#it's unconscionable to me that i have to use my Vacation Hours.

[monster-noises]

AaHHHHGHHH got some mail today that i forgot i was waiting on from the local health sugar to help me with my blood sugar stuff

And they fucking just.. assigned me an appointment date with no input from me so of course it's in the middle of a fucking work day and i have no time off left to spend on yaking the day off, and it's late enough in the morning that i can't reaaaally scootch my schedule down..

And like maybe i could find a way to finagle a sick day in there but Apparently

I need Literally All Of Those those to cover my first week off after surgery

Because insurance through work comes in a week After you start your leave, because that's when they approve it (this whole coverage thing is making me so steaming boiling mad regardless, this is just shiny deep red cherry on top of the fucking cake i sweaR TO G O D)

So I don't really want to Do that and loose more pay somewhere else

So now I don't know what to fucking do because i Work when the Doctors Offices are Open (just like.. all of them. In general.) so i can't really reschedule, but cancelling may be a bad idea because i probably won't get to go back until after surgery, if i don't have to go back through the application process to see this doctor anyway.

I'm going to start throwing things and having a breakdown I try to actually start looking after my health and I end up in this situation it's disgusting i'm so pissed off.

[professordrarry]

In Six Parts

It is absolutely unconscionable to post something this long on Tumblr. I'm really hoping you'll just forgive me... (warning for acknowledgement of the existence of sex)

Part one.

In which several things are revealed, not the least of which is that Harry Potter is apparently gay now. 

Well, no. Not gay. Pansy would kill him for saying gay. 

Do I constantly insist that you are straight Prince Malfoy of the ridiculous? Then stop saying I'm gay. I'm queer. Bi if you must, but enough with the gay. 

So. No. Not gay. 

But Draco knows the important part is the disastrous reality that if Harry Potter is capable of being attracted to men, as this first authorised biography would suggest, then Draco is even more pathetic than he was before. Because if there is a possibility of Draco's exhausting little crush being reciprocated, then the fact that they have been fighting even more than normal, and not just on the pitch, just becomes hopelessly depressing. 

The hate and anger have always made Harry sexy and alluring in very indecent ways, since Draco despised simpering affection or softness, preferred to have a bit of fight with his fuck. The only time Draco ever felt he was close to understanding Harry was when they had spent time together on the Quidditch pitch in years before. And that time is past. 

There is a war and a half between them now, and Draco understands less than ever about the world. 

Part two. 

In which Draco learns that Harry died. Not, 'was gravely injured or lost consciousness' or 'medically had no heart beat'. But actually fucking died. 

That awful, insedious man had had the audacity to fucking cease to exist for a moment. As though the world would have just carried on, unchanged. 

He is livid for the entire next day. He beats Harry in a head-to-head training ritual by using sheer brute strength, knocking one side of the podium off kilter so that it goes into Harry's path and he misses the snitch by a fraction of a second. The move is illegal, and Mora threatens him with a three game suspension, but Draco hits the showers feeling better. 

"What the fuck is wrong with you?" Harry snipes at him a moment later, throwing his leather shin strap at Draco's head. He ducks neatly out of the way. 

"Pulling a dangerous fucking maneuver like that on a team mate in a practice." 

"Just get out of my way, Potter. Don't be a sore loser."

The sneer is fake and Harry seems to feel it. He scrunches up his nose, wrinkles his forehead, pauses for a second before huffing and walking away. Draco knows he'd have thrown a punch—or worse—had Potter asked him what was wrong. 

Part three. 

In which the details of the the few years after the war appear. It is more than Potter has ever been willing to divulge. Draco knows because he's read all the articles. 

The details are specific. The start of a very promising Ministry career, the painful burn out. The decision to try out for the Beacons, the minor league team that doesn't quite understand who they have on their pitch until they are faced with the best Seeker anyone has seen in over thirty years. The quick rise from the lower levels, fame upon fame dragging him out of the gutter against his will. 

Potter has been reclusive since the moment he joined the team. He doesn't travel to away games with them, doesn't stay in the same hotels, doesn't come to team meals. Draco thought he understood why; after all, it took him a year to be dragged away from his own ghosts and made to be human again. A year of badgering and pestering from the captains that if he wanted to be on the team, he had to learn to trust them. 

But no one seemed to badger Potter. It infuriated Draco. 

Until he reads part four. 

In which the government is using Potter as a political scapegoat. In which photos of his every romance, affair, and—most terribly, of family vacations with his very young God children—surface every time he tries to rejoin the public eye.

In which there is a price Potter has to pay for any haphazard, youthful mistake. A price that takes the form of his worst memories, all of which are lauded as heroism. A price of headlines that exclaim his return to normalcy, even a decade late. Harry Potter is not allowed to be 'Harry Potter, incredible, talented Quidditch star' without also being 'Harry Potter, saviour of the world'.

And Draco stops in his tracks. 

It's dumb, of course it is. He should have understood this about Potter's life. Fame is one step to the left of notoriety. Draco understands the latter more than anything else in the world. 

They have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off after travel games and Draco has gone home instead of to the pub. He's too tired, run ragged by being put on first string for the first time since Potter's arrival. The man himself took mysteriously 'ill', though Mora would give no details. 

Draco finishes the book on a Tuesday night, a glass of scotch in his hand. It's the third, or possibly fourth. He doesn't care that he is drunk, even though that is why the quote breaks him in half. 

"You took it all from me," Potter said patiently, holding out a book filled with cut out articles from the Prophet. "I was just a kid. No one seemed to care, ever, about that. All I want now is a minute to breathe. Maybe fall in love. Maybe even make some mistakes I'll regret in fifty years. Can anyone tell me that their hopes are different than that?" 

And no, Draco thinks. No one can say that their hopes are any different than that. 

He curses and cleans and eats too much cheese on Wednesday. It's a strange response, he agrees. But the book is clutched in his hand all morning Thursday as he gets ready to go back to the field. He doesn't have a plan. Shoves it in his bag as he takes up his broomstick, and quite honestly forgets all about it as they fly. The only thing stopping him from ramming Potter off his broom when he appears, twenty minutes late and pinch-faced, is that he is on thin ice with the league as it is. 

They play a friendly game, Mora calling for a quick, mid-air colour change. But Potter gets his transformation done first, donning the green jersey they use when they practice. The colour sets Draco off even more as they shake hands at centre pitch and wait for the release of the quaffle. 

Draco is distracted, so Harry finds the snitch quickly and easily. Thursday practices are short. Mora calls it moments later. He suspects she's a bit hungover. 

They all stomp back to the change rooms in a neat line, always on display in the practice pitch. The reporters' clicks are audible even from a distance, and Draco has to fight the urge to run up and sheild Harry with his cloak; the sensation reminds him that the biography is sitting, blazing Harry's photo in full view, on top of his bag. His face heats with embarrassment. 

In the change rooms, the normal cajoling begins. The team's won the past three games, so everyone is jovial and loving. The ribbing is gentle, only picking on things that are known to be safe. No mean laughter, even with Draco. For a minute, he wonders how it is possible he is included, at all, let alone treated the same. 

And it hits him. 

They have all moved on. The world has kept on spinning. He suddenly knows exactly what he will do. He grimaces because it isn't what he wants to do. 

What he wants is to wait for the room to clear, to corner Potter, who is always the last to leave—part of his secrecy, Draco suspects. He wants to wait and confront Potter, wave the book in front of his face and demand answers. 

He can see the scene clearly in his mind. Harry, damp and flustered, possibly still not wearing a shirt. Draco, tall and proud, telling him to get over himself and let the past be the past. He'd have Harry speechless in seconds, have him in his mouth a moment later. Draco on his knees on the hard ground, taking what he wanted and leaving no doubt behind. 

Or else in the doorway, up against a wall, dragging moans from the rubble of their past and waiting until Harry begged, jutting his groin against Draco's thigh with abandon until Draco finally conceded and took him in hand. 

Or maybe in the showers, waiting for permission from the next shower stream, muttering filthy things while he palmed himself, daring Potter to flee. Harry would not back down, because he was Harry Potter, and Draco was sure he wouldn't deny their obvious chemical attraction. And if he stayed, Harry could have him, right there, buried deep in the base of his spine until Draco forgot his own name. 

These were the things Draco wanted. But they were not the things Harry needed. For some reason, he cared about the difference. Draco cared. 

So instead, he waited as the room slowly emptied. As people went off, in twos and threes. Off to their days, their lives, their families. 

He waited on the bench, calmly holding the book, as Potter showered and emptied his locker. As he sat on his own bench, facing away from Draco.

"Heard you played well, Malfoy. On Saturday. Sorry I missed it." 

Draco resisted his quip, about how if he hadn't missed it, Draco wouldn't have played. He murmured what he hoped sounded like a grateful mumble. He stood. Slowly, he put his bag on his shoulder, turned and put the book on the bench beside Harry's toweled form. He let his eyes linger on his chest, let himself imagine a thousand more locker room fantasies that would never be enough. 

"Part five," he whispers, his voice soft and gruff despite his efforts to remain calm. He's hopeless. So attracted to this man his voice can't even remain neutral. He clears his throat and tries again. 

"Part five, in which two sworn enemies bury the hatchet over lunch," he asks, hesitant and nervous. "In which the asshole apologises, buys the pints, and tries desperately not to spend the whole hour staring at the hero's mouth." 

Harry stares at him. He picks up the book, opens the cover. It's a signed copy. Draco had been hoping he would never find that out, but somehow, he had always know they would end up here, with his infatuation spread out between them like a thick blanket.

Draco waits, breath caught.

Finally, Harry laughs a small laugh; it's a new sound to Draco, light and carefree. He's instantly addicted. He needs more of that sound. 

"I've been waiting for you to just pin me to a wall," Harry says simply, as though he's slightly disappointed. "But lunch sounds good. On two conditions." 

Draco tilts his head, captivated. Harry stands and steps toward him. Draco instinctively backs up, never having had a good experience Harry Potter advancing on him. 

"One," Harry says, holding up a finger, "that is the last time you ever use the word 'hero' around me." 

Draco nods. He can understand that. 

"And two," he continues, "we get the fact that I want to pin you down and snog you out of the way right now. Or else I won't be able to focus on the apology you plan on crafting."

Draco is approaching comprehension when his back hits the lockers and his knees buckle and Harry's soap is in his mouth as he presses his face to Draco's neck. 

"You took a long fucking time to figure this one out, Malfoy."

Draco technically hears the words, although he's preoccupied by the fact that they are murmured in between wide mouthed kisses along his windpipe. Harry pulls his face back, pins Draco's arms to his sides, leans in until their foreheads are touching. 

"Part six" he mumbles into Draco's lips as he presses down. "In which Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy probably should have just fucked in eighth year."

The kiss is not nearly enough. It is perfect, and uncomplicated, and it doesn't sear him the way he is anticipating. But it is not nearly enough. Draco smiles as Harry pulls away, turns away without even a pause, puts on a shirt and drags on some shorts. 

Lunch is as good a place as any to start correcting his mistakes. 

[kpopfanfictrash]

The Dean

Author: kpopfanfictrash

Creative Content Contributors: @daegusoftboys  (her moodboards for the series are perfection)

Pairing: Reader / Seokjin

Rating: 18+ (explicit sex)

Word Count: 5,342

Summary: 

The very handsome dean of Bangtan University keeps coming into your bar. You know you should stay away - but then, that’s what everyone says before they fall.

"Women, men, students of all ages and genders, thank you for coming here today." Kim Seokjin pauses to look out at the crowd. "It is with deepest pride and greatest pleasure that I welcome you here tonight. For many this is your first time in our hallowed halls. To you, welcome. To the rest, welcome back. Our university strives to create individuals who go on to one day make this world a better place. We believe we have the best faculty to achieve these results - though I won't bore you with an introduction tonight." Seokjin pauses at the crowd's laughter. "You’ll meet them all very soon. No, what I wanted to do is thank you. To thank you for putting your faith in us, choosing us from amongst dozens of Universities you were undoubtably accepted into. Bangtan University prides itself on being at the forefront of education. As always, we look forward to assisting your growth in every area. As I always say," Seokjin adds, flashing a smile, "I aspire to inspire. If I help just one of you figure out what you want to do in life - I'll consider my job well done. Of course," he adds, laughing amiably. "I would ideally like to inspire everyone. My job is somewhat dependent on that."

"Above all else," Seokjin continues, meeting the gazes of several individuals in the crowd.  "I hope you grow not just as students, but as people. Education is much more than just the sum of your classes. Now, I won't take up any more of your time. Let's all turn and give a warm welcome to Dean Johnson!"

"I'm just saying," Seokjin protests, taking a sip of wine. "It's unreasonable for the board to expect we raise graduation rate by so much in such a short period of time! It’s unconscionable!"

Namjoon snorts, shaking his head. "I don't envy your job, Jin. On the one hand, everyone needs to graduate. On the other, everyone can’t get straight A's," Namjoon laughs, shaking his head as he raises his glass to his lips.

Seokjin sinks lower in his seat. "I know," he bemoans. "I’ve basically given up on meeting any of my quarterly goals."

"You? Give up?" Namjoon looks at the ceiling. "Heaven forbid."

"I could give up if I wanted to," Seokjin insists, swirling his glass. "I could go on a vacation, maybe. Take a nice nap."

"Jin," Namjoon says, looking amused. "You basically live at that office."

"Untrue." Seokjin frowns.

"You have seven sets of clothing in that closet of yours, each of which includes a matching tie and shoes."

Seokjin stares. "First off, weird that you know the number. Second, wrong! I only have six ties - I spilled pasta on one last week. It's currently at the dry cleaners."

Namjoon opens his mouth to reply when a refill is placed before him. "Thanks," he nods, glancing up and freezing. "Thank you, Y/N," he stutters, reading the nametag on your all-black uniform.

Seokjin grins at Namjoon’s expression - then glances up and freezes himself. You must be new, since he and Namjoon are here every week and he knows he’s never seen your smile before.

"Not a problem," you nod, setting wine before Seokjin. "Let me know if you boys need anything."

You walk way. On your way to the bar you’re well aware they’re watching you go. Of course they are - it’s all part of the act. Wear all black, tight fitting clothes. Smile and flirt with the patrons. All of which adds up to tips at the end of the night.

You recognize the two sitting at that table - Kim Namjoon and Kim Seokjin, professor and dean of Bangtan University. Back when you first started your Masters degree, you took Professor Kim Namjoon’s literature class. That was a long while ago though -  you’re now near to the end of your degree. Just a few more weeks until graduation.  Just a few more weeks of waiting tables and serving drinks until you’re out in the real world.

Normally you work at the bar’s other location, up on the far side of town. A girl called in sick this morning though, and your boss asked you to cover. It's odd, seeing people you know from University here but at least it’s only for the one night. As you return to the bar you can feel eyes lingering and looking up, you spot Seokjin. He blushes, quickly looking away.

You smile. Kim Seokjin is cute, you have to give him that. Okay, fine - he’s gorgeous. Every girl in both undergraduate and graduate thinks so. His speeches at orientation are the only bearable part, mostly because of how his throat bobs and laughs at his own jokes.

This thought makes you smile, so you turn quickly away. Kim Seokjin is a dean, it's completely inappropriate to think these things about him. Even though he’s only a few years older than you are and even though when you look up, he's still looking your way. This time he doesn't look down. Catching your gaze and holding it before turning to Namjoon.

Your heart thuds in your chest. A piece of brown hair falls as he nods at something his colleague said. Seokjin is young. Very young and very hot, and - no, no. You turn to replace the wine bottle you’re holding on the top of its shelf. Wiping your hands on your pants to return to the register. Work is too busy to think of Seokjin, though you want to. His face flashes through your mind as you pour, even as you push them across the counter. The lift of his lips, that quirk of his brow. It's enough to make a girl crazy.

And after three hours of work though, you almost feel like you are. Tonight was busy and the very bones of your body ache. Rubbing your neck with one hand, you make a final round of the bar. Picking up leftover glasses and receipts, placing them behind the bar when the front door opens. The bell tinkers, soft over continued background music.

"We're closed," you call, not bothering to look up and see who it is. "Come back tomorrow."

"Sorry,” a voice answers - male, definitely male. “ I think I left my keys in the booth, could I just - oh, I’m sorry."

You look up. Seokjin stands with his blazer open, tie loosened as he skids to a stop before you. You've already turned off the lights up front, so his face is cast in shadow as he walks forward.

"Sorry," Seokjin repeats, slightly lower than before. "I think I left my keys here. Could I take a look around?"

His gaze is sincere, dark and you try not to blush when you nod. "Sure," you allow, turning around. "Take a look."

Busying yourself behind the counter, you pointedly don't look up. Your heart is pounding, even as you force yourself to look away. You can’t get too friendly with him. You can’t flirt. Especially not now. Not when this bar is at closing, the two of you are all alone and the lights are this low.

"You're new here," Seokjin announces, and when you look back up he’s standing before the counter. His keys are laid flat on surface, a slight smile on his lips. "Found them," he says.

"I can see," you respond.

At your expression, Seokjin raises both eyebrows. "Ah, I see. Okay," he shrugs, turning to walk away.

He only makes it a few steps before curiosity gets the better of you. "What do you see?" you call out, watching him stop in his tracks.

Slowly, Seokjin turns. "Right," he flips his keys in his hand. "You don't date patrons of the bar. I get it," he explains, gesturing. "Which is why I was going to wait outside. Spot you on the street - completely random - and then ask you out."

Flushing, you find yourself at a loss. "I," you start to say, then stop. "Smooth."

Seokjin laughs, pushing a hand through his hair. "I'm glad you think so, because my legs are shaking."

This admission eases your comfort, and you end up setting your rag down on the counter. "You wanted to ask me out?”

Seokjin nods.

"Hm." Looking him up and down, you pretend to think things over. Arching a brow as you turn away. "I'll tell you when I get outside."

Seokjin laughs. "Touche. I'll wait."

He does.

When you leave the bar twenty minutes later, he's leaning against the side of his car. Something vintage that you don't know the name of. Tugging your purse higher, you walk over. Trying not to think about how happy you are he’s still here.

Seokjin watches you come closer. "Did you drive?" he asks, searching the lot for your car.

You shake your head, "No. It's not very far to my apartment."

Seokjin scoffs, already clicking the unlock button on his car. "I'll give you a ride home," he says.

Raising both eyebrows, you don’t move from your spot. "Are you asking I get in a car with a total stranger? I think not."

"Oh, right." Seokjin smiles, leaning over the car door. "I'm Seokjin. And you’re Y/N, it’s written on your name tag. Now will you get in?"

Though you fight it, you can't help your smile. He's just so cute - grinning and eager over the side of his car door. "Fine," you say, walking around to the passenger seat. "You can give me a ride."

Seokjin smiles, ducking into his car and buckling his seatbelt. "So. Where to?" When you say the address, his jaw drops. "That's literally a block away."

You laugh, buckling your own seat. "I know. I told you that it wasn't far."

Seokjin shakes his head as he puts the car in reverse. Placing one hand on your seat as he pulls out of the parking spot. When music comes on it's classical and though you look over in surprise, you don't object. You've always liked classical music. You saw a performance arranged by Professor Kim Taehyung the other semester which was absolutely magical.

Seokjin drives in silence, glancing over every now and again - a fact which makes you smile.

"So," you say, glancing sideways. "Tell me about yourself."

He nods. "I'm Seokjin, dean at Bangtan University. I, uh prefer Hemingway to Faulker, drink a lot of wine and have an extensive collection of coffee mugs with witty slogans."

"Oh?" you ask. "What kind of witty slogans?"

Seokjin blushes. "Er, well. The one I use right now is, 'Sorry, my books make me a little bit shelf-ish.'"

There's silence, before you say, "That is one of the absolute worst things I've ever heard."

You laugh until Seokjin joins in. He nods, tapping his hand against the steering wheel. "I know. There are other, far worse ones though. Want to hear them?"

"I would," you nod, smiling. "But this is my place."

Seokjin looks up, realizing that yes - he's nearly missed your building. He turns abruptly to enter your parking lot. "Alright," he says, parking in the closest spot to Number 19 - your apartment.

"What are you doing?" you ask, alarmed when he starts to unbuckle his seatbelt.

"Walking you to the door," Seokjin says, as though it should be obvious. He gets out, letting the car door fall shut behind him.

You exit too, waiting until he's beside you before walking up the path. You glance over. "You said you wanted to ask me out. Here we are though, at my apartment and I’ve seen no asking."

Seokjin smiles, remaining silent until you reach the front door. You fiddle with your keys, staring straight back at him.

"Well," Seokjin replies. "I thought you lived farther away. I thought I could impress you with my charm during the drive over, until it was impossible for you to say no."

"That's the thing, though," you say. Not looking away from his eyes. "I wanted to go out with you the moment you walked into the bar."

Seokjin's eyes widen and he exhales, lips parting. “Really?”

You nod, the gesture shallow. “Really.”

Seokjin takes a step forward, tentatively sliding his hand to the base of your hair. He tilts your head up to look at him. The light from the street hits his face, making him appear both closer and more alien.

Seokjin's gaze finds your mouth. "How about this," he breathes. "I’ll give you my number and you call me for an actual date. Wherever, whatever you want."

You nod. You’re distracted by the way his thumb brushes against your skin, by how close his body is to yours. He’s intoxicating, you can’t look away and when he bends, you do nothing to stop him.

When your lips touch, the gesture is light. Seokjin hovers once before tilting your head up again. His hands slide into your hair this time, opening your mouth while you melt into him. At some point you’re backed against the wall, his knee sliding between yours. You curve into him, actually sighing when his lips find your neck. Seokjin’s hand slides around your waist, pulling you closer - and then freezing.

He stills, slowly letting go. Dropping both hands from your body to pull back, wide-eyed. Seokjin pushes one hand through his hair. “I, uh,” he says, still staring. “I'm sorry.”

Not trusting yourself with a response, you hold out a hand.

Seokjin looks first at this, then your face. “I don't understand.”

“Your phone number,” you remind, trying to hide your smile.

“Oh! Right.” Digging through his pocket, Seokjin hands you his business card. “Mobile is on the back. Please, please call.”

Sticking this in your pocket, you open the door. Stepping over your threshold and raising both eyebrows before shutting yourself inside. Safely alone, you lower your head to the surface. Listening to the sound of Seokjin leaving and once gone, you remove his card from his pocket.

Staring at it briefly before placing it on your table. As you enter, you shrug your jacket from your shoulders. You can still feel the press of his lips, the touch of his hands on your body. The memories make your head spin, and you slowly lower your elbows on your kitchen counter.

He’s the dean. Seokjin is the dean of Bangtan University, which means you absolutely cannot see him again.

The rest of the week drags by. Every day you look at Seokjin’s card when you leave and every night you see it when you return. You aren’t asked to cover any more shifts near the University campus, which means Seokjin must not know where to find you. You don’t see him any night you work this week.

Part of you is relieved by this - it means you don’t need to worry about this troublesome attraction you have to him. Another part is frustrated. You wonder why you’re keeping him at arm’s length, just because he works at the University. Then your heart plummets, as you realize these thoughts and you know you can’t see him again. Know you can’t, because apparently you can’t be trusted around him.

Seokjin’s card still sits on your front table though, so distracting that when your friend calls to go out on Friday night, your answer is yes.  “Okay,” you say, switching your phone to your other ear. “I’ll go out. No need to yell at me.”

Sam just laughs. “I wasn’t yelling,” she protests. “Merely suggesting there’s only a few weeks until you graduate and then you’ll leave me all alone.”

“Yeah, well,” you sigh, standing before your mirror. Turning this way and that to see the back of your dress. “Just give me a half hour and we’ll meet at the bar?”

“Club,” Sam corrects. At your groan, she says, “Nuh-uh! You promised me a fun night - this is my choice. See you in a half hour!”

Sam hangs up before you can protest and though you grumble, you toss your phone in your bag. A short while later you leave, hovering by your front door to wait for the cab. When it arrives you hesitate, unsure what you’re doing when you grab his business card. Stuffing the item in your purse as you hurry outside, sliding into the backseat. A moment of insanity you decide, lowering your head in your hands.

Of course you won’t actually text him.

The club is dingy, so loud you can barely hear over the sound of the music. Sam texted that she’s already at the bar so that’s where you head, leaning on top of the counter to survey her face. “Hey,” you yell. “It’s so fucking loud in here!”

“I know,” Sam yells back, stirring the drink in her hand. “Why did you choose this place again?”

“Me?” you gasp, laughing. “This was all you!”

Sam grins. “Yeah, I know. I got you a drink,” she announces, pushing a vodka tonic your way.

“Thanks.” As you accept it, you glance around the place. While scanning Sam starts to talk, telling you a story from her work where she’s an assistant, up  in the admissions office.

At the end of the drink you’re feeling slightly buzzed and when Sam announces she’s moving towards the dance floor, you agree. When a song you love comes on you cheer, moving your hips while more and more people crowd around you. “This is fun,” you call out, grinning as you whirl. Spinning once, stumbling slightly - and landing against the chest of a stranger.

Nope - not a stranger. You look up into the eyes of Kim Seokjin, who seems just as shocked and surprised to see you as you are. “Y/N,” he breathes, arms awkwardly holding you to him.

You’re still frozen, locked against his chest though you quickly push yourself away. “I- Seokjin, hi,” you manage.

He frowns, watching you step away. “You never called.”

“No,” you blush, looking into your drink. “I was... busy this week.”

Though you don’t look at him, you see him take a step closer. You’re looking at chest level, noticing he’s dressed in a button down shirt, his tie loose around his collar. You raise an eyebrow. “Did you come straight from work?” you ask, looking up.

“No,” Seokjin meets your gaze, shrugging. “This is just how I dress.”

“A tie?” you blurt, before you can stop yourself.

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Of course. I’m a classy man.”

You laugh, unable to help yourself. Of course you laugh - Seokjin is funny, smart, gorgeous. He’s everything you’re looking for - which is exactly why you need to leave. Looking into your half-empty cup, you say, “I’m going to get another drink. I’ll see you around, okay?”

Without waiting for a response, you brush past. Heading towards the bar and ignoring the sudden sinking of your stomach. Halfway there, you stop. Gaze hardening as you tip the rest of your drink back and open your purse. Seokjin’s number is there and, stepping to the side the dance floor, you text a message.

Y/N: You were expecting me to call? [11:45 PM]

It doesn’t take long before Seokjin responds.

Seokjin: Expecting? No. Hoped? Yes. [11:47 PM]

Your heart pounds in your chest.

Y/N: I wanted to call. [11:48 PM]

Seokjin: Then why didn’t you? [11:49 PM]

Seokjin: By the way, I like your dress. You look beautiful [11:49 PM]

Seokjin: You also don’t look like you normally come to places like this [ 11:50 PM]

Y/N: What, and you do? Need I remind you of the tie? [11:51 PM]

Across the dance floor, Seokjin’s screen lights up. A smile crosses his lips and you watch him start to type, distracted by the sight of him across the room.

Seokjin: I’ll take it off, if you like [11:52 PM]

Seokjin: I can think of a few other things to do with it [11:53 PM]

Staring at his words, you find yourself rereading them. Mind forming semi-tipsy thoughts while your blood heats in your veins. “Shit,” you whisper, under your breath.

“What was that?”

When you look up, Seokjin stands before you.

He raises both eyebrows, staring at the phone in your hands. “I’m beginning to get mixed signals of what you want from me.”

The room is spinning. Not with alcohol - you’ve barely had two drinks, but with his presence. With the sight of him and, unable to stop yourself, you take a step closer. “Kiss me,” you say, barely a whisper.

Seokjin doesn’t move. Then, slowly he lifts his hand to your jaw. Bending, hands sliding into your hair while he captures your lips with his. It’s not gentle. His kiss is insistent, demanding - echoed on your end, since you’ve been thinking about his touch this whole week. The second his lips touch yours, you arch upwards. Twining your fingers in hair, pulling his body closer. Seokjin responds eagerly, body pressing to yours until you suddenly break away. “Let’s go,” you announce, grabbing his hand.

It doesn’t take long to leave the dance floor. Then the club. Outside, Seokjin pulls you to a stop. Backing you against the alley to open your mouth with his. His tongue finds yours, hips pressing until you can barely stifle your moans.

Every nerve in on edge, filled with this need - with wanting - which makes you pull him closer. You slide your hands beneath his shirt, feeling the flat panes of his stomach before realizing where you are. An alleyway outside a club and you reluctantly pull away. “Not here,” you say, watching him nod.

Seokjin takes your hand in his, tracing your wrist with his thumb while leading you towards his car. “I haven’t been drinking,” he offers as explanation, unlocking the vehicle. He opens the passenger door for you, pausing for a moment before sliding his hands around your waist. Then he freezes.

“What?” you exhale, gaze moving between his lips and his eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Seokjin groans. “I want to kiss you but I can’t. If I do, I’m going to want you in the backseat of my car. And I don’t think you want that.”

A light sparks in your eyes. “Don’t tell me what I want,” you smile.

Seokjin exhales, somewhat shakily. “Okay,” he allows, bending to kiss the side of your neck. “Fine. You and I both want to fuck in the backseat of my car but we won’t, because I don’t want anyone coming by and seeing you. That’s not fair.”

Your laughter dies when his thumb brushes your nipple, teasing the same pattern his tongue is tracing. “Oh,” you gasp. “Seokjin.”

He pulls back. “Okay. Car. Now.”

He walks deliberately over to the other side, getting in to shut the door behind him. The entire ride to his place, his hand is on your knee. He refuses to even look at you though, for fear he’ll be distracted while driving. When you arrive at his apartment building, you fairly gape out the window.

“You live here,” you gasp, exiting the vehicle.

“Uh, yeah,” Seokjin says, running a hand through his hair. “It’s not that nice, come in.”

He grabs your hand, leading you up the front walk. Entering the lobby and waving to the front desk before quickly moving to the elevator. As soon as the doors shut, his lips are on yours. Backing you into the wall, running his hand down your side. You arch upwards, pushing against him. “Seokjin,” you manage, as his lips slide down your neck. “Isn’t there a camera?”

“Let them see,” Seokjin mutters, hand tracing your thigh. “It’s only for a few seconds.”

Sure enough, the elevator dings and Seokjin very quickly pulls you into the hall. When he pushes open his front door, you’re momentarily stunned. The apartment is large, much bigger than yours - there’s an entry hall leading towards a main kitchen and living area. To the right is his bedroom, to the left his study.

There are stacks and stacks of books, piled high in slightly messy clutter. Seokjin wasn’t lying about the coffee mugs - you spot one with a picture of a carp and the word diem written beneath it. “No,” you laugh, wandering over. Almost picking it up before Seokjin’s hands slide around your waist. Lips finding your neck and then you forget all about the mug, turning around in his arms.

Seokjin’s eyes are dark looking at you, hair messy from where you were running your fingers through it earlier. When you kiss him, you feel his arms wrap tightly around your body. Then he’s pulling you backwards - bringing you down his hall. Outside his bedroom you yank him against the wall, arching up to kiss him while dragging your hands down his back.

Seokjing stills. “My room,” he says softly. “Bed. Now.”

You follow him, sitting on his bed to stare up at him. Framed by the light from his window, Seokjin walks forward. He runs a hand through his hair before slowly, undoing the knot of his tie. You watch his fingers brush silk, pulling free before coming to a stop before you. Seokjin looks down, stance casual as he smiles.

“Scoot back,” he gestures with his chin.

You obey, scooting until you’re flat against his headboard. Though he’s barely done anything, your heart is pounding.

“Raise your arms above your head,” he explains, voice quiet. When you do it lifts your chest, and Seokjin’s eyes darken. “Good.”

He kneels, first one leg then the other on his mattress. With his one hand he pushes the straps from your shoulders, freeing your arms before raising them higher.

Your breath hitches, Seokjin’s body is close but not touching. His one hand is on your wrists, the other sliding over your thigh. Stroking before looking back up. “If it’s too much, just say so,” he says. Then he takes his tie and wraps it around both wrists. Your back arches, legs framing him on the bed and when he’s done tying you to the headboard he pauses.

Seokjin kisses you. Mouth slow, purposeful and though you move, he doesn’t. Smirking before pulling back to sit gently on his heels. Seokjin’s gaze travels your body, starting at your hands to end between your legs.

His shirt is messy, untucked and Seokjin raises both hands to unbutton it. He removes this entirely, not giving you a chance to admire before bending. His hands circle your thighs. Sliding back and pushing you apart, core already throbbing at the action. Your dress bunches around your waist, panties already wet and when Seokjin sees this he looks up.

Watching you while running a finger over the outside of the fabric. You groan, pulling against your restraints but the tie holds. Keeps you captive while Seokjin pulls your panties down to your ankles. Then off your body entirely, thrown aside to wherever his shirt is. Pushing your skirt higher, Seokjin bends. You barely have the opportunity to prepare yourself before his mouth is on you, hot and wet.

His tongue teases, tracing with the kind of patience that makes your legs weak. Explicit noises fall from your lips as your entire body tenses. You pull harder on the restraints, relishing the silk against your skin while his tongue traces your sex. When you can’t take any more, when the ache between your legs is too much - he inserts a finger. It feels both overwhelming and not enough and you cry out, pulling harder against the headboard.

Seokjin just chuckles, dropping a kiss to your inner thigh before coming back up. He unties you from the headboard, though your wrists are still locked together as he tugs your dress down around your waist. Now your breasts are free, legs open and he stares in awe before removing the dress entirely.

Seokjin pulls you forward, setting you on his lap as your tied hands fall around his neck. His kisses you this way, groaning when you grind your hips over his erection. “Ah,” he moans, pushing upwards. “You’re so incredibly hot.”

You kiss him again. Moving your hips in a slow, torturous circle until he moans. “Fuck me,” you whisper, bending your lips to his ear. “Please?” you add, biting down for good measure.

Seokjin starts to unbutton his pants, lifting you higher before pulling a condom from his pocket. He rolls this onto himself, hands grabbing your hips to slowly lower you on top of him. You moan at the touch, pushing down as he fills you, wanting every inch of him inside you. Then - fuck. He lifts your hips higher, thrusting up into you.

Your toes curl, elbows tight on his shoulders while you balance yourself. Allowing Seokjin to push upwards - again and again. You roll your hips, circling to sink back down. Pressing your chest to his, unable to stop from saying his name.

Seokjin yanks you closer, thrusting harder and then lifts you off of him entirely, allowing you to fall onto his bed. You protest at the lack of him inside you, arching against the sheets but Seokjin is already kicking his pants off all the way. He leans forward, yanking the tie from your hands before entering your body in one, swift thrust.

Your head falls back, breath catching at his new angle. He’s so large, deep this way and when he starts to move you can barely focus. His speed increases, relentless but you like it. Every stroke brings you closer and closer to your edge. His lips find your neck, sucking as his hand drifts between your thighs and it becomes suddenly too much. Your entire body tenses, coming apart while you orgasm around him.

Seokjin follows a few thrusts later, shuddering before gradually slowing. Your arms remain wrapped around him, thighs around his waist until you move. Slowly, gently until his gaze finds your own. “Ah,” he sighs, closing his eyes. “That was amazing.”

You smile, watching Seokjin remove himself and fall onto his side. His arm circles your waist, pulling you forward. “It really was,” you breathe, staring back at him.

The moment is so perfect you almost don’t see his eyes darken. Seokjin looks down, then away for a second. “Why didn’t you call me?” he asks, his voice soft. As though able to feel your panic, Seokjin’s arms tighten. He pulls you closer to him, leaning his head on the pillow.

He looks so perfect, so calm and serene that you can’t find it in yourself to look away.

“Seokjin,” you hesitate. Your heart pounds and you feel slightly nauseous. “I don’t know how to tell you this.”

“What?” he asks, gaze concerned. “ You can tell me anything.”

“I’m… well, a Masters student. At Bangtan University.”

Seokjin stills. “Oh. Fuck.”

“I mean, I’m almost done with my courses,” you ramble. “Only a few more weeks until I graduate. I just - I didn’t want to put your job in jeopardy or anything. I’m so sorry for not saying anything - I was trying to stay away from you because of it. That’s why I didn’t call.”

“Ah,” Seokjin sighs. Slowly, he pushes his hand through your hair. You look up, surprised by the touch. “I guess that explains why you avoided me.” Pulling you closer, Seokjin nuzzles his face into the side of your neck. “Are you done avoiding me now?”

“But Seokjin,” you protest, eyes widening. “What about -?

He looks up. “The way I see it,” he murmurs. “Tonight never happened. You graduate in three weeks, you said? I can wait that long,” he grins, lips trailing your collarbone. “That is… if you can.”

“Hm,” you smile, lacing your arms tightly about his neck. “Three whole weeks, huh?”

He nods, light entering his eyes.

“Then we better make tonight count,” you mutter, before pulling his lips to yours.  

[not-a-space-alien]

Falling Hazard, Part 11:  Feast (Reprise)

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16

Series masterpost

On AO3

“Lord Maltha wishes your presence now.”

Whatever Maltha had done had worked; Crowley’s arm was completely better by the time Mammon summoned them down to dinner as promised.  He was glad to leave the clinic behind once again.

They ran into no trouble on the way down this time.  Mammon led them back into the ninth circle, through the antechamber, and into one of the entrances to the right of the throne room.

They emerged into an exquisite banquet hall, with a soaring vaulted ceiling, carved pillars, and an enormous, ornate wooden table with dozens of seats. Maltha was at the far end, seated at the head of the table. Noah was in the seat next to her; he looked to be sitting on a stack of phone books.

“Thank you for joining us,” said Maltha. “Please sit.”

The heavy chairs scraped on the stone floor as Aziraphale and Crowley took the seats closest to her.  Mammon circled around to stand behind Maltha. Angelo remained standing, looking around unsurely.

“Please sit, Angelo.  You are my guest as well.”

He did so.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “Thank you very much for healing Crowley.”

“I take it you are doing better?” said Maltha.

“Yes,” said Crowley.  “Thank you.”

They occupied only a small portion of the table.  It was almost comical, to have only five people at a banquet in accommodations clearly made for much larger capacity.   The huge room seemed inordinately quiet and hollow with just them, and so far the table only held empty platters and unused silverware.

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “will anyone else be joining us?”

“Perhaps eventually,” she answered vaguely.

Crowley looked around, gesturing to the table. “You aren’t going to invite any of your court?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Maltha mildly.

They sat there in the spooky semidarkness for a few moments, light from the burning torches casting strange, angular shadows across the room.

Crowley cleared his throat.  “Maltha, now that we’re here, we’d like to talk to you about some things.  You haven’t answered us very well in your correspondences by mail.”

Maltha held up one finger. The door behind her creaked open amidst a clatter of dishes.  “It’s impolite to talk business during dinner.”

And so it went.  A team of demons laden with trays of gourmet food appeared, dishing it out, serving wine, talking in hushed voices.  When everything was laid out, they stood at attention at the wall.

Maltha took a fork and a knife in each hand, beginning the meal with the roast of some unknown animal in the center.  “So, Aziraphale, Crowley, I heard you went on vacation recently. Tell me about it.”

They were forced to make small talk as though nothing were out of the ordinary.  They told her about the trip they had taken around Europe and the Middle East.  She did not seem fazed in the slightest when they told her they had witnessed the destruction of Temple Mount, and continued to chew while nodding as though hearing a good bit of gossip.

Maltha seemed genuinely interested in their story—not a big surprise given wandering had been her activity of choice upon first coming to love the Earth—and Noah seemed positively enthralled.  Crowley thought maybe Noah had grown a bit bored down here, with Maltha doing all the work to keep him safe and things running smoothly.

“Maltha?” said Aziraphale.  “May I ask where Beth is?”

This, and only this, was enough to make Maltha pause in the entire meal. She put her utensils down.  “She is…unavailable.”

“Maltha,” Crowley reiterated.  “Where is Beth?”

“Maltha, we’re friends,” said Aziraphale. “Please tell us what’s going on. It’s rather uncharitable of you to keep us in the dark.”

Maltha tapped her spoon on her dish. “I just wanted…just once to have a meal with you two again.  To maybe have another feast like that one we all had together.  The moment I got word that Satan had died and events were in motion, I knew I had missed the opportunity to spend time with you as equals on Earth like I wanted to.  I thought we could have a nice meal without the stress of the impending apocalypse, or Heaven or Hell.  Just us. But I can see you’re impatient.  So let’s move on, then.”

She snapped at the wait staff, who busied themselves with removing their half-eaten meals immediately.  The table was clear in under a minute, leaving only a wine glass at Maltha’s direction.

Maltha pulled Noah’s chair out for him and said, “Noah, why don’t you run off to bed a bit early today?”

“Aww,” said Noah.  “But you’re going to talk about something really important.”

“And you’ll be filled in on the details later,” said Maltha, hauling him up so she could plant a kiss on his forehead.  “Why don’t you see if the chef will give you a biscuit before you head out, hm?”

She set Noah down, and he scampered off.  Maltha motioned to one of the attendants nearby. “See to it he gets to bed, will you?”

The servant disappeared after Noah, and the door boomed shut.  A few servants hung back by the wall, rushing to finish the cleanup.

Maltha downed the rest of the wine in her glass, then set the empty goblet on the table.  She focused on Aziraphale and Crowley, as though about to say something very important.  “I’m going to be honest with you two, I have no idea how to raise a child.  I have found myself filling many roles in my life. Healer.  Warrior.  Leader. And now I find myself in one few demons ever do: Parent.”

“Maltha,” said Angelo, who had barely made a peep throughout the meal. “If you are going to say something very private, would you like me to leave?”

“No,” said Maltha.  “I think you deserve to hear this, too, Angelo. Please stay here.”

Angelo looked uncomfortable, as though he were sitting in a building he was not entirely sure was not on fire.

“When I agreed to take Noah down, I confess I didn’t think about the responsibility it would be to not only help him rule, but to raise him as well.  The truth is that Beth was doing most of the heavy lifting raising Noah while I kept Hell in line.  Noah is somewhere between demon, human, and angel, and I knew in my heart I would do an insufficient job alone, because I could not raise him to truly understand how to be human the way Adam is, which has been key to his success.  If he were simply a demon like the rest of us, if he belonged solely to Hell, well…”

“We’d just have another Satan,” said Crowley.

Maltha nodded.  “I want Noah to grow up to be different.  I want Noah to grow up and be a merciful ruler, unlike his father.  Which is why I do not want him to know what is going to happen tonight.  I want to create a world in which he will not have to be as ruthless as I am.”

That did not bode well, Aziraphale thought.  Not at all.

“Beth had a terrible, burdensome past she kept hidden.  She used to have a child.  It was a bit younger than Noah when it died, along with Beth’s previous partner.”

“Oh,” said Crowley.

“Beth’s life has been filled more pain than even I can imagine.  And yet she always kept going.  Nothing seemed to slow her down.  Nothing destroyed her will to keep going, nothing overcame her resilience.  But not even a human like her could fight against Heaven.”

“Heaven has done something?” said Aziraphale.

“They saw fit to stamp out such a spirit,” snarled Maltha.  Then, with a wave of her hand: “So if you want to know where she is so badly, why don’t you ask your archangel friends?”

A piece of celestial parchment with Gabriel’s seal on it materialised onto the table in front of Aziraphale.  He unrolled it to see that it read:

To the archdemon Maltha,

Yes, I’ve taken her.  She is the deepest part of Heaven.  You will have to destroy creation itself to get her back. Come at us with everything you’ve got.

-The Archangel Gabriel

“Wh-what?” said Aziraphale. “What is this?”

“The last time I saw Beth, she had gone out for a walk in the eighth circle with an escort of warriors.  A few hours later, we found the bodies of her escort destroyed, and Beth was nowhere to be found.  The next day, I received this letter from Gabriel.”

Aziraphale turned the letter over and over. The seal seemed real.  It was Gabriel’s handwriting.  “But Heaven can’t harm humans!” said Aziraphale.  “It couldn’t have been Gabriel.  Azrael is the only angel allowed to take humans into Heaven.  Gabriel wouldn’t do that.”

“Let’s see just how far that obstinacy of yours will you carry you through the evening, Aziraphale,” said Maltha testily.  “Apparently the story is that someone, somewhere prayed a prayer of mercy over Beth, and someone in Heaven found that enough pretence for a ‘rescue’ from ‘punishment’ in Hell, despite the fact that she was in Hell willingly.”

Aziraphale’s blood turned to ice.  A prayer of mercy.  It couldn’t have been the one he had prayed over their feast in his shop after destroying Agares.  

…could it?

“I have never seen such a blatant attempt to antagonise me,” said Maltha. “Gabriel did this because he assumed I would become so enraged that I would start the war with Heaven.  Those fools were so desperate to start the war that they struck right below the belt at me—the one in control of the antichrist, the only one in any position to conceivably start the war, even though it was an unconscionable violation of Heaven’s rules for treatment of humans.”

Something in the room trilled, and a small sphinx leapt up onto the table, ears flicking, roving around for leftovers.

“And there’s Toby,” said Maltha. “Hello, Toby.”

The sphinx tucked its paws under its body and loafed around on the table.

Maltha continued, “Heaven could not have done this on their own, though. Michael is the only angel who could lead an expedition that deep into Hell. Someone in Hell betrayed me and brought Beth up to where a party from Heaven could reach her.”

“Lord Maltha,” Mammon interjected.  “On that topic, it might be a good time to bring in the rebel that I captured earlier.”

“Oh, good,” said Maltha. “You found their hideout like I asked earlier?”

“Yes.”

“And who did you capture?”

“One of the leaders.”

“Okay, bring them in, please.”

Mammon turned and lumbered off.  Maltha closed her eyes and crossed her fingers.  “Please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be Jezebel please be anyone but—”

Duke Hastur’s voice could be heard echoing down the hall, angrily demanding release.  Maltha groaned softly.  

“Not him,” moaned Crowley.  “Why is it always him, in exactly the wrong place at the wrong time?”

Mammon reappeared with her unhappy charge.  His thrashing and cursing startled Toby, who skittered to the edge of the table to seek safety by Maltha.  Maltha stroked the sphinx’s flank as Hastur was forced to his knees.

“Duke Hastur,” said Maltha, “welcome.”

Hastur managed to spit into her face.

An electrified, deadly silence fell over the room.  The imps were all frozen as though Hastur had just activated a bomb.

Maltha paused for a moment before wiping her cheek with her hand.  “I think I shall need more wine to deal with this.”

Three different servants rushed over to fill her glass.

“You would desecrate our master’s banquet hall by inviting traitors and angels into it!” Hastur shouted.  “You are no queen of mine.”

Maltha had been occupied with taking great gulps of wine as he spoke, and she did not stop until she reached the bottom of her glass.  She set it back down, where it was refilled instantly. She looked at Hastur, mentally turning him over and over in her head, as though he were an interesting insect.

“Duke Hastur,” she said, a toothy smile spreading across her face.  “Do you remember the last time we spoke directly? Back before I took the throne?”

Hastur’s sneer did not disappear.

“Wasn’t it in Crowley’s flat?”  Maltha snapped her fingers.  “That was it. Crowley was asleep.”

“When was Hastur in my flat while I was asleep?” Crowley broke in, alarmed.

“And do you remember what I told you?  Wasn’t it that if you bothered Aziraphale or Crowley again, you’d regret it?”

Hastur’s scowl deepened.

“And didn’t you carry Crowley down to Hell for torture with your own hands?”

“He deserved it,” spat Hastur. “He deserved it and more, and so do you.”

“Duke Hastur was among the group that tried to threaten your guests on the way down,” said Mammon.

“I suppose I should have guessed it would be you,” said Maltha.  “Okay, Hastur.  I have an ultimatum for you.  I want you to apologise to Crowley.”

“Apologise?” said Duke Hastur incredulously.  “As though we’re human children?”

Maltha downed the rest of her wine.  “Very well, Hastur, I wanted to give you the chance to make amends because Crowley will be deciding your punishment, but if you’d rather be belligerent it makes no difference to me.”

Hastur’s gaze burned into Crowley angrily.  The lesser demon slunk into his seat.  “Wh-what, me?”

“I thought it would be fair, considering everything Hastur has done out of hatred for you.”

Crowley opened his mouth, then shut it again.  He shook his head.

“He won’t do it,” Hastur laughed.  “Because he’s a little bitch.”

“Hastur,” said Maltha in a cautionary tone.

“He’s Heaven’s little bitch who’s not good at anything but taking an angel’s cock and it’ll only be a matter of time before someone fucks him over again. When you’re expelled from Hell I’m sure whoever takes the throne next will use him as a little fuck toy, and he’ll probably like it.”

Crowley grew redder and redder.  Aziraphale sputtered indignantly, but could find nothing to say.  Maltha slammed her empty wine glass on the table.

“Hastur,” she said.  “How…exactly…can I impress upon you the danger you’re in right now?  My patience with you is running thin.”

“I don’t give a fuck about your patience.  You’re weak.  You stupid whore, you don’t even know how to interrogate prisoners properly.”

Maltha leaned back in her seat and threw her hand out over the armrest. Her staff materialised and dropped into her palm, and she tapped it on the floor.  “It’s very unlucky for you that Crowley could not be convinced to pass judgement on you, because that means it falls to me, and you could probably guess which of the two of us is more forgiving.  If you think my biggest flaw is that I’m too merciful, I can think of one excellent opportunity to start remedying that, and its name is Duke Hastur.”

The tip of her staff began to glow, black smoke wisping off it.  Hastur fell silent.

“Suddenly he does not have such a foul mouth.  Maybe if you’re done spouting off insults and slurs we can have an actual conversation.  Now, you and Jezebel have been putting in all this effort to try and remove me and Noah from Hell’s throne.  I want to ask you why.  Please tell me, Hastur, what exactly do you not like about me?  What’s wrong with how I’m running Hell?”

Hastur glared at her from the floor, hands tugging at his bonds. “You’ve gotten rid of all the torture.”

“And?”

“And that’s supposed to be the point of Hell!  What’s the point if there’s no torture?”

“I got rid of the torture at Noah’s explicit direction.  It distressed him very much.  And you know, I find it very interesting that out of all the changes I’ve made, the one about torture has drawn the most dissatisfaction.  But only from the higher-ups.  The imps and lesser demons all seem to like it very much.”

“The imps haven’t lost any limbs in a while,” Hastur scoffed.  “What kind of demon lord doesn’t even torture their underlings?  Satan wouldn’t have been so easy on them.”

“I find it noteworthy that the imps in the ninth layer have actually made efforts to alert me to threats to my safety, which is something I understand they never did for Satan.”

Hastur cast his stormy glare on the imps lurking at the periphery of the room, and they scuttled out of sight.

Maltha tapped her staff.  “Okay, so you don’t like the lack of torture.”

“Lots of demon don’t.”

“I never said they did.  What else is there, Hastur?  What have I done to displease you so much?”

Hastur sulkily searched around for a moment.  “You lock your enemies in the dungeon until you think you can trust them instead of torturing them.  You’ve got most of the other archdemons locked up, including Beelzebub.  And now you’ve got me tied up like some imp.”

Maltha put her head on a fist.  “Honestly, Hastur, you’re obsessed with the fact that I don’t torture people, and then you complain that I’m mistreating my prisoners.”

“Well, it’s different when it’s the higher-ups!  It’s one thing to lock up some imp, but quite another to hold a prince of Hell captive!”

“You seem absolutely obsessed with the treatment of imps, Hastur.  Has it never occurred to you that imps have just as much individual character as you do?”

“What are you on about?” said Hastur.  “No imp has ever done anything important!”

Toby hissed.

“An imp killed the archdemon Agares,” said Maltha, half-amused.

Hastur’s face contorted into anger.  “That doesn’t count!”

“Of course it doesn’t.  How silly of me.”

“This is what I’m talking about!” shouted Hastur.  “It has to be that human woman!  She’s got your thinking all strange-like!  You didn’t used to go on about nonsense like imps being people!”

“I have learned,” said Maltha.  “It’s something you could stand to do every once in a while, Hastur.  All right, let’s try this a different way. You were loyal to Satan, correct?”

“Yes,” said Hastur.  “None of you can say the same. Our Lord Satan—”

“A simple yes would have sufficed,” said Maltha with a wave of her hand.  “Now, the son of Satan is the next logical ruler, correct?”

“Yes, not you!”

“If we think very, very hard, we might be able to think of a reason why Satan’s twelve-year-old son with no experience in Hell at all would need someone to help him.”

“You’re not helping him!” said Hastur.  “You’re manipulating him!  By now he should be bathing in the blood of his enemies!”

“All the changes I’ve made to Hell have been explicitly at Noah’s direction,” said Maltha.  “This is his doing.”

“Never!” said Hastur.  “Not my master’s son!  Anyone of Satan’s blood is noble and fearsome and—”

“Maltha,” interjected Mammon, who seemed to have made a command decision that the present conversation was going nowhere.  “I brought Duke Hastur out because when I captured him, I learned something about what happened to Beth.”  

Maltha’s feathers flared out and her pupils contracted.

Hastur’s expression took on a noticeable change, and he said, with mounting unease, “Untrue.  I had nothing to do with the fate of that lowly human.”

Toby hissed. Maltha’s claws slowly raked the wooden table.

“Isn’t it interesting,” said Maltha, “that someone who would willingly become of the consort of an archdemon would be deemed a pure and good enough soul to be granted entry to the Heavenly Kingdom?”

“Isn’t that what all humans want?” said Hastur.  “To go to Heaven?”

“Which would require someone in Hell to bring her up high enough so that Heaven’s agents could reach her.  It’s almost like somebody pulled some strings to move her about on purpose.  To anger me.”

“Well, I wish I had thought of it, but it wasn’t me.”

Toby flattened his ears and hissed.

“It was you!” Maltha thundered. “You sold me out to Heaven!”

“You needed to be taught a lesson!” Hastur raged.  “The ruler of Hell can’t be soft and preoccupied with things like love!  You’d let Heaven trample all over us!  You’re weak!  Soft!”

Maltha’s face contorted into the most frightening expression of anger anyone in the room had ever seen.  “Soft? Soft?  You don’t get to call me that like it’s an insult after what you did to Beth.”

Maltha stood.  The fear on Hastur’s face indicated he knew he had finally crossed a line past which he could not return.

“You despicable, vile creature.”  Maltha’s staff threw off tongues of black flame as she crossed the room. “You irredeemable, absolute piece of garbage.  You’re lower than any imp.”

“L-lord Maltha,” said Hastur as Maltha reached him and put her staff on his shoulder.  “I beg you to be merciful.”

“Sorry, but I can’t give you any mercy, because that would make me soft.”

Maltha wound up and swung her staff like a baseball bat, hitting Hastur’s head with an audible crack. The force was so great that Hastur’s head detached from his body, flapping over and thunking onto the ground with enough momentum that his body sprawled out several feet away.

Maltha stood there over his body, shaking with anger, breaths like growls.

Aziraphale, Crowley, and Angelo looked at each other, eyes wide.

Maltha took a moment to compose herself, her face returning to a blank mask. Her staff disappeared with a wave of her hand, and she snapped at an imp against the wall.  “Dispose of this.”

They fearfully acknowledged her order and dragged Hastur’s body and head out of the room.  Maltha strolled back to her seat, hiding her face in one hand.

“Are you all right?” said Crowley.

“I guess that answers that question,” Maltha laughed.  “I was wondering how Gabriel got ahold of her.”

A cigar materialised onto the table, and Maltha took it and lit it up. Nobody dared tell her Hell was a no-smoking zone.

Smoke trailed from the cigar as Maltha took a drag, as though trying to calm herself.

“Now, then,” she finally said.  “Duke Hastur is dead, and we can move on to more important things.”  She gestured to the parchment still laid out on the table.  “I received that letter from Gabriel the day before the Temple was destroyed.  I wrote him back and told him no war that destroys Creation would proceed under my command, even if remaining peaceful was at great personal expense to me.  I told him I would not destroy the Earth.  Ever.”  She took another drag of the cigar and exhaled a lungful of smoke.  “The next day the Temple fell and—surprise!—the war was on anyway, without my consent.”

An imp came up and whispered something into her ear.

“Oh, yes, good,” said Maltha.  “Go get that special drink from the kitchen, would you?”

The servant scampered off.  Maltha returned her attention to the table, stubbing her cigar out with a sigh, as though she had not gotten to enjoy it enough.

“You were going to let Heaven just get away with what they did?” said Crowley.

“Sitting around doing nothing during all this chaos doesn’t seem very you,” said Aziraphale.

The servant returned with a jug and began to pour something into Maltha’s goblet. The liquid was dusty white, and it seemed to glow faintly.

“Thank you, Yulera,” said Maltha.

The servant retreated to the wall, still holding the jug and watching the conversation with interest.

Maltha examined her goblet, then picked a feather off the rim.  “Oh, I’m not doing nothing,” she said.  “I have, in fact, formed a pact with a group that has promised to help me get Beth back. Apparently, Beth was taken into Heaven without actually dying.  Which means she is not technically dead, and still has a corporeal form that can be removed from Heaven with her consent.”

She lifted the goblet and took a sip.  An expression of intense disgust overcame her features, but instead of setting it back on the table, she turned the cup bottoms-up and gulped it down.

“What’s that you’re drinking?” said Crowley.

“This is the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted,” said Maltha.  “How much of this do I have to drink?”

“I was told the whole jug, lord,” said the imp.

She scowled and held her cup out for a refill.  They watched in confusion as she audibly gagged, but forced herself to keep drinking.

“But back to the pact,” Aziraphale prompted.  “With whom was it, exactly?”

Maltha tipped her glass to get the dregs at the bottom.  When she removed the goblet, there was a corner of a feather sticking out of her snaggle-toothed grin.  “A faction from within Heaven itself.”

“What is she doing?”

Abraxas idly played with her sword and answered, “She was having dinner with Aziraphale and Crowley and that other angel, what’s-his-face, wasn’t she?”

“She knows we’re all out here waiting, right?” said Paula. “That we’re on a bit of a timetable here?”

“I think she’s telling them what’s going on,” said Abraxas.  “It’d be important for Angelo to know, at the very least.  It’s a good thing he’s here.  It’ll make things go a lot easier when Michael comes down.”

“Yeah, if Michael doesn’t try to kill the poor guy again,” said Paula. She stood on tiptoe and looked through the crack in the door to see into the dining hall.  “They’re all still in there.  Is she trying to recruit Aziraphale?  I thought she had given up on that idea.  And it’s a bit late now, innit?”

“Crowley might want to go.”

“Crowley just got his arm melted off in Heaven.  I don’t think he’ll be eager to go back there without a very strong motivation.”

A servant approached the pair with a crystal goblet and tried to hand it to Abraxas.  “Hm?” said Abraxas.  “What’s this?”

“It’s the...” the servant said, struggling to find the right words.

Abraxas turned to him fully now.  “Oh!  It’s that? It’s the liquid version of the angel dust spell?”

The servant nodded.  Abraxas took the goblet from him.  “Great!” She held it up to the light, the liquid glowing faintly with bits specks of light.  “Ooooh, neat.”

She raised the goblet to her lips.  An expression of intense disgust overcame her features.  “Ew,” she said.  “This tastes like I’m eating hair.  How much do I have to drink?”

“I was told to make sure you drink the entire glass,” the servant said.

Abraxas grimaced, then continued trying to choke down the distasteful concoction.

“Geez,” said Paula.  “If a little guy like you has to drink a whole glass, how much does Maltha have to drink?”

They eventually lost track of how many glasses of that hated drink Maltha consumed. She was pounding down whatever was in that jug with as much as vigor as she normally took alcohol, except every sip was accompanied by a heave and a gag.  It obviously took a great deal of willpower to force it down her throat, and yet she kept going as though her life depended on it.

“You’re saying a group from Heaven has allied with you?” Aziraphale pressed.

Maltha put her hand on her mouth, closing her eyes.  She swallowed.  “Yulera, how much is left?”

“We have two more jars in the kitchen.”

“How much is left that I have to drink?”

The servant peered into the jug.  “Looks to be about two glasses, lord.”

“Excellent,” she huffed.

“Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “Focus. Please.  There’s a group in Heaven that’s broken away?”

“And quite a large one, too,” said Maltha.

“And they allied with a demon? What you are saying basically amounts to a second rebellion, Maltha. That many angels helping you go against Heaven.”

Maltha peered at him from over her goblet.

“Maltha?”

“Let me ask you a question,” said Maltha.  She took another sip.  “That day that Crowley’s field agent counterparts all showed up in your shop and pledged loyalty to you—did it never occur to you that your angelic neighbours might have done something similar if given the opportunity?”

Aziraphale stared at her.

“When Victoria raged about how unfair Michael’s fate was, when she cried because she was so scared for him—did you think she was the only one?  When Kyleth warned you to stay away from Gabriel because she considered him dangerous—did you think others did not see that?  When Olivia said she was so fed up with Heaven’s bullshite she would be willing to openly disobey—did you think you were the only angel capable of actually doing so?”

“The pact you made with them,” said Crowley.  “Their end of the bargain would be to help you get Beth out of Heaven. And your end of the bargain would be—”

“To help them rebel!” Maltha crowed, throwing her hands up in the air giddily.  “A good old-fashioned rebellion, a coup, the likes of which Creation has not seen since good old Lucifer himself rose up and decided he should be in charge instead.”

Aziraphale slammed his hands on the table stormily.  “Are you mad?  That’ll never work.  Have you forgotten how the last rebellion ended?  It resulted in the creation of an entire race of wretched fallen angels and Hell! Imagine what is going to happen this time!”

A giggle vibrated in Maltha’s throat.  “What’s going to happen this time is we’re going to win, Aziraphale.  Because the last time, who was the one to overpower the leader of the rebel angels and cast them into Hell?”

“M-Michael…” said Angelo.

“Michael can still be deployed to defeat you,” said Aziraphale.  “He hasn’t fallen yet.  It’s not going to happen.”

Maltha pointed to Angelo, curling her finger, inviting him.

“He is going to fall,” warbled Angelo. “They sealed his sentence this morning.”

“What!” exclaimed Aziraphale.

“No way,” said Crowley. “No way. Raphael had such a flimsy case. You’re telling me that worked?”

“It was never about Raphael’s case,” said Maltha. “Raphael was only using that as a smokescreen to hide the fact that he had consulted with me.”

Aziraphale processed this for a moment.  “Raphael…consulted with you?”

“Yes.  I had the chance to diagnose Michael from our time together in your bookshop, Aziraphale.”

“..Diagnose?  Is he sick?”

“…Honestly, Aziraphale.”  Maltha distastefully drank more from her goblet.  “Yes.  His aura was a broken, jagged mess.  His connection to Heaven and the pull to his duty is destroying him.  Did you think he was right as rain as he was driven mad by hunger to kill in your bookshop?”

“Well, n-no, not really,” said Aziraphale.  “It obviously caused him a great deal of distress, but that’s just who he is.”

Maltha sipped again.  “Yes. It is, in fact, who he is.  Michael was designed from the very beginning to be the Sword of Heaven.  He was designed for it, and part of that role was his crucial part to play in the apocalypse. And when it kept getting pushed back and pushed back, he began to deteriorate.  He was never meant to survive the war. He was intended to be a bomb that would ignite to destroy Hell.”

Aziraphale stood.  “That’s not true.  I refuse to believe that.”

Maltha took Toby’s shoulders and stood him up, using his little paw to wave at Aziraphale.  He let out a faint mrrow, but did not hiss.

Disgruntled, Aziraphale reseated himself, disquiet growing.

“Raphael shared this information with me when he came down,” said Maltha. “Together, the two of us were able to work out a diagnosis.  The only two options for Michael seemed to be either to become a mindless killing machine and be consumed by the war, or decay in peacetime and fade away.  But we laid plans for a third option.”

“Falling,” said Crowley.

Maltha held her goblet out for a refill, then continued to drink. When she set her glass down, she said, “Do you know what actually happens when an angel falls?”

“You’re removed from the Book of Life,” said Crowley quietly.  “And permanently cast out from Heaven.”

“Your old identity is erased,” said Maltha.  “You are reborn.  Without the baggage of whatever your angelic role was in Heaven.  You become divorced from your intended purpose.  When Michael is cast out of Heaven, his fate will be re-written.  He does not have to participate in the apocalypse. He can continue living, and be freed from his bloodlust.  He will become someone entirely new, someone who is not bound to Heaven and what was making him sick and warping him.”

“And conveniently be put under your command,” said Aziraphale darkly.

Maltha grinned.  “Now imagine that.  Maltha and the archangel Michael, against Heaven together.  Isn’t that just such a pretty image you could paint a picture of it?  You feared Michael, when he fell, would destroy the Earth, but his anger will be let loose back on Heaven, not on Earth.”  

“Michael isn’t going to be so quick to turn on Heaven, even after he’s cast out,” said Aziraphale.  “He values loyalty.  He won’t listen to you.”

Maltha waved her hand on the table, and an enormous stack of papers appeared.  “But he will,” she said, “because I will be giving him the opportunity to do something he has wanted to do for a very long time.”

They peered over at the papers, shuffling through them.  They were all forms, partially filled out, all stamped with DENIED.

“What are these?”

“All 6,000 of Michael’s yearly requests for re-assignment on Earth.”

They both looked up at her in amazement.  “The other archangels have kept it very well hidden exactly how much they abuse Michael,” she said.  “They never let him out of Heaven.  Every instance Michael has left has been against their wishes, and he has been punished for it every time.  Even though they’re the same rank, should have the same power—Michael was never given any control, not even over himself. He would without fail try to protest that they’re the same rank, and the other archangels would find ways to manipulate him anyway, regardless of what he wants.  I think Raphael is the only one who ever argued that he should be allowed to do missions on Earth like he wanted to.  Michael is an attack dog, and they never hesitated to pull that leash when he got out of hand.”

Angelo suddenly stood, looking very red.  “Who told you this?  How did you find this out?”

Maltha looked the little angel over knowingly.  “Some of Michael’s most loyal warriors are here with me.  They know what is happening.”  

“Vincent…” said Angelo.

Maltha nodded.  “Vincent was the first warrior to break away, but others followed soon enough.  As news began to spread that Gabriel was the one who had destroyed the Temple, the rebellion grew with it.  The ranks of angels here with me in Hell ready to turn against Heaven include field agents, principalities and warriors who want to save the Earth, along with angels from among Michael’s ranks who were on board with Raphael’s plan to save him.  Michael will be met by a company of his closest friends and allies as soon as he falls, arriving in Hell an honoured guest.”

It all made sense now.  Raphael’s rabid insistence on Michael falling despite that Michael was the brother who Raphael loved the most.  Raphael was prioritising Michael’s personal well-being over his function as a weapon. He could never admit that for fear of being thrown out himself as a traitor, because Heaven couldn’t afford to lose him if they were to win the war.

Which might explain why Gabriel was so desperate to start to the war that he would order angels to destroy the Temple.  If Michael was dying, it was now or never.  But instead of relenting and putting Michael back on the front lines, Raphael had dug his heels in and fought even harder to get Michael out of Heaven and away from the war that would kill him.  Against the unified forces of Uriel, Gabriel, and Metatron, who were willing to sacrifice Michael.

Which would also explain why Victoria reversed positions so suddenly. She fought to defend Michael in both cases.  All Raphael would have to do would be to take her aside and share that Michael would die unless he fell, knowing she would take his side but keep his motivation a secret. Learning that Michael would only survive if he fell would be enough to make Victoria do a one-eighty if she was also putting Michael’s well-being first.

Which, given her tearful visit over smashed teacups with Aziraphale, she definitely was.

“Okay,” said Aziraphale.  “Fine. Michael is going to Fall, and it’ll save his life, and he’ll be on Hell’s side. That doesn’t—”

“Sides,” said Maltha.  “You’re still thinking in terms of sides.” She slammed her hand on the table. “There are no sides anymore, Aziraphale.  You can cling to the idea that Heaven is your side all you want, but if you look deep down inside yourself, I think you’ll realise you’ve been on your own side all along, working for your own self-interest, and everything else was just to dress it up to make yourself feel better.  Good vs Evil. God’s will.  Ineffability.  None of it means anything to you, unless it’s convenient for it to do so.”

Her words cut him inside.  He was angry. He gestured wildly. “Okay, fine! But what exactly are you going to do? The war is your only option for getting back at Heaven, and you’ve made it quite clear you don’t want to destroy Earth!”

And here Maltha’s face broke into a smile that showed a mouthful of canine teeth. “Why, we are going to go into Heaven using the angel dust spell and punish the archangels directly, of course.”

Aziraphale sat in stunned silence.

“They think themselves safe in their fortress.  A demon, no matter how powerful, cannot conduct an assault on Heaven directly, and so would need to go through the Earth to get to them, through the war.  Or so was their logic.  And they wanted to watch me rampage from a safe distance, while others bore their suffering for them, as the natural order has always been.  No more.”

“But the angel dust spell would never work for something like that!” said Aziraphale.  “When Crowley used it, it rubbed off at the slightest provocation!  You could never take part in combat with that on!  This will never work!  This is suicide, Maltha!”

Maltha listened with her eyes on the ceiling.  “Aziraphale.  Please give me some credit.  We have been making modifications to the angel dust spell.  You used the version Agares had—which would have never worked for her for her purposes.  While Raphael worked in Heaven, we’ve been busy down here doing intensive testing with angel feathers.  And we’ve made a new version of the spell.”

Maltha pushed her goblet towards them.  Aziraphale and Crowley peered into it, to see…

Bits of feathery down floating in it.

“You’ve made an ingestible version,” said Crowley.

“Our experiments so far show this version takes about half an hour to kick in, but it provides the same protection,” said Maltha.  “And the effects last a few hours.”

She took the goblet and drained it, then held it out for a refill.

“That’s all, lord,” said the servant.

“Thank somebody,” said Maltha.  “Then I think we’re ready.”

“You can’t do this, Maltha,” said Aziraphale.  “You can’t storm Heaven.”

“Aziraphale,” said Maltha, “I am only going to explain this to you one time. There are currently three threats to the Earth’s continued survival.  And their names are—”  She held up a finger.  “Gabriel.” Another finger.  “Uriel.”  A third finger.  “And Metatron.”  She closed her fist.  “Raphael has no strong opinions about the war.  Victoria just wants Michael to be safe.  And Azrael does not care about anything going on in Heaven.  If we eliminate those three, the Earth will be safe—forever. No war, ever.  And you find yourself suddenly morally opposed to the idea of eliminating those who would do the Earth harm—why?  Because you did not think of it yourself?”

“You think you can just walk into Heaven and destroy half its archangels?”

“What exactly is stopping us?”

“Heaven needs those three to function.  If you kill them, it will throw Heaven into the kind of chaos Hell is in. That Earth is in.”

“Then so be it,” said Maltha.  

“So be it?” said Aziraphale. “Is that all you have to say for yourself?”

“Let her do it.”

Aziraphale turned to look at who had spoken.  It was Crowley.  

“You!” said Aziraphale, aghast.  “I-I-!  Let her do it?”

Crowley’s gaze fell to the table, away from him.  

Aziraphale, enraged, looked from Crowley to Angelo for support, but the other angel wouldn’t meet his eyes either.  Seething, in inner turmoil, he tried, “God won’t let you.  You’ll be killed.  This can only end in disaster.”

“God has not found it appropriate to intervene on any of our behalves for millennia!” Maltha raged.  “He has not seen fit to stop us up to this point!  Why should He take action now?  I’m sure not even this will prompt Him to deign to acknowledge me!”  Maltha threw her goblet, and it shattered on the floor.  “He thinks He is so far above us, too good to take care of us, we’ll make Him notice!”

The tone in Maltha’s voice and her action startled Toby, who bolted from her lap and streaked out the door.  Aziraphale’s heart was beating in his throat.  “You’ll be killed.  All of you. Or something worse, something worse than falling that hasn’t been invented yet.  You think—you think you can do something like this?  What gives you the right?  The nerve.  The arrogance.”

Maltha was staring at him now.  “Aziraphale….did you know?  That is exactly what He said to me.”

Aziraphale stopped, unease growing in his stomach.  “He…?”

“’The arrogance.’  He said that exact phrase to me, right before He cast me out of Heaven.”

Aziraphale flushed red.  Crowley was staring at his lap.

“I-I have half a mind to go up to Heaven and tell them you’re coming!” Aziraphale burst out.

Maltha leaned her head onto her fist.  “There it is.  The reason why I didn’t tell you what was happening down here in Hell.”

Aziraphale’s mouth tried to form words, but nothing came.

“This is the problem, Aziraphale.  You’re very intelligent. But you do not think. You act on impulse.  And you worry about the consequences later, when it’s too late to take anything back.”

Impulse. Listening to Crowley talk about the Earth had been enough to convince him to save it.  Trying to push Shadwell out of the circle, then madly body-hopping to try and get back down to Earth regardless of the consequences.  Stabbing an archdemon through the chest after being told not to. Making a deal for asylum without consulting Crowley first.  And what he had just done in his anger, in his fear.

Maltha continued, “And that is precisely why I waited until you were here, where you couldn’t go running off to Heaven on a whim, to tell you what was going to happen, because it was of paramount importance this plot be kept under wraps until it was ready to be deployed.”

Aziraphale hid his face in his hands, regaining his seat.

The door creaked open.  A demon with red hair slunk into the room. “’Scuse me,” she said.

“You!” Aziraphale shouted, his chair scraping back as he leapt up.  “You little bitch!  I told you not to give the angel dust spell to anyone!  And you gave it to the one person you knew would make use of it to harm Heaven!”

Abraxas shrank back. The door pushed open further, this time by an angry hand, and Paula appeared, moving herself in front of Abraxas.  “You focking arsehole,” said Paula.  “I gave the spell to Maltha.  Not her.”

Aziraphale looked back and forth between the two of them.

“You thought this was Hell’s plan?” said Paula.  “You think we were tricked by demons into betraying Heaven? This is our doing.  We initiated it.  We decided to rebel.  We just needed someone powerful enough to take on the archangels to help us.”

“You’re a traitor.”

“Come on, Aziraphale,” said Paula. “You know this has to happen. Maybe you haven’t come to terms with it yet and just need some time, but you know deep down this was a long time coming.”

A third figure muscled them both out of the way, and a warrior stuck his head into the room.  “Lord Maltha,” he said, “what Abraxas was trying to say was that Michael could fall at any moment, and time is beginning to run out.  You need to get into your armor and prepare to move out.”

“Right,” said Maltha.  She stood and began to make her way across the room.  “So what’ll it be, Aziraphale?”

“No,” he said.  “Absolutely not.  I won’t allow it.”

She clucked her tongue.  “I was afraid of that.  Then it can’t be helped; you’ll have to stay here until we’re finished.”

“You’re going to keep us prisoner here?”

“I’m glad you caught on so fast. Mammon, please escort Aziraphale to a holding cell.”

“You’re going to keep us here by force?” Aziraphale exclaimed.  “Maltha, this is—this is not how you treat your friends!”

Mammon’s snout bumped Aziraphale’s back, and he whirled around, looking indignant.  “Don’t you touch me!”

“Let’s go.”

“I’m still a heavenly soldier,” said Aziraphale, reaching his hand into the aether and grasping the hilt of his sword.  “And you will not—”

The second the blade became visible, Maltha practically teleported to close the distance between them, smacking the weapon out of his hand with such force that it flew across the room.  Her enormous clawed hand gripped his wrist tightly, drawing five small streams of blood.

“You will not, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, a throaty, whispered threat.  “Do not even think of it.  All the pieces in this chess game have been arranged precisely.  It will not all topple down because of the ignorant indignation of a principality offended because I hurt his feelings.”

“This is about more than my feelings, Maltha.”

“You will have an eternity to see what I’m doing, Aziraphale, once the Earth is safe.”

Mammon herded Aziraphale towards the exit.  Maltha came back to the table, where Angelo and Crowley were still sitting fearfully.

She put one hand on the backs of each of their chairs. “Crowley,” she said, more gently, “I would like you to stay here as well.  We’re going to put up wards, and Mammon is going to come back down here to hold the ninth layer while we’re all gone.  You’ll be safe.”

Shakily, without a further word, Crowley stood and followed Mammon.

“And Angelo,” began Maltha.

“You’re just going to use him,” Angelo wept.  “That’s all anyone ever does.  I won’t let you.”

“Angelo,” said Maltha, softer now.  “I’m not going to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do.  Part of the entire point of these angels’ rebellion is they thought he deserved better.  They would not let me, even if I wanted to force him.  But you know him better than any of us.  What do you think he’ll want to do with his newfound freedom?”

Angelo looked down. “Rebel,” he said.

“Would you like to come up with us?  Would you like to see him?”

He nodded miserably.

“Then come on.”

Meanwhile Aziraphale had been forced into the antechamber, and when he came out he saw them, the rebel angels.  All decked out in shining armor, weapons ready, some with half-plucked wings. He was shocked to recognise most of them.  His principality neighbours.  The group of fourteen angels Michael had chosen to accompany him in Aziraphale���s shop. Some of Camael’s, now Victoria’s, soldiers.  Almost all of the powers under Michael.  Olivia and Kyleth were right at the front; Kyleth gave him a sheepish wave when he came out.

“Traitors!” he shouted.  “All of you! God will smite you!  Think about what you’re doing!”

Kyleth put her hand down.

As soon as Maltha came into the room, Vincent stepped forwards and said, “Lord Maltha, we’ve brought your armor.  Are you ready to begin?”

“Yes,” said Maltha.

She held out her arms and let a warrior strap on her breast plate. Another knelt to fasten greaves onto her legs.

“Look at yourselves,” said Aziraphale.  “Helping a demon prepare for battle.”

“Now I see why you didn’t fall in the first rebellion, Aziraphale,” said Maltha, still holding her arms out, not looking at him.  “I had always wondered.  You see the injustice, and you question, and you want it to be better. But you’d rather be comfortable. And it’s easier to say they’re traitors than to admit you should be standing where they are.”

Aziraphale said nothing, watching as they fastened hinged armored plates to her wings.

“Mammon,” said Maltha.  “Please take him into the holding cell in the Northeast wing.  I don’t think Aziraphale wants to watch any more.”

“Yes, lord.”

Whether he had finally been shamed into silence, or he was just tired of yelling, Aziraphale kept quiet as he was led out.

An angel came over with her helmet.  “He’ll come around,” he said.

“I hope he will,” she said, rubbing her finger along the helm of the helmet.  “And I just hope he will forgive me.  Nobody from Heaven ever has much forgiveness in them.”

An angel came over with the final piece, the blackened crown Satan had worn for millennia.  “Would you like to wear the crown, lord?”

Maltha looked from the helmet to the crown.

“No,” she finally answered, accepting the helmet.  “I’m not doing this as Maltha Queen of Hell.  I’m doing this as Miriam, the royally pissed off archangel who never does as she’s told, back for another rebellion against the Heavenly Kingdom.”

Her armored wings swept behind her like a cape as she turned to lead the way out of the ninth circle of Hell.

The ceremony for casting an angel out of Heaven took place in an impressive golden room, the architecture of which was centred around a podium upon which sat one of the most important holy artefacts in existence: The Book of Life, a volume so huge and complex that any human looking at it could barely comprehend it.

Aziraphale would be far more than weak-kneed if he had ever seen it.  He never had, and he was lucky for that, because the only circumstances under which he would have laid eyes upon it would be if he were to be cast out of Heaven.

In another universe, maybe, in another timeline.  But not in this one.

It was not Aziraphale, but Michael sitting the judgement seat in this time and place.  And Uriel stood opposite him, at the podium behind the book.  Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Metatron were seated behind her in a half-moon shape at their seats at the bench.  Azrael’s seat was empty, because Azrael was quite rude and always ignored his summons, but he had already given them what they needed to proceed without him.

“I can’t stand the way he’s looking at me,” said Uriel, throwing her hands up. “I can’t pass judgement on someone who isn’t even aware of what’s going on.”

“Raphael,” said Metatron, “Please remove some of the drugs you have given Michael so that he can actually witness the proceedings.”

“Michael may become violent if I do that.”

“He is restrained with binding sigils.  Not even he can break those.”

Raphael hopped down from the dais, approaching the pit below to put a hand on Michael’s head.  Michael looked up at him with dull eyes.

His eyes began to widen as he realised where he was.

“I’m so sorry, brother,” said Raphael.

“Raphael,” said Michael, voice hoarse.  “You said you were going to help me.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Raphael.”

“I’ll meet you down there,” Raphael whispered to him, and put a small kiss on top of his head.  Michael watched, the confusion in his eyes turning to desperation.

Raphael regained his place next to Uriel.

“Raphael,” said Michael.  “You can’t save me?”

“This will save you,” said Raphael.

Michael’s eyes flew across the line of archangels, none of whom looked very happy.  Victoria was in full-blown tears already.

“Uriel,” Michael said.  “Please don’t.”

“We shall begin now,” said Uriel.  “This meeting of archangels in the Judgement Hall of God convenes regarding the fate of the archangel Michael.”

“Uriel, wait.”  Michael tried to stand on wobbly legs, but what remained of the sedatives held him back, and the holy guardians in the room gently pushed him back into a kneeling position.  “This is just to scare me, right?  To get me to listen to you like you’ve always done? This isn’t real, right?”

“This proclamation has been agreed upon by the archangels Uriel, Metatron, Gabriel, Raphael, Victoria, and Azrael: that we are united against our seventh member, the archangel Michael, and declare that his crimes are too numerous and too heinous to be allowed to stand.”

“N-no!” cried Michael.  “I said I was sorry.  I’ll behave. I’ll do whatever you say.  Uriel, I’ll cut my hair.”

“Therefore,” continued Uriel, absolutely stone-faced, “Heaven decrees the archangel Michael belongs in the company of the beasts of the Pit, and not with our Heavenly Father.”

“Gabriel,” said Michael, tears streaming down his cheeks, “you can take my body back.  I’ll give it to you.  I won’t see Angelo anymore.  I’ll stay in Heaven by the throne room where I’m supposed to be.  I’ll stay right there.”

“It’s far too late for that,” said Gabriel.  “This wouldn’t have happened if you had just done what you were told from the beginning.  You bring shame to your station, and to all of us, you damnable creature.”

Michael’s gaze swung to Metatron. “I’ll do what you say,” he sobbed. “Please don’t cast me out.  I’m sorry. I’m sorry.  Metatron, I won’t question the ineffable plan anymore. I’ll kill every demon I see.  I will.”

The Metatron refused to meet his eyes.  “What use are you now?”

Victoria had her hands on her face to try and hide her tears, but her racking body gave it away.

Uriel lifted her hands above the Book of Life, and it glowed faintly, flipping open of its own accord, thousands of pages whirring too fast for the eye to see, until it slammed open to Michael’s page.

“I’ll be good,” Michael warbled.  “I’ll obey.  Don’t cast me out. Please.”

Uriel took the corner of the page.  “This is the end,” she said, voice more quiet. “We are truly on our own path now. You will never step foot in Heaven again, Michael.”

She tore the page out.  Michael flinched as though the action caused him pain.

“And I want to be clear that I have no sympathy for you whatsoever,” said Uriel.  “Those who would defy their fate deserve exactly this.  You all may share some sentimentality about this, but I would rather see Creation shatter and every deviant angel be cast into the Pit than see any of this foolishness that has wrecked the Ineffable Plan continue.”

Uriel held the page up, that thread of creation that dictated Michael’s entire being.  The page upon which his destiny as the Sword of Heaven was written.  Michael’s wet eyes followed it desperately.  

“Burn,” Raphael said quietly.  “Be free.”

“And you’ll burn with the rest of them,” said Uriel.

A tongue of flame appeared at the bottom of the page, racing up it.

“On this,” said Uriel, “the sunset of God’s creation.”

[jonigirard3]

Attention! This Is Why You Can't Sleep | Bronwyn Milkins | TEDxUWA

Attention! This Is Why You Can't Sleep | Bronwyn Milkins | TEDxUWA

In today's, busy world and lack of sleep is one as a badge of honor pulling an all-nighter is a testament to our self self sacrifice to work and 13-hour days simply show that were dedicated to success. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vaAydEAKglw But this is not the narrative which should be glorifying. Sleep is a basic and necessary process that demands to be satisfied just like our need for food and drink. Yet on any night up to 40 % of us have insufficient sleep. Even minor, sleep disturbances increase our risk for heart disease, depression and early death. Despite decades of science telling us that sleep is the foundation from which everything else flows, creativity, performance, health and sanity, sleep is not getting the attention it so rightly deserves. This is why my PhD research comes in for the past five years of being asleep researcher, I've, been looking at how attention to negativity, affects our sleep and developing a new approach to improve our sleep. Today I'll, be telling you about what we found and what it means for you. I've, always been a self-confessed sleep enthusiast. I love sleep, our child, my parents never had to worry by age 4. I put myself to bed drift off into a restful slumber and wake up raring to go. My teens were much the same. That was until one day I arrived at work for the morning shift only to realize that I was already out of energy. This happened time and time again I went to the doctor, but all the tests that I fine I wasn't. Fine, though sleep was affecting my life and I didn't know what to do. I was frustrated, so I went back to the doctor again this time we talked about how I felt I was exhausted, constantly on edge with a hair-trigger temper and my usual bright personality had turned into a dollop of flatness. The doctor said that lack of sleep was affecting every single aspect of my life and it was causing me to slip into a severe depression with proper support, mostly gradually returned to normal. I felt better than ever, and I was so relieved, but I was also so desperate to avoid slipping back to where I was before. I knew that I had to understand why poor sleep patterns and find solutions. While there are many biological causes of poor sleep, sometimes the biggest causes are psychological processes that happen outside of our awareness. Each day we have bombarded by thousands of pieces of information, but our brains do not have the resources to pay attention to everything. One type of information - the brain is particularly hard way to pay attention to is negative information. A phenomenon called attentional bias, negativity in our caveman days being alert. The negativity helped us keep safe from predators today. Thinking about all the things that could go wrong in an upcoming exam could give us the extra push needed to stay in that little bit extra. However, attentional bias for negativity can also work against us by producing worry that really causes us not to sleep to demonstrate how this works. I need you to think about a big event in your food. It could be a deadline and interview, or even a beep pressure public talk. Now it's the night before and you're in bed. Most of you will fall asleep in a time just when it takes to boil an egg. Others won't, be so lucky and will find it difficult to wire down. Instead, they'll lay awake, while their brain reminds them of all the ways that they going to stuff up tomorrow. The next day, you're, a bit groggy, but everything goes fine and off without a hitch. Those people who found it difficult to wire down the night before will go straight back into their normal sleep routine, but about 2 in 10 white. They'll, find that their attention is still captured by negativity and they & # 39. Ll lie awake worrying about anything and everything over time. Their attention book unconsciously shift to worry exclusively about flair. This is what happened to one person in my research. Paul Paul was putting in long hours at work to meet a deadline and he wasn't getting much sleep for the process. He met the deadline and he felt much more relaxed afterwards, but he still thought he couldn't get back into his normal sleep routine. He said to me: I tried everything I try so hard to sleep. Everybody else makes it so easy. Why is it just made? What Paul may have believed that his focus on steak was helpful? It was like they have an exact opposite effect, causing more stress and a vicious cycle of sleeplessness. I've conducted research with hundreds of people just like Paul investigating the potential benefits of a new approach. Success disrupt the back row sleeplessness before even has a chance to start. This approach is called attentional bias modification, unlike traditional 1430 attention about notifications, doesn't require an unconscionable operation of thinking and behavior. Instead in above shifting our attention away from negativity using simple computer tasks that you can complete in your own time. The way it works is like this two words flat upon a strength, one that is negative, like the word fatigue and one that is neutral, like the word chair, a split second later they disappear and it replaced by two dots behind the neutral word. People respond as to whether the neutral are two dots arranged horizontally or vertically over 700 trials. The aim is to get people looking at the ritual work and it's, not their attention away from the negative work conditioning the brain to pay less attention to negativity. I wanted to know, could modify people's attention in the moment. Stuff before they go to sleep, actually improve their sleep. In the first study, we asked university students to complete vacation paths before their and it's like Diaries for six days. What they didn't know is that on every second up, instead of completing the training tasks, they completed a task that didn't train their attention. We found that on my second page of the training task, they had less boring and fell asleep up to thirty minutes faster compared to those nights, and they did not complete the task. Easter thought far exceeded our expectations, so we conducted the same study again just to say whether this mother flew once again people who completed the training tasks that they have less work and fell asleep after these results suggest up the multiplying our lives from negativity, modify the Worry that we experience death before bed and he was not and helps us achieve a much-needed rest. My vision with other world, where everyone has the opportunity for Buddhist sleep. Our first represent a crucial first step towards achieving, is paving the way for non intervention at Horsley. That can get results and change lives within only a few minutes. Kick it amazing. You can apply for now the principles of attentional bias, modification to your boss and a few different wax first avoid looking at social media or a mountain lion. If you find it stressful, dent Frank's, relaxing my time ritual, like listening to music and when you're in bed, they made up that rhetoric awakening Chief Information Network in today's busy bro. We need more than ever to think, of course, like most about your honor, but I like that. I cannot forsake frontin sense. I can give it the attention into. Does that. I would not be here today doing the things that made me happy and healthy after recovering from depression, sleepy amazing, and I myself [ Applause, ] Source : Youtube

https://www.yourvibration.com/sleep/101 Sleep Rescue, Sleep Remedy, Sleep Aid

[luckylq30-blog]

This money is supposed to be dedicated to energy efficiency

Obviously chose the right team this year, said Mackintosh, one of the 36,634 fans in the sold out stadium. Going to go singing Are The Champions out those doors. Game was a disappointment for Redblacks fans who thought their team might be crowned champions at the end of their second season.

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wholesale nfl jerseys from china Flyers owner Ed Snider, who is very open about his dislike of the Soviets, doesnt think the Rendezvous 87 format, in which the NHL All Stars will play the Soviets on Feb. 11 and 13, is worthwhile. "I think it's terrible," Snider told the Toronto Globe and Mail wholesale nfl jerseys from china.

[terryquinnblog]

A CASE OF UNCONSCIONABLE NEGLECT

What fools we were, Jane and I, to have spurned the tucked-away wonders of Portugal for decades. Countless repeat vacations in France, Italy, Germany, the Netherlands, England, Belgium, the Caribbean – even right next door in Spain – when we could have wandered the swirly, white-tiled sidewalks of Lisbon. When we could have taken in the dreamy views of the River Duoro as it curls through the heart of Porto, up north. Or explored, without objective, the southern towns, fishing villages and beaches of the Algarve.

Above the vineyards of the Duoro Valley, following an idyllic boat trip on the river

Having just finished her first year of PhD studies at the CUNY Graduate Center, Jane logged 10 to 11 hours of sleep each night in the primo apartments she’d arranged for us to stay in. By day, she diligently worked the voluminous resources of the mini-library she put together, last winter and spring, to book lunches, dinners, boat trips, concerts and museum visits wherever our trains, planes and rental car took us over the course of three blissful weeks.

Loved this 40-foot-high portrait of painter Artur Arcos, in a square near Porto’s embarcadero ...

... and so, spent a placid hour sketching my own version

For me, the architecture, landscapes and gorgeous people of Portugal were a daily artistic inspiration. I sketched in plazas, public arks, galleries; marked up scores for two masses and a requiem I’ll be singing later this summer and in the fall; and, most enjoyably, drafted two more of the memoir pieces I’ve been writing – one of which I hope to have ready for a blog post by this weekend.

The villa we stayed in for three nights, in the seaside town of Lagos

From  our bedroom window, a view of the town’s ancient wall, and the foundation of a building in progress

In one corner of the massive bathroom, the tub of my dreams

For years we’d planned to make this trek to the far edge of Iberia. Two sets of glossy guide books Jane bought first in the ’90's, then in the aughts, became so outdated that she’d had to chuck them and order a third. But at last we’ve seen the light. Sun from dawn to dusk every single day we were there ... Temperatures averaging 82 degrees ... Splendid fish dinners at strangely low prices. Nothing whatsoever not to love.

Had to draw this 200 AD bust of a Roman soldier, housed at the Gulbenkien Museum in Lisbon

If you haven’t yet traveled to Portugal, do.

Till soon ... Terry

[markjsousa]

Jeffrey Pfeffer: Why Employers Should Care About The Health Of Their Employees

I spoke to Jeffrey Pfeffer, author of Dying for a Paycheck: How Modern Management Harms Employee Health and Company Performance—and What We Can Do About It, about why he wrote the book, the employee burnout crisis, the importance of corporate wellness programs, what we can learn from other countries about creating a better work environment, and how to prevent ‘work creep’.

Pfeffer is the Thomas D. Dee II Professor of Organizational Behavior at the Stanford Graduate School of Business. He has authored or coauthored fourteen books and is a highly sought-after expert on the subject of power and leadership. He is widely considered one of the leading management experts in the world. Pfeffer has been a visiting professor at London Business School, Harvard Business School, Singapore Management University, and IESE. He has served on the boards of several human capital software companies as well as on a variety of public and nonprofit boards.

Dan Schawbel: Why did you decide to investigate the impact of management on employee health and company performance? Did anything surprise you while research for the book?

Jeffrey Pfeffer: As a member of Stanford’s committee on faculty and staff human resources, and after sitting on Hewitt’s Human Capital Leadership Council with CHRO’s of some of the largest companies, I was struck by the almost obsessive focus on health care costs on the part of these largely self-insured organizations. But in this focus on health care costs, the emphasis was mostly on prices for various services and drugs and plan design to induce more cost-conscious individual decision making. To the extent there was a focus on prevention rather than remediation of health care costs, it was on individual behaviors such as exercise, diet, and smoking. It struck me that employers were possibly missing the profound effects of work environments on both individual health-relevant behaviors and morbidity and mortality outcomes and costs.

As I dove into the subject and began looking at the extensive epidemiological research literature, I also noticed that many of the things that drove unhealthy behaviors and caused ill health—job environment dimensions such as long work hours, an absence of job control, and work-family conflict—were also workplace practices that did not really benefit employers, holding aside their effects on health and health care costs.

In short, it seemed to me that much about contemporary work environments was creating a lose-lose situation in which employers were doing things that benefited no one—not them nor the people whose psychological and physical well-being depended in important ways on what happened to those people at work. Consequently, it seemed to me we needed to shine a light on this problem and spark a social movement, or maybe several such movements, to make employee well-being a more central focus of employer’s actions. Hence, Dying for a Paycheck.

Schawbel: Our research shows that employees are working harder than ever before, with no additional pay, and it’s caused a burnout crisis. How does your research reflect this and what can employers do to solve it?

Pfeffer: Your research is completely correct. Particularly in the U.S., where work hours have increased to the point where country is now ranked near the top on hours worked, people are working more and more—and not necessarily enjoying greater financial well-being. Employers need to recognize that at every, and I mean every, level of analysis—nations, industries, and individual companies—there is extensive research demonstrating the truth of something that common sense suggests should be true: that as work hours increase, labor productivity decreases. I summarize some of this research in the chapter on work hours in Dying for a Paycheck. Thus, working people more—burning them out, in your terms—does not increase productivity or, in many cases, even total output. Employers should reduce work hours and work pressures—which, in the end, make people sick and increase turnover. And the evidence is overwhelming that, no surprise, sick people are less productive.

Schawbel: The stressed out workforce has given rise to the wellbeing/wellness industry and corporate sponsored programs. What is your take on this trend and the effectiveness of those programs?

Pfeffer: Corporate wellness programs and the wellbeing industry are extensive, and costly. But the evidence on the effectiveness of such interventions is mixed, at best. And that’s because these interventions are, in my view, focused on the wrong things. We know, from extensive research summarized in Dying for a Paycheck, that individual behaviors such as overeating, smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, and drug abuse are related to the stress, including workplace induced stress, that individuals experience. So instead of trying to get people to engage in healthier individual behaviors, workplace wellbeing initiatives would be more effective if they focused on preventing the stress-inducing aspects of work environments that cause the unhealthy individual behaviors in the first place. Simply put, companies need to build cultures of health—and that begins by creating work environments that help people thrive both physically and psychologically. Not on trying to remediate the harm that toxic workplaces inflict through limited-intervention “programs.”

Schawbel: Some countries have 5 weeks mandatory vacation (Finland, France, etc.) or free healthcare (Canada) while American is rated second to worst for worker protections. What can we learn from other countries about creating a health work environment?

Pfeffer: In the U.S., approximately 50,000 people a year are dying from not being able to access health care because they do not have health insurance. I find that fact to be morally reprehensible. In the U.S., about a quarter of all employees have no paid time off—neither sick days nor paid vacations. People are going to work sick, thereby making others, such as fellow employees and customers, sick by exposing them to things such colds and flu. That seems unconscionable. The U.S. stands out among advanced industrialized countries in its absence of employee protections. Two colleagues and I estimated that about one-half of the 120,000 excess deaths from workplace exposures annually was preventable. I find that toll appalling. The U.S., which claims to be “pro-life,” ought to worry about human life not just at its very beginnings and end, but throughout people’s lives, including their lives at work.

Schawbel: Technology has expanded the workday to 24/7 since we are always connected. What can be done to limit work off the grid?

Pfeffer: The idea that because one can be connected all the time one should be needs to be changed. Simply put, this is a matter of organizational culture and expectations. When Dean Baker, the head of HR for Patagonia, the clothing company, worked for Sears, he received an e-mail about work late afternoon on Christmas eve. When he replied the next morning, the response he got was, “what took you so long?” If someone did that at Patagonia, they would no longer work there. The expectation there, and at other companies that care about their employees’ well-being and work-life balance, is that, unless in cases of exceptional emergency, people should be “off the grid” when they stop their work day—and that downtime should be respected. France, of course, has instituted a regulation limiting employers’ use of off-hours e-mails to their employees. This is something that any employer can—and should—do. People do better work when they have time to relax, sleep, and refresh. Burning people out just drives them away and produces worse work output in any event.

The post Jeffrey Pfeffer: Why Employers Should Care About The Health Of Their Employees appeared first on Personal Branding Blog - Stand Out In Your Career.

[glenmenlow]

Jeffrey Pfeffer: Why Employers Should Care About The Health Of Their Employees

I spoke to Jeffrey Pfeffer, author of Dying for a Paycheck: How Modern Management Harms Employee Health and Company Performance—and What We Can Do About It, about why he wrote the book, the employee burnout crisis, the importance of corporate wellness programs, what we can learn from other countries about creating a better work environment, and how to prevent ‘work creep’.

Pfeffer is the Thomas D. Dee II Professor of Organizational Behavior at the Stanford Graduate School of Business. He has authored or coauthored fourteen books and is a highly sought-after expert on the subject of power and leadership. He is widely considered one of the leading management experts in the world. Pfeffer has been a visiting professor at London Business School, Harvard Business School, Singapore Management University, and IESE. He has served on the boards of several human capital software companies as well as on a variety of public and nonprofit boards.

Dan Schawbel: Why did you decide to investigate the impact of management on employee health and company performance? Did anything surprise you while research for the book?

Jeffrey Pfeffer: As a member of Stanford’s committee on faculty and staff human resources, and after sitting on Hewitt’s Human Capital Leadership Council with CHRO’s of some of the largest companies, I was struck by the almost obsessive focus on health care costs on the part of these largely self-insured organizations. But in this focus on health care costs, the emphasis was mostly on prices for various services and drugs and plan design to induce more cost-conscious individual decision making. To the extent there was a focus on prevention rather than remediation of health care costs, it was on individual behaviors such as exercise, diet, and smoking. It struck me that employers were possibly missing the profound effects of work environments on both individual health-relevant behaviors and morbidity and mortality outcomes and costs.

As I dove into the subject and began looking at the extensive epidemiological research literature, I also noticed that many of the things that drove unhealthy behaviors and caused ill health—job environment dimensions such as long work hours, an absence of job control, and work-family conflict—were also workplace practices that did not really benefit employers, holding aside their effects on health and health care costs.

In short, it seemed to me that much about contemporary work environments was creating a lose-lose situation in which employers were doing things that benefited no one—not them nor the people whose psychological and physical well-being depended in important ways on what happened to those people at work. Consequently, it seemed to me we needed to shine a light on this problem and spark a social movement, or maybe several such movements, to make employee well-being a more central focus of employer’s actions. Hence, Dying for a Paycheck.

Schawbel: Our research shows that employees are working harder than ever before, with no additional pay, and it’s caused a burnout crisis. How does your research reflect this and what can employers do to solve it?

Pfeffer: Your research is completely correct. Particularly in the U.S., where work hours have increased to the point where country is now ranked near the top on hours worked, people are working more and more—and not necessarily enjoying greater financial well-being. Employers need to recognize that at every, and I mean every, level of analysis—nations, industries, and individual companies—there is extensive research demonstrating the truth of something that common sense suggests should be true: that as work hours increase, labor productivity decreases. I summarize some of this research in the chapter on work hours in Dying for a Paycheck. Thus, working people more—burning them out, in your terms—does not increase productivity or, in many cases, even total output. Employers should reduce work hours and work pressures—which, in the end, make people sick and increase turnover. And the evidence is overwhelming that, no surprise, sick people are less productive.

Schawbel: The stressed out workforce has given rise to the wellbeing/wellness industry and corporate sponsored programs. What is your take on this trend and the effectiveness of those programs?

Pfeffer: Corporate wellness programs and the wellbeing industry are extensive, and costly. But the evidence on the effectiveness of such interventions is mixed, at best. And that’s because these interventions are, in my view, focused on the wrong things. We know, from extensive research summarized in Dying for a Paycheck, that individual behaviors such as overeating, smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, and drug abuse are related to the stress, including workplace induced stress, that individuals experience. So instead of trying to get people to engage in healthier individual behaviors, workplace wellbeing initiatives would be more effective if they focused on preventing the stress-inducing aspects of work environments that cause the unhealthy individual behaviors in the first place. Simply put, companies need to build cultures of health—and that begins by creating work environments that help people thrive both physically and psychologically. Not on trying to remediate the harm that toxic workplaces inflict through limited-intervention “programs.”

Schawbel: Some countries have 5 weeks mandatory vacation (Finland, France, etc.) or free healthcare (Canada) while American is rated second to worst for worker protections. What can we learn from other countries about creating a health work environment?

Pfeffer: In the U.S., approximately 50,000 people a year are dying from not being able to access health care because they do not have health insurance. I find that fact to be morally reprehensible. In the U.S., about a quarter of all employees have no paid time off—neither sick days nor paid vacations. People are going to work sick, thereby making others, such as fellow employees and customers, sick by exposing them to things such colds and flu. That seems unconscionable. The U.S. stands out among advanced industrialized countries in its absence of employee protections. Two colleagues and I estimated that about one-half of the 120,000 excess deaths from workplace exposures annually was preventable. I find that toll appalling. The U.S., which claims to be “pro-life,” ought to worry about human life not just at its very beginnings and end, but throughout people’s lives, including their lives at work.

Schawbel: Technology has expanded the workday to 24/7 since we are always connected. What can be done to limit work off the grid?

Pfeffer: The idea that because one can be connected all the time one should be needs to be changed. Simply put, this is a matter of organizational culture and expectations. When Dean Baker, the head of HR for Patagonia, the clothing company, worked for Sears, he received an e-mail about work late afternoon on Christmas eve. When he replied the next morning, the response he got was, “what took you so long?” If someone did that at Patagonia, they would no longer work there. The expectation there, and at other companies that care about their employees’ well-being and work-life balance, is that, unless in cases of exceptional emergency, people should be “off the grid” when they stop their work day—and that downtime should be respected. France, of course, has instituted a regulation limiting employers’ use of off-hours e-mails to their employees. This is something that any employer can—and should—do. People do better work when they have time to relax, sleep, and refresh. Burning people out just drives them away and produces worse work output in any event.

The post Jeffrey Pfeffer: Why Employers Should Care About The Health Of Their Employees appeared first on Personal Branding Blog – Stand Out In Your Career.

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[daddy-bates]

The Bates Family Vacation

The following is the transcript of the emails exchanged between Airbnb's dispute resolution team and the apartment host during the stay of Mr. Bates while on vacation in Amsterdam on November 24th, 2017. Host (10:00 pm): My neighbour has complained about hearing loud thumping and profane exclamations coming through the walls of my apartment... she is hard of hearing. This is a quiet family building with many elderly people including my neighbour who is on dialysis. I am unable to contact the guest directly as it appears he has no social media and doesn't know how to use his cell phone. Can you please ask him to be quiet? Airbnb (11:00 pm): Hello Mr. Bates, We have received a complaint from the host regarding your stay at their apartment in Amsterdam. The listing states that guests are not allowed at the apartment yet the host is complaining that multiple male visitors have been coming and going. Please try to keep the noise down and contact me so we can discuss this misunderstanding. Host (12:00 am): Mr. Bates (if that is his real name) had led me to believe that he was a father staying at the apartment with his sons. I have counted 12 such "sons" entering the apartment in the last 2 hours alone. Apparently he knocked on my elderly neighbours door asking if she had any crisco. I want him and his "sons" kicked out for violating the rules of the house and I expect to be paid in full. Airbnb (12:30 am): Hello Mr. Bates. I have received another complaint from your Airbnb host regarding noise. I know baking with the family can get rowdy but could you please try to keep it down? Hope you enjoy the remainder of your stay. Host (4:00 am): This has gone on long enough. It appears the Bates family is hosting an incestuous hipster rave orgy in my apartment. I looked through the window and saw at least 50 men wearing nothing but plaid shirts. On the front lawn they have put up a sign saying "welcome to the cum dump". Someone approached my elderly neighbour asking if they could borrow a zucchini or large cucumber and specifically Johnson & Johnson brand tylenol. Mr. Bates himself later asked if he could borrow her dialysis machine. I assume the vegetables are related to the many references to salad tossing heard through the walls shortly after. The sounds coming from the apartment are unconscionable and only partly drowned out by the blare of indie music. I demand you do something about this and protect the rights of your hosts who make your business possible. Airbnb (4:30 am) Hello Mr. Bates. I am sorry you had to endure the unwelcoming and hostile behaviour of your host while staying in Amsterdam with your family. I can imagine that being a single father of many sons can make things hard sometimes. Please accept our most sincere apology and we will happily refund the cost of your stay. Sincerely, Mr. Gayfore Paye. Customer service representative #hipsterraveorgy #cumdump #saladtossing

[onlineloanssameday-blog1]

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[glenmenlow]

Jeffrey Pfeffer On His New Book “Dying for a Paycheck”

I spoke to Jeffrey Pfeffer, author of the new book, Dying for a Paycheck: How Modern Management Harms Employee Health and Company Performance—and What We Can Do About It. Pfeffer is the Thomas D. Dee II Professor of Organizational Behavior at the Stanford Graduate School of Business. He has authored or coauthored fourteen books and is a highly sought-after expert on the subject of power and leadership. He is widely considered one of the leading management experts in the world. Pfeffer has been a visiting professor at London Business School, Harvard Business School, Singapore Management University, and IESE.

In the interview, he talks about his research for the book, the burnout crisis, the wellbeing industry, and how technology keeps us working 24/7.

Dan Schawbel: Why did you decide to investigate the impact of management on employee health and company performance? Did anything surprise you while research for the book?

Jeffrey Pfeffer: As a member of Stanford’s committee on faculty and staff human resources, and after sitting on Hewitt’s Human Capital Leadership Council with CHRO’s of some of the largest companies, I was struck by the almost obsessive focus on health care costs on the part of these largely self-insured organizations. But in this focus on health care costs, the emphasis was mostly on prices for various services and drugs and plan design to induce more cost-conscious individual decision making. To the extent there was a focus on prevention rather than remediation of health care costs, it was on individual behaviors such as exercise, diet, and smoking. It struck me that employers were possibly missing the profound effects of work environments on both individual health-relevant behaviors and morbidity and mortality outcomes and costs.

As I dove into the subject and began looking at the extensive epidemiological research literature, I also noticed that many of the things that drove unhealthy behaviors and caused ill health—job environment dimensions such as long work hours, an absence of job control, and work-family conflict—were also workplace practices that did not really benefit employers, holding aside their effects on health and health care costs.

In short, it seemed to me that much about contemporary work environments was creating a lose-lose situation in which employers were doing things that benefited no one—not them nor the people whose psychological and physical well-being depended in important ways on what happened to those people at work. Consequently, it seemed to me we needed to shine a light on this problem and spark a social movement, or maybe several such movements, to make employee well-being a more central focus of employer’s actions. Hence, Dying for a Paycheck.

Schawbel: Our research shows that employees are working harder than ever before, with no additional pay, and it’s caused a burnout crisis. How does your research reflect this and what can employers do to solve it?

Pfeffer: Your research is completely correct. Particularly in the U.S., where work hours have increased to the point where country is now ranked near the top on hours worked, people are working more and more—and not necessarily enjoying greater financial well-being. Employers need to recognize that at every, and I mean every, level of analysis—nations, industries, and individual companies—there is extensive research demonstrating the truth of something that common sense suggests should be true: that as work hours increase, labor productivity decreases. I summarize some of this research in the chapter on work hours in Dying for a Paycheck. Thus, working people more—burning them out, in your terms—does not increase productivity or, in many cases, even total output. Employers should reduce work hours and work pressures—which, in the end, make people sick and increase turnover. And the evidence is overwhelming that, no surprise, sick people are less productive.

Schawbel: The stressed out workforce has given rise to the wellbeing/wellness industry and corporate sponsored programs. What is your take on this trend and the effectiveness of those programs?

Pfeffer: Corporate wellness programs and the wellbeing industry are extensive, and costly. But the evidence on the effectiveness of such interventions is mixed, at best. And that’s because these interventions are, in my view, focused on the wrong things. We know, from extensive research summarized in Dying for a Paycheck, that individual behaviors such as overeating, smoking, excessive alcohol consumption, and drug abuse are related to the stress, including workplace induced stress, that individuals experience. So instead of trying to get people to engage in healthier individual behaviors, workplace wellbeing initiatives would be more effective if they focused on preventing the stress-inducing aspects of work environments that cause the unhealthy individual behaviors in the first place.

Simply put, companies need to build cultures of health—and that begins by creating work environments that help people thrive both physically and psychologically. Not on trying to remediate the harm that toxic workplaces inflict through limited-intervention “programs.”

Schawbel: Some countries have 5 weeks mandatory vacation (Finland, France, etc.) or free healthcare (Canada) while American is rated second to worst for worker protections. What can we learn from other countries about creating a health work environment?

Pfeffer: In the U.S., approximately 50,000 people a year are dying from not being able to access health care because they do not have health insurance. I find that fact to be morally reprehensible. In the U.S., about a quarter of all employees have no paid time off—neither sick days nor paid vacations. People are going to work sick, thereby making others, such as fellow employees and customers, sick by exposing them to things such colds and flu. That seems unconscionable. The U.S. stands out among advanced industrialized countries in its absence of employee protections. Two colleagues and I estimated that about one-half of the 120,000 excess deaths from workplace exposures annually was preventable. I find that toll appalling. The U.S., which claims to be “pro-life,” ought to worry about human life not just at its very beginnings and end, but throughout people’s lives, including their lives at work.

Schawbel: Technology has expanded the workday to 24/7 since we are always connected. What can be done to limit work off the grid?

Pfeffer: The idea that because one can be connected all the time one should be needs to be changed. Simply put, this is a matter of organizational culture and expectations. When Dean Baker, the head of HR for Patagonia, the clothing company, worked for Sears, he received an e-mail about work late afternoon on Christmas eve. When he replied the next morning, the response he got was, “what took you so long?” If someone did that at Patagonia, they would no longer work there. The expectation there, and at other companies that care about their employees’ well-being and work-life balance, is that, unless in cases of exceptional emergency, people should be “off the grid” when they stop their work day—and that downtime should be respected. France, of course, has instituted a regulation limiting employers’ use of off-hours e-mails to their employees. This is something that any employer can—and should—do. People do better work when they have time to relax, sleep, and refresh. Burning people out just drives them away and produces worse work output in any event.

The post Jeffrey Pfeffer On His New Book “Dying for a Paycheck” appeared first on Personal Branding Blog – Stand Out In Your Career.

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