#jack draper one shot

[theboltersinner]

hey!

hey everyone, im not new to tumblr in fact ive had other accounts where i wrote lots of one shots and fanfiction... but ive decided to make a new one

right now im taking requests for jannik sinner and jack draper, one shots, blurbs, headcanons

[pokeberry5]

your tim is soooooooo beautiful i can’t stop looking at him 😍

do you have any good tim whump fic recs? like the classic comm cuts out when he’s in trouble or really anything

(thank you!! im glad u like my tim art)

(in reference to this, where i mentioned liking whump fics where tim ends up on the ropes alone and his comm cuts out)

i was digging through my reading history to try to find some recs and it seems??? i may have extrapolated fics based on what i wanted to read rip

i did still put some fic recs together! but these are slightly to the left of your original requests. i'm gonna put them in order of relevancy. broad warning to please read the tags on all of these

Little Pig, Little Pig, Let Me In by nierembergia

tim's on the line with damian when suddenly a harmless-seeming interaction at a gala turns sinister (wip)

buy the ticket, take the ride

wherein tim is attempting to deal with things on his own after finding himself alone in vegas, at some point calls jason to "consult" him about blood spatters, and then has to hang up on him because he's getting shot at

the days of theft (no more) by SilverSkiesAtMidnight

gen omegaverse, jason takes tim and in the process snaps the bond between bruce and tim. including this one because the pack bond snapping between bruce and tim has, to me, the same emotional impact of a comm getting caught (wip)

Into the Brighter Night by shoalsea

the set up of this fic is tim manipulating the bats into following a plan he misrepresented and then purposefully going dark, although the majority of the fic deals with the interpersonal fallout of tim's actions (complete)

children of the stars by Scarlet_Ribbons

jason takes tim in because jack drake's a piece of shit and ends up doing his own growing in the process. not sure how to explain why i'm including this without spoiling it, but there is a Big Moment later in the fic that to me is equivalent to tim purposely cutting his comms off to deal with a situation himself (wip)

Call to a Lonely Earth by Drag0nst0rm

in the midst of brucequest, tim ends up on an earth where there are no longer any children and bruce has lost both his sons. i'm mostly including this one because i like it a lot, but—mild spoiler—tim does make a call explaining what he presents as a hopeless situation that he can't be saved from and then hangs up! (first fic is complete but sequel isn't)

also, while it doesn't quite have the same emotional force of what i was looking for, detective comics (1940) #698-99 is where i originally got the idea from and it does feature protective dick and alvin draper!

[lifeofpriya]

Reader being jack’s sister and dating Jannik and having to see them both suffer

hi!!! i slightly tweaked your request--I decided to go with the reader being Jack's best friend instead--I hope it was alright with you 🫶🏼

The Inner Turmoil

wc: 5.1k

"Welcome to the US Open semifinal between Jack Draper and Jannik Sinner," the announcer's voice boomed through the packed stadium, and you couldn't help but feel a twinge of anxiety in your chest. You had a secret that no one else knew: you were dating Jannik, the stoic Italian with a fiery passion for the sport, but you were also Jack's best friend, the young Brit with the world at his racket strings.

The tension was palpable as the two men faced off across the net, each one's muscles coiled like springs, ready to unleash their power. You sat in the stands, your heart torn between your loyalty to your friend and your love for your partner. The crowd roared as they began to warm up, sending a shiver down your spine. You had been to countless tennis matches, but none had ever felt this personal, this intense.

Jack's eyes flicked up to the stands and found yours, a brief flash of camaraderie in the sea of faces. You gave him a reassuring smile, but it felt forced. You knew he was feeling the weight of the moment too. Jannik, on the other hand, remained focused, his eyes never straying from the ball as he practiced his serves. His concentration was unbreakable, a testament to the dedication that had brought him to this pinnacle of the sport.

The match began, and with it, the storm of emotions inside you grew. Every grunt, every smash, every bead of sweat that rolled down their faces was a silent scream echoing in your ears. You watched as Jack's forehand sliced through the air, a blur of power and precision that you had seen a thousand times before on the practice courts. Yet, today, it felt different. Today was a declaration of war against someone you cared for deeply.

Jannik returned the serve with an ease that was almost unnerving, his movements fluid and calculated. His eyes remained locked on the ball, a silent battle raging within him that you knew only too well. The crowd erupted into a frenzy of applause, a symphony of cheers and claps that washed over the court like a tidal wave. You felt a strange mix of pride and pain as you watched him move with the grace of a panther, his body a finely tuned machine honed to perfection.

You knew Jack was entering the match without having dropped a set, a clear sign of his dominance throughout the tournament. Yet, as the first game progressed, it was Jannik who drew first blood, serving an ace that left Jack staggering. You couldn't help but flinch as the ball whizzed past Jack's outstretched arm. The crowd's applause was thunderous, but it was the quiet nod of respect between the two players that spoke volumes.

Jack's face grew tight with determination, and he began to play with an intensity that could have powered a thousand bulbs. His shots grew more robust, his movements more agile, as he gave everything he had to match Jannik's relentless onslaught. You watched, your knuckles white as you gripped the armrests of your seat, feeling every point as if it were a personal victory or loss.

The match was a dance of power and finesse, a ballet of sweat and grunts, each volley a silent conversation between the two men you knew so intimately. The sun dipped lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the green expanse of the court, and the air grew thick with the scent of freshly cut grass and the faint tang of rubber.

As the first set progressed, you could feel the shift in momentum, a subtle tug-of-war that played out in the grunts and paces of the players. Jannik's serve remained unyielding, a thunderous force that had the crowd on the edge of their seats. But Jack was not one to be outdone. He had a fire in his eyes, a burning desire to prove himself against his friend and rival. His returns grew sharper, his volleys more precise, each point a testament to his unyielding spirit.

The rally grew longer, the ball a yellow comet streaking back and forth across the net. You could almost hear the whip of the strings as they connected, a rhythmic symphony of leather and gut that grew faster and more intense with every stroke. The crowd was on their feet now, a collective gasp escaping as Jannik lunged for a return that seemed impossible. His racket met the ball at the perfect angle, sending it spiraling into Jack's corner.

Jack dove, his body a blur of motion and desperation. The world seemed to slow as he stretched out his arm, his fingers brushing the line. The crowd held their breath, waiting for the umpire's call. "Out!" The word cut through the tension like a knife, and you felt a pang of disappointment for Jack, but also a surge of admiration for Jannik's unrelenting skill.

Jannik won the set, his fist pumping in the air, a silent roar escaping his lips. You watched as the two players walked to the net, slapping their rackets together in a show of respect that seemed almost forced. They knew the gravity of this moment, the unspoken understanding that friendship would take a backseat to ambition for the next few hours.

You couldn't help but notice how unusually pale and sweaty Jack was as he took his seat at the changeover. His eyes searched the crowd for a familiar face, and when they landed on you, he offered a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. You knew that look—it was the look of someone who had given everything and was wondering if it was enough. You gave him a nod, a silent promise that you believed in him, and his shoulders squared slightly as he took a deep breath and turned back to the court.

Jannik, on the other hand, was a picture of calm. He wiped his face with a towel, took a sip of water, and leaned back in his chair, his eyes never leaving the horizon. You knew he was visualizing his next moves, planning his strategy for the second set. He had the upper hand, but he wasn't one to take his opponent lightly, especially not Jack.

\\\

As the players took their positions for the second set, the air was thick with anticipation. The setting sun painted the court in a warm, golden light that made the players' shadows stretch long across the lines. The ball was tossed, and the rally began anew, each point a battle that could swing the tide of the match.

You watched as Jack retched onto the court, his body trembling from exhaustion and the weight of the moment. The crowd fell silent, a collective gasp escaping their lips as they watched him try to mop it up with a towel, his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Not soon after, you had to watch Jannik awkwardly land on his left wrist, the pain etched clearly across his face. It was a sight you never wanted to see, but you knew that in the cutthroat world of professional tennis, it was all too common.

The umpire called for a medical time out, and the silence in the stadium was deafening as physios rushed out to tend to both Jack and Jannik. You felt a knot tighten in your stomach as you watched them both struggle with their own private wars of pain and endurance. This wasn't just a match anymore—it was a test of their wills, a battle of bodies and minds.

Jack took a deep breath and nodded to the physio, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at you, his eyes searching for reassurance, and you gave him a thumbs up, trying to infuse him with strength from across the court. Jannik kept stretching his left wrist--his non-dominant hand, thankfully--his face a mask of stoicism despite the apparent discomfort.

The physios retreated, and the match resumed, the tension in the air thick enough to slice with a knife. The second set resumed, each player fighting against their own limitations, pushing through pain you knew all too well from the countless hours you'd spent with them both, listening to their stories of perseverance and sacrifice.

Jack's serve was slower, the effort etched in every line of his face. Yet, there was a grit to him, a determination that was unyielding. He wasn't going to let this match slip away without a fight. His shots, though not as powerful as before, were strategic, aiming for Jannik's weaker side, testing the Italian's endurance.

Jannik, on the other hand, played with a newfound caution, his injured wrist a silent specter hovering over every shot. You could see the calculation in his eyes as he sized up Jack's condition, trying to gauge how much his opponent had left in the tank. His movements were deliberate, each step and swing a chess move in a high-stakes game of attrition.

The second set dragged on, both players refusing to give an inch. The tension grew so intense you could almost feel the strings on their rackets vibrating in your own chest. The crowd's whispers grew into a murmur, each point a delicate balancing act that could topple the scales in either direction. The air was heavy with the scent of sweat and determination, the thwack of the ball a rhythmic heartbeat that echoed through the stadium.

Jack's face was a canvas of emotions: pain, anger, and a stubborn refusal to quit. His every move was a silent battle cry, a declaration that he wouldn't go down without a fight. You knew him better than most—his spirit was unbreakable, his will unyielding. Yet, as you watched him wipe his forehead with the back of his hand, leaving a smear of sweat and dirt, you couldn't help but worry. His breaths grew ragged, his steps less confident.

Jannik's eyes remained cold and focused, his body a study in discipline and control. The injury was a setback, but he wasn't going to let it define him. His groundstrokes remained sharp, his backhand a weapon that could slice through the tension. The crowd, once a thunderous symphony of cheers and jeers, had grown hushed, almost reverent. They knew they were witnessing something special, something more than just a tennis match.

The second set saw a series of nail-biting games, each one more intense than the last. The score was tight, a tug of war with no clear winner in sight. You found yourself leaning forward in your seat, your heart in your throat, as you watched the two men you cared about most push each other to their breaking points. The sun had fully set now, and the stadium lights bathed the court in a cool, electric glow that made every bead of sweat sparkle like a diamond.

Jack's serve had lost some of its earlier ferocity, but he compensated with precision, placing his shots with a newfound accuracy that tested Jannik's reflexes. The Italian, however, was not to be outdone. He dug deep, his eyes burning with a competitive fire that seemed to light up the night. Each point was a battle, each set a war, and the prize was a place in the finals of the US Open.

The crowd was on the edge of their seats, their collective breath held tight in their chests as the two gladiators of the tennis world clashed repeatedly. You felt a strange detachment, as if you were watching two parts of yourself fight for supremacy. Your heart ached for Jack's suffering, and your spirit soared with Jannik's successes. Yet, in the quiet moments between points, when their eyes met across the net, you saw something more than rivalry—a bond forged through shared passion and respect.

Jack's eyes grew distant, his mind a whirlwind of pain and fatigue. You knew he was trying to find that one thing to cling to, that one thought to keep him going. And then, in a flash of inspiration, he did. He thought of you, his best friend, his confidant, the one who had seen him at his worst and still believed in him. His gaze found you in the stands, and you could see the resolve harden in his expression.

The match continued, a back-and-forth of power and finesse, each player giving it their all. Jannik's wrist was clearly bothering him, but he played through the pain, his shots a little less forceful but just as deadly. The crowd, once a sea of divided loyalties, was now united in awe of the sheer grit on display. The thwack of the ball was punctuated by the occasional grunt, the only sound in the otherwise silent stadium.

Jack's body was a canvas of sweat, his eyes never leaving the ball as he anticipated Jannik's next move. Each time he scored, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips, a silent nod to you and the unwavering belief you had in him. You watched, your own heart racing, as he leaned over and whispered something to his coach, a newfound strategy forming in his mind.

Jannik eventually took the second set, his victory a silent shout of triumph in the face of adversity. The stadium erupted into a cacophony of cheers and applause, but you couldn't help feeling a twinge of sadness for Jack. His eyes searched for yours again, and the look of determination in them was unmistakable. He wasn't done yet.

\\\

As the players switched sides for the third set, you took a deep breath, trying to compose yourself. You knew what was coming—a final act of this epic showdown that would test the limits of their friendship and their bodies. The air was thick with the scent of burning desire and the metallic tang of effort.

Jack's serve was weaker than ever, but his volleys had a newfound precision that had the crowd murmuring in amazement. His legs, once a blur of motion, now moved with the deliberate grace of a ballet dancer, each step calculated to conserve energy. His eyes, though weary, held a fierce determination that mirrored Jannik's own.

The third set was a tug-of-war of the soul, each point a battle that could swing the match. You watched as Jannik's grip tightened on his racket, his teeth grinding with the effort of keeping his injured wrist steady. His serves were now a strategic dance of power and placement, each one a silent challenge to Jack's resilience.

Jack, on the other hand, was a picture of dogged persistence. His body language spoke volumes of the pain he was in, but his eyes never wavered. Every point he won was a victory not just for him, but for the friendship that had brought them here. The crowd was now a blur of faces, their cheers and gasps a symphony of anticipation and dread that played out in your heart.

The match stretched on, the scoreboard a silent judge that ticked away with each passing minute. The third set grew tighter, the points more intense, as Jannik and Jack pushed each other to the very brink of their abilities. You sat, your heart in your throat, as Jack stumbled but never fell, his spirit a roaring flame that seemed to grow with every challenge.

In the stands, you felt the weight of the world on your shoulders, the tension between your allegiances to your partner and your friend a palpable force. Each time the ball flew over the net, you felt your stomach drop, your nails digging into the armrest. You knew you had to stay strong, had to be there for both of them, no matter the outcome.

The third set grew into a marathon of wills, a test of endurance with even the most stoic fans leaning forward in their seats. The night grew cooler, the air thick with the scent of the city that never sleeps, a stark contrast to the serene battle being waged on the brightly lit court. You could see the beads of sweat rolling down their faces, the tremble in their legs as they sprinted back and forth.

You watched as Jack asked for a can of Coke, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd. The umpire nodded, and a ball boy rushed to fetch it. As Jack took a sip, his eyes never leaving the court, you could see the gears turning in his mind. The third set was his chance to turn the tide, to show that he wasn't just a contender, but a champion in the making.

Jannik took his place at the baseline, his expression unreadable. He bounced the ball once, twice, then served. The ball soared through the air, a yellow streak that seemed to hang in the air for an eternity before it smacked against Jack's racket. The crowd held their breath as Jack sent it back, a shot so precise it was like he had drawn a line with a laser. The rally continued, each player pushing themselves to the edge of their physical and mental limits.

"Game, set, match, Sinner!" The umpire's voice rang out through the stadium, and you felt your heart drop like a lead weight. Jannik had won the third set, the match, and with it, a spot in the finals. The crowd erupted into a mix of cheers and groans, but the sound was muffled by the rush of blood in your ears. You watched as Jannik dropped his racket and let out a roar of victory, his fists pumping the air as he took in the moment.

Jack, on the other hand, stood still, his shoulders slumped. The fight had drained from his eyes, leaving only a haunted look of defeat. He leaned over, hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. You knew he was hurting—not just from the loss, but from the sheer physical toll the match had taken on him.

As the players met at the net to shake hands, you felt a strange mix of pride and sadness. Jannik's eyes searched the crowd until they found yours, a look of both triumph and apology. You gave him a slight nod, understanding the price of victory. Jack's handshake was firm, his grip a silent testament to the respect he had for his good friend and rival.

The two men parted ways, Jannik jogging to his chair to celebrate with his team while Jack made his way to the locker room, his head down, lost in his own thoughts. You remained in your seat, the world around you a blur as you processed the emotional rollercoaster you had just witnessed. The applause felt distant, the flashing lights of cameras a stark reminder of the harsh reality of their careers.

You couldn't help but feel a sting of sadness for Jack. Despite his loss, he had given everything he had, pushing himself to the brink of collapse. His performance was nothing short of heroic, and you knew he would be back, stronger and more determined than ever. You made a mental note to be there for him, to listen to his woes and help him pick up the pieces.

But for now, you had to be there for Jannik. As he walked off the court, the roar of the crowd still ringing in your ears, you made your way down to the player's tunnel. The air was thick with the scent of victory and defeat, a potent mix that clung to your clothes and skin. You spotted his coach first, a look of relief and pride etched into his weathered features.

\\\

"Jannik played a hell of a match," you said, trying to keep your voice steady.

His coach nodded, a proud smile crossing his face. "Yes, he did. And so did Jack."

You couldn't argue with that. The match had been a masterclass in grit and determination, a battle of wills that had left no room for anything but respect. You pushed through the crowd, the cacophony of voices and camera flashes a stark contrast to the quiet moments of camaraderie you'd shared with both players. Finally, you reached Jannik, who was signing autographs for the eager fans that lined the tunnel. His eyes lit up when he saw you, and he excused himself, making his way over.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice thick with exhaustion. "I know it wasn't easy for you."

You nodded, unable to find the words to express the tornado of emotions inside you. You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the warmth of his sweat-soaked shirt, the tremble of his muscles. "You were both amazing," you whispered into his ear, trying to keep the tears at bay.

Jannik's grip tightened around you, his chest heaving with deep breaths. "Thank you for being here," he murmured. "For understanding."

You nodded, your heart aching for Jack, for the pain you knew he was feeling. But you also felt a swell of pride for Jannik, for the sheer force of will he had displayed on that court. The battle was over, but the war of emotions waged on in your chest.

As Jannik walked away to face the media, you made your way to the locker room, the air cool and heavy with the scent of sweat and determination. The silence was a stark contrast to the roar of the stadium just moments ago. You found Jack slumped on a bench, his head in his hands.

"You okay?" You asked, trying to keep the tremor out of your voice.

Jack looked up, his eyes red-rimmed and tired, but his smile was genuine. "Could've been better, but I gave it all I had."

You sat down beside him, your hand resting gently on his back. "You played incredibly, Jack. I'm so proud of you."

Jack let out a sigh, his shoulders rising and falling with the weight of his exhaustion. "It just wasn't enough," he murmured, his voice hoarse from the effort. "Jannik… he's on a different level today."

You nodded, knowing the truth in his words. "But you gave him a run for his money," you said, trying to soothe his bruised ego. "You didn't make it easy for him."

Jack chuckled, a hollow sound that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Yeah, I guess I didn't. Just wish I could've done more."

You leaned in closer, whispering, "You'll get another shot. I know you will."

Jack nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thanks," he murmured. "Means a lot, coming from you."

For a moment, the two of you sat in the quiet, the buzz of the stadium outside the locker room a distant memory. You could see the weariness in Jack's posture, the pain of his loss a palpable presence between you. You felt torn, a piece of you celebrating Jannik's victory and another mourning Jack's defeat.

"Do you want to talk about it?" You asked gently, breaking the silence.

Jack shook his head. "Not really. Just need some time to process it before I head back to the UK for the Davis Cup." He took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. "But thanks for being here. It means a lot."

You nodded, giving his shoulder a squeeze. "Of course. You know I've got your back, no matter what."

Jack offered a weak smile, the exhaustion etched on his face. "Yeah, I know. Thank you."

You both sat in silence for a while longer, the cacophony of the outside world a stark contrast to the quiet sanctum of the locker room. Finally, you stood up, gently squeezing his shoulder. "I'll give you some space. But you know where to find me if you need anything."

Jack nodded, his eyes a mix of gratitude and defeat. "I do. Thanks." He let out a chuckle, "go celebrate with him, yeah?" He nudged you gently, trying to lighten the mood. "He's your partner, after all."

You forced a smile, not wanting to leave Jack alone in his despair, but knowing Jannik would be waiting, eager to share his victory with you. As you exited the locker room, the hallway was a cacophony of reporters and staff, all vying for a piece of the victorious player. You pushed through the throng, feeling the sting of each flashbulb in your eyes, a stark reminder of the harsh reality that existed outside the bubble of the tennis court.

\\\

When you reached Jannik, his eyes lit up, a mix of adrenaline and relief. He enveloped you in a tight embrace, whispering into your ear, "Thank you for being here." His voice was hoarse from the roars and grunts of the match, his body still buzzing with the electricity of victory. You returned the embrace, feeling the heat of his skin, the rapid beat of his heart.

"You played an amazing match," you said, trying to balance the pride you felt with the sadness for Jack.

Jannik's eyes searched yours, reading the tumult of emotions. "It wasn't easy," he admitted, his voice gruff with fatigue. "But knowing you were there… it helped."

You nodded, the tension in your chest slowly unfurling. "I'm just sorry it had to be like this," you murmured, the weight of the match's outcome heavy between you.

Jannik leaned back, his gaze holding yours. "Me too," he said, his voice a soft rumble. "But that's the sport, isn't it? Sometimes, you win, sometimes you learn."

You nodded, understanding the unspoken words that lingered in the air. Your relationship with Jannik was a delicate dance, one that had to be carefully navigated around the minefield of their professional rivalry. You knew that Jack's loss was a win for your partner, but it was also a stark reminder of the toll their careers could take on their friendship.

"Come on," Jannik said, taking your hand. "Let's get out of here."

You followed him through the maze of corridors, the cacophony of the stadium fading behind you. His entourage trailed closely, eager to celebrate his victory and prepare him for the finals. You felt a pang of guilt as you watched him, knowing that his triumph came at the cost of Jack's pain.

\\\

Once in the quiet of his suite, Jannik let out a deep sigh, collapsing onto the couch. His eyes searched yours, looking for something to anchor him in the whirlwind of his emotions. You sat beside him, taking his hand in yours, feeling the warmth and the calluses from hours of practice.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice raw from the match. "It's never easy playing against friends."

You nodded, understanding the weight of his words. "You both gave everything out there."

Jannik leaned his head back, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "Jack…he's incredible," he said, his voice filled with admiration. "The way he fights, it's inspiring."

You squeezed his hand in silent agreement. "He's going to be okay," you assured him. "He'll bounce back."

Jannik nodded, his eyes still closed. "I know," he said. "He's a fighter, like you."

You couldn't help but smile at the comparison. You had always been the stable one, the rock they both leaned on. The one who knew when to push and when to pull back. The one who had seen them at their worst and still believed in them.

"And what about you?" You asked, your voice gentle. "How are you feeling?"

Jannik opened his eyes, meeting your gaze. "I'm okay," he said, but the tightness in his jaw belied his weariness. "It's just…seeing him out there, suffering…it was tough."

You stroked his thumb with your own, feeling the strength in his hand, the power that had won him the match. "But you had to play your best," you reminded him gently. "It's what you both do."

He nodded, his eyes drifting to the floor. "Yeah, but…I don't know." He took a deep breath. "It's weird, playing against someone you care about."

You leaned in closer, your voice a soothing balm. "You guys are more than just rivals. You're good friends, and that's what makes this so special."

Jannik looked up, his eyes searching yours. "It's hard, you know?" he said, his voice cracking with emotion. "To want to win so badly, but also to not want to see him hurt."

You nodded, your heart swelling with affection for both of them. "But that's what makes you both champions," you said, your voice steady. "Your ability to push through the pain and the love for the game, and still respect each other at the end of it all."

Jannik leaned into you, his head resting on your shoulder. "Thanks," he murmured. "Couldn't do it without you."

You wrapped an arm around him, holding him close. "You'll always have me," you assured him. "No matter what happens on the court."

The room was quiet, save for the distant echoes of the still-celebrating stadium. You could feel the tension in Jannik's body slowly dissipate, his muscles uncoiling as he melted into your embrace. "I know," he murmured, his voice muffled against your neck. "It just gets to me sometimes."

You kissed the top of his head, feeling the dampness of his hair against your lips. "You're human," you said, your voice soothing. "And that's what makes you so amazing to watch out there."

Jannik chuckled, the tension in his body slowly easing. He pulled back, a look of determination replacing the shadows in his eyes. "Alright," he said, taking a deep breath. "I've got one more to go."

You nodded, knowing he was referring to the final match of the US Open. "You've got this," you assured him, a smile playing on your lips. "Just one more step."

Jannik's eyes searched yours, looking for the strength he needed to push forward. "Yeah," he said, his voice firm. "One more step."

You both stood, the quiet moment of reflection overshadowed by the looming final match. The suite was suddenly alive with the sound of his team, discussing strategies and preparing for the celebration. The TV in the corner replayed the match highlights, and you watched the replay of their epic rallies, the fiery determination in Jack's eyes, and the unyielding focus in Jannik's.

Jannik's coach approached, a proud smile on his face. "You played an incredible match, son," he said, clapping him on the back. "The final is going to be tough, but I know you're ready."

Jannik nodded, his eyes never leaving yours. "Thank you," he said, his voice filled with a quiet confidence that was both reassuring and a little intimidating.

You watched as he turned to face the room, his shoulders squared and his chin held high. The energy around him was electric, his team buzzing with excitement and anticipation. The final match was just three days away, and the gravity of the situation was not lost on you. You had seen Jannik's highs and lows, the hours of practice, the endless days of travel and sacrifice. This was it, the culmination of all his hard work, and you knew he was ready.

[pepi1989]

Oooh would love for you to keep that Jack Draper content coming 😻

Btw love your writing!!!!

hiii thanks love! i wrote this in a rush so it's kinda short

thirty, love - Jack Draper

The sun was high, casting a golden glow over the court as you and Jack finished your warm-ups. He flashed you a quick smile, the kind that made your heart skip a beat, before bouncing a tennis ball on the ground, preparing for your next rally.

“Ready to lose?” he teased, tossing the ball lightly in the air.

You smirked, gripping your racquet a little tighter. “Please, Draper. I’m just warming up.”

With that, the match began. Neither of you held back, every serve, every return, was met with sharp focus and determination. Jack’s footwork was swift, and his strokes were powerful, but you matched him move for move. You could feel the tension in the air, both of you pushing each other to be better, faster.

But despite the intensity, there were those moments, like when he’d miss a shot and you’d catch his frustrated glance, only to break into a grin. Or when your own swing went wide, and he’d laugh, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

“You sure you’re not going easy on me?” you asked, breathless, after an especially long rally where he barely managed to return your shots.

Jack wiped the sweat off his forehead with his wristband, grinning widely. “As if I would. I’m giving you my best, and it looks like you’re struggling to keep up.”

You laughed, rolling your eyes at his cocky tone, but you loved it. He had this way of turning everything into a playful challenge, like each shot was part of some unspoken game between the two of you. The score was tied now, and the next point would determine the winner.

He served, and the rally began again. You lunged for every ball, the back-and-forth between you growing more intense. Finally, you found an opening, a sharp, angled shot that caught Jack off guard. He couldn’t reach it in time, and you won the point.

Breathing heavily, you rested your hands on your knees, watching as Jack bent over, panting with a grin still plastered on his face. “Alright, alright,” he conceded, shaking his head. “I’ll admit it, that was impressive.”

You raised an eyebrow, walking over to stand next to him. “Impressive? I just beat you fair and square.”

Jack straightened up, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he looked down at you. “I let you win that one.”

You playfully punched his arm, shaking your head. “Sure you did.”

He chuckled, stepping a little closer, his hand lightly brushing against yours as he twirled his racquet in the other. “How about this, loser buys dinner?”

You smirked. “Looks like you’re buying, Draper.”

[alcqraz]

I WILL ALSO WRITE FOR: Casper Ruud, Matteo Berrettini, Jack Draper, Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal, Alex De Minaur, Taylor Fritz, Stefano Tsitsipas, Holger Rune... really anyone that's not problematic

★ drabbles ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

★ headcanons ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

★ one-shots ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

★ other ★ : ̗̀➛ none as of now

[fritzes]

my thoughts on some of these insane acapulco first round matches:

draper v paul: for a third time this year, these two will play each other. yes, three matches in two months. their first two matches are split, and rather predictably jack won the best of 3 match and tommy won the best of 5 match. I think that’s pretty indicative of how this is gonna go: if jack is healthy and can keep his stamina up, I think he can probably win. tommy made back-to-back finals for two weeks, and he’s probably tired. that said, those finals show that he’s in good form while I’m not really sure how jack is playing right now

safiullin v tsitsipas: tbh, I think safiullin wins this match. stefanos just isn’t there right now, and he hits way too many unforced errors. he has to be consistent if he wants to beat the absolute wall that is safiullin, and consistency just isn’t something he’s capable of right now

ruud v eubanks: it’s hard to predict this match because casper is just so unpredictable. I watched his match against tsitsipas in los cabos, and he would play one point absolutely incredibly and then make a ridiculous unforced error on the next. this is one of those matches wholly dependent on just one of the competitor’s levels. I said the same thing about the casper/stefanos match: if casper is on for most of the match, he’ll win, not much that chris can do. but if he’s off, chris’ serve is gonna destroy him and he’ll probably lose

arnaldi v fritz: ohhhh boy. here we go. so, taylor is obviously the very heavy favorite. not just in terms of rankings, but also his general tennis ability. his serve is obviously much better than matteo’s - taylor may have a pretty mediocre first serve percentage, but his power (and more importantly, placement) makes up for that. matteo also has an inconsistent serve, but even when it goes right it isn’t nearly as dominant as taylor’s. in general, I would also say taylor has better and more consistent groundstrokes. however, I will give matteo the edge on movement, he’s very quick and can get to most shots. taylor did well to add a good drop shot to his game, but I don’t think it will work that well on matteo. so yes, taylor will most likely win, but if matteo is having one of those days where he’s suddenly playing like a top 30 player (which tends to happen with him), he can definitely trouble taylor. this will either be taylor winning in straight sets or a tense, tiebreak-filled three setter

[weekend-conspiracy-theorist]

(an entry in the tim&steph role swap au)

When Tim's phone rang the first time, he swiped it away as soon as he saw Stephanie's caller ID on the screen. She was his Robin; his best friend; his platonic soulmate; the piece of himself that had become bigger and brighter and more by growing outside of him. But that didn't change the fact that Tim had a job, and unfortunately he couldn't drop everything to listen to his better half rant about her analytical chemistry professor's draconian late work policies.

(It was 10 AM on a Thursday, which was the end of Professor Morgan's office hours. Tim got this phone call nearly every week.)

"Sorry, please continue," he said, crossing one leg over the other as he turned his attention back to his client. (Potential client. One he was pretty sure was trying to use him to dig up dirt for the express purpose of blackmailing one of his employees.)

"Right," Jack Curry said. His smile didn't reach his eyes. He'd been unimpressed ever since Tim informed him that, sorry, but Alvin Draper wouldn't be available any time in the next week. "Like I was saying--"

Tim's phone started buzzing again. A spark of annoyance shot through him, followed near immediately by a wash of worry that left him furrowing his brow. Stephanie didn't usually try to call him again if he ignored her; she launched herself straight into paragraph long text rants and strings of nonsensical emojis. Contrary to what he liked to accuse her of, she was fully aware that his life did not revolve around her.

"Sorry," Tim repeated, tuning Curry's huff of annoyance out as he dismissed the call again. This time he also shot off a text, letting Stephanie know he was with a client and could call her back in twenty minutes or so.

His phone started ringing before the text had even finished sending.

"Excuse me; this must be an emergency," Tim said distractedly, standing and pressing his phone to his ear as he disappeared into his shoebox of an office. Curry seemed pissed, but Tim wasn't sure he cared; he'd already pretty much decided against taking the case, although he'd intended to wait the full conversation out to see if Curry managed to pull himself back out of the skeezeball hole he'd been digging.

"The world isn't ending or anything, is it?" he asked, kicking the door shut behind himself.

It wasn't that he expected Stephanie to call him as if there anything Tim could do to help--the apocalypse was lightyears above his pay grade--but he had gotten a distressing handful of "Hey, just in case, I wanted to tell you I love you and that your hair is stupid" phone calls over the last seven years.

"Oh!" a deep, male voice said. "Uh, no?"

"Wait--Dick?" Tim said, bewildered. He pulled his phone far enough away from his face to double check that it was Stephanie's caller ID that had popped up. So why the hell was it Dick Grayson on the other end of the line? "What's going on?"

"Well, it's a good news, bad news situation, I suppose. Good news, things are less catastrophic than what your mind apparently immediately jumped to, and we'll have to circle back to unpack that at some point, bud. Bad news..." Dick uncharacteristically hesitated. "First and foremost, Tim, she's going to be fine."

Ice ran down his spine.

"What's going on?" he repeated, his voice flattening. He'd never been the type to respond to panic by getting loud or frantic; he'd always been the type to shut down. To grow still and silent.

Dick didn't mince words this time, sensing Tim needed him not to. "Steph's in the hospital."

Not, "Steph's injured," a statement that could include anything from a sprained ankle to a straightforward fracture that Alfred had been able to set himself in the Cave. Not, "Steph's at the clinic," a statement that could include anything requiring simple surgery.

"Steph's in the hospital."

That meant something bad enough Leslie Thompkins thought it required specialized care, or something urgent enough that they'd needed to get Stephanie to the closest hospital, risks to their secret identities be damned. He tried to convince his heart to slow its racing. Dick had said she was fine. No--he had said that she was going to be fine.

There was a world of difference.

"Have you already called Crystal?" Tim asked, remarkably calmly considering his vision was swimming. He'd never before been grateful that his office was so tiny that his desk was within arm's reach no matter where you stood. His grip on its edge was white knuckled.

"She just got here." There was a note of guilt in Dick's voice. "She asked if you were on your way."

Tim could forgive them the lapse in judgement. Steph and Tim were... important to each other, the kind of important that words could not possibly express, but the Bats hadn't known that for very long in the grand scheme of things. And Stephanie had been so used to hiding their friendship from them that she probably still did so at times, out of habit; Tim doubted she'd thought to add him to her list of emergency contacts.

(She was the only one on his.)

Except, he'd still always been notified when she was injured in the past.

Tim forced himself to breathe. "How badly is Cass hurt?"

The only sign of Dick's surprise was a split-second of hesitation. "She's just a little banged up. Currently sleeping it off. I'm sure she, uh, would have called as soon as she woke up."

"Okay," Tim rasped. Oh, right, breathing was an ongoing thing. He was having trouble focusing. "Why--why are you calling from Steph's phone?"

"Figured you were more likely to pick up," Dick told him, his tone aiming for levity.

Tim could understand the thought process, but... "I would have assumed it was an emergency immediately if you'd called from your own number."

It's not like they'd ever talked on the phone before this.

"I didn't realize you even had it," Dick told him honestly. "I guess I should have figured Steph gave it to you."

She hadn't. All of their numbers had just showed up in his phone the day after Bruce Wayne first decided that he wanted to give Tim additional training; he was pretty sure it was Oracle's doing. Not that that was important at the moment.

"Has anyone emailed Steph's professors?"

Bewildered, Dick said, "Uh, I don't--"

"I'll take care of it," Tim said, automatically, and dropped heavily into his desk chair, fingers clattering across the keyboard as he logged into his account and then, further, into Stephanie's school email. Of course there was a bitchy email from Professor Morgan, chiding her for missing their appointment. Tim took vindictive pleasure in informing him that--he paused. "What's the official cover story? Car accident last night?"

"Mugging."

Tim's typing faltered. That probably meant GSWs, or something else they couldn't easily explain away. "Which hospital?"

"Gotham General."

The closest of Gotham's major hospitals to Red Bird's offices; there were small mercies in life. Tim copied and pasted his draft email into four other windows, adjusting the salutation to address each of Stephanie's professors, and then sent them off. "I can be there in ten minutes."

Tim stood, and his vision tunneled as his heart did something funny in his chest. "Dick," he said, his voice suddenly small, and then found he had no other words.

"She's going to be okay, Tim," Dick promised again, his voice softening.

"And how is she right now?" he asked. His hands were shaking. The trembling had reached his voice as well.

(Tim had had this recurring nightmare for years now. He was sixteen years old and his best friend was hanging limply from heavy shackles. There was a pool of blood on the floor below her. He pressed his fingers to her neck and he didn't find a pulse.

He was sixteen years old, sneakers catching at each creaking metal step as he carried his best friend out of the basement she'd been tortured in, and she died in his arms.

He was sixteen years old, hanging tight to his best friend's hand as she lay in a hospital bed, looking impossibly tiny for a girl who had always been so much larger than life. Robin, the Girl Wonder. He hadn't realized that he'd still thought of her as something more than human, until the machine flatlined and his brain just refused to compute that Dr. Thompkins couldn't bring her back.)

"She's hurt pretty badly," Dick admitted quietly. "But she's a fighter, Tim. You know that."

"Yeah," he rasped. "Yeah, I do. I'll--ten minutes."

"Breathe, Tim. We'll see you in ten."

***

Tim paused in the doorway to his office, staring blankly at the man on his couch. "You're still here?"

"Excuse me?!" Curry snapped. "You--"

"Have a family emergency," Tim said flatly. "And I wasn't going to take your case anyway. You can get out."

***

Stephanie's hands were tanned a honeyed brown. They were callused, strong, warm. Well--they were usually warm. They weren't, today. Tim had one of her hands folded between both of his, giving her back what warmth he could.

He couldn't help being relieved that she didn't look small, even lying there so still and so silent, an IV line trailing from her opposite arm and a cannula in her nose. She was terrifyingly pale and cold, but--she wasn't small, and it had been a long time since he'd thought of her as anything but oh-so-joyously human. That made this all a little easier to stomach than it had been when they were kids.

(He'd say it had been a while since his hero worship had worn off, but that would be a lie. Stephanie Brown would always be his hero, as Robin, as Batgirl, as herself.)

Damian was curled up in a chair in the corner of the room, his arms crossed over his chest and his knees pulled up, his pointy chin touching his chest as he snored. He'd been awake when Tim had gotten there, greeting him quietly and without his usual spit and vinegar. Batgirl and Black Bat, Dick had already told him quietly, had gotten hurt while rescuing Robin. Damian wasn't taking it especially well.

For once, it was easy to remember he was fourteen years old.

Tim had ducked out a couple hours earlier to run by his apartment; he'd called Bernard and had the breakdown he'd so narrowly avoided while on the phone with Dick. He'd pulled himself back together and let his neighbor Kerry know that he was going to be gone for a couple days, if she'd be willing to swing by to feed the goldfish that Cassandra had given him as an early birthday present. (Their apartments shared the landing of the fire escape, and he always left the window unlocked. He didn't even need to give her a key.) He packed clothes and toiletries; his laptop; a Scrabble board, coloring book, and set of colored pencils that he'd already handed off to Dick, Duke, and Jason where they were hanging out in the waiting room.

(The younger Waynes were all just unrecognizable enough to escape scrutiny. Bruce had also come by, face hidden behind sunglasses and a hat, but there was no explaining why Bruce Wayne would be concerned for a random college student when Stephanie had no official connection to their family, and so he didn't stay long enough to get caught. Tim thought there was a very obvious solution to this dilemma, which would be hiring Stephanie as a math tutor for Damian, but what the hell did he know?

Better, she'd be good at it, and from what he heard, the kid actually needed it.)

But most importantly, Tim had also brought blankets: a massive, fluffy one with a print of Stephanie's own face on it--his Hanukkah present from the year before--and a quilt that his great-grandmother had made back in Germany. It had made it to Gotham in a steamer trunk, wrapped around picture frames and the family menorah, and throughout Tim's childhood, Jack had used to keep it folded on the couch in his study. Tim had added the quilt to Stephanie's hospital bed (her hands were so cold) as soon as he returned.

He stood, now, and draped the fluffy one around Damian. It was a mark of the kid's exhaustion that he barely twitched, even when Tim awkwardly leaned down to prod it down into the space between Damian and the chair to tuck him in. The Waynes had been here since 4 AM the night before. It was well into the afternoon, now.

Tim straightened and pressed his hands over his face, forcing himself to breathe in and out, slowly and calmly.

The door clicked open, and he dropped his hands, blinking, as Crystal Brown slipped into the room, juggling a tray of coffee cups and a bag of bagel sandwiches. "I'm back," she said unnecessarily, her voice kept low in deference to the sleeping birds.

There was a side table next to Stephanie's bed, just large enough for all the food Crystal had brought. She handed him one of the coffees--and his credit card, a quirk of amusement on her lips. "Dabbling in reverse pick pocketing now, I see. It was a nice try," she told him dryly. "But I didn't use it."

Tim sighed, but he folded it back into his wallet without an argument. "Thank you, Crystal."

"Have a sandwich," she ordered, and she squeezed his shoulder as she ducked around him to take the seat he'd vacated. "Hey, sweetheart," she said softly, reaching out to brush a strand of Stephanie's beautiful blonde hair back behind her ear. She kept talking, her voice low and sweet, and Tim fiddled with his phone as he politely tuned her out.

He snapped a picture of Damian and texted it to Dick. He snapped a picture of his bagel and texted it to Bernard as proof that he was eating. He thought about it for a moment, and then he texted both of them to Stephanie, too.

His phone buzzed a moment later as Dick added him to a groupchat with all of his siblings, Stephanie, Harper, Wendy, Barbara, and Alfred; he'd shared the picture of Damian with the rest of them with approximately a hundred hearteye and sobbing emojis appended to it. There was a cascade of responses, mostly amused--

Then Cassandra called him.

Tim flashed the screen at Crystal, tipping his head towards the door, and slipped out as she nodded and waved him off. "Hey," he said, sandwiching the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "How are you feeling?"

"Come break me out?" She sounded exhausted. "I have a concussion. Alfred and Bruce won't let me leave."

"Come break you out of... Wayne Manor?"

Cassandra hummed a negative. "Batcave."

Tim took a thoughtful bite of his sandwich. It was cream cheese and lox, because why mess with the classics? "Shouldn't you be calling Jason for this?"

Cassandra snorted.

Yeah, okay. Just because she'd used one of Batman's offworld Justice League missions to spend three months lovingly beating the shit out of her brother and tearing his criminal empire apart until he got over himself and stopped purposefully antagonizing his family members by brutally murdering criminals, didn't mean the two of them didn't still have some significant differences of opinion. They were friendly, usually, and siblings, always, but Tim could see why she wasn't interested in going to him for help when she was hurting and vulnerable.

(In the interest of full transparency, Tim could understand why anyone, ever, in any situation, wouldn't want to ask Jason Todd for help. Stephanie would be laughing at him if she were awake.)

"All right, sure," he said, shrugging. "Give me thirty minutes."

***

For Timothy Jackson Drake, breaking into the most secure location on earth was as simple as walking up to the hidden door and punching in a passcode.

He couldn't even take credit for it. See, six years ago, Batman's most innovative Robin had run into a dilemma: in case of an emergency, she wanted Tim to be able to remove her utility belt, drive her motorcycle, or even access the Batcave, but it was all locked with biometrics and/or finger print scanners. She couldn't just add his information to the system; Batman would have noticed that immediately, and if he hadn't, then Oracle certainly would have.

That's when she had one of her moments of brilliance--because there was a default profile with basic administrative access that Batman used as a template when he added new users to the system. It was originally constructed as a clone of Batman's own user profile, and so had biometric and fingerprint information associated with it, not that anyone ever opened those files. Because why would they?

He texted Cassandra that he'd arrived, leaving Stephanie's shitty impala parked just out of sight of the cameras (accessing the Cave with a viable passcode and matching biometrics meant that no alarms would be activated, but that didn't mean Bruce or Alfred couldn't glance at the cameras and spot the car), and tucked his hands in his pockets as he waited for her to confirm that the Cave was clear.

Recording Tim's fingerprints and a copy of his biometric scan would have been harder before the Mount Justice base was handed over to Steph's team, but afterwards, it was the work of moments to replace the data associated with the Batcomputer's default user profile. The next time Bruce pushed a system update to all of their interfaces: bam.

All Tim had to do was memorize the twelve-digit default passcode that Stephanie had copied down for him.

His phone pinged a moment later, and he descended the long, narrow passageway into the earth. Cool air washed over him, leaving him hunching his shoulders towards his ears and tucking his elbows even closer to his body. Water clung to the walls, and it glistened dimly in the orange glow of the thin tracks of emergency lighting.

For all that he'd theoretically had access to it for over six years now, Tim had never been to the Batcave before. He'd never encountered an emergency that drastic.

He had been training "with Batman" for months now, but in reality, he'd been training with Batgirl and Black Bat at the secondary Cave that took up the entire floor below Cassandra's apartment. He suspected that Bruce was easing him into things, probably in large part because of the overwhelming paranoia that had driven his lifestyle since before Tim had been born, but Tim was, in all honesty, quite grateful for the reprieve. He may have been best friends with Robin since he was a freshman in high school, but he was pretty sure that if Batman had just taken him down to the Batcave and tossed a bo staff to him, his brain may have imploded.

Today, he fully expected to be too tired to have any kind of fanboy freak out. And he was... mostly. He'd heard a lot about it, even seen a few pictures over the years, but the Cave still brought him up short when he cleared the final corner.

The line of costumes on the far side of the room was tempting. But he forced himself towards the soft white light of the mock-medbay on his left; they only had maybe ten minutes to make their getaway before Crystal couldn't keep Bruce on the phone any longer or Alfred finished signing for the flower delivery that Tim had arranged for.

(He didn't get tricky with it. They were addressed from him to Cassandra as a get well soon.)

"I have some questions," he said, crouched at Cassandra's side as he helped her unhook herself from the IV line.

Her eyes crinkled in a tired smile, and she guided him to turn around so she could climb, koala-like, onto his back. (She didn't need him to carry her; but she was exhausted and hurting and worried, and Tim was a warm, steady presence.) Her bony chin dug into his shoulder as he hooked his hands under her knees and pushed himself to his feet.

"I don't know why there's a dinosaur, either," she told him.

"Makes me feel better," he admitted. He waved at the nearest camera, knowing that Alfred and Bruce would be reviewing the footage as soon as they noticed Cassandra was gone (and her motorcycle wasn't), and Cassandra echoed the motion with a huff of laughter.

"You should ask Dick," she told him. "It was before the rest of our time."

"Even Barbara?" Tim kept his steps smooth as they entered the rougher floor of the tunnel, remembering that the world's deadliest limpet on his back was nursing a mild concussion.

Cassandra hummed thoughtfully. "I don't know. But I don't think she spent much time around the Batcave back then anyway. Batgirl was... different when it was hers. The mantle is still a partner and not a subordinate, but... we work more as a team now, all of us, and Batman does a lot of the coordinating for the team. When Barbara was Batgirl, she didn't take any orders from Batman."

"Still doesn't," Tim said, with a wisp of a grin.

"Damn straight," Cassandra agreed.

"Damn straight," Oracle echoed, and Tim flinched, spinning to peer towards the speaker on the ceiling of the tunnel. "Relax, I'm not going to sell you out. But Alfred's on his way down, so you better put some pep in your step, Timmy."

"Right," he said weakly, and he started walking as quickly as he could without jostling Cassandra.

"And Tim?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I can see Steph's fingerprints all over this. As soon as she's awake, you two are going to tell me how the hell you got in here."

"Busted," Cassandra snickered.

***

"You're cheating."

"How could I possibly be cheating, Jason?"

"I don't fucking know, Duke, but I know you're--"

"A7."

"Fuck off!"

Duke cupped a hand around his ear, leaning toward Jason across the coffee table they'd commandeered. "Sorry, what was that? Did you mean to say that I sunk--"

"You sunk my battleship," Jason grit out. "Quit fucking cheating."

"You started it," Duke said calmly, as he stuck another red pin in his map.

"How dare you. I would never cheat at something as holy as Battleship." Jason stretched. "J4."

"Miss."

"Stop fucking cheating!"

"It was a miss!"

"It was not!"

"Oh, my god, you're both complete shit at this," Tim said exhaustedly, as he traded out his yellow colored pencil for a purple one. "Jason's using the mirror behind your shoulder to look at your map, Duke, and Dick's been using morse code to tell Duke what moves to make, Jason. Get some class and bend your aircraft carrier into an L like the rest of us."

If he hadn't already been certain that Bruce Wayne was a few eggs short of a carton, he'd have known as soon as the man capitulated to his children's requests for further board games by bringing Battleship. At least it wasn't Uno, he supposed.

(And at least Bruce hadn't tried to get Cassandra to go back to the Manor with him when he left again, because Tim was pretty sure it would have turned into Bat v. Bat brawl in the middle of the hospital waiting room. Bruce also hadn't asked how Tim had gotten into the Batcave, although he'd pulled Dick aside and had a quiet conversation that had left Dick glancing thoughtfully at Tim and Cassandra for an hour afterward.)

"Who asked you for your opinion, Encyclopedia Brown?" Jason shot back, as Duke spun in his seat to squint at the curved mirror that the nurses' station used to observe the door from their seats behind the desk.

"Behave," Cassandra ordered. She was tucked into Tim's side, doodling abstract designs into the corner of his coloring book while he shaded in the cartoon butterfly at the center of the page.

"Yeah, Jay, behave," Dick said, laughing, and Jason turned around to sock him, hard, in the shoulder.

"I'll show you--"

Crystal cleared her throat, and every head in their corner of the waiting room snapped up to look at her. She didn't leave them in suspense:

"Steph's awake." She held up a hand, stilling the scramble before it could begin. "A couple of you at a time, please. Let's not overwhelm her."

Tim lifted his arm, letting Cassandra crawl out from underneath it, and then oofed with surprise as she grabbed his hand in a vice grip and dragged him up after her. "Dibs," she declared, and flicked Jason in the forehead as they passed.

Tim hopped the leg sweep that Jason fired off in retaliation and shifted his hand inside of Cass's so that he could interlock their fingers. "I could've waited," he murmured, bumping his shoulder gently with hers. This was the first time he'd even been able to be at the hospital when Stephanie was injured; he was used to waiting until the Bats were done fawning over her before he got the chance to.

"She'd be sad," Cassandra told him confidently.

"Well, we can't have that," Tim drawled.

The door to Stephanie's room was cracked, and Cassandra held a finger up to her lips as they approached, her head tilting to the side as she slowed Tim to a stop.

"--unacceptable risk." Damian's voice drifted out of the room, stiff and quiet. "You never think through the consequences before throwing yourself into--"

"Damo," Steph cut him off, her voice rough and distant from the pain meds. "I love you, too. Shut up and cuddle me."

"You are not listening--"

"I will never apologize for getting hurt instead of you," Stephanie said flatly. "Okay?" Her voice dropped, a whisper that barely reached Tim's ears where he stood, the toes of his Converse just out of sight of the open door. "It's Batgirl's job, kiddo. Do you know how many fires Cass pulled my ass out of when I was Robin?"

Cassandra squeezed Tim's hand and slipped past him into the room then, and he crossed his arms and propped his hip against the wall. There was more whispering, even quieter than before, and the hitched breath of a child fighting tears. Tim closed his eyes, waiting until the whispering and the rustling of blankets and creaking of ancient bedsprings abated before he knocked, lightly, and poked his head into the room.

Cassandra had pulled a chair even closer to Stephanie's bedside than Tim had, her legs folded like a lotus underneath herself and the trailing edge of Tim's quilt pulled across her lap as she held Stephanie's hand. Damian had crawled up onto the hospital bed at Stephanie's side, his hoodie pulled up and its cords yanked tight so that all that poked out from underneath it was his reddened nose.

Stephanie's dark blue eyes met Tim's... and her entire face lit up.

"Boyfriend," she said, a little breathless, and he sank into a crouch next to her bedside, opposite from Cassandra. He pressed his forehead against the cool metal railing, fumbling to find her hand beneath all of the blankets--the one with her face on it had joined the stack when Damian did--and clung to it desperately.

"Girlfriend," he rasped.

"You're here."

"Another advantage to coming clean to Batman." Tim rose back up on shaky legs, cradling Steph's face between his hand as he pressed a dry kiss to her forehead. "Of course I'm here. You're my best friend."

"That's reductive," she teased sleepily, raising her hand to squeeze the nape of his neck, and Tim huffed a watery laugh.

"Yeah, well, platonic soulmates would be reductive, and people would get the wrong idea if I went around calling you my other half."

The old joke made her smile, just like it always did. She stroked the fine hairs at the back of his neck, her eyes hazy with pain meds. "I'm sorry you had to see me like this," she told him, her voice wobbling in a way that made Damian peer out from beneath his hoodie, a frown etched between his heavy eyebrows. "I know that it makes you think about..."

Tim's eyes flickered shut, and he pressed his forehead against hers. "I'll get over it," he said thickly. "You just focus on getting better, Stephie."

She snorted. "On it, boss."

"Yeah, yeah." He pulled away, swiping tears off of his face as he straightened and stepped back. "We need witsec, by the way," he told her, as he pulled over a chair to drop heavily into it. "I busted Cass out of the Batcave today, and Oracle's going to kill us when she finds out what you did. I think it worked even better than you expected it to; I'm not sure it logged an entry into the system at all."

Stephanie hummed her amusement, pulling the fluffy blanket up to her chin as she wiggled down into her pillows. "Really? You finally saw it? What'd you think?"

"Bruce Wayne should be on Hoarders," Tim said, immediately, and Stephanie started laughing so hard it sounded painful.

"You're the fucking worst," she wheezed. "I have bullet holes in me, Timothy; you're not allowed to say shit like that."

"That sounds like a personal problem."

"I literally hate you."

"I'm literally your favorite person in the entire world."

"Ugh, stop projecting."

Tim squeezed her hand. As soon as her laughter faded, her exhaustion had begun to creep back in. "You want me to go trade out with one of the morons in the waiting room before you fall asleep again?"

"Nah," she mumbled, twining her fingers with his. "They'll get their chance later. Just... just stay, Boyfriend."

"Whatever you want, Girlfriend," he promised softly. "I'll stay as long as you want me to."

[rafaelnadalfans]

WATCH: Everyone is talking about Rafael Nadal's missing racquet

Top seed Rafael Nadal was left without the racquet he wanted to use in his opening match against Jack Draper after a ballboy seemingly took the wrong one to the stringer to be repaired. I need the racquet back. I need the dampener and everything. The ball boy took my racquet. Rafa Nadal Match higlights: On-court interview: Hot Shot:

[sportsgr8]

Tennis: Shelton Survives Stern Test From Evans In Acapulco Opener

Briton Daniel Evans: America's Ben Shelton survived a stern test from tricky Briton Daniel Evans to find a way into the second round of the Mexican Open with a 2-6, 7-5, 7-6(5) win in two hours and 45 minutes. After Shelton played an untidy first set full of errors, he found his game in the second set. Interestingly Shelton began winning many of the longer points against Evans. Serving at 4-5, 0/40 in the decider, Evans bounced back to stay in the match. Shelton’s big opportunity came at 15/40, when he missed a makeable forehand passing shot from well behind the baseline, ATP reports. The 33-year-old Evans broke in the next game, but was unable to serve out the match and paid for it in the ensuing tie-break. Shelton completed his victory with a swinging forehand volley winner. In another American-British match, the Briton Jack Draper ousted seventh seed Tommy Paul 6-0, 6-4 in one hour and 26 minutes. It was the third ATP Head2Head encounter of the year between the pair and Draper moved to 2-1 in those meetings by converting all three of his break points according to ATP Stats. Read the full article

[stateofsport211]

Bergamo Ch SF: David Goffin [5] def. Mark Lajal [LL] 6-7(4), 6-3, 6-4 Match Stats

📸 ATP Challenger Livestream (via website)

After regaining his aggression through his forehand side, mostly, Goffin controlled the flow and had not looked back since, even if he faced stiff opposition from Lajal from the baseline, as well as his intuitive volley at times. Goffin's forehand winners, however, carried him through the most pressing moments possible, which pressed Lajal even further until the balance question was asked, only to be answered by his passing shots, for example how he secured the important break in the third set. As a result, Goffin had 15 opportunities to break while only converting 4 of them throughout three sets despite Lajal's 33% break point conversion rate out of his 6 break points.

Furthermore, Goffin appeared more solid on his service game as the match went by. Even though both players scored 4 aces, Goffin still stood out from his first serves by 10% thanks to his 71% winning percentage than Lajal's 61%. On the other hand, even though both players double-faulted once, Lajal fell 6% behind Goffin in his second serves winning percentage, making it slightly more vulnerable where Goffin took advantage of those in his point construction.

In a possibly mouthwatering clash, first seed Jack Draper already awaits, where he defeated Brandon Nakashima 6-1, 3-6, 7-5 in a topsy-turvy semifinal match. Realizing both players’ contrasting styles, every element could be on the line in terms of how they handle pressure (and extended) points, how solid their service game could be, as well as the pacing necessary for them to be in control of the match. This could be one of the matches of the week that can deliver, so it is highly recommended to stream/follow this match!

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“Draper In Court Denies Prisoner Was Influenced,” Toronto Globe. November 8, 1932. Page 10. --- Warren Made Statement Without Hesitation, Chief Testifies --- MURDER TRIAL PROCEEDS --- The suggestion that his presence in the room at Police Headquarters while Ewart G. Warren was making a statement to Inspector Chisholm was calculated to influence the prisoner, was strenuously denied yesterday evening by Chief Constable D. C. Draper, who was cross-examined by W. B. Horkins, for Warren’s defence during the hearing of the trial of Warren and his brother-in-law Harold Hicks, jointly charged with the murder of Dr. W. G. More, Toronto dentist, who was shot Oct. 5 and died nine days later.

Warren and Hicks frequently whispered to each other as the hearing progressed in Assizes before Mr. Justice Raney and a jury.

The evidence of the Chief Constable and of other police officers was taken in the absence of the jury, pending the court’s decision as to the admissibility in evidence of the statement made by Warren.

‘Put in Extra Time.’ After corroborating the evidence of Inspector Chilsolm that no threats or inducements were made, and that Warren made his statement without hesitation, except in preferring not to divulge the name of his accomplice, Chief Draper admitted to Mr. Horkins that he had been greatly interested in the More case and had ‘put in extra time on it.’

Chief Draper said he learned of the arrest of Warren in the office of Acting Chief of Detectives Chisolm. The Chief could not be positive that Warren was “aware of my identity.’ It was stated that all present in the room at the time were in plainclothes. In addition to the stenographer, Warren and himself, Sergeant of Detectives Louis Williams and Detective Sergeants Hogan and Priest were present. Chief Draper, questioned by Mr. Horkins, said that it was his duty ‘to be present whenever my best judgement indicates I should be present.’ He disagreed that his presence during the making of the statement influenced Warren.

William Wahl, police stenographer, stated that in eleven years’ experience, he had taken about a dozen statements and that no Chief had ever before been present.

Norman Sommerville, K.C., is special Crown Prosecutor in the case which continues today; he is assisted by F. J. Malone. F. G. Gardiner is appearing for Hicks.

Saw Two Men Run The story of the discovery of a revolver and shell, which led the arrest of the pair, was told when the trial opened. Jack Harkins, messenger boy, told of hearing a thud where he worked on Oct. 5, and of seeing two men run out and away. He did not, he said, see their faces.

Warren was identified by Gerald M. Gray as the man to him he sold a box of bullets. Richard Dann could not identify the gun as the one which he exchanged recently fro a bullet-proof vest with Warren, though he said it was ‘similar.’

Dr. E. R. Frankish, Provincial Criminologist, who performed the autopsy and Dr. H. H. Murray, called to the wounded doctor, also testified. Other medical evidence was given.

[shirophantomvox]

Random date night with Illumi, Hisoka, and Chrollo

Hello, anon! Ask and you shall receive! This prompt is very interesting and I will try to keep it in character as much as possible. To sum this up, Hisoka would take you to an ice cream shop, a carnival, or apple orchard while Illumi would rather go to an art or historical museum. Chrollo would persuade you to attend a book reading/author signing or go hiking. Depending on who you are and what your ideal date is, I’m sure you’d find them all fun. Going to a carnival or apple orchard is my go-to since I’ve barely been because they’re all in the suburbs. These headcanons are explained much more than the others. That is why Chrollo and Illumi seem to be short, but they’re not. Also, I can’t wait for Halloween because these headcanons are going to be amazing. I am extremely sorry if there are grammar errors! Taking classes on Zoom is frustrating and now my brain has to relearn everything that I lost in 3 months! Before we get started, I have a few announcements.

This post is more laid back than my other headcanons because I tried to keep it as canon as possible.

I want to thank you all for 65 followers! It means a lot! I’m happy to see that a lot of you enjoy my writing and like it enough to follow me! I have a challenge for you! When I reach 100 followers, I will host some type of writing event here...but I need ideas. I’ve seen some pages do specials where you can send an ask and pretend like you're talking to a character and I respond with what they’d say. SEND ME IDEAS! I WILL CREDIT YOU!

I will be stepping back a little more than before. I’ll still be logged in and re-blogging but as far as writing posts like this...it may only be once or twice a week. You see, I’m in college and I’m struggling financially and I have to work on scholarships. If you all send me an ask, be patient.

Voltron posts will only be created based on asks. I will not be writing posts about VLD if no one requests them. I do not receive any feedback from it anymore and no one seems to like them.

Now, let’s get into the post.

Let's start with Illumi first.

Headcanon 1: Illumi has a secret admiration for different types of art but he specifically enjoys pop art and surrealism. He has commented on how surrealism makes his brain twist and his feelings swirl as he tries to figure out the piece and what inspires it.

He prefers not to participate in tours as he likes to digest the art at his own pace.

Headcanon 2: In his spare time, he paints on a canvas. His art style consists of both surrealism and abstract art. For a person with a dark personality, his compositions always contain bright colors and abstract techniques that leave you wondering about his TRUE personality. He is truly a good man with a bright personality but after being abused for so long, those behaviors/personalities have been shoved so far down his throat that they may not come back up.

He has a bad habit of asking you what you thought about every single piece of art you passed. The conversations were great but this is a date after all. The playful conversation slowly turns into a lecture about art. Although you loved your bf’s dictionary-like brain it also drained your energy.

One of his favorite artists is Vincent Van Gough. Although he favors surrealism, Van Gogh’s art style was mind-blowing to him. So amazed that he buys several Van Gogh t-shirts from the gift shop.

His favorite piece created by Van Gough is “Starry Night”.

He notices that you are becoming bored and decides that it is time for MORE excitement, one that you are certain to enjoy.

“Where are we going,” you ask, pretending to be interested.

“Down to the basement. We are going to have a bite to eat.”

Since Illumi rarely smiled, when he did smile it drove you wild. The anticipation of what his next move was going to be is what drove that wildness. Being a bounty hunter was thrilling already but dating a smart, badass assassin was totally out of your league but it worked out.

Headcanon 3: Illumi’s idea of being romantic is dramatically different from yours. He believes just spending time with you on the couch was enough. He is correct; but if you have the time and funds, your time together should be a little spontaneous. You insisted on dates outside of the house because his family will not stay out of your business.

“Illumi, I am too hungry for more trivia.”

He chuckles. “Don’t worry. So am I. That is why I’ve decided to take you to a wine and cheese party.”

Huh? Wine and Cheese at 3PM? That’s ok. When was there a time limit on when you can drink alcohol?

Illumi has indirectly attended parties as such when he was 15 years old. He never drank, but he watched as his mother’s friends (surprisingly) talked about business and their children. This time, you weren’t going to talk about business for once. Instead, you two were going to actually talk about what couples discuss.

Headcanon 4: When introduced to alcohol for the first time, Illumi immediately stated how he hated brown liquor. That includes Hennessy, Jack Daniels, etc. It makes him sick to his stomach. He prefers to drink Smirnoff mixed with fruity drinks like strawberry or pineapple.

He loves it when you make these drinks for him on a summer day.

Hence the title wine and cheese, you both go to a stand-up table, place your brochures down, and actually have a wonderful conversation not involving work or hunting.

Illumi smiled a few times, more than usual. Whenever he appears to be softer even around you, that is because he has mellowed out and doesn't have the overbearing weight of his family on his shoulders. You set him free.

Hisoka

According to a one-shot that another manga artist created, they expressed that Hisoka was found on the side of the road, was taken in by someone that worked at a local circus, and learned Nen in a matter of days. Hisoka’s clown look and having the skills of a magician proves that this has to be canon in some way.

Headcanon 1: Given this potential backstory, going to a carnival is his go-to every summer. He wants to take you to a circus but saves that for you as an engagement gift.

Everyone with a heart knows that whether or not you’re in a relationship or not the carnival is fun as hell! Expensive fried food, elephant ears, funnel cake, ICEE’s, rides, and stuffed animals are to die for!

Being at a carnival relaxes him so his bloodlust isn’t activated unless someone bumps into him and causes a scene.

Headcanon 2: PDA is something that Hisoka does well; he doesn’t overdo it but does it enough where people get the impression that you are a couple and aren’t “best friends”.

While completing a mission depending on how rough it may be, he insists that you tag along to see how he handles the situation. You’ve already seen his ruthlessness from Hunter’s exam but he insists.

His sense of pride gets the best of him sometimes. Sometimes his head is so big that it reminds you of a large birthday balloon.

Headcanon 3: ANYWAY, given his nature, he is very adventurous, dangerous, and courageous. If he wants to go on the Demon Drop, he’ll do it and you DO not have a choice in the matter. He’ll tease or guilt trip you into doing something that you would not like to do.

“Well, you wouldn’t want me to cling on to someone else, would you?”

“No. Of course not,” you reply.

“Let’s go then, scaredy-cat.”

As a hunter, you’ve seen worse. Why are you so afraid to go on a ride?

Headcanon 4: At apple orchards, cornfield mazes are one of his favorites. You cannot for the life of you figure out how to get out but he can. He grabs a scarecrow and scares you from behind. That annoys you but is nothing compared to later on that night.

Oh. My. God. It’s haunted house time!

“Hisoka, I’m not going in!”

“Why not? I’ll protect you.”

“Because they’re monsters and I already have to deal with one.”

It took him a second to catch on that you were talking about him.

“That’s going to bite you in the butt, kitten.”

Headcanon 5: Like Killua, Hisoka has a sweet tooth. Don’t allow his buff appearance to fool you!

He LOVES caramel apples, elephant ears, funnel cake, freshly squeezed lemonade, fudge, and cotton candy. How can this man manage to stay in shape? The world may never know.

Headcanon 6: He isn’t one to play by other people’s rules but he sets his own rules with your relationship that you both must obey. One of those rules says that neither of you can be on your phones while together.

Headcanon 7: Hisoka insists that you both wear either matching pants or matching shirts to avoid unnecessary flirtation.

He isn’t jealous but on “us time”, he doesn’t want to lose a single second.

Headcanon 8: Hisoka only jumps in when necessary. Given that you’ve passed the hunter’s exam and work as a bodyguard, he knows you can handle your business. If the person can’t take a hint, then he steps in. They almost back up immediately considering Hisoka is towering over them.

When the moon shines, you both go to the car and off to sleep in your comfy king-sized bed.

Chrollo

We all know that Chrollo loves to read! What does he specifically like to read? What Genre? Does he like to read alone or with other people?

Although Chrollo is a thief and must be hidden in the shadows, the authorities have called off the search for him for at least 3 years. Slowly but surely, he begins to find himself in the outside world again.

Chrollo once discussed a book with the Phantom Troupe when they were being transported to another place for a mission. He read “Tears of a Tiger” by Sharon M. Draper.

The reading sessions are opened with an affirmation and a reason to be thankful to be alive. He says he is thankful for the troupe, glances at you, and smiles. No one catches on to that sly face except for Phinks.

Headcanon 1: Chrollo is very silent and shy to an extent. He only associates with people he knows and trusts. You are the social butterfly at this moment.

Chrollo tags along behind you like a shy child, holding your hand while you stick out your free hand to greet everyone.

Today, the book club was going to read “Divergent”.

Headcanon 2: Although he loves to read, he hates it when others read out loud. Most people are drably read and it annoys him. After a while, he takes over. Chrollo was tense the first 30 minutes of the meeting because two cops were there but neither of them noticed it was him.

Headcanon 3: Chrollo often acts the part of the character that he is reading in the book. His tone, attitude, and emphasis on certain words keep the group engaged. He is complimented on his acting!

“Good Job, honey,” you whisper.

He responds by tightly squeezing your hand.

His tone was so impressive that the host insisted that he read for the entire night. He was ok with that because in between reads he was often distracted by a lovely pair of jeans and shoes you had on. You were into writing, so hearing others read and act out the characters helped.

Headcanon 4: In some settings, Chrollo is very braggadocious. He insisted that the group read one of your stories so you could be provided with feedback.

“We’d be delighted to view your story, y/n!”

“It will be fun!”

The book club wasn’t a stereotypical club that only consisted of soccer moms but instead consisted of men and women who were involved with a business, law enforcement, health, etc. This was an open space for everyone to relax and forget about their demanding jobs.

After the meeting, the group went to dinner at a nearby pizzeria. You all enjoyed large pizzas, beer, salads, and dessert. How could your stomach (or anyone’s stomach) hold that much?

Chrollo laughed so much that it made you question if he was your actual boyfriend or not. He even engaged in conversations with the two off-duty cops! For once, you helped Chrollo experience the greater things in life; true love, friendship, and happiness.

“Thank you,” he whispered and slyly placed a kiss on your hand. “For everything.”

[tabloidtoc]

National Enquirer, December 28

You can buy a copy of this issue for your very own at my eBay store: https://www.ebay.com/str/bradentonbooks

Cover: Ghislaine Maxwell scandal explodes 

Page 2: George Clooney was rushed to the hospital after rapidly dropping 28 pounds to play an ailing astronomer in his latest movie The Midnight Sky and the harrowing incident has infuriated worried wife Amal Clooney -- George’s scare came when he was diagnosed with life-threatening pancreatitis days before he was scheduled to start filming on a glacier in Finland -- Amal was unhappy and angry that he put his health on the line for the role and she was also furious because this wasn’t the first time the father of her twins has been in harm’s way and she’s demanding he take better care of himself so he’ll be around to care for his kids 

Page 3: Lori Loughlin’s deluded daughter Olivia Jade Giannulli is clueless over the college admissions scandal that landed her parents in jail and believes her own hype according to a body language expert -- in an interview on Jada Pinkett Smith’s Red Table Talk Olivia claimed she had no idea posing for pictures on a rowing machine to finagle a crew scholarship to the University of Southern California despite never having practiced the sport was deceitful but body language expert Susan Constantine said Olivia doesn’t appear to have any understanding of the consequences of her actions or those of mom Lori and dad Mossimo Giannulli -- after observing Olivia’s confession Constantine said she didn’t notice any deceptive indicators such as pauses in her speech or shrugging of her shoulders however she labeled Olivia completely unequivocally oblivious which she said made it challenging to judge Olivia’s truthfulness 

Page 4: Lonely Diane Keaton is longing for love and she’s turned to former flame Jack Nicholson for help in landing a new guy -- Diane is truly desperate to find a man and she knows if there’s one person who can help her navigate the dating scene after all this time it’s Jack -- the Oscar-winning actress shocked the world when she recently admitted she hasn’t been on a date in 35 years and she made a joke of it but the pandemic has made her realize how lonely she really is -- Diane would never date Jack again but knows he has a lot of eligible friends who would fit her dating profile 

* Dying Olivia Newton-John worries endlessly about her daughter Chloe and made a touching final request of close pal John Travolta: Please take care of Chloe after I’m gone -- Olivia’s concerns for Chloe spiked after she blasted the COVID-19 vaccine on social media writing that natural medicine is the party she belongs to -- Olivia has been battling stage 4 breast cancer while John lost his wife Kelly Preston to the same disease and John loves and admires Olivia for the way she’s battled this disease and she’s given him the hope and encouragement he needs -- now Chloe’s ongoing issues have pushed Olivia to beg John to pledge he’ll be there for her daughter because Chloe has spent over $450,000 on multiple plastic surgeries including breast enhancements and a nose job and lip enhancements and Botox and she’s also battled anorexia and depression which led to bouts with cocaine and alcohol addiction -- Olivia has always been deeply concerned about who would look out for Chloe if she wasn’t around and now that she can see the end is near she asked John to be that person; he never blinked an eye and said of course 

Page 5: Ozzy Osbourne’s frail and feeble appearance has friends fearing for the rocker but he has no plans to abandon a 2022 comeback even if it kills him -- the 72-year-old singer has battled Parkinson’s disease and crippling nerve damage but has vowed he will die onstage -- nobody disputes he has the heart of a lion and it’s great to see him out and about again recording music and talking the good talk but ultimately Ozzy is a very sickly guy who needs to protect himself and not charge around trying to delude himself by living life at a pace that doesn’t make sense anymore 

Page 6: Rattled reality star Kylie Jenner is living in fear after being terrorized by two crazed fans and is now spending $350,000 a month on a 25-person security detail -- Kylie filed court documents seeking a restraining order against Justin Bergquist who allegedly broke into her $36.5 million California home last month 

Page 7: Lonely Ryan Seacrest may have nearly half a billion bucks in the bank but he’d trade in his riches for another shot at love -- he was so devastated by his breakup with on-again off-again galpal Shayna Taylor last summer he fears he may never find a woman to spend the rest of his life with and he now realizes her put his career before his personal life one too many times and may suffer for it forever -- Ryan’s recent health woes have been a wake-up call and forced him to understand the price he’s paying for taking his partners for granted for so long -- Ryan now realizes life is too short to go it alone and it’s finally dawned on him he’s not invincible and not so self-sufficient after all 

* Miley Cyrus’ admission that she’s had a lot of FaceTime sex has left friends and advisers fearing she may be setting herself up for some unwanted exposure -- though Miley explained she’s turned to virtual hookups to avoid physical contact during the pandemic but she’s putting herself at an entirely different kind of risk and she’s setting herself up as a potential victim of revenge porn 

Page 10: Hot Shots -- Brooke Burke showed off her toned figure in Malibu, Andrew Garfield looked bored on the NYC set of Tick Tick...Boom!, Busy Philipps cleaning, Audrina Patridge and her daughter Kirra on a Beverly Hills playdate 

Page 11: Guy Fieri is eating up heaps of praise for handing out $500 grants to more than 43,000 restaurant workers across the nation -- he scrambled to raise over $21.5 million in seven weeks to help legions of unemployed restaurant laborers who have suffered financially due to the COVID-19 health and economic crisis -- through his new Restaurant Employee Relief Fund Guy personally buttonholed fat cats at cash-rich corporations such as PepsiCo and Uber Eats and Moet Hennessy USA to make donations -- he shows how he did it and shines a light on the industry’s continuing challenges in Restaurant Hustle 2020 a documentary he produced for the Food Network 

* Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood are spreading yuletide cheer with their TV holiday special but they’re more interested in ringing cash registers than Christmas bells -- Garth and Trisha rake in $60 million a year from concert ticket sales and CD purchases and merchandising but the couple saw their cash flow slow during the pandemic -- they lost a bunch of money but they had the unique opportunity to do TV specials and grab a big chunk of it back -- while the $10 million they are pocketing for their TV specials won’t make up for what they would have netted on tour it was a sweet stocking stuffer and they both want to get back on the road and really rake it in but TV has made the wait a lot easier 

Page 12: Straight Shuter -- With Beyonce and Taylor Swift facing off for Song of the Year at the upcoming Grammy Awards producers are scrambling to prevent another Kanye West explosion like what happened in 2009

* Killing off The Talk may be the only hope of saving Drew Barrymore’s tanking talk show

* The Real Housewives of New York are treating the first Black cast member Eboni K. Williams with kid gloves because no one wants to come across as racist 

* Niecy Nash and Jessica Betts (picture) 

Page 13: January Jones’ desperate bid for online attention has pals concerned she may be cracking up -- her red-hot career appears to have cooled since Mad Men ended in 2015 and January is dying to land another plum part like Betty Draper but she’s going about it the wrong way -- she’s been posting sexy bikini pictures and leggy dance numbers on Instagram but that’s not the way to catch the eye of casting directors especially with so few shows in production during the COVID-19 lockdown 

* Caitlyn Jenner has reached out to trans actor Elliot Page offering to be his big sister in an opportunistic PR ploy -- while Caitlyn was one of many trans celebs including Jazz Jennings and Geena Rocero to offer Elliot congratulations and support, Caitlyn viewed the announcement as a new opportunity to leap back into the limelight and she believes that by aligning herself with Elliot she can regain her status as an activist and the symbol of transgender rights in Hollywood -- Elliot is happy to listen to Caitlyn’s advice but he’s been navigating his gender issues for years and doesn’t need guidance and he’s not going to be rude but he doesn’t need the help 

Page 14: Crime 

Page 15: A never-before-heard audio recording is of iconic soul singer James Brown’s wish to leave his $100 million fortune to educate poor children -- in the garbled 1999 recording the singer who died suddenly in 2006 called the creation of his I Feel Good foundation his lasting legacy but his precious foundation has not seen a dime because his fortune has remained tied up in court since his death which is the subject of an investigation by the Fulton County, Georgia District Attorney’s office after allegations surfaced that Brown might have been poisoned by someone after his money 

Page 16: American Life 

Page 17: What Shocked and Rocked in 2020 -- the best scoops and stories of the year 

Page 25: Fired Hillsong Church pastor Carl Lentz was so starstruck by his celebrity parishioners he believed he was a star himself and his ego fueled his shocking fall from grace and now he’s getting mental health treatment after being accused of cheating on his wife and getting sacked for moral failures -- Carl tended the trendy megachurch’s New York City flock and regularly rubbed shoulders with celebs including NBA star Kevin Durant and singer Selena Gomez and even once invited Justin Bieber to live with him before being booted by bigwigs but now he’s said to be getting help at an outpatient facility specializing in depression and pastoral burnout but cunning Carl may have made the move simply to revamp his wrecked reputation 

Page 26: Prince Harry and Meghan Markle are heading to couples therapy in a desperate bid to stay together because their marriage is hanging by a thread -- the pair are at each other’s throats as they struggle to adjust to their new life in America -- Harry’s gone from being excited about the move to feeling tortured and it’s like he swapped his royal prison in Britain for a new hell in a $14 million California mansion and he fears he’s made a terrible mistake but Meghan’s ordering him to man up and grab this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to make millions away from the monarchy’s suffocating shadow -- the fighting came to a head before the holidays when Harry was feeling especially homesick and guilty about abandoning his family especially his brother Prince William and his grandmother Queen Elizabeth -- adding to their troubles Meghan seems hellbent on staying in the public eye during the pandemic and she masterminded their personal video calls to charities in London and the U.S. and the secret deliveries of meals to the needy but then she made them public and the truth is it’s The Meghan Show now and Harry’s just the side act 

Page 27: A charming Chinese spy bedded two Midwestern mayors and courted other clueless politicians to weasel her way into U.S. government circles -- Chinese national Christina Fang also known as Fang Fang, reportedly entered the U.S. as a college student in 2011 

Page 31: Candice Bergen moaned that at the age of 74 she’s a wreck and that she has a wattle -- Candice admitted to having her eyes done while filming the Murphy Brown reboot because they were very hooded and as for today she knows she should have injections because she has deep lines along her lip but she can’t take the pain 

* Rachael Ray lost her New York home to a blazing inferno but her holidays were salvaged by the warmth of community spirit -- following the devastating fire she and her husband moved into the property’s guesthouse and in a clip on The Rachael Ray Show the emotional host showed off her festively decorated digs and gushed she didn’t know where she’d be without friends and a community and people so dear to her that helped her bring Christmas to life even when you’re not at home 

Page 32: Health Watch -- blood test predicts Alzheimer’s 

Page 34: Longtime lovebirds Goldie Hawn and Kurt Russell are hoping to make a movie with their whole family -- the star-studded cast would include Goldie’s kids Kate Hudson and Oliver Hudson and the couple’s son Wyatt Russell -- as for filming with the entire gang Goldie gushed that they have thought about it and she’d love to do something with her kids and the grandchildren too 

* Hollywood Hookups -- Kristin Cavallari and Jeff Dye heating up, Malik Beasley and Larsa Pippen dating but Malik’s wife Montana Yao filed for divorce, Chrishell Stause and Keo Motsepe dating 

Page 36: Infamous Hollywood hotel Chateau Marmont has a storied history of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll ever since it opened its doors in 1929 and nearly a century later it hasn’t been tamed -- even during the pandemic the majestic hotel is wild with drunks, overdoses and luckily averted suicide attempts and according to 911 records the debauched celebrity haunt is filled with people having breakdowns -- the Chateau’s crazy days and nights are legendary: it’s where John Belushi died in one of the bungalows in 1982 from a deadly cocaine-heroin concoction 

Page 38: One of the most iconic images from the James Bond films which is a handgun used by Sean Connery in Dr. No has sold for $256,000 at auction in Beverly Hills -- the gun is a deactivated semi-automatic Walther PP pistol -- the winning bidder who asked to remain anonymous is an American who’s seen every James Bond film with his children -- a helmet created for Tom Cruise in Top Gun also sold at the auction for $108,000 while a sword used by Bruce Willis in Pulp Fiction sold for $35,200 

* Dolly Parton has one major thing left on her bucket list which is she wants to see Beyonce sing Jolene one of the country star’s signature songs -- Jolene has been recorded more than any other song Dolly has ever written but that isn’t enough for her because she also wants to see it updated by one of the top female stars of a new generation -- it has been recorded worldwide over 400 times in lots of different languages but nobody’s ever had a really big hit record on it and Dolly always hoped somebody might do it someday by someone like Beyonce 

* Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson has wrestled his way into the alcohol market with his own tequila brand and lifted it into first place as the most successful spirit launch in history and he’s even on track to double George Clooney’s first-year launch -- Dwayne is expected to move more than 300,000 cases of small-batch Teremana Tequila in its first year of trading 

Page 40: Smitten singer Rihanna has fallen hard for A$AP Rocky but friends fear the playboy rapper will leave her broken-hearted -- Rocky is a charming guy but he also has a love ‘em and leave ‘em reputation and everyone’s concerned she’s more into him than he is into her -- Rihanna’s desperate to meet a man she can see herself with for the rest of her life and she believes Rocky might be the one but everybody thinks she’s rushing into things with Rocky -- Rocky is not interested in a long-term romance and Rihanna shouldn’t be thinking of this as more than a port in the storm 

* Lizzo is livin’ large and she’s showing every inch of her jiggles and folds on TikTok -- the body-positivity enthusiast wore a white bikini for an all-angles video in which she amply demonstrated the tricks models and celebs use to look slimmer -- she bared her belly and back and legs and sometimes jiggled her thighs or grabbed a hunk of herself to prove there’s more to luscious ladies than meets the eye and wrote, “Wild to see the body positive movement come so far. Proud of the big girls who gave it wings.” 

Page 42: Red Carpet -- The Crown stars -- Claire Foy, Emma Corrin, Gillian Anderson, Vanessa Kirby, Erin Doherty 

Page 47: Odd List -- baseball fan Darren Johnson hatched an unusual idea for his new chicken coop making it a model of Houston’s former Eighth Wonder of the World The Astrodome

[lifeofpriya]

Drop Shot of Love - Jack Draper

[gif credit goes to @pyotrkochetkov]

a/n: this was heavily inspired by yet another one of the daily conversations i have with @pyotrkochetkov 🤭

summary: although jack has sworn off caffeine, a coffee shop--or rather, someone at the coffee shop--beckons to him like a lighthouse to a ship...

You've been working at the cozy coffee shop nestled in the heart of London for a couple of months now. The smell of freshly ground beans and the gentle hiss of the espresso machine are as much a part of your morning routine as the first rays of sun peeking through the windows. Despite the early shifts, the job is bearable, even enjoyable, thanks to the diverse array of customers that wander in for their caffeine fix.

But there's one customer that sets your heart racing more than the most robust cup of joe could ever hope to—Jack Draper. His tall, athletic frame and intoxicating hazel eyes are a stark contrast to the hustle and bustle of the city. You know he doesn't drink caffeine; you remember his order by heart—a decaf cappuccino—because you've had the pleasure of serving him almost every morning since you started. You've never quite gathered the courage to ask why he chooses your little shop, but his shy smile and the way his eyes light up when he sees you always makes you believe that maybe, just maybe, he has a crush on you too.

Today is like any other—the rain outside is playing a gentle serenade against the windows, and the scent of damp earth wafts in with each customer. You're behind the counter, lost in thought, when the bell jingles, and in walks Jack, his damp hair sticking to his forehead from the rain. You blush, hoping he doesn't notice, and greet him with the same cheery tone you reserve for all your customers.

Jack orders his usual decaf cappuccino, and as you go through the motions of making it, you can't help but admire his hands. They're strong, yet gentle, the hands of a poet or a pianist rather than a tennis player. The way he taps his fingers against the counter as he waits is almost rhythmic, a silent sonnet to his anticipation.

As you hand over the steaming cup, your fingers graze against his, and it's like a spark of electricity has shot through your veins. He jumps a little at the contact, but his smile doesn't waver. "Thank you," he says, his voice a smooth blend of chocolate and velvet.

You nod, trying to play it cool, and watch as he takes a seat in the corner, his eyes glued to the newspaper. You know he's not really reading it; he's just too shy to look up and risk making eye contact again. You go back to work, but your mind keeps drifting back to him, to the way the light reflects off the droplets on his hair, to the curve of his cheekbones, and the way his T-shirt clings to his biceps. You've seen him play on TV, of course—who hasn't? But seeing him up close, in your own little sanctuary of coffee and comfort, it's like watching a celebrity walk into your favorite bookstore.

The bell jingles again, snapping you out of your daydream. In walks a flustered woman, her umbrella dripping water onto the floor. "Could I have a hot chocolate, please?" she says, her voice tight with impatience. You force yourself to focus on her order, all the while keeping an eye on Jack. He's flipping through the newspaper, but you catch him stealing glances at you.

As the woman leaves, Jack approaches the counter, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You know, I think I might need something a little stronger than decaf today," he says, his eyes sparkling with a mischief that wasn't there before. You raise an eyebrow in question, and he shrugs. "I've got the afternoon off. Thought I might try something new."

Your heart skips a beat. Is this it? Is he finally going to open up to you? You suggest a caffeinated drink, something that won't betray his secret. "How about a half-caf latte?" You say it casually, as if it's an ordinary suggestion, but you're practically holding your breath, waiting for his response.

Jack considers for a moment, his eyes searching yours, as if looking for approval. "Alright," he says finally, the hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "That sounds good."

As you begin to craft his half-caf latte, you can't help but feel a thrill of excitement. This is the first time he's strayed from his usual order, and it feels like a small victory, a step closer to bridging the gap between customer and… well, something more. The milk frother whispers its sweet song as you carefully pour the steaming milk into the cup, creating a canvas of creamy art atop the dark roast.

You hand over the latte, watching as Jack's eyes widen slightly at the sight of the whipped cream heart you've subtly added. "It's on the house," you say, your voice a little shakier than you'd like. He looks up, surprised, and you realize that your gesture wasn't so subtle after all.

"Normally I don't have a lot of sugar," he says, eyeing the whipped cream heart with a mix of curiosity and amusement. "But today feels like a good day to indulge." His smile widens, revealing dimples in his cheeks that you hadn't noticed before. You feel your cheeks warm as you hand him a napkin.

"Enjoy," you murmur, your voice barely audible over the chatter of the coffee shop patrons. He nods, and as he takes a sip, you notice the way his eyes never leave yours. It's as if the two of you are sharing a secret, a silent conversation in the midst of the bustling cafe.

The rest of your shift seems to fly by in a caffeinated blur. Each time you catch Jack's gaze, your stomach does a little flip. You're used to his routine—his quiet mornings with a book or his phone, the occasional nod or smile of acknowledgment—but this sudden shift in his demeanor has you feeling like you're floating on a cloud of whipped cream.

As the lunch rush subsides and the afternoon light filters through the rain-speckled windows, Jack gathers his things to leave. He approaches the counter, and you find yourself leaning in, hoping he'll say something that isn't about the weather or the latest tennis tournament. "Thanks again," he says, his eyes lingering on yours just a beat longer than usual. "I had a good day today."

You nod, unsure of what to say next. The air between you is thick with unspoken words, a silent dance of attraction and nerves. "Me too," you reply, trying to match his casual tone. "See you tomorrow?"

Jack's smile turns into a grin, one that lights up the whole room. "I'll be counting down the hours," he says before turning to leave. As the door closes behind him, you catch yourself staring after him, the echo of his footsteps mingling with the steady beat of your heart.

The rest of the day is a blur of steaming milk, whirring blenders, and the occasional furtive glance at the clock. You've never felt so eager for the end of your shift. When it finally arrives, you clean up the coffee shop with a newfound energy, your mind racing with possibilities. What could this mean? Does he feel the same way?

As you step out into the cool, damp evening, the rain has ceased, leaving behind a freshness in the air that seems to mirror the excitement bubbling within you. You decide to take the longer route home, the one that passes by Jack's apartment. It's not stalking, you tell yourself, just a little detour to clear your head. The streets are mostly empty, the puddles reflecting the glow of the streetlights like a series of shimmering pools.

You walk, lost in thought, replaying the moments of the day in your head. The way his eyes had crinkled at the corners when he saw the whipped cream heart, the sound of his laugh as he told you a joke about a tennis ball that had gone rogue during his last match. You've always known Jack was more than just a customer with a pretty smile, but today felt like a door had cracked open just enough for you to peer through.

As you turn the corner, you spot him, his tall frame hunched under the awning of a nearby bookstore. He's looking at you, a question in his gaze. You hesitate, your heart racing faster than a caffeine rush.

"Hi," you call out, your voice sounding too loud in the quiet evening.

Jack looks up, a smile spreading across his face. "Hey," he says, walking over to you. "I didn't expect to see you out here."

You shrug, trying to seem nonchalant. "Just taking the scenic route home," you reply, gesturing to the quiet street.

Jack's eyes light up with curiosity. "Do you come this way often?"

You laugh nervously. "No, not really. I just… wanted to get some fresh air." You fiddle with the zipper of your hoodie, feeling the weight of his gaze.

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "Well, it's a good night for it. The rain's cleared up, and there's something about the air after a storm." He pauses, his expression pensive. "Do you want to walk together?"

You feel your heart skip a beat, unsure if he's just being friendly or if he feels the same pull that you do. "Yeah," you reply, trying to keep your cool. "That sounds nice."

Jack falls into step beside you, and you start walking down the deserted street, the only sound the occasional splash of water as a car passes by. The silence stretches out, but it's not uncomfortable. It's more like you're both waiting for the perfect moment to speak.

"So, how was your day?" he asks, breaking the quiet. His voice is like a warm embrace, wrapping around you and filling the space between you.

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your cool. "It was good," you reply, smiling shyly. "Busy as usual."

Jack nods, his eyes never leaving yours. "Yeah, I can imagine. You always seem to handle the rush so well."

You blush, the warmth spreading from your cheeks down to your chest. "It's just part of the job," you reply, your voice a little too high.

Jack chuckles, the sound as rich as the aroma of the freshly brewed coffee you both love. "Well, you do it exceptionally well," he says, his eyes crinkling at the edges. "I can't imagine starting my day without seeing you."

You blush, the words sinking into your chest like a warm, comforting blanket. "Really?"

Jack nods, his eyes holding yours with a gentle intensity. "Yeah, you have this… glow, I guess." He laughs, looking a little embarrassed. "It's like you bring the sunrise into the shop with you every morning."

You feel a warmth spread through you at the compliment. "Thanks," you murmur, your eyes dropping to the pavement. "I didn't know I had that effect."

Jack laughs, a sound that's both shy and self-deprecating. "Well, you do," he says firmly. "You always brighten my mornings."

You feel a warmth spread through you, like a perfectly brewed cup of tea on a cold day. "That's sweet of you to say."

Jack shrugs, his cheeks a faint shade of pink. "It's just the truth."

You both continue walking in companionable silence, the city lights casting a warm glow on the damp cobblestones. The occasional car passes by, its tires whispering secrets to the night. You find yourself stealing glances at Jack, his profile sharp and focused, the way he holds his head high—like he's ready to face any challenge. And you can't help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, you're one of those challenges he's prepared to tackle.

"So, what do you do when you're not playing tennis?" you ask, eager to keep the conversation flowing.

Jack looks over at you, his eyes alight with interest. "Well, I read a lot," he says, gesturing to the book in his hand. "And I've been trying to learn to cook. It's a bit hit-and-miss, though." He laughs, the sound making your heart flutter.

"Oh, really?" you ask, genuinely curious. "What's the most successful dish you've made so far?"

Jack's grin widens, and you notice the dimples deepen. "Probably my signature dish—eggs and avocado toast. It's pretty basic, but it's surprisingly hard to mess up. Either that or my chicken pesto pasta, to be honest."

You laugh, feeling the tension between you ease a little. "Sounds delicious," you say, and you mean it. "I've always liked cooking, but I don't get to do it much with my schedule."

Jack nods in understanding. "It's tough finding the time, isn't it?" He glances down at his watch. "Speaking of which, I should probably head home and whip up something for dinner. Do you have any plans tonight?"

You hesitate, feeling a sudden rush of hope. "Nothing special," you reply, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just going to relax, maybe watch a movie or something."

Jack's smile widens, and he nudges your shoulder gently. "That sounds pretty perfect, actually." He pauses, looking thoughtful. "You know, I've been meaning to ask you for a while now—would you like to join me for dinner sometime?"

Your heart skips a beat, and you feel your cheeks grow warm. "Dinner?" You repeat, your voice squeaking a little. "With you?"

Jack nods, his eyes still on yours, the question hanging in the air like the scent of rain-soaked flowers. "Yeah," he says, his voice a gentle rumble. "If you're free, of course."

You feel your heart flutter at the possibility, the thrill of a potential date with your secret crush. "I'd love to," you reply, trying not to sound too eager. "What do you have in mind?"

Jack's eyes light up, and you can almost see the wheels turning in his head. "How about I cook for you?" he suggests. "It's the least I can do to thank you for always being there with a smile and a perfect decaf cappuccino."

You nod, unable to hide your excitement. "I'd love that."

Jack's smile broadens, his eyes lighting up. "Great, it's a date then." He says it so casually, as if it's the most natural thing in the world for you two to go on a date. And maybe, just maybe, it is.

You both exchange numbers, and he promises to text you the details. As you say your goodbyes, he lingers for a moment, his hand brushing against yours as you part ways. It's a small gesture, but it sends a thrill through you, like the first sip of a perfectly crafted espresso.

[clive-owen-and-the-knick]

THE KNICK: haunting quality of a fever dream from which you didn’t want to wake

Typhoid Mary and the birth of ‘contact tracing’ – as seen in The Knick Want to know why ‘tracing asymptomatic carriers’ works? Then watch Steven Soderbergh's brilliant, gory historical drama

“ But Thack laid on his back was the perfect fade to grey. The Knick had finished as it started: with the haunting quality of a fever dream from which you didn’t want to wake. “

New York has been paralysed by a wave of deaths, caused by a fast-acting and unrelenting infection. It strikes indiscriminately, targeting the wealthy as ruthlessly as the downtrodden. Scariest of all, this is a hidden killer. By the time you discover you’re sick, it’s often too late. Survival is a roll of the dice.

Such is life as apprehensively lived in Manhattan today, indeed in the rest of the world. Which may explain why we’re all glued to movies such as Contagion and Outbreak, and Netflix’s documentary Pandemic: How to Prevent an Outbreak. But it was also a key plot point from a little-watched television drama that ran in 2014 and 2015. A storyline that was, in turn, based on the real-life case of a lethal outbreak in New York at the turn of the century.

Steven Soderbergh’s The Knick was the prestige-TV equivalent of one of your five-a-day. And it came just three years after he directed Contagion, about a Covid-19-style outbreak. More importantly, it was about the birth of modern medicine: the painful and gory gestation of practices we take for granted now.

Yet the Knick (now available on demand through Sky) explores advances in brain surgery, anaesthetics, infant mortality rates and, most significantly from a 2020 perspective, the battle against infectious diseases such as typhoid and tuberculosis, which we see claim a baby in its cot.

The setting is a baroque New York hospital, The Knickerbocker (based on a real hospital in Harlem which finally closed in 1979). The year was 1900: a time when moustaches were huge, syringes even bigger, and surgery had more to do with lopped-off limbs than hip replacements.

The Knick was a period caper with a very modern pulse. Soderbergh used it as a vehicle to address such eternal themes as addiction, racism and the struggle between head and heart (not to mention the importance of a perfectly maintained ’tache).

It starred Clive Owen, one of the go-to-actors for tortured intensity, as a maverick surgeon with the fantastically old-fashioned name of Dr John “Thack” Thackery. We see him forge ahead in areas such as skin grafting (he grafts skin from a patient’s arm to her nose), placenta previa surgery and hernia repair. He was a pioneer working in a time of unprecedented medical advancement.

As was the real-life surgeon upon whom he was loosely based. William Halsted was the house physician at New York Presbyterian Hospital, where he introduced such innovations as patient charts, and invented the painful-sounding Halsted mosquito forceps – “a ratcheted haemostat to secure and clamp bleeding vessels”. And he married the first nurse ever to wear gloves during an operation. He was, in addition, addicted to cocaine and morphine (then legally available), requiring a minimum cocaine intake of three-grammes daily.

With the cocaine and the clamps and the great facial hair, you can see why he was irresistible to Soderbergh and The Knick’s creators, Jack Amiel and Michael Begler. Their fictional version of Halsted was a classic flawed anti-hero. In a just world, Thack would have joined the ranks of the small screen’s great “difficult men”, alongside Tony Soprano, Walter White and Don Draper.

Thack was portrayed by Owen as charismatic, enigmatic, permanently dishevelled and moderately racist (there are tensions early on over the hiring of African-American doctor Dr. Algernon C. Edwards). He also romped with prostitutes – as was the fashion at the time –  and began the day with enough cocaine to floor a camel.

With coronavirus bringing humanity to a stand-still, Thackery is ideal company for an extended binge-watch. The killer infection plot surfaces midway through the first of its two seasons. It doesn’t directly involve Thack. He is otherwise occupied taking drugs and cavorting with nurse Lucy (Eve Hewson, daughter of Bono).

Investigating the deaths are two second-string characters, Health Inspector Jacob Speight (David Fierro) and Cornelia Robertson (Julia Rylance), society lady and head of The Knick’s social welfare office. They discover all the households struck down with typhoid , a bacterial fever caused by a pernicious strain of salmonella, have one thing in common: a County Tyrone cook named Mary Mallon worked there.

But how could a cook spread typhoid, which cannot survive the high temperatures associated with preparing food? Eventually they work it out: she’s passing on the fever through her signature room-temperature dish of peach melba. This leads to another question: if she’s knowingly spreading typhoid all over the Upper East Side, why doesn’t she herself show symptoms?

The answer lies in a cutting-edge new theory: that some individuals carry and spread infection whilst themselves not developing symptoms. It’s a condition known as “asymptomatic”. Today, we all know what that entails, but at the time it wasn’t universally accepted within the medical profession.

Certainly, the characters in The Knick struggle to get their heads around it. “She must be a filthy thing and as sick as a cesspool,” Speight says to Robertson as they rush to stop Mary – “Typhoid Mary”, they’ve dubbed her – from serving another dose of lethal peaches.

How did they find her? By tracking down all those who fell ill, and then the people with whom they interacted, and overlaying the data points on a map of Manhattan. In other words, by “contact tracing” – a concept which might have sounded dreary a few months ago, but which today is on everyone’s lips.

In the final confrontation, they head her off at the kitchen, and she’s arrested attempting to flee. (Some might say that the American actress, Melissa McMeekin, should also be in the dock for her dreadful Irish accent, which suggests a heavy viral load of Darby O’Gill and the Little People.) Scientific ignorance, alas, wins the day. Just two episodes later, Typhoid Mary is freed, when the judge refuses to believe that someone could transmit a lethal fever while immune to its symptoms.

These are, more or less, the facts of the real-life case of Typhoid Mary, an immigrant from the Old Country estimated to have fatally spread the fever to more than 50 people (via her delicious ice-cream, however, not peach melba). Yet there was no Hollywood ending for her, despite press baron William Randolph Hearst helping fund her defence at trial. She avoided prison, as she does in The Knick, but the Typhoid Mary name followed her around. And, though she found work under a number of aliases, people continued to die in her vicinity.

Mallon was eventually sent back to North Brother Island in New York’s East River – where we she see her incarcerated in The Knick – and lived out the last 23 years of her life in enforced isolation. After her death from a stroke in 1938 at age 69, an autopsy revealed a gall bladder riddled with typhoid bacteria.

The Knick itself would submit to the inevitable after two seasons and just 20 episodes. And yet despite low ratings, it wasn’t necessarily an obvious candidate for cancellation. The critics loved it, and Soderbergh, one of the most instinctive filmmakers since Spielberg, made it quickly and cheaply for HBO offshoot Cinemax. (Incredibly cheaply, in fact, considering the realism with which he brought to life turn-of-the-century New York.)

He shot each 10-part series in just 73 days – roughly one instalment per week. That’s a decent clip when churning out a 20-minute sitcom. But to produce gorgeous prestige TV in that time-frame was remarkable. The Knick, which was shot on location in New York, looked incredible. While clearly set in the past, there’s something grippingly vivid and urgent about it. It’s the very opposite of starched, stagey period telly such as Downton Abbey and HBO’s own Boardwalk Empire.

That’s because Soderbergh filmed in natural light as far as possible. He was able to do so thanks to cutting-edge RED digital cameras, equipped with new “Dragon” sensors designed to work in low levels of light. Even when it was grim and gloomy outside, he could shoot using natural light. “Every once in a while, an actor would walk onto the set and say, “Are you guys bringing any light in?’” Soderbergh told Fast Company in 2014. “And we’d go, 'No, that’s it'.”This produced the occasional strange side-effect. Looking back over footage, for instance, Soderbergh would suddenly sense something amiss. He’d freeze the frame and zoom in. And there it was: because of the fading light, the actors’ pupils were massively dilated. 

Bravura directing was accompanied by powerhouse acting from Owen. As far back as his break-out 1990s hit Croupier, he was always a coiled spring when on screen. All that repressed tension spewed to the surface in his portrayal of Thackery, a brilliant man wrestling perpetually with demons. “It was very, very challenging and very, very demanding, and Steven [is] really fast and very concentrated,” Owen said in a 2014 interview with Indiewire. “We did the 10 hours in just over 70 days, or seven days an episode. There’s some incredibly difficult technical stuff there. All the operation stuff that’s logistically very difficult… Sometimes we’d shoot up to 13 or 14 pages a day."And yet, Soderbergh was supposed to have retired when he made The Knick. In 2012 the director of Out of Sight and Ocean’s Eleven had publicly stepped away from filmmaking. A few months later, he received a pilot script by comedy writers Amiel and Begler. His ambition at the time was to become a painter – a mission he expected to occupy all his free time over the next several years. “I was aware that the 10,000 hours required to become just good would take years of steady, applied focus,” he said. “I was basically ready to do that. I was taking painting lessons from [naturalistic wildlife artist] Walton Ford and having a great time learning things, talking to him and watching him work.”

When he read the screenplay for The Knick, and was riveted from the opening page. “I was the first person to get ahold of the script for The Knick and I just couldn’t let that pass through my fingers. It’s about everything I’m interested in. Everything. I was the first person to see it. And I thought, 'I have to do this'.”

Amiel and Begler had knocked around the industry writing disposable chuckle-fests such as the 2004 Kate Hudson vehicle Raising Helen. The idea for The Knick came when Begler had a turn of poor health. “I was having medical issues. I was researching alternative medicine, and was also frustrated,” he recalled to Indiewire in 2010. “I was thinking: What were my options 100 years ago? I can go online and find out so much different information now. Too much, even.

“But what do you do in 1900? On a whim, Jack and I just bought a couple of medical textbooks from eBay. We opened them and it was just incredible. And yes, it was a horror show. I couldn’t believe the things I was reading: people drinking turpentine to help a perforated intestine.

“My jaw hit the ground. The further we dove into this world, the more crazy s--- we saw. There was too much good stuff here. Once we saw that it was about medicine, then we started to look at what the world of 1900 was like. The world was changing so fast, with so much to play with.”

That “crazy s---” was searingly translated to the screen. The Knick is striking in that it’s set in a world only a few steps removed from ours. Thackery and his colleagues are recognisably modern doctors, not medieval quacks or shamans. Yet their practices also feel like butchery by another name. As antiseptically filmed by Soderbergh, The Knick often has the unflinching quality of an avant-garde horror film.

Thackery injecting cocaine into his genitals (all his other veins having collapsed) and performing a bowel operation using “a revolutionary clamp of his own design” are, for instance, among the highlights of the pilot. Episode four, meanwhile, sees the good doctor trying to save a woman from a botched self-administered abortion. The three-minute sequence contains more gore than all the Saw movies laid end-to-end.

The Knick finished in bravura fashion, too. As season two came to a conclusion, it was unclear if it would be renewed. So Soderbergh gave Thackery a wonderfully ambivalent send off. He recklessly attempts surgery on himself – without an anaesthetic – only for the experiment to go awry. There are a lot of entrails and lots of blood.

“My peripheral vision seems to be going… body temperature has begun to drop,” he says. “This is it… this is all we are.” And then his life flashes before him. Has the most brilliant surgeon of his era expired on his own operating table?

Soderbergh later revealed the plan was to kill off the character and that a third season of The Knick would have time-jumped to the 1940s (he wanted to film it in black-and-white). But Thack laid on his back was the perfect fade to grey. The Knick had finished as it started: with the haunting quality of a fever dream from which you didn’t want to wake.

https://www.telegraph.co.uk/tv/0/typhoid-mary-birth-contact-tracing-seen-knick/

[ourdallasvideofestthings]

Bart Chat 2/02/2020 Greetings all,

Well the end has come, not necessary to our democracy, but to BoJack, Since 2014 BoJack Horseman has been an absolute bright spot of the infinite world of streaming series. It mixes intelligence, snarky, showbiz puns (both audio and visual), but has some serious things to say about celebrity culture, depression, drugs and booze addiction, and abuse, and it is animated! In a sense, it reminds me of Bullwinkle, funny and serious commentary. There are many comparisons to Madmen, but it is a totally unique series that could not have been made before the age of streaming.

And who knows if something like this (if there could be something like this) could get off the ground now. Bo Jack, the character does horrible things to the people he is closest to but becomes aware of it in a way that Don Draper never was.

There is something to make you think in every episode and often something original. It boldly is not afraid to break tradition and try something really crazy. In the Sopranos Pine Barrens episode when they were in the woods and it seemed like a different series. In one episode (Free Churro) Bo Jack spends the whole episode doing the eulogy of his mother, devastatingly trashing her. I have never seen anything quite like this on tv. If you have not seen BoJack it is on Netflix, it is an experience.

As we wrap up movie award season with the Oscar presentation coming soon, the best part is not so much the show but having short films in movie theaters that people can do to YEA!! The animated and live-action shorts are playing at the Magnolia Theater and Angelika in Plano and the doc shorts (which are not short by any means) are at the Texas Theater only on Sat at 12:15. (if you look hard you can see some of them online, Walk Run Cha Cha is on NY Times site, in the Absence is on Field of Vision, Life Overtakes Me is on Netflix, learning to skateboard in a war zone (if you're are girl) (is not online yet) but it is a longer and better version of this. And St Louis Superman will be on MTV. So there ya go. I have not seen the shot narratives nor the animation but they are always good. 

Oh and one last thing, for those that love black and white films there Friday night at the Texas theater is for you, First, Parasite in Black and white, what? Yes ! then Lighthouse which is an experience. You know you want to see Parasite again why not try it in black and white.

Have a great week 

Bart WeissArtistic Director, Dallas VideoFest