#because its so fucking ubiquitous that it slides right off

[unforth]

I. Hurt.

And I was hurting anyway, I'm pretty down this morning, but this hurt came from an outside source, and affected me in a way I'd honestly not have expected.

See, we bought Nimona last week. After seeing the movie, my kids wanted to read it. And I ended up reading ahead, and I just finished it.

Bonus content at the end, it said, and I was like, oh, an epilogue to the epilogue maybe? That'd be nice. I don't love bittersweet endings, I'd rather...

...no, it's not the conclusion.

It's CHRISTMAS.

In a book that'd had no religion that I noticed up to that point, BOTH bonus extras...were Christmas.

Ya know, usually it doesn't bother me. Usually I just suck it up. I think it helps that I was raised around mostly Jews and people who, if Christian, it didn't matter much to them. I'm from the Upper West Side of Manhattan, the descendent of Lower East Side immigrants, and while the world outside was brutal - my grandfather was a World War 2 veteran and among the soldiers who liberated Dachau, I can't remember a time when I didn't know that most people would look the other way if people like me were slaughtered wholesale - my bubble was safe, we were accepted, we were insiders.

I honestly can't think of another time I've interacted with a piece of media and felt so immediately, instantly knocked across the face by OUTSIDER as I just did when I excitedly turned the page to see what these fun extra bonuses were...and it was fucking Christmas.

I didn't even read them.

I'm honestly. So disappointed.

I don't have a thick armor for this kind of hurt. I'm Jewish, and as an adult living outside my old UWS bubble, that's often meant I've felt like an outlier, but I've hardly ever had this feeling where I was welcome to something only to be suddenly, violently shoved out the door.

And I've heard nothing, n.o.t.h.i.n.g. but praise for this book. And on another day, it might not have bothered me. I've never really felt like I had to fight to be seen, especially since I'm tremendously secular. I mean, I've celebrated Christmas my entire life, for starters.

But why. Why was this fantasy setting suddenly Christian? Why was this the touted extra content? Why is THIS special, when the areligious world established to that point was apparently not special enough?

I can't say yet if this ruined the story for me. It's far too soon. But I'm *intensely*, viscerally let down, and...I hurt.

Christians...maybe stop doing this shit.

#unforth rambles #im not sure how to tag this #i dont want to tag fandom since its kinda anti #and i dont want to tag antisemitism cause its not really #and i dont want to tag microaggressions cause thatll just show my privilege that ive been lucky enough to not have this feeling more often #but seriously WHAT THE FUCK #im genuinely considering rereading just so i can see if it was always christian and i just missed it until then #because its so fucking ubiquitous that it slides right off #but i dont think it was!!! #WHYS IT GOTTA BE CHRISTIAN WHAT THE HELL #and why have i never heard this mentioned surely im not the only person to notice this #maybe it was less jarring for people who rwad along with the webcomic #since these were extras released along thw qay #not shoved in the back of the book like in the print edition #i dont fucking know #i just know i hate it #this special fun thing could have been anything #and instead it was for one specific segment of the audience #and thats honestly so unnecessary and kinda yicky #dont you guys every get tired of making everything about your fucking dumb holidays you stole from other cultures #give me back passover i demand you turn over easter as a reparation

[brooklynislandgirl]

3. Would you ever fuck someone in exchange for something? Money, business deal, gifts, etc? What’s your price? {Swamp Sharklette}

A Little Light/A Little Dark || Accepting

Immediate knee-jerk reaction is to say no. To be so indignant that there would come the resounding sting of flesh striking flesh at the velocity of a gunshot. Or at the very least and less harmful a drink thrown in a face before she rises like a Tsunami wave and marches out with her dignity intact. Several factors though go a long way from stopping that.

First is that this is not a public venue. It's the formal dining room of their home, where in Beth and Anakin are putting together survival packages for the up-coming hurricane season. Most of the items were gathered donations from the kinds of friends that have no idea what they're actually giving to; people up north that Beth has been immensely popular with even if she never really fit in amongst them. Supplemented by church organisations, local folk, and literally anywhere else that Beth could find help. Even if some of those were at best questionable, and at worst? Evil. Well, from a human stand-point. She was very careful not to take anything from Pentex, or its millions of subsidiaries. She wouldn't accept help, not even in the form of money, from places like O'Tooley's, or Pangloss Cosmetics, or Shenzhen Tianming, no matter what kind of electronics and NOAA weather radios they offered. Whenever he asks about those, she only shakes her head and tells him 'mebbe laddah'. But that later never comes. As if she through ignorance she can keep him safe, though for how long is the question that she likewise puts off. Spread out on every available surface at things like flashlights with extra batteries, whistles to signal for help, personal hygiene items, can openers, nonperishable, water tight food stuffs {canned goods that didn't require heating, and MREs}, potable water, baby formula and diapers, and even books and games for children. All being meticulously sorted into storage containers and backpacks.

The work is surprisingly sweltering and even the central air is having a hard time moving the oppressive wet-blanket heat. No matter how high up and in a bun she pins her hair, no matter how thin the bandeau and sarong she's wearing are, no matter how comfortable the board shorts and no shirt Anakin is wearing, it feels like a shallow layer of sweat covers...everything.

It's that fact that puts a sour look on her face as she reaches up to mop her brow with the inside of one arm and leaves the question lingering between them.

The second reason is... It's rare that his use of that one particular word offends her, she's heard it more times than she can count with a rather shocking frequency growing up and again from her brothers. And there's certain ways that Anakin uses it in certain context that gets under her skin in the worst ways, turning everything in its wake to lava. He uses it to great effect sometimes and it almost has become a playful game between them. But he's not talking about love making, not now, at least. He uses the vulgarity to imply the exact opposite of that. Carnality without emotion; a disconnect from the heart, the soul, the brain that leaves the body an empty shell of a vessel to be filled...or to fill someone else...with the same abject nothingness. She knows the implication hurts him as much as it would her because they are very much alike in regards to physical forms expressing love. And lastly, because while he doesn't often talk about it and she can't bear to really ask because she knows even the slightest facial expression will burrow its way into her and she will rage like one of her changing cousins until nothing is left when he answers truthfully, as he always does. She knows he has been abused. She knows he's been mistreated. She knows that he has, at least before moving into the house, and maybe after...it's not her place to pry... participated in some kind of sex-work. The only difference she treats him with than she would the sex workers back in New York? It's plain to anyone with the ability to see, who possesses a single ounce of empathy, that Beth loves him. And that love is without condition or reservation.

She stretches. Pushes away from the table and pads barefoot toward the kitchen, circumnavigating the fortress they've built up around them with a preternatural grace. A flutter of fingers in the air is all the invitation she offers for him to follow her.

The door of the fridge groans in protest of being opened, sighing before letting a floor of cold air waft over her and for a moment she closes her eyes and takes pleasure at the rush of chill. All too soon though she reaches in and pulls out an icy pitcher of cold water that immediately clouds over from condensation so it looks like a foggy morning with slices of lemon floating near the top, slivers of sunlight. She's half tempted to hold it to her chest until it becomes as tepid as possible. Let Anakin fend for himself with the other pitcher in there, the ubiquitous Sweet Tea that she made by directions left by the housekeeper. Unfortunately, it could pull double-duty as hummingbird nectar.

She sets it down on the counter. Retrieves two glasses and fills one up. The other is left beside the lemon water with the idea that he should hydrate since she isn't getting him into the pool without extreme measures, and she doesn't feel like forcing him to do anything. She lifts the glass to her lips and indelicately gulps down half of the contents before she presses the wet, cold glass to her brow. Her eyes shut the too bright world away. They cut off the pallor of Anakin's slight chest, the way the sheen catches the light in splashes of dampness. Not unlike the occasional bead of sweat that runs like an errant fingertip down her spine. And she's stalled as long as she can in answering him. She doesn't like to keep him waiting, a long enough pause can come across in the worst ways; at best it implies that he is undeserving of an answer, which isn't true in the least, and at worst, whatever she might say would come across as the softest kind of lie, the sin of selective omission.

"Growin' up...I t'ink I was near enough fifteen or sixteen... before I really had any curiosity about sex, an' you know dat already, so not shockin' dere. Dat curiosity nevah bloomed beyond a lil self-exploration before it was disregard as...mos'ly unimportant t' me. Of course, nevah gonna lie an' say dere was no ah..." She searches for the right word, the right explanation and comes up with exactly none.

"Experimentation wi' a receptive partner, but even dat result same-same f' me as on my own. I t'ink it no was a matter of attraction, oddah person was one of da few times I did feel da kine. Uhm...desirous...for lack of mo' beddah word. Now, ovah da years I been on da fringes of various covens wi' da Verbena. Small an' big an' in between...an' as ya know... Beltane one of our most sacred rites. An' I keep meanin' t' take ya proper, an' introduce ya...but..." But? ...But there's a part of her that is neither properly territorial or jealous but that IS adamant about taking Anakin before a gathering of priestesses and druids, of bards and fairly mediocre witches. The Verbena are a myriad of theologies and philosophies banded together to uphold their paradigm. They hold the Seat of Life on the Council of Nine, and have since the Council was formed, before the betrayal of the first Cabal. They are her friends, her peers, her sisters and brothers in a hanai sort of way. But she doesn't want to share him, not yet. Maybe once she's taught him a little more, maybe once she's sure he can survive the pit of flesh, politics, and chaos that mage gatherings can be.

"Not jus' yet. You might catch chill." She half laughs at her own little joke but it dies out almost before it ever stood a chance of surviving.

"I was offer da chance t' play da Maiden aspect of da Goddess in da Great Rite, an' still get aks ow and again. An' it nevah appeal to me even wine-soaked an' head stuffed wi' sacred incense. I nevah go out into da fields or under da trees eiddah, for more intimate an' less ritual...couplin'. I know fertility rites are important but not enough. Even if we could bring back magick like it was durin' da Mythic age....I still no would." While it might not mean anything to anyone else, Beth's belief in being a guardian of the mythic threads, a branch of the World Tree, she cannot imagine giving a part of herself for it.

"Money? I got dat...an' of alla da kine dat make me real angry? Is when women are led t' believe da only way dey got of improvin' deir situation is by allowin' someone f' slide between deir leg, an' I hate t' put it so cruelly. If a woman wanna do dat of her own accord...dat's one kine, but to be seen as only chattel, as only an object...an' not really jus' women, but anyone, regardless of how dey identify. "Business is usually about avarice...about acquirin' money, or power, or any number of stuff...an' it's all same-same. A gi nevah come wi' a price. Anyone who tell ya oddahwise...lyin' to ya. I give da kine to ya because I know ya need. I know ya nevah aks f' it. I know it makes us bot' choke happy. I would nevah aks ya for any kine in return, nevah expect it...not'ing li'dat. It's not my way. It's not livin' pono, an' I nevah would corrupt eiddah one in dat way." She pauses, finishes the glass, then starts pouring herself another. "F'I were force t' choose a price? I would only give myself for one kine, an' as stupid an' cheesy it might sound? It would be for love. An' love nevah ask f' any kine but to be and to grow. No maddah who or what is bein' loved."

#Mahalo!Shady <333 #Like A Sad Hallucination|Anakin Skywalker #Like a Memory in Motion|Anibeth #The Trunk You Kept Your Life In|Mage The Ascension #Strange Days|New Orleans #Reborn on the Bayou|Louisiana

[imnottiredofgettingoveryou]

Elliots first time with someone in detailssss

The devil is in that shit!!

Warnings: Smut (obvi), swears

It was around 2PM when my phone buzzed.

I picked it up and a far-too-big smile spread across my face as I read the text from Elliot: 'Here'

I hadn't seen him for months, but that was normal now that we both went to school out of state. I met him freshman year of high school, where we both sat at the losers' table for lunch. I surprised myself and made friends with most of the people who sat there, bonding over that shared feeling of 'otherness.' When you grow up a little and talk to people about it, you realize that it's a pretty ubiquitous feeling; when you're fifteen, it feels like you and your weird pals might as well be a leper colony. Elliot was the cutest guy at the table but proved the hardest to crack. One day, I gave him my Capri Sun as a peace offering, and it worked surprisingly well. We would occasionally find an empty classroom and eat together, just the two of us. It took patience to get him to open up, but eventually we became real friends. To this day, some five years later, we still shared the occasional inside joke about Capri Suns.

When I had found out that we both had a fall break at the same time, I was ecstatic. Maybe it was just 'absence makes the heart grow fonder,' or maybe it was something I wasn't fully ready to consider just yet, but seeing him had been all I'd thought about for weeks. We had plans to take the train up to Howard Beach and watch the planes take off from JFK. I'd spent so much time thinking about this day that a one-word text had given me butterflies. I practically ran down my stairs and out the door, my heart pounding away in my chest.

His taxi pulled away from the curb and there he stood, all eyes and black clothes, just like I remembered him. You know the effect that time apart can sometimes have, when you finally see someone again and they look fucking good? Multiply that ad infinitum, and you'd get an idea of what was happening to me. He might as well have had a halo of light behind his head.

His voice pulled me out of my trance. "Hey Y/N."

"Elliot!" I squealed. Propriety? Boundaries? I didn't know them. I ran up to him and wrapped my arms around his body, burying my face in his shoulder. "Oh my God dude, it's been forever!"

It took a moment for him to respond and I started to worry I'd overstepped, but then his arms slowly came down around me and tightened the already-close hug I'd initiated, and despite the crisp fall air, I felt completely, totally warm.

He pulled back to look at me. "It's... It's good to see you.," he stammered, eyes darting around my face.

I beamed back at him. "You too. Let's put your stuff away and then we can get moving-"

"Hey, um, Y/N?"

"Yes, Elliot?"

"Are your parents home?"

Well, now that was... interesting. "Nah. They're gone for the weekend." I had planned on us spending the break at mine only because I knew he wouldn't want to go home; my having an empty house had been a bonus that I'd found out about last minute.

Elliot looked at the ground for a second before continuing. "Is it okay if we just stay here for the night then?"

"Awe," I grinned at him. "Don't wanna share me with the public, huh?"

He flashed his trademark barely-there smile at me, and my heart melted. "Something like that."

***

Any ice that had formed with the distance of the last few months melted quickly; we fell back into our old rhythm and it felt like no time at all had passed since high school. I microwaved some garbage food and put on cheesy horror movies for us to talk over. He told me about his comp sci classes and how he had hoped they would be more challenging, to which I responded by calling him a nerd and a show-off. I told him about my first time smoking weed and about getting too drunk at sweaty frat parties.

"Do people really get a bunch of action at those things?" he asked me.

I choked a little at his choice of words. "Some people do, I guess. But not me. I mean, I've hooked up with one guy, but it wasn't at a party or anything."

I could've sworn I saw a look of disappointment flash across his face, but if it did, he quickly suppressed it. I backtracked, worried I had upset him somehow. "... not like it was, you know, spectacular."

Elliot chewed his food for an unnecessarily long time, then swallowed and said, "At least you're doing better than me."

"You're kidding! You still haven't shuffled off the mortal coil of your virginity?"

Now he just looked ashamed. Shit. I was really fucking this up.

I scooted closer to him and leaned my cheek against his bicep. "Hey, come on, I was just surprised is all. Have you seen yourself? I figured you'd be up to your eyeballs in pussy."

His eyes moved from the floor to look into mine. "Really?""Really really," I said, and I meant it. I snaked my hands around his arm and pulled it against my body. "You're a catch, El."

His gaze darted between my mouth and my eyes, and he smiled.

Elliot relaxed into my touch and I cuddled up against his side for the remainder of the movie. By the time the credits rolled, we were both yawning.

"You wanna head upstairs? We could take a nap," I suggested. He nodded, and I got up and led the way to my bedroom.

Once the door was closed behind us, Elliot took my hands in his and walked us backwards until my back was against the wall. Before I could ask what he was doing, his lips crashed into mine. I was caught off-guard, but I quickly pulled myself together and began moving my lips against his, listening to the quiet little noises he made as we opened up to each other, tasted each other. I reached down and grabbed him by the belt loops, pulling his hips against mine, smiling against his mouth when I felt how hard he was.

Panting, Elliot broke the kiss. "Y/N, I want to ask you something, but..." he looked down at where our bodies touched. "... I'm not sure how."

I realized what he wanted, and that I wanted it too. Opting for boldness, I trailed my hand down the front of his body until I reached the bulge in his jeans, then rubbed him through the fabric. He groaned, thrusting just barely into my palm.

"Are you sure about this, El?"

"Yeah," he replied, leaning down to kiss me again. "I want to... I want to do this. With you." He reached up then to cup my cheek, tilting my face up so I was looking right into his blue-green eyes. "As long as you want to."

I mirrored his gesture, caressing his cheek, feeling the beginnings of stubble. "Of course I do."

I would be lying if I said the thought of doing this with Elliot hadn't crossed my mind a time or two, but I certainly hadn't anticipated going this far down that road tonight. I wanted him, but this was decidedly unfamiliar territory and I was equal parts nervous and excited. I knew I had to focus on the latter, to take control, knowing he probably wouldn't.

Or maybe I didn't know anything because in a flash, Elliot was hoisting me up by the legs, wrapping them around his waist and carrying me over to my bed. His boldness seemed to surprise us both and we were giggling against each others' mouths in between kisses as he pushed my hips down into the mattress with his own. Shit, I had put clean sheets and blankets on the bed in anticipation of his visit, and we were about to ruin them...

"Can I undress you now?" he asked, hands drifting down my sides until they reached the hem of my shirt. I nodded and raised my arms so he could pull it off, then reached around and unclasped my bra, sliding the straps down my arms and tossing it to the floor. He looked positively starving as his eyes roamed over the exposed skin, tongue poking out to wet his lips. Then his mouth was back on mine and his hand went to the button of my jeans, fumbling, trying to kiss me and undo them at the same time. I reached down to help him, allowing him to focus on exploring my mouth as I pulled off my pants and underwear, adding them to the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

I arched my back off of the bed, angling my chest up toward him to let him know what I wanted. "Elliot, please touch me?"

He swallowed hard, then ghosted his hands up my sides to cup my breasts, kneading them with his long, callused fingers. He explored the flesh, palms grazing my nipples, applying different levels of pressure. When he squeezed a little too hard, I yelped.

"Sorry," he said, pulling his hands away.

"Hey, it's okay." Maybe I was just drunk with the feeling of this moment, but there was something endearing about how nervous and vulnerable he was, and I wanted nothing more than for this to feel good for both of us. "Just be gentle, okay? Try using your mouth."

I watched a shiver make its way through his body as he processed my words, and then he moved his face down to my chest and ran his tongue up my left nipple, watching it harden in response. He began licking at it earnestly, the feeling of his hot mouth pulling wanton moans from my lips as my hands gripped fistfuls of his hair in an attempt to ground myself. He groaned against me in response, and the added sensation sent sparks of pleasure straight to my core. He shifted his attention to my right breast, swirling his tongue around my other nipple, then sucking it into his mouth, surrounding it with warmth and wetness. I pushed my hips up against his, desperately seeking some kind of friction; he obliged, his clothed erection grinding against me, the evidence of my arousal staining his jeans.

"Fuck, Y/N," he panted, pulling his face away from my chest. "I want you so bad."

I smiled up at him. "Then you're gonna have to get undressed."

Elliot sat up on his haunches and pulled his shirt over his head. I stared shamelessly at his lean muscles, hungrily anticipating the feeling of his skin against mine. He reached down to undo his pants but I batted his hands away, opening the button and pulling the zipper down so he could slide them off, his boxer-briefs following. My eyes raked down his naked form, taking him in, following the trail of dark hair on his stomach down to his cock, fully engorged and leaking precum. Our eyes met as it fully dawned on both of us what we were about to do, the line we were about to cross together.

I spread my legs wider in invitation. "Come here."

He settled his body back between my legs, holding his full weight off of me with his forearms. I sighed at the feeling of him touching me all along the length of my body, my nipples hard against his chest, the hair on his stomach and legs tickling me, the tip of his cock resting teasingly against my folds.

I reached down and wrapped my hand around his length, stroking him gently, using my thumb to spread the moisture around his head, satisfied when he shuddered in response. "You're sure?" I asked him again. This was a big step for me but a bigger one from him, and I needed to be certain it was what he wanted.

He lifted his eyes up to mine from where they had been watching my hand. "Yeah," he choked out. "Definitely."

I pulled my hand away from his cock and gripped his shoulders. "Go slow, okay?"

He nodded and captured my lips in a desperate kiss as he entered me, pushing in inch by inch, his eyes falling closed once he was fully ensheathed. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer, moaning at the feeling of him filling me, stretching me. It wasn't like this before. I felt whole.

The deep rumble of his voice pulled me back to reality. "Is it okay if I move?"

"Yes."

Elliot pulled out almost completely, then pushed back in, moving one hand to my hip to anchor me. He began to establish a rhythm, moving slowly, muscles taut with restraint. My hands gripped his back tightly as he drove into me, nails dragging against his skin. He let his head rest in the crook where my neck met my shoulder, and I felt him press his lips against my skin in an attempt to stifle the low moans escaping his throat.

"Fuck, Y/N, you feel so good."

"So do you," I moaned into his hair. I started lifting my hips up to meet his thrusts, pulling him deeper and grinding my clit against his pubic bone every time he hit bottom. I started to increase the pace as I felt my body start to climb towards orgasm, and he followed suit, driving into me faster, harder.

"Shit, fuck, I'm gonna cum," he growled against my neck.

"Me too. Don't stop."

That did it; his strangled moans filled the air as he emptied himself inside me, pulling my hips tightly against him to get as deep as he could. It was the perfect amount of pressure to send me over my own edge, crying out and clinging to him desperately as my muscles pulsed around him and milked him dry.

All of my senses were under fire as we came down together. Everything felt so intense - our breathing impossibly loud, skin slick with sweat, a heartbeat ringing in my ears that could have been his or mine. He kissed me, almost chastely, before pulling out and rolling onto his back next to me. I wanted to snuggle up next to him, to wrap myself around him and not let go until morning, but I resisted and left him some space while we recovered and processed what had just happened.

I knew this meant something, maybe more for me than it had for him, but I didn't want to bum myself out by overthinking and frankly I didn't have the energy. My breathing had finally steadied and I'd started to drift asleep when I heard his voice.

"Hey, Y/N?"

I turned my head towards him. "Yeah?"

"I'm not sure I told you, but... I've really missed you."

I smiled, more than satisfied with that, for now. I didn't need to say it back to him. He knew. 

#elliot alderson x reader #rami malek x reader #elliot alderson smut #rami malek smut #elliot x reader #mr robot fanfic #elliot alderson x oc #elliot alderson x reader smut #ramimaleksmut

[indomitablemegnolia]

Languishing at the bar, ruby lips caressing my glamorously green margarita; the midnight purple dress hugged my body like a sports cars paint, all road signs spoke of warning hazards; my goal, mayhem; I am tired of being this good reliable human; I have a deeply hidden and inarticulate desire for something beyond this daily life; I am here at this lovely bar, to test the morality of a priest, I am prowling, wanting, needing desperately to have an itch scratched, and finding; and needless to say, oh Lordy he was no priest. The single flower pinning my hair slipped making the picture perfect, exquisite, glittering in the sunshine of preening laughter showing the dulling edge of my personal lack of compunction and slipping morals. I watched his dark eyes watch me in the mirror, why him, I licked my lips; I am in the mood for some Latin spice; he watched me from a distance just waiting for his opening and here it was, the song changed and my laugh was unstoppable; he pounced presenting sliding next to me; "Dos margaritas por favor" he held up two fingers; he stood there smiling that suave smile at me sliding a second glass to me, “It is too beautiful of a night to be drinking alone.”

I took it, dipping my top lip over the edge I took in a fair sized drink, “So, how is the weather in Albuquerque?”

Oh, the way he just let his full bottom lip, god that lip, so provocative, so titillating, so kissable; it was the perfect mismatch for his shaped cupids bow top lip; God though, the way his sensuous, heavy, pouty bottom lip hanging slightly ajar, showing interest and the evaluation that was being made; so enticing, seductively evocative; when his assessment was finished the muscles tensed in his cheeks pulling that mouth into the most provocative suave smile; given the deep, wildly dark abyss of his eyes that were swimming with approval and temptation; lord with those light crinkle to the corners and that smile sharp teeth and delicious dimples a belying innocence it was a dead certainty that he may well be Lucifer himself; solidifying my assumption as he spoke dropping the delicious sound-sex of his carnal voice down a full octave; letting it rumble through his chest; his simple words not seductive in and of themselves; goddamn, the concerted effort together all served to bring my pulse to life; his chuckle danced on my skin. I watched his satisfied lazy smile draw his lips as the offhand phrase that taunted like a dare. “Perhaps, we are lost in translation.” God that Latin lilt at the end of his words; oxytocin running through my veins thick; "As long as you stay, I hope that we are never found." He clinked the rim of his glass on mine.

My eyes drawn away from those lips; I watched those terrible, sexy fingers rolling deliciously, accentuating the dare; telegraphing a none too subtle promise of delicate fiddling with my vivid, hungry nerves; god, this time of year, this season, there is not much in it to make me smile; it is not yet, not quite yet, the saddest time of the year; yet, there is a haunting sense of the imminent doom, like a bleak abeyance of life; it’s not stark introspective weather, gray and bleak, but none the less the blue skies, fresh green, seemed to be festering, suppurating, killing my soul, I know that time had run out; that horrible clock with the second hand ticking tightening the garrote around my neck painfully, slowly; Jesus what a sick suffocating weight; there are too many things that I wanted to feel, wanted to do and always time… that small hyphen between birth and death the ultimate cause of death… that time. The time to hesitate was through; my hand shook as I watched a delectable twinge running along that lip, like a smile still trying to hide; waiting for the trap to spring when I ask a simple single syllable question, the ubiquitous air of his words raised several; or did I miss part of the conversation? Should I ask... mmm why, or what, but no, I so not want to play his game; I double down and call the bluff, answering with a simple whispered. The trap is sprung, I really have no idea if it is he who is caught or me.

"Yes." My whisper much huskier than I had intended, my margarita wavering in my hand; his delicious thick brow shot up tilting his head slightly to the left, he let out a silent ‘what?’ I watched him in the mirror behind the bar, he hovered those dark delicious eyes staring into mine; I nodded, and again “Yes.” I smiled chewing lightly on my straw; I took joy in his face caught off guard, lazy smile pulled the edge of his lips; again, his lips waved in a silent, 'what?'

"Oh, come on, I answered your real question, the one written in your eyes and on that sensual pouty lip, the answer is yes."

He looked even more confused, "What is the question are you are answering?"

"Well, I have read promises written loosely in your fingertips, I saw previews of plans in your eyes, and lies you will tell to get there, on that lip." I stepped to him, running my thumb along that bottom lip. "Why go with pretense, so simply, I said yes."

Pressing his forehead to the back of my head, his cool fingers sweeping my hair out of the way, he kissed the back of my hair, "Then mi cariño don’t say anything." His eyes so lusciously dark and turbulent never looking away from mine in the mirror; "I want to watch you revel in the feel of my hot breath against your ear. Now I ask you;" he breathed in deeply, the cool air passing my skin into his lungs sent a shiver down my spine; the contrast in temperature mind blowing, my skin prickled into Goosebumps; "do not move." He let his breath excite yet again, the warmth had all those tiny hairs stand to attention, his lips touched feather soft, moist warm breath, my heart kicked a little each pass of his lips, then words. “Te amo sin saber cómo, ni cuándo ni de dónde. Te amo simplemente, sin problemas ni orgullo: te amo de esta manera porque no conozco otra forma de amar sino esta, en la que no hay yo ni tú, tan íntimo que tu mano sobre mi pecho es mi mano. Tan íntimo que cuando me duermo tus ojos se cierran.” I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

“Coelho?” Arching one eyebrow, I downed my margarita looking somewhat the part of the provocateur

“Si.” He looked cocky, he looked far too self-assured, so much so that I almost forgot my goal.

“Esto no es amor, es lujuria.” this is not love but lust… hmm, lust even the delectable word sounded so much more alluring en espanole.

“En este momento la lujuria functiona para mi.” in this moment lust works for me. Good lord that word in his Spanish just added a delicious wanton edge to the overdose of libidinous delight that he wrought in me, making my head literally spin. His soft cool fingers delectably caressed the other side of my throat, his tongue ran lightly along the rim of my ear; I shivered still our eyes connected in the mirror, I was putty in his hands.

His lips danced along my neck commanding my already tittillated nerves into a frenzy; nuzzling with intent, his cheek pushing my head to a delicious angle, he feasted on the left side; his lips and teeth acting in a beautiful tango so delicious that I leaned back into him reaching behind me for an anchor; he gripped my wrists in one hand, using his other to sweep my hair such as it was to the other side as his libertine lips began to such and feast on the right side, “Ser mío no es fácil. Tengo expectativas Yo hago demandas. Cuando ofrezco mi corazón espero devoción. Insisto en la pasión, cruda y completa, necesitada y fuera de control. Quiero que me duela el corazón cuando estamos separados. Quiero que mis manos sean incapaces de no tocar su piel cuando esté cerca. Quiero que nuestros cuerpos se quemen cada vez que nos besamos. No puedo y nunca aceptaré nada menos. Por eso ser mío no es fácil, pero créeme, vale la pena." Being mine is not easy. I have expectations. I make demands. When I offer my heart I expect devotion. I insist on passion, raw and all encompassing, needy and out of control. I want my heart to ache when we’re apart. I want my hands to be incapable of not touching her skin whenever she’s near. I want our bodies to burn every time we kiss. I can’t and I will never accept anything less. That’s why being mine is not easy, but believe me, it’s absolutely fucking worth it.” Needy and out of control I could do, I was on a mission for exactly that; I let myself ease into the moment, feeling as much as I possibly could devouring it like a man with his last meal enjoying the sweet and the salt and … oh gosh, my eyes flared as he kicked it up a notch his tongue sliding from just behind my ear to the spot where all nerves collide where shoulder and neck meet, my eyes fluttered; apparently to get my attention back his free hand traced across my bare flesh just above my modest neckline, dipping lightly between my breasts.

Jittery my attention came front and center back on his eyes; I raised a single eyebrow; "¿Quién dijo que era tuyo?" Who ever said I was yours? His lips moved along my neck to the place where neck meets shoulder, I became soft in his hands; his free hand caressing up to the edge of my chin, coaxing my head turning it, he kissed along my clavicle; my eyes finally rolled closed as he kissed my lips, he tasted of strong tequila, lime and dreams; I moaned softly.

“Oh, you just did, right there. No translation needed for that... Voy a probar, disfrutar del calor de su sabor embriagador. Quiero respirar tus suspiros; quiero sentirte desde adentro,” I want to breathe in your sighs. I'm going to try, to enjoy the heat of its heady taste; he kissed me deep again, "I am drawn to you, like a moth to fire," he kept his glorious mouth moving, all tongue and teeth and temptation, "I see a frantic almost panic on you;" his hand still holding mine in check, "I have you safe here," his loose hsnd pulling me to him; "I hunger for your touch after get you excited and how easy it is." Neck kissing, is honestly the most sensual, seductive things that I have ever known, but when it is done as well as this gorgeous man is... it is not just a syllogy for sex, I feel his talented tongue slide on my skin, we may as well be going at it right on the bar. "Deliciosa, caliente, con una gota de salsa picante" Delicious, hot, like a drop of hot sauce. He gripped my wrist spun me on the stool; taking off at a run.

@pedeka @writernotwaiting @keeper0fthestars @iamhisgloriouspurpose

[justkeeptrekkin]

Writing prompt! Present Mic gets hit by some kind of quirk that makes him all quiet and subdued. He's physically fine but seeing him so reserved is really really bothering Eraserhead and he's not sure why. Wink wink.

WINK WINK INDEED, MY FRIEND. Wink fucking WINK.

The Yuuei staffroom is quiet at this time of morning. Shouta arrives an hour before the first class of the day and before anyone else, finishing off his marking in his sleeping bag before taking a nap at his desk. Kan comes in a little later and, out of habit, has become the designated coffee maker; he wakes up Shouta by placing a cup on his desk. Shortly afterwards, Nemuri makes her appearance and initiates conversation with Kan, forcing Shouta to wake up fully listen to their nonsense banter. Yagi, despite being the type one would imagine to be earnestly on time for everything, consistently turns up late and consistently appears flustered about it. The other teachers dribble in here and there, depending on what classes they have that day.

On Wednesday mornings, Hizashi comes in last. He does patrol on Tuesday nights; Shouta rarely hears him come home, as comatosed as he usually is at that time of night. It’s therefore often the case- unless Hizashi comes home hurt and in need of help- that Shouta will go to work without exchanging any kind of conversation before he heads off, since Hizashi is barely even awake. On mornings like this, Hizashi bursts chaotically into the staffroom, disrupting the normal 8am conversation and raising the volume considerably with his stories of last nights patrol. Sometimes, he’ll appear halfway through the weekly staff meeting, throwing the door open theatrically before realising his mistake and tiptoeing to his desk. He might even miss the staff meeting altogether, scalding his mouth by pouring a cup of coffee quickly down his gullet and piling his English textbooks in his arms, remarking that he’s ‘late as fuck, yo’.

This is the morning routine of the Yuuei staff. However, on this particular Wednesday morning, Hizashi does not make his presence so loudly known. Today, the door opens and Hizashi sobrely wanders over to his desk.

He seems no different; the Present Mic look is perfectly arranged, as usual. Those sunglasses effectively hide any look in his eyes that Shouta could interpret. Despite this, he doesn’t appear upset, or angry- if he were, everyone within a five mile radius would know. And that is precisely what concerns Shouta as he watches his best friend take his usual seat beside him. He says absolutely nothing- not even a good morning, or Mic’s alternative, yo wassup sleepy people!

Shouta peers at him from the head-hole of his sleeping bag, not quite prepared to leave its warmth yet. Hizashi notices him staring, looks over to him, then returns his attention to logging into his computer.

“Hey, Shou.”

Shouta looks at him blankly. There is something very wrong.

Nemuri stands up and pokes her nose over the partition between their desks. “Mic! I didn’t even hear you come in, how is that possible?”

Shouta watches Hizashi carefully, waiting for some kind of response. Remarkably, incredibly, Hizashi shrugs. And it’s not the exaggerated gesture that he usually makes, rather it’s far close to Shouta’s example of a shrug. Nemuri shares a look with Shouta.

There is something very, very wrong.

“Mic, you’re very quiet today,” Yagi comments lightly with a strained smile, the concern in his voice obvious. He slides a mug of coffee over to him, and that eventually distracts Hizashi from his computer.

Hizashi takes the mug, and leans back in his chair. “It’s OK guys, I’m fine, I promise. I’m just tired, I guess. Last night’s patrol was… weird.”

This is the first that Shouta has heard of it. They both have an understanding that if they need to talk to someone after patrol, they’ll wake the other up. If there’s something wrong and Hizashi didn’t want to tell him about it, then that presents other problems.

Shouta removes himself from the sleeping bag. “Mic.”

Hizashi turns to him. It’s strange- he isn’t giving off the impression that there is anything wrong. His face is relaxed. It’s similar to the expression he has when he’s engrossed in his book, sitting in bed beside Shouta and silently turning the pages with the lamp on, late at night. Now, the moment his gaze meets Shouta’s, a smile reaches his eyes and something in Shouta’s chest relaxes.

“It’s alright, Shou. Eraser,” he corrects himself.

“Do you want talk about it?” Thirteen offers, leaning over the partition beside Nemuri.

Hizashi pouts thoughtfully, shakes his head. “Nope. Really guys, it wasn’t bad, just…” He trails off as if he’s being pulled away, as if there’s some distance growing between them. It unsettles Shouta more than he can understand. “There was this bank robber with a really weird quirk. I’ve never really seen anything like it before.”

“Emotion manipulation.”

Nezu enters the staffroom. The teachers wait for him to expand as he climbs onto the table in the middle of the room, surveying them with that ubiquitous smile. “I found out this morning about your bank robber, Present Mic. It appears the police have been looking for her for a while- she’s caused quite a bit more trouble than the odd theft here and there.”

Kan grunts. “Good thing you got her before she could do anything worse, Mic.”

He nods soberly in agreement. And the whole staffroom appears to be transfixed by the action, fascinated by the subdued nature of their resident loudspeaker.

“Mic-” Nemuri starts.

But Hizashi waves both his hands in refusal. “No, no, really, I’m fine. Let’s do this staff meeting thing.”

And so they do. Nezu appears suitably happy with Hizashi’s health not to argue or send him home, and Shouta reckons he should trust his judgement- even if he finds Hizashi’s stillness throughout the meeting unnerving. No fidgeting, no bouncing knee, just the sight of his fingers steepled in front of his face as he listens.

The meeting goes slowly, and Shouta doesn’t pay attention. The moment it ends, the teachers each return to their respective desks to collect their notes, Hizashi standing up slowly and gathering his textbooks. Shouta watches from his seat, chewing the inside of his cheek.

“Yamada-kun.” Nezu calls over to him before he leaves. “I feel I should let you know that we do not have any information on this quirk- the results haven’t come back yet on how long-lasting its effects are.”

Hizashi gives a wordless thumbs up. Nezu meets Shouta’s eyes for a moment, before leaving the staffroom with a cheery hum. The only staff left are Shouta and Hizashi. The school bell rings.

Hizashi lets out a long breath, gathers the rest of his notes and pauses to check that he has everything- usually this is accompanied by terrible singing, or an unnecessary narration of his actions. Now, Hizashi makes his way to the exit without a word.

Shouta removes himself from his chair, takes Hizashi’s hand before he reaches the door.

“‘Zashi.”

He turns around and tilts his head with a quiet smile. “I promise I’m fine, Shou. You know I’d say.”

He doesn’t respond immediately, because he knows he’s right. If Hizashi hasn’t mentioned anything about feeling upset, he can assume that he’s alright. But that doesn’t make him any less concerned.

“Just keep an eye on it.”

Hizashi steps closer, lays a hand on Shouta’s chest. And Shouta is momentarily alarmed by the action- because no one here knows that they’re dating. In fact, no one knows they’re dating full-stop. And this is becoming quite a lot more affectionate than they allow in the workplace.

“I will. Please don’t worry.”

“What if it doesn’t wear off.”

“It will wear off, Shouta. It was just some shitty, small-time villain.”

Shouta frowns, unsatisfied with this answer. Hizashi laughs quietly to himself- very much not a sound he’s used to hearing.

“Hey,” Hizashi says, lightly prodding Shouta in the chest.

“Hmm?”

“I love you.”

Shouta sighs. Those words seem to wring out the nervousness in his chest. Hizashi peers up at him over the frames of his glasses, and Shouta takes either side of his face, bringing him into a kiss.

He feels like the same old Hizashi. Tastes like the same old Hizashi.

Hizashi pulls away, eyes widening and a ridiculous grin forming on his lips. “Yo, holy shit!”

Sounds like the same old Hizashi.

He grabs Shouta by the biceps and and shakes him enthusiastically. “Holy shit!” He laughs. “True love’s kiss!”

Shouta blinks, hands still caressing his face.

“What?”

“True! Love’s! Kiss!”

He pauses. Then, evenly: “What?”

“You broke the spell, babe! I mean, you neutralised the quirk’s effects!”

“By kissing you.”

“Uh-huh! I feel back to normal now! Like someone’s turned up the volume!” He demonstrates by twisting a hypothetical knob in the air.

Shouta pulls him closer, one hand moving to Hizashi’s back. “We should tell someone.”

Hizashi’s grin grows impossibly wider. “Or we could continue our research.”

He allows himself to be drawn into a kiss, a little more lingering this time. And it’s such a relief to have him back, even those few minutes of worry were enough for Shouta-

The sound of the staffroom door abruptly opening fills his ears, and Hizashi pulls away with a jerk. Shouta, however, still has his arm around Hizashi’s waist and a hand on his cheek.

“Aizawa sensei, Sero’s taped Mineta to the ceiling again- uh-”

Kaminari Denki stands deadly still in the doorway, eyes slowly widening.

Shouta takes a deep breath, hands still over his fellow teacher- who begins to shake with uncontrollable laughter.

“You can’t burst into the staffroom without knocking, Kaminari.”

He nods briskly, lips wobbling to contain a laugh. “Yes, sensei-“

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

The student’s eyes rest on the scene for a moment too long.

“You can leave now.”

“Yep!” The boy squeaks, and disappears from the doorway in a flash, the sound of his receding footsteps pounding against the corridor floor as he runs.

The two teachers stand in silence, then turn to look at each other.

Shouta has to use his quirk to cancel out Hizashi’s 400 decibel laugh.

Kaminari bursts into class 1A, catching his breath in the doorway.

“Guys! Holy fuck, guys, you’ll never guess what happened! I think- I think Aizawa-sensei and Present Mic are banging each other!”

The class goes very quiet. Bakugo breaks the brief moment of silence.

“Obviously, you fucking moron.”

#bnha #mha #erasermic #class 1a #bakugo katsuki #kaminari denki #maizawa #yamada hizashi #aizawa shouta #fic prompt #ask #my writing

[thesinglesjukebox]

YOUNG THUG FT. ELTON JOHN - HIGH [6.91] Ground control to Jeffery...

Joshua Copperman: It's 2018, nothing matters, so why not have an Elton John sample on a Young Thug song? Unlike pretty much everything else in any genre, there's real room to breathe in this production. Elton John's lightly saturated "hiiiiigghhh" can slide through to the front and actually make an impact, a trick Alex Tumay and co. use over and over again, but it still manages to work. There isn't much more to the song -- Young Thug's lyrics aren't particularly interesting -- but once again, nothing matters, and if pop music is going to prioritize vibe over any sort of coherent structure from here on out, it might as well be like this. [7]

Alfred Soto: With a credit as incongruous as "A$AP Rocky ft. Stevie Nicks," I slipped out of my boat shoes and let this thing play. Not a duet, which, I suppose, is good news considering the condition of Sir Elton's larynx, but, rather, an interpolation of "Rocket Man" powering a solid Thug track, his best since "Offset," his contribution to Swae Lee's album. With Elton's history of black American fandom, it makes sense that Thug would repay the favor. [6]

Rebecca A. Gowns: Elton John sees himself in Young Thug, and now I see it too: the flamboyance, the confidence, the underlying current of sentimentality. Both guys like having fun, doing things with a wink, but never veering too far into irony or cynicism. Some might see this collaboration as unexpected, but from the moment I hit play, it clicked like a jigsaw puzzle -- of course! Of course this is how you use "Rocket Man"! I'm in heaven. [10]

Josh Love: "Rocket Man" finds Elton John's weightless narrator ruminating over all the fellow humans he's left behind on Earth. "High" records his close encounter with the alien, Young Thug. "Rocket Man" may be a powerful and poignant AOR classic, but "High" is the one that actually sounds like floating. Time stands still and gravity ceases to exist while Thugger attempts communication in his strange and fascinating language. [8]

John Seroff: A rare case of the Wikipedia paradox applied to pop music: makes no sense in concept but works in practice. Probably the #2 Elton hip-hop crossover after "Solid Wall of Sound" -- and it's surprisingly close! [8]

Vikram Joseph: A cloud-rap interpolation of "Rocket Man" which actually works pretty well -- to a point -- with a lush soundscape of hazy piano and warm, pillowy beats. Young Thug's versatility makes him sound right in his comfort zone here, as long as you don't listen too closely; the lyrics are pure window dressing, a void of actual content that dulls the song's emotional impact. [6]

Thomas Inskeep: This song has the dullest fucking production. If you're gonna spend the money to license a sample from "Rocket Man," at least do something with it. Young Thug, meanwhile, continues to be one of the least interesting big-name rappers, partially due to the fact that on almost every record he makes, he sounds like his tongue is swollen. [2]

Taylor Alatorre: Even putting aside the fact that this song's existence has been hinted at for the better part of two years, so much of this is so very predictable. Of course Young Thug, the guy whose first radio hit was "Stoner," would sample that particular line from that particular Elton John song, and nothing else. Of course he would harmonize with it in his own trademark way, and of course he would twist its title into a vaguely related non sequitur ("on a private order, I'm a rocket launcher"). Even the beat, which adds some rhythmic flavor but is otherwise content to let the piano balladry do its job, sounds pretty much as you'd imagine. That doesn't mean it all doesn't work on a fundamental level, though. [7]

Julian Axelrod: When I was first getting into rap, the most exciting (and obvious) entry points were the acts repurposing my favorite indie rock hits into something vaguely resembling rap: Chiddy Bang, Childish Gambino, etc. In retrospect, this sound hasn't aged super well. The "Hey, I know that song!" production strategy lets the sample do most of the emotional heavy lifting, and most artists couldn't figure out interesting ways to engage with the source material. But Young Thug always knows how to divine the deeper truth from a beat, even one based around something as ubiquitous as "Rocket Man." Elton's iconic refrain weaves in and out of the mix as Thug winds, warps, and wraps his wail around the decades-old siren call. The cheeky feature credit starts to develop a pathos of its own as the song slowly evolves into a cosmic duet: two trailblazers singing a ballad of isolation from opposite ends of the universe, finding solace in the arms of another icon. [7]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: The trick about Young Thug is that he has always been more of a joke than his serious fans claim he is and far more serious than the internet memelords who love him ironically treat him as. At the peak of his powers (the incredible 2015-2016 run between Barter 6 and Jeffery), Thugger had the ability to conjure bizarre and beautiful pieces of rap music into existence by very virtue of his non-seriousness (consider the 11-second ad lib) -- magical realist twists on the standard tropes of trap music. "High" is a pure expression of that ability, revived after a two-year stint in which it felt like Young Thug was trying out a lot of new things without any of them necessarily being good. Sure, its concept does a lot of the heavy lifting here -- "Young Thug ft. Elton John" just makes sense as a concept, given that John's takes on classic rock formalism analogize well with Thugger's on trap. But, in practice, "High" is even better than I expected, in the way "Rocket Man" informs both the world-weary star thematics and the spacey, contemplative aesthetics of the track. The result is endlessly compelling, from the sound of Thugger harmonizing with Elton John on the intro to his second verse, full of the kind of off-the-wall similes that make him so distinctive as a performer. [9]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: Stelios Phili's stitched-together "Rocket Man"-sampling beat is comfortingly nostalgic and insular, but warm piano chords and a hefty dose of reverb can only do so much to distract from Young Thug's serviceable performance. Thugger's constant growth from the I Came From Nothing mixtapes to Barter 6 was among the most satisfying career arcs of the decade, but he's been on an increasingly noticeable decline for the past couple years. Which makes "High" such a marvel. Not because he's back to delivering the most creative non-sequiturs in rap, or contorting his voice in spectacular new ways, but because the career stasis he's facing pairs well with the drudgery of astronaut life found in Ray Bradbury's "The Rocket Man." This is a song that humanizes Thugger, that helps you empathize with his ingenuity being reduced to banality after all novelty has worn thin. When Thugger sings along with Elton John, he's not just riffing on the stoner analogy, he's embodying the same deflated character who was about to be incinerated by the sun. While Thugger's career may not be over, a new wave of ATL rappers have rendered him a relic of the past. What is "High," then, but a private moment of peace and reflection before his eventual demise? [6]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

#young thug #elton john #music #new music #music video #music writing #music reviews

[ecotone99]

[NF] Storms over Fallujah

SAND: It seems to roll and writhe like a living thing. The storm is powered by forces too huge to understand. It fills the entire northern horizon. If a giant, a truly giant Giant, had come and built a living sandcastle wall, it would look like this storm.

The air around him is nearly dead. It hangs like a thick curtain. Sounds seem deadened and the air tastes like ozone. It is the calm before the storm. Suddenly, he realizes how close this damn thing is. It moves with deceptive speed and will be on them in a moment. He dashes inside, just in time.

Now, the sound is deafening. The wind is a living thing and the teeth of the sand grind down everything they touch. There is no escape. Even inside the Marine house which is apparently air tight enough to seal in the air conditioning the dust invades. It pours in a steady stream through every micro crack in the structure. Within minutes every room in the house, with only a few exceptions, is choked with an impenetrable haze of dust. All lights dim behind a veil of earth hanging in the air.

The wind strains at every edge it can find and roars around and through everything. All the dust of the world pours into your eyes, your nose, your mouth, your whole life. The storm doesn’t seem angry, it just seems inevitable. It seems permanent. No photograph, no recording, no description can encompass the total sensory experience of this storm.

For hours it drags on. A new violent, stinging, normal that is too massive to complain about. Life begins to feel like it will always be like this, and has always been like this.

Sudden silence.

It is gone. It feels as though the entire world will be gone when he opens the door. Everything scoured away by the silica teeth of the storm.

But for better or worse, Iraq is still there, waiting for him.

SNOW: When he was a boy, the Captain hunted in the mountains. One night his uncle said it was too cold to snow. He thought at the time that it was a ridiculous thing to say. As he grew older and paid attention he saw the truth. There is a sweet spot on the thermometer that is perfect for snow.

This morning is frigid. He always rises early but tonight his sleep has been fitful and nearly worthless. He has slipped from his sleeping bag and now, in his warming layers, he stands on the roof. He peers out through the camouflage net that has been stretched across the roof to make an enemy sniper’s job more difficult.

The clouds hang heavy and thick blocking the stars. There is very little light in the city. It relies exclusively on diesel generators spread out around the neighborhoods. With Saddam gone, there is no power coming from the central distribution point. He used to placate the restive Sunni residents of Al Anbar province with extra electricity or fuel. Now the interim government in Baghdad sees no reason to part with the precious power from the nearby Tharthar Dam. It’s the Americans job to fix this.

As he gazes over the city he can see the urban glow of Camp Fallujah like a huge temporary city that dwarfs its ancient neighbor. The Americans definitely generate enough power for themselves. What a different experience those people who live on the sprawling FOB(Forward Operating Base) have of this war.

The sun, an enemy to be feared in the summer, begins to bring its welcome light and warmth to this winter’s day. Albeit behind a cover of clouds. Camp Fallujah’s glow fades as the light and warmth spread.

Suddenly, silently the snow begins. I slides from the sky in a solid heavy blanket as if the entire cloud cover decided to come to earth as a solid. The flakes are fat and moist and stick to the first thing they touch and the world is white and clean. Nearly four years of war are erased in minutes. The harsh cracks in concrete are gone in an instant. Craters fill and are obscured. Piles of rubble and debris become indistinct. Fallujah is a bride ready for her wedding. She is young and pure once again.

The snow begins to taper off until only a few flakes drift in the sky like the slowest ducklings following their mothers. Silent and cold the world holds its breath. The light continues to grow and the beauty of the morning is breathtaking.

The Captain watches the city sleep. He wonders at the dreams it has. Does this city remember peace? Was the life before this latest invasion good? Is life in any city as good as it wishes it could be?

Fallujah is ancient, as ancient as Babylon. It is the “City of Mosques” and in ancient times held Jewish schools of high repute. It has seen great battles and historic events. It is torn and broken but it has always been. Its name is not even Arabic. It derives from an ancient word for division because it took the river Euphrates and divided it into canals. It has been the site of division and strife many times. Now it sleeps under a virgin blanket of snow.

He isn’t sure how long he stands there. Thoughts and feelings overwhelm his usually keen sense of time. A sunbeam lances between the clouds, breaking the spell. The clouds are breaking up. The day is fully here. He stands a moment longer; just enough to see the broken pavement begin to reappear in the streets.

That’s it. The Fallujah he has come to know is returning. He hears a far off explosion. A burst of automatic fire follows a few seconds later. He shakes off the cobwebs of the morning and goes down to the radio room to see what this day will bring.

RAIN: The howl of turbo-charged diesel engines fills his ears. His vision is split in two by wearing the monocular night vision goggles over his left eye. The HMMWV races through the night as they follow the SEAL team vehicle as it careens through the narrow city streets. The vehicle in front of them is perfectly clear, although picked out only in shades of green. The Iraqi vehicles behind them are doing remarkably well keeping up at this breakneck pace. They have no night vision capability and are simple following a chemical light stick zip tied to the back of the Captain’s vehicle.

The Iraqis have placed complete trust in the Captain. The Captain does not trust the SEALs.

The SEAL team showed up at the Castle just as the sun was setting. They had called over the radio to the MiTT. The Captain barely had time to get the gate opened for them before they barrelled through and drew up in an open area to the south of the buildings. A person of unmarked rank exited one of the four vehicles and introduced himself as Mark. The rest of the SEALs seemed to instantly fall asleep in and on their HMMWVs. They looked like a collection highly tactical dwarves with their massive beards and collection of gear strapped to them.

“Major, we’d like to brief you on something; if we can go somewhere private.” Mark addressed himself to the new Major who had come out to greet the team.

The new Major was much enamored with his guests and began to swagger a bit and pulled at his chin as if he keenly felt the absence of his own beard. “Sure, Mark. Welcome to the Castle. Come on in.”

What came next could generously be called a brief. It was certainly brief. The SEALs had information that am HVT (high value target) was holed up in the Jolan. They were going to capture him just after midnight. The wanted Iraqi soldiers with them. Well not with them, behind them, way behind them. Could the Major provide these soldiers and also some Marines to sort of keep them out of the way. No need to brief the Iraqis on specifics. The word would leak out.

Naturally the Major agreed and naturally the Captain volunteered.

The Captain had asked for the destination and had been given a ten digit number that allowed him to find a specific house on the map. He had asked for the name of the HVT and had been shown a photograph with a man’s name under it. The Captain kept at the questioning until he had drawn out the essential pieces of the mission.

So here they were racing through the streets of Fallujah in the middle of the night. The Captain navigates on his own just out of habit. As the six vehicle patrol (4 SEAL 1 Marine and 1 Iraqi) whizzes past the building that the Captain had marked on his map he reaches for his handset. He pauses. He puts the handset back down.

The convoy stops. The captain watches in his NVG’ as infrared laser beams sweep in every direction like an invisible laser light show. He steps from the vehicle. “Crash, tell the IA (Iraqi Army) to sit tight.” he walks toward the first SEAL vehicle to find Mark. He sees two small crowds of men. One on each side of two door gate. The gate is in one of the ubiquitous high concrete walls that surrounded every house in the city. There is a loud bang and one side of the gate opens inward and both crowds of men swarms inside. The Captain walks through after them.

What happens inside is a great deal of yelling. Tactical lights from rifles begin to come on inside the rooms. The residents of the house, most of whom were sleeping on the roof, are herded into two different rooms. Men in one and women in the other. There is a great deal of crying and yelling going on. The SEAL’s terp (interpreter) is trying to make sense of things.

The Captain grabs the oldest looking man and pats him down. He cuts the zip ties on the man’s hands and leads him into the room with the women. With a male member of their family there to preserve their honor and dignity the women quiet. With one of their own supervising the women the men calm down. The Captain finds Mark and another SEAL looking at a map . “Man, I think you got the wrong house.” the Captain says.

“Yeah, fuck.” Mark shakes his head.

“Hey, the IA vehicle is right next to it. Do you want me to have them secure it before the whole neighborhood wakes up and your dude gets away?” the Captain offers.

“Yeah, fuck.” Mark nods his head.

The Captain calls Crash on the radio and describes the target house and tells him to get the IA to enter and keep everyone there.

With Mark right behind him the Captain makes his way quickly to the house indicated in the brief. When they arrive, there is a large group of people sitting in the living room of the house. Men on one side and women on the other with the Iraqi soldiers standing rather casually in the middle.

Crash steps up to the Captain, “They want to know who you are looking for.”

The Captain tells him the name. A few minutes of conversation ensue and one of the older women gets up and begins to beat one of the young men with her shoe. She yells at him and hits him until one of the other women pulls her back. The Iraqi soldiers stand looking sheepish, as if they had been the ones scolded. Crash barks rapid fire Arabic and the IA grab the young man and begin leading him outside. Mark stops them, holds up the paper with the picture on it, comparing the faces. He zip ties the young man’s hands together.

As the Captain steps into the street the sky opens up. The rain pelts down intensely, growing from a sprinkle to a shower in a heartbeat. Almost immediately the roads are fast streams of water and anyone outside is soaked. Mark stands just outside the gate of the right house watching his SEALs pile back into their vehicles. All of them wet.

“Good thing we are all amphibious.” the Captain says, attempting to bring some levity to the situation.

Mark looks at him. Water streams off his helmet and down his face. He looks a little stunned and the Captain wonders what his report of this night’s raid will sound like. He can only imagine that certain details will be omitted or even modified in the official intel report.

“Yeah, fuck.” Mark says sagely. “We’re heading back to Camp Fallujah from here.” Mark turns and walks quickly to his vehicle and moments later the four vehicles are gone, as quickly as they appeared.

“Crash, tell the IA they did a great job and they helped catch a dangerous arhabi (terrorist). Oh and what was happening with that lady?” the Captain is very curious.

Crash smiles and blinks in the pouring rain. “That was her son and she was pissed at him for hanging out with the takfiri (muslim who declares other muslims apostates, fallen from Islam) and bringing shame to their house.” Crash lets out a laugh. “Did you see her, sir? She hit him with her shoe. With her shoe, sir!” he laughs again and walks away. In many countries hitting someone with your shoe or shoeing them is the worst insult and Crash think it is the funniest.

The Captain chuckles and climbs into his vehicle. Doc is his driver tonight he looks at the Captain. “Head home now, sir?”

“Yeah, fuck.” The Captain says. The rain falls steadily and washes dirt and filth off the city and into the Euphrates. The sparse grasses will be standing tall and green tomorrow. Engorged with the bounty that falls from the heaven. The air will be crisp and clear all morning and most of the day. The water tanks on the rooftops will have another inch or two of water in them them and people will smile a little more.

On Camp Fallujah there will be one more prisoner. The well travelled dirt roads will be muddy ruts. People will slog across parking lots and along trails strewn with precious gravel in the vain attempt to control the mud. Everyone will complain about the huge amounts of mud that will be tracked into civilian contract chow halls, MWR (morale welfare and recreation) internet cafes and air conditioned mobile living quarters called cans.

Very different deployments for those people, the Captain muses. “Yeah, fuck.” His words go unheard over the roar of Stacy’s Mom carrying them home.

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