking out everything in Crockett except one another. You’re still angry when he pulls away, but the anger is a lot more palatable now and easier to manage. 

“Ali got one too,” the sheriff says as he all but forces you to sit down at the table so you don’t start pacing, “I’ll give you two guess where he got it from.”

“That bitch, Bev Keane,” you hiss.

Hassan nearly trips on his way to the cupboard. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse before,” he isn’t sure if he should laugh or comfort you. 

“You’ve never seen me lose my temper before,” you shrug. “I don’t think I’ve ever really truly hated anyone in my entire life, but I swear, I hate that woman.”

“Trust me,” Hassan says as he pours a cup of coffee for the both of you, “She deserves it.”

You laugh again, a little louder this time. 

“That’s not the only thing she deserves. You know she’s preaching to the kids in school? Every single morning she goes on about how great the church is and how they should all be there.”

“So I’ve heard,” he groans. 

Hassan’s figured out how you like your coffee by now, not bothering to ask how much cream or sugar you want before pouring it in and bringing it over to you. He takes the seat next to you and takes your hands in his like he always does when the two of you talk. 

He claims it helps him listen, but you think he just likes touching you. 

“And that doesn’t bother you?” You ask. 

“It does, but it seems to bother you a lot more.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” You try to snatch your hand from his, but he holds it tight. 

“Bev and I are equally firm in our faith, but you don’t seem to have a problem with me, sugar.”

You scoff, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Am I?” Hassan tugs on your arm, forcing you to look at him, “We’ve spent a lot of time together over the past few months, and we’ve talked about everything and nothing. But there are two things you absolutely refuse to talk about. Religion--Christianty specifically, and where you’re from.”

“I didn’t come here to be interrogated, Sheriff.”

He holds your gaze, there’s a solemn look in his eyes.

“I’m sure you didn’t. But I can’t keep ignoring this.”

You chew on your lower lip as he speaks. Cornered like an animal in his kitchen, held tight in his grip, and you don’t know if your instincts will tell you to fight or flee.

“I figured, you’d tell me when you were ready, so I didn’t push it. But we’ve been trying to figure out if this would work, you and me. I can’t keep doing this if you’re not completely honest with me.”

Sweat has started to break out on your skin, the lights all feel like they’ve been dialed up to eleven. Your pulse is racing again, but it’s not anger this time. It’s fear. It’s a feeling like you’re sinking into the floor and you’re going to die there. You try to ignore it, to push it back down, but it pushes back harder until it’s burning at the back of your eyes and forces tears out of your eyes. 

“You look over your shoulder a lot for someone who says they want to be here,” Hassan states. “You make yourself small, so small no one will notice you, no one will look at you.”

You don’t have a witty retort for that. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” It’s a lie, but it’ll do for now. 

“Bullshit, I know someone who’s running from their past when I see them. So why don’t you drop the act and let me help you?”

You stare at Hassan for a long while before he speaks again. 

“Are you afraid I’ll judge you or something?” His voice sounds hurt.

And hurting Hassan is the last thing you’d ever want to do. Your lower lip quivers when you release it to take a breath. 

“No,” your voice breaks, “But the thought of you pitying me makes me feel sick.”

You can feel the tears dripping onto your cheeks now. 

“The way you look at me,” you sniffle, “Like I’m this magical thing that can do anything. Like the sun shines out of me. I don’t… I don’t want to lose that.”

Hassan pulls into his arms, cupping the back of your head with his hand. You don’t know how long he lets you cry. All you can do is sob into his broad shoulders and hope they can carry your burdens along with his. 

You let a few slow, shaky breaths to keep your composure. 

It’s slow at first, each word feels like it has to be forced out. Hassan hangs on your every word. You tell him about your father, about the commune you grew up in. You tell him your mother and other sibling’s names. You tell him the bad things; the horrible acts your father forgave so long as they were done by men of faith; the way he would sell your sisters as brides to his most devout. Still, there are good things, the silver lining of that deep dark cloud. 

Your mother, who had her own shortcomings, but still tried to do right by her children. Who failed to do so too many times until she finally had enough. In secret, she taught you to drive and started tucking away a nest egg for you. The day you turned sixteen, she made sure you got your license and snuck you and your infant sister out. You were crying the whole time, begging her to come with you, but she made you promise to never look back. 

As you speak, Hassan’s face remains stoic, and when you’re finally done speaking he stays that way for a while. The silence is so unbearable, it feels like time has stopped. But those brown eyes are fixated on you the whole time. 

“Hassan?”

He leans back in his chair and takes another sip of his coffee. 

“It’s kind of fucked when you think about it,” he says, “We’re the only ones who want to be on this shitty little fishing island, and we’re the ones Crockett wants the least.”

A short laugh slips out before you can stop it. And then another, and another, until your shoulders are shaking from it. 

“Yeah,” you sigh, wiping tears from the corners of your eyes, “Yeah, just a little.”

“I’d ask you to stay the night, but I think you need to go home and talk to your sister.”

Groaning, you push your face back into his shoulder. He’s right, but you wish he wasn’t. 

“I know, I know,” you whine in frustration again. “I can’t believe I yelled at her like that.”

Hassan hums as he rubs your back, you can feel the heat of his palms through your clothes and sigh at how relaxing it is. 

“All things considered though,” he kisses the top of your head, “You did a good job raising her on her own.”

Your stomach flutters at the praise. 

“I could have done better, done some things differently. But I just… She already feels like a freak because we’ve moved so many times. I don’t want her to feel any more different from everyone else than she already does.”

“Different isn’t bad,” Hassan shrugs. “I like different.”

Like you. 

“I like different, too.”

Like him. 

After that night, you and Hassan start to feel a lot more like an us. You don’t need a title to feel like you have a special place in his heart. For so long, you thought of yourself as too damaged, having too much baggage to ever feel comfortable in a relationship.

But Hassan has just as much damage and baggage as you do. The load feels a little lighter with someone helping you carry. 

~~

You’re overjoyed when you hear a parent teacher conference has been called. Who called it, you don’t know, but if they’re just as sick of Bev’s schemes as you are, they might be your new best friend. 

By the time Hassan comes by your house to pick you up, you’ve been pacing in your living room for forty-five agonizing minutes. Now more than ever, you’re thankful to have him by your side. Sure, the whole town might not agree with your point of view, but that didn’t matter.

The sheriff was on your side, and that’s all you needed.

“I understand that a few of you are upset, but let me be the first one to help calm you down,” Bev begins, you cast a glance at Erin and she cocks her brow in warning, “No one is taking a single thing away. All of the required lessons are still being taught.

“We haven’t touched the curriculum, so we get that off the table right now.”

“Respectfully, that’s not the issue–” Hassan interrupts. 

“I understand given your religious affiliation, you might find the fact that your son is interested in the Bible offensive…,”

“Not at all,” Hassan says calmly. 

“…I suppose,” Bev says with a roll of her eyes, “But I would say that if he’s interested in Jesus, why not allow him to learn a little about it?”

“That’s so not the issue, and thank you for this opportunity to clarify,” Hassan speaks up again, this time his voice is more authoritative. “Uh, he knows all about Jesus.”

“Well, I imagine not quite all,” she mutters. 

“Muslims believe that Jesus is a prophet of God, and that the Injeel, the Bible, was revealed to him as the Torah was revealed to Moses before that,” he continues, “See, we love Jesus. And we love the message that was revealed to him.”

“Well!” Exclaims Bev. “I suppose we learn something new every day, don’t we?”

“But we also believe, after the time of Jesus, thanks to the interference of men, there were deviations in Christianity. People altered the message. Priests, popes, kings. That’s why there’s so, so many versions of the Bible. People got in there, made their changes.”

“I don’t think this is relevant,” seethes Bev.

“Okay,” he sighs, “We do, though, believe that the Bible contains some of the original word of God.”

“That’s very generous of you,” she says dismissively. 

“But we also believe that God revealed the Quran as the final message. Never to be altered. To reassert the original revelations of the previous prophets.”

“I don’t think that this is the place to discuss where our beliefs about scripture might diverge,” sensing that she’s about to lose this fight, Bev is desperate to change the conversation.

“Exactly,” states Hassan, “There it is. That’s the issue. That’s why I think some of the people in this room, including myself, are a little concerned.”

You fold your arms and glare daggers at Bev. Her eyes flit to you for a second, but they quickly return to Hassan. 

“See, Muslims encourage everyone to seek knowledge, so I am more than comfortable with my son studying a Bible. Thrilled, actually. I’ve done it myself. But where I think there’s an issue is that this is a public school,” Hassan shifts his weight to sit up a little straighter. “That’s the thing. And I think what’s concerning some of us is not the Bible itself, but that it was handed out. Distributed to the kids here.”

He pauses for a bit to make sure his words sink in for everyone in the room.

“I just ask you to consider how you’d feel, if you sent your child to a public school…”

“Sheriff.” Beth warns, her nostrils flaring with anger.

“…and they came home with a copy of the Quran, asking about the Prophet Muhammad. You’d feel it was an issue.”

“If I went around handing out copies of the Quran to the children on this island,” you can see the brows of everyone in the room rise at that, “Purely in the interest of the pursuit of knowledge, I’d expect you to chase me out of town, Miss Keane.”

“If I may, um. This is a public school,” Erin clears her throat, “And he’s absolutely right. And I belong to the same congregation as most of you, so you know where I fall, but reading scripture in homeroom–”

“Why, Sheriff, of course, I wouldn’t run you out of town… And it makes me sad that you would think that of me,” just like that Bev has made herself into the victim in this situation, and you can feel the room turn on Hassan.

“People of faith, any faith, well, we’re all of the same cloth. Cousins, really. And it was never my intention to disrespect anybody,” she says, “Never, in the least. It’s just…” Bev sighs, “Having a Bible present in the room, why, it’s just a book in the room like a science book or a history book–”

“It’s actually very different,” you chime in.

“Kids can take them or leave them,” Bev states smugly, “Sure, I may read an inspiring passage during homeroom from time to time, but I am not evangelizing. I am simply sharing my faith with the children in the hopes that they might be inspired.”

You can’t tell if Bev knows what she’s saying is complete bullshit, or if she really believes her own lie. 

“If we had a Muslim faculty member, and they quoted the Quran to the kids, I would be fine with that so long as the text wasn’t offensive, which, forgive me for saying so, a good deal of that text can be, at times.”

Hassan scoffs, unable to hold back his ire for her any longer. 

“That is not an attack, Sheriff. I certainly admit that the Holy Bible, the Old Testament in particular, has passages that are not suitable for children.

“Invaluable to adults, of course, but I would never read the tale of Lot and his wife to a group of kids. Anything that I quote, I vet beforehand.” Her croning feels like nails in your ears.

“That’s not the point he’s making–” Erin tries to interject.

“And what is education,” Bev casts her scornful gaze to Erin now, chastising her coworker like a child instead of a peer, “If not providing a student with the option to learn? Why be afraid to let them read a particular text?”

Bev’s voice continues to grow louder in volume.

“What, are we gonna burn books we find even a smidge controversial? And in this case, current events, local events, well, they beg for further study, don’t they?” She’s staring at you Hassan now, her eyes filled with venom for the two people in the room who haven’t joined her for Sunday service. 

“I’m just gonna say it, there is no point in pretending there isn’t an elephant in the room. We are living in a miraculous time. Right here, right now, on Crockett Island. There are actual bona fide miracles happening before our eyes at St. Patrick’s.”

“And this community…,” Bev pauses for dramatic effect, “Sheriff, you should know this, you are responsible for observing this community. This community is in the midst of a full-blown religious revival at the moment. “And if the children of this community cannot discuss that in their local school, well, I just don’t know what that is.”

Your eyes nearly roll into the back of your head as the room erupts into applause. Bev Keane had them eating out the palm of her hand, and judging by the shit-eating grin on her face, she’ll be riding this high for a long time. 

~~~

“What is the point of calling a whole PTA meeting if Bev is just going to talk over everyone the whole time?” you bemoan as you and Hassan walk back home. “What is the point of a PTA in the first place if that woman is just going to do what she wants anyways?”

Hassan clicks his tongue. “This is Bev Keane’s world, sugar, we’re just living in it.”

“You’re not funny.” Hassan laughs anyway and throws his arm over your shoulders. 

“Interesting how you chose to be a parent tonight,” Bev calls to you from down the road. 

Hassan flashes you a look of warning--don’t give her what she wants. But she keeps going. 

“Or are you back to being an older sister now that the PTA meeting is over?” That damn grin is back on her face. “You know, I think it’s so admirable that the two of you have grown so close. It’s cute, really. Some might frown at the idea of an unwed couple spending so much time together, but it’s cute.”

The snide remark makes you both stop in your tracks. It’s your turn to give Hassan a look. Holding back your temper has become second nature to you. So much of your life has been spent not letting people get a rise out of you. 

How quickly it’s all undone in the seconds it takes for you to turn your head to look her in the eye as you speak.

“Is it cute, Bev?” you cock your head to the side, “What I think is cute is this little act you do in front of everyone. Pious, giving Bev Keane who is so devoted to the church and the children.”

“An act?” she scoffs.

“An act, a performance, fake, phony, fraudulent. Do you need the dictionary definition?” You shrug Hassan’s arm off your shoulder, “You’re a snake, you’re a poison to this town and these people but your head is so far up your own ass, you can’t see it.”

Her cheeks flush red as she pushes her hand to her chest in shock. You don’t give her the opportunity to respond. 

“I see it, though. And so does Hassan, and quite a few others,” you seethe, “But I don’t care about that, I don’t care if this whole island-if the whole country-thinks you’re a good person. You stay away from me and my family and we won’t have any problems.”

Bev looks flabbergasted, shocked and disgusted that anyone would ever question her or her motives. 

“All I’m trying to do is guide these child-”

“You know what, Bev?” You cut her off, stalking towards her like an animal on the hunt, “If you ever manage to trick someone into having a baby with you, you can guide them all you want, in any way you want and I won’t say a word. Assuming you still have time left.”

The hatred she has for you finally shows on her face, the thin layer of skin she has for a top lip curls up in a snarl and she just stands there, glaring at you. 

“I’m not going to tell you goodnight, because I don’t want you to have a good night. So I’ll just tell you bye until the next time I have to suffer through your presence again,” the smile on your face is filled with malice.

Bev starts walking again, knocking you with her shoulder as she passes by you. Before she gets too much farther, she looks over her shoulder at you and Hassan one last time. 

“Bye, Bev!” calls Hassan with a wave. 

You watch her walk up the winding path until she’s finally disappeared behind the various homes that line the street. 

“Wow,” the sheriff sighs, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that’s the first time someone rendered that woman speechless.” 

Coming up from behind you, Hassan wraps his arms around your waist and kisses the back of your head. “Now let’s get you home before you give the rest of the island a piece of your mind.”

It’s not said aloud, but you know Hassan is proud of you for standing your ground. A warm feeling settles in your chest as you walk home entwined with him. The closer you get, the more that warmth starts to feel like hunger. 

“You know,” you say as you fiddle with your keys on the porch, “Whitney’s babysitting tonight.”

Hassan nods, noting the glint in your eye.

“That so?” he muses. 

You hum, pulling him inside by his jacket. He expects you to lead him to the couch, instead you drag him past the couch and down the hall towards your bedroom.

[spankerella]

I just finished Midnight Mass. I want to talk about the visceral reaction I had to Bev Keane. I know her. Or I knew so many people like her growing up. She had many different faces, but that type of woman exists under more than one face in the baptists churches I attended in my youth. You may know her too... so "pleasantly" passive agressive, her sometimes subtle but sometimes overt racism, the "so holy" woman of "God", the "good Christian" lady who warps and twists the gospel to fit her own picture of herself as a faithful servant, the one who speaks over others to assert her power, little or great, and her beliefs onto those others, the one who lectures anyone who isn't as dutifully content as herself to willfully serve the patriarchal institution she believes lifts her above others with differing beliefs/faiths.

If I could have leapt through the TV to choke a bitch out, I probably would have. At the very least, I would have punched her smug face. Twice. She's the worst, a wonderfully written and acted Umbridge level villain who will insist until the end that she is the martyr being persecuted instead.