#and then unprompted ALSO OTHER GUYS TOO THEY STEPPED UP THEY HAVE TO BE PAID TOO!!!

[cementcornfield]

Joe on not only Ja'Marr's contract situation, but probably Tee and Trey's as well (oh and also there's dodgeball).

[more-than-a-princess]

"Hey so, you know how you wanna be like...a 'normal teenager' 'n stuff? I may or may not have been paid in weed earlier for fixing this guy's car, and I was planning on smoking it tonight and maybe also breaking curfew to take late night slushie trip to the gas station down the road. Is, um...is that something you'd be interested in? We can just sneak out if you're not into weed, though."

Unprompted IC asks from mutuals - Accepting!

Sonia had been immersed in speech writing, and the subsequent articles about illegal immigration and its effect on economic structure that she needed to quote in it, when he'd knocked on the door. "Mm, but I did not order anything," She'd mumbled, tossing her long blonde braid over her shoulder before shuffling to the door in her dorm slippers. Truthfully, she hadn't ordered anything yet, but she rather suspected she'd need some sort of sugary treat to keep her awake through the night as she worked. That was the thing about being a princess: once her schoolwork ended, her royal work began. She could never stop being what she was.

Nevertheless, finding Kazuichi at her doorstep was a surprise. He'd taken serious measures not to remain a pest, insisting he would treat her differently (or at least kick her off the pedestal he'd placed her on). Or at the very least, only visit with a purpose. "Yes, I do wish to be a normal teenager whilst here," She agreed, nodding as she listened to what he had to say.

Though it took every ounce of composure she had not to reply with her best Cheshire Cat, conspirator smile. With a soft sigh and cross of her arms over her chest, she stepped aside from the doorway, ushering him in. A ruse, pretending to disapprove.

"You surprise me, Soda-san, considering the cultivation and/or possession of marijuana in Japan is up to seven years in prison unless it is medical cannabis used only in clinical trials," She began after closing the door behind him. "I would imagine you would not wish to risk your position at Hope's Peak Academy on such a thing: the school would frown upon an arrest."

She knew the laws perhaps better than most native Japanese, considering they were often talking points in the various royal functions she attended. She also knew that she would be scrutinized for any illegal activity far more than Kazuichi would, but being caught would be far more detrimental to his future than hers. She had a team of PR professionals whose sole job it was to make the Royal Family look good in the face of scandal.

"That is why it is wise not to smell like marijuana if you choose to partake," Sonia explained, striding over to the bottom drawer of her desk. Retrieving a key from her jeans pocket, she unlocked the back panel swiftly before reaching in and pulling out two small, resealable bags. "If you are going to indulge in drugs, it is better to not be so obvious. And have it be moderately delicious, too."

She held them up in front of him: one was filled with fruit gummies, the other with individually-wrapped, elegant chocolates. Novoselic chocolates and gummies...with a little something extra. "I prefer edibles instead," She smiled. "My previous school in Novoselic proved to be quite an education in the recreational act of THC consumption. Would you like one?"

@the-ultimate-muses

[hopeamarsu]

Whumpmas: Six Geese A-Laying

Blackmail | Countdown | Last-Minute Relief

Santiago “Pope” Garcia x reader

Word count 1,1k

Warnings: Blackmail, payments, guns, violence, smoking

“Mr. Garcia. I assume you are here with my payment?” 

He grips the large duffel tighter, lip threatening to curl into a snarl. But Santiago keeps it all inside, managing only a tense nod. The man with the large cigar smiles wide, the decay of his teeth visible and Santi has to fight the urge to flinch. He’s already in deep hate of himself over the mess he’s made and now he just wants to crawl up from the hole. Unfortunately, that crawl requires him to play ball with this wretched piece of a human.  

“Good, good. I knew you were a good little soldier, following the order to the letter. Please, step inside as we conduct our business,” He steps aside a little, but Santi still has to squeeze by as the narrow doorway doesn’t quite fit the two men. He hates that their bodies are touching but again he tolerates it because it all means he can get out of here faster. Back to you, back to his brothers, back to some semblance of normality. 

He wants to cough when the stale room air smelling heavily of sweat and cigarette smoke greets him like a wall. Santi keeps all of that in, breathing through the thin opening between his lips, walking briskly towards the table at the center. He takes one of the chairs unprompted and sits down, placing the duffle at his feet. His eyes scan the surroundings while he waits for his blackmailer to reach the table. 

The other man isn’t in any hurry, his leisurely steps echoing in the room and he takes a heavy puff of his cigar before settling down on his seat. A large hand settles on top of a small pile on the table and Santi hones in on them. Ice floods his veins as he realizes just how long the gang has had him under surveillance and just how much material they have gathered. 

He thought he was being careful but if the gang has all this, there is no telling what other skeletons they have uncovered. He knows they know about you and him - the very reason why he is here with the money - but do they also know about Colombia and what he did there? Do they know of Australia, why he left? Do they know of his team, what secrets they hide under the tough exteriors? He could never risk Frankie, Will, or Benny ever again. Santi has made a promise to himself and he intends to keep it.   

The videos. The photos. They all better be there, he thinks grimly and the other man grins again. “It’s all there. A promise is a promise after all. Now, about the payment…”

Santi huffs and kicks the duffle, sending it across from under the table. The man catches it with his foot and leans down to pick it up. With measured movements, he places the duffle on the table and opens it. He takes out a wad of cash and thumbs through it.

“You don’t mind if my accountant counts these before I let you go, Mr. Garcia?” It’s posed as a question but Santi knows it's anything but. He just nods again, keeping his mouth set in a thin line. He isn’t giving the man any more than he already has. The dark eyes are the only feature that gives up the anger he is feeling. They flash lightning and thunder at the other man and it makes the blackmailer chuckle darkly.

“Now now, Mr. Garcia. None of that. This is after all a joyous situation, you and I are going to have such a lucrative business deal soon enough.” Santi looks shocked at the words and immediately scolds himself for not seeing this happen beforehand. Of course, once he’s paid the price the man has demanded, he’s on the hook for good. 

Estupido, he tells himself angrily. Now you’ve done it Pope and all on your own too.      

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that.” 

Will’s voice echoes in the room and both men turn around in surprise. A trio of men approaches them and the table, all of them with guns firmly pointing towards the standing man and the second guy in the darkness. 

“Pope. Fancy meeting you here,” Benny quips, his grin infectious and he winks at Santi when he reaches his side fastest. Santi answers his grin and takes the offered handgun from the taller man’s waist. The metal is comfortable in his hand and he flips the safety off with ease. 

“Fancy that indeed,” he murmurs, watching with awe at the pilot who disposes of the frankly impressive stash of weapons and ammo from the guy in the shadows before showing the lanky ginger towards the middle of the room. Will has made his way to the other side of the table and takes hold of the duffle while eyeing the man with the cigar. The blunt tip burns orange but forgotten in between his fingers.

“You don’t mind if we take this one, do you?” He asks rhetorically from the other man, pointing a machine gun in his face. Will hoists the duffle up and over his shoulder, handling the gun in one hand with ease. 

Pope can’t see it, but he knows just how intimidating Ironhead can be when he wants to and he can hear it in his voice loud and clear. He imagines the meep that must be leaving the other man’s lips and his own curl up in a satisfied smile. The way the man cowers under the stare is visceral and it brings Pope pleasure to see the man that had him by the balls minutes ago knocked down.  

“You ready to make this place eat dust, Pope?” Benny asks, eyeing the scene with equal parts nonchalance and excitement. He holds the DVD’s and the photos in his hand and Santi feels like he can breathe a bit easier now. 

“How’d you find me?” Santi answers with his own question when Will passes them by and Frankie holds up the rear during their retreat. He can see the men left inside seethe with anger, but his confidence returns and he salutes them in mockery before slipping outside.  

“Guess.” Benny’s voice is full of laughter and he waggles his eyebrows, before nodding towards the large SUV parked in front of the door. You sit in the driver's seat, one arm on the wheel and the other hanging from the window. Santi can’t help it, his face splits into a wide smile and relief floods his system. He should’ve known you would rally them when he disappeared without a sound. 

“You guys need a lift?” You quip, looking at your boyfriend with mirth. There is laughter in the air as the boys pile into the car and you speed off.

*

I hope you enjoyed, thank you for reading!

Everything taglist @clydesducktape​​ @themuseic​​ @miraclesabound​​ @a-true-janian-reply​​ @10blurredsmoke10​​  @caillea @mariesackler @princessxkenobi​ @gallowsjoker​

[cosmic-affinities]

Intense and Passing Infatuation

Summary: Flirting with your crush who doesn't take it seriously? No harm in that right? Right?

 Well, Izuku does it anyway. Until the day he said he wouldn't anymore.

(A very self-indulgent bkdk fic that has a tiny bit of past krbk, totally not a thing in the fic. A plot device at most!)

Read it on AO3 Here.

Crush: (noun) an intense and usually passing infatuation.

That’s all it was.

Just a crush.

Izuku was sure of it.

Nevermind Uraraka who said her psychology professor had told them a crush can only last about four months, after that it’s considered being ‘in love’ he was sure love was much too strong of a word.

Nevermind the last year which Izuku spent flirting with his Kacchan, something no one else would dare call him, while also never getting the right response.

“Morning love!” Izuku planted a sweet kiss on Katsuki’s cheek, a normal sight for their friends given the fact that they had witnessed it every day for the last nine months.

“Hey Deku, sleep in again?” Katsuki barely reacted to the kiss now, Izuku loved and hated it. He felt it was progress, just not in quite the right way.

“You mean waking up at the same time I do every Tuesday? It stops being ‘sleeping in’ once I’ve done it for months. And what about you Kacchan? Did you wake up early again today?” Katsuki rolled his eyes at the shorter man’s sass, he should’ve known where that was going.

Their friends all sat around them and waited, they knew if they tried to interject before their morning exchange they would simply be ignored.

“Looking good Kacchan seems like that campus gym treats you well.”

“Not too shabby yourself, nerd.” Katsuki quickly supplied, letting his signature smirk fall into place.

Izuku’s heart fluttered and he smiled back. If only the blonde was serious.

Just a crush. That’s all it was.

Finally, their friends could join the conversation they had waited out the morning kiss and compliment, they would now be acknowledged.

They had aptly claimed a table for eight, a seat for each of them, and two empty ones to house their enormous bags that came with life on a college campus. Sero and Kaminari always sat together, being roommates had been great for both of them. Shinsou and Uraraka sat beside them, knowing they might very well be the only sane ones at the entire table. Lastly, Katsuki and Izuku sat next to each other, across the table from Kaminari and Sero.

Their conversation carried on as normal, eventually, Katsuki turned and noticed Izuku looking at him.

Katsuki simply jutted his chin out questioningly, knowing Izuku would understand his unsaid remark.

“Oh, nothing. Just waiting until you’ll see me as your love interest.” Katsuki really should know the drill by now.

Katsuki smirked once again making Izuku weak in the knees, boy was he glad he was sitting.

“Trust me Deku, you’ll know if you’re my love interest. For now, I’m alright.” Izuku knew the drill too, it was rejection every time. Even so, he couldn’t help but deflate ever so slightly.

“Can we not discuss love interests at the breakfast table? I am trying to eat here.”

“Oh you can tune us out Sero, you should be used to it by now.”

“Or, I have an even better idea! Since it’s been nearly a year you could just, ya know, give up.”

Sero’s statement earned him a few dramatic gasps.

“Blasphemy!”

“Mutiny!” Uraraka jumped in, unprompted.

“Treason!”

“Ugh, they even got you, Kami? I thought Midoriya and Uraraka were the only ones invested in this.” Kaminari shrugged in response, he enjoyed the fun they had.

“Hey, you can’t blame him for trying. You gotta give him that at least.” Shinsou finally spoke up, he could appreciate Izuku’s patience and persistence even if he didn’t know why he used his energy on Katsuki.

“Yes! Exactly thank you Shinsou! I am just going to have to keep trying!”

“I’m not gonna stop you. Who knows I might even fall for ya one day.” Katsuki smirked along with his remark.

“I’ll be waiting.” Izuku winked at him, enjoying the ease of their interaction, even if it was all one-sided.

That’s all it was. Just a silly crush.

“What will it take for you to actually quit?” Sero, it seemed, wasn’t quite finished.

“I’ll quit when Kacchan finds himself falling in love with someone, until then you will all witness my persistence.”

“Deku aren’t you late for your TA spot in critical data analytics?” Katsuki cut in suddenly.

“Ah shit thanks, love! I’ll see you later!”

“No need to thank me sweetheart I only remind you every fucking Tuesday and Thursday.”

Katsuki called Izuku a handful of playful nicknames, the most dangerous of the bunch being ‘sweetheart’. Izuku didn’t know when it started and could only hope for it not to stop.

Katsuki didn’t seem to mind the playful flirting, Izuku would even go as far as to say that he enjoyed it and participated, but he also doesn’t take it seriously. He knew that Katsuki was just playing along.

It was a dangerous game that he couldn’t bring himself to stop playing, after all:

It was just a crush.

“Oh, you’re so sweet but I’m sorry I’m going to have to say no. I’m really not looking for something right now,” Izuku spoke to the taller boy in front of him. Izuku knew he was really sweet and, he can admit when he meets an attractive person but the red and white-haired man had one issue, he wasn’t Katsuki.

The taller man nodded and turned to walk away, leaving Izuku more relieved than he thought he would be.

“He was cute.”

“AH! Kacchan! Don’t sneak up on me like that!” Izuku planted a swift peck on Katsuki’s cheek, they hadn’t seen each other all day.

“Whatever, you just get scared too fucking easily. Anyway who was the dude? You totally could’ve gone out with him.” Izuku sighed, he didn’t want to explain that he turned down the critical data analytics hottie, Todoroki, because he was already crushing on someone but what other reason was there.

“Oh, he’s a student in the class that I TA for, I’m sure there’s some kind of rule against that or something. Plus he’s been with, like, at least three people I know, he was probably just looking for a new piece.”

Katsuki shrugged in response, seemingly accepting Izuku’s reasoning. The pair walked towards their meeting spot where they were going to join the rest of their friends for pizza.

“So how’s that crush coming?” Katsuki smirked at Izuku, the only thing that kept his knees from swaying was the sheer disbelief at the question he was asked. He quickly pulled himself together to answer.

“Well, if you must know, he’s been trying to pimp me out. Just recently he tried to get me to go out with someone!”

Katsuki hummed in response, “It’s been around a year I’ve heard. Is that right?”

“I hate to say it but I can’t disagree, a year sounds about right. I’d like to say I’m making progress but he might not be so inclined to agree.”

“I’ve heard through the shitty grapevine gossip central that our school is that progress is different for everyone but he seems to be making some of his own, although I’ve heard he’s still not too sure himself.”

Izuku wanted to gawk at Katsuki’s nonchalance, he held it together though.

“Is that so? Huh, if that's true it might be time I tell him about you, love.”

“Oh sweetheart, I’m sure he’s aware, probably just fucking confused as to why you keep going.”

Izuku stopped their walk, he knew they had just been teasing but he wanted to make sure the part he was serious about came through. Katsuki noticed a few steps later and stopped and made his way back, facing Izuku.

“I’m going to keep trying until you are taken.”

“And when that happens?”

“Then it’s my time to stop.”

Katsuki didn’t respond, he simply looked at Izuku. The fierceness of his gaze made warmth blossom on the back of Izuku’s neck.

“You can’t look at me like that. I’m just gonna kiss that expression right off your face.” Izuku whispered, he was trying to lighten the atmosphere.

“Why don't you.” Katsuki’s expression changed into a smirk, almost as if he knew the effect it had on Izuku. Instinctually, Izuku’s eyes flickered down to Katsuki’s pink lips, almost tempting him to follow through.

“You are one cruel man, Kacchan.” Izuku snapped himself out of his trance and stepped back before turning and continuing their journey to their friends.

It was just a crush, even if everyone knew about it.

The group enjoyed their night together, they all needed it after the month they had been having with school. The end of the night came much too quickly for everyone.

After whatever moment they had on their way to the restaurant, Izuku was ready to lie down. He paid his portion of the bill and planned on sneaking out, knowing he would see everyone in the morning, he had no such luck.

“Where are you sneaking off to sweetheart? You didn’t even say bye to the rest of the shit heads.”

“As if I won’t see everyone in less than twelve hours back on campus! I was just going to get home and grade papers for Tuesday.”

“You could’ve at least come and said bye to me, you’ve barely said a damn thing to me tonight.”

“Well then, bye love I’ll see you tomorrow. Get back safe and don’t forget to water your plants, I know you hate when they start to wilt.”

“Now that’s better, I’ll see you tomorrow, you damn nerd.”

Izuku finally made it out, he let out a long sigh. He was in much too deep with this man.

Honestly, it wasn’t just a crush.

Kirishima Eijiro.

Apparently, that was the name of the guy in Izuku’s seat on Thursday. He had woken up later, as usual, and made his way to the table everyone had breakfast. As he approached though, he noticed his seat was not empty. He was going to go straight to Katsuki for his morning kiss but even from far away, he could see the look on his face.

He brought with him Izuku’s time to stop.

Izuku quickly veered into the nearest bathroom to collect himself, he had no clue what to do. Once he felt better he made his way back towards the table.

“Hey Shinsou, I’m going to move your bag over so I can sit.” Izuku kept his voice low, he didn’t need any extra attention, Uraraka had already shot him a sympathetic look.

Once he was seated his friends greeted him.

“Morning guys.”

“Oh hey! We haven’t met, I’m Kirishima!”

“Nice to meet you, I’m Midoriya.” Izuku felt his phone vibrate, Uraraka had sent him a text. “On and off ex-boyfriend of baku's”

Izuku’s eyes widened and he stilled, he needed to think of something quick there was no way he could stay there. He luckily caught a glimpse of the time.

“Oh shit, I have to go. I don’t want to be late for uh, um... Fuck, critical data analytics, that's what it is. I’ll see you guys later!” Izuku grabbed his stuff and quickly left, that was the first time all semester that he had remembered on his own.

Now, there was no way Katsuki could know that it was anything more than just a crush.

Izuku held strong for two days, for two days he went to the table and saw the clear entrancement written all over Katsuki’s face whenever Kirishima spoke, he never once kissed Katsuki’s cheek in Kirishima’s presence and they were never far behind each other. There was no more sweetheart and love, just the bare pleasantries Izuku could muster.

After his two days he couldn’t handle it, he began going straight to his classes, catching up with his friends in their rooms. It was the first time he and Uraraka had time alone when everything truly went to shit.

“Look, they were best friends in high school and started dating halfway through, they were on and off for months when they went to different schools until they were finally done for good, a little while before you met him. Now that Kirishima is here, I really don’t know what’s going to happen.” Izuku took a calming breath before he responded.

“I always said if he found someone I would stop. I stopped and he doesn’t even care so everything’s fine. Why don't we review for your math exam? I made flashcards for you.”

Uraraka was suspicious, but she went along with him. The pair spent the rest of the night studying and Izuku continued to avoid their table.

He had to figure out how to get it back to just a crush.

Turns out that staying in your dorm gets quite boring. With the amount of extra work Izuku had offered to take on he had better win “TA of the Year” if it was a thing. Nearly two weeks had gone by with Izuku’s new schedule, he never did like change. He finally had his first misstep.

“OI Deku!”

Shit.

Two weeks of carefully planned avoidance, out the window.

“Oh hey, I didn’t even see you two.” Of course, the first time he interacts with Katsuki after two weeks, Kirishima would be with him.

“Nice to see you again dude!” Of course, he just had to be super nice too.

“Yeah yeah. Listen Kirishima I gotta talk to Deku real quick, go ahead I’ll meet you guys later.”

Izuku’s eyes widened, he wasn’t ready to be with Katsuki alone!

Kirishima nodded and walked away, leaving Izuku and Katsuki standing in the middle of the hallway.

“Where the fuck have you been? I’ve barely seen you in the last two weeks.”

“Oh um, I’ve just been busy with teaching, Professor Aizawa has me leading classes now.” Izuku held back the urge to keep talking, if he started he probably wouldn’t stop until he said something that he didn’t mean to.

“Tch, that’s never stopped you before, hasn’t the guy been giving you a shit load of work all semester?”

“Well yeah, but he has me writing lesson plans and leading lectures now, even if he takes over most of the time. I’ve just been trying to keep up, doesn’t leave time for much else.” He can only make so much stuff up.

“But you always leave time fo- whatever. When is the guy gonna lay off?”

“Uh not sure, probably closer to finals so I’ll have time to study?” Izuku glanced at his watch and noticed he only had two minutes to make it to critical data analytics. “Ah shit, I’m running late I have to go.” Izuku quickly turned and continued making his way to his class, but he didn’t get too far before he heard the last thing Katsuki had to say.

“I’m supposed to be the one that says you’re running late.”

Izuku fought the urge to turn around, it would only give him hope he couldn’t afford.

Just a crush, just a crush, just a crush. It became a mantra.

Izuku was finally let out of his last class for the day, he really hated Thursdays, they were long and drawn out, and seeing Katsuki hadn’t helped like it normally would.

“Deku wait up!” Speak of the devil.

Izuku watched, frozen, as Katsuki made his way towards him. Completely and utterly alone.

“Kac- um Bak- what's up?” Izuku could barely stutter his way through a greeting, he seriously wasn’t prepared for this.

Katsuki met him with a strange look, before deciding to respond.

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“No, I don’t think so? I have my bag…” Of course Izuku wasn’t, he had to keep himself from planting a swift kiss on Katsuki’s cheek every time he saw him, he had to.

“What the hell Deku?! You go MIA for two weeks, and when I finally see you again it’s like everything is different! What the fuck happened?”

“What do you mean? I told you I’ve just been busy.” He knew exactly what Katsuki was talking about, he just couldn’t bring himself to admit it.

“You know exactly what I mean! Two weeks ago you came and had breakfast with me every day. You called me love and Kacchan and every time you saw me you gave me a kiss! Now you will barely even fucking talk to me! So let me ask again, what the fuck happened?”

Izuku felt like he could barely breathe, what was he supposed to do? He wasn't ready for any of this.

He tried to calm himself with a deep breath, he couldn’t just stand there and act dumb no matter how much he wanted to.

“Look, I-”

“I don’t want to hear whatever excuse you’re trying to come up with. The truth Deku.”

“I always told you that, when the time came, I would stop all of that. Well, the time came and I wasn’t ready so I had to do what I had to do.”

“Now you just aren’t making sense. What the fuck do you mean stop? Who said you had to stop?”

“I did. I always said when you find yourself inevitably falling for someone else I would stop. Now you have Kirishima and I stopped.”

“Wha- What the fuck is that supposed to-”

“Kacchan! It doesn’t take a genius to see the way you look at him. It’s, it’s the same way I looked at you when I started to fall in love.”

Wait.

Shit.

That came out of his mouth.

That was never supposed to leave his brain.

Fuck.

Now there was no way he could get anyone to believe that it was only a crush.

Katsuki wasn’t faring much better. He seemed frozen, although Izuku couldn’t pinpoint why. Obviously hearing that someone is in love with you will do that but he couldn’t be sure if it was shock, disgust, or something entirely different in its own right.

He didn’t want to find out.

“Uh, I have to go, bye.”

“No! Deku wait!”

That’s all Izuku heard before he took off, he could handle a lot but flat-out rejection was not a part of that list.

Katsuki knew it was never ‘just a crush.’

Izuku simply shut himself away, he was luckily done for the week, having strategically chosen to have a long weekend while making his schedule. He emailed Aizawa the grades for the quiz he administered and decided that was enough. He didn’t want to try and explain himself to anyone or have anyone pity him.

Therefore, when he heard the knock on his dorm room door, he assumed his roommate simply forgot his key.

He was wrong.

He opened the door to see a more composed-looking Katsuki. He could only hope his eyes weren’t rimmed with red.

“What are you doing here?” Izuku’s voice was soft, he was just glad his arm didn’t instinctually slam the door, that would not have gone well.

“What am I doing here? You’re seriously going to ask what the fuck I’m doing here?” Izuku noted that Katsuki seemed more frantic than anything, maybe his composed demeanor was for show.

Izuku took in a breath and moved aside, gesturing for Katsuki to come in, this wasn’t something an unfortunate bystander needed to witness.

Once safely inside his room, the pair waited, they waited for someone to start talking, for some answers.

Katsuki finally snapped.

“Why didn’t you tell me?!”

“Right because everything else I have done was specifically to hide the fact.” Izuku hadn’t meant to sound so teasing but he had nothing else.

“You know what I mean!”

“Okay, I didn’t say anything because… well because I didn’t want anything to change! As much as the consistent rejection hurt at least it was lowball, we were still friends! We still hung out! I was still allowed to shamelessly flirt with you! I was actually planning on telling you but then everything with Kirishima, and well I just couldn’t bring myself to ruin tha-”

“What the fuck are you talking about? That's the second time you have thrown him into this, this is between us why are you bringing him up?”

“Come on, Uraraka told me you guys were a thing, and she told me that you guys broke it off because you went to different schools, now that's not an issue anymore! The way you look at him shows how much he means to you.”

“Deku, he was my best friend for years that I hadn’t seen for about two years. I was shocked to see him and I seriously forgot how good it was before we dated!” Katsuki steeled himself with a breath.

“Look Deku, since he’s been here Kirishima has been up my ass about what the fuck was going on with me. He hadn’t seen me for nearly two years and he knew something was up with me. That day we ran into you outside of your class, he told me something. He told me that he was going to ask me out and then didn’t. All because of the way I reacted when we ran into you. He said I was more myself for the minute he saw me with you than I had been for the previous two weeks. Now, what the fuck does that tell you Deku?”

Izuku stood in shock, he really didn’t know what to say. There was a short pause before Izuku began to speak again.

“I don’t kn-”

“Nope. I don’t want to hear any bull shit. It took me way too fucking long to realize all of this and that was after someone told me to my face that I need to figure out my shit with you. Right now I just need to know if… if I’m too late.”

Izuku’s knees came out from under him, he fell backward onto his bed, thankful that he didn’t crack open his skull.

He was having a hard time understanding. There was no way Katsuki meant what Izuku thought he meant. No, that would mean… well, too much for Izuku to think through.

“Deku…?”

“I’m sorry. I think I’m just having a hard time understanding what you’re telling me.”

Katsuki used all of his remaining restraint to not grab the man in front of him and shake him until everything fell into place.

“Deku, what I’m telling you is that I was fucking wrong. I thought that everything between us was purely friendly and it was just a fun thing we did. I’m telling you that every time I turn someone down the reason in my mind is you. I am telling you that, if you will still consider me after every single shitty thing that has happened, I want to be with you. I am telling you that what I feel for you isn’t just some stupid fucking crush. Even if it took shitty hair telling me that I look at you like you hung the stars for me to realize it.”

Izuku blinked a few tears from his eyes. There was no room for misunderstanding and both of them knew it. Izuku couldn’t even think of a proper response, he simply threw himself forward and wrapped himself tightly around Katsuki.

Katsuki let out a shaky breath and returned the hug, basking in the warmth he had been missing since Izuku had been away.

“You know what nerd? Now it’s my turn.” Katsuki swiftly leaned forward and placed a small kiss on Izuku’s cheek, mirroring the action Izuku had done plenty of times before.

As Katsuki pulled back Izuku faced him properly, letting his gaze slip down to Katsuki’s pink lips, silently asking for permission. Katsuki wasted no time, they had done enough of that already.

It was perfect, their lips fit together better than puzzle pieces. It was instant gratification, a satisfaction so great, they were keen to never stop. Alas, they did need to breathe.

Once they pulled apart Izuku looked Katsuki up and down, in a way that gave him the chills.

“It took over a year of shameless flirting, cute nicknames, and trying to fend off anyone who had eyes but damn are you so worth it.”

Katsuki flushed darkly, something he wasn’t accustomed to doing, and simply stared back.

“To answer your question, of course, I’d still consider you. As long as you’re my ‘love’ I’ll consider you.”

“I will be your ‘love’ as long as you are my ‘sweetheart�� how does that sound?”

“That sounds like the perfect thing for the two most stubborn people on this planet. Does that mean I get to finally say that you’re my boyfriend?”

“Well either you say it or I will, every shitty extra in this place is going to know where they stand, let me tell you it is nowhere near you.”

Izuku smiled, he could get used to this. In response he kissed his new boyfriend, letting out a pleased hum due to how familiar the feeling was starting to become already.

Izuku couldn’t believe he ever thought it was only a crush.

[akasgisrightsactivist]

Bloodied Lips

[Akaashi x fem!Reader] [Hurt/comfort] [Word count: 4.3k]

What do Akaashi’s bloodied lips taste like after he fought for your honor?

Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, injuries / wounds, strangulation / asphyxia 

A/n: This happens somewhere between his first and second year of high school. I think everyone loses their cool at some point, and I wanted to explore that situation for Akaashi. This ended up being more autobiographical than I expected.

You found him hiding in the darkness of the club’s locker room.

As the opening door let in the light from outside, it revealed the bloodied lip, a red stain trailing down his chin. That detail was enough to make your heart rush inside your chest.

You’d heard rumors and you had run to find Akaashi. But it was the confirmation of such murmurs that made your head dizzy, unable to believe that your beloved friend had gotten in such a rough fight.

He was calm and collected. He never lost his cool, never lost sight of his goals —or so you thought, because the image of the guy in front of you sitting on the floor, knees pressed against his chest, arms hugging his legs, eyes lost in the void… that image told you a story you wished you’d never witnessed.

Akaashi averted his eyes as soon as you came into the room. After all, it was a story he also wished he’d never written with his own bloody hands.

Yet, you refused to run away. There was no way you’d abandon a friend in need, and you wanted to hear the story from his own lips —surely a different tale from the ones you’d heard around the corners of the school.

It was hard to find the proper words. What could you tell a friend who had just beaten the shit out of a guy? It had been a surprise to everyone —his volleyball teammates, classmates, teachers— how Akaashi, apparently inferior in physical strength to the guy from the soccer club, had destroyed him. One of your classmates had told you about the fire in Akaashi’s eyes as he had punched the soccer player in the face repeatedly —a frenzied expression that had terrified the witnesses.

Maybe you should be afraid too, but the Akaashi in front of you wasn’t that furious beast anymore —he was a meek and ashamed shadow of his self.

You eventually chose the diplomatic option:

“What happened, Akaashi?”

He buried his face into his knees, muffling his reply:

“You already know what happened.”

His voice was almost a sob, a plea for mercy. You entered the room, shutting the door, and you crossed the space in two long strides, finding the window under which he was sitting. You opened the blinds to let the natural light get inside, but his body remained hidden in the shadows, and you squatted by his side.

There was no angle from which you could see his face, but you could now spot the several bruises over his hands, arms, and even the neck, with bloody scratches here and there.

It had been a brutal fight.

“I want to hear it from you, Akaashi.”

You saw his head shake as a negative, his shoulders announcing a sob. Unconsciously, your hand found the space between his shoulder blades, and he winced —unworthy of your touch.

So you stood up, and crossed the room all the way back to the door. He held a sob, listening —expecting you to leave now.

But instead you opened the first-aid cabinet that hid behind the locker room door, and got out cotton, alcohol, and band aids.

As you made your way back to his side, you imagined the steps that had taken him all the way here. He had gotten in that fight until someone had called a teacher. He had then been taken to the vice principal for the corresponding scolding, followed by a punishment —knowing the gravity of the issue, you suspected that Akaashi had been suspended for a couple of weeks, completely unexpected from someone as polite and nice as him. Suspension included not participating in club activities, a big hit for the entire team and everyone’s reputation. And yet, Akaashi had hidden in this locker room… probably to avoid going back home, where his parents would be extremely displeased to learn about his behavior.

It was a huge mess he had gotten into, and you still hadn’t found out why.

You took his arm, poured alcohol on a piece of cotton, and warned him:

“This will sting.”

As you pressed the cotton against his first scratch located near the wrist, he hissed, raising his head and shooting a surprised look at you.

But he didn’t say anything, not after seeing your serious expression, your tightly pressed lips. He let you work on his wounds, no matter how uncomfortable it was for him, and he clenched his jaw to push through the pain —probably believing this to be another punishment for his actions.

The truth was that, in reviewing all the steps until he had hidden in that room, you knew that nobody had tended to his wounds. Surely someone had healed the other guy, but not Akaashi.

“So… Tell me what happened,” you insisted, emphasizing your point by pressing the alcohol-soaked cotton ball against the wound on his elbow.

He shut his eyes tightly, biting his already bruised lip to deal with the sting.

“Nakamura from the soccer club,” he muttered, as if the name itself explained everything.

“Aha. And?”

You knew Nakamura from the soccer club enough to suspect what had happened. He was a beefy guy with an inversely proportional muscle mass to brain cell ratio. You weren’t prone to classifying people by stereotypes, but this guy truly was the brainless athlete who gloated too much about his skills and insulted anyone he didn’t deem strong enough to compete against him.

You suspected he had insulted Akaashi, but your friend wasn’t the kind to fall for taunts.

It surprised you when he instead said:

“He said something very ugly about you, y/n-san.”

Your hand stopped mid-air, the cotton ball hovering a scarce inch away from his next wound.

“Did you get into this much trouble for me…? Akaashi, you didn’t have to, I don’t mind empty insults, I—”

“He called you a whore,” he added, a flame lighting up in his eyes again. “I couldn’t take it, I simply couldn’t.”

“Akaashi…”

“It wasn’t just an empty insult. It wasn’t just a word he said. He was attacking your honor and your dignity for no reason,” he explained, words rushing out of his mouth in a stream he couldn’t control. “He said you were a whore because you had become our manager just to be surrounded by guys, to get into our pants. I couldn’t stand it, I couldn’t stand hearing another word, so I shut him up.”

He caught his breath as you remained silent.

Surely it was a hurtful insult, an unprompted one. You weren’t that kind of person, but you also knew how stupid Nakamura was, so paying attention to him was pointless.

Then again, it was time someone ended up punching him after offending everyone who had the bad luck to be around him. You just wished it hadn’t been Akaashi, of all people.

He could lose everything he had fought for —his reputation in front of the teachers, his good grades, his future as a college student, his spot in the volleyball club… all of it because of an insult to you.

The worst of all was the thought that Nakamura looked innocent to the eyes of the teachers, a kind of martyr.

“You’ve risked it all for me, Akaashi. You shouldn’t have…”

“I couldn’t help it.”

You pressed the cotton against a big scratch on his neck and he hissed.

“You are not like this.”

“Am I not?” He replied. “Maybe you don’t know me. Maybe—”

“Stop playing the edgy boy, it doesn’t suit you. We both know you aren’t like this, and you lost the game when you fell for his taunts. He wasn’t even targeting me when he said that, he was targeting you.”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah. That guy has always been jealous of your poise and your athleticism. He might have muscles, but he’s never had the skills or game intelligence that you have, Akaashi, and now you’re suspended from the volleyball club. Who’s won, huh? You never fall for those things.”

He let a deep breath out of his nose, an acknowledgment to his defeat. You circled his body to tackle the wounds on the other side.

“And he destroyed you, let me tell you,” you added, pointing at the bruises.

“He got worse.”

“Oh, shut up. You’re in serious trouble.”

“It was worth it,” he replied, a childish pout on his lips.

You gave him a sad look.

“No, it wasn’t.”

Your reply made him bury his face in his knees one more time, and it made you wonder if maybe you had been too harsh at him. Yet it didn’t feel right to lie to a friend and tell him he’d done the right thing when it wasn’t the case. Nakamura had won the mental fight, he was the victim in the eyes of the world, and Akaashi could potentially lose everything he didn’t deserve to lose.

But he was probably aware of it. Facing the reality of how much he had risked in an inexcusable fit of anger, his only way to cope was to try to find a reason to justify it and make it worth it —a pure lie to himself.

You didn’t know how to comfort him, other than healing the wounds that nobody else had paid attention to. Arriving to his right hand —his weapon of choice— you inspected his purple knuckles, the prints of his vicious attacks.

“I appreciate that you fought for my honor, but I can’t stop thinking about how much you might lose as a consequence. You shouldn’t burn yourself to protect others,” you said, fingertips circling his knuckles and travelling up and down his exhausted fingers. “It isn’t fair.”

All you heard was a sigh as a reply.

“Let me check your neck.”

He reluctantly tilted his head enough to give you space to heal the wounds in his neck. There were red and purple marks that made you wonder if Nakamura had tried to strangle Akaashi, and a knot closed around your own throat.

“Do you hate me, y/n-san?” Akaashi asked in a timid whisper.

You surveyed the storm of emotions inside your mind, the conflicting feelings fighting each other, but it was hard to find anything that resembled hate.

After all, you found it impossible to hate someone like him, not even after such an unexpected but human reaction. Who wouldn’t get angry at such an unfair insult towards a friend? Had you been the one witnessing such a humiliation aimed at Akaashi, wouldn’t you have jumped for Nakamura’s throat?

“Of course not.”

And in the dim light, Akaashi tilted his face just enough for a tear in his eye to catch the light of the afternoon as it filtered through the window.

Your fingers found the space under his jaw, and you raised his chin towards you, examining his face. It was a party of bruises and scratches like the rest of his body, but what truly caught your attention was the broken lower lip, a red trail cascading down his chin.

The single tear dropped down his cheek and you caught it with your thumb.

“But I’d hate if something like this happened to you again.”

With your free hand, you pressed the cotton to the corner of his eyebrow.

“I hate to see you get hurt,” you added. “I don’t want you to lose everything you’ve fought so hard for.”

“I’d do it again for you.”

“No. It’s not worth it. It hurts to see you in this situation.”

You slid the cotton down the side of his face, all the way to his jaw.

Remembering the purple marks on his neck, knowing how brutal Nakamura could be, the image crossed your mind of Akaashi being strangled.

“I don’t want to see you hurt ever again,” you insisted, your thumb caressing his face.

“I can take it,” he argued.

You imagined Akaashi gasping for breath, failing to get air to his lungs. You imagined his life slowly slipping away from his body under Nakamura’s hands.

“If you got hurt again… if I were to lose you…”

You couldn’t find the words to describe the pain you’d feel. There was no other way to shake away the terrible images in your mind, or to describe the emotions inside your chest.

There was no other place in his face that wouldn’t hurt him, so you chose the bloodied corner of his lips to place a kiss, to land your feelings, to dissipate his pain.

You noticed the way his eyes widened as yours closed for a brief and eternal second before you softly pulled back.

In the following silence, his eyes looked into yours for answers.

It took a while to convince Akaashi to go home, and you only succeeded when you took his hand in yours and guided him out of the locker room, where his presence was banned, and promised to walk all the way to his house and speak to his parents.

You were afraid of the consequences he’d face at home, and you thought he’d already faced enough punishment. He regretted his actions, his body was full of wounds, and he got suspended two weeks from school. Aside from that, teachers had lost respect for him and the future of his grades was a big question mark floating in the air.

It was enough punishment for a mistake, you thought.

Upon arriving to his house, he stopped at the entrance, his legs paralyzed by the fear. Surely the teacher had already informed his parents, and he found no excuse around the incident. Telling the truth was the only possibility, and he dreaded the consequences.

After all, he had always been the quiet guy, the good student, the almost perfect kid. His parents weren’t used to this kind of disruption —they didn’t expect it at all from their only child. The destiny of his family relied on his shoulders, and he had betrayed the surname he had always carried with responsibility and effort. You knew all of this, and feared the consequences as much as he did.

You knocked on the door for him, aware of the terrified look in his eyes. Promising that the sooner he went through this, the sooner the pain would be gone, you stood in front of him at the doorstep, waiting for his parents to open the door.

When the wooden panel in front of you revealed the face of Akaashi’s mom, you stood firm, back straight, shoulders back, hands resting in front of your lap, a serene look in your face.

She was angry, but she politely greeted you, even if your presence disturbed her plans. Surely she had gone through the future conversation in her mind over and over, trying to organize the sermon she would throw at her son once he got home.

You were an unexpected event that disrupted the flow in their lives.

“Good evening, y/n,” she said, and her eyes flew to your friend standing behind you. “You’re very late, Keiji. There’s no excuse for you to get home this late after everything that has happened. We need to talk.”

Even if your presence only served for Akaashi’s mom to soften her angry words a bit, it was already worth the walk, but you couldn’t just stand still and let Akaashi suffer more.

He was in enough pain already.

“I’m sorry for disturbing you, and I apologize for Keiji’s late arrival,” you explained. “It was my fault. I was talking to him, telling him that what he did was wrong, and tending to his wounds.”

Her angry eyes returned to you, and for a brief second you spotted a shadow of sadness in her expression before she forced herself to return to her stoic demeanor. After all, it was her job as a parent to not crumble in this situation.

“Keiji, get inside. Thank you for bringing him home, y/n.”

Akaashi walked past you, his fingers lightly brushing your wrist as he whispered “thank you, y/n-san” before he went inside and you lost sight of his shape.

In a desperate last attempt, you said to his mom:

“He made a mistake. It was a bad mistake, but he’s aware of it. He has faced the consequences. He was only defending me.”

Now that Akaashi wasn’t there, her face dropped all signs of anger, only leaving behind the pain of disappointment in her expression.

“I know, but some actions are inexcusable, y/n. Please go home, it’s late already.” She bowed at you, and you returned the gesture, bowing deeper. Before she closed the door, she whispered: “You won’t see him in a while.”

And as the door slammed closed, her words hit you deep in your gut.

In the end, there was nothing you could do to help him.

You didn’t see or communicate with Akaashi in two weeks. The despair of his absence made you take the decision of speaking to the teachers and the vice principal, not to revert Akaashi’s suspension but to put in a good word for him, explaining to them how much Akaashi regretted his actions. Some teachers were more understanding than others, and you hoped you could at least help them trust Akaashi again.

The volleyball club wasn’t the same without him, and you could feel the heavy atmosphere as a manager. The members of the team were displeased at Akaashi’s suspension, but after the first days you noticed that most of the guys were in favor of what Akaashi had done.

After all, Nakamura was a pretty unpopular character at the school, and Bokuto in particular had a hard time every time he saw the guy around the hallways.

Two weeks went by painfully slow, and then one morning Akaashi showed up at school again. He had changed, his demeanor even more stoic than usual, his eyes more serious. There was little trace of wounds on his body anymore, but you noticed a tiny scar crossing his lower lip.

Your first chance of talking to him was during lunch break. You sneaked into his classroom, finding him at his table minding his business. It was clear how careful he was in his actions now, afraid that any tiny slip-up would cause his downfall.

Finding a seat in the empty chair right in front of his desk, you shot him a smile.

“Hey, Akaashi. Nice to see you around again. How are you?”

Your stomach dropped when he didn’t return the smile. He continued eating his lunch as he said:

“I’m okay.”

“You don’t look okay,” you replied, your happiness now gone.

“It’s hard to earn people’s forgiveness,” he explained, eyes focused on his lunch box.

“Are you angry at me?”

“Of course not.”

You sighed, resting your arms on the back of the chair, and pressing your chin against your hands.

It was hard to read Akaashi, a guy who wasn’t fond of letting his emotions seep through his face. But it was as if the punishment he had received from both the school and his family had hardened him even more.

What if he didn’t like you anymore? What if the feelings you had expressed two weeks ago in the locker room had no validity to him anymore?

“What did your family tell you?”

“They’re extremely disappointed. I know they don’t trust me anymore,” he replied with an apparent detachment that you found unusually painful to listen to.

“Keiji…”

You caught him off guard —chin raising, eyes abandoning the sigh of his food to land on your face. You had never called him by first name before.

“y/n.”

“I’ve missed you.”

He swallowed.

“Me too,” he whispered, almost as if it was forbidden to him to confess his feelings.

“The volleyball team has missed you too. They’re dying to play with you again.”

You leaned forwards, entering the space of his desk, trying to bring some semblance of normalcy and positivity back to his life. You couldn’t imagine what he had gone through in the last two weeks —he would never tell you about the words his family had scolded him with, or the phone talks he might have had with his disappointed teachers, or the empty and lonely nights thinking about how much he missed the school and his friends.

All you could do was to try to push those feelings into the past and help him move forwards.

He opened his mouth to reply when a voice disrupted your conversation. You turned your head to the source of the interruption, finding an arrogant Nakamura standing next to you.

“Well, look who’s back!”

Silence spread around the classroom, followed by the murmurs of classmates surrounding you to witness the scene.

Akaashi cast a glance at the unwelcomed visit, but before you could dread a second fight, your friend returned his attention to his food and to you.

“It was wonderful,” he told you. “I had to do homework, but nothing out of the ordinary. I skipped classes and slept until late. Then I had time to play videogames in the afternoon.”

You blinked at Akaashi. He spoke nonchalantly, picking a rice ball from his box and munching at it, talking with his mouth full. Your eyes widened as he kept explaining the wonders of his daily routine during suspension, and you couldn’t hide the shock at what was clearly a lie —yet Akaashi explained it with a spontaneity that almost sold it to you.

Nakamura tried to interrupt him, speaking louder and louder, only to get ignored consistently by Akaashi.

As if his enemy didn’t exist at all.

You were afraid that the soccer player would get so mad that he’d punch Akaashi, but surprisingly it didn’t happen. In a fit of anger, the guy kicked a desk nearby and eventually left the classroom.

A soft chuckle left Akaashi’s lips.

“He knows he can’t attack me, or he’d get suspended, and he has an important match coming.”

“You’ve changed, Keiji.”

“I have simply learned and evolved.”

He put the remaining of the rice ball into his mouth and licked his fingers. You sneakily removed a single grain from the corner of his lips.

“Did you really sleep until late and play videogames?”

“Of course not, but he doesn’t know that. So… the guys are dying to play with me again, you said?”

“Oh yes. And I am looking forward to seeing this evolved version of you play in an official match. They have a big storm coming.”

It was the first time you saw a genuine smile in Akaashi’s face after the suspension.

“I’m free on Sunday, by the way. I’m not grounded anymore, so how about we meet? My lips hurt so much lately and I need you to fix it.”

A rush of heat climbed up your chest and all the way to your face, which you buried into your hands.

Yes, Akaashi had changed. And you couldn’t believe how blunt he had become.

BONUS (end of first scene)

In the following silence, his eyes looked into yours for answers.

You had just kissed him —there was no room for doubt. Akaashi’s brain functioned at 3000 revolutions per minute, considering every possibility, discarding any that didn’t fit his hypothesis.

It was strange, the location you had chosen to land a kiss. The way your thumb caressed his chin would fit the romantic category better than the platonic one, yet every romantic movie he had ever seen had the couple kissing in the center of the lips.  Unlike the traditional kiss, you had found the corner of his mouth instead, but the angle of your lips against his, the surface of your mouth that had come in contact with his… it was undeniably a kiss in the lips, not a kiss in the cheek.

Could this mean what he thought it meant? Could this be a confession of sorts? A revelation of romantic feelings on your part?

As unexpected as it was, it didn’t shock him. He couldn’t say he didn’t see it coming. He had considered this possibility in the past, the chances of this happening only increasing as your friendship with him became more intimate.

Heck, when he had punched that Nakamura guy in the mouth, he hadn’t even felt like a friend protecting another friend’s honor. He had almost spat a “don’t you dare insult my girlfriend” at Nakamura, and he was thankful he hadn’t embarrassed himself in front of everyone during the heat of the fight, for you weren’t his girlfriend —as much as he wished you were.

But if getting in so much trouble had brought about this sweet moment to him, he wouldn’t pull away from it now.

He wasn’t projecting his wishes onto your actions, no. This was a kiss in the lips, there was no doubt about it. This wasn’t a byproduct of his imagination.

Thus, there was only one possible answer.

One second later, his hands cupped your face, pulling you closer, and he kissed you back —a true kiss, as it should be, right on the center of your lips.

And then he felt it, the pang of pain crossing his lips, a groan escaping from his throat as he pulled back.

“Your lip is broken, you idiot,” you chuckled, examining the wound on his lower lip as he hissed in pain. “Or why do you think I kissed you on the corner of your mouth?”

You coiled your arm gently around his shoulders, bringing him closer against your body, and you buried your face into his cheek, placing another kiss at the end of his lips.

He still felt the sting, but he smiled.

The pain was worth it.

TAGLIST

@hqxreader​

[rosy-cheekx]

Make A Wish

Book passage:  Elfriede Jelinek, The Piano Teacher

Me? Posting an unprompted fic? 2021 is starting off wild!

AO3 Link here

Summary: Martin knows just how to celebrate Jon’s 35th birthday. It’s soft and beautiful and speaks of a bright future. 

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon. He’s the kind of guy who doesn’t really want trinkets or the little gifts Martin would think to buy for a significant other. (If he does want them, at least, he doesn’t say it.) Things he needs, like clothes, he buys himself, doesn’t wait for an occasion. Overall, Martin would not describe Jon as materialistic.

Books are the exception. Books are always the exception for Jon. While Jon is not materialistic, he is usually sentimental. He keeps things for as long as he can, letting them wear and wear til they’re no longer usable, like his shoes. Especially pictures. Jon never throws away pictures. (Martin knows why and snaps as many Polaroids as he can of his partner, himself, their friends, even their cat, hanging them around the house in tiny frames as reminders.) But his books are in and out of the shelves like they run a bookshop of their own. Martin has heard the stories of his partner’s reading habits as a youth, knows that Jon’s reading habits are challenging, to say the least. Before they’d moved in together, though, he hadn’t realized that every time he was at Jon’s the bookshelves were almost entirely unique to the last visit. New titles, rarely the same authors, with no seeming organization to the assemblance. Martin knows this now, knows that once a fortnight Jon packs up all the books he’s read and takes them to their local charity shop. It’s his little ritual, and the bug-eyed look of confusion Martin had received when he had asked him about it the first time was priceless.

“I just--don’t need them anymore?” He says, like it’s a question. “I’m not going to read them again.”

“Really?” Martin raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I took you to be a bit of a hoarder when it comes to books, if the statements in your office were any indication. And it’s our flat, so they’re our books. What if I want to read them?”

“Please.” Jon scoffs. “That’s entirely different. I don’t enjoy­- well. They’re work, these are not.”

Still, after this, Jon includes Martin in his ritual, giving him synopses from books he thinks Martin might enjoy and adding the Blackwood-Approved books to the other bookshelf. Martin is quite proud of his bookshelf, identical in structure to Jon’s but entirely more organized: books ordered by genre, then by author, with figurines, photos, and plants acting as weights and decor. Jon’s deviates between sparse and overflowing, books stacked however they will fit, with no rhyme or reason to their order.

Martin doesn’t know how to shop for Jon, but he’s learned quickly that Jon isn’t a Things person. Jon is an Experiences person. The moments he treasures are the ones where he and Martin are happy to be in each other’s presence and experiencing new things together. Ice skating, picnics, hiking, cinemas, all the quintessential cheesy dates, the ones he would’ve guessed, way back when, before he knew the real Jon, this Jon, he would have snubbed his nose at.

Jon’s birthday is coming up. He’s turning 35 and is all too self-conscious about the fact. Martin ribs him a little; he’s older by seven months, after all, “you’re making me feel old, Jon!” Their ritual has become to call off work and spend a day together on Jon’s birthday. No gifts, no fanfare, just a day doing an activity Martin has planned. It’s perfect usually, Jon’s delighted smile and bright eyes when he thanks Martin with a kiss is all the satisfaction he needs. But this is 35, it needs to be special. It needs to be perfect.

---

Martin blinks awake to the steady, calming drum of rain on their bedroom window. He pats out blindly for his glasses, haphazardly set on his bedside table, and pushes them on his face, before rolling back onto his side and tucking an arm around Jon’s waist and nuzzling into his neck. “Happy birthday, love,” he murmurs, carding his other hand through Jon’s tangled curls. He smiles softly as he watches his partner; Jon always grumbles that he looks so much older than he is, but when he’s sleeping, Martin swears he looks timeless, a specimen of perfect beauty against the crisp black sheets. Jon shifts in his arms, turning to face him, and squints blearily at Martin. Jon, for all his sleepless nights back at the archives, is not a morning person.

“Hm-mar’in?” he mumbles, irises stained forever green. He clears his throat and scrubs at his eyes. God, he looks just like a cat. “G’mornin’,” he says, a little more comprehensible, voice rough-hewn from sleep.

“Morning, love.” Martin kisses his forehead, between his eyebrows. “Happy birthday,” His nose, cold from a chilly autumn night. “Ready for a good day?” His lips now, soft and warm. Jon sighs underneath him, presses himself into the kiss, slots himself into the Jon-shaped space in Martin’s arms.

When Martin shifts away to sit up, Jon audibly whines, grabbing at Martin’s hand to pull him back. “You’re so warm, don’t go,” he pleads. Martin chuckles and squeezes his hand.

“It’s half nine. You want breakfast, don’t you? We have an agenda to follow, don’t forget.” But Jon shakes his head and tugs again.

“Birthday Ruling,” he cites solemnly, stretching as he says it. (Again, like a cat, the way he arches his back. Is that on purpose? Martin is pretty sure he’s seen Reggie—Her Regency—do the exact same thing.) “By royal decree, you have to stay here until I’m awake enough to help you with breakfast.”

“Well,” Martin chuckles, shaking his head to himself and tucking himself around Jon’s thin form. “I can’t refuse a royal decree, now, can I?”

Breakfast becomes brunch, and once the pair are awake tea, cut fruit, and omelets are prepared and eaten on the couch. Jon being left-handed and Martin right, they sit on their perspective sides so they can hold hands and not inhibit the other from eating.

“So,” Jon prompts, eyeing Martin from his peripheral as he watches him wash dishes. “What are your secret plans? Am I allowed to know yet?”

“Hmm.” Martin considers his question, running a plate through his hands as he dried it, solemn contemplation on his face. “No.”

“Mar-tiiin,” Martin is almost worn down by that plea, a sound he doesn’t think anyone else who has ever met Jonathan Sims could fathom coming from him. A bloom of warmth in his chest; a reminder he will never feel lonely again.

“But I think you’ll figure it out,” he compromises, grinning to himself. His plan had come to him in a sudden realization at work and Martin did think it was some of his best work yet. “Here’s your hint: you may want to bring a canvas.”

Jon’s face is a measured calm. “We’re going shopping?” Martin just shrugs, winking.

-

They take a cab and the rain pounds down on the roof, the repetitive noise a balm against the cold and wet.  Martin really got lucky today; the sound of rain is one of Jon’s favorites. He sighs inwardly as Jon rests his curls, slightly damp from their wait for the cab, on his shoulder and closes his eyes, basking in the warmth of his boyfriend and the pleasant drumming.

Jon’s eyes opened when he felt the cab pull to a stop, and he took their surroundings in with the quick analytical eye of an ex-Archivist. Martin felt his cheeks growing warm with excitement as they stepped out of the cab and paid. The building before them, like most Scottish buildings, was made of uneven stone. There was a little garden, mostly rocks with some shrubbery dotted between, and the pathway, also stone, though a flatter smoother variety, led to the door, which read The Watermill in blue and white lettering. “Martin?” Jon threaded his fingers through Martin’s, eyes wide.

“It’s a bookshop, Jon. It’s got reading nooks, and a café, and I swear I’ll buy you any books you want. We can stay as long as we like. We can read as much as we want.”

Three short squeezes to Martin’s hand. Oh. He was starting to ramble. He returns the answering four. “Martin, love, it sounds perfect. But it’s raining.” Right. A drop of rain rolls down Martin’s nose, and he shivers.  “Let’s get inside.”

Martin is glad he brought a tote, a canvas bag with the name of Jon’s university emblazoned on the sides. He follows Jon through every aisle as Jon analyzes every book like their dogs in show. He scans the titles, covers and authors with precision, sometimes returning them with delicate hands, sometimes reading descriptions or thumbing through the pages, before deciding their worth and either reshelving it or handing it to Martin. Martin is distinctly reminded of being an Archival Assistant, helping Jon prioritize case files, except the expression on Jon’s face isn’t furrowed and grim, it’s near-rapturous awe as he selects and examines the books. There is no evident consistency to the books Jon picks, ranging from YA fiction to historical documentation to travel books of places he knew they’d probably never visit, though he always takes Martin’s suggested reads, nodding dutifully and running his hand down the spine before placing it in the ever-weighing bag on Martin’s arm.

They spend nearly an hour and a half roaming shelves before Jon is satisfied with this first load. Martin is grateful. His shoulder is starting to hurt from the nearly full canvas he’s hoisted on his shoulder. Martin leads his partner to a small corner, something that can only be described as a nook. There’s a small, well-worn sofa, a table with coasters, and a coffee table in front of the sofa. The whole space is cast in warm orange-yellow light, courtesy of the standing lamps, and Martin can imagine this is a great place to curl up and fall asleep.

Curl up they do, Martin sitting with a few books of his own beside him and Jon leaning against Jon’s side, sprawling over the majority of the couch. Martin tucks an arm over Jon’s chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of the space where collarbone meets rib, and they read. They read in silence for most of the morning, Jon flipping through his books at a truly astounding pace (Jon thinks its left over from his Archival Spooky Powers, Martin thinks he’s just a nerd), pausing occasionally to read Martin a line he finds interesting. It’s a yellow paperback now, something about psychopathy, and he begins to read out an interview the author had with a man who claims he should not have been diagnosed as a psychopath.

“D’you think Jonah was a psychopath?” Jon asks, brow furrowed as he reads the qualifying characteristics. “He had the ‘grandiose sense of self-worth’ and ‘cunning/manipulation’ down pat.”

Martin hums, glancing over Jon’s shoulder to read the rest of the Psychopath Test. “Lack of remorse,” he points. “Lack of empathy for sure. Someone with empathy doesn’t implant visions of their dead father into the head of their employee. Speaking of, we should have Melanie and Georgie over soon.” Jon nods against his chest. “I’d call him charming, too, actually,” nudging Jon gently. “Especially with new employees. Remember how he—”

“Called me into his office nonstop and ‘checked in?’ Yeah, I remember.” Jon sighed and smoothed the page down. “Can you call it ‘a parasitic lifestyle’ when your employees are bound under your servitude for eternity or until they die?” Jon scoffs. “I don’t think the DSM is ready for Smirke’s Fourteen.”

“Maybe not. Maybe the sixth edition will be.” Martin presses a kiss to the top of Jon’s head and turns back to his own book.

-

“Hungry?” Martin asks, nudging Jon as his stomach gurgles for the third time in as many minutes. Jon jumps a little, likely having forgotten Martin was there.

“Erm-I mean, a little.” Even after being together for so long, Jon still hesitates to let Martin buy him food. (“Martin, I have money. You don’t- you don’t have to-” but whatever offending muffin or cone of chips would be pressed into his hand and he would thank Martin, sheepish, and take a bite.)

“Chai latte? Something sweet?” Martin asks, nudging Jon out of his side and feeling the cold spot left in his wake. “Its your birthday, come on.” Jon sighs and relents, and Martin swear he can hear him roll his eyes as he walks away.

Martin orders two chais and a few cupcakes (chocolate for Jon, carrot cake for him) from the café in the front of the bookshop and joins an ever-growing queue of patrons waiting to get their own warm treats. The rain must have driven people in in droves. Never mind it, though, their corner feels empty enough. He thinks he sees a spider on the back of a woman’s shirt in front of him, and flinches before realizing, oh, it’s just a bit of string. He takes a slight step back anyways. He didn’t used to do that.

“Order for Martin?” An American voice, uni student probably. He thanks her and makes a point to drop a few quid in the tip jar, seeing it frustratingly empty for such a busy café.  

Martin takes a small porcelain plate in each hand, a mug and pastry balanced on each, and makes his way carefully back to the sofa where he had left Jon. Only, he couldn’t see his curly hair, tied up in his half-bun, over the back of the sofa. Did he go to the loo?

It’s when Martin steps over to the side of the couch to set the plates down that he bursts into laughter. Jon is sprawled in a way that seems completely unconducive to reading: his knees are hooked over the sofa, so his socked feet (shoes neatly deposited next to his hips) are on the cushion itself. His torso is stretched on the warm, well-swept wood floor and his head (and his book) are tucked under the coffee table; arms locked over his head so he can read on his back. It looks ridiculous, he cannot fathom what possessed Jon to sit like this and not on his back on the couch.

Jon hears his laughter and arcs his neck, trying to see Martin’s face. “It was…comfortable?” he tries helplessly, giggling awkwardly. “Oh, piss off,” he sighed, inelegantly worming his way out from under the seat.

“Come on, old man.” Martin grins, handing him the cupcake he’d bought for him, with a single purple candle pressed into it. “Make a wish!”

“It’s not even lit,” Jon protested, cheeks flushing.

“Want me to sing instead? I can.” Martin took a deep breath. “Happy Bir-”

“N-no! Martin, no!” Jon pressed a hand over his mouth, though he was giggling madly at Martin’s wild expression. “I’ll blow it out. Just hush.” He took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then let out a breath in a sigh. His eyes were soft, smile to match. “I…I don’t have anything to wish for.”

Martin’s turn to blush. “Just-just shut up and eat your cake,” he mumbled, hiding his smile in a sip of his tea.

-

Maybe its how at-peace he feels, maybe it’s his ADHD (its definitely the ADHD), but Martin has no idea how long he’s been reading. He’s brought out of his reverie, his copy of In Cold Blood almost finished (he’s read it before, but god he loves this book so much), by a low noise he can’t pick out at first. It’s quiet, soothing, its right next to him.

Oh. Oh. It’s Jon. This one, a real compulsion left over from his time as an Archivist, Jon is reading aloud to himself, his voice the sonorous, resonant tone of a man performing for himself. Martin puts his book down carefully, trying not to alert Jon to his awareness, and listens, letting the words wash over him. Jon’s voice has always been able to capture Martin’s attention, even before the Eldritch Spooky Magic that eventually attached itself to it.

“Klemmer stands there, gazing at her.   “Erika doesn’t want a silence to develop, so she utters a platitude. Art is platitudinous for Erika because she lives off art. How much easier it is for the artist, says the woman, to hurl feelings or passions out of himself. When an artist resorts to dramatic devices, which you so greatly esteem, Klemmer, he is simply utilizing bogus methods while neglecting authentic ones. She talks to prevent the eruption of silence. I, as a teacher, favor undramatic art – Schumann, for instance. Drama is always easier! Feelings and passions are always merely a substitute, a surrogate for spirituality. The teacher yearns for an earthquake, for a roaring, raging tempest to pounce upon her. That wild Klemmer is so angry that he almost drills his head into the wall. The clarinet class next door, which he, the owner of a second instrument, has been frequenting twice a week, would certainly be astonished if Klemmer’s angry head suddenly emerged from the wall, next to Beethoven’s death mask. Oh, that Erika, that Erika. She doesn’t sense that he is actually talking about her, and naturally about himself as well! He is connecting Erika and himself in a sensual context, ejecting the spirit, that enemy of the senses, that primal foe of the flesh. She thinks he is referring to Schubert, but he really means himself, just as he always means himself whenever he speaks.   “He suddenly ventures to adopt a familiar tone with Erika; using a formal tone, she advises him to remain objective! Her mouth puckers, willy-nilly, into a wrinkly rosette; she cannot control it. She controls what the mouth says, but she cannot control the way it presents itself to the outside world. She gets goosebumps all over.”

Martin closes his eyes against the words, a shiver running down his spine, starting at the top of his skull. It’s a feeling he gets so rarely now, the feeling of being so absolutely content in the presence of another person that any fog he may have is physically expunged from him. Not that there is any, but it’s a safeguard; a reminder to himself that he is not Lonely anymore and will never be lonely again. It can’t get him, not here, not with Jon sprawled, almost in his lap, reading and sipping tea and letting the only thing they worry about be whether they fed the cat this morning (Jon did, of course, Reggie is not one to let them forget her morning meal).

“Martin?” Jon’s voice cuts through his quiet contemplation. “You alright?” He’s tilting his head back, almost upside down to look at Martin’s face. “I felt you shudder.” Of course, even deep in his trance of this story he had felt Martin shift.

“Of course, sweetheart,” he smiles reassuringly, carding the hair off Jon’s forehead. “I’m not feeling lonely, not even a little bit.” He used to do it a lot in the safehouse, and fog would roll off him in droves. Jon would hold him through it all. “I think it just happens now like part of an immune system, just checking in when I’m feeling emotional.”

“Emotional?” Jon looks a little relieved, but not entirely. He sits up, glancing down at his page number (Martin could never figure out how Jon did that, remembered his page number instead of using a bookmark) and cups Martin’s face gently, searching it. “What’s wrong?”

“Absolutely nothing, Jon, I promise. That was why I was emotional,” he admits, feeling a little sheepish. “It’s just good to feel happy. It feels good to be with you, to be at peace, to not worry about what is going to happen tomorrow and whether we’re going to die.”

Martin blushes, feeling heat spread through his face. It feels good to say it out loud. “Happy birthday, Jon. I love you.”

-

They leave with bags full of books, smiles on their faces and the moon casting a faint light on their backs. Martin falls asleep in the cab on the way home, his head lilting onto Jon’s shoulder. When Jon wakes him up, leading his sleepy partner up the stairs, 

Jon thinks 35 maybe won’t be so bad, after all.

[cake-writes]

Breathe (Lecture 1)

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

Story Warnings: Slow Burn, Angst, Fluff, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Mixed Delivery (Social Media & Written Parts), Eventual 18+

Summary: Bucky takes a history class at his local university in hopes of catching up on the last few decades, on everything he’s missed whilst under Hydra’s control – but he winds up learning a lot more than what’s on the syllabus. He learns how to heal.

Written for @the-omni-princess​​’s 1k writing challenge!

(Formerly Hope & Happiness; I decided that I needed a better title!)

TAG LIST: OPEN

💛 This fic is interactive. Here’s how it works! 💛

So I took the time to find an actual university course to complement this story because I’m just that invested, you guys. (I’m also a huge history nerd, lmao.) The syllabus and lectures are real, and any content relating to these in my story is straight from the source.

Lectures are recorded and available for a listen! Most written chapters will correspond to a lecture; I’ll list which one at the top of the chapter if you want to learn along with Bucky. Each one is about 40-50 minutes long and in English. Click here to access them!

This is definitely optional, though, so please don’t feel pressured to listen, but if you’re a history nerd like me then you may want to take a look!

Wednesday, August 24

Lecture 1: Introductory Lecture

Although Bucky had been on campus a couple of times before now – first to apply, and then to meet with an advisor as all new students were required to do – he didn’t think he’d ever get used to the sheer size of it. Universities these days were massive: cities within a city, buildings upon restaurants upon shops and all he wanted to do was learn.

That was all he’d ever wanted to do, really. Learn about himself. Learn what made the world tick. Learn all the things he didn’t know. He’d always excelled in school, and once upon a time he’d started to save money in order to attend university. Didn’t know what he’d study – just knew that he wanted a degree in order to support the family he thought he’d have one day.

Ambitions for the future.

Then came the draft. Because hadn’t yet been able to save enough, he’d been shipped out to the European Theater – sent to hell, not to college.

Ambitions for the past.

Two years spent in cold, wintery foxholes gave him an opportunity to think, but all he could think about was the stench of death surrounding him, surrounding his unit, surrounding every waking moment of his life at war. Not his death, of course, but it may as well have been.

Bucky learned to hone in on the sound of his heartbeat in his ears, the rush of adrenaline in his veins, the sensation of his boots in mud and snow. He learned to focus. He learned to survive.

And all the while, he lived with the very real possibility that he wouldn’t make it through – and, well, he didn’t. Not really. Some parts of him never made it back; what little remained became the property of Hydra. Mind corrupted, soul shattered, will broken into sharp, jagged shards of glass.

Fragile. Breakable. Erased, but still alive.  

Bucky may have survived, but he’d never really been right since – never really been whole. Physically and mentally, with too many pieces of himself missing or damaged, one constant stayed the same: a desire to learn. He’d gotten through the war and Hydra’s harsh training because that quality was a part of him – one of the only parts that made it through.

Battle-worn and weary from surviving – not living, not really – Bucky finally had the opportunity to take a step back from the battlefield to just… exist. To live. To breathe. In taking a leave of absence, he embarked upon another journey: to rediscover the man he used to be.

It would be difficult task, he knew. The twenty-first century was far cry from the 1940s, a far cry from home, and the sheer size of the college campus only served to remind him of that. In fact, he was only able to recognize that he was still in New York because this school happened to be the very same one he’d once planned to attend so long ago. Staten Island University. Right across the bridge from his present-day apartment in Brooklyn, not to mention his old family home.

Home.

But this unfamiliar new century was his home, now, so he sought to learn what he’d missed over all the decades he’d lost to Hydra. In the process, maybe he’d learn about himself, learn what made the world tick, learn all the things he didn’t know.

What better place could there be to do that than at a university?

Bucky soon found out that his education would be paid for by the United States government for his service in the military. Ironic that the very barrier which forced him into war was the same thing being gifted to him now. The GI Bill. A reward for his patriotism. A thank you for his sacrifice.

Flowery words for a bribe meant to keep him silent. Call him jaded.

Worse still, if Bucky thought tuition was expensive back then, he didn’t know what to call it today. He’d been rendered speechless when he found out what a single class would cost, but rest assured, Uncle Sam would pay for it so that he didn’t have to.

Physically, it only cost him an arm but mentally, it cost him so much more.

U.S. Society and Politics Since 1945. Mondays and Wednesdays at two o’clock. Three credit hours, whatever that meant. He signed up for the class after his first meeting with an advisor – thought that it might do him good to put his past behind him and learn.

Bucky arrived about twenty minutes before the class was due to start, all nerves and first day jitters – absolutely ridiculous when he really thought about it, so he tried to put it out of his mind and selected a seat in the very back row in hopes of not being noticed.

Counting seats proved to be a good distraction. Three hundred seats. Would there really be that many students? Save for a handful of his new classmates scattered about, the too-large lecture hall seemed like it would never fill. Sure enough, however, it eventually started to – not all three hundred seats, but close enough.

It wasn’t until then that Bucky realized he might have been woefully unprepared. Just about everyone else had laptops sat out front of them, and while he could use one – clunkily – he still preferred something more a little more tangible. All he’d brought along was the required textbook, a notebook, and two pens, one of which he’d been rolling in between a gloved thumb and forefinger for the last few minutes. 

That was a nervous tic of his, one he’d picked up in the army, except today it was a pen instead of a cigarette and he sure could have used a pack of Lucky Strikes right now. A cigarette would have done wonders to take the edge off, but he didn’t smoke, not anymore. Frustrated, he dropped the pen back down onto his desk and slumped down in his chair.

Had school always been this nerve-wracking? He couldn’t remember.

A snort drew his attention, and Bucky glanced to his left to find you sitting a few seats down in the same back row, watching him in amusement. 

It caught him off-guard.

“Is this your first class?”

A innocent question, unprompted – untainted.

While Bucky knew that there would be some socializing required, especially in the discussion section of the class, never in his wildest dreams did he think that anyone would be willing to strike up a conversation with him. He had half a mind to say ‘no’ and ignore you as long as possible, but for whatever reason, he didn’t. He opened up.

“How could you tell?”

You shrugged. “You’re fidgeting, for one. But mostly because you don’t have a bag.”

Why would he need a bag? He was only taking one class.

At his doubtful look, you spoke again, voice light and airy, “Don’t worry. You’ll learn.”

Well, that was foreboding. Then again, you seemed like you would know. You looked slightly older than most of the other students who were likely fresh out of high school, and you appeared to be all sorts of prepared, what with a leather laptop bag on the chair to your right and some brightly-coloured notebooks, binders, and a few thick textbooks all strewn about the desk in front of you.

A laptop bag, but no laptop. Strange.

Bucky wasn’t really sure why he wanted to know, but he nodded to your books and asked anyway, “What else are you taking?”

“Mostly upper-level psychology classes. I’m in my final year. What about you?”

“This is my only class,” he admitted, and to him, that wasn’t a satisfactory answer. He was only taking the one class with no particular goal in mind, but here you were, taking at least four other classes judging by the number of textbooks on your desk.

You had a goal. 

He didn’t.

You didn’t ask why, though; instead, you offered him your name, along with a bright smile.

“Bucky,” he found himself telling you way too easily.

“Well, Bucky, it’s nice to meet you.” You paused, then, before you made an offhanded comment of, “I think it’s really good to have a friend in class, you know? Mostly so you can steal their notes when you skip.”

A joke, perhaps, but Bucky took it literally. That may have been the stupidest thing he’d ever heard. “I’m not gonna— Who pays thousands of dollars in tuition and then decides not to come?”

Your brows rose in surprise for a moment or two, but then you laughed at his stick-in-the-mud response. “Oh no, you’re one of those. What a goody two-shoes!”

Don’t worry, you’d said. You’ll learn.

But the mischievous sparkle in your eyes let him know that you were just teasing, and what’s more, he actually didn’t mind. No, he kind of liked it, having some normal human interaction for once – not whatever the hell he’d grown used to at the compound. Between blood-spattered banter in the field and too-dark humour used as a coping mechanism, his interactions there were anything but normal.

Bucky also liked that you had no idea how wrong your sentiment was; not that he’d never admit it. This was the first time in a long, long while that he’d been treated like a regular person – not enhanced, not a science experiment, not an Avenger – and he had no intention of shattering the illusion anytime soon.

“I’m not giving you my notes, either,” he deadpanned.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Super goody two-shoes. My mistake.”

When he opened his mouth to respond to your sassy one-liner, however, the professor’s voice sounded from the front of the lecture hall. You gave him a final wink before you turned to face the front, purple pen already poised and ready to go.

Good afternoon! Can you hear me in the nosebleeds? Yes? With me? Okay…

Forty-five minutes passed in a blink, and most of the students quickly started to pack up their belongings – but not you. No, you stayed in your seat and continued scribbling away at something in your notes, seemingly having zero plans to leave anytime soon. Bucky couldn’t help but be curious as to why you weren’t packing up, but it wasn’t any of his business and he didn’t ask.

Armed with a new syllabus and a daunting list of required readings for the week, he pulled himself to his feet and collected his own belongings; only managed to push the chair back in and take about two steps toward the door before he heard your voice again.

“Hey, Bucky, wait.”

He turned around to see you still reading through one of your textbooks, not even looking in his direction, but in your outstretched hand was a bright pink sticky note.

What?

“Come on,” still focused on your reading, you waved the post-it, pink paper flapping in the makeshift breeze but staying stuck to your finger anyway, “Take it. Here.”

Hesitantly, Bucky stepped closer and accepted the proffered note. Upon it, he found that you’d hastily scrawled your name and phone number, along with what he assumed was meant to be a smiley face. The drawing was god-awful, and a welcome distraction from the way his heart had immediately leapt into his throat because a woman had just given him her phone number.

Her phone number.

“Th— Thanks?” he stammered, unsure.

Now, he certainly wasn’t one to jump to conclusions, but this—

“Don’t get any weird ideas,” you interrupted his train of thought, finally pulling your eyes away from the textbook to look up at him. 

Gorgeous, glimmering, big doe eyes focused right on him, now, and seeing you up close like this, a fleeting thought crossed his mind about how attractive you were. He blamed it on the fact that you’d just given him your number, and now his brain only wanted to overthink what he’d interpreted as the first sign of potential interest from the opposite sex in – well, far too long. 

Bucky hadn’t been expecting that at all, and he wasn’t particularly interested to pursue such a thing, either. At least not right now. He still needed to get his head on straight; still needed to figure out his own problems before he took on someone else’s.

Even if you were a pretty little thing he might have taken dancing, once.

Then you added, “If you have any questions, just shoot me a text, okay? I remember how lost I was when I first started, especially because I’m a,” you did some air-quotes, then, “‘mature-aged’ student.” Another snort, one much less ladylike than before. “Mature-aged. I’m not that old!”

So it was a friendly offer. Nothing more. Not like the implications in the 40s – and Bucky thought, then, that if you were considered to be ‘mature-aged,’ he didn’t want to find out how he’d stack up.

“Thanks,” he said again, this time a little less unsurely. “I appreciate it.”

Another one of your bright smiles brought a sense of calm over him, a feeling that carried over even when you poked fun at him again, “Then I guess I’ll see you next week, Mr. Goody Two-Shoes.” 

“Yeah,” he responded, feeling the corners of his lips turn up just a little at your goodnatured teasing. “See you next week.”

And when he left the lecture hall, fluorescent pink post-it stuck to the inside of his notebook, Bucky’s footsteps felt just a little lighter than before – and so did his heart.

Part Two

[aliciameade]

To See The Sun With My Eyes Closed

Title: To See The Sun With My Eyes Closed Author: aliciameade Rating: M some hot and heavy kissing Pairing: Beca/Chloe Summary: Beca can't shake one thought from her mind after she meets Chloe. That all she wants is her body on her mattress. 

Inspiration via “Mattress” (Valley Girl Remix) feat. Allie X by Leland

(I don’t think I’ve ever written a mid-PP1 fic before??)

Also on AO3

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

I know it's getting close / To when the party ends / And everybody's hooking up And I hate it when you say I'm such a good friend / And that you call me when you're up Why do I always do this to myself / I let you go with someone else When all I want's my body on your mattress / Why do I always do this to myself I let you go with someone else When all I want's my body on your mattress

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

“I’m soooo glad that I met you.” Chloe’s words, laden with alcohol, drift across Beca’s lips. She’s been pulled close—much too close for comfort—by this girl who, for a reason that Beca can’t quite ascertain, convinced her to audition for a lame singing group that she’s now a member of. “I think that we’re going to be really fast friends.”

“Well, you saw me naked, so…” she says with a wink. She’s still not sure what happened last week and why Chloe thought it was okay to burst into Beca’s shower, apparently lured by her voice like a siren. But, it had happened and while utterly mortified at the time, the encounter that remains seared on her brain is not one of embarrassment but intrigue smeared with lust.

After all, Chloe is an extremely attractive woman and the confidence she displayed (very literally) only added to her attractiveness.

They’re so close that she thinks Chloe might kiss her. It makes her heart race to imagine the possibility. She even considers being the one to initiate it. She struggles to keep her eyes off Chloe’s lips and she thinks she just might be bold enough to try it.

But before she musters enough courage, Chloe’s running her hands down Beca’s arms, declaring her need for a drink, slapping her own ass which she shakes at Beca, and is hopping down the stairs of the amphitheater to join her friends at a keg.

The exchange leaves Beca’s heart hammering in her chest just as it had a few days ago in the shower.

She spends the entirety of the event—“aca-initiation party” is a term she overhears more than once—avoiding socialization and nursing the beer that the annoying guy from her radio station internship pressed into her hand during a bout of uncomfortable flirtation. Her eyes (and thoughts) keep drifting to her new acquaintance, Chloe, and the company she was choosing to keep.

Chloe is a social butterfly; Beca isn’t surprised by that observation at all. She seems to flirt with almost everyone she crosses paths with; she’s not surprised by that either, though she’s maybe a touch disappointed that Chloe’s unprompted closeness isn’t unique to Beca.

A tall, handsome man becomes the final recipient of Chloe’s interest for the evening and Beca tries to not let her disdain be too apparent on her face when the pair begin making out a few rows away from her post. She thinks it might be the same guy who’d also joined her (and Chloe) in the shower, but it’s hard to tell.

She tries to ignore it and focus on the other embarrassing things happening at the party, but her eyes are repeatedly drawn to Chloe and the man attached to her face.

She walks back to her dorm as soon as she sees Chloe and her date sneak off, hand-in-hand, in the direction of the dorms.

When she crawls into bed, she can’t shake the singular thought rattling around in her brain: she wishes it was Chloe’s bed she was crawling into.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

A cappella nerds, as it turns out, like to party.

While she’s not convinced they’re not nerds, Beca is, at least, impressed with their propensity for alcohol-fueled fun.

Not that she particularly likes fun. Or fun with these people. Well, maybe there is one specific person she’s okay with.

She finds herself at a party in the backyard of the house belonging to their rival group, the Treblemakers, on a Friday night in early October. It’s already decorated for Halloween despite it being three weeks away and it takes precisely ten minutes for Beca to become irritated by the scream of the motion-activated ghost decoration hanging in a high-traffic area. It has yet to shut up since she arrived and she’s in the middle of devising a plan to kill it when something slams into her from behind, causing her to spill most of her drink onto the grass.

“What the—” She’s about to curse out the drunk who body-slammed her when she recognizes the patterned blouse covering the arms that are wrapped around her waist. “Dude!”

“Whatcha doing?”

Beca hopes the shiver that ripples up her spine at the way Chloe’s words hum past her ear isn’t noticed. She shifts a bit in time to the music to cover it up. It’s not easy to do, given Chloe’s hold on her, and if she hadn’t been busy trying to hide the way her body reacted to Chloe’s sudden embrace, she would have thought about the consequences of doing so.

“Oh, you’re dancing!” Chloe answers for her and she changes her hold on Beca from arms wrapped around her waist to hands on Beca’s hips, though her chin remains resting on Beca’s right shoulder. “Dance with me. You never dance with me.”

“We dance every day,” she says with an irritated sigh, though she starts to relax into their position and allows Chloe to lead from behind. “Aubrey has us in rehearsal three hours a day; or do you try to block it from your memory like me?”

There’s a rumbling, restrained laugh in her ear. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

“Did I, though?” she teases, though no, she didn’t know.

She hears Chloe’s response, a noncommittal hum that makes Beca smile with its unspoken admission of agreement. She finishes what little of her drink remains and tosses the plastic cup to the ever-growing pile on the ground and puts her hands over Chloe’s for a moment before settling into their dance. 

Chloe isn’t wrong, Beca realizes. They really haven’t danced with each other, not like this. Not with Chloe’s hands tugging on Beca’s hips as if she’ll drift away and not with Beca’s ass pressing back against Chloe. 

Their conversation—spoken, at least—fades in favor of the physical, dancing to the music blasting from giant speakers adorning the back of the house. When the song ends, Beca expects Chloe to move on, to go find a guy to dance with, but instead, she urges Beca to turn around and keep dancing as the playlist mixes into the next track.

Chloe smiles at her when she does it and adds a wink when she drapes her arms over Beca’s shoulders. It prevents too much distance between them and it makes Beca smile in return. This isn’t how Beca would dance with the other Bellas; that would happen in a group, with plenty of space separating her from them, and with attention paid to people outside that group.

This, though. Chloe’s attention is acutely on Beca and Beca’s is on Chloe. There is little distance separating them. When a guy shows up behind Chloe in an attempt to get her to dance, she shifts away from him and further into Beca’s space.

Beca’s mind begins to swim, to slip toward the thoughts she’s guiltily had a few late nights alone in bed. Thoughts of what it would be like to kiss her friend, of what she looks like beneath her clothes (though the sports bras and leggings Chloe often favors do most of the work for Beca), of what she might sound like when she whimpers or moans with pleasure.

“You’re staring.”

Beca blinks quickly and pulls back a few inches. She didn’t realize how close they’d become until she could no longer focus on Chloe’s face. They’re still dancing and her mind races with what to do, how to respond to Chloe’s call-out, a look of curious amusement on her face, when she hears it:

“Becaw!”

She grimaces and feels the moment between them evaporate.

“He likes you,” Chloe whispers with a wink before she extracts herself from Beca and leaves with a wave.

“No, wait—” but she’s already gone, and instead she has— 

“Jesse.”

“Becaw!” he repeats again, proud of the unwelcome nickname he’s given her, as he moves into the space Chloe just vacated, a red solo cup in each hand.

Beca takes a noticeable step backward, though, and to his credit, he doesn’t follow and crowd her.

“It’s not enough that we spend nine hours a week together at the station; you always have to find me at these dumb aca-parties, huh?” She frowns as she says it, more at her casual use of “aca-” as a prefix than anything.

“You’re just so charming. How can I resist that face?” He smiles as he says it, pointing out her frown and, Beca thinks, he’s not a terrible person. Not by a long shot. He’s a teddy bear, really, and even a cute one with a good voice, but he just feels...vanilla. Boring. Predictable.

She immediately schools her face into as neutral of a look as she can. “Wish I could say the same.” She glances at the two cups he brought, her own hands feeling very empty with no Chloe to be touching. “Is one of those for me?”

He pulls the cups inward protectively, shooting her a look. “You literally just insulted me.”

“And you interrupted the conversation I was having.”

Something like a conversation, anyway.

“Fine,” he says with a sigh, giving in way too easily and handing a cup to her. It’s a behavior Beca knows all too well; it’s how she ended up knowing the people at this party. “I saw that guy spill your drink.”

She doesn’t comment on the fact that it was at least fifteen minutes ago that that had happened, if not longer. The beer is still cold, though, so it at least he hasn’t been holding it for fifteen-plus minutes waiting to make a move. Or whatever he’s doing. “Thanks.”

“You know, I don’t live in the house yet, because I’m a freshman, but I’m allowed to go inside.” His words are stilted.

She just stares at him.

“They have a hot tub. I mean, we. We have a hot tub. I can use it.”

“Cool,” she says with a nod. She takes another sip from her cup and glances around to find an excuse to exit this conversation.

“I could show you,” he says, pointing toward the house.

She lifts her eyebrows at that; she hadn’t expected him to be quite so bold. “I know what a hot tub looks like.”

The nerves that were already evident in his movements double and his pointing hand jerks back to run through his hair. “No? Yeah, no, of course you know what a hot tub looks like. I was just—”

Her roaming eyes finally spot Chloe, her intended excuse to exit this uncomfortable conversation, but the tall guy from her first aca-party is with her—it’s definitely the same guy that Chloe’d had with her in the shower, they’re close enough that she recognizes him—and with his hand on her waist and leaning down, it’s evident they’re about to kiss.

“Okay,” she says quickly, forcing a smile and her eyes off of that and onto Jesse.

His surprise is obvious, and she doesn’t blame him. She was shooting him down pretty directly “W—wait, really?”

She has to take a long drink of her beer, nearly half of it, to be able to respond. “Yeah, sure. Give me the grand tour.”

“Cool, yeah.” He reminds Beca of a puppy with his thinly veiled excitement. It’s flattering, at least. “Uh, shall we?” He gestures toward the house and takes a step toward her, awkwardly offering his hand like he’s not really offering it, just in case she rejects it.

She accepts it, though, and follows him across the yard and into the Treble house.

She does spare one thought toward Aubrey’s draconian rule about not hooking up with any Treblemaker, but most of her thoughts are on what’s happening between Chloe and Shower Guy behind her and how quickly she can get it out of her thoughts.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

She doesn’t hook up with him.

Not for his not trying. 

By her count, Beca clocks him leaning in to try to kiss her three times during the tour of the house, each time happening in an empty bedroom (poor form on his part trying it while showing her the disgusting, smelly rooms belonging to college boys). He even made an attempt at suggesting there was no need for bathing suits to enjoy the hot tub situated oddly in the main room of the house.

She considers the proposition each time, but each time, she turns away or takes a step to put space between them. It just doesn’t feel right, even as a distraction or something out of spite.

She tells him she’s tired and needs rest before tomorrow’s seven-hour rehearsal after the hot tub invitation and to his credit, he doesn’t seem irritated. She knows most guys would have accused her of leading them on by now, and maybe she did at least a little bit. But instead of calling her a bitch or a tease when she glances back before stepping out of the house to go home, he waves at her wearing a dopey smile that makes Beca feel like he was happy just to spend time with her.

Her exit through the front door, so she can walk back to her dorm, doesn’t give her a final look at the party, but it’s still going strong. She doesn’t know if Chloe and Shower Guy are still there or still kissing, and she doesn’t really want to consider the possibility.

Or worse: that they’re not at the party because they went back to someone’s room.

Again.

She walks home alone (though not alone-alone; campus is crawling with students moving between parties and dorms) and is relieved that even Kimmy Jin seems to be out at an event of her own. It’s dark when she walks in and her roommate’s stark, clinically neat side of the room is empty.

“Thank God,” she says as she kicks off her shoes and strips down to her underwear to pull an old T-shirt over her head. She throws her bathrobe on and grabs her things to wash up before crawling into bed where she will definitely not be thinking about who might be in Chloe’s bed or whose bed Chloe might be in, and will definitely not be touching herself imagining it’s her, or her bed.

She hasn’t done that yet, crossed the line of fantasizing, but she’s just drunk, jealous, and irritated enough to do it.

Whatever energy that flowed between Chloe and her while they were dancing is also largely to blame.

So when she walks into the communal bathroom down the hall, she drops her toothpaste because Chloe’s at the sink washing her face.

It feels like the water Chloe’s splashing on her face is actually being dumped on Beca’s head and all her heat and annoyance rinse away to leave her feeling both ashamed and exposed.

Chloe glances her direction at the clatter of the tube of Colgate hitting the tile and then smiles in recognition. “Hey!” She turns off the faucet and reaches for the small towel draped over her shoulder to pat her face dry.

“Hey,” Beca says after clearing her throat while she stoops to grab her toothpaste. “Thought you’d still be at the party.” She hopes her tone is even and not betraying her earlier inappropriate thoughts or coming across as accusatory.

“And I thought you’d be doing the Walk of Shame tomorrow.” Chloe’s wearing a hint of a smirk as she says it and flips her towel back onto her shoulder. “I saw you sneak off into the house with Jesse.”

Beca huffs and walks to the sink next to Chloe’s to set down her things and start her pre-bedtime routine. “He wishes.”

“I bet he does.”

She glances sideways at Chloe to see her leaning against the sink casually, facing Beca. She hides the blush that she feels on her cheeks by ducking down to wash her face.

“You’re really trying to get under Aubrey’s skin, aren’t you?” Chloe continues. “She’s already texting me about it.”

“I’m not trying to do anything,” she says as she scrubs at her face before rinsing it. “And she’s not the boss of me. I can sleep with whoever I want.”

“So you slept with him?” Chloe’s question is spoken so quickly, Beca can barely register the words.

This time, her towel masks her reaction. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“So you slept with Shower Guy?” She tosses her towel onto the back of the sink and waits for an answer. 

“Shower Guy?” Chloe’s surprisingly fidgety. “Do you mean Tom?”

“If Tom is the guy you brought naked into my shower, then yes.”

Chloe glances away for a few seconds. “I didn’t sleep with him. I mean, not tonight.”

“Right,” Beca says, busying herself with her toothbrush and toothpaste.

“What do you care?” Chloe’s words are clipped and get Beca’s attention.

“What do you care if I slept with Jesse?” she counters and shoves her toothbrush into her mouth.

Chloe pushes off the sink with a nudge of her hip and drops her arms to her sides. “Who says I care?”

Beca just rolls her eyes. Their conversation is devolving into bickering, though she doesn’t know why. She does know that she wants to stop talking about Chloe sleeping with Tom and Beca sleeping with Jesse. “Good night, Chloe.”

She sees Chloe set her jaw and press her lips into a thin line before nodding. “Good night. See you at rehearsal. 9:00 am, sharp.”

She shoos Chloe away with her free hand in irritation and watches in the mirror as she grabs her personal items and walks out the door, head held high.

Beca’s shoulders slump as soon as Chloe’s gone and she stares at herself in the mirror, wondering what the hell just happened.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

She’s too irritated and confused by the tense words shared with Chloe to follow through with her nighttime plans.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Rehearsal is grueling. 

Aubrey is on her ass the moment she walks in not more than two minutes late about her “behavior” at the party. Beca refuses to say she didn’t sleep with Jesse, on pure principle. She owes Aubrey no explanation or information about her sex life. 

She doesn’t get kicked out, which is a surprise after what happened to Kori and Mary Elise. Instead, she and the entire group are subjected to an unfairly cruel marathon rehearsal and she’s certain she’s never sweat so much in her life. 

“We are a singing group, right?” she manages to snap as she runs past Aubrey. “Why are we training for a decathlon?”

All the comment earns her is five more laps around the rehearsal space.

Chloe seems like her normal self, being everyone’s cheerleader as they work. If she’s still bothered by the exchange she and Beca had the night before, she doesn’t show it, but Beca still makes it a point to catch her when they’re finally dismissed (fifteen minutes later than scheduled).

“That was brutal,” she starts, standing next to Chloe while they pack up their stuff. She only glances her direction briefly; Chloe was in her usual rehearsal garb of a sports bra and leggings, and she had sweat just as much as Beca had. It was highly distracting.

“I tried to warn you.”

Beca doesn’t think Chloe warned her; mostly she implied Beca was irritating Aubrey, not that Aubrey would inflict an entire day of physical torture upon her because she talked to a boy at a party. Instead of saying that, though, she zips her bag, puts it over her shoulder, and turns to face her. She studiously works to keep her eyes on neutral territory. “Wanna walk back to Baker together? Unless you have somewhere you need to be.”

Chloe looks up at her, wisps of curling red hair that escaped her bun with her exertion sticking up all over in a way that is unfairly pretty, and smiles. “Sure. I definitely need a shower.”

“No shit,” Beca says with a laugh, gesturing at herself to not imply that Chloe needs a shower. Chloe is perfect.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Beca’s really not surprised with herself that she’s dumping her gear and grabbing her shower stuff the second she gets back to her room after leaving Chloe at her own. Is she maybe affected by the idea that she and Chloe could possibly be showering at the same time, something that hasn’t [knowingly] occurred since the day they met?

Absolutely not.

To prove it to herself, she sits down and waits ten minutes before walking to the showers, but despite the attempt to wait it out, she hears Chloe’s voice singing a Britney Spears song (a cappella, of course) the moment she opens the door.

She irritatingly can’t help herself from claiming the stall right next to the one she knows Chloe’s in and once she’s settled under the steaming spray, she knocks on the divider between them to interrupt the new song that Beca hates that she knows.

She hears Chloe’s startled yelp and smiles. “Who sings that song?” she asks.

There’s a short laugh a few seconds later. “Taylor Swift, why?”

“Let’s keep it that way.”

There’s a gasp of offense that borders on being a shriek followed by a hard slap of a hand against the metal wall between them. “Beca Mitchell, you take that back!”

Beca laughs and grabs her shampoo. “You know I don’t mean it,” she says after a few more seconds, unable to leave Chloe in the lurch for too long.

“Meanie,” Chloe pouts.

Silence settles between them other than Chloe’s quiet humming and Beca’s nearing the end of her shower when she finally works up the nerve to bring up their tense conversation. “Um, about last night.” Chloe’s humming stops. “I’m sorry if I was weird.”

“‘Weird’ is one way of putting it.”

“This whole college thing is new to me, you know?” It’s a bad excuse, not to mention weak. Bringing up Shower Guy—Tom—had nothing to do with being new to college life and everything to do with...well, she doesn’t let herself think about that.

Chloe’s extended silence makes her think she’s not buying it, but if she doesn’t, she doesn’t push it. “Well, apology accepted. I’m sorry, too.”

“Cool.” She hears Chloe’s shower turn off and realizes she’s been so distracted with their conversation she’s failed to progress past working shampoo into her hair and hurries through the rest of it.

She’s not surprised when she finds Chloe waiting for her, sitting in a bathrobe on the bench where people wait for showers to free up when Beca exits her stall, wrapped in her own fluffy robe. Chloe looks fresh-faced and bright-eyed and Beca’s sure she looks like a drowned rat. It’s unfair, truly.

“What’s up?” Beca says as she tights the belt around her waist.

“Nothing,” Chloe shrugs. “Figured I’d wait for you.” She stands and joins Beca as they walk toward the bathroom exit.

“Doing anything fun tonight?” Beca asks, hoping her question comes across innocuous-enough after last night and their apologies.

“Yeah, I’m going out for a bit. What about you?”

Beca hums. “My roommate went home for the weekend so tonight’s agenda includes a Law & Order: SVU marathon and an entire bag of Doritos.”

They pause outside Chloe’s door. “Cool Ranch or nacho?” Chloe asks; she’s wearing a look of absolute seriousness as if Beca’s answer is of utmost importance and it stikes Beca with irrational fear.

“Uh, nacho?”

Chloe’s face screws into one of offense. “Terrible.”

“Nacho Doritos are not terrible!” Beca says, immediately on the defense of her favorite snack. “How dare you.”

“I only speak the truth,” Chloe says breezily as she reaches for her doorknob. “Enjoy your gross chips.”

“Yeah, well, enjoy your...night!” Beca’s comeback fails miserably and she can tell Chloe’s holding back laughter as she disappears into her room. “Whatever,” she grumbles to herself before turning to stalk down the hallway, mad about Chloe insulting her chips.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Beca’s on her third episode of SVU when there’s a knock on her door. She groans and slides off her bed, not in the mood for some kind of prank the other students on her floor find hilarious.

“What?” she barks as she swings it open, ready to berate immaturity only to be met with surprised, wide eyes. “Oh, hey. Sorry.”

“What was that for?” Chloe asks, still looking a bit shell-shocked.

“I thought it was the ding-dong-ditchers,” she says, knowing Chloe’s been a victim of it just as much as she has. “I thought you were going out tonight?”

Chloe shrugs and holds up the blue bag of Cool Ranch Doritos she’d been hiding behind her back. “It was going to be lame.”

Beca laughs and steps aside to let her into her room. “I can’t promise you that this will be any less lame.”

“I’m willing to take my chances.” Chloe winks as she says it and strolls into Beca’s room.

She’s never been there before, never past the door, and Beca can tell she’s trying to disguise the fact that she’s checking out her room which makes a smile tug at Beca’s lips. She’s climbing on to Beca’s bed moments later to get comfortable, right in the spot Beca had been occupying because it was the most comfortable.

“Make yourself at home,” she says as she closes the door. “Want anything to drink?”

“I’ll take a beer.”

“I’m 19; I can’t keep beer in my room.” She opens her mini-fridge to survey its meager contents. “Gotta keep my nose clean this year so I can get out of here and move to LA,” she explains. “I have Coke, Dr. Pepper, and water.”

“Sometimes I forget you’re a freshman. Dr. Pepper, please.”

Beca grabs two cans of soda and joins Chloe on the bed, having to rearrange bags of chips, blankets, and pillows so they can both sit comfortably.

They settle into their viewing party after that, quiet save for the TV and the periodic crunch of chips with an occasional debate about who the criminal is or isn’t.

It’s hard for Beca to ignore their physical closeness. There’s only so much room on her small twin-sized bed and though their marathon began with a good bit of space between them, Chloe has worked her way closer with each suspenseful, violent, or upsetting moment. It began with her grabbing Beca’s forearm at an unexpected twist. A tense hostage negotiation had her gripping Beca’s thigh for dear life (she’s not sure she won’t have bruises tomorrow). And, most recently, an unexpected gunshot made Chloe leap into Beca’s side to hide her face in Beca’s shoulder and beg to be told when it was over.

Chloe hadn’t moved back into her own spot after that. She’d stayed, her arm wrapped up with Beca’s and her head on her shoulder once Beca reassured her the gory part was over. 

It’s hard to ignore the way Chloe’s knee is hiked up a little, just enough so it can rest atop Beca’s with the way she’s curled into Beca’s side.

The closeness makes Beca’s heart race and she has to focus hard on the television screen in order to keep her breathing steady. It had been somewhat easy to ignore her crush on the woman to-date; their time together has, by and large, been spent with others: the Bellas, aca-nerds at parties, other students walking around campus. Rarely are they alone and secluded; not even in their moments in the communal showers.

The moment she lets the concept that they are, by the very definition, cuddling in her bed into her psyche she has to close her eyes and think about literally anything else. Sports. The Real Housewives. Her parents’ divorce.

She keeps them closed until she feels Chloe leaning against her more heavily, her breathing deep and even and Beca looks down to see Chloe’s fallen asleep.

It’s oddly calming even if it makes her heart pick up even more. She looks like an angel, long eyelashes resting against her cheeks, soft pink lips slightly parted, but most lovely of all is the way her hand is open, fingers slightly curved in a way that’s so inviting that Beca can’t resist fitting her own between them.

Chloe stirs at the touch though it’s little more than a brief squeeze of Beca’s hand and a shift of her head and then she’s once again still.

Beca’s at a loss as to what to do so she sits quietly, letting the television episode roll into the next though paying no attention to it. Chloe is warm against her and her slow, rhythmic breathing is so comforting that eventually, Beca’s nerves settle and she finds her own eyes growing heavy.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

She’s disoriented when she wakes. Her room isn’t dark; a rerun of Everybody Loves Raymond is on the TV and it feels far too loud. She’s lying down and when she shifts, she’s met with resistance that for the briefest of moments strikes her with panic.

That is, until she discovers the resistance is caused by the arm draped over her waist and its owner who’s pressed closely against Beca’s back.

Then it’s panic of a different kind. The kind that makes her freeze and not move another muscle lest she wakes Chloe and bring to an end the embrace they somehow slipped into in their sleep.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

When she wakes again it’s early morning and though the arm is gone from her waist, she can feel it pressing against her back. The TV is dark but she doesn’t remember turning it off. She longs to drag the morning out as much as she can but she can’t ignore the need to use the restroom.

She eases away as slowly as she can until she’s standing and she can turn around to see Chloe, sound asleep in her bed. 

She sneaks out the door and is quick to return, only sparing a few extra seconds to deal with her disheveled morning appearance and rinse with a cup of mouthwash from the courtesy bottle.

To her relief, Chloe’s still there when she returns, but her sleepy eyes are open. “Morning,” she says as soon as Beca’s eyes land on her.

“Hey, good morning,” she replies and starts to cross the room and then stops when she realizes Chloe’s not making a move to get up and crawling back into bed with her, especially at this early hour, feels so very intimate. “Guess we fell asleep.”

Chloe nods and then she’s yawning, her body growing taut as she stretches and Beca can’t help but glance at how Chloe’s shirt rides up a few inches with the movement. “Come back to bed,” she says at the end of her yawn, voice squeaking in a way Beca wishes she didn’t find so cute.

It feels too casual, too normal for Chloe to say those words for how new their friendship is, to scoot backward to make more room for Beca in her small bed to further extend her invitation.

It’s that sensation of normalcy that gets her moving until she’s settling on her side, her back to Chloe again as they both get comfortable on the pillow they’re sharing.

“You’re all minty,” Chloe says after a minute or two, followed by a pinch to Beca’s side, right in the tender part, that makes her jump.

“Morning breath,” she says after swallowing.

Fingertips scrabble up her back. “Thinking about kissing me awake?”

Beca’s entire self feels like it ignites, heat rushing through her in a full-body blush. She just wasn’t wanting to make a bad first-morning impression. Such a thought hadn’t even entered her mind at the time, but it’s now the only thing she can think about.

She scoffs when she realizes she’s taking too long to reply. “What? Dude, no.”

There’s a quiet hum behind her and Chloe’s arm settles over her once again. Beca’s awake for it this time and the feeling of Chloe reaching to pull her close, intentionally holding her while they lay in bed together following that question, makes butterflies stir in her chest.

~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~ - ~

Beca doesn’t understand why there are so many a cappella parties. She’d thought that after the winter break, the four groups would buckle down—whatever that means in a cappella terms—to focus on the impending semifinals, but no. It seems that as the stress of competition (not that she’s stressed about their dumb competition) increases, so does the need to release that stress.

To Beca, they’re an excuse to get free beer and hang out with Chloe in a safe (read: public), non-rehearsal environment.

By now, they’ve established a sort of routine at these parties. They arrive together. They part ways. One saves the other from an undesirable conversation when prompted with little more than a glance. They spend the rest of the night together, whether dancing, drinking, socializing, or once, swimming, until something brings the night to a close and they walk back to their dorm together.

Beca had taken notice as the weeks and months passed, that Chloe disappearing with Tom was occurring less and less frequently. It was a relief on multiple levels; not just because it meant Chloe wasn’t spending the night with Tom, but also because she wouldn’t have to spend time talking to Jesse until she found an excuse to leave. The boy had a special talent for finding Beca unaccompanied.

But above all, it meant that Beca and Chloe were spending the majority of their time together, whether rehearsing or not. And over the course of all those weeks, Beca’s noticed their dynamic changing, not by leaps and bounds daily but by tiny movements. Tiny movements that have added up to leaps and bounds, from Beca recoiling in horror the first time they met to Beca dropping everything to help, talk to, or otherwise spend time with Chloe.

And she’s noticed Chloe is quick to do just the same.

It’s confusing. She’s never connected with anyone so strongly before, and she continually finds herself wondering if what she feels is the kindred spirit of a best friend or if she wants something more.

Correction: she knows she wants Chloe; she doesn’t want to confess such a thing and lose a best friend. Not that she knows how to confess feelings anyway. She hates feelings. They’re gross. They make her feel vulnerable and weak.

Chloe makes her feel vulnerable, too. But it’s different. She maybe even feels strength in that vulnerability.

She just needs Chloe to make the first move if someone’s going to make one.

Beca thinks she’s given her ample opportunities to-date but nothing’s happened yet. It’s with that in mind that she resolves, at the pre-Spring Break bash, to open the metaphorical door so wide that if Chloe doesn’t cross its threshold, Beca will close it once and for all.

She’s terrified from the moment she makes the decision until she and Chloe are drinking shots of tequila in unison and everything melts away until the only thing that matters is simply being in Chloe’s orbit. 

Beca pulls Chloe by her hand onto the trampled grass of the Trebles’ backyard to dance, an action she knows thrills Chloe who always tells Beca how much she likes dancing with her. The liquid courage spurs Beca to pull Chloe close before they’ve even settled into the song.

“You’re in a mood,” Chloe says, the corner of her mouth turning upward.

Beca rests her arms around Chloe’s shoulders and makes eye contact with her. “You could say that.”

She sees Chloe arch an eyebrow but instead of pressing the matter, Chloe just falls into step and runs a hand through her hair in an unfairly sexy manner.

Beca considers the fact that what she’s doing could be considered throwing herself at Chloe, that is, if she didn’t hold on to that one last thread. Like letting her hands wander up and down Chloe’s back, but never below her waist. Like slipping her knee between Chloe’s thighs but not actually doing anything because, at face value, it just makes dancing close easier. Like having an extra button on her shirt undone and wearing her best bra that gives her amazing but natural-looking cleavage and her most flattering jeans.

It only takes a few seconds for Chloe’s hands to land where they always do: on Beca’s waist. 

Dancing with Chloe has come to be second nature to Beca, and she’s pretty sure Chloe would agree. She knows it helps that they work on actual choreography all the time for the Bellas, but they don’t choreograph the way they dance together at parties or in clubs. It feels like they have, though; it doesn’t require any conscious thought to know how Chloe is going to move and when. Beca doesn’t have to think about stepping to her left when Chloe is stepping to her right. 

It’s a cool evening but Beca’s warm. She’s warm from moving, warm from the way Chloe’s hands travel between her waist and her ribs, warm from the way Chloe’s eyes are on hers to stare with such intensity, she’s actually afraid to look away from them.

She’s warm from how close they are right now. She doesn’t know how many songs have passed, only that they’re so close and so aligned that she can feel Chloe’s thigh between her own, bumping her leg as they move which only makes her grow even warmer.

Chloe’s eyes slip for the quickest moment from Beca’s and she thinks maybe she glanced at her lips, or maybe even her cleavage. It was too quick to know and Beca doesn’t let on that she noticed. If Chloe wants to look, she wants her to look. She’s been inviting her to look all night. She does wet her lips after a few seconds; it’s a subconscious response but she’s aware of it happening and she catches Chloe’s gaze drift again. 

It’s difficult to be sure as Chloe’s amazingly long eyelashes are great at concealing where she’s looking when her eyes are cast down, so, running on instinct and adrenaline, Beca lets her teeth catch her bottom lip, just for a second or two.

Chloe’s eyes snap back to hers immediately and then she’s mirroring Beca, teeth pulling at her own bottom lip until it slips free and her tongue swipes over it.

Beca can’t keep her eyes off Chloe’s lips after that; she tries, glancing up now and then but Chloe’s eyes are no longer her focus. Chloe’s lips hold that now and she’s acutely aware and uncaring if Chloe notices. Maybe she wants her to notice.

She definitely wants her to notice.

She knows Chloe notices when she sees her teeth pull at her lip again the same moment her hands tighten around Beca’s waist.

They’re still dancing, but it’s an afterthought. There’s noise around them, and people, but it all sounds miles away. Her arms shift where they’ve been resting over Chloe’s shoulders; they push forward to loop around her neck. It also brings them even closer together.

Chloe’s head tilts, just a fraction, just enough for Beca to catch it. A tilt to the left. A slight lift of her chin. Enough to make Beca’s pulse start to race.

She mirrors the change and she sees Chloe’s lips twitch into the hint of a smile. It makes Beca’s hands unlock from holding her own wrists behind Chloe’s neck to push them into her hair. Chloe’s eyes flutter closed at the touch and after a few seconds of admiration, so do Beca’s.

“What are we doing?” Chloe says, little more than a mumble as Beca feels the heat of fingertips under the edge of her shirt, pressing into the bare skin of her lower back.

“Um…” Beca’s not sure she can answer that; their lips are so close that she felt the words.

“Bec?”

“Hmm?” She’s waiting for it, for the soft warmth of Chloe’s lips to follow the heat of her words when she senses Chloe pull back. Beca’s eyes flutter open to find Chloe watching her intently. It’s only then that she realizes they’ve stopped dancing.

When Chloe takes a step backward Beca feels the hot sting of rejection but Chloe’s hand catches hers before she’s out of reach and she has no choice but to follow. She doesn’t know where Chloe’s leading them; frankly, she doesn’t really care. She feels intoxicated but the tequila is long burned out of her system. This is something different, something that’s making her dizzy but not sick.

They’re walking along the hedge that runs next to the house when Chloe halts abruptly, causing Beca to stop just short of running into her. When Chloe turns, Beca expects her to say something, to explain why they’ve left the party, to repeat her question to Beca.

Instead, Chloe’s free hand plants itself in the center of Beca’s chest, against the bare skin of her boldly unbuttoned shirt, and pushes, making her stumble backward until her back hits the side of the house.

“Oh, my God,” escapes her mouth before she realizes the words could mean the action was unwelcome when it’s the exact opposite. She can’t figure out what words to use to clarify her outburst so instead, she squeezes the hand Chloe’s still holding and gives it a tug. If pulling Chloe closer now, here, after everything isn’t clear enough, then they’re both hopeless.

She pulls Chloe in until she’s so close, their chests grazing when either of them inhale and grabs Chloe’s hip with her free hand to keep her there. Even in the dark away from the lights of the party, she can see the color in Chloe’s cheeks, can see how heavy her eyes seem and Beca’s sure she must appear much the same. Her heart feels like it might pound right out of her body. She wonders if Chloe can hear it, or even feel it against her own chest.

Those dark eyes are on her own, their conversation unspoken and Beca knows Chloe finally understands what she’s been trying to make clear all night. Maybe what she’s been trying—with less conviction or confidence than tonight—to make clear for months.

The hand that had pushed her up against the house shifts down for the briefest of moments, the heel of Chloe’s hand dipping into the beginning of the valley between her breasts to make Beca’s breath catch before it moves north, fingertips dancing along Beca’s throat until they’re on the back of her neck, sneaking up into her hair.

She whimpers. Or she thinks she does; maybe it was Chloe. It could have been; her lips are parted when Beca glances down at them.

That’s when it happens.

Chloe surges forward, her lips finding Beca’s.

Beca knows for certain it’s herself she hears whimper then. The desperate force actually knocks her head back against the side of the house but there’s no pain. Nothing hurts now. Not as Chloe’s lips move against her own in a kiss Beca’s been waiting for since the day they met.

She shakes her hand loose from Chloe’s so she can use it, so she can bring it up to frame Chloe’s face. The knowledge that Chloe has wanted this—or at least wants it now—emboldens her to find a better angle and let her tongue brush Chloe’s bottom lip.

Chloe invites her in immediately and Beca shivers when Chloe’s tongue meets hers. Fingers slide further into her hair and Beca does the same, pushing through soft cinnamon curls as their kiss grows in intensity. 

Chloe’s hips press against her and it makes her shift her stance so their legs fit together like when they dance. Her fingers pull at Chloe’s waist as if she could possibly get any closer until, on sheer instinct, her hand slides down over the curve of Chloe’s ass to grab it unabashedly and pull just as she bends her knee to lift and press her thigh against Chloe.

A sharp gasp breaks the relative silence as Chloe’s mouth twists away from Beca’s. Their eyes meet and for a moment, Beca thinks she may have done something wrong until Chloe’s fingers twist so harshly into Beca’s hair that she winces as Chloe pulls her head to the side. It exposes more of her neck and Beca lets her eyes close again as Chloe’s mouth drops to it. Lips and tongue and gentle teeth move along her skin and Beca can hear herself breathing, quick and shallow breaths that match Chloe’s as Chloe accepts the rhythm of Beca’s hand against her. The thought that Chloe likes it, is basically riding her thigh, makes her already damp underwear soak through. It makes her hips move, too, and Chloe’s leg isn’t nestled closely enough to give her anything but the barest of contact.

It’s maddening but she doesn’t want to do anything that will take away the pleasure she knows she’s giving Chloe. Instead, the hand not tangled in her hair doing little more than cradling her head as she attacks Beca’s neck travels up Chloe’s side until she feels the band of a bra through the fabric of her shirt. It’s too tempting and too easy to follow it until the backs of her fingers are grazing the edge of a curve. She hesitates there, soaking in the warmth she feels and letting a moan escape her lips when Chloe’s tongue is particularly gentle and teasing against her skin.

“Touch me.” The words are whispered but they ring in Beca’s ears loudly. Chloe’s hand finds Beca’s where it’s hesitating and guides it higher until it’s pressing Beca’s hand against her breast.

This time, it’s Chloe who moans but Beca echoes it. She wonders just how far this is going to go here, now, out in the open as Chloe’s mouth is on hers again. It’s more a curiosity than a concern; she really doesn’t care who sees them. But as the palm of her hand feels the stiff peak of Chloe’s breast, she has a desperate need to migrate elsewhere. It’s a need that grows exponentially when Chloe, with none of the hesitation Beca had shown, finds Beca’s left breast to squeeze it with urgency. Most of her fingertips are on bare skin where Beca’s shirt has shifted; heat follows everywhere her those fingertips go, from the swell of Beca’s breast to her throat, to the valley of her cleavage and to her other breast.

Chloe’s mouth leaves hers again and moves right to her ear, lips on her earlobe and tongue tracing the shell and over the piercings. “God, you’re so hot,” she breathes just as she presses her thigh forward against Beca.

So desperate for the contact, it almost makes Beca’s knees buckle which settles her more heavily astride Chloe, leg pressing the thick seam of Beca’s jeans against her in a way that makes her hips buck.

Chloe’s assault of her senses stops abruptly; she doesn’t pull back, she just...stops and it takes Beca several seconds until she can open her eyes.

Once she can focus, she sees that Chloe is staring at her, eyes wild, hair mussed, lips a dark pink and shining in the dim lighting.

“Are you okay?” Chloe asks, eyes searching Beca’s for something.

The question confuses her; why wouldn’t she be okay? “Yeah,” she says after swallowing. “Are you?” she adds, enough clarity seeping in to register Chloe’s checking on her and maybe she should do the same.

Chloe nods and leans in to kiss her again but this time it’s slow, and soft, and gentle and she pulls back too soon for Beca’s liking, but she forgives her quickly.

“Do you maybe want to go?” are Chloe’s next words and Beca feels dizzy again. Thankfully, Chloe still has her pinned against the house to keep her upright.

“Go where?” she asks; she wants Chloe to mean what she hopes she means and that she’s not suggesting they go back to the party.

Chloe’s hands are back on her waist, warm where they rest beneath Beca’s shirt. “Is your roommate home?” Chloe asks. 

Beca feels the back of her head connect with the house again, falling back to look down her nose at Chloe who’s waiting for her answer with as much anticipation as Beca feels. “I don’t know,” she says after searching her memory for any conversation that she may have had about her roommate’s plans tonight and finding nothing. “Is yours?”

“I don’t know,” Chloe answers, a whine entering her voice and the fact that Chloe is perhaps as desperate as she is rattles Beca. Her mind races, thinking of possibilities like the bedrooms in the Trebles’ house (gross), staying where they are (uncomfortable and not private), or going to Chloe’s car in the dorm parking lot.

It’s not the worst solution, all things considered.

“Okay,” she says, still working on catching her breath. “Okay, let’s just go see if they’re home or not.”

Her suggestion makes Chloe melt into her for another long, deep kiss until they’re detangling from each other. Beca has to tug at the legs of her jeans to bring them down from where they’ve ridden up and she watches Chloe do the same. It makes her crack up for some reason and Chloe’s quick to follow, both of them dissolving into fits of giggles of nervous excitement.

They start walking back toward Baker Hall, Beca’s arm around Chloe’s waist, and Beca notices Chloe tugging her phone out of her pocket and open up a new text.

“Why don’t you text Kimmy Jin and ask if she’s there,” Chloe says when she notices Beca’s curiosity.

“I don’t have her number.”

Chloe tsks at her and shoots off a text to, Beca assumes, her roommate.

A minute or two pass in silence until it becomes too heavy between them and Chloe breaks it. “Nothing has to happen, you know.”

Beca turns her head to look at her, though Chloe’s facing forward. Why Chloe thinks Beca might feel like she’s being pressured into something is beyond her, especially since Beca was the one laying the physical flirtation on thick all night. “I’m here, aren’t I?” she says, as if it should be obvious.

“I know,” Chloe says. Beca notices they’re only a few blocks from their dorm and her anticipation starts to grow again. “But we’ve been drinking.”

That’s a fair consideration. People do things they regret when they’ve been drinking, things they would never do sober. And that could be true, except that in Beca’s case, “I’ve been thinking about it for a while.”

It’s Chloe’s turn to look over, and she’s wearing a bit of a smirk. “You have?”

Beca shrugs and tucks her fingertips into the front pocket of Chloe’s jeans, as though she’s making a point, though the prospect of having to talk about it in detail makes her self-conscious. “Shut up.”

“Beca.” Chloe’s voice is teasing and slow, like syrup.

“Don’t,” she says with a groan because she knows Chloe’s gearing up to tease her. “Can we just...can you just accept it and let it go?”

“Oh, I’ll happily accept it,” Chloe says with a proud toss of her hair. Then she’s rounding on Beca to stop right in front of her. “But I’m not going to let it go,” she finishes as she leans in to kiss her and Beca meets her halfway.

Beca pulls back when things are edging toward too hot and heavy for the sidewalk. “C’mon, let’s go.” She takes Chloe’s hand and leads for a few steps before catches up. “Did your roommate text you back?”

Chloe checks her phone while Beca opens the door to the lobby to let her pass first. Chloe makes a sound of excitement, a borderline squeal, and her pace picks up considerably as they stride toward the elevator. “She’s spending the night at her boyfriend’s.”

“Oh, thank God,” Beca exhales and follows Chloe into the elevator where she punches the button for their floor before turning right into the kiss she knows Chloe’s anticipating. “Mine’s probably home,” she says between kisses.

“We’d have found a place,” Chloe says, breath already quickening as their kisses grow in urgency.

“Thought about your car,” Beca says as her hands find Chloe’s ass again to tug her closer.

Chloe hums and then says, “I thought about the shower.”

Beca had somehow overlooked that particular option but the possibility, the very concept of it, moves through her like fire. “Fuck,” she says before kissing Chloe harder.

“Mmm, noted,” Chloe says with an evil smirk as she pulls away, grabbing Beca’s hand to yank her out of the elevator and down the hall toward Chloe’s room. “But I want you in my bed first.”

The End

[sammyhale]

J2 DallasCon 2019 Main Panel

J2 jump onstage!

Jared: *showing his Texas shirt* This was a gift from a dear friend from set (Maisie)... Jensen: That wasn’t me.

Jensen describing Jared’s shirt and he’s rubbing his hand all over the graphic and Jared’s chest.

Jared mentioning J2’s matching beards 

Jared: Love is Love. 

Jensen, unprompted, requested that Jared list the US States, which Jared did perfectly in alphabetic order. Jensen: That’s my favorite. 

Jared: In the words of Demi Lovato, sorry not sorry. Jensen:... What? 

We all just sang Deep in the Heart of Texas with Jared and Jensen

Jared pointed out that his and Jensen's parents are both here. We also saw them all hanging out together earlier in the vendor's room!

Jared: we went on a world tour and I found out that I'm afraid of elevators, so I'm taking steps to avoid them Jensen: your bad jokes have reached new heights

Jared has been running around a lot. Jensen says, "I'm sorry. He's usually better than this. He gets nervous around his mom and dad." Jared: it's true

Jensen after patting Jared’s chest: but he brought his mountains... 

Q: Have y’all ever considered racing the Impalas and who would win? Jensen: There’s only one that has a big v8 in it. When we escape with her quickly after the show ends down to Austin there’s a little racetrack down there. We might go give her a test.

Classic J2 (x, x)

They’re both in such good moods today :)

Fan: thank you for existing. Jared: you can thank those 4 people right there (points to their parents) Fan: why did you open bar/brewery? 

Jensen: gives a long intentionally boring answer about profit margins and finding a hole in the market to explain why he and Jared both started businesses related to beer. Jared: It was because beer.

Jared mom, dad, shut your ears. When I was not 21 yet and I had a fake ID-- Jensen: I never had a fake ID. Jared: .... Jensen: I had a real ID from my friend who was 21 and looked like me. Jared: Fair enough. Jensen: I MEAN NO I NEVER DID THAT Jared: HE NEVER DID, ALAN.

Jensen pretended to collapse on the ground and Jared went to grab him and pick him up and put him back in his chair and Jared’s like he’s got some mountains too!!

Jared said best friend and pointed at Jensen 

Jared was trying very hard to acknowledge his privilege and say how lucky he is and how great his parents are. 

Jared: I was born fortunate in that I am a tall white man and I live in a world made for tall white men. My parents didn't have all the money I have and they sacrificed everything to make sure we had what we needed growing up & that was what I learned from them

Q: What would you say is the most influential thing your parents taught you that you are passing on to your kids? Jared: I’m a very lucky guy, husband, and father. My parents taught me I should do the best I can. They sacrificed a lot for me. They gave every single ounce of their being to me and my siblings and I hope to do that as much as I can for my children. Jensen: I could give a laundry list but one is the gift of laughter. There were always jokes, not good ones, but there was constant laughter in the house and I hope to raise my kids in a house with equal laughter. 

Jared recommends acting as not a career, but as a passion 

Jared: I don't recommend acting as a career. If it turns into a career, that's great. There are actors that have changed my life that you wouldn't know the name of. Just b/c we have a lot of episodes doesn't mean we're better actors. It needs to be a passion first.

Jared: Just because we’ll have more than 370 episodes of show between Jensen and I, doesn’t mean I’m a better actor. For me, acting is what I needed to do and I’m blessed enough to get paid for it.

Jensen: There are so many different platforms and mediums to tell stories. Like Jared said, do it because you love it, not because you want to get paid for it. 

Jensen thinks the biggest challenge of voice work is not having someone else in your scene who you can feed off. He also teased that he's recorded some other voice work we haven't seen yet! 

Q: what is one theme you would want someone to take from the show? Jared: Texas Jensen: via Kansas 

What do you want fans to take away from the show? Jared: Sam and Dean did the best they could with what they had. Just do the best you can do and be true. You don’t need to be perfect. Work hard, be honest, loyal, sacrifice.   Jensen: The good fight. The brothers fight for each other and they fight for what they believe is right. 

Making each other laugh :)

Someone passingly mentioned pie and Jared started listing pi off the top of his head. He is in show-off mode for his parents today :P

Jared says Jif. Jensen says Gif. Debate ensues. 

J2 know how the show is gonna end

Jared says they already met with producers and writers after their trip to Australia and they know how the series ends Crowd: OOOOOHHHHH 

Q: Most difficult thing for the boys to face again? Jared: We went to LA to meet with producers, writers, directors. We know how the show will end... The last scene of spn will be the most...*gets cut off* Jensen: I hope no more leviathans

J2 being adorable

Jensen wants Hookman to return. Jared loves that legend too. Jensen wants to kill Yellow Eyes. Fan: Ruby Jensen fakes holding Jared back.

Jensen: If there was one thing I’d really love to not have to deal with again it’d be the bees. I could live with never having the bug episode again. Ever. If those come back I’m out.

Jared: You can kick me in the shin, punch me in the face, hit me in the crotch, and it’s fine. But if you spit on me, I’ll kill you

Jensen: ...when you killed a hellhound... Jared: I killed a hellhound? Jensen: yeah because you're not a Losechester ;)

Fan asked about if Sam and Dean will do something to show Cas gratitude (during Misha’s panel on Saturday he mentioned this in re: to what could be happy enough to send Cas to the Empty). J2 thought the fan was asking how the boys would show gratitude if Cas died and went to the Empty. Jared: I think we'd keep doing what we've been doing. If you lose someone, you keep on fighting the fight. Talks about how they don’t grieve like how people in real life would or should. Jensen: the best way that they can honor the lives they've lost is to continue fighting and saving lives  (For full context: video) 

Q: something you've always wished to change in the show? Jared: that my brother wasn't so short. When we straighten his legs, he's as tall as me Jensen: maybe more trips to the barbershop. It's like having a sheepdog in the car. 

Fan from Norway suggests setting the show in a city there with a hard name. Jared: God bless you. Jensen: WATCH YOUR MOUTH. Jensen: I thought when she said where she was from, you were going to respond "NOR-WAY!"

Who do you fanboy over? Jared fans himself and says “Jensen Ackles” :)

Jensen talks about how Jared fanboyed over Eddie Vedder 

Jared tells more of the story. He asked if Eddie's cig is real. Jared smoked whatever Eddie was smoking & Jensen dragged him off

Jensen: "It was like a vapor cloud of everything cool that had ever been in Jared's body evaporated away & I was standing next to this empty shell of a person."

Jared to Jensen: I pick you

Last question: The girl was reading the question off her phone about the French Mistake and Jared saw she wrote another question about sexy moves and decide to answer that one instead and dance around. 

Q: If your character took over your body, who would notice first and what would be the biggest difference? Jared: I don’t think I would talk so much because Jared talks a lot. If anyone saw me eat. Jensen: Voice and anyone who talked to me would notice.

Classic J2 fist bump brings the panel to a close!

Info via: Fangasm, Cherie, Michael, Amy, #spndallas

[jawllines]

vamp harry vamp harry vamp harry but aLSO i saw an anon suggested a super cute update from the tattoo h fic where they get into a fight and yn doesn’t talk to him and h is all sad and pouty bc he just wants a cuddle now and realized he’s wrong and I NEED THAT now pls

YOU KNOW I ACTUALLY FORGOT TO POST THE WEDDING BLURB DIDN’T I? I WILL POST IT UNDER THE CUT

“Harry when’s the last time you went to a wedding?”

“1840.” Harry answered without a second thought, frowning down at the carrot he was chopping.

Y/N doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to that, no matter how many times he mentions the various years in which he was inhabiting a spot on the planet when Y/N’s grandparents weren’t even a glimmer in their own parent’s eyes. Understandably, this quick response caught her off guard, her brows dipping downward and a gaze overwrought with confusion as she wiggled herself in her spot on the counter, “Whose?”

“Queen Victoria and Prince Albert; I wore a beautiful tailored original flared frock coat -- reckon m’the one who brought it into style, everyone gives Albert the bloody credit -- and my date wore this gorgeous silk satin off the shoulder dress,” he takes a look to her, “Not a real date mind you, her father paid me a lump some of money to take her with me so she could get courted and sadly my little human wasn’t there to accompany me.” He runs his finger down the sides of the blade, swiping off any diced carrot that clung to it down to the cutting board, “Lovely reception, I stole a dance with her.”

Y/N grins, seeing him smiling fondly at the thought of it and she’s positively elated. She’d been rather nervous to bring a wedding up to him -- not because she wanted one herself, no, at least not right now. However, she got a costly parchment paper invitation to her friend Caroline from Sophomore year film studies (one of those where they were really close then, and they simply just fell out of touch apart from a spontaneous conversation every now and again) wedding. She figures because she’d been the person to set them up with limited help from Niall who was more concerned with the fact that he hadn’t lost his virginity at the time so “Why should I help someone else get their dick wet, huh?” But it had worked out well. She always liked their pictures together and felt a small glimmer of pride when she saw that they were still together since she was the matchmaker of the century.

“Welllllll, we were invited to a wedding! Minus the frock coats though,” he slides the carrots from the cutting board into a bowl so he could add it all together and mix it, “Plus, I haven’t gotten to get a new dress for anything in a long while and I’m kinda itching to spend money on something cute.”

Harry turns to face her, that permanent furrow planted deep in his brow, “I bloody hate weddings.” He stated plainly and Y/N’s face warps to match his own.

“What?” She nearly cries out, “But you just said --”

“There’s a reason the last wedding I went to was 1840, Little human.” He shakes his head, moving to chopped carrots to the broccoli, diced onions, ginger root, halved green beans, ginger root and garlic; he was making her a Ginger Veggie Stir-fry (he’s still very much pro-health considering the turmoil he puts her body through when he drinks from her, and she had a particularly shitty dinner of ordered in greasy, cheese pizza the night prior considering Harry had been working late and those are her only cheat days) and he was being quite diligent. It was the first time he was making it so it was probably a bad idea springing this on him while he was in his chef state of mind (because nothing matters as much as his dishes when he’s cooking). “The ceremonies are long and drawn out, the vows are contrived, you’re expected to stay for the reception and dance and eat the disgusting excuse for a mass produced dinner.” He shakes his head, the thought of it absurd in his mind, “Human weddings are meaningless; they divorce just as quick as they enter them most of the time. All that time and money wasted for what? A piece of paper? It’d made me irate before but now that I know what true love is with you, it only makes me angrier that they try to prove their love with that.”

Though his last statement had brought her cheeks warm and rendered her heart a bit mushy, she could feel herself deflate immensely. She couldn’t force him to an event that he didn’t want to attend -- he never made her accompany him to the two hour long meetings he was often stuck in, how could she make him come with her? It was long and albeit beautiful, the ceremony was rather boring, and the receptions could either be really fun or terrible, and the wedding cake -- god, you have to pray that they didn’t spend hundreds on something that tasted grocery store quality at best. But she hadn’t been to one in so long and there was some part of her that secretly loved them, even if she didn’t technically participate as anything but a face for the bridesmaid’s to look out at when they were trying to keep their mind off their cramping feet. She supposes that she could go with her friends or tag along with Niall and his date, but neither would be as fun as she thinks it would be with Harry, no matter his grumpy nature.

“Regardless of my distaste for them, I will attend with you,” he adds a few moments after his initial tirade and Y/N looks up, a new light in her step when she realizes he is looking at her, “I’m interested in how they have changed over time, and I don’t like when you look disheartened by something I’ve said. Wipe that sad little pout of your mouth my love.”

She sucks her bottom lip back into her mouth, biting down on a smile, “You don’t have to if you don’t want to though -- don’t want to force you into it.”

Harry pauses his cooking, walking towards where she sits on the counter and parting her legs for him to fit between, hands remaining on her thighs, “Would going to this wedding make you happy?” He inquires and when she nods, he strokes her skin with his thumbs, the metal of his rings coaxing goosebumps to the surface, “Then I will go. Little human, if you are happy, I am happy, however I do request you let me feed from the tender flesh of your thigh as my repayment for enduring such an interminable proclamation of human love. And that you do not make me dance.”

Y/N agrees to both happily, grinning wide and slipping her arms around his neck, peppering kisses onto his cheeks in rapid succession, “You can suck me dry through my thighs if you want to! And no dance floor shenanigans, promise.”

She had her fingers crossed around his head though -- she could get him on the dancefloor she bets.

Harry allows her kisses before puckering his own lips, and Y/N pushes their mouths together. It only lasts but a moment though, because Harry slips from her hold and pats on her thighs, “Now get off the counter, I need the space for the rest of the food.”

                                                     .                           .                          .

The day of the wedding, Y/N woke up at 7AM to an already showered and partially dressed Harry fixing up the buttons on his white blouse. Perhaps she was a bit melodramatic, since the wedding didn’t start until 10AM and they were maybe just a half hour away from the venue, but she scrambled from the bed. “Why didn’t you wake me?” She had cried out, trying to wipe the sleep from her eyes and detangle from the cotton sheets spread over her bed, “We’re g’na be late!”

“You told me not to wake you until 7:05.” He had reminded her, “I woke early so that you would have ample space and time in the shower.”

She pauses on her way to the bathroom because she remembers this very distantly and the fact that he had woken earlier than needed to get ready himself, makes her reroute to where he stood in front of her mirror. Kissed him quickly, murmured a quick, “Thank you, love you,” as her apology for panicking, before she scattered to back to the bathroom. In a haste she showers, shaves, lotions up, washes her face, brushes her teeth, and does her hair in the course of forty minutes. She walks out of her bathroom to be met with Harry taking her dress from where it hung freshly pressed on the door (he’d insisted on it, even if it was just a floaty floral number), holding it until she could pull up a pair of underwear on and wrestle with a bra.

“Slow down,” he commands gently when she rushes to grab the dress from him, holding it just out of her reach, “We have plenty time, Little human, we’re not the ones getting married.”

Which -- well, that was true, she supposes. Something about having an event to go to makes her a little jittery, moving too quickly and rushing; it’s like homecoming and prom all over again, only this time she had a vampire boyfriend who was incredible at handling stressful moments, carefully helping her into her dress. He took a glittery necklace he’d bought her from her jewelry dish atop of her dresser, and slid it around her throat and clipped the two ends together. A vampire boyfriend who also sweetly reminded her to take her iron supplement because, “Tonight, m’getting between those thighs lovely.”

The drive was alright; there was some traffic and she’d been worried when she saw how backed up the highway had been, but they got there forty minutes before the ceremony and secured a spot near the front where Niall had saved them seats. Harry entertained her with stories of Queen Victoria and Prince Albert, and also trying to act as human-like as he can when they have any sort of interaction with the people around them. Like when Y/N spots another old friend (Adaline) sat in front of them and they begin chatting, catching up some at where they were in life, and who the men sitting beside them were. She’d  made the comment, “What do you guys think of the venue? It’s lovely.”

Harry had answered unprompted, as he hadn’t really spoken much in their conversation other than, “It isn’t St. James Palace, but I suppose it’s fine. Hope she can stand up to the likes of Queen Victoria.”

Y/N’s eyes had widened, a dribble of panic slipping down her spine because she wasn’t ready to give the fake “he reads history books in his free time” explanation that he’d given Niall over Harry’s outlandish comments, but she doesn’t have to. Adaline only laughs, shaking her head and pointed her finger at Y/N, “Course you would find someone with the same sense of humor as you, lucky dog. Adam can never tell when m’joking or not.”

She has to pretend that she isn’t concerned that her joking sounds like Harry’s very serious tone but merely patted Harry’s thigh, giving it a loving squeeze, and when she looks to him he is smiling to himself. He rather enjoyed when people found him funny, and what he enjoyed even more, was Y/N trying to dig their way out of a ditch he’d begun digging them.

The ceremony was beautiful; Caroline looked stunning in her dress, a proper gown embellished with beading and lace appliques fitted to her torso and fanning out into the longest train Y/N doesn’t think she’s seen in real life before. Harry held her hand during the duration of it and swipes away the tear that had beaded to her eye when they began reading their vows and the groom got choked up. Even pulled her close to him, and despite his previous adversity to weddings, this one seemed to be getting him a bit mushy himself. She reckons if they hadn’t been in public, he would have purred for her as he’s so fond of doing when he’s feeling immense love for her.

Her reception was in the same building, so they only had to go a floor up to enter it. She met up with Niall and a few of their mutual friends, got to gush to Caroline about how beautiful the wedding was and how incredible she looked, and kept Harry at her side. He spoke when he was spoken to but otherwise he was quiet and when he’d ventured off to get them more champagne, Gina -- who also shared film studies with them -- leaned in, “He’s giving me strong Edward Cullen vibes, babe -- he moves, you move, silent probably broody type, definitely gorgeous,” she laughed as she continued, “Is he a vampire or something?”

Y/N’s blood ran cold when she forced a laugh, shaking her head letting a lie slip easily from her tongue, “No, no, just shy is all. He’s a bit of a writer so he likes observing people -- can characterize them better.”  

Niall snorts, taking a drink from his flute, “Shy until someone challenges his history knowledge, that’s for sure -- grade A smart lad has a damn book of information as a brain.”

Before they could say anymore, Harry reappeared with her drink, “They’re attacking the cake like vultures to a carcass, I think I may need to break an old woman’s finger to get a slice. Would you like one?”

She’d tricked him into dancing as well, locking their fingers and dragging him out to the floor in the middle, “You promised!” He protested but Y/N had already started moving side to side a little dramatically to get him to smile past his frown.

“Had my fingers crossed!” She let him know delightedly and after some coaxing and the whispered promise that she would throat him later (weddings made her all sorts of soppy and soft, which in turn made her an eensy bit greedy for Harry, and being greedy is simultaneous with cuddly and horny), she got him moving at least a little. She’d coached him through the Cha Cha Slide, had improvised a dance to Papa Loves Mambo, and serenaded him with a lovely rendition of Can’t Take My Eyes Off You. By the time the bride threw her bouquet (which Niall’s date had caught, Niall’s eyes widened comically, and Y/N decides then she’s going to tease his ass to shreds about it), Y/N was feeling the full effect of her champagne and Harry was gaining a contact high from her giddiness. Even the slow songs were nice, as Harry showed her how it’s done exactly (because she’d never been arsed to learn herself), and pulled out some moves that he remarked Queen Victoria would have blushed at (“Times were simpler then, my Love”).

The whole night was so enjoyable and fun and by the time that it was through, she doesn’t think either of them wanted to leave. “We should start crashing weddings,” Y/N had decided on their chilly walk back to the car around , just as Harry revealed a plate with another plate over the top of it that he’d been covering with his coat, “What’s that then?”

“I stole you cake,” he answered, taking off the top plate and showing the five slices that had been hidden, “You enjoyed it thoroughly and they were just going to throw it away but wouldn’t let me take the entire thing, so I took as many as would fit.”

Y/N might have never been more in love with him than she was in that moment.

On their way back, as they both cooled down from the excitement of the reception and Harry was navigating the post wedding traffic while Y/N nursed the stolen cakes in her hand, they were relatively quiet. Harry was worrying his lip between his teeth like he was thinking on something, and Y/N was too worn out to bother him about it until he opened up as she usually does. Though he told her soon enough, once they finally pulled off on the exit that would take them back home.

“I enjoyed that much more than I thought I would,” he told her truthfully and she smiled.

“Good.”

“I would enjoy if we had a big party,” he continued, and Y/N’s once drooping eyes shoot open, “Much like a wedding but without the ceremony, that was a bore. But a big party and we will invite many people and celebrate our love for one another. Would you be interested in that?”

Y/N’s soppy soft heart only gets soppier as she nods, reaching over so their hands locked where his rested on the middle console.

“I’d love that.”

                                      .                        .                     .

Once Harry and Y/N made it home, Y/N had taken what she believed to be a very well deserved nap in the passenger side, only waking to the gentle brush of his fingers to her cheek once they were parked, “Oh, sweet thing,” he’d hummed, “We’re home.” Harry was the best for waking people up, Y/N had decided long ago, because he’s nothing but sweet murmurs and soft caresses. When Niall woke her up in the mornings it was a plethora of pillow hitting and purported threats in the form of I swear to god, you little demon, I’ll write a love letter from you and give it to Professor Rollins. It was jarring and she was far undeserving of it (she only ever hit him will a pillow once and it was because he was already thirty minutes late) when she always wakes people up with careful shakes and promises of breakfast.

Harry is much sweeter towards her, coaxing her from her slumber with soft touches, peppered kisses against her cheek, murmuring pleasant words into her ear and nibbling at the lobe. It brings shivers down her spine and tickles goosebumps up her arms, to where she’s blinking her eyes open slow, adjusting to the light of the room and snuggling deeper into him. If it were a morning she had things to do, Harry would only appease her for a moment with back rubs and cuddles, “Wake up, little human,” he hummed sweetly, and when she replied she didn’t want to, he would assure her that as soon as she returned home they could nap together (which means Y/N will snore in his ear while Harry did whatever he did when she was sleeping and he wasn’t). If she had nothing to do, he would let her sleep in some but would tempt her with breakfast and smoothies.

So when she is reluctant to remove herself from the car, he’s as tender as he always is. Titters something she can’t quite make out before walking over to her side, reaching over to unbuckle her, before gathering her up in his arms. “Your species is such a sleep bunch,” he had commented, “Or maybe it's just my little human who is so tired?”

“Mhm,” she murmured, dipping her face into the column of his throat only then realising that he was carrying the cake plate with the hand of the arm tucked beneath her knees, “Still ready for you stuff me full of that big, thick —“ she begins to tease him but he cuts her off with a small pinch to her bum.

“Careful what you wish for, sweet thing,” he responded, not concerned in the slightest, “Haven’t been inside you for a while, might just split you in half.” He unlocks the door swiftly, twisting the knob and pushing it open, noticeably biting down on the inside of his lip when he feels Y/N shudder and nestle into him closer. She would very much like that, she decides, but she doesn’t think he will. One thing she had learned from him is that if he’s going to feed from her while and/or before they have sex, he prepares far before. The dinner he has is rich and full of nutrients, it’s not normally around a time in which she’s stressed, and it’s only if he’s sure she’s not too exhausted. Two of the three weren’t happening and she could feel from his grip that he was intending to feed from her as soon as they settle.

It’d been a while since he had fed from her; a few weeks at the very least. He didn’t enjoy doing it when she had finals to worry about so he had appeared to be pretty opposed to the fact, even though she continuously told him that it would be just fine if he did. So she knew he was starving -- parched for it -- and the tender flesh of the inside of her thighs, where the blood ran warm and his nose was tucked near another place he loved to frequent, she knew would be a treat after such a long period of wait.

Harry was brisk in his movements, setting the cake he’d taken down on the coffee table and almost immediately whisking her off to their bed. His pupils were blown a telling black that suggested his hungered state; it’s moments like this -- as he’s setting her down atop of the mattress, pushing the soft fabric of the dress up so it floated and fluttered around her hips with albeit precise coordination, eagerly -- that she remembers what he is. Not that him drinking her blood wasn’t its own telling indicator, but she often forgets that he is truly a whole different part of this world, one that nobody is quite aware of.

This should scare her. The way he pushes her thighs apart and settles happily in between, the dark of his eyes overshadowing the usual foamy, light green that they regularly were -- it should make her heart race out of fear that he might take it too far. Drain her of every ounce of blood until he’s satiated and full.

But she isn’t -- not in the slightest, because not only is he pushing sweet kisses to the skin and wrapping his arms around each thigh like a hug, he’s looking up at her like she had given him a star. Like she had single handedly flown to space, plucked one from the sky, and held it out for him to have and to hold. “Remember to tell me if it gets to be too much,” he reminds her as he always does, before he presses his nose to the skin and breathes in deep. His shoulders roll backward once as he nestles closer, his tongue dipping from his mouth to lick a stripe where he would bite as he always does. Goosebumps tickle up and down her arms and legs, her center giving a pulse in interest at the proximity in which he’s near her. It’s too much and not enough all at once, bristling beneath his attention, impatience and excitement fizzling through her veins as she awaits the first bit of pain.

She doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to it. The way the point of his teeth slides into her skin, two pricks much like a shot that she still flinches from. Harry notices her discomfort, using one of his hands to reach up towards her, slotting their fingers together with a soft squeeze as he latches his mouth around the point he’d chosen. He begins to suck from her, such an odd sensation that’s both terribly disconcerting and arousing all at once. A moan threatens at the back of her throat but she swallows it down in favor of hearing his own happy hum against her. Though he normally lacks color, the addition of blood into his system always tints his cheeks a rosy pink at first, and the way he holds onto her tighter, suckles sensually, and revels in the sweetness of the taste makes her tremble.

Y/N doesn’t start getting light headed until two to four minutes in and Harry can always tell -- parting from her with a soft, wet smack, lulling his tongue over the flesh he’d just been feeding from. This time instead of peeling back immediately as he usually does, he scoots forward and pulls the fabric of her panties to the side. Once again he breathes in deep, only this time he is slicking the broad of his tongue up from her hole up to her swollen clit, suckling it into his mouth. This time she is unable to keep her moan quiet, weakened thighs attempting to shut around his head, as he continues to lap at her petals.

“Harry,” she gasps, her back arching, her hips rolling up against his tongue where the clit slicks and slides around the swollen button, moving it side to side beneath, “Please, please don’t stop I --” her legs are shaking much more than she was expecting, reaching down with the hand that he wasn’t holding to burrow in his hair. The mix of spit and her juices was deliciously inviting, wet, messy and warm. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, the telling sign of an orgasm zipping up from the tips of her curled toes, and the light of it wraps around her thigh, around her hips, up through her torso and fanning out down towards her fingers and to the tips of each strand of hair atop her head.

He reaches down towards his cock, wiggling down the slick trousers so they bunch around his thighs as he slips his fingers around the stiff shaft and begins to twist and tug, only serving to make her moan even more against her. Her chest heaves with each breath, biting down on the inside of her cheek when he prods his tongue at her hole, licking inside her, slurping and drinking her up like he’d been born to do it. Almost like he’d been waiting for it since she’d promised him a bite of her thighs in exchange to go to the wedding. The sheer avidness and passion, how he takes hold of her clit between his lips, sucking hard and fast.

He encourages her with his gaze alone, nodding his head, a soft, “Mhm,” against her that had her insides undulating, and like a bubble of water that swells beneath immense pressure, it pops around her in a blinding wave of light. She cums on his mouth, shaking like a leaf -- a very well satisfied leaf -- as Harry licks and sucks and works her through it. Brings her back down from the clouds with soft, sweet kisses up her thighs, to the junction of her leg and hip, pushing kisses to her stomach, and skipping where her dress was still covering her to her mouth. When he kisses her he slips his tongue into her mouth so that he can taste her, nipping, and suckling at her lips before rubbing the tips of their noses together.

Harry pecks another kiss to her mouth before murmuring, “We ran out of cranberry juice this morning,” but before she could act even the tiniest bit elated, he continues, “Thank goodness I have a whole new case of it in my trunk.”

“Harry,” she pouts, but he reaches up and plucks at her bottom lip.

“Put that away,” he tuts his tongue, “If you drink it all, maybe I’ll get you off again, hmm?”  

[fernwehbookworm]

Woke The F*ck Up- Chapter 24

April 28th, 2018

Lena tries Kara’s cell one last time, scanning the room as panic grows. After five minutes, she had grown irritated, after ten, worry had begun to gnaw at her, now it had been fifteen and Lena had called Kara four times while asking patrons and bartenders alike if they had seen her. No one had. The bartender waved her in the direction of the manager's office. It was locked and dark. The schedule posted outside the door said he was off today. Finally, Lena gives in and calls Alex, cringing as it rings to voicemail. She calls again immediately.

“What Luthor?” Alex asks irritably, clearly being interrupted and sounding a bit breathless.

“K-Kara..” Lena’s eyes dart around the bar again,

“What about Kara?” Alex bites through a gasp.

“She… she…”

“Lena, what is it?” Worry starts to tint Alex’s voice.

“She’s missing”

“What do you mean?”

“She went into the bar for my jacket and never came back. No one has seen her. She’s just gone. She won’t answer her phone either.”

“Are you sure she isn’t doing her night job?”

“And just left me standing on a sidewalk, alone, drunk, in front of the bar?”

“Shit, your right. Okay. Stay right there. Sam is on her way to get you in a Lift and take you back to the hotel. Don’t go anywhere alone. I’ll head into work and see if we can pull security feeds.”

“Okay. Alex?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m worried.”

“Me too. But let’s try to keep level heads, okay?”

“Okay.”

**

April 29th, 2018

Kara’s head throbbed; man, she drank way too much last night. Then she remembers she didn’t drink at all. Her eyes snapped open and immediately shut under the harsh fluorescent lighting. The fuzzy images of being drugged in the manager's office pull at the edge of Kara’s brain but she can’t make out the face of whoever it was. Kara moves to sit up and rub her eyes, something heavy clanks as she lifts her arms.

“What the…”

Manacles clasp around both wrists with a heavy chain, another chain leads to between her legs and the manacles around her ankles. Already the skin of her wrists was tinged red with irritation. It takes effort for Kara to focus her eyes through the pounding of her head. She’s in a small, bare room with only one light above her. The stench makes her think it used to be a janitor's closet of some kind. A harsh mixture of chemicals and mildew. Kara groans and rubs her temples. The door bangs open, making her wince and shrink away from the noise.

“Marvelous, you’re awake. I was worried that my dear Corben here had used too much.” Kara looks up at the voice sending chills through her. She knows that voice. She’s heard it before. From Lena’s hotel room.

“Veronica,” Kara growls out.

“Wonderful, you do remember me.” Veronica’s smirk sits like poison in Kara’s stomach. Instead of responding, Kara just glares at the woman lording over her. The figure behind her steps into the light as well. A man Kara had beat in the ring a couple of times, John Corben. He was the best of the underground fighters until Kara showed up.

“I’ve heard that you were the strong silent type. Always just showing up to a fight, collecting the money, and leaving without a word, isn’t that right? Andromeda?” Kara stiffens at the use of her alias.

“Yes, that's right. I know who you are. That’s why your here after all.” Roulette continues, unprompted.

“You see, no one ever leaves my games. There is only one way out of my service and no one ever takes it. So you see, my dear Andromeda, this is not something you can walk away from. You will fight for me. Then, if you live through your trials, your skill sets will be sold to those willing to pay for them.”

Kara somehow finds it in herself to laugh. This was a stereotypical villain rant that made Kara think of a bad movie or comic books. Veronica looks at her with disdain.

“What do you find so humorous?”

“Just this whole ‘You will work for me, or else’ spiel. Very good Veronica. Very Good.”

“Oh but my dear Kara, you will work for me or else. You see, I know your whole life now.” Kara stiffens at that, thinking of her other, other alias.

“I know where your gym is and where all your employees live. I know where your sister’s apartment is. And yes, I know where Lena Luthor is staying currently. Also, I know where the girl is, what’s her name? Ah, right. Ruby. She’s currently at a sleepaway camp in England. So yes, you will fight. You will win. You will win or die trying. Then, if you live, I will begin selling your services to the highest payers. Unless you want something to happen to those closest to you.” With every word, fear lances through her heart. The only hope was that Veronica seemed not to know about Power Girl.

“Veronica, please. Don’t do this.” Kara begs.

“Ah, ah, ah.” Veronica wiggles a finger at Kara.

“Its Roulette to you. Now, Corben, get Andromeda ready for her first fight. Try and escape and I think I’ll start with that lovely front desk girl at your gym. The pretty little blonde one.” Veronica leaves with a flourish.

Kara digs her nails into her palms and swallows past the lump in her throat. This was unbelievable. She was happy. Everything was going perfectly. Then she was so focused on making sure Lena was safe that she forgot to check her own surroundings. Kara groaned inwardly as she thought of the ‘I told you so’ that she would get from both Lena and Alex. Her thoughts are interrupted by Corben throwing a bundle of clothing at her face. He then bends down to unlock her manacles.

“Change. Don’t try anything. We have cameras and men everywhere. I’ll be right outside.”

Kara sighs and looks at the clothing in her lap. Basically identical to what she used to wear in fights. Blue boxers shorts, a sleeveless blue hoodie, and a dark blue face mask. Black tape was also in the bundle for her wrists. Kara sighs again and begins to dress, at least Veronica seems to want to keep Kara’s identity secret.

**

Lena hugs Sam tight as she picks her up. They head back to the hotel and Sam forces Lena to sit on the couch while she whispers encouraging words and they wait for Alex. It’s hard. Lena feels dread seep into her chest. The past year of her life running in circles through her mind, over and over again. Something is nagging at her but she can’t figure out what. The only possibility is that some criminal or someone had figured out that Kara was Powergirl. Lena’s mouth tasted dry and like bile as she fought the urge to be sick. Panic raced through her veins as Sam sounded like a droning in her ears. It could have been hours or even days before Alex knocked on the door. Sam got up to let her in and hugged her tightly. Then Alex sat in front of Lena on the coffee table. Lena’s watery gaze met Alex’s distraught one.

“It’s not good. The footage was corrupted. We think whoever targeted Kara paid off someone in the bar to get in and out unseen. One of our tech guys found the van used for the abduction and was able to trace it back through traffic cameras to a street corner about two miles away. This is all we could get.” Alex produces a folded paper with a picture printed on it. Lena squints at the sheet, trying to make out the grainy facial features.

“Fuck.” Lena whispers.

“What is it?” Alex asks.

“I think… I think that’s John Corben.” Lena manages, flashing back to drunken nights in Veronica’s private back offices of her clubs as the man stood silently by. No doubt hearing the sounds Lena made while in those offices. She wasn’t embarrassed then but she was now.

“And who is that?”

“He’s Veronica Sinclair's personal bodyguard.” Alex visibly winces when she says Veronica’s name.

“I take it Kara told you everything then?”

“Yup. But why would she want Kara? Does she know about Powergirl?”

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think Powergirl did anything to interfere with Veronica’s business…” Lena trails off, remembering what one of her businesses’ was.

“Lena?” Alex waves her hand in front of Lena’s face as she zones out. Lena shakes her head and looks at her.

“Alex, do you know what Kara’s alias was in those fight clubs?” Lena asks slowly, putting the pieces together even before she knows the answer. Alex looks shocked that Lena even knew that.

“I...uh… yeah, she went by Andromeda.”

“Dammit, Kara!” Lena stands to pace and run fingers through her hair.

“What is it?” Alex follows Lena as she paces.

“Andromeda was Veronica’s biggest moneymaker. When she disappeared, Ronnie was pissed. Like didn’t even want to have hate sex, pissed. She swore to hunt down whoever it was and force them to work for her again. She rattled on and on about more and more illegal jobs and how she would target her family to make sure she couldn’t refuse. It was scary. And now, now she has Kara and obviously knows who she is. And now Kara is God knows where being forced to do illegal things just so Veronica won’t hurt me, or you, or your mother. And-”

“Lena! Breath!” Alex stops Lena’s frantic pacing by grabbing her shoulders. Lena jerks to a stop by the strong hands on her upper arms. Alex’s eyes are fierce.

“So you are saying. Veronica Sinclair is behind the underground fights?”

“And gambling clubs, and around forty percent of the drug trade. She goes by Roulette.”

“Dammit, Kara!” Alex groans and begins pacing herself.

“Okay. Well, that’s more than we had. Let me make some calls and reach out and figure out where the next fight is.”

“Don’t bother. I know where it is.”

“What? How?”

“Veronica still wants to win me back in her own twisted way. She sends me invitations to her private viewing box still. It’s so one-percenters can watch the fights and pick from her muscle for higher, and indulge in other activities.”

“Wait, like actual invitations?”

“Yeah, wait hold on.”

Alex sat on the couch next to Sam who had been letting Alex and Lena work through things. When Alex leans forward on her elbows and lets her head hang between her shoulders, Sam starts rubbing circles between her shoulder blades. Lena disappears into the bathroom and rummages around.

“You’ll find her. I know you will.” Sam whispers, Alex relaxes under her touch.

“Here!” comes a triumphant cry from the bathroom. Lena reappears with a crumpled paper as she shakes of a tissue and a floss string. It looked like it used to be nice. Gold trim and black calligraphy.

“It’s just an address, downtown in the warehouse district.”

“Perfect. I’ll get a team ready.”

“We can’t just charge in. Not until Kara is safe. Veronica may want to have revenge but if I know her, she will settle for simply killing her.”

“Lena, I am a Federal Agent. My priority is Kara’s safety. But this could be big. Roulette has been a mystery in the FBI for a long time. The DEO has even been consulting on it. This needs to be called in. Undercover team first, well, address first.” Alex holds out a hand. Lena starts to hand it over but hesitates.

“One condition. I come with you. Undercover.” Lena clutches the address to her chest, out of reach.

“What? No! It’s too dangerous.”

“Either I go with you or I go alone.” Lena raises an eyebrow in defiance. A solid five seconds pass before Alex relents.

“Fine. Give me the damn address. I’ll text you when and where to meet me.” Alex stands and takes the proffered paper. She heads to the door, stopping when Sam grabs her hand. Sam presses a hard kiss to her lips. Alex kisses her back with surprising passion.

“Be safe,” Sam whispers.

“I’ll be back.” Alex reassures her, “I’m not done with you yet, I don’t think I’ll ever be.”

Then Alex is gone. Leaving Sam staring after and wondering just what she means.

“Wow, that was… intense.” Lena chimes in behind her.

“Yeah…” Sam says faintly, then she shakes herself out of the trance.

“I need you to be safe too. I don’t like you doing this.”

“What? No kiss to go with that?” Lena teases, avoiding the seriousness of it. Sam just glares.

“Come on, let’s get you ready. What does one wear to a secret underground fight club that one’s ex runs?”

“Oh, God. I don’t even know.”

**

Lena decided to keep it simple. A long black dress with a slit up to the mid thigh and elegant black Louboutin’s and a silver wrap. When Lena reached out to Veronica about RSVP-ing with a plus one, an hour later the bellhop arrived with a simple white box. The box held two masquerade masks.

Though I wish to see your lovely face, no one else should.

Sam was dressed in jeans and a sweater, she had convinced Alex to let her sit in the surveillance van. Which Lena teased her about having the Agent wrapped around her finger.

“I can’t just sit here and wait for my best friend who may or may not live. At least there I’ll be closer and apart of it.” Sam defends.

“Sure. You're just worried about me. Not a very butch lesbian who is showing her soft side in concern for her sister. That way you can pretend it's not doing things to you.” Lena drawls out. Sam flushes in embarrassment.

“I know it’s not good. I mean Kara is in danger. But the whole, take charge and savior aroura she has going…” Sam trails off and bites her lip. Lena throws a pillow at her to snap her out of it. Lena cackles at her friends startled expression before there is a knock.

“Ass…” Sam mumbles standing to let Alex back in.

Alex is wearing a dark blue dress that takes Sam’s breath away. It hugs her hips in a war that tactical pants do not. The deep neckline interrupted briefly to have a small window just below her breasts and it makes Sam want to just stick her fingers in and tear it open. Sam swallows.

“Hey, sorry. It took too long to convince the director to move on this. It is technically an FBI case so there will be a lot of paperwork later. But we are ready now. Are you two ready?” Alex is too busy talking to notice Sam’s staring.

“Yes, here. Veronica sent these. I’m guessing the rich and powerful don’t like being known.” Lena holds out one mask to Alex. Ignoring her friend's obvious short circuit.

“Okay good. Sam, you can sit in the van, but please do what they tell you. Sam? Sam?” Alex finally notices her staring, mouth slightly agape.

Sam swallows hard. “Yeah, uh. Van. Got it.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just...uhh… dress.” Sam manages.

Lena grabs her clutch and mask before brushing past the two still standing in the doorway staring at each other. “Useless lesbian.” Lena mumbles.

“Bisexual!” Sam cries indignantly.

“Still useless.” Lena retorts as Alex follows them into the hotel hallway. Sam is about to retort again when she feels Alex’s fingers brush hers and instead twins their fingers together. It’s a small thing but it makes Sam’s pulse race.

**

Kara doges and side steps as the punch rushes towards her face. As far as she can tell it’s the third fight in as many hours. Her limbs feel heavy and sluggish. Still, she manages two quick jabs to the man’s ribs and feels at least two crack. He wheezes and collapses to his knees. Cheering and grumbling erupt as money changes hands. Kara leans over and puts her hands on her knees before the large man in charge of her comes to show her back to the small closet like cell she is being kept in. There had been a hard bench that was long enough to lay on and a camping toilet added after the first fight. Kara lay on the bench with a groan. A bruise was forming on her forearm from a particularly hard block. All her muscles were screaming at how hard she was pushing them.

“Next fight is in an hour. Here’s water. The VIP’s will be here soon so you better fight like your life depends on it. Because it does.” The man says in a gruff voice, tossing two bottles of water towards her, falling short to skitter on the floor. Kara groans as she bends to retrieve them, a bruise on her ribs protesting at the movement. Kara chugs half the first and uses the rest to rinse the sweat off her arms and face. Then she begins to sip the second and stare at the wall while she counts the seconds to her next fight.

**

The bouncer takes note of the masks and waves Alex and Lena towards the nicer door. Another man opens it for the two of them. It leads to a dark staircase that they climb and shouting grows louder.

“All teams, check in,” Alex commands into the earpiece. Lena hears the odd echo of her voice directly in her ear also.

“Alpha Team Set. Main entrance clear.

“Beta Team Ready. Roof is clear.”

“Gamma has South Ally clear.”

“Delta has North Ally clear.”

“Copy. Stand by. Remember, we want to capture as many as we can but Veronica Sinclair is the priority. Wait for my signal.” A chorus of “Copy that.” follows and Alex follows Lena into a dimly lit but well-decorated room.

The furniture is lavish with leather couches and regal chairs. Attractive men and women flit from group to group serving a melody of drinks from the bar on one side. Music floats from somewhere, doing nothing to obscure the shouting reverberating through the floor to ceiling windows. Lena’s eyes trail through the room before she drifts over to them. Below is a much rougher crowd of people standing around a makeshift cage as two men circle each other and exchange blows. She feels Alex join her.

“I can’t believe this is where Kara would go. She would have rather been here than with me.” Alex whispers.

“No. This is where she came to release all her anger. This is where she came to be the darkest part of herself. She couldn’t so that with you. But she doesn't need that anymore. She needs you now.” Lena whispers back.

“You’re right. Don’t jump people are watching so I’m going to put my arm around you.” Lena nods and points below, pretending to talk about one of the fighters. She leans into Alex as she slips an arm around Lena’s waist.

“This is one-way glass. We can see them, they can’t see us.” Alex points out. Lena nods, grabbing two drinks from a passing waitress and offers one to Alex.

“No. I have to keep a clear head.”

“Just sip it. It will look weird otherwise. I’ll drink half and we can switch.”

Alex just nods and refocuses below as the match ends. She’s looking for any signs of her sister. Her and Lena continue to whisper observations in order to look as couple-y as possible to the other members of the upper floor. Everyone wore masks and people flirted with whoever nearby. On one table were little white lines of premium cocaine. In another corner was a man dispensing pills like drinks. Veronica was for sure using these events to get rich people hooked on her products. Who better than to get addicted than the rich who could buy it on a consistent basis.

“Well look who finally accepted an invitation. I never thought you would.” A silky voice disrupts the couple. It sends chills up Lena’s spine but she plasters on a smile and turns to her ex.

“Ronnie, dear. How are you?” Lena tightens her arm around Alex’s waist and Veronica’s eyes narrow at that.

“Oh good, just being successful in my business endeavors and wondering why you finally decided to join me, with a plus one.”

“That’s wonderful. Well, this lovely woman is an extra from one of my new music videos. She wanted to see how the other half lived, so I’m giving her the full experience. Plus with the whole kidnapping and helping put my brother and jail with my mother next, I think I could use some more muscle around. Just in case.”

“Well then, it’s lovely to meet you…” Veronica indicates to Alex.

“Jessica.” Ales holds out a hand which Veronica ignores.

“Let me know if you see something you like Lena. I’d be happy to help with anything.” Veronica walks away, swaying her hips to indicate to Lena that she was an option also. Lena sighed and turned away. The ring below was getting rowdy again as the audience prepared for the next fight. Lena catches a flash of blonde under a blue hood. The face is obscured by distance and a mask but Lena would recognize Kara anywhere. Blue eyes flick up to glare at the windows on the second floor, Lena inhales sharply at the split skin on Kara’s cheek and the red stains on the tape on her hands. She’s been fighting a lot, Lena can tell by the slump of her shoulders.

“There she is. We should move.”

“How do you suppose my agents get through that crowd of people, most of which are likely armed? Then get up here to arrest Veronica?”

“Point Taken. What do you purpose?”

“Well, she thinks you’re here to hire muscle. So we watch enough fights to see a selection, then see if you can get a close up look at some of them. Hopefully, we can get them both separated then.”

“Okay.” Lena switches hers and Alex’s glasses, “now go get a refill.”

Alex saunters over to the bar with the empty glass and flirts a little with the pretty bartender while Lena watches as the other fighter is brought out, a bald overly muscled man who grunts and spits. Lena slips into the mask that Kara had so long accused her of using for her singer persona. Alex slips easily back around her, playing the part of the awestruck D-Lister who was getting her dream come true. Lena managed not to flinch as the bell rang and the man let out a war cry and charged. Kara easily sidestepped him and kicked the small of the back, sending him slamming into the chain link fence that separates them from the rowdy audience. He bounces off and right back into Kara’s fist in his eye.

The crowd seems to flinch together at it and then man sprawls on the ground. He tries to stand while blindly swinging and receives a knee to the jaw. His head snaps up before he hits the ground again, unconscious. A little blood dribbles out and Lena fears for a moment that Kara killed him. But then he groans and moves just a little. Two more burly men scramble into the ring to lift the fighter up and take him away. Then another man escorts Kara out by the elbow. And she goes without a glance back.

“Wow,” Alex says softly.

“Wow,” Lena repeats.

“I always forget how badass she is. I just always see that scared little girl that my parents adopted.” Alex waits for a response but all she hears is a loud swallow. She looks at Lena who is clearly flushed and breathing shallowly.

“Lena, god I can’t believe I’m saying this, but are you turned on? Right Now? Seriously?” Alex hisses.

“No!” Lena squeaks out, “okay, yes. Sorry, but she did that so casually. It just-”

“Don’t you dare finish that sentence,” Alex says sternly. Lena just laughs.

“Enjoying the show?” Veronica’s poisonous voice drifts from behind them.

“Very much. Who was that last one? She was impressive. Anything better?”

Veronica raises an eyebrow. She holds a hand out and a drink magically appears by way of a handsome waiter. She reclines in a high back chair and raises an eyebrow, looking Lena up and down. Lena looks away to push a hair off of Alex’s forehead, trying to feign uninterest. She must succeed because Veronica takes a drink.

“Yes, she is impressive. She goes by Andromeda. Undefeated so far but I still have a few fighters up my sleeve.”

“Oh? Anyone I might want to hire?”

“Possibly. I’ll let you decide later.” Veronica throws another wink before standing fluidly and sauntering away again, a queen in her queendom.

**

That was way too easy. Kara knew it was too easy because the fights had been getting progressively harder. Kara paced her small room trying to figure out why it was so easy. She didn’t break a sweat. The only thing was she had this feeling pricking at the back of her neck, like she was being watched. Which was crazy since she was, all the time. Even now she knew Corben was just right outside the door. Soon he opens the door again and prods Kara back into the ring. She stands alone this time and the crowd quiets.

The air is thick as Kara’s eyes dart about, confused. Her heart drums as adrenaline pour into her veins. The quiet is so loud that Kara could probably hear a pin drop. And then she does. Or the soft shink of metal on metal and her head jerks up. A shadow moves just above the light, then yells follow the shadow down. Kara gasps and flings herself out of the way. Kara tucks and rolls to spring right back to her feet. Twin thuds hit the ground as two men land. One pulls a dagger from the thin mat where he had plunged it in an attempt to catch her off guard.

“Shit.” Kara curses as she takes in the lean muscled men, both brandishing knives, both with murder in their eyes.

They circle in opposite directions, attempting to flank Kara. Kara keeps one on her left and one on her right. She can’t let one get behind her. Does Roulette actually want her dead now? Is she insane? Maybe she’s made enough money in the last twenty-four hours? Or has it been days? Kara has no idea anymore. But maybe Veronica has made enough money that Kara isn’t worth it anymore. A flash of metal and kara has to bat a knife out of the way and step out of the way to put both men in front of her again. She’s so tired that she had zoned out and nearly paid the price. The man stumbles into his partner who catches him to keep him from falling.

Then they both charge and Kara sinks into that space in her head. The one where nothing else matters. Where she can practically see every move before the opponent thought of it. The space where time means nothing, everything moves too slow and too fast. She flips the first man over her back, the second she knocks the knife away and jabs his gut. Then she grabs the scruff of his neck and throws him on top of his companion. They scramble to their feet again, one losing his knife in the flailing limbs. The other lashes out and Kara isn’t prepared for it. The blade grazes her forearm, sharp and burning. Bright red splatters on the ground and over the men’s dirty clothing. Kara stumbles back and grabs the wound on reflex.

Laughter and jeering echo around her as the men get to their feet. Kara takes a deep breath and re-focuses and sinks back into the empty space. Block, punch, spin, kick. Each move only using as much energy as necessary. Parry, punch, sidestep. There is the opening. Grab, twist, squeeze. The knife falls into Kara’s other hand, on instinct she takes it and plunges it right back into the man’s stomach. She ducks under a swing of the other man and steps behind him grabbing the back of his head and slamming it into a fence post, knocking him out. The man she stabbed is gasping on the ground, hands pressed over hole pouring blood out. Kara just waits to be escorted out the ring as the ‘nurse,’ a very loose term for the ex-marine with battlefield medical knowledge, rushes to stop the bleeding. Kara has seen the wound before. He should live. Corben tosses her a half used tube of antibacterial cream and tape. Kara applies it as she walks, tearing the tape with her teeth after tightly binding her bleeding arm. She’s so distracted that she doesn't even notice that Corben shoves her in a different room. A room with all of Roulette’s top fighters. Kara turns back to see Corben smirk.

“Wait here. No fighting. Speak to the patrons and be shot.” And he slams the door shut.

Kara walks over to and unoccupied bench in the spartan room and sinks into it. Making sure her hood and mask are still in place before shutting her eyes, ignoring the other men and women in the room.

**

“What is happening?” Alex whispers, seeing her sister standing alone.

“Shit. Look. Above her.” Lena points. Alex sees the two fighters perched above the ring in the rafters. Kara’s head jerks up just before they fall on her. They watch the fight unfold, Lena gasping and clutching Alex’s arms as she notices the small sharp blades. Lena can barely breathe for the next ten minutes as  Kara fights. She almost cries when she sees the blood sprout across Kara’s forearm. She barely contains another gasp as Kara stabs the man. And bites her lip to stop a cheer when the last man is knocked unconscious.

Lena flags down a waitress to ask for Veronica to get her a closer look at the product. The woman seems unfazed by the remark and nods. Lena finishes her third drink to still her shaking hands.

“She’s fine. She’s fine. She has faced worse.” Alex mutters, half to Lena, half to herself.

It just takes a few more minutes for a buff looking bodyguard to appears to escort them deeper into the building. Lena grabs Alex’s hand and swings it a little between them to try and keep up the flirtatious pretense. Veronica waits for them outside a door with an armed bodyguard. A large assault rifle in his hands. That could pose a problem.

“Lena, I’m glad to have piqued your interest. Robert, Be a dear and line them up.” The large man nods and enters the room. Shouting is heard before he holds the door back open for the women.

Lined against the wall are the fighters that Lena and Alex had already seen today, many fierce and scared, most underdressed to show off as much muscle as possible. Only one stands as a splash of color in the dull room, head down as she leans against the wall they are lined up against. Her knee juts out from her foot prooped on the wall, arms crossed, the injured one bandaged. When the door shuts, Kara stands and looks up. Dead blue eyes meet Lena’s then Kara stiffens and tears spring to her eyes. They crinkle at the corners as the only indication of the smile behind the mask. Lena’s eyes dart away to appear interested in the tall muscled woman near the middle of the line. Alex hangs back, trying to inch near the man guarding the door.

“These are my best that are here right now. I have a few that are temporarily hired out for jobs.” Veronica stands back, trying to act casual but her eyes dart between Lena and Kara. No doubt worried about recognition. It would look odd if the undefeated champion wasn’t here.

“However, be aware that their record reflects the price of hire,” Veronica adds as Lena circles the very large woman.

“Of course. I’d expect nothing less. Do you have rates and records written anywhere? I would like to know what I’m working with.”

“Yes, of course. Robert, please give Miss. Luthor the List.” Veronica asks her guard as Lena circles closer to Kara.

It happens almost too quickly to follow. As Robert relinquishes one of his hands on the gun to rummage in a pocket. Alex grabs the muzzle and yanks it sharply down while throwing her shoulder into the man, throwing Robert off balance and tearing it from his grip.

“Move In!” Alex shouts. Putting her back to the only exit of the room and training the rifle on its occupants. Robert reigns his feet and makes to lunge at Alex when a blue streak slams into him and into the wall. One quick punch knocks him out and Alex doesn't flinch her gaze away from Veronica as Kara stands. Shouts and running can be heard in the corridor A couple shots of gunfire but it doesn't seem to be a full firefight. Alex is getting a constant stream of updates in her ear as each room is cleared and as many people handcuffed as possible. Veronica tries to protest but Alex flashes her FBI Badge and hands Kara the handgun strapped to her thigh to keep the muscled men and woman at bay who look like they have murder in thier eyes. Lena had moved to stand next to her armed compatriots as they wait for the team to retrieve them.

“I can’t believe you, of all people, are working the Feds.” Veronica sneers from across the room.

“My dear Ronnie, You took something of mine. I had to get it back. Despite how much I hate my family, I am still a Luthor and that simply could not stand. Also a chance to get you behind bars so you can stop showing up in my life. You, are a poisonous snake Veronica Sinclare, always striking when I’m at my lowest.” Lena holds herself proud and above it all. Veronica is about to retort when a quick knock on the door and it is opened.

Agents pour in, in full tactical gear and begin handcuffing each person inside. Alex waving them off Kara and pulling her and Lena from the room. Alex quickly leads the way through the hallways and back onto the street. Assault vehicles and flashing lights of police cars and ambulances add chaos to the night and a tall, dark-skinned man calls Alex over.

“Director. Any casualties?” Alex asks when she reaches him. Kara and Lena still on her heels.

“None. A few injuries. Only one gunshot wound. Many of ground floor escaped but I understand we have Roulette.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good Agent Danvers. Miss Danvers, please see one of our medics for your injuries before signing the release papers. You too Miss Luthor. Agent, I expect you in at eight sharp to fill out all the paperwork for all this as well.”

“Yes, sir.” Alex barely manages to suppress an eye roll as he turns away.

“I’m sorry, they know Kara is Andromeda?” Lena asks.

“We know everything. All right medic, now.” Alex steers Kara towards the truck holding the DEO medic. Kara tries to protest, but at this point, she is too tired to.

Once safely inside the truck, away from prying eyes, Kara pulls down her hood and mask. The medic does a quick look over Lena then begins a much more careful one on Kara. He unwraps her arm and cleans the cut, deciding it doesn't need stitches. The medic turns Kara’s face side to side as he cleans the cuts there as well. But Kara doesn't notice. Her eyes are fixed on Lena. They burn into Lena and The air is tense. Even tenser when the medic asks Kara to take off her shirt to check the bruising on her ribs. Finally the medic has them both sign a release form and instructs them to wait until Agent Danvers returns to escort them home before he leaves and closes the door behind them.

“Hi.” Kara rasps out.

“Hi.”

“You came for me.” Kara states.

“I did.”

“Because Veronica took something that belonged to you?” Kara raises an eyebrow.

Lena clears her throat. “Yes, well… I had to… I mean…” Lena searches for an excuse.

“Fuck it.” Lena lunges forward across the center of the truck to kiss Kara’s cracked lips. Kara winces and Lena tries to pull away with an apology already on it’s way out when Kara pulls the back of her head closer. They stay like that until Lena needs air. She pulls away and sees the deep desire in Kara’s eyes.

“I can’t just stay friends with you anymore.” Lena whispers.

“Me neither. Can we start over?”

“Yes, please.”

[puddingwillbeouralways]

T.B.T. - A Thiam fic

I don’t know what this is but it’s fun and I wrote it, so there.

Summary: 

In which Liam has boobs, Theo can't stop staring and Stiles is done with them all. -- “It’s gone.” He says and looks up at everyone until his gaze lands on Theo. He looks inside his pants again, his eyes wide with fear and then looks at Theo again. “Oh my God.” Theo is going to leave him. That’s it. He’s going to lose Theo because of some stupid teenage witch. “My dick is gone, Theo!”

Or as Lydia so eloquently puts it... “Liam pissed off a witch and now his body is female on its period.”

Rating: M

Warnings: Fluff, Established Relationship, Genderswap, Implied Sexual Content, it gets sexy at some point though, touching, description of a woman’s period, humor, crack

You know, witches, man. Witches are evil. No matter what you think, Liam doesn’t care, not after this. He had been perfectly polite to the teenage witch he had found hitting on Theo on his run in the woods! He just called her an evil witch that’d dip her claws into anything with a pulse and had thrown a squirrel at her as a better option than Theo! What?! It had a pulse. And he hadn’t known she was a witch! And Theo had no right running shirtless in the woods, but don’t worry, they will be talking about this later. Right now they had other problems.

You see, they had been playing tag as a pack bonding activity when Liam caught Theo with her hands all over his chest and Liam just snapped. The pack had no idea what had happened. The only part they had caught was the witch turning red with anger and shame, chanting something Liam couldn’t even recognize as a language and then going poof right in front of them!

“What just happened?” Stiles had asked of course. Liam wished he could turn back time, but he didn’t think he’d do anything different, so it wouldn’t matter anyway.

Which brings us to the now, the why he had had such a stupid wish.

Liam has boobs.

No. Really.

He looks down and all he can see is boobs. He can see a bit of his shoes too, they’re not that huge, but they’re there and they’re heavy and Liam is freaking out while Theo is looking at him in awe. He can smell lust coming off the bastard. Liam growls at the scent, but when he sees Theo reaching out to touch, he doesn’t stop him. Instead he moans an incredibly short lasting moan until he hisses in pain. Theo is now cupping his breast – Jesus! He can’t believe he actually has one! Not just one, two of them! – and massaging lightly, but Liam can’t take it. He pushes Theo’s hand away, “Stop,” He almost whimpers. “They’re sore.” He doesn’t know why. He looks at Malia and Lydia who are staring in shock at him. Maybe they know. So, of course, Liam asks. “Are they supposed to be this sore?” He says, rubbing them himself instinctually in a way that is soothing somehow. “Do you guys always feel like that? I thought you enjoyed touching your boobs.” Hayden did, at least as far as he knows. But these were bigger than hers. He looks down again to confirm that, and yeah… they’re definitely bigger. Maybe that makes a difference?

“Oh no,” he hears Lydia say and his head snaps up at the sound, suddenly worried something’s really, really wrong. He wants to cry. Why does he want to cry? Or maybe hit something! That’s more like it!

“Shit.” Malia adds and this doesn’t help the swirl of emotions inside Liam. He wants to run, but he wants to know what’s wrong too and Liam has never felt so confused in his entire life. What’s happening?!

“What?” He asks and when they simply look at each other, he asks again, louder this time, “What?!”

Lydia looks at him resigned, “You’re getting your period.”

Liam frowns. “What?!” That’s not true. “No, I’m not!” That’s impossible. Right?! “I don’t have a period! I’m a man!” He slaps Theo’s chest who is still looking hungrily at his damn boobs. His eyes snap up to Liam’s at that. “Theo, tell them!” he demands. He swears to God he better have been following the conversation because Liam is not stating his manhood again.

Theo smirks then, the awe still on his face, but now smugness is there too and Liam knows he’s going to say something he’ll regret. “Yeah, he’s definitely a man,” Theo says looking him up and down in a way that would have made Liam hit him if it was anybody else. “My ass can attest to that.” He kisses Liam once after that, a chaste kiss, but it makes Liam smile and the smile he gets in response… God, it wakes up those butterflies in his stomach.

The exchange is not lost by the others, who know Liam would have at least mildly punched him for the comment, but they don’t mention that. A happy Liam is a better Liam for all.

But Lydia has a point to prove and she’s not letting go. She raises an eyebrow at Liam, crosses her arms on her chest, accentuating her own boobs at the same time which makes Liam remember what’s going on around him. “Why don’t you check your pants then,” she says as if she already knows the answer. She probably does.

As Liam goes to unbutton the top of his pants, Mason jumps in, “While you’re at it, is the chest hair there too?”

Theo freezes at that. He loves Liam’s chest hair. He loves to pull at it and make Liam moan, he loves to cuddle against it, he loves to run his hand through it whenever Liam is too tense and Liam needs to relax. You guys don’t get it; Theo loves Liam’s chest hair. Theo turns to Liam in horror, who is busy looking at his own pants, but Theo doesn’t care, he doesn’t care about anything other than… “Oh, no. The chest hair. Liam, please, tell me it isn’t…” he stops unable to say the word gone. It makes him want to pout for the rest of time just thinking about it. Until Liam interrupts him with some horror of his own.

“It’s gone.” He says and looks up at everyone until his gaze lands on Theo. He looks inside his pants again, his eyes wide with fear and then looks at Theo again. “Oh my God.” Theo is going to leave him. That’s it. He’s going to lose Theo because of some stupid teenage witch. “My dick is gone, Theo!” Suddenly, Mason’s question sinks in and he turns to his best friend in confusion, “Also, I thought you hated chest hair.”

Mason just shrugs, “Mostly I do. But yours is kinda artfully there, dude,” he says pointing at Liam’s whole chest area.

Theo growls at that, pulling Liam closer by his waist and Liam smiles delighted. Until he notices that brought his breasts closer to Theo’s face and Theo’s eyes glaze over again looking at them. Immediately, his mood changes and Liam scoffs, pushing Theo away.

Meanwhile, Mason is muttering something about ‘fucking bears’ and everyone hears Corey berate him for it. “No body-shaming, baby,” Corey softens the reprimand with a kiss on his cheek.

Mason shakes his head though, “Oh, I wasn’t body shaming anybody. I was literally talking about that time I fucked a bear.”

Everyone except Corey turns to him in shock varied towards disgust and freaking out. “You what?!?!”

Stiles is gaping like a fish at everything that’s unravelling in front of him. Where is Kira’s sword?! Give it to him! He’ll open up a hole right here to fall into! “This is literally the most scarring conversation of my entire life.” He doesn’t turn to look at his best friend as he speaks next, his brain too shocked to process it all and his eyes too shocked to move from Mason, “Scott, where’s the bleach.”

Scott’s eyes are wide like saucers, his mind is barely keeping up, he’s pretty sure he’s lost something in this conversation because he’s pretty sure Mason just admitted to committing bestiary – or was it beastiality?- and that was a huge no-no for him and just, “I don’t know. But I think I might need it too.”

Mason looks at them before he understands what they’re all thinking and jumps unprompted, shivering in disgust, “Ew! Come on! I didn’t – It wasn’t – It’s a type of guy that’s really hairy, okay?!”

They all exhale a big breath in relief except Liam who does the exact opposite. “Uh, Theo,” he started with trepidation.

“Yeah, babe?”

Liam hesitates before he admits, “The chest hair’s gone.”

“What?!” Theo exclaims and lets go of Liam’s waist to push his t-shirt up, which he probably reconsidered Liam flashing everybody with his newfound boobs and just stretched the neck of the t-shirt to look in there better.

Malia is not that shocked actually. Instead, she rolls her eyes at the pair of them and says, “Of course it’s gone, you have breasts now!”

“Ow, stop touching!” Liam complains, pushing Theo’s probing fingers away. Seriously, no matter how many times he pokes them, they’re still going to stay jiggly, and they’re still going to hurt.

“But,” Theo goes to protest – he just likes touching them okay? They look so soft and squishy and so hot on Liam! – however Liam just glares at him, pointing at him and saying a simple “No!” just like you’d do to a bad dog. Theo just pouts in response and looks longingly at the balls of squish on Liam’s chest.

Stiles is so done. You got that? He’s done! “Okay, we need to fix this. I can’t take this anymore,” he says flailing around and turns to his alpha for guidance, basically begging him to do something – anything! “Scott, Scotty, how do we fix this?”

But the alpha is too shocked to respond, let alone think.

Lydia, though, has a foreboding expression on her face as she says, “We need to fix this before Liam gets his period.”

“Uh, guys?” They all turn to look at Liam. Liam has scrunched up his face in disgust, he’s wincing and grimacing at the same time as he feels something liquid drop out of him. “I think it’s too late.”

“Let’s go to Deaton.” That is the first helpful thing anyone has ever said, thank you Mason. But as Liam goes to take his first step, he freezes. There’s something… God, what is that? “I feel something.” Something’s coming out of him and it feels weird and gross and slime and Liam hates everything right now, heaven and hell and earth and the biology class that he never paid attention to though he doubts it would have told him what this thing is. “Oh. Make it stop. Please.” He stares pleadingly at the girls for any words of wisdom. He’s really freaking out here. He has no idea what’s happening, he has breasts and probably a vagina too and Liam has no idea how to deal with it all. “How do we stop it?”

Read the rest on ao3

[bruddahme]

Super Mario Party review: the most tactical Mario Party game yet

Nintendo really needed Super Mario Party to be good. While the Nintendo Switch console has been selling like wildfire for the past 18 months, many of the tentpole releases we were waiting for – Breath of the Wild, Super Mario Odyssey, Splatoon 2 – have come and gone, and there’s a lot of pressure to keep up the console’s early momentum.

Thankfully Super Mario Party is the game to do just that, and feels as much a refresh as it is a tightening of the series’ well-worn mechanics.

As a multiplayer party game, Super Mario Party won’t be a necessary purchase for a lot of players, but for couch-based co-op and casual minigame fare, this is exactly the game the Switch needed. So what exactly have Nintendo done differently, if anything?

If it ain't broke

There have been a lot of Mario Party games now. Super Mario Party is technically the 11th for a mainline console – and the first not to use a numbering system – though there have been a handful of DS entries along the way too.

Most games see similar criticism for reusing the same repetitive board game mechanics, and in a console generation that saw complete overhauls of traditional Zelda and Mario game design, that wouldn’t have been good enough.

This is still a Mario Party game though, and most of the action takes place on 3D boards, with a host of Mario characters rolling die, playing mini-games, and collecting stars to try and crown themselves the best of them all. Think Mario Kart, but you’re all playing some kind of in-house, home-brew family Monopoly.

There are a host of secrets on each board, like a melting ice cream cone or ticking Bob-ombs that shake things up if you land on the right spaces enough times – and unprompted visits from Mario baddies that add more risk to landing on random spaces. These alone are an incentive to revisit old boards or play out a full 20 turns instead of a mere 5 or 10, and as always it’s the combination of chance and strategy that makes Super Mario Party so enjoyable to play.

Mario Party 9 and 10 lost a lot of the series’ competitive streak in its main board mode, which packed all four players together in a single cart that was pulled around the map, rather than letting each player roam for themselves. But Super Mario Party smartly goes back to the old formula here, along with a host of new tactical elements that expand the possibilities for gameplay.

The enemy of my enemy is my friend

  Anyone familiar with previous games will see a number of entirely new faces for the series, including Boo, Goomba, Koopa Troopa, Hammer Bro, Dry Bones, Shy Guy, Diddy Kong, Monty Mole, Pom Pom, and Bowser Jr – as well as the big man Bowser himself, previously only playable in Mario Party 10’s ‘Bowser Mode’ but now able to walk the boards like the rest of them.

What makes these more than cosmetic choices, though, is the die. Each character has a unique die with custom numbers, which they can choose to use instead of a simple 1-6 roll. This means you can try for higher numbers, but usually with the risk of hitting a 1 or 0, depending on who you’re playing. (Bowser has a handful of tempting 10s, but can also sap away your hard-earned coins while leaving you stuck on the spot.)

You can also collect ‘support’ characters along the way, which act a bit like Assist Trophies from Super Smash Bros – but instead of attacking other characters, they add their own die to your roll each turn, stacking up the numbers and often saving you from a low roll, or making you overshoot the nearby space you wanted.

The 2v2 Partner Party mode goes one step further, ditching the restrictive one-way board for an open map you can roam in any direction you please. It allows for far more strategy in your movements each turn, not least because you share turns with your teammate, and need to communicate to make sure you make the most of the stars, items, and surprises of each board. 

It’s not just a different mode, though – it’s a smarter one, and one that will keep bringing back adult players who have tired of the simple formula of the games’ main Party Modes.

The competitive play has really been focused, with enough feel-good charm to still make you feel like you’re all in it together. Players have the option of high-fiving each other at the end of each minigame for a reward of +3 coins, which makes even breezy minigames feel like triumphant team efforts.

The once-infamous cart from the last two games, however, lives on in spirit in the River Survival mode, which puts four players in a raft, plunging down rapids and playing minigames to extend how much time they have left to reach the end. Naturally this requires everyone to paddle somewhat cooperatively – in a smart use of the Joy-Con’s motion controls – and the various twist and turns to the finish line give it plenty of replay value.

Minigames for all

And we haven’t even touched on the mini-games. In usual Mario Party style, there’s a whole new 80 minigames created just for the Nintendo Switch system – with the promise of more unspecified content if you manage to access them all from the main game mode. 

Many will feel… familiar to fans of the franchise, as they use the same randomized selection and 1v3, 2v2, 4v4 formulas to try and out-mash, out-smart, and out-collect your opponents.

Few are truly difficult, but the short and combative nature of most of them keeps tension high, and the selection is smart enough to utilize the specific strengths of the Joy-Con controllers. The HD rumble makes for tense balloon competitions, while the motion controls allow you to reel in nets, operate wind machines, and high-five each other in intuitive but surprising ways.

This is the first Mario Party game to offer online play, in a dedicated ‘Online Mario-thon’ mode that connects you with players around the world. It does, however, only extend to the minigames, allowing you to play a best-of-five with strangers online and compete for the top spot on various leaderboards.

For a multiplayer game that doesn’t seem like much, especially since the Nintendo Switch Online paid service has just launched, and more could have been done here. But playing 20-turn board game with online matchmaking would also bring its own problems, which we don’t entirely blame Nintendo for avoiding: what’s the incentive to stay online with a stranger if it’s clear you’re losing halfway in?

Much has been made of the Toad’s Rec Room mode, which lets you pair up two Nintendo Switch screens for a number of compatible mini-games. Cue 2v2 tank combat that shoot cannons from one screen to another, or halved pieces of fruit that need to be reconnected. It’s fiercely fun and makes the most of the console’s capabilities, even if it requires you to have two $300 systems to hand.

Our verdict

Super Mario Party is exactly the party game the Nintendo Switch needed. While online features are sadly limited, there’s a host of different modes all offering a unique take on the Mario Party formula, and gamers of all ages and abilities should find something here for them – just as a Nintendo game should be.

The added strategic elements and wide range of gameplay modes make this, perhaps more than any other, a Mario Party game for everyone.

Super Mario Party: the 5 best minigames from Nintendo's Switch party game

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You Lied Your Way Into A Job As A Surgeon! Can You Avoid Killing Anyone Long Enough To Collect Your First Paycheck?

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Surgeons. The masters of the flesh. The gatekeepers of the organs. The doctors who get to shave patients.

These are the green-wearing gods who know that the human body is but a chessboard, and that the nipples are the king and queen, and the belly button is the opposing king or queen.

Today, finally, you are beginning your journey as one of them.

Sounds sweet.

You have already gone through the arduous process of becoming a surgeon. After calling the hospital over and over every day for three weeks straight and praising Tylenol in the deepest voice you could muster to whoever picked up, being hung up on by countless doctors and nurses, you finally hit the big time.

Yesterday, you managed to get the chief of medicine on the line, who offered you a job after a mere 50 minutes of you bellowing to her about the white-and-red pill. Congratulations!

Thank you. I am a surgeon.

If you eat eight Tylenol fast, that’s one rabies shot.

Eating any more than three Tylenols in church is a SIN unless you brought enough for EVERYONE.

Okay. Being a surgeon is sweet as hell. You get to wear patients’ clothes around a hospital once the chemicals put them to sleep, you can eat as many tortilla chips as you want, and you can hide all of your favorite DVDs and family heirlooms inside toxic waste bins, the one place thieving pricks are too grossed out by to steal from.

That all sounds great.

Skittles are to math what Tylenol is to alchemy.

Tossing Tylenol into an above-ground pool is basically the same idea as tossing Tylenol into an in-ground pool.

George Harrison wrote three songs about Tylenol in the days just before his passing that his estate will not release.

Cool. But the best part of being a surgeon, bar none, is that incredible surgeon paycheck.

It’s no secret that surgeons are paid well, as every single day at 8 p.m., hardworking surgeons all over the world reap the fruits of their labor: a plastic bag filled with $600, given to them by their chief of medicine on their way out the door, in addition to a goodnight kiss on the forehead.

Hell yeah.

Exactly. So now that you’re a surgeon, you better do everything in your power to make it your $600 payday, because there is one universal stipulation that could jam you up: If a surgeon kills someone, everything completely goes to shit.

1) For starters, once a surgeon kills someone, they are NEVER allowed back in a hospital, ever. Even if you just want to go to hang out or to meet new lovers.

2) Your professional reference completely goes out the window. If a new job calls to ask about you, instead of a recommendation, the HR department hands the phone off to the absolute sickest pervert patient they have, and lets them air out whatever they’ve got kickin’ around up in their minds.

3) Lastly—and this one is the worst of all—you don’t get paid a dime, which would mean all of your efforts to become a surgeon were for NOTHING.

So, if you want to get to that sweet paycheck, you’re going to have to make it through one entire day as a surgeon without killing someone.

I’m excited to be a surgeon who kills no one.

The hospital. The place where people come when they are bored to take off their pants and scream. This will be your new surgeon home, and today is your first day of work. As far as anyone inside is concerned, you are now a fully qualified surgeon, so if you want those 600 clams, you’re going to have to hold your own and stay off everyone’s radar.

Enter the hospital.

“Please give me a surgery.”

Ah, shit. A sick kid is waiting for you right inside the lobby, and he looks all kinds of fucked up.

“I need a surgery pronto. I am dying, and it feels like none of my bones are connected to my other bones. I also have a rash that comes and goes. Please do surgery to me with your other doctor friends.”

Quietly tell the kid that he’d be doing you a huge favor by asking another doctor for help on this one, and hope that he’ll be cool.

Piss your pants and bail to the bathroom.

“If you don’t give me a surgery right now, I will scream. I will scream so loud and for so long, and I will point at you the whole time. It will go on for so long that the rest of the doctors here will have no choice but to send you to jail.”

Piss your pants and bail to the bathroom.

That was close. You’ve pissed your pants real good, and now you’re in the bathroom splashing your pants with water, the best way to clean pants that you’ve urinated in.

I know that. My pants are now much wetter, but not as much with piss as with water, so they’re practically good as new.

“You sure know your way around cleaning a pair of pissed pants, sport. Not bad at all.”

You look over and see that it’s the hospital’s janitor talking to you. He somehow opened the door in perfect silence while you were inside splashing your pants, and has been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds.

“I’ve been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds, and I can tell just by looking at you, you’re no surgeon.”

Yes I am. I am a surgeon, you jackass.

Remove your shoelaces and begin choking the janitor until he dies so no one finds out about the bullshit he just said, or about your method of splashing water onto your pants.

“Easy, easy. I’m not gonna rat you out. I’m gonna help you.

I take it that you’re in here lying to be a surgeon, hoping to get ‘The $600 Bag Treatment,’ huh? Well, you’ve got a friend in me. I’ve seen it before, and I’ll see it again. All you gotta do is make it until 8 p.m. without killing a soul and you’re in the clear. So whadya say you come lay low with me for the rest of the day, spend some time hanging with a new bud so you don’t end up killin’ no one before you get that money?”

Why are you being so nice to me?

“I, uh, how do you mean?” he says, visibly becoming self-conscious about the entire interaction so far. “I’m just tired today, so if I’m acting weird, that’s what that’s about, probably. Allergies are being weird, too.”

Okay. Let’s hang out.

“Follow me!” the janitor says before sprinting down the hallway. You do your best to keep up with him as he weaves in and out of patients and doctors before you finally arrive at a huge metal door. He slides open the rusty door to reveal a set of long, winding stairs that lead to a dark, desolate basement, and turns to you with a half smile.

“It’s not delivery, it’s DiGiorno,” he says before letting out a quick, uncertain laugh, looking over his shoulder at you to kind of check in and see if you’re laughing or anything at what must have been some sort of joke.

Smile and nod politely.

Pretend you didn’t hear what he said.

What are you talking about? What?

“That was dumb, never mind,” the janitor says, shaking his head as his shoulders slump, trying to explain his joke before slowly progressing into full-blown self-deprecation. “I was thinking, like, how in the old commercials, I’d be the delivery guy and you’re the pizza—I don’t know, forget it. It was dumb. Sorry.”

Okay.

You follow the janitor down the stairs and into the basement of the hospital, and lo and behold, it’s a full-blown bachelor’s pad! The janitor has stocked the place with some of the best things: a ping-pong table, a “Forever 27” poster, an old-timey popcorn machine, and a bunch of orange pill bottles filled with Frosted Cheerios.

“This is my chill zone. I’m down here almost all the time, which is why the hospital is filthy and patients always seem to get sick immediately after they get better.”

“We got all day, brother, so we could either sit down and talk about that important-looking guitar I have mounted on the wall over there, or we could stand near the stairs and wonder if Slash has ever signed a guitar and sold it for $20,000 online before, or maybe we could lay down on the ground and trade stories about the most expensive thing we’ve ever mounted on a wall. Your call.”

Challenge the janitor to ping-pong.

“I can’t lift my arms above my waist because of a power-washer accident.”

Give in and ask the janitor about the guitar on his wall, since it seems like he really wants you to.

“You got a good eye, kid,” he says as though you brought it up completely unprompted, proudly looking up at the guitar he somehow mounted unnecessarily high on his wall.

“Believe it or not, Slash signed that guitar, and I was lucky enough to spend all of the money I have on it. I usually don’t do this for anyone, but for you, I’ll climb all the way up there and get it if you want to hold it.”

Seems dangerous to climb up there if you can’t lift your hands above your waist.

“I’d climb anywhere for one of my boys.”

And what about those wires? You’d have to step all over those wires to get over there?

“I’ll put a very wet towel over them. I’m sure that will be fine.”

This looks way too dangerous. Say you don’t need to see the guitar, bail on the weird janitor, and head back toward the lobby to kill time solo.

Ask the janitor to get the guitar for you.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You put the janitor in grave danger by selfishly asking him to grab his Slash guitar off the wall. After the janitor put a soaking-wet towel on top of his countless basement wires in order to walk over to the wall and begin his climb, he was immediately electrocuted and fell crashing to the ground without the ability to raise his arms and break his fall. It’s unclear if it was the electricity surging through his body that did him in, or if it was the way his neck snapped on a nearby stool because of the horrible, unnatural way he fell. But either way, he is definitely dead, and it is your fault.

You’re no longer a surgeon, and you can kiss that bag of $600 goodbye.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

As you go back up the stairs and start heading toward the lobby, you can hear that he starts to follow you, but then locks himself in the bathroom you were in earlier and begins screaming at himself in the mirror for messing up what could’ve been a nice day. His screaming gets louder and louder before it comes to a halt after you hear the sound of him snapping his mop over his knee in fury.

Run away from the janitor as fast as you can.

“I need you to give me a surgery right now.”

Ah, damn. It’s the sick kid from earlier.

“I feel like I’m on a boat at all hours of the day, and my elbows are dry. I need you to cut me open and drain me out, if that’s what it takes, and to please get me home by later today.”

Give the kid a surgery.

You pick the kid up, throw him over your shoulder, and walk through the hospital looking for a good room to cut him open in. After 20 minutes, you finally find the room with all of the surgeons in it, and you slam the kid down on the empty table they’re all staring at.

Now all eyes are on you. You’re going to have to step up and say something pretty incredible to get all of these surgeons on your side.

Found a kid I think would be perfect for surgery.

This is the only patient I’ve seen twice so far, so I think he should be next.

It’s not delivery. It’s DiGiorno.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

After you said that ridiculous, dumbass comment, every surgeon in the room became furious at you and began hammering you with questions about your qualifications. You tried mumbling through more Tylenol facts, which went much worse in person than it did on the phone, and somewhere during your 25-minute verbal beatdown from the other surgeons, the kid died on the table.

You are no longer a surgeon, and you will never get a plastic bag filled with $600.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

Share Your Results

Everyone starts nodding and smiling and patting each other on the back. Good shit.

“Ha, nice,” a woman says, whose voice you recognize from the phone as the chief of medicine at the hospital. She quickly anesthetizes the patient to finally stop him from grabbing and clawing at everyone’s surgical masks, and within seconds the little spaz is sleeping.

At that moment, the tallest doctor you’ve ever seen walks into the door wearing a backwards hat and confidently drinking Barq’s Root Beer out of a 2-liter bottle.

“I’ve never seen you around here,” he says after putting the root beer down firmly into the lap of the unconscious kid and eyeing you up and down suspiciously. “Enlighten us, fresh meat. Now, what surgery are we performing on this little man, exactly?”

Ah, this guy is onto you. Need something big here to throw everyone off your tracks.

Fuck you, pal.

Sorry, rookie, but surgeries don’t have names.

Wink at him.

“Doctors, you two can be mean to each other in the parking lot all day long if you want to, but that’ll be enough fighting in my hospital,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Let’s get started.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

“Doctors, that’ll be enough talk about whether or not there are actually types of surgeries or not, because there simply is not a correct answer,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Let’s get started.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

“Doctors, please stop winking at each other,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Begin surgery.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

After noticing that no one is reacting to you pissing yourself, you look around and realize that every surgeon in the room has also already pissed themselves. Then you remember that surgeons are constantly pissing themselves during surgery, like bicyclists during races, for reasons completely unknown.

Ah, right. Now start the surgery.

The chief of medicine takes out a toolbox from underneath the surgery-room sink and hands each surgeon a tool. She takes each tool out one by one and starts passing them down the line. One doctor gets a small shovel, one gets a large knife, another gets a pickax, and on and on it goes, until you finally end up with the flashlight!

“Um, yeah, that’s my flashlight, pal. I’m always the flashlight man around here,” says the root-beer doctor.

“No,” interjects the chief. “New guy can hold the flashlight today. I have a good feeling about this.”

Your new rival is stunned. He shoots you a dirty look, threateningly crosses his thumb over his neck, and then does it again with his other thumb, but slower. Then he quietly mouths something that you didn’t really get a good read on, but from what you did see, your best guess is that he was saying something like “Fracking mountains,” or “Simply delicious.” Then he is handed the worst tool: the blood napkin, the tool that wipes up all the loose goo and pus.

Turn the flashlight on and shine it at the kid’s organs.

Shine the flashlight in your rival’s eyes to make him squint.

“Ah, c’mon, man. Quit it. What the hell.”

Nice. Shine the flashlight at the kid’s organs now.

The surgery is now well under way. The chief is slicing and dicing and moving parts around left and right. It’s pretty much a one-woman show.

Most of the other doctors are using their tools just to kind of scrape some bones and stuff when they feel like they should get in the mix, usually after not doing anything for a couple minutes straight and getting nervous that someone will notice how they’re not really that crucial to the operation.

You’re getting bored by the whole thing at this point, but at least you’re holding your own with these docs and, most importantly, haven’t killed anyone yet.

Keep shining the light in the organs.

Surgery still going. Getting kind of repetitive. A couple doctors shuffled out for a minute and came back with crackers, but the crackers are all gone now. You didn’t even notice they had crackers until there were only, like, four left in the sleeve, so at that point, asking for some really wouldn’t have been cool.

Surgery is getting boring.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Surgery is boring as hell.Your arms got tired from holding the flashlight up, so you put it down for a minute and no one seemed to notice. You’re back up now.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Kid woke up and started screaming LOUD, but now he’s sleeping again.

“You were scared!” “No, you were scared!” “I wasn’t scared, you were scared!” The surgeons are all ragging on each other and having fun again. Finally got some juice in the room. Whole crew got a good laugh out of that one.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Woah, wait a minute. Oh, man. You see something inside the kid’s body. Wedged deep in between his rib cage and his liver, there looks to be something shining and throbbing, and you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who sees it.

Two doctors broke away from the surgery about 15 minutes ago to arm wrestle on a nearby stool, and the rest of the surgeons have all one-by-one walked over to form a circle around them so they can gamble. Meanwhile, the chief is still hacking away at this kid’s organs with all of her might, and seems way too dialed-in to notice the game changer you’ve found.

Become a hero in front of your new boss by immediately and dramatically yanking out whatever the hell is sticking out of this kid’s guts.

Play it safe by simply alerting the chief of the mystery object and seeing what she thinks you should do.

Lean your flashlight up against the kid’s chin and go gamble with your new work friends.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You thought you were being a hero by yanking out what you thought were some sort of wet, shining metals, but were actually the poor kid’s veins. You are no longer a surgeon, and can go ahead and kiss that sweet paycheck goodbye.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

“Those are veins. They are not ‘evil copper and metals sticking out of this poor bastard’s guts.’ Do not call them that.”

Damn. Misread that one. The chief is totally onto you now.

“But I appreciate you speaking your mind when you think something is amiss,” she continues, looking up and making eye contact with you for the first time. “That takes a commitment to the job that some of my other doctors lack at times,” she says, motioning to the doctors across the room who are now attempting to disguise their arm-wrestling gambling ring by draping a hospital gown over the two meaty, dueling arms.

Hold eye contact without blinking, slowly nod your head, and say “good.”

The chief reciprocates your unblinking eye contact and begins nodding in perfect unison with your nodding. This goes on for a good 20 seconds or so, the grunts of the two arm wrestlers and the slaps of cold, hard cash hitting the tile becoming the only sounds in the room.

At that moment, you and the chief simultaneously feel a romantic charge between you, and it feels beautiful and right. But that romantic feeling is immediately followed by a simultaneous paternal feeling, but it’s unclear who is the parent and who is the child. Then the two feelings of physical attraction and familial protectiveness fuse together into one singular emotion, and it feels disgusting to both of you.

Pretend you hear one of the gambling surgeons call you over to ask you a quick question, and then walk over to them.

“Yeah, yeah, go catch up with them. I’ll hold it down over here, cool,” the chief kind of half-mutters to herself and to you while shaking her head and getting back to surgery.

Look back over your shoulder and smile and nod.

Pretend you didn’t hear her and walk faster toward the arm-wrestling scene.

You walk over to the gambling circle and see the two exhausted surgeons pulling and pushing as hard as they can to win. The two doctors are so evenly matched that their arms aren’t moving or shaking in the slightest. If it weren’t for the veins about to explode out of their temples and the tears streaming down their faces, you’d have no idea how intense the duel was.

All of the other surgeons are quietly going apeshit. Almost all of them are either gently pounding their chests, gingerly slapping the ground, or shaking their fists in the air, all the while whispering bad arm-wrestling advice like “Win the skin!” or “Make him smooth!”

It’s definitely a pretty sweet scene, and you decide that you want to get in the mix.

Ask the doctor on your left to borrow a couple bucks to gamble.

Ask the doctor on your right to borrow a couple bucks to gamble.

As you go to ask the doctor next to you, your rival doctor steps in front and interrupts:

“Looking to get in on the action but lacking the funds, newbie? Don’t worry, fresh meat. I got you covered. Also, we’re rival doctors, just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Whoa, pretty cool to get a rival doctor on your first day on the job. That probably usually takes years.

“That’s my coat over there,” he says, pointing to a white lab coat being worn by one of the arm-wrestling surgeons. “Go ahead and take my wallet out of the pocket and take out as much money as you want.”

He then lets out a weird little laugh and looks around to see if anyone else is laughing. One other doctor did laugh, but he’s in the middle of a conversation with another surgeon, so you’re pretty sure the laugh had nothing to do with your rival.

That’s weird. Seems like that coat belongs to the doctor wearing it. You lying, asshole?

“I have coats all over this hospital that you wouldn’t know a thing about,” he says, raising his fist up to your chin real quick, trying to get you to flinch. You stand your ground and don’t flinch at all, though, and he sheepishly brings his fist back down to his side.

Tell your rival that you would never borrow money from his shitty coat, and that he’s acting like a real weirdo.

Trust your rival’s suspicious story, reach into the coat being worn by the arm-wrestling doctor, and take out some money to gamble with.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

In a brilliantly executed scheme, your rival tricked you into reaching into the coat of one of the doctors who is arm wrestling. When the arm wrestler saw you trying to steal his wallet, his mix of adrenaline and dangerously high blood pressure caused his heart to explode.

Your misconduct has resulted in a death, meaning you can no longer be a surgeon, and you will never see that sweet, sweet bag o’ cash.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

“I, uh, good then,” he stutters as h

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You Lied Your Way Into A Job As A Surgeon! Can You Avoid Killing Anyone Long Enough To Collect Your First Paycheck?

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Surgeons. The masters of the flesh. The gatekeepers of the organs. The doctors who get to shave patients.

These are the green-wearing gods who know that the human body is but a chessboard, and that the nipples are the king and queen, and the belly button is the opposing king or queen.

Today, finally, you are beginning your journey as one of them.

Sounds sweet.

You have already gone through the arduous process of becoming a surgeon. After calling the hospital over and over every day for three weeks straight and praising Tylenol in the deepest voice you could muster to whoever picked up, being hung up on by countless doctors and nurses, you finally hit the big time.

Yesterday, you managed to get the chief of medicine on the line, who offered you a job after a mere 50 minutes of you bellowing to her about the white-and-red pill. Congratulations!

Thank you. I am a surgeon.

If you eat eight Tylenol fast, that’s one rabies shot.

Eating any more than three Tylenols in church is a SIN unless you brought enough for EVERYONE.

Okay. Being a surgeon is sweet as hell. You get to wear patients’ clothes around a hospital once the chemicals put them to sleep, you can eat as many tortilla chips as you want, and you can hide all of your favorite DVDs and family heirlooms inside toxic waste bins, the one place thieving pricks are too grossed out by to steal from.

That all sounds great.

Skittles are to math what Tylenol is to alchemy.

Tossing Tylenol into an above-ground pool is basically the same idea as tossing Tylenol into an in-ground pool.

George Harrison wrote three songs about Tylenol in the days just before his passing that his estate will not release.

Cool. But the best part of being a surgeon, bar none, is that incredible surgeon paycheck.

It’s no secret that surgeons are paid well, as every single day at 8 p.m., hardworking surgeons all over the world reap the fruits of their labor: a plastic bag filled with $600, given to them by their chief of medicine on their way out the door, in addition to a goodnight kiss on the forehead.

Hell yeah.

Exactly. So now that you’re a surgeon, you better do everything in your power to make it your $600 payday, because there is one universal stipulation that could jam you up: If a surgeon kills someone, everything completely goes to shit.

1) For starters, once a surgeon kills someone, they are NEVER allowed back in a hospital, ever. Even if you just want to go to hang out or to meet new lovers.

2) Your professional reference completely goes out the window. If a new job calls to ask about you, instead of a recommendation, the HR department hands the phone off to the absolute sickest pervert patient they have, and lets them air out whatever they’ve got kickin’ around up in their minds.

3) Lastly—and this one is the worst of all—you don’t get paid a dime, which would mean all of your efforts to become a surgeon were for NOTHING.

So, if you want to get to that sweet paycheck, you’re going to have to make it through one entire day as a surgeon without killing someone.

I’m excited to be a surgeon who kills no one.

The hospital. The place where people come when they are bored to take off their pants and scream. This will be your new surgeon home, and today is your first day of work. As far as anyone inside is concerned, you are now a fully qualified surgeon, so if you want those 600 clams, you’re going to have to hold your own and stay off everyone’s radar.

Enter the hospital.

“Please give me a surgery.”

Ah, shit. A sick kid is waiting for you right inside the lobby, and he looks all kinds of fucked up.

“I need a surgery pronto. I am dying, and it feels like none of my bones are connected to my other bones. I also have a rash that comes and goes. Please do surgery to me with your other doctor friends.”

Quietly tell the kid that he’d be doing you a huge favor by asking another doctor for help on this one, and hope that he’ll be cool.

Piss your pants and bail to the bathroom.

“If you don’t give me a surgery right now, I will scream. I will scream so loud and for so long, and I will point at you the whole time. It will go on for so long that the rest of the doctors here will have no choice but to send you to jail.”

Piss your pants and bail to the bathroom.

That was close. You’ve pissed your pants real good, and now you’re in the bathroom splashing your pants with water, the best way to clean pants that you’ve urinated in.

I know that. My pants are now much wetter, but not as much with piss as with water, so they’re practically good as new.

“You sure know your way around cleaning a pair of pissed pants, sport. Not bad at all.”

You look over and see that it’s the hospital’s janitor talking to you. He somehow opened the door in perfect silence while you were inside splashing your pants, and has been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds.

“I’ve been watching you for upwards of 90 full seconds, and I can tell just by looking at you, you’re no surgeon.”

Yes I am. I am a surgeon, you jackass.

Remove your shoelaces and begin choking the janitor until he dies so no one finds out about the bullshit he just said, or about your method of splashing water onto your pants.

“Easy, easy. I’m not gonna rat you out. I’m gonna help you.

I take it that you’re in here lying to be a surgeon, hoping to get ‘The $600 Bag Treatment,’ huh? Well, you’ve got a friend in me. I’ve seen it before, and I’ll see it again. All you gotta do is make it until 8 p.m. without killing a soul and you’re in the clear. So whadya say you come lay low with me for the rest of the day, spend some time hanging with a new bud so you don’t end up killin’ no one before you get that money?”

Why are you being so nice to me?

“I, uh, how do you mean?” he says, visibly becoming self-conscious about the entire interaction so far. “I’m just tired today, so if I’m acting weird, that’s what that’s about, probably. Allergies are being weird, too.”

Okay. Let’s hang out.

“Follow me!” the janitor says before sprinting down the hallway. You do your best to keep up with him as he weaves in and out of patients and doctors before you finally arrive at a huge metal door. He slides open the rusty door to reveal a set of long, winding stairs that lead to a dark, desolate basement, and turns to you with a half smile.

“It’s not delivery, it’s DiGiorno,” he says before letting out a quick, uncertain laugh, looking over his shoulder at you to kind of check in and see if you’re laughing or anything at what must have been some sort of joke.

Smile and nod politely.

Pretend you didn’t hear what he said.

What are you talking about? What?

“That was dumb, never mind,” the janitor says, shaking his head as his shoulders slump, trying to explain his joke before slowly progressing into full-blown self-deprecation. “I was thinking, like, how in the old commercials, I’d be the delivery guy and you’re the pizza—I don’t know, forget it. It was dumb. Sorry.”

Okay.

You follow the janitor down the stairs and into the basement of the hospital, and lo and behold, it’s a full-blown bachelor’s pad! The janitor has stocked the place with some of the best things: a ping-pong table, a “Forever 27” poster, an old-timey popcorn machine, and a bunch of orange pill bottles filled with Frosted Cheerios.

“This is my chill zone. I’m down here almost all the time, which is why the hospital is filthy and patients always seem to get sick immediately after they get better.”

“We got all day, brother, so we could either sit down and talk about that important-looking guitar I have mounted on the wall over there, or we could stand near the stairs and wonder if Slash has ever signed a guitar and sold it for $20,000 online before, or maybe we could lay down on the ground and trade stories about the most expensive thing we’ve ever mounted on a wall. Your call.”

Challenge the janitor to ping-pong.

“I can’t lift my arms above my waist because of a power-washer accident.”

Give in and ask the janitor about the guitar on his wall, since it seems like he really wants you to.

“You got a good eye, kid,” he says as though you brought it up completely unprompted, proudly looking up at the guitar he somehow mounted unnecessarily high on his wall.

“Believe it or not, Slash signed that guitar, and I was lucky enough to spend all of the money I have on it. I usually don’t do this for anyone, but for you, I’ll climb all the way up there and get it if you want to hold it.”

Seems dangerous to climb up there if you can’t lift your hands above your waist.

“I’d climb anywhere for one of my boys.”

And what about those wires? You’d have to step all over those wires to get over there?

“I’ll put a very wet towel over them. I’m sure that will be fine.”

This looks way too dangerous. Say you don’t need to see the guitar, bail on the weird janitor, and head back toward the lobby to kill time solo.

Ask the janitor to get the guitar for you.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You put the janitor in grave danger by selfishly asking him to grab his Slash guitar off the wall. After the janitor put a soaking-wet towel on top of his countless basement wires in order to walk over to the wall and begin his climb, he was immediately electrocuted and fell crashing to the ground without the ability to raise his arms and break his fall. It’s unclear if it was the electricity surging through his body that did him in, or if it was the way his neck snapped on a nearby stool because of the horrible, unnatural way he fell. But either way, he is definitely dead, and it is your fault.

You’re no longer a surgeon, and you can kiss that bag of $600 goodbye.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

As you go back up the stairs and start heading toward the lobby, you can hear that he starts to follow you, but then locks himself in the bathroom you were in earlier and begins screaming at himself in the mirror for messing up what could’ve been a nice day. His screaming gets louder and louder before it comes to a halt after you hear the sound of him snapping his mop over his knee in fury.

Run away from the janitor as fast as you can.

“I need you to give me a surgery right now.”

Ah, damn. It’s the sick kid from earlier.

“I feel like I’m on a boat at all hours of the day, and my elbows are dry. I need you to cut me open and drain me out, if that’s what it takes, and to please get me home by later today.”

Give the kid a surgery.

You pick the kid up, throw him over your shoulder, and walk through the hospital looking for a good room to cut him open in. After 20 minutes, you finally find the room with all of the surgeons in it, and you slam the kid down on the empty table they’re all staring at.

Now all eyes are on you. You’re going to have to step up and say something pretty incredible to get all of these surgeons on your side.

Found a kid I think would be perfect for surgery.

This is the only patient I’ve seen twice so far, so I think he should be next.

It’s not delivery. It’s DiGiorno.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

After you said that ridiculous, dumbass comment, every surgeon in the room became furious at you and began hammering you with questions about your qualifications. You tried mumbling through more Tylenol facts, which went much worse in person than it did on the phone, and somewhere during your 25-minute verbal beatdown from the other surgeons, the kid died on the table.

You are no longer a surgeon, and you will never get a plastic bag filled with $600.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

Share Your Results

Everyone starts nodding and smiling and patting each other on the back. Good shit.

“Ha, nice,” a woman says, whose voice you recognize from the phone as the chief of medicine at the hospital. She quickly anesthetizes the patient to finally stop him from grabbing and clawing at everyone’s surgical masks, and within seconds the little spaz is sleeping.

At that moment, the tallest doctor you’ve ever seen walks into the door wearing a backwards hat and confidently drinking Barq’s Root Beer out of a 2-liter bottle.

“I’ve never seen you around here,” he says after putting the root beer down firmly into the lap of the unconscious kid and eyeing you up and down suspiciously. “Enlighten us, fresh meat. Now, what surgery are we performing on this little man, exactly?”

Ah, this guy is onto you. Need something big here to throw everyone off your tracks.

Fuck you, pal.

Sorry, rookie, but surgeries don’t have names.

Wink at him.

“Doctors, you two can be mean to each other in the parking lot all day long if you want to, but that’ll be enough fighting in my hospital,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Let’s get started.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

“Doctors, that’ll be enough talk about whether or not there are actually types of surgeries or not, because there simply is not a correct answer,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Let’s get started.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

“Doctors, please stop winking at each other,” says the chief of medicine after banging her fist down onto the kid’s chest like a gavel to get everyone’s attention.

“This little boy is in dire need of a heart transplant. We need to start immediately.”

Begin surgery.

Piss yourself and try to bail to the bathroom.

After noticing that no one is reacting to you pissing yourself, you look around and realize that every surgeon in the room has also already pissed themselves. Then you remember that surgeons are constantly pissing themselves during surgery, like bicyclists during races, for reasons completely unknown.

Ah, right. Now start the surgery.

The chief of medicine takes out a toolbox from underneath the surgery-room sink and hands each surgeon a tool. She takes each tool out one by one and starts passing them down the line. One doctor gets a small shovel, one gets a large knife, another gets a pickax, and on and on it goes, until you finally end up with the flashlight!

“Um, yeah, that’s my flashlight, pal. I’m always the flashlight man around here,” says the root-beer doctor.

“No,” interjects the chief. “New guy can hold the flashlight today. I have a good feeling about this.”

Your new rival is stunned. He shoots you a dirty look, threateningly crosses his thumb over his neck, and then does it again with his other thumb, but slower. Then he quietly mouths something that you didn’t really get a good read on, but from what you did see, your best guess is that he was saying something like “Fracking mountains,” or “Simply delicious.” Then he is handed the worst tool: the blood napkin, the tool that wipes up all the loose goo and pus.

Turn the flashlight on and shine it at the kid’s organs.

Shine the flashlight in your rival’s eyes to make him squint.

“Ah, c’mon, man. Quit it. What the hell.”

Nice. Shine the flashlight at the kid’s organs now.

The surgery is now well under way. The chief is slicing and dicing and moving parts around left and right. It’s pretty much a one-woman show.

Most of the other doctors are using their tools just to kind of scrape some bones and stuff when they feel like they should get in the mix, usually after not doing anything for a couple minutes straight and getting nervous that someone will notice how they’re not really that crucial to the operation.

You’re getting bored by the whole thing at this point, but at least you’re holding your own with these docs and, most importantly, haven’t killed anyone yet.

Keep shining the light in the organs.

Surgery still going. Getting kind of repetitive. A couple doctors shuffled out for a minute and came back with crackers, but the crackers are all gone now. You didn’t even notice they had crackers until there were only, like, four left in the sleeve, so at that point, asking for some really wouldn’t have been cool.

Surgery is getting boring.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Surgery is boring as hell.Your arms got tired from holding the flashlight up, so you put it down for a minute and no one seemed to notice. You’re back up now.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Kid woke up and started screaming LOUD, but now he’s sleeping again.

“You were scared!” “No, you were scared!” “I wasn’t scared, you were scared!” The surgeons are all ragging on each other and having fun again. Finally got some juice in the room. Whole crew got a good laugh out of that one.

Keep shining the flashlight.

Woah, wait a minute. Oh, man. You see something inside the kid’s body. Wedged deep in between his rib cage and his liver, there looks to be something shining and throbbing, and you’re pretty sure you’re the only one who sees it.

Two doctors broke away from the surgery about 15 minutes ago to arm wrestle on a nearby stool, and the rest of the surgeons have all one-by-one walked over to form a circle around them so they can gamble. Meanwhile, the chief is still hacking away at this kid’s organs with all of her might, and seems way too dialed-in to notice the game changer you’ve found.

Become a hero in front of your new boss by immediately and dramatically yanking out whatever the hell is sticking out of this kid’s guts.

Play it safe by simply alerting the chief of the mystery object and seeing what she thinks you should do.

Lean your flashlight up against the kid’s chin and go gamble with your new work friends.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

You thought you were being a hero by yanking out what you thought were some sort of wet, shining metals, but were actually the poor kid’s veins. You are no longer a surgeon, and can go ahead and kiss that sweet paycheck goodbye.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

“Those are veins. They are not ‘evil copper and metals sticking out of this poor bastard’s guts.’ Do not call them that.”

Damn. Misread that one. The chief is totally onto you now.

“But I appreciate you speaking your mind when you think something is amiss,” she continues, looking up and making eye contact with you for the first time. “That takes a commitment to the job that some of my other doctors lack at times,” she says, motioning to the doctors across the room who are now attempting to disguise their arm-wrestling gambling ring by draping a hospital gown over the two meaty, dueling arms.

Hold eye contact without blinking, slowly nod your head, and say “good.”

The chief reciprocates your unblinking eye contact and begins nodding in perfect unison with your nodding. This goes on for a good 20 seconds or so, the grunts of the two arm wrestlers and the slaps of cold, hard cash hitting the tile becoming the only sounds in the room.

At that moment, you and the chief simultaneously feel a romantic charge between you, and it feels beautiful and right. But that romantic feeling is immediately followed by a simultaneous paternal feeling, but it’s unclear who is the parent and who is the child. Then the two feelings of physical attraction and familial protectiveness fuse together into one singular emotion, and it feels disgusting to both of you.

Pretend you hear one of the gambling surgeons call you over to ask you a quick question, and then walk over to them.

“Yeah, yeah, go catch up with them. I’ll hold it down over here, cool,” the chief kind of half-mutters to herself and to you while shaking her head and getting back to surgery.

Look back over your shoulder and smile and nod.

Pretend you didn’t hear her and walk faster toward the arm-wrestling scene.

You walk over to the gambling circle and see the two exhausted surgeons pulling and pushing as hard as they can to win. The two doctors are so evenly matched that their arms aren’t moving or shaking in the slightest. If it weren’t for the veins about to explode out of their temples and the tears streaming down their faces, you’d have no idea how intense the duel was.

All of the other surgeons are quietly going apeshit. Almost all of them are either gently pounding their chests, gingerly slapping the ground, or shaking their fists in the air, all the while whispering bad arm-wrestling advice like “Win the skin!” or “Make him smooth!”

It’s definitely a pretty sweet scene, and you decide that you want to get in the mix.

Ask the doctor on your left to borrow a couple bucks to gamble.

Ask the doctor on your right to borrow a couple bucks to gamble.

As you go to ask the doctor next to you, your rival doctor steps in front and interrupts:

“Looking to get in on the action but lacking the funds, newbie? Don’t worry, fresh meat. I got you covered. Also, we’re rival doctors, just in case that wasn’t clear.”

Whoa, pretty cool to get a rival doctor on your first day on the job. That probably usually takes years.

“That’s my coat over there,” he says, pointing to a white lab coat being worn by one of the arm-wrestling surgeons. “Go ahead and take my wallet out of the pocket and take out as much money as you want.”

He then lets out a weird little laugh and looks around to see if anyone else is laughing. One other doctor did laugh, but he’s in the middle of a conversation with another surgeon, so you’re pretty sure the laugh had nothing to do with your rival.

That’s weird. Seems like that coat belongs to the doctor wearing it. You lying, asshole?

“I have coats all over this hospital that you wouldn’t know a thing about,” he says, raising his fist up to your chin real quick, trying to get you to flinch. You stand your ground and don’t flinch at all, though, and he sheepishly brings his fist back down to his side.

Tell your rival that you would never borrow money from his shitty coat, and that he’s acting like a real weirdo.

Trust your rival’s suspicious story, reach into the coat being worn by the arm-wrestling doctor, and take out some money to gamble with.

You’ve killed! You’ve killed!

In a brilliantly executed scheme, your rival tricked you into reaching into the coat of one of the doctors who is arm wrestling. When the arm wrestler saw you trying to steal his wallet, his mix of adrenaline and dangerously high blood pressure caused his heart to explode.

Your misconduct has resulted in a death, meaning you can no longer be a surgeon, and you will never see that sweet, sweet bag o’ cash.

Restart at checkpoint.

Start Over

“I, uh, good then,” he stutters as h

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