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lovesickhughes · 4 months ago

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locker room | quinn hughes

a/n: hahah okay wow. this one definitely is a different type of fic from my usuals. that being said, please attend to the warnings listed below, and if any of the listed warnings make you uncomfortable in any way, please do not interact. i'm quite shocked at myself with this one. i wrote it all in one sitting, and idk what came over me, BUT i was determined with this one! that being said, i hope you enjoy a little slutty piece of our beloved quinn 🙂‍↕️❤️‍🔥😜

summary: you want nothing more than to comfort quinn during his rough season, so you take a different approach

warnings: EXPLICIT SEXUAL CONTENT– mdni [18+]. some angst, a glimpse of sad!quinn :( ROUGH SEX, dom!quinn, oral (m!receiving), p in v, choking, exhibitionism and hints of coercion (but very light), praise kink, unprotected sex (please remember to always practice safe sex!). if i missed anything, please let me know!

word count: 3.8k

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

Although you weren’t ever directly involved in Quinn’s games, it pained you to watch the effort he puts into each and every period he plays, injuries upon injuries stacking up, and the weight of a team trying to navigate a win increasing. The observations leaving you wanting nothing more than to take away his pain and suffering.

His tired eyes would meet yours when he would drag himself into your shared apartment, the glow of downtown Vancouver casting shadows in the living room. You would have the replays of the game playing quietly in the background as you averted your gaze to the brunette whose shoulders would slump over his frame. It had become a routine; he would enter your apartment, fall into your arms as you came to his aid, attempting to distract him from the fact he was on the verge of his breaking point.

“Quinn, we’ve talked about this– you can’t keep expecting good things to happen if you’re not taking care of yourself. I mean, look at you–” You would argue, a sorrowful gaze meeting his tired, dark eyes that would quickly dart to focus on something else when you brought up a conversation that was known all too well.

“Y/n, I can handle it. It’s all a part of the game and being captain.” He would push back, growing cold and tight-lipped. You desperately tried to avoid evoking Quinn further in distress, your main effort being to support him when he needed, but considering it was a sensitive topic, you felt as though you were walking on thin, cracking ice, not knowing when Quinn would reach his limits and have the pressure all come crumbling back down upon him.

It was another night, another tough loss, that you unfortunately witnessed in person, and the atmosphere of the arena carried a mournful feeling as fans exited their seats. You were in a suite among a few other wives and girlfriends, consoling one another after the rough game, before walking across the concourse and down to the floor that held the quiet, tension-filled locker room.

You waited along the wall with a few other family members of the players, quietly conversing with one another, but the unspoken weight of the loss hung over everyone’s heads. As if you were all avoiding the real topic at hand– how difficult it was to see the players lose.

The coaching staff walked quickly out of the locker room and down the hall to their offices with determination and disappointment coursing through their steps, and as time slowly passed by, the sorrow-looking hockey players eventually made their way out of the locker room to reconnect with their family members.

You watched as slowly, one by one, as the waiting area got smaller and more quiet as the night continued on. By the time you had started growing concerned that Quinn had not made it out, you had checked your phone to see the time read 11:36PM, an unusual time to still be lingering around the arena.

You were conflicted with what to do– you knew Quinn was still in the locker room, but the silence was deafening and caused you to grow uneasy, standing all by yourself in a dimly lit part of the arena.

You knew it would be frowned upon, but considering you were not alone and Quinn was still getting ready to depart, you felt your feet drag you closer to the doors that would lead you through to the room you had only ever heard stories about, and pictures and videos of.

You peered around the corner of the arch, dividing the hallway to the locker room, seeing each empty cubby with each player's name written across the boarder with their hockey equipment neatly hung.

Slowly, you walked further, more of the room becoming exposed before you were welcomed with the sight of your boyfriend, Quinn, sitting in his designated spot, his lower half of hockey gear still tightly hugging his body, but nothing else– exposing his torso and more.

You couldn’t help but swallow thickly at the sight, his head hung low, wet curls falling forward, a few sticking to his head as his shoulders raised up and down in a slow manner. The sound of your quiet steps must have been enough to catch his attention from his focused gaze below him.

Quinn did a double take, seeing you standing opposite from him, in a room you would never be allowed in, in any other circumstance, which caused his brows to furrow in confusion.

“What are you doing here? Y/n– you shouldn’t be in here.” He said through a low grumble, a rush of urgency washing over his face and standing up immediately to walk over to you. His body was mere inches away from yours, his eyes searching your own as you were left speechless, because for a matter of fact, you had no idea what you were doing in the locker room.

But being left waiting for almost two hours past the end of a game, and growing worried, you felt like there was no other option, other than to take a different approach to console your boyfriend.

You inhaled sharply at the close proximity, feeling Quinn’s breath on your face, watching his muscles contort in ways that you scolded yourself for finding attractive and causing an ache to pulse through your core. The tension that filled the space between you two, as you both looked into each other’s eyes, made it almost suffocating, your breathing growing irregular.

You blink harshly to refocus yourself, reaching your arm to place delicately against Quinn’s exposed bicep.

“I know, I shouldn’t be here– I know,” You started, looking at Quinn with a more serious demeanour, “but I was getting worried, and you know I hate seeing you like this.” You coo, running your hand up and down the warm skin of his arm.

“Y/n, you don’t need to worry, we’ve been over this how many times– I can handle it.” He said through a groan, tilting his head back. And you couldn’t help but watch his features as he leaned his head back, his defined collarbone and shoulder muscles, bulging from their recent overexertion from the game.

You scolded yourself again at the fact the only thought that filled your mind was how attractive Quinn looked, the way he was only covered by his lower half of hockey gear, his muscles shifting as he breathed and stood before you. You knew it was wrong, but the only thought that consumed you, was that you wanted nothing more than to please him, and show him other ways you were there for him.

That was when it felt like a lightbulb lit up in your mind. You knew it wasn’t right, but just that made you crave more.

“What are the odds other people are still here?” You questioned, glancing your eyes to the side and out the archway to the hallway. Quinn’s expression grew only more confused.

“Uh, I mean it’s getting pretty late, so probably not a lot.” He said slowly, squinting his eyes at you for the odd question. “Why, Y/n.”

You shrugged in a nonchalant manner, “oh, no reason– just wondering.”

“Y/n, what are you trying to get at?” Quinn pressed further, reaching a hand to your jaw to pull your focus back on him.

“Well, y’know– I just had a thought.” You said, failing to hold Quinn’s piercing eye contact, but when you do briefly, his gaze lingered more lustfully.

He stepped closer, if it was even possible, causing you to sharply inhale. “Y/n, tell me why you think it’s okay for you to waltz your way into my locker room, when you know it’s probably prohibited.”

“Because!” You exasperated, “Because, Quinn. I hate seeing you like this, and I want nothing more than to stop you from feeling like this. Clearly my previous antics haven't worked.” You scoffed quietly. You watched for Quinn’s response intricately, watching his face contort as he processed your confession.

His tongue toyed this inside of his cheek, a grin peaking out, “is that so?”

You nodded your head, holding his gaze with your own, looking at him with doe eyes, which caused a soft groan to fall from his lips.

“I have another idea to make you feel better though.” You continued, Quinn’s head perking in interest. “Come, sit.” You ushered him to sit back in his designated spot in the locker room. You sat close to him, feeling the heat of his body emit onto you. You reached for his hand with one of your own, your other finding his bicep and softly gripping the flesh.

The two of you hold an intense gaze, anticipating each one of you to make a move first, the tension between you both turning from angstful to more sensual. Without a second doubt, Quinn reached his hand to your jaw, pulling your face to his and connecting your lips. You both inhale at the contact, before melting into the feeling and release of pressure.

You bring your own hand to his face, feeling the scruff of his facial hair, roughly brushing against your skin. You moan softly against his lips, allowing for his tongue to slip into your mouth, enveloping you into a feeling of pure bliss as your mouths molded together.

You then pull away, breathless and inspect his face, searching his features and seeing his lips a darker shade, swollen and wet.

“Is there somewhere more private in here?” You asked softly, quickly pressing another slow, wet kiss to his lips.

Quinn looked around the room, searching for an answer, before his gaze stopped on the door that held a bathroom behind the frame.

“The bathroom will probably be our best bet, if we really do this.” He said, turning back to you.

Your tongue wet your own lips in anticipation, an excitement rushing through your body.

“Then let’s be quick.” You smirked, standing up before Quinn, walking towards the closed door of the bathroom, hearing Quinn quickly shed his bulky hockey gear, leaving him in his compression pants and nothing more.

As you stepped into the tiled room, you shrugged off your jacket, hung it up and searched the room for any area that could make your plan easier. The door quietly clicked shut, bringing your attention to Quinn, who quickly approached you, softly pushing you against the wall, placing an arm near your head and the other gripping your waist as he held you in his embrace.

His lips found yours again, eager and determined to create more desperation between you both. His lips left yours, trailing down your jawline to your ear, and then down your neck, his breaths causing electricity to pulse through your veins, and your back to arch and a moan to fall from your lips when he sucked softly on your sweet spot.

Your arms found his shoulders, stopping his advances and he looked up to meet your eyes, searching yours for answers.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, I want to make this about you, baby.” You said softly, bringing your hand to the nape of his neck and delicately tugging on his curls, causing his eyes to shut softly.

“Wanna show me then, hm?” He asked, his eyelids hung low. You bit your lower lip in excitement, holding his gaze as you swapped places with him, before falling to your knees below him, never losing his sight. Your hands steady yourself against his strong thighs, sliding up to caress his exposed torso, feeling the muscles respond to your touch as you reached around to explore.

Your fingers then hooked under the hem of his compression pants, tugging the fabric down to his knees, enough to expose his throbbing cock, the tip swollen and pink, desperately waiting to feel some sort of release.

You gripped the base of his cock with your hand, carefully, as your mouth practically salivated at the sight of Quinn watching your every move, never breaking eye contact. And when you reach your mouth to place a kiss to the side of his aching member, the sight of Quinn’s eyes fluttering shut, creates a warmth between your own legs. Your mouth began to go to work, placing kisses along his shaft and pumping his cock once before delving into your masterwork, as Quinn would define it.

You kitten lick his tip before sliding his cock between your lips, his thick member filling your mouth, even just the feeling causing you to moan. Quinn’s hands instinctively find the wall and the side of your head to balance himself. You begin to go to work, bobbing your head along his shaft, pumping and massaging whatever couldn’t fit in your mouth, and the sounds of your saliva mixed with his excretions, tied in with his whines in response, caused you to grind in your own spot, feeling warmth spreading through your own body.

You then look up to Quinn through your eyelashes, watching his face contort with your pleasuring, and his chest rising and falling shakily. You held eye contact with Quinn as you slid his member farther into your mouth, until it couldn’t possibly move any farther, and you ran your nails against the skin of his thighs simultaneously, Quinn erupting in a series of groans and profanities at the feeling.

“Fuck, baby, look at you. So fuckin’ pretty taking my cock so well.” He groaned his head tilting back against the wall as his hand gripped the back of your head and pushed lightly to stretch your mouth wider. You almost gag on the pressure, eyes watering, saliva dripping from your chin– making you a complete mess. You then slowly release him from your mouth, a trail of spit hanging between you and his solid cock, and you place a messy kiss on his tip, causing it to twitch in response to the contact.

“Want me to keep going?” You asked eagerly, hands still placed on his thighs, waiting for him to direct you in the situation.

Quinn bit his lip, contemplating how he wanted you, before he grabbed your hands and brought you to your own feet.

“Pants off, now.” He said sternly, his lips attaching to your neck and hands finding either side of your waist. You nodded in compliance, even though you knew he couldn’t see you, and you shimmy out of your tight pants, letting the fabric fall to the floor and leaving you in nothing other than your top and lace panties.

Quinn’s hands roamed your body as his mouth continued to do work against your skin, your own hands finding their place on his shoulders, gripping tightly. And you almost bite down on his broad shoulder to contain the high-pitched squeal you feel erupting through your throat at the feeling of his hand slipping between the fabric of your panties and dipping into your core.

Quinn groans in pleasure at the feeling, “fuck, baby, sucking my cock really got you this wet?” He murmured against your collarbone, still decorating your skin with his kisses.

You hummed in agreement, tugging at the curls by his neck as a way to let him know you needed him instantly. He pulled away from attacking your skin with love bites, meeting your gaze with hungry eyes, and turning you around so your back was flush against his chest. His hands roamed your body, groping the curves and all his favourite parts of you.

“Panties off, now. I want you bent over that counter.” Was all Quinn said before he guided you urgently towards the sink’s countertop, a mirror hung on the wall, exposing the sex-filled sight of the two of you.

You complied to his demands, scurrying to fold your hips against the cold countertop, each of your hands pressed against the surface to steady yourself. It wasn’t long before Quinn was positioned behind you, but before he continued, his fingers hooked under your own shirt, and swiftly discarded it, leaving you bare and the cool air and feeling of the counter touching your exposed skin.

Quinn stroked his own cock a few times, collecting a wad of spit from his mouth to wet his hard member, and you watched intently at his every moves, and as he stepped closer to your frame, you anticipated the feeling of the tip of his cock coming into contact with your throbbing core.

His one hand was held firmly at the base of his cock, while the other tightly gripped your hip, aligning himself with your entrance before he slowly pushed forward, bottoming you out completely, the stretch and rush of pleasure leaving your mouth hung open. Quinn’s bottom lip was tucked between his teeth as he let the feeling of your core envelope him, clenching against his cock, and his hands roamed your body while you adjusted.

He reached down to place a soft kiss on your shoulder, making goosebumps rise on your skin. “Tell me to stop if it’s too much, ‘kay?” He asked softly, barely audible into your ear.

You only nodded, unable to form words as Quinn stretched you out in all the right ways. He then slowly began to thrust in and out of your dripping pussy. The anticipation of the way he was going to fuck you, leaving you in a puddle of your own arousal. His hands balanced himself on your hips as his thrusts slowly progressed in speed, his cock sliding along the walls of your core, the contact eliciting a rush of euphoria through your body.

It was as if a switch had been turned on in Quinn, because his slowly increasing thrusts turned into rough poundings as a shock of pleasure was sent to your clit at the contact of his hips against yours.

Your mouth continued to hang open in pleasure, watching Quinn determinedly fuck you. Whatever pent up stress, anger, or frustration he had, you knew you had to let him get out, even if that meant it was through destroying you.

The sounds of your wet pussy slapping against his skin echoed through the bathroom, and Quinn’s grunts that left his mouth followed after each thrust.

His eyes then shifted from watching his cock slide in and out of you, to meet your eyes through the mirror. He grinned slyly at the sight of your flushed face, his hands roaming your body and coming up to plant themself just tightly enough on the back of your neck while maintaining his speed of thrusts. Your head leaned back into the feeling of his hand on the nape of your neck, holding you tightly in place, the pleasure that erupted through your body feeling so blissful, you weren’t able to formulate words– only small noises of pleasure with each thrust.

“Look at you baby, so fucking cock drunk– you love when I fuck you like this, huh?” Quinn said through gritted teeth, his own pleasure rushing through his veins. ‘Fuck, Y/n. You feel so fucking good around my cock– so fucking good. Taking me so well.” He praised as he watched intently as you responded with moans to the feeling of his cock bottoming you out with each strong thrust.

Your eyes shut as you focus on the feeling of Quinn thrusting into you from behind, so harshly, and the shock of pleasure that follows each thrust. And you feel his hand release from the back of your neck, grazing along the side of your face until you feel his two fingers find your open mouth, stuffing his digits into your mouth. As if it were second nature, you began to suck on his fingers, a loud moan falling from your throat at the feeling that now tied in with each thrust, and you started to feel the familiar warmth begin to spread through your body as the knot began to loosen in your core.

“Just like that, baby. Look at you. Sucking on me so well, your pussy and mouth were fuckin’ made for me.” He groaned, his thrusts increasing to a speed you didn’t even know was possible. You shifted in your position, letting Quinn know through your body language that you were close, and he took that as an invite to hoist your one leg up to rest on the countertop, allowing for Quinn to hit even deeper into your core, a loud moan coming crying out of your throat, being muffled by his fingers.

Quinn’s hand left your mouth, a string of spit following as you reopened your eyes, seeing your flushed face, smudged mascara and tears welling in your eyes from the pleasure.

“Fuck, Quinn, I’m so close.” You whined, tucking your head into your chest before looking back up to watch Quinn move from behind you. A moan left your lips in synchrony with each thrust Quinn sent through your body, and you could tell he was approaching his own climax as his thrusts faltered, and began to fall more inconsistent.

“Come for me, baby. Such a fucking good girl– taking me so well. This pussy was fuckin’ made for me” He encouraged again, his one hand slipping between your core and the countertop, his fingers finding your sensitive clit, and sending shocks of pleasure through the bundle of nerves, ultimately leading to your release around his cock. You whine loudly as the rush of euphoria takes over your body, flooding your veins with pleasure and a tingling sensation as you ride your high. Quinn continues to thrust into you, slowing his movements as he approaches his own release. Not long after, he releases into you, his warm, thick excretion filling you to the brim as he stays inside you for a mere minute, before pulling out, leaving your core to ache at the loss.

He pulls you up from your position over the counter, hugging you against his chest and placing a soft kiss on your temple. “You okay? I wasn’t too rough?” He mumbled against your head, and you turned in his embrace, looking up at him with a loving gaze and planting a quick kiss to his lips.

“No, that was so good.” You smiled sheepishly, your chest heaving up and down as you came down from your orgasm; the high causing you to feel an immense amount of bliss. “But that wasn’t what I planned, it was supposed to be all about you and making you feel better.” You playfully pout, sticking out your bottom lip and batting your lashes at Quinn.

He only laughs, pulling you into a tighter hug, “hey, making you sound like that, and just having you like that, already makes me feel ten times better.”

You dramatically roll your eyes, “fine, so it’s a win-win.”

“Oh, it’s definitely a win-win.”

#quinn hughes #quinn hughes fic #quinn hughes x reader #quinn hughes blurb #quinn hughes imagine #quinn hughes x y/n #quinn hughes x you #quinn hughes smut

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maximumzombiecreator · 8 months ago

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Since I've had a few people asking about megadungeon stuff recently, and I am an avowed megadungeon megafan, I thought it might be fun to walk through an actual example of megadungeon play that exemplifies what I like best about it.

This post is going to be the first in a series talking about a room from a megadungeon that I ran over 20 years ago (brushing past that fact quickly lest the horrors set in.) It was a major room, probably the most complex and important in the dungeon, and the players passed through it frequently throughout the campaign. In this post I'll introduce you to the room, and then in later posts I'll talk about what it does well and how to use that lesson more generally. Below the cut is a reproduction of the map as I remember it.

Without getting into The Lore too deeply, some dwarves accidentally dug into hell, as one does. Classic trope, nothing wrong with using them. They quite sensibly shut the mine down and sealed if off, but word got out. A human king heard about this, and took over the mine, expanding it into a temple complex to curry favour / barter with hell. It went badly, as such things do.

This concourse connects several wings of the dungeon, spanning several floors. An enormous devil face statue emerges from the northern wall, above the second floor balcony and below the fourth, and a column of light shines through a hole in the ceiling onto the center of the floor. Several floors of balconies overlook the chamber, though the stairs to the fourth floor balcony have long since collapsed.

This chamber was not too far from the main entrance, with the party first encountering it on their second delve into the dungeon, though it would take two more delves for them to gather the courage to enter it. At the time they first encountered it, it was swarming with imps and other little devils worshipping the big face.

I'll summarize the key:

A. Hallway from the Entry Chambers, the first and easiest section of the dungeon.

B. Doorway to the Pilgrim's City.

C. Doorway to the Unholiest of Unholies. Sealed and warded against simple spells.

D. Doorway to the Old Dwarven Quarters.

E. Doorway to the Nobles' Section. Barred from the far side.

F. Portcullis to the Pilgrim's City. The mechanism has rusted out and no longer functions.

G. Doorway to the Halls of the Clergy.

H. Doorway from the King's Inner Sanctum.

I. Doorway to the Archive.

J. Doorway to the King's Inner Sanctum, locked.

K. Doorway to The Indulgences.

Stairway from floor 1 to floor 2.

Light from the hole in the ceiling.

Broken stairs from floor 2 to floor 4.

Big ole devil face. Its eyes are a one-way illusion, allowing anyone within the face to view the room below.

Okay that's a lot, thanks for sticking it out. While I don't want to wander too far off topic into the rest of the dungeon, I'll just briefly note that the Pilgrim's City and Old Dwarven Quarters are easier sections of the dungeon, the Nobles Section and Halls of the Clergy are slightly more difficult, the King's Inner Sanctum, Archive, and Indulgences are very dangerous, and the Unholiest of Unholies is, as one might expect, where the worst things (and best loot) in the dungeon are. This was 2nd edition AD&D, so there was not a presumption of fights being balanced, and traipsing through more dangerous sections of the dungeon at lower levels wasn't uncommon. The players also understood the varying levels of danger fairly implicitly, since the custom at the time was that any time you went a level further away from whatever the ground floor was, things got more dangerous. The only exception to this is the Unholiest of Unholies and I think we can agree that when it's beyond a magically sealed door under a giant devil head the danger is telegraphed.

Next post I'll start talking about what made this room work so well in practice.

#ttrpg #tabletop roleplaying #tabletop gaming #dnd #d&d #megadungeon

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jstor · 1 year ago

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From all of us at JSTOR, happy Black History Month!

The profound impact of African American writers, artists, politicians, and academics, along with countless others, is indelibly etched into the fabric of American history–and we'll be highlighting them all month long.

Image credit:

Fink, Larry (1941-2023). Malcolm X, Rally for Birmingham, Harlem, NY, May, 1963. 1963, printed 2019. Archival pigment print, 22 x 17 in. (55.88 x 43.18 cm).

Levy, Mark. Mississippi Freedom Summer 1964. 1964. Queens College Special Collections and Archives.

Borg, Erik. Toni Morrison. August 26, 1977.

Lisa Kuzia. Angela Davis. 1980-1985. Black and white photography, 4 3/4 x 3 3/4 in. Special Collections and Archives, Colby College Libraries, Waterville, Maine.

Padow-Sederbaum, Phyllis. Junior NAACP Demonstration. 1963. Queens College Special Collections and Archives.

Allied Printing Trades Council. Placard from Memorial March Reading “HONOR KING: END RACISM!” 1968. National Museum of African American History and Culture; On View: NMAAHC (1400 Constitution Ave NW), National Mall Location, Concourse 1, C1 053; Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture.

Created by C. M. Battey, American. W.E.B. Du Bois/. 1918. Silver and photographic gelatin on photographic paper. National Museum of African American History and Culture; Collection of the Smithsonian National Museum of African American History and Culture.

Mosley, John W. Civil Rights Demonstrators at Girard College. Philadelphia PA: Temple University Libraries, 1965-07-17. Charles L. Blockson Afro-American Collection.

#jstor #black history month

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sheriffaxolotl · 1 month ago

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Off the Ledge (Chapter 1) Abby Anderson x Reader

⇒ Jump forward!

Tags: Slow burn, parkour, attempt at humor, compulsory heterosexuality, coming out Wordcount: 6.7k

Summary:

You knew better than to fall. But Abby was gravity.

It’s been a rough week—or, well, that feels like an understatement. It’s been boring as hell.

The rooftops are slick with moss and rot. Rain hasn’t touched them in over a week, but Seattle never really dries. The wet seeps in and stays—beneath shingles, between bones, behind your eyes. You’ve had to learn the texture of each surface: the slippery crunch of broken tiles, the wet grit of rotting tarpaper, the sharp sway of old satellite dishes that can tip if you don’t land just right.

You know this route like muscle memory. Six rooftops, two alleyways, one rusted catwalk, and a drop through an old skylight that still smells faintly of fire and mildew. It’s all mapped into your body now.

Ankles flex before your brain registers the ledge. Fingers brush crumbling brick as you climb. Breath tucks tight in your lungs when you crouch too close to the edge.

You leap from one roof to the next—

and immediately regret everything.

Your foot hits a slick patch of moss, slides out from under you, and you do a spectacular, slow-motion flail. Arms pinwheeling. One boot in the air. Gravity snickering like a school bully.

You land with a grunt and a wet splat, flat on your back in a puddle the temperature of bad decisions.

You just lay there for a second, staring up at the dull gray sky, listening to water seep into every fiber of your clothes.

“Graceful,” you mutter to no one.

The radio crackles at your hip. “Copy that, route clear?”

You thumb the mic. “Totally. Nailed it.”

No one needs to know how literally you nailed it—with your spine.

You sit up, wiping moss and dirt from your sleeve like you meant to spend the last week face-first in the forest. Your left leg protests, a dull throb from the miles you've logged, but it’ll pass. Parkour: the glamorous art of making near-falls look cool and pretending bruises don’t exist.

The final stretch is ahead—down a fire escape, then through a narrow gap between two old, rusted cars and some overgrown bushes. You step lightly, cautious of your aching joints, and finally clear the last obstacle. You take a breath, the scent of damp earth and leaves still thick in your lungs. The tall lights of the stadium base are in the distance. Home.

The WLF base, once an impressive stadium, now a fortress of sandbags, barricades, and floodlights. The high stands of the arena are long abandoned, the field a patchwork of makeshift living quarters and training grounds. The wide concourses echo with the sounds of soldiers and civilians alike, but it’s quiet now, still, as you make your way to the entrance.

The gates creak open with their usual complaint. Metal groans in protest as you slip through and head toward the concrete ramps that lead up to the higher levels. The stadium’s massive, but it’s solid—secure. Safe.

You pass a pair of WLF soldiers posted at the entry, one nodding at you in recognition while the other glances past you at the rest of your patrol, now trudging in behind you. Boots scuff against concrete, tired voices low as they file in—soaked jackets, muddied gear, shoulders heavy with a week's worth of movement and too little sleep.

A few familiar faces call out greetings or crack jokes as you move through the stadium’s interior. Someone whistles low when they see the state of your pants—ripped at the knee and caked in dirt. You don’t bother with a comeback. The scent of oil, wet canvas, and overcooked rations hangs in the air, oddly comforting.

You make your way into the main area, damp and tired. The buzzing of conversation fills the wide concourses, but your focus is on the familiar faces. You don’t stop walking until you spot Mason—leaning against the chain-link fence near the sign-in station, looking as polished as he did when you left. Same confident smile. Same hair that’s never out of place. His combat vest looks like it came straight off the store shelf.

“You’re late,” he says, the words light, like you’ve been gone a few hours instead of a full week.

You snort, brushing past him toward the sign-in area. “Yeah, well, I had to take a scenic detour. Ate shit on the moss again.”

The clipboard is waiting, smudged with ink and fingerprints. You scrawl your name, the motion practiced, the pen familiar in your hand. There’s a strange comfort in that—something routine after a week of chaos.

Before you can even set the pen down, Mason appears at your side, pressing a steaming mug into your hands. “You always do,” he says, grinning around the rim of his own cup.

You take the mug, its warmth already sinking into your fingers. “And yet I always come back in one piece. Mostly.”

He snorts, and for a moment, the stadium feels a little warmer. You take it. Sip. Bitter as hell. But warm. You let it burn your throat, the heat a welcome change after the cold silence of your time on patrol.

“Some new folks showed up while you were out,” he says casually. “Big group. One of the guys said they’re from Salt Lake. They’ve been here about a week now. Another smaller group too—came down from the north. Scars trashed their outpost. Nasty business.”

You nod, eyes still on the board. “More mouths to feed.”

“More hands too,” he adds with a shrug. “One’s got some medical experience. There’s a girl—kind of intense, but cool. She helped unload the whole truck, then ran back for more. Real high-energy.”

You glance sideways. “Weird metric for likability.”

“You’re just worried she’ll beat your run time.”

That earns a reluctant smirk. Not enough to change your day, but enough to shift the weight on your chest. Just a little.

He sees it—thinks he’s winning—and presses the moment. “You’re coming tonight, right? We’re throwing a welcome thing. Liam roped me into cooking duty, so I roped you in. Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music. Might almost feel like something out of one of those magazines from Before.”

Your stomach knots. Cold. Quiet. “I’ll think about it.”

He touches your arm—gentle, like always. Like he knows how to be careful with you.

“Think faster. I’m claiming you for my team in cards.”

Of course he did. You were his girlfriend. And he was your boyfriend, apparently. Or that’s what everyone calls him. The label never quite fit—not the way it should. But you haven’t corrected anyone. Haven’t corrected him.

And then he’s gone, already walking backward with that smile like it belongs in some old snapshot. Back when smiles didn’t cost anything. He peels off toward the water truck, slipping into a group of scouts like he was born there. He’s laughing before he even reaches them—loose shoulders, confident voice, like the world hasn’t ended five times already.

He’s good. He’s kind. He’s safe.

And still, your chest aches with something you don’t have a word for.

Because how do you explain to someone who likes you so much that you feel nothing?

That his warmth doesn’t sink in. That you’ve tried. Really tried.

Kissed him once, eyes closed, thinking maybe if you let it happen, the feeling would catch up. That your body would stop flinching at the quiet expectations packed into a gentle hand on your back, or the way his voice goes soft when you’re alone together.

It never did.

There’s comfort in being seen. In being wanted. But comfort isn’t connection. And it sure as hell isn’t desire.

You sip the last of the coffee, grimace, and glance down at the mug like it betrayed you.

Cool. Burnt feelings with a hint of emotional constipation. My favorite roast.

A breeze rattles the gate behind you. You glance toward Mason again—he’s still laughing, probably already telling someone how you trip over your own feet when you're distracted.

(Which is true, but rude.)

You rub your hand over your face.

“God, I need to lie down. Or fake an illness. Do people still get consumption? Maybe I’ll just develop a cough and dramatically exit stage left.”

No one hears you, of course. Just the clipboard hanging from its nail, the sound of boots on gravel, and your own dumb heart beating too quiet and too loud all at once.

You sigh and start walking toward the barracks.

Rooftop garden. Lanterns. Music.

Great. A post-apocalyptic Pinterest party.

You linger by the railing next to the supply board, mug cooling between your hands, and watch the scene unfold across the yard like some kind of cheerful propaganda film. Mason’s right at the center of it, as usual—laughing too easily, catching a tossed deck of cards mid-air like he’s done it a hundred times. Someone whistles off-key. Someone else fumbles a plate and gets a cheer for it.

You wish you could join in. Or want to join in. Or hell, even fake it with a little more sincerity.

Instead, you just stand there, thinking about how strange it is—to be loved by someone and feel absolutely nothing in return.

Well, maybe not nothing. There’s a fondness. A kind of “thanks for the coffee, you’re emotionally available, but please don’t touch me” warmth. Like how you feel about your favorite hoodie: safe, soft, and not remotely sexual.

You watch him laugh again. He glows when he’s surrounded like this. And you—

You just kind of… flicker.

You glance down into your cup. Cold. Bitter. Accurate.

What would it even feel like? To look at someone and just know—that pull, that heat, that certainty. You've never had that. Instead, you've been duct-taping yourself to whatever looked close enough. Admiration? Sure. Affection? Sometimes. But that full-body, heart-thudding want?

Still waiting on it.

Something in you feels... off. Tilted sideways. Like everyone else got the manual and you’re just guessing your way through.

You didn’t have a name for it, not exactly—just a slow, twisting guilt that settled in your gut and never really left. Every time someone kissed you and you smiled through it. Every time you said, “I think I like you too,” and it tasted false in your mouth, even when you meant it—especially when you meant it.

You haven’t said anything. Not out loud. You’re still trying to figure out what, exactly, there is to say.

But it’s there. In the way your stomach knots when someone gets too close. In how Mason calls you his girl, and it echoes wrong in your chest, hollow and off-key.

The wind picks up and wraps around you like a blanket someone forgot to warm. Camp’s winding down—clanging pans in the mess area, the soft thunk of targets getting reset out by the range, boots crunching gravel in a rhythm you know by heart. Everything smells like sawdust, old oil, and rain-damp wool.

You stay a minute longer, mug hanging from your fingers, wondering if Mason’s going to come find you again. He probably will. With another mug. Another smile. Another gentle nudge toward fitting into a shape you don’t belong in.

He wants you to try.

You have tried.

You just ran out of pretending.

New arrivals are still trickling in: crates, bags, strangers, and that weird blend of adrenaline and exhaustion that hangs off people who’ve barely survived their last stop. You tell yourself you’re not snooping. Just… surveying. Making sure they’re not letting in anyone who looks like they’ve never held a gun or heard of soap.

You’ve earned your spot here. Others should too.

The place is a familiar chaos—makeshift crates, busted wheels on trolleys, stacks of med kits held together with duct tape and prayer. Two WLF soldiers are having an existential crisis over the difference between “2A” and “A2” on a cargo manifest, and a small knot of newcomers stands nearby looking like they just got dropped into the wrong college orientation.

You start to turn, fingers still grazing the edge of a crate, when the cold, clammy feeling settles in.

The wetness on your back—where you definitely didn’t stick the landing earlier—is creeping its way down your spine, a slow, unpleasant reminder of your less-than-graceful rooftop moment.

Great.

Your clothes, still soaked from the slip, cling uncomfortably to your skin. The dampness works its way in through the thin fabric, making your movements feel sluggish and awkward as the chill creeps across your shoulders. It’s not just wet anymore—it’s cold. So cold it’s almost worse than when you fell.

You suck in a breath, trying to ignore the sticky sensation of the fabric sticking to your skin and focus on the noise around you. The truck doors creak open again, someone grumbles about the weight of a crate, and the air smells faintly of wet wood and mildew.

You press your lips together and give the storage bay one last glance, feeling more like a lost kid than a scout.

"Alright, time to cut it," you mutter under your breath, shaking your head.

Your boots clack against the concrete, the sound filling the empty space around you as you turn back, heading toward the barracks. At least in there, you can peel off these soaked clothes and pretend you're not freezing from the inside out. If anyone notices how wet you are, they don’t mention it. Probably because everyone else is too busy with their own brand of miserable to care.

You move, neither fast enough to seem casual nor slow enough to appear like you’re dragging your feet on purpose. It’s the kind of walk you’ve perfected—the in-between, where you don’t want to stand out, but you also don’t want to fit in too well. The side door to the stadium creaks open under your hand. You’ve made this journey so many times that it feels like muscle memory now.

The place smells like dust, concrete, and old sweat. You don’t even have to think about it. Boots on the stairs echo against the bare walls. It’s a slow climb. Stairs, more stairs. You know exactly how many there are—each step a little reminder that you’re still here. You never count them, though. Or, at least, you never have successfully before you lost track.

By the time you reach your floor, you’re starting to sweat under your jacket, the weight of your damp clothes clinging to you like they’re trying to hold you in place. The air up here is always colder, with less body heat from the masses below. You close the door behind you, not that it locks, and let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Your space is simple, but it’s yours. A spectator’s room turned into a makeshift bedroom. Or kind of like an apartment? Whatever it was, it’s home to you. You walk further into the room and down the stairs to the lower level, which you’ve claimed as your space. A bunk bed with a thin, worn blanket that’s seen better days. A small shelf next to it, cluttered with what feels like all the things you’ve picked up along the way—coins from a time long forgotten, a half-finished crossword puzzle you started last week, and a few mismatched candles that haven’t been lit in months.

The corners of your space are littered with personal things, some important, some just because. A knife you’ve held onto because it reminds you of an old friend. A book you started reading and never finished. Mason’s sweatshirt, the one you borrowed months ago and forgot to give back, tossed over the edge of your bed like it’s part of the furniture now.

The other half of the room? Neat, almost sterile. Just a cot with a tidy blanket and a couple of supplies stacked along the wall. It’s exactly how you’d expect someone who’s still trying to hold on to a sense of order to keep it. The division between the two spaces is like a visual reminder of everything you’ve let go of and everything you still pretend to control. It also reminds you of your lack of roommate.

You toe off your boots, not caring where they land, and drop the mug onto the desk with a soft thud. The room feels smaller tonight, like the walls are a little too close. You sit down on the edge of the bed, elbows on your knees. The silence presses in around you like a blanket you didn’t ask for. Sometimes, it’s a relief, but today, it’s like the quiet’s got teeth.

Your eyes wander over to the clutter in your corner—the small pile of forgotten trinkets, things you didn’t need but couldn’t leave behind. The cracked picture frame with a faded photo from Before that’s been collecting dust for months. A piece of driftwood you found during one of your patrols, shaped like something out of a storybook. A few old drawings, barely visible under the pile of empty ration packs and scavenged odds and ends.

You could pull the crate from under your bed. Go through your field journal. Maybe look at something that won’t remind you of the mess you’ve been trying to keep from spilling out everywhere. Instead, you just sit there, your fingers absently brushing over the edge of the crate, feeling the edges of things you’ve tucked away.

For a moment, the clutter in the corner feels like the only real part of you left.

You lie back on the cot, arms draped over your face.

The mattress groans under your weight. The wind taps against the old, sealed window. Somewhere far below, someone’s picking at a guitar, the low hum of strings barely reaching you.

You don’t want to go to the rooftop gathering. You don’t want to sit next to Mason, pretending like everything’s fine, like you’re actually a part of this whole routine. You don’t want to smile at new faces and nod along with the casual chatter, pretending this life is normal.

But you know Mason’s going to ask. And worse—you know you’ll probably say yes.

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By the time the sun sinks low behind the stadium walls, you’ve changed your shirt twice and still feel like you’re either overdressed or underdressed. It's hard to tell with everything sitting wrong. Nothing feels like it fits today. You tug at the edges of your clothes like it’ll somehow make things more comfortable, but it doesn’t. Everything itches.

The rooftop garden isn’t far—just two staircases and a short walk down a hallway that smells like damp soil and the faintest hint of wood smoke. You tell yourself you'll drop by for five minutes. Maybe ten. Just long enough to show your face and dodge the “Where were you?” from Mason.

You can already hear the sounds before you reach the door—laughter, music low through scavenged speakers, voices chatting over one another, their tones light and easy. It’s too warm for a fire tonight, but someone lit one anyway. Just for the look of it, you guess. You step out into the fading gold of early evening, squinting against the light.

It’s busier than you expected. At least two dozen people, new and old faces scattered in loose, haphazard groups. The air smells like cooked food and a little too much cologne, but that’s just how it is now. You scan the crowd.

Someone’s brought bread. The smell of it hangs in the air, mingling with the rich, warm scent of something simmering in a pot over a controlled flame. You can almost taste it. A few kids are darting between the raised planter boxes, their laughter like the sound of a distant memory, while one of the older recruits watches them with a tired but soft smile.

And, of course—there’s Mason.

He spots you immediately. Of course he does.

“There she is!” He calls, raising a beer bottle like it’s a flag. “I was about to send a search party.”

You manage to force a smile and make your way over. Mason’s already clearing a spot next to him on an overturned crate, the space beside him looking like the kind of invitation you can’t really refuse.

“I saved you a seat,” he says, voice warm, and you sink into it because resisting is too much effort right now.

Someone hands you a drink. Someone else offers a plate. You nod, say thanks, even laugh once or twice. It’s all just background noise, the kind of white noise you’ve gotten used to, but there’s something familiar about it. The clink of bottles, the buzz of conversation. You’re here, you’re present. And for a few moments, you almost forget how much you’d rather be anywhere else.

Then, you spot them. The new people Mason had mentioned earlier in the day.

They’re scattered across the rooftop in loose, easy clusters, already slipping into the rhythm of the place like they’ve been here for months, maybe even years. Some are cleaned up now—less dust, fewer edges—but they’re still new. You can see it in the way they move, the way their eyes scan the space like they’re taking inventory, still a little on guard.

There’s a guy with a few days-old stumble and a laugh that fills the air. He’s telling stories, the kind that make people snort into their drinks. Two people are beside him, hanging on to every word.

Farther into the garden, you spot a small woman with a pinched mouth talking to someone you recognise around base, trying to make friends. Behind them, there’s another figure—broad-shouldered, curly hair tied back, silent, standing guard like it’s second nature. Arms crossed, eyes scanning the crowd without ever stopping.

And then, there’s her.

She’s tucked away near the back edge of the rooftop, half-shadowed by the concrete wall. Her hair’s braided back messily, damp at the temples like she didn’t have the time or the patience to fix it properly. She’s talking to someone else, unfamiliar to you, another one of the Salt Lake group you guess. The low murmur of their conversation blends with the background noise, their shoulders bumping every now and then. Her smile’s small, like she’s giving him half her attention, but there’s something easy about it—like she’s not trying to hide anything.

You don’t think she’s laughing, but maybe you’re just not close enough to catch it. Still, there’s this flicker of something in her eyes, soft and unguarded, like she’s actually enjoying the moment. It’s clear they like one another.

Her arms are bare, a scrape on her forearm visible, but it’s not the wound that draws your attention. It’s the way she stands—confident, grounded, like she’s part of the space around her, like she belongs here.

You find yourself staring.

You’re trying not to stare, but your eyes keep following her, tracking her every movement—how she carries herself, the way she stands with that effortless strength. She doesn’t seem to need to do anything to draw attention, but somehow, she does. You’re caught in the gravity of it, drawn in.

Then she shifts.

Just a small movement—her head turns slightly, scanning the crowd, her eyes sweeping over the rooftop. And then they land on you.

For a split second, your breath catches. Time stops. It’s a fleeting moment, but it feels like it lasts forever for you.

Before you can even process it, she turns back to the person she’s talking to, and you’re left frozen. The heat floods your neck and face, panic squeezing at your chest, a rush of embarrassment and something else that feels a little too close to longing.

Great. You were staring. You were definitely staring.

You can feel the burn of her gaze even though it’s already passed, like an echo you can’t shake. Your heart races in your chest, and you force yourself to take a long sip of your drink to steady the nerves that have suddenly gone haywire. The edges of your vision blur for a moment as your pulse thunders in your ears.

Mason’s talking again, but you’re not really hearing him now. The words sound like they’re coming from a distance, muffled by the ringing in your head. You focus on him because it’s easier to look at something else than face what just happened.

You can’t be this obvious. You can't keep staring. You try to shift your gaze, but it's like the pull of gravity keeps bringing you back to her. It doesn’t help that every time you look, she’s moving, shifting slightly, her presence like a weight in the air. You watch her for a second longer than you should, and your stomach does a weird flip when she glances up, but this time, it’s not directed at you.

You bite your lip, forcing your eyes down to the drink in your hand, trying to keep your head from swimming. The night feels too warm, the sounds too loud, the air too heavy. You're not sure if it’s the music, the smell of food, or just the overwhelming need to keep your hands from shaking.

A laugh escapes your lips, but it’s a bit too sharp, too quick, and it feels more like a cover-up than anything else. Mason doesn’t seem to notice, but he gives you a nudge.

“Relax, will ya?” Mason teases, nudging your side. His voice is light, a harmless jab meant to pull you back into the moment. “You look like you’re about to implode.”

You offer him a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. Everything feels stretched thin—like the air itself is tight around you. Mason’s voice fades into the background hum of chatter and the low thrum of music, all of it dulled at the edges as your focus slips. You tighten your grip on your drink, anchoring yourself to the weight of the glass in your palm, the soft clink of ice tapping against the rim.

Still, your thoughts won’t settle. Your skin prickles, too aware of the space you’re taking up, of the way your chest tightens every time someone laughs too loud nearby. You shift in your seat and try to coach yourself into calm. There’s no reason to feel like this.

When Mason stands up to grab more drinks, relief filters in like sunlight through blinds. “Be right back,” he says, tossing you a wink before disappearing into the crowd.

You exhale and let your shoulders drop, trying to catch your breath in the pause.

It doesn’t last long.

A few minutes later, you hear him before you see him—his voice cutting through the camp’s murmur like a spark. “Hey! This is her!” he announces, bright and proud, and your stomach knots before you even look up.

He’s not alone. Two people follow close behind—faces you’d just been looking at. The tall guy in the worn-out hoodie steps forward first, eyes warm and expression open, a crooked smile already forming.

“Owen,” he says, offering his hand. “Mason’s been talking you up.”

You manage a half-laugh as you take it. His grip is firm but easygoing, and something about him softens the air around the group. He seems like someone who makes people feel like they belong, just by showing up.

“Good things, I hope,” you say.

“All good,” he grins.

The woman beside him hangs back half a step, arms crossed loosely over her chest, scanning the space like she’s memorizing the layout. She meets your eyes and gives a small nod—not unfriendly, just careful. Like someone who watches first and decides later.

“Abby,” she says.

You nod. “Nice to meet you.”

Before you can register more than the sound of her voice, Mason drops back into his seat beside you, grinning like he’s just pulled off something brilliant. He slings an arm over the back of your chair, all casual confidence. “Told them I’d introduce them to my girl.”

You freeze for a second. Just long enough to feel those words land like a brick in your stomach. My girl. It doesn’t sit right—tight and awkward, like wearing someone else’s jacket. But you smile anyway, defaulting to what you’ve learned: go along, smooth it over, don’t make it weird. Not now.

The conversation flows easily—at least for Mason and Owen. They fall into talk about training rotations and someone snoring too loud in a few rooms down from them. Owen laughs, warm and effortless, and you catch yourself smiling despite the noise in your head. There’s something easy about him. Disarming. Like he belongs anywhere.

You shift slightly, trying to breathe through the static in your chest. Abby, on the other hand, is quiet. Not distant, just... measured. She hasn’t said much, but it’s clear she’s paying attention to everything.

And then you look up at the worst possible moment.

She’s already looking.

Everything else blurs.

It’s not that she’s staring, but something about her gaze still pins you. Measured. Curious. Like she’s already assessing you in real time, and you weren’t ready to be seen like that. Your whole body tenses under it, and your brain goes into overdrive, scrambling for any shred of normalcy. You need to say something. Anything. You have to be normal.

“Uh,” you manage, voice shaky and thin. “Hey.”

Cool. Real smooth. You can feel the heat creeping up your neck, and suddenly, the air around you feels way too thick. Your heart’s beating too fast, like it's trying to escape your chest, and you have no idea why. This wasn’t supposed to be weird.

If Abby notices the awkwardness, she doesn’t let it show. She nods once, slow and deliberate. Like she’s clocked something about you and filed it away for later.

And just like that, everything feels louder. Closer. Your skin prickles under her gaze. The conversation around you keeps going—Owen laughing, Mason animated beside you—but it feels like you’re watching it through a tunnel. All you can focus on is her. And why is it so hard to breathe?

The silence stretches just a bit longer than you’d like, the sound of Owen’s laughter and Mason’s voice buzzing in the background like white noise. Abby’s still looking at you, eyes steady, like she’s waiting for something. Your stomach flips, and you feel your palms sweat. You shift in your seat, feeling like you might combust from the weight of her gaze. What is this? Why does it feel like this?

Finally, the air feels like it clears enough for you to speak again. You force yourself to focus, willing your brain to calm down, but your thoughts keep slipping away, spinning in circles.

You focus on the first thing that pops into your mind, something easy. You shift in your seat and look over at Abby, trying to ignore how your skin feels like it’s buzzing with electricity.

“So, uh,” you start, your voice a little too high-pitched for comfort. “How are you finding your first week with the WLF?”

There. You said something normal. Maybe. Right? God, you can’t tell if you’re going to pass out from the tension or throw up.

It’s a neutral question, safe—at least, that’s the plan. You’re genuinely curious, though. The WLF’s operations aren’t the easiest to get a grip on at first, especially for new recruits. The base, SoundView Stadium, is a maze of corridors and concrete, more organized chaos than anything else. But it works. It’s been working for years, and if Abby is here, it means she’s proven herself to be useful already.

Abby tilts her head just slightly, considering your question. Her eyes flick to the side for a moment, like she’s weighing her words. She’s not quick to offer up anything, not that you blame her. There’s a guarded quality to her that you’re starting to get a sense of.

“It’s... been alright,” she says after a beat, her voice low and deliberate, like she’s choosing each word carefully. “Getting used to the layout, figuring out how things run here. It’s a bit of a mess, but I’m starting to get the hang of it.”

You nod, trying to offer some sense of solidarity. The WLF has been through a lot—rebuilding after all the infighting, trying to keep things afloat after the fallout with the Seraphites. The SoundView Stadium isn’t a home in the sense you might wish, but it’s functional. And the people here, for all their flaws, make it work.

“I hear you,” you say with a soft chuckle. “I still get lost sometimes, and I’ve been here for a while.” You let out a small breath, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to ease. The conversation’s shifting, taking a quieter, more natural rhythm. It feels like the knot in your chest is loosening, just a little. “But if you need tips on how to remember patrol schedules or where to find the quieter spots, let me know. I’ve learned a few tricks.”

Abby gives a small, appreciative nod. “Appreciate that,” she says, her lips curling into the slightest smile. It’s a subtle thing, but you catch it. “I’ll take you up on that.”

For a moment, the conversation lingers in comfortable silence. Neither of you seems in any rush. Abby’s careful with her words, measured, like she’s waiting to see how much to share. It’s a familiar dance, and you’re not complaining. You’re not exactly an open book either.

“So,” you start again, shifting the drink in your hands, “you came here with a group, right?” You pause, then add, “I’ve been gone for a week, so I’m kinda playing catch up.”

Abby nods, her gaze steady as she answers. “Yeah, a few of us. Came down from Salt Lake, group we belonged to got hit.” She tilts her head, like she’s weighing whether to elaborate. “Not much left up there. Just—yeah, nothing.”

You feel the shift in the air. A weight to her words, but she doesn’t let it linger. Instead, she takes a small sip from her own mug, eyes scanning the surrounding area as she talks, like she’s always half-watching for something.

“Sorry to hear that,” you offer quietly. “Sounds like a rough start.”

Abby shrugs, but there’s a quiet fire in her eyes. “It is what it is.” Her tone is blunt but not unkind. “We adapt. We’ve all been through worse.”

You nod, not quite sure what to say to that. The quiet fire in Abby’s eyes tells you all you need to know about her—she doesn’t need pity or words that don’t mean much. She’s been through things, probably more than you can imagine. The kind of things that don’t go away with a few kind words or gestures.

Instead of responding right away, you take a sip from your mug, letting the warm, bitter taste settle in your chest. The silence isn’t uncomfortable, but you can feel it stretching, the weight of it lingering between you.

Finally, you let out a slow breath, looking over at Abby again. “Sounds like you’ve got a good handle on things, though. I mean, you’re already here. Not many people can say that, not after everything.”

Abby glances at you, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of something softer behind her guarded exterior. It’s fleeting, but you catch it. “I guess we all just do what we can to survive, huh?”

You tilt your head, meeting her eyes for a second longer than usual. There’s something in that sentence. It’s not just a throwaway line. Abby’s didn’t hit you as the type to say things she doesn’t mean. “Yeah, that’s true,” you say, voice quieter now, like the weight of it is sinking in.

You let the silence stretch just a little longer, your mind catching up to the quiet weight of Abby’s words. It’s odd, how the two of you have managed to slip into this unspoken rhythm. A soft, steady rhythm that almost feels... familiar, even though you don’t know her that well yet.

You shift in your seat again, trying to shake off the strange feeling that’s bubbling in your chest—something between nerves and something else that you’re not quite sure how to name.

Finally, you clear your throat, the nerves now bouncing in your stomach like little sparks of electricity. You raise your mug in the air, a small, tentative smile pulling at the corners of your mouth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A way to break the quiet.

“Well,” you say, keeping your voice light, trying to sound casual, but the words feel heavier than you intended. “Welcome to WLF, Abby.” You give her a little nod, like it’s some kind of unspoken toast. “Cheers.”

She looks at you, and for a moment, there’s that softness again—those few seconds where the walls seem to lower just enough. Abby clinks her mug against yours, the sound of it almost too loud in the quiet of the moment.

“Thanks,” she replies, her voice steady, but there’s a slight warmth to it now. “Guess I’m stuck with you guys for a while.”

You laugh, the sound a little too high-pitched for comfort, but you don’t care. The air feels lighter now, less tense. Abby’s lips twitch into a smile—genuine this time, not the guarded kind that she been offering a few moments before. It’s small, but it’s there, and it makes something in your chest loosen.

“Well, I guess that means we’re kinda friends now,” you say, trying to keep it cool. You don’t know why you’re nervous—maybe because she’s new, or maybe because you’re definitely not used to having these kinds of easy conversations with people. Hell, you barely know what you’re doing.

But Abby seems to get it. She gives a slow nod, eyes softening just a bit more. “Guess we are,” she says, voice warmer now, almost teasing, like she’s not entirely sure how to handle the casualness of it either, but she’s willing to try.

You’re not sure what to say after that, so you take another sip from your mug, feeling a little more comfortable in your skin. You glance at Abby again, and this time, you catch her looking at you, a faint glimmer of something in her eyes.

The tension—whatever it was—feels like it’s finally starting to slip away, and you’re... okay with that. More than okay. You’re grateful, even, that this is turning into something easy. Something that doesn’t feel forced.

“So,” you start, glancing at her, trying to keep things light, “now that we’re friends, I gotta warn you—if you’re ever on patrol with me, you will get lost. It’s kind of my thing.” You smirk, nudging her lightly with your elbow, feeling the electricity buzzing in your skin again, but this time it’s not quite as sharp.

Abby chuckles, the sound rumbling deep in her chest. “I’ll keep that in mind. Don’t want to be the one who gets stuck with the ‘lost’ patrol.” She lets the words linger for a second before adding, “But I’m not complaining. You seem like good company.”

You laugh, feeling your chest lighten. There it is again—that smile, and it does something to you, makes your heart skip just a little. It’s dangerous, this feeling, but you let it sit there, just for a moment. No rush.

“Well,” you say, leaning back in your seat, “we’ll make sure you don’t get too lost, then. But, uh, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

And for a little while longer, the conversation meanders, shifting from topic to topic, the earlier tension now just a distant memory. It’s almost normal, and for a fleeting moment, you forget how strange it feels to let someone in. To let someone see you, like this.

And for the first time, in a long time, you don’t slip away back to your room.

You stay, just a little longer, because for once, it feels like you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.

Notes:

With season 2 coming out for the TLOU show, my hyper fixation for Abby has literally crawled back and thrown me off the deep end. Add in my obsession with parkour and I want to write some lesbian romance.

#abby anderson #abby tlou #abby the last of us #abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby anderson x female reader #abby anderson tlou2

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oldnewyorklandia · 11 months ago

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Geo. P. Hall & Son. Manhattan: interior main concourse of Penn Station (i.e. Pennsylvania Station), 1911.

#Geo. P. Hall & Son #George P. Hall & Son #photography #McKim Mead & White architects #New York City #New York

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in-the-mists · 5 months ago

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some moments from the pwhl game yesterday <3

moments not pictured that i loved:

the HUUUGE cheers for coach jess when she came out to drop the puck

all the young girls down at the glass for warm ups with signs/bracelets/enthusiasm

i saw grubi down on the main concourse and got a picture with him!! still cannot quite believe that lol

how many different jerseys i saw people wearing!! tons of nhl teams, the other pwhl teams, juniors, local teams, national teams, etc

the whole arena absolutely LOSING its mind when sue bird and megan rapinoe were shown on the jumbotron. yall. it was almost as loud as when the kraken score. it was incredible (you better believe i was hootin and hollerin too lmao)

anywayyyy WE WANT A TEAM!!!! please!!!!! we promise to love and cherish them soooo much <3

#took me a while to get my thoughts in order abut it all lol #it was so wonderful and beautiful to see so many people come out to support women’s sports <3 #montreal victoire #boston fleet #pwhl montreal #pwhl boston #pwhl #hockey

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rabbitcruiser · 1 year ago

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Grand Central Terminal was opened in New York City on February 2, 1913.

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bwat5-blog · 5 months ago

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Hope: Chapter 2 (Arcane fanfic)

*Not cannon-compliant, as I said I really liked the idea of "someone to be strong for" but it was really rushed and kind of just thrown out there. Trying to do a better job! Spoilers-ish*

The hour passes slowly. Jinx is almost shocked when she realizes she has eaten the entire plate of food. She took the pills with apprehension. Medicine like this wasn’t something she was used to—certainly not for her mind—but even at her lowest point, she wasn’t a fool. She knew she needed help.

Not that I deserve it, doc, but... please come back, she whispers to the air.

Sure enough, after what feels like forever—and yet so quick it makes her stomach drop—she hears the elevator.

Ding!

She swallows, her mouth suddenly dry, her whole body electric with anxious, frantic energy. She steps to the back of the cell and stares at the floor, terrified that if she messes up, they won’t let her see Vi.

Footsteps. Her pulse quickens.

“Jinx...” Caitlyn Kiramman’s soft, proper voice calls to her.

Jinx looks up cautiously. She hadn’t dared ask Tobias about Caitlyn being okay with this—or how she could be. She and Caitlyn had a truce born of terror for Vi’s life when they returned to Piltover, and Caitlyn had come to see her a few times. But they had never really talked.

“Just while we move you, I need you to allow James here to place you in handcuffs. But as soon as we get into my chambers, they will come off. Okay?” Caitlyn asks gently, measured.

Jinx suddenly realizes the taller woman is as anxious as she is herself.

“Yeah... yeah, of course. Um, do I need to lay down or anything?” Jinx asks.

For the first time, she looks to the Enforcer standing between Caitlyn and Tobias. She is startled for a moment as her eyes travel up the slab of muscle in uniform who has apparently been christened James.

More like Mount James, she thinks, suppressing a small giggle.

Even though she didn’t doubt Kiramman’s sincerity, they had still obviously brought someone who would respond if Jinx misbehaved. In the old days, Jinx would have been offended, but after everything, all she could think was: Fair.

“Madame, if you would please simply turn around and extend your hands. I have no desire to make you lay down on this hard ground,” James speaks in a surprisingly polite and deep, comforting tone.

Jinx nods and does so, taking a deep breath. Even now, the idea of letting an Enforcer cuff her is... troubling. That nausea and heat in her stomach threaten her self-control, but she feels a hand on her shoulder and opens her eyes to see Tobias standing in front of her.

“Just until we get there, okay? Just breathe. I will show you. In for 5, hold for 5, out for 5. In: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Hold: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5. Out: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5.”

As large, calloused but surprisingly gentle hands click the shackles into place, Jinx starts following Tobias’s breathing. She is shocked by how much it helps.

No one speaks. The walk to the elevator is longer than Jinx would have thought. She keeps breathing, and Tobias keeps guiding her through it, even as the elevator starts to rise toward the main concourse of the Kiramman family’s grounds.

“Are the restraints too tight for the lady?” James rumbles.

Jinx can’t help but smile. “No... no, I’m okay.”

James nods, and the elevator continues to rise until finally, the doors open. They step out into a large chamber filled with aides and guards busy about the business of the city’s restoration. Jinx looks to one wall and sees a huge map where architects are gathered, discussing something excitedly. She is shocked to see the sector they are discussing is in Zaun.

“New clinics all throughout the Undercity in places overseen by Ekko and his people,” Caitlyn says, smiling to herself.

Jinx nods. “That’s... that’s amazing. Growing up, we didn’t really have that sort of thing, to say the least.”

Tobias clicks his tongue in disdain. “As I said... we failed you all. No more.”

They keep walking through a labyrinth of hallways—rich carpeting, deep wood-paneled walls, and great portraits. Jinx tries to think of the first time she had come to this place.

“Ah, here we are,” Tobias says cheerfully. They come up to a large, heavy wooden set of doors with two guards outside, who immediately step aside and pull the doors open.

Jinx is in awe. She would have taken any offer to be close to Vi, but when Tobias said they were going to Caitlyn’s bed chambers, she thought maybe a bedroom and a bathroom. The doors lead to a central hall with close to six others contained within.

“As I said, regretfully, you will need to stay on this side of the door for now. But otherwise, you are free to walk here unrestrained,” Tobias says and nods to James, who quickly frees Jinx from the shackles and leaves.

“This, um... this will be your room,” Caitlyn says quietly. She gestures to a door already open, soft candlelight flickering from within.

“My room?” Jinx asks, confused.

Tobias chuckles. “Did you think we moved you up here to make you sleep on the floor? It’s a little bare, but I think you’ll find it preferable to the bunker.”

Jinx takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I... this is all so much. I don’t... why are you both doing this?” She looks at the floor, tears rolling down her cheeks. She stutters when she feels a slender hand on hers and looks up into the vibrant blue eyes of Caitlyn.

“I don’t know about you, but I rather feel that I have failed Violet for the last time. I want... I want to be better. I want to be someone worth waking up for. You and I... we have a lot to talk about. But I thought—maybe you would feel the same. Why on earth would she want to come back to a world where she is forced to choose between us? She deserves so much better...” Caitlyn’s eyes are misty, and her rigid posture is straining, but she smiles at Jinx. “Do you think you can do that with me?”

Jinx nods, her own eyes tearing up but far past the point of caring. “Can I see her?”

Caitlyn leads her to the door right next to Jinx’s own bedroom. They step into a large room lit by the light of the setting sun as twilight unfolds. Tobias quickly steps to some candles in the corner and lights them.

“I’ll be by for Violet’s evening checkup later and to go over some things with you, Jinx. We’ll start your sessions tomorrow if that’s okay.”

Jinx nods gratefully, and Tobias exits, leaving only her, Caitlyn... and Vi.

Jinx walks slowly. The room is large. Even with the partial light of outside and the candles, her sister is partially in shadow. Jinx realizes her hands are shaking and curses quietly, trying to make them stop. But as she reaches Vi’s bedside, she goes still, her eyes stinging, her breath coming ragged and harsh.

Vi was a titan. That was always how she had seen her—even when they were on opposite sides, even when she was at her lowest in the pit. She was... she was so damn tough. Somehow, even in the compound, bleeding and burned and barely able to speak, she looked stronger than she did now.

They were Trenchers. Soot and blood and sweat were who they were. But this... this was so much worse. Jinx feels her knees trembling as she violently grinds her teeth to stop the sob tearing at her throat.

Vi looked small. She looked so... so damn small and pale and still. Her chest rose softly, but otherwise... She was clean, most of that black grease washed out of her hair, and she had been dressed in fresh clothing. But the bag of fluids running to her arm and the clip on her finger monitoring her heart rate told the truth.

“Can I... can I touch her?” Jinx whispers, not able to look at Caitlyn standing behind her.

“Of course. Just be careful of the tubing,” Caitlyn responds softly.

Jinx lowers herself onto the massive bed. She moves slowly, terrified to somehow hurt Vi even worse. She inches across the bed until she is lying next to Vi’s unencumbered arm. She wraps her arms around Vi’s muscular bicep and leans her head against it like when she was little.

“You have to come back, Vi. You... you just have to, okay? I...” She shifts, trying to wipe the tears away, and continues, “I have so much I have to tell you. So much I wish I had told you, fuck...” She starts openly weeping and shaking.

Caitlyn watches from the side, covering her mouth with her hand, trying not to cry herself and interrupt.

“When you saved me... when you threw your body over me and took that blast and told me you loved me... I would do anything to go back and say it back, Vi. I promise... I promise, please come back! I have to tell you!” Jinx devolves into full-blown sobs. Caitlyn cannot take it anymore. She lowers herself and hugs her former enemy tightly, whispering:

“She is so strong, Jinx... She is so much stronger than either of us. But we are going to give her something to come back to. You aren’t alone anymore.”

Tobias Kiramman listens from outside the door, his back straight and his step sure for the first time since his wife’s death. As he walks away, he whispers to himself, “Time to start being worthy of those who need me again, Cassandra. Time to be the man you married.” And he knows, quietly and somehow in his heart, life is returning to their halls.

#arcane #jinx arcane #vi arcane #caitlyn kiramman #vi and jinx #arcane season 2 spoilers #arcane vi #fanfiction #tobias kiramman

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marlynnofmany · 5 months ago

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Rematch

(Related side project: Prank War!)

~~~

“Since it has been brought to my attention,” said Captain Sunlight, “And it will not STOP being brought to my attention—” She frowned at Blip. “—The last race involved an unfair head start, and I need to mediate the beginning of this one. You absolute children.”

I looked from Blip and Blop, who stood with their chins high and muscley arms folded, to Zhee who did the bug alien equivalent. His pincher arms weren’t pinching anything at the moment, and he’d angled his torso to raise his head above the rest of us. Neither he nor the Frillian twins looked ashamed.

Paint gave me a look of sympathy from where she and Mur waited by the smallest hoversled of the three. “Best of luck.” Their load of deliveries was a stack of lightweight boxes, easy for a short lizardperson and tentacle alien to handle.

I was paired up with Zhee for delivering a large and well-packaged sculpture, while the Frillians had a load of heavy machine parts. Everything had to be delivered to different areas of this space station.

And apparently Zhee’s head start in the last unofficial delivery race had been deemed cheating, so the twins wanted a rematch.

“I will remind everyone,” Captain Sunlight said as she put a scaly hand on the door controls, “To be more careful than fast. Anyone who causes problems of any sort — bumping into people, causing damage — will be the automatic loser. Do not make our ship look bad. Clear?”

We all agreed, with a range of enthusiasm. Captain Sunlight directed us into an arrangement outside of the ship that would let both of the big deliveries take off simultaneously. Paint and Mur gladly held back, admiring the spaceport while I took the position Zhee suggested and the twins likewise got ready. Luckily for everyone, the place wasn’t too crowded. Our route to the main concourse was clear of obstacles.

Zhee hissed a whisper: “Don’t slow me down.”

“I’ll do my best,” I told him. “I can ride on the sled if I need to.” We both knew he was a faster runner than me. I’d already scoped out the best place to hop on and still be able to reach the hand brake.

“Ready!” said Captain Sunlight. “Smell! Go!”

We took off, with me trying not to be distracted by Heatseeker phrasing while Blip and Blop whooped happily and Zhee left a string of determined hissing behind us. The only pedestrian nearby, a green Mesmer taller than Zhee, saw us coming and stepped well out of the way.

“Thank you!” I called as we passed, leaving the spaceport for the main concourse. I didn’t hear an answer.

There were more people out here, walking and otherwise moving under their own power as well as using various hover-things. Blip and Blop peeled off to the right with taunts about how they would get back first; they were the best; etcetera. Our destination was to the left. At the sharp turn, I was glad the statue was strapped down tight.

The concourse was wide and well-lit, with plenty of space for us to dash down the middle while more casual station-goers strolled along the sides. Lots of Mesmers, lots of stores and restaurants, lots of running still to do.

When Zhee’s speed started to make the sled slide past me, I sprinted for a few steps, then leapt onto the sled, grabbing the straps. It bounced a little, but didn’t skid. Whew. Zhee didn’t comment either, which was a bonus.

Soon enough, I hopped off again to help steer around a corner, then alternated between running and riding. We were making pretty good time as far as I could tell. Nobody had yelled at us to slow down. I wondered how Blip and Blop were doing.

Then all thoughts were panic as the gravity cut out. My urgent footfalls against the floor launched me upward, and I clutched a strap for dear life. The sled was rising too, and Zhee was hissing wildly, and oh this was the worst place for it to happen. We’d just run onto an overpass.

The long drop below was far too close; we were drifting over the railing. But Zhee caught the railing with his long bug legs, pinchers holding tight to the sled and leaving deep grooves. I held in a scream and scrambled to the front where the controls were. Between the two of us, we steered back over safe ground. With no idea what the gravity would do next, I kept a hand on the height control for the hover engine.

It was good that I did. Scant heartbeats later, the gravity snapped back on. I settled the hoversled back down without crashing into the floor or crushing Zhee. The sculpture was still in place. I hadn’t peed myself. Success all around.

“Are you okay?” I asked as we skidded to a stop and I relearned how to breathe.

“Yess,” Zhee hissed. He was breathing hard too, but it looked weird since what passed for his nostrils were in his torso. Shouts filtered in from all directions. “Let’s proceed.”

“Carefully,” I said. “How about I stay right here?” I knelt next to the controls. There was just enough space.

“Agreed,” said Zhee. “That kind of hiccup could happen again.”

It did, though smaller this time. Just enough for us to catch a little air, in a narrow corridor this time. Another soft landing. We’d almost hit the ceiling that time though, and I didn’t like the idea of testing the sculpture’s packaging that way.

Moving at a reasonable speed, we passed a number of people (mostly Mesmers) who were having their own adventures with the gravity. Lots of scattered belongings and a couple minor injuries. I was selfishly glad that we wouldn’t be staying long. And that our ship had its own gravity generators.

New problem. “Stop,” I told Zhee when I caught sight of the roadblock up ahead. Lots of fallen metal crates — cages? Oh no. Open cages.

“What?” Zhee asked, then he saw it too. We slid to a stop. Nothing moved ahead of us: no people, and no sign of what the crates had been holding. Was it too much to hope that they’d been empty before they broke open like that? Every single door was popped open. Shoddy design, not able to stand up to a little gravity shakeup.

I gauged the size of the cages. “We’ll have to move those to get past. They’re too big to hover over.”

Zhee rattled his mandibles in a way that sounded annoyed. “Whoever owns these should be out here cleaning up their mess.”

“Maybe they’re busy catching whatever escaped,” I said.

I wasn’t looking at him, but I could almost feel the stern look he gave me. “This is not the time to offer your services as animal handler. We’re on a schedule.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I said. “I just hope they’re not dangerous.”

“If they are, hopefully they’re off being dangerous somewhere else. We’re almost at our destination.”

We really were; I’d almost lost track. The map had said the high-end collectibles dealership was right around the corner.

Still no one in sight. I climbed down. “Let’s move these to the side.”

We parked the hoversled and set to hauling the cages. They weren’t too heavy, and didn’t look like the kind of thing that dangerous animals would be kept in. But I knew better than most people that not everyone who shipped fauna around in cages did it the smart way. Several memories of animal cargos causing trouble on our own ship flitted through my head as I worked.

“Hm,” Zhee said. “These are destined for the same dealership as our sculpture here. I hope there’s someone free to sign for it, not off chasing creatures.”

I found him glaring at a logo that I hadn’t recognized. “Want me to go check? Or would it be faster stay and move more crates?”

“Go ahead and scamper over there,” Zhee said with a dismissive wave of a pincher arm. “I’ll clear a path.” He hauled another cage to the side.

The corner was close, and would give me a clear view of the dealership’s entrance. I dodged between cages and took a look.

I immediately regretted it.

Spiders the size of large dogs filled the corridor, clustered around something that I thought for a horrifying moment was a fallen person, but no: bag of food. Which was ripped and scattered everywhere, torn into by the eager creatures like lions on a zebra.

I froze in place long enough for Zhee to pester me for an update. “Well? Anyone there?”

“Anyone, no,” I said in a voice that was mostly level. “Anything, unfortunately yes.”

Zhee scraped another cage across the floor. “Details, please.”

The nearest spider looked toward me at the sound, then went back to the food.

“The escaped animals are over there, eating food that was probably meant for them.” I looked up. “They’re blocking the door.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“I don’t know,” I had to admit. “I’m unfamiliar with this exact species, but they look an awful lot like an Earth animal, just terrifyingly large. And some of those can kill a person with a single bite.”

“Great.” Zhee rested his pinchers on another cage without moving it. “Are our clients hiding inside, then, and this delivery was for nothing?”

“Maybe.” That door was definitely shut tight. It was a back entrance though, not the main one with big display windows, so it was possible that whoever was inside didn’t know about the escape yet. “We might want to call security.”

“So they can call in a professional animal handler?” Zhee asked with some sarcasm, picking his way through the remaining cages.

I frowned at him. “So they can come in with body armor and whatever sedatives these things need to get them back in the cages. Assuming the doors still shut all the way.”

“The cages are fine, just cheap,” Zhee said, shutting one with a leg as he passed. “What kind of creatures are we talking about? Will they attack if we try to sneak past?”

“I couldn’t say,” I admitted. “The ones on my planet are definite predators, but I’m no expert on the behavior of anything this large.” I moved over so he could see, taking one more look at the nightmare fuel crawling all over the hallway.

Zhee looked. He was silent for a moment, then he rotated his head in that creepy buglike way to stare at me with the full force of his compound eyes. “Those are cleaners.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Cleaners,” he repeated. “For cleaning up pest infestations, spilled food, and fungal growths?”

“What?” I asked. “Those are the cleaners you guys use? I thought they were robots!”

“Why would we use robots to clean when there are animals happy to do it for us?”

“We do!” I exclaimed. “You’ve seen the Roomba fleets! You didn’t want me to get one for our ship!”

“That’s because you’d tape a knife to it.”

“I would not.”

“Unconvinced,” he said. “And anyway, you have a small predator for catching pests on the ship, which is entirely reasonable.”

I squinted at him. “Didn’t you think a cat was a waste of resources?”

He waved a pincher arm. “Only if you wanted the animal purely for sensory reasons. Humans have a strange obsession with soft fur.”

“Spoken like someone with an exoskeleton,” I said with a shake of my head. “Okay. So these things are safe to walk past? No deadly venom, not going to bite me, who does NOT have an exoskeleton?”

“Of course not. Look.” He stepped around the last of the cages and walked out into the swarm of giant spiders. I watched from my safe spot. Sure enough, they moved out of his way with all the docility of a flock of recently-fed chickens. He came back.

I stayed where I was. “And you’re sure they won’t react differently to another species?”

Zhee tilted his antennae in a way that suggested he was laughing at me. “You can ride on the hoversled if that will make you feel better.”

“Well,” I said. “Someone’s got to be at the controls in case of gravity hiccups. Speaking of which, I should get back over there now.”

Zhee was definitely laughing at me, but he didn’t argue as I picked my way through the remaining cages and took a seat stubbornly on the platform that floated safely above the floor. Zhee moved the other cages. Then he pushed and I steered, and the immensely creepy giant spiders paid us no mind.

Zhee rapped on the door with a folded pincher arm. “Delivery!” he annouced. “Also, your cleaners got out!”

A harried-looking Mesmer appeared at the door, a darker shade of green from the other one and very exasperated at the sight in the hallway. He immediately called for someone else to come deal with the mess out there, never mind the mess indoors.

I stayed on the hoversled. I handed Zhee the payment tablet from its storage pocket, he got the guy to sign for the delivery, and more underlings were summoned to deal with the statue.

I finally got down at that point, helping Zhee undo the straps and use the hoversled’s gravity platform to move the heavy sculpture to the floor. Much to my relief, the station’s gravity behaved itself while we did so.

And most of the spiders had been rounded up by then. That helped too.

The clients maneuvered the sculpture through the door on their own little hoverpad, just barely clearing the top. It was still wrapped, so I had no idea what it was a sculpture of. Could have been spiders. I hoped not.

Zhee shoved the payment tablet back into its slot. “You might as well ride on the way back too.”

I opened my mouth to say the floor was clear of creepy things now, but I realized he was probably talking about the gravity. Or possibly my running speed. Oh yeah, we were still in a race. “Sure,” I said.

So I sat cross-legged on the empty cart, diligently minding the controls while Zhee pushed it past where the spiders huddled in their cages, some still crunching stolen kibble. Mesmers moved one cage at a time through the door.

Where the cages had fallen, scrapes lined the walkway. Zhee picked up speed as we passed, and I got a good grip on the nearest strap tie. I may have held it a little white-knuckledly as we crossed the bridge.

There were more pedestrians out and about now, dealing with fallout from the space equivalent of a minor earthquake. Luckily for all of us, there wasn’t a repeat. We made good time once we got to the main concourse, nearly flying when we reached the spaceport.

But despite Zhee’s fleet feet and my careful leaning around corners, Blip and Blop were waiting when we arrived. They had even sprawled out to lounge on the cargo ramp with canned drinks and a bag of shrimp sticks they were passing back and forth. Their grins were wide.

“Hey, what kept you?” asked Blip, raising her drink.

“Didn’t have trouble with the gravity flux, did you?” Blop added.

Zhee scowled as we came to a stop. “The pathway was blocked by broken cages and escaped animals.”

“Really!” Blip said, sitting up. “Good thing you had the animal expert with you.”

“Yes, good thing,” Zhee agreed, giving me a look.

I finally got down from the hoversled. “You will be happy to know,” I announced, “That I was not tempted to keep one as a pet.”

~~~

Did I mention the Prank War?

~~~

These are the ongoing backstory adventures of the main character from this book.

Shared early on Patreon! There’s even a free tier to get them on the same day as the rest of the world.

The sequel novel is in progress (and will include characters from these stories. I hadn’t thought all of them up when I wrote the first book, but they’re too much fun to leave out of the second).

#several people wanted to know who won the race last week #that sounded like a fine start to a new adventure #my writing #The Token Human #humans are weird #haso #hfy #eiad #humans are space orcs #writeblr #writblr

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andydrysdalerogers · 1 month ago

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Dirty Little Secret

Pairings: Jeremy Swayman (from Troublemaker) x F! Reader x Curtis Everett

Summary: You're dating two goalies. And they just figured it out.

Warnings: casual relationship (it's not cheating because nothing is official) x SMUT! (threesome, oral - MF, PIV, Paris), no sword crossing (but definitely some touching) sweating, degradation, pet names

Word Count: 4.7K

A/N: So, I was at a game recently and saw something interesting.

I send the photo to my friend and ask: Do you think they are talking about the same girl? And this little wicked, smutty idea had to be written. The Curtis I am using is from my friend's story, "The Brick Wall" on Wattpad. You can find it here. She is a closed door writer but her stories are beautiful. Anyways, Curtis is a goalie in the story but this is set about three years prior to the beginnings of both of our stories. I hope you like it!

Main Master List

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site, even if you give me credit. DO NOT REPOST MY FICS. Reblogs, comments, likes, and feedback ALWAYS appreciated

I love hockey.

Specifically, goalies.

I fucking love goalies.

So much so that I’m dating two of them. How, you ask? Simple.

I live in New London, which is about halfway between Providence and Bridgeport. An hour’s drive in either direction. I’m dating Jeremy Swayman, from the Providence Bruins and Curtis Everett from the Bridgeport Islanders. The best goalie on their respective teams.

Are they friends? Nope. Do they know about each other? Of course not. Their teams hate each other. Rivals. But it makes it easy to meet up with them. I know when they are in town and when they are not. And I plan accordingly. Never shall the two meet.

At least, that’s the plan.

Tonight, however, is the exception to that rule. Providence and Bridgeport are playing each other in Providence. I promised both boys that I would be there. And I specifically wore red so I wouldn’t be caught rooting for the other team. I sit at the top of the stands, center ice, feet on the seat in front of me as I much on popcorn. My friends came with me and warm-ups have started.

“Why do the guys have to do that on the ice?” one asks as we watch players stretch their hip inductors. Its borderline pornographic. Especially when I see my guys hit the ice and start to stretch as well. It leaves a little tingle between my thighs. God, I wish I had made plans to see one of them tonight. But it was too risky. I’ll just have to enjoy the floor show.

Until I see them warm up next to each other, staying on their side of the red line. They lean in to say something but then Curtis looks up and searches for me. I shrink a little in my seat because this cannot lead to something good. I see Jeremy starting to look the same, his helmet sitting on top of his head.

“Oh, fuck,” I mumble.

“What? What is it?” My friends ask, just as they both spot me in the crowd.

“I have to go to the bathroom. Excuse me.” I basically run out of my seat and onto the concourse. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck! I’m panicking, this was such a stupid idea.

My phone dings twice.

Sway: I need to talk

Ev: I need to see you

Fuck.

Jeremy

I’m excited for this game. I’m starting against Bridgeport, and I know its going to be brutal. We are not rivals for nothing.

I’m also excited because my girl decided to watch me play away. She can only make it to home games but with Bridgeport only being an hour away, I convinced her to come. And maybe, later, I’m make her come again and again.

With that thought, I hit the ice and skated over to the far side of the rink as usual. I drop to the ice, on my knees, getting ready to stretch. I start with one leg, then the other before I dropped into a full split.

“Swayman.” I look over to see Curtis Everett stretching, next to me on his side of the red line.

“Everett.” I get back on my knees to slide side to side, getting my back and knees ready to block. I decided to look up to see if I can find my girl in the stands. She mentioned that she would make the trek to see me play. I’m looking for my jersey and out of the corner of my eye, I see Everett looking up as well. “Girl?” I ask.

“Yeah, she mentioned coming.” He looks around. “I usually can find her in my jersey, but I don’t see her.”

“Why are women so fucking difficult sometimes,” I comment.

“Tell me about it. She won’t move closer to me because she claims it's about work. But she works from home,” he continues.

“I’ve had the same argument with YN.” I skate back and forth getting my arms and legs ready.

“YN. Funny, that’s my girl’s name as well.” Curtis looks at me. Then he looks back in the stands and I see his eyes light. I look again for my girl, and I spot her in red. Weird; she usually has my black home jersey one. I send her a wave and Curtis does the same thing. I look at him. “Her name is YN?”

“Yeah.” He looks at me. “She lives in…”

“… New London,” I finish. We both look back at the girl in red and I can see that she has paled. She scrambles out of her seat and up the stairs back onto the concourse.

“I gotta go.”

“I need to get in.”

We speak at the same time. I look at him. “Hallway,” I say. He nods and heads into his locker room. I do the same.

What the actual fuck is going on?

Curtis

There is no way. There is absolutely no fucking way that she is fucking Swayman when she’s with me. I know I said I wanted to keep it casual, but I meant like not moving in together right away. Not, hey I’m cool with you screwing my rival. I get my top gear off and dart into the hallway. Swayman is there pacing a little. “Hey.”

“How long have you been sleeping with my girl?”

“Fuck you. She’s mine. We’ve been together almost a year.”

He stops and blinks at me. “A year?” He runs a hand through his hair. “We just celebrated a year.”

“You have got to be shitting me.” I run my hands through my shaven hair. She’s always been my Sunshine, the light at the end of some of my shittier days. I didn’t want any attachments because I knew I could be traded or moved up at any time. We kept it casual but there was always something deep down, hoping for something more.

I see him texting and I send my own text to her.

Everett: I need to see you

I look at my rival. “What do you want to do?”

He smirks at me. “She’s not going to answer. But I think the three of us should talk and maybe teach our girl a lesson. After all, it’s rude to lie.”

The light goes on. I smirk back. “You ok with sharing a drink?”

“I’m game if you are.”

“Alright. I send another text to her best friend, who happens to be my cousin.”

Curtis: Keep YN busy for an hour after the game.

Ella: Why?

Curtis: I’m setting up a surprise. Just do it.

Ella: Fine. Asshole

I chuckle. “I got my cousin to distract her so we can get out before she gets to her apartment.”

“Good.” He studies me. “You sure?”

I shrug. “I like to watch.”

The game is brutal from the start. I catch most of it, but my concentration is on my two goalies. They only cross paths at timeouts and the end of the period. I don’t get any more messages from them so now I just need to plan my escape.

“Hey,” I turned to look at Ella. “The girls and I are getting a drink after. Join?”

“Yes, that’s sounds great.” It’s the perfect escape plan. I don’t have to try and meet the guys after and then I can get to my place. I’ll deal with my love life tomorrow.

We decide to leave with three minutes left and Bridgeport is up 2-0. At least I don’t have to deal with a grumpy Jeremy after the game. Again, tomorrow’s problem. We head to the bar around the corner from the arena and I have one drink before cutting myself off. I still have to drive home. When I see a couple of Bridgeport players show up, I know that’s my cue to head home. I don’t know if Curtis will be joining his teammates and it's a risk I don’t want to take.

It’s eerie that my phone has been silent the rest of the night. I never did respond to either of the texts I received. What could I possibly say? Sorry guys but we weren’t exclusive? These are hockey players, specifically, goaltenders. They are the most competitive and possessive guys on the team. Everyone knows you don’t touch the goalie.

And I decided to touch two of them.

I’m actually surprised that no one brawled on the ice. I had thought that when their attitude changed, the guys would pick up on it and then take it out on the other team. But no, it was a normal game. My thoughts were scattered on what I was going to say to the guys. One or both of these arrangements were about to end, I could feel it.

I climbed the steps to my apartment floor, sad that I had royally fucked this up but then stopped.

Two goalies were waiting for me by my door.

Jeremy

She stands there, shock on her face. I knew surprising her would be the best option. “Hello, Starlight.”

Curtis snorts. “You call her Starlight? I call her Sunshine.” He looks at her. “Miss us, Sunshine.?” He takes a step forward and she instinctively steps back. “Should rename you to Hurricane. Just come into our lives to spin us around.”

“Fuck that, she should be called tornado.” I make it behind her and put my hands on her waist. “Quick and lots of trouble.” I kiss her neck gently and she sighs. “Give your keys to Curtis, Starlight. We have some things to talk about.”

She obediently hands them over and Curtis opens her door. I push her in and as soon as the door closes, I have her pinned there with my hips. “Good girl,” I whisper in her ear. “Now, you want to explain what is going on.” I nip at her ear. She lets out a whine. “Use your words, Starlight.”

“C’mon Sunshine. Tell us,” Curtis commands, his voice deep. I can feel the shudder running through her. His voice gets to her. I roll my hips against her, and I see her eyes roll back as she feels the hardness of cock against her pelvis.

“I... fuck... I just liked you both.” I kiss below her ear and her eyes shoot to Curtis as she softly moans when I press into her again.

“Take her to the couch, Sway,” Curtis directs. I lift her up and wrap her legs around my waist. I was on my knees for 60 minutes in 50 pounds of gear and you could never tell. I carry her and sit her on my lap. My erection can’t be denied any more as I slide her up and down my aching cock. She mewls every time my tip catches over her clit.

“You like that, Starlight, feeling how hard I am for you, letting that slutty clit feel me?” She nods before I pull her down for a filthy kiss. I moan at her taste, wanting more. She pulls back and looks back at Curtis. I see around her and he’s sitting on the chair, a beer in his hand. He spins his finger, urging her to turn back around. I grasp her chin and turn her to look at me. Eyes on me.”

“Jeremy,” she whimpers. She’s unsure of what is going on.

“We want this, YN. You wanted us and we want you.” I push her shirt up and over her head, exposing a black bra with yellow ribbons. “Look at that, Everett. Her bra is in my colors.”

Curtis lets out a huff. “Take off her pants and let's see if her panties match.” I pull down her jeans and off and get a good look at her panties. They are dark blue with a little orange bow in the middle. Curtis laughs. “Looks like my colors are touching her pussy first.”

“Mother fucker,” I mumble before flipping her onto her back on the couch. “Your colors may have gotten there first, but my mouth will get her to come first.” I peel off the damp panties and throw them to him. I look down at her. “That ok with you, Starlight? Can I be first to make you cum on my tongue?”

“Yes,” she breathes. I leave her bra on, just to test Curtis’s resolve. I get lower and place a kiss on her clit. She moans and reaches for my head, wanting to push me closer. I flick my tongue over her, just tasting her lower lips. “Jeremy,” she whines again, “please.”

��Please what?” I hear above me, and I see Curtis has moved closer to us. He puts his face in front of her. “What do you want, Sunshine? Use your big slutty girl words.” He grasps her neck gently and I can see her pussy clench around nothing. I want to shove my tongue into her to feel her. “Don’t you fucking dare, Sway. You don’t give her anything until she asks nicely for it.”

I stick to kissing her sensitive flesh, knowing my stubble is gently scraping her, getting her more riled up. “Understood,” I say. “C’mon baby, tell us what you want.” I watch as he squeezed her neck just a bit more and she cries. “Words, YN.”

“I want you to fuck me with your tongue and suck my clit. I want you to fuck me.”

I smile against her skin before I plunge my tongue into her warm, wet heat. I lapped at her entrance and raised my eyes as I watch Curtis start to kiss the life out of her. I can see her nails were digging into his hoodie. She pulled back on the kiss to moan louder.

“Sway, suck on her clit and I’ll suck on her tits.” Curtis pulled his sweatshirt and YN sucked in a breath. Fucker has tats and everyone knows, tattoos are basically catnip for women. I took his distraction to remove my shirt and then I sucked in her clit to my mouth hard. She cried out, her hands on the back of both of our heads.

Curtis popped off of her chest. “That’s good baby, let us hear you.” He moved to the other side and continued to nip and suck and bite her nipple. “Let everyone in this god damm building know who you belong to.” I decided to let one of fingers dance around her entrance. She bucked at the sensation before I sank my finger in. I stroked her walls, feeling them squeeze my finger. I pulled back and then let two of them sink in.

Her hips rose at the intrusion, but I held her down. “Take it, Starlight, take my fingers like a good little whore.” I thrusted them deeper, lapping at her clit at the same time. I feel her starting to come to her peak.

“Curtis, Jeremy, I’m... oh fuck...” she was breathing harder and harder; her orgasm would be devastating. I doubled down on my tongue getting her to cum, my fingers moving to get to that spot inside her. When she yelled and thrashed around, I knew she was right there. I did one more hard lick against her clit and she shattered. Curtis slows his hand on her chest and finally strokes her hair. I drink on her pussy like a fountain. I don’t want this to end.

Curtis

I’ve had enough of her breasts. For now. But I really want to lick her pussy. I know she’s sensitive but I need to feel her. “Move, Sway. I need to get my taste.” He gives her one more lick, before moving from in between her legs. I move us to her bed for more room before I take his place and he takes mine. He undoes his belt and pants but doesn’t take them off. He’s waiting. For what, who knows. But he bends down to kiss our girl. He shoved her taste on his tongue into her mouth. Fuck, that is hot. I see her squirm and I can’t wait. I give her pussy one languid lick and then suckle on her clit, knowing she’s oversensitive.

She pulls away from Jeremy’s kiss to moan. “Curtis,” she cries, shaking from the sensation.

“That’s right, Sunshine. Scream my name. Scream our names to let everyone know who is making you feel so good.” I hear Swayman chuckle before he sucks on her nipple. We work her back up to the brink and decide, since he made it a competition earlier, I am going to one up the mother fucker. I pull away from her sweet cunt to get my pants off. My cock is aching behind the zipper. I pull her away from Swayman and turn her around. I look up and he’s staring at me with an angry look. I smirk and look down on my girl. “I’m going to fuck your throat, Sunshine. Bad girls who lie, don’t get to speak anymore.” I angle her head to hang off the bed a bit so I can thrust into her mouth. “Eat her up, Sway. You may have gotten her to come on your tongue first but she’s sucking my cock first.”

“Fucker,” I hear from him. But with the new angle we have YN, he has to lift her hips up so he can kiss her pussy good. I focus back on the gorgeous girl who is now licking around my shaft and crown, spreading the precome that dribbles from the tip. She runs her tongue from the tip to the base and I think I might blow right here. I grab the headboard to steady myself and then gently thrust into her mouth. She moans and I know she likes it. I start to go at a steady pace, her tongue moving over every inch.

I push into her as far as she can take me. Fuck, I forgot that you don’t have a gag reflex, I pant as I hit the back of her throat, and her nose is to my pelvis. “Shit, that feels so good.” She wiggles and moans around my dick and I look to see that Jeremy is three fingers deep in her. I pull back to let her breathe before I do it again.

“Fuck, baby, I’m gonna come,” I rasp. She resolves to suck me harder. My thrusts are erratic now, the wet, warm mouth drawing my cock in more. “Shit, fuck, Sunshine, you better let me go or...”

I don’t get to finish as she grasps my ass and holds me while she swallows, and I’m gone. I grunt out my release into her mouth and she swallows every drop like the queen she is. My breathing is hard as she slowly licks me clean as I get soft.

I grin at Jeremy. “Got to come in her first,” I gloat.

He sighs. “Ok then.”

Jeremy

That asshole made her swallow first. Fine. I’m fine with that. Once he releases her throat, I flip her onto her belly without ceremony. I get her ass up in the air before I land a hard smack on it, enjoying hearing her gasp at the pain. “Fine, Everett, you got to come in her first. But you only got her mouth.” I yank down my underwear and jeans and climb behind our girl. “But I’m getting into this pussy first.” I sink into her warm fucking heat and groan.

“Asshole,” he mutters but then cups her face. “Enjoy this, baby girl, because I will wreck you next. He gives her a long kiss before stepping back and sitting in the chair in the room. Which happens to be next to her mirror and I get a wicked idea.

I pull out and moved her so that the angle is just right for us to watch ourselves and Curtis. He groans at the view. Her face is pressed into the bed, ass in the air. I thrust back into her hard and she cries out as Curtis groans again. With every thrust of my hips, her boobs bounce. She moans when I hit that spot deep inside of her. “Like that, Starlight? Like when my cock is deep inside this pussy, rearranging you. Fuck, you just feel. So. Good.” I slammed into her on the last three words.

“Jer, fuck, so deep.” I can see her cheeks are wet and I slow. “No! Don’t Stop!” she screams. I pick up the pace and then get my hands on her breasts. I pull her up to get her back against my front as I move her on my cock. Her head lulls on my shoulder as I reach down and start to stroke her clit. “Ah fuck!”

“C’mon Starlight, so fucking tight like this. Cream my cock, make a mess. Show Curtis what it's like to cum hard.” I gave him a wicked grin as he flashed his teeth at me.

“I’ll make you pay for that one, Swayman.” He reached over and slapped my hand away from her clit and started stoking it. His down stroke would brush over my cock, but I couldn’t complain. It felt too good and made me start to drive into her pussy harder.

“Jer-Jeremy!” She screamed as she cummed out of nowhere, soaking my cock.

“Oh fuck! YN!” I bellowed as I released into her, my cock twitching hard as I let rope after rope fill her up. I pump my hips into her a couple more times to make sure every drop stayed in her. I finally slow and press my lips to her shoulder. “You with us, Starlight?” I look into the mirror to see her eyes are closed. “You can’t be tired yet, little Tornado. You wanted to flip our world and we’re just returning the favor.”

“I. Can’t,” she pants.

Curtis leans into her ear. “Too. Fucking. Bad.”

Curtis

Jeremy pulls out and sprawls out in the chair I vacated, his dick starting to soften. “Hope you like sloppy seconds, Everett.” He gives me a grin.

I smirk back. “I can use it as lube so she can give me a pussy-job.” His smile falls and anger takes over as I slap her ass. She moans and it just makes my cock harder. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you Sunshine.”

“Please,” she whispers. And she’s so pathetic, it makes my chest hurt.

“Ok Sunshine.” I pick her up to lay her on top of me. I feel their mixed release start to drink onto my abs. Its messy and sticky but erotic at the same time. “It’s like riding my thigh, Sunshine. Use my cock to get yourself off before I pound into you.”

“Curtis,” she whimpers, exhaustion starting to creep into her.

I laugh, a little cruelty in the tone. I reach up, push my hands into her hair to anchor her to me, and kiss her, sliding my tongue into her mouth, tasting her and a little bit of myself still on her lips. I kiss until she is breathless. I pull back, still holding her in place. “Move,” I order. Then I grab her hips and start to slide her wet pussy over my cock. “Fuck,” I groaned.

Her breath hitched every time my tip caught on her clit. I could feel her clenching on nothing as their cream coated my cock. “I don’t know where you’ve been Sway but you better be clean.”

“Fuck you, I wouldn’t do that to her,” he growled. “Besides, the only dirty one is our girl.”

I watched the shudder go through her as she climaxed. “You’ve got that right,” as I lifted her to drop her onto my dick, making her orgasm last longer and longer. Her head tilted back in a silent scream and Jeremy got up to kiss her. I pumped into her, my hands tight to her waist, watching her tits bounce. Her cunt was squeezing me, and it took everything in me not to blow right there and then.

J”esus, is she crushing your cock?” Jeremy stared at where she and I were connected.

“Feels like it,” I grunt out as I keep her moving. And then I get a wicked idea.

“Let’s take her to Paris.”

As they move my body into position, all I can thinks ‘Oh god, they want to kill me. This is my punishment for fucking two goalies at the same time.’

I smile to myself.

I have no regrets.

Three Years Later

Jeremy

Being in Dallas for the beginning of the season is odd. It is way too hot outside to be playing hockey but the arena is ice cold. It's been a couple of years since I was called up to Boston but there is only one person I want to see before we get started. We hit the ice for warmups and I watch all of the Dallas players come out and then chuckle. I skate over to the far side of the ice to start my warmups.

“Do you believe in deja vu?”

I hear a low chuckle. “Swayman.”

“Everett.”

We laugh and shake hands before continuing the warmup. “Heard you have a kid now.”

“Yeah, I do. She’s over there,” pointing towards his home net. Standing there is a pretty brunette holding a little blonde. The little girl is in pigtails and wear a green jersey with his number on it. The woman is also in his jersey. “That’s my daughter, Lennox and my wife Collins.”

“They’re beautiful.” I look back at him and he frowns. “No disrespect to your wife but she is gorgeous. What is she doing with a grump like you?”

He shoves me as I laugh. “They are my life.”

“I hear ya.” I look back towards the visitors bench and smile. Curtis follows my gaze to my own brunette. “Yours?”

“Yeah. Stella.” She gives me a side view so I can see her tiny bump. “She’s six months along.”

“Nice. Do you guys know yet?”

“A boy.’ I smile proudly, my chest puffed out a bit. “Another goalie in the making. Especially since he knows when to block me right now.”

Curtis laughs. “Ain’t that the truth. Collins is four months. We find out next week.” He moves around a little and then asks, “do you ever think about her?”

“Every once in a while. I heard she moved to Boston after we ended things.”

YN, Curtis and I stayed a throuple for a couple of months. Then Curtis was traded to Raleigh. We tried long distance, but it wasn’t the same. A month later I was called up to Boston and we broke things off. But I’ll never forget the little Tornado that spun our worlds upside down.

“What the hell were we thinking?” Curtis says with a laugh.

“I don’t think we were. I think our dicks were doing the thinking back then.” I laugh as well. “We had some great times.”

“Wild,” Curtis says. He looks up into the crowd, out of habit and I do the same. Until I spot a familiar face in the crowd. “Uhhh...”

“What is it?” He follows my line of sight.

To the girl who was the center of the storm once.

“YN,” we say at the same time.

She seated with some friends, a green jersey on with the number 1 on it. “No fucking way,” Curtis says running a hand down his face. We watch as Curtis’s backup, DeSmith, stands in front of her. And she’s very obviously pregnant as well. She presses her hand to the glass and DeSmith follows her. Her left hand has a sparkling diamond.

“You didn’t know?”

“No, he just got signed with up right before the season started. We haven’t really talked about our private lives. I knew he was married but he calls her Hurricane.”

We look at each other and start to lose it on the ice. I guess we were loud because a lot of people have their eyes on us now. Especially the girl who changed our lives. She looks up and her mouth drops when she sees us. She gives us a shy wave and then returns her attention back to her husband.

We all ended up where we needed to be.

Two starting goalies and the Tornado who rocked our world.

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cleoselene · 16 days ago

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the response I got from the MidFlorida Credit Union Amphitheater:

Currently, we do not offer push service for guests with mobility devices. After speaking with our national director, it is unlikely we will offer such service. We are working on procuring accessible golfcarts to transport our guests from and to the parking lots. However, using golfcarts inside the venue after general doors are open or while guests are still on the main concourse is not considered safe. My reason for asking what color shirts people were wearing that gave false information is to identify and re-train our staff. Our guests should never be promised something that is not standard operating procedure. Teresa Edgington Venue-Accessibility Coordinator | Tampa, FL MIDFLORIDA Credit Union Amphitheatre 813-600-1055 [email protected] MIDLFORIDA Credit Union Amphitheatre Accessibility Services

She asked me to tell her which employees told me I could have transport and I was like, I AIN'T SNITCHING ON A WAGE WORKER.

this is from her national accessibility director at LiveNation, allegedly, from an earlier email:

I also chatted with our national accessibility director, who had very valid points about offering push service inside our venue. To the best of his knowledge there are very few venues like ours that have this in place, however, we definitely are looking into how we can make a difference.

This is fucking bullshit. 15 years of going to concerts, sporting events, comedy shows, wrestling shows, etc, and I have never encountered a venue that did not offer transport wheelchairs. Plus, a total lie, as I SAW WITH MY OWN EYES, TWO WHEELCHAIRS, EMPTY.

Anyway, if you'd like to let Teresa and LiveNation know what you think, please boost and email. Don't troll. Advocate.

#ableism #halsey #disability

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puckpocketed · 2 months ago

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excerpts from Pierre Luc Dubois — A Story From Home by Jude MacDonald (archived)

The #1 ranked North American skater in this year’s NHL Entry Draft has devoted himself to having a positive impact on the youth in Cape Breton and become an ambassador for the Screaming Eagles organization. Dubois didn’t know much about Cape Breton when he arrived, but he wanted that to change. Every time there was a team event in the community Dubois would text team officials “Am I going to the event, if not, can I come?” It’s been passed on to me that the Eagles may have never seen a kid, let alone a top 10 NHL prospect, so committed to giving back.

I was told of a story where 6’3”, 200+ pound forward returned from the Ivan Hlinka to attend training camp and was given some time to himself, to relax. The day after winning gold at the Ivan Hlinka, the Eagles received a message from PLD saying, “When I return do you think we can go to the Boys and Girls Club for a visit when I get back to Cape Breton? Because I promised them that I would return this year and visit them before school starts”.

Another story I’ve heard that sticks out about what type of constitution Dubois has, after one game PL was a last minute scratch due to injury, PL again texted the Eagles and asked “Hey, let me know if you want me to do anything with the fans during the game, as I am not in the lineup tonight?” They printed off a bunch of promotional material and advertised that during the 2nd intermission PLD will be signing autographs in the main concourse. Dubois messaged during the 2nd period and said, “Hey I can come down now and start early?” With 8 minutes left in the 2nd period he was taken down and he started signing. With time running down Dubois turned and said, “I think you should go get some more material for me to sign, because I am not leaving until everyone in line gets an autograph.”

This was no rare occurrence, this is who he is. Win or lose, Dubois is always there to sign autographs in the fan tunnel. When the Eagles practice 2:00pm to 4:30pm, a minor hockey team often has a practice following, and Dubois will sometimes ask their coach if he can jump on and work with the kids. Whether it was the annual Breast Cancer Walk For Cure, or an event in support of Special Olympics Cape Breton, or the “RESPECT PLEDGE CAMPAIGN (Anti-Bullying) where PLD visited five different schools where he spoke to students about making healthy decisions and how doing so has helped him reach his potential as being a player in the Quebec Major Junior Hockey League, he is always giving back.

“I think the big thing is my dad was a coach in the Q League, so I was around it. But what I remember almost more than anything else is how I looked up to those players in the room. To be in that atmosphere and what it meant to me, I told myself if I ever get the chance to be one of those guys some kid was looking up to I was going to try and help them and be a role model. I’m in Sydney and I want to make an impact in the areas I can and be a part of the community.”

[...]

This leads us to Pierre Luc Dubois – The Hockey Player. The large framed, slick moving, power forward with finesse, who without question has been sculpted with the help of his father, Rimouski assistant coach and former Nordiques draft pick, Eric. The son told me he credits his parents for always reminding him to be a good person first, hockey comes second. But for the younger Dubois, the two go hand in hand.

“I try and do the right things off the ice, live the right way, treat people with respect. I take the same approach on the ice, if it’s a game or a practice, just to always give my all. I want to bring the same honest effort to making a difference in the city of Sydney as I do every day at the rink. It’s how I was raised by my Mom and Dad. I want to make them proud and represent my team, teammates, and be the best person and player I can be.”

As tremendous as Dubois is off the ice, he can match it on the ice. Make no mistake, Dubois is an elite talent. What makes him all the more special – he is as cerebral as he is gifted. It does not take long when speaking with Dubois to realize how much he’s taken in being a coach’s son. The knowledge and maturity for a young man his age is staggering. It shows when he talks about his play without the puck.

“I do take pride in playing in the defensive side of the game. Really, I want to be able to make solid plays in all three zones, whether scoring a big goal or breaking up a play on the back check. That’s something my coach and I talked a lot about during the playoffs. Games are going to be tight, 3-2, it’s going to be one play and it’s not always going to be a goal, and hopefully sometimes it is too. In the playoffs we talked about D-zone draws, and I took a lot of them, just those things that you want to be called on for. I want to be as complete a player as I can be.”

[...]

Since I had the luxury of calling the 902 area code for help on this, I knew there was one last call I needed to make. First, I phoned my Dad to ask him for John’s number. John is a family friend and a respected hockey name in and around my household as long as I can remember. John played minor hockey with my Uncle, plays pick up with “Big Jude” and was a pro player in his day. Here’s what John had to say in regards to Pierre Luc.

“Nothing has been given to Pierre Luc. Everything that he has achieved he has earned through hard work.”

I suppose I should mention that John I’m referring to is John Kibyuk, Assistant Coach of the Cape Breton Screaming Eagles.

“Extra time training, extra time at the end of practice, he’s worked at his game. He wants to be a complete player. I’ll tell you this, here is the difference between an amauteur and a professional. An amateur works at the things he is good at and a professional works at the things he isn’t. That’s Pierre Luc. He fights through the frustration of improving on his inadequacies and it’s made him better, made him who he is. It’s a always a two way conversation with him. ‘What do you want work on today?’ ‘Well what do you think I should work on’. Everyone in Cape Breton will be on the edge of their seat Friday night to see where Pierre Luc goes and he deserves every enjoyment that comes along with it. It’s been a pleasure watching him develop into the player he’s become.”

Pierre Luc Dubois has brought excitement and relevance to a passionate fan base in a working man’s hockey area that so desperately deserves it. The time will come when he moves on to the National Hockey League, this we are fairly certain of. What will never leave is the legacy he is leaving behind. His number will likely one day hang from the rafters at Centre 200 for his performance on the ice. More importantly, is the difference he’s making in the everyday lives of the youth and in the place I grew up, where my parents still reside, and my sisters children will be raised.

So on Draft Day I say thanks and wish Pierre Luc the best of luck, even if he ends up with a rival. The Eagles fan in me will make up for it. The goals for them, the wins, taking the franchise as far as they’ve been in the post-season, it’s all fantastic. But it’s everything else that never goes away. His efforts to make a difference will be remembered in my little hockey town. What Dubois has done won’t fade when the buzzer sounds. I was once one of those Cape Breton kids looking up with adoration, just like Pierre Luc was in his Dad’s dressing room. I never forgot those exchanges Van Allen graced me with, and neither will the young boys and girls Dubois has made smile. He’s been a role model in a community that needs them. When you see those you look up to succeed and set an example, it shapes you forever, long after the zamboni is off the ice and the lights in the arena are low.

We are an island, a rock in a stream. We are a people as proud as there’s been…and Pierre Luc…Cape Breton sure is proud of you, son.

#ohhhh... ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh #it's all there huh. it's been there the whole time #pierre luc dubois #media:pl.dubois #washington capitals

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