#also breaking free of the writer's block that had me in its grip most of last year

[swinging-stars-from-satellites]

not only did I start consistently writing again after months of not but I'm way more okay with my body this is what getting really into a band does to a girl

[illyaana]

Squiggles - Oikawa Tooru

Thanks to @pocky-writes for this collab! It was so fun to do~ Check out all the other writers involved in the collab here ヾ(•ω•`)o

Tags: Oikawa's POV, Angst, Minor Fluff, Cursing, Kissing, SFW, Manga Spoiler (Oikawa and Iwaizumi's future jobs)

Synopsis: You entered Oikawa's life - and it hasn't been the same ever since. (If I give anymore, it'll be spoilers TwT) (I also named Oikawa's sis Miho-)

Word Count: 4334

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All stories are basically a squiggly line - it has ups and downs with multiple loops in random spots. Some parts might be thicker or shorter than others, but all points of the story make up a giant, huge squiggly line that either brings you joy or sadness. I wanted my story to be as thick and long as possible - to outshine all the other squiggles the world has to offer. It was going to be the best squiggle ever until you came along and made it loopier and uneven.

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I remember the first day you came into our class so vividly.

I had rushed to the school to copy Iwa-chan’s homework. The Kitagawa Daiichi blazer I wore was soaked in sweat thanks to me running a few blocks in several minutes. Of course, Iwa was in the classroom, waiting for school to start. He had rolled up his sleeves and was reading the literature component assigned to us - the very book I never touched ever since volleyball practices began.

“You are of a different breed, Oikawa,” Iwa-chan mumbled as he passed his book to me, “This is the last time you’re doing this.”

No, it isn’t.

“Yes, sir.”

I pulled out my book and began to move at top speed, hoping I would finish before class began.

That’s when you opened the door, breaking my concentration.

You were glowing. The school blazer seemed so big on you - as if someone with a bigger physique gave it to you - but you look so precious in it. You had a jump in your step, a wide smile plastered on your face. Your hair looked so soft even from a mile away. You seemed so at peace with everything - even when you entered a new school.

You carried yourself with such confidence it scared me.

I loved being the confident one, the hot one, the cheerful one - yet you stole those roles from me the second you walked into the school campus.

I didn’t know what I felt; was it inferiority or was it just pure admiration? Maybe a combination of both?

All of this… It was so new to me.

I was always surrounded by those who were eager for my approval - to be part of my posse and be connected to me in some way, but I just wanted to be around you. It was the first time I ever took an interest in anyone excluding my volleyball team.

It’s weird, isn’t it? The feeling of warmth rushing through your skin, but your throat just feels tight - it doesn’t want you to say anything you would regret, so it tries to hold you back. Your palms sweat and become clammy, goosebumps rise on your skin - it is so freeing yet restricting.

I wanted to come and welcome you to the school - maybe take you around the school grounds, show off a bit at the gym, find out who you are as a person - if I got lucky, even get your phone number.

“ ‘kawa, are they new? I feel like I’ve never seen them before…” Iwaizumi asked, pulling on my rolled-up sleeve.

Of course, this had to happen, didn’t it?

Iwaizumi tried to cover his red face with his arms, but he was failing miserably. His forehead began to sweat, a trail of water dripping down his chin. His chocolate eyes glowed just like your skin - so much so you could see the hazel flecks within them. His whole arm was covered in raised goosebumps, just like mine.

He was attracted to you.

“I think they are,” I replied, hiding my feelings with a smile, “Why Iwa-chan? Oh my god Iwa, you’re blushing!”

Iwaizumi threw a book to my face, earning a groan from me.

“Shut up, Shittykawa,” he says, blushing in a deeper red, “...but yeah, I think I do.”

“Well, if you want them to swoon for you just like how almost all the girls of the school do for me, I can help you. Just with the daily fee of milk bread during recess, I can turn your single ass into a full-fledged bachelor!” I say, trying to lighten up the mood.

“I'll buy you milk bread for lunch, either way,” he mumbled.

“See? It’s basically free, isn’t it? The best part of it all; it comes with a free gift! A box of milk every day so that you can grow taller-” Book number two found its place on my forehead once again.

“You’re such an idiot,” he says midst chuckling, “Thanks for the offer, Tooru. I think I’ll do this by myself, though.”

“Ok, then! Just so you know, the offer is always on the table,” I smirk, teasing the shorter male even more, “Don’t forget the milk.”

“I am never buying you anything ever again.”

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Classes went on as usual, but I couldn’t focus at all.

I kept on staring at you from my seat - enjoying every single thing you did. I saw how you’d raise your shoulders in frustration when you couldn’t understand a question, how you’d bite the end of your pencil when you were focusing on the class, how you’d play with your fingers when you were stressed - I was taking mental notes without even realizing it. I loved all the small little huffs you’d make when you’re agitated. Judging by how you were speeding through most of the questions, you seemed to be a smart student.

I kept on playing small scenarios that I would do to get your attention.

Maybe I’d ask you a question and act like I couldn’t understand the whole topic so that you could tutor me, or I should just ask you about your opinions on the essay topic we discussed in class, or I could tease you about that small thing you did in front of the classroom when the teacher wasn’t looking.

But I would never do that to Iwaizumi.

My mind replayed that small scene of him blushing just at the mere glance of you. If he could, he would’ve already gushed about you to me - tell me all the things I already knew just by looking at you. He’d go on and on about how you squinched your nose when you drank that hot drink a bit too early and burnt your tongue.

His squiggle was already slowly moving around you, making a loop fitted for you and you alone - and I will happily watch from the sidelines when you two finally become a thing.

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“Welcome back, Tooru!” My sister said from the kitchen, “Give me a minute, I’m helping mom prepare lunch.”

I placed my bag in front of my room and headed to the kitchen.

“Don’t make poison, please!” I tease her, enjoying the annoyed expression on her face.

“Tooru!” Mom sighed, “We’re inviting our new neighbors for dinner today. Go shower and get ready.”

I stuck my tongue out at my sister, earning an anger-filled hum from my mother. I ran to my room and soon headed to the shower to get ready.

Slinging the white towel on my shoulder, I head back to the kitchen area and set the table for the meal.

“Where are they from again?” Miho asked Mom.

“They’re apparently from Tokyo. The father passed away recently, so the mother had to bring the rest of the family to Miyagi to reduce the financial burden. Sad, isn’t it?” she replied.

“We should help them here and there,” Miho started, “We don’t need to give them money, but maybe help them get used to the city?”

I nodded, but I wasn’t present in the conversation ever since Mom mentioned Tokyo.

“Do they have a kid my age?” I ask, hoping that I’m wrong.

“I think there’s one that just transferred to your school?”

Please, don’t be who I think it is.

The doorbell rang, shaking me out of my thoughts.

I slowly headed to the door, gripping the doorknob tightly as I slowly opened the door.

I was right.

“Hello, Oikawa-san! It’s me, Y/N, from your class,” you said, a smile on your face.

“I just wanted to thank you and your family for your generous offer, but we can’t join you for dinner today,” you started, “Mom has to go get some things settled before she can come for dinner. Sorry, again…”

“What about you? Have you eaten anything yet?” My mom asked as she walked towards the door, “If you want, you can eat dinner here and bring some back for your mom.”

“Really?!” Your lips widened, “Thank you so much, aunty!”

You sat right beside me, just like Iwa-chan does when he comes over. I loved seeing you talk so comfortably with my family. I could see my mom’s adoration towards you when you talked about your life back in Tokyo. Your eyes lit up when you talked about your family - even if you were talking about your father.

You didn’t know it yet, but your presence makes my squiggle a little lighter.

“What school are you going to, Y/N?” Mom asked.

“I’m going to Kitagawa Daiichi like Oikawa-san. I am in his class, actually... “ you trail off.

“Do you want me to walk you to school? I don’t mind doing it, but Iwaizumi would be joining us too. Are you okay with that?” I ask, gripping the ends of my shirt.

For the first time in my life, I hated the fact I had to be beside Iwaizumi.

“Thanks, Oikawa-san. It means a lot,” you smiled.

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I regret asking you that question.

I had to see Iwaizumi try to flirt with you.

I had to see how you’d occasionally lean your head on my shoulder when we walked to school until Iwaizumi met up with us in the middle of our walk to school.

I had to see Iwaizumi carry your bag - something I wanted to do.

I had to see Iwaizumi make small jokes to you - something I wanted to do.

I had to see you enjoy Iwaizumi’s presence - something I wanted you to only feel for me.

I had to let it happen in front of me, didn’t I?

Books and movies never compare to the real thing; to see the person you love gush over someone you love like a sibling.

But you were closest to me, not Iwa-chan.

You came to me when you had problems, not Iwa-chan.

You stayed over at my place to relax, not Iwa-chan’s.

You watched movies with me, played games with me, told secrets to me - not Iwa-chan.

Your squiggle intertwined with mine more than Iwa-chan’s.

“Tooru,” you said as you played with the rogue strands of my hair as your head laid on my lap, “Do you want to go out on a trip?”

“What? Why?”

“We’re graduating, but we never had a trip together. It’s weird, isn’t it?” You say, slowly getting up.

I pushed your head back on my lap, earning a muffled squeal from you.

“It isn’t, to be honest,” I say, “...but I do like the idea.”

“So, we’re doing it?” you say as you wiggle your feet in excitement.

“Yeap. I’ll ask Iwa-chan if he wants to join,” I say as I grab my phone.

“I was kind of hoping that it would be just the two of us? I haven’t been able to talk to you without anyone intervening for a long time, and there’s a lot I wanna talk about.”

You looked at me, hoping for some reaction, but I couldn’t say anything.

If I was not friends with Iwaizumi, I would’ve said yes almost immediately.

I know I love you - ever since I saw you, I have.

But Iwaizumi deserves someone amazing like you.

I don’t.

“Tell me, then! I don’t think Mom’s coming home anytime soon and Miho is working right now, so there isn’t anyone who’d disturb us now,” I say through gritted teeth.

I felt your disappointment when you sighed and moved to lie down on my bed.

“I guess I’ll tell you another day.”

I felt your squiggle moving away from me - moving on without mine.

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Soon, our one-week trip to Tokyo began.

Thanks to months and months of pestering, our parents let us go by ourselves to the city you grew up in.

I could see everything in your eyes, thanks to your stories about this place. The small, quaint shops, the smell of freshly made Taiyaki at the side of the road, the small kids running on the pavement while being chased by angry parents - all of it.

“Oikawa!” you patted my shoulder, “That’s the bakery I talked about last time. You know, the one with amazing cheese tarts? Oh, that’s where my dad gave me my first cup of coffee!”

Iwaizumi chuckled as he focused on the road, admiring your love for the city.

“Why are you laughing, pine cone hair?” You tease Iwaizumi, trying to get more reactions from him.

“Nothing! You sound cute, that’s all,” he said as he focused on the road.

“Oh, really~?” You move closer to Iwaizumi and whisper something in his ear, making him blush instantly.

There it is.

That icky feeling I hate.

Why did it come now? I was with Y/N and Iwaizumi - the people I care about the most.

Go away.

Get out.

I don’t need you.

“Well, I’ll just chaperone Oikawa then, Hajime. Have fun all by yourself in a huge city you don’t know well,” you say, teasing him even more.

Hajime.

They said Hajime - not Iwaizumi.

“Geez, get a room, you two.”

“Sad I’m taking your husband away, Tooru?”

“The fuck, Y/N!” Both Iwa-chan and I scream.

You laugh as you lean back into the backseat.

“What? You both are an old couple,” you begin, “Oikawa is the flamboyant one and Iwaizumi is the man that’s only gay for Oikawa and actually thinks before doing something.”

“Did everyone think I’m gay for Oikawa?” Iwa says under his breath.

“Yeap,” you reply, “Many girls were sad, to be honest. I kept on telling them you’re straight, but they didn’t listen,” you shrug.

“And me?” I ask.

“You were labelled as the hot pansexual, lucky you,” you reply with an eye roll.

“Why did no one tell me…” Iwaizumi said to himself, worried.

“Honey~,” I began teasing the ‘pinecone’.

“Shut the fuck up, Shittykawa.”

“ ‘Shut the fuck up, Shittykawa’ - why don’t you give an actual nice nickname for the brunette over here,” you ask him, playing with the stressed driver.

“No.”

“Do it or I’m calling you pinecone for the rest of your life.”

“No.”

“Do it or I’ll tell them-” I say before getting cut off by Iwaizumi himself.

“Prettykawa.”

“Holy shit, Y/N,” I wiped my fake tears, “He called me pretty! Darling~”

“Oh my god, Oikawa,” you say, laughing as I hug Iwaizumi’s arm.

Our squiggles were intertwined and in a good way - that’s all that mattered.

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“Oikawa,” Iwaizumi looked at me with a serious face, “I think I am going to confess to them tonight.”

Wait, you are?

Please don’t.

Don’t take them away from me.

I need them.

Iwaizumi, please don’t.

“Finally! It’s about time you made your move - I think they like you too, so you have a shot.”

It’s true - I see how they stare at you.

Their eyes are filled with admiration, lips fixed in a soft smile, their hands grazing your cheek - they love you as much as you love them, Iwaizumi.

“Thanks for supporting me, Tooru. It really means a lot to me,” he says as he hugged me, “Thanks for being my best friend.”

I haven’t been a good friend, Iwa.

I fell for the same person.

I want to steal them from you so badly, but I can’t bring myself to hate you.

I want to hate you so bad, but I can’t.

This feeling… I hate it.

“Thanks for being mine, too.” I smiled, but the smile never reached my eyes.

You’re taking them away from me, Iwaizumi.

You could’ve gotten anyone else, but you took them away from me.

I don’t want to feel this - this hatred growing within, yet here I am, cursing you in my head the minute I see you.

“Go! Why are you wasting time?” I say, pushing you towards the door.

I saw the smile you gave me as you ran to her room.

You are such an amazing person, Iwa-chan.

You can care for someone who deeply hates you.

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I saw how they were basically draped around you for the next few days. They looked so happy just to be beside you.

Each day, their eyes spoke stories of love for you, Iwa. They used to come over to my place and gush about you every day, like a ritual.

You’re so fucking lucky, Iwaizumi. This isn’t fair.

They’d go on and on about your physique, your personality and the small things you’d do.

Congratulations, they finally paid attention to the things you did for them. I’m happy for you, Iwa.

I am happy for the two of you, truly.

They are truly happy.

I could’ve never done that - never.

I just wish I wasn’t walking towards the gym that day.

I saw your first kiss under that tree - the tree the three of us used to spend under while waiting for practice to start.

I saw how their hands gripped on the back of your head, pressing themselves on you. I saw how you gripped their hips oh so tightly as you showed them your passion towards them. I saw how breathless they looked the minute your lips left theirs. I saw how they grazed your chin whilst staring into your eyes in admiration.

I pictured how it would’ve been if I was in your position.

I would’ve held them tighter, pressed my forehead against theirs so that our noses would brush against each other. They’d play with the ends of my hair, going on and on about how soft each lock was like they usually do. They’d eye my lips as I stared at their soft and supple lips. I’d press the tip of my thumb on their bottom lip, enjoying the view of their parted lips made just for me and me alone. Slowly, I would kiss their cheeks, hoping for some cute reaction from them. From their cheeks, I would drag my lips to their chin, placing soft kisses here and there.

I would then press my lips against theirs, enjoying the soft noises escaping their lips.

But I never will - you’re theirs as they’re yours.

Of all places, why did you have to choose there?

I can’t come back here without thinking about that kiss now.

That icky feeling…

It’s back.

Go away.

Get out of me.

I am happy.

“Damn, Iwaizumi,” Matsun said as he approached the gym, “Y/N’s really in love with them, huh?”

“Shut it, Matsun,” Maki said, looking at me.

Of course, he’d notice.

I am in love with his friend's girlfriend, after all.

“What? He’s telling the truth; they’re so in love with each other they can’t even see that three people saw their first kiss!” I shouted, earning a growl from the black-haired male hugging Y/N.

“Out of all the times, Shittykawa…”

“You better run, he looks feral!” You shouted, laughing.

“You sure he wasn’t feral ever since he initiated that kiss? I saw that hand wandering, Iwaizumi~!” Matsukawa shouted as he ran to the gym.

“Iwaizumi isn’t innocent anymore. You aren’t part of the gang anymore man, stay back,” Hanamaki said, wiping a fake tear whilst gripping his sides, “You’ve grown up too quick, Iwa-senpai.”

“You okay, ‘kawa?” Maki said as he turned to me, rubbing my back.

“I am fine, Maki. Go ahead - go to the gym, I’ll come in a minute,” I gave him a nod as I walked to the toilet.

That day was the first day I cried over someone in school, and hopefully the last.

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“Tooru… Tohru…” You mumbled.

“Yes, my name is similar to the main character’s. What about it?” I sigh.

“We should get you a cat. Who knows, you might kiss it and it’ll become a girl?” Iwa chirped.

“That’s a cat version of Princess and the Frog,” I say, annoyed.

“Stupid,” you hit Iwa’s thigh, “Get with the program.”

Iwa groaned as he rubbed his leg, “That was really painful, dumbass.”

“Tohru, he called me dumbass,” you whined.

“I am not Tohru - it’s Tooru.”

“Brown hair, all of the people around them falling in love with them, high pitched voice… that’s you,” Iwa joked.

“Major flaw in your theory - I am not a girl.”

“Alternate universe Tohru then,” you said, enjoying the banter.

“Tohru plays with animals, I play with a volleyball team.”

“How do you know she isn’t in a volleyball team? It was never specified she isn’t part of a volleyball team.”

“It’s never specified that she is part of a volleyball team,” I say, clearly annoyed by this conversation.

“I’m getting you a cat - a ginger one,” Iwa said, grabbing his phone from the side table.

“Don’t get me a cat!”

“Get him a cat, love. He doesn’t know it yet, but he’ll love it,” you said, leaning against Iwaizumi’s chest to see his phone screen.

“Holy shit,” you said, holding back a laugh, “He’s actually looking-”

“Iwaizumi Hajime!” I scream, making both Iwaizumi and you laugh loudly.

“I was looking at a cat meme, stupid.”

I sign out of frustration and look back at the TV screen, avoiding the mischievous couple.

I eyed the way they were sitting on the couch.

You were seated in between Iwaizumi’s legs, their back pressed against his front. Their hands played with Iwaizumi’s left hand, fiddling with his fingers as they stared at the screen in front of them. Iwaizumi wasn’t looking at the screen though - he was staring at his lover who was fully immersed in the scene unfolding in front of them. His right hand grazed their right hand, enjoying the feeling of them comfortable in his arms.

You looked happy, and that’s all that mattered.

The last episode soon finished and you looked to the ceiling, stretching your neck.

“So sad it’s over,” you said, smiling.

“At least it had a good ending. I don’t think I need to remind you how heartbroken you were when we watching Banana Fish’s-”

“Don’t remind me - I’ll cry here and now.”

You got off the couch and walked towards the kitchen to get a drink.

“So,” you plopped on the couch, leaning against Iwa, “What’s the final plan, Mr Tohru?”

“What do you mean?”

“Your life after high school, of course! What’s the plan? I know Hajime is planning to be a trainer, but you never told me what your plan is.”

Hajime.

Hajime.

Hajime.

Again with the Hajime.

Just use Iwaizumi, for fuck’s sake.

“...Tooru?”

I snap out of my thoughts. “Oh.”

“You’ve been out of it recently. You’re okay, right?” You say as you walk to sit beside me.

I chuckle, looking at your concerned face.

“I’m good - just stressed about life, that’s all. I am not so sure as to what’s the next step, but it’s going pro.”

You hug me from the side, placing your head on my shoulder.

“Hey, what’s wrong with you, now? Aren’t you scared that you might make Hajime jealous?” I tease.

“I don’t know - I just feel I need to do this, like a feeling that you might do something rash.”

I felt tears wet the side of my shirt.

My eyes darted to the sight of you, sobbing, gripping on my shirt.

“Don’t you dare forget me, okay?” You say through sniffles, “I sure as hell won’t forget you.”

I cup your face in my hands, wiping off the trailing tears.

“I won’t.”

You made a huge loop on my squiggle, Y/N - I don’t I can ever forget you.

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TO: Y/N (2:30 a.m.)

It’s been so many years, Y/N.

You’ve blossomed into the amazing person I knew you’d be.

I saw Iwa-chan recently - after all, he’s training the Japan team.

I actually made it into a team - the Argentinian Volleyball team.

I kept on doubting myself, but you kept on reminding me of how good of a setter I was back in high school.

I know you’re busy being the big person in your industry - congrats on all the awards again, I keep forgetting to contact you.

If you’re down, maybe we can call? I miss your voice.

I sent the message, hoping you’d reply as fast as you used to when we were in high school.

I looked from the hotel window, trying to imagine how the scenery is back home in Miyagi.

The roaring fields, the birds flying in the sky as we walked down that small pathway, that traffic light you’d draw on while waiting for the cars to pass - I remembered it all.

I remembered it all just because you were part of it.

Funny, isn’t it? After so many years, I still think of you.

Not as my friend’s lover, but mine.

I shouldn’t have invited Iwaizumi to that trip.

I should’ve just kept you all to myself - protect you from the world.

I should’ve just kept Iwaizumi out of your life - not let him in at any point.

I should’ve just told him how I feel about you.

I tried so hard to get over you, Y/N.

I met so many other people, hoping they could fill up the hole you left when you left me for him. I had so many sour relationships just because I was comparing them to the rhetorical you that I dated. If the world had given me a second chance, I would be standing beside you - I would work to provide for you the best the world had to offer.

But in the end, your squiggle was meant to grow without mine. I had to accept it and move on, as much as it hurts.

Covid 19: Angst train :)

All reblogs and likes are greatly appreciated!!!

[kuuderekweenfics]

Coalesced

Well hello everyone~

I wrote a short piece. It honestly took everything to get this out of me. I got bit by the nasty writer’s block bug and drained all the motivation out of my body. But I managed to make it sweet, despite having a cold, empty void of a heart. 

Because my headcanon of Levi is that he is actually super warm in the sheets (pun DEF intended).

There is deffff some violence in here. So yeah. Let’s do it.

Sweltering steam plows into you, hot and heavy. The spray of blood misses you by a fraction of an inch as you maneuver your way to the nearest, safest rooftop. No one ever talks about the smell: the putrid decay that emanates from oversized, severed napes. They told you it would get easier to bear over time.

After a few years of wearing death’s perfume, you conclude that it really doesn’t.

You check the gas on your ODM gear. Halfway through and your blades are still intact. You take the small reprieve to stretch out your back before scanning the area for your next move.

It’s surreal, seeing Wall Maria claw at the edges of survival; people run every which way to avoid the onslaught of infiltrating titans.

A surprise attack, you had been informed by your squad leader, Zoë Hange, had devastated the defense. It collapsed under the siege of two abnormals: one, larger than any titan anyone had ever encountered in recent history, and two, an armored titan with incomprehensible speed. Hange had directed you and the rest of their squad to clear as many people into safety as possible. Thankfully, the emergence of titans was concentrated to one location, leaving a large portion to find shelter within the inner walls. But those in the Shiganshina District and around its immediate perimeter were not so lucky.

“Yo, it’s time for us to move out,” Lauda barks. Your mission was to save as many lives as possible, not to eliminate titans. You were told orders were final. You were told not to engage once the call was made to clear out. To continue fighting titans was pointless, Hange had said. Not when there wasn’t a single ray of hope to reclaim Wall Maria.

The hair on your neck raises as you hear the high-pitched cry. You are obedient, by all means a great soldier, but you simply cannot ignore the shrieks made by a child. Two stories below, no older than five or six, is a jumping boy, his desperate attempts to reach you failing with each hop. Your eyes connect with his, distressed but hopeful, and he reaches out his arms up toward the sky, toward you, his only willing savior.

To your agitation, you are not the only one to notice the boy. A titan crawls its way over, eyes hollow, appetite insatiable. A small string of curses come out a huff from your lips. You look over your shoulder, Lauda a distant star in the late afternoon sky among the rest of the survey corps. You drop down in the opposite direction, aiming your grapple-hooks into a crumbled wall and fly forward, then swivel immediately left, aiming steel to neck. Because the titan is a crawler, therefore completely exposed, your kill is quick work. You run to the boy, reaching your hand out to take hold of him, eager to get back. Only, his tearful smile is obscured by large teeth that clamp down on him, spattering your dumbstruck face with his blood.

No. No, no. No, no, no, no.

You can feel the hot breath of the titan, an overwhelming smell of corpse, as it hovers over you. It’s too close. You quickly glance to the right and left but all you see is its flesh.

Think. You have to think. Don’t focus on the poor boy you failed to save. Don’t worry about his blood dripping from your hair and cheek.

Move.

Live.

You shoot your hooks into its eyes and propel yourself up to avoid its mouth. You find purchase on its nose and grab a lock of hair, heaving yourself up for an opening to escape. You know its hands will be on you soon, your muscles screaming as you pull yourself up, up, up, racing against time. An opportunity presents itself. Hooks launch and lock onto the wall and you spring to your freedom.

_____________________

“You disobeyed orders.”

“I was trying to save a kid,” you retort.

Hange pouts, their brows furrow with obvious sympathy, but they stand their ground. “I know it’s hard seeing people die. Children die. Hell, I would have probably done the same thing.” They cross their arms. “But Erwin made the call. You were reckless. Some are blaming your previously pampered lifestyle.”

You scoff. Of course someone would bring that up. It was a constant reminder among the Scout Regiment.

Yarckel, the western-most district of Wall Sina, was quaint and content. While it was not as lavish as other areas of the innermost wall, it was an extremely comfortable place to call home. You squashed your mother’s heart the day you told her you had no intention of marrying an old, stuffy politician and all the resolve to enlist in the Survey Corps. Your dear mother nearly turned into a titan herself with how earnestly she chewed you out, spitting names like “wretched girl” for having “silly thoughts of chivalry” in your head.

But you couldn’t imagine yourself locked away in a gilded cage, ever so often forced to be held by too-soft, weathered hands and bred to deliver another generation of vain and greed.

You’d rather die free.

“What’s my punishment, then?” You concede, there’s no way you’ll get out of this one when Erwin has the last say. Hange grimaces.

Uh-oh. This won’t be good. “Let’s hear it then.”

“Latrine duty. For a full month.”

Your heart sinks into your stomach. Latrine duty is, by far, the worst assignment when living with barracks almost completely inhabited by men. You cringe at the mental image of what you found the last time you were tasked to clean the toilets.

You hold back the bile that threatens its way up as you nod your head. “Anything else?”

“Levi will come in each week to approve your task completion.”

Fuck. “May I ask why a Captain is overseeing my work? Doesn’t he have more pressing matters to see to?”

“I think you know why,” Hange chuckles. “Make sure to get into every nook and cranny. I won’t have you making me look bad. Otherwise, Levi will come badgering me.”

______

This might be worse than facing titans.

You scrub the inside of the toilet bowl in the spot most often neglected: the underside of the ring. Grime flakes off in chunks, and you cant help the gag that makes your way up.

The smell burns your eyes. It could also be the sweat. But you’ve decided against touching any part of your face while you’re forearm is deep in toilet water. When you sit in front of the fourth and final stall, you’re thoroughly convinced the northern barracks’ latrine is utilized by heathens.

You’re busy brushing the hinge of the toilet seat when you hear the door swing open. You’re sure you placed the sign on the door barring entry. “Sorry, still cleaning in here.”

The calm tap, tap, tapping of the boot heel sends a shiver down your spine. This isn’t the footsteps of some eager scout who waited much too long to do their business. You keep your eyes forward, staring at the porcelain which provides a full view of what’s behind you in its shiny, white reflection.

You hear him enter the first stall. Each second feels an hour long. You don’t realize you’re holding your breath until your lungs sting for air.

The second stall is next. Then the third. And finally, after an eternity in limbo, he steps behind you. By this point, you had gone back to brushing, mechanically moving your arm back and forth without the same gusto you had earlier. Your heart threatens to break out of your rib cage with each thunderous beat.

“Are you having a heart to heart with each toilet before you clean them? I thought I’d given you enough time to finish up with these.”

“I wanted to make sure I did a thorough cleaning, Captain.”

He clicks his tongue. “Step aside and let me check your work so I can get the hell out of this dump, Scout.”

You stumble out, scraping your back against the edge of the stall; he doesn’t move from his spot and you don’t dare touch him.

As he inspects the last toilet, you hear the soft “‘hmm” roll from his mouth, and you hope this is a small sound of approval.

He walks toward the exit, but turns to you with a recognizable disgust that scares you more than the stare of a titan.

“Good work. I hope you can apply the same level of cleanliness to yourself,” he rumbles. “Look at you. You’re absolutely filthy.”

You should be angry. You should be boiling over at the insult. Instead, you attempt to keep your smile contained.

And all at once you began to enjoy your moments with the Captain, infrequent as they were.

The small exchanges in the mess hall.

The glances in one another’s direction as you file out of meeting rooms.

The quiet, strained growl in your ear as he penetrates you in his quarters as the moon makes its way over the horizon.

It all happens so, very quickly; Levi’s one-off encounter with you. One second you were discussing various teas and which best suited a savory meal, the next you’re hungrily lapping up the precum from his stiff cock, ever acquiescent and flushed.

You bob your head, each time pushing your boundaries as he hits the back of your throat; every gag only adding to his pleasure.

And before you have the satisfaction of watching Levi, Captain of the Survey Corps and Humanity’s Strongest, unravel in your hands (or mouth, rather) he takes hold of your elbows and shoves you on the bed.

He’s surprisingly gentle. The way he manhandles even your own boss makes you think he would be more aggressive, unrestrained.

And while he does hold you with a vice-like grip that will surely leave your hips bruised tomorrow, you realize it’s to assure that each meticulous thrust hits the switch that lights up your brain, igniting your nerves and sending a wave of pleasure crashing through your entire body.

The heat that burns in the pit of your stomach intensifies as he pistons into you, never losing focus on that area that surely makes you see stars.

And you beg for him to go harder, faster, as you clutch at the sheets desperately and push into him in a fruitless attempt to swallow him whole.

But he’s already there, deep within your core; the pumps connecting all the wires to push you both over the edge.

He sputters forward, his seed coating your walls hot and sticky. It’s all you need, his desire to fill you entirely, to drive you into your own divine pleasure. Your breath hitches with the final pump as you both settle on the bed.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

This is not love. Of course it isn’t. You are no fool. But for a few hours, you allow yourself to be tethered. Allow him to stroke your hair with a fondness that is so pure, so different from the usual Levi.

Your breaths in sync, the seconds of comfort engraved in your mind for the rest of your miserable lives. One fleeting moment cemented in time.

And in a blink of an eye, it’s gone.

So as you stare, wide-eyed and frightened, at the Titan who holds you captive in its clutches, inching forward into its acrid breath, you allow yourself to draw back into the depths of your memory.

Your mind takes you back to that night.

And you close your eyes and smile as you relive each second of the night that you and Levi Ackerman coalesced.

[diamondcamefromhell]

Pit Stop

fem!reader x jaskier [friend thing, not romance]

A/N: HIIIIII so i drank a bit today and this creation came to be, tried to edit all the mistakes, but there may still be some. i just wrote it from my heart, not really focusing on it being great to read, allowing it flow through me so it may be an aboslute mess and i might delete it when i wake up, but enjoy it while its here [even if it may stay forver]

Warnings: none!

Summary: [written in third person again] Y/N is a orphan who grew up in Kaer Morhen, and her basically-big-brother Geralt comes to visit with Jaskier and the two of them have a heart to heart

Word count: 2.592

as always, any feedback is appreciated, but on this one, pls keep in mind that i didnt write it entirely sober and its late and im sad lmao, but criticism is good and needed for every writer, so feel free to leave it even on this [or anonymously on my ask page] 

all the love <3

She lifted her sword just in time to block Geralt, parrying back with her other hand, hitting him with her other blade. The witcher grunted, pushing her with his swords, making her stumble back, a smile still on her face. She turned the weapons in her hands, both in a attack position now, as Geralt also smiled, gripping his sword tighter.

Y/N was able to duel-wield as well as you could possibly do it, it never occurred to her that she could fight with only one sword. In her mind, it truly seemed like a waste of opportunities, and she didn’t plan on contributing to it. While still young, she could stand her ground against Geralt, which was impressive on itself.

And Jaskier knew it. In his head, his friend witcher was the strongest-baddest-unbeatable Geralt, but now, in Kaer Morhen, his buddy was struggling holding back against this girls attacks.

“Well done.” Witcher spoke, lowering his sword. He hated to admit it, but he was running out of breath, and Y/N seemed to radiate endless energy. The girl laughed, straightening up.

“Thanks, Gee.” Geralt grunted at the nickname, smile still painting across his face.

The girl took a deep breath, looking up at the mountains that surrounded her home. She was an orphan, left in the woods. One of the witchers found her, and tried to get someone to take the baby in, but times were tough and Y/N was just an extra mouth to feed. She was taken here, to Kaer Morhen, at first it was planned to be short-term.

But she grew up with the boys, eventually picking her name herself. She never underwent the procedure to fully become a witcher, but she was a better fighter than some. She earned her nickname, the great Shewolf, who was as vicious and as strong as one. Someone who would die for her family.

Jaskier has heard about her from Geralt and some other witchers they’ve met on the road, but the bard knew the girl rarely left her home. Being abandoned by her parents, she took all the boys under her wing, providing some love and care to them during their strict training regimen.

Now, as wind played with her hair, Jaskier had to stop himself from breaking into a song. She was beautiful, in this mountain view, she truly looked like a she-wolf – majestic, wild and free. The girl felt the stare, glancing at the bard, offering him a smile.

“Jaskier and I,” Geralt spoke, getting her attention back on himself, “got you a gift.”

“Did you?” Her eyebrows rose as she glanced between the men.

“Something very special.” Witcher said. He never would admit it, but Y/N has grown to be like a little sister to him – he wanted to give her the world.

But all he could offer now, was two new swords. Light weight enough to make her duel-wielding possible and even faster than it was now. It was long, and sharp. The special thing about it was that one side of the blade was silver, the other steel. It was also enchanted with runes, so it would catch enemies on fire, at random.

They were beautiful, black handles and with a tree design on the blade itself. But for Y/N, that didn’t matter. It was the gesture itself; she knew how expensive weapons are. And not even that, finding a good blacksmith was nearly impossible these days. The trouble they must’ve gone through almost brought a tear to her eye.

She dropped her old swords, taking the new ones. They felt perfect in her hands.

“I am at a loss for words.” Geralt smirked.

“A thank you will do.” She fixed her gaze on the witcher, trying to swallow down the tears.

“Thank you. Truly.” She turned her eyes to the bard, who rose to his feet, coming closer to Y/N. “Jaskier, thank you too.”

“I didn’t do that much.” He muttered.

“You have never been to Kaer Morhen, have you?” Jaskier shook his head, and an idea came to the womans head. “Let me show you around. As a thank you. If not for a sword, then for keeping my big old Gee company.”

“Don’t you want to test your new swords?” Geralt asked before Jaskier could agree to the offer. Y/N shoulders dropped as she gazed into the horizon.

“We’ll have time for it tomorrow.” She finally decided, glancing at the witcher. “You seem tired. Are you getting old, Geralt?”

“Tired of you, little one.” He smirked, putting his sword in his scabbard. “But okay. I need to catch up with Master-“

“With Vesemir about Cirilla, yeah.” Y/N interrupted, remembering that they weren’t here to visit her – not exactly. Of course, it added to the trip, but their main goal was to talk to Vesemir about Cirilla and how she’s okay. Nothing in particular that Y/N found interesting, but she knew how important it was to Geralt. “Go and surprise that old bastard. He will be happy to hear the news.”

Bard watched his friend grin and turn around, going into the massive castle. The pair stood there in silence at first, and Jaskier began to worry that his lady friend would feel uncomfortable with just the two of them; but she was gazing at the sky. The mountains loomed over them, guarding this place, keeping it safe. It provided an impressive view, too.

“It’s beautiful.” Bard broke the silence, as the girl smiled.

“There is something so peaceful about this view.” A sad shadow loomed over her face. “But once all of the witcher disappear… this place will be abandoned. Hidden in these hills, deep in the woods.”

“But the Witchers won’t disappear.” Jaskier argued, although he knew that the population of withcers was dropping, as no new boys have been trained in years. He didn’t know why, and he was too afraid to ask. Bard was smarted than that, and knew not to open old wounds.

“Everything disappears, Jaskier.” Y/N glanced at her old swords on the ground, as they reflected the light. “But I am glad you find this place beautiful.”

“Precisely.” He muttered, as his head was working overtime trying to come up with something to comfort the girls troubled heart.

“Maybe you’ll write poems about it. That way, we will live on forever.” Girl spoke, turning around, waving the bard to follow her.

Which he did, with no hesitation. The sun was shining on them, but the weather wasn’t really that warm. Jaskier wrapped his arms around himself, watching Y/N in front, with her armour, that seemed to be too light to protect from the hold breeze that was picking up. But the girl didn’t mind, stepping to the training grounds.

They were now surrounded by dummies, most of which haven’t been touched in months. Her heart felt heavy, but she hoped one day soon new boys would come and train here. She would pray, but she didn’t believe in any gods.

“Training grounds, not used in… awhile.” She cleared her throat, sheathing her swords behind her back. She crossed her arms over, looking back at the bard, who was examining the dummies.

“These look new.” He pointed out and Y/N laughed.

“They got destroyed all the time. We would make new ones pretty much everyday, so they are new, yet to be destroyed.” She explained something in her heart lifting. It was as if there was new boy to train; even if the man in front of her was too old for this.

Though older, his eyes reminder her of that of a kid. So much joy shined in them, she almost allowed herself be fooled that he had lived an easy life. Traveling with a witcher was nothing easy at all, especially Geralt. While Y/N got to know his more affectionate side, sometimes he would hurt even her. he never meant to, but his comments would be daggers at heart.

And this man, was a bard, she also remembered, her eyes grazing the lute hanging by his side. Not a fighter, not trained. He could probably barely hold a weapon or protect himself, and with the contracts and helping citizens, she was sure this man has seen more than he lets on.

Maybe more than her.

But there were no shadows in his blue eyes, as he brushed his hair back, smiling at the girl, who was in deep thought, staring right at him. Her eyes pierced Jaskier, as he wondered what was going on in her head.

“A coin for your thoughts?” Jaskier decided to try and pry, figure out what world she was lost in.

“You have travelled with Gee for awhile now, but you don’t seem to be troubled by it.” Bard shrugs, his shoulders relaxing; he didn’t even realize that he has gotten nervous.

“He protects me.” Her gaze drifts ahead, as she sits down by the dummy. A shadow of sadness looms over her again, and Jaskier sits down too, their legs now touching.

“I wish someone would protect me.” Jaskier furrows his brows, staring at his hands.

“But you can protect yourself.” He speaks, as Y/N sighs. That was not what she meant, but the bard carried on. “You literally can hold you ground against Geralt. The Geralt.”

“That’s not the point, Jaskier.” She rests her head on the dummy behind her, staring at the mountains. Sometimes she feels like they are about to fall on her, swallowing her whole. “I still want to be protected. Someone to take care of me, too.”

“What about Vesemir?” She knows he is genuinely trying to help, but the mountains still double up in size as she feels small. She would feel like this when she was a child, isolated and alone. A sigh escapes her lips again, resting between them like a ravine.

“I meant more of a friend.” She finally clarified, after the silence began to grow uncomfortable. Jaskier stared at the ground between them, as if that ravine was actually there.

“I can be your friend.” She nodded. She already felt like they were friends.

“You and Geralt both are my friends. But…” Jaskier watched as her face changed, becoming more and more puzzled. He wanted to help her find the right words, express what she means exactly. Maybe that would lessen the pain in her eyes.

“I get it, I think.” He decided to try and put some clarity into her clear thought volcano. “We, and I bet some other friends, we come and go. But most of the time, you’re alone. And I bet you feel trapped, surrounded by these mountains and woods. No escape, as even the horizon isn’t clear.”

“Exactly!” She shouted, involuntary. “Everyone tells me I’m a shewolf, I can protect myself and thrive alone, and that’s correct. But I still want to have a pack.”

“Why don’t you join us then?” Jaskier offers and the girl closes her eyes. She wants to go, but what if someone comes here, some small boy, scared and alone. Ripped from their mothers crying hands. She has to be there for them, if it were to happen.

“I’m needed her.” Jaskier sighs, a sour taste growing in his mouth. He didn’t like the thoughts that filled his head, the words that were urging to escape.

“Ghosts don’t need to be cared for, Y/N.” His tone was soft, as if he was talking to a child. He even dared to reach out and place his hand on hers, which she didn’t shake off. “If anything, they need to be let go off. Laid to rest.”

“But if someone new comes-“ Jaskier squeezed her hand, making the girl stop mid-sentence. Their eyes met.

“If someone comes, Vesemir will find us. You can’t find a pack if you stay in this cage.” His words made sense, and she knew it.

But she didn’t want to listen. Her eyes gazed away from the boy, back to the mountains, who began casting shadows on the pair. Wolves howled in the woods and the breeze picked up again. She didn’t feel cold, but Jaskier shivered a little.

“I should show you inside.” She tried to avert the conversation, but the bard wasn’t having it. She rose to her feet, but he remained on the ground.

“The view from the top of the mountains must be amazing.” He said, gazing there. He did wonder if you could even reach it; these trained professionals probably could, but he, a simple bard, would probably slip and fall to his death. He shivered at the thought of that.

“You see endless fields and forests. But it is nice.” Y/N agreed, crossing her arms.

“So you see the opportunities the world has to offer.” He eventually decided, standing up. “Then this isn’t a trap – is a pit stop, before you go to see all that the sun touches.”

“Sure, poet.” She grinned, but his words settled in her heart. “Let’s get inside.”

So the tour continued, as they drifted from painful topics to more easy ones. Jasier showcased some songs, which she thoroughly enjoyed, and Y/N shared some fun stories from a better time.

But evening came, and something went wrong. Geralt ushered them to leave. The sun had set, and the only light was a few torches surrounding the group. Withcer didn’t seem worried, just in a hurry. Jaskier had his lute over his shoulder, saddened to be leaving so soon.

Y/N was painfully looking at her friends, wondering when she will see them again.

“We will visit soon. Ciri just needs me, I know it.” Geralt grunted, petting Roach. He was eager to get on the road.

“It’s okay. I’m glad I got to see you again, Gee.” Y/N forced a smile, but it didn’t fool the boys. They exchanged worried looks.

After hugs exchanged, she watched them leave – Geralt on Roach, Jaskier on a horse he borrowed from Vesemir. Y/N looked up once more, mountains blocking her view, but the bards words crept in, waking something inside her.

She whistled her horse, urging it to a gallop to catch up with her friend. Surprise painted their faces when they saw her, and both men stopped in their tracks.

“You said you’d visit soon.” She explained, slowing her horse to a canter, going ahead of them. “I can leave Kaer Morhen for a little bit. And these gifted swords need testing too.”

“You’re coming with us?” Jaskier couldn’t hide the joy in his voice, but he didn’t care. In the dark he and Geralt could barely tell that the girl rolled her eyes.

“Let’s go, boys!” She rushed to a gallop again.

They caught up to her in a heartbeat. They raced through the mountains, until they reached one of the peaks.

The fields in front of them offered endless possibilities. In this moonlight, shewolf took a deep breathe, and she knew, that for the first time in ages, she was breathing freedom. One last glance at her home, the castle glistening in the light grey light of the night was inviting.

But she knew she would always find a home here.

She could always come and rest, until she was ready to venture again. Now, she needed to go and find her pack.

y/N didn’t know, that Jaskier and Geralt both thought they just added a new member to their pack. They accepted her, racing in the night, to the rest of their pack, towards Ciri and Yen. Rushing into the unknown, leaving the pit stop behind.

[h-styles-babes]

Can you do 91 on the prompts

Since I’m having a difficult time coming up with material for my multi-chaptered fics, here’s a little blurb that was requested. Hopefully, filling a few of these requests will help get me out of my writer’s block and my overall funk in general.

Thanks for the request, lovie, and I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you all think! My asks are always open xx

91. “Tell me you need me.”

Harry and Y/N were the best of mates. They really were. Before the whole One Direction thing happened, and then the whole film role and solo career happened, there was Y/N and Harry. They’d known each other since primary, and while they’d been good enough friends then, it wasn’t until secondary that they got really close. They would spend most of their free time at each other’s houses, so much so that they pretty much lived with each other. They couldn’t remember a day when they hadn’t been together, except for when one family went on holiday or some such thing.

As they got older and Harry became the world famous musician that he was now, they still retained their friendship. Y/N had even made a move out to London when she’d graduated uni to pursue a career opportunity that just so happened to put her in nearly the same neighbourhood as her best friend. Harry had been over the moon when Y/N had told him that they were going to be in the same city again and they wouldn’t have to relegate their visits to holidays and the odd birthday. He’d been there to help her move in and get settled, and he’d even spent the night the day before her first day at her new job so he could be there in the morning to see her off. When Harry had to be out of town for extended periods of time, Y/N was sure to check in on his house for him, make sure all his mail was gathered and his plants got watered and whatnot. They had a solid, steady friendship that they both cherished.

In all their years together, though, it couldn’t be said that things never got…strange between them. When they were younger, Y/N’s older brother was part of the crowd that regularly had their hands on weed, unbeknownst to their parents. Because of this, and despite her brother’s insistence that he didn’t want his little sister (she was only two years younger) getting into a habit, Harry and Y/N often spent their weekends getting high in Harry’s back garden where they were sufficiently hidden from any onlookers or passerby, including Harry’s family.

While they both were mellow when they smoked, sometimes their teenage hormones got the best of them, and since their inhibitions were lowered in such a state, they acted on those feelings. The first time they’d had sex together was the first time either of them had had sex at all. They were fifteen and Harry laid Y/N out on the blanket they always brought along to protect them from the grass and undressed her and they’d had it out. It obviously wasn’t the most spectacular thing in the world for Y/N, being Harry was just as clumsy and a bit clueless as she was, but it was definitely not something she regretted.

From then on, it was just sort of an unspoken agreement that their sex life would in no way affect their friendship. And it never did. Sure, it got a bit awkward for them when they would catch the other flirting with someone they fancied or when they had to call it off completely when they had a significant other, but other than that, it was as if nothing happened. No one was the wiser, either. Not their parents, not their friends, and not their siblings. Everyone knew them as just Y/N and Harry: absolute best mates.

As it were currently, Harry and Y/N hadn’t slept together in nearly three years. First, Y/N got a boyfriend, and that relationship lasted two years. Harry wasn’t exactly floundering for sexual company, but it was quite annoying to him that he couldn’t have sex with the best. Sex between the two was the best sex either of them ever had, and it was hard to ignore that when they got into relationships where it as just lackluster.

After Y/N finally got out of that relationship when she found out the wanker was cheating on her (good riddance), Harry had actually found himself a bird. A very fit bird, if Y/N was being completely honest. She was a blonde model (shocking) and she was exactly Harry’s type. While Y/N thought it was strange that Harry got himself into a relationship as he was embarking on a world tour, she brushed it off since he seemed pretty happy. To each their own, she supposed.

However, pretty much as soon as he returned from tour, that arrangement came to its end, and Harry and Y/N were both free agents once again. However, the topic of going back to their previous arrangement never came up. It had been years since they’d fallen into their ways together, and neither party was sure if striking up that arrangement was appropriate.

The first week that Harry was back, though, he showed up at Y/N’s door, bearing some gifts from his travels. Most of it was normal things like chocolates and snacks that weren’t sold in the UK and a particular scent of candle that was only available in France. What was also part of his gift package, though, was a few joints from this cannabis company he’d decided to promote and invest in in America. Y/N noticed them in this fancy little metal tin that people used to regularly keep their cigarettes in back in the day, with the company’s logo printed across it.

She made no comment on it as she welcomed Harry in, though.

“So good to have yeh back in the UK,” she muttered into his chest as he cuddled her into his arms in her entryway. He smelled like he always did of his fancy Tom Ford cologne and mint that was on his breath from his persistent gum chewing.

“It’s good to be back,” he returned. He pressed a kiss to the top of her head and scooted her over to her couch while she was still in his arms. “I obviously have gifts, but I wanna get high first.”

And that’s how they ended up on her couch, slouched next to each other, handing a joint back and forth as they let the warm, relaxed feeling run over them from their deep inhales. It’d been awhile since Y/N had gotten high, on account of Harry being away for months at a time. He was the only person she ever got high with because she felt comfortable and safe with him. She relished the feeling that veiled her senses, making all her previous worries seem less important and the moment they were living in was the most pressing matter of her life. It was wonderful.

“How’ve yeh been since I’ve been in America?” Harry asked on on exhale, handing the burning bud to her. He had a feeling they’d have to go through another one in order to feel any sort of considerable high that night. He didn’t have a problem with that.

“Good, just workin’ and all that,” she told him. She took a long drag and held it in her lungs for a few moments.

“Yeah? Any men I need to know about? Haven’t had a boyfriend in awhile.”

Y/N shrugged with her exhale. “There hasn’t been anyone. Haven’t even been on a date in a few months.”

Harry shook his head as he reached for another one of the blunts he’d brought. It took a few tries to get the lighter to hold a flame, but once it did, he quickly lit the end. “Shame. Deserve to be taken out and treated like a princess.”

Y/N scoffed. “Tell that to all the guys who shout at me in the streets that they like my arse. Don’t think they’re lookin’ to treat me like royalty.”

“Don’t need one of them,” Harry denied, passing it back to her. “Need a proper gentleman. Someone who will treat yeh right and worship the ground yeh walk on.”

“The problem with that is that the men that wanna treat me like a princess is that they won’t fuck me properly when it comes time for that. Wanna be treated like a princess and fucked like a slut. Is that so hard to understand?”

Y/N was properly feeling it now. There was a certain fuzziness that clouded her being and she was honestly loving it. This was what she had been missing. She loved this ease and sense of comfort that came with being intoxicated with Harry. She was also at the point where her filter was absolutely nonexistent. It was usually minimal around Harry anyway because they knew each other so well, but it was even more transparent now.

“Haven’t been fucked properly lately?” Harry asked, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Haven’t been fucked at all in literal months.” There’d been a one night stand back in February when she’d gotten a little tipsy at a bar with her mate, and this one guy looked particularly good. What seemed like a good idea at half one in the morning was definitely not a good idea when she woke up later. Not only had the sex been subpar at best, the man hadn’t turned out to be that good looking in her sobriety. Bad decision altogether that she’d rather just forget.

“Shame. Neither have I,” Harry admitted.

“Yeh were with that girl, though,” Y/N argued.

“Didn’t see her for months before we broke up,” Harry told her. He shrugged. “Not a big deal, but I’ve been in a mood lately.”

“Yeh’re not exactly hurtin’ for company,” Y/N reminded him.  

“Doesn’t mean I’ve been sleepin’ with anyone.”

“If you’re not gonna use you’re fame to sleep with anyone yeh want, what’s even the point?” Y/N joked, blowing a little bit of smoke in his face.

“I only wanna sleep with one person, and she hasn’t been available to me until recently.”

The tone of Harry’s voice was very suggestive, and Y/N knew where he was going immediately. He didn’t break eye contact with her as he took a hit off the blunt which they’d already worked their way through. He stubbed it out on a bowl Y/N kept on her coffee table, holding his breath. When he turned back to face her, he beckoned her closer with a flick of his fingers. She scooted closer to him on the couch, their thighs touching. The haziness in her head turned into a pleasant buzzing in anticipation of what was to come.

Harry didn’t think she was close enough, so he hauled her into his lap, her thighs straddling his waist. He gently gripped the back of her neck with his hand and pulled her face to his. Y/N caught on to what it was he wanted and pressed her lips to his, allowing him to guide them open. She breathed in as he blew the held smoke into her mouth. He didn’t remove his mouth from hers as she released the smoke through her nose.

Instead, he began to properly kiss her, the grip on the back of her neck trailing up into her hair to grip lightly. Y/N whimpered into his mouth at the increased pressure. It’d been quite a while since she’d been handled like she wanted to be, and she knew Harry was going to give it to her properly. She could already feel herself getting wet.

Y/N trailed her hands up under his shirt, smoothing her palms against the warm skin of his stomach and chest. Her thumbs brushed over his nipples, and she felt his muscles contract with the stimulation. She’d missed feeling his skin against hers, and Harry must have been thinking the same thing, because he broke their kiss to haul his shirt over his head. Y/N took the opportunity to run her hands over his shoulders and up into his hair before pressing their lips back together.

Without prompting, her hips started to rock into his, her body seeking some sort of stimulation. Harry groaned as she pressed herself into his growing erection, and his grip on her hips tightened, spurring her on further.

“Bedroom,” she whispered into his mouth. Harry didn’t need to be told twice, so he pushed the both of them up from the couch, Y/N still in his arms, and he blindly made his way to her bedroom. He’d been there enough times to be able to make the trek blindfolded, but Y/N was making it more difficult by distracting him with her hands tugging at his hair, her teeth nipping at the skin of his jaw, and her breasts pressed up against his chest.

Eventually, they made it to the bedroom, and Harry set her on the bed, crawling on his knees between her legs. He drew his hands up under the vest she was wearing and lifted it from her body. She hadn’t been wearing a bra, and he took a moment to admire seeing her topless for the first time in three years. He loved her body, and it was a shame that he’d gone so long without being able to see it this intimately. He quickly went about rectifying that, laving his tongue first over her collarbones and then down to her breasts, taking her perked nipples between his teeth.

Y/N hissed at the bite, but sighed as he soothed the nips with his tongue. Her hands found their way to his hair, gently tugging at the roots and causing him to groan. He looked up at her through his lashes as he trailed his mouth down to the waistband of her shorts, licking along the skin he knew was sensitive. He smirked when her muscles recoiled at the sensation, and Y/N gave a quick warning tug to his hair that she still had her fingers wound around.

“Shut it,” she warned. “’s been a while.”

“Jus’ like workin’ yeh up, love,” Harry told her, biting lightly at the jut of her hip.

“I’m plenty worked up, Styles. Never takes much with you.” The tone of her voice took on a shy quality that had Harry trailing back up her body so they were face to face. He supported himself with his forearms at either side of her head, the fringe at his forehead nearly brushing her own.

Harry pet her hair back from her face, and Y/n could sense the shift in energy as his eyes wandered over her features leisurely, like he was perusing with no real sense of urgency. There was a look on his face that she’d seen a million times before, but she’d never been able to identify or put a name to. It usually took over his features in quiet moments between them and sometimes when they were being intimate, though sometimes their carnal needs were of more importance than the closeness they shared at those moments.

Y/N felt the air leave her lungs as he leaned forward just enough to graze his lips against hers in the softest kiss that lingered deliciously against her charged skin. He made the pass a few times before whispering, “Tell me you need me.”

There wasn’t even a split second delay before she was whispering back, “I need you, Harry. Need yeh like I need air.”

His eyes flashed to hers, some sort of chaos residing in his, before he pressed himself to her in a searing kiss that was no less meaningful than the ones they’d been sharing just the moment before.

They worked together to remove the remainder of their clothing, and when Harry finally slipped himself inside of her, she swore it had never been better. This coupling was like nothing they’d ever shared before. They’d been cautious and caring their first time together, and the times subsequent to that had been full exploration and a love that was shared between best friends. They’d had their fair share of hungry, passionate nights filled with talk so filthy, they’d both blush if they heard it from anyone else, leaving scratches and bruises over each others’ bodies for days to come. They’d shared the playful romp, having to take breaks because they were both giggling to much to get the job done, but getting there in the end.

This was something entirely different, though.

Harry had never held her so close, never touched her body with such reverence or looked into her eyes with such awe. She had never pet over the features of his face as if to remember every hill and valley, and she’d never begged him with her eyes for something that wasn’t physical. She’d never heard the sorts of words uttered from his lips, words of tenderness and worship. Despite the calm incited by their earlier imbibing, neither of them had ever felt so alive and electrified.

This was different. But different didn’t always mean better.

When Y/N woke up the next morning, she was naked and alone in her bed. There was no sound of Harry in the flat, and when she opened her phone, she had one lone message from the person she was expecting to wake up to.

Had to pop out. Talk when I can.

Y/N had gotten those messages before. There’d be no word from him for months.

[jancys-blue-bayou]

Good study sessions part 2 (Jancy smut, fluff)

Been busy with stuff and also hit a bit of a writers block so sorry about it being dry on the fic front recently. But got a few requests for more of modern AU Jancy sexting so added a second chapter to that story to try and get out of the funk. NSFW etc btw.

Also on Ao3!

Nancypants ❤️❤️: aw i will never get over how cute ur dick is y’know

Nancypants ❤️❤️: DIMPLES*!!!!

Nancypants ❤️❤️: fucking autocorrect

Nancypants ❤️❤️: srsly i meant dimples and nothing else

Nancypants ❤️❤️: they’re really really cute

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i don’t think ur dick is cute

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i mean i appreciate it VERY MUCH

Nancypants ❤️❤️: love it even

Nancypants ❤️❤️: but i don’t think cute is the right word to describe it y’know

Nancypants ❤️❤️: hm

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i wonder what is the right word?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: MAJESTIC perhaps?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: magnificent? GRAND maybe? what do you think?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: or do you not think about your dick like this?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i do

Nancypants ❤️❤️: think about your dick i mean

Nancypants ❤️❤️: a lot, periodically

Nancypants ❤️❤️: NOW for example

Nancypants ❤️❤️: studying is going well btw thank you for asking

Nancypants ❤️❤️: is it me who is a fast typer or you who is a slow one?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: remember when you BAMBOOZLED me with a dickpic when i was studying that time??

Nancypants ❤️❤️: that was a hekkin’ bamboozle, i still haven’t recovered

Nancypants ❤️❤️: but now you couldn’t bamboozle me like that y’know. now i’m prepared.

Nancypants ❤️❤️: frankly i’d appreciate one right about now

Nancypants ❤️❤️: HINT HINT

Nancypants ❤️❤️: HINT HINT HINT HINT

Nancypants ❤️❤️: joooooonaaaathaaaaaaaan i’m bored and just a lil bit horny answer pls

Nancypants ❤️❤️: also can you pick up food on your way home bc i’m also HUNGRY

Nancypants ❤️❤️:: but mostly horny

Nancypants ❤️❤️: but what a combo hey

Nancypants ❤️❤️: joooooooonaaaaaathaaaaaan

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: hey.

Nancypants ❤️❤️: HELLO THERE

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: first things first: i sent you the selfie you requested just before I entered that new chinese place you love to pick up dinner, and you sent all these texts after it in the matter of time it took me to walk in and place my order so YES IT’S YOU WHO IS A FAST TYPER

Nancypants ❤️❤️: omg yes chinese I LOVE YOU i want number 9 pls

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: i remember i got it for you

Nancypants ❤️❤️: I LOVE YOU

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: me or my dick or my dimples?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: ALL of you!!!

Nancypants ❤️❤️: but speaking of what word do you feel is most accurate? pls answer it’s for science

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: i really don’t know Nance.

Nancypants ❤️❤️: booooooooooooo

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i’m leaning towards MAJESTIC (with caps always)

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: noted

Nancypants ❤️❤️: what word do you think most accurately describes my pussy then?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: irresistible

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: and tasty

Nancypants ❤️❤️: well, you certainly typed that fast…

Nancypants ❤️❤️: and do you really think it’s tasty?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: i mean yeah

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: in its own way y’know

Nancypants ❤️❤️: no i don’t

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: yes you do you’ve already coaxed this out of me before

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i know but i wanna hear it again

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: well it’s sexy i think. and it certainly doesn’t taste bad. its you

Nancypants ❤️❤️: thank you

Nancypants ❤️❤️: btw

Nancypants ❤️❤️sent a photo

Nancypants ❤️❤️: BAMBOOZLE

Nancypants ❤️❤️: were you bamboozled?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: you were, weren’t you?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: no i wasn’t nance. you said yourself ur horny. you always send me nudes when ur horny. i was waiting for it

Nancypants ❤️❤️: hey now that is not true

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: you sent me 27 on saturday night

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i was also DRUNK tho

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: sure but mostly horny

Nancypants ❤️❤️: THE AUDACITY

Nancypants ❤️❤️: mister

Nancypants ❤️❤️: the sheer nerve

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: mmhm

Nancypants ❤️❤️: so

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: yes?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: ….?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: ?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: HOW ABOUT SOME DICKPICS GOD

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i gave you so many hints.

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: with hints you mean outright saying it and then adding hint hint?

Nancypants ❤️❤️: YES EXACTLY SO WHERE IS IT???

Nancypants ❤️❤️: I NEEDS IT, i’ve been going through my Jonathan is a studmuffin folder on my phone and touching myself for awhile now but there’s only so many pics in there i need more material

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: i’ll be home in like 15

Nancypants ❤️❤️: CAN’T WAIT THAT LONG

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: i’m waiting for our food nance

Nancypants ❤️❤️: so? they got a bathroom don’t they?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: well yes

Nancypants ❤️❤️: sooooooo go in there and give a girl what she wants damn

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i’ll make it worth your whileeeeee….

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: hang on

Nancypants ❤️❤️: !!!!

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️ sent a photo

Nancypants ❤️❤️: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Nancypants ❤️❤️: MAJESTIC

Nancypants ❤️❤️: fuck i love you

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: love u too

Nancypants ❤️❤️: are you still in the bathroom?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: yeah

Nancypants ❤️❤️: do you have your headphones plugged in?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: yeah why?

Nancypants ❤️❤️sent a video

Nancypants ❤️❤️: *narrator voice* MEANWHILE, AT THE LEGION OF HORNINESS

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: fuckkkkk nance

Nancypants ❤️❤️: sry its all shaky i’m not used to holding my phone in my left hand but i need my right one to jerk off

Nancypants ❤️❤️: maybe i should get a selfie stick

Nancypants ❤️❤️: to give you a better view of this stuff

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: ….i am not opposed to that idea no

Nancypants ❤️❤️: HAH bet ur not

Nancypants ❤️❤️: also this may be obvious but:

Nancypants ❤️❤️: i need you to PLOW ME as soon as you get home

Nancypants ❤️❤️: we can eat after

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: can i eat you out instead

Nancypants ❤️❤️: you really wanna spoil ur appetite before the chinese food?

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: yes

Nancypants ❤️❤️: and i am not opposed to THAT idea no

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: bet ur not

Jon-Jon aka Thumper ❤️❤️: food’s ready be home soon love you

Nancypants ❤️❤️: LOVE YOU

Nancy tackles him to the ground soon as he gets home. Thankfully he just had enough time to put the Chinese food down first, before a buck naked horny girlfriend flies into his arms and takes him with her down to the floor.

”Lil bit horny were we?” He remarks before Nancy’s lips are over his.

”Okay that may have been a litotes,” she answers when they break apart briefly for air.

”Litotes?”

”It’s the opposite of a hyperbol,” she clarifies while tugging off his jacket.

”Oh.”

”I got a bit carried away imagining this, what we’d do when you got home. And it kind of turns me on to rile you up when you’re out,” she hoarsely whispers in his ear.

”How do you think I feel knowing your waiting for me here like this…” he mumbles back before rising, picking her up with him. She lets out a pleased little noise at that and locks her legs around his waist while wrapping her arms over his shoulders to hold on.

She kisses him as he starts to carry her to their little bedroom. His hands are gripping her butt to keep hold of her and he helps himself to a squeeze which makes her yelp and giggle before she captures his lips again. She starts to tug his sweater over his head as he’s walking.

”Doorjam!” She warns as he can’t see for the moment. ”Left, left,” she guides him through to the bedroom before finally freeing him of the sweater and tosses it away. She makes quick work of his t-shirt the same way.

He gently sets her down on the bed and takes in the gorgeous sight of naked Nancy lying on the bed staring at him with fire in her eyes.

”You’re so beautiful,” he tells her and kisses her. She blushes. ”I wanna eat now,” he adds and starts to kiss his way down her body. She blushes more.

Irresistible is the word… tasty, exhilarating. It’s the biggest turn on in the world for him, this. Going down on Nancy. Feeling how wet she is. Making her wetter. Knowing he’s the cause of it. Hearing her sweet, excited moans in reaction to what he’s doing. Hearing her mumble his name and variations of ”fuck” and ”I love you”. Feeling her thighs wrap tightly around him when she gets particularly excited. Feeling her shudder and shiver and twitch. Getting her to places, making her climb higher and higher… it’s the sexiest thing in the world to him.

”Jonath…” she moans which tells him she’s close. She can never get through all the three syllables of his name when she is. Which he finds ridiculously hot. He intensifies his work with his tongue, slides another finger in and takes her over the edge.

He hovers above her, watching her as she comes back down again. She opens her eyes, sees him and pulls him down towards her and plants a big kiss on his lips.

”I love you so fucking much baby.”

”I love you too.”

Her hands slide down his body, roaming over his torso, down his stomach. She unbuttons his jeans and tugs at the hem. He quickly pulls them and his boxers off. She grasps his rock hard cock and jerks it.

”Majestic,” she giggles and winks at him.

He blushes.

”Mmmm yes… Jonathan…” she moans as he’s in her.

He really loves how vocal she is in bed. He’s not as much, he can’t really focus on forming words when they’re at it, it’s mostly just grunts and groans and moans which he thinks can’t sound good but which Nancy insists turns her on. Meanwhile she among her moans tend to ramble in an excite manner of stream of consciousness from her hazy mind at it’s the best.

”Mmm…. harder… fuck me harder… harder baby mmm… love you… harder…”

He’s increased the tempo quite a bit but her begging for him to go harder continues and he feels he can do more. So he pulls out, the sudden sensation making her let out a surprised moan. Quickly he takes her and flips her around, helping her up on her knees in the bed and positions himself behind her.

”Oh yessss Jonathan yes I love you…” she excitedly cries out and sticks her ass out further towards him.

He grips her hips and easily slides into her from behind. Usually he prefers positions where they’re face to face, because he loves to see her face when she’s like this. But they’ve done it like this a few times too, and it has it’s benefits too. The angle is different and he likes it. Normally it’s been on her initiative, this, but the thought hit him as he wanted to fuck her harder like she was pleading him to do. He doesn’t hold back and now all he hears from her is the most wonderful noises and moans.

When he cums he collapses onto her, careful not to crush her but wanting to be pressed against her, as close as possible, when he empties himself inside her. She moans and he notices she’s gripping the sheets with one hand. The other reaches back and tangles itself in his hair as they jointly come down, breathing heavily.

”Fuck I love you…” he breathes out as he rolls off her.

”I love you too,” she tells him, lifting herself up on her elbows and leaning over to kiss his cheek. ”And your dimples,” she smirks, harking back to before.

”And…?” He grins.

”Your sass,” she smacks him on the arm. ”And your dick,” she adds with a wry smile. She thinks for a second and then adds. ”And that you got Chinese food! Be right back!”

Nancy hastily gets up and he can’t take his eyes off her as she quickly puts her panties back on and throws on his t-shirt before walking out of the room to retrieve the food. He sits up and retrieves his boxers and puts them on before rearranging the pillows and sitting up against the headboard. Nancy returns with the bag full of food containers in one hand and her laptop in the other.

”Since you fucked me so good you can pick what show we’ll watch,” she smirks and waggles her eyebrows at him.

”Oh well the pleasure, the privilege is mine,” he smiles.

Nancy hands him the laptop and gets back into bed, sorting out the food containers.

”What’s this?”

”The End of the F***ing World, Derek recommended it ages ago, said it was dark but funny. It’s been on my list forever but I haven’t gotten around to it so I thought we’d check it out.”

”Sounds good.”

He presses play and sets the laptop down in a good place. Nancy hand him his food and leans into his side and god he loves his life.

[kl-writes]

SCP Writing Hacks

Disclaimer: I’m a “draft-first” writer, not an “outline-first” writer. Not all of this advice will work for you. These are just lessons I’ve learned from trial and error on the site. Some of this might be useful for writers elsewhere, but it’s pretty focused on the SCP writing process.

This is mostly aimed at other new/inexperienced writers. There’s no way around some level of failure, either with harsh crit on a draft or a failed article. But maybe this can help you find the right approach.

0. The only way to get better at writing is by reading and writing. Write many, many drafts. Stick with the ones you like. Trash the ones you don’t like.

1. The ideas forum is a helpful springboard, but other than as a filter for cliches or overdone tropes, it is not a good place to develop the actual idea.

This is because the feedback you get is going to be fairly “shallow” in terms of story. It can be okay for plot, setting, and gimmicks, but it won’t help you with your “story.” Or, more accurately, your theme and the heart of your story. If you look at the discussions there, you’ll see that a lot of the development going on is about lore. Now, I find this as a good venue for writer’s block. But what you need to be more concerned with at the beginning of your story is theme, emotion, and heart.

SCP entries aren’t really SCP entries, they’re stories. And stories need to be about something- there must be some change or lesson. This is best developed by trying to evoke an emotion in the reader. Common ones might be fear, wonder, dread, etc. in SCPs. Starting with the core and working out might be better than starting with the lore and making it matter to the reader. Sometimes you can get the core from the lore, but I’ve always found it easier to get the lore from the core.

Consider: Is the heart of SCP-3000 a fish that wipes minds, or is there something else driving the article? What parts of it draw you in as a reader, and where are the points of tension?

2. Don’t post your draft to the draft forum unless it is at least on its 2nd or 3rd draft.

If you have superficial typos, your crit will be about those and won’t be as helpful for getting your article to a place where it can be published. There are three rounds of editing you should go through: Content, Tone, Formatting.

Content should be focused around identifying the different ‘beats’ of the story, the rise and fall of tension. You should be able to identify the climax easily. Additionally, make sure the reader is receiving all the information they need, and in the right order. This is the most artsy part of the editing process, but it’s also (IMO) the most important. People will overlook tone and formatting errors if it’s a gripping story.

Tone is about cleaning up word choice and sentence rhythm/structure. This isn’t just about a clinical tone, it’s about readability. Authentic/believable is always better than factual/realistic. Readability is more important than authenticity. You can use a few footnotes, but don’t overdo it. It’s good to do your research and be scientifically accurate, but comprehension is more important than precision. “Ripple” will do just as well as (If not better than) “longitudinal wave,” even if the latter is closer to what is going on.

Formatting is just spell check, grammar, and making sure the format of your draft matches what’s on the site. Copy-paste your article into google docs (or Word), change the font, and read it out loud. This will catch 95% of your errors. If you feel like wasting paper, printing it out helps some people, but at least for me, bumping up the size and choosing a different font will work just as well.

Once you have done these steps, post your draft.

3. You don’t need a finished draft to seek crit in the IRC.

This one helps me out a lot. I get stuck pretty easily, since I have a hard time ‘powering through-’ I tend to edit as I write the first draft, which is a bad habit. However, if you’re about halfway through a draft, and stuck, looking for crit might be a good idea. There could be a flaw in the first part of what you’ve written that you haven’t caught yet. But be specific about what you’re looking for- if you’re trying to break writer’s block, quibbling over word choice probably won’t help you.

4. Most of your learning about writing should come outside of SCP.

I know that some people like to say that SCP is ‘publishing-quality,’ but it’s not. It’s SCP publishing-quality. There are some quirks in the writing style, commonly accepted on the site, that might make mainstream publishers gag. Similarly, there are published works that would make SCP readers gag. Philosophically, I think it’s better to focus on being a good writer rather than being a good SCP writer- if you achieve the former, than the latter is simply about learning the format.

For the beginning writer, I recommend TvTropes- this can help you dissect what it is you like about the books you read. A lot of the books about writing by writers aren’t very useful, or at least weren’t useful until I had been writing for years (Looking at you, Stephen King’s On Writing).

A few materials I found useful: Screenwriting is Storytelling, Understanding Comics/Making Comics/Reinventing Comics, On Writing (The second time I read it, five years later. It was dense and unhelpful the first time), Pixar’s 22 Rules of Storytelling

When you practice writing, try not to practice in one genre. I’m pretty much all speculative fiction, but looking into mysteries and victorian-era literature has been extremely helpful for understanding stories. I also urge you to try multiple mediums.

5. Seek crit from multiple sources.

5-6 is a good number to aim for. 10-11 is better. Avoid making major content changes unless 2 people have looked at it, but make tone and formatting fixes as needed between critters.

WARNING: If someone just says “It looks nice” and has nothing else to say, that doesn’t count as crit. Your peers are in the IRC, too, make sure you are taking into consideration how much your critter has written, and what they have written. If you are writing a GAW article, you probably shouldn’t look for crit from someone who hates GAW.

On my most recent article, I kept looking for crit until someone (Who I checked was an experienced writer) straight-up told me to publish it.

6. The points don’t matter. Your goal should be to tell a story, not to get internet points. Unless there’s a dollar sign attached, you shouldn’t worry about the numbers.

Not really the best advice for new writers, but I’ve seen experienced writers on the site get stressed in chat because an article is dropping their ‘average.’ It’s far better to be risky, experiment, and get mixed reviews on an article than to bend to the whims of whatever’s popular. You will learn more, and that is far better in the long term. Remember: You are pouring hours of your life into a work of art and giving it away for free. Be patient with harsh critique, but understand that a “bad” article does NOT mean you wasted your time, or even that you lack talent.

[newstfionline]

Egypt’s War on Books

By Farid Y. Farid, The Atlantic, Dec. 4, 2017

There was once a time when school children would hang out at the Al-Karama library in Cairo’s bustling, impoverished Dar El Salam neighborhood. They sought escape from the polluted drudgery of slum life, or just a safe space to finish their homework. But for almost a year now, the library’s decrepit maroon garage door has been rolled shut: In December 2016, Egyptian security forces raided the library and three of its sister branches after deeming them seditious spaces.

The government’s assessment of the libraries stemmed largely from the work of their founder, Gamal Eid, a human-rights lawyer. After Egypt’s cataclysmic revolution in 2011, Eid used his own money to open the library and five others like it. The name he gave them, Al-Karama, means “dignity” in Arabic.

On the day of the Dar El Salam raid, Eid and a group of volunteers held incensed children back from hurling rocks at the police. Fearing further retaliation, he decided to close the other three branches. The six locations have been shut down for the past year. Only a portion of the books has been recovered from the police.

Eid now spends his days defending unfairly imprisoned Egyptians. As one of Egypt’s most visible human-rights activists (with a one-million-strong Twitter following), he has been barred from leaving Egypt since February of last year; his assets have also been frozen. “The state is contra human rights [and against] any independent voices. And I understand this logic. But what really breaks me is why would you specifically target … libraries” that serve thousands of children, he told me. “You have hurt them.”

This logic has animated the repressive regime of general-turned-president Abdel Fattah El Sisi, who overthrew Islamist president Mohammed Morsi in July 2013. At first, Sisi promised political stability and economic prosperity. But those promises remain unmet, and there are signs that his grip on power is slipping: A poll last year showed a 14 percent drop in his public approval after he slashed subsidies and inflation spiked dramatically.

With an election approaching in 2018, Sisi has resorted to stifling dissent and galvanizing his security agencies and the military-industrial complex to help ensure that he will run unopposed. He has used his vast security apparatus to crack down on opposition politicians more vehemently the longer he has been in power.

Even by the repressive standards of the current regime, November was an absurd month. Sherine Abdel Wahab, a popular Egyptian diva and judge on the Arab version of the talent show The Voice, will go to court in December for cracking a joke about the Nile River’s severe contamination. Authorities also banned The Nile Hilton Incident from screening at a local film festival. The Sundance-award-winning fictional film tells the story of an investigation into the killing of a night-club singer at the Nile Hilton Hotel, and delves into the underbelly of Cairo’s corrupt political elite. The festival organizers cited “circumstances beyond our control” as their sole justification for cancelling the screening. Just last week, the police raided another art house theater that was screening the film.

But nothing seems to disturb Egypt’s ruling cadres more than the written word. The recent litany of bans and shutdowns, including blocking hundreds of web pages online, illustrates what Cambridge University’s Khaled Fahmy, a prolific historian of the Middle East, called “an alarmist moment of crisis,” one in which Egypt’s authoritarian state of emergency laws have turned something as simple as reading into a dangerous act. “Free press and freedom of information … are essential ingredients of any democratic system. The regime and many segments of society do not see it this way--they see the exact opposite. They see at times of crises we have to have absolute unity,” Fahmy told me.

On November 23, Gamal Abdel Hakim, a leftist political activist on his university campus, was sentenced to five years in jail under a counter-terrorism law for possessing a copy of Karl Marx’s Value, Price and Profit when he was arrested from his home earlier this year. A few days earlier on November 19, Interior Ministry officers raided downtown Cairo’s Dar Merit Publishing House, which champions young authors and serves as a refuge for revolutionaries, and detained a volunteer, accusing him of possessing and selling unregistered books. It is the latest in a series of bookshops and libraries that have been shut down in recent months. El Balad (or “The Country”), another trendy left-leaning bookstore frequented by Cairo’s literati, was also forced to close in November. Alef, a commercial bookstore chain, had its assets confiscated earlier this month on suspicion of the owner’s alleged links to the Muslim Brotherhood.

Under its various modern rulers, but more so today, Egypt has sought to present a palatable but conservative version of Islam that the masses can embrace. Sisi prefers conservative Islamists who he can control over secular dissidents--chiefly writers--who threaten his rule. He has worked with the ultraconservative Salafis to achieve short-term political goals, while at the same time trumpeting his fight against an emboldened insurgency in the Sinai to foreign leaders.

Within Sisi’s approach to Islam, censorship remains key. In addition to going after the Muslim Brotherhood, he has locked up thousands of youth and other perceived dissidents. His brutal crackdown has ensnared over 40,000 prisoners of different political stripes. In the security-first mindset of the Sisi regime, writers and other dissidents pose a considerable threat: They have the ability to make the larger population question his policies.

[singingisfun]

Changing Tides - Chapter 18

link to cover art by @otpapprovedbythegods

And here’s a link to an adorable pic of Dopey as a pirate by @clockadile

ff.net: From the beginning - Current Chapter

AO3:  From the beginning - Current Chapter

Tumblr: Prologue - Ch 1 - Ch 2 - Ch 3 - Ch 4 - Ch 5 - Ch 6 - Ch 7 - Ch 8 - Ch 9-Ch 10 - Ch 11- Ch 12 - Ch 13 - Ch 14 - Ch 15 - Ch 16 - Ch 17

To my incredible and lovely readers,

I've seen some worried people since Jen announced she wasn't returning, wondering what will become of our fandom now that she isn't coming back. People are unsure what will happen with not only the show, with the CS happy ending, and what Hook's roll will be, but also with fics, fic writers, gif makers and artists.

Let me assure you, I will see this fic to the end. I already know how it's going to play out and, in fact, I have several future scenes already written. So, even if there is no one left to read it, I will post every single word. I hope you stick with me.

Hugs to all of you,

Rachel

The Tower and The Spell

“How would you like to see your wife?”

The air gets sucked out of the room the moment the words leave Merlin’s mouth, leaving David to struggle for breath and an intense hum to sound in his ears.  His heart pounds into his rib cage which, when combined with the humming, leaves him worried that he may actually pass out.  He tries to speak, tries to form the word – yes – but he can’t find his voice, the overwhelming emotion strangling him.

See Snow?  Finally be with her again?  Awaken her from the curse and feel her silken skin under his fingers?  Gaze on her sweet smile and hear her beautiful voice calling him Charming in that teasing way?  

He wants that more than anything – to hear her voice – because he’s started to realize over the past few years that he’s not even sure what it sounds like anymore.  Pictures are easy.  Pictures he can see with complete clarity…  the first time they met, their wedding day, the day their daughter was born…

But the most vivid picture, the one he sees nearly every time he closes his eyes, is the excruciating painful glimpse he had of her as she’d been drug through the door of that ball room…

…

…

The ground is shaking and splitting, the chandelier overhead swaying, but he doesn’t see it.  He doesn’t see anything but her kicking and lashing out against her captors as they drag her across the dais.  He rushes toward her just as she lands an impressive heel on the shin of one of them and she almost breaks free.  His heart vaults but then there’s a cracking sound so powerful and deafening that his eyes are drawn away from her, turning to see the balcony crack right in two. He squints his eyes against the sudden barrage of dust and debris, but amazingly enough, none of it comes in his direction, instead only taking out several black knights nearby by burying them in stone and rubble.

He doesn’t take time to marvel over his luck before he rushes forward again, scaling a large pile of rock that landed directly in front of him. Snow is still in the same place she had been, her eyes transfixed on what’s happening above and he breathes easier for an instant.  The knights holding her seem as stunned as everyone else and he takes advantage, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he maneuvers the now rock-filled terrain, jumping over one hurtle after the next.

Another glance to Snow catches her look of relief at what’s happening on the balcony and he casts a quick look over his shoulder to see the cloud of dust clearing.  He takes one heartbeat to thank the gods that both Emma and Killian have survived the crash before he’s charging toward Snow again.  He’s just cleared another obstacle when he hears her voice.  

“You have to run, Charming!”

He looks up to see that her captors are coming back to their senses, pulling her once again toward the door in the corner of the room.

“No!  I’m not leaving you!” he shouts, making the next leap.

“GO!” she screams, twisting and kicking with all her strength.

He shakes his head furiously, panic crawling up his chest as he takes the first step on the dais.  He stops there when a line of knights move in between him and Snow, too many to fight alone and almost inadvertently, he drops his eyes to the chest between their thrones.

“Don’t even think about it!” his wife bellows, “One of us has to be free!”

It was supposed to be you, he thinks, still eyeing the chest.  He takes one step, already raising his hand to unlatch the lid when someone knocks hard into him, toppling him to the ground.

“You can’t!” Graham yells, “I know you wanted it this way, but you can’t!  She’s right: One of you has to stay free!”

It’s like the world pauses then and he twists his head to look at his beautiful wife.  She’s still fighting but they almost have her to the door.  There’s noise all around them, the fight still ensuing but all he sees is her, the crown on her head slightly askew and her flawlessly pale skin smudged with dirt and dust.  

His eyes mist and he knows this is it: this is the last moment he’ll see her for who knows how long.  The guards aren’t trying to kill her.  They obviously have orders to take her alive.  Whereas him, well, that line of knights is already moving forward with their swords raised and at the ready.  There’s an instant when they block his view of her and he struggles wildly against Graham until he has her in his sights once again.  Their eyes lock, the jade depths of hers begging him to get out, begging him to survive and his throat closes.

“I will find you, Snow,” he vows, because now everything has clicked into place, no matter how badly he wanted this to play out differently. “I will always find you.”

His last glimpse of her shows her face morphing to relief, her voice soft but strong.  “I love you, Charming.”

She’s gone before he can reply, disappearing through the door, and the shout that releases from his throat feels like it tears right through his vocal chords.  He wrestles out of Graham’s grip and vaults to his feet, utter madness filling him as he plunges his sword into one knight after the next.  They fall and fall but there are more and more and it’s not long before Graham tugs him away, fighting to an open corridor and pushing him down the hall.  They run for their lives, Graham placing a well-aimed jab of his sword to the loose stone in the wall.  The painting in front of them swings open and he jumps through the narrow gap, turning to make sure Graham made it as well.  But Graham didn’t even attempt the jump.  Instead, he’s closing the painting.

David’s arm shoots out to stop it but Graham doesn’t relent.  

“I’ll lead them away,” he says.  “And if there’s any chance at all, I’ll try to get her out.  Be safe, my King.”

The painting shuts and David is plunged into darkness, falling to his knees with his hand still pressed against the canvas.  He stays there for a good long while, lungs heaving and tears staining his cheeks as he listens to the chaos on the other side, frantic orders being yelled to split up and check all the rooms.  He considers staying.  He wants to stay and fight, but the final look from Snow flashes through his mind.  

He won’t let her down.  

He’ll find a way to get back to her.  

No matter how long it takes.

…

…

The memory blinks out and Merlin comes back into focus, his too-knowing eyes set dead on him like he’s just seen the same thing.

“Is this a trick?” he asks, his voice harder than he intended.

“No trick.  I’ll take you to her – but,” he raises a finger, “I must warn you:  You’ll not be able to wake her.”

“WHAT?!” he roars.

Merlin seems completely unimpressed with his rage, continuing calmly, “She’s guarded by a protection spell and I’m afraid no one but the Evil Queen herself can breach it.”

“A spell the most powerful wizard ever can’t break?” Lance asks with incredulity. “It sure sounds like a trick to me.”

“It’s not a trick,” Merlin insists, eyeing each of them, “Regina used blood magic to cast the spell and there’s no way around it.  I’ve tried. Believe me, I’ve tried!”

“So, what’s the point in taking him, then?” Lance asks.

But it doesn’t matter to David.  Seeing Snow again, even if he can’t touch her, is worth the risk but he doesn’t have time to voice that opinion before Merlin’s eyebrows raise.

“Because, we need to cast a protection spell of our own.”

David’s stomach drops to the floor.  “Why?” he demands, “Is she in danger?”

“Not at this very moment, but she soon will be.  Regina was satisfied with keeping her under the curse but once she realizes Emma has her magic, it will only be a matter of time.”

David goes completely still. “What makes you think Emma has her magic?” he asks.

Merlin chuckles. “Foresight, remember?”

David mulls that over, still not completely convinced the wizard is trustworthy.  

“Look, I can do it myself if you prefer.  Just give me a drop of your blood and I’ll cast the spell alone.  I just thought you’d like to see her.”

“I do,” David replies instantly.  “I’ll go with you.”

“Are you sure, Majesty?” Lancelot asks, stepping forward.

“Yes,” he insists, looking over to his friend.  “It’s worth the risk just to be able to see her.”

Lance’s eyes soften the tiniest bit and Charming gets the feeling the knight is thinking of something – or someone – else for an instant.

“You’re right.  Love is worth the risk.”

David turns back to Merlin. “When do we leave?”

“Right now,” Merlin replies, holding out his hand.

K&EK&EK&E

 Regina has always hated the smell of the sea - its rank, salty, fishy scent.  But she meanders the dock anyway, the long piers filled with ships abustle with activity as cargo is loaded and unloaded.  Her eyes search every mast, every flag, a little annoyed when she realizes how many kingdoms seem to use this harbor as a means of trade.  And even more annoyed that none of the flags are the one she’s looking for.  There are pirate ships, yes, many of them, but her prey hasn’t shown his colors yet.

There are several men who send her looks of interest and she realizes perhaps it would have been wiser to pick a more homely woman to clone.  One of them even has the courage to head her way but she crooks a finger and a rope falls into his path, making him trip and flush with embarrassment. She would much rather have made that large and very heavy looking crate fall, but an accident of that magnitude would draw attention.  People’s morbid curiosity is a predictable human response and she doesn’t want half the city here to investigate.  

Self-control is a huge asset when you’re trying to blend in.

The day grows late and she’s sweaty and tired, more impatient than ever when, suddenly, a familiar looking head of dark hair disembarks from a ship close by.  Smiling slyly to herself, she follows him away from the docks, a plan forming in her head.

K&EK&EK&E

 The holster is digging into Emma’s chest but the weight of the dagger is oddly comforting.  Walking to the mirror, she takes a deep breath and lets it out, watching carefully to make sure the blade is completely concealed. Behind her, she can hear Killian’s movements, getting ready himself.  They work in silence, apprehension weighing down the air, their impending separation looming more heavily on both their minds than she had anticipated.  

They’ll only be apart for a short time.  She’ll go straight to the square and he’ll meet her there as soon as he’s finished ordering supplies for the Jolly Roger.  An hour at most.  It’s not so very long.  He’ll meet her at the square and everything will be fine.  

Everything will be fine.

But a lot can happen in an hour.  And they don’t have any clue what they’re walking into.  Outside of it being an unpredictable city at best, it’s been months since Killian was last there and it could be overrun with black knights by now. Jefferson swears that’s nearly impossible.  He is ‘The Hatter,’ after all; his spy network is extensive and news of black knights in Portsmouth would not escape his attention.  But even without black knights (probably) there’s still so many things that could go wrong…

And Killian knows it, too. That’s why neither of them are speaking. That’s why the heavy air feels ripe with dread.  That’s why their movements are measured and precise.   They’re both on the edge of their nerves, both filled with apprehension. And both afraid that one word would send the other into a panic.  

She practices drawing the dagger from its sheath a few times to distract herself.  Just as Patricia promised, it makes no sound at all but the quick movement catches Killian’s attention and their eyes meet in the mirror. He’s wearing a grim expression that matches the tight knot in her stomach and his hand is arrested on the buttons of his black shirt.  Their eyes hold in the reflection as she slides the dagger back home but then he dips his chin and goes back to buttoning (very few) of the buttons on the shirt.  

Before he can reach for it himself, Emma picks up his vest and holds it out for him to slip on. There are still no words but the finger he uses to reverently trace her chin while she fastens the buckles speaks volumes.  Her heart is beating so hard that she can hear it in her head and her hands are damp and shaky.  She fumbles one of the clasps and his hand covers hers, squeezing it while she draws a steadying breath.  Once the buckles are fastened, she rests her hands on his chest and realizes his heart is pounding, too.

With slow movements, he reaches for his belt and scabbard, applying it to his waist.  While he attends to that, she walks over and takes his leather coat from the peg she’d hung it on days ago.  He slides his arms in and she pulls the collar up to his neck, rounding to the front of him to position the lapel and run her hands over the shoulders of the leather.  

Stepping back, she studies the finished product from head to toe while he does the same to her.  He’s Captain Hook again, but… not.  He’s Killian Jones, dressed up for a charade that he’s played many times.  And she’s costumed as a tavern wench with daggers in both her corset and her boot.

They’re ready.

They both move in the same instant, like opposing wave crashing together, the stormy kiss that follows filled with desperation – with promises to be careful – with fear and worry and too many other emotions to name.  She has no idea how long it lasts but their lips never part; the release of anxiety near brutal in its force.  But somewhere in the middle, it changes, lips softening and slowing, fingers gliding tenderly over chins and necks.  The gentleness doesn’t last, though, and it changes back, a whirlwind of passion that has them moaning into each other’s mouths.  Her fingers begin to ache from the hold she has on his collar, using it to guide his head first one way and then the next.  His head is at a severe tilt to delve his tongue deep when the knock sounds at the door.  They ignore it at first, too desperate for more time to break apart just yet, but when the insistent bang sounds, they regretfully separate.  

“Come in,” Killian calls, maintaining a vice grip on her waist when he turns to the door.  

Jeff, Patricia, Ruby and Dopey all walk in, Jeff and Patricia dressed as pirate and tavern wench as well, and they gather around the table, going over the details of the plan one last time.  

Once they’ve recapped the everything, Patricia looks to Ruby with nervous eyes.  “Remember, Ruby, Grace needs to stay below until we return. She won’t be happy about it but – ”

“Don’t worry,” Ruby interrupts, taking both Patricia’s hands in hers, “She and I are going to be in the galley.  I’ve promised to let her help me make some cookies.  My grandmother taught me how to shape them like animals and we’re going to put together a full menagerie by the time you return.”

“Thank you,” Patricia says, squeezing Ruby’s hands, the word filled with more than simple appreciation.

“We’ll keep her safe,” Ruby promises and Dopey nods vigorously in agreement.

“Dopey, you’ll be on deck,” Killian puts in, “Keep an eye open for anything suspicious.  And I mean anything. If, at any time you feel like there’s something amiss, send Ruby immediately and set sail.  Grace has been taught all of the commands for the Jolly and the old girl will answer to them.”  

Dopey nods again, placing his fist against his heart.

The Jolly’s bell rings and Killian looks up.  “Okay, that’s our cue.  I need to steer us into the harbor.  Jeff, Dopey, let’s get up there.”

He starts to turn but Emma catches his hand, pulling him back and into a fierce hug.  

“I’ll come back down once we’ve docked,” he breathes into her neck and she nods, too choked up to reply.

Emma paces the floor while she waits. She knows she needs to stay out of sight until Jeff and Killian have left and Dopey has given the signal, but she wishes she could be on deck with him, treasuring these last few minutes.  

The Jolly groans to a stop and Killian immediately appears, descending the ladder with haste saying, “There aren’t a lot of people about but they’re watching.  Jeff and I should move fast before more show up.”

His feet hit the floor and she’s in his arms before she can reply, his mouth solid and ravenous on hers. But now, there are too many words to say and with each break of lips they’re whispered urgently to the other.

“Be careful.”  “I’ll see you soon.”  “Stay with Patricia.”  “Don’t worry.”  “It will be fine.”  “It’s only a short while.”

Each utterance is punctuated with a deeper kiss, a tighter grip, until the words dissolve between their joined mouths and they’re clinging to each other with all their strength.  

Jeff’s boot lands hard near the opening of the hatch and their lips break long enough for Killian to glance toward the sound.  Swallowing hard, she tells herself to release him, to let go of his collar so he can leave with Jeff.  But she can’t let go.  She can’t let him leave without telling him…  He needs to know…  Just in case… When he looks back to her, his eyes are filled with the same conflict she feels, studying her with such intensity that her heart skips a beat.

“Killian…”

But he covers her lips with his thumb, his breathing heavy.  He wants to say it first.  She can feel it in the way his fingers reverently move from her chin to glide across her cheek. She can see it in the way he shuffles restlessly in front of her.

He wants to say it.  

“Emma, I…”

He wants to… but he’s still scared.

Say it.

His fingers contract in her hair.

I love you.

He shakes his head, blue eyes landing on hers with apology and regret shining in them.

“Please be safe, love. Please just…  Be safe.”

He’s gone before she can swallow the lump in her throat – before she can return the sentiment and her eyes fill with tears.  Be safe, she prays.  I love you.

The silence is deafening as she glances around the room.  The Jolly feels empty in his absence.

As does her heart.

K&EK&EK&E

 David’s stomach lurches when his feet land on solid ground again, the sensation of weightlessness not a pleasant one in the least, but he pushes past it, eagerly scanning the room for his wife.

“She’s not here,” Merlin says, immediately laying his hand over the one David was just about to move to his sword.  

“We need some supplies first,” he explains, “I can’t cast the spell with your blood alone.”

David’s posture relaxes. “So where are we then?” he asks.

“Regina’s storeroom. Just give me a few minutes to gather what we’ll need.”

David nods and eases back, scanning the room.  The light isn’t very good but it’s adequate enough and there’s a strange and musty smell in the air.  The walls are lined with cabinets, all of them with different sized drawers and Merlin busies himself with opening one after the next until he finds whatever it is he’s looking for.  With the wave of a hand, a fire ignites in the hearth, illuminating a black iron kettle hanging over the flames.  He works with impressive efficiency, tossing one thing after another into the pot.

After a time, David moves to the center of the room where a table is set up and he runs his finger over the rim of a bowl, glancing over to Merlin.

“Go ahead and ask,” the wizard says.

David frowns.  It’s annoying, this whole foresight thing. “Do I even need to?”

“You want to know why I didn’t help Arthur along a bit more, yes?”

“Yes,” David confirms.

“Well, here’s the thing,” the wizard says, still focused on his task, “I’m not a prophet.  I know that’s a common misconception, but I’m not the person who prophesied Arthur’s quest.  I was only the one to deliver it.  As to why I didn’t help more?”

He pauses there, and David gets the feeling he doesn’t really want to answer that question. Still, he straightens and turns, looking David directly in the eye.  “I couldn’t.”

“What do you mean you couldn’t?  Even if you’re not the prophet, you can see the future.  You could have given him more to go on.”

“Actually, no…” and now the reluctance is obvious, but his eyes stay on David, “because I can’t see that part.”

“What does that mean?” he asks.

“It means that none of my visions include Excalibur.”

David feels his eyes widen. “What?!  Why?”

Merlin goes back to his work, tossing something that looks like a dead insect into the kettle.  “I’m not positive, but I think it’s Excalibur itself that blocks my vision.  It’s the most powerful magical object in the world and, if myth is to be believed… it’s greedy.  That’s why it has the power to strip magical beings of their abilities.  It’s wants all the power to itself.”

David takes a moment to let that sink in.  “So you didn’t know where the dagger was, or even how to reunite the blades,” he surmises slowly.

Merlin nods, “And I don’t know how or when Excalibur will be used.  I can’t see anything relating to it.”

David exhales a long breath. “Which means you can’t tell me if Emma will be successful in using it against Regina.”

Merlin looks almost apologetic.  “Exactly.”

David feels like the wind has been knocked out of him, his head spinning.  He’d thought that having Merlin on their side nearly sealed victory but now…

“What have you seen?  Have you seen Snow awaken?  Have you seen the kingdom under her and my rule once again?”

Merlin is shaking his head and David’s pulse jumps to an alarming rate.  

“So Regina will win?” he asks, his voice so tight it’s almost imperceptible.

“I don’t know,” the wizard replies sadly.  “The last vision I have is you, reuniting with your daughter.  After that, everything goes black.”

Merlin turns away to check the potion but David senses there’s something else, something that’s weighing him down.  Then, with sudden and complete clarity, it comes to him.

“You can’t see it because you die?” he asks.

Merlin’s head raises but he doesn’t turn around.  “I don’t know,” he says again, a small sigh accompanying it.  He fiddles with the pot for another moment and then he turns, holding a vial in his hand.  

“It’s ready,” he says, dismissing any further conversation regarding his possible demise.  Crossing the room, he holds out a needle and the vial. “You just need to add one drop of your blood and then we’ll be able to trump Regina’s magic.”

David takes the needle and adds the required drop.

“Now, let’s go see your wife,” Merlin says, holding his hand out.

The weightless feeling is back but this time he’s more prepared and he lands with a solid ‘thunk,’ his eyes immediately searching…  and finding Snow, laid out on an alter only feet from where they landed.  

He walks forward in slow motion, his heart an odd mixture of hammering beats and pure peace.  She’s still stunning.  She’s still the fairest thing he’s ever seen and his ears buzz as he comes to a stop right next to her.  Her hands are folded serenely over her stomach, her gown still the same one he last saw her in.  Mesmerized, he reaches out to stroke her cheek but, before his fingers make contact, excruciating pain shoots up his arm and a blast of energy sends him flying through the air.  He has one split second to brace for the impact of the hard, stone floor but instead he lands on a thick, soft mattress.  

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist,” Merlin tells him with a mixture of sympathy and mirth, his eyebrow cocked at an amused angle, and David begrudgingly admits to himself that foresight isn’t as annoying when it’s saving your backside from a severe bruising.

“Thank you,” he says, getting back to his feet.

The wizard nods in acknowledgment and steps back from the alter, giving David enough room to approach his wife again.  This time he stops a few inches from her, his eyes drinking in every detail of her face. Slowly, he feels a grin spread across his features, just staring at the smooth skin, just watching the subtle rise and fall of her chest.  She’s gotten some gray at her temple, just like him but, somehow, it only enhances her beauty, the realization of which makes his heart feel lighter.

“Can she hear us?” he asks Merlin without looking away.

“I’m afraid she can’t, but there’s a chance we could…  send her a message, as it were.”

“How?” David asks, his eyes darting to the wizard.

Merlin looks a little hesitant to explain, his eyes lowering to the ground.  “A sleeping curse…  It’s not a pleasant place to be, but we could… invade that for a bit.”

“So I could talk to her?”

“Not in the conventional sense, but we could send her a memory.  It would have to be one that’s strong enough to push past the spell, but I feel certain we could accomplish it, if you want to try.”

“Yes,” David immediately responds.  “What do I need to do?”

“Take my hand,” Merlin replies, stepping up to stand next to him.

Merlin extends his other hand over Snow’s forehead as David reaches out but just before their fingers touch, he stops.

“Wait, will you be seeing the same thing?” he asks.

Merlin grins mischievously. “Yes, so if you could keep it PG, I’d appreciate it.”

“PG?” he asks in confusion.

Merlin’s grin grows. “Just… I’d rather not see your daughter’s conception, if you know what I mean.”

“Riiiight,” David replies.

Drawing a deep breath, David lands his palm against Merlin’s and closes his eyes, his vision immediately engulfed by the one memory that he prays will give her the most hope…

“And you can’t get married without this,” she says, pulling the pouch from under her arm and handing it to him.

It takes more effort than it should to look away from those enchanting green eyes so that he can open the pouch and inspect the contents.

He finds his mother’s ring and holds it up.  “I know, not your style, right?” he asks.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out…” she replies, her fingers closing around it and sliding it onto her finger before he can blink.  

She’s holding her hand out, her eyes focused on the gem when he feels the tug in his stomach, the air around them suddenly twinkling with… something. She darts her eyes between his and the ring for a moment and he can’t stop staring at how red her lips are, how immaculate her porcelain skin looks when it blushes the slightest bit.

“No, not me at all,” she says in an unconvincing tone, removing the ring and handing it back to him.

The memory goes blurry and something pulls at his lungs.  Gripping Merlin’s hand tighter, he skips ahead and rushes through the part he wants to remind her of most of all.

“If you ever need anything – ”  

“You’ll find me?”  

“Always.”

There’s a yank at his naval and he gasps for breath, coming back to the present in a dizzy fog that has spots appearing in his vision.  Another tug and he’s on the floor, the stone hard on his shoulder.  Shaking his head, he tries to focus but those spots, they’re not clearing, they’re flashing brighter and brighter and…

Reality snaps back, a crackling sound assailing his ears as he realizes those weren’t spots at all but the protective spell over Snow violently pulsing in and out over and over again until it dissipates with a final burst of light.  Stunned, he stares at the altar, Merlin’s hand holding a death grip on his arm from where he’d pulled him out of harm’s way.  

“That’s impossible,” Merlin whispers, his voice louder than it should sound due to the sudden stillness.

“What’s impossible?” David asks.

“The spell is down.”

“We broke it?” David asks in joyous disbelief, already gaining his feet.

Before Merlin has time to answer, a golden drawer along the back wall pops open, and David freezes, watching as a purple fog appears and surrounds it.  A whooshing sound fills the air, the smoke condensing in until it’s so thick it appears black, then with a loud crack, it vanishes.

“She needed a heart,” the wizard breathes.

The words jolt David out of his stupor and he launches toward Snow.  

“NO, David, DON’T!”

But he doesn’t heed the warning, not when he’s got this chance.  His hand finds her cheek, still as smooth as ever, and time seems to suspend around them.  He bends to kiss her, his eyes focused on the full, red lips…  Finally…  Finally, her eyes will open, she’ll say his name, she’ll smile at him for the first time in ages…  

 K&EK&EK&E

 Emma has to admire the efficiency with which Patricia operates.  Her mind is solely on the mission and she doesn’t waver once in her course as they trudge through the city.  She wonders vaguely how she came to know the streets so well (perhaps she lived here at one time?) but she doesn’t ask because the longer she’s away from Killian, the more nervous she becomes and she doesn’t want to delay the journey in any way.

As they wind their way through the streets, the rumbling of raised voices fills the air along with the aroma of spices and the smell of meat being cooked.  Two more turns and they’re in the marketplace and Emma nearly gasps at the grandeur of it.  It’s huge and alive with activity, children running through the tightly knitted booths with laughter ringing out in their wake, vendors calling out to advertise their wares, musicians playing their various instruments on corners with hats left out to collect tips from the consumers.

It’s the exact opposite of what Emma had anticipated.  She’d expected dirty streets and questionable people, something on the surface that would hint at the clandestine operations and outright violence the city is known for.   But the energy surrounding her is almost celebratory, and she finds herself smiling in wonder.  She’s just about to step past Patricia to get a better look when the woman shoots an arm out to stop her.

“A word of warning, Highness,” she whispers, “People here may look innocent, but not all are.  Keep your purse close.  There are pickpocketers everywhere.  And don’t flash your gold around.  That will make you a target faster than you can say ‘the Evil Queen is dead.’”

Emma nods, twining her fingers through her purse strings.

“Stay with me.  This place can turn in an instant.  It’s not unheard of for fights to break out in the streets but so long as we’re together, everything will be fine.”

Emma nods and Patricia enters the marketplace.  They browse several booths in an effort to blend in but they continue to steadily make their way to the center.  The vendors, themselves, are friendly and offer fair prices, selling anything from ladies’ ribbons to fresh grown vegetables to antique weapons.  The aroma is intoxicating as well, foreign spices hanging in the air along with the smell of cooked meats that are being sold on wooden skewers.  

As they round the last corner, something prickles under Emma’s skin, an uneasy feeling that has her searching in every direction.  Whatever it is, it’s got the hairs on the back of her head standing on end, but she’s distracted before she has time to consider it further by a resounding cheer that sounds for a juggler who is currently performing on a raised platform in the middle of the square.  

Her eyes immediately start looking for Killian.  The sun is starting to set which makes her search of the crowd take longer than it should and she’s just about to start panicking when a hush descends, a gap appearing on the other side of the crowd.  

He saunters in with his hook resting on the hilt of his sword and Jefferson standing to his right, both of them exuding danger and excitement.  A rush of astounded whispers ensues, the most prevalent of which is: ‘He’s alive,’ and Emma finds herself smiling when Killian quirks a brow at the crowd as if to respond, ‘Of course I’m alive.  Did you think for a second that the Evil Queen would best me?’

The appearance of Captain Hook is so disruptive that even the juggler loses his concentration and the batons he’d been flinging through the air clatter to the ground around him, bouncing off in different directions.  One of the batons rolls to a stop right in front of Killian and the astounded whispers quiet as the crowd watches with baited breath when Captain Hook bends to retrieve it.  

Examining it with vague interest, he expertly twirls it through his fingers and Emma can feel a new tension settle among the observers, none of them quite sure how he will react. In the end, though, he simply spins the baton off the tip of his thumb, tossing it up and catching it in one smooth motion before lobbing it back to its owner.  The juggler looks like he’s just earned a reprieve from the gallows and the audience lets out an audible sigh of relief on his behalf.  After gathering his other batons, the man looks to Killian again and Killian waves a hand at him in an indication that he should continue his performance.  

As soon as the man starts juggling again, Killian’s eyes seek out hers.  Emma has to hide the smile that threatens when Killian finds her, his shoulders sagging in noticeable relief.  Raising a brow, he tips his head toward the juggler with amusement and the smile she'd been trying to hold back spreads across her face.  She can certainly see why Jeff and Patricia didn't seem to mind this splitting up plan.  There's something exciting about being incognito, pretending to be someone else and fooling everyone around you.  

A cheer goes up when the juggler finishes his routine and the crowd begins to disburse.  Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Patricia nod to Jeff and they start moving away from the square, turning down a nearly deserted street of shops that have all closed up for the night.  She can hear Jeff’s and Killian’s footsteps behind them as they walk but she doesn’t look back.  Patricia keeps up a casual conversation, making it appear that Emma (Gwen) is new to the city and she is showing her around.  

After another turn, Patricia slows and indicates with her head toward one of the buildings.  When Emma looks, she sees a sign hanging above the door that reads, simply, ‘Mable’s.’

“She’s one of the best seamstresses in the city,” Patricia says.  “I wonder if she’d be available to mend this rip in my dress.”

“It looks like the shop is closed for the night,” Emma replies, in an effort to play along.

Patricia rolls her eyes, pulling Emma along behind her.  “Nonsense, she’s an old friend of mine.  I bet if we stop for a visit, she’d do it without my even asking.”

Mable is a kindly looking older woman with a round belly and a welcoming smile.  She’s obviously surprised to see Patricia but she recovers quickly and invites them in for tea.  As soon as the door shuts, Mable’s arms wrap around Patricia in a crushing hug. “I’ve been so worried.  Are Jeff and Hook with you?”

“Yes, they’re coming in the back.”  

The three of them hurry to the back and when Killian walks in, Emma is already moving to embrace him but Mable beats her to it, nearly knocking down both men with how forcefully she hugs them.

“How dare you two lads worry me like this!  I’ve been terrified since I heard that story of black knights attacking the Jolly.”  

“We didn’t mean to, I assure you,” Jeff sooths, patting Mable on the back.

It’s another minute before she releases them but she keeps a hand in each of theirs, stepping back to appraise them.  Emma notices the way her chest expands, looking at both of them like a proud mother who hasn’t seen her children in too long.

“Well, the two of you together again,” she says wistfully, cupping both of their cheeks.  “I’m so happy to see you.  And look at you, Jeff, all dressed up like a pirate.  I’d forgotten how handsome you were with that kohl.”

Jeff rocks back on his heels with a smug smile, winking at his wife and Killian clears his throat loudly.

Mable laughs, “And you, Hook, how could anyone forget those eyes of yours?  Two of the most stunningly handsome men to sail the seas.”

Patricia scoffs, “Please Mable, their egos don’t need any more puffing up – ”

But Mable shushes her, “I can puff them up if I want to.  They saved my life – and yours – and everyone else’s back home.  I think that warrants a little ego puffing.  But – while I’m sure you two would enjoy another hour of me fawning over you, I don’t think that’s the point of your visit.”

“No, it’s not,” Jeff says.

Mable motions to the stairs. “Well, you’d best come in then. I’ll make some tea and we’ll talk.”

Jeff, Patricia and Mable start up the steps and Emma goes to follow but Killian’s hook catches her wrist and hauls her into his chest.  

It’s a long, relief-filled kiss that ends with an affectionate rubbing of his nose against hers while his hand weaves itself into her hair.  They breathe the same air for several heartbeats before he steps back and waves his hook toward the stairwell.  

“After you, love,” he says with a twinkle in his eye and Emma precedes him up the steps.  

Mable eyes them suspiciously over the tea service she’s carrying as they walk into the room, her eyes darting to their interlaced fingers.  After setting the tea on the table, she straightens and heads directly toward Emma.

“I don't believe I've had the pleasure,” she says, blocking Emma’s path.  

Jeff sniggers and Patricia lifts a hand to cover her grin.

“This is Gwen,” Killian lies easily, “We met in Arendelle a few weeks ago.”

Mable’s eyes narrow, looking Emma up and down and crossing her arms. “In Arendelle, you say?” she asks thoughtfully, tapping her foot on the floor, “Another site of recent black knight activity.”  

Emma is shocked by the implication the old woman adds to her tone, sudden and clear distrust in her eyes.

“What was your story?” she asks, stepping into Emma’s personal space, “It must have been a good one to weave your way onto Hook’s ship.”

“She's not a spy, Mable,” Killian says, pulling Emma back so that he can step between the two of them.

“How do you know?” Mable asks. “Don't you find the timing a bit suspicious?”

“Believe me, she's no spy and her story is her own.”

Killian’s voice has turned hard and Mable stares him down, searching his eyes until she’s satisfied with whatever she sees there.  After a beat, she steps back with a nod, and Emma is surprised how quickly that stubborn look morphs into a full-fledged grin.  “Well then, you should let her come in so I can get a look at her.”

Killian steps away and Mable raises her hands to Emma’s cheeks.  The assessing look she gives her makes her want to squirm but she manages not to, holding her gaze steady while Mable makes her appraisal.  

“You’d better treat him right, girl, or you'll have me to answer to,” the woman says with meaning and Emma feels her cheeks flush when Killian chuckles next to her.  

“Now,” Mable says, indicating for everyone to sit, “I'm sure you're here looking for information but the most popular rumors going around are one’s you would know the most about. What the hell happened?  How did black knights get aboard the Jolly and why are the two of you here together? What's so important that you'd risk Hook’s cover?”

“Regina has figured out our little plot, Mable,” Jeff says grimly.  “She had Grace kidnapped and forced me to allow her knights onto the Jolly.”

Mable’s eyes widen, already starting to rise.  “Where is she?  Is she okay? Do you need my help to find her? I’ll kill – ”

“She’s fine.  We got her back,” Patricia sooths, laying a hand on Mable’s shoulder and pushing the feisty old woman back into her chair. “She’s aboard the Jolly.  We just wanted to make sure it was safe before we brought her into town.”

Mable looks overwhelmingly relieved but it doesn’t last.  “So, the Evil Queen knows, does she?” she comments thoughtfully, “That would explain a lot.”

“Explain what?” Killian asks.

“Got a message from Will that she showed up personally to investigate Hook’s escape,” Mable replies gravely, “Ransacked Jeff’s store, killed some poor woman at the tavern before Queen Katherine stepped in.”

Killian stiffens beside her, everyone falling silent to gather their thoughts.

“So, she’s coming after me herself,” Killian murmurs softly.

“She’s coming after all of us,” Patricia points out.

“Well, she wouldn’t have found anything at the store,” Jeff says, “Will and the others would have cleaned it out as soon as they realized we were gone, so she won’t have any leads on where to start looking.  Everyone’s cover should be safe.”

There’s another pause in conversation before Patricia speaks up. “What about here, Mable?  Has anything out of the ordinary happened?”

“Nothing that I’ve heard about.  No one has missed a check-in and the most recent batch of supplies was sent out to Misthaven yesterday.  Joseph and Phoebe checked in two days ago – they own the tavern now, you know – and the most interesting things going around there are the number of theories surrounding Hook’s escape and The Hatter’s disappearance.”

“My disappearance?” Jeff asks.  “I didn’t think that would be common knowledge.”  

“Well, apparently, it is and the two of you are causing quite a few debates.  Most people are of the opinion that they are unrelated incidents but there are a few who believe they are somehow connected.”

“Connected how?”

Mable shrugs, her eyes landing on Killian.  “Some think that the Evil Queen attacking Captain Hook indicates that he’s not all he seems to be,” she says with meaning, “They figure if the Evil Queen is after him, there must be a reason.  Some have even taken to the theory that he and The Hatter are partners.”

She stops there but keeps her eyes on Killian and Emma gets the feeling she’s walked into the middle of an old argument.

“Well, we’re not going to confirm or deny any of that, if that’s what you’re thinking,” Killian says.

Mable presses her lips together stubbornly but doesn’t comment.  

Patricia, though, shows no such restraint. “We could, you know?”

“But we won’t,” Killian replies with finality.

“Why not?” Jeff argues. “The point was to keep the connection from Regina and she knows now, so why – ”

“And how would we do it?” Killian interrupts with sarcasm.  “You want me to just make an announcement in the middle of the tavern?  No one would believe it.”

“I could do it,” Jeff says.

“And why would they believe you?” Killian asks.  “No one knows what The Hatter looks like.  You think you can just waltz in there, say you’re The Hatter and everyone will trust you?”  

The three of them all deflate at that and Killian softens his tone. “Look, I know none of you like it, but Jeff’s anonymity and my reputation is the backbone of this operation and we all know it.  I don’t need to be seen as a hero.  What I need is the air of ruthlessness.  That’s what makes ships surrender as soon as they see the Jolly’s sails.  If you start painting me as some benevolent soul, they may not be so eager to raise their white flags.”

Emma’s heart thuds in her chest, only now realizing how difficult it must have been on him to keep up the pirate persona all these years.  It’s obviously something Jeff, Patricia and Mable don’t want for him, but he’s done it anyway.  And he did it to save lives.  Her heart surges with love and she links her fingers with his, drawing his gaze to hers and earning a squeeze of his hand.

There’s a moment of silence before Jeff acquiesces. “Fine, we’ll continue with the charade,” he says with a sigh, dismissing the subject.  “Is there anything else Mable?”

“Nothing,” she replies, looking less than happy herself.

Jeff pushes to his feet. “Well, then, we’ll head to the tavern just to make sure nothing new has happened and, if nothing is amiss, we’ll be back tomorrow with Grace in tow.”

Mable stands as well, giving Jeff a hug. “I’ll get some rooms ready for you.  You’re welcome to stay here until you get settled.”

“Thank you, Mable,” Patricia says, hugging the old lady as well.

Emma is surprised when she’s the next to receive a hug from the woman, her eyes warm and full of appreciation. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Gwen. I can’t tell you how happy I am that Hook finally found a woman who can put up with him.”

She smiles at Hook over Emma’s shoulder and pulls him into the hug as well, and if Emma’s not mistaken, her eyes mist when she steps back.

“Now, off with you youngsters.  And bring that sweet child to see me tomorrow.  I’ve got a dress I made from the last batch of silk you sent me that will be beautiful on her.”

K&EK&EK&E

 David’s lips are less than a hairsbreadth away from Snow’s, his heart full of joy and his soul content. He’s about to have his wife back. The dream that has kept him sane over the past several years is about to be realized.  She’ll be by his side when they see their daughter again.  They’ll be together when the Evil Queen is defeated and they reclaim their kingdom…

But then –

Pain.  

Pain like nothing he’s ever felt blossoms on his side – a burning and all-consuming pain that penetrates every cell of his being before he’s ripped away from heaven by a lightning fast yank on his arm.  

He’s on the floor and he can’t breathe, Merlin’s hand frantically swiping over the blood stain that runs from his shoulder all the way to his knee.  “She only lowered the spell long enough to call the heart to her,” the wizard tells him through the haze, “You were standing in its path when it reappeared.”

His lungs are on fire, the memory of that pain lingering on the outskirts of his of consciousness. It felt like he was being cut in half, like a blade was slicing right through him and it hits him hard just how close he was to death for that instant.  

“Blood magic.  It’s dangerous stuff,” Merlin murmurs.

David nods, unable to do anything else.  His lungs are still protesting with exertion, like he’s just run a mile at top speed but slowly air becomes easier to breath.  Merlin stays crouched next to him until he has recovered, looking more than a little concerned.  Finally, his breath returns and he’s able to focus his thoughts again, his eyes landing on the wall of drawers.

“Whose heart did she need?” he wonders aloud.

“I don’t know, but it wasn’t mine,” Merlin replies, standing and offering his hand.

“What?  What do you mean it wasn’t yours?  She has your heart?”

“Yes.  Mine is in the fourth drawer from the left, second row down,” the wizard tells him while pulling him to his feet, “Which is another reason we need to get this spell cast.  There’s no telling what she could command me to do if she gets desperate.”

David doesn’t reply and Merlin turns away to get back to business, waving his hand over Snow in a wide arc.  As he does, the silvery dome of Regina’s spell shimmers into sight and this time David traces along the edge with his eyes, only now seeing the way the barrier also protects the line of golden drawers behind his wife.  The second wave of Merlin’s hand produces a second dome about a foot away from the first.  Without a word, the wizard tips the vial over the glistening air and the seemingly fragile dome solidifies and burns bright red for a long instant that David can feel pulling at his veins.  Then the wizard steps back and, without looking at him, reaches out to touch it. There’s a loud sizzle when Merlin’s fingers meet the edge and he snatches his hand away as the dome glows bright again.

“Now, you,” Merlin says.

David approaches carefully, lifting his arm in front of him.  The closer he gets to the barrier, the faster his blood pumps but when he makes contact, his heart calms instantly and his hand pushes through without a single ounce of discomfort.  

“Excellent,” he hears Merlin say.

David realizes then that he’s been holding his breath and it whooshes out in a relieved huff.  

“We should get going before a patrol of black knights finds us.”  

“I’m not leaving,” David declares.

Merlin rounds on him in surprise.  (Apparently, even the most esteemed wizard there has ever been can be caught off guard upon occasion.)  

“Your Majesty,” he tries to reason, “there’s nothing more you can do here.  You’ll be discovered – ”

“Have you seen that?”

“Well, no, but visions aren’t like watching movies.  I don’t see everything, only bits and pieces…”

David ignores the ‘movie’ reference, cutting back in, “Then you don’t know if I’ll be discovered.”

“I know there are other things you need to do and I know you can’t do them if you’re here!”  

The argument on David’s tongue deflates, his eyes moving to Snow’s angelic face.  Dammit, this is torture of the acutest kind.  Being this close and being denied.  He’d touched her – his fingers are still tingling from her skin – he’d nearly awoken her.

If only he’d been quicker…  

If only he’d had ten more seconds…  

If only…

If only he had another chance.

And maybe he will…

“Regina could lift the spell again,” he says with rushed words as the idea forms in his head, “It was down long enough.  If it happens again, I could get her outside the spell, then awaken her.  It could work.  Regina will need to put the heart back, won’t she?  Obviously, she doesn’t carry them around if they’re all here. She’ll lift the spell to put it back and I’ll move Snow as soon as it’s down.  It may not even be that long to wait.  Maybe if we just – ”

David cuts off his furious train of thought when he turns to Merlin, the image he sees making his heart freeze mid-beat.

Merlin’s eyes are glossed over, his irises not even visible.  He’s standing completely still, hands at his sides but his breathing heavy and quick.  It must be a vision, he thinks to himself, curiosity and unease filling his stomach with a heavy weight.  

The wizard gasps and coughs as he comes out of it and David has to catch him to keep him from falling to the floor.  After blinking several times, his irises return to their original brown, but they’re filled with alarm.  

“She won’t be putting the heart back,” he says, “and we have to go.  Right now.  Emma needs help.”

Not as much CS in this chapter, but a lot of important stuff. The next one is slow going... but I hope to have it posted without too much delay. Wish me luck! And as always, I welcome your comments and theories!

[tenaciouscupcaketaco]

Mario William Vitale’s Poetry

Bio Of Mario William Vitale The language and images of Mario Vitale's poetry are so closely bound to the natural cycles of seasons, of generations, of the body's functioning, that is surprising to realize how many of his poems deal with uprootedness. But this poetry is not sentimental celebration of the goodness of nature, and harmony with the world is never assumed. The way he captures the tenuousness of this faith, the balance that must be found between the ugliness, the harshness of his history- both natural annd social- and its intense beauty, is what distinguishes Vitale's poetry, gives it its depth and dimension: Mario William Vitale Biography I was born in 1970 Bristol hospital. A young nurse took me in her arms and said that I would one day become a success, As the years would pass I was heavy in the arts used to sing and act. Was an altar boy at St. Pius Church. In time I would act in my senior class play, "The Mystery Of Edwin Drood" Where I had the lead role as the Narrator, I touched many hearts with that performance in 1989, Was hospitalized with mono that same year for two weeks long, Also that same year I became prom king of my class Wolcott High School, After the break up with my first grilfriend in 1989 I wrote the poem entitled, "Remembrance of a loved one" where I had it published on poetry.com Attempted plays: Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade, (His poetic aspirations had derived at 18 in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum) Attended Central Connecticut State University For Creative Writing: 1997 Next from 1989-1997 (Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry) , * Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ", (1998)Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland". Back with rave reviews! * (From 1999-2008: Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: (1999- Sent Editorial to: New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie; Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached, * 2000-2007: Magazine: (Catholic)Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset! 2008- Wrote poem entitled: (The Heavy Cross)to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy; (The Connecticut Poetry Society) * Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia Writers Quarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry. Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return, Thankfulness toward family and friends.(To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted? My contemporary artists include that of Ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and Carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry Having been a member since 2006, My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Poe. Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creative passion! The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a very positive light.) After experiencing a life transformation encounter.I had realized that poetry is my unique way to convey myself my work speaks from the heart with pure sentiments of though intact, As the years passed I would write over 4,000 poems and 5 short stories toward my platform, My poetry is based on the free verse style of writing, Was published in 10 venues such as Writerscafe, Neopoet, Hello poetry, Poem Hunter, Booksie, Poetryvibe, Poetrysoup, Starlifecafe.com, Poets Know It & poetry.com... I was saved by God at the tender age of nine in Charlotte Carolina where I came to know the Lord that was in 1979, Today I continue to write poetry was published on Spillwords, High On Poetry, Tuck Magazine & Setu Magazine. My main emphasis in writing poetry is to share with the mass populace touching many hearts. Hope you can read my poetry. Sea Stacks skipped rocks through a stream today the opening of a brand new day its frame is in minor decay the bleached wood massed in bone piles, we pulled it from dark beach and built fire in a fenced clearing the posts' blunt stubs sank down the circled and were roofed by milled lumber dragged at one time to the coast We slept there Each morning the minus tide- weeds flowed it like hair swimming The starfish gripped rock, pastel, rough. Fish bones lay in sun Each noon the milk fog sank from cloud cover, came in our clothes and held them tighter on us. Sea stacks stood and disappeared They came back when the sun scrubbed out the inlet Life Force through the flame cover me in silent sound dignity for with what one is willing to achieve valiantly feel the breeze nestled through the trees shaped through your dreams a piercing of the skin new hearts to begin again Choices Many have a hard time understanding They live for self and that of society They are the walking dead yet they don't even know it Eyes with blackened spots having holes Viscous fangs with blood dripping off the side You share with them the truth They choose to run away & hide Yet deep inside they may still question Why am i here ? They can't even help you Cause they won't help themselves They are the scum of the land Much too afraid to stand among the son of man A bitter taste Do they want salt or sugar coated messages Positive reinforcement strengthens the heart Negativity kills it Each of us has been given a choice We must lend a helping hand with a voice All of us have been given a choice Now which pathway will you choose ? Emerald City There’ll be no unemployment in heaven. No worry about the next meal. There’ll be no bills to harass us, and thieves will not break in and steal. In heaven, we’ll have no need for money; Everything up there will be free. We’ll enjoy God’s unsearchable riches, and have unending security. I’m looking forward to heaven, that land that is fairer than day. Where all will be joy and gladness, and sorrow and care will flee away. Up there, no mean words will be spoken. Each heart will be filled with pure love. We’ll never be hurt or rejected, in the beautiful city above. There will be no disappointment or heartache. God will wipe all the tears from our eyes. No one will ever be lonely, and there’ll be no anguished good-byes. Up there, the love we have for each other, by each heart will be shared equally. And we’ll have all the things that we’ve longed for, and at last we will really be free Little Angel Hope springs a new On a cloud in heaven Stand a heavenly angel With mere beauty of crystalized light Golden emblems encrusted their frame Sweet songs drifting to a very faint whisper Eyes, hands & face A real message sent down to earth To care for those lonely souls all alone There beauty is a surprise to encounter Slipping through locked doors to appear Many have shed a tear to numb the inner pain Causing accidents not to happen They appear in the form of brightened miracles We see them with a heart all a glow Come to the birth of a new born baby Come to servicemen who just joined the navy You will see them at a graveyard setting Even among gamblers who do there betting There all around us you see For all of life is but a mystery These Flames I Live turn back the tear drop pillow I'm sick to my stomach suffering alone and hard piercing cavity of viscious fangs that bite illusive impulsive the rant These flames I live my right to forgive undercover beyond the means living in a land of mean barren sea a shot in the dark to light the spark many are left in rebellion what an incredible talent Vitale is he is the poet of all poets the moment you met him perfect ten a chick lying with her hens a quest... flaws and failures yes he wears Depends a trip to the zoo nothing new Laughter Laughter fills the scented air through days exposed the timeless hour of a loathsome mast expounded upon the cavity of debris develop a grateful heart that one may impart look close through a pillar of glass a vergence sea out beyond the interpass a halo with a song to help you get along the sight of a fawn on the lawn greed and materialism will crush out the light in your life penetration by the holy spirit a heart change has to happen one must be open to the message care for your brother help for your pale sister one ear on the floor a cause for more through fetters got it made to even out the score Unending Brigade I ask myself politely what resistance flowers here against love treaded lightly or losing lovingness dear? give cadence to the simple, for I gave ammunition to the laughter we should we ever falter the timeless whisper of happening golden nuggets of thought & inspiration braids my hair with a great deal of wear through the conclaves of love's fastened grip shadows block the vortex to aid its message The Dream Police they come to my head at the side of my bed they are enforcing my sleep give cadence to a treat a far from ports unknown like a dog without a bone giving tickets to be enforced every time I have a dream forces scream Of Time & Dreams Father's gold pocket watch measured heartbeats, times for surgery and the slow drip of an IV all else in his life was overture to main events, like birth and death of those the family never knew Steps from my childhood dreams to his were counted in places where treasure were wet pebbles and the pulse of life was seen in raindrops on the lake now the watch is mine, and i yearn to throw it like a pebble into the past, to see it skip and yield to places we never shared, like blue-green eddies near the shore and grasses curled by the win Yet, warming in my palm, the measurer of his days seems to sing the music of turning points where drying dreams meet others born anew, emerging through images of caring to rhythms more than metrical that i've yet to understand The Land Of Dreams When you fall asleep at night, your mind goes into an eerie flight You can open the gate with the key of thought, and don't have to do what you've been taught You sing, and dance, and prance all day and you act so happy and also gay You run in circles and run into the trees, and cut your elbows and scrape your knees But sometimes you open the wrong gate, and find yourself facing a terrible fate There are monsters, ghouls and also grouches, and then you wish you were on confortable couches And when you're done and almost through, your mind knows exactly what to do you go back through that eerie flight it may be day it may be night And when your mind comes back to you, you may wake up and have the flu You could leave for school very late, and find out that it's the wrong date And you could play outside in the streams but you will know that you entered "The Land Of Dreams." Old Crow Old crow Tired and lazy' against the day Dark skies Lost in blacks and whites and grays Howling north wind Sure takes a man's fight away Wastelands, A dreamer's home on his best day Hard rain Drops the leaves and makes the colors fade And talks cheap, But for the words of time they'll ave the last say Oh the words of time, they'll have the last say And the harvest is in, it wasn't much May I have enough to get by The baskets were light, not a muscle ached And somehow I feel I'm going to die The winter is coming and the signs say hard I've never seen such a haunting sky For on the mountains, frost in the wind And somehow I feel I'm going to die Full moon Lonely above the old oak tree line Old crow Hanging empty in the black sky And a nighthawk Circles her in silence as she flies Old crow, all alone she flies Pheonix the blazing glory of a loving night Disappears in the sun's bright morning light All efforts to recall that glorious pain Fade in the dawn to be sought in vain but the memory clings of precious glory that will not become an old, dull story instead that memory promises anew that love will spring forth and again renew with every joining of two loving souls again will emerge from the fading coals a love renewed by the glowing embers so that this night, too, will be remembered. Soul Search When I look into your eyes I see the sunshine and rain, The deeper I look and also see Various kinds of pain; I can see the kind, warm love that filters thru, To surface at the top when you’re not blue, I have seen and know your hopes and fears The good and bad times you have thru years, You have seen and felt so much I’m glad our lives did touch Look deep into my eyes and you will find The heartaches and happiness that were also mine Come With Me Come with me and be my friend Lets create a fantasy just you & me lets linger through the wind and feel free lets run through the sand and make time stand still so we can treasure this moment Only until The mystical ocean touches our souls and fills our hearts with love come with me and I'll show you What I have to give come with and I'll describe The life I dreamed we'd live come with and hold me gently and watch the retiring sun slowly set Shower me with all your love pretending we just met Whenever you need me I'll be there To help lift your spirits and I want to care About you come with and be my love no longer a fantasy just you & me This time only A reality... Mario William Vitale. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform. Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson. Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct. Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet Personifications Of Oceanic Thoughts whispers sun lit morn the surf hits the turf smells of salt air through the moment savor each moment as the memory lasts bask in the vast expanse between time & space sounds of children playing seaweed next to the rocks along the cobblestone walkway solace torn up in the derision of peace with solidarity we were made for moments such as these seagulls flock overhead remember me in thoughts as these whisk through the breeze capture one's inner sense alas with angelic fervor permeates a flame of life's torn reality a new to face the day Follow Your Heart Magic breathes life in our hearts Destiny resides in our souls Our path now shimmers unshadowed by the night With one embrace partnered by a tender kiss, the bounds of time and distance crumble through fingers like drifting grains of sand Dream time is the place where I am alive Green eyes ripple into lipid pools where miracles draw me to your heart I am free to swim by your side until the sun sets and rises with you again Life is my dream I love you Cynthia When at night I close my eyes, to think all the days gone by, to feel again those passions past, and feeble joy that never lasts, I'm always drawn to thoughts of you, my only love my Cynthia I think I found you in a dream then we celebrate, the night I pressed beyond the seam, where fantasy and reality meet in summer mist so soft and sweet, But you were all I ever felt, my deepest love, my Cynthia But dreams just last within the night, when morning came, Her soul took flight I awake to find Her never there She passes like the misty air To leave me longing and alone, my painful love, my Cynthia Enigma love you swell the heart, to crush the same when lovers part But whether love and joy you bring or bitter pain and Death's cold sting I plead you come to me again, my final love, My Cynthia For My Precious Son You're standing in the doorway. Your workday is all done. He waits to see you everyday, this boy that is your son. He hopes you will go fishing. He hopes you'll shoot the gun. He just wants to be with you, this boy that is your son. He is your spitting image. To him you are ''The One''. He hopes to be just like you, this boy that is your son. You show him what a man is. You teach as you have fun. You are admired as well as loved by this boy that is your son. You've got a friend forever. Until the world is done. Then, still you will be holding this man that is your son. I'm Just A Poetical Lyricist I’m just having fun, but no doubt someone will take this serious I’m about to take you on a lyrical experience I’m having fun with words, like when a baby first starts reading books Saying I’m good at rhyming, Is like saying Mike Tyson packs a decent punch I best mention the Kardashians other wise you’ll have trouble keeping up Me with a pen is more dangerous than Michael Myers on Halloween when he starts slashing with the knife Telling me I can’t rhyme, is the biggest mistake you’ve made since you let your ex Back in to your life Speaking of exes, will someone please date mine I promise she’ll give you a great time I’ll pay for the date, its all on me All I ask, is please be good enough to get her to stop calling me I love Hip Hop, and yeah I know I’m white Please be creative and tell me how I’m the new Vanilla ice Or how I should walk right back across 8 mile I could have thrown this into my waste pile But I just wanted to write some joke lines and have some fun Sick of hearing rappers talk about drugs and how they pack a gun “yeah I’m Bad. I’ll make this Uzi Squirt” You don’t know who Nas is, And think the greatest rapper is Lil Uzi Vert Or some other mumble rapper with lame rhymes You deserve to have Biggie and Big Pun sit on you at the same time Some guy called Young Thug is wearing dresses That’s not something I have a problem with My problem is There’s so much going on in the world and these rappers are scared to address it What happened to Hip-Hop when rappers would share a message? Nas, Big Daddy Kane, Slick Rick, I could name so many more Now its a bunch of dudes who sound the same with empty thoughts I’d pretend to be from the hood and blast guns but I’d fail I’d rather be the real me, and I’m far too cute to go to Jail I just love Hip Hop and the way it used to be You always get the truth from me someone tell Rihanna I’m ready to give her the best 30 seconds of her life Tell her she’ll only regret it if I become a legend when I die Knowing she could of had me This is my last piece of paper, I’m now pad free I was watching rap battles on YouTube, So took you on this lyrical experience I’m just a poetical lyricist Rapula back in the day where hustlers stayed there were those very afraid he was born in the gutter his momma was a vamp selling her junk in the trunk of a car up all night slept all day he was blown from the frey viscious fangs that bite two turn tables with a mic insisted on a fight sucking the innocent patrons for blood right in the hood like you knew he would Rapula the man, the myth & the legend could very often see him in the back of a seven eleven drinking red slurpees took folks block by block like giving him a heart attack just to fit his mold no one came against him until that day in the crib Rapula lost his lobster bib very often you will see him at the 8th Street Station spinning his records there will never be another blood sucking brother so move over he's taking cover Rapula wore a high hat tip on his temple driving a white Benz looking like Baretta I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me Supernatural but it's so true the world ha

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Inside Backpage.com’s Vicious Battle With the Feds

In Michael Lacey’s younger and more vulnerable years, his father gave him this advice: “Whenever someone pokes a finger in your chest, you grab that finger and you break it off at the knuckle.” Lacey grew up in the 1950s as a bright, bookish boy. His father, a sailor turned enforcer for a New York construction union, had little use for his son’s intellectual gifts. If Lacey lost a fight at school, he says, his dad “came home and beat me again.” But the boy toughened up, and he carried the lessons he’d learned into adulthood. He became a newspaper editor and earned a reputation as a down-and-dirty First Amendment brawler. Early on in his career, he struck up a partnership with James Larkin, a publisher whose sensibilities matched his own. Together, they built the nation’s largest chain of alternative newsweeklies.

Lacey and Larkin were heroes to many—micks from the sticks who made a fortune thumbing their shanty-Irish snouts at authority. Their papers went after mayors and police chiefs, governors and senators, Walmart and the Church of Scientology. They provoked outrage with their business practices too, by setting up Backpage.com, a kind of red-light district for the internet. As attorney Don Moon, the pair’s longtime adviser, puts it: “Their brand was always ‘Fuck you. We don’t have friends. We have lawyers.’ ” That approach served them well for 45 years, right up until the morning Michael Lacey found himself staring into the barrel of a Glock.

A few minutes before 9 am on April 6, 2018, a fleet of unmarked vehicles with government plates rolled up in front of Lacey’s multimillion-dollar compound in Paradise Valley, a few miles outside of Phoenix. These weren’t the guests he’d been expecting. The 69-year-old divorced father of two had recently gotten remarried, and he was preparing to host a lavish party to celebrate his vows. Tents were pitched on his lawn; retired journalists and overworked lawyers were winging their way into town. FBI agents informed the groom that he was being arrested on charges of money laundering and facilitating prostitution. They cuffed him, then subdued the home’s other occupants, including Lacey’s 76-year-old mother-in-law, whom they ordered out of the shower at gunpoint.

For the next six hours, the lawmen tossed the compound looking for, among other things, “evidence of wealth.” They seized art, cash, computers, even the bride’s wedding ring. Meanwhile, at the Phoenix airport, federal marshals awaited a 747 inbound from London. When it touched down, the flight crew made an announcement: Police would be boarding, so passengers must stay put. “I wondered who they were there for,” recalls Larkin, then 68, who was seated beside his son in business class. “I quickly figured out it was me.” (The Department of Justice declined to comment on the arrests.)

Partygoers soon received a cryptic text message. Owing to “unforeseen circumstances,” it said, the wedding celebration had been “postponed.” A notice went up on Backpage, explaining that the website had been seized “as part of an enforcement action.” More than a few guests completed the journey to Phoenix anyway; reporters can’t resist a story, and Lacey had already paid for a block of rooms at the Hotel Camby. They gathered at various local watering holes, offering what one attendee describes as “toasts to the accused,” and pieced together a gripping narrative—a tale of free-speech crusaders crossed over to the dark side, dedicated news­hounds become digital pimps.

Backpage, the domain that brought the federal government down on Lacey and Larkin’s heads, wasn’t much to look at—a bare-bones interface wrapped in Facebooky blue, similar to Craigslist in both form and function. Its name alluded to the old days of print publishing, when classified ads, especially ads for topless bars, escort services, and other sexually oriented businesses filled the final pages of alt­-weeklies and provided much of their revenue. Visitors to the site were greeted with several columns of links, which directed them to listings for various metropolitan areas around the country. From there, they could reply to ads or write their own.

Many of the ads—for auto parts, part-time gigs, vacation rentals, and so on—were free to publish. But the lewd stuff, listed under the adult section, cost money. For as little as $2 a day, users could post in such categories as “body rubs” and “dom & fetish.” The site’s terms of use prohibited any content that could be considered “unlawful,” “harmful,” or “obscene.” To gain access to the adult section, all users had to do was click a link confirming they were 18 or older. Once inside, they saw an endless scroll of titles, some laden with innuendo (“Cum lay your hotdog on my bun for memorial day”), others more explicit (“Three holes anything goes $90”).

As in the print days, these adult ads reigned supreme. In 2011 they accounted for 15 percent of Backpage’s listings but generated more than 90 percent of its revenue. By the time the Feds pulled the plug on the site, it was operating in 97 countries and was valued at more than half a billion dollars. People called it the Google of commercial sex ads, a platform that dominated its market as thoroughly as Facebook dominated social networking or Amazon did online retail.

The government indictment that triggered Lacey and Larkin’s arrests, United States v. Lacey, et al., includes 17 “victim summaries”—stories of women who say they were sexually exploited through Backpage. Victim 5 first appeared in an ad on the platform when she was 14; her “customers” made her “perform sexual acts at gunpoint, choked her to the point of having seizures, and gang-raped her.” Victim 6 was stabbed to death. Victim 8’s uncle and his friends advertised her as “fetish friendly.” The indictment accuses Backpage of catering to sexual predators, of essentially helping pimps better reach their target audiences.

In the years before their arrest, Lacey and Larkin had successfully beat back charges like these in court. They took refuge not only in the First Amendment but also in Section 230 of the Communications Decency Act, Congress’ great gift to the internet. Passed in 1996, Section 230 largely immunized online platforms from liability for the user-­generated content they hosted. They were free to police offending material as they saw fit, without undue fear of prosecution by state or local authorities—as long as they didn’t create it themselves. America’s tech behemoths, from Twitter to Facebook, have often invoked Section 230 in court. The internet we have today wouldn’t exist without it. After all, you can’t build or sustain a giant network if you’re getting sued every time a user says or does something objectionable.

For a while, Lacey and Larkin’s strategy had worked: They’d won case after case, with the support of Big Tech and civil libertarians alike. But by the time the Feds descended on Paradise Valley that morning in the spring of 2018, the tide had turned. Many of their friends and allies had fled, spooked in part by too much bad press. The tech industry, which faced withering scrutiny over its role in the outcome of the 2016 presidential election, had thrown them under the bus. Their top lieutenant had flipped. And Congress had used them as an excuse to finally accomplish what it had been trying to do for more than 20 years—tear a hole in Section 230.

Maybe they should have seen it coming: The betrayals. The asset seizures. The changing zeitgeist. They were, to be sure, brazenly cashing in on the sex trade. But here’s the thing: Silicon Valley had better hope they win. United States v. Lacey is a dangerous case, with potential consequences far beyond the freedom of two aging antiauthoritarians.

A view from Paradise Valley, looking out onto Camelback Mountain.

Jesse Rieser

It’s a mid-November afternoon in 2018, and Mike Lacey and Jim Larkin are seated on either side of the 20-foot-long glass table that dominates Lacey’s living room. They’re clad in jeans, polos, and ankle monitors. A black charging cord snakes from a wall outlet to Lacey’s left foot, which emits an occasional beep.

Both men are out on million-dollar bonds, secured by real estate the government eventually hopes to own. The bulk of the charges against them fall under the Travel Act, a law designed by Robert F. Kennedy’s Justice Department to target organized crime. According to the indictment, Lacey, Larkin, and their underlings not only turned a blind eye to prostitution and child sexual abuse but, driven by greed, actively worked to abet it. Their case is set for January 2020. “El Chapo got to trial quicker,” Lacey quips.

I’ve worked for both sides in this showdown. In the late 1990s, I was a staff writer for the Dallas Observer, a weekly owned by Lacey and Larkin. Then, in 2001, I went to work for the Department of Justice as an assistant US attorney in Plano, Texas.

The two men have lived large, and it shows. Larkin is a burly former football player, 6 ’ 2 ” and easily 250 pounds, with cornflower eyes, chubby cheeks, and a ruddy complexion. Lacey’s mug reveals decades of sun and single-malt Scotch—the hooded lids, the sagging chin, the lines running like canyons down his face and into his neck. His spiky hair has thinned and grayed, but he still has the prominent schnoz, the ice-blue eyes, and the knuckles famously tattooed with “HOLD FAST.” (His father, who served in the Navy during World War II, had the same slogan inked across his fists.)

Their situation looks bleak. The government has seized all of Lacey’s financial accounts and most or all of Larkin’s. Prosecutors have already produced more than 10 million documents and have promised, or threatened, more to come. It will cost the defendants several million dollars just to buy the software they need to search the government’s files. For the time being, though, they’re still drinking well. When I arrive, Larkin has uncorked a bottle of Jack Quinn, a cabernet produced at his 3-acre vineyard in Napa. (Although Larkin has owned the place since before Backpage existed, the government has given notice that it intends to seize the vineyard, alleging that he used Backpage-derived funds for its maintenance.) Lacey, meanwhile, is still knocking back Macallan 21—although nowadays he stops to ask the price. At the Blue Hound bar in Phoenix, where we repaired for a later interview, it’s $120 per shot.

Lacey got his start in journalism in 1970, in the wake of the Kent State shootings, when he and a group of antiwar comrades at Arizona State University founded what would become the Phoenix New Times. In the beginning, he claims, he sold his blood to pay the bills. He met Larkin two years later—not long after Lacey’s father, the union enforcer, and his mother, an opera singer and registered nurse, were found frozen to death in a rented trailer in Oswego, New York. (“It was a murder-­suicide,” Lacey says. “They were drunk, and she turned on the gas.”)

The men connected immediately. Both were college dropouts, and both had suffered through difficult childhoods. Larkin’s mother died when he was 2, and he spent most of his youth in what he describes as a “Catholic ghetto.” In high school, he cofounded a student newspaper, The Big Press, then promptly got himself suspended for criticizing administrators. “I wanted to be in that business,” he says. Lacey brought him on as publisher.

In 1977, Lacey and Larkin staged a putsch. They wrested control of the New Times from Lacey’s cofounders and set about turning the fledgling broadsheet into an empire. Larkin worked out a lucrative revenue model, emphasizing classifieds and personals. (While a page of big retail ads might net $1,000, a page of classifieds, 100 ads at $25 a pop, could bring in $2,500.) Six years later, they began to expand. They bought up struggling weeklies in cities across the country—Denver, Houston, Miami—and transformed them into serious news organizations, hiring experienced, high-profile reporters and giving them resources to do the job.

“I didn’t get into this racket to be told what to publish,” Lacey growls. “By anybody.”

They believed there was an audience for in-depth, long-form investigative reporting. A month after 9/11, for instance, The New Times Broward-Palm Beach published an exposé on how lapses in federal immigration policy had allowed the hijackers to enter the country. In 2003, Westword got the scoop on a sexual assault scandal at the US Air Force Academy. In 2013, The Miami New Times ran a story on the steroid scandal in Major League Baseball, which ultimately resulted in the suspension of 14 players. Lacey once told an interviewer, “As a journalist, if you don’t get up in the morning and say ‘Fuck you’ to someone, why even do it?”

They tangled with shareholders, authorities, competitors, printers, and municipalities that tried to restrict their distribution. Lacey, who wrote numerous stories himself, was known to clock reporters and pummel press aides, usually when spirits were involved. (He estimates that he’s been arrested “10 or 11 times,” but “only three for writing.” The one criminal conviction on his record is for a misdemeanor DUI.) When violence didn’t settle things, Lacey and Larkin often moved matters to the courtroom. Litigation was their idea of fun, the continuation of hell-raising by other means. “I didn’t get into this racket to be told what to publish,” Lacey growls. “By anybody. If you don’t like it, don’t read it.”

Steve Suskin, their former in-house counsel, says they and their companies were sued 56 times between 1997 and 2012 alone. “We won them all,” Suskin recalls. They were successful in part because they recognized that litigation is a war of attrition, and they were willing to go the distance. Says Lacey: “You want to sue us, bring your lunch pail, ’cause we gonna be awhile.” In their most famous legal set-to, they successfully sued Joe Arpaio, Maricopa County’s notoriously anti-­immigrant sheriff, for false arrest, winning a $3.75 million settlement. In a final flip of the bird to Arpaio, they used the money to set up a nonprofit to defend the rights of undocumented immigrants and Latinx Americans.

Through it all, Larkin kept the money coming in, embracing each new fad in classified advertising. In 1989, for example, the New Times group launched its first adult section, appropriately dubbed Wildside. (The ads were moderated by sales staff to ensure no blatant sex-for-money propositions made it into print.) Racy ads fueled the company’s explosive growth; by 2001, Lacey and Larkin owned 11 papers, which raked in more than $100 million a year. But the good times didn’t last. Craigslist had begun expanding into cities outside the Bay Area, offering free ads in all categories except jobs and erotic services. Classified revenue tanked.

In 2003, Larkin was approached by Carl Ferrer, an ad salesman he’d hired away from a small paper in Louisiana and installed as classified ad director at the Dallas Observer. Ferrer, a short, slight man with a goatee and a perpetually worried look, proposed that they create an in-house version of Craigslist. Larkin put him in charge of building and running the website, which launched in 2004.

The following year, Lacey and Larkin won the prize they’d chased for years—The Village Voice, the grande dame of alt-­weeklies. When the New Times group merged with Village Voice Media, the two companies formed a 17-paper megachain valued at about $400 million, with an estimated $180 million in annual revenue. Lacey and Larkin’s timing could not have been worse. Between 2006 and 2012, according to the Pew Research Center, American news­papers lost half their advertising revenue. Backpage, however, grew steadily, even if it wasn’t nearly enough to offset the papers’ declining receipts.

Lacey and Larkin say they were advised by counsel that what Backpage was doing was 100 percent legal. They saw no distinction between advertising and editorial; it was all protected speech, all mission-critical. In 2008, they were honored by the Arizona chapter of the ACLU as Civil Libertarians of the Year. In his acceptance speech, Lacey decried “the gentrified instincts of soccer moms,” which led demagogues like Joe Arpaio to crack down on press freedom. He vowed that both he and Larkin would continue to oppose the “forces of offended decency” wherever they found them.

Today, they remain defiant. “I didn’t do anything wrong,” Lacey declares. “I didn’t do what they say. And if they think they’re gonna punk me, they got the wrong fucking guy.”

One of the great ironies of internet history is that the Communications Decency Act—a law conceived, as its name suggests, to rid the web of vice—actually ended up doing the opposite. It was proposed in 1995 by Senator J. James Exon, a Nebraska Democrat who’d watched with increasing alarm as “the worst, most vile, most perverse pornography” spread online. He was particularly concerned about what all this obscenity might do to the minds of America’s children, and went so far as to compile a “blue book” packed with X-rated screenshots. “This is a sample of what is available today free of charge,” he told his colleagues on the Senate floor when the CDA came up for debate. “Click, click, click on the computer, on the information superhighway.”

Although Exon repeatedly described the legislation as “narrow” and “streamlined,” the Department of Justice warned that its indecency provisions were unconstitutionally broad. Within a year and a half of the CDA’s passage, the Supreme Court agreed and struck those provisions down. Section 230, however, survived, offering a safe harbor to some of the same sites that Exon had hoped to bring down. The information superhighway began to look more perilous than ever.

In 2001 two academics at the University of Pennsylvania published a widely cited study in which they estimated that some 326,000 children were “at risk of commercial sexual exploitation.” Although the authors didn’t formally address what role the internet played, they asserted that “online sexual victimization of American children appears to have reached epidemic proportions.” By 2008, a new coalition of would-be regulators had emerged, led by the National Association of Attorneys General and the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, a nonprofit partly funded by the US government. Together, both behind the scenes and in the press, the two groups began pushing some of the internet’s major players to strengthen their safety protocols.

In response, Myspace, the web’s largest social media platform at the time, gave the boot to some 90,000 convicted sex offenders. Facebook, meanwhile, took steps to prevent underage users from sharing personal information with strangers. Craigslist started requiring that anyone who posted an ad in its Erotic Services section provide a verified phone number and pay a fee by credit card. It also hired attorneys to moderate ads.

For some officials, though, these changes weren’t enough. In early 2009, Thomas Dart, the sheriff of Cook County, Illinois, sued Craigslist for facilitating prostitution. “Missing children, runaways, abused women, and women trafficked in from foreign countries are routinely forced to have sex with strangers because they’re being pimped on Craigslist,” he said. “I could make arrests off Craigslist 24 hours a day, but to what end? I’m trying to go up the ladder.” That same spring, tabloids across the country were awash in headlines about the “Craigslist killer,” a young man in Boston who’d responded to a massage ad on the site, then murdered the woman who posted it.

A federal judge in Chicago quickly tossed Dart’s case, citing Section 230. But Craigslist eventually surrendered anyway. On the night of September 3, 2010, it quietly covered its Adult Services section with the word censored. Two weeks later, in testimony before Congress, Craigslist execs explained that they’d done their best to address their critics’ complaints; now, it seemed, they just wanted out of the headlines. They also warned that law enforcement was losing a valuable partner in the fight against trafficking. Yet Ernie Allen, the lanky Kentuckian who ran the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children, saw this as a necessary step. “Some of this problem will migrate to other areas,” he said, “but frankly that’s progress.”

Allen’s prediction was right. In the wake of Craigslist’s capitulation, the sex trade did indeed shift to other sites. There were many to choose from—myRedBook, Naughty Reviews, Cityvibe, Rentboy—but Backpage was the chief beneficiary. Larkin sent around an email advising his employees to expect “a deluge” of adult ads and reminding them that, “like it or not,” such ads “are in our DNA.” Lacey says he remained focused, as always, on the editorial side—though he had “no problem” seeing the ads “take off like they did.” Ferrer, meanwhile, seemed only too happy to inherit Craigslist’s share of the adult market, even if that meant assuming its place in the crosshairs. “It is an opportunity for us,” he wrote in an email. “Also a time when we need to make sure our content is not illegal.”

Backpage was already getting into hot water. A girl in Missouri had sued the site in mid-September, alleging that she’d been pimped out at the age of 14 and that Backpage had willfully “failed to investigate for fear of what it would learn.” She claimed, without clear evidence, that the site’s operators “had a strong suspicion” she was underage. Ultimately, a federal magistrate dismissed her case. The situation was tragic, he said, but Backpage was protected under Section 230. The girl needed to sue her pimp.

On October 18, Backpage announced on its blog that it had retained Hemanshu Nigam, a former federal prosecutor who specialized in sex crimes and child abuse, to develop a “holistic” safety program. Nigam sat on the board of the National Center for Missing and Exploited Children and had done similar work for Myspace. In the months that followed, Nigam and his new clients met repeatedly with representatives from anti-trafficking organizations. They discussed changes to Backpage’s site architecture, moderation practices, and content policies. The organizations suggested, for instance, that users should be prevented from employing search terms such as “incest” or “Lolita,” since these might “indicate illegal activity.” Backpage moderators, meanwhile, should be on the lookout for “ads written from masculine perspective,” particularly if they employed the euphemism “new in town,” which “is often used by pimps who shuttle children to locations where they do not know anyone and cannot get help.”

“You want to sue us, bring your lunch pail, ’cause we gonna be awhile.”

By late January 2011, Backpage had implemented many of the recommendations: It had banned photographs with nudity, drawn up a list of “inappropriate terms,” beefed up its vetting process, and begun referring “ads containing possible minors” directly to Allen’s staff. Ferrer also worked closely with the authorities. According to a Justice Department memo from 2012, “unlike virtually every other website that is used for prostitution and sex trafficking, Backpage is remarkably responsive to law enforcement requests and often takes proactive steps to assist in investigations.” A later memo noted that “even Ernie Allen believed that Backpage was genuinely trying to rid its site of juvenile sex trafficking.”

Lacey and Larkin say they were more than willing to help crack down on child abuse. But the demands being made of them seemed increasingly unreasonable. Sex trafficking, defined as commercial sex involving coerced adults or anyone under 18, was one thing. Consensual sex work was quite another—and it wasn’t even illegal under federal law.

In March 2011, Lacey and Larkin flew to Virginia to meet with Allen. “To say that the meeting did not go well is an understatement,” Allen wrote later that day. After a full hour, he and Lacey “were still screaming at each other.” Allen demanded that Backpage do more to combat prostitution. Larkin said the site would enforce a “news­paper standard,” but Lacey added, “We are not Craigslist, and we aren’t going to succumb to pressure.” A Justice Department memo continues the story: “Allen responded that ‘At least you know what business you are in.’ ”

Lacey’s memories are no rosier. “Allen pulls out this shoddy U. Penn report”—the one from 2001—and “thumps the table with it,” he recalls. The report sent Lacey into orbit. “They love to inflate the numbers by talking about children ‘at risk’ of exploitation,” he says. Owing to the shadowy nature of sex trafficking, such numbers are notoriously hard to pin down: Experts at the Crimes Against Children Research Center have noted that “scientifically credible estimates do not exist,” and one of the Penn report’s authors told The Washington Post in 2015, “Clearly, a new, more current study is needed.”

Lacey thought he knew what business Allen was in too—fearmongering in the interest of fund-raising. He took the meeting as a finger in the chest. Within a few weeks, The Village Voice began to run articles examining the fishy data on child sex trafficking.

In April, Nigam suggested that, as a gesture of goodwill, Backpage should join the Demi and Ashton Foundation, a nonprofit created by actors Ashton Kutcher and Demi Moore. The foundation had recently run a series of PSAs under the slogan “Real men don’t buy girls,” featuring various Hollywood bigwigs. Lacey ignored Nigam’s suggestion. Instead, he instructed The Village Voice to publish an article titled “Real Men Get Their Facts Straight.”

Larkin, for his part, tried to make nice with the authorities—at least until he and Lacey could cash out. Backpage was causing too many headaches, and the papers were growing deader by the day. “Selling print sooner than later was the winning move,” Larkin explains. “The longer you waited, the dumber you were.” Initially it seemed that Backpage would be the easier business to unload. By September 2011, a private-equity firm focused on “out-of-favor industries” had agreed to buy it for $150 million. But the deal fell apart after the National Association of Attorneys General announced an investigation of Backpage. Larkin and Lacey were incensed. Section 230 provided that websites could be prosecuted only under federal criminal law, so they considered a state-level investigation extralegal. From that point on, both men were ready to go to the mattresses.

The following fall, Lacey and Larkin sold their beloved alt-weeklies to a group of their own editors for just over $32 million, about 8 percent of what the chain had been valued at in 2005. (Even this amount was later negotiated down, after the buyers defaulted.) In a farewell letter, Lacey wrote that they were leaving to carry on their jihad “over the First Amendment, free speech on the internet and Backpage.” Cynics pointed to the money; by 2011, Backpage was raking in more than $50 million a year, nearly as much as the newspapers that spawned it.

Whatever their mix of motives, Lacey and Larkin moved their cause to the courtroom. With Section 230 as their weapon, they won a series of civil suits and successfully challenged anti-Backpage laws in New Jersey, Tennessee, and Washington state. Many of the court opinions noted the First Amendment problems inherent in regulating internet content. “When freedom of speech hangs in the balance,” wrote the Tennessee judge, “the state may not use a butcher knife on a problem that requires a scalpel to fix.”

By this point, the nation’s attorneys general had had enough. As they saw it, Backpage and other internet platforms were using Section 230 as an excuse to duck their responsibilities to users. In July 2013, 49 of them signed a letter to Congress saying that the law needed an overhaul.

Lacey shows off his ankle monitor and knuckle tattoos.

Jesse Rieser

State attorneys general weren’t the only prosecutors itching to get in on the action. The Feds were too, but they had a problem: They couldn’t identify a viable crime. Prostitution wasn’t a federal offense, and they didn’t seem to think they could make sex-trafficking charges stick. Back in 2011, the Justice Department had quietly opened a grand jury investigation into Backpage in Washington state; according to an internal memo, prosecutors interviewed more than a dozen witnesses and subpoenaed more than 100,000 documents but ultimately decided that “a successful criminal prosecution of Backpage is unlikely.” They thought about trying to make a case under the Travel Act but, as they noted, that theory “had never been litigated in a similar context.” So they formulated another potential plan of attack. “Moving forward,” they wrote, the Justice Department should “take a hard look at bringing this case as a civil forfeiture case,” with its “lower standard of proof.” In this scenario, the government would seize a website operator’s assets and property, then force them to prove they weren’t implicated in criminal activity.

In June 2014 the Justice Department put this plan into action. It seized myRedBook and demanded that the site’s owner, Eric “Red” Omuro, forfeit $5 million in cash and property. The following summer, the Department of Homeland Security launched a similar raid against “the nation’s largest online male-escort service,” Rentboy, and its owner, Jeffrey Hurant. Both men pleaded guilty to violations of the Travel Act in exchange for lighter sentences and lesser fines. The forfeiture approach seemed to be working.

Meanwhile, Backpage opponents were finding sympathetic ears on Capitol Hill. In April 2015, Senator Rob Portman, a Republican from Ohio and the chair of the Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations, fired off the following tweet: “backpage essentially sells human beings. It’s horrible, and I’m going after them.”

That same month, Lacey and Larkin finally located a serious buyer for Backpage: Carl Ferrer. He agreed to pay just under $603 million for the platform—four times what they’d been offered in 2011.

Portman’s subcommittee soon issued a series of subpoenas, seeking internal documents that would reveal Backpage’s moderation practices. The site fought back, but in September 2016 the US Supreme Court ruled that it had to fork over more than 1 million internal emails and other records. Every dubious decision, every bit of chatter and commentary, every lame joke between Backpage employees and managers, was about to come spilling out.

On January 8, 2017, the Senate subcommittee released its final report, titled “Backpage.com’s Knowing Facilitation of Online Sex Trafficking.” It pushed the theory that Lacey, Larkin, Ferrer, and their employees had invalidated their liability protections under Section 230: Rather than removing illegal and obscene content, the Senate said, Backpage had helped develop it, using clever moderation practices to “sanitize the content” and conceal it from the eyes of the law—all in the name of earning a few extra dollars. This, the subcommittee implied, put Backpage in the position of a content creator, not a mere content host.

Most courts had been rejecting the same argument for six years, but now Portman and his colleagues had what they considered incontrovertible evidence. Much of it was contained in the report’s 840-page appendix, which included highlights from the emails and other documents that the site had been ordered to produce.

The report outlined three major steps in Backpage’s road to perdition. In the early days of the site, most ads for commercial sex were deleted outright. By early 2009, however, Ferrer had begun to instruct his employees to manually remove any obscene photos and “forbidden words,” then post the ad anyway. In an email, he wrote that he considered this the more “consumer friendly” approach, because it would avoid “pissing off a lot of users who will migrate elsewhere.” But the true goal, according to the Senate, was to give those ads “a veneer of lawfulness.” One former Backpage moderator, identified in the report as Employee C, testified that she saw her role as “putting lipstick on a pig, because when it came down to it, it was what the business was about.”

By late 2010, Backpage had developed an automated filter called Strip Term From Ad. It was tuned to remove problematic words (“lolita,” “rape,” “fresh,” “little girl”) before any human moderator had seen the ad. Because the original language wasn’t saved on Backpage’s servers, the Senate complained, there would be no real record of the offending content—nothing to send to law enforcement. “Of course,” the subcommittee wrote, “the Strip Term From Ad filter changed nothing about the real age of the person being sold for sex or the real nature of the advertised transaction.”

Perhaps that’s why, in mid-2012, Backpage instituted a kind of hybrid process, automatically editing some ads while automatically banning others, depending on the terms used. But the Senate saw chicanery here, too. Ferrer complained that the auto-bans were causing confusion among users; if they submitted an ad that contained a banned term, they had no way of knowing why it had been rejected. And so Backpage rolled out an alert feature, which informed users which specific term was to blame. In the Senate’s eyes, it was “coaching its customers on how to post ‘clean’ ads for illegal transactions.”

The appendix was full of what appeared to be smoking guns. In late 2010, for instance, Backpage’s operations manager, Andrew Padilla, castigated one of his employees for putting a note on a user’s account suggesting she was a prostitute. “Leaving notes on our site that imply that we’re aware of prostitution, or in any position to define it, is enough to lose your job over,” Padilla wrote. “If you need a definition of ‘prostitution,’ get a dictionary.” The following summer, four months after the ill-fated meeting with Ernie Allen, Larkin cautioned Ferrer against publicizing Backpage’s moderation practices. “We need to stay away from the very idea of ‘editing’ the posts, as you know,” he wrote in an email.

On the night the Senate report was released, Backpage finally shut down its adult section. It was, of course, far too late to stave off what was coming. The next morning, Lacey, Larkin, Ferrer, and two other Backpage executives appeared in Room 342 of the Senate’s Dirksen Building for a grilling by Portman and his colleagues. It was a carefully choreographed bit of political theater. The Backpage witnesses took the Fifth, as senators knew they must; thanks to a pending case in California, they had no choice. Portman denounced them for refusing to “come clean.”

Within six months of the hearing, at least eight new civil lawsuits were filed against Backpage. The Section 230 defense now worked only intermittently, as courts increasingly read in exceptions. The site’s operators began preparing for a rumble with the Feds. Backpage handed out fat legal retainers, as key employees lawyered up. Lacey and Larkin started segregating cash; funds from the sale of Backpage went into one set of accounts, while proceeds from the newspaper sale went into another. Ferrer bought a brand-new Texas McMansion, put it in his wife’s name, and poured hundreds of thousands of dollars into renovations.

Still, Lacey and Larkin largely shrugged off the Senate’s report. “We didn’t go out and try to disprove it,” recalls an attorney who worked on the matter. “It’s not like there isn’t plenty to say. But to try to rebut 50 pages of allegations in the press? That’s fighting a losing battle.” The lawyer added: “It was a hit piece. It was intended to be a hit piece. What are you going to do?”

In August 2017, Portman launched another attack against Backpage. With a bipartisan group of 20 senators, including Connecticut’s Richard Blumenthal, he introduced the Stop Enabling Sex Traffickers Act, or Sesta. Later, in an op-ed for WIRED, Portman laid out the bill’s key features: It would remove Section 230’s “unintended liability protections for websites that knowingly facilitate online sex trafficking” and “allow state and local law enforcement to prosecute” those sites. Just as J. James Exon, the sponsor of the Communications Decency Act, had done two decades earlier, the senators deflected concerns about constitutional overreach. Portman described Sesta as “narrowly crafted”; Blumenthal called it “narrowly tailored.”

Silicon Valley disagreed. On the day Sesta was introduced, the Internet Association—an industry consortium that represents Airbnb, Facebook, Google, Twitter, and more than three dozen other tech companies—released a statement calling the bill “overly broad.” While it was important to pursue “rogue operators like Backpage.com,” the association said, Sesta was more butcher knife than scalpel; it would create “a new wave of frivolous and unpredictable actions against legitimate companies.” In a letter to the Senate, a coalition of human rights and civil liberties organizations warned that the result of all this litigation would be “increased censorship across the web.” Platforms that had once sought to encourage free speech through light moderation would now take an iron-fisted approach. According to the Electronic Frontier Foundation, the chilling effect would be particularly damaging to sites like Wikipedia, which “don’t have the massive budgets to defend themselves that Facebook and Twitter do.”

But Big Tech and its allies were no longer really in a position to complain. On Halloween, Congress hauled in executives from Facebook, Google, and Twitter. Legislators wanted to know why the platforms had failed to stem the tide of fake news and misinformation in the run-up to the 2016 presidential election, why they’d sold political ad space to Russian nationals, why they were supposedly muzzling conservative voices. Pundits opined that the web was all grown up now; many questioned why platforms still needed Section 230’s protection.

Several days after the Capitol Hill perp walk, the Internet Association suddenly reversed course. It came out in favor of a lightly modified version of Sesta, which by now had been combined with an equally clumsily named House bill, the Allow States and Victims to Fight Online Sex Trafficking Act, or Fosta. It was hard not to see the association’s move as a cynical act of political pandering. As Winston Churchill once said, “Each one hopes that if he feeds the crocodile enough, the crocodile will eat him last.”

The Fosta-Sesta law is already panning out as its detractors feared. Once Trump signed it into law, platforms rushed to self-censor; nobody wanted to be Backpaged.

By the spring of 2018, things had gotten even worse for Big Tech. That March, news of the Cambridge Analytica scandal broke, seeming to confirm the public’s worst suspicions. Four days later, Congress passed Fosta-Sesta. The law amends Section 230 to allow states and civil plaintiffs to go after websites that “promote and facilitate prostitution” or “knowingly benefit from participation in a venture that engages in sex trafficking.” Senator Ron Wyden of Oregon, one of the original authors of Section 230 and a longtime tech industry ally, warned that further measures could be in the offing if “technology companies do not wake up to their responsibilities … to better protect the public.”

In spite of the protests of free speech advocates, more than 100 organizations had come out in favor of the law—Truckers Against Trafficking, Girls With Grit, the Christian Action League of Minnesota. Seth Meyers and Ivanka Trump touted it too. But sex workers and their allies were bitterly opposed. The American Association of Sexuality Educators, Counselors, and Therapists noted that Fosta-Sesta contained “a sweeping and unproductive conflation of sex trafficking and consensual sex work.” The association further argued—just as Craigslist had when it shuttered its adult section in 2010—that, in forcing sites like Backpage to remove or censor their content, the law would merely drive predators into even darker corners of the internet. Their crimes would be harder to spot and investigate, and many sex workers would be forced “to pursue far riskier and more exploitative forms of labor” on the streets.

Two weeks after Fosta-Sesta passed, Carl Ferrer appeared in a closed federal courtroom in Phoenix. He pleaded guilty to conspiracy to facilitate prostitution and launder money, surrendered Backpage and its assets, and promised to cooperate with federal authorities. (Ferrer’s plea forbids him to talk to the press. “I’m not trying to avoid you,” he told me at a recent court appearance. “I just have to say no comment.”) A day later, the Feds nailed Lacey and Larkin in Phoenix, charging them and five other Backpagers under long-­existing criminal statutes. As many legal experts pointed out, the move suggested that the government never needed Fosta-Sesta to prosecute the pair; President Donald Trump had yet to even sign it into law. Lacey and Larkin never seemed to seriously consider that Ferrer might flip. Other insiders certainly did. “I think he just chickened out,” offers an attorney who worked with Ferrer for almost 20 years and spoke to me on condition of anonymity. The lawyer points out that Ferrer never shared Lacey’s and Larkin’s disdain for cops. “That’s an awful lot of pressure to put on a skinny white guy,” he continues. “And Jim was never all that nice to him.”

Though it is still relatively early, the broad outlines of each side’s strategy are clear. If this case reaches a jury, the government will likely argue that the end justifies the means—that sex trafficking and prostitution generally are so abhorrent that the government had to do away with Backpage, protected speech and all. They will employ what trial lawyers call “reptile theory,” tapping into the jury’s primitive instincts, arguing that Backpage constituted a public danger and that convicting the defendants will make the community safer. They will tell the grisly tales set forth in the indictment’s 17 victim summaries. They will depict Lacey and Larkin as calculating profiteers, outlaws who refused to honor the reasonable requests of law enforcement because they might make a few mil less. They will hope the defendants’ seeming indifference to the plight of trafficking victims inspires the jury to overlook holes in the prosecution’s case.

The defense strategy is equally clear. Lacey and Larkin will offer high-minded arguments in defense of what the public regards as low-value speech. They will challenge government experts who claim they can look at a sample of Backpage ads and know beyond doubt that they proposed illegal transactions. It’s unclear how effective a witness Ferrer will be; over the past decade, he has given numerous sworn statements in Backpage litigation that contradict assertions in his plea. To the extent that Ferrer has anything damaging to offer, the defense will likely argue he was acting on his own. “We had lawyers telling us how to do this,” Lacey says. “The only way this was going to blow up was if Carl was doing something he shouldn’t have.”

Backpage cofounder James Larkin.

Jesse Rieser

Backpage cofounder Michael Lacey.

Jesse Rieser

Fosta-Sesta is already panning out as its detractors feared. Once Trump signed it into law, platforms rushed to self-censor; nobody wanted to be Backpaged. Cityvibe shut down altogether. Reddit banned numerous communities, including r/escorts and r/SugarDaddy. Google reportedly began purging its users’ cloud accounts of sexually explicit material. Cloudflare, one of the largest cybersecurity and website performance companies in the world, terminated service to Switter, a social media platform on which sex workers connected with each other and vetted their clients. Cloudflare is known for its commitment to free speech, but it was compelled to enforce what its general counsel called, in an interview with Vice, “a very bad law and a very dangerous precedent.”

The endless game of whack-a-mole continues. A month after Fosta-Sesta passed, ads for commercial sex had plummeted 82 percent, according to TellFinder, a data analytics tool originally built by the Defense Department. Within another four months, though, the numbers had rebounded to 75 percent of their previous daily volume. New sites popped up, seeking to fill the void left by Backpage, just as Backpage had done with Craigslist. One of them was called Bedpage.

Still, the Justice Department remains committed to taking the Backpage defendants down. Its plan seems to be to force them to plead, à la Rentboy and myRedBook. Since March 2018, federal prosecutors have seized more than $100 million in cash, real estate, and other assets from Lacey and Larkin. The strategy is simple: No money? No lawyers. QED.

The asset freezes raise all kinds of thorny constitutional questions. Generally speaking, federal prosecutors are permitted to freeze a defendant’s assets based on probable cause alone, even before the defendant has a chance to challenge the government’s case in court. But regular forfeiture rules do not apply in cases involving forums for speech—newspapers, films, books, magazines, websites. The US Supreme Court has decreed that when the government seizes these expressive materials, or the proceeds derived from them, it must immediately hold an evidentiary hearing to determine whether the seizure is valid.

But the Backpage defendants have a problem: So far, they can’t get a court to hear their claims. Since last summer, the Justice Department appears to have been playing a clever shell game. They’ve brought cases against the Backpage defendants in two federal districts—civil seizures in Los Angeles, criminal matters in Phoenix—and they’re making the defendants spend what money they have left chasing Uncle Sam from place to place. So far, judges in both districts have agreed with the government’s suggestion that they should defer to each other, effectively denying the defendants a forum to challenge the asset freezes. The US Court of Appeals for the Ninth Circuit will hear arguments in the case in July.

“The abuse on these platforms does not stop at sex trafficking,” the association of Attorneys General wrote.

Paul Watler, a media law specialist at Jackson Walker LLP in Dallas, is troubled by the seizure tactic. “It’s an end run around the First Amendment,” he says. The big question remaining, according to Eric Goldman, a professor at Santa Clara University School of Law, is whether federal prosecutors will use this strategy to crack down on other platforms in the future. “Is this the leading edge or a one-off?” he asks. “I still don’t know the answer to that. But they’re coming for us, one way or another.” Even if Fosta-Sesta is one day ruled unconstitutional, as many legal scholars expect, government officials have shown that they’re willing to subvert Section 230 in other ways. If Lacey and Larkin lose—if the asset seizures stand and the Travel Act charges stick—prosecutors will have a valuable new weapon to wield against Silicon Valley. Personal wealth will be no deterrent.

Meanwhile, the National Association of Attorneys General is on the warpath once again. On May 23, 2019, the group sent a letter to a handful of congressional leaders urging further cutbacks to Section 230. “The abuse on these platforms does not stop at sex trafficking,” they wrote. “Stories of online black market opioid sales, ID theft, deep fakes, election meddling, and foreign intrusion are now ubiquitous.” They recommended that Section 230 be amended to allow a wide variety of state-level criminal prosecutions.

Lacey and Larkin remain convinced that the furor over sex ads is a moral panic, irrational and hysterical, cynically stoked by politicians and law enforcement. And they’re not about to surrender. They know they’re not the world’s most sympathetic defendants—rich (or formerly rich) white men accused of, at the very least, morally questionable business decisions, fighting for their right to hire the best lawyers money can buy.

Yet they can still seem oddly tone-deaf, even a touch naive. In April, a federal judge shot down Lacey’s request to have his ankle monitor removed in order to swim during a Hawaiian vacation. (In pleadings, Lacey’s lawyers explained he had use-’em-or-lose-’em flyer miles.) Prosecutors called Lacey a flight risk, and the resulting headlines were predictably brutal. Lacey responds with incredulity: “The idea that I would run—are you kidding? I’m taking the first flight to confront you.”

Christine Biederman is a lawyer and investigative reporter based in Dallas. She is working on a book about Backpage.com.

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[douchebagbrainwaves]

HOW TO START A BIG DEAL

Read their job listings. And she too knows the creative director of GQ. This phenomenon is one of the reasons, though they may not be easy. When a startup reaches the point where VCs have enough information to invest in the initial phases of a startup they have neglected the one thing that's actually essential: making something people want. The VCs also insist that prior to the deal the option pool be enlarged by an additional hundred shares. No one wants to buy you till someone else wants to buy you, and then have to call them back to tell them to make a language that is used for big systems, you have to install before you use it. Doctors discovered that several of his arteries were over 90% blocked and 3 days later he had a quadruple bypass.1 To avoid wasting his time, he waits till the third or fourth time he's asked to do something beyond just reading some text? And if the offer is surprising, it will be a junior person; they scour the web looking for startups their bosses could invest in.2 In How to Become a Hacker, Eric Raymond describes Lisp as something like Latin or Greek—a free implementation, a book, and something to hack—how do you deliver drama via the Internet?

Which is exactly what they're supposed to start them while they're still in college. But is it really impossible? It's so easy to understand what it meant. With angels we're now talking about venture funding proper, so it's time to introduce the concept of exit strategy. But they're also desperate for deals. Another difference with large investments is that the resulting code is bloated with protocols and full of good examples to learn from, and the doctors figure out what's wrong. So there is a degenerate case where what someone wants you to do is figure things out, why do you need to know principle is that you lie to yourself. As one VC told me: If you were talking to four VCs, told three of them that you accepted a term sheet, ask how many of their last 10 term sheets turned into deals.3

The biggest ideas seem to threaten your identity: you wonder if you'd have enough ambition to carry them through. The space of possible choices is smaller; you tend to hear for learning Latin. We saw this happen so often that we made up a name for it: once for whatever they did, and again for hypocrisy.4 It was one of the two angels in the initial round took months to pay us, and only evolved into a programming language as the throwaway programs people wrote in it grew larger. There are only two things you need initially: an idea and cofounders. What was special about Brian Chesky and Joe Gebbia was not that they were stupid. Even if you don't, a low initial offer will demoralize you and make you easier to manipulate.5 Facebook got funded in the Valley and not Boston. I was a philosophy major. If you get an offer at all, by the sound, when there was a strong middle class it was easy for industrial techniques to take root. Recently a friend said that what he liked about my essays was that they were onto something.6

The second or third tier firms have a much higher break rate—it could be as high as 50%. When we started Viaweb, we had 1070 users. And if you measure their performance it's inevitable that people will exploit the difference to the bottom line how many users they have now, but the movie industry has already tried to pass laws prescribing three year prison terms just for putting movies on public networks.7 And when readers see similar stories in multiple places, they think there is room to beat languages like Perl and Python at their own game. Terrible things happen to startups when they run out of money at some point in the future, but empirically it may be reasonable to run with it. If I met an undergrad who knew all about convertible notes and employee agreements and God forbid class FF stock, I wouldn't think here is someone who is way ahead of their peers. Think about what you have to write in an hour. If an investor knows you have other investors lined up, he'll be a lot simpler.

No, there will also be a need for such infrastructure companies. Another way to figure out who the client is. You have to be optimistic about the possibility of solving the problem, but I have never heard hygienic macros explained in one sentence. In fact they were more law schools.8 The path it has discovered, winding as it is, right?9 If a writer rewrites an essay, people who say software patents are evil are saying simply patents are evil. Once you had enough good startups in one place, it would create a self-sustaining chain reaction.

To many people, rather than by, say, making the language strongly typed. There patents do help a little. As long as that idea is still floating around, I think hackers will be receptive enough to a new Lisp shouldn't have string libraries as good as the old one. And in fact one of the 10 worst spammers.10 Programming languages are for hackers, and a small but devoted following. Indeed, it evolved from actual warfare: most early traders switched on the fly from merchants to pirates depending on how strong you seemed. There are two possible problems with prefix notation. The big bang guys. Common Lisp has neither.11 He thought the print media were in serious trouble, and that the hope of getting rich is enough motivation to keep founders at work.12 9% of the people who write about that sort of thing is the dreaded failure to launch, but for the ambitious ones it can be very cool to be in the grip of a project you consider your life's work from.13 If your startup grows big enough, however, trust your gut.

Notes

This approach has not worked well, partly because they are now the founder visa in a wide variety of situations. Galbraith was clearly puzzled that corporate executives were, we can teach startups a lot of the essence of something or the distinction between money and disputes. Currently we do at least 10 minutes more.

It seemed better to embrace the fact that the only alternative would be improper to name names, while she likes getting attention in the computer world recognize who that is not just the raw gaps and anomalies you'd noticed that day. 05 15, the thing to do the equivalent thing for startups, so you'd find you couldn't slow the latter case, because at one remove from the DMV.

Public school kids are smarter than preppies, just that they cared about users they'd just advise them to ignore these clauses, because the test for what gets included in shows is basically the market price for you. So it is possible to transmute lead into gold though not economically at current energy prices, but he got killed in the 1920s to financing growth with retained earnings was one cause of accidents.

There are two ways to do. That's the trouble with fleas, they tended to be able to invest more. Its retail price is about 220,000 drachmae for the others. But that being so, why is New York.

If this is why we can't believe anyone would think Y Combinator.

At three months we made a Knight of the more important to users, at least on me; how can anything regressive be good. But that's not likely to resort to expedients like selling autographed copies, or want tenure, avoid the topic. They'll tell you them. Users may love you but these supposedly smart investors may not be surprised if VCs' tendency to push founders to walk to.

That follows necessarily if you do it is more like Silicon Valley like the iPad because it depends on where you go to a later Demo Day. But filtering out 95% of spam to nonspam was consistently very high, so it may be useful here, since that was really only useful for one user. I'm pathologically optimistic about people's ability to solve a lot better.

Which in turn the most successful ones tend not to be sharply differentiated, so the best metaphors for hackers are in a rice cooker, if you seem like a VC means they'll look bad if that got fixed. They shut down a few actual winners emerge with hyperlinear certainty. We walked with him for a year, but also the fashion leaders.

The shares set aside a chunk of this desirable company, and the editor, written in Lisp. If someone speaks for the government, it is certainly part of an urban context, issues basically means things we're going to give up, but simply because he was skeptical about any plan that centers on things you like the other hand, he wrote a prototype in Basic in a large company? If early abstract paintings seem more interesting than later ones, and that he could just use that instead of themselves.

Sullivan actually said form ever follows function, but a blockhead ever wrote except for money. If you actually started acting like adults. Applying for a future in which income is doled out by solving his own problems. Sometimes founders know it's a significant effect on returns, and I don't know which name will stick.

If they were saying scaramara instead of bookmarking. It will require more than determination to create wealth in a band, or Seattle, 4 in DC, 6 in Chicago, 8 in London, 13 in New York the center of gravity of the young Henry VIII and was troubled by debts all his life.

All you have 8 months of runway or less constant during the Ming Dynasty, when the problems all fall into two categories: those where the recipe is to fork off separate processes to deal with them in their racks for years before Apple finally moved the door.

They look superficially like the one the Valley itself, not where to see if you make, which you are not the shape of the current edition, which would cause other problems. Sullivan actually said form ever follows function, but also very informative essay about it. Programming languages should be working on your thesis.

Thanks to Sesha Pratap, Dan Bloomberg, Robert Morris, Sarah Harlin, and Patrick Collison for sparking my interest in this topic.

[tenaciouscupcaketaco]

60 Newest Poems By Mario W. Vitale

Bio Of Mario William Vitale The language and images of Mario Vitale's poetry are so closely bound to the natural cycles of seasons, of generations, of the body's functioning, that is surprising to realize how many of his poems deal with uprootedness. But this poetry is not sentimental celebration of the goodness of nature, and harmony with the world is never assumed. The way he captures the tenuousness of this faith, the balance that must be found between the ugliness, the harshness of his history- both natural annd social- and its intense beauty, is what distinguishes Vitale's poetry, gives it its depth and dimension: Mario William Vitale Biography I was born in 1970 Bristol hospital. A young nurse took me in her arms and said that I would one day become a success, As the years would pass I was heavy in the arts used to sing and act. Was an altar boy at St. Pius Church. In time I would act in my senior class play, "The Mystery Of Edwin Drood" Where I had the lead role as the Narrator, I touched many hearts with that performance in 1989, Was hospitalized with mono that same year for two weeks long, Also that same year I became prom king of my class Wolcott High School, After the break up with my first grilfriend in 1989 I wrote the poem entitled, "Remembrance of a loved one" where I had it published on poetry.com Attempted plays: Tartuffe, Miracle Of St. Anthony and Balm in Gieade, (His poetic aspirations had derived at 18 in 1989 from submitting his first poem entitled, "Remembrance Of A Loved One"- (Sparrowgrass Poetry Forum) Attended Central Connecticut State University For Creative Writing: 1997 Next from 1989-1997 (Wrote primarily for Poetry.com and The International Library Of Poetry) , * Received editors choice award in 1997 for poem, " A Beacon Of Light ", (1998)Sent poetic manuscript to N.Y. Time Magazine and Chief Editor " John Hyland". Back with rave reviews! * (From 1999-2008: Had adapted a real keen sense of style for writing poetry: (1999- Sent Editorial to: New Man Magazine for the Passion of Christ Movie; Sent followup letter to company with poetry platform information attached, * 2000-2007: Magazine: (Catholic)Maries Rose Ferron Magazine submitted poem" Beacon Of Light", which had excellent editorial reviews as the outset! 2008- Wrote poem entitled: (The Heavy Cross)to Poetry.com* Achieved Poetry status of work of Excellence in writing from the Academy Of American Poetry in which still having received rank and status as a member of Academy; (The Connecticut Poetry Society) * Short story submitted entitled, "China Dog Ray" submitted to Virginia Writers Quarterly, West Virginia, Also having member status on their board of Poetry. Attribute Poetry to an ever increasing love of God and his unconditional love that he has for us in return, Thankfulness toward family and friends.(To our past ancestors who fought to uphold freedom that far too many of us take for granted? My contemporary artists include that of Ellan Bryant Voight, Kay Ryan and Carl Phillips.Which all three are Participants in the Academy Of American Poetry Having been a member since 2006, My work reflects the likes of past poets such as C.S.Lewis, Hawthorne and Edgar Allen Poe. Most of my work reflects with the values of religious beliefs intact In my personal view it is essential in demonstrating a real heart of creative passion! The reader I believe will benefit by my artistic style of development in a very positive light.) After experiencing a life transformation encounter.I had realized that poetry is my unique way to convey myself my work speaks from the heart with pure sentiments of though intact, As the years passed I would write over 4,000 poems and 5 short stories toward my platform, My poetry is based on the free verse style of writing, Was published in 10 venues such as Writerscafe, Neopoet, Hello poetry, Poem Hunter, Booksie, Poetryvibe, Poetrysoup, Starlifecafe.com, Poets Know It & poetry.com... I was saved by God at the tender age of nine in Charlotte Carolina where I came to know the Lord that was in 1979, Today I continue to write poetry was published on Spillwords, High On Poetry, Tuck Magazine & Setu Magazine. My main emphasis in writing poetry is to share with the mass populace touching many hearts. Hope you can read my poetry. Sea Stacks skipped rocks through a stream today the opening of a brand new day its frame is in minor decay the bleached wood massed in bone piles, we pulled it from dark beach and built fire in a fenced clearing the posts' blunt stubs sank down the circled and were roofed by milled lumber dragged at one time to the coast We slept there Each morning the minus tide- weeds flowed it like hair swimming The starfish gripped rock, pastel, rough. Fish bones lay in sun Each noon the milk fog sank from cloud cover, came in our clothes and held them tighter on us. Sea stacks stood and disappeared They came back when the sun scrubbed out the inlet Life Force through the flame cover me in silent sound dignity for with what one is willing to achieve valiantly feel the breeze nestled through the trees shaped through your dreams a piercing of the skin new hearts to begin again Choices Many have a hard time understanding They live for self and that of society They are the walking dead yet they don't even know it Eyes with blackened spots having holes Viscous fangs with blood dripping off the side You share with them the truth They choose to run away & hide Yet deep inside they may still question Why am i here ? They can't even help you Cause they won't help themselves They are the scum of the land Much too afraid to stand among the son of man A bitter taste Do they want salt or sugar coated messages Positive reinforcement strengthens the heart Negativity kills it Each of us has been given a choice We must lend a helping hand with a voice All of us have been given a choice Now which pathway will you choose ? Emerald City There’ll be no unemployment in heaven. No worry about the next meal. There’ll be no bills to harass us, and thieves will not break in and steal. In heaven, we’ll have no need for money; Everything up there will be free. We’ll enjoy God’s unsearchable riches, and have unending security. I’m looking forward to heaven, that land that is fairer than day. Where all will be joy and gladness, and sorrow and care will flee away. Up there, no mean words will be spoken. Each heart will be filled with pure love. We’ll never be hurt or rejected, in the beautiful city above. There will be no disappointment or heartache. God will wipe all the tears from our eyes. No one will ever be lonely, and there’ll be no anguished good-byes. Up there, the love we have for each other, by each heart will be shared equally. And we’ll have all the things that we’ve longed for, and at last we will really be free Little Angel Hope springs a new On a cloud in heaven Stand a heavenly angel With mere beauty of crystalized light Golden emblems encrusted their frame Sweet songs drifting to a very faint whisper Eyes, hands & face A real message sent down to earth To care for those lonely souls all alone There beauty is a surprise to encounter Slipping through locked doors to appear Many have shed a tear to numb the inner pain Causing accidents not to happen They appear in the form of brightened miracles We see them with a heart all a glow Come to the birth of a new born baby Come to servicemen who just joined the navy You will see them at a graveyard setting Even among gamblers who do there betting There all around us you see For all of life is but a mystery These Flames I Live turn back the tear drop pillow I'm sick to my stomach suffering alone and hard piercing cavity of viscious fangs that bite illusive impulsive the rant These flames I live my right to forgive undercover beyond the means living in a land of mean barren sea a shot in the dark to light the spark many are left in rebellion what an incredible talent Vitale is he is the poet of all poets the moment you met him perfect ten a chick lying with her hens a quest... flaws and failures yes he wears Depends a trip to the zoo nothing new Laughter Laughter fills the scented air through days exposed the timeless hour of a loathsome mast expounded upon the cavity of debris develop a grateful heart that one may impart look close through a pillar of glass a vergence sea out beyond the interpass a halo with a song to help you get along the sight of a fawn on the lawn greed and materialism will crush out the light in your life penetration by the holy spirit a heart change has to happen one must be open to the message care for your brother help for your pale sister one ear on the floor a cause for more through fetters got it made to even out the score Unending Brigade I ask myself politely what resistance flowers here against love treaded lightly or losing lovingness dear? give cadence to the simple, for I gave ammunition to the laughter we should we ever falter the timeless whisper of happening golden nuggets of thought & inspiration braids my hair with a great deal of wear through the conclaves of love's fastened grip shadows block the vortex to aid its message The Dream Police they come to my head at the side of my bed they are enforcing my sleep give cadence to a treat a far from ports unknown like a dog without a bone giving tickets to be enforced every time I have a dream forces scream Of Time & Dreams Father's gold pocket watch measured heartbeats, times for surgery and the slow drip of an IV all else in his life was overture to main events, like birth and death of those the family never knew Steps from my childhood dreams to his were counted in places where treasure were wet pebbles and the pulse of life was seen in raindrops on the lake now the watch is mine, and i yearn to throw it like a pebble into the past, to see it skip and yield to places we never shared, like blue-green eddies near the shore and grasses curled by the win Yet, warming in my palm, the measurer of his days seems to sing the music of turning points where drying dreams meet others born anew, emerging through images of caring to rhythms more than metrical that i've yet to understand The Land Of Dreams When you fall asleep at night, your mind goes into an eerie flight You can open the gate with the key of thought, and don't have to do what you've been taught You sing, and dance, and prance all day and you act so happy and also gay You run in circles and run into the trees, and cut your elbows and scrape your knees But sometimes you open the wrong gate, and find yourself facing a terrible fate There are monsters, ghouls and also grouches, and then you wish you were on confortable couches And when you're done and almost through, your mind knows exactly what to do you go back through that eerie flight it may be day it may be night And when your mind comes back to you, you may wake up and have the flu You could leave for school very late, and find out that it's the wrong date And you could play outside in the streams but you will know that you entered "The Land Of Dreams." Old Crow Old crow Tired and lazy' against the day Dark skies Lost in blacks and whites and grays Howling north wind Sure takes a man's fight away Wastelands, A dreamer's home on his best day Hard rain Drops the leaves and makes the colors fade And talks cheap, But for the words of time they'll ave the last say Oh the words of time, they'll have the last say And the harvest is in, it wasn't much May I have enough to get by The baskets were light, not a muscle ached And somehow I feel I'm going to die The winter is coming and the signs say hard I've never seen such a haunting sky For on the mountains, frost in the wind And somehow I feel I'm going to die Full moon Lonely above the old oak tree line Old crow Hanging empty in the black sky And a nighthawk Circles her in silence as she flies Old crow, all alone she flies Pheonix the blazing glory of a loving night Disappears in the sun's bright morning light All efforts to recall that glorious pain Fade in the dawn to be sought in vain but the memory clings of precious glory that will not become an old, dull story instead that memory promises anew that love will spring forth and again renew with every joining of two loving souls again will emerge from the fading coals a love renewed by the glowing embers so that this night, too, will be remembered. Soul Search When I look into your eyes I see the sunshine and rain, The deeper I look and also see Various kinds of pain; I can see the kind, warm love that filters thru, To surface at the top when you’re not blue, I have seen and know your hopes and fears The good and bad times you have thru years, You have seen and felt so much I’m glad our lives did touch Look deep into my eyes and you will find The heartaches and happiness that were also mine Come With Me Come with me and be my friend Lets create a fantasy just you & me lets linger through the wind and feel free lets run through the sand and make time stand still so we can treasure this moment Only until The mystical ocean touches our souls and fills our hearts with love come with me and I'll show you What I have to give come with and I'll describe The life I dreamed we'd live come with and hold me gently and watch the retiring sun slowly set Shower me with all your love pretending we just met Whenever you need me I'll be there To help lift your spirits and I want to care About you come with and be my love no longer a fantasy just you & me This time only A reality... Mario William Vitale. has been featured on Hubpages.com, Starlitecafe.com & Poetry soup. Vitale lives with his elderly mother Ann Soulier in Wolcott, Ct. Currently has written well over 1,000 poems & 2 short story's toward credit platform. Vitale has taken the poetic world by storm being featured on Google, Yahoo & MSN. Looks up to contemporaries in the poetry industry such as John Ashbery & Major Jackson. Has been a favorite featured poet reader at Barnes & Noble in Waterbury, Ct. Also featured on such sites as Poetry soup, Writer's café & Neo Poet Personifications Of Oceanic Thoughts whispers sun lit morn the surf hits the turf smells of salt air through the moment savor each moment as the memory lasts bask in the vast expanse between time & space sounds of children playing seaweed next to the rocks along the cobblestone walkway solace torn up in the derision of peace with solidarity we were made for moments such as these seagulls flock overhead remember me in thoughts as these whisk through the breeze capture one's inner sense alas with angelic fervor permeates a flame of life's torn reality a new to face the day Follow Your Heart Magic breathes life in our hearts Destiny resides in our souls Our path now shimmers unshadowed by the night With one embrace partnered by a tender kiss, the bounds of time and distance crumble through fingers like drifting grains of sand Dream time is the place where I am alive Green eyes ripple into lipid pools where miracles draw me to your heart I am free to swim by your side until the sun sets and rises with you again Life is my dream I love you Cynthia When at night I close my eyes, to think all the days gone by, to feel again those passions past, and feeble joy that never lasts, I'm always drawn to thoughts of you, my only love my Cynthia I think I found you in a dream then we celebrate, the night I pressed beyond the seam, where fantasy and reality meet in summer mist so soft and sweet, But you were all I ever felt, my deepest love, my Cynthia But dreams just last within the night, when morning came, Her soul took flight I awake to find Her never there She passes like the misty air To leave me longing and alone, my painful love, my Cynthia Enigma love you swell the heart, to crush the same when lovers part But whether love and joy you bring or bitter pain and Death's cold sting I plead you come to me again, my final love, My Cynthia For My Precious Son You're standing in the doorway. Your workday is all done. He waits to see you everyday, this boy that is your son. He hopes you will go fishing. He hopes you'll shoot the gun. He just wants to be with you, this boy that is your son. He is your spitting image. To him you are ''The One''. He hopes to be just like you, this boy that is your son. You show him what a man is. You teach as you have fun. You are admired as well as loved by this boy that is your son. You've got a friend forever. Until the world is done. Then, still you will be holding this man that is your son. I'm Just A Poetical Lyricist I’m just having fun, but no doubt someone will take this serious I’m about to take you on a lyrical experience I’m having fun with words, like when a baby first starts reading books Saying I’m good at rhyming, Is like saying Mike Tyson packs a decent punch I best mention the Kardashians other wise you’ll have trouble keeping up Me with a pen is more dangerous than Michael Myers on Halloween when he starts slashing with the knife Telling me I can’t rhyme, is the biggest mistake you’ve made since you let your ex Back in to your life Speaking of exes, will someone please date mine I promise she’ll give you a great time I’ll pay for the date, its all on me All I ask, is please be good enough to get her to stop calling me I love Hip Hop, and yeah I know I’m white Please be creative and tell me how I’m the new Vanilla ice Or how I should walk right back across 8 mile I could have thrown this into my waste pile But I just wanted to write some joke lines and have some fun Sick of hearing rappers talk about drugs and how they pack a gun “yeah I’m Bad. I’ll make this Uzi Squirt” You don’t know who Nas is, And think the greatest rapper is Lil Uzi Vert Or some other mumble rapper with lame rhymes You deserve to have Biggie and Big Pun sit on you at the same time Some guy called Young Thug is wearing dresses That’s not something I have a problem with My problem is There’s so much going on in the world and these rappers are scared to address it What happened to Hip-Hop when rappers would share a message? Nas, Big Daddy Kane, Slick Rick, I could name so many more Now its a bunch of dudes who sound the same with empty thoughts I’d pretend to be from the hood and blast guns but I’d fail I’d rather be the real me, and I’m far too cute to go to Jail I just love Hip Hop and the way it used to be You always get the truth from me someone tell Rihanna I’m ready to give her the best 30 seconds of her life Tell her she’ll only regret it if I become a legend when I die Knowing she could of had me This is my last piece of paper, I’m now pad free I was watching rap battles on YouTube, So took you on this lyrical experience I’m just a poetical lyricist Rapula back in the day where hustlers stayed there were those very afraid he was born in the gutter his momma was a vamp selling her junk in the trunk of a car up all night slept all day he was blown from the frey viscious fangs that bite two turn tables with a mic insisted on a fight sucking the innocent patrons for blood right in the hood like you knew he would Rapula the man, the myth & the legend could very often see him in the back of a seven eleven drinking red slurpees took folks block by block like giving him a heart attack just to fit his mold no one came against him until that day in the crib Rapula lost his lobster bib very often you will see him at the 8th Street Station spinning his records there will never be another blood sucking brother so move over he's taking cover Rapula wore a high hat tip on his temple driving a white Benz looking like Baretta I am in the Father, and that the Father is in me Supernatural but it's so true the world hasn't a single clue borrowed basement pews stained glass windows a reflection of the cross some will go before the toss he was there from the beginning he is the only one that's winning perfumed stockings and a breath of fresh air the willingness to share how you really care if you have seen him you have seen the father Jesus Stop The Madness All of sudden reality happens Ruining my mind that's already jumbled "where the hell did i just go?" I ask to myself no one listens Obsecurity is still in me Recognizing situation where i have been Looking up the sky it's already dark Worrying something, i need to get up Home, i need to find home Stepping forward to pass the crowd The longer i go, the quieter it's so Taking my glasses off because its fogged Focusing my lens but the blur shows sigh Now melancholy does it again Lack of knowledge about locations Lack of someone to be asked for And there is no light to guide me on Vision, direction, companion I wish i could make them clearer But in reality, they just disappear Shaman Within I met a dead poem in the shade of spring. I was so sad I could hear the door bell ring through the furtherance of a smile I became unglued shadows block the motive bruised. Beyond the sky set flight Prison Of The Mind able to be smart without words its a topic of conversation through words spilled out on the ancient path meditate lights out beg, bitch & pout the underscore read stop I'm keeping on keeping transfused and weeping table talking swallow its extremities move the levee strong will survive thank God I'm alive the moments the solitude alone vibrations fixed temptations sensations... take me to the prison three squares a day a pillow and I pray nestled the mood away Getting Ahead Of God hearken onto the voice of a still small way let God show you the new found way look deep into the cause of wisdom seek the shelter God give the children right parents to help bring them up you never miss out in obeying God when you start off in life without God your in the wrong direction God will tell you what he wants you to do if you ask him to your life will be filled with joy, peace & happiness the issue is its not your age but what is the will of God for your life God always has your best when we wait on God you can't tell by the way it works by the way it counts you may have get by in life but you must deny yourself people have to go through disaster before you surrender your life each time we take a leap of our own choice we lose out of the will of God you'll be disapointed the issue is what does God want for your life he acts on behalf on the one who waits on him you can't get God's guidance if your living in sin happiness, joy, peace & satifaction are very valuable you made some choices but God will forgive you if you repent for them its a decision we make if we confess our sins he is faithful & just to forgive us it is a choice you make remember you reap what you sow you can't avoid or escape the things of your soul whether your 16 or 67 its time you made a decision and surrender to God I pray that every person that hears this message will stop to think of what they have done in life Take It All In God is a closer friend come back to New England plants, rocks, shrubs & things suddenly I'm waiting here for you it's a tick or take Sunday afternoon waiting by the rocks they surface with untimely leaves the leagues plagued with devastation the beef stock through the goldie locks of here hair Summertime is no better time got this crazy feeling I'm so glad that your feeling for me with your heart you can unite the heart Changes a smile from a lonesome child transformed through the eyes the timeless cavity unleashed through diverse port of space in time the child in time grew now in there teens sees the world through a fine tooth comb at home being alone the horrific scene through adolescence its a coincidence now as an adult able to leap tall buildings with a single bound the smile deminishes onto sophistication almost a loose cannon pronounced news to its folly cover me with those tender leaves falling from the stream let loose on my caboose the stars all glitter in the darkness of night Pilgrims Progress We need great golden copulations in the cemetery bury your head beneath the limbs in part of a ghostly resolve perhaps this was the path Brother Lawrence tred alone underneath the interpass of denial of speculation we have nursed path each quatrum with a deafening blow to stand in one accord to each other as pilgrims rest after harvest time Apple butter jam spread on fresh home made bread the reflections of a timid squirrel on a limb we have become immeasurable by your smile she danced in a ring of fire yet throws of each challenge with a shrug the cost of the pilgrims progress we shall never know bust up the beat to promote its tempo a beacon of light to a much hurting world in search of love Does death hurt you the most or is it fear beneath the timeless swell I live to tell sought through the variation to its cosmic flame Careless Whisper a shoulder tender shelter to lie next together, the swelter of a careless whisper left tempted shelter lies dormant onto its beckoning plough to thirst united with the throne billow with asps of the new day's pride thank God I'm still alive to delve into the ridges of each dishes kisses the torment of each smile bruisded reed tmpered on its poll the thought of vanity among humanity the faint of your legacy Spirit To Touchdown Ten years since her husband's death she still craved the sight of him and his magnetic smile coming in the door, his suitcoat slung over his back. She yearned to glance at him in a long black coat, resembling a materialized laser beam, as they prepared to go out for an evening, or in old bluejeans walking barefoot with her on the seashore. She knew he was always with her... but wanted his spirit to touchdown My Elephant There is something about the Elephant I love very much, I wish I could cuddle him but I know I cannot, if they be my friend, I will play soccer with an Elephant on my side, I will catch hold of his trunk and he’ll trumpet me to victory with pride. There is something about the Elephant I love very much. Although he is so big, he won’t give you a fright, He lifts up his trunk and blesses you instead, So different from the Lion and Tiger you meet, There is something about the Elephant I love very much He is a pure vegetarian, he won’t kill a mouse, He is worshiped as God for all his good vice. If we were to crown the king of the jungle again, It will go to the Elephant our vegetarian friend Proud To Be An American I’m proud to be American To live In a country that’s free And we’re free to be who We want to be! We’re always Free to try New things. And enjoy every Experience that Life may bring! And I was taught To stand up for what You believe in And never give up On your hopes And dreams Because the sky Is the limit! Beach Canopy The smell of fresh fry doe Time had elapsed playing at the casino Fresh lobster with a side order of fries Those spacious wonderful sky's Down at the shell the continental were playing A walk by the lady of a statue in waiting Flip flops and the sound of laughter A playground for kids in the middle The boardwalk with seagulls flocking over head Fire works in the midnight air with a cheer Love We Go through the sweet vortex of our inner frame we can dream of far off places with kings and queens shaped through the fragments of are exploits someday you will be all alone in your room there you will read a text to reflect upon your life we each are on a journey in this life some ponder the existence of God other reflect in the day to day toil love is the mere essence of are existence shine your inner light upon the twilight hour shadows block the mere reflection of my frame not having you in my arms is driving me insane lest I refrain another door by which to explore there is so much more in this game of life within its given strife we can learn one soul soars and another will soon burn we better wait are turn in this wheel in the sky the faint lulabye in its scope Elvis In Vegas Viva Viva Los Vegas he came alone with a guitar in his sack romance with the dice he's giving back a whole host of onlookers looking upon he waves his magic wand with a favorable song swivel hips stand tight in his sticks Elvis Fun House a blade of grass blown in the wind heros have erected its course leading folks away from divorce in times of remembrances thoughts shattered in the wind coming apart at the seams a brigade of thoughts What is a funhouse ? It is when the eyes of all are upon you It's not so, but when you go through it is true The funhouse is a form of torture where everything unravels around you It is a commotion of nervousness and you just want to hide from all that is around you It is a secret that you don't want to share, but there is one who helps just by saying I care It's not what you say it is what you do When you enter my world of the funhouse, you assure me that God is in control that with him I don't need to be afraid It's the gentle way in which you talk when once you have entered into the realm of commotion... It's the assurance of your sincerity that softens the blow Soon with your special way the inner strife goes away A Thief in The Night Jesus he that hath an ear let him hear when all was said to be good let it be said calamity have you ever been down to the lowest pit you look around and no one gave a shit By His Hand through long lines of being transformed to clean my room in the late month of June we move too soon we remain vital to the oncoming spirit of the game filtered through those tiny reasons to spice up the season the God Lord up above has carried us by his hand Poison Ivy there are pillars being built for those who pusue the chase we each are in a battle some have retreated at death's door lest I implore something more a quaint visitation with your higher power in a world torn up in misery & sorrow hiding behind a false hidden garb of compromise can't we easily see through those twised lies yet we embark on a new journey of are own having a house but living all alone out in the street where people meet had a gun at my head thought i was really dead out of devastation I reached right for the bottle like having a gun in hand to release its throttle the world is in misery torn some insist to curse they very day they were born eyes to see but can't hears to hear but won't there's a true lesson to be learned one soul soars while the other soon to be burned we must all wait in line for are turn each of us will have a day in the sun now I'm off on the run searching through pictures to put on my wall to stand ten feet tall amidst the social resistance join in now I must insist this casualties are enormous for a stated cause that's plain atrocious have we taken the time out to notice yet many of us have given up way to easy caught in a rut in are society out of desperation there still is a plan that we can see someday be fulfilled as a reality if we only believe one will be set free Break Away break away to a brand new day perfect display we come to pray faint sounds of grandeur right down to the wire share with those you have heard Thirst thirst after the water that has been spoken look deep beneath the vines of realization through thought and mind breath deep inside let your breath go complete with words of heightened anticipation go deep upon deeper be the keeper of the gate call it fate the twist and turn of the music to loose it the world spins like a top negotiate your buyer sweet songs of praise sweet moments raised in a time well spent in thought the spinning wheel stop just like a top remember me in times like these sheltered through the breeze crushed upon the leaves in midnight hour with pulse through the flame in moments of granduer sharpen your arrows to calm the breeze nestled to your knees cultivated with a smile to know all the great while a helmet for the passing fawn the bear from its nap with a yawn in columns of portals sprinkled dust in the wind the habitation of a needle visible through the shadows remember me in times like these through the training of the leaves taunt the moment an explosion until sunset the bill of sale A Gun For Hire there is a direct correlation between time & space scented across your universe base the climb to approach the summit peak with words do you seek famous qoutes and pictures for your desire coming down to the wire a gun for hire Beyond Her Tea- Blurred Vision The powerful voice of loneliness is screaming through her mind of twisted halls, All too painful to hear, she absorbs them into her cotton ball walls But, beyond her tea-blurred vision and through her pounding heart She hears the voice inside her that is worse than a dagger through her heart Her shadow's darkest moments are filled with hopeless pride And her tongue tied conscience is all whom she has to confide But the rose that is trying to bloom, within her salty hand, will never wither, and never be taken away, Because this, and this alone, is what keeps her going day by day the embrace... Shelter From The Storm outside violence inner silence shadows now block the vortex spaces for places & midnight traces coming apart at the seams jelly beans breath deep my pale sister confide my shady brother undercover as lovers sign so simple the cripple shelter from the storm curse the very day you were actually born a world that turns suffer inside the place to hide let go of any ambition what are you bitching cap the cosmic clap faces in the window having storms in the night Celebrate In Twilight the crimsome tide we all want to run away & hide although we suffer inside enter through the canopy of a velvet song lines drawn in the sand when to understand give yourself away take heed to pray no cornerstone no bridge unknown through the sunlit ravine The Knight Of The 1,000 Eyes softly now faintly ode to the serpent's tale dismiss the dread to reclaim its saga in darkened dungeons fit for conquest come away for a rest most of life is but a test treasure the mantle to the I am presence delve into the sacred flames within your heart enter the center of your being pull back on yourself a still small voice within you saying be not afraid I am here I am your heart I abide in the holy temple in the center of your being you have climbed through mountains you have found me after a very long trek in the darkness of human misery I am the pressence that looks through your eyes the knight will rise of the 1, 000 eyes filtered through the shame who are we to blame infinity is my measure you beloved heart belong to me let us be one once again allow the shell of outer human pass away I will be the service to life that passes through you do not accept as real to what is in the outer world fear not I am the life inside your heart I am inside you together we must intoduce ourselves onto the world. A Gripping Fairy Tale long ago let the truth be told in a city far far away lived a young hobbit who drank there was woods to hide his visitation a taste of hungry exoneration A fare maiden was on the throne ruling her army from the barren city enclosed was a message of honor high off traction from the waiting pool the kingdom was now silent These Words these words are wrapped among a cordial smile cemented like glue for what are we to do come now let us leave the door opened, a demonstration of trust in a world in quite a bit of a rush the door swings wide to the enforced way a beautiful flower display ample time to pray therefore everything will be o.k. the knock on the door lest I implore a distant shuttter of languished circumstances with a heart that's been renewed these words stand still amidst the night's appeal the even keal behind the spinning wheel trust is completely most like a seagull off the coast a reason to really trust Surfing The Internet Today I'm on point smoking a fat joint relaxing basking in the ambiance of the hour folks need to take a cold shower as they admire the scented perfume through the room we have become combersome with this world as a child as if you never really heard Leonard Cohen with his famed song "Suzanne" really makes you think about life. Through the negative light of affliction we have every bit of reason to be standing chosen yet we have are back against the wall when all attempts of standing ten feet tall, Each of us has a reason to discuss the mere notion of love sent from up above Rat tit tat tat on that ass no one gets by on any free pass we need to make are way look to your neighbor for any favors we can all learn to trust & savor Each new moment that comes along with a fast paced moving vibrant song you unleashed the inner lion in me with a whole host of chemistry Surfing the internet may not be your thing but prayer can unleash the fires within storms of life come to either make you or break you whats news for you might not be for you life is like a jagged edge roller coaster with its twists and turns one soul soars while the other one burns just wait your turn Empty Leaves onto the seventh hour of the seventh sun beckon to rule the new day's dawn the lovely fawn sitting on the lawn vibrations to great temptations captivated by a smile to know all the great while the wilderness beckons a response of wild beasts among us Light Brevity thoughts of brevity about the city stay close to me a whole host next to me got rhymes of choice stretched to the opened door the willingness to be explored stand firm in the wheel chair you know my condition to what I've been dishing kissing twisted stereo lies by the bars swift no surprise captivated by her smile still to know all the great while as if a little child faith pierced the scene eating fantastic cuisine the turning of the page is it safe to ask you your age ? the band played on Agatha The Princess she was on the throne far away from her home uniting hearts to ne fond heights carrying herself with a song Agatha the princess will lose their influence soaring to new frontiers left her to tears took walks in her garden beautiful flower display led to thoughts to pray with tears in her eyes came as a big surprise delicate hue wth borrowed lies she walks the flats on the lonely pier rapers and dishes she would hide leave behind the careless whisper a shoulder to cry the soft cascading vamp shine on her eyes to beg or even borrow moments of sorrow to cleave to her young the living stone have we just begun Back To The Front plunged into uncertainty the quest to be a want to be shining on mental enhancement there's joy in the progress smoke on my ceiling highway of what I'm dealing Heroin bang bang shoot shoot you took my nephew Shane let me be the first to explain Shane used to live with us so long ago until he shot up heroin he died in are house such a dark force it starts with a promise to relieve then one gets too deep falling apart at the seams beg, borrow & steal for your next fix to even the deal some take it with a needle others snort it up their nose but do you suppose there's always a shipment coming from Rhode Island dodge the bullet feel the passion why am I asking heroin scores a perfect 10 in the mind of an addict it takes your body then your soul engulfed in flames bust up the beat to promote its tempo Soft Parade the tear drop fell from the ceiling no matter what I'm dealing the ocean has a delicate spray through loose lines let it go time well spent in thought through the day springs hope left nestled on its undertow the stereo swell basking in the hour of belief sorted flowers in its incredible epitaph The Waiting Suspense there are pillars in doorways loosed to become forgiven loose engine the pulsating of a river where is the trigger gets bigger & bigger Destination Excellence the thought of letting go a far to time before waiting to explore the opened door life can be quite a bore the longing for more road up ahead avoid the living dead thoughts inside my head The Arms Of Rap into the arms of rap that's where its at buiding through the confusion in fusion got flames coming out my baseball cap I'm in need of a nap keep close to the doorway fresh rhymes I'm still on time you maybe brave see me at the arcade park my Benz in back folks tend to over react but I tip my hat got news for you all bridge the gap know what's up Chilling at the grill with my girl sporting heavy studs think that I'm in love you see there's brilliance in a piece mark the ege of my teeth stand still & repeat bars watching souped up body kit cars looking to the stars a view from Mars Pina Colada does anyone grow fond of Starsky & Hutch another push grasping with tender faith in my hand when will folks understand stick it to the man years have passed still having every reason to grasp the solitude in that I'm still in a good mood... Feeling high anxiety got folks sitting next to me living out my legacy of what I used to be Sipping my favorite sauce to the max you tend to over react got to stay in the zone Summer time boogy time get your cash and stand in line frozen in time Through a variation of a dream peeps do scream eating delicious ice cream Souped up high hat as if in a tempo taking you places that you need to go playing a little Spanish fly i got words by the fly your my favorite guy on my human side stand still I'm happily alive got to put first things first this is how i flirt got words for Lavert put back your gold in a purse Trump is getting busy but he makes me awful dizzy better listen to Thin Lizzy they say i'm institutionalized but I got words from the hive it's best to dream big Let Yourself Be A reflection I will be, for today I looked into a mirror and much to my surprise, what I saw was all deep, deep, inside... There it was, all exposed, the inner me right down to my very soul alarmed, shocked, and surprised, what I saw wasn't really me on the outside What have I done ? Where did it go wrong ? Why isn't the inner me the same as the outer soul ? Then I could see way beyond it isn't just me, but everyone. Life is a fairy tale to most for the really don't accept the Holy Ghost If all would look within their self, and see the person that is there, open up your heart, let it out don't pretend, just be proud, for the person you really are, is just what God wanted for he created you as he chose Don't fret, or whine, just be proud, life's riches you will surely find Now when you look at me, a mirror you will see for when you look at me, what you'll see is the inner me For I am the mirror of the real me To everyone in life who feels they are not special, you really are, you see, for God made you that way, if you'll only let yourself be...