#there's no good way to answer those questions truthfully. and lying about it would cost him heavily if found out

[multishipper-baby]

Thinking about the kind of parent Eak would be, I think he would struggle the most when it comes to dealing with heavy subjects (like death, prejudice, etc). He doesn't strike me as particularly emotionally intelligent? His approach to shitty stuff is giving himself a day or two to lick his wounds and then forcing himself to move on even if he's not really ready.

But he realizes pretty early on in parenthood that it's not exactly the healthiest mindset to have, and that children are very emotional beings that need lots of support, and that Ray especially has trouble with emotional regulation so. He obviously has to treat serious shit with more grace than "life sucks and then you die" even though he's absolute shit at that.

[aesopjankins]

UNLEASH MY INNER LIAR

How I Became a Timeshare Sales Presentation Pro

Intro

Ah, the infamous timeshare sales presentation. The lure of a free breakfast and a gift card can be too good to resist, but be warned, my friends, this is not for the faint of heart. I, myself, have battled these cutthroat salespeople and have lived to tell the tale.

The Allure of Freebies

Let’s start with my first experience. My friend and his mom had a timeshare and invited me along for a Myrtle Beach golf trip. I thought, hey, why not get a free stay by attending a sales presentation? Little did I know, this would be the beginning of my journey into the abyss of timeshare sales.

Rookie Mistakes

I made a rookie mistake and answered a question truthfully, costing me an additional 20 minutes of non-stop sales blabbering. From then on, I knew the golden rule: lie about everything. Lie about your job, your travel habits, your life in general. Give them as little ammo as possible so they can’t waste your time with their insidious tactics.

Watching a Friend Succumb to Pushy Salespeople

I watched in amusement as my friend struggled for a whopping six hours at his timeshare presentation. Poor guy, he had no chance against those pushy salespeople.

Lying as a Survival Strategy in Timeshare Sales

But I, on the other hand, was becoming a seasoned pro. I went into my Vegas presentation with a mission: get in and get out. I didn't want to spend any more time in that sales dungeon than I needed to. Breakfast wasn't too good this time, but who cares, I was there for the gift card. I told a bunch of lies to the first guy, angry looks were exchanged, and then I was out of there. Another win in the bucket.

Brazen Tactics

I continued my journey with a goal of 30 minutes for my third presentation and defeated the two-tiered video game-style salespeople. The second guy even asked me if I liked "pussy" right off the bat. Talk about brazen tactics. I held my ground and shot lie after lie until he finally gave up and brought in a third person. The gift card was mine in just 1.5 hours!

Embarrassing Slip-Ups and the SSN Fiasco

I brought my partner-in-crime, Tia, with me to my Chicago presentation. I coached her on the lies we needed to tell, but she dropped the ball a few times, making me look bad. We were even asked to provide our social security numbers for a credit check, which I refused but my friend foolishly filled out the form, causing a ruckus with the salesman. Tia and I left feeling slightly embarrassed but still managed to beat our time from previous years.

The Final Victory

Finally, my last presentation in Vegas was a breeze. I lamented the lack of a crappy breakfast and prepared for the usual 1.5-hour waste of time. But to my surprise, a woman approached me, gave me my gift card, and sent me on my way. Victory was mine!

A Guide To Surviving Timeshare Sales Presentations

So, my friends, heed my advice. If you're brave enough to attend a timeshare sales presentation, prepare yourself for a battle of wits with some of the most ruthless salespeople out there. But, with some quick thinking and a lot of lies, you too can emerge victorious and join the ranks of the timeshare sales presentation hall of famers.

Thanks for reading. Share if you like!

JM

[topazy]

The Fierce And Broken

2.06

Masterlist

You stepped back and stared at Raven speechless, even in the darkness you could tell she was blushing. Did she regret kissing you? You hoped not.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I shouldn’t have done that. Now I’ve made things weird between us-”

Now it was your turn to cut her off. You pressed your lips against hers, she kissed you back and you remained like that until you pulled away to catch your breath.

“Um...I suppose we should go to bed,” Raven said in a soft chuckle.

“Yeah it’s late, and I imagine you need to rest that brain of yours.”

Raven flopped down onto the bed, “you have no idea.”

—

Tracking a person down in a small camp was surprisingly hard. You were about to give up when you heard Abby’s voice. “And where's Marcus now? Imprisoned still? You're just going to leave him there? Like the kids in Mount Weather? If we run, who's going to rescue them?”

“You weren’t there, Abby. I saw them. Warriors trained since childhood to fight and die for their cause. As we speak, they are marching on this camp. And trust me when I tell you, the right choice is to live, so that we can come back and fight another day.”

“Inspirational words from a man who sent children to their deaths,” you ignored the look on Jaha’s face and looked directly at Abby. “Sorry to interrupt. I just wanted to tell you I’m accepting your offer. I’ll train with you.”

A smile spread across the doctors face, “good. I’m so glad you are taking this opportunity, your father would be so proud.”

You frowned at her comment and left the room not interested in the deceit of it all. None of the adults who came from the ark cared about anybody else expect from themselves or their children, you could understand that but not the acting like one happy family.

—

“Hey,” you whispered entering the tent.

Raven let out a groan before sitting up, “what time is it?”

“Early, very early.” You crawled onto the bed and laid down face first. “Nothing new has happened since last night.”

“Can I ask you something?” Raven sounded nervous. You turned to face her and nodded. “Last night...that kiss... I didn’t weird you out did I?”

“No, that’s why I kissed you back.”

She smiled at your comment. You knew it must be hard for Raven to try and avoid any awkwardness around the situation. “Good, because I was afraid you wouldn’t have kissed me back.” Her confession took you by surprise. “I think you are amazing Alba, I really do-” she paused for a moment trying to find the right words. “Me and Finn are over, but a part of me is still hurting and I don’t want to use you as a rebound. I’ve already made that mistake with Bellamy and you are to import for me to risk it.”

“I’m happy being friends if you are?” Truthfully you were a little disappointed, but you admired her honesty.

The brunette let out a frustrated sigh, “I do want to be more with you Al but-I’m scared to rush things in case I get hurt again, or even worse I hurt you.”

“Did you just ask me to go steady with you Reyes?”

“I did,” she laughed before leaning back next you on the bed. “So what do you say?”

You linked your fingers with hers, “I suppose so.”

Raven shoved you playfully. You filled her in on the conversation you overheard between Abby and Jaha. She still couldn’t believe that you confronted Abby on behalf of her. Your unusual moment of calmness was interrupted by Clarke barging into the tent, the blonde was in her usual frustrated state and was oblivious to you and Raven holding hands. “Y/N we have a meeting with the commander right now.”

You sat up fast, “we?”

“The commander won’t listen to me on my own, you still have the bruising from what the mountain men did.”

Rolling your eyes you stood up with a groan. “Yeah, I can show them it as proof I get it. Can you give me a minute?” Clarke stared at you blankly. “Jesus Griffin, I’m wanting to change okay.”

“Fine, but we need to leave in a couple of minutes.”

Quickly you changed your top into a more appropriate one. Running in a thin vest top wasn’t a good idea. Once your jacket was on you made sure to have Anya’s hair in your pocket. “You don’t need to go, If you don't want to.”

You gave Raven a sad smile before making sure not to forget anything important. “If there’s a chance to get our people back I need to try,” you squeezed her hand. “Stay safe Reyes, I’ll be back soon.”

—

“If you so much as look at her the wrong way, I will slit your throat.”

You gulped down at Gustus’s threat. You fully believed he would kill you and Clarke without a second thought. Another grounder stepped forward and introduced the commander.

“You're the one who burned three hundred of my warriors alive,” the commander's words were laced with venom as she spoke.

Clarke stepped forward, “you're the one who sent them there to kill us.”

“Do you have an answer for me, Clarke of the sky people?”

Answer? You frowned at the blonde standing next you. She has failed to mention any kind of deal, or questions had been discussed prior to this meeting. Clarke had an answer for her, “I’ve come to make you and offer.”

The commander's expression remained the same and emotionless, Clarke had really pissed her off. “This is not a negotiation.”

Another grounder spoke to the commander in trig. You didn’t know many words but you did pick up on ‘kill her’, You looked at Clarke confused. Was she trying to get you both killed?

“I can help you beat the mountain men.”

“Go on.”

As the commander spoke you noticed the other grounder eyeing you suspiciously. “Hundreds of your people are trapped inside mount weather, kept in cages. Their blood is used as medicine.”

“How do you know this?” The commander wasn’t believing her story.

“Because I saw them,” she stepped closer again. “My people are prisoners, too. I was one of them. We both were.”

“Lies!” The angry grounder stepped forward. “No one escapes the mountain.”

“We did. With Anya. We fought our way out together.”

“Another lie. Anya died in the fire. You killed her!”

“She’s not lying,” you said. “The mountain men are taking blood and bone marrow from both our people.”

The commander still looked unconvinced. Sighing you pulled your jeans down low enough to reveal your large bruise that has still yet to heal. “They took my bone marrow. I found Clarke inside mount weather, and while trying to escape we found Anya. We only had time to save her, but I intend on keeping my promise to return and free the others.” You reached into your pocket and pulled out the braid of hair. “Anya told me you were her second, I’m sure she’d want you to have this.”

“We don’t even know it’s hers”

“Anya was my mentor before I was called to lead my people,” the commander turned to face you and Clarke. “Did she die well?”

“Yes. By my side, trying to get a message to you.”

You couldn’t decide if Clarke’s memory of what happened was fuzzy, or if she was a really good liar. The commander held her hand up to Indra, “what message?”

“The only way to save both our people is if we join together.”

“Those who are about to die will say anything,” Indra spat. “The one you call Alba doesn’t seem conceived by Clarke of the sky people.”

Oh shit. Suddenly all eyes were on you. “Anya called me Heda gon bàsmhorachd, and heda gon mathanas and said one is a gift and the other is a weakness. “

The commander glanced from you to Clarke, “I’m still waiting for an offer.”

“The mountain men are turning your people into reapers. I can turn them back.”

Indra began ranting and yelling in trig.

“I’ve done it with Lincoln.”

You glared at Clarke as she said his name. Lincoln had always been good to your people. He’d saved Octavia, you, and Finn multiple times. Last time he tried to make peace it cost him his own people and Clarke had just given his location away.

—

Soon as you arrived back at camp Jackson said he needed your help. You excused yourself much to the dismay of Indra but the commander didn’t seem to care. After countless attempts of bringing the patient's temperature down Jackson eventually managed. He explained with such little resources it was becoming harder to help people.

“Hey doctor.” Turning to face the doorway you smiled seeing Raven gave you a confused look. “What are you doing?”

“We are short of blood so I’m doing what I can to help,” you shrugged. It was also a good reason to avoid any grounders that where still in camp. The interaction from before had left a sour taste in your mouth, although a part of that was because of Clarke.

“We should start calling you saint Alba,” Raven leaned against an empty table. “How did it go?”

“Truthfully I have no idea, Clarke told them she can turn reapers back into normal people.”

“Can she?”

“I’ve no idea you,” you pouted. “She’s not one for sharing what’s going on. I was completely blind sighted by some things that were said. I guess we can’t do anything but wait and see.”

“Do you trust them?”

You thought about it before answering, the grounders had no reason to trust the ‘sky people’ so they probably didn’t. “I think they will still have a ace up their sleeves. How did your day go?”

Raven shrugged, “still no change.”

Jackson entered the room just as the bag had filled with enough blood. He thanked you and removed the needle from your arm. Technically it wasn’t a good idea for you to be given blood after everything your body had been through recently but it was desperate times. You stumbled slightly when you stood up but Raven caught hold of you. “Al? You should sit back down.”

You gave her a lopsided grin, before gently kissing her. Raven smiled into the kiss before leaning back, “if you need anymore blood I can always donate.”

“Glad to hear, I’ll be back in a moment.”

You shared a look with Raven, “is he everywhere?”

Shaking your head you got out of the chair and let Raven sit in it. “I’m going to get changed, do you want anything from the tent?” Raven shook her head. “I’ll see you soon Reyes.”

—

Lifting up a cleanish top you changed into, and threw the previous one that was now covered in your blood to the side along with the rest of your dirty clothes. You had accidentally pulled the needle out when Jackson first put it in resulting a good top being stained.

You stepped out of the tent and saw Clarke walking back from the gates, she noticed you and walked over. “We saved Lincoln.”

“That’s great,” you were glad to hear Lincoln hadn’t died. He deserved better than to die as a reaper.

“Commander Lexa-”

“I need to stop you there Clarke,” you pointed towards the gates the grounders had just left though. “I’m not interested in any of that.”

“Your not interested in saving our people?”

The accusation that you didn’t care about your people after everything you’d been through together stung. “No, I want to save our people and the grounders who have been taken. But I don’t trust Lexa.”

“She is our best chance of helping.”

“Is she?” You saw the furious look on her face. “I’m just saying we don’t know enough about them, and she’s not going to just give us a alliance we will need to work for it.” Clarke’s silence confirmed your fear. “What has the commander offered you?”

“She will fight with us to get all of our people back.”

“What does she want in return?”

“Finn.”

[trillian-anders]

the harlot - iii

pairing: steve rogers x reader

warnings: descriptive violence, angst, fluff, smut, slow burn

word count: 3k

description: harlots inspired au;

one last run before shipping off steve rogers is brought to a brothel to love a woman in case of his untimely demise at war. he meets the reader, young and fresh, not yet tainted by the world they’d been born into. a torrid one night love affair that costs their mother greatly. a promise and years later they meet again, the reader resentful and distrustful. the charming, now captain rogers, seems as captivated in reader as ever. but it’s never meant to be. and you both know that.

Steve had changed a great deal physically in the last ten years. His broad shoulders filled in with firm muscle. His waist thickened yet still tapered. The chest you lay your head upon nearly a decade ago, you could trace his ribs with your fingers. Freckled and waifish. But the man beside you had filled out tremendously. Not only in his body, but in his mind. The firmness in which he told Brock that he was not to be contested gave you pause.

You were sure in Pierce’s conversations over the last ten years you would have heard about the Roger’s family at least once, but it hadn’t been brought up. Maybe perhaps not in front of you. Was Steve into dirty dealings or was his family just nobility?

“I must say,” You begin, “Either you’re more powerful than I previously thought, which would mean you’ve lied to me.” As the two of you stepped into the park, “Or you’ve recently come into a position that Sir Pierce values greatly and he’s seeking to have you join his merry band of thieves, criminals, and moral bandits.”

A crack of laughter from his chest, “You’ve definitely gotten a league more brazen since our last meeting.” Met with a glare from you. The laughter still in his eyes, “I may have omitted certain details of my lineage the last we met, but the war also put me in a higher ranked position in itself.” So both were true.

“Why are you here?” It wasn’t an inappropriate question and you’re sure he knew you were going to ask it. “Why now? Why after all this time?” His hand tightening on your arm, not in a threatening way, but an attention-grabbing way. It smarted the bruise left by Pierce the night before. A sucked in breath of pain on your part and his hand falls to his stomach.

“You know why.” A roll of your eyes as you continue your walk, leaving him a step behind. He meets your step and continues, casting a friendly greeting to two men who pass. A cordial, I know you but don’t have the time of day to stop, kind of greeting.

“I’m just a fool then.” You sigh, watching as he holds his arm back out for you to take. A courtesy.

“You’ve never been a fool.” His arm is warm under your touch. It felt so new, yet so familiar. Your mind drifting back to the way he held you that night. Your fingers tracing the skin from freckle to freckle and the warmth from his chest. For a moment you wonder what it would be like now. Only for a moment.

“You’ve made me into one.” A bite, a nip at his heels really. His hand covers yours.

“I never meant to.”

“But you did.” You had to let a deep breath from your chest, you desperately wanted to remove your corset. A little too tight today it seemed. A little too constricting. The summer heat was coming in. The least favorite time of year for women. The days would soon become too much for the current stroll. Your chain a little tighter to the home not more than a mere block behind you.

“How can I find your forgiveness?” Truthfully you just missed his voice. You’d forgotten how it sounds. The way it made you feel. Almost like you’d invented him all on your own. You shake your head, not answering him. “Pierce might gift you to me if I ask.” Your steps halt, and you look at the hopeful expression on his face.

“So then you may become my master?” His brow pulling in confusion. “So that I may be chained to your bed and not his? You’ve gotten further in age, but not in your naivety. You ask me to be your mistress?” You pull yourself from him and fist the front of your dress. “You are truly daft aren’t you?” His jaw set, “I will not be your whore.” A spit, and you start making your way back to the house.

“It was not my intention—”

“But you spoke it anyway.” Moving out of reach for his extended arm. “I think you should go Captain Rogers.” Your breath coming out in short pants in the rising heat, heart rate rising. The door was getting closer and closer with every step. You were almost home and able to loosen this godforsaken thing and maybe have a good cry and a nap.

“Y/N, please.” His hand wraps around your arm and pulls you close to him garnering a couple of stares from those nearby. “Listen to me.” The force of it. The anger makes you flinch. His other hand comes up soft, barely a brush against your cheek, his grip loosening. “Y/N…”

“Please.” You were scared. You were no stranger to a man’s ire. And the sweet boy you’d met before was now a man himself. You didn’t know him in the first place, now he was a stranger. You needed to go. You needed to be alone. “Please, let me go.” His hand releases you, and you see the sorrowful look on his face. Some abject horror masked in sadness.

You grip the railing to go up the steps and disappear into the house. Out of the direct sun it’s much cooler, but still unbearably hot. The stumble up to your room and your fingers ripped at the expensive silk of your dress, pulling at the laces to untie it and finally being able to breath as you rip the corset from your chest. Discarded on the floor you trip into the bed, crawling up the side to bury your face in the pillow, makeup be damned. And you cry.

Pierce being gone was usually a great relief. But this felt worse than that.

You hear your door open and you already know who it is. You couldn’t be bothered.

“Get out Brock.” Muffled into the pillow.

“What did the Captain talk to you about?” Straight and to the point. You hear his boots settle heavily in the doorway, scuffed against the floor.

“Brock, get out of my room.” With a little more force. His footsteps closer, hands gripping the blanket and yanking it from your body.

“You look like shit.” He leans over on the bed, gripping your chin in his hand and pulling your face from the pillow, your eyes red. “What did he talk to you about?” You smack his arm, pulling away from him.

“Nothing.” Hand reaching for the blanket now spilled onto the floor. “Get out.” His hand shoots out and grips your jaw even harder, pulling you back and slamming you down on the bed, twisting your knee in the process.

“You don’t tell me to get out.” Spittle on your face as your hands wrap around his wrist, trying to pull him off. His other hand pinning your arms to your chest. “What did he say to you?” Tears pooling in the corners of your eyes, as he straddles your body, preventing you from kicking your legs.

“Nothing,” You whimper, wincing as the grip on your jaw tightens, “He just made pleasantries.” His hand slips down to your throat. “Brock, he didn’t say anything to me.”

“You’re lying.” Pressure on your throat. His face red and the vein in his neck prominent. “How do you know him?” You choke as his hand presses down on your throat, a struggle to breathe as his thighs clamp around yours, keeping you complete still.

“Brock.” Barely choked from your throat. “I… can’t…” He seems to remember himself, loosening his grip on you. And you turn your head to cough, gasping for air. Your fist meeting his chest weakly. His hand finds your hair, turning your face back to his as he tries to grip your wrists back in his large palm.

“How do you know him?” Brock had never been more violent with you before. Yeah, he would get a little handsy. A grope here, a rough grip of your arm to drag you around here or there. But never this. You wouldn’t be able to leave the house for the rest of the week at least.

“His battalion came into our house once,” You swallow roughly, throat sore, “A long time ago, he talked to me and I played piano for them.” Not technically a lie. “Nothing more.”

“So what did you really talk about?” His thumb moved to your bottom lip, pulling down to reveal your teeth.

“He just asked me how long I’ve been in Alexander’s employ.” You shake your head, feeling your tears run hot into your hair. “He just remembered that I was being bid for.” He didn’t believe you; you could see it in his eyes.

“I know Pierce did not send him here.” His jaw tight, thumb pressing against your teeth, “Open.” Prying open your jaw to press his thumb on your tongue. “And I will choose to ignore the fact that you continue to lie to me, because the truth will always come to the surface.” A whimper as he pressed your arms to your chest even harder, restricting your breath. “And you, little whore, will buy my silence.” A cry leaving your throat as he pressed against your tongue even harder, “Now suck.”

Later, your curiosity to see what you looked like in the mirror was damaging. You stand in front of the floor length propped against the wall next to the fireplace in your room. Your bare body, your eyes just about swollen shut from crying. You could see the bruises on your jaw and neck, your forearms and wrists. The bruising against your hips and knees. Crying in the dark, you walk back to your bed and slip yourself under the covers. Staring blankly at the gold pattern in the wallpaper until you could find sleep.

The next day found Captain Rogers back on the doorstep. And you hiding around the corner with your cup of tea and picked at breakfast. You heard Brock answer the door, and you heard Steve on the other side.

“Captain Rogers?” His voice ever pleasant to a man who could murder him and get away from it by the way Brock kissed his ass. “Three times this week, you seem very eager about the proposition from Sir Pierce.”

“I’m still going over it with my associates.” You were sure he was smiling, real charming and fake.

“If you’re here for Y/N Parker, she’s indisposed at the moment and is not taking visitors.” Clipped and short this time. Like his word was law.

“Actually, I’ve come to talk to you.” You cup clinked heavily against the plate. Leaning towards the door further to listen. “Would you mind?” You grew anxious in your seat, in nothing more than your night dress and stockings. Indecent for Brock let alone any company. But you couldn’t be fucked to put on your petticoats, especially when you were as sore as you are.

“Come in.” The half toast and jam you’d eaten stirred in your stomach as you watch Brock lead the broad-shouldered man into the parlor. Unable to see more than his back. Your heart pounding. Brock appeared in the doorway, “Try to go upstairs without being seen.” An order. A chill down your spine. You slip from the room and start up the stairs. A creak on the floorboards as Brock begins his walk back into the parlor, you risk a glance back over your shoulder to see Steve’s face staring at you from the position he’d taken on the couch, the clench of his jaw as the parlor doors shut.

Your heart continued to race long after your bedroom door was shut, and you sunk back down into your sheets. You wondered what they were talking about downstairs. What Steve was talking to Brock about knowing he’s seen the bruises. He must have.

You didn’t know how long Steve was downstairs. You could hear the front door open and shut again. You could hear the boots coming up the stairs. Your door opening.

“I’m going out tonight.” His steady foot falls across the floor. You feel the bed dip behind you. His arm bracing itself next to your head, nose burying itself in your hair, “You are not to leave this house, do you understand?” You nod, you feel his lips brush against you and it makes your skin crawl. A push off the mattress and you hear him leave the room. Burying your face in your pillow, you willed yourself to fall back asleep. Stomach rolling with acid.

It was dark when you’d woken up later. Hungry and groggy. You slip from bed and light the lamps in the room. You squat in front of the fireplace, piling in some new wood, and setting it to light. A chill in the room.

The stairs creak as you make your way downstairs, hopeful to grab some spiced meat, cheese and bread before returning to your room. Maybe a cup of tea too you figure, setting the kettle on the stove to boil.

Usually, when Pierce was home, there’d be the maid to make you tea. Serve you dinner. But with it just being you and Brock and no master she would come do her basic services and then go home for the night.

You didn’t mind all in all. Your Ma had always made you self-sufficient enough to know how to cook simply and be overall well rounded. And it was nice to pretend like you lived alone. Like this was your own home and you could close your eyes and pretend you were living in the countryside. The smell of the grass and flowers. A garden you could grow. You could almost feel the soft breeze. How the sun would be so warm on your skin. Not having to worry about staying as pale as possible for the upper class.

You startle as the kettle starts to whistle. Broken out of your reverie to glance down at the dark stovetop. Unbothered to light more than a candle or two to put together your meal. The leaves added to the tea you leave it to steep, cutting chunks of cheese and the salted meat scraps.

“Do you want to pour an extra cup?” A gasp, you nearly nick your finger at the sound and turning is when you see him.

“Steve?” His eyes scanned you from tip to toe. You were suddenly very self-conscious. The bruising was surely noticeable. You’d been avoiding mirrors. You watch his fists clench at his sides. “What are you doing here?”

“I wanted to see you.” You realized you were still gripping the knife, your hand loosening on it as you let it rest on the cutting board. “What did he do to you?” You shake your head, backing as far into the counter as you could.

“Steve how did you—”

“I invited Brock to a gathering hosted by a friend of mine…” His voice made you weak when he said, “Y/N… what did he do to you?” He invited Brock out to get him to leave the house, knowing you’d be alone. The aftereffects of him seeing you like this earlier. You could only imagine how badly you truly looked to him.

“This is… indecent.” You move to your left, towards the door. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Y/N…” You look at him, his arm outstretched towards you, “Come and sit down, talk to me.” The vein in his neck was prominent and the anger he held under the surface was almost frightening. But the way his voice cracked when he said, “Please.” It made you sit at the table.

He moved behind you to grab the food you’d been preparing and returned with the kettle and cups. In the dim light of the kitchen you could almost see him how he was. The shadows making him look thinner, gaunt as he sat himself across from you. Your hands shook while he poured you tea and he gestured to the food in front of you. “Eat.” Not an order, more like… begging.

“When Brock comes back—”

“He won’t be back tonight.” Steve shook his head softly as you picked at a cube of cheese. “James will make sure of that.” You sigh, digging your nail into the cheese as he takes a sip of his tea. “Y/N…” Your eyes meet his over the light of the candle between you. “Just ask,” He shakes his head, “And he will never come back.”

Your throat tightens and you shake your head, sitting against the back of the chair, “Steve.”

“If I needn’t much tact I would have killed him in the parlor this morning.” He bit in anger. “Is this something he normally does while his master is away?” Gesturing towards you.

You shake your head, “No.” You clear your throat, “No, he doesn’t usually…” You furrow your brow looking down at the table between you. At his hands.

Those soft hands you remember on your body, the gentle touch of a boy exploring a woman for the first time. Those hands were not the same as the calloused hands on the table. The scars from where you could see his knuckles had been split, over and over.

“Steve,” Your eyes drift up from those hands to his serious face, jaw still clenched in anger, “Tell me. Now.” You swallow, “Who are you exactly?”

[seriouslyblacklikemysoul]

Until Forever - Sirius Black

MASTERLIST Warings: My English. Pics aren’t mine. This has to be one of my favorite chapters.  Word Count ~ 3k. Prologue | Mercury | Delicate | Blue | Running | Aftermath | Stardust | December | Nightfall | Revelations

Chapter 11. Friends. 

      After that particular talk she had with Minerva, she felt lighter, as if the weight she was carrying on had been lifted from her chest, freeing her from the invisible tyrant. She had finally found someone she could be honest – she hated lying, even white lies put her in a hard position.      She was slowly learning how to be at ease when things falling apart and that she had to start over; how to trust those new beginnings once more, how to trust in the rebirth of things and people, including herself; that with every new beginning, she found another lost piece of herself, and with every new adventure, she fell  in love with something she  would never have thought she’d love. They were scary and confusing but they were also spectacular and extraordinary. Running away was not always the solution.       Slowly, but steadily enough, she was learning how to let new people in – how to reawaken her faith in people and their ability to love and their ability to open her heart again. And while she was dreading it, she was hoping that people could see all the different sides of her and still stay.        She was never big on trusting herself but she had to; she had to find the ability to trust all those tough experiences that left scars inside her heart or stitches inside her brain, all of that contributed to who she had grown to be. She had to finally understand that things didn’t always fall apart to give an ending, but sometimes they fell apart to present a new beginning. Couple of days passed her by, as she decided to do nothing at all but take of herself, occasionally talking about her secret with her professor and giving in to the pleasure of the beauty world. She was a 2020’s girl and could not, would not, compromise that for the makeup trends of the 70s and 80s. She hated the bold colors that were used without blending – the big hair and the extreme statements. She was a girl of her time, and that time wasn’t this one. Her things were cut-creases and winged eyeliner, matte foundation and contouring, perfectly shaped eyebrows and soft lips. She had to ask her professor for a couple of favors, but Minerva was more than happy to oblige, remembering her young years as well.       She had spent the last days, happily alone – of course she was thinking about everything. Her old life, however, seemed too far away from her now. Like a distant dream. She knew that it was more than just a possibility to never live in her time again, and even though that saddened her, she found herself relieved – she had formed attachments despite her initial thoughts of being distant and alone. Yup, that went well. 

The 29th day of December had arrived and she was still contemplating whether or not to go to the party. Thanks to Minerva, who was even more excited than she was, she had now a gorgeous dress and high heels but her gut feeling told her that maybe, she just wanted to go so she could see him. With another girl. And in the process, hurt Remus again. While all that time, she should be investigating everyone and everything so she could find a way to change the story and the outcomes. Oh, well, she was twenty-two, after all.         She was one of the very few Gryffindors who had stayed and she had the common room to herself most of the time – just like now; she was enjoying silence with a bottle of sparkling wine. She was ecstatic for not having to buy more bottles but simply conjuring more delicious wine – magic was helpful. Unknown to her, she was being stared at.       She had stars behind each eyelid and a galaxy in her soul that drew people to her endless heart, like the pull of a black hole, she was made of earth and fire, of wishes cast on shooting stars. She was a brand-new solar system, unlike the ones he had known so far, with constellations ever changing. No one could memorize her skies and he thought the thing for all of her previous relationships to do was bring her down to size. He could see, they had tried to shrunk the universe within her, told her that her vast expanse was wrong, that she should make her life much smaller, if she wanted to belong. But she had denied them that privilege over her and he was amazed by her strength.         He threw himself to the couch and she yelp in surprise. He was the last person she expected to see there. He was enjoying her loss of words very much, trying at the same time to convince himself that his visit was purely out of friendly interest. “What can I say? I felt bad for leaving you alone” he exclaimed rather provocatively. She sneered and arched her eyebrow. That was how they were playing at. “Don’t. I was having fun” she answered truthfully, pointing at her drink. He knew he was supposed to follow her hand but he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. She was a vision of heartache and blooded marches that hadn’t even started yet; a battlefield of blossomed roses about to sacrifice themselves to the Gods so that their love would survive. “What kind of a friend would I be then, huh? Speaking of, I didn’t know your birthday was a month ago. But guess who did… ouch” he said and even though it was a mockery, he did sound hurt, or rather jealous. She thought about the word he had used – friend. He wasn’t. Even though she so desperately wanted him to be, he wasn’t. “He asked, you didn’t” she fired as soft as a bullet hitting the petals of a rose. Raising her glass to a toast she never proposed, she saluted him and he knew she was in a mood, alright. “Careful there, you were almost being sweet” he provoked her further. She simply turned her entire body towards him, taking notice of everything, his outfit, his hair, his eyes. He could wear a rag and he would still look incredible. Of course, the leather jacket and the black biker boots were making her imagination run wild. She forgot what she wanted to say to him – probably something sarcastic – and instead offered wine, face masks and her room. Bold move – and a risk he accepted.         Sirius was a dilemma; a broken crown wanting to reclaim the throne; a shuttered mirror trying to depict life as it once was. She thought how childish he had been described in the books – but she kept forgetting that all of that was supposed to be parts of a book. He felt real, next to her, with a green tissue mask on his face, pretending to be a zombie and drinking wine. He was just a young adult and he had every right in the world to enjoy his life as much as possible – she wanted him to have those moments, for later he would lose all hope. “What is this? I love it!” he proclaimed his love to the bottle of wine he had also claimed for himself only. She tried not to laugh because she, herself, had a tissue mask on her face but it proved to be impossible. “It’s called Moscato d’Asti – and it’s my favorite” she told him as she laid on her bed, closing her eyes, not wanting to meet his. Next thing she knew, he was right beside her, his hand grazing her thigh. She swallowed hard and shot up – straight to the bathroom. Removing the mask and washing her face with cold water, she did a breathing exercise to calm her nerves but her stomach had been replaced by a knot. She looked at the mirror, a reflection she didn’t recognize. Taking a deep breath, she went out finding Sirius pacing back and forth. It would have been a rather serious scene but he still had his mask on, something he realized and looked down embarrassed.         After a moment or two in the bathroom, recollecting himself, he exited with a fake smile that made her guts twist, so she blurted out the first thing that came into her mind. “I met your brother. Nice guy” she commented honestly but his cringed. Arching her eyebrow, and raising her hands up, she surrendered. He sat down next to her, eyeing her and wanting nothing more than to tell her the whole truth. “I will answer any question you have but let me give you your birthday present” he gave in once his eyes met hers. He was lying to everyone when he was pretending to be her friend – he wasn’t. Before she could register what was happening, Sirius had an entire tattoo kit to play with. Her mouth hung open, not even close to believing the scene unfolding. “No, no, no, no. First off, you’re drunk. Then I don’t trust you with a needle to draw something permanent on me and no!” she summed up quickly but he wasn’t listening. “I know what I am doing. Trust me” he informed her rather nonchalant. They did have a deal… She bit her lip and rolled her eyes. Fine. She had an excuse now, for revealing her tattoos to him. He hadn’t asked her too but she wanted. “Okay. But you have to see my other tattoos first” she carefully told him, watching hi prepare the equipment; his head shot up in the words. He had never thought she would show him her story – because each tattoo was a part of her story.       She had never been good at hiding her feelings… and here she was, swallowing her emotions, mutilating her own self for someone else’s sake. She saw the broken pieces in his eyes and wished she could tell him that he would heal in four months, or two weeks, or by next Monday if he really tried. But she couldn’t and that costed her. For if there was anything, she had learned about moving forward, about letting go, about becoming the person she wanted to become — it was that it happened in the quietest moments. Growth crept into her, it burrowed and it stretched, it cracked her open from the inside, and one day she woke up and she had to open her eyes. Maybe he would need more time or better suited people around him.        Slowly, she revealed each of her tattoos to him. She removed the spell concealing them and let him explore her. He was tracing his fingertips on her skin. He had seen the lotus flower and remembered her explanation. Her left ring finger was delicately decorated with a small rose. His hands traveled to the inner part of her forearm just below her right elbow, caressing the bracelet of the phases of the moon and the sunflower that reminded him of the sunflowers Van Gogh used to paint. Her shirt was loose enough for him to push the strips off of her shoulder to reveal the Arabic quote she had tattooed on her left collarbone. Before he could stop himself, he was fondling her inked skin – his hand was too close to her neck – he could see her pulse quicken, he felt her breath on his mouth. He knew she had more tattoos but stopped before leaning too close. “I didn’t run away to leave my brother behind. I was thrown out and I am haunted by the ghost of him. I know I have screwed up but they were right about one thing. I don’t believe that I deserve love – I couldn’t give it when I had to” he confessed, gathering his tools to create a birthday present for her that would last. She didn’t dare to move, looking at him as if any moment now, he would vanish. He carefully took her left hand and cleaned the inner part of her forearm just below her elbow with pure alcohol. With an eye contact to seal their deal, he begun drawing. It hurt but it was a sweet burning sensation that she didn’t really mind. “It’s a lie to think that you don’t deserve love if you aren’t able to love yourself. You deserve it. You deserve companionship and care and relationships that feel good and spaces where you’re cherished and valued. Even if you have days where you want to crawl out of your skin and disappear. Even if there are moments when you feel inadequate and unlovable. You don’t have to be alone just because you’re battling your own darkness. Carrying that weight doesn’t make you defective or too much or unworthy of love and belonging. It makes you human. It makes you someone who’s internalized judgments that were never yours to carry. It makes you someone who’s survived a lifetime of trauma and loss and pain. Someone resilient and inconceivably brave. Someone courageous enough to connect, despite the lies in your head. And there’s no shame in that. So please, don’t withdraw or close yourself off. Self-hatred doesn’t get unlearned through isolation. It’s unlearned through love. Through connection and care. Through having relationships and gathering evidence that you can be imperfect and struggling and still be valued. That you can hurt and be at war with your head and still be wanted. I know it’s hard to trust, but you belong. And no matter how much darkness you’re carrying, you deserve to love and be loved” she told him while he was still focused on the piece, he wanted her to have. His hair falling elegantly on his face, eyes silver as mercury dancing across her skin.         ‘There is a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in’ it read as the quote was mingling with the swirling blues and yellows of the Starry night. It was a bracelet as well but it made her teary – her favorite painting with some of the most meaningful words she had read. He wrapped it and sealed it close but she already knew how to take care of new tattoos. When his eyes met hers, the entire world seized to exist. It was just them and nothing could intervene. She didn’t stop herself from hugging him and thanking him – a whisper that made him melt inside her embrace.   “There is a Japanese word; kinsukuroi. It’s the art of repairing pottery with gold or silver lacquer and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken. I find it strangely reassuring” he tenderly told her and she felt a blissful breeze of refreshing air calming down her lungs. “If you want to see the other tattoos, you can. It’s just that…” she trailed of and cautiously grabbed the hem of her shirt to pull it off. She knew it was too much – she could have just described them to him. But she knew it was a risk she was willing to take because the moment would never be perfect, the circumstances would only worsen and her heart would only break even more. He took a sharp breath in but didn’t stop her; quite the opposite really. He found himself helping her out of her shirt with shaky hands. His touch burned her but she could only look at him and see a future – it scared her.       His eyes stayed on hers but slowly they roamed her upper body and suddenly    they fell on the canis major constellation, tattooed right in the middle of her chest – underneath her bra. There was a small blue bird in the left side of her rib-cage, probably the one from Bukowski’s poem. He wasn’t able to do anything but stare at her and explore her body. She softly nudged her hair out of the way and his eyes traveled to her neck once again.       It was the most intimate thing he had ever done. She twisted her torso so he could see her back – a pair of antlers resting close to her hairline and the planetary system running down her spine. Not just any tattoo. It was almost identical to his. “How is this possible? The moon, the canis major, the antlers, the planets? How?” he asked disoriented, not knowing which tattoo to look at because if he looked at her face, he would kiss her, crush her in his arms. She shrugged and put her shirt back on. He knew those tattoos were done at least a year ago – she didn’t know them. “Maybe not in your reality. But is was in mine” she airily told him, leaving him with questions to which he did know the answer. The girl in front of him hadn’t simply fallen from the sky to his embrace. She had fallen through time. He was too close, his breath on her mouth, her hands on his arm, tracing the patterns of his tattoos. She closed her eyes, not wanting to collide. Not now. Not yet. But she couldn’t say no all at once. She placed a small peck on his cheek and thanked him again. “Care for a cigarette?” she mouthed too close to his lips. No, he didn’t. He cared about her. All the right ways – and all the wrong ones. He was hers in a way he never belonged to anyone ever before. A little. A lot. Passionately. Not all.

___ Taglist: @nadinissavage​ @mycobrakai1972​ 

[ajokeformur-ray]

Hello, darling! I'm not entirely certain if matchups are open right now, but I'd like to send one in. I've been missing Arthur quite a bit lately..I've never requested anything so bare with me! --- I'm Ezalia (Ezzie), 25, Native American. I'm 5'1 and on the small side. I have severe social anxiety and I'm very introverted. I'm very artsy, I love to draw and write. I have a very morbid sense of humor. I'm studying culinary, I love to bake and cook. I also have quite a few piercings and tattoos!

Hey, love! I made this one as long as I could in each section just to say thank you for what you do as a content creator and as a person and I chucked in a lil’ extra bonus as well for you, which I hope you like! Thank you for everything, I hope you enjoy this ^^ this took me hours so I’m nervous to post omg.

TOTAL WC: 3, 601.

Arthur // wc: 975.

At 5′1, there’s a seven inch difference between you and Arthur so his protective streak, already quite strong, only increases. That’s not to say that being shorter is weaker and in need of protection in Arthur’s eyes, but rather he just cherishes the way that you fit so perfectly into the cage of his embrace, the way he can rest his sharp chin on the top of your head, or on your shoulder, and the way he can squeeze you and feel you tighten your own grip around him, your face buried in his chest, his heartbeat in your ear… he adores you.”I love you, Ezzie.” // “I love you too, Arthur.” these exchanges may sound simple but the reverberation of your voice inside his mind like the refrain of a song, the name of which he can’t remember, is more comforting to him, more grounding to him, than anything else his therapist ever ‘taught’ him. Arthur would want to learn everything that he could about your culture; the language, the traditions, the food, the customs… he would want to learn as much about everything as he could, loving nothing more than curling up with you on the sofa or in bed, asking you question after question. The sound of your voice relaxes him like nothing else. Arthur adores all of you and he makes sure that you don’t ever question it for even a second.

Arthur understands how much of a struggle it can be to deal with anxiety, and he really would be very understanding and empathetic. If you go out in public together, within days has he learned all of your physical tells and he’d reach out to grip your hand, his thumb rubbing soothingly over the back of it, his lips pursed at your temple as he murmurs “are you okay, Ezzie?”. If you say yes, he’ll keep an eye on you but he’ll accept your answer. If you say no, he’d do what he could to get you out of the public eye, ducking down back alleys or even taking you home all together. He’d never judge you for it because he understands it, he does, and he would do anything that he could to keep you feeling as safe and as comfortable as possible. You’re introverted and Arthur loves nothing more than coming home to you. He enjoys spending time with you in the evenings during those few scant hours that he has off of work, and nothing quite revitalises his energy levels, his soul, like you do.

You’re really creative; you draw and write, and Arthur would love the evenings during which he can sit at the tiny table in the corner of the living room to work on his material in his battered joke book, while you write or draw. When he’s lacking inspiration does he look over at you, the softest smile on his lips as heat blooms in his heart, keeping him warm and making him feel safe. Arthur enjoys nothing more than watching you get lost in your element, and truthfully do you often look up at him for your own dose of inspiration when it starts to fall short. You are each other’s muse. Arthur would sincerely compliment anything which you allowed him to read or view, but he’d never pry or push you to tell him. Everything is on your own terms because he understands how private and personal art is. He marvels at your imagination and hopes that, by spending enough time with you, some it will rub off on him, too. 

After weeks and months of cracking jokes and making you laugh with almost all of them, Arthur likes to think that he has a handle on your sense of humour. So similar is it to his own that it doesn’t take much for him to tailor a lot of his material to you, and he stockpiles them in the back of his joke book so that when you’re especially upset or needing a bit of extra support, Arthur can bring them out. If he makes you laugh, then it’s a good joke. You enjoy cooking and this is something else which Arthur loves to watch you getting lost in. The way you fluidly move, the way your brows furrow as you study a recipe, the way you carelessly shrug before chucking in a few more herbs or an extra spoon of sugar because why not?… it’s all so you and the fact that you feel comfortable enough around Arthur to lower your defences down in that way means more to him than anything else. He would want to try anything you bake or cook and he’d always sincerely compliment you. He’s so in awe of all the separate skill sets which you possess. “You’re so beautiful inside and out, Ezalia,” Arthur would smile, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, “You’re the best part of you. I love you so much.” 

You’re confident in your level of self-expression and you’re unafraid of the things you enjoy, the way you want to look. Arthur would want to know everything about all of your piercings and tattoos - why you got them, how much they hurt, how it was done, where you went to get them done, how much it cost, what they mean to you, what’s the story behind it, do you regret any and why, do you not regret any… on and on the questions go. Late at night does he trace the tattoos nearest to him, his fingers so gentle against your skin that it makes you shiver. He loves your tattoos so much and often does he look at your piercings, admiring the way the metal glints in the light of the room. “You’re so beautiful, darling.”  Overall does Arthur treat you like the goddess you are.

Joker // wc: 1, 347.

By this stage in your relationship, you and Arthur have been together for years and you’re in the comfortable part of a relationship. Love is very much a part of your relationship and it is expressed often. Instead of the fiery heat which boiled in your stomach, however, this is a more comfortable truth which exists in the space between you; sometimes do you still feel the urge to scream your love for him from the rooftops. You have to be careful with who you tell about dating Arthur, especially when they’re new to your life, because anyone could turn him in to the police if they found out who Arthur actually was. The people who pre-exist in your life either don’t know or don’t care, which works out well for you because it means it’s easier for you to keep him safe and out of harm’s way. In this way do your protective roles reverse as Arthur removes his mask in favour of who he really is; “it’s Joker now, Ezzie”. There may be a seven inch height difference between the two of you, but that doesn’t stop Joker from using your body to hide himself from the world. While you’re relaxing in the evening with a book or with the television, he’ll come up to you and nudge your feet apart with one of his own. “Can I - can I feel you, darling?”  and what he means is that he wants to curl up on your lap, tuck his painted face in the warm crook of your neck, and forget the world. He tucks himself in so deeply that his knees are pulled up to his chest, his bright white socks shocking against the crimson red of his trousers, his arms around your shoulders, those dyed green romantic curls tickling at  the underside of your chin. He just wants to be held, to know that he’s still just as loved as he’s always been by you. “I love you, Ezzie. You’re the best part of me.” and a series of chaste kisses pressed to your neck is the accompanying activity to your relaxing, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it.

Similarly, by now does Joker know exactly how to help you with your social anxiety. It’s so natural to him by now that he does it on instinct; a hand reaching out to take yours in his, his fingers sliding in the spaces between your own. “It’s okay, Ezalia,” he’d murmur, raising your joined hands to his painted lips so he can press a kiss to the back of yours, “There’s nothing to be afraid of.”  He only uses your full name when he’s comforting you, encouraging you or if it’s a serious situation; more often than not he’ll call you a pet name or by Ezzie. You can’t go out and about with Joker as Joker, because he’s easily recognisable and he also tends to go out at night, when it’s easier for him to duck into back alleys so he can escape from the police or from curious eyes. As such, you tend to stay home when he goes out; he’s very protective of you and he can’t stomach even the idea of something happening to you. When he comes home, it’s always with a flourish and a cheeky grin. Depending on his mood, he’ll either go and greet you on his own, or he’ll hang about. He needs to be needed, needs to know he’s loved still by you, and the act of you approaching him to greet him? He gets teary eyed just thinking about it. Joker is very insecure about your relationship; he can’t fathom how you’re still with him, even now, even after all he’s said and done, so he really needs that extra reassurance. He doesn’t ask for it very often, but he always wants it. To Joker’s thinking, asking for it makes him feel like he’s annoying you somehow, and then he feels like you’re only giving him that reassurance because he asked for it, and it just ruins the whole thing. So when he clenches his fists periodically, when his nostrils flare exactly once, when his knees bounce a mile a minute, when he smokes more than his usual twenty a day, when he’s quiet but his bottom lip and chin quiver with unshed tears… go to him, please. He needs you, Ezzie, and only you. 

You love to write and draw and you still very much have that routine of the two of you sitting and writing together; spending time together separately. It’s something Joker adores. He doesn’t just look at you now when he needs inspiration for his material, no. Now, if he wants to stare, he does. it’s not obnoxious and he doesn’t realise he’s doing it so if you ask him to stop, he will. “Oh, sorry,” he shrugs with an easy smile, “I didn’t realise. You’re so beautiful.” You’re definitely his muse, especially now, and he makes it known that he loves and appreciates you. You’re his entire life. He’s so beautiful with his white facepaint, those deep blue eyes which perfectly complement his sea green eyes, that macabre red painted smile… he’s so beautiful it makes you want to cry, and sometimes you end up drawing him. Joker is more likely now to ask if he can view your drawings or read your works, but if you say no, it’s no big deal; he wouldn’t want to be pushed about showing you his journal, so he gets it. But he’d completely fawn over anything you show him and he’d compliment you so sincerely, so thoroughly, that you’re left blushing for hours afterwards. 

By now, Joker is more than used to your sense of humour, which is just as dark as his is. After his mental break, his jokes became darker, more built on murder and cynical observations rather than the notes which he used to diligently take while he was at Pogo’s. You didn’t have to take a period of readjustment or anything like that because you’re already there. At this point, the jokes which he focuses on are far more tailored to your sense of humour; so in tune with you is he that he barely has to ask you about what you find funny, because he knows you as well as he knows himself. Still does he love to give you a show; coming out from behind the curtain in a mockery of his segment on The Murray Franklin Show, pulling his joke book from the back of his trousers where it’s often stashed, and then carefully does he select the best jokes which he spent hours on, just for you. Don’t fake a laugh, he’ll know instantly and he won’t appreciate it; especially from you. “You’re the only one, Ezzie. Nothing can hurt me anymore, I have you.” you’re his entire world. Joker is supportive of your culinary studies and he loves trying the things you bake and cook. He always compliments you sincerely, just as he always has, and he means every single word. He’s so proud of you, and he tells you as often as he can.

The inevitable has finally happened; Joker now has the same level of confidence as far as expressing himself goes that you do and if you were to ask him, he’d say, “It’s because of you, Ezzie! You helped me to be me!” and he means it to be one of the biggest compliments he could give you yet. He adores your tattoos and your piercings and the nights are spent with his hands upon your skin, his fingers reverently tracing the ink permanently etched into your skin. At this point in your relationship, he knows everything about your tattoos and piercings that there is to know, and he cherishes every piece of information which you give him. He loves you so much that it drives him mad and he loves the way he loves you and the way that you love him, too. 

BONUS MATCHUP bc ILY and I wanna give back some more :’333

J // wc: 1, 279.

There’s a nine inch difference between you and J so this destructive raccoon boi is very protective of you. Sorry, honey, but in J’s head, smaller is weaker, so you can expect to find yourself gifted a hand gun, a few little ‘fun’ extras like a grenade or two to keep in your coat pockets, a switchblade… he makes sure that you’re protected at all times, and I have no doubt that he’d also get a few of his men to keep an eye on you. They’re not obvious about it, but you’re not stupid and you know J, so you do your best to go about your day without letting them disturb you too much. It might even get a little annoying, but J only has good intentions; sure, he doesn’t believe himself to be someone capable of something like love, but for you… For you, he comes close to that belief. In any case, he does he best to protect what’s his and that’s all there is to it. He rarely says your name, he prefers to use pet names, so when he does use your name; listen up. It’s important. I feel like Ezzie would be used in a casual sense, but he’d use your full name as a sort of code for when you’re around people and he needs to get your attention now. You’d definitely have some kind of system for this, so that he knows that you know how to handle it when this happens. He doesn’t look like a man with a plan, but his head is so busy at all times, even when he’s sleeping, that he almost vibrates with all that energy.

J’s not… great with things like social anxiety. At first he doesn’t really get it, but then one day something happened which triggered your social anxiety and J saw just how bad it can be for you; he was startled and did his best to calm you down, tucking you into his chest, his hand rubbing up and down your back in smooth, fluid motions as he shushed you. His intense chocolate eyes darted around the space over your shoulder but to him, there was nothing which could have caused your reaction. However, so shaken up were you that all at once did J realise that you weren’t exaggerating or joking (not that he had assumed you were, but one can never be too careful with others), and once he had you calm, he got you home and sat you down. The two of you spoke calmly, candidly, about your social anxiety. In some twisted way, J opened up about his own issues; PTSD, nightmares and the such, as a thank you for being so honest with him. He likes that. You two bonded closely that day, and J became even more protective of you after that. So when next did you venture outside, J kept an eye and a hand on you; either hand in hand if you needed that extra reassurance, or your hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, and he will watch you, looking straight at you. He’ll see all of your physical tells, all of your warning signs, and he’ll act before you even know you’re feeling anxious, so eager is he to stop anything from triggering your anxiety. He takes care of you in his own ways, but once you know what you’re looking for, it’s overwhelmingly obvious that you’ve got him wrapped around your little finger, and vice versa, which goes unsaid! 

Between the two of you; with you being artsy and J loving to make entrances and to carry out his ‘plans’ with something of a dramatic flourish, there’s never a dull moment for either of you. You have several creative hobbies, and when you get involved with them, J tends to leave you alone. He, too, needs privacy when he’s releasing the chaotic contents of his mind. He definitely has some kind of journal which he doodles in, scribbles down jokes or things he found funny that day (most of which are dark and may even shock you), so you sit side by side, so close to each other that you’re touching shoulders, thighs and ankles, or on opposite ends of the sofa if one or both of you need some space, spending time together. You rarely talk and something loud will be on the television; J gets antsy when he’s left too alone with his thoughts; it’s easy for them to get out of control unless he’s got something to focus on and listen to, and it’s quiet moments like these which really cement whatever it is that you have together. Sometimes, J will ask what you’re writing or drawing. It’s up to you if you share it or not; he’s not entirely bothered either way, he just thought he’d leave a topic of conversation open for you. 

J loves your sense of humour. It’s as dark as his is. Or, he thinks it is. He likes to push all of the current boundaries, just to find out how far out of the ballpark he can knock something. It doesn’t take him much longer than a few weeks to find out how far he can push you and what you do and don’t find funny; he doesn’t really do anything with the information but he likes to know these things. He rarely shares information about himself, though, so even a joke of yours which he chuckled at is something to cherish and keep close to you! J knows almost everything about you, down to your nighttime bathroom routine, so he knew before you even told him that you were studying culinary; he doesn’t get why you don’t just survive off noodle packets and other convenient foods; he’s done it for years. But learn to make his favourite snacks, and you might have him eating out of the literal palm of your hand. “C’mon, doll, let me have a bite.” And the teasing bastard will even lick the crumbs off your hand. his eyes daring you to pull away from him. He already knows you won’t, but he likes to have fun. He definitely compliments you, but not in ways you’d expect - an empty plate or an accidental food coma are the biggest ones you’ll receive off him!

One of the things J finds most intriguing about you are your tattoos and piercings; he wants to know everything. The place you went to, why you chose that place and not the one a few streets away, what body part it’s on and why, how much did it hurt, was there a part of the healing process you enjoyed, will you get some more, but his favourite thing to ask is the meaning behind the tattoo itself. Why you chose what you did in the way that you did. He listens without interruption, long nailed hands tracing the tattoos, his lips mouthing any words there. Your piercings, he likes the way they look against your skin and again does he want to know all about them. You clearly have a high pain tolerance and you’re confident in who you are, not like those others, and I have no doubt that when you become a little more down the road of… being whatever it is that you are together, he’d want to brand you in someway. Another tattoo, or an actual branding… something which makes you his. If nothing else, he knows you can deal with it and may even like the pain it’ll bring you. He’ll get one to match, don’t worry - he’s not a monster. ;)

[fairiesherefairiesthere]

Fraxus Anastasia au #2

Second chapter time! If you wanna read it on ao3, here u go: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144866

Chapter under the cut!

Apparently, being too much of a stubborn bastard is enough for an orphanage to throw you out even though you still own them a lot of money. 'Yuliy', they've dubbed him, 'son of Jupiter', because his character is volatile like the thunderstorms that leave the grey walls of the orphanage shaking.

He's twenty-three and luckily enough, not the sickly little boy he used to be. Finding a job would've been difficult otherwise, but right now Yuliy feels pretty confident about his future. The past has nothing for him, so he has no other choice but to look forward.

Ignoring the yammering of the old caretaker about how he should feel lucky that they let him go even though he cost them so much as a child, he sets a step outside the gate.

The distance he's crossed is close to nothing, he still feels elated. Turning around, he yells "So long, sucker!" at the old lady and waves at the tiny children behind her. The brats can't help their situation. "You can be happy all you want right now, but just you wait until the evening! Until the cold settles in your bones and your stomach turns itself inside out of hunger. You're nothing boy, keep that in mind!"

Scoffing, he walks away, turning his back on all he's ever known. Everything is going to be fine.

Everything's not fine and Yuliy already regrets leaving the orphanage. Sure, it was a shitty place, but at least there was a fireplace to lay beside. Although the food had been sparse and not very good, it had been there. He never imagined that he'd miss the place.

Unfortunately, he's also not been able to find a job. The restaurants tell him to ask the grocery stores, the grocery stores point him towards the butchers and the butchers refer him to the nearest school, before saying that, actually, he doesn't look like an educated person and should probably stay away from there. If he survives the night, he'll try the docks. They probably could use him as some sort of human mule, if his motion sickness allows him to set foot on a boat.

For now, he wanders the streets in search of abandoned buildings, hoping that he can squat in one of them for the night. After a lot of unsuccesful trying, he decides to go find a large public building, in the hope that he can find himself a nook there where no one will look. With that in mind, he enters the first large building he finds.

It's dusty, spacey and completely empty. Exactly what he'd been looking for and still he can't help but be a little bit disgruntled. He'd just given up on finding an empty space and now he has more abandoned space than he nows what to do with. Although he'd like to explore the building, he has more pressing matters to tend to.

Navigating through the building is... surprisingly easy. It's not like him to know his way around places (it really, really isn't his forte), but he manages to find a lounge without too many troubles. Shoving some junk to the side, he finds a fireplace and he thanks his lucky stars. Looking around, he concludes that there's no firewood.

That's not really a problem though, he thinks as he grabs a nearby chair. When the now demolished chair has been chucked into the fireplace, he remembers that he has no way of lighting the damn pile of wood up. After turning the room upside down, he comes to the conclusion that there aren't any matchsticks there. Groaning in frustration, he leaves the room.

Trudging through the halls, he passes various doors and has to suppress the urge to go inside each and every one of them. Now and then, he does indulge in his desire and peeks inside, finding nothing but dust and the remnants of former glory.

When he stumbles upon a set of doors that are so grandiose and tall that he nearly doubts his own eyesight, he knows that he has to look what lays behind them. Filled with curiousity he works them open, only to be stunned into silence when the room behind them is revealed.

It's a ballroom, stately and majestic and he holds his breath for a minute, intimidated by the feeling of veneration and wistfulness that seems to hit him out of nowhere. Getting lightheaded, he sits down on a bench and closes his eyes, slowly breathing in and out. He can feel a headache coming up as shivers run up and down his spine. When he opens his eyes again, he suspects that he's also getting a fever, since what else can the scene before him be except for a fever dream?

Faintly he can hear the band playing a song and the more he tries to convince himself his ears are deceiving him, the more boisterous the music becomes. Right before his eyes, the formerly empty ballroom explodes into a a colourful affair, ladies and gentlemen dressed to the nines. In the light of the candles on the chandelier dangling high above them, he can see their jewelry and the rhinestones on their dresses shimmer and shine.

Besides the music, he can hear their small talk and it's that what haunts him most. The little words about their everyday lives that seem to happen in a reality far outside his own. The glitter, the glamour, the nauseating feeling of approaching danger, it's all too much. He leans his head back against the cold tiles and closes his eyes, but their ghostly whispers remain present.

In the distance, he can hear another group of people arriving and he decides to focus on their conversation, because the disdain in one of the voices sounds genuine, almost like the owner of said voice is actually entering the ballroom.

"They were all godawful! I can't believe we wasted a full day on those monstrosities!" Someone snorts. "You can't talk about those fine and ambitious young men like that baby, they can't help it that they're like that." Yuliy can hear the eyeroll before he sees it and he still thinks he's imagining things, until the young man speaks to him, ice lacing his voice. The otherwordly images shatter and instead he's met by a greenhaired young man.

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

At first he intends to be polite. Then he remembers that this place belongs to no one and there's absolutely no need for a stranger to be so hostile to him. "They call me Yuliy and I'm gonna take a nap. You got any matches?"

Ignoring his question, the shorter of the two men draws closer, his lips curving into the hint of a smile lacking any sort of genuine warmth. "They call you that? Is that name not truly yours then?" Instead of answering, Yuliy purses his lips and looks away. Truthfully, he doesn't even know to answer that. Not even once he's felt like 'Yuliy', but he doesn't know what the other options are. Who else is he supposed to be? Can he even be anything else?

The short man smiles again, wider this time and there's still not a trace of genuine happiness to see there. His companion, thank the lord, has finally noticed his creepy tick and slaps the man a little too jovially on the back. "Freed, stop whatever your face is doing, it's unsightly. You look like a maniac and let's be honest, the only one of us who looks good with that kind of look is yours truly. Show the man around, why don't ya? I'm gonna pick Ever up. You know how prissy she gets when she hasn't had a hot meal in a few days." With a sloppy kiss on Freed's cheek and a "bye baby!" the eccentric man leaves.

A silence that's less than comfortable follows. "So are you two...involved?" He winces at his clumsy wording and Freed pulls a face. "Bickslow is my overly affectionate older brother."

"Oh."

How does he recover from that blunder? Luckily enough for him, he doesn't have to struggle out of this pit himself. "Well then he-who-they-call-Yuliy, follow me. I'll show you something interesting." Unable to keep the curiousity out of his voice, he asks: "What then?" For the first time since meeting him, there's a sparkle of a genuine feeling in the man's eyes, misschief setting the blues ablaze. "A chance."

The first part of the tour consists of polite smalltalk and Freed showing him some superficial treasures hidden in plain view in the abandoned castle. Although he hates the whole process of talking without saying anything, he feels that there's a reason Freed is doing this. Building up the tension. Yuliy hopes he isn't endlessly disappointed by the eventual result and in the hope to see something spectacular, he nods along and 'ahs' and 'oohs' wherever he thinks it's necessary.

"You know", Freed starts and something about his tone tips Yuliy off that it's probably in his best interest to listen carefully now. "I wasn't born as Freed Justine either. Unlike you, I have chosen this name for myself and have found my identity." He pauses then, looking him over with a reserved gaze, head tilted. "Would you like to find yours?"

The question arrives like a punch to the gut, but there's no way he'll let the man in front of him know how affected he is by it. Freed seems like the type of man to unravel his deepest wishes and dangle them before his nose before whisking them away for eternity. No way that he'll let the stranger in on one of the things his heart longs to know. "I don't need some guy I just met telling me who I am. I think I can do that on my own, thank you very much."

"Really now?" Freed sounds amused, but there's a cruel hint to it that he really dislikes. "My dear Yulik (he scoffs at the godawful nickname), right at this moment I am able to recall your entire family tree up to seven generations back. But since you already know exactly who you are, I guess there's no reason to showcase my academic capabilities. It would be quite obnoxious I think, wouldn't you agree?"

No way. He must be lying and Yuliy doesn't hesitate to tell him so. "You're a liar, a scoundrel and an opportunist. You're making shit up and I'm not here for it. I'll go back to the other room and take that nap, you're not of any use to me."

"Do as you please", the man replies, voice light and airy. Right as he's about to leave the room, he hears the other man humming. The melody is saccharinely sweet and the gentle lilts in the tune leave his heart aching. "Where'd you learn that song?" he asks, unable and unwilling to stop himself. Freed halts his humming and shrugs, clasping his hands behind his back.

"The true question is, where did you learn it? As far as I know there's only five people, excluding myself, who know it. The first being the long dead Tsarina Tatiana, the second one being the current tsar Makarov. The third and fourth are Bickslow and Evergreen, two members of the court that were very intimately related to the final person, the central piece that connects all these dots."

Grinning he takes Yuliy by the arm and drags him towards a grand family portrait and points out a blond kid. "Prince Laxus Dreyar, who has been missing for 10 years. I know where each of the forementioned people currently are, except for the much beloved prince." From underneath his long eyelashes he gives Yuliy a look that he's sure is meant to be meaningful. He utterly rejects it.

"A lullaby? That's what you're basing your grand conclusion on? Some great detective you are", he scoffs and considers giving the man a whack. It certainly couldn't make his mental state any worse than it currently was, considering Freed seriously thought that Yuliy, clumsy, oafish Yuliy, was the missing crown prince.

"I never told you it was a lullaby."

"It was a logical assumption, you piece of shit." Sensing that Yuliy is believing none of it, he shakes his head and sighs. "When did you become an orphan?" Defensively, he crosses his arms in front of his chest. "Maybe I didn't and you're just grasping at straws."

"It was a logical assumption, dear Yulik. Also, you let a lot more slip during our smalltalk than you probably realised." The man raises a brow and starts counting on his fingers. " One. You lost your memory ten years ago, around the time of Ivan's failed coup. Trauma can make you suppress memories as can a strategically placed whack against the head."

Yuliy rolls his eyes, but Freed continues impertubable. "Secondly, the whole lullaby debacle. Thirdly..." Freed looks him directly in the eyes and there's something so striking about the full force of his gaze, that Yuliy barely dares to breathe. "You know, don't you? In your heart you realise that there's a chance I'm not wrong. Even though your mind denies it out of some learned humility, your body takes to it without you even noticing."

Before he can ask what the man means, Freed drapes a heavy cape he's found somewhere over Yuliy's shoulders and presses a scepter into his hand. "Look", he whispers and turns him towards a mirror. "Look at your posture, do you truly believe you're merely a peasant?"

"Future tsar", he continues and the title sends shivers down his spine. "You came here, dirt poor and yet you have not put a single treasure into these pockets of yours." To accentuate his words, the man lets his hands glide over each and every pocket on Yuliy's clothes, an action that makes his blood run hot. "The riches here mean nothing you. You're meant for things better than this, aren't you prince Laxus? Cast away the skin of a peasant you've decided to wear and reunite with your grieving grandfather."

The blue of his eyes is absolutely mesmerising and he can't for the love of him look away. "Laxus", he says and he jolts, truly feeling addressed by the name. "Let's get you home." He doesn't know how or why, but he's got the feeling that Freed could tell him anything and he'd believe it.

[cakesunflower]

Heart of Gold [Angel!Michael AU] One Shot

A/N: Angel!Michael is finally among us! It’s 13k+ of words i hope you enjoy. it’s a companion piece to my Angel/Demon!Luke piece Made of Gold and my Angel!Ashton piece Gold in the Clouds. all that’s left is the Demon!Calum piece and then this universe will be wrapped up. happy reading!

The gravel dug into the skin of Freya’s palms as she held herself up, panting ever so slightly to catch her breath through burning lungs deprived of air during combat, watching with wide eyes as the King’s body fell limply right in front of her. The empty vessel fell with a heavy thud, a lump of polished shoes and a black peacoat, and a sharp breath escaped through her nose at the instant acknowledgment of the King being dead. Freya ignored the sharp sting of a cut across her cheekbone, feeling the warm trickle of blood leaking from it as she breathed heavily in disbelief rather than anything else, staring at the body in mild incredulity. He was dead. The King of Hell was dead.

She wasn’t about to mourn over his death. Truthfully, Freya could care less. The demon had been an asshole, which wasn’t surprising given his role, but he’d killed the few friends she had just because they didn’t follow orders exactly like the King intended and that cost them their lives. So, yeah, Freya was sort of glad about his death.

But then her gaze lifted, looking up at who finally got rid of the seemingly unbeatable King, and she pressed her lips together. It was an angel, she knew—an angel she’d already run into a few times. Freya’s nails dug into the dirt, the gravel sharp against her skin yet it felt like nothing, her hazel eyes locked onto a pair of annoyingly bright green ones. He stood a few feet away, an angel blade in hand coated with crimson red, and Freya clenched her jaw together. If he so far as even thought of using it on her. . .

“You killed him.” Freya’s eyes shifted to the only other angel present, taking in the familiar shock of red hair and hazel eyes, staring at the blonde man next to him in a mix of surprise and awe. The angel was depicting the same kind of shock Freya felt freezing her muscles. “You killed the king.”

Instead of teleporting herself out of this situation—which would’ve been the smart thing to do because as much as she loathed to admit it, angels were stronger than mot demons—Freya found herself remaining on the ground, looking up at the two men. Along with the king, there were two other bodies around them, low level demons that had come along with her and the king. Freya didn’t care much for them. She didn’t care much for anyone, period. She only ever followed the King’s commands because of the power he held over all of them, developing a hatred for the ruler as he killed the only friends she had—if she could even call them friends. Every demon for themselves and all that bullshit.

“I did.” She looked at Michael, the angel with the same name as that of the legendary—and dead—archangel. She only knew this Michael because he was friends with the Prince of Hell, someone even as indifferent as Freya had a soft spot for. Not that she’d ever admit that. She’d rather burn in Hell Fire. Michael’s voice was distant with surprise of his own, lifting the blade as his green eyes took in the blood coating the silver, before he gazed at the body in front of him. Then, with the subtlest quirk of an eyebrow, he questioned thoughtfully, “You think Luke will be upset?”

Ashton’s eyes were on the body as well. “He might be since he wasn’t the one to kill him but. . .” He shrugged, indifferent. “I’m assuming he’ll be more glad that he’s dead.”

Freya contained a scoff at that, finally pushing herself to her feet, well aware of the love lost between the King of Hell and his son. She didn’t deal with human driven emotions like love, finding the whole concept of it disgusting and just so human, but she knew of what the King had done to the woman Luke loved. The loss of his father was not going to affect the prince negatively, of that Freya was sure.

The gravel crunched beneath her boots as she stood to her feet, the movement catching the two angels’ attention as they lifted their chins at the sight of her. The knew of Freya, of course, knew she was somewhat a friend to Luke and Calum, the only demons Michael and Ashton let themselves befriend. But she’d also just been one of the demons who attacked them per the King’s orders, having restrained themselves from driving a blade through her chest because of her friendship with their own friends.

She dusted the dirt off her black jeans, subtly narrow eyed gaze on the two men in front of her, wondering what was next. She could easily just blip out of there, but truthfully Freya was still in a bit of shock at the knowledge of the dead king—at the knowledge that some random angel had managed to kill him when no one else even dared.

Maybe that’s why the king fell. He’d underestimated the angel and it cost him his life. How unfortunate.

Her eyes met a pair of startling green, back straightening and wiping any sort of expression off her face as Michael twirled the tainted angel blade between his fingers absently. Honestly, Freya couldn’t believe he was the one who killed Hell’s Lord. This angel—who opted to wear ripped jeans and a flannel under an oversized denim jacket, had a fringe of blonde hair covering part of his eye, and somehow made that unshaven look work—had outsmarted the King of Hell and driven a blade through his chest. Freya would’ve laughed if she hadn’t witnessed it firsthand. There was a calculating look in his eyes, one that was loud in the newfound silence between them, before he lifted his chin. His voice remained thoughtful, though there was a bit of a challenging edge to it as he questioned, “Are you still going to try and kill us?”

Freya bit back the scoff, wanting to answer yes just for the hell of it, maybe as an excuse to kick their asses—even though they’d dropped the King and two other demons right in front of her. But Freya always had a bit of a daring streak to her. She never backed down from a challenge, was a good fighter, and found it fun to kick some angelic asses. Her eyes narrowed at Michael, who was gazing at her with a tilt of his head, looking ever so condescending that many righteous angels wore as if it was a second skin. It was one of the things that pissed the demon off so much about angels—not because they were complete opposites in regards of Heaven and Hell, but because they all looked at others as if they were better than them just because they were above the clouds and not below the earth like the demons.

Whatever snappy retort Freya had at the tip of her tongue died when a figure appeared in front of her, recognition quick to wash over when she realized it was Calum. He was one of the few other demons who was as high up as she was, and was a close friend of the Prince of Hell.

“No, she’s not,” Calum spoke in response to Michael’s question, voice bored and flat. He glanced over his shoulder at her as she pursed her lips, instructing, “Go back downstairs. Everyone’s gettin’ crazy now that the King’s dead. Get it under control while we get Luke.”

Freya pursed her lips at his command, the natural instinct to tell him to piss off and do his own bidding fighting to take control, but she kept herself in line. The King just died and of course Hell was losing its shit the second there was no one to order everyone around. Freya figured the least she could do is use whatever authority she had to get everyone to keep their heads on straight while the new King of Hell, Luke, took over.

She straightened her back, gaze involuntarily drifting over Calum’s shoulder and meeting a pair of annoyingly bright green eyes. Michael’s gaze never left her, intense and unblinking and unnervingly thorough, as if he was staring right into her blackened soul and scrutinizing every inch of it. But Freya was never one to let anyone get under her skin, least of all an angel, and her own hazel eyes narrowed into her signature glare, lips threatening to curl into an irritated snarl. She was used to angels staring at her as if she was scum, didn’t at all care for it and was always willing to knock the winged assholes down a peg or two. She would’ve done it right then and there, directed solely at Michael, if Calum hadn’t cleared his throat impatiently.

Freya smirked, wiping all signs of annoyance from her face as she shoved her hands into the pockets of her leather jacket. She lifted her chin, eyes on the angels. “See you around, dickheads.”

The last thing she saw before disappearing was the purse of Michael’s lips, and Freya was disgusted with herself for thinking how pink they were.

                                                   *****

The small heels of her boots clicked on the stoned path she walked down, the sound echoing in the long, dark hall of Hell’s corridor as she made her way to the King’s throne room. Luke had summoned her, and Freya would be lying if she said she wasn’t curious as to what he wanted with her. A personal summoning from the King wasn’t to be taken lightly; she either had to do something for him or she’d done something to piss him off. Luke’s only been King for about a week or so, and Freya was impressed with how quickly he settled things in Hell. He was a natural leader, unsurprisingly, getting any rowdy demon under control and not at all shy to use threats against those that had shown mere hints of defecting. Freya wasn’t surprised at that, given that it had been Luke’s duty when his father was King to take care of rogue demons.

As she approached the throne room, Freya caught sight of a couple of guys lingering in the hallway, talking amongst themselves, and she fought the urge to roll her eyes when she recognized Cesar as one of them. To call him an asshole would be redundant, given the demonic blood running through his veins and that almost everyone of their kind wasn’t your friendly next door neighbor. But Cesar, in particular, had the hobby of picking on Freya. Or, at least, attempting to, seeing as she’d never give him the time of day. He’d always had something against her, a kind of inferiority complex Freya didn’t care enough to dismantle.

Nearing the door, she heard Cesar leer, “Hey, Freya, how ’bout you and I—”

“No.” She didn’t let him finish, her tone bored and flat yet still holding its edge, gaze never wandering to the group off on the side as she reached the throne room door.

As she opened it, she heard Cesar scoff, “Fucking walks around this place like she’s some tough bitch.”

Freya’s lips quirked into a smug smirk when she heard someone else respond, “’Cause she is. She could kick your ass six ways to Sunday and ya wouldn’t know what hit ya.”

The heavy doors swung shut behind her, closing with a soft echoing thud as she walked further into the throne room. Since Luke took leadership, the room was significantly brighter, probably the only change he’s brought to the physical appearance of it. His father opted for mute candles lining up the stoned walls, providing an intimidating glow whenever he had an audience, as if being the King of Hell and a powerful demon hadn’t been menacing enough.

Luke, however, switched out the candles with actual bulbs, the dark magic running beneath the walls keeping them lit, and they were spread out more around the room, making it appear brighter. Despite being King, Freya had a feeling Luke wouldn’t be spending as much time down under as his father did. His company here had been constant during the past week as he stepped into his new role, but with a human girlfriend above ground, it was doubtful Luke would be as present in Hell as his father had been.

As she approached the throne where the blonde King sat, Freya noticed the only other presence in the room other than her and Luke, her prickling senses instantly picking up on the pure angelic grace stronger than that of the hybrid King’s. She slowed to a stop, just a few feet in front of Luke who was busy on his phone—the reception down there was impeccable—and had his free hand shoved in the jacket of his pocket, standing right next to the angel that had taken down their ruler just a few days ago.

“Long way from home, aren’t you?” Freya drawled, eyes slanting to the side to look at the angel without turning to face him. She took in the oversized, baggy white shirt adorning his frame and the ripped jeans, before her gaze landed on his face and she snorted in contempt at the sight of the black rimmed frames. “Since when do angels wear glasses? They prescription?”

“No. My eyesight is perfect.” A wry smirk tilted at Freya’s lips, a breathless scoff escaping her. It always amused her how direct and straightforward most angels were, humor and sarcasm going over their heads which was hilarious on its own. Then, Michael glanced at her and his own lips quirked subtly, and Freya could swear she heard some smugness in his tone as he added, “The glasses just bring out my eyes.”

His words caused Freya to actually look at him, eyebrows rising and sucking in her teeth under smirking lips because, alright, maybe not all angels were as oblivious as Freya knew them to be. Then, her eyes met his, and Freya had no idea where the thought even originated from but she felt betrayed by her own self when she decided that, yes, the black frames really did make the green of his eyes stand out.

As soon as that thought ran through her head, the smirk dropped from Freya’s lips and she clenched her jaw, deciding to look ahead at Luke instead of the angel, only a couple of inches taller than her, she stood next to. Fortunately, before Freya could berate herself for admiring even inch of Michael, Luke spoke up.

“I’ve got an assignment for you both, one that you’re gonna have to complete together,” he announced, sitting up with his left elbow resting on the arms of the seat and right hand still in his jacket pocket as he gazed at the angel and demon in front of him. At the hint of curiosity flickering under their mostly blank expressions, Luke informed, “I need for you two to find my father’s bones—his original human bones—and bring them to me.”

Freya blinked at him before her eyebrows drew together, not quite expecting that kind of request. For a moment, Freya had forgotten the meat suit the King wore until his death wasn’t his original body, having hopped into another one sometime during the hundreds of years he’d been around. Keeping his original bones safe was smart, because if those were gone, he’d have been dead long ago. And while she had an inkling of the answer, she still questioned, “What’re you going to do with the bones?”

“Burn them,” was Luke’s instant response, leaning back against the seat. He shrugged, as if it was obvious, while adding, “What’s burned stays dead. I don’t need him tryin’ to figure out a way to come back. If his original bones are destroyed, there’s no way he can come back.” Luke leaned forward, blue eyes flickering between Freya and Michael, expression serious and firm. “So I need you two to retrieve them and bring them to me. I want to be the ones to burn them, but I can’t get them myself.”

Michael furrowed his eyebrows, taking in the clench of Luke’s jaw under his unshaven beard. “Why not?”

Freya and Michael watched, then, as Luke’s throat worked while his gaze drifted over their heads, eyeing the double doors that were shut. He looked almost hesitant, a conflicting look washing over his features, before he let out a sigh. “The first King of Hell buried his bones inside a cave in the Monteverde Cloud Forest.” Freya held back a scoff, unsurprised at the dramatic destination. “But because the human bones of a demon’s original vessel can be used against them, he had a witch put a protection spell. The only way to get through is by offering the cave a bit of angel and demon blood.” Luke licked his lips, expression serious as he looked at the two of them, keeping his voice low because the last thing he wanted was anyone else hearing what he had to say. “You are two of the only angels and demons I trust; Ashton’s got his own shit to deal with, and the spell requires demon blood over a hundred and fifty years old.” Luke’s blue eyes met Freya’s hazel, his lips subtly quirking. “Cal just barely misses the cut off, but you don’t.”

It made sense, Freya supposed, nodding along to Luke’s words as he continued, “Trust me, I’d get them myself but I tried a few days ago.” That was news to both Freya and Michael, who frowned as a wry, humorless chuckle left Luke, rolling his lips into his mouth as he leaned back. He smiled, not at all amused. “Apparently my father put another protection spell when he buried his bones—specifically against an angel-demon hybrid. Against me.” At that, Luke pulled out the hand that had been buried in his jacket pocket, and Freya’s eyebrows shot up while she felt Michael tense up next to her at the sight of Luke’s hand. Damaged and raw, the skin was pinker than usual, a bubbling red, and slightly blistered like it had been burned. It was in the process of healing, Freya could tell, but it was slow. She couldn’t help the way her expression scrunched at the sight of Luke’s injured hand, understanding that whatever happened was probably painful.

Luke held his hand up, elbow on the arm rest as his lips thinned, gaze on the injury he had sustained. The fact that his own father put a spell like that with the specific intent of harming his son just reinforced the known fact that the former King of Hell had no regards for anyone, least of all Luke. While it was two centuries ago, Freya had some recollection of what it was like to be human, of having those emotions and fondness for those she once cared about. Despite the demon blood running through her veins and her blackened soul, a part of Freya—the deep, quietened part she kept locked in a box—liked to think that if she were to ever have kids, she would never treat them the way Luke’s father did him.

“If I go, I’ve no doubt it’ll kill me,” Luke said, voice low as his gaze returned to the two of them. “I can’t promise it won’t be dangerous, but I really do need you guys to do this for me.” Then, Luke allowed himself to smirk, looking at Michael as he added with a lilt to his tone, “Can’t have your biggest kill come back to life now, can we?”

Michael mirrored the smirk, though his was more subtle and secretive. He didn’t even look towards Freya for confirmation as he offered a nod to the King. “We’ll take care of it.”

Luke didn’t miss the irritated glance Freya threw Michael’s way, and he was quick to quell her. “Freya.” She looked at him expectantly. “You do this successfully, you’ll join Calum in the King’s Guard.”

His promise had Freya’s eyes widening before she could even think to fight the urge, the sensation of her throat drying one she didn’t often experience as the breath roughly escaped her lungs. Being on the King’s Guard was the highest rank a demon of non-royal blood could achieve in Hell, working alongside the King in dealings with souls and other demons and negotiations between Heaven and Hell. The former Guard had been relieved of their duties as soon as Luke’s father died, each King allowed to appoint their own, and when Luke took the throne it was no question that Calum would be stepping up next to him.

And while Freya was aware she was one of the very, extreme few demons Luke trusted, she never thought that trust went to the point of Luke wanting her to be on his Guard. Truthfully, she didn’t care about much, but she did care about Luke and she wanted to see him thrive. If she had the opportunity to do so by his side, then she would take it. Not to mention it would piss the other demons, all of who showed no respect towards her, the fuck off. Freya was a prideful demon and knew she was good at what she did, and this was never something she would turn away from.

She saw the smile that quirked at Luke’s lips upon her dumbfounded reaction, could feel Michael looking at her with an expectant expression of his own, and Freya allowed herself the smallest of smiles before thinning her lips. Her expression sobered up, exchanging a look with Michael before looking at Luke. Coolly, evenly, she responded, “Like the angel said: we’ll take care of it.”

                                                         *****

If he was capable of it, Michael knew that he would be sweating as twigs and leaves crunched under his shoes with every step he took. Still, he could feel the heavy humidity lingering in the air between the looming trees they trekked under, hearing the chirps and hums of the various insects that resided in the forest echo throughout. Each step forward allowed him to feel the magic guarding the cave more clearly, the protection spell forcing him and Freya to land a few miles away from it before making their way on foot. The only thing heavier than the humidity and denser than the forest was the silence between him and the demon.

Truthfully, she reminded him of Calum, the only other demon Michael found himself befriending. She was loyal to the throne—or, from what Michael could tell, loyal to Luke. And with his knowledge of popular culture being far more vast than most angels he called his brothers and sisters, Michael quickly realized the tattoo on Freya’s arm, just below the inside of her elbow, was that of a Death Eater tattoo seen in Harry Potter. The sight of it was surprising to Michael, unable to suppress the amused chuckle that escaped him as he looked ahead, the sound of his laugh instantly catching Freya’s attention.

“What?” she questioned, the snap in her voice ever present as she scowled over at him, a twig snapping sharply under her boot.  

Michael gave a dismissive shrug of his shoulders as he kept his eyes ahead, unbothered by the heated gaze that could melt the skin off anyone else. “Surprised you’re a Harry Potter fan.”

Freya glanced down at the tattoo inking her skin, pursing his lips. Her decision to get the artwork had been impulsive, but Freya liked the design almost as much as she liked the books and movies. She wasn’t one to be fond of humanity or any aspect of it, but those particular books stuck with her, having read them when she could literally feel herself dying from boredom. Freya didn’t get much free time, and spending whatever she had on a human activity had been disgusting at the time, but if she thought about it now, Freya didn’t regret it.

Her tattoo, one that was a hallmark to death and destruction and everything evil, reminded her that humanity wasn’t entirely useless.

“Humans aren’t a complete waste,” Freya responded, tone flat as she raised her hand, absently swatting away a protruding branch before it nicked at her face.

“They aren’t,” Michael agreed smoothly. “You just have a biased view of them.”

He wasn’t surprised at the scoff that escaped Freya, glancing at her to see the way she shook her head and stared ahead. Raising her eyebrows, she looked at him and Michael noticed the bemused expression she wore as she retorted, “And you don’t?” With a shake of her head, Freya looked up at the sky, branches and leaves of trees obscuring most of the world as she came to a stop to look at Michael. “You angels have such an annoying pure view of everything.” The smile she wore was patronizing, but Michael could pick up on the disbelief hidden as well. “You think humans are so fucking great and must be protected at all times when in reality, all of the hardships they’re inflicted by are because they caused them themselves. They’re pathetic and make life difficult and then pray to your God to find a way out of whatever shithole they fell in.” Freya’s face scrunched up, irritation flooding through her veins as she huffed, “I have no pity for them.”

“They’re flawed,” Michael said, his voice calm and even, facing Freya. He didn’t agree with her beliefs, not entirely, but then again, why would he be expected to? They were complete opposites, in every aspect, yet Michael didn’t feel as. . . Revolted by her as he did with every other demon. It was unsettling, he’d be the first to agree, but something about Freya made Michael want to remain quiet and just. . . Stare. She was beautiful, painfully so, yet Michael had a feeling if he stated as such, Freya wouldn’t be afraid to use his own angel blade against him. “Humans aren’t perfect, and every day I question their creation because of what goes on everywhere in the world. But a lot of them try to be good.” He took a step towards her, a move that wasn’t lost on either of them. “They try, Freya, and that is enough.”

She scoffed once more, wry with a roll of her eyes and Michael pursed his lips at her. She reminded him of Calum when he first met the dark haired demon, except Calum’s view of humanity was vastly different now. Michael figured that’s what happened when he fell in love with a woman who was half human. He wondered if an act such as that would be strong enough to change Freya’s perspective, too.

He looked at her, green eyes meeting hazel, and Michael wondered if he’d imagined the subtle softening of the harshness in her eyes. It was quick, so fast that he would’ve missed it if his gaze wasn’t already on hers, but he noticed it. Almost defeated, it seemed.

“We’re close,” she said, easily dismissing the conversation as she began walking once more. Michael wondered if her shoulders ever tired from being so rigid all the time.

He let out a quiet sigh, following her lead. They were close, he knew; he could feel the magic protecting the cave the more they walked, could feel the force opposing his body from progressing any further. Michael pressed his teeth together, jaw tightening as he kept moving despite feeling as though something was pushing him back, noticing the slight difficulty Freya was having as well. He noted the focused scowl on her features, the cave within their line of sight at the foot of the rock wall ahead, and Michale had to admire her determination. Just like he admired the ever present fire in her hazel eyes and the smirk she wore, no matter how condescending it was.

When they got to the opening of the cave, Michael pulled out his blade and without missing a beat, sliced the inside of his left palm. He didn’t wince as the metal cut through his skin, fisting it above the ground and watching as the crimson liquid dripped down his pale skin and splattered on the entrance floor of the cave, just like Luke had said to do. Glancing at Freya, Michael held the blade to her, watching as he did the same to her own palm and let her blood trickle to the ground. It was all quite unceremonious, not at all as demanding as many spells Michael partook in, but it did the job.

And then, moments later, Michael felt most of the pressure relieve his body, and he let out a sigh. He heard Freya let out her own breath, looking at her to see the purposeful expression make its way back onto her deceivingly beautiful face. She twisted her lips briefly. “Let’s make sure what’s dead stays dead.”

                                                        *****

“Alright, I’ve got it, let’s—”

Freya stopped short, words dying in her mouth when she exited the small, eerie crypt and was greeted with the sight of Michael on the floor. She blinked, eyebrows drawing together as she watched him lay on the cold ground, short, gasping breaths escaping him in chokes as green eyes widened in panic stared up at the ceiling of the cave. His chest moved jerkily, quick and uneven as if there wasn’t enough air for him to breathe, the tendons in his neck protruding as one ring clad hand clutched at his chest. He would almost resemble a fish out of water with the way he was gasping for air, the hoarse wheezing sound echoing in the cave, and Freya would’ve laughed if it hadn’t been so unexpected.

“What the fu—” Her feet moved on their own accord, dropping the bag of bones to the ground as she dropped to her knees at the angel’s side. Freya didn’t think twice about her actions, hands coming up to cup Michael’s face, the unshaven beard tickling her palms as she tried to get him to look at her, peering over his body as his unsteady movements never ceased. Freya caught sight of the panic swimming in his green eyes, wide under drawn together eyebrows, pink lips parted in hopes of giving his lungs the oxygen they were begging for. Except it didn’t seem to be working.

Well aware of the spells that could be covering the cave, Freya had a feeling that whatever was inflicting Michael was due to some curse placed against angels in particular. The feeling of her blood sizzling in her veins hadn’t ceased, Freya was just good at ignoring it, and it wasn’t as bad as it could be. But whatever was happening to Michael made her believe that the curse against angels in this place was far more severe, and that she needed to get Michael out of there now.

Against her will, Freya was acutely aware of what seemed like worry washing over her, swallowing as she tried her best to ignore it because who the hell was she, getting concerned over the state of an angel? In that moment, Freya told herself that even if she was worried, it wasn’t because of Michael, but because this was Luke’s friend and she couldn’t have him die on her watch.

Yeah. That’s what this was. Not genuine concern for the angel who wore black rimmed glasses to bring out his green eyes.

The sight of someone dying had never truly bothered Freya before. It never made her freeze in place nor did she ever feel anything but wicked indifference when it happened in front of her, so why had the panic she’d seen in Michael’s eyes settle heavily in her chest as he struggled to breathe? She told herself it was because she hadn’t actually expected to see him drop to the ground, to suddenly being suffocated and unable to get off his back. She’s tortured people in much more horrible conditions and never batted an eye.

Her belief that the panic she’d felt just because he was Luke’s friend was already starting to dwindle.

“Okay, okay, I think this is our cue,” Freya muttered, disregarding the warmth she felt seep into her skin as she touched Michael’s, her hands dropping to grasp his before she used her strength to easily pull him to his feet. He stumbled, body still shaking, and Freya wrapped her right arm around his waist after draping his left around her shoulders. Free hand grabbing the bag of bones, Freya held the trembling angel to her, who was unable to utter a mere syllable, and breathed, “See what having angel grace gets you?”

Through his troubled state—it was unnerving to notice that his skin had grown paler—Michael shot her an irritated look upon hearing her words. She returned it with a dry smirk—whether she did so to calm her own racing nerves, no one had to know—and fought the unexpected desire to reach up and brush back the fringe of ashy blonde hair covering his eye. Her thoughts had her freezing in place, a fiery desire of screaming at herself for what the hell she was thinking, until Michael lifted his chin and widened his eyes slightly, managing to wheeze out in a raspy tone, “Can we get going?”

He didn’t have to tell her twice, especially when the longer she stayed in there, the harsher the inside of her body felt, like her blood was literally being set on fire and burning her from the inside out. Michael couldn’t breathe, and she felt as though she was about to combust, and neither of them could teleport out of there because of the damn spells coating the place.

Their footsteps sounded throughout the cave as Freya tried to get them out of there as fast as she could. Michael’s weight wasn’t the problem, of course—it was just the way his body was still shaking and the sizzling burn she could feel under the skin of her vessel. Her body was in pain, no doubt about it, but Freya had never been one to complain.

So she gritted her teeth, exhaling sharply through her nose as she helped Michael out, his head bowed and lips parted as breathless chokes continued to escape him. Shit. Freya hoped once they were out and far enough from the cave, whatever the hell was afflicting them would wear off.

The entrance of the cave was in sight, a literal light at the end of the tunnel, until suddenly there was a fierce, fiery sting running through Freya, pinching every single nerve in her body that had her tripping on her feet until the bag of bones was released from her grip and she was stumbling onto the ground, bringing Michael down right with her. Her knees came into harsh contact with the rocky ground, her eyes squeezing shut as she used her now free hand to slam against the floor, teeth baring as she inhaled a sharp breath through her nose, all too aware of the disgruntled, surprised hoarse gasp that escaped Michael at the unexpected fall.

Shit, shit, shit, fuck. It was like her vessel was being lit on fire, fingers dragging against the sharp ground as she fisted her hand and pressed her knuckles against the floor. Freya took a sharp, hissing breath through her teeth, the miniscule rocks digging into her skin but that was nothing compared to the burn in her body.

“Are you—” Michael’s breathless voice cut off so he could take a rough breath which got caught in his throat anyway. “—okay?”

Freya gave a shake of her bowed head, expression scrunched painfully as she squeezed her closed eyes, her arm still around Michael. She tried to focus on the feel of his body against hers rather than the pain of what was going on inside, the press of his side to hers bringing her back to reality and away from the agony of her body feeling as though it was burning down from the inside. “We need to get out of here,” Freya responded tightly, voice strained.

“Freya, yo-your skin.”

She opened her eyes at Michael’s taut voice, the very act difficult to go through with, and her gaze landed on the back of her hand that seemed to look like it was peeling, the skin a harsh pink, ready to melt off her bones. Freya sucked in a sharp breath through her teeth, the sight of it seemingly only increasing the pain she felt to go with it. One look at what was happening and suddenly Freya was aware that she was feeling it all over, neck tensing as she felt the sensation there, her throat tensing, and through gritted teeth she gruffed out, “Move, move, move.”

The thrice chanted word was a command to herself, raising her head to glare at the light at the end of the tunnel, forcing herself to grab the bag in her fist and tightening her grip on Michael. The angel, in turn, noticed that Freya was in just as much as agony as he was, maybe more, and tried to pull his own weight despite it becoming increasingly difficult for him to breathe. The air they were surrounded in wasn’t granted to his lungs, and despite the tight burning in his chest, Michael still helped Freya in pulling them both to their feet with grunts escaping her and breathless wheezes sounding from Michael.

Their legs wobbled under their weight, yet the demon and angel still pushed. The cave echoed with the crunch of pebbles beneath their shoes and their labored breathing, both trying to hold onto each other to support themselves and the other, a silent partnership forged in hopes of making it out alive. Freya could feel Michael’s grip on her shoulder tighten, her own arm around his waist vice-like as she kept her jaw tight, the ache of it nothing compared to the sensation of feeling like her body was burning from the inside out, wondering if it was just as bad for Michael.

Truthfully, she was surprised at the angel’s resilience, knowing full well of heaven’s soldiers’ strength but her blackened soul deluding her to believe they were weaker than demons. Freya felt like she was about to drop any second, but she refused to do so. She needed to complete this mission. She needed to get these bones back to her new king. And she needed to get Michael out of there.

Her teeth gritted. Freya told herself it was because he was Luke’s friend. Not because she was worried.

“Almost. . . There. . .” Michael’s brittle rasp broke through Freya’s thoughts, gaze refocusing on the end of the tunnel that was thankfully drawing nearer with every shaky step they took.

Even when the ground beneath them went from rocks to twigs and grass, the sensation their bodies felt didn’t cease right away, and Freya let out a curse and almost felt her legs collapse as she hissed, “We’re not far enough yet.”

For fuck’s sake—Freya didn’t know when the last time she cried was, but she just wasn’t sure if she could keep this up. The smell of burning flesh nauseated her nose, the scent not usually one that troubled her, but knowing it was her own skin gradually melting off her damn bones both dwindled and reinforced her will to move quickly. The last thing she wanted was to die in the middle of this forest, holding onto an angel, but Freya wasn’t sure how long she could keep this up. Not when the burns began spreading across her cheeks, unfurling across her entire body as she kept pushing herself and Michael on.

And then they reached the outskirts of the spell, the weight instantaneously lifting off both of their bodies, and they collapsed.

Freya didn’t care for the sound of the bones rattling in the sack or the pinch of the twigs and dried leaves digging into her lower back due to the rise of her shirt, eyes squeezing shut as the sun peeked through the towering trees, breathing heavily through parted lips. A sense of relief washed over her, the searing of her skin no longer melting off her bones, her hands fisting the leaves she laid upon as she tried to catch her breath.

The sound of her struggling to ease her rapid heart rate could be heard mixed with the distant sounds of birds chirping, along with the raspy breathing of Michael sucking in heavy gulps of air after being deprived for too long, the sounds seeming to become further and further away as exhaustion hit Freya suddenly, out of nowhere.

The fresh air, colored with the scent of leaves and wood, brought an overwhelming sense of relief to Michael’s lungs as he drank in the air, because his life desperately depended on it. His chest no longer felt like it was on fire, the tension decreasing as he felt the warmth of the sun bathe him, a lot more calming than the heat he felt due to his oxygen supply being cut off. He could literally feel the color rush back into his face, throat drying with every inhale through his parted lips.

He brought a hand to cover his closed eyes, feeling every movement of his chest and every beat of his heart, a soft curse of, “Shit,” escaping his lips. Michael paused for a moment, mindful of the woman next to him, before his husky voice questioned, “Are you alright?”

When she didn’t respond, Michael let out a sharp breath through his nose, assuming she was being too stubborn to grace him with an answer. Opening his eyes and squinting against the sun beaming down, Michael turned his head as he began, “Fre—”

He cut himself off because it was quiet. Too quiet.

Not in the sense here he couldn’t hear the birds singing above or the rustling of dried leaves in the breeze. No, he could hear those perfectly clearly.

He couldn’t hear Freya’s heart beating.

Michael’s eyebrows drew together, squinting slightly as he looked at her, feeling the leaves press into his cheek yet he paid them no mind as he gazed at Freya laying on her back, eyes closed and lips slightly parted. Her skin reminded him of what Luke’s hand had looked like, burned and charred with pink, and while Freya’s skin didn’t look as blistered as Luke’s, the sight of it being so flawed was still jarring.

There was no movement of her chest, no sign of her breathing, and Michael felt his heart cease. Pressing his palms against the ground, ignoring the bite of the twigs and gravel, Michael pushed himself up with a heavy grunt. His movements were slower than he’d like, the effect of the magic that inflicted them still lingering, but Michael still crawled to where she was just a foot away. Pushing aside the bag of bones, Michael kneeled next to Freya’s unmoving body, panting slightly as he looked down at her.

Her dirty blonde hair spread beneath her, leaves stuck in the strands, and her skin looked as though it had been peeled, pink and burnt. When they’d been struggling out of the cave, Michael could feel Freya pushing herself, determined to get them out of there despite the sensations fighting her body, and he had actually felt guilty for forcing her to carry them both out. But he hadn’t been able to breathe, all of his energy going to suck in any ounce of air he could grasp, making Freya quite literally do all of the heavy lifting. But she had done it. She carried them out, despite her body physically making her incapable of doing so, and Michael was grateful.

It wasn’t lost on him that she could have just as easily left him to die. She could have left him suffocating on the floor of that cave instead of pushing herself and carrying him out. But she didn’t. And he couldn’t let her die.

“Freya,” Michael breathed, trembling hands hesitantly reaching to gently cup her jaw. His touch was light, barely there as he touched her broken skin, heart jumping in his throat at how soft she still felt. Most of his focus, though, was on her lack of breathing. Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, Michael kept down the panic bubbling in the pit of his stomach as he said, “Not today, Freya. You’re not dying today.”

God knows Michael barely had energy left in him. His hands were quivering and he just only managed to regain his steady breathing, but he couldn’t feel Freya. He couldn’t feel any movement, nor could he hear her normally thready heartbeat. The whistle of the wind rang in Michael’s ear, but the shiver that crept down his spine was brought by the unmoving demon, burnt and near dead.

No. He wasn’t going to let her die.

Closing his eyes, Michael’s right hand left her jaw and he pressed his palm against Freya’s forehead, eyebrows knitting together as he felt the warmth of his grace engulf him comfortingly. He could feel his muscles straining as the power of his grace flowed through him, forehead creasing as his frown deepened, focusing all of his energy into giving it to Freya so she could heal. He desperately hoped it would be enough, trying not to let the increasing panic hinder his abilities to help her, gritting his teeth as he gave her as much as he could without completely draining himself too.

His words fell like a chant from his lips, fast, whispered and fierce. “Come on, come on, come on, come on.” Michael was close to depleting himself, knowing he hadn’t had enough time to recover before using his powers, letting out a sharp gasp as he cut himself off.

His breathing was heavy, head ducked as he tried to even it out, wincing at the strain of his body and the lack of angel grace that he knew would take a while to replenish. Michael tightened his expression, feeling a prickle of fear that lead to the inevitable act of opening his eyes, anxious that what he had to give hadn’t been enough as he breathed heavily, feeling the end of his blonde fringe tickle the bridge of his nose as his head remained ducked and body moved heavily with every breath he took.

And then he heard it.

It was faint, would’ve missed it if his ears weren’t so sharp. But it was there. A heartbeat.

Eyes shooting open, Michael lifted his head a bit to look at Freya, hand removing from her forehead as he realized, with an overwhelming wave of relief washing over him, that the burns on her skin were nowhere to be seen. It was like it had never been charred, smooth and flawless under his touch as his thumbs grazed her cheeks. “Freya,” he breathed, hand sliding up to brush away a few strands of her hair. “Open your eyes, Freya.”

Honestly, if he had to see the all blacks of demonic eyes, he’d be grateful.

With every moment that passed where she didn’t wake up, Michael could feel his heart climbing further up his chest and into his throat. Unlike many of his angelic brothers and sisters, Michael wasn’t the best at controlling his panic; if something went sideways, something he couldn’t prevent or help better, the tightness of his chest began suffocating him and all he could think of was the thundering of his heart between his ears rather than figuring out how to just stop.

He could feel his breathing pick up, throat drying as he breathed through his mouth and kept his hands on her face and closed his eyes to try and regulate himself. Her heart was beginning to increase into a steadier rhythm, he could hear it, and that should’ve been enough to reassure him that she was alive. But until he saw the hazel of her eyes, or even the black, for God’s sake, Michael wouldn’t be able to breathe.

“Thought angels having halos was just bullshit lore.”

Her voice was a hoarse whisper, but it was enough to have Michael sucking in a sharp breath and opening his eyes, green meeting somewhat bleary hazel, and suddenly Michael’s lungs were overflowing with overwhelming air. He gasped when their eyes met, lips involuntarily lifting as his thumbs brushed across her cheekbones. She looked up at him, eyes glittering under the sun and her long lashes, lips parted as she breathed calmly.

He didn’t even register her words, the relief rushing through his ears as he let out a soft laugh. “You’re okay,” was all he could mutter out, hovering over her. The twigs were digging into his knees as he leaned above her, but Michael didn’t care. Not when she was breathing and looking up at him and making comments. “Thank God.”

The corner of Freya’s lips quirked into a half smirk, too exhausted for the whole thing, yet she still let out a soft grunt as she pushed herself up. Instinctively, Michael’s hands went from her cheeks to her shoulders to assist her, surprised and a bit relieved she didn’t push him away at his touch. Her chest moved steadily as she breathed, something Michael found himself focusing on because it had been a few minutes too many where her heart hadn’t been beating.

They sat closely, Michael with his legs folded beneath him as he remained at her side, breathing a bit heavily and green eyes trained on her face as she closed her eyes to get it together. Gently, his hand raised to get the few leaves stuck in her dark blonde strands out, pulling them away and letting them flutter to the ground. Freya opened her eyes, head slightly ducked, but gaze sliding over to Michael, whose complexion looked a bit paler. There was a look in her eyes, one that he hadn’t seen her wear from the short period of time he’s known her, as she stared at him. It was soft and sincere, one that kind of took Michael’s breath away because it wasn’t something he’d expected to be faced with.

And then she smiled. A small smile that was gentle across her features with hints of exhaustion underlying. Michael felt a tug in his chest when her hazel eyes dropped a little, going from his eyes to his lips, before she looked into his eyes once more. There was a numbing silence, not even the birds sounding in the distance, as Freya responded in a tone softer than he ever thought she was capable of, “God had nothing to do with it.” Her hand found his where it was resting on her shoulder, touch soft and electrifying that had Michael’s breath hitching in his throat as she looked at him. Something stirred in the pit of Michael’s stomach, and once again he couldn’t breathe. Only this time, it wasn’t nearly as painful. “It was all you.”

                                                     *****

Freya entered the bar, the music pounding in her head as she clicked her tongue in annoyance, fortunately not having to look around too much as she easily caught sight of Luke’s blonde head sitting at the end of the bar. Tugging at the lapels of her leather jacket, Freya walked over to him, settling on the empty stool to his left as she said in a form of greeting, “Figures I’d find you here.” Luke glanced at her as Freya kept her gaze ahead, eyes on the brunette working behind the bar. Folding her arms on top of the bar, Freya asked, “How is she?”

Luke’s gaze followed Freya’s to where Tameera was, concocting and serving drinks as a small smile lifted at his lips. “She’s good, thanks.” Hand wrapped around his glass of beer, Luke looked at Freya and asked, “What’re you doing here?”

Pursing her lips, Freya was silent for a moment, contemplating asking him what she had in mind. But her curiosity itched at her mind, as did some weird fucking heaviness in her chest that wouldn’t leave her alone. “I was wondering if. . .” She let out a slow exhale through her nose, hazel eyes meeting Luke’s blue as she asked, “How’s Michael doing? Last time I saw him, he wasn’t in the best shape.”

She distinctly remembered when she saw him last, paler than usual and green eyes a bit dull due to the lack of energy running through his body. He’d looked weak and she knew it was because he’d given her whatever bit of power he had left to bring her back from brink of death. Because that’s what had happened—she’d nearly died, the powerful magic the cave had been cursed with taking a stronger toll on her than she’d expected.

Michael had saved her life and, despite her initial and automatic irritance with the angel, Freya was grateful.

Luke eyed her, taking in the genuine curiosity in Freya’s expression, the hint of worry she’d failed to prevent from slipping into her voice. “He’s recovering,” he answered truthfully. “It took a lot out of him, healing you against that kind of magic. But he’ll be okay. He’s tough.”

Freya bit the inside of her cheek, well aware of the guilt that was twisting her stomach. She had never been one to care much about others, less than a handful of people she would step up for—one of who was sitting next to her. But Freya couldn’t get the image of Michael out of her head; of his pale face and dull eyes and ragged breathing. She had just barely gotten them out of the cave, and still they had suffered agonizingly, and he used what little power he had left to save her.

Letting out a slow breath, Freya picked at her dark nails before asking, “Is he on earth or upstairs?”

Before Luke could answer, a figure came to stand in front of them on the other side of the bar, and a familiar voice greeted, “Hey, Freya—can I get you a drink?”

The blonde demon looked ahead, catching sight of Tameera standing with her hands braced on the bar, an easy smile on her face as she raised her eyebrows. Freya wasn’t able to keep herself from smiling back in greeting. Tameera was probably the only human she could actually enjoy the company of. And, surprisingly, it had nothing to do with the fact that she was the love of the King of Hell’s life. The few times she’s been around Tameera, Freya genuinely liked hanging out with her. She wasn’t insolent and irritating like the many other humans Freya had encountered.

And when she had found out what Luke’s father had done to her, what he’d done to Luke, Freya had been all too willing to put a knife through the former king herself. The only reason she hadn’t was because Luke had prevented her from doing so. She would’ve died trying.

“Just a gin and tonic, thanks,” Freya responded, the smile on her lips sincere towards the bartender. Tameera nodded with a smile, throwing a wink towards Luke before turning to prepare the drink.

Once she was gone, Luke answered Freya’s question with, “Upstairs.” Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, “Why, you thinking of visiting?”

Freya pursed her lips, returning her gaze to her hands resting on the table. “I owe him a debt.”

Luke swallowed the sip of his beer, pulling his lips back as savored the taste of it. His curls hung past his ears and not for the first time Freya thought he looked too much like an angel to be the King of Hell. “From what he told me, you saved his life first so I don’t think you do,” he said, a knowing tone in his voice.

Pressing her tongue to the floor of her mouth, Freya let her gaze wander around the bar. Colorful and bustling with people enjoying themselves, and Freya rolled her lips into her mouth. All around her were smiling, happy faces as the humans talked to one another, drank and danced and minded their own business. She watched them with a vacant expression, though her thoughts were running wildly in her mind, conflicting and clashing, enough to prompt a bleeding headache.

The try, and that is enough. Michael’s voice echoed through her head, and Freya bit the inside of her cheek in exasperated annoyance. They weren’t doing anything special in this moment, not in this bar, save for mingling and getting drunk. Yet Michael’s words were still ringing, still urging her to see the better side of humans, and for the life of her she couldn’t understand why he was having such an effect on her. How many angels, in the years she’d been around, have told Freya to give humanity a chance? How many times did she laugh in their face and tell them to shove their hopeful and optimistic view of humans up their ass?

Why was it that she was actually giving it consideration when the words had been spoken by Michael?

Why was she considering values and perspectives that vehemently went against everything she knew as a demon?

Tameera appearing into view and placing her drink in front of her pulled Freya out of her thoughts, automatically flashing a smile towards the brunette as she reached for her glass. She paid no attention to the actual conversation Tameera and Luke were having, but Freya did watch them from the side. She noted the easy grin that slipped onto Luke’s face whenever Tameera came into view, watched the dimples deepen in his cheeks and bright blue eyes glow a little livelier when he talked to the woman he loved. And something in Freya’s chest. . . Tugged.

Despite Luke being half angel, there was still a half of him that was demon, and still he managed to completely and utterly fall in love with a human.

And if he wasn’t proof enough, Freya knew for a fact that Calum had his own human that he’d fallen for. Granted, Calum’s girl had some angel history, but she was mostly human. And Calum, a high ranking demon, part of the King’s Guard, had still fallen in love with her. He had just as much of a tainted view of humanity as Freya did, as demons they were practically bred for it. So for him to hold a human life so near and dear, for her King to be willing to die for a human. . . It was suddenly making Freya question everything.

She never would’ve if it weren’t for Michael. She’d never given Luke and Calum’s love lives much thought, until Michael came along. Michael, Michael, Michael. That damned angel was clouding her thoughts and Freya was beginning to get a headache. He was making her reconsider beliefs she’s lived by for over a hundred years, and while Freya was not one to be scared by much, if not anything, she could feel the prickle of terror in her bones because of this. Because of one angel who’d said a few sentences to her and suddenly she was reevaluating everything.

Why did what he say fucking matter to her so much?

Freya glanced at Tameera and Luke, and her throat closed up. Maybe she knew, but the answer was too rattling for her to acknowledge.

Suppressing a scoff, Freya took a large sip of the drink despite it having no effect on her. She just enjoyed the burn of it. One fucking angel and suddenly Freya had no idea what to think.

“You like him, don’t you?”

Luke’s question pulled Freya out of her conflicting thoughts, turning to look at him and receiving the knowing look he wore. Tameera was back attending the bar, leaving just the two of them, and Freya tried to keep her usual bored expression on her face. But she could feel herself failing, could feel the startled expression cross her face as she stupidly denied, “No, I don’t.”

He pursed his lips at her, unimpressed, before he clicking tongue. “No point in lying to me, Freya. I’m the King of Hell, I know things.” This time, she had no problem with shooting him her own flat expression, earning a low chuckle from Luke as he conceded, “Alright, I know you. You’ve never asked twice about anyone before, even those you’ve worked on multiple assignments with. And now you work one with Michael and you’re asking after him, an angel, no less?”

Freya could feel the blood rush away from her face, could feel the dryness in her throat itch at her at Luke’s words. He wasn’t wrong—she was indifferent in that sense, basically uncaring when it came to others. Luke and Calum were the only other people that Freya, in her own way, cared about. They understood her and she did them, except when it came to the people they’d consequently fallen in love with. She hadn’t understood it, this love they felt for human girls, but Freya would never dare speak against it despite her own distaste for humans. Not when she knew these particular girls made the only people Freya considered friends so unconditionally happy.

So for Luke to suggest that Freya may feel something for Michael, something she was having trouble grasping in the first place. . . It was unnerving.

But that didn’t mean he was wrong.

Her gaze dropped to her half empty glass, and Freya’s jaw clenched. “An angel and a demon,” she murmured, voice low. “It’ll never work.”

Luke scoffed disapprovingly. “Says fucking who? If Meera and I can make it work, hell if Cal and Mia can, then so can you and Mike.”

Freya looked at Luke, could see how strongly he believed in his words, yet the seed of doubt remained planted. It was a tree that was already growing watered by her fear of she didn’t know what, and for the first time, Freya worried that she wasn’t strong enough to cut it down.

                                                        *****

It was ironic, really, how humans believed they would reach peace if they got to heaven. Meanwhile Michael, an Angel of the Lord, felt at his most relaxed when he was on earth. He’d spent the first day, after arriving back from his assignment appointed by Luke, up in heaven only to grow tired of the familiar surroundings. Sometimes it felt as though time stayed still in heaven, and while an angel who’s been around as long as Michael honestly had no conception of time anymore, it felt like nothing was happening. It made healing seem to stretch on even longer.

So he found himself on earth—more specifically, a park bench with the sun shining down on him and the birds chirping. Or, at least, that’s how it had started, seeing as the sun had been replaced by the moon and instead of birds chirping, he could hear the clicking of bugs around him. He’d been sitting out there all day, listening to the hours pass around him, watching less and less people grace the park before the sun set and everyone went home.

But Michael didn’t care. He remained seated on the wooden bench, eyes closed and head tilted back as the cool breeze tickled his skin. There was no wind in heaven. Michael breathed in the fresh air, acutely remembering the sensation of not being able to breathe at all in that cursed cave, feeling the lungs of his vessel expanding with every inhale and filling him up wonderfully. It was rare that he appreciated the act of breathing, only reveling in it after it nearly being taken from him.

“Just our luck—one of God’s bitches for us to play with.”

Michael cracked open an eye, gaze automatically drifting to two familiar figures approaching him, a wave of exasperation washing over him as he recognized the demons. One of them was Vincent and the other was Cesar, a demon Michael had a few encounters with over the years, none of them particularly pleasant. He sneered at Michael, the disdain and hostility clear on his twisted features, and Michael suppressed a sigh despite feeling the tense danger lingering in the air. The last thing he needed was to deal with a bunch of pissy demons when he hadn’t fully healed. Michael would be the first to admit that he was still weak, and he didn’t need Cesar and his buddies taking advantage of that.

“Don’t you two have some poor souls to torture?” Michael drawled, still seated on the bench as he raised an eyebrow at them. He kept his gaze on them as they came to stand in front of him, just a few feet ahead, his body tensing in preparation for a fight he knew was coming but wasn’t entirely ready to partake in. “Or is that too above your pay grade?”

The sarcasm in his tone wasn’t lost on any of the demons, and Michael would be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly amused at how almost immediately Cesar pulled out his blade, Vincent following suit like a good little soldier. That didn’t take long at all.

Michael’s body ached as he came to stand on his feet, feeling what was left of his grace rush through him fiercely, racing to heal him while trying to regenerate at the same time. He couldn’t transport out of there; getting himself down to earth through one of heaven’s portals had been draining enough, and if Michael tried to transport, he knew he’d be stalling his healing that much longer. Who knows how far he’d be able to get anyway.

“You’ve got quite a mouth for someone who’s about to die,” Cesar growled, his grip on the knife tightening before he snapped, “Vincent.”

His second in command charged forward, his own dagger ready to cause harm, swiping it in the air and Michael knew that he was too slow to move, could feel it when the end of Vincent’s weapon sliced across his right cheek to leave a shallow cut. Michael couldn’t help the wince that shuddered through him as he stumbled back, knowing he wouldn’t have even registered the cut had it not been for the fact that he was already so week. He tried to straighten, raising the blade he held, cursing when he saw Vincent go for another hit.

Michael raised his left arm, blocking the attack, using the back of his blade to hit Vincent’s temple and watched as he stumbled back. But just as the demon straightened, ready and capable for more, Michael felt the air slice past him as a dagger flew by, watching in surprise as it dug itself in the middle of Vincent’s stomach. Michael watched incredulously, just like Cesar, as Vincent yelled out an agonizing scream and his dark skin flashed with red electricity, a tell-tale sign of a demon’s death, before he fell to the ground. He was dead, and Michael stared at his body in bewilderment, unsure of what just happened as he breathed heavily. Not being at his full power made it difficult to breathe, and he was getting quite sick of it.

“How fucking bored are you to pick a fight you’re not gonna win?”

Michael straightened, the air rushing out of his lungs as he looked over his shoulder, feeling his heart stutter at the sight of Freya. She stood a few feet away, expression thunderous and arms crossed over her chest. Her glare was directed at Cesar, tight and murderous, as she began walking to where he and Michael stood.

Cesar stared at her, both incredulous and unabashedly pissed the fuck off, as he demanded, “What the fuck did you do?”

Michael couldn’t keep his gaze off of Freya, wondrous and in awe as she walked past him, heated glare remaining on Cesar as she stood a few feet in front of Michael. “Got rid of a piece of shit who’d rather listen to you than be loyal to the king,” Freya responded, her tone carrying that familiar edge to it, though this time the harshness wasn’t lost on Michael. She was just as pissed as Cesar, if not more. “Michael is Luke’s friend. You really think you’d get away with trying to kill him?”

Cesar’s scowl shifted towards Michael, who instinctively wiped off whatever he felt for Freya and returned the stare with an intense glare of his own, jaw tight and shoulders squared. “He’s an angel,” Cesar spat, as if the word itself was poison in his mouth.

Freya’s hands clenched into fists, and Michael wondered if she cared for the way her nails were most likely digging into her palms. “He’s my angel,” she stated tightly, her words hitching the breath in Michael’s throat as he stared at her back in surprise. His heart drummed in his chest; was it a slip of a tongue? Did she mean it? Her angel? “And he’s the king’s friend. He would—”

“He’s a fool, not a king, working with the likes of angels and defiling the King’s Guard by putting you in it,” Cesar cut in sharply, the hatred clear in his voice that had Michael clenching his jaw tightly. “Luke will never be the king his father was.”

Michael raised his chin from where he stood two steps behind Freya, voice confident and sure as he declared, “He’ll be better.”

Cesar’s eyes locked on Michael’s green ones, a scoff escaping him before sneering, “He cares too much. Hell will never accept him.”

“It already has,” Freya retorted, the fire in her voice never dissipating. She was pissed, Michael could tell, from the rigidness of her shoulders and the tightness of her voice. “Just because he refuses to be the tyrant his father was, and because he chose to fall in love, doesn’t mean he won’t make a good king. He’ll be better for it.”

Cesar was far from convinced, laughing mockingly. “Love is a pathetic human notion. No one cares for the King of Hell who loved.”

“It’s a notion they got right.” For a moment, Michael didn’t believe what he just heard, gaping at Freya as he wondered if his ears had deceived him. Had she just agreed on a largely human concept? Does she stand by it? He had so many questions as he felt his chest tighten at the wondrous thought of Freya claiming a different perspective than the one she was so used to, but he kept silent for now as the scene in front of him played out. Michael noted the way Freya’s right hand, behind her back, wrapped around the blade tucked into the waist of her pants. He watched, quiet and knowing and in slight disbelief, as Freya responded evenly to an oblivious Cesar, “No one cares for those who try to stop him. Especially me.”

She flung the blade out with a curl of her wrist and within an eye’s blink it was buried in the middle of Cesar’s chest, Michael’s green eyes taking in the pained contortion of his face, a startled yell leaving Cesar as his body flashed with the familiar undercurrent of red electricity, right before collapsing lifelessly to the ground. And just like that, with a dagger to the chest, the demon was dead, his body joining that of Vincent’s.

Michael pursed his lips as his eyes went to Freya, whose back was still to him as she stepped towards Cesar and pulled her knife out, wiping the blood off on Cesar’s shirt and standing straight, before he questioned, “Are you hiding any more daggers under there or am I safe?”

She let out a scoff at his words, turning around to finally look at him, and Michael was a bit surprised at the frown that drew together her eyebrows. Giving a subtle shake of her head to move away wisps of her dirty blonde hair, Freya tucked the dagger back in as she asked, “You really think I’d use it on you?”

His gaze remained on her, taking in the way she stood in front of him, confident in all her glory and utterly beautiful. Michael wasn’t exactly sure when he started thinking of a demon as beautiful—hell, he wasn’t even sure when he started to look past Freya’s blackened soul, the small feat not as important to him as it should be to an angel. Instead, he saw her for who she was, what made Freya into who she was along with that kind of soul; fierce and loyal to those she cared for, and unafraid to show it.

He had tried not to think of how he’d developed these feelings for Freya, not quite understanding them himself, but he’s seen the way Luke acted around Tameera, heard the way Calum spoke about Mia, knew Ashton had his own situation with Haley, and Michael knew that if they were capable of experiencing what they did, why should he be any different? Demons and angels and hybrids of the two fell in love; why couldn’t he?

Of course, leave it to him to utterly fall, in the shortest amount of time, for someone who could put him down with a single look. But, truthfully, Michael wouldn’t have it any other way.

So he smiled, gentle with an airy chuckle escaping him as he answered, “No, I don’t.”

Michael saw the satisfaction mixed with a subtle hint of relief relax her expression, watched as Freya took the few steps towards him to come stand in front of him. She wasn’t that much shorter than him, nearly meeting his eye line, and Michael couldn’t help the way his throat worked when her hand came up to let her fingers gently brush away his blonde fringe before trailing under the fresh cut on his cheek. It was a gentle touch, one that he, at one point, didn’t think Freya was capable of, feeling something tighten in his stomach when the warmth of her tender touch flushed through his body. Her hazel eyes seemed to be glittering under the moonlight, stealing his breath effortlessly.

Freya licked her lips, her gaze going from the cut to meet his green eyes, stating disappointedly, “You’re an idiot for trying to take on the two of them in your weakened state.”

Even still, Michael could hear the fondness she let slip into her voice, a tone he hadn't heard from her before, one he wished to hear forever. The way the corners of his lips quirked couldn’t be helped, raising a lazy eyebrow as he responded softly, “But I’m your idiot, aren’t I? Isn’t that what you said—my angel?”

He saw the way her throat worked, saw the crack in her perpetual indifferently badass expression, and it made his heart swell at the knowledge of him probably being the only one able to get that kind of reaction out of her. Especially the hint of pink warming her cheeks. It was a sight he’d be hard pressed to forget. She tried to play it off, pressing her index finger to the center of his chest, her nail a pleasant pressure on his skin as she narrowed her eyes slightly. “Don’t make fun of me.”

“I’m not,” Michael assured with a shake of his head, his smile widening, biting down on his lower lip as he watched Freya’s gaze drop to his mouth. What he was feeling for her in that moment stirred something in the pit of his stomach, made the grace and blood in his body race even faster. “I’m just saying—you’re right. I am your angel.” The way her lips parted ever so slightly at his words had Michael smiling even more, realizing he caught her off guard with his admittance, and he lifted his chin as he added teasingly, “And you’re my cute demon.”

Instantly Freya scoffed with a roll of her eyes, arms crossing over her chest as she shot him a bemused look. “Don’t call me cute. I’m not cute.”  

His grin widened because Michael never expected to see Freya, a badass demon in her own right, pout. But then he let out a breath as he gazed at her, feeling something tug in his chest as he watched her watch him, and Michael couldn’t help but absently let slip, “You’re beautiful.”

A silence settled upon them as Freya’s own expression softened at Michael’s comment, rolling her lips gently into her mouth as she uncrossed her arms and slid her hands into the back pocket of his pants. A breeze blew behind Freya, blonde hair swaying over her shoulder as her throat worked. Michael could see a struggle being battled within her eyes, staying patiently silent as he waited for her to figure out what she needed to say.

“I can’t just. . . Completely turn over a new leaf,” she finally spoke, her voice not at all carrying its usual edge, utterly soft. Freya pressed her lips together, offering a brief close mouthed smile. “I can’t get rid of nearly two hundreds years of my beliefs but I. . . I’m willing to make a change. To try and be who you want me to be.”

At that, Michael’s eyebrows drew together as he gave a shake of his head, taking a step closer to her. “I don’t want you to change who you are,” he told her truthfully, hating that she even had that idea in the first place. “That wouldn’t be fair to you, Freya. You’re a demon and I’m an angel and it—we are who we are. We know our place in the world, in heaven and hell.” His hands found her cheeks, feeling her lean into one of his palms and the gentle smile on his face returned. “An angel and demon together isn’t unheard of, yeah? We can make it work.”

“Really?” she questioned, gaze meeting his, the curl of her lips providing the small smirk Michael had easily come to adore. “You think you can learn to love my jet black heart and soul?”

His throat worked, stomach churning excitedly and Michael couldn’t help but think how human this all felt. “I’ve seen your loyalty and your care. You’ve got a heart of gold in there, Freya,” he told her, watching as her smirk transitioned into a smile she couldn’t control, felt the way her cheeks warmed under his touch. And in that moment Michael realized that, of course, he’d fallen for her so easily. How could he not? He swallowed, heart pounding, before admitting, “And I already love you. It’s not something I have to learn.”

Freya tensed under his touch, her eyes widening ever so slightly at his confession, and for a moment Michael feared he’d said it too soon, too quickly before she was ready. But he didn’t see any panic in the surprise of her eyes, and soon he saw a kind of softness melt into her hazel irises that damn near took his breath away. Especially when she smiled, real and honest and heaven sent, as her hand fisted the front of his shirt and she returned with a laugh, “God fucking bless.”

Freya pulled him in then, lips meeting his in a kiss they both yearned for desperately, and Michael wanted to be this close to her for as long as possible. The electricity that rushed through him felt more healing than his grace, losing himself in her as the hair of his unshaven beard gloriously scratched at Freya’s skin as her lips worked against his. It was almost relieving, being this close, being so in tune with how his heart was lurching and blood was rushing and how good she felt against him. Being an angel already meant his senses were more powerful than that of a human’s; but kissing Freya made him feel damn near indestructible.

They pulled away moments later, breaths heavy and foreheads pressed together, closed eyes allowing them to savor the warmth and taste of the other. This would work, Michael knew. Relationships between angels and demons weren’t unheard of, though they were frowned upon, but Michael couldn’t quite care about the rules. Not when this felt so good, so right. He’d be changed in the eyes of his fellow angels, but he’d have his friends. He’d have Freya. And that’s all that mattered.

Any semblance of doubt that may have lingered vanished completely, wholeheartedly, when Freya whispered, “I love you too, angel.”

--

tags: @irwinkitten @glitterprincelu @sweetcherrymike @meetashthere @valentinelrh @softforcal @astroashtonio @hereforlukescruff @novacanecalum @captain-what-is-going-on @angelbbycal @singt0mecalum @hopelessxcynic @lfwallscouldtalk @bodhi-black @findingliam-o @softlrh @calntynes @calumsmermaid @erikamarie14 @quintodosuniversos @longlastingdaydream @babylon-corgis @lukehemmingsunflower @spideyseavey @imfuckin10plybud @livibii123 @pastelpapermoons @malumharmonies @conquerwhatliesahead92 @rotten-kandy @metangi @neigcthood @ohhmuke @old-zeppelin-shirt @5sos-and-hessa @trustmeimawhalebiologist @vxlentinecal @pettybassists @vaporshawn @lu-my-golden-boi @heartbreak-5sos @thew0rdneedsmcreycghurt @visualm3nte @isabella-mae13 @dontjinx-it @lifeakaharry @neonweeknds @antisocialbandmate @ixcantxdecidexwhosxmyxfave @calpalbby @grreatgooglymoogly @sunnysideblog @cocktail-calum @miahelizaaabeth @madelynerin @dramallamawithsparkles @hzi0 @aulxna @mermaiden004 @theagenderwhocriedwolf @kaytiebug14 @hoodskillerqueen @bitchinbabylon @empathycth @xhaileyreneex @inlovehoodx @calistheloml @aestheticrelated @hoodsmelancholy @iplaybassfor5sos @josierosie @cal-pal-cuddles @calsophat @cashton-queen @sublimehood @bloodlinecal @flannelpunkcalum @ghostofch @ghostofhood @5sos-stan4lyfe @notsooperfect @calllumhood 

[winterisakillerwrites]

Of Truths and Consequences - Part One

One shot: Last Minutes & Lost Evenings 7.1/16

Character/Relationship: Tom Hiddleston/Rosemary Mathews (OFC)

Genre: Angst

Summary:   They say confession is good for the soul, but at what cost?

Rating: T

Warnings/Author’s Notes:  This is part one  of the seventh part of Last Minutes & Lost Evenings, this series is currently on-going and will flit back and forth between past, present and future.

Previous

‘I’ve been skirting round the rim of doing something

Brave, and not just standing, but jumping in

Of making circles into squares, of laying down

The bare facts like a burden I can’t bear.  

And I can almost find the words, but I can see the way you’d

Fold your hands, speak my name like a curse

Upon your pretty lips, the pressured white behind your fingertips

And when you see me for all that I am

I couldn’t make mistakes to make a difference anymore.

I’d throw myself down on my knees, at your hands,

And beg you for forgiveness for my fuck ups and my faults.

And maybe you’d relent and release some hope for our forever,

Lift up your precious hands, and then bring yours and mind together’

Plain Sailing Weather – Frank Turner

He didn’t know what the fuck he was doing; standing there before her closed door. I shouldn’t be here. He’d battled with himself the entire way from his home to her door; he didn’t have any right coming here, talking to her. Not now. Not after all this time.

But he couldn’t get her out of his head. Their chance run in had played through his mind all throughout his meal with Ben and, truthfully, for the majority of the week that had followed.

Ben had cottoned on that something was amiss with his friend almost as soon as Tom had sat down. And he’d wasted little time in questioning him on it. Tom hadn’t had the energy or desire to protest that he was fine or merely tired. He’d had enough of lying; nothing good had ever seemed to come of it. He simply ordered himself a drink and prepared to finally put to words what had been spinning round his mind for the last six months.

As the two men drank, Tom slowly poured his heart out. He told Ben everything; how he’d met Rosemary, the growing attraction he’d tried to fight; to mask as something, anything, else. How long they’d carried out their involvement without speaking of what they were doing or why. The way he’d finally realized he loved her and the fear that that realization had unleashed. How she had finally put words to what he had unconsciously known for the longest time and how that had crystalized his plan to protect her, to push her away for her own good. Just how hard it had been to walk away, how hard the last half a year had been. How he’d fallen into a similar pattern with Natalie, though admittedly with the boundaries he’d lacked before. His guilt and disgust at himself for the way he allowed himself to treat the women he’d pulled into his life. About seeing Rosemary again, learning she had moved on, and how it physically hurt, even though he had known it was a pain of his own making.  

Ben, to his credit, sat and listened to Tom ramble on without saying a word. Tom knew that his silence would not last for long; he could see the questions and disapproval burning in his friend’s eyes. And he knew that he deserved whatever censure Ben would throw at him. And Ben did not disappoint.

“You are an idiot,” The words were even, matter of fact, and hung in the air between them.  “And a selfish one at that.” Tom could only nod his head in response. What else could he say? He’d thought the same thing countless times since that day. But he’d plowed on regardless, so certain in the knowledge that he was right. That what he was doing was right. Of all the arrogant notions…

“I get it, Tom. Really I do,” Ben started once more after it became clear Tom wasn’t going to add anything to the conversation at that juncture. “But you just can’t fly off half-cocked like that. It’s not just your call, mate…What do you think Sophie would have done had I done that to her?” Ben queried, his gaze narrowing at Tom’s shrinking form.

Tom sat silent for several moments before answering, “She would have torn you a new one.” And he could picture it far too well. He liked Ben’s wife; she was more than a match for his friend, bold and self-assured. She wouldn’t have taken Ben deciding something so major without her knowledge nor consent well at all. Hell hath no fury…

Ben laughed in earnest, “Too right she would and I wouldn’t fucking blame her for it.” He sighed, resting his elbows on the table. “You’ve really cocked things up, my friend. I don’t know what else to tell you.”

It was Tom’s turn to sigh. It hurt, having his thoughts echoed by someone he trusted to be nothing but honest with him. There was little joy in knowing that he’d been right. He had cocked things up on an epic scale and now he hadn’t the first idea how to fix it or if he even had the right to try. But God, he wanted to. “What do I do?”  He whispered, more to himself than to his friend. “How do I fix this?”

Ben clapped a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Leave it be, Tom. Just leave it be.”

But Tom couldn’t seem to. No matter how he tried to occupy himself his mind would circle back around to Rosemary and the look on her face. He wanted desperately to make it right; to let her know that the problem was never her. It was him, always him. He couldn’t shake the idea that maybe, just maybe, if he could explain then it would bring some infinitesimal amount of closure for her and maybe for him as well. And then maybe…

As he stood before her door, hand raised he wondered again if this was the right thing to do. He ached desperately to see her, to tell her how sorry he was. To tell her that he loved her, both then and now, even though he knew it would make little difference. He had lost her and he doubted anything would change that. But she deserved to know. Didn’t she?

His knuckles wrapped against the painted wood of the door. He stiffened slightly as he heard her voice, muffled and indistinct but decidedly hers. Panic gripped him. God, this wasn’t a good idea. He inhaled sharply as the door opened.

Surprise merged into confusion then concern in the depths of Rosemary’s hazel eyes. She stood, staring at him her arms crossed protectively against her chest. “What…Tom, what are you doing here?”

He swallowed against the panic that rose inside him. “I just…Can we talk?”

Rosemary blinked in confusion before gathering herself enough to ask, “About what?” She hadn’t moved her arms nor stepped aside to allow him entry. He would have been surprised if she had. God knows I would slam the damned door in my fucking face.

“About what happened between us.” She flinched at his words and it tore his heart. He had to fix this. To try to make it right. He owed her that much.  “Please, just let me say my peace and I will go. Please.”

Her eyes narrowed and he could see the warring indecision in her eyes. And in that moment he wanted desperately to hold her; to soothe her. But that wasn’t his place. How was he supposed to provide comfort when he was the one who had caused the pain in the first place? Maybe this hadn’t been the best idea. God, he just didn’t know.

Several painfully silent minutes passed before she stepped aside. Torn between gratitude that she hadn’t slammed the door in his face and sheer terror at the enormity of what he wanted to confess, what he needed to confess, Tom stood frozen. Could he really do this? Did he have the right to do this now? To drag every back up again? Would she understand why? Would she hate him for it? The all too familiar doubts and uncertainties plagued him. He wanted to run. God, he wanted to run. But it was far, far too late for that now.  

Steadying himself, Tom walked past Rosemary and into the flat. He heard her follow and close the door. His eyes wandered over the tiny living room, taking in every small detail. It looked the same. He didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. So much had changed, but this tiny part had remained the same. Memories threatened to overwhelm him. So many small, happy moments had happened here. He sobered almost at once. All of those memories had been overshadowed by his own fear and stubborn need to protect her. He froze once more.

He heard her clear her throat behind him. “You wanted to talk…So talk.” Her voice was steady, far steadier than his was sure to be. He swallowed again before curling his hands into fists and forcing himself to turn around and face her.

The words didn’t seem to want to come; not at first. He started and stumbled to a stop for what felt like ages until finally, finally, they tumbled out. How he had lied to her, how much she had meant, still meant, to him. Why he’d done it. How dreadfully sorry he was for the pain he knew he’d caused her.

He watched her face as he spoke. Wanting, hoping for some sign of her thoughts on her face. But she stood, her face empty, lips drawn together in a tight line.

“I don’t understand,” Rosemary uttered after several moments of silence had passed. Her eyes locked on his; confusion, hurt, and disbelief shining in their depths.

Tom ducked his head, unable to hold her gaze. Hating himself for the pain he caused her. That he kept causing her. “I didn’t mean it. What I said to you that day,” he started, slowly raising his head. “I love you. God, I love you. But I’m not good for you. My life isn’t good for you. It would have torn you apart and I couldn’t have that. I’m sorry. Oh Rosie, I’m so sorry.” The words poured out of him, he couldn’t have stopped them if he tried.

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed.

He flinched at her words; at the anguish in her tone. I did this. My fault. He wanted to pull her to him; to hold her, to comfort her. But he hadn’t the right. He’d thrown it away that day and he didn’t know if he would ever be able to earn it back.

Her eyes narrowed, anger swirling brightly. “What gave you the right?”

The words hit him like a physical blow. He stared at her in disbelief, confusion and pain coloring his features. “What?” he breathed.

“I said,” she began again, taking a breath, her voice cool and steady. “What gave you the right?” Her eyes were burning into his. “How dare you decide what I can or can’t handle? How dare you treat me like a fucking child who doesn’t know their own mind? How fucking DARE you.”

He stood, frozen. He didn’t know what he could say in answer. She was right. Of course she was right. He’d acted out of concern, misguided as it was, but he hadn’t stopped to consider what she wanted. What she felt. He’d decided, in all his arrogant glory that he knew what was best for her. For them both. He was stupid and cowardly and so utterly selfish.

“I am so sorry,” he started again, knowing the words were far too little and far, far too late. “I was selfish and careless and I know it doesn’t fix anything. That this doesn’t change anything. But I am so desperately sorry.” He could feel his eyes burning, the tears threatening to overwhelm him.

She stood there, arms crossed protectively across her chest. She didn’t speak but he could feel the rage of emotion pouring off her. He kept doing this. Kept hurting her. He shouldn’t have come. Shouldn’t have confessed. Here he was, once again, selfishly putting his need to confess, to explain, above all else. Guilt flooded through him. God, why didn’t he ever fucking learn?

“I think you should leave.”

The tears did spill then.

He nodded silently. She had every right to tell him to leave; he couldn’t blame her for wanting him to. He had gone and done the exact same thing to her again. He had allowed himself to unload his guilt onto her to ease his own conscious.

“Goodbye, Rosie.”

Next

[spectraspecs-writes]

Taris - Chapter 17 (Carth)

Link to the masterpost. Chapter 16. Chapter 18.

The entrance to the Undercity is completely past the Bek base and Matrik’s apartment, marked by a lone Sith trooper flanked by four or five automated gun turrets. When I walk up to him he stops me. “Hold on there, civilian!” he says, “Only those with official Sith business are allowed into the Undercity. Unless you've got the proper security papers you better just turn around and go back the way you came.”

Oh-ho-ho, sir, I have papers. “I've got my security papers right here,” I say, pulling out the papers from Gadon.

The Sith trooper looks over them. “Let me see…” he says, “...hmmm, these look to be in order. Okay, you can go down if you want. Can't say I envy you, though. The Undercity is crawling with mutants. Rakghouls, they call 'em. If you see anything moving down there, shoot first and ask questions later.”

“Thank you for the advice,” I say politely, as I open the elevator.

Right when the elevator opens, we’re confronted by two homeless guys. “You there! Up-worlder!” one of them shouts at us, “Anyone using this elevator has to pay the toll!”

“Yeah,” the other says, “this is our elevator! If you use it, you've got to give us something!”

Carth rolls his eyes. “I don't believe this planet! Even the beggars are trying to shake us down.”

“Five credits!” one of them says, “That's what it costs to use our elevator! Five credits!”

“And who are you guys to collect this toll?” I ask.

“We are the Outcasts,” one of them says, like he’s practiced this pitiful speech in the mirror, “banished and reviled by those who dwell above! Here in the filth and darkness we claw out a wretched existence, scavenging and begging just to survive long enough to see another wretched day.

“This is our village. We live here in the Undercity. You have to pay us five credits for using our elevator.”

You know, I almost want to pay him for his monologue alone. But I know a little of what it’s like to be in this position. Granted, as a scout, I put myself in that position, and I could get myself out of it, but still. “You know what, guys?” I say, “Here’s twenty credits. Go nuts.”

“Credits, my brother!” one of them exclaims, “We have credits! Now we can buy food and medicine!”

“Hush,” his brother urges, “or the others will hear us! They'll want our credits! We have to hide them!”

“Go on, you two!” a woman shouts at them, shooing them away, “Get out of here!

“I'm sorry about that…” she says to Carth and me, “those two beggars give everyone in the village a bad name! We aren't all like that, you know. Most of us are good people.”

“I'm sure you are, miss,” Carth says, “It's just too bad your little welcoming committee is there to give people a bad first impression.”

“Hi, I’m Rena Visz,” I introduce myself, “What’s your name?”

“My name is Shaleena... you're from the up-world, aren't you? I've... I've never seen it. I was born here in the Undercity. Is it as nice as they say up there?”

I have to think about this for a second. As far as planets go, Taris is by no means my favorite. (My favorite is actually Utapau, but that’s beside the point.) I don’t want to tell her a lie and say it’s nicer than it is. But on the other hand, if all you’ve known in your life is a ghetto, then I guess even a place like Taris would seem like a step up. So I have to figure out a way to say this politely without precisely lying. “It’s… not the best place I’ve been,” I say truthfully, and then move on to the lie, “but it certainly ranks pretty high.”

“I've never been to the surface,” she says longingly, “but sometimes I think I can see it in my dreams. The sun, the sky, the stars... it all sounds so... so... so wonderful. Gendar, the leader of our village, tells me I should spend more time trying to improve things down here and less time dreaming about something I can never have. Maybe he's right.

“You probably think I'm a fool, having dreams of a place I've never even seen. But when I was little, Rukil used to tell me stories of what it was like up there.”

“I have some questions for you, if I may,” I say.

“You'd probably get more information from Gendar, the village leader,” she says, “Or maybe Rukil. But I'll tell you whatever I can.”

I’m probably better off going to one of them, then. “Where might I find them?” I ask.

“Gendar will be somewhere in the village. I couldn't say where for sure. He's always busy, doing whatever he can to make the lives of the other villagers easier,” she says, “As for Rukil, he's wandering around somewhere on the south side of the village. He doesn't move too far... it's hard on his bones. He's over 100 years old! The children laugh at him and people think he's crazy because of his stories about the Promised Land, but he's really just a kind old man.”

“Well,” I say, “thank you very much. I’ll go find them.”

“Oh... okay. Well, if you ever need anything, or if you just feel like talking, come back and see me. I hardly ever get a chance to speak to someone from the up-world.” And she leaves.

I shake my head a little. “I’ve never felt so much like a celebrity,” I say to Carth.

I’m feeling a tad hungry, so we pick up some (admittedly overpriced) food from a merchant down here. And I feel like I want to talk to Carth some more, so I do. “Hey, Carth.”

“Yes? What’s on your mind?”

Does he answer everybody like that? “I just want to talk with you,” I say.

He scoffs a bit. “Oh? You want to argue some more, is that it?”

I swallow my food. “I’m always up for a fight. You wanna go? I’ve got a sword if you want it. I’m up for a fight if you want one.”

He laughs a little. “Can't say I've met a woman quite like you before,” he says, “You're really something.”

And then he looks a little sad. “I just don't trust easily,” he says, “and for good reasons… which are my own.”

“You know, I’m not gonna let up on this,” I say, “I’m going to keep asking until you talk. Trust me.”

He laughs again. “Well I might be willing to take you up on that challenge. But uh, you're just not going to let up, are you? Fine... you want to know why I don't trust anyone? Here goes.

“Five years ago the Jedi had just finished the war with the Mandalorians. Revan and Malak were heroes. I was damn proud to have served in their fleet. It was completely unexpected when they turned on us, invading the Republic while we were still weak. Nobody knew what to think, least of all me. Our heroes had become brutal, conquering Sith… and we were all but helpless before them. Think about it… if you can't even trust the best of the Jedi, who can you trust?”

“I suppose you can’t,” I say, trying to sympathize, “That must have been hard to take.”

“I… it wasn't even that. There were others: good, solid men. Trusted men who turned on us, as well, and joined their cause. Malak and Revan and the Sith deserve to die for what they've done… but the ones who fled the Republic and joined them are even worse. The Dark Side has nothing to do with why they joined the Sith. They deserve no mercy!”

I look at him softly, and say, “I haven’t joined the Sith, Carth.”

“I know,” he stammers a little, “I… should apologize to you. I've become so accustomed to expecting the worst in others, and you've done nothing to deserve that. It's just… never mind. Let's just continue with what we were doing. I'd rather not talk about it.”

“Okay,” I say gently, “If you do, you know where to find me.” But he doesn’t say anything. I guess he’s got a lot on his mind.

“You!” someone suddenly exclaims at me. I look around. It’s an old guy, who’s got a crazed look in his eye. But not crazed like Calo Nord. “You come from the world above!” he says, “Is this the time of destiny, then? Is this a portent of the salvation of my people? Or merely another false sign to mislead us from the path? Are you the herald of prophecy? The beacon to guide us through the darkness? Or are you merely another harbinger of shattered dreams and unfulfilled promises?”

Ahh! “Be careful…” Carth says, “this one might be crazy enough to be dangerous.”

“Speak to me, up-worlder!” the old man says, coming closer to me and sitting down a little too close for comfort, “Tell me what fate you unleash upon us – salvation or damnation! Speak, up-worlder – I beg you!”

“Uhh… what are you talking about?” I ask.

“A question,” he says, still with that crazed look, “You are uncertain. Bewildered. Perplexed. Understandable, I suppose. Even after a hundred years of life I myself still become confused at times.

“Perhaps I can make things more clear. Some things, at least. My name is Rukil, the oldest Outcast here in the village. Rukil Wrinkle-Skin, the children call me sometimes.”

Oh! It’s just the old guy. “Right, Shaleena mentioned you. Hi. I’m Rena Visz. Do you need something?”

“Once I was honoured for my wisdom,” he says, and I’m starting to think everyone down here has a rehearsed speech, “but over time the villagers fell away from the true path. Eventually there was only a single apprentice who followed me – and now she is gone, too.”

“What happened to your apprentice?” I ask.

“My apprentice is... lost,” he says slowly, “I sent her out into the Undercity to find... well, I cannot tell you. Not yet. Sadly, my apprentice has not returned. Please, up-worlder – will you help an old man? Will you seek out my apprentice in the Undercity? Her name is Malya. I must know of her fate, whatever it may be. I must know what she... found.”

“I’ll keep my eye out for her,” I say, and I think that’s the end of it.

But then he talks again. “Finding her may be difficult; Malya could be anywhere in the Undercity... but if you find her I will know you to be our true savior! Only then can I reveal my secret knowledge to you.”

I don’t really have any interest in his secret knowledge, but if someone’s lost out there, it’s the least I can do to help find her. “I'll be back if I find anything out,” I say.

“I wish you luck, up-worlder. Come speak with me again once you have discovered the fate of my apprentice.” And then he’s just gone. What a creepy old dude.

[raywritesthings]

Wrong Road to the Right Place 6/?

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Oliver Queen, Laurel Lance, Quentin Lance, John Diggle, Thea Queen, Moira Queen, Joanna de la Vega Pairings: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: Laurel finds herself curious about the marks Oliver showed her that night in his bedroom - and the tattoo on his left shoulder stands out in particular. When she discovers its meaning, she finds herself questioning everything she knows about the man she doesn’t want to admit she still loves. AO3 link

She could have kissed him.

Laurel entered her apartment feeling as though she was walking on a cloud. She shrugged out of her coat and draped it over the back of the couch, continuing onto her room to change out of the dress she’d worn to the party and into her pajamas. It was a comfortable, feel-good night now that she knew the worst of it was over.

Oliver’s injuries were the one damper on her mood, and truthfully the only reason she’d held back. They weren’t quite out of the woods yet. But she had hope.

He said it was over. That he was done. And Laurel believed him. Maybe that was naive of her, but she’d looked into his eyes and seen the guilt there as he’d admitted to the pain he’d been causing his family. He’d recognized just how deep he was and that it was past time to get out.

And truthfully, if the Bratva hadn’t killed him tonight, they would have to let him out, wouldn’t they? One horrific accident wouldn’t have raised many eyebrows, but two in quick succession would be bound to look suspicious to anyone with a brain.

Oliver’s fame could possibly be a benefit in this case. After all, the mob mostly got by without ruffling too many feathers among the city’s elites. Killing the son of one of the wealthiest families in Starling would bring all the justice money could buy down on their heads. It was a cynical reality, but if it saved him in this instance Laurel was willing to swallow that bitter pill.

The next few days would better determine things. She would have to keep her eyes and ears out for anything remotely unusual. Laurel believed him, but she wanted to be sure nothing got in the way of his leaving that part of his life behind.

So long as him quitting the Russian mafia stayed under wraps, her father or anyone else never needed to find out. They wouldn’t understand it had been something beyond Ollie’s control. Eventually she was going to have to talk to him about this or hint to him that he could confide in her. She wanted him to know that she was on his side.

Somehow they were going to have to find someone to remove that tattoo for him. That was top of the list on what had to go. As long as he carried it on his chest he was a marked man.

But those were things that could wait. Oliver needed time to recover and to get used to the idea that he was safe. She didn’t want to spring the news on him that she knew the truth when freedom was only just barely in his grasp.

Laurel climbed into her bed and tried to settle in for sleep. This Christmas had been an emotional rollercoaster, yet somehow just like the movies it seemed as if everything might just turn out alright. She could only hope. They deserved a miracle or two after the last five years, Oliver perhaps most of all.

Maybe she should have kissed him.

—-

It was a rare early night for Quentin. He had no new leads on their vigilante problem since the fight the last night, and their CSIs had pretty much all agreed there was a good chance they wouldn’t be seeing either archer up and about any time soon judging by the evidence from the fight. The DNA had been too contaminated to get anything useful off it, and didn’t that beat all.

So without much to do, he’d given heavy consideration to heading for the bar — but then he’d had a thought.

“You grab dinner yet?” He asked in lieu of a greeting when Laurel answered her phone.

“No. Why?”

“I’ve got some pasta I’ve been meaning to use. Why don’t you come by?”

“Sure.” Laurel sounded skeptical at best, which probably said something, but he pushed that aside for now. “Need me to bring anything?”

“Nah, I’ve got it. Just give me a ring when you’re on your way over.”

“Alright, see you then.”

“Sure thing, honey.”

It had been a few weeks. Definitely enough time for Laurel to not get that suspicious about him asking anything. The last couple of times he’d stopped by her work or apartment he hadn’t been able to find a trace of anything Bratva, so it looked like she really had been telling the truth about not getting involved. Still, he’d promised Rivera he’d try and get something for him.

Laurel was over soon enough. She’d picked up half a loaf of some Italian bread anyway, which would be rude to say no to so he took it with a thanks.

“Been a while since you dipped into the culinary arts.”

“Yeah, well, haven’t had a lot of free time lately. If you wanna set out the plates, we’ll see how rusty I am.”

Dinner wasn’t so bad. He could’ve added something to the sauce, but about all he had in his cabinets was salt and pepper. Laurel made no complaints.

She asked him how work was, and he told her all about their vigilante troubles, railing against the incompetence of the forensics team who’d been unable to pull a DNA match from the scene.

“And don’t even get me started on Pike.”

“Okay, I won’t.”

“It was his stupid idea to keep quiet about the second archer. Said he didn’t want a panic — well, people are panicking now that they don’t feel we’re on top of this situation. Not like we can come out and say the department lied, that’d set off a whole ‘nother panic for a different reason.”

“Uh-huh.” Laurel was watching him with a smile.

“Anyway, enough about me.” He took a swig of water, then asked, “So how’s that client of yours doing? The one hanging around mafia captains?”

“Well, they haven’t been my client for a while,” she reminded him. “But they did let me know they got out of that situation recently.”

Quentin sat up a bit straighter. “They got out?”

“Yeah.”

“Just like that, huh?”

“I know you find that hard to believe,” his daughter said.

“I find it impossible to believe.”

“But they have promised that is over with. Should all be fine now.”

“I’d like to see how long that lasts.”

Laurel shook her head but had no reply.

“Well, since they’re on the straight and narrow now, think they’d wanna come in and talk to the boys in organized crime? Maybe identify who it was they saw with that tattoo?”

“I don’t really think that’d be safe for them, dad,” Laurel answered with a frown. “They only just got out, and they’d be the first place the Bratva would think to look for a leak.”

“Yeah, yeah. Was worth a shot.”

“Glad to know you don’t think your evening was a total waste,” Laurel muttered to her plate.

He was about to fire off a retort, but his radio crackled to life. “We’ve got a suspected 207 at the Queen Consolidated building.”

“207’s a kidnapping, isn’t it?” Laurel asked him. He grabbed the radio.

“This is Lance. I can be there in fifteen. What are we looking at.”

“Briefcase of Walter Steele was abandoned in the elevator. Maintenance man found it about five hours after Steele logged off the Consolidated servers. Wife is saying he hasn’t been home.”

“You think this family would give me a break,” Lance muttered to himself. He glanced back at Laurel, who appeared frozen in a kind of horror. “Look, I’ll take care of it, honey. I’m sure it’s nothing.”

They both knew he was lying.

—-

It had been three days since Malcolm took Walter and three days since Moira had slept.

She’d known something like this would happen. Walter was just too clever for his own good, and in these final months Malcolm would not allow even the most minor interference to stand in the way of his plans. Now she was well and truly trapped into his monstrous scheme, for any sign of disobedience would cost Walter his life. She couldn’t be responsible for that, not when it was her own fault he’d been mixed up in all this.

Her children had been trying their best to console her, though she’d sent them both out of the house today. They couldn’t waste all their time on her, not when they couldn’t hope to understand the depths of her inner turmoil. And truthfully she wanted little more than to just lay in bed in silence for a while.

It wasn’t meant to be. There was a knock on the door. “Mrs. Queen? You have a guest,” Raisa called.

One of the downsides to being the only one home. Moira rose from her bed and drew a robe over her shoulders. At the bottom of the stairs stood Laurel.

“Mrs. Queen, hello.”

“Hello, dear. I’m afraid Oliver isn’t home right now.”

“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll come back some other time. I didn’t mean to disturb you.”

“He shouldn’t be too long. I’d hate to make you drive out all this way twice.” Moira indicated the sitting room with a tilt of her head, then led the way there.

“I haven’t actually seen him since he got out of the hospital. How’s he doing?”

“Making a steady recovery. The doctors say he should be back to normal in another four weeks or so. We were lucky. In that case,” she couldn’t keep from adding with a sigh.

“I was so sorry to hear about Mr. Steele,” Laurel told her. “There still hasn’t been a ransom notice?”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

“It might not have been as obvious if they didn’t want police involvement. Was there any sort of private communication you might have received that you weren’t expecting in the last few days?”

Moira’s voice was perfectly calm and steady as she replied, “I think if I knew anything that could help my husband, I would have told the police straight away.”

Laurel looked down. “Of course. I didn’t mean—”

Moira sighed again. “I know you didn’t, dear.”

“No, but I am sorry. I really only meant to say if you’d seen anything unusual lately, that could be a sign. Some organizations communicate in symbols rather than writing. So if you received a package you weren’t expecting, or maybe Oliver did—”

Moira raised a single brow. “Oliver? Why should he know anything about it?”

Laurel stared back with wide eyes. “No particular reason. I- I guess I just thought, since he’d been kidnapped before, maybe it’s related.”

Somehow Moira thought that was more of an excuse than the real reason Laurel had brought it up, though she had no idea just how related the two incidents were. But that was just another secret she had to keep, the same as her knowledge of exactly who had had Walter abducted and why.

Laurel stood from her chair. “I’ll just try and catch Ollie some other time.”

“I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

True to her prediction, he arrived at the house only half an hour later and was disappointed when Moira told him he’d missed Laurel.

“Did she say why she came over?”

“Not exactly. She was concerned about Walter’s disappearance. I think she gets some of that curiosity from her father,” Moira noted. Then she thought, why not ask? “You wouldn’t have happened to receive any suspicious packages recently, would you?”

Oliver frowned. “No?”

A ghost of a smirk graced her features. “I didn’t think so.”

“I’ll have to give Laurel a call, see if she’s free tomorrow. I’ve been meaning to see her since I got out of the hospital,” Oliver said. Then his expression turned uncertain. “Unless you want me around.”

She shook her head. “I want you and Thea to be happy. Call Laurel, sweetheart.”

“Thank you, mom,” said her son. He walked out of the room while retrieving his phone from his pocket.

It was perhaps the strangest turn of events since Oliver’s return, that he and Laurel had ended up on such good terms. Perhaps slowly falling, even, back into a romance. Her son had come back from that island a changed man, and perhaps Laurel had recognized it which was allowing this second chance. Moira could only hope. It had always been her belief that Laurel made her son better than even he thought he could be.

But then, why was Laurel so concerned about Oliver, so convinced there was more going on? Just what was her son up to?

—-

Oliver had been more than reluctant to suit back up as the Hood despite Diggle’s increasingly blatant hints. He just didn’t want to do that again to his loved ones, especially in the wake of already losing Walter.

There was a certain irony, therefore, in one of his loved ones asking him to go back out there risking his life again.

Laurel was perhaps the most ironic choice of them all. It was her troubled look standing in his hospital room that came to mind whenever he contemplated seeking out this Dark Archer again, the fear in her voice that told him it wasn’t worth it.

But she didn’t see Oliver Queen when she looked at the Hood standing there in her darkened apartment. She saw a vigilante who could help her work around the law to get to the truth of Joanna’s brother’s murder. He would find a lead for her at the least; he couldn’t bring himself to deny her fully. But the police would have to take things from there.

Having taken the file she’d given him, he started to walk away.

“Wait!” Laurel took two steps and stopped, seeming to respect the boundary between them on an instinctual level. “How do you usually choose the people you go after?”

Oliver froze. He supposed he should’ve expected a cross-exam from Laurel, but this wasn’t a question he would have predicted. Nor did he have a ready answer that didn’t involve the list.

“Is there someone you’re concerned about?” If Laurel was asking for help on another case in a roundabout way, perhaps he could avoid answering altogether.

“There is.” She paused. “There’s another friend of mine. He’s — well, he’s the son of one of the wealthiest families in the city, but he’s never been all that involved in their business.”

He frowned. “Then what’s the problem?”

“He’s been in some trouble recently. I don’t think he’s done anything wrong, but he’s mixed up with bad people, and I’m worried they might make him do something because of the leverage they have.”

This was not at all what he’d expected. And he had no idea what to think. He couldn’t even guess who she was describing, unless…

Was Laurel talking about Tommy?

He was Mr. Merlyn’s son, and Merlyn Global was a giant in the city. He’d been struggling to adjust to his new financial reality ever since his father cut him off. Was he in some kind of debt to someone? How could Oliver not have known?

“Your friend isn’t my target,” he said, knowing he needed to reassure Laurel even if she’d just dropped a bombshell on him regarding someone they both cared about. He noticed her visibly relax and wondered how long she’d been worrying about Tommy alone. Didn’t she know she could’ve come to him about it?

Or maybe Tommy had told her not to. He’d felt embarrassed enough asking Oliver for a job.

So he’d have to be careful how he went about solving this problem for his best friend. With the club still under construction, he could take the time to renegotiate Tommy’s salary higher. If that didn’t work...

These were all things he should be thinking about somewhere else, not in front of Laurel, loathe as he always was to leave her company. “Was there anything else you were curious about?”

“No.” Laurel glanced down. In the shadows it was hard to tell, but he thought her cheeks were turning a faint pink. He could feel his spirits lift at that sight alone. “Thank you.”

“Thank you,” he answered sincerely. Laurel’s head jerked back up in surprise, but he was already to the window.

Oliver hadn’t meant to say it. He wasn’t even sure why; it wasn’t as if he was planning to make a full return as the Hood.

Of course, by the end of the week that was proved false. Laurel and her investigating had pulled him right back in, and only just in time to stop Garfield Lynns from murdering the rest of his former squad in revenge.

He regretted not being able to stop Lynns from letting the flames consume him for good, and even more disappointing was his lack of progress on the Tommy issue. His friend had declined the offer of a raise, particularly in light of their unforeseen expenses due to the fire at the Verdant, and yet he hardly seemed worse for wear. If anything, Tommy was taking more and more to having a real job and planning things like the firefighters’ benefit. Nothing appeared to be bothering him at all. So why was Laurel concerned?

His preoccupation must have been apparent as he and Digg sparred, for his friend backed off and asked, “Something on your mind?”

Oliver stepped back and took a few minutes to catch his breath and gather his thoughts. “When Laurel put me on the firefighter case, she also told me she was worried about a friend who was in some kind of trouble with the wrong crowd. Seemed to think the Hood might pay him a visit.”

“Which friend?”

“She didn’t say, but it was pretty obvious she was talking about Tommy.”

John frowned, his hands landing at his waist. “What makes you say that? He in some kind of trouble?”

Oliver shook his head. “Not from what I can tell. But he’s the son of one of the wealthiest families in the city, even if he doesn’t do much with his family’s business, and he’s had some ups and downs lately at the least.” He walked over to where he’d left his water bottle. “I might have to do some kind of digging to see what Laurel really meant, because he is putting on a really good act that nothing’s wrong.”

“Maybe nothing is wrong,” Digg offered.

“Then what was Laurel talking about?” Oliver meant it rhetorically, and he turned away as he took a sip from the bottle.

“You ever think she just might be talking about you?”

He only barely managed to avoid choking on a mouthful of water. “Me?”

When he looked back, John gave the slightest shrug. “You said yourself she’d been worrying about you a lot. It was one of the reasons you didn’t want to put that hood back on.”

“Nothing bad has happened to me since I did, nothing that could make her start worrying again. And there’s been nothing in the last six months about me or that has happened to me that would be on the Hood’s radar.”

“Well, Walter disappearing might be of interest.”

Oliver frowned. “What, and she thinks I’m involved?”

“Maybe she’s scared the Hood will think that.” Diggle left the training mat as well and started pulling his shirt back over his head. “Too bad you can’t tell her why not.”

Oliver tried not to roll his eyes. If John thought he was being subtle, it needed work.

“The Hood told her I’m not a target. And proving I’m not in with a bad crowd shouldn’t be hard. I’ll just spend more time with her.”

“And what do you say when you need to duck out for something? You’re not very good at those excuses.”

“Well, that is why I leave them to you,” Oliver answered.

John shook his head.

“You got a better idea, Digg?”

“Yeah,” his friend said. “Being honest.”

With that, Diggle headed up the stairs and out of the foundry. Oliver scowled and took up his bow for some practice.

[floofyeol]

hello, angel

kai x reader. fluffy fluff. 2.4 k words. sorry for disappearing..lost interest in writing for awhile, but then i saw tons of notifs suddenly appearing then i decided i’ll start writing again. but for now, here’s an old writing of mine i’m reposting.

He sees her, and he knows he’s home.

[Name] wakes to the soft snoring of her boyfriend, his arms slithered lazily on her waist and nose pressed against the back of her neck. With every warm breath that leaves him, she feels her skin tickle. The curtains are drawn closed, obstructing the sun’s light that would usually glare down on her face until she stirs awake. Barely opened eyes are closed again by the overwhelming drowsiness that still clings, her sore limbs nuzzling back into the body next to hers as she falls back asleep to the sensation of cold sheets.

The bed rustles not even 5 minutes later, the body she’s resting against moves restlessly, causing her to open her eyes and glare at the hand that had left her waist and now caress around the bed in search for her hand to hold. He shouldn’t be waking this early, he should be savoring his rest in the limited time that he has, she thinks. She pretends to fall back asleep, ignoring his fingers probing at her sides that’s asking her to wake.

“Wake up.” He whines.

She holds back a sigh. Why can’t he just go back to sleep?

She gingerly reaches her hand out, blindly searching for his hands through the haze of sleep that still attaches itself to her to get him to stop disrupting her from her sleep. The brush of his cold when they finally found each other hand causes a small electric jolt on her skin, she draws back for a second before intertwining her fingers with his. Their hands fall back on the mattress, and then he finally stops moving.  

He pushes himself forward, now closer to her, close enough that if he opens his mouth he’ll get a mouthful of her hair. He cranes his neck up, looking down at the side of her face: her lips parted and looking dry, eyes crusted with evidence of a good night sleep. And Jongin smiles to himself, comparing how she looks when she’s freshened up and touched with make-up to the way she is now. His heart and mind always works more frantically at this sight of her like this. He sees the slight flutter of her eyelids, and then he knows that she’s finally awake.

“Good morning.” He whispers, pressing his lips on the shell of her ear, leaving a tender peck on it.

She groans, twisting her body to face him, their hands momentarily break apart, only to reconnect after she found herself a good position, nestled on his chest, and then she tries to keep her eyes open with difficulty.

“God, I forgot how awful your morning breath is.” Jongin pinches her cheeks in an act of offense.

“I am actually trying to be romantic. Do you really have to ruin the moment?”

Wisps of hair hiding under the coolness of her white pillowcase, lower lip jutting out in the form of a heart wrenching childish pout, loose sleeveless shirt showcasing the sharpness of his collarbone, this is the sight of Kim Jongin that eats at her brain every day he is not with her.

She smiles at him, wistful and solaced when her fingers touch the smooth expanse of his cheek. He is real, and he is here with her, how long has she dreamed for this to happen?

She finds herself having a hard time believing that he has any time left for her anymore with each month that flew by without any physical contact or reassurance. Those thoughts shouldn’t live in her brain, but it would be lying if she says she never thinks of him leaving her with every late night phone calls and 5-minutes-maximum video calls that comes and goes. For now, she is happy, but when he leaves again, she’d only have this memory to hang on to for the next few days, weeks, maybe months.

“Stop staring, you’re making it hard for me to be mad at you.”

His voice is a dulcet tone of stillwater if she could describe them in colors. Hearing it makes her feel as if she’s floating on calm water, or looking up at the sky. Everything about it speaks of a gentle, tranquil, zen state of mind.

She giggles, tugging his head free from the pillow so she can see him and his ridiculous bedhead. His hair sticks up like sharp thorns, but when she run her hand through it it is as soft as she remembers it being. Jongin’s pout pulls up into a smile at her touch, tender and careful like the stroke of a paintbrush drawing a masterpiece.

“What do you want to do today?”

He hums, thinking to himself. Truthfully, he wants nothing more than to stay in bed all day, basking in her presence until they fall back asleep in sheets that grows warmer with their body heat. Despite that, he feels restless just laying down, that is the reason why he woke up in the first place.

“Why don’t we start with breakfast? What do you have?”

“Milk and cereal, or cereal and milk.”

Jongin purse his lips, stopping himself from laughing at his lazy girlfriend, lazy enough to not go grocery shopping because she believes she could live off of just cereal and milk.

“Oh, well sorry I don’t have ingredients enough to satisfy the exquisite palette of EXO’s Kai.” [Name] emphasizes on his stage name with a hint of mockery.

Jongin pulls her back down when she starts to get up, landing her back next to him with a small bounce of the mattress and her surprised yelp. He flashes her a grin, his gums peeking beneath his lips in that adorable smile only he can pull off.

“Just kidding,” he nuzzles his nose against hers, something he tends to do only when they’re alone, he would never admit it when she points out to him that this is just one of the many proof of how clingy he is around her, “cereal sounds really nice.”

“Ugh, you’re such a sap. Get off of me.”  

This time she got up successfully, and she is the one to pull Jongin up from his sleeping position, him bumping his head on her chest when he’s fully sat up. She makes no attempt to push him off her and settles for ruffling his hair, taming them down to fall on his forehead while his arms slowly wound themselves around her form.

“I wonder what the world will think when they find out what a baby you are.”

Jongin glimpse up at her, his one eyebrow rising at the underlying threat in her tone.

“That’s not what you said when you have my face in between your quivering thighs, the only thing keeping you from falling — ”

“Shut the ever loving fuck up Kim Jongin. It’s too early for that.”

He only chuckles, amused with how she avoids his eyes even though he can still see the embarrassed hue that dusts her cheeks. His joints gave out a pop when he kicks the air, stretching his limbs in a dramatic fashion that leaves her breathing out through her nose in silent laughter.

It takes quite awhile for the two to reach the kitchen despite the size of her apartment. If not for her overly clingy boyfriend digging his chin on her shoulders while he forces most of his weight on her, she would have been eating at her second bowl of cereal.

By the time they reach the kitchen, Jongin detaches himself from her and settles down comfortably on the cold counter.

“Can you move over? The cereal is in the cupboard behind you.”

He turns his head and drags himself away from the cupboard she meant, however, his hand latches on to the cupboard’s handle to keep it closed while he displays a mischievous smile to her. [Name] scrunches her eyebrows down.

“Jongin?”

Jongin taps his index finger on the cupboard’s wooden door and tilts his head to give her a lazily done smirk. His other hand comes up to tap his cheek, indicating that he wants a kiss, though she knows that he’d sneakily turn his head at the last second before her lips could touch his cheek, landing a kiss on the lips instead.

“It’s gonna cost you.” He sings, pleasantly teasing and half chuckling.

There is a short moment of silence between them, which she uses to stare vexingly at her boyfriend innocently smiling at her, unaffected by her gaze that exposes her silent plea for him to move.

“Come on, just give me a little kiss, and then we’ll be eating breakfast.”

He silently celebrates when she gives in with a puff of her breath, leaning into him. Jongin eagerly meets her halfway, no longer putting up a sneaky front with wanting a kiss on the lips as he leans in facing her. They share a brief kiss, and then [Name] flings open the cupboard door the second Jongin’s hand falters. A loud yelp escape him, and he jumps off the counter immediately, the sudden force of the cupboard opening making him think it is about to hit his head.

Jongin eyes [Name] with a nasty glare, knowing she did it purposely to throw him off the counter. [Name] shrugs innocently, standing on her toes to reach the box of Froot Loops without leaving her eyes off of him. She crosses the kitchen for the fridge, but Jongin can read her movements and he reaches there before her, leaning his back on the fridge in an act of prevention. [Name] sigh, again.

“Nini, can you grab the milk for me?” She hopes the nickname could sway him.

“Maybe.” He sing the first syllable playfully, sadly, not at all swayed by the affectionate nickname.

After two more kisses (one for the milk, and another for the bowls), [Name] pours the Froot Loops on both bowls in equal ratio, enjoying the serenity that finally comes without Jongin trying to pull anything. She hoped too soon, as a call for attention through the clear of his throat stops her from opening the lid to the milk.

“What are you doing?” He is leaning on the small dining table with his elbows when he asks.

Nothing seems to be out of place, she hasn’t done anything out of the ordinary, so the answer to his question is given with her scrunched expression.

“I’m pouring cereal into a bowl?”

“Why would you do that? You should pour the milk first.”

Unbelievable

“What? No, you pour the cereal first so you’d know how much milk you need.”

“No, it won’t taste the same.”

She holds herself back from flinging the carton milk on his pretty face — only because it’s an important factor to his career. The corner of her lips twitches then presses into a thin line against each other, looking incredulous at her boyfriend’s stupid argument.

“They’ll be mixed together in a bowl Jongin, it’ll taste the same either way — ”

“Do you want to know what I’d love to do with you on that counter over there?”

She picks up the bowl, press the trash can on the edge of the table open with her toes, then dumps the cereal from the bowl on to the bin without giving Jongin a chance to blink. Jongin leans back, standing with hands on hips at her action, searching her face for an answer as to ‘what the heck?’

“Plain milk for Jongin it is.” She deadpans.

Jongin can only whine.

Though, she ends up pouring another bowl of cereal after the milk this time for the both of them.

Minutes later, after relentless reassurance of ‘it’s fine, I won’t spill any milk on the couch’ from Jongin, breakfast is enjoyed in the presence of an awful sci-fi movie they’re both too lazy to get up and change the channel for, along with each other’s cold feet brushing against their arms where they lay in the opposite direction from each other. Jongin rests his back on one of the couch’s armrest, [Name] on the other, awarding him with the sight of her fixated expression on her bowl of turning-soggy-cereal.

Jongin wiggles his toes, catching her attention with the annoying movement.

“What are you thinking about?”

“How to get you to find the remote and change the channel.”

His smile is small, mouth filled with a spoonful of Froot Loops, but it grows as a large grin when he swallows the contents in his mouth.

“Just enjoy the movie, I’m not moving anytime soon, and I know you won’t either.”

She groans, throwing her head back dramatically and bowl of cereal lowered to her lap. Jongin still doesn’t feel like getting up, even though he agrees that whatever this movie is is terrible. [Name] only perks up when the noise from the TV changes and a commercial break comes up.

“At least the commercials they’re playing are nice.” She mutters through a mouthful of milk and cereal.

Jongin nods in silent agreement.

Not even a minute later, Jongin feels something cold and wet on his calf. He pauses momentarily from eating and raise his calf up, startled at the stray Froot Loops leaving drops of milk on his skin. At the first ring of her giggle, Jongin knows that she had flicked the cereal on him purposely.

“How cruel.”

His revenge comes too soon in the form of a soggy Froot Loops to her nose. A hearty laugh racks up his chest at her astonished expression. However, he quickly goes to cover his face with his own bowl for protection when he sees her scowl. [Name] playfully glares at him, and the next Froot Loops that is flung from her spoon lands on his collarbone, slipping down to the inside of his sleeveless shirt. He squeaks, squirming at the coldness of the milk and the stickiness of the cereal traveling down his chest.

“Unfair! You’re wearing a sweater!” The next piece of cereal stains the couch, and that’s when they spoil their breakfast for a round of food war.

[Name] scarcely remember the rest of the day with his stillwater blue voice, thick and sweet like honey in her ear, and his laughter: a violet dusk, a noise she has learned to fall asleep to. And although he has to leave the next morning, [Name] has no qualms, for she holds all the memory of this day close to her senses (how he feels against her skin, how he looks like when he smiles at her, how his skin tastes of sweat), and her heart.

She wonders if his voice will change to a darker blue, or will they stay the same the next time he comes back home again.

[batterymonster2021]

What is THE BEST Time-Frame for Trading Forex?!

New Post has been published on https://hititem.kr/what-is-the-best-time-frame-for-trading-forex/

What is THE BEST Time-Frame for Trading Forex?!

Hiya there! Now, for those of you which were following my channel for the final couple years or so. You have got obvious that I’ve carried out numerous movies protecting a couple of subject matters in all areas of trading. And that i was once lying in mattress this morning and i used to be in a little of a difficulty as to what subject I must cover in this week’s video. Anyway bought to my desk of you fired up my displays and went straight into the foreign exchange signals internet site i’d begin my day by way of doing this no we begin my day via going straight to the messages that have been left overnight and to strike out to me and i wish to just share them with you now first one is from the first one is a guy i don’t know it’s a male or female so it is pips the best way from Sweden says hi Andrew love your YouTube videos and in the end made up our minds to take the plunge and join your neighborhood so cheerful I did I can’t wait to first query what time period must I on 2nd one used to be from a guy referred to as like pupils a guy it’s ER it can be Clive B from Australia just says aid i’ve been buying and selling five and fifteen minute time frame for roughly six months day in day out I failed to make a revenue i’m shedding now not only my money but also my days on the monitor what must I do good thank you Clive and pips the way in which for serving to me solve my quandary in these days due to the fact that’s what we will speak about we are going to speak concerning the great timeframe to use when trading the currency trading market k so as I acknowledged in that short introduction we’ve got executed more than one movies within the last couple of years or so overlaying all elements of the market if you haven’t already subscribed the channel I recommend you achieve this that manner which you could entry the entire movies in a single spot now if you happen to get that little bill notification also you are going to be notified the second my subsequent video has been launched don’t forget to follow us on Instagram and certainly on facebook in case you follow us on facebook you can become a member of me live every Monday 2 p.M.London time why discuss buying and selling opportunities for the week forward in a reside environment you can engage as well good enough let’s get on with it ok so earlier than I get into this discipline let me to begin with provide an explanation for for those of you that are not fairly sure what i’m talking about here what a time frame means when we buying and selling the fiscal markets we quite often look at charts to peer what costs done previously to present us an suggestion what costs may do at some point and we’ll be looking at charts we know we appear at them in three different formats either a candlestick chart which can be some thing like this i’m going to explain within the moment what they are you’ve got bought a line chart which is truly the closing cost otherwise you could have a bar chart if you want to seem whatever like that but in the case of a bar chart on the candlestick chart it’s basically the identical each and every candlestick or each bar represents a interval of time so for instance if we’re looking at the daily chart utilizing a candlestick each candlestick represents fee action in that unique time interval so a candlestick will exhibit us where the market opened where it closed and if it closes bigger than mode open it’s mostly colored blue or inexperienced it suggests you the excessive and the low so this candlestick this one candlestick suggests us all of the cost action plenty of expertise in that in the future normally runs from the big apple close 5:00 p.M.The big apple to 5:00 p.M. Tomorrow but some brokers fluctuate in that so once more on the candlestick right here you might have acquired open right here the low here the shut here i must say the low here the excessive here that is in actual fact the price motion in in the future but after we’re buying and selling looking at charts we don’t ought to seem at just what happened in one day we will drill-down we are able to drill right right down to even one minute we can drill correct out to 1 month if you are watching at one month candlestick that’ll basically characterize what the highs and the lows had been in that month let me give an explanation for a little bit bit further k so what we have now received here on the board for 15-minute candles for this example so it is a 15-minute chart each the sort of candles represents fee motion in that 15 minute time period don’t forget inexperienced candles present closing larger on the mode opened and red candles are closing decrease than the place it opened so for this instance we now have opened right here we’ve traded up on this 15 minutes and then certainly we alternate it up once more on the next quarter-hour hit this high up right here k after which we exchange it down and then the final quarter-hour we close go into reverse here so that is price action on each individual 15-minute however you may also need to appear at just the hourly candlestick right here there are 4 quarter-hour that can be represented on the hourly chart shows the precisely the equal knowledge but not so much detail so for illustration now we have opened right here so you would have them open there sincerely where the open is right here in order that would be the open there we have now closed scale down than the place we now have opened you see here we’ve got opened and then we’ve got closed scale down so it might be a pink candle so the closes down here’s a cost bomb of that shut and of course we had a excessive up here so this hourly candle right here represents the same understanding that you see on the 15-minute chart but that simply indicates you extra detail so that begs the question do you need to be trading with way more detail otherwise you that troubled about all these man or woman rate swings within that bigger time interval and in order that begs the question which is the great timeframe to make use of now the answer to this question which timeframe to use is a bit more complex than you may also feel i’m no longer effectively equipped to claim to you you must be trading the 5 minute or the 1 hour or the daily ones more moneymaking than the opposite in view that that’s just not the case the rationale why it can be no longer the case is seeing that all people’s individual circumstances and pursuits are exceptional you may have a day job and you might have simplest constrained period of time to Bend in entrance of the displays probably lower than an hour a day where case you are watching to be buying and selling perhaps off the larger time peerage might be within the daily or the month-to-month remember when you are buying and selling off the everyday or their monthly the amount of trade you take over the path of the month shall be rather a lot less there will be few and far between then again you could have plenty of hours in the course of the day to spend in front of the screens looking for those opportunities you accordingly is also competent to take five ten fifteen twenty trades a day customarily stated of path as scalping so you’re watching to exploit your trading part over a big number of trades you maybe looking at the 5-minute the 50 min or the hourly chart now what are your targets very very important you will be looking to grow an account over a protracted period of time to pay for retirement probably or your college expenses wherein case you may need to hinder all this noise of the lessen time pues so you be looking at the weekly and the monthly time poets of course the exchange might be few and some distance between however you are watching to do that over an extended interval of time now you may also appear to exchange full-time to get a month-to-month revenue in which case you ought to make commonplace earnings on a monthly basis wherein case you possibly trading the smaller or shorter time durations just like the one hour the fifteen minutes and so forth grinding out your side over more than one trades taking a monthly revenue so the 4 hours is a one hour and fifteen minute perhaps desired the one factor that every one these goals have in usual is the want to make cash correct that is why we’re right here however for me the deciding aspect on which period of time to make use of comes down to at least one component and that’s the psychology facet of buying and selling now everyone knows that psychology plays a giant part in buying and selling and rather frankly it’s the unhealthy psychology that is the killer of most trading debts now trading the relatively short timeframes shopping and promoting off the 15 minute the 5 minutes the 1 minute time period can also be very emotional seeing cash go inside and outside of the account is emotional and cash is an emotional commodity there may be tons of noise down there and commonly which you can get caught up in all this noise so I strongly advise if you’re new to buying and selling depart all that noise to the extra experienced trader I mean buying and selling in the end has its possess challenges so don’t make it even more difficult with the aid of increasing your emotional involvement on the shorter time poets so take a step again and alternate off the high time poets the four-hour or the everyday definite it can be now not going to be as wonderful is a 5-minute chart but truthfully if you’re watching for excitement you are gonna be some distance going to claim the horses or some thing like that and losing your money as a minimum then you’re gonna be along with your acquaintances having a just right time some distance better than sitting at home in your computing device as soon as you may have proved your self and your abilities as a dealer then and handiest then will have to you be watching to exchange the lower time peers that is simply my opinion and subsequently of direction you’ve acquired to bear in mind the actual technique itself now right here signals calm we mentioned and trade reside very procedures from the swing trading day method right down to the 5-minute scalping method we have now bought techniques for all stipulations and all phases of trade up so be certain you assess these out if you haven’t already carried out so but ensure the technique are making use of is optimized for that precise time interval so Clive and pips wait i’m hoping I’ve gotten an individual to reply your questions at present Clive you are struggling on the 5 15 minute I advised drill again up return to the day-to-day see how you get on there discontinue bleeding money from the account i’m sure you can in finding that worth whilst endeavour and pips await your new buying and selling so welcome to the room I recommend you with the aid of looking at the everyday see how you get on there and then we are able to talk about relocating all the way down to the intraday time periods must you’ve some success there as continuously if you’ve loved the video today supply me a thumbs up if you haven’t provide me a thumbs down don���t forget to depart a comment I get again to it as many as i will to fail to remember to subscribe the channel if you haven’t already achieved so and that bail notification highlights when I free up my subsequent video comply with us on Instagram and of course fb if you comply with us on fb i will see you on Monday 2 p.M.At London time the place we alternate and assessment the markets for the week forward completely satisfied buying and selling and good success .

[sezept]

Waiting for Love

Angela always thought she had all the time in the world to find her soulmate.

Also available on: AO3

Angela doesn't remember much about her life with her parents. It's perfectly natural, she knows even in her teens, to not be able to recall those early childhood years. The fact most of the few memories she still has revolve around her soulmark are only more precious for it.

The day she got her Words stands out in her mind as particularly clear, more so than most memories she's made as recently as a day prior. She must've been five or six, the date never mattered, only what it brought into her life.

Clear as the day it happened on, Angela recalls running around a playground with some other kids, then suddenly, pain – alike burning.

The way home is a blur. It wasn't bad, but she was a child, and not a careless one at that, not used to hurting. Oh she knew it was going to, other kids told her so, but the girl always assumed their bragging to be just that, since her parents said it wasn't going to hurt too much. Liars. For what it's worth, it was for the best. After all, it wouldn't do to have their daughter fear her markday.

More strongly than all of that, however, she remembers what Mom and Dad told her when she got home. Their reassurance and warmth, the stories of their own soulmarks and how they met and fell in love. How the same would now happen to her and how wonderful it would be. The pain did not go away, not for hours more, but it helped to distract her from it, at least.

The marks became something of an obsession for young Angela. All of them. And her parents were only too happy to encourage the scholarly streak she developed while attempting to learn everything about soulmarks there was for a child to know, often helping her go over a book or an article she could not understand on her own. It was also the time little Angela began her English lessons. If the first words her soulmate would say to her were to be in that language, then Angela would make sure she could carry on with the conversation.

Then, one day, it was her Grandma who picked Angela up from the kindergarten. She never saw her parents again. There wasn't even a funeral, not that she knew what was happening at the time – the town had to be abandoned and that was that. Years later, she learned that all that could be done for the Omnics' victims once her old home was reclaimed, was to make a mass grave and a monument, as there was no way to recognize the bodies after so long without DNA tests, and those cost money neither the government nor the people could spare.

All that little Angela had left of her parents was Grandma's photo album, that and the steadily degrading memories of them, with those around her mark being the clearest of all.

It made it... less impossible to deal with their absence. She could almost pretend they were there when she woke up crying if she closed her eyes and rubbed at her Words – almost hear their voices, almost feel their embrace. Almost.

With time, the hurt in her heart was replaced by an ache. Time heals all wounds, or at least lets them scar over.

Her mark remained a source of comfort to Angela as she grew up, even if her fascination with soulmates gave way to more practical pursuits of her medical studies. She had time. Most of the other students, most of them much older than herself, still hadn't heard their Words. Truthfully, it'd be problematic had she found her soul's second half back then – the amount of work she had assigned, along with the early stages of her own research left her with only enough time to sleep. Of course, leading such a lifestyle didn't exactly leave her with many opportunities to even meet her soulmate – there were times when she did not as much as see a new face for months on end.

She probably made more acquaintances the day she first came to Overwatch Swiss HQ than during all her years at the campus. It would be a day to remember even without hearing her Words.

(-)

“And this, doctor Ziegler, will be your office.” Commander Morrison states as he opens the door for the young woman to pass through.

She does so without a word. This is their last stop, and all has been said between them that they needed to say for today. The man even provided her with his personal phone number as a key asset should she need anything. It's a bit overwhelming, having one of the most powerful men in the world just a call away, so is being called key. Her. A seventeen year old surgery and scientist. She knows her own worth, and that of her research which Overwatch agreed to fund, but still. It's a lot to process.

At least her office seems entirely down-to-earth. A bit bigger than what she got used to in Zurich, but she supposes a UN complex, as opposed to a hospital, can afford to waste some space. That is not to say the room is big at all, but with the memory of her campus dormitories still fresh in her mind, this is more than satisfactory.

“It'll do nicely,” She turns back to the man, only a step into the room himself. “Thank you, Commander.”

“Of course. Now, the paperwork regarding your nanotech research and funding should all be here.” He motions to the laptop lying on the desk. “There's a reason I'm showing this to you a week before you can do anything with it.” Oh. “I want it all ready on Day One. Understood?”

“Yes, Commander Morrison.” Bureaucracy is something she's well acquainted with. Dealing with it was what, in the end, pushed her to accept the organization's proposal. A week worth of paperwork to have her research funded and ready to begin experiments? It's too good a proposition to pass-up when the alternative would either be accepting an offer from someone less trustworthy than Overwatch, or wait years before the old farts in the committee approved her work. Years during which it could already be saving lives in its development stage.

It gives her a sort of vindictive pleasure that they will have no claim to her work when it finally goes into mass-use all across the world, as that is where Overwatch operates and where she wants her tech to be used.

Despite a few drawbacks, like her sponsor being a military organization, it's a very good deal she got – it'll kickstart her work in a way she couldn't otherwise hope for. Now, she just has to deliver on her promises of efficiently using the millions that are to be poured into her tech. Easy. She got where she is with just her grant.

“Now, unless you have any questions, I'll leave you to your-” he cuts off when something- someone barrels through the still-open door, said someone being a dark-skinned girl somewhere on the cusp on her teens, with a wide-brimmed hat in her hands.

Angela shoots her new boss a questioning look. Her own age is the lowest they go, and the area they're in is not exactly public access, as to some kid from a school trip wandering off away from the group.

“Jack!” the girl hisses, making Angela do do a double take. “Jack, hide me, quick! You don't want Jesse to get his hat back, do you?”

“I'd be glad to see the da- thing gone.” He snorts, amusement and sudden understanding apparent in his voice. “Unfortunately for us, this isn't my office. You'll have to ask Miss Ziegler, here.”

Angela shoots her soon-to-be superior a questioning look, to which he responds with a nod. Alright then, if he wants her to play along, she will-

“Hello. Can I hide here, please?” The young woman's heart stutters and her stomach jumps into her throat, before a ball of lead weighs it back down at hearing her Words being spoken by a girl no older than twelve.

Her breath hitches, and it takes all of her self-control to act like the adult she is and not flee the room.

God, her soulmate is still a child. It's- she's always known she's the older one – she got her mark after birth, after all, but she never imagined she'd meet them before it became irrelevant.

“Doctor Ziegler?”

Yet here she is, perhaps young enough to still attend primary, and staring at Angela with those big brown eyes, expecting an answer that will bind their fates together for the rest of their lives. It's too early, she can't- she's not-

“Doctor Ziegler.”

She quickly – intently - studies the girl's face, before taking in her whole body, and the relief is almost overwhelming when she doesn't find anything there shouldn't be in the girl's childish features. Angela braces herself against the desk, as her knees suddenly threaten to give out from beneath her. It- it's okay. It's not at all uncommon for an age gap to exist between soulmates, it's just a rare case indeed for them to meet while it still matters. She never even considered the possibility.

“Ziegler.” Her eyes snap upwards, to the commander's concerned own. “You okay?”

The scientist nods, not daring to say a word not addressed to the child in the room, who she notes, now that she can think again, seems to have withdrawn into herself, as if ashamed or embarrassed, maybe both.

That, more than anything else, is finally enough for Angela's tongue to untie, and address the girl.

“If you still want to, then of course.”

The change in the girl's face is instantaneous, somehow managing to cycle from shame through surprise, then wonder, elation, and finally mortification, all in the space of a second.

She bolts out of the door in the next.

“Fareeha!” Morrison calls after her, his expression, for a change, still stuck on shock. “Shit. You, wait here.” He orders Angela (and there's no doubt in her mind that it is an order), before taking off after the girl, leaving the doctor alone in her brand new office.

For a moment, the blonde simply stands still, mind empty, before it becomes apparent to her that she should probably sit down. This... went exactly nothing like she imagined it would. Angela's dreams weren't anything much, either, as realistically, hello, can I hide here, please are not the words of a knight in shining armour. However, that did not stop her from having fantasies.

None of those (thank God) included her soulmate being a child.

She ungracefully collapses into the chair, and hides her face in her hands.

What is she supposed to do? If – or rather when the girl... when Fareeha calms down, she'll probably want to meet her, fuck, she wants to properly meet her too but- how are they supposed to interact? She's five or six years older and at this stage of life it's like heaven and hell. Moreover, Angela is a busy person, she simply doesn't have time (especially right now) to deal with anything but her work, the commander himself said he wants it done by the next week. That's a week of what Fareeha might take as ignoring or pushing her away. On the other hand, if they do spend time together, they'd be running a risk of the girl developing to cater to Angela's lifestyle and- and avoiding that entail heavily involving the parents to make sure...

...Parents.

It's easy, all too easy for Angela to imagine the girl's parents reactions when they learn their daughter has found her soulmate. A soulmate five years older than their daughter.

Lord have mercy on her soul.

[curieminery96]

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[heironymous-smash]

Yes yes, the title is a bad joke.  I'm in a bad-joke mood right now, and I've written this post six times and am officially giving up and posting it, because ugh.

This is about a simple truth:  Right answers are almost never easy answers, are they? 

It's much easier to just be wrong, especially when tradition is on your side, than to admit the correctness of an answer that demands uncomfortable amounts of change and action.  (And that's why being right is awesome, and worthy of admiration:  Because it's damn hard to do.)

For example, it is far easier to punish victims for speaking out than to face the changes we need to make in order to stop their repeated victimization.

It's just effortless, in comparison, to take apart the story and look for emotional "outs".  To autopsy the victim's character in public.  To point out every "but what if?", no matter how irrelevant or far-fetched — instead of just hearing what's being said, and giving it at least a baseline benefit-of-the-doubt, prima facie and all that.  Which is what we say we'd do logically, of course, but we don't, because, well, that way lies some Really Hard Answers. 

We know, without a shred of legitimate doubt, that most people who come forward with painful stories of victimization stand to gain nothing from it — on the contrary, it often costs them as much or more, to come forward, as the crime itself did.  We know that the vast majority of the time, people claiming to have been victimized are not outright lying.  Criminals lie close to 100% of the time, and victims lie close to 0% of the time — even though we hear about "false accusations" with far higher frequency than they happen, for reasons I figure are obvious.  And on top of that, there's all kinds of social and life-impacting horrors in store for anyone who accuses anyone, truthfully or not, which even further drives the percentage of false accusations (and accusations at all).  So no, there's no logical or legitimate reason to silence or disbelieve victims.  But there is a very big practical reason.

To even listen long enough to say "I hear you" or "you can press charges for that criminal act"…it's a terrible burden, isn't it?  

The result of listening — even just listening — might very well be damning to some of our favorite cultural mores.  And once it's damned repeatedly or, heavens forfend, in courts, it becomes a whole lot harder to ignore, not just legally but socially too.  Keeping such things off the books and out of serious conversations is critical for maintaining the cultural view that "this is acceptable, or at least okay to ignore".

Look at the cultural norm that says that women's bodies are not, in fact, fully owned by them, and therefore that they don't acutally, in reality, have the right to determine how and when they will engage in sexual activity.  That norm is deeply embedded in our social mindset, and even though it violates our own constitution, it's still pretty visible in our written laws, too.  Hell, here in the 21st century, we're still not even sure if a woman is allowed to decide when she wants to be pregnant, up to and including if she has hard medical reasons to avoid it — so really saying and believing, as a society, that she should be allowed to say "yes" or "no" to sexual advances is quite a leap!  The law technically says that all citizens own their bodies and nobody can force them to do stuff with those bodies…but the reality, for women particularly, is way, way off from the law.  And that makes anything that shoves our faces in how badly we need to change it dangerous.   

As long as you don't acknowledge that you see a problem, you aren't morally or in other ways required to DO things about it. 

Simple as that:  Victim-blaming and disbelief is ostritch syndrome.

And there are plenty of people who know this and still defend it, too.  They'll claim that the change is just too hard, and that even though it's clearly the correct thing to do (to enforce sexual assault as a real crime, and to treat its victims like we know we should treat victims), it's simply impossible to actually face down that change.

These people, by the way, would have (and often do) say/whine the exact same thing about ending racism, and a zillion other horrors.  Their opinions should be shot into the sun, still attached to them if necessary…but let's go ahead and look at their claims briefly anyway, just so we can say we were fair.

Dear gods, say the inevitably-white-guys-in-power, how would that even work?  If we had to enforce, really enforce, the law that says that no-one is allowed to sexually assault anyone else without criminal consequences — what would that even look like? 

Well, it would look different, sure.  Just like it looks different now that we enforce child-labor laws, and no longer allow people to sell heroin over the counter as snake-oil remedies.  Enforcing laws changes things, and change is scary, but listen to what we're saying here:  We want to keep abusing women and girls (and others), because moving away from it involves prosecuting a bunch of (mostly) guys, and that's difficult and scary.  How such an argument as that can hold any water is beyond me, but I swear I've heard it from sitting congresspeople at least five times this week.

The social calculus they, and those who think like them, are doing is clear:  Years of trauma for X women is way better than civic punishment for X men.  By not enforcing the law, we're enabling the behavior and we know it … but godsDAMN is it easier. 

Not right.  Easier.

What if sexual assault was just, like, a misdemeanor and a fine, but it actually happened to most people who did it, like traffic tickets or doing jail time for robbing gas stations?  While it's easy and simple from one angle, from another, it's daunting even to imagine.  How many men do you know who'd have records?  I can't count, and I know mostly awesome, sex-assault-free men.  I mean geez, when it comes to things like congresspeople, we'd probably have to make at least half of them women just to fill in the gaps from the ones now in jail!  (Sorry…not sorry?  Yeah, not really sorry.)

"How many men would be left?" someone actually said to me.  

And that's a damn good point, but it's sure as hell not a point in favor of keeping the status quo, and keeping victims silent.  

That which can be destroyed by the truth, should be.

But oh man, it's much, much easier to just ad hominem the problem away than to conduct a fair investigation. 

Let's just do it among ourselves, or on the news, where misdirection and word-slinging and emotional appeals have much more power than they do in a courtroom. 

That'll keep our chances of being able to ignore this a while longer at maximum.

It's just SO. MUCH. EASIER to find a reason, any reason, to not believe this one person this one time.  Even if it's the 10,000th time this year, and the third woman this week.  

Let's say "he said/she said" every time, when even little news blogs understand by now the psychosocial mechanisms that make it appear (falsely) that way — but it's so, so much easier.

Let's also claim, when we can, that it's about political parties, even though all political entities are beholden to uphold the law — and with the strictest and most careful hand, when we're talking about something serious like a Supreme Court nomination.  If the person in question had counterfitted $5 in his life, he'd never have gotten the nomination in a million years…but let's say that this is political, because again, soooo much easier.

The thinking seems to be, let's say anything we can in order to avoid having to admit that we need to fix this. 

That we need to prosecute sex-offenders, even (especially!) when they're powerful/privileged, and their victims are not.

It's so hard to admit, isn't it, that everyone has the right to not be victimized — assaulted, raped, murdered, robbed. 

Black, white, anygendered, child, adult — you know, that whole thing we say we do, and take credit for at every opportunity, America.  

It's the much-harder answer. it is.  Shutting up or shouting down the people who complain about being victimized is sooooooo much easier.  But it's provably wrong, and you can prove it by simply noticing that it hasn't worked.  Silencing victims, shredding the reputations of women who speak up, continuing the grim march of unprosecuted and unpunished offenses, hasn't improved a damn thing since Anita Hill, who I heard my mother slut-shame when Ms. Hill was testifying on TV and I was still a child in elementary school — but had already been sexually assaulted once.  

My own mother, who I'm sure if she'd known it was about me (i.e. affected her) would have changed her tune fast, taught me a good solid lesson with that comment, a lesson about how "good women" in this country don't make a fuss when they're assaulted, or abused, or cost their livelihoods because men wanted to do criminally-unallowable things with their bodies.

What if, I wonder, we admitted this, as a start at the hard path of right answer:  People who are victimized deserve the space to speak up, without being shouted down, or shamed for not staying silent.  What if kids sitting in front of the TV today didn't hear their parents say, "She's probably promiscuous" (figuring that you don't know the word, but being wrong) — but rather, "oh crap, that sucks, I hope there's a good and fair trial for her and that this douche gets jail-time if it's true"?   

That's not so hard to imagine, I think.

Would there be any men left?  Yes of course, there'd be plenty, because it's not a miracle when a man doesn't sexually assault women, or even when he screws up and does it a little and then learns his lesson and stops — you know, like regular people do with every other wrong thing out there.  Criminals don't actually get shot into the sun, you know, and their lives aren't "over" — they suffer less than their victims most of the time, remember.  That there's a victim standing there talking about it is a pretty good sign that the criminal will survive their punishment and be just fine, assuming they choose to, you know, stop assaulting women.  

Repeat offenders, well, I'm all for the "shooting into the sun" solution if anybody else is.  But probably they'll just be in jail a lot, like most serial criminals are. 

Not exactly the scary apocalypse it's made out to be by those who are afraid of change.  The people willing to sacrifice women and our entire national, and human, goal of equality to avoid the scary-scary change are defending…wait for it…the right of some percentage of men to avoid having to do time and pay legal reparations for their criminal behavior, after which they'd then (hopefully) go about their lives and be better people afterwards.  That's the system we've got, and all we're talking about here is applying it fairly.

That's it.  That's the scary thing we're avoiding by shaming, silencing, picking apart and refusing to listen to victims…over and over again, more every week and month.  For what?  To protect whom, and why?

And the men who wouldn't be "left", i.e. who would be convicted of their crimes and punished–yes, maybe even severely– we can do without.  In the Supreme Court or elsewhere. 

We'll be fine without their, uhh, sterling leadership.  Promise.