Celebrations

The spoils of war—munitions, weapons, and Russian pride—are dragged victoriously back to your makeshift camp, leaving behind little more than smoking wreckage. What you couldn’t carry, you burned—better ashes than arming enemies tomorrow.

Night wraps around your camp, the men crowding around crackling fires, **** bottles passing freely between calloused hands. Haram, certainly, but fuck it—thirty years of war can make even God look like an absentee landlord. Voices rise drunkenly into song, bodies sway wildly in dance.

Your eyes wander away from the drunken revelry, catching your mother sitting alone, quietly apart from the chaotic celebration. Her silhouette illuminated gently by firelight, beautiful and solitary, haunted eyes staring distantly toward the darkness.

You grab two half-full bottles of Russian vodka, sauntering lazily to her side. She doesn’t look up as you approach, but a faint smile flickers softly at the corners of her lips as you sit beside her.

“You’re missing the party, Mom,” you tease softly, passing her a bottle.

Farah chuckles quietly, accepting the drink and taking a slow sip, eyes distant, reflective. "Celebrations remind me too much of your father," she murmurs softly, voice heavy with bittersweet nostalgia.

You pause, your heartbeat quickening subtly at the mention of him. You look at her carefully, voice lowering respectfully. "You miss him tonight?"

She nods silently, eyes still fixed far away. "He would've been proud seeing you tonight, John. Leading the Lions, reclaiming what's ours… You fight like he did."

You take a long sip, **** burning comfortingly down your throat, masking emotion threatening to spill forth. "And you? Are you proud?"

Farah turns gently, emerald eyes meeting yours directly, shimmering softly in the firelight, sincerity radiating beautifully beneath her usual steel. She reaches out slowly, fingertips brushing your cheek, warm and achingly intimate.

"I’ve never been more proud," she whispers tenderly, voice hushed. "Your father’s courage, my ruthlessness… our child, our legacy."

Your chest tightens powerfully, her words filling your heart. She leans into you slowly, body pressing warmly against yours, head resting softly upon your shoulder. Silence falls gently between you, filled only by drunken songs, crackling flames, and the quiet rhythm of your synchronized breathing.

Together you watch your men dancing wildly beneath Zahiriya’s merciless sky, each step an act of defiance, survival, rebellion.

Tonight, beneath smoke and stars, victories taste sweeter shared.

The men's drunken voices grow louder, blending into a boisterous chorus of traditional Zahiri folk songs. Hassan sees you both sitting quietly by the fire and whistles loudly, raising his vodka bottle high.

"Commander! Farah! Come on! Dance with us, show these Russians we still remember joy!"

Cheers and laughter echo his drunken rally, eyes turning expectantly toward you. Farah glances at you, raising an amused eyebrow, her eyes glittering mischievously in the firelight.

“You’re not gonna let them down, are you?” she whispers teasingly, tipping the vodka bottle to her lips, taking a deep, seductive swallow. The sight ignites heat low in your gut.

"Fuck it," you growl softly, standing and pulling her up smoothly by the wrist.

The men cheer loudly, clapping rhythmically as the tempo picks up, voices singing louder. The rhythmic pounding of feet begins. Farah smiles widely, eyes alight as you take your places, her hand firmly clasped in yours.

Together, you join the rhythmic, stomping circle, bodies moving instinctively to ancient rhythms. You step and turn, laughing as the fire flickers against your faces, the world spinning beautifully around you. Every stomp, every turn, brings you closer to your mother—dangerously close.

You guide her subtly, dancing smoothly yet deliberately pressing your body closer with every rhythmic movement. Your hand slides lightly along her hip—brief, deliberate—feeling her muscles tense deliciously beneath your fingertips. Your mother’s breath hitches slightly, eyes meeting yours sharply, a spark of surprise mixed with amused, daring defiance.

“Careful, Habibi,” she murmurs, voice edged with thrilling danger as her body presses provocatively into yours. “Remember, there are eyes watching.”

“Let them watch,” you whisper roughly, leaning closer, voice hot against her ear, fingertips brushing boldly across her lower back, drawing her subtly, possessively into you. "We're just dancing."

She laughs softly, breath warm and intoxicating against your skin. "Is that what this is?"

You smirk wickedly, grip tightening slightly, savouring the faint gasp escaping her lips. "Exactly what it looks like."

The men cheer obliviously, clapping louder, drunkenly encouraging your boldness without fully grasping the intimacy dangerously hidden within each step.

The dance fades, the men’s cheers and laughter drifting behind you as you stumble drunkenly away from camp, Farah's warm hand clasped tightly in yours, guiding you through darkness. The night air feels cool against flushed skin, **** swimming pleasantly through your bloodstream, mixing dangerously with the lingering intimacy of your forbidden dance.

Finally, you find a quiet, secluded spot. You drop heavily onto the cool earth, laughing softly, senses dulled but emotions heightened. Farah smiles gently, sinking gracefully down beside you, her body warm and inviting.

Wordlessly, she shifts closer, gently pulling your head into her lap. Her thighs cradle you perfectly, muscular warmth pressing intimately against your cheek. Your heartbeat quickens, eyes fluttering shut as her fingers slip tenderly through your hair, nails scratching against your scalp.

"You've always loved this," she whispers softly, voice warm, tenderly teasing. "Always my little mama's boy."

You chuckle quietly, pressing closer into her warmth, breath slowing, utterly content beneath her gentle touch. "Not just a mama’s boy," you protest weakly, voice muffled against her thighs. "You’re just as guilty. Always hovering, never letting me breathe."

Farah laughs softly, amused affection colouring her voice. "Maybe you're right," she concedes gently, fingertips stroking lovingly across your temple. "But can you blame me? You were all I had, Habibi. From the moment you were born, screaming and beautiful and stubborn as your father—yet always mine. Always coming back to mama."

Her words soothe you, warmth spreading through your chest. You tilt your head slightly, eyes opening lazily to meet hers, half-lidded. "Is that so bad?" you whisper playfully, reaching up, fingertips gently tracing her jawline.

Farah’s breath hitches subtly, as she leans gently into your touch. "Not at all," she whispers, voice trembling faintly beneath restrained emotion. "Dangerous—but not bad."

Your lips curve wickedly, eyes locking fiercely onto hers. "Dangerous suits us."

Farah's fingers keep moving through your hair, slow and thoughtful. You shift slightly, eyes locking with hers again.

Neither of you speaks.

Your hand reaches up, almost unsure at first, resting lightly against her thigh. Her breath catches—just slightly—but she doesn’t stop you.

She leans down instinctively, brushing hair from your face with the backs of her fingers. Her eyes are searching yours.

You sit up slowly, still in her lap, noses nearly brushing. That close. That easy. The space between you tightens to a string—thin, trembling, waiting to snap.

"Mom," you murmur, voice dry with dust, and drink. "If this is wrong..."

Her lips part slightly. Her voice is soft, but there's nothing uncertain about it.

"Then don’t stop."

You hover there, both of you suspended on a breath, gravity pulling you toward something that should have stayed buried under the ruins of your country but didn’t.

You close the distance.

The kiss is slow at first, cautious in the way a grenade is cautious before the pin is pulled. Her hand slides to your jaw, guiding you gently, then tighter. Your fingers curl around her waist, anchoring yourself in the fire you’ve stepped into willingly.