#so no real indication of louis’ schedule..

[dreamings-free]

7/3/24

[statementlou]

I'm not gonna lie, Louis referring to his queer fans or the fact the he has them as "weird" would be pretty disheartening. one thing was to do that in 2014 around the great gay war, with so many indicators that they were actively fighting. another is to do this now, in 2023. and even a straight artist not for one second to consider his lyrics could resonate with queer fans regardless of larry would be a bit shitty. I'm just saying that whatever he says is gonna be VERY hard to believe he was forced to. And if he openly shits on Harry it's safe to say his career - as the chance of 1D ever reunite even for a quick photo - is over.

well I absolutely agree that he will not have been 'forced' to say anything that he says in this movie. And I hear where you are coming from, but I just think the catastrophizing is unnecessary. First of all, we have ONE (1) almost certainly made up and definitely purposefully shit stirring anon (and a slow news day) to thank for all this discourse, we have no idea yet what will be in the movie, and it is always weird to me that people are so ready to believe the worst when I, personally, feel like Louis always comes through for me and gives me the BEST. Have FAITH in LOUIS!! WHEN does he let us down like literally WHEN???? (Unless all you care about is him coming out/ ending it/ confirming larry, in which case, IDK, get your priorities right and appreciate what's in front of you? Cause those things are not happening.) But anyway...

I can completely imagine a scenario in which Louis says he thinks it's weird that so many queers feel inspired by him and it makes me want to hug him forever- because I think he does find it weird and remarkable. It makes me think of that one 1D days receipt where someone said they met him on the street and told him he inspired them as a gay and he was like "I don't see how with the way things are but that means a lot." I think that was probably made up, but also it rings true to me, I feel like he does find it wild that with the public face of everything we still are here and love him so much and see what we do in him and think he's brave. As for the Harry thing, anything he says about him will be taken wrong and distorted and picked on by everyone, if he says anything at all less than "he's my husband and has never done anything wrong in his entire life he is perfect" people will say he's "shitting on Harry"; but that said, Louis is an intelligent media trained person, why are people seriously debating whether he's gonna get on screen and talk shit about Harry Styles?! also literally when in Louis' entire life has he ever said one single bad thing about Harry come on It's not fucking realistic and that alone should tell you that that anon either made all that up or it's just a really bad interpretation of whatever was actually said because the person, like everyone else around here, was so busy expecting the worst that they couldn't just chill and listen to Louis. Like, worst case scenario, let's say he does say that Harry was being offered some really incredible opportunities and he wanted to take them and Louis hadn't really thought about what he would do after the band and so when that happened he felt blindsided and adrift by suddenly not having his ever waking moment scheduled and accounted for (as Liam has also talked about experiencing), would that be so horrible??? That sounds like real life stuff and I don't personally think anyone is the bad guy there or it's horrible to say, but also I BET HE DOESN'T SAY THAT. IDK man, I just think we should all calm down and wait and see, but I'm REALLY not worried that the bombshell of this movie will be Louis coming out as being against Harry or talking shit about his fans, you know?! Come ON. I expect that with the premieres before the release we're going to get a whole lot more overwrought interpretations of things but I don't buy it; I look forward to hearing what Louis has to say and I will be real surprised if it isn't reasonable and interesting and probably mostly NOT THAT BIG A DEAL

[moviemunchies]

Family movies often have two secondary comic relief characters that barely understand what’s going on, to act as comedic foils to the main characters. In its early days, Dreamworks decided in its contest with Disney, to make a movie about Those Two Guys.

Hence, The Road to El Dorado, a comedic (familyish?) animated take on The Man Who Would Be King set in Mesoamerica right before the Spanish Conquest.

The Road to El Dorado tells the story of Miguel and Tulio, two hustlers from Spain that find a map to the City of Gold and (accidentally!) stowaway on Cortes’s ship to the New World. Upon arrival to El Dorado, they are mistaken for gods. Being con men, they roll with it, though keeping up the charade becomes pretty difficult the longer they stay, even with the help of Chell, a native dissident.

There is a persistent rumor that the movie was originally conceived with the leads being a gay couple, and that Chell was added later as Tulio’s love interest to please censors. That’s not actually true, and the earliest work we’ve seen on the movie includes Chell. The Internet loves to roll with these things, though, and as TV Tropes notes, Kenneth Brannagh (who voices Miguel) apparently added openly affectionate bits to his dialogue, calling Tulio ‘darling’ and such. This was cut from the movie, but somehow made it onto the subtitles of some home releases?

It’s undeniable that the leads have very good chemistry, though. They managed this by putting Kline and Brannagh in the same recording booth. That sounds like an obvious choice, but you’d be amazed how seldomly this is done, probably due to scheduling issues with voice actors. Usually you can’t tell when it happens or not (though sometimes you can–look at how both Geralt and Letho say the name ‘Louis’ in The Witcher III while talking to each other, and see what I mean). The result is a very believable relationship between the two characters. You believe that these two have been through a lot. They’re loads of fun to watch throughout almost the entire film, and they bounce off each other very well.

Wikipedia claims that the gods that Miguel and Tulio are mistaken for, and who appear on the art for El Dorado, are the Hero Twins. I don’t know that there’s any indication that’s the case, other than there are two of them and they’re Mesoamaerican.

Also, Jim Cummings? Is Cortes? I know he’s an experienced voice actor with a ton of range, but Winnie the Pooh is voicing Cortes and that’s darn weird.

[Random side note: like, okay, I’m not a huge fan of Cortes, but in real life he didn’t sail from Spain to go conquer Mexico. In fact, he wasn’t even supposed to conquer Mexico. He went and did that on his own, much to the frustration of his superiors.]

On the subject of characters: Chell is… interesting. Like, okay, she’s an indigenous woman with her own goals, who is clever, and is pretty forward about getting what she wants. On the other, she’s quite blatantly designed and animated to be fanservice, and there are times when she comes across as a stereotype of a Spicy Latina, and I’m not thrilled about that. This would have been helped, I think, if we learned more about her backstory.

Random character note: The armadillo, Bibo, was supposedly (I can’t find a source on this other than TV Tropes) originally going to be revealed as some sort of divine figure, and explained why the characters are so lucky. That got cut from the film.

The movie WAS originally planned to be a more mature film–strands of which remained. Remember Prince of Egypt? The idea was that animated movies didn’t have to be for kids, so The Road to El Dorado was thought of as a way to cover heavy topics and ideas, making an epic film with some humor that just happened to be animated. They decided to tone it down to be more marketable, and I’m wondering if that was the smart choice. The movie IS quite fun, I think, and I love watching it. That being said, there are obviously more mature jokes and bits in there (Tulio and Chell have what seems to be an implied, off-screen sex scene?), and the topic of Pre-Columbian Mesoamerica wasn’t at the time really seen as a popular topic for kids.

This movie was also supposedly hell to work on, with constant changes in direction, script, and style. I think it shows in some places. There are a couple of rushed elements–Tzekel-Kan comes to mind as an underdeveloped figure other than being a religious nutjob who wants to sacrifice people. I’m unclear why the people of El Dorado followed his directions if apparently none of them liked the human sacrifice thing. And the final act of the film feels very, very rushed: Tzekel-Kan meets up with Cortes and leads the conquistadores to El Dorado, but the heroes find this out from a guy we’ve never seen before rush up and say that he saw them coming. The people of El Dorado immediately come up with a plan and enact it. Seems a few steps were missing there?

TV Tropes claims sequels were planned, though I don’t know if I’ve seen any proof about it. Maybe that explains what happened at the end? They planned to address it/do more with it in sequels?

I don’t know. I’m bummed that this movie wasn’t successful enough for sequels, though I am quite happy with what we did get. It’s an incredibly fun movie. There’s a REASON you keep seeing gifs of it online–it’s quotable, and hilarious.

The music is magnificent. They got Hans Zimmer, Elton John, and Tim Rice working together on the soundtrack, I suspect from trying to make something as epic as The Lion King. They don’t quite reach that level of awesomeness, in part because the movie isn’t as serious as that one, but it is very nice to listen to.

I love the art in this movie? At that point, Mesoamerica was not a topic pop culture liked to do anything with other than human sacrifices, so looking at how colorful the movie is… well, it’s fantastic. And even before they reach El Dorado, the landscape images we see of the jungles and mountains that Miguel and Tulio explore are wonderful to see. I want more animated films in settings like this.

It’s a memorable movie, and a fun movie, and a very funny movie. I really wish it was more well-known outside of Internet circles, because it’s quite good, if not the epic film that was originally planned to be. Maybe that would have been a great film; however, I’m alright with the film we got.

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

I think we should talk about both 🤷‍♂️

Harry showed signs of disordered eating and hints of anorexia (the weird workout routine he showed in that one 1D day video, the bullet coffee, the juice cleansing for Vogue, the comment about his 26in waist, and now Niall’s comment about smelling food and not eating it, I don’t think the skinning of the chicken is a big deal, chicken skin can be bad for your cholesterol).

And Louis shows signs of alcohol dependency, (drinking on stage, multiple mentions from people around him saying he downs 10 shots before the show and then after as well, how there’s a lot of alcohol in the background of his photos and videos, how he makes a point of how he appreciates his band and opening acts partying with him and drinking copious amounts).

It’s not enough to diagnose either of them with an ED or an addiction, but I think raising the red flag and being aware of the possibility, especially when thinking about our own lives and our own habits and attitudes, is important.

Btw I don’t think there’s any indication either of them is addicted to drugs. Both have mentioned using different kinds of drugs or alluded to them in songs but that doesn’t mean either of them are addicted, but being in the spotlight and having their schedules makes them high risk to becoming addicted and there’s nothing wrong with pointing that out either.

So I disagree both with what you're saying about how we should talk about 1D members and addiction and other mental health struggles - and in a pretty inter-related way what you think we can know about them.

You opening this post by saying what you think we should talk about - and then you talk about it in a very particular way. In this ask you're not just arguing that we should talk about alcoholism and eating disorders - but that we should do so in ways that involves careful cataloguing of behaviours and signs.

I think that if either Louis or Harry are struggling with eating disorders or addiction - then the surveillance of strangers can only do harm. I also think careful detailing of other people's behaviours can do real harm to people who read it - particularly when it comes to eating disorders.

People are still free to surveil strangers consumption - but the idea that people should do something so harmful - that's really counter to everything I believe.

As well as being harmful - I also think your way of talking about this is totally uninsightful - and will end up hiding much more than it reveals. The basic assumption in your approach is that we can tell whether or not an artist has an eating disorder or addiction from what we see them consume. The most disturbing part of this is the way you neatly catalogue eating behaviours into signs of an eating disorder and things that there may be very good reason for. I can't emphasise enough that that's not how either our food culture or eating disorders work.

And from this you have made neat dividing lines based on what you see about what you think the risk is. You acknowledge that they're both at risk of drug addiction, but stop there. There's a very high risk that Louis has an eating disorder and Harry is alcoholic. The careful cataloguing of what we see erases that the risk is in what we don't see.

What's super frustrating to me is we don't need to be counting the drinks or cataloguing the food intake to know that every 1D member is at a very high risk for both eating disorders and addiction. Even the most cursory survey of the industry provides us with a very clear understanding of the risk.

I find it really frustrating that people are suddenly casting me as someone who doesn't want to talk about alcohol and drug use. I've been talking about both for years. I was talking about it when fandom's main approach was 'talking about drugs is bad'. And I'm going to keep talking in a way that is consistent with my beliefs now an 'is this bad?' approach is depressingly common.

[jacaranda-bloom]

FIC WRITER QUESTIONS

Thank you to the lovely @allwaswell16 @runaway-train-works @so-why-let-your-voice-be-tamed @uhoh-but-yeah-alright and @evilovesyou for tagging me to answer some questions about my writing.

1) How many works do you have on AO3?

47

2) What’s your total AO3 word count?

901,445 (Hoping to hit the Magic Million by the end of the year!)

3) How many fandoms have you written for and what are they?

1 (One Direction)

4) What are your top 5 fics by kudos?

When Tomorrow Comes 1155

The Baby Whisperer 950

Love, Ever After 898

Harry Poppins 856

Play Me A Memory 760

More under the cut…

5) What’s the fic you’ve written with the angstiest ending?

Oh gosh. Uhm. I don’t really write angsty endings? All my fics have Happy Endings and most have epilogues to round them out and tie them up in a bow. Perhaps I’d say If You’re Out There (I’ll Find You Somehow) purely because (spoiler ahead) the epilogue is written 100 years into the future so they’ve both passed.

6) What’s the fic you’ve written with the happiest ending?

Interestingly, I would actually say the answer is the same as above, If You’re Out There (I’ll Find You Somehow). The epilogue is so uplifting and I cry happy tears every time I re-read it. It’s written from the POV of their granddaughter and you get to see the world they had a hand in changing for the better through her eyes, so you get a sense of how impactful their lives were on the rest of society. Oof, tearing up right now just thinking about it.

7) Do you write crossovers? If so what is the craziest one you’ve written?

Yeah, I have actually. I really enjoy doing new takes on an existing universes, although they aren’t always the easiest thing to pull off tbh. I’m not sure which I would say is the craziest, but the hardest to write was definitely The Peter Pan/Hook AU.

Harry Poppins - Loosely based on the book/movie Mary Poppins, but without any magical aspects.

Playing To Win - Set in the Big Brother house.

The Pirate and The Piper - A Peter Pan/Hook AU which I took a lot of liberties with.

In The Still Of The Night - My Dirty Dancing AU.

A Hungry Heart - This is a Great British Bake Off AU that is due out in September for the Cliche Fic Fest!

8) Do you write smut? If so what kind?

Whoa Nelly. Yeah, I do. All the time. Every fic actually. There’s only one, Exposed, the only fic I’ve published that’s not rated Explicit and doesn’t have smut. But, to be fair, the challenge was to write exactly 666 words and I still managed to get the implication in there. Plus, Louis was naked and Harry was applying body paint for the majority of the story, so like, I think I can get a free pass on that one - I tried!

In terms of what type of smut, I guess it varies depending on the story. I tend not to push the boat out too far, but I do dabble in BDSM in quite a few of my fics. A recurring theme in the comments I receive is that my smut scenes are well constructed and detailed, without being too tedious or drawn out, which is lovely feedback to get because they can be challenging to write.

9) Do you respond to comments, why or why not?

Absolutely. Every single one.

10) Have you ever received hate on a fic?

Not often, people are usually so kind, but there have been a couple.

11) Have you ever had a fic stolen?

Not that I’m aware of!

12) Have you ever had a fic translated?

Yeah, quite a lot, particularly on Wattpad, all with my full consent. That said, I’m thinking of stopping this because it’s getting a bit out of hand and I’ve been feeling uncomfortable about it recently for various reasons that I won’t bore you with here. 

13) Have you ever co-written a fic before?

Nope! I don’t think it’s really my thing tbh. I get very in my head about writing and struggle even to brainstorm or share too much until I’m well into a story.

14) What’s your all time favorite ship?

Of the 47 fics I’ve written, there are 45 Larry, 1 Narry, and 1 Louis/Dermot O’Leary (I think mine is still the only fic with this ship hahahaa), so that’s probably a good indication of my fave writing ship.

15) What’s a WIP that you want to finish but don’t think you ever will?

I have one lonely WIP sitting on AO3 from 2018. I keep promising myself I’ll finish it and it’s on my schedule every year, then I get distracted by other fics/fests and it gets pushed back. Plus, it needs a complete rewrite because my style has developed so much since I started it, so it’ll be a big job. Based on that, I think that the fic, in its current form, won’t ever be finished as the rewrite will completely wipe out what it was, although the underlying plot will still be there.

16) What are your writing strengths?

World building (or so I’m often told). I write very visually and people often say they can imagine the scene exactly, or that it’s like a movie, or that they think it’s actually a real place I’m describing, when most of the time it absolutely isn’t, it’s just something I’ve created in my weird brain.

17) What are your writing weaknesses?

Dialogue (although my lovely beta disagrees) and telling rather than showing. They’re both things I’m actively working on.

18) What are your thoughts on writing dialogue in other languages in a fic?

I’ve never really considered it. It’s not something I’d shy away from necessarily, but it’s just never come up.

19) What was the first fandom you wrote for?

One Direction. First and only.

20) What’s your favorite fic you’ve written?

Wow. This is really tough because it changes over time. I find that once I’ve finished a fic I don’t want to revisit it for a few months because I’m kind of over it. But I find comfort in them after a while, like I get to go back to that happy place and immerse myself in that world and the characters again, similar to catching up with an old friend. It’s familiar. I think I also like different stories for different reasons and I’m drawn to various ones depending on my mood. My top 3 (although, ask me next week and the list will probably be completely different!) would probably be:

1. If You’re Out There (I’ll Find You Somehow). Written for the hybrid fic fest (a fest I created just for this fic lol). It’s not everyone’s cup of tea due to the hybrid aspect, but it’s one of the stories I feel is the most rounded from a character development perspective and the world building was pretty epic, if I can be so bold as to throw that out there myself!

2. No Going Back. One of my Big Bangs from 2020. I adore the way their relationship develops in this fic and the setting (as remote lighthouse keepers) was such a lot of fun to write. Plus I got to collaborate with an amazing artist who created an entire website as an accompanying travel blog which was truly wonderful.

3. From The Heart. This is a series I wrote for wordplay back in 2019. I had no idea that what I was doing was so unusual and so meta by having Louis essentially write for the equivalent of wordplay in the fic. It was such an fun way to share my writing process and challenges I encounter (exactly how many synonyms tabs do I have open at any one time?!) and I thoroughly enjoyed the outcome (although getting there was definitely a struggle).

~

This was really fun and thanks to anyone who made it this far! Writing brings me so much joy and is a wonderful outlet for all the imaginings in my head, so I appreciate everyone who supports me and joins me on that journey.

~

I’m pretty late with this and I’m not sure who has already done it but I’ll tag @fallinglikethis @homosociallyyours @lululawrence @reminiscingintherain and @beau-soleil-louis if they’d like to do this and haven’t already.

[janeofcakes]

KYFC..: Chapter 21 (Johnlock meets roller derby and gets off)

Hahahahaha!!! I couldn’t help adding a little silliness to the title of this, the last chapter. I want to thank all of you for your support and dedication, for going on this wonderful, mad journey with me into an AU I feel has been sadly neglected by Johnlockers. It has true potential, as I think we all see. This has been a joy, a true joy and I am so humbled and touched that all of you came along with me from beginning to end. I have to say I’m sorry to see this John and Sherlock go. I have grown to really like them, and the precious friendship between Sherlock and Molly. I think you’ll be seeing more of that from me in the future. Hopefully, I’ll be able to mix it up a bit so it doesn’t seem the same from one story to the next. Haha. Anyway, this is all stuff I should say at the end of the chapter. I’m getting ahead of myself, so I will stop and let you enjoy this last chapter. 

---

Never knew I could feel like this. Like I’ve never seen the sky before. Want to vanish inside your kiss. Seasons may change, winter to spring, but I love you until the end of time.                                                      -- Nicole Kidman & Ewan McGregor, Come What May

Ten days have passed since Greg pulled John from the waters of Lake Erie. Their lives, and the whole of roller derby in Detroit and their division, were thrown into utter chaos that evening and things haven’t settled down one bit. The loss of a coach, and especially under these circumstances, does not sit well with the league board. The Demons’ season is immediately suspended and the team’s remaining bouts all forfeited. Every member of the team and staff is to be questioned in the coming days to determine level of involvement in the conspiracy.

The police have their own investigation as well and, oddly enough, the two entities have cooperated quite well with one another. Moriarty, Moran, Sarah Sawyer and Janine are all behind bars awaiting trial on a number of charges. Janine confessed first, her conscience getting the best of her. She laid out the plan as it began and explained how it changed over time. They had poisoned Dr. Wiggins and planted Anderson within Rock City, but Anderson had been an idiot. His attraction to Sally Donovan and subsequent removal from the position proved to be his undoing. John would not have been alone in Lake Erie, had the plan to murder him been successful.

After hearing of Janine’s confession, and accepting a deal that lessened the extent of the charges against her, Sarah confirmed all Janine had said. She also revealed more details and pointed the finger at five Demon skaters, one of which had poisoned Molly with a hidden needle in her wrist guard, just as Sherlock thought. They were all arrested and confessed, three of the five had been coerced into helping. Sarah even agreed to take police to the spot where Anderson was dropped into the lake.

Sherlock, John and Greg have not been able to rest since returning to the Metropark marina. Between additional police interviews and statements, and flying to DC on more than one occasion to be interviewed by the Board, they have had time for little else. Select others have been interviewed as well: Molly, Harry and other skaters who were injured, Dr. Wiggins and Mrs. Hudson, many of the Rock City staffers. To his credit, Sherlock has kept the Rollers on their winning streak throughout all of it. Just as John had said, they voted unanimously to refuse any resignation Sherlock might try to submit. Mrs. Hudson agreed wholeheartedly, scolded Sherlock for even considering it, and planted a motherly kiss on his cheek. He had rolled his eyes and grumbled, but John could tell how much it meant to him.

***

Exhausted, Sherlock stumbles into his condo and drops the duffle on his shoulder. The laptop bag on his other shoulder goes down more gingerly. He shrugs out of his coat and hangs it by the door, noticing that John’s coat is no longer on the peg next to his. Of course. He had expected John would have moved out before his return. If he is honest, he thought John would be back at his own place within two days of Moriarty’s arrest, but he did not leave. Neither has he slept in Sherlock’s room. Granted, there has been a lot of traveling in the last ten days and not much time at home. Both he and John had to go to DC twice to appear in front of the Board, and they had also gone to St. Louis, Chicago and Memphis for bouts. Naturally, Moriarty’s plan had to blow up at the busiest traveling time in the season and Sherlock has no idea how long the Board’s investigation will last. At least they work their interviews around Rock City’s schedule. Just barely though. Tomorrow morning, bright and early, will see the team on a plane for Charlotte and then Raleigh. To top it all off, Sherlock had been summoned to DC a third time two days ago, leaving practices in the capable hands of Molly and Sally. 

Sherlock cracks his neck and debates upon checking in with them before trying to get some sleep. Packing his things for the morning and getting a shower before turning in would also be good. He sighs, his mind still lingering on something else. John is gone. He must be. It’s not like Sherlock will never see him again. He is still the team doctor. It just feels that way. An invisible finite end to it all. The same way his condo feels empty without that coat on the hook. He resists the urge to go into the spare bedroom and wallow in the scent John has left behind, but only just. Part of him wants to sleep in that bed tonight. A very big part.

Sherlock trudges into the kitchen, pops a flavor cup and mug into the coffee maker and turns it on. He rests his hands on the counter on either side of it and stares at it blankly as if it holds all the answers to the universe and everything. He had not wanted John to leave, but what was he to say? The danger has passed and they have only known one another a few months and yet… Sherlock huffs a mirthless laugh and scrubs his hands over his face. How could he ever expect John to stay? It’s absurd. How could Sherlock even ask him? How can he tell John he wants to spend his whole life with him and that they were always meant to be together when they are so new to all of this? God, he’s an idiot. None of it makes any sense in his head and yet, it makes perfect sense to him. It isn’t going to if he tries to say it out loud to John though. He shakes his head sorrowfully with a roll of his eyes. 

“I’m such an idiot,” Sherlock covers his face with his hands as his shoulders slump and he bows his head in defeat.

“I’m not saying I disagree,” a familiar voice says from the direction of the kitchen door, “but what specifically makes you an idiot this time?”

Sherlock’s head snaps up and he stands ramrod straight, looking into the crystal blue eyes of his wayward doctor. As if to punctuate his surprise, the coffee maker pings cheerfully to signal its cup is ready. John laughs softly and walks into the room, a white grocery bag hanging from his left hand. His eyes still on the startled coach, John sidles up to the counter and sets the bag next to the coffee maker.

“I thought you’d be gone,” Sherlock says in utter befuddlement.

“I was,” John smiles brightly. “I went to the market.”

“That’s not..” Sherlock’s expression finally returns to normal as his brain works through the shock. He narrows his eyes and looks at John wryly. “I thought you would have moved out by now. Obvious.”

“Oh, right,” John takes a short step back, suddenly much less sure of himself. Sherlock is screaming inside.

What the fuck are you doing, you idiot!

“I didn’t think… I should have done straight away, of course,” John stumbles over the words, losing his sure footing. “I got comfortable, I guess.”

“Right,” the word springs from Sherlock’s lips. He cannot seem to put together coherent thoughts or words and keeps saying the stupidest things possible. In the meantime. Every word he utters is sure to push John away. God, he really is an idiot.

“Right,” John parrots, his upper lip disappearing beneath the lower one.

An awkward silence hangs in the air between them as Sherlock struggles for words, wanting to physically kick himself. His mind feels like it is running overtime and he still cannot put what he wants to say to John into words. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and he just furrows his brow instead. John nods ever so slightly and reaches for the grocery bag on the counter.

“I’ll just put these away, shall I?” Without waiting for an answer, John shuffles to a cupboard and places a box of his favorite tea bags inside. Then he moves to the refrigerator and puts a carton of milk and a few apples. The doctor loves the fruit, but will only eat it if it is cold. Sherlock tilts his head and cannot stop himself from silently marveling at how well he has come to know John’s idiosyncrasies in such a short time. John knows his too and they only seem to have made him more fond of Sherlock.

“I’ll be in my room,” John’s voice pulls him back from his reverie. “I’ll just pack. You’re right, I should have gone already. I mean, it’s all over, isn’t it?”

John disappears around the corner and Sherlock’s tense body immediately goes slack. He face palms with one hand and props himself up on the counter with the other. 

Jesus Christ. Idiot. Idiot! 

Sherlock turns toward the counter, pulls the coffee mug from the appliance and takes a sip. Frustration seeps from every pore. He resolutely does not want John to leave. Ever. Yet here he is more or less throwing him out. For whatever reason, John has not gone and does not seem to have any interest in doing so. Sherlock is not sure why, so he takes another sip and examines the evidence. John is definitely in love with him, but does he know it? Unclear. Although John was quite affectionate as they sailed back to Metropark, they have had no real physical contact or tender moments since they stepped off Greg’s boat. That would seem to indicate a desire to leave Sherlock’s condo or at least keep his distance if he stays. Maybe the doctor wants to be roommates like in those absurd sitcoms on NBC.

What the hell are you doing? Talk to him.

Sherlock sighs and sips the coffee again. He lets his eyes slip closed as the warm liquid slides down his throat, soothing and spreading comfort through his weary body. His chest feels noticeably warmer as the liquid passes through to settle in his stomach. He has eaten nothing but airline food, which is usually deplorable, since lunchtime and suddenly John’s homemade chili sounds absolutely delicious. Sherlock nearly moans at the thought and he tries not to visualize the two of them making the chili, cuddling on the couch, reading to one another or watching one of those awful spy movies John likes. Sherlock does not succeed in this endeavor. Not even a little. He sighs again and takes another sip of coffee, telling himself that the warmth spreading through him now is just from the hot liquid. 

“The thing is,” John’s voice sounds loud in the quiet room. Sherlock’s grey eyes pop open to see him standing just inside the door. John’s body is tense, every muscle tight as ripcord. “I don’t want to go.”

Sherlock lowers the mug from his lips, his gaze locked on John. The doctor takes a hesitant step and swallows hard.

“I’d like to stay,” John eyes him with uncertainty, searching for a hint of approval. “I want to stay.”

“Of course,” Sherlock splutters, recovering his wits. He is nodding a little too quickly. “You may stay as long as you like. I can arrange to have your things moved, if you like.”

“I don’t want to move into the spare bedroom,” John says without preamble.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s forehead wrinkles in confusion. Then his brows rise to the curls hanging down from his hairline, realization dawning. “Oh.”

The room is quiet. The two men stare at one another. Sherlock cannot believe, cannot allow himself to think John is saying what Sherlock so wants him to be saying. He must be misinterpreting the words. John must mean something else. Could he really be that brave? Sherlock looks at the doctor, lips parted and eyes wide. John could mean nothing else.

“Sherlock, we need to talk,” John says without looking away, though Sherlock can tell he would like to. “I’ve been meaning to, wanting to, but with all the traveling and confusion… I let it get away from me.”

“Erm,” Sherlock feels off balance. His mind that is always rapidly winding its way through thoughts, strategies and plans grinds to a halt. John wants to move into Sherlock’s room. With Sherlock. Has John figured it out? Sherlock dares not hope. He opens his mouth and remains silent, his vocal chords seemingly unable to vibrate and his mind struggling to turn its gears again. He swallows, trying to revive his dry throat. ”I...don’t know what to say.”

Oh, god. You idiot. Tell him you love the idea. Tell him you love him.

“Why don’t you let me do the talking?” John inches into the room. His hands are clenched at his sides, his movements stilted and anxious. He straightens his fingers and clenches them again, this time glancing at the floor for a split second. When he looks back at Sherlock, his eyes are resolute with a decision made.

“I… I haven’t done or said anything before now because I didn’t want you to think it was out of gratitude or some sense of obligation for saving my life,” John begins, his face open and sincere. “It’s nothing like that. I mean, I’m glad you found me, and brought Greg, and had such a brilliant bloody plan.”

“It was an awful plan,” Sherlock interjects in a clipped tone, placing his coffee mug on the counter and gesturing with one hand. “It was all I could think of under the circumstances.”

“Maybe, but it worked,” John insists.

“Moriarty is unpredictable, John,” Sherlock chides, shaking his head doubtfully. “There were so many variables.”

“Sherlock,” John warns.

“Any one of them could have changed everything,” the mad coach continues.

“They didn’t,” John interrupts, crossing the space between them and stepping right up into Sherlock’s personal space. He takes Sherlock’s hands in his own and Sherlock goes quiet in surprise. John’s hands are so warm and soft, the pads of his thumbs pressing into Sherlock’s palms gently. A small crackling sensation starts low in his belly and he cannot take his eyes off John. “I’m very glad you took the chance. You and Greg, but that’s not why I want to move in for good.”

“For good?” Sherlock leans back a bit to study John. He wrinkles his brow and watches as John’s expression melts into that of a man looking at something utterly adorable, like a puppy. Sherlock is not adorable. He makes a mental note to speak with John about it later. He will not interrupt this moment. John gives his hands a squeeze and answers Sherlock’s mumbled question:

“Yeah, if you’ll have me.”

Without much thought, Sherlock cocks a sharp brow that says it all. John laughs. 

“I know, I know,” John chuckles, but sobers quickly. “I just don’t want to take anything for granted.”

He bites his bottom lip and looks down at their joined hands. John moves his thumbs over the soft, pale skin and raises his sparkling eyes to Sherlock’s, conveying a depth of emotion that Sherlock can feel in his very soul.

“I decided so many things about myself long ago and just assumed they would never change, and they didn’t,” John shakes his head ever so slightly, “until I met you. It all changed. I don’t know when it started, but I can think of a dozen times right before all this happened when I should have known. I haven’t said because I really don’t want you to think it’s because you saved me like you did. It’s so much more important than that. You have to understand.”

The final few sentences he says in earnest, squeezing Sherlock’s hands as he does so. The coach searches his eyes and face. He knows exactly what John is talking about, but he has to hear him say it. It won’t feel real if John doesn’t say it out loud. Sherlock’s heart skips a beat and his eyes widen a fraction. Sherlock tries not to break into a foolish grin, but the corners of his mouth are already turning up of their own volition.

“What, John?” he asks with the spark of excitement in his voice. “What’s changed?”

“You have to understand,” John repeats and begins explaining with a shrug. He releases Sherlock’s hands in favor of putting one on his own hip and ruffling the hair on the nape of his neck with the other. As John speaks, he lifts Sherlock’s mug without thinking and takes a drink before placing it back on the counter. Never does he take his eyes off Sherlock. It is like he believes them under a spell that will break if they look away from one another. “I liked everyone I dated and was certainly attracted to them. I just didn’t...feel this way about them. I didn’t love them. I didn’t think I could love anyone.”

John pauses to wet his lips. Sherlock, still fighting an excited grin, nearly loses his composure at John’s expression. It lies somewhere between an earnest plea that Sherlock understand him and utter terror that he will.

“You’re different, Sherlock. You’re so different,” John says insistently. “You mean so much to me. You mean everything. I… I love you, Sherlock. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to figure it out. I’m just such an idiot. I can reason through a million different things in seconds, but not that. Not my own feelings for you, or I couldn’t, but now… Now I know. I love you.”

As soon as the words are out, all of the tension visibly drains from John’s body like water through a sieve. Looking relieved, he regards Sherlock with soft eyes and a crooked smile. Sherlock feels the grin he has tried so valiantly to hide, curl his lips as he marvels at John. Instead of being nervous or frazzled by the confession he just made, John seems more relaxed than Sherlock has seen in a long time. He deduces that all the uncertainty of having feelings for Sherlock but not knowing what they were had been a heavy burden on John’s shoulders. Knowing it himself and now having it out in the open, has made John positively giddy and Sherlock loves him for it.

“John,” his deep voice catches and he feels a pricking in the corners of his eyes. John places his hands on Sherlock’s forearms as if to hold them both steady.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John repeats emphatically, his voice bubbling with excited energy. “I want to be with you and never leave your side or your flat or the team. I want to be yours.”

He stops abruptly in much the same way Sherlock has while making such declarations and it warms Sherlock’s heart. The very words themselves had flown from John’s lips with such speed that they clearly got the better of him and he said far more than intended. Of course, Sherlock doesn’t mind at all and John seems to have picked up on it because the fear that was in his eyes has gone, replaced by affection and elation. 

“If you’ll have me, of course,” John completes the thought with a cheeky wink.

Sherlock lets himself grin from ear to ear, but only for a moment before fixing John with a haughty gaze and pulling his arms free of John’s grasp.

“Really, John, you are an idiot,” he says sharply. “For someone who is so ‘bloody brilliant’ you are incredibly stupid. You should have arrived at this conclusion as soon as you moved in.”

“Oh, yeah?” John huffs a laugh and reaches for the man’s hips. “And what makes you think that?”

“I don’t think, John. I know,” Sherlock stares him down with a glare that has no heat and lets himself be pulled closer. He keeps his arms crossed over his chest and looks down at John imperiously. “All the necessary data was there, but like Mrs. Hudson, you see…”

“But do not observe?” John asks him with a knowing smirk and nudges at Sherlock’s arms, but they remain steadfast.

“Of course in your case, you didn’t even see it,” Sherlock adds in mock consideration. “You just barreled on, ignoring it entirely. Very shortsighted for a person of your intelligence.”

“All right, all right,” John laughs fondly and pulls the lanky coach close. Their hips press together and Sherlock encircles John with his long arms, grinning down at him. John matches it, but then quickly tries for serious again. He does not pull it off in any sense and looks so adorable trying that Sherlock’s heart gives a squeeze.

“So,” John begins, still trying to chase away the smile from his own face, “do you think you can manage living with my egregious lapses in judgment? I know it’ll be difficult to cope. Should I pack my things?”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, tilting his head and pretending to consider John carefully. “I’ll muddle through. No sense in turning you out. I’m sure you can be taught.”

John huffs a laugh as he snakes a hand up Sherlock’s chest to cup the taller man’s cheek. 

“I count myself lucky for that,” he says as he closes the gap for a chaste kiss. Sherlock feels every nerve tingle like electricity racing through his body. God, how he has longed for this moment. To kiss John with all his love, all his emotion and have John feel it for him in return. It is heaven on earth.

Sherlock chases John’s mouth when he starts to pull away and flicks his tongue quickly over John’s lips when he catches them. John hums in approval and raises his other hand to hold both sides of Sherlock’s face. The man imitates the posture and peppers John’s lips with kisses before settling into a long, wet one. Filled with promise, Sherlock teases John’s mouth open and their tongues slide together.

John deepens the kiss, his left hand now buried in Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock licks inside, eager to taste and claim. They have done this before, but now John is truly his and it is like the first time. It is delicious. There are no doubts or questions between them. John knows he loves Sherlock. He said it. Out loud. Sherlock’s body feels so light and every nerve tingles with the press of a thousand needles. It should be unpleasant, really, like when an appendage falls asleep, but it is exhilarating and Sherlock welcomes it. It makes it all real. Sherlock is not going to wake up the way he has dozens of times before. This is really happening.

Their kisses growing heated now, Sherlock’s hands skim down John’s spine.  He squirms under the feather-light touch, a ticklish spot to tuck away for the future. Sherlock’s palms come to rest on John’s ass, his fingers giving the right cheek a light pinch. John smiles against Sherlock’s lips.

“You like my ass,” he chuckles and nips.

“Damn right I do,” Sherlock replies in a husky tone and gives John’s lower lip a suck. 

“That’s all right,” John growls, his eyes growing dark. “I like yours too.”

He slides his hands around Sherlock’s back and spreads his fingers over both luscious cheeks. He gives them a squeeze. He has not yet had the pleasure or the opportunity to property address his fascination with Sherlock’s luxurious backside and the lanky coach is more than happy to let him indulge. Sherlock most certainly wants a chance at John’s body too. Mmmm, what John said is true. He is no Greek god, but he is far from ordinary. He is beautiful and his physique is perfectly glorious in Sherlock’s eyes. He wants to touch it and kiss it, all of it. He wants to worship every inch of it. 

“Oh god, I wanna sink my teeth into it,” John nearly moans, smearing a messy kiss over Sherlock’s lips as he kneads his lovely ass. Sherlock kisses back just as hot and wet. John says something else, but Sherlock is lost in his own mind with visions of John’s naked form spread out before him. He drinks in all the skin he can touch and suck and kiss. A full body shudder overtakes him when he thinks about letting a stray finger slip between John buttocks...or his tongue. 

Sherlock’s vision snaps back into focus and his body goes stiff. Every part of his body, and John is seconds away from realizing it. He panics for a moment, wondering if he should pull away before it is too late. John may have confessed his love, but he did not specify the rate at which things would move forward. It is true that they had sex in Baltimore, but Sherlock does not want to assume…

“Stop thinking,” John mutters, pulling Sherlock close and looking into his eyes. “I can hear you thinking.”

John grins as he holds the coach steady while he presses a passionate kiss to his full lips. Sherlock melts into it, his mind and body turning to jelly.  Well, not all of his body. A quiet noise of surprise escapes John’s lips when Sherlock’s burgeoning erection presses into his hip. A jolt of exhilaration and lust rushes through them, renewing the heat of their kisses. It is maddening and fucking spectacular all at once. God, they can’t move fast enough.

John begins nudging this way and that until he is a few steps from Sherlock’s bedroom. He kicks the door open wide when they reach it. The kisses don’t stop as they move. Nothing stops. Their hands are grasping and clutching and holding close until Sherlock fists his fingers in John’s sweater and pulls it over his head. John drops his arms again as soon as the article of clothing is free of them. He holds the nape of Sherlock’s neck with one of them as he licks into the man’s mouth. Sherlock returns it just as fervently, their tongues sliding together, tracing teeth and lips. Sherlock holds either side of John’s waist with an iron grip. He wants to hold even tighter and never let go, to always be at the side of this amazing man. The pad of a finger strays onto a narrow patch of skin left exposed by a t-shirt that rucks up from John’s jeans. Unable to resist, Sherlock grabs at the hem of the tee with both hands and pulls the soft fabric up to John’s chest. The doctor breaks free from the kisses to look at Sherlock with blown pupils full of desire. They are still for a moment, looking into one another’s burning eyes, blinking slowly and taking in every detail. 

His gaze not straying from Sherlock’s thin grey irises, John slowly raises his arms over his head. Sherlock wets his lips and lifts the shirt just as slowly over John’s head and arms and hands and drops it to the floor. Then he traces down John’s arms with unhurried fingertips, watching the blue of his eyes grow smaller and smaller until only a sliver remains. His fingers continue to trace over the muscles of John’s chest and stomach before he doubles back to rest his palms on John’s pectorals. John lowers his own arms in a fluid motion, fingers skimming down his back and places his hands on either side of Sherlock’s slim waist. He shuffles back again and bumps into Sherlock’s tall bed.

“What the hell?” John snickers, trying to look back at it. “The mattress is as tall as a table. Perfect for sitting on?”

Sherlock does not have an answer for John’s joke, so he shrugs and lets out a quiet laugh without breaking eye contact. 

“Seriously, why the hell is it so high?” John continues in a jocular tone. “Something to do with your mile-long legs?”

“There are drawers under it,” Sherlock shrugs again after a moment, leaning in to place a soft kiss on John’s throat before straightening his neck to look at John. “I need the storage space.”

The doctor bursts out laughing, closing his eyes and gently swatting at the coach with his left hand. When he opens them again, it is to see a very indignant Sherlock staring back and John tries to hide his grin. He fails, of course, his face is so bright and merry it could light the sky. His conductor of light.

“What?” Sherlock asks, affronted. “I keep extra skates and gear in them.”

“No, no. Of course you do. It makes perfect sense,” John looks at him fondly, a wide smile stretching his lips. “God, I love you.”

He kisses Sherlock once softly and then lowers himself to sit on the bed. John reaches for him and slowly opens the buttons of his shirt, one by one, never taking his eyes off Sherlock’s. When John reaches the last one above the waistband of his bespoke charcoal trousers, he pushes the fabric open to reveal Sherlock’s pale chest and stomach. John leans in to lick a stripe over the left nipple while gently pinching the right. Sherlock moans and keens at the light touch of his rather unexpected ministrations. Jesus, it’s amazing. He cards his fingers through John’s short, blonde hair and throws his head back when John bites gently at his nipple.

“Oh god, John,” Sherlock gasps. “Don’t stop.”

John chuckles low and gravelly as he continues and it’s all Sherlock can do to keep his toes from curling in his shoes. When John does stop, he looks into Sherlock’s eyes and pulls at his body gently, gesturing backward toward the headboard. Sherlock’s lips curl into a half smile and he nods minutely. John shifts back as Sherlock leans forward and places his hands on the bed on either side of John. He raises a knee and plants it on John’s left side, the other on the right side and he crawls up and onto his doctor. With a sensuous smile on his lips and half-lidded eyes, John rests his back on the soft mattress and Sherlock works his way up the man’s body, straddling his hips. He kisses along John’s jawline and licks the shell of his ear with the tip of his tongue. John squirms under his touch. Another ticklish spot to store away in his mind palace. Exploring John’s body is becoming very interesting to say the least. 

Sherlock moves to John’s neck and collar bones, licking his way from one side to the other. He licks into the suprasternal notch and then rests his head against John’s chest. The smooth skin is soft on his cheek and he inhales deeply. Sherlock has never felt more comfortable or more at ease with anyone in his life. It is mind boggling and absolutely perfect. He raises his head to rest his chin on John’s chest and meets his eyes.

“How did you come to me?” Sherlock whispers, shaking his head slightly. “I was certain I would never love again.”

He tilts his head and looks at John with a thoughtful expression. The doctor gazes back and brushes the curls from Sherlock’s forehead with gentle fingers. 

“After Victor,” Sherlock sighs heavily, a note of sorrow creeping into his tone, “I vowed to never give my heart to anyone again. Then I walked into Greg’s office and there you were. My stomach flipped just at the sight of you.”

“What? You’re not serious,” John huffs an incredulous laugh. “No, you’re having me on. You avoided me for days. Weeks. I was convinced you didn’t like me at all.”

“I did like you, John, and that is precisely why I avoided you,” Sherlock replies almost accusingly. “I was trying to keep my distance and stay out of trouble.”

“Yeah, well, a valiant effort,” John chuckles with a knowing glint in his eye. He brushes that errant curl away from Sherlock’s forehead again. “Didn’t work though, did it?”

“No,” Sherlock says simply.

“And that’s… good?”John hesitates, suddenly unsure of Sherlock’s meaning. Unacceptable.

“Very good,” Sherlock lowers his voice an octave and fixes John with a searing gaze that both disarms the doctor and convinces him that Sherlock’s answer is true. 

John’s shoulders, in fact his whole body, relaxes into the mattress and he smiles up at Sherlock. He hides nothing, his face is completely open. Sherlock studies him a moment, just to make sure everything is right, because he has to know and he can’t stop himself. He can see in John’s eyes that he knows what Sherlock is doing and he nods, every so slightly, his approval. 

Sherlock reads him in an instant and sees love so deep, it could hold the ocean and still not fill up, and John knows. He knows what he feels and that Sherlock loves him back, and he is not frightened in the least. Sherlock leans more heavily into the muscles and flesh of John’s chest again, suddenly overwhelmed by his deductions. He takes a deep, grounding breath and focuses on nothing in particular over John’s left shoulder. His nerves must show because John cups his face gently and strokes his thumb over a cheekbone.

“It’s okay,” John whispers into the space between them. “There is no time table here. We do things at our own pace. I won’t push. I know what I said...about wanting to stay, but if it’s too fast… I’ll go back to my place, if you want.”

“You most certainly will not,” Sherlock announces in a petulant and forbidding tone with an expression to match. He lifts himself to prop on his elbows and glares down at John.

“Okay, okay,” John laughs. “I get it. You want me to...stay.”

The last word comes out slowly as John traces Sherlock’s cheekbone with great care, gentle affection on his face. Sherlock flashes a small, but brilliant smile and lowers his head to catch John’s lips with his own. The kiss is unhurried, not at all like the ones they shared before, but it is no less passionate. Love radiates from one man to the other like heat and both have a heady feeling when they part.

“This is your bed now,” Sherlock breathes and god, he can’t wait to spend a whole night in it with John. Tonight and every night after, and each one will feel like the first time all over again. He can see it in his mind palace. The two of them tucked under the blankets, resting their heads on one another, talking and kissing and touching.

“Our bed,” John’s soft voice pulls Sherlock from his reverie just as it was becoming interesting. He looks into John’s eyes and sees a promise meant only for him. A warm feeling moves slowly  through his body, beginning where John’s thumb still touches his cheekbone. It is like the point of light in Michelangelo’s Creation of Adam on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. It has brought Sherlock out of the darkness and back to life.

Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own and tilts his head into the touch. He is calm, serene, and it is a new feeling for him. Sherlock typically has a thousand things rolling around in his head and that constant state of motion, fluid though it is, comes with a certain degree of tension. That is when it hits him: His mind is clear. Not blank, not at all. Everything is still there in the great room of his mind palace, the room that acts as the meeting point for all of his thoughts, but it’s...clear...and quiet. Every thought is neatly stored and no one item, or group of items, screams for his attention. He is free. His mind is free. Free to focus on John, only John.

John.

Sherlock turns his head into John’s hand as he holds it close and presses a gentle kiss to his palm. He blinks once slowly and does not move a muscle. Neither does John as he stares back into steady grey eyes. They gaze at one another for an untold amount of time. Sherlock spends a great deal of it soaking in the many shades of blue in John’s eyes and naming them. Some are obvious: cerulean, oxford, cobalt, Persian, sapphire, and pale blue. Some he has never seen before and names himself: captain blue, sea salt, Hamish. Sherlock chuckles softly at the humor of the last one and John tilts his head curiously.

“What?” John asks with an answering grin and then jokes. “Something on my nose?”

“No,” Sherlock laughs again, “nothing like that. It’s just...you. I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I’m letting myself do this again. I know, I know.”

He shifts an arm to put a finger on John’s lips when he makes to object. Sherlock fixes him with a serious eye, his mouth drawn into a thin line. 

“I shouldn’t compare you to him, or this relationship to that one, but it’s so hard,” Sherlock sighs and slides off of John’s body. Lying on his side flush against John, Sherlock props up on one elbow and rests his head on his hand, leaving his other hand to stroke John’s chest in smooth patterns. “I collect data, John. You’ve seen me do it. I’ve done it to you. It’s in my nature to compare and contrast that data.”

“Sherlock, that’s okay. That’s you,” John folds an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, to hold him gently to his naked torso. The skin exposed by Sherlock’s open shirt touches John’s and it is delicious, hot and smooth. “If you have done it to me then you know I am nothing like Victor, and could never be.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, but John holds up a finger this time and gives him a very serious look, brows raised like an actor who has messed up his line and is trying to keep everyone else from laughing so they can continue filming.

“No, no, okay?” John says by way of keeping Sherlock quiet. There is a short pause between them as they both look into one another’s eyes. “You say you compare and contrast it. I think you’ll see more differences than similarities in me and our relationship, and it’ll work in our favor. Hopefully.”

He adds the last word with some hesitation and an awkward smile. Sherlock rests his hand on John’s head, stroking through his short hair. He wears a fond expression, one corner of his mouth quirking up.

“Absolutely,” Sherlock tells him with assurance. “You bear no resemblance whatsoever. It’s just…”

He stops, paused in time. He cannot tear his eyes from John’s deep blue gaze. So honest and open, and also concerned. His forehead is wrinkled and his brows are still raised as he waits for Sherlock to find the words.

“I vowed I would never love again. I’ve spent years blocking out romantic love and emotion. I had a plan for my life,” he explains in earnest, “and then you happened.”

They are both silent. The words hang in the air around them and John’s expression is unreadable. Or is it? John almost looks nervous, but surely that can’t be. Sherlock is the one confessing his fears. Well, not fears...his past. Everything he decided long ago when he was still hurt and bleeding, when he thought love would only bring him pain. That was all changed the moment he met John and now Sherlock looks ahead to their future together with a hope and excitement he thought he would never have. He just can’t seem to find the words to say it. Sherlock wrinkles his own brow in frustration.

“And that’s... good?” John’s voice rises more than normal at the question and Sherlock frowns. None of this is working. He is trying to explain himself and is only making things worse. He must find the words to put John’s concerns, concerns he stirred up in the first place, to rest.

“Very good. Fantastic,” Sherlock says quickly. Too quickly and he still sees the doubt in John’s eyes. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

He tilts his head in his hand and rests the other on John’s chest again as he looks him in the eye. His breath catches as he tries to continue. He can feel the beat of John’s heart beneath his palm, strong and sure. It’s steadiness keeps this man alive and Sherlock with him.

“I felt something for you immediately,” the words tumble from Sherlock’s lips and he is not even sure where they are coming from because his mind feels blissfully empty, save John. ”That’s no secret. I tried to resist, but it was a hopeless endeavor, and then it filled me and my soul. After that it became a battle with myself to not express my feelings.”

“Not express them?” John looks at Sherlock straight on, confusion plain on his face. “Why wouldn’t you just tell me? Why hide it like that?”

“I didn’t want to frighten you off,” Sherlock shrugs, looking at him meaningfully. “You were determined you couldn’t love anyone and it was all so new between us. I knew you would run if I announced that I loved you, if for no other reason than to keep me from being hurt.”

John’s brows lower with his narrowing eyes. His lips press into a thin line with down-turned ends. Sherlock can see his warring thoughts in the lines on his face. John used to be so guarded and Sherlock could seldom deduce him after that first day, but more recently, since Baltimore, John has let Sherlock see and know more. Now is no exception as John debates between denying Sherlock’s assertion or agreeing with it.

John opens his mouth to protest. His eyes are sharp and his brow knitted in disapproval. He inhales, readying to speak the denial on his lips, and then his expression softens. He lets his shoulders sink back into the mattress as the tension in his muscles loosens.

“Fuck,” John mutters, looking down at Sherlock’s hand still resting on his chest. “You’re probably right,” he looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes. “I probably would have.”

The corners of John’s mouth curl up slightly, but his eyes look pained and regretful. It is a sad smile he wears and Sherlock wants to kiss it away. He slides his hand down to touch John’s arm almost shyly and John’s face brightens. He blinks slowly, just once, his blue gaze on Sherlock. John’s smile grows as he brushes that same wayward curl off of Sherlock’s forehead and looks at him fondly. 

“For the record, when you did say it, it was good. Brilliant. I couldn’t believe my luck,” John beams, even as Sherlock gives him a haughty shake of his head.

“You didn’t believe me,” he retorts, swatting John’s bicep.

“Can you blame me?” John asks in a defensive tone. “We’d only just met and...and you’re you.”

“What?” Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “What are you talking about?”

“And I’m me,” John continues without acknowledging the question.

“John Watson,” Sherlock stops him in a commanding tone, “are you implying that I am ‘out of your league’?”

“Well,” John swallows and pulls back a bit for a better look at Sherlock, hesitant and pensive. “Yeah, actually.”

Sherlock huffs.

“I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” he straightens his long neck to gaze down at John imperiously. “That is utter nonsense. What on earth would lead you to that conclusion?”

“Oh, come on,” John snarks. “You’re beautiful.”

“And you are a golden-skinned surfer with a brilliant mind,” the coach quips. “Honestly, John, you do not do yourself justice.”

“All right, maybe,” John remarks hastily, shifting his body restlessly. “What I meant to say is that once you did tell me how you felt, I didn’t know what to say, but I was glad you told me. I did feel lucky and happy. However confused I was about my own feelings, it made me feel…” 

John hesitates and glances away from Sherlock’s face to pale chest, biting his lower lip and second guessing himself. Sherlock gives his arm a squeeze of reassurance to let John know that he can always speak his mind without worry. John sighs deeply, still not raising his eyes.

“This is going to sound stupid,” John finally looks at him with soulful eyes. “It made me feel...well, warm. And safe and...free somehow. That’s the exact opposite of how I’ve felt in literally every other relationship I’ve been in. I knew it was something different, but I just couldn’t wrap my head around what it was.”

“I knew you loved me,” Sherlock confesses and then adds. “Before you told me.”

“What?” John’s gaze is on him now, unwavering. He wears a critical frown and his face is scrunched up in a way that usually precedes grumpiness. God, why did Sherlock even say that?

“But I had no way of knowing whether or not you would realize it,” the words pop from his mouth before he can stop them. John’s frown deepens. What the hell is Sherlock doing? Is forcing an argument really the best way to spend their first night in their bed?

“Wait, what?” John asks again, his brow furrowing in confusion.

“And then Moriarty took you.” Jesus Christ, is there no way to stop this outpouring of idiocy? What is wrong with him? Sherlock fidgets in John’s arms, pulling away and thinking about how quickly he can dash into the bathroom.

“Sherlock, stop. Stop,” John curls his arm tighter around Sherlock’s shoulders and lays a hand on his bicep, both regain his attention and keep him from running. They meet eyes once again and Sherlock notices that John’s are soft and searching, not at all like the growing annoyance he expected to see. “You knew I loved you, but didn’t think I would figure it out? You didn’t think I’d return your feelings?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answers honestly. No point in denying anything now. John lets out a quick breath, almost like sigh but with a sound of dismay to it.

“And you were just going to resign yourself to that?” his tone is light, as though tip-toeing around a subject that would make Sherlock suddenly realize what a fool he had been to pin his hopes on John. As if anything could ward him away from this man.

“I wasn’t resigning myself to anything,” Sherlock snaps defensively. “You had expressed your interest and clearly cared for me. It was only a matter of your own self-realization.”

“Right,” John replies unconvinced. 

Sherlock gives a frustrated sigh and resolutely ignores the doctor’s skepticism as he trails a hand down John’s sleek chest to his belly, coming to rest on his belt buckle. John shivers, but does not lower his eyes or even glance away from Sherlock’s.

“It doesn’t matter now anyway,” Sherlock announces with certainty. “You did realize it.”

John is still staring and silent.

“Problem?” the taller man asks, beginning to wonder how they got on this subject and wishing they hadn’t if John is going to look at him like that.

“What? No. No, I guess not,” John replies almost absently. He has the distinct appearance of someone trying to organize a great many thoughts. “I just don’t want you to feel like you have to settle.”

“Settle?” Sherlock repeats in an incredulous tone.

“Yeah,” John confirms. “For the likes of me.”

“Don’t be absurd,” Sherlock says dismissively, sitting up in the bed.

“I’m serious,” John sits up and turns his body to face him fully, bending his legs and tucking one under the other. “If I had never pulled my head out of my ass… Sherlock, why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, John, I am,” Sherlock tries to stifle his mirth, but still giggles in between every other word. “The very idea that being with you is ‘settling’ is such nonsense.”

John’s frown grows as he watches Sherlock continue to laugh at his expense. The taller man shakes his head and places a hand on John’s naked chest. The skin is warm to his cool fingers and palm, and his heart flutters behind his ribs. His laughter finally fades and the eyes he casts upon John have a solemnity they had not before.

“You are the kindest, bravest and wisest man I have ever known. To see that as settling for anything is preposterous. I would stay by your side with a smile on my face until the world ends,” Sherlock cuts off his voice with the snap of his mouth closing, but not quickly enough.

Jesus Christ, he really is an idiot. That sounded like nothing less than a marriage proposal or at the very least, ‘I’m fully committed to you. Let’s stay together forever’. For god’s sake, he just told John he didn’t want to drive him away. So the next natural step is to, of course, bring up the desire for a life-long relationship.

Fuck.

Sherlock closes his eyes slowly as the full magnitude of his stupidity washes over him. He wants to jump off the bed, lock himself into the nearest room master bath, and disappear into his mind palace for at least a month. Frankly, he is surprised John hasn’t beaten him to it. Seems like the appropriate response for what he just blurted. That’s when Sherlock realizes that John has not moved. Not an inch. In fact, there is a gentle pressure on Sherlock’s knee like John is actually touching him instead of fleeing. It is warm and welcoming, and exudes no hesitance or awkwardness.

Armed with that knowledge, and curious as hell, Sherlock opens his eyes to see John still sitting before him. He wears a small and somewhat disbelieving, but pleased smile. The hand on Sherlock’s knee gives a little squeeze that actually tickles. He suppresses the urge to jerk away or move at all, wanting to hide the ticklish spot from John. He has observed a few such areas on John’s body and wants to keep the upper hand. Unfortunately, his efforts seem to be in vain because John’s expression does nothing less than advertise the fact that he knows exactly what he has just found. Aside from that, John’s face is difficult to interpret.

“John,” Sherlock begins abruptly, set upon laughing this off or explaining it away.

“Really?” John interrupts in a quiet tone that brims with anticipation and...hope?

Sherlock frowns and fixes John with a probing gaze, presenting the polar opposite of what is going on in his mind. His mind palace has just run completely off the rails with joy. He would be leaping through the air as ticker tape fell from above if he didn’t feel the need to maintain a cool and collected exterior until he can suss this out. Sherlock takes a moment to consider John’s demeanor, posture and this one word he has uttered. He cannot believe what is found: 

Against all odds, John is pleased, pleased by Sherlock’s verbal diarrhea. 

Sherlock blinks once, twice, a third time. His body is entirely still. He cannot believe his ears and must be dreaming. This conversation cannot be real, but it is. Energy and electricity pulse through Sherlock’s body with frightening speed as excitement fills his veins and threatens to burst from their thin walls. He wants nothing more than to throw his arms open wide and shout to the heavens that John Watson wants to spend his entire life with him, Sherlock Holmes, but he must remain calm and rational now. He doesn’t want to overwhelm John and has to pace himself.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers honestly, his eyes widening as he does. That is not at all what he had planned to say. Paralyzed, his surprise so complete he cannot even berate himself for this slip-up. He simply watches John with trepidation and regret. God, why didn’t he just lie? He could have said any number of things, the least of which was ‘Hell, yeah, I meant it’.

Sherlock is about to close his eyes a second time, but does not. Instead, they widen further as the corners of John’s mouth turn up into a big and very genuine smile. John’s thumb slides smoothly back and forth over Sherlock’s knee, and light dances in his blue eyes.

“Me too,” John says in a voice so sincere that the words jet straight into Sherlock’s soul and his heart swells with a kind of joy he could never conceive of without this man. He has found it. His perfect puzzle piece, as his mother used to say. Molly calls it the other half of his heart. His lobster. Wait, what? Goddamn those absurd NBC sitcoms for entering his psyche! 

Whatever the label, he and John were meant to be.

Without another thought, Sherlock’s hand raises to touch John’s cheek deftly. He nearly jerks with the jolt of electricity that whizzes through his body anew and nearly snatches his hand back at the shock of it. He silently marvels at it. Its surprise and pleasure, its comfort. How can just one touch mean so much? Sherlock almost laughs at himself. He is handling John more carefully than anything in his life and apparently, John finds it just as amusing.

“I won’t break,” the doctor chuckles quietly. His hand on Sherlock’s knee is warmer than ever now. The flesh beneath his trousers simmers at the touch of it. Sherlock huffs a breath.

“I know. It’s just…” he wets his lips. Every inch of Sherlock’s body tingles with anticipation and desire, but he holds his hand steady. He sighs, damn near frustration. “God, I want to touch you. I want all of you.”

“I want that too,” John gazes deeply into those grey eyes and leans forward to graze his lips over Sherlock’s, eliciting a gasp from the coach. “So come and get me.”

He slides his hand up Sherlock’s long thigh, stopping dangerously close to his groin. Sherlock gasps again as his body tingles and tenses. John’s lips quirk up and he slides his hand up over Sherlock’s belt to the skin exposed by his open shirt. He sighs when he rests his fingertips against Sherlock’s belly and an undisguised shiver runs through John’s body.

“John,” the name comes out in a quiet rush of breath. Sherlock’s hand lifts of its own volition and cradles John’s cheek. The doctor leans into the touch, his sparkling eyes speaking to Sherlock as clearly as any words could. 

Yes.

The fingers of both hands are dancing up Sherlock’s torso now. Palms that push the shirt open further come to rest on his chest and John’s eyes glide up the remainder of the way, drinking in his long pale neck and sharp cheekbones until John meets Sherlock’s eyes with an adoring gaze. The coach’s lips part as he feels the gravity of it and oh, how he wants. He wants to touch John and feel his body pressing back. He absolutely cannot wait another minute.

Sherlock leans forward, letting his eyes close just before his lips press against John’s. Another gentle kiss and he pulls back to look at his lover again. John looks amazing and wrecked and hungry, so hungry. His gaze darts down to Sherlock’s mouth and back up. His palms burning hot on Sherlock’s pectorals, pressed over peaked nipples. It feels exquisite. God, it feels perfect.

Sherlock swoops back in, this time with his mouth open and his tongue licking along John’s lips. The doctor parts them and the wet heat of their mouths coalesce, sharing the same breath. Their tongues slide together and Sherlock tilts John’s head with his hands on either side of John’s face to deepen the kiss. John’s fingertips dig into the skin of Sherlock’s chest, his fingers instinctively curling to grab a fistful of shirt where it has already been pushed aside. He knows just how the doctor feels. He wants to be closer, deeper, stronger. He wants to touch every inch of John’s body with his own. He wants to be on top of him again, inside him.

Surging forward, Sherlock pushes John onto his back with force, their lips never parting. John’s hands are on his shoulders, pushing the shirt off of them. Sherlock releases the doctor’s face long enough to tear the sleeves from his own arms and throw the shirt to the floor. His hands are instantly back on John’s body, holding him while they kiss and lick and suck at one another’s lips and tongues. Sherlock breaks away to mouth down John’s neck, lick, nibble and suck along his collarbones. 

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John moans. His hands stroke the man’s back, gliding up his neck and tangling in his curls. “God, yes. Yes.”

Sherlock takes a nipple between his lips and sucks. He flicks with the tip of his tongue and smiles around his ministrations as John writhes beneath him.

“Shit,” John curses breathlessly while Sherlock moves to the other nipple. His hands rove over his lover’s body as he thrusts up to meet it. “Fuck. Come here. Come here now.”

His hands cup Sherlock’s face and pull him up gently, but firmly to crash their lips together again. For god knows how long, they both give and take in turn, caressing and lavishing attention on one another. Sherlock yelps when John heaves his body unexpectedly and rolls them over so his legs astride the man’s hips. His hands are in between their bodies, scrabbling at Sherlock’s belt and trousers. The coach reaches down to help, but focuses on John’s zipper instead. They each scramble to get their own trousers off, John rolling off of Sherlock to divest himself of every stitch of clothing on his body.

When they meet again, they are on their sides and kissing with passion, a frenzy of emotion each can feel down to his core. Their arms are wrapped around each other, groins rubbing frantically. Both moan at the friction and buck their hips, desperate for more. Climax is ever-present, getting closer, so close, and then Sherlock stops. He pulls away to catch his breath and looks at John with his cheeks flushed pink and lips kiss swollen. Beautiful.

“What?” John gasps, his brow already wrinkled with worry. He swallows and pants, searching Sherlock’s eyes. “What is it? Is it too much? I can slow down. We can go slow if you need to, if you need some time.”

“No,” Sherlock blurts between gasps. “I don’t want slow.”

Sherlock presses his lips together and then parts them, taking a little time to regain control of his rapid breathing. John does the same, still watching him with concern. Finally, Sherlock bites his lip and places a hand on John’s naked hip. The skin is on fire and Sherlock nearly moans at the heat of it.

“I want you,” he begins tentatively. “All of you and god, I can have you. I want...I want to be inside you.”

Sherlock finishes in a rush as if he has to sneak the words past John so he will agree before he realizes what has been said. Sherlock has never felt more nervous in all his life. No championship has ever come close to this, and he is beginning to think he has fucked everything up because John is just staring at him, agog. He isn’t even blinking. Shit. Shit. Sherlock cringes at his own presumption and stupidity. John had mentioned this before - there’s no fucking way Sherlock could forget - but he had turned him down. Sherlock had wanted it. Of course, he did, but he had wanted John to know he loved Sherlock before they took that step, even if it meant they would never take it. Now has he ruined things by bringing it up without ever explaining himself first?

An apology on his tongue, Sherlock opens his mouth, but John speaks before he can say a word and the doctor’s words render him mute with shock.

“You would want to do that?” John’s voice is quiet and startled. “Before, you said no. I thought...you didn’t want that… with me.”

“No. No, no, no,” Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands. His voice is urgent, but soft. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I never meant to make you feel that. I just...wanted you to know you loved me before we…” he sighs deeply and allows himself this vulnerability. “It’s important to me. I don’t just take men to bed.”

“I know. I know, and I do,” John breathes and cracks a small smile. “I love you, Sherlock. God, I love you so much.”

Sherlock grins brightly at those words, his whole face shining, and he leans in to kiss his doctor. It is only a tender brush of lips, but it starts an incredible feeling of anticipation that spreads throughout his body in seconds. When the kiss ends, Sherlock exhales a shaky breath and rests his forehead against John’s for a moment before pulling back to see his face. 

“So now the question is do you want that, John?” he asks breathlessly, nervously. He looks unflinchingly into John’s eyes and hides nothing. All of his thoughts and feelings are laid bare, exposed for John to see. His needs and desires and, above all, his love for John so deeply rooted in his soul he can no longer remember his life without it. He watches John as he sees it all and melts.

“Oh god,” John whispers in a quick gasp. “Yes. God, yes.”

That is all Sherlock needs. He dives in and kisses John to within an inch of his life. Then he trails kisses and lips and licks down John’s torso, pushing him onto his back as he goes. His lover strokes his shoulders and tangles fingers in his curls, all the while moaning soft curses and encouragement. Sherlock wiggles in between John’s legs, spreading them wide as he works his way down John’s body.

“Jesus. Oh, god,” John sighs, letting his head fall back only to jerk it up again when Sherlock licks a stripe down his shaft, tip to root, and then does not stop. “Fuck! Sherlock! What..ooohhhhh...are you doing?!”

Sherlock’s only answer is cupping John’s balls and licking across his hole. John’s whole body shudders in surprise and profound pleasure, even as he squirms to stop him.

“Sherlock,” John gasps frantically, “you don’t have to.”

Warmth that starts low in Sherlock’s belly radiates out into every corner of his body. It is a sense of arousal he can barely believe or contain. Every nerve, every damn molecule is alive with the sensation and the desire to take John apart piece by piece. 

“Do I look like I have reservations?” he asks quietly and more articulately than he expected. He looks up at John from under long, dark lashes, his face still a hair’s breadth from John’s ass.

“Oh, fuck,” John’s pupils swallow the color in his eyes and his breath stutters.

“I want all of you, John,” Sherlock repeats. “I want this. Please.”

“Oh, god. Yes. Yes,” John answers desperately. “I want it too. I want you, love you so much. You’re perfect. You’re…”

The words die in John’s throat as Sherlock spreads his cheeks to lick at first and then thrust his tongue in, licking a circle around the tight heat. John cries out and squirms, helpless to desire and pleasure. Sherlock continues thrusting in and out, licking and mouthing. He takes turns with his mouth and lubed fingers as he works John open. All the while John writhes and curses and tugs lightly at Sherlock’s curls.

When he is satisfied with his work, Sherlock buries his tongue one last time and wiggles it before thrusting once more. His intention is a final gesture that opens the door to more, but it proves to be too much for the doctor and John’s body suddenly jerks beneath him. Uncontrollable spasms rack John’s body and he is cursing loudly, his head thrown back. John is coming hard, his penis straining against its own skin and completely untouched. Sherlock feels a tinge of regret at that, but knows there will be more opportunities to explore. Instead, he kisses John’s thighs and uses his fingers to ride it out, brushing John’s prostate with a feather-soft touch and John comes again with a sudden spurt onto his own belly.

“Fuck!” he shouts, gasping for breath and clenching his fists in the sheets. He rasps on breathlessly as the orgasm ebbs. “Oh, fuck. God. Fuck. Sherlock.”

John pants heavy and deep as he opens his eyes to look at Sherlock. He swallows hard around great gulps of air and wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand before reaching for the lanky coach.

“Goddamn, Sherlock,” John’s voice is hoarse and cracking under the weight of his rapid breaths. “Jesus Christ, Sherlock, get inside me. I want you now. I want your cock.”

Obliging instantly and nearly bursting, Sherlock lines them up and pushes in slowly, sending a moan from both their lips. Thank god they’re both clean, he has no patience for a condom right now. Fighting his own body and most of his mind, he carefully pulls out a bit and slowly pushes back in. He does not want to hurt John by being too enthusiastic, though he quickly sees that he needn’t have worried. John’s body is more than ready and apparently, so is John. The doctor grabs Sherlock’s hips with both hands and thrust hard, tearing a loud cry of ecstasy from Sherlock’s lips. With stars already in his vision, he meets John’s blown eyes and is greeted with lust and desperation.

“Ride me,” John demands. “Take me. Take me hard.”

With those words, Sherlock loses all control. He knows he isn’t going to last long after all of John’s cries and spectacular release, so he works quickly. He thrusts into John hard again and again, stopping suddenly with his tip against John’s prostate and a curse on John’s lips.

“Fuck! Fucking yes. Yes!” John’s hands are gripping Sherlock’s hips, his body tense and slick with sweat and meeting his thrusts perfectly. 

Sherlock loses all sense of space and time, always hitting that spot with each new thrust. John’s arms fly up, his fingers clutching and scratching at Sherlock’s shoulders and arms, anywhere he can gain purchase. Before long, Sherlock slows his pace, knowing it is coming soon. A hot, spiraling surge of pleasure coils in his belly and every bit of him tenses deliciously as he chases his release. Its rings burst apart in an explosion of heat and wet and rapture, and Sherlock is completely taken apart by the force of it. He shouts and thrusts and twitches, joy and sensation swallowing him whole and drawing him down deep into a part of his mind palace he has never seen before, some of it being built right before his eyes. He had already made a whole wing for John, but this is different. This is their space. Every detail designed for the two of them, to hold every feeling they experience together and hold every memory they make. The first to find quarters in this new place is John’s face, as well as Sherlock’s, the moment he said ‘I love you. Sherlock, I love you’.

Those are the words Sherlock hears when he opens his eyes. He is lying on his back on the soft warmth of his bed. John is hunched over him, looking into his eyes with undisguised concern. Sherlock blinks a few times in confusion, trying to get his bearings and decipher what has happened. He must have lost himself too completely in his mind palace and toppled over onto John, who then rolled him onto his back.

“John?” Sherlock croaks, his throat rough and dry.

“Sherlock, thank god,” John’s voice is full of equal parts worry and relief as he touches Sherlock’s damp brow and cheeks. “Your pulse is too fast. Just breathe. Slowly now. Try to slow it down.”

Obeying the doctor without question, Sherlock concentrates and breathes measurably until his body resumes its normal rhythm. John presses two fingers to his neck and counts out his pulse. Happy with his findings, he lets out a long sigh and smiles.

“There we are. Just too carried away for a minute there,” he brushes a curl from Sherlock’s forehead. “Nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock’s heart skips a beat at the soft affection of the touch and he smiles up at his lover. He starts to sit up, reaching for John as he goes, but John stops him with a firm hand on each bicep.

“Wait, wait,” he pushes him down and then laughs at the petulant frown on Sherlock’s face. “We need to get cleaned up, that’s all. Don’t get stroppy, all right?”

He hops off the bed, grabbing a random sock off the floor and holding it to his own belly to keep the mess covering his torso from smearing or dripping as he hurries to the master bath. Sherlock hears water running as he looks down at himself. His groin is slick with lube and saliva and semen. The sight of it gives him the most ridiculous sense of satisfaction and contentment. He inhales deeply and lets it out slowly while stretching his whole body luxuriously like a cat lying in the warm light of the sun.

“Here’s a flannel,” John says upon his return, offering Sherlock a damp washcloth. He takes it, a blank look on his face. John adds with a crooked smile. “To wash off.”

“I know what it’s for,” Sherlock snaps irritably, more so than he intended. He softens his tone again to continue. “But what did you call it?”

“A flannel,” John replies simply. “What do you call it?”

“A washcloth. Obvious. That’s what it is,” Sherlock supplies with a grin and stifled giggle. John narrows his eyes and swats Sherlock’s leg playfully.

“Just clean up, you tosser.”

“Tosser? Oh, that’s a new one,” Sherlock teases, rolling toward the doctor. “Tell me what that one means.”

He reaches out quickly to grab John’s wrist and pull him back into bed, but the man is too quick, just dodging his outstretched fingers. After a couple of jogged steps, John slows to a walk and heads for the bathroom again, still completely naked. Sherlock’s lips curl up as he watches that ass tip from side to side with the natural swing of John’s hips. He also can’t miss the fact that John’s left hand is behind his back, middle finger raised in a rude gesture for Sherlock to see. The coach laughs as John turns in the doorway to look at him.

“Piss off,” John remarks with no venom. His grin lights the room and Sherlock feels like he is home, but like no other he has ever known. Wherever this man is, is home and Sherlock never wants to be anywhere else again. 

“I’m going to shower,” John informs him, assuming a business-like tone. Sherlock watches him  slyly, knowing he is putting it on. “If you can stop all the teasing, you can join me.”

“Why should I stop? I rather enjoy it,” Sherlock gives him a cheeky grin and eyes John with approval. Not giving him a chance to answer the question, Sherlock raises the washcloth to punctuate his next question. “Why bother with this if you’re going to shower?”

“So you aren’t such a sticky mess when I snog you senseless,” John chooses to answer only the last question. He turns away and gives a swish of his ass as he looks over his shoulder. “Coming?”

Sherlock is frozen for a moment after John disappears into the other room. His eyes are wide and mouth hanging open, in spite of himself. His life is forever changed by the beautiful, wonderful man in his bathroom. Their bathroom. Sherlock looks at the washcloth in his hand, down at himself and then back to the doorway that once held John. A smile spreads across his face as he muses at how this could even be possible. Only a few months ago, things were so different. He was happy, but now… His lobster.

Sherlock springs into motion with the sound of water bursting from the shower head. He quickly wipes himself up as best he can in a rush and runs for the open door, steam already drifting out from within. He wraps his arms around John’s waist soundly as soon as he enters and presses a kiss to one firm shoulder blade. John is under the spray with his eyes closed, arms raised and hands skimming over his wet hair. He smiles fondly, wipes the water from his eyes and face, and lowers his hands to rest upon the taller man’s. Sherlock props his chin on John’s shoulder.  

“Hello, beautiful,” John says, tilting his head down to look at their joined hands. 

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers, his lips millimeters from John’s ear. He tightens his hold and kisses John’s neck gently.

***

An hour later and they are both settling into bed again. John is on his back with Sherlock just lying down next to him. He folds his arm around the taller man as Sherlock rests his cheek on John’s bare shoulder. Both elected to put on boxer briefs rather than pajamas and John revels in pure delight at the decision. Although, part of him wonders why they put anything on at all. Clearly something to be rectified in the future. In the meantime, Sherlock’s bare legs tangle with his and the warm, naked chest pressed up against his body is heavenly. With a sigh, John rests his hand on the man’s pale skin, inclining his head to touch it to his lover’s crown. The soft, dark curls tickle his cheek as he rests it against them. His fingers move up from the small of Sherlock’s back to the nape of his neck to play with those gorgeous curls, fingertips twisting in the damp rings and freeing tiny droplets.

John opens his mouth to speak, but a wave of realization crashes over him instead. His lover. His lover. His. This is his flat now. The one he shares with Sherlock. Well, as soon as he moves things out of his current flat and into this one. He and Sherlock will be together now. Forever. That’s what Sherlock wants and the more John thinks about it, the more he wants it too. To be by Sherlock’s side. To talk to him and touch him and share a bed with him. To be with him always. Christ, it’s amazing. Life with Sherlock. In this world, in this flat. The two of them against the world. It nearly takes his breath away. He must have moved or gasped or something at the thought because Sherlock tilts his face toward John’s and looks at him with curious eyes. 

“All right?” he asks in a deep voice, a sexy purr to John’s ears. A blissful grin spreads across John’s face as that delightful warm feeling pools low in his belly again.

“Yeah,” John answers, smoothing down the curls he twisted into tight ringlets. “I’m good. Perfect, in fact.”

“That is a gross exaggeration,” Sherlock laughs, his body shaking with it. John chuckles with him and shoves at his shoulder.

“It feels perfect then,” John corrects himself. “Is that better?”

“Mm, yes, but still highly subjective,” the taller man teases. “I would expect a man of science to be more methodical and draw conclusions based upon serious analysis.”

“How do you know I haven’t?” John asks, mimicking Sherlock’s haughtiness. He knows for a fact that Sherlock knows exactly what he is doing, but he does not let on. Instead, he simply watches John with narrowed eyes, his mouth curled smugly. “You don’t spend every hour of every day and night with me.”

“I will now,” Sherlock’s lips grow into the grin of a cheshire cat. A gleam flashes in his eyes. “Especially at night.”

John leans down and catches his mouth in a rather insistent kiss. He wants to tell Sherlock so much, everything that is in his heart. He pours it all into this kiss, wanting and willing Sherlock to understand, to see it all without John saying a single word. He knows he cannot get away with that and doesn’t really want to. He has to say it, wants to say it again and again for the rest of his life. All of his days with Sherlock, and nights, as Sherlock reminded him.

John shivers and brings the kiss to an end. Looking into Sherlock’s grey eyes, John sees that understanding. Sherlock knows all and sees all. He’s too damn clever for his own good and John absolutely adores him for it.

“I’m counting on it,” John says quietly. His hand drifts along Sherlock’s collarbone to his long neck. He dances his fingertips up the pale skin to jawline and chin, resting his palm over an angular cheek as he speaks. “D’you know this is our first night in our bed?”

“The thought had occurred, yes,” Sherlock gives a decisive nod. “We have already christened it in the physical sense, and now the emotional,” he looks at John with a knowing expression. “Sentiment.”

“Oh, yeah, right,” John wriggles down a little so his face is closer to Sherlock’s. “Billy mentioned you’re no good with that.”

“Did he?” Sherlock smiles ruefully. “He is not wrong. Although, I would like to think I’ve made some progress on that front.”

“You have,” John replies in a measured tone, but wearing a wide grin on his face.

“Under the appropriate tutelage, of course,” Sherlock continues, nonreactive to John’s jest.

“And you found a true expert to teach you too,” John adds cheekily. “A master of the craft.”

Sherlock snorts at that and John immediately joins in, both unable to hold it in any longer.

“At least I finally got my shit together,” John remarks when the sound of their giggles dies down.

“Indeed,” Sherlock chuckles, resting his palm on John’s chest and lifting his head to look him in the eye, “and I am deeply grateful.”

“Sherlock,” John says with a sudden seriousness that surprises even him. He sees it reflected back in the coach’s expression and rushes to speak before Sherlock’s big brain can start conjuring doubts. “I was stupid. I made myself so blind I couldn’t see what was right in front of me, but I do now.”

He pauses to wet his lips and gathers his courage for what he wants to say next. He expects it to be difficult and then he realizes that it isn’t hard at all. Saying this, declaring his feelings, feels like the most natural thing he has ever done. Everything is with Sherlock.

“I love you, Sherlock and I’m going to spend my whole life telling you and showing you just how much. It all starts here in this bed, in this flat, right now,” John tells him sincerely, covering those long fingers on his chest with his own. “I love you and I want to tell everyone. I want to shout it from the goddamn rooftops.”

They both laugh again for a moment. Still wearing a soft smile, John meets Sherlock’s eyes and touches a hand to his cheek. His fingers cradle the smooth skin and he slides his thumb over one beautiful cheekbone, capturing this moment so he can hold onto it forever.

“My life is yours,” John says simply in a quiet voice, “for as long as you want it.”

Sherlock’s lips curve upward and he looks at John with tears in his eyes. He shifts up John’s body until they are shoulder to shoulder and cups John’s face with both hands. Gazing into blue eyes, Sherlock leans toward his doctor and kisses him softly, sweetly, in a way he will repeat over and over again as the years drift by.

“And mine is yours,” he says in a hushed voice.

They share a kiss so deep, so honest and open, one that tells them both so much that they can scarcely catch their breath when their lips part.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers against John’s lips.

“I love you,” John breathes back. 

Their words, breaths, and lives mingle together to create one. 

They rest their foreheads together and sigh, sharing in the perfect silence of the room. Their own breathing, now coming in identical puffs, is the only noise in the air around them. They both settle into bed again, heads ensconced in pillows and arms enfolding one another. 

John’s eyes grow heavy quickly and he almost does not notice when Sherlock drifts off, but the coach gives himself away when he snuffles quietly and snuggles close. John smiles to himself as his eyes close, ready now for sleep to come. In the last ten nights, his last thought before his brain passes into its rest cycle has been of The Crown and his rescue. The dreams that follow rule his sleep as they show him the different ways it could have played out. 

More often than not, the dreams have had an alternate ending in which things went poorly. One night when he, Sherlock and Greg were all in DC to meet with the Board the dream ended with Sherlock dead. He had drowned trying to untie the ropes that had bound John to the weights and John was left staring into his unseeing grey eyes as he floated away motionless. John had startled awake that night, covered with sweat. He was so shaken that he had thrown on a hotel bathrobe over his pajamas, gone straight down the hall to Sherlock’s room and rang his mobile until the man awoke. John had wrapped his arms around him as soon as he opened the door with a startled ‘John, what is it?’

John has never explained the dreams to Sherlock and Sherlock has not asked. John will tell him at some point, but not now when it is still so fresh. Soon though. 

As for tonight, it seems like it should be no different and yet, it is. Here, in their bed on the first night of their life together, John’s last thought before falling asleep is completely different and the dreams he has open a new world of wonder and excitement.

Sherlock was brilliant at finding clues. Ones I left and ones I didn’t even realize. He could be a detective in his free-time, as if we have any of that to spare.

John’s mouth turns up at the corners slightly and a sleepy snicker passes through his lips as he pulls Sherlock closer.

A consulting detective. Mm, I should tell...him...that.

El Fin

---

I said it all at the beginning, but I will again. Thank you all for being with me as I posted. Your love and support means the world to me. All of you are my friends on this journey. This story has a special place in my heart for a lot of reasons, not the least of which is meeting my lovely beta, MyBreadAndButter. Thank you, my friend. You have help me shape this story and my craft into something truly great. I look forward to working with you, and to seeing all of you again. I will never stop writing. It is a part of me as much as these two idiots are. I pledge to make them fall in love again and again with you all by my side. 😂 Until then... Keep you pants dry and your dreams wet and remember, hugs not drugs. We’ll all get through this together. Love, Jane

@zentris @221b-carefulwhatyouwishfor @tooolforthissh--stuff @shana-movershaker @melmey-fanfics @louise175dk @technicallywiseoncns @underestimatemethatwillbefun @jhamishw @weirdlittlegoofball @superwholockpotterincamelot @superwholocklmt @ladidragonuniverse @kittenmadnessandtea @srebrnafh @welcometomyharddrive @annecumberbatch @kingdomofbrokenhearts @philliphooper @whodwantmeasaflatmate @gloriascott93 @vvaticancameoss @cow-mow @echosilverwolf @spazzz32 @absentmindedsstuff @swissmissing @shuukichan @maeliandmyself @wtgilsa  @red-pen-revolution @britishaccentfan @dischorde @plasticstrawsmuggler @youknowyougrow @one-thousand-splendid-stars @irina12maria

[1ddiscourseoftheday]

Thurs 28 Mar

Much anticipation for tomorrow; will Harry do the livestreamed red carpet interviews at the Hall of Fame event? Will the Two of Us music video come out? In the meantime however we have today's content to entertain (and a little from yesterday and even before)...

The feeling is that it would be out of character for Harry to do tomorrow's red carpet walk, but so is rolling into town seconds before an event and he sure did that and besides, given the publicity emphasis on it, I assume he'll be featured. Who needs the official event anyway though, when you're Harry Styles everywhere is a red carpet! Witness him arriving today in NYC with his guitar in hand serving witchy 70s rock star realness in a wide brimmed spy vs spy gucci hat and flowing black coat! (and bright pink socks, cause he's Harry) He went straight from the airport to rehearsals and I guess facetimed a fan (???) He and Stevie will perform Stop Dragging My Heart Around tomorrow but it won't be televised til next month.

The 4music televised 'hangout' with Louis that had still been listed on the schedule for tomorrow has been removed but the TOU video release is still listed as scheduled on another site. The hangout was a pre-recorded segment, rumour has it, so many consider its postponement an indication that the video release will also be delayed, but I guess we'll find out tomorrow. In a new snippet from an interview from pre promo Louis says he won't be doing TXF again in the most definitive declaration we've seen, and in further notes from yesterday's O Globo interview we learn that when the publication attempted to ask about Zayn they were shut down by management and told that wasn't on the table. This is interesting because it's a reminder that they can do that when they want to, and that they didn't or couldn't do it to Dan Wootton, though I think it's also possible that it wasn't something that was on anyone's mind to blacklist until after Wootton asked about it (to Louis' stated surprise) and it became something that was getting press and distracting from solo Louis focused promo.

A writer for the Guardian was shitty and condescending about Louis in a super gross "he's not a Real Man" kind of way, but deleted, presumably after being taken to task for attacking someone pointlessly and in the wake of a personal tragedy (if not also for the fact that that isn't actually an insult and toxic masculinity is garbage). Louis talked in the O Globo interview about having a negative public image, and that tweet was a reminder that for all the people that love him, that is still something that's out there. Hard for me to believe, but the press is an ugly thing and full of lies, no question (that's not the part that's hard to believe, but people thinking Louis is anything less than an actual angel on earth certainly is.)

Niall and Julia released a simple and pretty video of What a Time for a stripped down and pretty acoustic version of the song closing with cute mutual "I love you"s, and Niall tweeted about the sunshine in London.

And finally, Capital FM Best Fans competition results are in and they are a sweep for our boys! In order the prizes go to, #1 One Direction, #2 Louis, #3 Harry, #4 Liam and #5 Niall. HAHAHA I almost feel sorry for everyone else out there competing... But not really. Suck it fans of currently active bands! We don't need "releases" or "concerts" y'all are just SPOILED! Meanwhile we out here thriving on toxic scraps like cockroaches in a post apocalyptic bandom wasteland...

[redknight3996]

It’s a few weeks late to do something like this, but hey, might as well. Last year, I wrote a story called “A Summer Shanty”, which was basically a combination of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse (well, four horsepeople; this isn’t a Good Omens thing, I wrote this before the live-action series came out and got big, but I do love that book) with a modern and somewhat more cynical take on A Christmas Carol, born out of need to get out a lot of negative feelings I felt about billionaires (because they suck) and whatnot. I submitted it for Bogleech’s story contest thing (which, if it’s a problem posting this here, please inform me), so it’s all up there, I just have this kind of urge to put it up here. Maybe get more people to see it, maybe just have out there, who knows? But hey, if it sounds like something you’d like, feel free to read. Gonna be splitting it up here, into little segments, so expected the next one tomorrow or something.

A Summer Shanty, Part 1

The world was getting warmer. It was obvious by this point. Shame there was nothing to be done about it.

Such were the thoughts of one Gregory Louis Morgan as he sat back in his poolside chair. The Chairman and CEO of Renfield Industrial was celebrating another lovely Fourth of July in his own private villa. He had earned some time off from running his multi-billion dollar conglomerate and was taking a well-deserved summer vacation. 

Sure, there was always work to be done at some point, but what was the point if he couldn’t enjoy himself every so often? He really did deserve to indulge himself every now and then. A man who traveled as much as he did had certainly earned a little relaxation.

Morgan wasn’t about to retire though. He would go stir crazy in a week if he had to give up his business for some worthless life of leisure. To give up the board meetings, the dinner meetings, the financial reports...No, he was like a shark in that regard. He would always keep moving.

Morgan chuckled to himself as he took a sip of his margarita. That was a clever little metaphor of his. Fitting, even, considering the nearby coast. 

The heat had gone down as the night dragged on, and the din of fireworks had gradually subsided as revelers, red-blooded Americans celebrating their nation’s independence in a grand show of lights, gradually went off to drink or party or even sleep. Whatever those types of people did. 

Morgan preferred his parties more subdued. Less aggravating, in that way. People could be so noisy. 

Morgan valued his quiet.

“Heh. Well, ain’t this snazzy?”

Morgan’s eyes snapped open as he sat up and glanced around. There. 

The billionaire smiled as he slowly stood to face the younger man standing by his pool in a Hawaiian shirt and cargo shorts. “You’re on private property, young man. You need to leave, now.” 

He kept the false smile on as he took in the lightly tanned man’s clean cut appearance, his dark brown hair cropped short. The man was taller than Morgan, slightly, and had more of a muscular figure than the aging billionaire. Hm. Was he one of his security officers?

“Nah, sorry old timer. I’m right where I’m supposed to be tonight.”

Morgan’s lips twitched and he idly pressed the security signal in his pocket. Really, the layabouts should have arrested this man before he even got this far. “No, you’re not. Are you drunk, boy? You are in my home.”

“Yeah, I am,” the blond man replied, his brown eyes oddly bright in the patio lights...Wait...No, it was some trick of the light. “And your home is where I’m supposed-”

“No, it isn’t. Get out of my damn house already! Do you even have any idea in that drunken mind of yours where you wandered into?!” Morgan snarled, dropping all pretense of civility in the face of the idiot’s lackadaisical response. Where the hell was his security anyway? And why didn’t Tatiana notice this idiot? How did even get past his gate, much less the fences?

“Woah now man. No need for all that hostility,” the man replied, an odd accent to his word-Wait, wasn’t he white? Why did he look hispanic now? The man placed a hand on his chest, smiling with pearly white teeth. “Me llamo Jonathan Doe. You can call me John.”

“I-What?! No, that is it, I am done with this!” Morgan strode over to the man and grabbed him by the front of his shirt, bodily yanking him down to his eye level. “You will get out of my home immediately or-”

And the man’s face cracked. “You’re being really rude right now, Mister Morgan.” 

Doe smiled. He looked...arabic? What? There was a crack splitting across his forehead, some sort of glow-

Morgan yelped as he was shoved backward, landing right on his rear. “W-What?! What-H-How did you just-What?!”

“Wow, real articulate. First you shout, then you put hands on me? Man, you old bastards really can’t handle your temper.” The now black man smiled, squatting down in front of him. “So, Morgan, we need to talk.”

“I-I...I will not be treated like this! What even are you supposed to be!? Some...Some kind of radical trying to extort me-”

“Hey man, that’s real rude.” Doe frowned and sat down fully, his legs crossed. He looked different again, his skin a lighter shade of brown, his face narrower. “Real rude. I’m just here to tell you what’s going on tonight, for you and you alone.”

“What?”

“You keep saying that. Why not try listening for a second?”

“Ah, you-” Doe held up a hand and Morgan felt a sudden surge of rage. “I WILL NOT-”

And then he couldn’t speak. He couldn’t make any noise come out of his mouth.

Doe sighed, running a hand over his short hair. “Y’know, I doubt Marley had to deal with this shit back in the day.” 

Morgan tried to speak again, tried to shout at the bastard in front of him, tried to call for someone. Where was his security!? Where were his dogs?! Where was...Where was anyone?

He looked towards his house. All the lights were off. There...wasn’t anything there. At all. No motion in the house whatsoever, no indication that anyone was home. How could that…

He stood, surprisingly easily...there was no pain in his knees. He’d been shoved to the ground but his back was fine. The moon was still high in the sky, half of it shrouded in darkness. He couldn’t hear any noise either. He looked lower, and saw that the suburbs below him were dark too. Dark, and silent.

Only the lights around his pool were still on. There couldn’t be a blackout. That didn’t…

Doe was standing again, his hands in his pockets. He was smiling again. He looked Asian now. “Okay, I think you’ve reached the point where you gotta listen. Good, didn’t want to start cutting into the schedule or anything.” 

“Schedule?” Wait, what? “I can talk?”

“When you’re not trying to shout, sure. Now, I think we got off on the wrong foot here.” The redhead grinned, holding out a freckled hand. “My name’s John Doe. You’re Mister Greg Morgan. It’s interesting to meet you.”

Morgan didn’t take his hand. “...This is a dream. Ha, so that’s it...I fell asleep at my chair and this is a dream.”

Doe kept smiling, but dropped his hand, pocketing it again. “Heh. You’re going to be a piece of work.”

“You can’t speak to me like that,” Morgan snapped, before huffing, fixing his polo shirt. “So what, are you supposed to be made up of all the employees I’ve ever fired or something?”

“Nah, worse than that.” John Doe grinned. “But we’re not at that yet. We’re talking about you, Mister Morgan. You’ve been chosen for a little something something.”

“Oh? And what would this be, Mister Doe?”

“Ha, wow, you sure change your tune fast when it suits you.” Doe chuckled for a moment. “Congrats Mister Morgan, you’re getting Caroled.”

“...What?”

“C’mon. You must’ve seen, like, any cartoon in the last sixty years or so. Dickens, pal. Think.”

Morgan blinked, then scowled. “You can’t be serious. It’s nowhere near Christmas! And I’m no Scrooge! I’ve earned every penny I have and I’m entitled to use it as I wish!”

“You’ve earned a lot more than pennies, Mister Morgan,” Doe replied. “And no, it’s not quite that.”

“What is it then? Am I to be visited by three ghosts to teach me the meaning of materialism or whatever that trash was about?”

“No, Mister Morgan. You don’t get ghosts. You get worse.” Doe’s smile was thin. “See, you’re thinking of a story where a miserable miser driven by loneliness finds his heart. A wonderful classic, teaching the good in people. 

“This ain’t that kind of story, Mister Morgan.” The crack on his forehead began to split further. “You’re not that kind of man, so you get a different one. Congrats though. It’s practically an honor here.” Doe smiled, and his cheeks cracked, an orange glow visible in his split skin. “You get to represent America, Mister Morgan. You’re the perfect man for the job.”

“...What? What...What could you possibly mean by that?” Morgan mumble, staring transfixed as the man’s skin burst into flame.

Doe kept smiling even as his skin burnt the color of charcoal, embers lighting every inch of his body. “You’ll see. As a little hint, I’ll tell you a secret.” He leaned in close, his grin wide and his teeth black. “Hell’s real, Mister Morgan. Hell is very, very real, for men like you. 

“Oh, and to answer your earlier question, I’m a soldier, Mister Morgan.” His eyes were gone. Two burning pits were in their place. “Just a soldier.”

~1~

Morgan woke with a start, flinched as he blinked. He sat up in his pool chair and looked around. His lights were still on. Every light in his house was still on. The houses below had their lights on too.

“...Heh. Hehahah...I knew it was a dream,” he muttered to himself as he stood up from his pool chair. Suddenly falling asleep like that was unusual for him...perhaps he was letting himself relax a tad too much. Lying down in his actual bed would do him some good, particularly with how late it had grown.

He stood and started walking back to his home. How late was it, even? He checked his watch as he stood up from his pool chair. One in the morning. Really now? It had gotten quite late all of a sudden. He really should be in bed by now.

He stood up and walked to the patio door. It led to a living room. He had a few of those. He slid open his door and stepped inside and blinked at the light of his study. Which was on the second floor, overlooking his pool. 

“...How...did I get here?” he mumbled to himself as he sat down in his leather office chair. Had it always felt this comfortable? He quite enjoyed the brown look to it too. It fit well with the color of his full bookshelves and the wood of his desk. All mahogany, all very cozy. 

“Really? Rand? Wow, way to stereotype yourself, jackass,” muttered the white woman looking through his bookshelves. She pulled a book, flipped through it, and casually tossed it over her shoulder.

Morgan blinked, and sat up in his seat, instantly alert. “What? Who the-Who are you supposed to be?!”

“Johnny Boy told you, asshole. I’m your first visitor tonight. Gotta say, not real fucking impressed,” the white woman replied. And by God, she was white. Her skin looked like new-fallen snow, and her hair, tied back in a bun and covered by a white bowler, was equally ivory. She was dressed in a long white coat and a long white skirt with white shoes. From what he could see, even the frames of her glasses were white. 

In fact...everything about her was white. Morgan couldn’t see any hint of shadow on her body. The woman was entirely white. There was no hint of yellow or gray like some shades, it was just all white. Every inch-

“Hey asshole. Eyes are up here,” the white woman spoke again, turning to face him with a hand still on the bookcase. He couldn’t see her eyes. They were completely covered by her round glasses. Even the lenses were white. How in the world could she see out of them?

She pointed at her lenses with two fingers, clenched her fist, and then pointed both fingers at him. She stared at him and he stared back and she huffed in irritation and crossed the room in two strides and slammed her hands on his desk. “GAH!”

“So now you wanna fucking speak? Fuck me, I thought this would be a fun gig,” she complained, sitting back in a white chair that looked exactly like Morgan’s own.

“...No. No, no, this isn’t happening,” Morgan began, shaking his head, “Earlier was a dream, and this is just another one-ow!” He rubbed his head, blinking in surprised pain as the woman lowered a white walking cane with a rounded top. She slipped it into the crook of her arm and smirked at him.

“Good, now you can actually fucking listen.”

“...You’re very foul-mouthed for a woman.” She just smirked back at him. “So...So then what is this supposed to be? Are you going to carry me around on some wondrous vision of my own past so I can appreciate what I have now?”

“Fuck no. I’m not here to deal with namby-pamby bullshit like that, Greg.” She suddenly leaned back and put her feet up on his desk. He noticed how the soles of her dress shoes were also white before indignation overtook him.

“Get your shoes off of my desk!”

“No. Alright, let’s see,” the woman muttered, leafing through a green book that was suddenly in her hands. “So, Greggy Morgan, son of blah blah blah, some old fuck rich bastard and a woman who doesn’t matter-”

“What? My mother was-”

“Oi.” She pointed at him with one hand, the other still flipping through her book. “Don’t interrupt me while I’m working. Born in Kansas, moved to Texas, lovin’ those as’s. Studied business, economics, shit philosophy, lots of emphasis on ‘personal freedoms’, built up an inherited company, oil and refinery, ties to agriculture and pharmaceuticals, got tons of subsidiaries, damn, you’re a regular king capitalist, huh?” She closed the book with a snap and tossed it to the side. 

Another book, this one with a gold-cover, was in her hands already as Morgan frowned. “...Was that it?”

“Fuck no, again. So, big supporter of the free market, personal freedoms, all that.”

“Yes, I am. Is there a problem with that?”

“Everything’s a problem to someone, dumbass. You could say you’re all for giving free money to everyone and you’d have bitches whining about unwarranted charity. Hell, you could say you’re pro-puppy petting and some bitch would whine about the wasted time to pet them. Bitches whine, it’s what dogs do.”

“...Is there a point to this?”

“Everything has a point, dumbass. Fucking hell, that college fucking education didn’t do jack for you, did it? No, that’s one’s not totally fair, is it? Education cures ignorance, not stupid. Can’t do anything for a dumbass that insists on being blind and deaf.”

“I don’t need to take this,” Morgan bit out. He stood and-

He was on the floor, clutching his temple. “...A-Ah…” 

“Oi.” Suddenly, the woman’s white face was in front of his, her lips turned down in a small frown. He couldn’t see her eyes behind her glasses. She was using her walking cane to hold herself up as she leaned down towards him. “I didn’t say you could stand.”

“...You hit me.”

“Yeah, I did. Isn’t that what you do with unruly children? You say that often enough. Gotta give them discipline, no more participation trophies.” She snorted, smirking again. “That one always gets me. Parents act like they didn’t demand the trophies so their shitty kids wouldn’t look like failures, blame it on the kids they fucked over. It’s fun, y’know?”

“...What?”

“Every piece of shit passes down their own fuck-ups to their kids, creating more and more fuck-ups.” She abruptly giggled. “You have to wonder, where did all start? Where will it all end? But then again, we all know where everything ends, don’t we?” She held out her hand to him. “C’mon. You’re getting up now.”

Morgan didn’t take her hand. He pushed himself up, stood on his own two feet, and touched two fingers to his temple. There was no blood. In fact, his pain seemed to be fading remarkably quickly.

The woman stood too, still smirking. “You just reminded me of something hilarious.”

Morgan stared at her, slowly brushing himself off. They weren’t in his office anymore. They were in some kind of white hall… “Where are we-OW!” The damned woman hit him again!

“Oi, listen when your betters talk. Now, like I was saying-”

“You are not-AGH! STOP THAT!” 

And then her hand was around his throat. He gulped as she spoke. “Now, as I was saying, I found out a really damn funny thing some time ago. A bunch of you idiots seem to have started using the phrase ‘pulling yourself up by your bootstraps’.” 

She grinned at him, tracing her thumb over his Adam’s apple. “See, what makes that funny is that the phrase originally refers to a fuck up you Americans got. A little misattribution of an old wives’ tale, and even then the meaning still refers to something so ludicrously impossible that it simply can’t be done. Like, say, pulling yourself over a fence by lifting up on your bootstraps.

“And seeing you, Greg, fumble as you tried to get up, reminded me of that. Ain’t memory fun?”

“...I see. So is this place supposed to lead back into my memories then?”

“No, dumbass,” she stated, her tone flat, “We’re here for a different reason. C’mon, walk and talk.”

She let go of his neck and wrapped her arm over his shoulders, leading him further down the hallway. He could see doors along the wall, plain white doors, but all of them were closed. Though, he could vaguely hear something…Voices? It was hard to tell. The clack of the woman’s shoes drowned out most of the sound.

“So, what’s up first on our agenda? Race, religion, sex? No, no, we don’t have enough time to focus on all of that shit. They’re all fucked, of course, but I can’t get to everything here, you dig?”

“...”

“Medicine it is! Hey, Greggy, you ever think to yourself about all the people those pharmaceutical companies of yours murder?”

“What? What in the world are you talking about?” he asked, turning his gaze on her as she continued to pull him along the hallway. “No company I support has ever murdered anyone and insinuating that is-” He bit back his instinct to bring up defamation and slander. What good would it do him in this sort of situation? In a dream. A dream, of course, because this couldn’t be real, and the thug dragging him along wasn’t real.

He still didn’t expect her to outright cackle. The woman didn’t slow her pace in the slightest as she roared with laughter, her amusement wild and unrestrained. “Eheheheheheha~! Pull the other one, it’s got bells on.” She cracked another grin. “You really shouldn’t lie to my fucking face, Greggy boy. It looks bad on you.”

“I am not lying, I…” What was the right answer here? “While certain individuals within companies that I hold shares in may provide financial support to other individuals who could have committed less than moral actions in their pasts, I do not condone nor support murderers.”

“Cut the legal speak and the bullshit along with it. Your hard-on for the military aside-”

“I support our great nation’s soldiers-!”

“SHUT IT!” she barked right in his face, snarling down at him until she abruptly grinned again. “Now, we’re leaving that can of maggots for later. My session here’s all about how you, Greggy the investor, Greggy the shareholder, Greggy the lobbyist, support the thieving pricks making money off of human suffering. Granted, that’s all capitalists, but we’re talking about the ones that rip teeth from the sick this time.”

“Companies have a right to profit from their products,” he retorted. “They put in time, effort, and money into their work and the profits garnered from those sales go back to supporting the very companies that produce the medicine.”

“Aw, cute, you actually believe that. It doesn’t help people who can’t afford the medicine, but fair enough. You gotta look out for you and yours first, right? Fuck everyone else, you gotta survive in a hellish world where the merest disease or injury can throw you out on the streets with tens to hundreds of thousands of dollars of medical debt to you name, all because the top dogs want their crap to land on someone when they shit. It’s a fun little cycle.” 

Morgan rolled his eyes. “That’s why people get insurance.”

“Ooo, yeah, because everyone can afford insurance, and it’s such a good idea~! Everybody’s just gotta do as they’re told, pay their dues, and march right up the death panel that decides whether their coverage is good enough to save their life! And God help you if you can’t make payment! Not everyone can be born a CEO, Greggy boy.”

He sighed in irritation. The woman felt like a culmination of every idiot undergrad who thought Marx was their damn savior. “Think for a moment. A CEO runs their company. They manage the production and distribution so everyone can be rewarded for their efforts and therefore-”

Her hand abruptly clamped down on his nose. “And that’s real cute. They get to sit up there in their big boy offices pretending that what they say and do actually matters. Lead the company! Direct the troops! Be our king. But that’s not what we’re talking about, is it?”

Her fingers tightened around his nose. “Gh...l-let go-”

“Shhhhh. I want you to look around you, Greggy. I want you to recognize where we are.”

“What? What does that have to do-”

“Oh for fuck’s sake man.” She swung her cane out, the door opened, and-

“GOOD LORD!” He stared in horror at horribly scarred thing in the room, in a hospital bed–it was a hospital and terrible bumps and lesions covered-

A hand slapped the back of his head and he was being dragged along again. “Don’t be fucking rude, asshole.”

“W-What was that?”

“That was Ailen.”

“A-Ailen?”

“Yeah, Ailen. She needs a change of blankets,” she explained casually. “Do you want to go back and say hi?

“No! No, no, n-never!” he immediately snapped, shaking his head rapidly. 

“Aw, shame. You’re losing out, buddy boy. And besides, why such a bad reaction? I did say this was a hospital. You’re bound to see some gross shit.”

“...W-Why am I in a hospital?” he asked, glancing back at the room for a moment. More of the doors opened and he immediately averted his gaze, trying to look forward. “What even was that?”

“I told you-”

“NOT WHO! WHAT!” he snapped and then he was on the floor again, clutching his nose. Good God had she just broken it??

He was yanked to his feet again and she kept pulling him along, holding him around his waist as groans started to fill the air. 

“Oh, just a fun little remnant of your shitty country’s past victories, about the only thing you fucks can count on. You want to know something funny, Greggy?”

“...Y-You...y-you just broke my nose-”

“HA! Ah, that is funny.” She grinned down at him with pearly white teeth. Had she gotten taller? “But no, this is funnier. Did you know Pratchett and Gaiman thought I was on my way out way back when? See, they thought things like antibiotics, disinfectants, penicillin especially, all that fun stuff, would drive me on my way out. Hell, they put fucking Pollution in my place! 

She took a drag of a cigarette, white smoke filling the air. “Now that was cute, real cute, brat got a real chuckle out of that one. Cute kid, really, kinda dumb, but working her way up there. Could sink your entire world one of these days but my point is, you dumb mother fucker, is that I’m still around and not going anywhere because of people like you.”

Morgan blinked, trying to keep himself from tearing up as he clutched his nose. He had to breathe through his mouth because it felt like blood was leaking from his nostrils. “W-What?”

“Oh you poor stupid bitch. Don’t you get it yet? Why I’m one of the chucklefucks here for your stupid salvation drive? I’m one of the big ones, the fun ones, the kindly ones that rip out all your throats and guzzle down every bit of sweet, salty nectar in your pus-ridden bodies~!” she giggled, high-pitched and psychotic. “Oh now don’t be rude now~. We’re running a ‘scare you straight’ program and it won’t do if you start thinking uncharitable things about the mentally unwell~! Another thing I have to thank your people for, by the way!”

“W-What-” The doors were banging open faster and faster as they walked. Everything was starting to become a white blur but he could hear vomiting, defecations, revoltingly leaky noises-

“What what what, you keep saying what, say something that matters! Look, think, you’re on a fucking one way road, dumbass. You profit from the sick, you demonize the mental, you call the broken lazy while you sip pina fucking coladas by the poolside~! You fuck and fuck on an old, broken dick while people writhe and die with cunts full of cysts because you can’t be assed to let them control their own vags! You don’t get it yet, but you’re my favorite kind of vile bastard!”

She suddenly lifted him up and he was eye level with her, his feet off the ground as she grinned wide and carried him through the hall. “Eheheheheha~! Oh, if only you were an outright anti-vaxxer instead of just supporting their ‘freedom of choice’~! I’d throw you down and fuck you right here and now and fill your cock up with every nasty infection your abstinence only shit can’t name~!”

He went pale. “L-Let me down, let me down right-”

And then he was on the ground and she was dragging him by the leg and at the end of the hall a set of double doors opened and he saw an endless white void. “N-No no no! No, let go of me! Stop, stop you can’t do this to me!”

“I can’t~? Why can’t I~? I have the freedom to do this~! It’s my right to choose, and it overrides yours.”

“STOP! STOP THIS RIGHT NOW! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME! THIS CAN’T HAPPEN TO ME!” And suddenly she pulled him up again and smiled. In an instant, she looked almost kind, the lights of the hall behind her, now silent, illuminating her white face in an almost serene glow. And then he felt the pit at the edge of his feet.

He couldn’t stop himself from looking back. Behind and below him, there was a massive pit, far larger than anything he’d ever seen, and it was full of bones. Bleached, white bones. “W-What?”

“Aw, really? What, again? Jeez, I thought you’d have something more impressive to say.”

“...W-Why did you bring me here? Why are those down there?”

“So you could see it. And those down there are the bones of every human being killed by the good old United States of America through disease. Down at the bottom you have the smallpoxed Natives, further above you have the hundred thousand AIDs victims old Ronny Regs condemned to death–and hey, if you look close enough, you might see him still trying to climb out–sprinkled all around are the thousands of people your shitty health care let die because it was cheaper than saving them, and in between are the poor fucks who got the short end of the deregulation stick. Rot in the food, filth in the waters, smog in the sky. All those amazingly fun shitshows~.” 

She giggled again and leaned close to him, her smile wide and white. Up close, he could see the inside of her mouth was white too, from her gums to her tongue and every last one of her teeth and the whiteness wasn’t clean. She didn’t look like some pristine, marble statue, no, she was absolutely covered in blisters and lesions so white they all created a pale patchwork over her entire face. “You people are definitely some of my favorite~.”

“Y-You said that before,” Morgan said, starting to nod and smile, trying to keep down his bile. “Y-You said I was your favorite. S-So, please, I can give you so much-”

“Oh? Would you leave your third wife for me then?”

“YES! Yes, anything!”

She laughed again, high and giddy. “You’re so easy! Ah, a fucked up slut to the end then~.”

He paled. “Th-The end?”

“No, not yet. Just for part one.” She abruptly smirked, her hand going and grabbing the collar of his shirt. “Before you go, though, you deserve a little treat. Now, I’m not going to fuck you, because frankly I could do better, but I’ll give you a good look, kay~?”

“I-What?” What did she-Was she going to-

The woman reached up and pulled her glasses free from her face. She tilted her head, smiling at him with white eyes. Wriggling, white eyes. Shifting, twitching, white maggots spilling from her eye sockets and-

Morgan screamed and pushed her back. She was far too solid for him to move but he went backward and into the open air, watching her smile as the maggots wriggled from her eyes. He saw her hold one on her fingers, lift it to her lips and give it a little kiss before he hit-

And then Morgan woke up in his office chair.

[sataniccapitalist]

FEBRUARY 18, 2019

31 Actual National Emergencies

 by PAUL STREET

A Wannabe Strongman’s Brown Menace Straw Man

Everyone with five functioning gray cells knows that the aspiring fascist strongman Donald Trump’s Declaration of a National Emergency on the U.S.-Mexico border is absurd.

There is no “national security crisis” of illegal immigration on the southern United States border.

Illegal crossings are not at “emergency” levels; they are at a fifty-year low.

Undocumented immigrants are not a crime and violence threat.  They are less likely to commit crimes, violent ones included, than naturalized U.S. citizens.

Drugs come into the U.S. not through gaps in border fencing but primarily through legal ports of entry.

There is no big call for a completed U.S.-Mexico wall on the part of U.S. citizens on the southern border.

The United States military has not been “breaking up” and blocking “monstrous caravans” of illegal immigrants trying to harm the U.S.

The only crisis at the border is the humanitarian one created by Trump’s war on asylum-seekers and legal as well as technically illegal immigrants. The wannabe strongman has set up a ridiculous brown menace strawman in an effort to take an unprecedented step. He wants to use the National Emergencies Act to fulfill a ridiculous campaign promises to his white-nationalist base.  He wants to make an end run around Congress to spend federal taxpayer on a project that lawmakers chose not to fund – a political vanity scheme that is opposed by 60 percent of the U.S. populace.

Actual National Emergencies

An irony here is that the United States today is in fact haunted by many actual and interrelated national emergencies.  Here below are the top thirty-one that came to the present writer’s mind this last weekend:

1. Class Inequality. America is mired in a New Gilded Age where economic disparity is so extreme now that the top thousandth (the 0.1 percent, not just the 1 Percent) possesses more wealth than the bottom U.S. 90 percent and three absurdly rich U.S.-Americans – Jeff Bezos, Bill Gates, and Warren Buffett – possess more wealth between them than the bottom half of the country.

2. Poverty. The nation’s 540 billionaires (Trump is one of them) enjoy lives of unimaginable opulence (Trump flew off to one of his resorts to play golf after declaring his “national emergency” – an “emergency” he foolishly said he didn’t actually have to declare) while 15 million children – 21% of all U.S. children – live in families with incomes below the federal poverty threshold, a measurement that has been shown to be drastically below the minimally adequate family budgets families require to meet basic expenses.

3. Plutocracy. “We must make our choice,” onetime Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandies wrote in 1941. “We may have democracy, or we may have wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, but we can’t have both.” Consistent with Brandeis’s warning, the leading mainstream political scientists Benjamin Page and Martin Gilens find through exhaustive research that “the best evidence indicates that the wishes of ordinary Americans actually have had little or no impact on the making of federal government policy.  Wealthy individuals and organized interest groups – especially business corporations – have had much more political clout.  When they are taken into account, it becomes apparent that the general public has been virtually powerless…Government policy,” Page and Gilens determined, “reflects the wishes of those with money, not the wishes of the millions of ordinary citizens who turn out every two years to choose among the preapproved, money-vetted candidates for federal office.” Economic power is so concentrated in the US today you can count on one hand and one finger the multi-trillion-dollar financial institutions that control the nation’s economic and political life: Citigroup, Goldman Sachs, JP Morgan Chase, Wells Fargo, Bank of America, and Morgan Stanley. “You have no choice,” George Carlin used to tell his audiences earlier this century, “You have owners. They own you. They own everything. They own all the important land. They own and control the corporations. They’ve long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the state houses, the city halls. They got the judges in their back pockets and they own all the big media companies, so they control just about all of the news and information you get to hear.”

4. Bad Jobs. Trump boasts of American job creation and low official unemployment rate (real joblessness is a different story) while deleting the fact that tens of millions of the nation’s workers struggle with jobs whose pay lags far behind employment growth thanks to declining unionization (down to 6.5% of the private-sector workforce due to decades of relentless employer hostility), inadequate minimum wages, globalization, automation, and outsourcing. A third of the nation’s workers make less than $12 an hour ($24,960 a year assuming full-time work) and 42% get less than $15 ($31,200 a year). Good luck meeting a family’s food, rent, childcare, medical, and car payment (car ownership is often required in a nation that lacks adequate public transportation) costs on those kinds of returns on labor power. The Federal Reserve Bank of New York recently reported that a record 7 million U.S.-Americans are three months or more behind on their par payments. As the Washington Post reports: “Economists warn this is a red flag. Despite the strong economy and low unemployment rate, many Americans are struggling to pay their bills. ‘The substantial and growing number of distressed borrowers suggests that not all Americans have benefited from the strong labor market,’ economists at the New York Fed wrote in a blog post. A car loan is typically the first payment people make because a vehicle is critical to getting to work, and someone can live in a car if all else fails. When car loan delinquencies rise, it is a sign of significant duress among low-income and working-class Americans.”

5. Corporate Media Consolidation is so extreme in the U.S. now that just six corporations – Comcast, FOX, Disney, Viacom, CBS, and AT&T – together own more than half of traditional U.S. media content print, film and electronic. The Internet giants Google, Facebook, and Amazon rule online communication and shopping. (It is isn’t just about “news and information” [Carlin], by the way. The corporate-owned mass media probably spreads capitalist, racist, sexist, authoritarian, and military-imperialist propaganda more effectively through its entertainment wing than it does through its new and public/political affairs wing. A movie like “American Sniper” beats CNN reporting bias when it comes to advancing the U.S. imperial project [see #s 28 and 29 below]. A film like Clint Eastwood’s “Gran Torino” beats the evening news when it comes to advancing racist mass incarceration and racial segregation [see #s 6 and 9 below]).

6. Racial Disparity and Apartheid. The U.S. Black-white wealth gap is stark: 8 Black median household cents on the white median household dollar. Equally glaring is the nation’s level of racial segregation.  In the Chicago, New York, Detroit, and Milwaukee metropolitan areas, for example more than three in every four Black people would have to (be allowed to) move from their nearly all-black Census tracts into whiter ones in order to live in a place whose racial composition matched that of the broader region in which they reside. These two statistical measures are intimately interrelated since housing markets distribute so much more than just housing.  They also distribute access to jobs, good schools, green spaces, full-service groceries, safety, medical services and more that matters for “equal opportunity” and advancement.

7. Gender Inequality. Among full-time U.S. workers, women make 81 cents for every dollar a man is paid. The gap is worse in part-time employment since women more commonly work reduced schedules to handle domestic labor. Women ‘s median retirement savings are roughly one third of those of men. Households headed by single women with children have a poverty rate of 35.6 percent, more than double the 17.3 percent rate for households headed by single men with children. Women comprise just 27 percent of the nation’s top 10 income percent, 17 percent of the upper 1 percent, and 11 percent of the top 0.1 percent. By contrast, women make up nearly two-thirds (63 percent) of U.S. workers paid the federal minimum wage.

8. Native American Poverty. Thanks to the savage white-“settler” ethnic-cleansing of most of North America from the 16th century through 1900, Indigenous people make up just 1 percent of the U.S. population. The Native American poverty rate (28%) is double that of the nation as a whole and is particularly high in most of the commonly isolated and high-unemployment reservations where just more than a fifth of the nation’s Indigenous population lives. Native American life expectancy is 6 years short of the national average. In some states, Native American life expectancy is 20 years less than the national average. In Montana, Native American men live on average just 56 years.

9. Racist Mass Arrest, Incarceration, and Criminal Marking. The U.S. has the highest incarceration rate in the world, fueled by the racially disparate waging of the so-called War on Drugs. The racial disparities are so extreme that 1 in very 10 U.S. Black men is in prison or jail on any given day. One in 3 Black adult males are saddled with the permanent crippling mark of a felony record – what law professor Michelle Alexander has famously called “the New Jim Crow.” Blacks make up 12% of the U.S. population but 38% of the nation’s state prison population.

10. Trumpism/Fascism. The U.S. mass media focuses so heavily on the seemingly interminable awfulness of the creeping fascist Donald Trump (whose hideous nature is a ratings bonanza at CNN and MSNBC) that it is easy to lose sight of the fascistic horror of his authoritarian and white-nationalist supporters – roughly a third of the nation. The best social and political science research on Trump’s base reveals a fascist-like movementseeking a “strong” authoritarian “leader” who will rollback civil liberties and the gains won by women and racial and ethnic minorities since the 1960s. Trumpism wants to Make America more fully white-supremacist, patriarchal, and authoritarian (“great”) Again. Herr Donald’s disproportionately armed throng of die-hard devotees backs their Dear Leader no matter how terribly he behaves. It is a grave, creeping fascist threat to democracy.

11. The War on Truth. The aspiring fascist leader Trump made on average 15 false statements per day in 2018. He had stated more than 7,600 untruths as president by the end of last year. Trump lies constantly about matters big and small. He is a practitioner of what Chris Hedges calls “the permanent lie.” It is no small matter. In his description of this as “the most ominous threat” posed by Trump, Hedges quotes the philosopher Hannah Arendt. “The result of a consistent and total substitution of lies for factual truth,” Arendt wrote in her classic volume The Origins of Totalitarianism, “is not that the lie will now be accepted as truth and truth be defamed as a lie, but that the sense by which we take our bearings in the real world—and the category of truth versus falsehood is among the mental means to this end—is being destroyed.” Trump is only the most extreme and egregious wave of fabrication in a vast sea of national deception. U.S.-Americans, once accurately described by Alex Carey as “the most propagandized people in the world,” are surrounded by duplicitous and misleading information and imagery. This constant barrage of falsehood – examples include the thoroughly untrue notion that the U.S. possessed  a “great democracy” for the Trump campaign and Russia to (supposedly) “undermine” in 2016 – threatens to exhaust our capacity to distinguish fact from fiction.

12. Gun Violence. Fully 40,000 people died from shootings in the American “armed madhouse” in 2017 (we are still waiting for the grisly statistic for 2018). The U.S. was home to 322 mass shootings that killed 387 people and injured 1,227 in 2018. Twenty-eight mass shootings, killing 36 and wounding 92, took place in January of this year. A mass shooting killed five workers in Aurora, Illinois, on the very day (last Friday) that Trump declared his fake national emergency.

13. Sexual Violence. One in 5 women and 1 in 71 men will be raped at some point in their lives in the U.S.

14. Illiteracy and Innumeracy. More than 30 million adults in the United States cannot read, write, or do basic math above a third-grade level.

15. Manufactured Mass Ignorance and Amnesia. Thanks to corporate control of the nation’s media and schools, U.S.-Americans are shockingly ignorant of basic facts relating to their own history and society. White U.S.-Americans are mired in extraordinary denial about the level of Black-white inequality and the depth and degree of discrimination faced by Black Americans today. U.S.-Americans in general know next to nothing about the criminal and mass-murderous havoc U.S. foreign policy wreaks around the world.  This renders them incapable of understanding world politics and woefully vulnerable to nationalistic propaganda and militarism. Eleven years historian Rick Shenkman wrote a book titled “Just How Stupid Are We? Facing the Truth About the American Voter.” Shenkman found that a majority of Americans: didn’t know which party was in control of Congress; couldn’t name the chief justice of the Supreme Court; didn’t know the U.S. had three branches of government; believed George W. Bush’s argument the United States should invade Iraq because Saddam Hussein had attacked America on 9/11. Ask an average U.S.-American when the American War of Independence or the Civil War or WWII were fought and why, what the Bill of Rights was, what fascism is past and present, or what the Civil Rights Movement was about, and you will get blank stares and preposterously wrong answers. A people that doesn’t know its history wanders without a clue through the present and stumbles aimlessly into the future. Real historical knowledge is a great democratic people’s weapon and it is in perilously short supply in the U.S. today.

16. The Israel and Saudi Lobbies. Israel’s power in U.S. politics and political culture is so absurdly exaggerated that a freshman Muslim U.S. Congressional Representative (Ilhan Omar) was recently subjected to a massive and bipartisan political assault absurdly charging her with “anti-Semitism” for daring to Tweet seven words suggesting the elementarily true fact that the American Israel Public Affairs Committee (AIPAC) – a deep-powerful, deep-pockets public relations and lobbying organization committed to the advance of Israeli state interests – exercises money-lubricated influence on U.S. politics and policy. To visibly raise the question of Palestinian rights and Israel’s horrendous treatment of Arab peoples is to invite an onslaught from the Israel Lobby’s vicious and powerful attack-dogs. They’ve even been known to strip professors of tenure. Meanwhile, the despotic Saudi regime, possibly the most reactionary government on Earth, continues through money and other means to exercise huge influence on U.S. politics even as it senselessly crucifies the people of Yemen (with direct U.S. military assistance), cultivates terrorism across the Muslim world, and vivisects dissident journalists in its foreign embassies.

17. Neo-McCarthyism. The original Orwellian-American and Russia-mad McCarthyism of the late 1940s and 1950s has been resurrected in the post-Soviet era with a curious partisan twist. Anti-Russian hysteria has been picked up by the Democratic Party, which has been eager to blame its pathetic failure to defeat Trump on Russia’s supposedly powerful “interference in our [unmentionably non-existent] democracy” in 2016 – and to deny its politicos’ role in provoking any such relevant Russian interference as may have occurred. On the Republican side, Trump (who was mentored by Senator Joe McCarthy’s onetime chief counsel Roy Cohn!) and other GOP leaders now routinely follow in the footsteps of Joe McCarthy by calling even cringingly centrist corporate-neoliberal Democrats and everything they propose “socialist.” One of the most horrific moments in Herr Donald’s sickening State of the Union Address came when the Orange Mother of all Malignant Assholes (OMoAMA) told the assembled federal officials to “renew” the nation’s “pledge” that “America will never be a socialist country.”  Numerous Democrats, including House Speaker Nancy “We’re Capitalist and That’s Just the Way it is” Pelosi (net worth $71 million) and “progressive” U.S. Senator and presidential candidate Elizabeth Warren ($11 million) joined the GOPers in attendance in applauding that “pledge.”  McCarthyism was always and remains a richly bipartisan disease.

18. Health Care and Health. The United States’ corporate-owned/-managed for-profit health care system is the most expensive in the world but ranks just 12th in life expectancy among the 12 wealthiest industrialized countries. The U.S. spends almost three times more on healthcare as do other countries with comparable incomes. Reflecting poor, commercialized and corporate-imposed food systems and lethally sedentary life styles, 58 percent of the U.S. population is overweight, a major health risk factor.

19. Bad Schools. The nation’s expensive but very unequally funded schools deliver terrible outcomes. Among the world’s 34 ranking OECD nations, U.S. schools are the fifth most expensive, but the U.S. ranks scores far below average in math.  It ranks 17th among in reading and 21st in science.

20. Child Abuse. Childhelp reports that “Every year more than 3.6 million referrals are made to child protection agencies involving more than 6.6 million children. The United States has one of the worst records among industrialized nations – losing on average between four and seven children every day to child abuse and neglect…A report of child abuse is made very ten seconds.”

21. Depression and Substance Abuse. The United States, once described by onetime U.S. Senator Kay Bailey Hutchinson as “the beacon to the world of the way life should be” (in a speech supporting the Congressional authorization of George W. Bush to invade Iraq) has the third highest rates of depression and anxiety and the second highest rate of drug use in the world. “One in five adults in the U.S. experiences some form of mental illness each year,” according to the National Alliance on Mental Illness. That estimate is certainly absurdly low.

22. Immigrant Workers Without Rights. Undocumented immigrants make up 55% of hired labor on farms, 15% of laborers in construction, and 9% in both industry and the service sector. “These workers,” CBS reported earlier this year, “play vital roles in the U.S. economy, erecting American buildings, picking American apples and grapes, and taking care of American babies. Oh, and paying American taxes.”  Their technically illegal status makes them easily exploited by employers and undermines their ability to organize and fight for decent conditions both for themselves for other workers.

23. The Dreamer Nightmare. Eight hundred thousand people living in the U.S. were brought to the country as children by parents without U.S. citizenship.  These “Dreamers’” legal status is stuck in limbo.  They are not allowed to vote. They live in the shadow of possible future deportation, with their legal status treated as a partisan political football.

24. Vote Suppression. State-level racist voter suppression and de facto disenfranchisement is rife across the United States. Among other things, this has contributed significantly to the Republicans winning the presidency in 2000, 2004, and 2016. A “gentleman’s agreement” between the two reigning political parties pushes this critical problem to the margins of public discussion. (The Democrats have widely ignored the matter while they have obsessed for two years plus about Russia’s real or alleged role in the last election.  Moscow’s influence was likely small compared to American-as-Apple Pie racist voter suppression in electing Trump.) “The United States,” political scientist David Schutlz noted on Counterpunch last year, “is the only country in the world that still does not have in its Constitution an explicit clause  affirmatively granting a right to vote for all or some of its citizens.”

25. The Absurdly Archaic U.S. Constitution. Popular sovereignty, also known as democracy was the late 18thcentury U.S. Founders’ ultimate nightmare.  They crafted an aristo-republican national charter brilliantly crafted to keep it at bay – in the darkly ironic name of “We the People.”  Two and a third centuries later, their handiwork continues to do its explicitly un- and anti-democratic work through such openly authoritarian mechanisms as the Electoral College, the apportionment of two Senators to every U.S. state regardless of population, the distant time-staggering of elections, the lifetime presidential appointment and Senate approval of Supreme Court justices.  The preposterously venerated U.S. Constitution is an ongoing 232-year old authoritarian calamity in dire need of a radical and democratic overhaul. It is long past time for the populace to declare a national emergency and call for a Constituent Assembly to draft a new national governing structure dedicated to meaning popular self-rule.

26. Trump and the Imperial Presidency. The OMoAMA (Trump) is by all indications a demented and malignant narcissist, a pure sociopath, and a creeping fascist. But the fact that someone as twisted, venal, sexist, and racist as Trump can pose dire threats to humanity in the first place is in no small part a function of the extreme powers that have accrued to the United States constitutionally super-empowered executive branch over the many decades in which the U.S. has reigned as the world’s most powerful state.  The absurdly vast and authoritarian powers of the imperial presidency are an on ongoing national and global emergency.

27. Election Madness/Electoralism. In the early spring of 2008, the late radical American historian Howard Zinn wrote powerfully against the “Election Madness” he saw “engulfing the entire society including the left” in the year of Obama’s ascendancy. “An election frenzy seizes the country every four years,” Zinn worried, “because we have all been brought up to believe that voting is crucial in determining our destiny, that the most important act a citizen can engage in is to go to the polls. …” Zinn said he would support one major-party candidate over another but only “for two minutes—the amount of time it takes to pull the lever down in the voting booth.” Then he offered sage counsel, reminding us that time-staggered candidate-centered major party electoralism is a very weak surrogate for real popular sovereignty, which requires regular grassroots organization and militancy beneath and beyond what his good friend Noam Chomsky has called“the quadrennial electoral extravaganza”: “Before and after those two minutes, our time, our energy, should be spent in educating, agitating, organizing our fellow citizens in the workplace, in the neighborhood, in the schools. Our objective should be to build, painstakingly, patiently but energetically, a movement that, when it reaches a certain critical mass, would shake whoever is in the White House, in Congress, into changing national policy on matters of war and social justice. … We should not expect that a victory at the ballot box in November will even begin to budge the nation from its twin fundamental illnesses: capitalist greed and militarism. … Before [elections] … and after … we should be taking direct action against the obstacles to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. … Historically, government, whether in the hands of Republicans or Democrats, conservatives or liberals, has failed its responsibilities, until forced to by direct action: sit-ins and Freedom Rides for the rights of black people, strikes and boycotts for the rights of workers, mutinies and desertions of soldiers in order to stop a war. Voting is easy and marginally useful, but it is a poor substitute for democracy, which requires direct action by concerned citizens.” The reigning “mainstream” US media and politics culture is fiercely dedicated to advancing the hegemony of the major party candidate-centered election cycle, advancing the deadly totalitarian notion that those two minutes in a ballot box  once every four years – generally choosing among politics vetted in advance for us by the nation’s unelected and interrelated dictatorships of money and empire – is the sum total of “politics” – the only politics that really matters.  Since the hidden corporate control of the US electoral politics on behalf of the center-right ruling class rules out victory for candidates who accurately reflect majority left-progressive public opinion, these ritual exercises in fake democracy deeply reinforce the fatalistic and false belief that most Americans are centrist and right-wing. The 2020 Democratic Party presidential candidate Iowa-New Hampshire circus is already sucking up vast swaths of cable news coverage and commentary while numerous pressing matters (like most of what is listed in the present essay) is largely ignored. It’s pathetic.

28. Guns Over Butter. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. rightly preached that the U.S. could not end poverty or escape “spiritual death” as long as it diverted vast swaths of its tax revenue to a giant war machine that “draw [s] men and skills and money like some demonic destructive suction tube.” Just over half a century after King said this, the United States gives 54 percent of its federal discretionary to the Pentagon System, a giant subsidy to high-tech “defense” (war and empire) corporations like Raytheon and Boeing. Six million U.S, children live in “deep poverty,” at less than half (!) the federal government’s obscenely inadequate poverty level, while the U.S, government maintains 800 military bases in more than 70 countries and territoriesaround the world (Britain, France, and Russia together have a combined 30 foreign bases) and accounts for nearly 40 percent of all global military spending. It is deeply offensive that the progressive-populist (fake-“democratic socialist”) U.S. Senator and presidential candidate Bernie Sanders has repeatedly cited Scandinavian nations as his social-democratic policy role models without having the elementary Dr. Kingian decency to note that those countries dedicate relatively tiny portions of their national budgets to the military. It is disturbing but predictable that most Congressional Democrats voted for Trump’s record-setting $700 billion Pentagon budget last year. U.S. Americans must choose: we can have democracy, social justice, guaranteed free health care, well-funded public schools, and livable ecology or we can have a giant global war machine.  We can’t have both.

29. Doctrinal Denial of U.S. Imperialism. Across the U.S. “mainstream” political and media spectrum, it is beyond the pale of acceptable discussion to acknowledge that the United States is a deeply criminal and imperialist power. The examples are endless. It is normative for U.S. cable talking heads, pundits, and politicians to discuss Eastern Europe or East Asia as if the Washington has as much right to influence developments there as Moscow and Beijing, respectively. Terrible developments in the Middle East and North Africa are routinely discussed by “mainstream “U.S. politicos, talking heads, and pundits as if the United States had not wreaked nearly indescribable havoc on Iraq and Libya and the broader Muslim world. Migrants seeking asylum from Central America are regularly reported and discussed with zero reference to the fact that the United States has inflicted massive and bloody devastation on that region for decades – and without mentioning the Obama administration’s support of a vicious right-wing coup in Honduras in the spring of 2009.  Reporting on the current political crisis in Venezuela comes with complete Orwellian deletion of the United States’ role in crippling the nation’s democratically elected socialist government on the model of the Nixon administration’s campaign to undermine Chile’s democratically elected socialist government in the late 1960s and early 1970s.  No serious discussion is permitted of the historical context of Washington’s longstanding intervention and regime-change operations across Latin America. The reigning Empire-denial is absurd.

30. Amazon. Google (lol) up its mind-boggling and many-sided monopolistic reach and then thank the New York City Left for stopping this public-subsidy-sucking, zero tax-paying corporate monstrosity from setting up its headquarters in the nation’s largest city.

31. Last but not at all least, Ecocide. The climate catastrophe poses grave existential threats to livable ecology and all prospects for a decent human future. It is a national and global emergency of epic proportions. It is the single biggest issue of our or any time. If this environmental calamity is not averted soon, nothing else that progressives and decent citizens everywhere care about is going to matter all that much. The United Nations Panel on Climate Change has recently warned that we have a dozen years to keep global warming to a maximum of 1.5C, beyond which true cataclysm will fall upon hundreds of millions of people. Under the command of capital, we are currently on a pace to melt Antarctica by 2100. The unfolding climate disaster’s leading political and economic headquarters is the United State, home to a super-powerful fossil fuel industry with a vast, deeply funded lobbying and public relations apparatus dedicated to turning the planet into a giant Greenhouse Gas Chamber.

Towards a Green New Deal

If a vicious and moronic creeping fascist like Donald Trump can declare a fake national emergency over a non-existent crisis in order to build a political vanity wall rejected by Congress and 60 percent of the population, perhaps a future decent and democratic government sincerely committed to the common good could declare a national emergency to address the all-too real climate crisis by moving the nation off fossil fuels and on to renewable energy sources while advancing environmentally sustainable practices and standards across economy and society.  A properly crafted Green New Deal would also and necessarily address other and related national emergencies including the crises of financial oligarchy, bad jobs, inequality, poverty, plutocracy, racial inequality, mass incarceration, untruth, inadequate health care, fascism, poor schooling, mental illness, substance abuse, gun violence, militarism-imperialism, gender disparity, spiritual death, and much more.  I plan in a future essay to elaborate on what it is meant by a “properly crafted Green New Deal.”

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PAUL STREET

Paul Street’s latest book is They Rule: The 1% v. Democracy (Paradigm, 2014)

[missytearex]

Hi! So I’m combining my October and November favourites here, as I never made a post for last month! Oops. Anyway, I’ve started making fic boards! I’ll link to those throughout. Here you go!

Larry

Boiling Blood Will Circulate by whoknows | @crazyupsetter (42k)

The wait isn’t long before something starts rustling in the bushes. Harry takes aim, squeezes the trigger, body moving unconsciously. They’re motions he’s done a thousand times before, and his body knows how to do it without the input of his brain now. It’s what makes him such a good shot.

He misses. The shot misses.

Something howls in the woods, a pretty clear indication that Harry hit it, but there’s no telltale sounds of a big body dropping, no animal charging out at him to take him out before he can finish the job.

Something does turn and run, though. “Fuck,” Harry spits out, scrambling to his feet and slinging the rifle back over his shoulder, giving chase. He’s not going to lose this hunt.

The trail of blood goes on longer than Harry thought it would. He doesn’t know how long he runs for, but his muscles are burning, chest heaving with exertion, until the trail just - goes dead. No more blood, just like that.

“Fuck,” Harry says.

deleted your number (so i can't call you) by tofiveohfive | @tofiveohfive (9k)

Harry wakes up to a voicemail.

It’s Saturday morning and it’s raining, a barely there drizzle. He sees the notification as soon as he picks up his phone from the bedside table, bleary eyes making it hard to distinguish the words. He’s got a few instagram mentions, a couple unread texts, but what really stands out is the “Missed Call and Voicemail”.

From Louis.

Or the ten hours before Harry comes home to Louis, and the five hours after he does.

Lilo

don't you hear me howling by theamazingpeterparker (13k) - [my board]

Liam turns and looks at him for a while. A scruffy, sleep-warm Louis Tomlinson curled up in a Star Wars blanket, asking what’s for breakfast after a night of running around the upstate forests. Werewolf or not, Liam had almost forgotten what a goddamn menace Louis Tomlinson was.

Louis has seen An American Werewolf in London enough times to know that city living isn't an ideal lifestyle for a new werewolf. He moves back home to find that Liam never left.

i'm never gonna fall (but i'm never hard to catch) by carissima (5k) - [my board]

TFLN: we were supposed to fuck one time, but ended up fucking for 2 years

“You’re fucking ridiculous,” he mutters, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Liam’s boxers and shoving them down past his knees. He’s inordinately pleased to find Liam’s dick is just as nice as he remembers. He curls his hand around him and hums happily as Liam fattens in his grip. “You know that, right? Who cooks breakfast for their one night stand? And then washes up afterwards? I feel like I should send your mum a thank you note or something for raising such a polite young man.”

“God please don’t,” Liam says fervently.

Lirry

the stars look very different today by colourexplosion | @jessimond (5k)

Harry's an alien who blogs about aliens. Liam's a human. Or is he?

an AU

Narry

just a little rush, babe by theamazingpeterparker (10k) - [my board]

“You know everything they say about Dracula? All that stuff I wrote in my paper?” Niall asks as he rips one of the glazed donuts in half. Harry hums. “It’s all bullshit. Real vampires do tomato juice cleanses and do yoga. Fuck.”

Harry's a vampire who's awful at parallel parking, being scary, and being alone. He meets Niall walking home alone one night.

Niam

Building Castles in the Air by el_em_en_oh_pee | @dulosis (10k) - [my board]

Liam is overwhelmed by his bootcamp roommate, who is loud and friendly and so totally up-front about what he wants out of this competition.

"I plan on winning," Niall says, twenty seconds after introducing himself, slinging his duffel bag down on his bed. "Touring. Playing my guitar, you know. Selling albums. Maybe working with Justin Bieber, if I'm lucky."

Lately I've Been Taken In by el_em_en_oh_pee | @dulosis (53k) - [my board]

Niall is the youngest in family of vampire hunters that extends back, generation after generation, for the thousands of years since St. Patrick brought vampires to Ireland to get rid of all the snakes. He's been well-trained in the fine art of slaying practically his whole life, racking up over eighty kills by the time he leaves the motherland to join a boyband.

His new bandmate, Liam, swears up and down that he’s not a vampire. But Niall’s senses never lie.

Nouis

Ask If You Know The Answer by disarm_d | @onedisarmed (4k)

It takes them longer than it should to realize that something is up. Telepathy.

Zarry

baby I'll never leave if you keep holding me this way by estrella30 (10k)

“Does he have your mark?” his mum asks. Zayn shakes his head. He’d looked at Harry’s wrist explicitly for the edgings of Zayn’s family crest but couldn’t find anything. Not that that means Harry’s not the one; it might need a touch or connection to come to the surface. Zayn’s not sure he wants to find out though. He doesn’t know if he’s strong enough to know for certain.

“Ah, well. It could be coming,” she adds, and Zayn shrugs. She’s silent for another moment, before quietly adding, “You could pick him, you know.” She sounds thoughtful, distant even. Zayn wonders what she’s thinking about, what she’s remembering. “If you want to that is. I know you’ve not been looking for your mate Zayn, but maybe this was what you needed. Maybe you needed your mate to find you.”

or - Zayn is an immortal modern times non evil sexual incubus who is reluctant to find his mate. And then he meets Harry.

Ziall

our names are written with starlight by softzindagi | @softzindagi (7k) - my board

After four years of failed attempts, Niall is still hopelessly single with no match to his soulmark in sight. But just because he can’t find his soulmate, doesn’t mean he can’t find love.

Got fire for a heart, i'm not scared of the dark by geewhizmo | @sleepymouses​ (45k)

“I dunno,” Zayn mutters. “I just think you’re much more in the business of flying than falling, y’know?”

That’s not entirely true, Niall thinks. I’m falling for you, aren’t I?

*

Niall leaves home for the first time and moves to a big city. There, he meets a group of people who will shape the course of the rest of his life. He tries (and fails) not to fall in love with one of them.

Also, they all have superpowers.

Ziam

Heart of Stone, Life of Fire by SoftlyandSwiftly (96k) - [my board]

A war with the city of Banshia and its conquering King threatens all of the Cities on the continent of Kiza. Young Zayn Malik finds himself hopelessly entangled in the web of the war, his future rewritten in the span of a morning as allies and enemies shift. Traded for the promise of an ally, Zayn finds himself among the warrior tribes of the Nakizi people, where he must carve out his own place and take his fate into his own hands.

For All the Stars We Cannot See by iambluehead | @iambluehead​ (30k)

Zayn grins sheepishly, the light hitting his face and making him squint, his fingers curling around the strap of his bag and his other hand rubbing at the back of his neck, a habit of Liam’s own that he recognizes on the other boy. “Yeah,” he finally says. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow?” “Yeah,” Liam says, letting out the breath that he’d been holding in his lungs until it burned. “Yeah, see you then.” The door slams shut, and Liam watches him walk up to his front door, wondering what would have happened if in that moment, he would have just leaned forward and— “The boy’s in bloody love with you,” Louis says bluntly, pulling away from the house and slamming around a corner at the speed of light. “You should get over your fear of everything and just kiss him already.”

(This is the high school AU where Liam plays football and is afraid of failure until someone puts Zayn in his life and he learns to be brave. There’s music Liam’s never heard of, eventful rides home from school, and drunken toasts to the stars they can’t see from Wolverhampton.)

Zouis

all the stars were crashing by sarcangel | @sarcathlon (25k)

“We should practice,” Louis says. He’s got a faraway look in his eye that doesn’t bode well for anyone, based on Zayn’s newly-formed knowledge of Louis. “Find a place, set up a schedule, all that.”

“What?” Zayn says, not sure where the conversation is exactly headed anymore.

“You know, in a movie - like, this would be our montage sequence,” Louis says, hands everywhere, gesturing wildly. “There’d be some song playing in the background while we spar and gain strength and -”

(and lick sweat off of each other’s necks, Zayn thinks, and then you knock me to the floor and lay on me and)

“Yeah, that’d be sick,” Zayn says, instead, not knowing if he’s more surprised that anything coherent comes out of his mouth or that he’s actually agreed to Louis’ awful plan.

In A Small Town I Saw You by zouee | @louiswmalik​ (153k)

Zayn nods a few times, judging whether or not he should just fucking spit it out. He should rip off the band-aid, jump into the cold water, throw this earth-sized weight off his shoulders and look Louis in the eye. “You should’ve remembered me.” He feels like saying. “I’m the reason you couldn’t.”

~

Zayn Malik spends the past eighteen months alone - using whoever and whatever he can to take his mind off of the one person he regrets leaving - and it’s not until he finds himself residing in a small town called Hillside when he finally remembers what peace feels like. Louis Tomlinson spends the past eighteen months surrounded by people - he’s coddled, fawned over, and most sickeningly; sympathised with - until he finally breaks away from the suffocation and finds himself face to face with someone who instantly hates him. Cue: endless angst, devastation, pathetic pining and Disney references mixed together in a pot full of misunderstandings and one-sided memories. The end result is ghastly. Proceed with caution.

Gryles

hold this thread by disgruntledkittenface | @disgruntledkittenface​ (26k)

The air is heavy between them as they both watch Nick’s clumsy fingers mend the fabric. It must only take a minute, but it feels like ages. Beads of sweat form on Nick’s forehead and he can’t tell if it’s from the panic of the moment or the way the man seems to be waiting for something. He’s done a bad job of it, but finally the hem is stitched up. Nick loops the end of the thread and can’t stop himself from lightly poking the man’s skin again, next to the dark ink smudged on his hip that Nick is currently dying to ogle in full, just to… see.

The man shudders this time and luckily Nick is still looking down or he would have missed the man’s cock very clearly twitch in his bloody loose trousers.

Fucking hell.

On his way to visit Henry getting ready for his London Fashion Week show, Nick bumps into a (stupidly pretty) model and pulls a loose thread on the sample he’s wearing. Horrified, Nick tries to mend the simple mistake, but it may just unravel into the best thing that ever could have happened to him.

Tomlinshaw

Lost and Found by shiftylinguini | @shiftylinguini​, Writcraft | @writsgrimmyblog​ (31k)

In a year when things are coming to an end for Nick, an unexpected chapter begins at the start of a long, hot summer.

An accidental romance in Malta. Featuring Annie on the decks, Nick and Louis below deck, a handful of bad nautical puns and weather that's far too hot for trackies.

OT5

The Youth Branch of Magical and Fairy Tale Creatures and Beings Anonymous (Volume One) by sunsetmog | @magicalrocketships​ (5k) - [my board]

Sometimes trying to pass for human is hard. Monthly meetings of the Youth Branch of Magical and Fairy Tale Creatures and Beings Anonymous offers them the chance to be themselves, have an agenda, and work on some life goals. Just so long as Zayn can stop asking people to marry him after just one kiss, Harry can turn his Veela powers down, Louis can stop pre-emptively trying to usurp the god of mischief, and Niall can stop turning things into scythes. Liam just wants some orange squash and a biscuit.

steal my heart tonight by ThankYouMerlin | @thankyoumerlin​ (40k)

Niall rips off his ski mask, it was cliche and stupid (and totally Harry’s idea) anyway. “This is my mission.”

“We know,” Liam says, pulling his own mask off. Niall thinks they’re all wrapped a bit too much around Harry’s finger, maybe. “We just like watching you work.”

or,

An OT5 international thieves AU that contains very little actual stealing because I have no idea how to break into vaults in real life and lots of friendship and feelings from five boys in love.

Lilourry

only because you know (that you wanna feel the same) by words_unravel (34k) - [my board]

Liam may be able to catch glimpses of the future, but he never saw this coming.

Shiall

After All, You're My Wonderwall by alienharry | @aceniall (7k)

Guitar Prick: best eagles song, hands down, is peaceful easy feeling. they knew their stuff.

And Niall can't hold in his outrage. He's pissed. The Eagles are his thing, and how dare Shawn think he can message Niall, only nineteen years or so of experience under his belt, and shove his shitty musical concepts and overall terrible taste in Niall's face.

Niall: victim of love is clearly their best song. ya really ought to get your head out of your ass and educate yourself before running your mouth lad.

-

Niall's used to being the center of attention, so when a bright, musical boy with a charming smile starts routinely stealing his spotlight, he decides then and there to do everything in power to put an end to it.

[dogsliampaynedoesntinstagram]

I fundamentally disagree about the value of Daisy and Liam as sources. Their would both have got their information from Louis directly. It might have been outdated by the time it was conveyed, but it still is an indication that it’s the label causing the delay. The other possibility of course is that he did not have a date and he was using the fandom to exert pressure on the label. The implications of that are the same though. Louis’s tweets about touring could fit either of those scenarios too.

So there are a lot of assumptions in here and I disagree with almost all of them (and have a different perspective on most other things you are saying).

Part of the problem is that it’s very difficult to comment without specific examples of what Daisy and Liam said (if it even was Daisy - the original anon seeme unsure).  There’s a real tendancy to jump straight to certainty from phrases that people use in very general ways (for example the way people took Louis responding to a question about this month by saying ‘next month’ as a statement with any degree of certainty). So the first question is how definite were their statements (I’ve definitely never read anything that I read as being an indication that Louis had a definite release date).

Second, I think it’s a huge assumption to think that Liam got information directly from Louis and it’s not one that I share.

But more importantly - I just don’t understand what you think the options are.  You state that the label was responsible for the delay as if that’s a binary quality, which seems like nonsense to me. 

Here’s one possibility that is fully compatible with what we know: Louis’ goal was for a third quarter album release.  In order, to execute that plan there was a deadline in May or June when the album/single had to be finished/signed off/substantially finished.  This didn’t happen and since the label wasn’t prepared to release in fourth quarter the album got substantially delayed. 

Now there’s actually a lot of variables in this scenario where the label could be more or less involved.  Since there’s reason to believe that there was conflict between Louis and the label over sound in the end of 2017 - there’s a question of who was happy with the album and who wasn’t when (there are similar questions about his schedule).  

Of course a label is going to be involved in any album delay. The fact that you state that the label is involved as if it’s some kind of a trump card rather than the way the music business works is so confusing to me.

One of the basic assumptions of your set of options is that the album was finished at the point that Daisy or Liam were talking and there’s no reason to think that’s true. 

[stlouiscaraccidentlawyer]

Should You Report Minor Car Accidents? - St. Louis Injury Lawyer

Minor car accidents which do not involve any injuries are an everyday occurrence. These generally include dents, minor scratches, and paint scraping. These ‘fender benders’ may happen while backing out of your driveway or parking spot, bumping into the rear end of the front car while trying to stop at an intersection after noticing the red signal, or scraping the vehicle parked next to yours when opening your door. All major accidents are required to be reported to the police and the insurance company as soon as possible, however, a different consideration is required for reporting of minor accidents.

Reporting to the Law Enforcement Agencies

Accidents not involving any injury and only ‘vehicle damage’ are generally not required to be reported to law enforcement in many states. In other states, vehicle damage over a certain amount must be reported. An essential activity after a minor accident is taking the other driver's contact details and insurance details and sharing yours. If the other driver is uncooperative, law enforcement personnel can be of real help. They can record the statement of both drivers and witnesses, including the details of circumstances leading to the accident, the extent of damage, injuries, if any, visible evidence like skid marks, and any additional information.

Many car accident injuries start showing symptoms a few days or weeks after the accident. In such cases, you may have indicated that you were not injured; the other driver may take advantage of this and claim that the accident did not occur. Contacting law enforcement can ensure that the event gets recorded and you have a witness to testify on your behalf.

During inclement weather, the accidents with no injuries are generally not attended by 911 or the local law enforcement agency as the priority goes to the accidents where someone is injured. In such cases, you may be able to get the accident report forms at the nearest gas station or convenience store, which can be filled and later mailed to the law enforcement agency.

Reporting to Your Insurance Company

Most automobile insurance policies have a clause wherein you have to report any accident (major or minor) that you are involved in; failing to do so may involve penalties and may cause complications. Many drivers do not report minor accidents as they assume that their insurance rates may increase. They may believe they can work out things with the other driver without involving the insurance companies.

The only time you may avoid reporting to your insurance company is when no other vehicle is involved in a minor accident. This may include minor damages while reversing out of your garage or parking lot. Since there is no dispute about who will pay for damages, you may decide not to speak with your insurance company about your incident.

If you have any questions concerning your case, speak with an experienced St. Louis car accident lawyer. Call (314) 361-4242 to schedule a free and private consultation.

[jadajava-studies-blog]

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