#any team that loses to the US men's squad should be embarrassed

[queequegsleash]

Each time I try to give men’s soccer a chance, the diving/flopping turns me off. Just pathetic. Grown men falling like they’ve been hit by a sniper on the roof.

[ironmandeficiency]

anatomy lesson

pairing: cody / reader,  waxer / reader

word count: 2756

summary: cody and waxer go to retrieve you for a briefing and were concerned to find you still sleeping. even worse, you were in a pool of your own blood. (let the fluff ensue)

a/n: reader is 18+. i love the hc that most (if not all) non-medic clones have no idea what a menstrual cycle is and absolutely lose their shit upon first exposure (except for gree & the entirety of the 41st, they have their shit together but i digress)

when the calls came in from master plo and anakin and you still weren’t there in the briefing room, obi-wan was concerned. it was unlike you to oversleep when on duty, being ever punctual with your duties as a padawan and commander. he told you the night before the exact time you’d be needed for the briefing and you’ve never been late to a briefing ever since you joined him as his apprentice. 

he caught cody’s attention with a slight wave and tried to dispel his worry. “cody, will you retrieve y/n from her quarters? she’ll be needed before the briefing.”

cody nodded, giving a brief response before leaving the room. “right away, sir.” he shared the general’s concern although no one would get him to admit the origins. cody knew there were days you were awake before he was, already preparing for the day with a mug of tea in hand. you had the same air about you as the general, a negotiator in the making. being late was an anomaly in your normal behavior, which meant to him that something must be happening.

that’s why his concern elevated to panic when you weren’t answering his (rather loud) knocking on the door to your quarters. “commander! y/n, are you alright?!” his fist pounded on the door with no response.

a couple brothers gathered around the spectacle, unsure why cody was so frazzled. “if you don’t answer me in the next five seconds i’m coming in!” more pounding, no answer. it was time to go in.

cody busted the external controls and the door swished open, his eyes quickly absorbing his surroundings. waxer followed cody in because this was an extremely strange series of events. why was cody busting into your quarters, and why was he so tense?

spotting your form lying still in your bunk, cody nearly fell on his face running the short distance towards you. he inspected you for a moment trying to see if there was a problem. cody was coming up short until waxer pointed to a pool of blood on the blankets, hands slightly shaking.

they carefully lifted the blankets covering you and nearly threw up. there was so much blood, more than should ever be out of a person that wasn’t dead, and here you were just laying in it without a problem!

wait, were you dead?!?! both of the troopers simultaneously reached for different pulse points, relieved when they felt a steady heartbeat. you weren’t dead yet.

waxer ran into the hallway and shouted for someone to retrieve a medic, his voice bordering on panic and ferocity.

“there’s no time! i’ll run her there while you notify general kenobi in the briefing room!” cody scooped you into his arms and sprinted toward the medbay, ignoring the shouts and worried looks he got from his vode. you were his only concern, and may the force help whoever got in his way.

waxer reached the briefing room in record time and if he wasn’t trained for combat, the running would have taken his breath from him. “general kenobi!”

obi-wan turned towards waxer’s shout in the doorway and was startled to see the man so frantic. the holo forms of master plo and anakin following obi-wan’s gaze to the trooper, looks of worry similar to obi-wan’s etched onto their faces.

“waxer, what’s wrong?”

“it’s the commander, sir! we found her in her bunk covered in blood, cody’s taking her to the medbay!”

the news pummeled the jedi with the force of a raging gundark. plo nodded for obi-wan to take his leave, anakin’s face was beginning to twist into something almost unidentifiable from worry.

obi-wan’s voice when he spoke was not the mellifluous cadence everyone knew him for; no, it was rough and pained and curt in an effort to shove away the lump forming in his throat. “we can finish this later. i’ll notify you both when i have more information.” he shut off the call with a harder than necessary press of a button and immediately followed waxer toward the medbay.

what could have possibly happened to you? you were in one of the most well-guarded and armed ships in the GAR and had the loyalty of the entire 212th behind you. why would anyone want to harm you, if that happens to be the case? obi-wan didn’t like the way waxer’s force signature burned, and making sure you were okay seemed to be the only thing that could ease the feeling.

you woke up… not in your bed, which was peculiar, but you were even more confused when you were moving. unsure as to why you were being jostled more than some unfortunate soul trying to tame a bantha, you take in your surroundings. you were still on the negotiator, and you were being carried? that would explain the movement.

coming into consciousness, you could easily distinguish cody as the one carrying you and the hard set of his jaw told you something was wrong.

“cody, what’s going on?” your voice was still grainy from sleep but cody had never heard anything so comforting.

cody seemed relieved to hear your voice but was ferocious in his reply. “what’s going on?! y/n, i found you unresponsive in a pool of your own blood! you’re headed straight for the medbay!”

oh no. no kriffing way.

you tried to move out of cody’s arms but the man had a vice grip on you. wriggling about could only get you so far when you were still trying to wake up completely and it showed by the way you weren’t able to free yourself from his arms. “will you stop moving?!” he shifted his hold slightly, making it even harder to escape. kriff.

“put me down, cody! this isn’t a concern for the med team!”

“like hell it isn’t! do you see how much blood you’re covered in?! i’m surprised you’re even conscious right now!”

he was still running and you were wishing for something, anything to happen to get him to put you down. but alas, cody was determined and did not put you down until it was on a cot in the medbay, aranar and a med droid immediately approaching you. “what’s wrong, commander?”

“i found her in a pool of blood and she’s trying to tell me it isn’t a concern!”

“cody, i-“

“someone tell me what’s happened!” you recognized the voice of your master immediately and you groaned, wishing the cot would somehow miraculously fly itself through the side of the shuttle and free you of this torment.

could this get any worse?

“master, i am perfectly okay! i haven’t been able to explain-“

obi-wan cut you off. “you most certainly are not okay! i was told you were found covered in blood! when is that ever a normal occurrence for anyone?!”

aranar, being far more medically inclined, soon discovered what the “problem” was. you sent him a scathing look that explicitly said “explain this to them now!” but aranar, being one to hold a grudge against jedi that didn’t report their injuries, shook his head with a grin. the smirk he sent your way told you everything you need to know, which was thus: you were on your own.

were you seriously going to have to give an anatomy lesson to everyone? apparently so.

you sighed before you began to explain the situation. “i’m suffering from what’s known as the menstrual cycle.” the word “suffer” seemed to raise some heads, some being nearly two entire squads. apparently word travels faster than you had thought.

your master’s face was almost blistering from the blush that had risen to his cheeks. you didn’t need your training bond to tell you that he was absolutely mortified (he was also quite relieved at the fact you weren’t about to die). he looked more like he got a sunburn on tatooine than was just embarrassed by failing to identify his padawan’s menstrual cycle. he left the room quickly, knowing that he didn’t exactly leave his fellow jedi on a promising note.

you turned back to the growing cluster of clone troopers surrounding you, making quick work to reassure the worried gaggle of clones that it wasn’t deadly. “it’s a completely normal thing, don’t worry. every month or so, my body naturally builds a lining in my uterus to prepare for a pregnancy. if i don’t get pregnant, my body sheds the lining out through vaginal bleeding.”

there was a brief silence as the men processed the information. it was gruesome in their opinions, the way women were able to do everything men could do and be actual growth tanks for other creatures.

“so the blood,” cody began with understandable hesitation, “was just lining that you’d need to carry a child? you’re not going to pass out from blood loss when it happens?”

“does it hurt?” waxer was concerned, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it.

“you’re not dyin’ on us or anything, are you sir?” jester’s playful tone disguised a deeper fear quite well and would have fooled you if you weren’t a jedi.

you decided to answer the most pressing question first, a soft smile on your face at the worry in his tone. “no jester, i’m not dying anytime soon.”

you probably should have (or had someone else) explain this to them earlier, but you never thought it’d become a problem. it was relatively easy to hide the cycle from your men prior to now and they had never seemed to pick up on any changes that coincide with your cycle, so you just kept on with your routine.

but since you were here, you might as well tell them everything to watch out for. “sometimes it does hurt like a bitch, not gonna lie. i can get stomach cramps and my muscles will be sore for a while, and i’m a bit more sensitive to touch than normal.”

the men in front of you nodded in understanding. “are there any other symptoms we should know about, commander?” boil’s question seemed to be on the minds of the several men around you. aranar had taken to shooing out the ones farther away because he was starting to feel claustrophobic, hating the way he could barely move about the medbay without bumping into someone.

“nothing too drastic, just appetite changes and some changes in mood.” they looked to aranar and when their brother nodded his agreement, their shoulders released the collaborative tension in all of their shoulders. you could feel their worry dissipate into the force, satisfied that you were, in fact, perfectly fine. “now i thank you all for your concern, but i would really appreciate some privacy so i could change out of these clothes.”

several of the men filed out, thinning the crowd the same as aranar had until you were left with cody, waxer, and jester. the latter took his leave once he got a quick hug from you and more reassurance that you were completely fine and there was no reason to fuss.

waxer took jester’s spot seconds later, a set of blacks in hand. “i hope these will suffice for now, commander. at least until you’re able to get to your quarters and into something more comfortable for you.” he extended them towards you gently, and there was even a pair of boots included. you knew as well as he did that they wouldn’t properly fit you but the sentiment behind giving you these was no less strong. in mando’an tradition, sharing armor with someone was one of the highest forms of trust and affection one could show and you were reeling from the implications.

(what you didn’t notice was the gleam in cody’s eye and the way waxer looked to his ori’vod for reassurance. it wasn’t like you would have known what the look was about, but seeing as you didn’t know it happened in the first place, there was nothing to speculate.)

you took the blacks from him with a soft smile. “these are extremely appreciated, waxer. thank you.” you swung your legs over the bed and walked towards him, placing a gentle hand on his cheek. if you weren’t mistaken, he softly hummed and leaned into your hand like a tooka getting scratched under the chin.

“would you like to get breakfast with us, commander?” cody questioned, a hopeful gleam in his eye.

you weren’t going to refuse in the first place, but your stomach wanted to guarantee a trip to the mess with the men in front of you with a growl. the men grinned at the noise (well, the way you looked down to hide your face afterward) and you nodded your agreement. “give me just a moment to get cleaned up and i’ll gladly go with you.”

they nod and tell you they’ll wait up outside before leaving you alone.

thank the stars there was a private ‘fresher in the room you were in. you were quickly out of your bloodied nightwear and once you were clean and armed with a tampon to plug the leak, you grabbed the blacks from their neatly folded pile.

you’ve carried sets of blacks before, but these felt strangely lighter. almost all sets of blacks were made the same because everyone that wore them had nearly identical measurements. personal modifications were near obsolete, exceptions being made for clones that were granted prosthetics instead of decommissioning (at the cursed d-word you quickly pulled your thoughts back; you and your master both had numerous issues with the treatment of your men, and your current emotional vulnerability would do nothing but cause trouble).

you started with the pants. when you got both legs in, you were shocked. why were they so snug? you knew for a fact that you didn’t have the same measurements as your men, and yet… the pants fit like a glove. a perfectly-fitting glove.

maybe you were imagining this. you had to be. the moment you emerged from the room, you’d be able to flap about in the outfit like a young padawan wearing their master’s robes. cody and waxer would laugh and smile, one of them probably daring you to eat breakfast in the blacks (which you would take them up on without hesitation).

but then the shirt fit just as well, if not better, than the pants. that couldn’t be! your chests were completely different! you had boobs, for kriff’s sake! the size of your bust was inconsequential, it was the fact that blacks were made to fit the clones, who didn’t have boobs last time you saw one. what could possibly explain it?

as you let your thoughts roam, you slid the boots on and realized with a start that holy shit these are my size. and if the boots are my size, then that means… 

you were given a custom set of blacks.

they saw you as one of their own, their vod. you were their highly respected jedi commander, but you were also family. every member of the 212th knew that you’d put your life on the line for them (despite it being the opposite of what they wanted in battle) just the same as they would for you. the gesture was one of deepest sincerity and camaraderie, if that word was even strong enough to define the feeling.

“waxer! cody!” you called for them to come in. you could feel your throat getting blocked by the overwhelming love you felt right then, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

the two burst in, worried something actually did happen this time. then they noticed you were decked out in your new blacks with watery eyes and a wide grin on your face.

“you fit right in, y/- oof!”

cody’s teasing was cut off by you nearly taking him to the ground with a hug, arms wrapping tight around him. you let go after a moment and brought waxer in too, letting yourself be encased in the light and happiness and safety being spread through the force. a gentle hand came to rest at the back of your head, and another rubbed your back soothingly.

“i take it you won’t need to change before heading to the mess?” waxer’s smile was heard in his softly teasing words, and it made your heart sing.

“you bet your ass i won’t. now let’s go, i’m starving.” you untangled yourself from the embrace of the men in front of you before letting them escort you to breakfast.

[becasbelt]

Fandom: Pitch Perfect (Movies) Rating: G Relationships: Chloe Beale/Beca Mitchell Characters: Beca Mitchell, Chloe Beale, Stacie Conrad Additional Tags: Basketball AU, cheerleader Chloe, Beca ft. gay panic

Summary:

Beca’s not really a basketball fan, but that redheaded member of the cheer squad sure is cute.

* * *

“And that’s another two points for the Knights!”

Beca barely even glances up from her phone when the announcer proclaims the fact, seeing as the team is up by fifteen points. She figures she’s not really missing anything anyways.

Normally Beca wouldn’t even be at a basketball game, but her roommate and self-proclaimed best friend Stacie is on the team, and she liked to drag Beca out of the apartment once a week so she could watch her play. She was also technically there to “cheer on the team,” but she figured Stacie should be grateful she’s there at all.

Barden University’s women’s basketball team was actually pretty decent. They were currently number two in their conference, so at least Beca didn’t have to watch the team lose every week.

Still, no one really went to the women’s games. Beca thought it was dumb, since they won way more than the men’s team did, but because the world was full of sexist jerks nobody cared about the girls. The average crowd was about fifty people, all spread out through the admittedly small basketball arena. Beca recognized most of them due to the fact that the same people went every week.

So Beca went to the games because Stacie wanted her to, and because she felt bad that no one really went to them. Even so, that didn’t mean she really knew what was going on or payed attention all that much.

Beca hears the announcer say Stacie’s name and number, so she looks up from the game on her phone to see what was happening on the court. The team is high fiving Stacie and moving into their positions for foul shots, Stacie standing behind the line. The tall brunette makes the first shot easily and sinks the second as well. Half-hearted applause follows as the game resumes, and Beca feels a twinge of sympathy for her friend.

Maybe she actually should be more supportive. At least a little bit.

So, when Stacie sinks a 3-pointer a few minutes later, Beca cups her hands around her mouth and yells, “Atta girl, Stace! That’s the stuff!”

Stacie turns to look at Beca and smiles widely, blowing her a kiss. Beca rolls her eyes affectionately and winks sarcastically in return. One plus of no one attending women’s games was that she could always sit court-side, right behind the cheer squad from where they stood lining the court, making it easy to interact with Stacie like this.

One of the cheerleaders glances briefly over her shoulder at Beca when she shouts for Stacie and Beca can see an amused grin on her face. The girl is pretty. Like, really pretty. Which, Beca supposes is a given since she’s a cheerleader, but still.

Wow.

She’s got shiny red curls that tumble freely down her back, stopping somewhere in the middle of her shoulder blades. Her sleeveless, short skirted uniform shows off tan, toned arms and legs that look as smooth as silk. And her ass-

Well, Beca doesn’t want to objectify anyone. As a fellow woman who does not want to be seen as an object, she knows she shouldn’t.

But hot damn.

Beca’s never really paid attention to the cheer squad before. They’re always just there; turning around to cheer at the empty seats whenever the team scores, performing once or twice during halftime and timeouts. They’re a constant presence that has never really caught Beca’s attention.

For some reason (a pretty redheaded reason, to be specific), Beca finds herself paying a lot more attention to the cheer squad for the remainder of the game. She notices how they all stand the same; hands behind their backs, feet shoulder-width apart, heads held high. They’re always super in-sync, which boggles Beca’s mind, because it’s not like any of them ever shout out instructions at any point. They just know what to do.

She finds herself becoming more and more curious about the redhead. What was her name? What year in school was she? How long has she been on the cheer squad?

Was she single?

Beca shakes her head at the thought. She probably wasn’t single. Someone that attractive was surely taken by an equally attractive person, which sucked. Even if the redhead was single, Beca wasn’t good-looking enough to stand a chance. Beca, in all her combat boots, worn-out flannel, ear monstrosity glory was definitely not a good fit for this beautiful human masterpiece.

Still, a girl could dream, couldn’t she?

Before Beca knew it, the final buzzer signaling the end of the game was going off and the school’s fight song was blaring over the speakers. The team rushes towards each other and celebrates their victory out on the court for a moment before rushing off to the locker room. Beca stands up and stretches out her stiff limbs in preparation of climbing the steps out of the arena. From there she would meet Stacie outside the locker room to go get dinner.

She can’t help but steal one last glance at the redhead, though, and turns her head to where she is chatting with some of her fellow cheer squad members. To her embarrassment, the girl happens to look in her direction in the same time and the two of them make eye contact. Beca feels herself blush and immediately looks away. It had been no problem staring creepily at her for the entirety of the game when the girl had been facing away from her, but being caught in the act was a completely different story.

Beca makes her way up the stairs quickly to go meet Stacie, feeling thoroughly humiliated.

She hated basketball.

* * *

The redhead is at the next game Beca attends, too. Which isn’t a surprise, exactly. She is a cheerleader, after all.

Stacie’s surprised at Beca’s lack of reluctance at being dragged to the game. Usually it’s only after promises of buying her food that Beca agrees to go, but today Beca had simply rolled her eyes and let herself be led to the car.

Not that Beca would ever tell Stacie why, exactly, she was more eager to go, of course. That would surely provoke weeks of teasing comments that Beca did not want to deal with.

Beca sits down in her usual seat by the sidelines and watches the team warm up. Like always, she’s there before anyone else has shown up, including the cheer squad. Stacie had to be there super early since she was on the team, which meant that Beca had to be there early as well.

Today, however, Beca didn’t immediately pull out her phone to entertain herself with. She would never admit it out loud, but a (big) part of her was eagerly awaiting the cheer squad’s arrival.

Their arrival comes about fifteen minutes before the game is supposed to start. They all walk down the tunnel together, conversing and laughing as they make their way to their spots on the sideline, and Beca’s eyes immediately latch onto the redhead from the last game. She indulges in a brief moment of checking out the cheerleader before feigning indifference and turning her attention back to the team.

She actually ends up lost in thought, focusing so hard on not looking at the cheer squad that she doesn’t notice someone approaching.

“Hi there.”

Beca blinks in surprise and moves her eyes away from the court to see the redheaded cheerleader standing in front of her, separated by the barrier separating the seats from the court. The girl rests her arms against it casually, pom-poms grasped firmly in her hands. Her eyes are blue, like bluer than the sky blue.

For a moment, Beca completely forgets how to speak. All of her basic motor skills fail her because the hot cheerleader that she’s quickly grown a crush on is talking to her.

Say something, her brain tells her. Say anything. Don’t just stare at her, you useless idiot.

“Uh, your eyes are really blue,” is the thing that comes out of her mouth.

It would honestly be best if she just knocked herself out now. Or, at the very least, change her name and flee the country.

Luckily, the girl doesn’t seem too weirded out by Beca’s apparent lack of social skills. A smile lights up her face and she giggles. “Thanks,” she gushes, then looks at Beca expectantly, as if she’s waiting for her to say something else.

Beca, unfortunately, does not currently possess the ability to say something else. So she sits there, like an idiot, saying nothing.

The girl’s smile turns into more a smirk. “I’m Chloe, by the way,” she says when it becomes clear Beca’s not going to speak.

“Beca,” Beca squeaks out, followed by another awkward pause.

“I’ve seen you at a lot of games before,” Chloe starts again. “Do you know someone on the team, or are you just a big basketball fan?”

A snicker escapes Beca at the implication that she was a sports fan, and the thought allows her to shake herself from her internal panic. “No, definitely not a basketball fan. My roommate’s on the team,” she manages to say without sounding too nervous. “Number 10, Stacie Conrad.”

Chloe turns around to look for Stacie, and she nods her head in recognition when she spots the tall brunette. “That’s super cool,” she says, facing Beca once again. “It’s also super cool that you come to support her every week.”

Beca shrugs like it’s no big deal, because it really isn’t. “Yeah, well, I usually get free food afterwards, so,” Beca clicks her tongue. “There’s at least one good reason to come.”

Chloe raises one perfect eyebrow, a sultry look sliding onto her face. “Is that the only good reason to come?” she asks slyly.

Beca cheeks heat up at what she thinks Chloe’s implying. She knows that Chloe caught her checking her out last week, and now the redhead was using that as ammunition to tease her. Beca opens her mouth to respond, though she’s not sure exactly how, but Chloe’s name gets called by one of her fellow cheer squad members, beckoning her over.

The redhead smirks and gives Beca a once-over that sends heat shooting through Beca’s system before turning around, skipping over to the person who called for her. Beca watches her go, thoroughly shocked at the other girl’s actions. It was almost as if Chloe had been… flirting with her. Which was absurd, because Beca had already established with herself that the cheerleader was way out of her league.

But just maybe….

Chloe continues to surprise Beca throughout the rest of the game. Beca tries not to stare, she really does, but once again, she can’t help herself. The only problem is that now, every time Chloe turns around to cheer, she looks right at Beca. She shoots Beca blinding smiles and subtle winks that cause Beca’s face to burn, which seems to bring great amusement to the redhead.

When the cheer squad rushes onto the court to perform during a timeout, Beca is mesmerized. Sure, all the cheerleaders are good dancers, but Chloe seems to be really giving it her all. Her movements seem more sensual, more purposeful, and the way her eyes keep flicking over to Beca lets Beca get a pretty good idea why.

By the time the game ends, Beca doesn’t even know where she is anymore. It feels like she’s stepped into an alternate universe; one where hot, cheerleading redheads are somehow interested in her- or, at least, interested in teasing her.

Honestly, Beca’s not picky. She’ll take the attention, no matter what the purpose behind it is.

Beca hadn’t been paying attention to a single second of the basketball game, too focused on the game that Chloe was playing instead. She looked at the final score as the fight song blared on over the speakers to see that Barden had won again- big surprise. The team runs off the court and the spectators start leaving, so Beca figures she should get up as well. She stands up onto stiff legs and looks down to see Chloe approaching her once again.

“So it was, Beca, right?” Chloe checks once she’s close enough to Beca. Beca nods her head quickly. Chloe smiles and her next question is said more teasingly than the first. “How’d you like the game?”

Beca chokes a little. “It was fine. Good, great. Fun,” she coughs out weakly. She clears her throat. “I thought it was great,” she tries again, more clearly this time.

“Good, I’m glad,” Chloe says, all pretenses of teasing gone from her tone. “I had fun, too.” Beca blushes and Chloe looks over her shoulder to see the rest of the cheer squad starting to walk out of the arena. “Well, I guess I have to go. See you at the next game?”

Beca nods her head rapidly. “Yeah, definitely,” she says too quickly.

Chloe giggles. “Good. See you then, Beca.”

With that, the redhead rushes off to join her group, leaving a flustered Beca standing rooted to her spot. Beca replays the way her name sounded coming from Chloe’s lips over and over in her head, and a goofy smile sliding onto her face.

She walks up the steps to meet Stacie with a little more gumption than usual. When her roommate finally emerges from the locker room a while later, she gives Beca a curious look upon seeing the smile on her face. “You seem awfully chipper,” she says as they start to walk out to her car. “Did your angst subscription finally expire, or are you just actually enjoying the games now?”

Beca swats her arm as the taller girl laughs, scowling. “You’re hilarious,” she deadpans. They reach the car and Stacie unlocks it before the two of them climb in. “You know, this is why I never let you know when I’m in a good mood,” she grumbles as she puts on her seatbelt. “You always make fun of me when I do. I think you hate seeing me happy.”

“Au contraire, my little friend,” Stacie counters as she starts the car. “I care deeply about your happiness. You’re just too much fun to tease about the littlest of things because of how worked up you get.”

Beca huffs and crosses her arms over her chest, pouting a little. “I hate you.”

Stacie leans over and places a loud, wet kiss on Beca’s cheek, which immediately causes Beca to make a noise of disgust and wipe the wetness away. “That’s too bad,” Stacie says in a sing-song voice as she starts to pull out of the parking lot. “Because I loooove you, little one.”

Beca rolls her eyes. “Whatever,” she mumbles. “Where are we eating? I’m starving.”

* * *

The next few weeks pass by in much the same fashion. Game day rolls around, Beca pretends to be grumpy about going to the game while secretly being really excited, Chloe flirts with her throughout the match, and Beca goes to get food while Stacie teases her.

By the second week of Beca talking to Chloe, Stacie had found out exactly why she was always so smiley by the end of the games. The intuitive athlete got enough bench time during blowout matches that she was able to watch Beca and Chloe closely, and soon discovered their flirtatious behavior.

Stacie teases Beca about it relentlessly, and Beca hates it.

But also, Chloe was cute and funny, so she couldn’t exactly be totally upset about the whole situation.

One Saturday game is following the normal routine, with Beca currently staring dedicatedly at Chloe’s amazing arms, when a timeout is called on floor. The teams huddle up separately while the sponsored entertainment starts up: the kiss cam. Beca just rolls her eyes because of how awkward the whole thing was. There wasn’t enough people at the games most of the time, so it always just showed the same five or six old married couples at every single game.

The old people didn’t seem to mind, though. They were steadily getting bolder and bolder every time they were shown, which made Beca feel uncomfortable in all sorts of ways.

She’s wrinkling her nose in disgust at two people getting pretty steamy on the cam when a shadow suddenly looms over her. Beca shifts her attention in front of her to see Chloe propped up on the barrier in front of her, waving at the camera to get its attention. Beca’s eyes widen.

“What are you doing-” Beca starts to question before she’s cut off by Chloe leaning over the barrier, grabbing onto the collar of Beca’s flannel, and pressing their lips together.

Beca thinks she sees stars when Chloe’s lips touch her own. Her hands flail uselessly for a moment before winding into that damn red hair she loves so much as she sinks fully into the kiss. The kiss doesn’t last too long, though, and soon enough Chloe is pulling back and looking at Beca, the corner of her bottom lip snagged between perfect white teeth.

“I hope that was okay,” Chloe says smoothly. “I was getting pretty tired of watching old people make out.”

Beca swallows and tries to form a coherent thought in her brain. “Uh, yeah, totally fine,” she stammers out. “I do not mind at all.”

Chloe giggles and leans in to give her one last peck before pulling back all together, returning to her spot on the sideline. Her cheer friends elbow her and tease her, but the smile on Chloe’s face never falls. She looks back at where Beca is still sitting in shock and winks at her before turning to give her full attention to the game.

Beca, on the other hand, pretty much remains in a daze for the remainder of the match. She thinks someone gets injured, and maybe Stacie makes a couple 3-pointers, but she honestly doesn’t know. Her eyes just follow the ball lazily as her mind tries to process the kiss.

She’s just getting her wits back when the final buzzer goes off. The cheer squad dances to the fight song as the team runs off the court, and as soon as they’re done Chloe’s in front of her again.

“Do you want to get food?” the redhead asks, and Beca thinks this is the first time she’s ever heard the other girl sound nervous. “I know you usually go out to eat with Stacie after games, but I’ve been kind of really wanting to ask you out for a while now.”

Beca smirks at her confession, Chloe’s shyness making her feel bolder. “I might be down for that,” she says with fake nonchalance.

A smile brightens up Chloe’s face. “Are you sure Stacie won’t mind?”

Beca snorts. “Honestly? I couldn’t care less if she did,” she replies, standing up so she and Chloe can climb the steps towards the exit. “In fact, it almost makes this whole thing even better if she does get upset.”

Chloe laughs and reaches down to lace their fingers together, causing Beca to blush at the small action.

Okay, so maybe basketball games weren’t so bad after all.

[may8344]

The Journey of a Forgotten Soldier (Levi x OC)

Relationships:

Alana Frey (OC)Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)/Original Female Character(s)Levi Ackerman/Alana FreyFurlan Church/Original Character(s)Furlan Church/Alana Frey

Characters:

Levi (Shingeki no Kyojin)Furlan ChurchIsabel MagnoliaAlana Frey (OC) - CharacterErwin SmithHange ZoëPetra RalGunther SchultzEld JinnOluo BozadoKeith ShadisSpecial Operations Squad | Squad Levi

Additional Tags:

Graphic Description of CorpsesBlood and InjuryViolenceMurder

Summary:

Alana Frey, a girl born in the Underground City, longed to see the true sunlight every morning that she would wake up. Alongside her comrades: Furlan Church, Isabel Magnolia, and Levi, Alana’s life as a thug continued with no way around it; until the sudden day she and her companions were offered the deal of a lifetime.

“Once you complete this job, not only will you be generously compensated for your work,

but you will also earn the right to live above ground.”

Word Count: 2.5k

---

Chapter 11: Together Forever, Never Apart

“At this rate, we won’t be able to use the flares no matter how long we wait,” Isabel noted, almost in tears due to the helplessness of their situation.

“If Squad Leader Flagon’s sound grenade is still working, then we might be able to meet up with him if we’re lucky,” Furlan jumped in trying to calm down the redhead.

“Scouting is hopeless. I can only see a few meters at best. It’s almost as if I could hear Titans breathing around us.”

“Yeah… this is bad you two. After all, if Erwin gets eaten, we won’t be able to get the papers back.” His thoughts were interrupted by a sudden sound that rang through the air. “A sound grenade! Was it our squad?! It wasn’t that far. Sounds like we might be able to join them somehow, but… Levi.”

Both him and Isabel gave Levi a determined look. The ravenette pondered the idea of going after Erwin in this weather and under these handful of bad circumstances. Erwin could be eaten at any moment, his squad was somewhere else alone, Alana was missing, it was downpouring rain, and Titans were everywhere just waiting to pounce. However, he had to make a choice: stay and fight with his friends or go alone and retrieve the document.

“I’m going alone.”

That had thrown off the other two as they stared at him with shock.

“You two join up with Flagon. I’ll get the documents and then… I’ll be the one to kill him. I won’t let him get eaten by a Titan.”

“I’m going too, Big Bro!” Isabel declared.

“Isabel.” Levi looked at the redhead with calm but determined eyes. “What do you think? Just me, or Flagon and Sairam? Who’s more likely to become Titan chow?” His words had made the emerald-eyed girl falter. “If the four of you stay together, it’ll raise their chances of survival.”

“Levi!” Furlan yelled as he urged his horse to ride side-by-side to Levi’s. “Keep your cool and think! If you wait a little longer, the fog might clear up!”

“Are you saying the Titans will wait until then?” He replied sharply.

“Nevermind that, just listen! We don’t know where the Titan’s will appear in a situation like this! Acting alone is dangerous!”

“I heard you already!” Levi yelled back. Unlike his normal stoic character, the silver-eyed man began to lose his patience. “I can do it by myself! Trust me!”

The two men stared each other down as if testing their determination. The blond was the first to break the silence. “Is that an order, Levi?”

“An order? Why does it have to come to that? I’m just…” He sighed,” You two…”

Suddenly, Furlan had a grin on his face at the sight of seeing Levi hesitate. A small chuckle left his lips and he gave a reassuring nod to Levi. “Fine, I’ll trust you. Don’t die.”

“Make sure you come back, Big Bro!”

Levi gave one more look at the two before rushing ahead.

The rain began to pour even harder as Levi shielded his eyes. “Tch, I can’t see an inch in front of me. I guess I have to rely on instinct… If I continue forward and to the left, I can use the second row as a marker, and right into the centre. Don’t die until I get there, Erwin.”

[~]

“Magnolia! Church!” Flagon called out, relieved to see more of his team. “So you’re okay!”

Both Sairam and Flagon were together, but Alana was nowhere to be seen. Anxiety bubbled up in Furlan’s chest as he wondered where his ravenette friend could be. “Hey, where’s Alana? Have you seen her?”

Sairam shook his head. “No, I thought she was with you.”

“You’re kidding,” Furlan let out an angry sigh.

“Maybe she met up with another squad. Or…” He trailed off, not wanting to put the bad ideas in the universe.

“There’s no way in hell that she’s dead! She’s one of the strongest people I know. She can’t be dead ‘cause of a stupid Titan!” Furlan argued back. Alana was somebody important to him; someone he vowed to protect.

“I remember her,” Alana whispered to Furlan. “Isabel, I mean.”

They were lying alone on their backs together in their dimly lit bedroom, whispering stories and conversations. It was only a couple hours ago since Isabel had barged into their household.

“You remember her?” Furlan questioned, confused by her statement. “You mean before today? How?”

Alana shifted under their blanket onto her side, her face somber. “I saw her maybe two or three years ago in an alley, not long before we met you. She was really skinny and malnourished. A lot of people around her were starved, while others were dead. I was thinking of letting her tag along with Levi and I, but I... I hesitated.”

“You couldn’t have known. What if she suddenly turned tail and decided to hurt you or Levi? And having to teach her how to fight while trying to feed all of you would be difficult.”

Her crystal blue eyes darted up to his, appalled. “How did you know what I was thinking?”

He merely scoffed at her sudden shock as he laid the back of his head in his arms on top of his pillow. “Lana, I’ve known you for... what, two years now? I know how you work.”

She fidgeted with her beaten up ring in embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. It’s just… I regret not being there for her back then. If I was, she might have had a better couple of years. She’d actually have some food and… and a better chance of survival-”

“You saw herself in you.”

Alana frowned. As much as she wanted to chide him for cutting her off again, she couldn’t help but admit that he was right. She really had seen a child version of herself within Isabel.

“I hope you know, I’ll never let you suffer like that again.” Furlan declared boldly as he moved onto his side, one elbow propping him up. “You’re not going to suffer or die on my watch. I swear to it.”

The ravenette frowned at his words. "Don’t say that kind of stuff…” She mumbled with a hoarse voice. Alana shifted onto her back again and hid the tears that threatened to fall from her eyes with the back of her arm. “We don’t know what’s going to happen. Ever.”

“I won’t let you end up like your parents, Alana.” Furlan gently pried her arm off her face, staring into her bright blue eyes. “I promise you. Do you trust me?”

There was a moment of silence between them. While Furlan remained sturdy and calm, Alana’s mind flooded with the memories of her parents, and how they ended up dying. About how she was forced to run alone on the streets for years, trying to survive. The world had been cruel to her all of her life. Even so, the dedicated blond in front of her swore to protect her with everything he had. She had no choice but to give in.

“I trust you.”

“What happened to Levi?” Sairam’s voice broke through his memory.

“Uh… We got separated in the fog,” The redhead responded, trying to cover up their missing friend.

“But he should have heard the sound grenade! Is he… dead?”

“Of course he isn’t!” Isabel screamed, “Levi will come back! Bet on it!”

[~]

Levi’s horse was suddenly pulled to a halt. In front of him, at least five soldiers were sprawled dead on the ground. Horses laid alongside their riders with cuts and broken bones sticking out of their hide. He had made it to his marker, the spot in between him and his target.

But he hadn’t expected to see dismembered soldiers.

“So this is… what happens after a Titan eats you,” he murmured to himself. Slowly, his gaze dropped to the large footprints on the ground. They may have been shaped like humans, but their size was incomparably large. “The footprints…” His eyes widened in fear. “Shit, they’re leading back behind me!”

Jerking the reins, he directed his horse to head back in the direction he came; to the area where his squad was. “Those bastards… Hurry!” He urged his ride as much as possible. Tilting his body down, he rode close to the saddle, hoping he’d make it in time. “There’s too many. They’ll be overwhelmed.”

As Levi made his way to the section his squad was in, he was almost hit by an on-the-run horse. Making his way past the fog, he was shocked at the far distant sight in front of him. There were at least five Titans surrounding the area, and in one’s mouth, Sairam’s body hung.

Tear’s flooded the wounded soldier’s eyes as he helplessly stabbed at the lips of the Titan chewing on him. Blood started dripping from his mouth, and he was losing hope. The man’s powerless cries reverberated around the area.

“Sairam!” Flagon screamed, arriving on his horse while being chased by another Titan. “Don’t move! I’m coming to get you!”

“Squad Leader! Stay back!” Sairam cried, completely petrified. “Run while you can!”

“Sairam!”

“Take care! I’ll see you on the othe-” The Titan’s large hand shoved the remaining part of Sairam’s body into its mouth, cutting off Sairam’s last words. Blood was splattered everywhere, red mixing with the rain.

Levi took no time to keep his horse moving forwards. He wasn’t in range to use his ODM Gear to propel him there quicker, and no trees were in sight. “Furlan! Isabel!” He called out. Dreadfully, his cries were inaudible to his comrades.

“Sairam!” Isabel shrieked at the sight of her squad member’s terrible death, holding onto her reins and not paying attention to her situation.

“Forget him, you idiot! Run!” Furlan yelled beside her on his horse. “There’s no way we can take on five of them in this rain! We need to scatter for now!”

As the blond readjusted his eyes forwards, he was met with the face of a large Titan hidden behind the fog. Yanking his horse away as quickly as possible, he was unsuccessful in completely escaping. The hoof of his animal twisted in the mud, flinging the rider off. The large, brown horse had fallen directly onto Furlan’s leg and part of his gear.

“Furlan!” The redhead hollered, riding towards her fallen comrade.

“Shit! Hurry, you shitty horse!” Levi was practically begging, kicking its side. That sudden movement startled the animal, and it had stumbled down just like Furlan’s. Unlike him, though, the ravenette jumped off and continued running towards the remainder of his squad, though a lot slower now. “Furlan!”

As the sudden Titan reached out his meaty fingers towards the struggling blond, Isabel jumped in with her ODM Gear, attacking the hands of the monster. Successfully cutting off four of the five fingers with a battle cry, she moved rapidly to cut the nape. Despite having the perfect momentum and angle, the Titan moved its head away, causing her to tear through its left shoulder instead.

Prepared to send another attack, she landed on the back of the Titan while being held up by her grappling hooks. Nevertheless, due to the rain, her boots had lost their grip and she slipped forwards. The top of her head slammed straight into the large spine of the Titan, almost knocking her unconscious. Isabel dangled from her wires, trying to open her eyes.

But instead of being met with the sight of Levi coming to her rescue per usual, her vision was filled with a Titan’s disgusting face.

Her emerald eyes shot open with recognition, but she didn’t have enough time to react. Instead, the beast’s mouth hung wide open over her, about to chomp down. Her usual determined face contorted into pure fear. Her eyes swam with tears as she knew it was the end for her.

“Big… bro.”

A disgusting chomp resonated all around as Levi and Furlan watched with terror. Their friend--practically little sister--was gone. The Titan, who just consumed Isabel, rammed into the back of the now fingerless Titan due to its extra momentum. While the blond was frozen in fear, the ravenette’s face turned stone-cold as he ran faster and faster, brandishing his blade.

The two large Titans fell from the impact onto Furlan’s horse. Freeing himself, Furlan scooched back. “Isabel…” he murmured as he witnessed the Titan’s face full of the redheads' blood. “You bastard!” He roared, wielding his own blade. He pulled on the trigger that launched his wires, but nothing came out. “Huh!? Shit just my luck that it’s broken!”

In a flash, a figure latched its ODM Gear onto the back of the Titan’s neck, slashing the nape out. The large monster fell face-first into the mud, dead and steaming. “How could I run off and abandon my squad!?” The person, Flagon, shouted at Furlan. As the squad leader landed, he pointed away from the attackers with his sword. “Church, look for a horse! The survivors should run!”

“Behind you!” The blond yelled, rushing towards his confused leader. “There’s another one!”

Swiftly, another meaty hand swung over and picked up Flagon. The poor man was yanked harshly to the side as he coughed up blood. Jerking his head back to his enemy, he saw an agape mouth ready to feast. Squeezing his eyes shut, the leader prepared himself for his head to be crushed by the disgusting teeth of the Titan.

“Squad Leader!” Furlan called out one last time. Glancing down at his broken gear, he pounded his fists against it, “Move! You can handle that, right!?” Knowing it was hopeless, he sighed in defeat. “So this is it then… really.” The hungry TItan, after gnawing on Flagon’s body, turned towards the blond, reaching out its hand again. “Oh, what the hell. C’mon, you big fuckers! Let’s go!” He sliced off one of its fingers with his blade from his position on the ground.

“Furlan!” Levi yelled, as he finally was able to latch his ODM Gear onto the Titan's arm. He was so close. The rushing ravenette gripped his handles tighter, squeezing the trigger as far as it would go, doing anything he could to make it in time.

But the Titan had already grabbed his best friend.

Finally hearing the call of his silver-eyed comrade, Furlan’s head whipped towards Levi’s quickly approaching figure. Unfortunately, he was already aware that the ravenette’s speed wouldn’t be enough. Slowly, the blond raised his free hand, giving his remaining friend his typical small, farewell wave as he had always done in the Underground. Closing his baby-blue eyes, he muttered his final words. “I’m sorry I couldn’t protect you until the end, Lana.”

Right as Levi reached the Titan and cut off the arm that had a hold of Furlan, he realized he was too late. His friend had been bit in half.

All that remained was Furlan’s boot as it fell down into the dark rain puddle beneath them.

---

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

[smutnug]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Alistair/Bethany Hawke Characters: Alistair (Dragon Age), Bethany Hawke Additional Tags: One Shot, Warden Bethany Hawke, Grey Warden Alistair (Dragon Age) Summary:

Here I am in hell! This is a stand-alone work. Seriously, it’s going nowhere. Ignore any suggestion of future plot. DEAD END.

Lucien ducks as he enters the cave, fair hair plastered to his head. “Stroud’s team’s on the way up,” he says over the noise of the storm. “Got a recruit.” He sits by Gerod, clasping his arm in silent greeting. 

“A recruit?” Alistair pauses in oiling his blade. “From the Deep Roads? Is it a dwarf?" 

The Orlesian curtly shakes his head. "Not a dwarf. Woman.”

This is enough to make heads turn. “Dwarves can be women too, you know,” Alistair points out reasonably. 

“Not this one.”

“What’s she look like?” pipes up Cooper. 

Lucien shrugs. “It was dark.”

Cooper spits out the wad of spindleweed he’s been chewing, setting off a mutter of disgust from the other men. He’s a stocky Northerner, a junior warden - almost the only kind they have these days, from this side of the border at least. He’d be considered ill-favoured at the best of times, but in the past days half his face has swollen with toothache. “No point asking your thoughts on a woman anyway, I s'pose,” he says sourly, and Gerod hides a smile. 

“How far off are they?” Alistair asks. It can’t be far; the man was off scouting just after they made camp, and it’s just on dusk. 

“Not long now,” Lucien confirms. “They travel slowly; the woman, she is weak.”

“Weak how?” It’s not a promising-sounding trait in a recruit, weakness. 

“Sick,” the scout clarifies, unslinging the quiver from his back. “Blight.” Even in his native tongue, Lucien is more free with arrows than with words. 

“Fuckin’ wonderful.” Sharp is in a foul mood, having struggled for the past hour to coax a blaze from soggy driftwood. “A pity conscript. Just what we need.”

“Stroud wouldn’t bring her in without more cause than that,” says Alistair. “Do I really need to remind you that the Warden-Commander was tainted before she joined our ranks? We don’t take on recruits out of pity.”

“How’d you explain Coop then?" 

The other men guffaw; Cooper protests, but at least the mood has lightened. A week on the Storm Coast subsisting on hardtack and water weeds has done little for morale, and their little squad haven’t been together long enough to develop any real camaraderie. 

If Lyna were here she’d win the men over with little gifts and thoughtful questions. But Lyna is overseeing the repairs at Vigil’s Keep and trying to rebuild their fractured order; somehow, Alistair doubts he’d get the same results as a pocket-sized, bright-eyed elf. 

He explores that thought: a lesser pain perhaps than Cooper’s tooth, but yes, it still aches. 

The rain has abated somewhat but the cold persists. "How’s that fire coming?” he asks Sharp. “We won’t be able to see a thing soon.” Sharp throws him a glare perfected over years in the Gwaren alienage. 

“You have a bloody go if you think you can do better, Your Grace.”

Ignoring the jibe, Alistair crouches next to the elf. “Flint? Don’t we have a few boxes of those dwarven matches left?” He checked before leaving the last cache; they can’t have gone through them so quickly.

“Oh aye, we’ve got the boxes.” Sharp indicates a pile of empty matchboxes by the cave wall, evidently thrown there with some force. “What we don’t have is matches. Some fool’s been putting them back empty." 

"Cooper,” Alistair calls, tossing a broken box at his feet, “we talked about this.”

“Sorry Alistair.” He sounds as though he’s talking through a mouthful of marbles. 

“How’s that tooth?" 

”’S'been better.“

"Give me a look.” He fishes in his jerkin for a squarish piece of stone inscribed with a light rune. It’s very nearly spent, reserved only for emergencies, but something in the boy’s voice… “Maker’s breath, Coop!" 

The light attracts everyone’s attention; around him he hears the sharp intake of breath through teeth. The swollen cheek has turned pink and shiny. The boy’s eyes are dull with pain. 

"This needs a healer. A proper healer.”

“The closest would be Highever,” someone says. 

“He’s not going to make it to Highever,” says Sharp. “Leastways not in any state some hedge witch or jumped-up apothecary is going to help with.”

Shit. Shit. Alistair didn’t see the boy through the Joining and a dozen skirmishes just to lose him to a Void-blasted toothache. “There must be something we can do.”

“All our draughts and poultices didn’t stop it getting this far. What do you think we can do now?" 

"I’m not deaf,” mutters Cooper. 

“It’s fine, Coop,” Alistair says. “You’ll be fine.”

The light stutters and fails. 

“We’ll have to take it out,” says Sharp, and Cooper groans. 

We should have done that days ago, thinks Alistair. “We can’t even see." 

Sharp kicks at the damp wood. "And whose fault is that, eh?" 

"What do we use?" 

"A dirk’s better than nothing.”

In the encroaching dark he can sense their eyes on him; all except Lucien and Gerod, who have stationed themselves by the cave mouth. 

What would Duncan do? 

The eyes he sees are the cool green of spring foliage, and a lilting voice answers his question. Duncan’s gone, Alistair. What will you do? 

He should have stayed with Lyna. He’s not cut out for leadership, he’s only in charge by virtue of living through the Blight. There’s a reason they don’t call him Hero of Ferelden. 

Stop that, Alistair. They need you to lead, so lead. 

“Do you have a clean knife?” he asks. 

The elf grunts, offended. “Clean as I can manage. Not covered in darkspawn blood, if that’s what you mean.”

“One without any of your poisons on it would be good.”

“Are you going to do it?" 

"I’ll have to try.”

“In the dark?" 

Maferath’s wrinkly bollocks, this is why I shouldn’t be in charge. 

"Right, well keep trying on that fire. Those matchboxes should burn, shouldn’t they? With any luck Stroud will be here soon and he’ll have more matches, or dry tinder, or…something.”

“They’re here,” comes Lucien’s call. 

Thank the Maker. He makes his way to the entrance. A handful of figures can be seen emerging from the blue darkness, slowed by the rain and the wet, sucking sand. 

“Stroud!” he shouts. “Over here!" 

The weary Wardens pick up pace, and soon he can see shadows that hint of Stroud’s familiar face, his moustache a dark smudge in the middle of his features. 

"Alistair,” he calls as they near. “Why do you wait around in the dark?”

Alistair rubs a hand over his chin. “Well, the wood’s quite damp. And we ran out of matches, so…” He curses the fate that put him at equal rank with the finest swordsman in the order, a trained Chevalier and no doubt someone who could teach his men to light a fire in a dry cave. 

“Hawke,” the man says, turning back to his troop. When there’s no response, he barks again, “Hawke!" 

"Sorry.” It’s a woman’s voice, soft and cultured. Young, if he judges correctly. “Can I help?" 

"Light. And see to the fire.”

“Yes, ser.” A blue-white glow blossoms at the end of a staff, and Alistair is momentarily blinded. Before his eyes can adjust the girl has moved away into the cave; there’s a blaze, then a hiss, and the damp driftwood has become a merry fire. 

A mage. A thought occurs to him: “Miss…Hawke? Can you heal?" 

He sees blurred features turn in his direction. "A little. It’s not my specialty.”

“A little is better than what we have.” He locates Cooper, eyes half shut with misery and his face so red and tight he fancies he can feel the heat rolling off it. Crouching down, he asks his junior, “How do you feel?" 

"Mmph.”

Behind him he hears the recruit gasp. “Oh my. Could someone fetch water? Salt water. We’ll need it boiled and cooled.” She kneels beside Alistair, and from the corner of his eye he spots an expanse of bared shoulder. Maker, couldn’t Stroud have found her a cloak? The girl must be freezing. All her attention, however, is on Cooper. 

“Can you open your mouth?” The boy does his best, and she murmurs an apology as she shines the light of her staff close to his eyes. “This doesn’t look good. If we can extract the tooth, I should be able to draw out the infection. Do you have elfroot?" 

"Only dried." 

"That will have to do.”

Stroud has been rummaging in his pack; he pulls out a pair of metal pliers from a roll of tools. 

“What do you keep that for?” asks Alistair. 

“Extracting teeth.”

“Oh. Right.”

“Can we boil those in an elfroot solution?” asks the newcomer. “And then…gauze? Or linen?" 

"Linen we can manage." 

"Boil that too, then we’ll dry it over the fire.”

For someone who doesn’t specialise in healing, she’s astonishingly efficient. It makes Alistair wonder what her specialty is. Finally they’re able to wrench out Cooper’s rotten tooth - he makes a sound like a druffalo in labour - and staunch the bleeding with linen, while the mage puts a cooling hand to his cheek and settles the inflammation. By the end he’s fast asleep, and she’s drooping also. 

“Thank the Maker you arrived when you did,” says Alistair. “We’d have been lost without you.”

Her silence makes him look up, finally, and his mouth grows dry. She’s tired, that much is obvious, and her recent ordeals show in the shadows beneath her eyes and in her hollow cheeks. But oh, she’s pretty, with her kind brown eyes, and the little flush of embarrassment when she realises the pause has become awkward. 

“Sorry,” she says. “People aren’t usually that happy to see me.”

Alistair smiles. “Oh, I doubt that very much.”

Her eyes widen, and he curses himself. Fool, can’t you work within a league of a woman without…whatever it is you’re doing? “Are you hungry? We can’t offer much beyond hardtack, I’m afraid. Of course by much, I mean that’s all we have.”

“I don’t mind. I’ve been underground for a while now, I’ll eat anything.”

“Oh, of course. The Joining. Well, I wish we had more to offer. You must be starving…Hawke, is it?" 

"Please call me Bethany,” she offers. “Hawke is what people call my sister…I can’t get used to it for myself.”

“Bethany,” he says, and her smile is like sunshine. 

The morning breaks clear and cold. Alistair isn’t the first up; Lucien sits close by Gerod, restringing his longbow as the other man sands his breastplate. Outside the horizon is washed in the colour of straw, sunrise having passed while he slept. 

He relieves himself against a rocky outcrop, realising too late that he’s not alone. Bethany Hawke sits on the shore. Her boots are tossed carelessly aside; her feet are buried in the sand. In the daylight he can see her hair is a dark brown, falling in waves over her bare shoulders.

“Sorry about that.”

“Please don’t be.” She glances up at him and he’s struck by the sadness behind her reluctant smile. She looks beyond tired; there are smudges of blue beneath her eyes and her skin retains a greyish tint.  Her lips are chapped, her eyes red, and he thinks she just might be the most beautiful thing he’s seen since…well.

“We didn’t give you much chance to rest last night, did we?” He eases himself down next to her. “For someone who’s not a healer you were pretty impressive.”

Bethany ducks her head in embarrassment, tucking a dark lock behind her ear. “I have a friend who’s a healer; I suppose I’ve picked up a thing or two.”

“A thing or two? You saved a man’s life.”

“The Wardens saved mine.”

“I suppose we’re even, then.”

“No.” Bitterness doesn’t sit well on her; it seems to go against her very nature. “Because I can’t walk away now, can I?" 

"I suppose not.” It was a hard thing to get used to, the taint crawling beneath your skin. “At least you’re not dying though, right?" 

"Not as quickly.”

The weak sunshine held little warmth, but at least there was no threat of another deluge in the next while. Alistair pulled off his boots and damp socks, joining her in digging his toes into the sand. “You’re stuck with us, I’m afraid,” he said as lightly as he could. “At least you don’t need to worry about Templars any more.”

“I should be relieved, really.”

“But you’re not?" 

"It turns out there are worse things than the Circle.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” he says. “You can stay up as late as you like, and these new uniforms are quite nice. And the Satinalia party at Vigil’s Keep is something to see. There’s cake!" 

He manages to get a huff of laughter from her, before a rogue wave creeps up and grabs at their toes. 

"Maker’s breath, that’s freezing!" 

"Where are we?” she asks with a little frown. “We went into the Deep Roads near Kirkwall, but this…somewhere near Cumberland? The sea is to the north…”

“We’re on the Storm Coast.”

“Ferelden?” She turns to him, mouth agape. “But the Deep Roads under the Waking Sea are meant to be sealed.”

“They are,” he says with a wink. “Completely impassable.”

“Ferelden,” she repeats. “Well, that's…”

“Have you been here before?" 

"You could say that.” Her mouth twists. “I grew up here. We fled Lothering in the Blight.”

“Oh.” He remembers Lothering: the straggling rows of tents, the reek of desperation. “I was there just before the darkspawn hit. I don’t recall seeing you.” You only had eyes for one girl at that stage, you fool. 

“You wouldn’t. I didn’t get out much.”

“No? Why - oh yes, that’s right. I was nearly a templar, you know? And I’m not sure why I thought it would be a good idea to tell you that.”

Fortunately she doesn’t seem to mind. “Was it the Blight that stopped you?" 

"No. It’s a long story.”

Bethany stares out over the ocean, and he wonders who she left behind in the Free Marches. The thought comes with an unexpected pang of jealousy. 

“I must report to Fontaine,” Stroud says over breakfast. His eyes dart to Bethany. “Strange things have been uncovered in the Deep Roads. Weisshaupt will wish to know. As to the details, your recruit can fill you in.”

“My -?” Alistair pauses with a strip of hardtack halfway to his mouth. “She won’t be going with you?" 

"Ferelden is in need of Fereldan Wardens, is it not? And you have only one mage left, since Anders…” He glowers at the thought, for some reason looking again at Bethany. “Either way, we leave from here this morning. A group of Orlesians this side of the border could attract the wrong sort of attention. I take it you will make for Vigil’s Keep?" 

"Soldiers Peak,” Alistair says, surprising himself. “It’s closer, and we need new kit. Wade might just cry if he has to make an ordinary recruit’s uniform; it’s a better job for the Drydens. Besides, we haven’t checked in there in a while.”

Stroud shrugs. “It’s your Warden-Commander who needs your justifications, not I.” He stands, nodding at Bethany. “Anders was right about you, Hawke. You will do well.”

Anders…? Alistair has never met the man, but he knows of Lyna’s displeasure after he vanished. This story gets more and more strange. 

He takes a moment to introduce Bethany to the crew, such as they are. Cooper, whose grin is pained but grateful. Sharp, Ned from the Bannorn and Bones, hailing from amongst the surface dwellers outside Orzammar. Lucien and Gerod. 

“They’re Orlesian,” he explains, “but we try to keep that quiet for Fereldan reasons.” The two men, always a single unit in Alistair’s mind, have been Grey Wardens longer than Alistair himself. It’s rumoured that Gerod turned down a sizeable promotion to join his companion in Ferelden; by all rights he should be in charge, but he seems content to swing his broadsword under Alistair’s command. 

Gerod kisses Bethany’s hand in greeting. “Don’t worry,” Alistair tells the bemused recruit, “he did that to me when we met.”

“It’s lovely to meet you all,” she says, and blushes. “I mean…hello.”

“Manners never go astray, Mademoiselle Hawke,” Gerod reassures her. 

“Oh. Bethany, please. Just call me Bethany.” And Alistair sees some of the tension leave her shoulders. 

They make good progress; she keeps up without complaint, already looking less ashen than this morning. Maker, she must have been close to death; Lyna never looked so ill, even before her Joining. 

Bethany doesn’t give much of herself away, which is hardly surprising for an apostate. But his men are not so churlish they can’t be won over by sweetness, and that she proves to have in spades. The bitterness of earlier has been stowed away somewhere deep, and he makes a note not to let it fester. 

There’s something so soft about her, he can scarcely believe that she might be capable of defending herself. Until a stray band of darkspawn wander across their path and she obliterates them, a hard line to her mouth that speaks of a private vendetta. 

“Well,” he says as she steps delicately over the corpses. “That was impressive.”

“I get by,” she says with a shrug. “You know, that was almost fun.”

When it comes time to make camp she seems lost, fidgeting with the scarf at her neck as she watches the men set out their bedrolls. 

“You can sleep here,” he offers, indicating a space between him and the cliff face. “If you want. Or somewhere else.”

“Those would seem to be my options.” But she gives him a hesitant smile as she sets down her pack, and he feels the ground shift a little further from his feet. 

“Are you the Alistair?” she asks. It sounds as if she’s been working up the courage, and he can’t summon up the annoyance he usually feels at the question. 

“I don’t know about the Alistair, but I haven’t met another. Apparently there was a pot boy at the Gnawed Noble once called Alistair, but he died of the frost-cough.”

“Alistair…”

Privately he vows to annoy her more, if it means she’ll say his name like that. “Warden Alistair, veteran of the Blight, at your service.”

“Veteran,” she says, “but not Hero?" 

"Oh no.” He threads his fingers together over his chest, looking up at the stars. “That title went to someone much more heroic.”

“But didn’t you fight the archdemon together?" 

"She struck the killing blow. No point in having extra heroes around the place, it just complicates things.” Plus where people see a hero, they can too readily see a king. “It doesn’t bother me. You’ll meet her one day, it really does suit her.”

“Were you and she ever -” She claps a hand over her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry, that’s none of my business. Cooper said…Maker, Bethany, what’s wrong with you?" 

"Cooper, huh? Remind me to pull out his tongue next time.” It hurts somehow less than before. Is that all it takes, after all this time? Distract myself with something shiny? 

“I wasn’t really her type,” he says breezily. “Not red-headed enough. Too male.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a moment. “Someone once told me that men are only good for one thing; women are good for six.”

“Six?” His voice rises to a surprised squeak. “Which six?" 

"I have no idea,” she says, and they break into muffled laughter. 

“You’re full of surprises, Bethany Hawke.” He rolls to face her. “What took you into the Deep Roads?" 

"Money,” she says bitterly. “And we found it. Well done, sister.”

“You know Anders?" 

"He’s more Marian’s friend than mine. But that’s how it goes with Marian.” She seems to shake herself out of some unhappy place. “Do you know him?" 

"Only by reputation.”

“Well,” she says, “it’s probably true.” She yawns, covering her mouth with the backs of her fingers. “Excuse me.”

“No, excuse me. I should let you rest.”

“Good night, Alistair.”

“Good night, Bethany.”

Bethany, he mouths in the darkness. Bethany. It’s foolish, but he likes the way it feels in his mouth. Lips pressed together, the little huff of air on the first syllable, the tip of his tongue between teeth, and ending with his mouth parted just slightly. It feels like a kiss: the good part, not the oh-dear-sorry-Alistair-this-was-a-mistake part. The part full of soft promise and yearning, and an end to loneliness. 

Bethany. 

Bethany, Bethany, Bethany. 

@hermiowngranger

[occasionalfics]

The Arrow and the Flame, xvii

part xvi

Summary: Now that you’ve been promoted, you’ve got a few ideas. Other Captains are looking out for you, but you’ve still got work to do.

A/N: So as I’m getting ready to finish writing this story (I’m far enough ahead in writing it that I’ll still be posting long after it ends), I’m thinking of the next multi-chapter fic I’m gonna write. It’ll be Kraglin x Reader (upon request, but I love one of the ideas that was submitted by overwatchemporium) which I’ve never done before, and I just want to know what anyone thinks about this particular idea I have. It’ll be post-GOTGv2, and I’m wondering whether or not I should keep Yondu in a fix-it style, or go with a more canon approach? Drama either way, basically. Thoughts?

Tags: @thewildomega @pitrymcbride @overwatchemporium

Words: 2,573

~~~

It took a few months for you to get used to being an Advisor and an Officer, but eventually, you made it work. And you liked having more power. You learned when to bring up issues and when to shelve them for the next meeting, and you learned to listen to all points of view before diving into a decision.

When you asked Yondu if there was something he wanted to see the Arcturian faction do, he immediately gave you an answer: “Free more slaves.”

It was coming up on the anniversary of his liberation, so that made sense to you. You could hardly believe you’d known him for almost a year - it felt like you’d always known him, and maybe you had in some way. Maybe the stars really did leave a bit of one another with each of you when they chose you. The thought flattered you, and it reminded you that you’d do anything to see him happy.

Even if it meant convincing your father and the rest of the crew that saving more Centauri slaves would be a worthy cause. When you brought it up at the next Alliance meeting, most of the captains gave you blank or even malevolent stares.

“We have enough recruits,” one of them said. You couldn’t remember her name. She was tall, lanky, and had remarkable grey skin that almost glowed. “How many more people should we take on before the Alliance is overflowing and can’t afford to feed its people?”

“We don’t need to keep them all,” you said. “We could start acclimation centers where they could learn the common tongue and vocational skills. Maybe they’d rebuild Centauri IV.”

“On the Alliance’s dime?” your mother asked, Reyus standing behind her. You’d tried to forget she was there, but that was almost impossible. She had an opinion on everything.

“You want to do this because of that...Officer Udonta, don’t you?” another captain asked.

“The Alliance could have a stationary headquarters,” you offered. “Maybe new recruits could run the offices, create some kind of corporation-”

Your father stood from his seat across the table. “(Y/N), the Alliance is a direct response to greedy, self-serving corporations that profit off of the poor and outnumbered.”

“Then, at its core, the Alliance must also be a direct response to slavery, Captain,” you said. “This isn’t about Officer Udonta. The Alliance saved one ship of Kree slaves and then forgot about the rest - did we not?” you asked. No one answered. “One ship of slaves could not possibly be enough to ensure growth for the Alliance. Are we just going to sit back and watch Centaurians suffer and die off when we have the chance to make a difference?”

“This is not the Ravager way,” another captain said.

“The Ravager way is not charitable,” your mother agreed. “We don’t do things for free. We didn’t free the one ship for free, either.”

“We did it to better the Alliance,” you said.

“We did it because we were paid handsomely,” the grey captain said. She turned to your parents, who were sitting near one another but not like they used to. “Did she not know?”

You stared at your father, then your mother, then back again. “No,” you said. “I did not.”

“Officer, remember your place,” your father said.

You looked over his shoulder at Martinex, who was just as stoic as your father. “Fine,” you said, closing your notes on the halo pad you had in front of you. You stood from your seat and said. “I’m requesting permission to take fifteen officers and see this plan through, Captain.”

“Fifteen officers against an army of Kree soldiers?” your mother asked. “That’s a suicide mission. It took most of the Arcturian faction to successfully carry out the mission last year.”

You kept your father’s gaze. You wanted this. You wanted to prove that you were right, and that you could lead a squad on a rescue mission - which, you knew, was not generally something Ravagers did. Only when it benefited them.

“You’re not taking anyone anywhere, Officer. Sit. Down,” your father said.

Anger and embarrassment surged through you, but you followed orders.

“Alright,” your father said. “The next item of business-”

“Captain Ogord,” someone said. A large, bulky black man in a yellow jumpsuit stood from across the room. Captain Charlie-27, a Jovian captain, used to be a member of your father’s faction, you knew. He’d climbed the ranks and started his own faction years ago - and he was an excellent captain with a large following now. “We want to help Officer Ogord. Many Centaurians overlooked our faction last year, so we could stand to gain a few more crew members.”

“This mission isn’t funded, Captain Charlie,” your mother said. “We can’t approve it.”

“We have enough internal funding,” Captain Charlie responded. “And a generous benefactor that’s taken a particular liking to my First Mate.” He looked over his shoulder at a short, muscular black woman, her tight kinky curls hanging down around her face. She blushed behind her Captain, but made no other move.

“Why is this the first we’re hearing of this, Captain Charlie?” your father asked.

“It’s a new development,” he responded, an almost smug smile on his face. “In any case, we want to help. The Jovian faction strongly believes that there should be no slavery.”

“How do you plan on protecting all Centauri people from the Kree once they’re freed?” someone asked. “If we free every Kree slave, what’s to stop them from coming back to reclaim what’s not really theirs?”

“Perhaps the acclimation center is not such a bad idea after all,” Captain Charlie said, turning to glance at you. “We’ll consider it. In the meantime, Captain Ogord, if you allow your Officer to gather a team of fifty or so, we’ll bring justice to the Centauri people together.”

You reminded yourself to breathe as you looked at your father. He stood and stared at Captain Charlie, his face unreadable. And then he shook his head, just slightly, as if to remind himself where he was.

“Fine,” he said. He looked at you. “Fifty. You get fifty troops, and I approve of them first.”

You nodded and forced yourself not to smile.

He stood taller and addressed the room. “I hope we all understand that nepotism is not at play here. There will be consequences if the mission is not completed.”

Kraglin helped you write up a list of potential troops in the weapons room. You originally went to write Reyus down, then remembered, again, that they wouldn’t be approved. They wouldn’t be able to leave your mother long enough for the mission, nor did you think they’d want to.

“How many people this Captain Charlie got?” Yondu asked, whistling afterwards to watch his arrow fly.

“Almost as many as we do,” you said. “He’s a good ally to have, from what I hear. He used to be papa’s First Mate.”

“Now he’s got his own faction?” Yondu asked.

Kraglin nodded. “Aleta didn’t like havin’ him around so much,” he said.

You realized it really hadn’t been that long since Captain Charlie left. Kraglin hadn’t been with the Arcturian faction for too many years, but he’d been here long enough to remember Captain Charlie being around.

“She was the one that approved his request to start his own faction, actually,” you said. “I guess he’s done well for himself and the Alliance since.”

“So it really can happen, then?” Yondu asked.

You nodded. “The Alliance probably wouldn’t exist if it didn’t,” you said. You smiled at him gently and said, “Why? Thinking of starting your own faction?”

He shrugged and whistled, making the arrow zoom around you so fast it left a red trail in its wake. “Maybe not now,” he said. “I know you’d stay. Maybe someday.”

You got up off the floor and went over to him, momentarily forgetting Kraglin behind you and Dunker, who was probably off in his shop fixing a blaster or something. You stepped right up to Yondu and mirrored his smirk. “We’d make it work if that’s what you want,” you said, biting your lip. “I kinda like the idea of Captain Udonta, don’t you, Kraglin?” you asked, throwing your voice over your shoulder.

“Sure, but he ain’t gonna help us get the slaves out by flirtin’,” he said.

Yondu rolled his eyes, but never lost his smirk. He put his hand on your hip and pulled you close, despite Kraglin’s disgusted groan behind you. Maybe even in spite of it. “Captains Udonta and Ogord. Has a nice ring to it, ya think?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Maybe a little.”

“Guys, we gotta deadline to meet,” Kraglin said, ruining all your fun.

You really did like to imagine Yondu as a Captain. Men behind him, following his orders, living a life he could only ever have dreamed of under the Kree. Maybe he’d use his power for good, like you wanted to and like Captain Charlie wanted to. Yeah, heading up two separate factions and living on two separate ships would suck, but you’d make it work. You had to. You wouldn’t do what your parents did just to lose him.

But Kraglin was right. You turned back to him and nodded, then tried to march across to him. Yondu, however, had other plans. His hands tightened on your hips and kept you against him. He leaned his head forward and growled in your ear.

“Deadline can wait,” he said.

You giggled and said, “Actually, that defeats the point of a deadline.”

“Can you two not be gross in my workshop?” Kraglin asked.

You smirked and crossed your arms. “Your workshop?” you asked, throwing your gaze to the door that led to Dunker’s office.

Kraglin rolled his eyes. “I’m just sayin’ now ain’t the time to go all goo-goo eyed,” he said. “People’s lives are at stake - your people, Yondu. Cap’n Ogord’s waitin’ on our list before he gets in contact with Cap’n Charlie again.”

You sighed and felt Yondu droop behind you.

“You can have him when you’re Captain,” you said, turning your head slightly. “All business and no fun makes Kraglin an overworked, irritable killjoy.”

“Could ya take this seriously, please?” he asked.

You looked back at him and saw something in his eyes you hadn’t in awhile. It took you back to the day you’d rescued Yondu, when you’d come here to stash a few weapons before going out to the slaveship. It was Kraglin that reminded you that Centaurians were people, not just slaves. They were suffering, and it was your idea to end that suffering in the first place. They deserved your focus, you knew.

So you nodded and put your hands on Yondu’s, pushing them off slowly. “He’s right,” you said over your shoulder. “We’ll have fun later. Right now, we’ve got to plan to save more Centaurians.”

He let you go, then followed you across the room to sit with Kraglin again. The three of you went over the list of fifty troops once, twice, and three times before deciding you’d picked the right people. You hoped your father would approve them all for the mission; you weren’t sure who you’d pick to replace any one person.

When Kraglin was rolling the list up, you looked at Yondu, grabbed his hand, and asked, “You’re sure you want to be there?” You knew he wanted to help. He wanted to see his people free again. But did he want to subject himself to being on a Kree slaveship again, even if he wasn’t a prisoner anymore?

He nodded, but his face was flat. His eyes were on the brink of going glassy. “It’d be better if they have someone to explain what’s goin’ on. We didn’t, and we thought y’all was comin’ to make our lives worse at first.”

“How could we have done that?” you asked, only slightly offended. You tried not to show it, though, since you knew it wasn’t a personal attack. You were proud of being a Ravager, and that was all that was wounded, really.

Yondu shrugged. “We didn’ know nothing, Darlin’,” he said. “None’a y’all spoke our language and we didn’ speak yours. We didn’ know who y’all were, just intruders without clear intentions. Personally, I knew y’all were savin’ us when you and Reyus came back for me. What kinda kidnappers’d come back for a slave with a broken leg in the middle of a battle?”

You turned your lips in and shrugged. “Fair enough,” you said. “I just want you to be sure you’re ready to get back on one of those ships. For you, not just for them.”

He gave you a small smile and said, “I am, Darlin’. I’d tell ya if I wasn’.” He squeezed your hand to support his words.

You brought the list to your father the next day. Yondu and Kraglin came with you, standing off toward the door while you approached the captain’s chair. Your father read the list for a few minutes, making no sign of approval or disapproval in his silence. You started to roll on your feet, from toes to heel, to relieve some of the anxiety you felt.

After a few tense minutes, he put the list on his lap and looked at you. “Fine,” he sighed. “Your list is approved, Officers. And Kraglin.”

You looked over your shoulder to see Kraglin wave once before Yondu forced his hand down. When you turned back to your father, he had a serious, stern face on.

“If any of our troops get hurt, it’s on you, (Y/N). They’re your responsibility, understood?” he asked.

You nodded. “Yes, Captain. Thank you.” You paused for a moment, then asked, “Should we let Captain Charlie know?”

“I’ll confrence him later,” he said. “I have other matters to attend to first, but I’ll call for you when we’re ready.” He handed you the list back and said, “Tell the troops to prepare. Otherwise, you’re dismissed.”

With one more nod, you took the list and turned back to Yondu and Kraglin, a huge smile taking hold of your face. When you left the cockpit, you jumped into Yondu’s arms and let him turn you around a few times before letting you down.

“We did it!” you said, throwing your arms around Kraglin, too. He chuckled and returned the hug quickly, then nodded as he backed up.

“Well, you did a lot of the work, (Y/N),” he said.

“I wouldn’t’ve gotten it done without you, though,” you said, pushing his shoulder gently. “You better treat this kid right when you’ve got your own faction,” you said, looking at Yondu. “Or I’ll have to steal him back.”

Yondu shook his head. “Ain’t happenin’, Darlin’.” He headed for the stairs to the second deck, so you followed him. “Krag’s comin’ with me and he ain’t comin’ back. ‘Cept for Alliance meetings’n stuff.” You watched him wink at Kraglin as you made your way down.

“Just sucks we’ll all be apart,” Kraglin said.

You rolled your eyes as you rounded the stairwell to the next flight down. “Come on, kid. Lighten up. You’re making a difference, you’re gonna get a promotion one day, and right now, we’re all here,” you said. “We’re gonna be fine.” You smiled at him, believing your own words as you made your way to dinner.

[sopherfly]

Until Next Time

Shepard and Vega say goodbye. 

((A Shega ME3 ficlet. Based on the prompt: ‘bury me with my guns on’))

This is the part Shepard’s been dreading most.

It's not the end she's afraid of. That, she's known about for a long time. She's ready for it. She's already died once - doing it again should be easy. Maybe even a relief.

Being alive when you shouldn't be has a way of seriously changing a person's perspective.

Getting to the conduit will be an all-out sprint, with enemies on every side. Shepard has already chosen her squad and given orders. Liara will use her biotics to clear a path. Garrus will keep the Husks off their tails. The rest of the team will stay behind.

Shepard reminds herself that if she wants, she can leave without saying goodbye. She's not obligated to make speeches or tie up loose ends. The Normandy crew had all gotten along without her before Lazarus. And maybe they'll understand that all of these goodbyes are harder than facing the Reapers alone.

No. She can't do that. She's Commander Shepard - she's no coward. Besides, she owes it to them. They’re her crew. They’re her only friends in this lonely galaxy. They deserve to know how much they mean to her.

Grunt doesn’t say much. Neither does Wrex. Tali cries, but tries to hide it. Ashley tells her to kick some ass, and Shepard has never been more thankful for her friend’s irreverence. EDI thanks Shepard for making her human, or as close to human as an AI can get. Liara and Garrus, ever her bastions of strength, promise to be with her until the end.

And now, the hardest part. James Vega.

Shepard hadn't planned for anything to happen. They'd danced on the Citadel, yes, and they'd flirted like crazy, to the point where she'd questioned whether or not it was still appropriate. But Shepard had never acted on it, and neither had he. They'd been content to hover around each other, too tentative, never quite meeting.

Something about the night before a battle, though - it makes you bolder. Or maybe more desperate. When you’re not sure you’ll live to see the next sunrise, you stop caring about what’s wise and just give into what you want, what you need. What you can’t live without.

James doesn’t half-ass anything. He kisses like the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He makes love like a man with nothing left to lose. There’s no embarrassment; in fact, Shepard’s pretty sure there’s not a self-conscious bone in James Vega’s body.

It had been more than just sex, though. More than just physical comfort to calm a restless mind. James had given her everything. Underneath all those muscles, all that exterior strength, there had been such softness, an incredible depth of emotion that she couldn't have imagined.

It had shaken her to her core. She hadn’t expected it. He’d been vocal and attentive and adoring, but more than that, he'd been so generous. He'd handed her his heart and thanked her for it all in the same breath. He'd cherished her, treated her like something rare and beautiful. And she’d repaid him by grounding him from the mission.

She doesn’t regret it. James Vega is a distraction she can’t afford. Not when they’re this close to the end. 

Looking at him now, just a few yards off, she wishes they’d had more time. But maybe that would’ve cheapened it. Maybe those few small moments they’d shared had been enough. She lets out a sigh. No use putting it off any longer. She crosses slowly toward him, her boots leaving footprints in the soot and ash as she goes.

“Vega.” 

She smiles, but it’s not enough to penetrate the hurt expression on his face. Those wide brown eyes beg her not to go. ‘Take me with you,’ they say. ‘Don’t leave me behind. Please.’

“Vega,” she says again, softer this time. “Don’t look at me like that.”

He pulls his hands behind his back, falling into a parade rest.

“Sorry, Lola. Just… want to make sure you’re covered.”

“I am. I’ll have Garrus on my six.” James still hasn’t learned to keep his emotions in check. Jealousy flashes undisguised across his face, and Shepard narrows her eyes at him. “Lieutenant. You have your orders. No matter what you say, they aren’t going to change.”

It’s more gentle than he deserves. She’s letting her feelings get the better of her, cutting him slack where she shouldn’t. Goddess help her, she’s going soft.

“Yes, ma’am.”

He’s trying hard, but it’s not believable. It’s written into the lines of his face. He’s in love with her. And she’s probably in love with him, too.

Shepard brings one hand up to rest on his cheek, not willing to leave it there. She doesn’t want to break his heart. That can’t be the last thing she does before running headlong toward the end of the world. 

“James. Do you know how many men I’ve been with since I became a Commander?”

“How many?” he asks, his voice low and hesitant, as if he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“Just one.”

She doesn’t let him respond. Her hand slides to the back of his neck, drawing him down until their lips meet. It takes him no time at all to pull her closer, his mouth hot against hers. He’s so eager, his arms tight around her waist, the force of his lips pressing her back - and goddess, his tongue in her mouth has got to be the most incredible feeling in the galaxy. He’s so good at this dance, advancing and retreating in equal parts. It makes Shepard regret having to leave.

Soon, too soon, Shepard has to come up for air. James looks at her, his eyes dark, his chest heaving. He doesn’t quite smile, but it’s a close thing. His forehead touches hers, just briefly, and she closes her eyes, allowing herself to enjoy the moment before it breaks.

“Okay, Lola. I can take a hint. You have to do this one on your own.” The growl of his voice makes her blink, opening her eyes. He takes a step back, pulling his hands away and giving her a once-over. “Just do me a favor and give ’em hell, okay?”

“I will. I promise.” She kisses him one last time, softly, then gives him a salute. “Until next time, Lieutenant.”

“Commander,” he replies with a salute of his own. His eyes are bright and alive like he really believes there might be a next time. She gives him one final look, drinking him in, imagining what he might look like at the end of the war. What he might be like, when all this is over. Older and wiser, yes. Probably more handsome, too.

“That N7 is going to look good on you.”

Shepard doesn't turn away; instead, she walks slowly backward, not taking her eyes off him even as she moves in the opposite direction.

“Oh, and Vega?” Her voice is light, mimicking the banter James is famous for. “If I die, bury me with my guns on.”

Finally, a smile from that big, handsome mouth.

“You got it, Lola.”

~

[thefanfichotspot]

four

Can’t lie and say I didn’t miss Cam. Weeks had gone by without hearing a word from her. My phone calls weren’t returned, and I didn’t bother with leaving voicemails or texting her. I figured if she wanted to talk to me, she would; maybe she was serious about not seeing me until our daughter made her arrival. God, I hoped not.

A nigga was lonely as hell.

With only a few more weeks until Cam’s due date, my anxiety was starting to seep in. Her nursery in my house was nowhere near finished. I still had to actually buy her linen and get her walls painted, which I had to remember to ask a friend of mine to handle for me. I had diapers and bibs and sippy cups all set and ready for her when we brought her home; problem was, Cam and I hadn’t discussed which she was coming home to first. I assumed her own so her mother can help out if needed, but I didn’t see an invitation extending in my direction - not in the situation we were currently in.

“Bro!” I blinked in the direction of his pale skin, snapping his fingers in front of my face. He burst into laughter hard enough for his hollow cheeks to blush pink. “Damn, you good?”

I nodded, wet my lips with my tongue. “I’m straight. So will you do it for me? I can offer you five hundred.”

He pondered it a moment as he stroked his goatee and shrugged. “Shit, yeah. I ain’t gon’ turn down some cash. What type of vibe you goin’ with?”

This is where I was stumped. What do girls like in their bedrooms beside a bunch of pink shit? Looking like pepto bismol exploded. Made me sick - pun intended. I scratched my hair and shrugged. “Shit, I don’t know. Girly shit, but not too girly. If you can use colors other than pink, that’d be fantastic.”

“Can I see the space so I know what I’m workin’ with?”

I easily unlocked my phone and went to my photos app, passing my phone into his grasp. “It’s kinda big. I don’t know how big of a canvas you’re used to.”

He flipped through the pictures and pursed his lips. “I’ve only worked with something this big once before, but I’m not one to walk away from a challenge. Consider it done. Just let me know what you want me to get started.”

“As soon as possible. Let’s shoot for the weekend, cool?” I held out my hand and we dapped. “I really appreciate you doin’ this, nigga.”

“Glad to help out when I can. I’ll make sure I make this extra special for your lil princess.” His phone vibrated in his hand and he wasted no time in grinning at the screen, pressing the device to his ear with a wicked smile. “Wassup, baby? Nah, I’m on my way right now. Just make sure you ready for me, babe.” He winked over at me. “Hit me up later, bro. I’m out.” I watched him walk away, and he damn near giggled into the phone. “I’m talkin’ to my nigga! Look, just get ya fine ass in that outfit I bought for you. I’m on my way.”

I rubbed a hand down my face and hunched back into the seat. I felt around for my phone and dialed Jermaine. “Nigga keep me from goin’ home to an empty ass house. Let’s go to the shooting range or something.”

He only laughed at my anguish. “Mel and the kids are out for the afternoon. Come over and we’ll fire up the Playstation. You’re overdue for an ass whoopin’ anyway.”

“I’m gonna ignore your pussy threat and take you up on your offer.” I stood from where I was sitting and hit the locks on my car keys. “Make sure you leave the light on for me, honey.” “Nigga fuck you!”

“You really ain’t been home in a week? Damn.” His squad was currently winning in our game of Call of Duty only because I was distracted. It bothered me that Cam could go into labor at any minute and I wasn’t too sure she would let me know. She coulda already had our daughter and I wasn’t in the know. It grinded my gears but I guess I should only blame myself, huh?

“You think she would tell me if she went into labor?”

He shrugged, “Honestly? I haven’t known her to be that petty. I think she would tell you, but maybe not invite you to be there while she goes through it. I know I sure wouldn’t.”

I snapped my gaze to his. “And why not?’

“Because you’re an asshole.” I paused the game, he sighed, and I sat up to face him as a way to urge him to go on. “I ain’t about to kiss your ass and be a yes man. You were wrong for what you said and how you said it.”

“It’s been weeks, though,” I defended myself. “Wouldn’t she be over that by now?”

“Nigga, she’s hormonal as fuck right now. The tiniest shit will make her hold a grudge. You ain’t know that?” He rubbed his chin. “I forgot to get Mel her favorite ice cream one time when she was pregnant with the twins, wouldn’t look at me for a week. And don’t get me started on how long she made me wait to fuck. Thought my dick was gonna fall off!”

I frowned. “You two had sex while she was pregnant?”

He threw a pillow at my face. “You’re missing the point!”

Still, the idea of having sex while pregnant made me cringe. How did it work without puncturing the amniotic fluid the baby was resting in? How Sway? Besides, I was more than a freak and I’m sure it required some gentleness. Ain’t no such thing when it comes to me and sex, and Cam knew that. Abstaining from sex was probably better for the three of us.

Once again, for the second time that day, fingers were being snapped in front of my face. “You need to apologize. Even if you don’t feel like you’re to blame, you ain’t even gotta do it for her sake. But you need to be there for your little girl. Gotta do some serious ass kissing.”

The garage door swung open and two little people jetted inside, blowing right past their dad to jump into my lap. “Uncle Twey!”

Both of them were nothing but big eyes and bouncing hair. I hugged them tightly and brushed Jayla’s hair away from her face to poke her nose. “What’s up? You two have fun today?”  Xavier nodded and toyed with the gold chain around my neck. I tugged it off and dropped it around his neck; his pupils grew in size. “Think you can keep that safe for me, lil man?”

He nodded, gawking.

“Is your baby here yet?” Jayla climbed up closer to me and squished my cheeks. “I wanna play with her.”

“Not yet, baby.” Or so I hoped. “Very soon. I’m gonna need your help taking care of her, you gonna help me?” She nodded with excitement. “That’s my girl. Now go get ready for bed, you two.” I stood to my feet as they ran off in a hurry, and found Melissa grinning at me. “What?”

“You made up to Cameron yet?”

Jermaine squeezed her side and shot her a look. “Mel!”

I blushed in embarrassment. “Nigga, you told your girl?”

“Language,” she scolded. “But yes, he told me. It’s not my business but I can see both sides to the argument, if we’re being honest.”

“You do?” we both echoed.

“She was being overprotective, you were being immature. The end.” She shrugged one of her shoulders and padded her way into the kitchen. I could only watch her, in shock. A woman who was neutral to a situation instead of automatically siding with another woman? Unheard of. “Jumba, where’s your wallet? I ordered some Chinese food to be delivered.”

Jermaine felt around his pockets and frowned. “Yo you got any cash on you?”

I held up forty bucks and joined her in the kitchen. “It’s on me tonight, sis.” We both kissed each other’s cheeks and Jermaine nodded in appreciation. “You rollin’ with me tonight or what?”

He looked down at her, licked his lips slowly, and shrugged apologetically. “About that…”

I laughed out loud. “Message received. I’ll see y’all later.”

Yet another unanswered phone call to Cameron, and I finally decided to let it be. It would hurt like hell to know I missed the birth of my firstborn, but could I honestly be mad at that? It was Cameron’s choice whether I was with her or not, the ball was in her court.

I even sat in front of her house for a few minutes, debating on whether or not to just face her. I wanted to get to the bottom of this, but my sliver of hope was withering away.

I drove away from her curb and found myself on the other side of the town. A place I knew I shouldn't be, but here I was. The dimly lit warehouse was practically unnoticed by any regular passerby. But if you knew what goes on behind the scenes, you could call it a second home.

I don't. I hated the place with every inch of me. I only came here because I thrived off my authority.

I completely ignored the half-dressed women exploiting themselves simply for the niggas’ pleasure. They were damn near drooling as they rubbed their zippers. I could have thrown up.

“Pick your poison.” Spyder had a whole catalogue of half-empty bottles of booze across his table. “Please, take a seat.”

I sat, but declined his toxic offer.

“I haven't seen you around in a while.”

I nodded. “Things have come up.” I just didn't feel like coming, honestly.

“What type of wager looks good to you now that you're back? This is your playground, son.”

I shrugged my shoulders, “I haven't really been keeping up with anything lately. What have I missed?”

This amused him, and his gold tooth glimmered as he smiled. “The biggest game of the season is coming up, aside from the championship. Warriors against the Cavs. Who you got and for how much?”

“Shit,” I muttered. It was a tough call. “I'm gonna have to go with the Warriors like I have all season. No choice but to. As for how much...I'm not sure.”

“Let's make it interesting. One hundred and twenty thousand.”

I stared at him. I had money, but not that kind of money. I had a daughter to think about. I know exactly what they did to niggas who couldn't come up with the money. Needless to say, we never saw them again.

“Come on,” he murmured, leaning back in his chair and tossing his feet up on the table. “Has your team steered you wrong at all this season?”

I shook my head.

“For as long as you've been here, you and I never bet on anything. Let's make it one for the books.” He stuck out a hand and I stood, slipping my own into his. His grin disappeared and he yanked me forward so that he was right by my ear. “You lose, you have seventy-two hours to come up with the money. Is that clear?”

I felt two men flank me on either side just in case I tried some slick shit. I gulped and nodded. “I understand.” He let me go and his smile returned like he didn't just threaten my life. I stumbled away from his table and past the two guards, suddenly feeling sick to my stomach. The night breeze pacified my sickness enough until I could make it to my car and drive off.

I was shaken to my core and I was regretting even showing up tonight. Something in my gut told me things wouldn't go according to plan, but then again maybe I was overthinking.

Surely I couldn't lose. I hadn't lost in about a year. I didn't know what losing was. I just hoped I wouldn't have to learn a lesson after all this time.

[thebarsondaily]

A Barson Valentine's Day by A Magical Shipper

Title: A Barson Valentine’s Day Author: @amagicalshipper Rated: T Prompt: Tease Summary: Barba struggles to create the perfect first Valentine’s Day for he and Liv. A/N: Written for the Barson Valentine’s Day Fic a Thon on Tumblr. This can be read with my other Barson holiday stories or as a standalone.

Rafael Barba was a very confident man, nobody ever doubted this. There was very little he could not accomplish when he set his mind to it. Nerves were not something he was use to experiencing either in court or in his personal life. However when it came to his relationship with Olivia things were different. It wasn’t that he didn’t trust what was between them he just wanted to make sure he was doing things the right way. It had only been about six weeks since New Year’s Eve when they had been snowed in together by that blizzard and finally admitted how they felt about each other. Now here they were at the next holiday one that carried so many implications, one that he was determined not screw up, Valentine’s Day.

He really wanted to show her a special night, the problem was that he had kind of forgotten about Valentine’s Day. They has been in the middle of a trial that had just wrapped yesterday. They had all been at their usual place celebrating the conviction when Finn smiled at him and made his comment.

“So I guess you and Liv will have a pretty good Valentine’s Day now, right, Counselor?”

Barba felt panic start to set in he was grateful that Liv had stepped out to call and check on Noah, of course he was surrounded by a bunch of cops and they did not miss the change in his demeanor. Rollins was the first to take a jab at him.

“You forgot Valentine’s Day didn’t you!” She said with a laugh.

“It’s not that I forgot it so much as I am just not exactly sure what day today is.” He admitted sheepishly

The squad stared at him in disbelief, “It’s February 13th, and Valentine’s Day is tomorrow.” Finn told him dryly.

“You better get to work, I’ve had Amanda and mine’s plans for weeks now,”  Carisi bragged earning him an eye roll from everyone.

“Plans for what?” Olivia asked as she rejoined the group.

“Valentine’s Day.” Carisi answered all too happily.

“And I was telling them that the plans I have are a secret.” Barba recovered quickly, drawing muffled laughter from the others.

“Oh is that so? Well, tease all you want but I have pretty high expectations.” She told him with a wink before giving him a quick kiss. “I’ve got to run, Noah’s not feeling well, see you all tomorrow.”

“I can come too” Barba offered quickly partially because he wanted to escape the endless teasing of her team.

“No, stay finish your drink. I’m just going to go home and get him settled.” She said shaking his head.

“Ok, I will call you later.” He have her another quick kiss ignoring the groans around them.

Everyone waited until Olivia had left the bar before the teasing began.

“Nice save counselor.” Rollins started

“Yeah, but now he has to deliver.” Finn added.

“Good luck on that with on such short notice.” Carisi laughed.

Determination over took Barba, “I promise you Liv will have a Valentine’s that she will never forget.” He said before throwing down enough cash to cover everyone’s drinks and heading out on his way to save Valentine’s Day.

He quickly found himself in a department store among all the other last minute boyfriends and husbands. He scoured the store moving from department to department trying to decide on the perfect gift. The giant stuffed animals were not Olivia’s style but he did pick one up for Noah a giant dinosaur with a bow around it along with a picture book about dinosaurs which were his latest obsession. Dragging the dinosaur along he moved to the jewelry department but wondered if it was too soon in their relationship for jewelry. He saw several men browsing the lingerie department but didn’t think this was the time for that either. He was about to give up when a sales lady approached him.

“Can I help you Sir?” She asked him.

“I’m trying to decide what to get my girlfriend for Valentine’s Day?” He admitted

“I see, first one?” She asked

Barba looked at her in confusion, “No, I’ve had other girlfriends.”

The sales lady laughed, “No, I meant your first Valentine’s Day together.”

Barba blushed slightly with embarrassment, “Yes, sorry.”

She smiled, “And let me guess you started dating after Christmas?”

Barba nodded again, “New Years, we got snowed in together, but we have worked together and been good friends for several years. “

The woman smiled at him again, “Come with me I think I can help.”

She lead him to a section of the store that he had somehow missed it was almost a separate room, it had big pink hearts and a sign that said, “Cupid’s Workshop”.

“We use it for Santa at Christmas time but we also help people put together the perfect Valentine’s Day gifts. Fill out this questionnaire about your girlfriend, take a number and cupid will call you when it’s your turn.” She explained handing him a clipboard.

Barba was a bit unsure but decided at this point he had nothing to lose at this point. He read through the questions realizing he did not know the answers to several. Dress size? Bra size? Underwear size? He had no clue, Olivia’s body was absolutely perfect whatever size she wore. He was about to get up and leave when “cupid” called his number.

He hesitantly made his way to the table where another bight, perky young sales woman was waiting to help him. He nervously handed her the questionnaire and told her some more about Olivia. She nodded happily and said she had the perfect idea, one of their custom gift baskets. She helped him around the store selecting items, body wash and one of those mesh things he had seen Olivia keep in the shower, a bath pillow, some new pajamas that would be nice but not something that would be overly suggestive. The woman suggested a nice bottle of wine and a pair of glasses to go with it. Barba new he couldn’t go wrong with wine.

“Now how about jewelry?” the woman asked.

“Is it too soon?” Barba asked.

“No, not for some earrings or a nice watch maybe?” She suggested.

Barba nodded as they made their way to the jewelry counter and they selected a new watch for Olivia. When the returned to the workshop Barba realized that cupids did not work from the generosity of their heart.

“All right Mr. Barba that will be $700 plus delivery.” She told him with a peppy smile.

“$700 this is some kind of extortion you are pulling on boyfriends and husbands that are helpless.” He practically yelled.

“You should have read your question are carefully Mr. Barba.” She said pointing to the bottom where he had signed agreeing to pay fifty dollars an hour and an extra twenty percent on all items to pay for cupid’s services.

Barba rolled his eyes wondering how he had be outmaneuvered by a department store. He handed her his American Express along with the dinosaur and book he had been dragging around for Noah. He glanced at the rows of baskets behind the counter and wondered just how many other men had been swindled today.

Barba called Olivia first thing the next morning, “Happy Valentine’s Day Mi Amor.”

“Good morning and Happy Valentine’s Day to you, I missed you last night.” She told him as they spent more nights together than apart.

“I missed you too, how is Noah feeling?” He asked.

“He’s still coughing a lot and has a bit of a fever, I’m going to stay home with him today. I’m sorry but I guess whatever you planned is going to have to take a raincheck.”

Barba sighed with a bit of relief since after the gift buying experience he had forgotten to make any actual plans.

“No problem, how about I just pick up dinner and bring it over?” He offered

“That would be nice, thank you for understanding.”

“Oh, also you should be getting a delivery today something for you and Noah, hopefully you can enjoy it later. “ He told her thinking that after caring for a sick child all day a nice bath, fresh pajamas, and wine would probably be nice.

“No other clues, Counselor you are such a tease.” She laughed.

“I’ll see you tonight Liv, I love you.” He laughed.

“I love you too, Raf.”

Several hours later Liv had just gotten Noah down for a nap when she heard the buzz from the outside of the building.

“Delivery for Lieutenant Benson” the voice came through her speaker and she let them up. She smiled when she opened the door and was greeted with giant dinosaur. She took it and the book from the delivery guy and pointed to the table where he could place the basket he was also trying to carry it. As soon as he left she hurried over to it to see what Barba had sent her. He mouth fell opened as she looked over the contents. Was this really what he sent her for Valentine’s Day? It wasn’t really their style, but maybe they could give it a try. As promised Barba brought dinner from their favorite Italian place and her favorite bottle of wine. Noah, still not feeling well had gone to bed early and they had enjoyed dinner to themselves.

“Hey, I see Noah got his dinosaur and book, did you like your basket?” He asked her as they were finishing dinner.

“I did, I was really surprised by it.” She said honestly.

Barba smiled proudly, “Well let me clean up this and you go enjoy some of it.” He said before giving her a long kiss, which Olivia read as more suggestive than he meant.

Oliva slipped back into the bedroom examining the contents of the basket as she laid them on the bed. The lingerie, if that’s what you called it was all black, there was a blindfold, handcuffs and other “accessories”. She took off her clothes and had just slipped on the “outfit” when she heard Barba coming into the room and instinctively she threw her bathrobe over it.

“Hey, you doing all right? Do you need anything?” He asked wondering why he hadn’t heard her running a bath yet.

“Yes, I was just getting ready, some of this is new for me.” She said hesitantly.

Barba looked at her in confusion, “Liv, its bath wash, pajamas, and wine.”

It was now Olivia’s turn to be confused and she slowly stepped away from the bed revealing the “accessories”, watching the red creep over Barba’s face feeling some relief that a mistake must have been made.

“Liv, I didn’t send this I promise, I wouldn’t, well not that I wouldn’t want to but I wouldn’t assume or pressure you, or…” He stammered

Olivia smiled and crossed the room to him placing a kiss on his lips, “I trust you.”

Barba breathed a sigh of relief as he quickly pulled out his phone, “I’m calling that cupid right now!”

“Cupid?” She questioned.

A sheepish look came over Barba as he sat down on the edge of the bed a confessed the whole story, how he had forgotten what day it was because of the trial, how the squad had teased him and he felt the pressure to make Valentine’s Day perfect. He then told her about the department store and how he had been entrapped by the Cupid Department. By the time he was finished Olivia had tears running down her face from laughing.

“Barba, until you said something in the bar yesterday I had forgotten what day it was too.” She admitted.

Barba looked at her in disbelief, “You couldn’t have just told me that?”

“And ruin your perfect plans?” She teased to which he rolled his eyes. Then she smiled a somewhat wicked smile at him, “Well we do have all these things now and it would probably be a shame to let them just sit here.”

Barba’s eyes grew big as he suddenly wondered what was under her robe he reached across the bed pulling her closer and undoing the belt of the robe. His eyes and other things growing at the same time when he saw what was beneath it.

“You better not be teasing now.” He said pulling her onto his lap letting her robe fall to the floor. She answered by kissing him until they fell back against her bed ensuing they both had a Valentine’s Day they would remember.

The End

[jodyedgarus]

Is Virginia Too Slow?

Last year, coach Tony Bennett and his Virginia Cavaliers earned the embarrassing distinction of becoming the first No. 1 seed in men’s NCAA Tournament history to lose to a No. 16 seed in the opening round. Bennett may end up being tied to that ignominious bit of trivia for the rest of his life, but he also has a real shot at redemption this year. Virginia is a No. 1 seed once again, and the reigning coach of the year will have another chance to win his (and the school’s) first national championship. But the questions linger: Was last year’s loss to the underdog Maryland-Baltimore County Retrievers just a one-off fluke for Virginia, or was it symptomatic of a fatal flaw in Bennett’s system? Will this be the year that one of his teams finally breaks through?

Broadly speaking, Bennett has been very successful at Virginia. He has racked up multiple 30-win seasons, recruited a string of NBA-quality players and fixed the Cavaliers firmly in the AP Top 10. It took him just three seasons to transform a 10-win team into an NCAA Tournament participant. And yet — despite five subsequent tourney appearances, including three No. 1 seeds — victories in the Big Dance have been few and far between for Bennett, as his Virginia teams have notched a total of just seven tournament wins. In fact, Virginia’s performance against seed expectation of -1.30 wins per tournament is the second-worst of any team over the past five years.

Virginia has been successful lately, just not when it counts

Tournament wins vs. average for seed* for the 10 Division I NCAA teams with the most total wins since 2013-14, through the 2018 tournament

WINS Wins Vs. expected SCHOOL TOTAL TOURNEY BEST FINISH No. 1 Seed AVG. Rank Gonzaga 191 13 Finalist 1x +0.88 12th of 160 Villanova 190 15 Champion 3 +0.05 49 Kentucky 179 15 Finalist 1 +1.18 7 Duke 172 12 Champion 1 +0.11 45 Kansas 172 12 Final Four 3 -0.55 131 Virginia 172 7 Elite Eight 3 -1.30 159 UNC 169 15 Champion 2 +0.66 21 Arizona 168 8 Elite Eight 1 -0.54 127 Wichita St. 166 6 Sweet 16 1 -0.41 119 Michigan St. 162 9 Final Four — +0.35 29

* Seed averages since 1985. Game totals through March 17, 2019.

Source: sports-reference.com

So, what gives? Why has Virginia — a team that has so thoroughly dominated the regular season lately — disappointed so much in March? It may have something to do with the glacially slow pace at which Bennett has his team playing.

A team’s efficiency margin (i.e., the amount by which it would outscore an average Division I opponent over the course of 100 possessions) is generally a good predictor of wins and losses. Teams that score efficiently and make it hard for their opponents to do so tend to win a lot of games. According to Ken Pomeroy’s ratings, Virginia has hovered near the Top 5 in adjusted efficiency margin during its recent period of excellence, finishing each of the past five seasons somewhere in the ballpark of +25 to +30 points per 100 possessions. This year, the Cavs have the best margin of any Division I team at an eye-popping +35.

Of course, Virginia never actually has a chance to play 100 possessions in any individual game. The typical 40-minute college game has only about 70 possessions in each direction. And because the Cavaliers play at the slowest pace of any Division I team (353rd), they typically use even fewer possessions than that — just less than 60 on average.

Reducing the number of possessions available to each team puts a greater emphasis on randomness; each stroke of bad luck — a cold-shooting snap, a blown call, a bounce of the ball in the wrong direction — matters a bit more when the pace is slow. Extra randomness puts the favorite at greater risk and bolsters the underdog’s chances at an upset. By playing at a slow pace, the Cavaliers are essentially giving themselves fewer opportunities to prove that they are the better team in any given game. This is especially problematic if the Cavs find themselves trailing by a large margin, as they were early in the second half last year against UMBC.

But does it actually matter? We know that pace has only a very modest influence on the predictability of postseason outcomes in the NBA. That’s because each NBA game is 48 minutes long, each team uses about 100 possessions per game, and each playoff matchup is decided over a best-of-seven series. However, in a single elimination tournament with shorter games and fewer possessions, playing at a slower pace has much greater potential to introduce some wild volatility — hence, March Madness.

We ran a simulation to gauge just how big of a problem Virginia’s slow pace might be in the NCAA Tournament. Starting with the Cavaliers’ per-100-possession stats, we broke down the likelihood of the various potential outcomes for each possession on offense and on defense — how often they would score or allow 3 points (3-pointer made, 3 free throws or a 2-pointer and a free throw), 2 points (2PM or 2FTs), 1 point (1 FT) or 0 points (0FG, 0FT or a turnover) against an average opponent. Then, by sampling randomly from these distributions of potential possession outcomes, we created 10,000 simulated games for a range of different pace scenarios — from 50 to 80 possessions per game — to find the ratio of points scored to points allowed in each simulation. These simulations assume (undoubtedly unrealistically) that Virginia’s offensive and defensive efficiency would be unaffected by a change in the pace of play.

Under this assumption of a stable efficiency margin — where the digital Cavaliers are programmed to score an average of 1.3 times as many points as they allow regardless of the tempo — we find that Virginia wins slightly more simulated games when playing at a faster pace. Visually, you can see the orange band of simulated results narrowing from left to right as the range of likely outcomes shrinks toward the average with an increasing number of possessions. The Cavs lost 9.7 percent of their simulated games when they played at a 59 possession-per-game tempo (equivalent to their usual pace), but the more their pace increased, the fewer upsets there were.

This is an interesting thought experiment, but is there any empirical evidence to support the idea that playing at a slow pace is tied to underachievement in the tournament?

To find out, we examined game results from the 17 NCAA Tournaments from 2002 to 2018, for which there are team-tempo stats available from KenPom. We created a model for expected win totals based on tournament seed and adjusted efficiency margin. Next, we compared the expected win totals from the model with the actual win totals for each team in each tournament, excluding the First Four and other play-in games.1 From there we sorted the teams by quality (i.e., expected to win more or less than two games in a single tournament) and by adjusted tempo (possessions per game, divided into tertiles), forming six groups. We found that, among the teams that were expected to win the most games (two or more), those that played at a slow pace tended to underachieve, while those that played faster were most likely to outperform their expected win totals.

Playing at a fast or slow pace tends to nudge a good team’s range of outcomes one way or the other by about a quarter of a win. So, yes, Virginia’s slow pace of play puts it at a relative disadvantage compared to other, higher-tempo No. 1 seeds. But that doesn’t necessarily mean Virginia should start playing faster.

After all, Bennett knows a low-possession team can succeed in the tourney. He witnessed it firsthand in 2000 as a member of his father Dick’s coaching staff, when their methodical Wisconsin squad reached the Final Four despite playing at a snail’s pace. Now, Tony has implemented the same pace-defying pack-line defense that Dick once used to stifle Wisconsin’s opponents and tempo alike. That conservative defensive scheme is so integral to the Bennetts’ coaching identity that playing at a slow pace has basically become a family tradition.

In the end, a team’s efficiency margin is still a much better predictor of tournament success than its tempo. And, in practice, Virginia’s huge efficiency margin may be inextricable from its slow pace of play. A faster-paced Virginia team might also become a less efficient Virginia team, especially on the defensive end.

Theoretically, Bennett would maximize Virginia’s tournament chances by having his team play at a faster tempo. But in reality, his best bet may be to continue following in his dad’s slow-paced footsteps in the hopes that they will eventually lead him back to the Final Four.

The journey will start for Bennett and Virginia on Friday afternoon against Gardner-Webb of the Big South. On paper, the Cavaliers will be 35 points better than the Runnin’ Bulldogs, at least on a per-100-possession basis. But we will just have to wait and see if 59 possessions will be enough for the Cavs to prove they are better than a No. 16 seed this time around.

Check out our latest March Madness predictions.

from News About Sports https://fivethirtyeight.com/features/is-virginia-too-slow/

[junker-town]

I would like Jose Mourinho to stop talking

The Manchester United manager is exhausting.

Jose Mourinho has left chilly England for the sunshine of Dubai, taking his Manchester United squad and surly countenance with him. He will doubtless be hoping that a break will do his team good, and his team will likewise be hoping that a bit of sunshine and some duty-free shopping will turn their manager’s frown upside down. For everybody else, there’s the prospect of a week or more free from one of this season’s most reliable and reliably vexing news stories: Jose Mourinho Has Said A Thing.

Let’s leave aside for the moment his latest, ongoing spat with Antonio Conte, more on which later. Instead, let’s think about all the Things he’s had to say this season. Things about his players’ childish decisions, and about Manchester City’s greater purchasing power. Things like his heavy flirting with PSG, or the digs at United fans. Things such as the injuries he should moan about more, or the credit he is never given, or ... well, you can pick your favourite.

What separates Mourinho from other managers is not that he uses his media appearances to distract, dissemble, or denounce. Nor that he is often wrong, or at best highly selective, in the details, the implications, and the context of what he says. Nor even that when he is right, he is often wildly hypocritical in the process. All Premier League managers do a bit of that every now and then. Indeed, Mourinho used to only do it now and then, and was all the more charming and effective for his restraint.

For it’s a job that comes with obligatory press conferences before games and interviews afterwards, and so a few Things are practically unavoidable. If there’s somebody out there who could negotiate every single one of those without saying a single Thing — why are your good players leaving? why did you lose? why are you rubbish? when are you getting fired? — then they’re wasting their life in football and should be seconded to the UN immediately.

But no manager says Things the way Mourinho, here in this long post-Madrid moment, says Things. His commitment is, perhaps, almost admirable. Maybe he has a tiny community of admirers out there somewhere with no interest in football, who simply enjoy the sight of a craftsman dancing on the heights of his chosen art. Who greet every snap and snarl and sulk with a nod of approval, a quiet coo of admiration, a “Did you hear that? Brilliant.” What a season they must be having.

The rest of us ... not so much. For Mourinho’s Things are relentless and aggressively gratuitous. They come after victories and defeats, good performances and bad, before games and after them and any other time he happens to feel like it. Which means that these Things, at heart, always seem to be said in remorselessly bad faith. It’s not that he knows he is lying, or that he think he’s telling the truth; it’s that he doesn’t seem to really care. What matters is the saying of the Thing, and how it ruins everybody else’s day.

Because the trick is that Mourinho isn’t just, himself, boring, but he makes you boring too. His dull pokes provoke dull responses, whether in agreement or otherwise. “Actually, Jose, I think you’ll find that you’ve spent just as much money …” “Look, Jose has a point here, City’s investment over the last four windows …” “If you look at the schedule, Jose, you’ll see that …” Boring, boring, boring. Even the most effervescent and entertaining of voices is dragged down into a claggy grey pit of miserable pedantry. You feel bad and tired for having engaged with him, and even if you’ve shown him to be wrong, he doesn’t care. Or notice. Or stop.

Such weaponised bad faith crops up in every sphere of modern life, and its effects outside football are often considerably more malign. But it is dispiriting in football precisely because, well, it saps the spirit. There is supposed to fun in football, somewhere, however deeply buried under the surrounding nonsense. This time spent thinking, reading, and writing about it is supposed to be a constituent part of something enjoyable. And here comes Jose Mourinho, manager of Manchester United, and he doesn’t even seem to care as he curls his lip and says: Stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself. Why are you hitting yourself? It’s amazing how much money Pep Guardiola has spent. You’re hitting yourself again.

So to this latest row with Antonio Conte. At first it seemed just like any other tedious Mourinho bit: he’d say that he wasn’t a clown on the touchline; everybody would splutter “But, but, but, the Nou Camp! The kneeslide! The coat!”; and everybody would die a little in the process. Then the next time he spoke to the press he’d have something else weird lined up. But blessedly, beautifully, some genius in the press pack decided that of all the possible touchline clowns in the league — and there are many — Mourinho meant Conte specifically. Then they asked the Italian about it. And lo! a proper row was born.

And it’s a little different, and a little better. Admittedly, much of this difference is because the sight of two grown men flinging their dignity to the ground and jumping all over it is, in its own right, very funny. But further, it is an argument that requires nothing from the rest of us. Only the most trenchantly committed observers have to pick a side and start arguing over whether Mourinho meant Conte in the first place, whether Conte meant “amnesia” when he said “demenza senile,” whether historical match-fixing is worse than contemporary hypocrisy, and so on.

Since not even Mourinho can say all the Things at once, the rest of us can take a moment — a metaphorical jaunt to the sunshine. If he’s going to spend the next few weeks making jokes about Conte’s hair, the rest of us get a break from pulling ours out in frustration. So ... thanks, Jose. Thanks, Antonio. Keep up the deeply embarrassing work.

[junker-town]

US Soccer is headed in the wrong direction

The future of the men’s and women’s soccer national team programs is at a crossroads, and no one is sure which way to go.

American soccer suffered a devastating blow in October when the United States men’s national team failed to qualify for the 2018 World Cup. A stunning loss to Trinidad and Tobago meant the Americans will miss out on the biggest sporting event in the world for the first time since 1986.

It was an embarrassing moment, and it has brought about widespread demands for change.

In light of this failure, federation president Sunil Gulati has declared that he will not run for re-election. And while the loss to T&T might have been an eye-opener for many fans, there’s much more to U.S. Soccer’s problems than just some bad performances from the senior men’s squad.

The first few years of the U.S. Soccer Development Academy, created in 2007 as an elite youth league, somehow coincided with a talent void rather than surplus. Meanwhile the women’s national team turned in its worst-ever Olympics performance in 2016, then lost a once unfathomable three home games in 2017.

In February, U.S. Soccer will elect a new president. The candidates all have difficult questions to answer: Is U.S. Soccer still headed in the right direction? What needs to change? And what should be American soccer’s measuring stick for success?

Despite recent failures, the federation could have as much as $140 million in its coffers. U.S. Soccer has the resources to make its way back onto the world stage, but how those resources should be put to use is very much up for debate.

There are some stellar young players on the men’s and women’s sides, but the results have yet to come. All of the candidates for U.S. Soccer president have different ideas about how to proceed. But at the moment, it’s impossible to say whether any of them will have American soccer heading in a positive direction going into the next World Cup cycles.

Maybe you’re wondering what happened. Two months later, it’s still hard to believe.

On Oct. 10, the USMNT entered its match away to Trinidad and Tobago needing only a draw to secure its place in the World Cup. That T&T squad featured players who most of the American team had regularly outplayed at the club level and was missing its two best North American-based players, Joevin Jones and Kevin Molino.

And yet, failure to qualify for the World Cup perhaps wasn’t quite as surprising as it seemed.

The USMNT looked slow and tired as it was outplayed by the young, experimental Soca Warriors. The Americans conceded twice in the first half and couldn’t complete a comeback, losing 2-1. Head coach Bruce Arena was fired.

It was one of the greatest single failures in the history of the program, but the failure to qualify started well before that. Consecutive losses to Mexico and Costa Rica in the first two qualifying matches cost Jürgen Klinsmann his job as head coach. Arena, his replacement, appeared to have things under control until September when his aggressive and naive attacking tactics helped Costa Rica score two goals on the counter and beat the USMNT, 2-0, in New Jersey. That led into the T&T disaster.

And yet, failure to qualify for the World Cup perhaps wasn’t quite as surprising as it seemed. Though the USMNT could comfortably feel like it had more talent than T&T, the gap between the two is smaller than it was four years ago. The gap in talent from the USMNT to rivals Mexico is probably larger, as well. And that’s partially down to a lost generation — most of the youth national team players born between 1990 and 1996 just haven’t made it.

Only three members of the United States team that played at the 2009 U-20 World Cup went on to make impacts at the senior level. One of them, Mix Diskerud, was the only player on the USMNT roster for the 2014 World Cup to not appear in the tournament, and he no longer receives call-ups.

The same can be said for Brek Shea, who has not appeared since 2015 and has largely struggled at the club level since 2011. The third player, Jorge Villafaña — who was part of that team but born in 1989 — did not receive his first senior cap until he was 27.

This group actually fared better than the age group below it, which failed to qualify for the 2011 U-20 World Cup. Players from both of these age groups joined forces on the team that attempted and failed to qualify for the 2012 Olympics, which is restricted to players 23 or under. Villafaña is by far the most successful USMNT player from that group. Things didn’t go much better for the 2016 Olympic qualifying squad, whose only significant contributor to the World Cup qualification campaign was Jordan Morris.

The good news for the USMNT is that there are players from these age groups who weren’t part of those squads. Kellyn Acosta wasn’t identified as a future star midfielder until later in his career. DeAndre Yedlin would have been a success story from those squads, but he was unavailable for selection on a couple of occasions. And John Brooks stayed out of competitive youth games to keep his options open before eventually committing to the USMNT in 2013.

All three of them are between 22 and 24 years old and bear very little blame for the team’s recent failure. They will be expected to lead their younger teammates in the next World Cup qualifying cycle.

Then there is Christian Pulisic, already arguably the most accomplished American male player ever at club level. He has 20 caps and nine goals at age 19 and is a key player for Borussia Dortmund in the Bundesliga. His ceiling is yet to be determined, but even if he doesn’t improve significantly, he’s already one of the most talented players to ever come out of the United States.

Pulisic leads a vanguard of sub-20-year-olds who could be gearing up to resurrect the USMNT. He’ll be joined by central midfielder Weston McKennie, who plays just 30 minutes away for rivals Schalke 04, utility man Tyler Adams, who was a star player in MLS this season at 18, center back Cameron Carter-Vickers, who’s in great form for Sheffield United in the English Championship, and Josh Sargent, a 17-year-old striker who was a prolific scorer at youth level. And those are just the players who have already gotten senior looks — a slew of other players from the Under-20 and Under-17 squads that made World Cup knockout stages could join them soon.

But the final stage of the next World Cup’s qualifying won’t come until 2021. The Gold Cup and a potential 2020 Copa America will be critical in the development of that potential young World Cup team, but those tournaments will be seen more as development opportunities than chances to win trophies for the first time. And even in previous cycles, they have been nowhere near as important as the World Cup. The USMNT’s fate is a long way off from being determined.

The more pressing issue is 2019, when the United States women will be trying to repeat as World Cup champions. Following their poor showing at the 2016 Olympics and an average 2017, they cannot be considered the favorite to do so.

Corbis via Getty Images

Despite recent missteps, the USWNT is still ranked No. 1 in the world by FIFA. In perhaps the only instance of FIFA treating women’s soccer better than men’s, the women’s rankings are ELO-based and are more predictive than the men’s rankings. There’s no doubt that the Americans are still capable of being the best team in the world.

Though the USWNT started its 2017 campaign with a win over Germany, it fell in consecutive shutout losses to England and France. It was significantly outplayed in a 1-0 loss at home to Australia later in the year and was lucky not to lose by more. The Americans also needed a late comeback to pull off a 4-3 win over an out-of-form Brazil and was outplayed in a 1-1 draw against a young Canada team.

Fans are feeling a bit uneasy about the state of the entire program following a disappointing 2016 Under-20 World Cup, as well as the departure of former Seattle Reign boss Laura Harvey after just one month in an advisory role. “The U.S. Soccer [job] wasn’t what I thought it was going to be,” Harvey said of why she accepted the head coach position at Utah Royals FC. Things don’t appear to be going well with the women’s program at its foundational level.

If there’s a silver lining, it’s that the USWNT was hampered by injuries in 2017. Young stars Mallory Pugh, Rose Lavelle, and Andi Sullivan were all unavailable for significant chunks of the year. Veteran Tobin Heath was also injured for most of the campaign. And there likely would have been a role for Amy Rodriguez had she not torn her ACL in the first game of the NWSL season. If those players enter 2018 healthy, you might see a much different USWNT.

But head coach Jill Ellis’ seat is lukewarm at the moment, and it might get hot if 2018 gets off to a poor start — or if the new U.S. Soccer president has other ideas for a revamped women’s program.

Whoever wins February’s presidential election will have a mandate to make big changes and the financial resources to execute them. For that reason, this feels like a pivotal moment for the future of American soccer. But there’s only so much the next president can do — very smart and very rich people have been trying and failing to solve American soccer’s development problems for decades.

The candidates are vying for a difficult and likely thankless job. Any reforms they institute are unlikely to pay dividends in the form of World Cup success until long after their first term expires. No coaching hire will be universally popular.

So yes, the person elected to lead U.S. Soccer into the future will decide a ton about its direction, including what to do with a $140 million surplus. The new president will pick the next USMNT manager and determine what Ellis needs to do to remain in charge of the USWNT and will have to figure out the federation’s approach to grassroots soccer, how to run the Development Academy system, its part in Soccer United Marketing’s business operations, and so much more.

But the big question — how does the United States become a world power in men’s soccer and maintain its place at the top of women’s soccer? — has no simple answer. There are numerous candidates for U.S. Soccer president. Some major positions range from Mike Winograd advocating for letting clubs in on solidarity payments, to Eric Wynalda pushing to bring professional leagues in line with Europe’s schedule and structure, to Kathy Carter promising to spare no expense in player development to alleviate pay-to-play problems in youth soccer. All of their ideas have merit, but if any of them were the answer, it would have been done already.

In the short term, a lot of problems can be covered up by good coaching hires and players like McKennie and Lavelle improving over the next two years. The long-term solutions to American soccer’s problems are less simple. Anyone who claims to know the answers is lying. If they were obvious, the presidential candidates wouldn’t have such wildly different platforms, and the USMNT would have never failed to qualify for the World Cup.

All we know is that U.S. Soccer is facing a reckoning. Things are not as bright as they once seemed. What we don't know is the fix, or if it even exists.

[junker-town]

The USMNT has missed the 2018 World Cup. What happens now?

Imagining what the future holds for American soccer after the USMNT’s failure against Trinidad and Tobago.

The United States men’s national team will not play at the 2018 World Cup in Russia. The Americans lost 2-1 to Trinidad and Tobago on Tuesday, while both Honduras and Panama won their matches, leaving the Americans fifth in the Hex and out of the tournament.

That embarrassment has fans wondering what the USMNT program’s immediate future, and if there are some positives that could come out of the Americans failing to qualify for Russia 2018.

The answer is that there are very few. Bad outcomes would outweigh good ones. Here’s a guess at what might happen now that the USMNT has totally blown it.

US Soccer has less money

FIFA’s payout to U.S. Soccer for making the Round of 16 at the last World Cup was $9 million. But that’s not all the money the USMNT program loses from missing out. There’s lost friendlies, decreased ticket sales in the years following, and loss of leverage in negotiations with sponsors to consider too. Missing out on the World Cup will cost American soccer tens of millions of dollars.

While U.S. Soccer isn’t exactly broke, there are still financial obstacles to creating an academy system that rivals the likes of Germany and France in a country that’s much larger and more spread out. Losing tons of money makes this much harder.

Tab Ramos, come on down

Dreaming of David Wagner, Marcelo Bielsa or another ambitious hire as USMNT manager? That now seems unlikely. After years of slow and steady progression, U.S. Soccer tried for a massive shake-up with Jurgen Klinsmann, who alienated youth coaches around the country while getting the senior team into the mess it’s in today. His failures could lead to USSF president Sunil Gulati thinking about an internal hire and Under-20 national team coach Tab Ramos getting the gig.

Ramos’ teams have produced good results over the last two Under-20 World Cup cycles, making the knockout stages of back-to-back tournaments. Failure to make the 2018 World Cup will increase calls for a younger team to start preparing for the 2022 World Cup immediately, and it would make more sense to put Ramos in charge of that task than a coach who isn’t familiar with the player pool of young Americans.

As good of a coach as Ramos is, he’s not noted for being particularly tactically astute. He sticks to his preferred game plan and his teams eventually get found out because of it. He makes truly baffling squad decisions that leave fans wondering how good his teams might be if he just called up certain players. Without the right assistants around him, it’s easy to see him struggling.

Gulati doesn’t get ousted

U.S. Soccer holds its presidential election in February, and Boston lawyer Steve Gans intends to challenge Gulati. Calls for Gulati’s head are already getting very loud, but fans aren’t the ones on USSF’s board. Most of those people care more about the business than the actual soccer. And when it comes to the business of American soccer, Gulati’s doing a great job.

Gulati’s leadership guided U.S. Soccer to a massive profit in 2016, and the organization now has $100 million in the bank. Despite strike threats from the USWNT, he negotiated a new CBA in time for the start of the NWSL season and avoided a work stoppage. And thanks to his growing reputation internationally, he figured out a way to deliver the 2026 World Cup to the United States virtually unopposed.

Overseeing the success of the senior men’s national team program might be the most important thing about Gulati’s job to most fans, but it isn’t to anyone with any say. Gulati has performed too well in the business aspect of his job to get booted.

National training center plans accelerated

If you’re looking for a potential positive thing that could come out of the USMNT screwing up terribly, here it is: US Soccer is reportedly interested in building a national training center like France’s Clairefontaine with the $100 million it has lying around. With the USMNT missing the World Cup, US Soccer will know it needs to look like it’s extremely serious about addressing that problem and will be very happy to tell you about plans for a shiny new facility.

MLS keeps its lame squad rules for at least four more years

As American soccer players and development improve, MLS should get a bit more chill about squad rules. Fewer restrictions on foreign players in MLS would give USMNT players better competition to play against, and American players are now good enough that they can get into the starting XI of a team with fewer squad restrictions. If MLS had more good players, presumably the quality of soccer would improve and more people would want to watch it.

But with the USMNT missing the World Cup, MLS will likely pump the brakes on any plans to loosen foreign player limits. Everyone will be stuck with a default of eight international slots, and the quality of MLS will stagnate.

The soccer internet becomes terrible

If you’re reading this piece, I assume that you have spent some time online. And if you made it this far, there’s a good chance that you partake in conversations about the USMNT and/or the state of American soccer on social media platforms like Twitter and Facebook. Maybe you’ve sifted through waves of bad takes and hate-shared articles by soccer haters who love to tell anyone who’s listening that soccer will never make it in America.

Imagine how much worse it will get now that USMNT has missed the World Cup. Imagine how many cranky old columnists who have never watched soccer will come out of the woodwork to tell you that soccer is bad. Imagine how many people who studied abroad in Europe will be itching to tell you why America isn’t a real soccer nation. Mr. One Semester In “Barthelona” has all the answers, you guys.

The USMNT has failed soccer fans who spend way too much time online. We must now endure four years of horrible post-qualification failure takes.